that was a mistake. Take yourself off.
You’ll get nothing from me.”
I started to go;
he was used to being obeyed;
I was used to following orders.
Then I planted my feet.
“I know your daughter’s dead,
but she spoke to me. You won’t believe me,
but I saw her shade. She told me to come to you.
She wanted me to show you this.” I unknotted my cloak:
against the rough wool, the gleam of gold,
the twelve palmettes,
the riddling smile of the amber sphinx.
I held the necklace out to him.
I watched his face.
Astonishment.
Fear.
Suspicion.
Rage.
“Where did you get that?”
“From a meadow near Brauron.
Melisto took me there and showed me where she left it.
It’s proof. Her mother told her to give it to Artemis,
but she lost it on the journey.
Now it’s found. She bade me bring it back to you.
It’s proof that I saw her,
proof that she spoke to me.”
Three strides.
He stood over me, blotting out the morning sun.
He snatched the necklace. It was in his hands,
and so was my fate:
he could have seized me then and there.
There was time to imagine myself in a pit
close to the cell where Sokrates died.
I saw myself lashed to a plank, begging for water.
“Where did you get this?”
“I told you. From Brauron. Your daughter, Melisto —
she wants you to give it to Artemis.
She said you would help me, for her sake.
I know you don’t believe me, but I saw her.
She has freckles,
and one of her bottom teeth is crooked —
so it overlaps the tooth beside it;
when she was puzzled —
she used to stick out her bottom jaw
and chew her upper lip.
She has two cowlicks on the back of her head,
so her hair always looks mussed.
I saw her. I saw her.”
“You saw her when she was alive.
Or someone told you what she was like.”
“No. No one told me.
Don’t you believe in ghosts?”
He did. Everyone does.
But no one expects to see one, or wants to.
He was too swarthy to turn pale,
but there was a gray cast to his face,
as if his blood had turned to lead.
“My daughter’s dead and buried.
There’s no reason why she should appear to you.
She was buried with honor. My wife tends her grave.
Everything has been done — ”
I saw the pain in his face.
He’d believed his daughter was at peace,
not one of the restless dead.
I hadn’t foreseen that. I hadn’t thought.
I’d been rash —
“You’re a liar and a thief.”
I felt my face get red,
but I steadied myself.
Be your own master, Rhaskos!
“If I were a thief, would I come to you? No.
If I were a thief, I’d sell the gold in the marketplace,
piece by piece.
Instead I’ve brought it back to you. It’s yours.”
He turned the sphinx head in his palm,
stroking the carved face.
I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
I pressed him. “I’m telling you the truth.
What I’m asking won’t cost you any money.
My master needs a protector. It was Melisto’s will
that I should be set free. It was her idea.
Tell Phaistus that you’ll serve as his protector
if he sets me free.
It doesn’t cost anything, being a protector.
All Phaistus needs is the shelter of your name.
I’ll work for him, but as a servant, or a son —
He’ll teach me how to make beautiful things.”
I had thought to assume the pose of a suppliant —
to kneel before him and clasp his knees —
but my knees had turned to water,
and my words rushed fast, and faltered.
I could see the rancor in his eyes,
and the confusion:
my freedom? Phaistus?
none of that had any meaning for him.
All he cared about was Melisto,
and her death was an unclean wound.
“Even if my daughter haunts this earth,
why would she appear to you, a stranger?”
I took a deep breath.
“We were linked together by the gods.”
He snorted with disbelief;
His eyes raked me from head to foot;
they lingered on my arms. His skin darkened,
the blood rushing to his head.
“I know who you are!
There was a Thracian woman who used to work here —
a runaway! She told you about my daughter!
She was tattooed, the same way you are! You’re her son!”
I stood confounded. I’d never thought —
neither had Melisto
— he’d see the resemblance to my mother.
“I’m her son. But I haven’t seen her for years.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?
I don’t know what kind of swindle you have in mind,
but I remember her —
Hardworking and silent, like a decent woman —
but what slave was ever loyal to her master?
She slunk away under cover of night
after my child was buried. She stole from me.
The household was in grief, and she chose that time to run,
the shameless bitch!”
At that word bitch my blood boiled;
a red mist rose before my eyes.
I lifted my head, like a free man,
and stepped forward. “My mother was no bitch!
She was kidnapped when she was a girl,
dishonored, and sold into slavery.
If you were a slave, and saw your chance to be free,
wouldn’t you take it? You tell me she stole —
What about what was stolen from her?
She was robbed of her freedom and her son!”
His fists were clenched. So were mine.
I knew he wanted to hit me. I wouldn’t step back.
I scowled at him to show I wasn’t scared.
“My mother was wellborn.
The scars on my arms are the marks of our clan.
She made them with a knife.
I think she cut me
so she would know me,
if she ever saw me again.
It never happened. I lost her. You bought her.
She was your slave, and Melisto’s nurse.
She prepared your daughter’s body for the grave.
Your wife was afraid to do it.”
He was the one who stepped back;
the color of his
skin was ghastly.
“No one knows that.
Only the members of this household.
Your mother must have told you.”
“No! Melisto told me!
She loved my mother,
but not her own.
She told me everything —
how my mother took care of her
the time she was knocked down and broke her arm —
She loved my mother, and she loved you —
but not your wife. If it weren’t for my mother — ”
“Get out, or I’ll have you whipped.”
I’d said too much. Gambled too much,
told too many truths. Lost my temper. Lost.
I was at the gate, and I turned.
He stood like a
