Amber and Clay Laura Schlitz (if you liked this book TXT) 📖

me.

One moment, I was a stable boy,

a ghost with a bucket,

a human tool.

Then there was Menon.

At first, I was a plaything;

we roughhoused together

and he teased me. He taught me to laugh.

I never laughed so much in my life.

Half the time, I had no idea

why I was laughing. Menon would say something

— he used big words —

and the way he spoke

told me it was funny. I remember

the creases in his cheeks

deepening —

the white of his teeth —

the spark in his eyes.

He was like a horse, Menon.

He made me want to look at him.

His eyebrows double-slant

like the wings of a pelican,

his dark hair

falling in waves,

which were beautiful.

He knew that and wore his hair long.

Sometimes he’d stick out his hand, not to hurt me

but to rest his palm on my head.

I’d stand proud

still

as if I’d been crowned with laurel.

Then he would push me away. We’d roughhouse

as if he were my brother.

He called me his wild Thracian.

He told his friends he meant to tame me.

Some of them said I was beautiful. A beautiful boy. I never knew that.

I stared into water, trying to see

if it were true. I couldn’t tell.

Menon taught me to stand straight,

only bowing my head.

He wouldn’t let me fidget or scratch myself.

He slapped me if I picked my nose.

He gave me a sponge

and made me wash myself. Every morning:

first my face,

arms and hands,

chest and legs,

groin and feet.

I followed him to places I’d never seen:

taverns and temples,

and the market.

He gave me his coins to carry in my mouth.

Once I swallowed one. It was an obol,

the size of a pea. I thought he’d beat me —

you can buy two loaves of bread for that —

but he only laughed.

Almost every day, we went to the gymnasion.

I carried his weights, his oil flask,

his lucky discus. Slaves weren’t allowed to work out there,

to mingle with boys who were free.

But Menon wanted me to wait on him,

to scrape him clean,

to watch him win.

He made the gymnasiarch let me in.

We passed through the groves of sycamore trees,

the leaves yellow-green or brown as leather.

We walked past the track, which was pounded hard

by rapid-running feet.

At the entrance there was a shrine with three gods;

Menon told me who they were:

Herakles for strength,

Hermes for swiftness,

and Eros, god of love.

Inside was a punching bag

and wrestling pits,

everywhere the smell

of sweat

and olive oil

and naked boys.

There was a din of flutes playing —

the boys exercised to music —

and the voices of men and boys

laughing and jeering,

panting and grunting.

The older men were teachers,

citizens and warriors,

scholars and poets.

They watched the boys at sport and chose their favorites,

predicted the winners;

I saw how they watched Menon.

He stood out. There were athletes

as strong and some were beautiful,

but they weren’t like Menon. They shifted from foot to foot,

awkward and bashful.

But Menon stood like a god,

almost posing, tossing back his head;

he knew the men were choosing him.

I took off his tunic and folded it,

anointed him with oil,

and watched him stretch:

muscles working under the glossy skin.

I watched him sprint, his fists tight,

his head up, his stride boundless.

No one else ran like that —

as if it were pure joy.

I sprinkled him with sand for the wrestling pit.

He gripped his opponent by the arms,

and they stood forehead to forehead.

Like rams, like stags battling,

their sinews straining, their breath loud and hoarse.

Menon was often the shorter man,

but the stronger man: when he threw the other,

I shouted his name:

“Menon, Menon, Menon!”

He liked that.

When he cast the javelin,

the black spear arced,

splitting the blue of the sky.

I shuttled back and forth,

setting sticks in the earth

to mark his distance.

What I liked best was to watch him throw the discus:

Crafted of shining bronze, smooth as an apple peel:

moon-round, pressed flat, heavier than it looked;

He clasped it with his knuckles,

steadied it with his thumb,

Rocked and swung back his arm —

then! he wheeled around,

that swift-circling spin,

the arm upthrust —

and the discus leaping

flashing with sun-fire!

I wanted to grab a stick

and try to draw

that spiral in the air

but it happened too fast

and besides, I had to run

and mark the ground

and bring the discus back.

Afterward I scraped him clean.

The strigil scooped against his skin.

He stank worse than a horse. The inner curve of the blade

gathered brine and silt,

dark, gritty, reeking;

his scraped skin gleamed like honey.

Like a horse, he trusted my touch,

and liked the grooming. After I scraped him,

he sponged himself with water,

and I rubbed him with oil again.

Sometimes, in the evening, there were banquets

or drinking parties. He liked to see me tipsy

and forced me to drink.

He’d take a morsel of meat from his plate,

lamb with the fatty edge burnt crisp.

He’d smile at me,

and my mouth would water. Then —

“Catch!”

and he tossed it. He’d show me a ripe fig,

lift his hand, elbow angled, ready to throw;

I’d ready myself, hands cupped for the catch —

Then he’d eat it himself.

I remember the first time

he beat me hard. He was drunk;

I held out his wine cup

full to the brim. His hand jostled mine.

The wine lapped over the edge

and his arm lashed out

the cup cracked

the wine splattered —

He gripped my shoulder, twisted me round,

punched my back,

knocked the wind out of me.

He seized me by the hair

and slapped my cheeks.

I felt my face twist;

I was going to cry —

I couldn’t help it —

I don’t know

what god put it in my head,

or if Lykos was there,

I mean, his ghost —

I saw him. Lykos. I remembered

the way he cried

when he was little and skinned his knee.

I aped that look:

I grimaced —

I grimaced like Lykos.

Menon’s face changed.

He swayed on his feet.

He saw Lykos in my face,

and the drunkenness, the cruelty,

emptied out like spilt wine.

I learned to do that —

make another boy’s face.

I don’t know how I did it.

More than once it saved my skin.

When Menon was drunk,

I tried to keep out of his way. But he needed me then.

I held the pot for him to piss in.

I cleaned up his vomit.

I guided him home on moonless nights.

He said I could see in the dark like a cat.

I could dodge like a cat, when he hit me.

Sokrates said it’s shameful

not to speak the truth,

So here’s the truth, though it shames me.

At first,

I loved him. I was proud of