Amber and Clay by Laura Schlitz (phonics books txt) 📕

at;

most men are plain as rats.

When men make the gods, we do them justice!”

I ran to keep up with him,

he was so eager. He made me stop

and pick wildflowers: an offering for Athena.

We zigzagged up the hill. He told me how the temples were built,

how oxen hoisted the great stones up that mighty hill.

It wasn’t as hard for them as you might think.

The oxen climbed the hill unburdened;

the stone blocks were on ropes, at the bottom of the slope;

when the oxen reached the top,

they circled round a post

and dragged up the stones as they went downhill.

Phaistus knew some of the stone-carvers;

some were slaves,

but they were paid good wages, same as free men.

He explained to me about levers and cranes,

and the guards let us pass at the gate.

Through the crowd

I glimpsed sun-glazed bronze

greeny-gold

golden-brown

the goddess Athena, taller than six men,

grave and fierce,

about to hurl her spear.

Phaistus had his hand on my shoulder.

He pulled me back

into a room with marble walls:

a whole room full of pictures

gaudy and gorgeous with color,

each picture telling a story: Perseus, Odysseus, Akhilleus —

I could have stood before each one

and stared all afternoon.

But beyond that room, there was more —

so Phaistus steered me on.

You must have seen what I saw that day —

stone that glows like honey through cream,

the triumphant gods,

centaurs and caryatids —

the deep, rich colors;

the shrines:

red-lipped goddesses tickling the air with ribbons,

boyish gods crowned with flowers.

The march of shining columns toward the sky;

a march of glistening white and glorious blue;

the dark inside the temple, the flicker of torches,

and another Athena, taller than the first,

her ivory skin so lambent

she seemed to have no edge:

it was as if I gazed at her through tears.

Then back outside,

the sharp light,

the fragrant smoke of temple fires,

borne by the ceaseless wind.

I could look down on the Agora —

Phaistus pointed out our house:

the size of my smallest fingernail.

He showed me the giant Trojan horse

and told me the whole story;

how far-off Troy was taken

and how the bronze was cast.

I’d never heard him talk so much.

His hands were restless,

pointing,

outlining,

stroking the stones that were too high up to touch.

It was as if he’d made those temples.

He came from Thebes,

but up here, on the Akropolis,

he was an Athenian;

He belonged to the world

of men who made things. He made me feel

that I belonged, too. There I was

with my Thracian tattoos on my arms,

but in that hour, I was Athenian, a maker.

The sky was red with sunset

when we came down the hill. I kept looking back;

the stones of the temples were bathed in gold.

I had been changed. Sokrates once talked about how beauty

draws forth the soul. The things I had seen

astonished me,

dazzled and humbled me —

but also, there was Phaistus:

we climbed that hill together,

and when we came down, we were changed.

EXHIBIT 15

Klepsydra, terra-cotta, fifth century BCE.

This vessel was part of an ancient Greek water clock, holding approximately 6.7 quarts of water. The klepsydra was made up of two containers, as shown here. The top basin was filled with water, and the wax spigot at the lower rim was plugged with wax. When the wax plug was removed, the water trickled from the upper basin into the lower one, measuring a unit of time.

In Athenian law courts, speakers were allowed to speak from the time the wax was removed until the upper basin was empty and the lower basin was full.

Klepsydra: a Greek word coming from kleptein, “to steal,”

and hydor — that is, “water.”

The Greeks knew that water is life,

and time is a thief. Now, I am God of Thieves,

and when I want to play fast and loose with time

I do. Let’s go splashing in the river of time!

Last time we met, it was autumn.

Now it’s spring, more than a year later. The sun-chariot

careens round the earth, while the wandering planets

somersault in circles, panting to keep pace —

What? You think the earth goes racing round the sun?

So does Aristarchus (another Greek!) —

but he hasn’t been born yet.

Give us another hundred years to sort out the solar system.

Give us Time, that best of teachers!

Oh, Time will steal from you, my mortal child,

will trickle away, liquidate your precious hours —

a grave situation in more ways than one.

Yet time brings the spring,

gilds the green apple and ripens the grape.

It’s not all bad.

Let’s take a tour around the city. I’ll bring you up to speed.

Sweet spring in Athens, and not yet dawn!

Windflower, clover, and violets!

Rhaskos is curled up in the shed, sleeping like a cat.

If we were to brush a finger over his jaw,

we’d find it softly bristled, like a sage leaf.

He’s entered his teens. He’s not much taller,

but his muscles are well formed. Strong hands.

To make pots is to work hard.

Slumped against the wall is Melisto;

she’s not looking well. Of course, she’s been dead a while,

which is unwholesome,

but even allowing for that,

her shade is sickly.

To Rhaskos, she’s like a shadow on the retina;

he’s learned to see around her.

He’s lost interest in why she’s there to haunt him.

It’s hard on her. Haunting is taxing for a ghost;

being ignored makes it worse. She’s not where she belongs;

I’ve offered to escort her downstairs,

but she’s obstinate. No, she’s cursed,

and she’ll stay cursed

until she does what she’s bound to do.

Let’s move on to something cheerful: there’s Phoibe,

and nuzzling at her flank

is a little hinny — half donkey, half horse.

Phoibe escaped from the shed one night

to tryst with a rich man’s stallion;

twelve months later: the hinny!

Phaistus is thrilled. Something he can sell,

and he didn’t have to work for it. Phaistus is lying awake, poor man,

worrying. The city is poor;

the toys were too cheap to make a profit.

The beads were a success, but a man can’t live off beads.

He’s always in a lather,

fretting over money,

the fear of failing his wife,

the fear of losing his freedom.

He’s a good man, Phaistus,

but not amusing.

Even less amusing is Kranaos,

who is snoring. Openmouthed, wet-sounding snores,

with pauses in between,

as if he might

stop

breathing.                                        Wait!

Was that it?                                     Is he gone?

No such luck. Oh well! It won’t be long

before I lead him off to

the House of Hades.

Half of him’s gone already:

that is, his mind.

He