The slave woman shuddered. Her mouth opened in an ugly grimace, releasing a cry of agony. She wept, her tears striking Melisto’s face.
Melisto trembled. That terrible smell was suffering. She squirmed, but now the woman’s arms were clutching her, rocking her back and forth. Melisto hid her face against the woman’s breast and cried along with her. She was as frightened as if she were out in a thunderstorm.
The storm subsided. The slave woman gulped and sniffed. Melisto could feel her pulling the grief back inside. In a moment, she found herself pushed out of the lap. The woman took the dirty sponge out of the water jar and lifted the jug to her lips. Once again she drank as if she were dying of thirst.
Melisto stuck out her hand. “I want some, too.”
Thratta’s eyes met Melisto’s. She handed over the jug of dirty water and let Melisto drink.
TURN: LYSANDRA
Of all the children!
That bad-tempered, owl-eyed, snot-nosed
Brat of a child!
Rough and rude and disobedient!
What did I do to deserve her?
Even before she was born
she was a curse. Day after day
I vomited; I could eat nothing.
She sickened me, even then.
I had one comfort: I said to myself,
It must be a boy. I know it’s a boy.
It has to be a boy.
Only a boy could be so robust,
could kick so hard, like a hammer
striking my womb.
I promised my husband: I’ll give you a son.
I was in love. I boasted:
It’s a boy. I can feel it. A woman knows.
I was fourteen.
She tore me when I gave birth to her;
I labored a night and a day,
yet one more endless night
I screamed till my throat was raw —
only to hear: “It’s a girl!”
My mother-in-law — she laughed at me.
And so did the slaves.
I ought to have had them beaten.
But even after all I suffered,
I might have loved her,
if only she had slept, or bloomed with beauty.
A child like a flower, clinging to my skirts . . .
I could have loved a child like that.
Instead I’m stuck with Melisto!
She pierces me with those black eyes,
glaring like Medusa.
And she defies me!
She won’t spin, she won’t work wool.
She’s plain and squat and savage.
She’s a child who asks why.
She’s a child who says no.
I fear that some day
I’ll hurt her, really hurt her.
Not a pinch or a slap —
or a whipping . . .
I’m afraid I’ll crack her skull,
or black her eye, or shake her
so hard I break her neck. I am ashamed.
I lose control.
I cry to the gods,
Why have I no son?
Why am I stuck with this curse, Melisto?
COUNTERTURN: ARTEMIS
I gave you that child.
I, Artemis, goddess of childbirth,
gave you that child.
Strong and wild and disobedient!
What did you do to deserve her?
You have neglected my shrine
since you were born. Where were my gifts?
You owed me the toys of your childhood —
miserly child — you kept them!
When you were pregnant, your husband gave you
the necklace you wear: gleaming, resplendent,
a wonder to behold:
Twelve gold palmettes — my favorite plant —
and carved with marvelous cunning:
the amber sphinx.
A trinket even a goddess could desire.
You prayed to me, Lysandra:
Let me live, and I’ll give you the amber sphinx.
Remember that?
Oh, how you hedged your bets, Lysandra!
Goddess, grant me a healthy child.
If I survive the birth,
I’ll give you the amber sphinx;
I swear by the deathless gods.
A woman who loves and fears the gods
would give the gift first
and save the requests for later.
You never worshipped me, Lysandra.
You broke your promise.
You prefer Hera, the goddess of marriage,
or laughing Aphrodite, the man-pleaser.
You are too tame to worship me
and so I give you Melisto!
A child as wild as you are tame —
and if you don’t like her
that’s your misfortune!
I like her. She’s a bear cub,
born to follow the goddess.
I will make her ask why.
I will make her say no.
One day, Lysandra,
she’ll make you keep your promise.
She will stir you, sting you
until you do.
She will judge you with her eyes
and she will find you wanting.
She will never love you. Aren’t you ashamed?
That is my curse.
Don’t cry to the gods!
If you want a son,
thank the gods for your firstborn, Melisto!
And give me the amber sphinx!
EXHIBIT 3
Horse bits made of iron, found near Kolonos Hippios (Horse Hill).
The ancient Greeks revered horses and gloried in their strength and beauty. Horses symbolized power, nobility, and wealth, and as such they were greatly cherished. Horses were sacred to Poseidon, and the goddess Athena was credited with the invention of the bridle.
The Greek horseman and historian Xenophon stressed the importance of gentle handling for horses. At the same time, Xenophon recommended the use of two bits: a “smooth bit,” which was similar to a modern snaffle, and a rough “hedgehog” bit, which was used for training and may have been barbed or spiked. The smooth bit could be used once the horse had learned to submit to the painful influence of the hedgehog bit.
THRAX
After my mother was sold,
I was sent away from the courtyard.
So was Lykos. We were too old to play all the time.
He was seven, old enough to be educated.
I was five, old enough to work, Georgios said.
Georgios was the slave in charge of the stables.
After my mother went, he told me what to do.
I was too small to be much use,
but I was big enough to pick up turds.
The pitchfork was taller than I was,
so Georgios gave me a leather bucket
and I picked up turds with my hands.
At first, I was squeamish —
they were wet and they stank.
Flies buzzed around my head
and sucked my eyelids.
I sulked. I cried. I wasn’t thorough.
Georgios gave me a good beating.
I heard a fable once:
An eagle from out of the sky
caught a nightingale in his talons.
She cried and fluttered in pain.
The eagle said, “What’s wrong with you?
Only a fool fights against a stronger force.”
And that’s the way it is.
Georgios said a boy
is like a warped plank.
You have to pound it until it’s straight.
He taught me not to talk back,
or ask questions.
He said when anyone gave
