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

fool,

He brought me food, and I ate:

Meat on a skewer,

dripping with richness

— Warm grease ran down my fingers —

salty cheese;

figs dipped in honey;

later on, cups of wine.

I drank. I was thirsty. All that rich food —

the skin on my belly felt tight.

The world spun round like a top,

and whenever I snapped my fingers

Menon came running. He knelt before my couch

and filled my cup to the brim.

I was tempted to giggle —

I got the hiccups —

some of the other slaves laughed.

We were tasting not wine, but freedom,

which was sweeter than wine.

Then I looked up. I saw him mocking me.

Squatting down, stick in hand —

I didn’t know he knew I drew.

He grinned an idiot grin.

He jabbed at the earth and batted his eyes,

mocking my drawing —

I didn’t know what he meant. Then I did.

I saw red. Like fog. I was blind with rage.

I shouted his name and he came.

I threw my wine in his face.

He flinched. I disgraced him; I shamed him; I swear by the gods

I was glad.

Silence. Then laughter.

I knew he’d beat me.

Maybe not then,

but he’d bide his time.

Both of us could have done murder that night —

but the rules of the feast forbade it.

We were bound to obey the decrees of the god

at the feast of Poseidon Petraios.

AFTERMATH

The worst thing Menon taught me was this:

When you’re beaten, surrender.

Cry out loud to the pitiless gods.

There’s no point trying to be brave. You can’t win.

When a man beats you, he wants to break your spirit;

he’ll keep on hurting you

until you knuckle under.

If you start crying right away,

you’ll rob him of something he wants —

a secret:

the exact moment when he breaks you.

Afterward he’ll taunt you:

Coward!

Slavish!

Womanish!

and you’ll be sick with shame.

But there isn’t a master alive

who’s going to say: Well, boy, you’re brave,

and that’s manly, so I’ll spare you.

No. If you try to hold out,

he’ll just keep beating you

till you beg him to stop,

so you might as well beg first thing:

abase yourself.

Say whatever you need to say.

Then he’ll stop,

because he’s proved it: you’re a coward,

slavish,

and womanish. All slaves are like that —

which warms the cockles of his heart.

You’ll hate yourself for crying,

but you’ll have fewer stripes

and smaller bruises,

and maybe you’ll have time to heal

before he beats you again.

That’s what I learned from Menon.

EXHIBIT 8

early fifth century BCE

This fragment from a black-figured krateriskos was found near the spring at the Sanctuary of Artemis in Brauron, where young Athenian girls served the goddess as “Little Bears.” This mysterious practice is mentioned, though not described, in Aristophanes’s play Lysistrata.

Two girls dance around an altar decorated with scrolls. The girl on the left wears a short chiton, which balloons around her legs as she leaps into the air. The girl on the right, whose head is missing, stands on one foot and kicks with the other. Though the painting is primitive, the general effect is one of joy and spontaneity.

Me again: Narrator. Next scene: Brauron.

Imagine a bit of broken pot

shaped like a crooked square: a faded background,

and two little figures in black: girls

leaping in midair

knees bent

exuberant

one girl wears a whirling dress —

the other one’s missing a head.

The pot came from Brauron

and it never looked like much,

even before it was broken. These pots were small,

the size of juice glasses,

and crudely made.

They’re called κρατερισκοι:

that’s kra — as in crawfish

ter — as in rip and tear

ree — as in repeat (roll the r if you can)

and ski — as in skis. Krateriskoi.

You’ll find them near shrines to my half-sister Artemis.

Brauron was one of her shrines

— and it’s where we’re headed next.

(The B in Greek

is more like a V.) Vrauron:

a wild place; sea-girdled,

watered by a sacred spring. My sister Artemis likes marshes,

the way I like doorways, gates, and gyms.

At Brauron, little girls lived as bears

and served the goddess Artemis.

Why bears? The story goes

long ago

Artemis had a tame bear,

and a girl child played with it;

she teased it.

The bear, being a bear, killed her.

The girl’s brothers killed the bear.

My sister Artemis

— who’s a crackerjack archer —

let loose her arrows of plague

and started killing everyone. I’m fond of Artemis,

really, I am; I adore her. Who wouldn’t?

Goddess of sweet garlands,

guardian of young girls —

but let’s face it: she and Apollo

are a little too quick with their bows.

If you irritate them — and they’re touchy —

you’ve got plague on your hands,

and I’ve told you before,

I’m not wild about plague. I could do without it.

All those bodies,

all that misery;

and always, there’s a smell . . .

But I’ll say one thing for plague:

it gets everyone’s attention.

When people have plague,

they pray. Everyone prayed to Artemis,

and she relented. All she desired

were some little girls

to come to her shrine

and act like bears.

What could be more reasonable?

So the girls came to Brauron,

and acted like bears. How, you ask me?

I don’t know. Nobody knows.

A lot of that stuff happened at night,

and an active, mettlesome god like me

needs his sleep. It was women’s business;

I wasn’t supposed to know about it,

which isn’t to say

I didn’t peep.

The bear game was a mystery —

no one wrote anything down.

All we have are pots like these,

the krateriskoi,

and the guesses of scholars.

— Oh, those scholars!

what little ducks they are!

Dabbling into history:

truth-seekers,

archaeologists,

dippers and diggers.

They pore over bits of broken clay

and wonder what went on.

They drive themselves crazy:

What age are the girls on the pots?

Why do some have short hair

and others have long hair?

Why do some wear their hair in a bun?

Does it mean something if you wear your hair in a bun? And if it does —

what does it mean?

What’s the ritual

symbolic

reason

for wearing your hair in a bun?

According to a written source,

the bears wore crocus-colored robes —

that is, saffron yellow —

but on the pots

no one ever wears a yellow robe. It drives the scholars nuts!

What does it mean?

Was the yellow robe a bridal veil?

Or the pelt of a bear?

Here’s what the scholars have agreed on:

Every highborn Athenian girl

— or maybe just a few —

went to Brauron every year,

unless it was every four years.

They stayed at the shrine a few weeks —

maybe a year,

maybe four —

and they served