fighting against the Spartans.
They’d fought their battles
and were heading back to Thrace.
But there was Mycalessus,
right on their way home,
and the gates stood open.
There was no one to fight.
There was nothing to steal.
The people who lived there
defenseless.
The Thracians thirsted for blood. They attacked without warning.
They slaughtered
men, even the old men, women and children —
even livestock. There was a school full of children
young as me —
they hacked them to bits with their swords.
Menon snapped his fingers in my face.
“How do you like being a Thracian now?”
I didn’t have a word. To kill old and young,
male and female,
beast and human,
where’s the glory in that?
What courage was shown? What god was served?
If the story was true —
then the Thracians were cowards,
monsters, barbarians,
brutes.
And I was one of them.
That’s what Menon taught me about being a Thracian.
TURN: MENON
At the feast of Poseidon Petraios
we honored the God of the Sea, the Horse God.
Black-haired Poseidon, who shattered the rock with his trident
and gave us the plains
and the river Peneios.
We honored the god with verse,
and the slaughter of bulls,
races with chariots,
swift-footed horses
and hard-muscled men.
After the games, the feast
where the world is turned upside down and shaken.
Just as Poseidon
combs out the waves with his trident
and makes the earth tremble —
so the banquet reverses
the natural order: Slaves command their masters.
They lie at their ease,
guzzling and gobbling,
while masters wait on their slaves.
I took the boy Thrax. I spoiled him —
right from the start. Some trick in his face
that recalled to my mind
Lykos, my brother —
As if a barbarian boy,
a man-footed thing,
could replace or resemble
the brother I lost . . .
The day of the feast shone blue;
the ground was hard with frost.
As the hungry wolf scatters the sheep,
the wind gave chase to the clouds in the sky.
When I toed the line for the footrace,
the boy stood on the sidelines, shrilling:
“Menon! Menon! Menon!”
Then some god came into my breast — Herakles
or fleet-footed Hermes —
I won, and they cheered me, and crowned me
with a fillet of pine and wild celery.
The boy scraped me clean,
and we went to witness the sacrifice.
Twelve fat bullocks, my father’s wealth —
No man gave more that day. They passed in parade,
their horns gilded, their heavy necks collared in pine.
First the procession
and then the slaughter. The priests
stunned them with clubs
and sliced open their throats.
The blood was dashed on the altar,
the victims flayed, and the fires kindled,
the smell of fresh blood and the smell of smoke,
the fragrance of roasting meat . . .
No one on earth
had the right to insult me.
I gave my strength and my wealth to the god.
Then the banquet began. I’d given the boy
a tunic that matched his hair. I led him to one of the benches
and told him to lie down. What slave
knows how to recline and eat?
He lay there, stiff and awkward,
sucking the meat from his fingers,
slurping and spilling the wine —
I waited on him,
I watered his wine.
In between courses, I drank —
Since the war
I’ve suffered a thirst
no cup of wine can quench.
I drank. And I drank. The banquet wore on.
It grew dark and the night was a blur —
At some point — I don’t know when —
I decided to mimic the boy.
He was altogether too sure of himself,
lounging and giving orders:
He was flushed and excited,
licking his fingers,
drawing all eyes to himself —
I wanted to hold up a mirror
and show him who he was.
Bowing and blinking, cringing and fawning,
Rushing to refill his cup —
Some of the others laughed at me —
the boy was blind to the joke.
I picked up a stick — the boy was always
scribbling in the dust.
I poked at the ground . He blushed like a girl.
He shouted my name, and I ran to his side:
Lifting his cup, he dashed the wine —
Disgraceful! — into my face.
I knelt there dripping — this boy that I’d pampered and favored
defied me.
Silence. Then laughter.
I would have killed him —
beaten him senseless —
Who would have blamed me?
I would have taken the skin from his back,
but the rules of the feast forbade it.
He was saved by the power of custom and law
at the feast of Poseidon Petraios.
COUNTERTURN: RHASKOS
At the feast of Poseidon Petraios
we worshipped Poseidon, father of horses,
Hothead Poseidon, who stirred up the earth with his pitchfork,
split open the rock,
and freed the first stallion.
We honored the god with games,
so Menon could compete.
He’d been drunk every night
seven nights running.
I prayed he would win.
After the games, the feast —
which I dreaded. I knew there would be trouble.
Just as Poseidon
tosses the bottomless ocean
and makes the earth queasy —
the banquet turns upside down
the way of the world. The masters act like servants:
pretend to be meek
stupid and clumsy
make fools of themselves, and us.
I was hoping he’d leave me behind.
He tipped up my face between his hands;
He wanted to see if
my bruises were gone.
He didn’t want people to know
he’d broken my nose.
He’d been proud when they called me
a beautiful boy.
The day of the feast dawned fair.
Menon was hung over.
I rode behind him, clutching his waist,
his sweat and his breath fermented with wine.
He met with his friends, and they cheered him.
I stood beside them at the sidelines
shouting “Menon, Menon!”
When I saw him running, his long locks streaming,
swift as Akhilleus,
my pride in him swelled. I was spellbound
in spite of myself. When the race was over,
I scraped his skin clean,
and we went to witness the sacrifice.
Twelve fat bullocks, his father’s wealth,
a gift to please the god. They passed in parade;
their horns were golden, curved like the arms of a lyre.
I wanted to draw
their blackness against the sky:
their bulk, their strength,
and those lyre-shaped horns.
I felt a terrible pity —
but there was no time. They were stunned with clubs;
their throats cut, the blood dashed on the altar.
. . . The sweet aroma of meat . . .
Everyone there
looked on Menon with favor.
He gave the sacrifice. He wore the crown.
Then the banquet began. I had to lie down
as if I were the master. He’d given me a tunic to wear,
rust red and soft, bordered with leaves,
the work of skillful women.
I leaned on my left elbow,
and tried not to look like a
