who’d never seen the sun, just shadows.
I told her how Sokrates died hoping to see another world:
a country of health and truth
and absolute beauty. “See, if Sokrates is right —
and he was the wisest man in Athens, the Oracle said so —
maybe the House of Hades isn’t what we think.
Maybe it isn’t sorrow and nothingness. Maybe it’s full of power
and color
and animals!
Maybe when you go there, you’ll see a real horse!
— or a bear as big as the Bear in the sky
all stars and claws!”
She grinned. “I’d like that.”
Then she stopped and gazed all around
turning slowly:
the wind herding the clouds over the blue sky,
rock and root underfoot;
each pebble, each stalk of grass
haloed with piercing light.
I knew what she was thinking.
There was nothing I could say, so I said nothing.
We journeyed on, and the countryside changed,
It was a female land: secretive, soft and wild,
The path was less steep, and I was grateful.
The reeds murmured ceaselessly. I saw pelicans,
a kingfisher,
a nest of quail.
We stopped beside a river, and I waded in to drink.
She told me to bathe my sore feet
while she looked for the willow tree
where once she camped with a girl named Elpis.
She had only a few friends, when she was alive.
She was like me that way.
Almost at once, she cried out,
beckoning with both arms.
“It’s here! in the grass!”
The grass was lush and green:
a tangle, a hiding place,
but gold, pure gold, doesn’t darken,
and I tore apart the tussock:
a sphinx head of reddish amber,
carved by a master —
the cut of the nostrils,
the austere curve of the cheek,
a spear-point crown,
and the gold:
twelve palmettes on a leather string;
so much,
so heavy.
I’d been afraid the necklace would be too light a thing
to buy a boy’s freedom. Now I held it in my palm,
weighed it, admired it, almost feared it.
Each gold palmette
was thicker than a drachma, solid gold —
and there were twelve,
each worth fourteen times as much as silver.
“Are you sure I can have it? Won’t Artemis be angry?”
“No.” She was fearless, that girl.
In that way, we weren’t alike.
She made up her mind and stuck with it.
I thought more than she did;
worried more,
wondered more.
I was more wary of the gods.
“Artemis is the protector of youth —
she’ll want you to be free.
Besides, you’re going to give it back.”
She sounded as if nothing could go wrong.
I knotted the necklace in my cloak
and prayed she was right.
6.
In the middle of the night,
her absence tugged me from sleep.
I got up and searched for her.
She stood by the river
like a deer listening for danger.
She knew I was there but didn’t turn her head.
“It’s time for me to go.”
“Go where?”
Her shoulders lifted.
“I don’t know.”
She spread her hands.
She let me draw close.
I thought you were crying, Melisto,
but I never saw you cry.
Your owl eyes blazed in the dark.
We stood face-to-face:
Akhilleus.
Penthesilea.
“Listen, Rhaskos. You don’t have to come with me.
I don’t know where I’m going.
I only know I have to go now.”
I forgot I couldn’t touch her. I reached out.
There was an instant when her fingers were warm
gripping mine, a strong hand —
then her fingers stung, sparked —
I yanked my hand free.
“You see?”
You turned your back and started off. I followed. You never looked back.
We followed the river to a bridge of white stones. I crossed behind you. I saw the gleam of pale columns: temples and walkways. We’d come to the Sanctuary of Artemis.
I felt both awe and fear. It was holy ground, and I didn’t belong: I was a slave, and male.
We skirted the buildings and went onward. The wind freshened and I smelled the salt of the sea. I remembered what you’d told me, Melisto: you were struck down at the water’s edge. We were going to the place of your death. I looked at the sky, which was clear. The moon was down. There was no lightning, no storm, only the Great Bear and the Milky Way.
On a low bluff overlooking the sea, you stopped. The water was dark, except for a curl of froth at the edge. I thought I saw a pod of dolphins plowing the waves, but they were far away; I might have imagined them. Standing behind you, I longed for a brush. I itched to draw you, Melisto: the dark confusion of your hair, the line that meandered from temple to cheekbone to jaw.
I grieved for you as I grieved for Sokrates, because I couldn’t keep you.
You gazed out to sea. There was a moment when I saw through the starlight, and I saw things that weren’t there. I saw the gleam of Sokrates’s bald forehead: I saw the Guide of Souls, dark and golden at the same time. I saw him tuck his wand under one arm and extend his hands.
For the last time, you glanced at me, Melisto. You were breathing hard. You lowered your head like a bull about to charge. Your eyes narrowed, and you said “Now!”
Out in the dark was the thing that you feared, and you braced yourself, tensing —
Then you plunged forward and ran to the shore. You stumbled on entering the water; you kicked and splashed — and I must have blinked, because then you were gone.
And I’ve missed you, Melisto, I’ve wanted you back. But at that time, my heart was light, borne aloft by your ἀρετή.
7.
The next day of the journey, I was too hungry to go on —
or so I thought. When I came to a farmhouse,
I hid my cloak under a bush,
went to the door,
held out an obol,
and begged for bread.
An old woman gave me a loaf and a watery cup of wine.
She wouldn’t take my money.
“Travelers and strangers come from Zeus.
Zeus will reward me.”
I went back to retrieve my cloak.
My mind was dull with hunger and fatigue,
but it struck me funny: Here I was,
carrying gold, pure gold, in my ragged cloak,
and begging for bread. I glanced at the sky;
the crescent moon had risen. I felt better after the loaf
and picked up my pace;
the knot in my cloak swung from side to side.
Once or twice I panicked,
because I thought
