Amber and Clay by Laura Schlitz (easy books to read TXT) 📗

by herself, out in the city. The birds of Athens were singing the dawn chorus. Melisto wanted to sing with them. She skipped and pranced. The world around her was fresh and vast.

She hooked a right-hand turn, passing between houses so crowded that she had to hug the water jug to her chest. One prosperous-looking house had been daubed with red paint, black in the dimness. Melisto knew the markings were letters, but she could not read. It crossed her mind that there was something angry about the way the paint had been laid on, but the ugly message in the graffiti was hidden from her. She zigzagged into another street.

There was something white and small blowing over the ground — no, running: a Maltese dog. Melisto raced after him. She would have given everything she owned for a dog like that. She pursued him for ten minutes before he squeezed under the gate of his own yard.

She looked up to the Akropolis to get her bearings. Even in the semidarkness, she could see the opaque shape of the high city, and the sight of it thrilled her. Arkadios had told her that there was no more beautiful city in the world than Athens, and no buildings lovelier than the temples on the Akropolis. Melisto believed him. Captive and female though she was, the city was in her blood: the worship of the goddess, the gray guardian mountains, the steep profile of the rock against the sky.

A crossroads lay before her. Melisto paused. A fluttering ribbon caught her eye, and she turned left. If she had turned right, she would have come across a man lying faceup with his throat cut.

Instead she went left and came to a roadside shrine.

The statue was only a little smaller than she was: a maiden holding a bow, black-haired, red-lipped and smiling. Melisto recognized her: it was Artemis, the only Olympian goddess who had ever been a little girl. Melisto set down her jug by the goddess’s feet and went in search of wildflowers. As the sky brightened, she gathered a fistful: some were weedy, and many were closed, but Melisto was pleased with them. She bound them with a thread from her belt and left them at the goddess’s feet. Halfway down the street, she remembered the water jug, and ran back for it.

The sun was almost up. Between the tallest slopes of the mountains, the sky was pearl, tinged with orange and rose-color. Men were coming out into the streets now, slaves sent on errands and horsemen exercising their mounts. The city gates were open, and farmers passed through, taking their wares to the market. The last of the women hurried home, their faces veiled.

Melisto followed the flow of the crowd. In one narrow street, she found herself an arm’s length from a red-haired boy who was carrying two snared hares to market. The hares hung limp, their legs dangling. Melisto edged closer so that she could stroke the soft fur. The boy turned, startled. When he saw her, he smiled shyly and Melisto smiled back.

In the marketplace, the shopkeepers were putting up their tattered awnings, preparing for the fierce heat of the day. Melisto gazed around the stalls with delight. The richness of the Agora was overwhelming. There were clay pots and chickens, sandals and spices, trinkets and weapons and new-dyed wool. There were smells, too: the sulfurous wind from the metalworkers’ quarter, the stink of dung and leather and pigs. Melisto loved smells. She liked best the smell of roasting meat, but rank smells did not disgust her. She inhaled deeply, drawing in the life of the city.

Still hugging her jar, she passed from stall to stall. She wished she had a coin to spend; she would have liked to buy a ribbon or a toy, something to remind her of her adventure. If she had known more about money, she might have observed that food was scarce and luxuries were selling cheap; if she had looked at the adults around her, she might have noticed the strain in their faces. But Melisto had little interest in people. She preferred watching the animals: the foraging goats, the wandering pigs, the rare and costly horses.

As the morning wore on, the day grew warmer and the sun reddened her cheeks. She circled the crowded space, determined to extract every drop of amusement the city had to offer. A bronze helmet at a metalworker’s stall caught her eye. It was child-sized: made for a boy, Melisto knew, but she reached for it to try it on.

“There you are!” Thratta seized her from behind. “I’ve been searching for you for hours! What are you doing out of the house?”

Melisto’s heart plummeted. Thratta’s grip was rough. A fierce beating lay in store for her, though not a public one; Thratta never shamed her by punishing her in front of other people. “I’m sick of staying in the house! You used to let me come and get the water. You said I was a help. Why can’t I come with you anymore?”

“You must not say why.” The words were tinged with weariness: Thratta spoke them several times a day. “You know you’re supposed to stay indoors. You’re sunburned, did you know that? Your mother will be furious. I’m going to switch you hard when we get home.” Her eyes lit on the jug in Melisto’s arms. “Why did you take that jar? That’s your father’s best water jar, the one he uses when he has guests.”

Melisto held the jar away from herself to look at it. She had meant to pick up a plain jar, but this one had a picture on it: armored men and spears and cantering horses. Even to Melisto’s ignorant eyes, it was beautiful. She quailed when she recalled how she’d left it by the shrine. “I didn’t know it was good. I took it in the dark.”

“Give it to me. You’ll smash it. We’ll fill it on our way home.”

Melisto brightened.