Not much cooler there. Street noises,
far-off laughter from drunken men,
nighttime murmurs
from Phaistus and Zosima.
I listened. On purpose. I strained to hear.
I seemed to see Sokrates
standing at my elbow, questioning me.
He thought it wasn’t ἀρετή to listen.
Thinking about him made me clench my fists.
What right had he to judge me? I wanted to punch him.
I thought of things I wanted to say to his face,
words that would shame him,
wound him,
make him burn
like me.
At last, they stopped talking. I stretched out on the grass.
I itched and wiggled and twisted,
tightening myself. Something bit me.
I raked my sweaty skin.
At last I slept.
Long ago my mother told me
dreams don’t mean anything,
but if someone comes and stands over you
on your right side —
or maybe it’s the left side —
I was young, I didn’t know left from right
— but if someone stands over you
it’s a dream from the gods.
I saw the dream. Wavering, bright as a torch in fog:
a girl my age. No, she was younger:
immaterial
the fluted folds of her tunic
were restless and astir.
Her hair was unbound,
her eyes gleaming like an owl’s.
On her arm and shoulder, a spiderweb of scars,
an intricate pattern,
the lines changing course like rivers.
She kept her hands behind her back,
hiding something.
I’d seen her before
but that night
my mind was made supple by sleep,
and I could remember:
That first time: the slave market — I’d seen her there,
her robe as bright as a bride’s,
but too short; I’d thought she was a Spartan girl.
I thought of Phaistus —
It was as if some god
seized me by the arm and towed me back.
Then Phaistus bought me,
and I forgot about her.
And the second time: she was with Sokrates,
in broad daylight, under the willows,
swinging her feet,
kicking up splashes.
And the time I was drawing,
the day Zosima came in barefoot,
and caught me making a horse — !
There were other times, too. I’d be hauling water
or digging clay. Phoibe would lift her head,
sniffing, her ears swiveling;
I’d catch a glimpse:
a glow like amber,
a shadow like smoke in the air. But always
there was something to distract me,
and I’d forget.
So there you were, Melisto:
the dream standing over me,
and I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see you.
I saw you close at hand:
I could see your burn scars, your lightning marks,
the mosquito bites on your legs,
the freckles on your cheeks
as you brought forth the thing behind your back —
A terra-cotta horse. A toy.
I seemed to feel the clay between my fingers
cool, damp, tough; I imagined myself
pinching the mane,
making a crisscross in the belly,
drawing out the legs. I thought,
I could make that!
My mind flashed ahead,
like a child leaping over a stream. I imagined the toy finished;
I painted it:
two oval black eyes,
dug-in nostrils.
I’d paint that horse with spirals and stars,
with jags of Zeus’s lightning —
I saw myself in the Agora,
my hands full of coins:
being praised by my master,
buying my freedom.
I remembered you when I woke, Melisto,
but my first waking thought was: the horse!
TURN: HEPHAISTOS
The boy’s first terra-cotta:
a toy. He thinks, because he’s working on a toy,
it will be easy,
but he is one of my own,
and anything,
anything,
anything,
he makes
will take everything he has:
all his cunning,
perseverance,
tenacity, and mother wit.
Look at him!
He is fighting for his freedom
— his fingers tighten like fists.
COUNTERTURN: RHASKOS
I thought it would be simple.
A toy: a horsie for a rich man’s spoiled son;
how hard could it be?
I took the clay in my hands,
but it fought me:
slippery,
obstinate,
stone-cold,
and my fingers were all thumbs.
I squeezed and clawed,
and plucked and pinched;
I was tying myself in knots,
doom-ridden —
while the clay snaked through my fingers:
my thought-horse galloped away.
HEPHAISTOS
He hasn’t learned to keep his mind on the horse.
He’s all nerves. He’s scarcely breathing,
trying to bully the horse in the clay.
He ought to know better;
a horse cannot be broken like that;
a toy is not made by brute force.
RHASKOS
I thought the horse would be the straightforward part.
The hard part: persuading Phaistus
to give me permission to sell my work.
Plus earning the money:
hundreds of drachmas. It was hopeless.
I couldn’t even make the horse!
HEPHAISTOS
How can I get him to see
he’s not the one who will make the horse?
It’s the passion he has for the horse
that will summon the horse in the clay —
RHASKOS
The clay held out against me.
No surrender. I started over.
Stupidly. The horse was lost, was trapped
in the maze of my thick Thracian skull.
HEPHAISTOS
Rhaskos, think of the child at play,
and the joy he will find in the horse.
Play with the clay.
Just play. Imagine the horse . . .
Now, gallop away.
Think of rhythm and fire and force;
power, spirit, and grace;
the luminous eye and the fragrant breath —
What in thunder is that?
RHASKOS
I was trying to find the horse —
I was trying to draw out the legs:
they were too short,
too thick. The body was wrong, round as a bubble —
the belly too large —
Then . . . something got into my hands
and what was meant to be
a delicate head on a cresting neck
became bloated and stout —
BOTH
A pig!
HEPHAISTOS
I am a god,
but I didn’t divine
the pig in the clay!
Where did that come from?
RHASKOS
I made a pig!
With the ball of my thumb,
I dug in the ears,
and hollowed the snout —
HEPHAISTOS
How did that pig get in there?
BOTH
Ha!
RHASKOS
How did that porker get out?
HEPHAISTOS
Look — he’s bewitched by the work of his hands —
irresistible piglet!
RHASKOS
I made a pig, and that pig makes me laugh —
It’s good. And now for the horse!
STANCE: HEPHAISTOS
He struggles — and his work is not in vain,
persists — and I, the deathless god, applaud:
Rhaskos the slave becomes a child again,
and by his crafting hands becomes a god.
1. THE RIVER
Sokrates. I didn’t forget him.
After the quarrel, I’d see him in the Agora,
jabbering like a magpie.
Once he saw me:
His brow lifted, and his hand;
his face split in a smile.
I was still mad at him,
hoping he wasn’t mad at me.
When he wasn’t, it threw me off guard.
I was relieved,
but I was still angry.
I thought I should stick to it,
like a man. My heart was torn in two.
I turned my back on purpose.
There came a day —
weeks had gone by. Sycamore leaves were crisping,
the
