what they said in the right order. But Hipponax and Euthalia took the parts I have given them. They were supportive, loyal subjects of the Great King.
As the companion to Archilogos, I was excused a great many duties in the house, but I was smart enough to know that it was by willingness to work and not by arrogance that I would gain the alliance of the other slaves and the steward. So I put my master to bed and then returned to the andron to help tidy up. It wasn't bad work – there was plenty of wine going around among the slaves, and as long as we didn't chip the ceramics or dent the metalware, Master didn't seem to care much what we did. I took tray after tray down to the kitchens, and then I helped the girls wash the cups in hot water, which was what Cook liked to see.
My young master had a sister I hadn't met yet, named Briseis after Achilles' 'companion'. People choose the oddest names for children, eh, honey? Greece is full of Cassandras – what kind of name is that for a girl? Anyway, her companion was Penelope, the same as my sister, and I met her that night. Penelope was just my age, had red hair like Miltiades and was of the same mind as me – to do some extra work and be seen as a help. So we washed cups and drank wine together, and we talked of our lives. She wasn't born a slave, either. Her father sold her when her family lost their farm. He still came and saw her, though.
I listened, as well as talking. It was a new experience for me, and she commented on it. Emboldened, I tried to kiss her, and I put a hand on her breast, but she slapped my ear hard enough to make me see the stars. Then she flashed me a smile.
'No,' she said. And slipped away.
I liked her. I even liked the slap, and I'll jump ahead of my story to say that I started to make excuses to see her. The house was big, but it wasn't that big – it's just that while Mistress came and went from the women's quarters as she wished, we men weren't allowed there.
I went to bed late and with much to think about.
And in the morning, we went for our lessons to the great Temple of Artemis. It was my first time inside the precinct. I climbed the steps with a certain awe, because they were so high and so much of the precinct was stone. In Boeotia, we put down a couple of courses of stone to raise the building clear of the damp, and then we build the rest in mud brick. But the Ephesian temple was all stone, with marble steps and marble pediments and lintels, and painted statues of Artemis and Nemesis – and Heracles. I think I spoke aloud in wonder to see my ancestor so nobly arrayed in a foreign land, wearing a helmet like a lion's head and holding a club. I touched the statue for luck.
When we reached the top we passed beneath the magnificent portico, into the blinding sunlight of the courtyard, which was paved in pale golden stone. Gold and bronze statues caught the light reflected by the brightly coloured marbles.
Archilogos didn't give it so much as a glance. 'Don't gawp like a peasant,' he said. 'Come!'
He marched me to the steps of the great temple itself. There were dozens of young men there and in the cool space under the columns. Most sat around tutors, but the biggest crowd gathered around a white-haired man who was so thin that his bones threatened to burst from his skin. He wore a chlamys without a chiton, like the young men, but he had an ugly, bony body – except that his muscles stood out like a Boeotian farmer's. He seemed very old to me.
He watched us come, although there were a dozen boys around him on the steps.
'You are late,' he said to my new master.
Archilogos smiled. 'Pardon, master,' he said. 'I should not have waited so long to dip my toe.'
This comment made the other boys giggle. I had no idea why.
The teacher glared at him. 'If you understood what I said,' he commented, 'you would know how foolish that last sally sounded. Why do I teach the young?'
'We pay well?' another wag said.
Boys began to laugh, but he old man had a stick and it smacked into the jokester's shins before he could move.
'I neither accept pay nor do I ask for it,' the teacher said. 'Who are you, boy?'
That last was directed at me. I was not the only companion present. 'I belong to Archilogos,' I said meekly.
He grunted. 'Not in my class, boy. Here, you are your own man. Your own mind. For me to mould as I see fit.' He coughed into his hand. 'What do you know? Anything?'
'No,' I said. 'Nothing.'
He smiled. 'You have a nice combination of humility and arrogance, young man. Sit down right here. We are talking about the logos. Do you know of the logos, young man?'
'No, teacher,' I answered.
And so I met Heraclitus, my true master, the teacher of my soul. But for him, I would be nothing but a hollow vessel filled with rage and blood. At the time, I was enraptured to find another thinker like the priest of Hephaestus from Thebes. This one was even deeper, I thought, and I sat in the shade, my back against a warm marble pillar, and let him fill me with wisdom.
In fact, much of it sounded like gibberish, and it was up to every boy to take what he could from the well, or so Heraclitus told us. On that first day, though, he turned to me, of all those boys. 'So – you know nothing. Are you a hollow vessel? May I fill you?'
I remember nodding and blushing, because other boys giggled and too late I saw the double entendre.
'Bah,' Heraclitus said, and his stick struck a shin. The owner squeaked. 'Sex is for animals, boy. Talking about sex is for miserable ephebes.' He prodded me with the bronze-shot tip of his staff. 'So? Ready to learn?'
'Yes, master,' I said.
He nodded. 'Here is all the wisdom I have, boy. There is a formula, a binding and a loosing, a single, coherent thought that makes the universe as it is, and we who sit on these steps call it the logos.' He prodded me again. 'Understand?'
I looked at him. His eyes were dark and full of mischief, like a boy's. 'No,' I admitted.
'Brilliant!' Heraclitus laughed. 'You may yet be a sage, boy.' He looked around and then back at me. 'Have you heard the phrase 'common sense'?' he asked.
'Yes,' I answered.
'Is it, in fact, common?'
I laughed. 'No,' I said.
'Superb!' the old man said. 'By all the gods, you are the pupil I've dreamed about.' He leaned close and poked me with his stick again. 'Which has the truer understanding, lad? Your ears and nose, or your soul?'
I looked around, but all the boys were watching me. 'What's a soul?' I asked. I had heard the word, but seldom as something that could sense.
He stopped poking me. He turned to Archilogos. 'Young Logos,' he said, and suddenly I knew where my young master had got his name, 'how much did your father pay for this slave?'
Archilogos raised his hands. 'No idea, master. But not much.'
Heraclitus laughed. 'Now I know that wisdom can, indeed, be purchased.' He turned back to me and the stick pushed into my ribs. 'Listen, boy,' he said, 'the soul is the truest form of you. It can sense the logos in the same way it can sense when another man lies, if you allow it.'
I considered this. 'What does it sense? If my eyes sense light and my ears sense noise, what does my soul sense?'
Heraclitus stepped back. 'Excellent question.' He walked away a few steps and came back. 'Work on it, and you will be a philosopher. Now we will examine some mathematics. What's your name, boy?'
'I am Doru,' I said.
'The spear that cuts to the truth, I see. Very well. On the feast of Artemis, have prepared an oration on what the soul senses, and how. You may present it to the other boys.' Then he turned away. 'Now. This is a triangle.'
That was our first encounter.
He was always a challenge. If you said nothing, he would hit you. If you spoke up, he would sometimes praise and sometimes deride and always force you to compose an oration to defend your views. I came to know that most classes began with one poor boy or another rising like a politician in the assembly to deliver a quavering oration in defence of some indefensible subject.
