and Menon was like a god to me,
beautiful.
If sometimes he was cruel,
sometimes he wasn’t. And he talked to me.
saw me. Noticed me.
Taught me things, and told me stories.
If sometimes he was cruel,
so are the gods.
And the man who questions the gods does not live long.
Don’t listen to that boy!
The man who questions the gods does not live long —
What does he know? Everyone questions the gods!
Not a day goes by
without some mortal shaking his fist
and bawling to the sky:
Why is there suffering in the world?
Why is there death?
and — my personal favorite —
Why me?
Yes, there’s pain in the world, but don’t blame the gods —
we’re pussycats!
. . . Maybe not Hera.
Being married to Zeus is hard on the heart.
My uncle Poseidon
is moody: too much salt,
those dreary barnacles,
and all those storms at sea. Hades lives in hell,
so he’s bound to be dismal.
And Ares is worse.
. . . But then there’s laughter-loving Aphrodite!
with her sea-splashed legs
and shapely buttocks —
and look at me!
The kindly god, the bringer of good fortune,
guiding you through this story!
— That reminds me: Remember I told you
about the war?
Athens versus Sparta?
(It wasn’t just Athens versus Sparta, actually:
both sides had allies,
but the allies, like Thessaly,
kept changing sides.
I’m not going to confuse you with that.)
The point is, after twenty-seven years,
the war’s over. Let’s talk about who won:
Athens was beloved by my sister Athena,
the she-dragon, the victory giver,
goddess of wisdom, war, and craft.
She’s a perfectionist, my sister;
she cherished her pet city
and gave it genius. The Athenians are good at
architecture,
sculpture,
philosophy,
democracy,
vase painting,
theatre,
history,
and law.
The Spartans are good at war. Guess who won?
Exactly. It took a long time,
but the Spartans had the backing
of bloodthirsty Ares, father of tears.
(Plus cash from the Persians.)
The Spartans bled Athens
of money, men, and ships.
. . . Oh, those ships,
those naval battles!
The rowers
crammed below decks,
tier upon tier
sweating, doubled over,
working as one
to ram the hulls of the enemy ships,
the splintering wood, and the slaughter.
The ocean seething with blood:
O, the wine-dark sea!
I’m getting away from my point. But those naval battles
were tremendous,
spectacular. The land battles?
Even gorier. The Spartans excelled on land.
They’re not stupid, the Spartans:
Good soldiers, and good dancers.
Not all of their poetry’s bad.
— I’ve wandered off topic again. The next time I go off like that,
just stop me.
Here’s my point:
when Athena saw Athens was losing,
she left: cast off, jumped ship.
Who can blame her?
Who wants to captain the losing team?
Once she was gone,
man-slaughtering Ares
ran amok. His sons
Panic and Fear
circled like vultures
and Athens surrendered. The great Greek experiment,
democracy,
whereby men cast votes
and rule themselves —
gone. Now Thirty Tyrants,
friends of the Spartans,
rule over the city.
Athens the valorous, Athens the free,
is now the home of torture and terror,
and trumped-up charges. Hundreds of citizens
arrested,
questioned,
put to death.
Hundreds more killed in secret.
And Melisto? What does she make of her city in ruins?
What does the child of Arkadios know?
Nothing. She’s stuck in the weaving room.
Wool is the business of women.
War is the business of men.
Whether there are Spartans at the gate
or Athenians killing Athenians,
the wool must be washed and picked
and carded and spun;
the web on the loom
must be strung.
Melisto strums her loom,
her arms above her head
aching —
she counts the patterns under her breath
and beats the weft threads upward.
When the city was besieged, she did not hunger.
Now murder’s afoot, and she doesn’t know.
Except, of course, that she does know.
When something’s deeply wrong, children know.
As fog creeps into a shuttered room,
so does the poison of terror. Melisto smells it.
No one tells her what it is.
Melisto has nightmares. Sometimes she dreams
of the Spartans, her old enemies,
killing her father.
More often she dreams of the weaving room
where the yellow walls are shrinking —
there’s the smell of wool,
and women’s sweat,
and her mother’s voice
sharp with dislike.
Every day, all day,
they spend together.
They are enemies still.
Melisto’s nightmares
come and go. Far worse
are the nights
when she can’t sleep. She lies awake
and frets about dying. Melisto knows what death is.
She’s seen animals sacrificed.
Now she breathes in poison
and imagines death.
The horror of it,
having to be still,
forever
having to lie in the dark
with the damp earth pressing her down
unable to scream.
In her room at night,
she clenches her teeth
and jerks her legs,
kicking away death.
EXHIBIT 7
Fragment of red-figure hydria (water jar) bearing the inscription POLYGNOTOS EGRAPSEN (“Polygnotos painted it”).
Polygnotos was among the greatest of Greek vase painters and most active in Athens between the years 450 and 420 BCE. He seems to have preferred working on large vessels, such as water jars. His paintings are large in scale: the figures are formal, rhythmic, and dynamic.
Only a few pieces of this water jar survive. The artist’s signature is on one of the larger fragments. Two other fragments show the legs of horses and warriors, suggesting that the original painting was a battle scene.
Melisto stood at the foot of the stairs, listening. It was not yet dawn, and the house was dark. She had been awakened by the clink of water jars in the storeroom. Until recently, she had been in the habit of going with Thratta to the fountain house. A month ago, her mother had forbidden it.
Melisto missed the daily outing. Before daybreak, the fountain house was crowded with women: young and old, rich and poor, slave and free. Melisto eavesdropped as they filled their jars and chattered together. She liked the noise of the splashing water and marveled at the lions’ heads on the stone walls: how did the water get into the lions’ mouths, and what made it gush out? She pestered Thratta with questions, but Thratta said that plumbing was the work of men and gods, beyond the understanding of women.
Now Melisto crept to the silent kitchen, brushing the walls with her fingers. Forbidden or not, she would shadow Thratta and visit the fountain house. She swung around the door frame and groped for the three-handled shape of a water jar. Snatching one up, she headed for the courtyard. She shoved open the gate and took to her heels.
When she stopped, she was panting, but her lips stretched in a grin of triumph. She was free, all
