struts were still attached to the stone, and had fallen to each side of him. The struts should have splintered in an instant, but they had held enough that, bent and broken as they were, enough of them remained to afford Socrates the tiniest gap between the statue and the platform of the sledge. But the frame which had saved his life also trapped him in a cage which would collapse at any moment. To pull him out I would have to remove some of the struts encasing him, and when I did that, the only thing keeping the statue off him would be gone.
“Hang on, little brother, we’re going to get you out of there.” The woodwork creaked. Both Socrates and I eyed it suspiciously.
“Hurry, Nico,” he said unnecessarily. A tear rolled down his cheek, which he tried to blink away. I refused to notice it.
“Don’t move, son,” Sophroniscus ordered. He was already eyeing the setup. To the men, who had all gathered around, upset and shouting, he yelled, “Get back, you fools! Get back now!” He was worried a man would knock the fragile structure and cause it to collapse. Sophroniscus and I both stepped back carefully.
“We could pull him out from the head end, directly along the line of the statue,” he said to me. “The problem is, even pulling him out might knock a strut, or shake the frame enough to collapse it. We have to get something else under there, now.”
I nodded. “The base?” I suggested. It was the obvious thing to use.
Sophroniscus shouted to the men to pick up the round base and wedge it under the horse’s head. They heaved it up, all eight clustered about it, and carried it around the statue from the feet to the head. They placed it as close as they dared underneath the head, but with the best will in the world they could not jam it in; the angle was simply wrong, leaving a small air gap the breadth of two fingers between head and base. It wasn’t much, but Socrates hadn’t any room to spare, and if the statue came down even a finger’s breadth it might be enough to break bones inside him.
There was only one thing to do. I took our heaviest mallet, lined up my stroke by eye with the greatest care, and, praying to any Gods that would listen, struck the base with every bit of my strength.
The base moved enough to wedge itself underneath. I struck again. The statue might have risen by a fraction, but it might also have been my imagination.
“Hold,” Sophroniscus ordered.
I put down the mallet. He pointed at the upper hindquarter. Cracks and fissures had appeared about the leg joint. The fall must have damaged the stone at that point, which was not surprising now that I came to think of it, because that was the point of greatest pressure when the statue fell. The jolt must have been terrific, and my hammering had completed the damage.
Sophroniscus put both hands on the leg and pulled, gently at first, then harder. The leg snapped off and fell to the ground. Sophroniscus ordered the slaves to take the leg around to one side of the statue. While he directed, crouching low and watching everything with the greatest care, the men jammed the snapped leg underneath the chest of the animal, and wedged the broken end into the dirt at their feet. One of them-the largest and strongest man-ran to where they’d been working, took up a crowbar lying on the ground, and raced back. He plunged the crowbar into the place where the leg met the ground, further blocking it from any movement. He leaned into the crowbar, bracing his bare feet against the dirt, his toes searching for the best purchase. Sophroniscus nodded approval. “It’s time,” he said, and stepped into the shadow of the broken horse.
I put my hand on his shoulder and gently held him back. “No, Father, this is my job. You’re in charge,” and I was quick to step around him and squat beside Socrates before he had a chance to object.
Socrates had lain there without struggling and without panic, not wasting our time with questions when he knew we were hurrying to save him. He hadn’t even stirred when the base had been hammered in, and the great weight above him had wobbled. It occurred to me that, for a young boy, he had amazing self-control. “Are you all right, Socrates?” I asked him, keeping my voice as slow and calm as possible.
“Do I look all right?” he responded, his tone telling me I’d asked a stupid question. I repressed a smile. Mortal danger hadn’t changed his attitude one bit.
“I’m going to pull you out.” The broken-off leg angled upward directly above me. I would have to be careful not to stand up, nor to hit the leg with Socrates’ body when I pulled.
I said, “As soon as you’re on the ground, clear the area, get right away, all right? Because I’ll be coming after you, and I won’t be looking where I’m going.”
“Got it.” He paused. “Thanks, Nico.”
“Right, on the count of three.” I held fast to his arm and leg, and braced my foot against the side of the sledge. I noticed, irrelevant to the crisis, that the timbers were cracked. It had seen its last service for the family.
“One…two…three.” I yanked on his arm and his thigh simultaneously. Socrates’ body was pulled into the remaining struts, which resisted for a moment before popping out. I fell backward and Socrates landed sideways on my lap. The statue fell the breadth of two hands before jerking to a stop, held up on our side by nothing except the support of that one marble leg. I could hear loud grunting behind me and knew our slaves, leaning into the leg, were saving our lives with every breath.
I practically threw Socrates out from under the shadow of the stone. He was a sturdy, thickset lad, but men who watched told me later they saw a boy flying like a quoit. The force of the throw sent me the other way, and my back hit the wreck of the sledge. I looked up. The stone horse was staring down right at me, we exchanged eye contact for a moment, and I wondered how he could be so impassive when we were both about to die. He lunged down at me.
I don’t remember diving out of the way, but I must have, because when I came to my senses I was lying facedown, and I wasn’t screaming in pain. I raised myself onto my elbows, spitting out dust, and looked behind. The horse had rolled and landed at my feet, on its back, its three remaining legs in the air and the amputated fourth beneath it. If it had been alive, we would have put it out of its misery straightaway.
Someone helped me up, I think one of the slaves, but I don’t know because immediately Sophroniscus wrapped me up in his arms and hugged me. There were tears in his eyes.
“Nicolaos, my son-” he began.
“What in Hades is going on!” A man was marching toward us, trailed by a small cloud of slaves. It took no intelligence to realize this was Callias, the richest man in Athens, and by the look on his face, a very unhappy customer. He was an older man-I knew that he had to be at least fifty or sixty years old because he had famously fought at the Battle of Marathon, wearing no armor but the robes of a priest. I knew too that in his younger years he had won the horse race at the Olympics, come second in the chariot race, and had been a victor at the Pythian Games.
For all that he was getting on now, Callias hadn’t the paunch one often sees, and nor was he stick thin. The speed at which he walked toward our debacle was impressive.
He stopped short at the scene, stared at the wreck of his expensive artwork, and swore roundly, finishing with, “What in Hades happened?”
Sophroniscus explained-his voice wavered enough to tell me he was rattled-and Callias’ headman, who had been watching the entire fiasco, confirmed it.
Callias grunted and asked, “Is the boy unhurt?” Which I thought showed compassion and I took a liking to him, a feeling that instantly dissolved when his next comment, after hearing that Socrates was only scratched was, “Sophroniscus, much as I value you as an artist, I am bound to say this is down to your incompetence. The men were yours, the equipment was yours, and you were paid to deliver and install the work. I hold you responsible, and you will pay me the cost of the marble. I needn’t add I won’t be paying you your fee.”
Disaster. The block had been paid for by Callias directly, and it was worth more than all my father’s wealth put together. He would be a ruined man, unable to pay his debts. If Callias pressed his claim, Father would be forced to sell his home and workshop and tools and slaves and be reduced to the life of a common laborer. For a master craftsman, it would be total ignominy, and to maintain the family I would have to labor alongside him.
Socrates, who was sitting on the ground nursing his bruises, shouted, “That’s not fair, it was an accident!”
Sophroniscus waved a hand at him and said, “Quiet, son. I’m afraid Callias has the right of it.”
I’ve never been prouder of my father than at that moment, because he said, with a quiet, matter-of-fact voice, “It is true what you say, Callias. The fault must be mine, though I can’t imagine how this happened, I’ve never had such a problem before in my entire career. I stand ready to pay the loss.”
