Melisto was silent, willing Thratta to say more. The image of a boy took shape in her mind, a boy who shone like a flame, who gazed into the sky as if he could take flight. She wished she were like him: bright and swift and beautiful. The wave of jealousy crested and broke. “You love him more than you love me.”
Thratta turned her head, incredulous. “He’s my son.” Her tone left no doubt in Melisto’s mind. Compared to Rhaskos, Melisto was nothing.
Melisto scowled. She hugged her knees to her chest and bent her head to hide her face. Next to her father, she loved Thratta. “I don’t care,” she said, between clenched teeth. Then the words did a somersault inside of her. She spoke them again in a soft voice. “I don’t care. If you want to love him best, you may. I’ll still love you.”
Thratta picked up a twig and broke it in half. “You won’t always.”
“Why won’t I?”
Thratta rose and shook out her dress. “You just won’t. You’ll grow up.” She held out her hand to Melisto. “It’s time to go back.”
Melisto took Thratta’s hand. “Are you going to beat me when we get home?”
Thratta sighed. There was indecision in her sigh: Melisto pressed her advantage. “If you don’t beat me, I’ll say I broke the jar. You can say you found me in the market, and the jar was already broken, and you beat me then.”
“That’s a lie. A citizen’s daughter shouldn’t tell lies.”
“You’re not a citizen’s daughter,” Melisto pointed out.
“Aren’t you ashamed to tell a lie?”
Melisto shrugged: she was not.
“Very well. We’ll lie. I’ll tell your mother you’ve already been punished. You always have plenty of bruises to show. Keep your head down, as if you’re sulking. And don’t tell anyone about my son. That’s my business. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” conceded Melisto. “I won’t tell.”
“And from now on, you’ll stay indoors.”
Melisto cast one last look at the trees: the peeling bark, the curling leaves, the radiant sky between the branches. She looked for the woodpecker, but he had gone. “From now on, I’ll stay indoors,” she agreed sadly, and followed Thratta out of the grove.
Forgotten me?
I, Hephaistos,
crooked-foot,
foreign,
am often forgotten.
I’m not as chatty as my cousin Hermes.
No one is.
Do you think I’ve forgotten the boy? I haven’t.
Anyone who works with fire,
as I do,
learns concentration.
I steady that boy like a pot on the wheel.
He spins inside my hands. He’s still a child,
hot with hero worship,
unlucky, unwise.
He’s liquid bronze,
malleable. Like iron beneath the hammer,
he glows scarlet,
throwing out sparks. Nothing takes shape without struggle:
Clay resists.
Bronze fumes.
Iron fights.
The craftsman keeps his eye on his work.
As for Menon —
whom I dislike —
he’s gone to war. His first battle:
There’s a civil war raging.
Some tyrant named Lycophron —
I think that’s the name.
I’m not interested in war.
Battles are all the same,
brawn and blood and chaos,
the cruel maiming
of that most intricate beauty: the male body. Now, armor . . .
I like armor. There’s skill in armor. I can appreciate
the flex
and bite
of a good sword. I value
the carving of a fine sarcophagus.
But the bloodbath between
the sword and the coffin?
I can’t get interested in that.
When Menon goes off to battle,
the boy’s sent back to the barn.
He’s bored. He scratches with a burnt stick
on the stable wall, trying to capture:
Grace
Speed
Menon throwing the discus —
The stick breaks. The boy has forgotten
most of his Thracian,
but he still knows how to curse.
I’m not going to leave him like that.
He’s too good for Thessaly. What’s this country famous for?
Horse races, gluttony, drunkards,
witches who call down the moon —
Look at the temples! Mud brick!
No one honors me here!
but in Athens —
In Athens, I am worshipped;
the Athenians spring from my seed.
They honor me with sacrifice,
torchlight, and festival.
In Athens, there are temples
to rival the work of the gods:
forests of fluted marble,
a wonder to behold!
I will send my boy to Athens
and wrest him away from Menon.
1. PATROKLOS
When Menon went to fight
I wanted to go with him. I said I could carry his shield.
He said I’d slow him down.
He had to go to war.
What else could he do? A rich man’s son?
He couldn’t dirty his hands, like a farmer.
He couldn’t twist rope or sell sausages.
He was born to rule other men,
or to fight them.
So Menon went off to fight battles,
and I went back to the barn.
I’d forgotten how picking up turds
makes your back ache and your hands stink.
I’d forgotten how it was:
the same task,
the unbroken silence,
day after day.
Was I a fool if I missed him?
He’d taught me things. Told me hero stories,
I remembered those stories, over and over;
They were all I had to think about.
There was this man named Akhilleus
— he’s been dead a long time —
but he lived in Pharsalos,
right down the road. There was a shrine
where he used to live
with statues of him and Patroklos,
his friend.
One day
on the way to the market, we passed them.
I asked who they were.
Menon said:
“You never heard of Akhilleus,
the greatest warrior who ever lived?”
I never had. So here’s the story:
Akhilleus was beautiful,
swift-footed and
