and has guzzled the waters of Lethe.
Weak and witless, he tries to tend the kiln.
his memory is riddled with holes.
The pots are dull and smoky.
He kept his secrets about the kiln. Now they’re lost to Time,
and the kiln god is disgruntled.
It’s curious. Kranaos was a slave,
and — between you and me — a pill,
neither good nor amusing,
yet he is sheltered, fed,
missed by the Kiln God,
respected by Phaistus,
fussed over by Zosima.
An unexpected ending to a long hard life.
Enough about him. Let’s follow Zosima,
who’s on her way to the fountain house;
she stops to puke in the bushes. Ick.
She has morning sickness
but you think she minds? Hardly.
Every time she loses her breakfast
she chants a hymn to the gods.
She gazes at the courtyard through a veil of joy: There’s the home
where she lives with her beloved;
there’s the shed
where Rhaskos sleeps —
Rhaskos, whom she loves. And she loves the little hinny;
she’s silly over baby animals;
she’s tempted to go inside
to fondle its ears. Instead, she lifts her water jar
and makes her way through the streets,
stopping for a funeral procession.
(That’s a Greek thing: you have your weddings at night,
your funerals before dawn.)
She tries to feel sad, because someone is dead;
she murmurs a prayer to wise Persephone,
but her lips keep curving upward.
She reaches the fountain house
and greets the other women. She finds her dearest friend
and whispers her happy news. The friend whirls to face her;
they embrace,
rock
(women always rock when they hug),
lean back, throw out their hands,
embrace again. Other women encircle them,
lose their place in line:
whispering, squealing, laughing.
It’s a pretty sight:
the women in their pleated robes,
chattering, relaxed, their veils slipping.
The water foams and chuckles;
the jars are overflowing.
Soon Dawn will daub the sky with finger paints,
watercolor tints of saffron and rose;
the women will sashay home, balancing their jars.
I wouldn’t mind following. I like women. Love gossip;
but we have to get back.
I have to take old Markos down to hell.
Remember that funeral parade? Markos was the man who died.
Who? you say, and there’s life for you:
someone turns up his toes, and someone else says, Who?
The death of Markos is key to our story.
Markos was a citizen, protector to Phaistus.
An ex-slave must have a citizen to protect him. That’s the law.
Without a protector, the freedman is at risk.
And while we’re talking of matters at risk . . .
let’s pause a moment here,
in the Agora. This is the place where a man we know,
a man I find both good and amusing,
will stand trial. He will be accused
of corrupting the young
and refusing to honor the gods.
Here he will defend himself
while the klepsydra measures out his words;
here his time will trickle away
from one clay bowl to another.
Now is the trial of Sokrates: philosopher,
seeker of wisdom.
Twenty-four-hundred-odd years have gone by:
the jury’s still out.
Was the man guilty?
or was it a blunder, a crime against justice?
I, Athena, the guardian of Athens, bore witness that day.
First was the sacrifice,
brought to the table: a ram without blemish,
healthy, immaculate,
worthy to offer the unfading gods.
Here comes the magistrate, hiding the knife:
a slice to the windpipe:
Blood on the table. The magistrate washes his hands in the blood.
Raising his fingers, he calls on the gods of divine law and custom.
Five hundred jurors are sworn to uphold the law of the land.
“There’s something I have to tell you — ”
I stared at Phaistus —
I was making the ram’s head
— that’s a way of wedging clay.
You rock the clay, lifting and folding;
it coils into spirals, like a ram’s horn.
Something I have to tell you.
Who says that to a slave?
When someone says, I have to tell you,
it means there’s bad news,
and they don’t want to tell it.
Who minds if a slave hears bad news?
I knew old Markos was dead and Phaistus was afraid.
Without a protector, he could be hauled off to court
and stripped of his goods.
He and Zosima spoke of leaving Athens,
selling Phoibe and her foal,
the tools and the stock —
They hadn’t talked of selling me. Yet.
That didn’t mean they wouldn’t do it.
“It’s about your friend Sokrates.”
My heart jerked
like the leap of a toad:
Sokrates was old, but he couldn’t be dead.
“He’s in the Agora.
He’s been accused of crimes against the city.
He’ll stand trial this afternoon.
I thought you ought to know.”
“What crimes?” Who could accuse Sokrates?
He’d fought for Athens in the war.
He was poor, but he was a citizen —
He wasn’t a slave, that can be punished for nothing.
Spectators gather. The water clock trickles.
Court is in session.
The plaintiffs speak first, accusing Sokrates . . .
Three hours pass.
The men on the benches shift uneasily, weighing the evidence.
The slave boy fills the klepsydra again: Sokrates may speak.
Gentlemen of Athens, these men who have accused me — I don’t know what they’ve made you think. They were so persuasive, I almost forgot who I was. There’s just one problem. Scarcely a word they said was true.
One of their worst lies was this: they said I was a terribly clever speaker, so I might be able to trick you. It’s a shameless lie, because the minute I open my mouth, you’ll find me out. I’m not clever with words at all, unless you call it clever when a man is able to speak the truth.
I will tell you the whole truth. But by Zeus, it won’t be in flowery words. I’m seventy years old, and I’ve never appeared in a court of law. So pay no attention to how I speak. Pay attention to what I say: whether or not it’s the truth.
Phaistus glowered at the doorway.
He was always on the lookout for a customer,
but not this time. He went and shut the door.
“They say he doesn’t believe in the gods —
not the city’s gods: not the Twelve.
It’s a serious charge.”
“That’s not true! He believes in the gods.
He just likes to ask questions about them.”
“That’s bad enough.
It’s a citizen’s duty to honor the gods,
not gossip about them.
And that’s not the only charge.
They say he corrupts the young men of Athens.”
“Corrupts?” I didn’t know the word.
It hung in the air,
a spider dangling
