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

The trip to the fountain house would postpone her punishment a little longer.

The fountain house was empty of women. While Thratta filled the jar, Melisto scooped up handfuls of water and drank. Thratta adjusted her head wrap, making a pad for the jar to rest upon. “Come,” she said shortly.

On the way home, Melisto dragged her feet. Just outside the marketplace, she stopped, her eye caught by a flash of copper. “There’s that red-haired boy!” she exclaimed. “I saw him a little while ago, and he smiled at me! He must have sold his hares — ”

Thratta spun around so abruptly that the jar pitched sideways and smashed to the rocky ground. The clay shattered. Thratta ran toward the boy. When she reached him, she caught hold of his arm and fell to her knees.

The boy was startled. He tried to escape, but Thratta’s grip was strong. She grabbed his other hand and spoke to him urgently. He shook his head. She drew him closer, gazing down at his left arm. When she released him, he stumbled, regained his footing, and ran.

Thratta bowed her head. Still kneeling, she lifted her hands as if to mask her face. Shakily she got to her feet. She came back to where Melisto stood and stared in shock at the broken jar and the wet earth.

Melisto shifted uneasily. “You can say I broke it,” she offered. She could not have said why she made so rash an offer. “I won’t tell.”

Thratta’s eyes were blank, like the eyes of the dead hares. “I must get you home.”

Melisto fell in step behind her. They walked in silence until they came to a cluster of sycamore trees. Thratta turned aside, leading a surprised Melisto into the grove.

It was a different world among the trees. The sounds of the city were muted. There were tufts of green grass between the rocks, and a woodpecker flew to a high branch, flashing his scarlet crown. Thratta sank down on the grass. Melisto followed suit, sitting with her arms clasped around her knees.

“Listen to me.” Thratta’s voice was low and fierce. “You’re eight years old, and I’m going to tell you the truth, though your father told me not to. The city’s dangerous. There’ve been child snatchings — people stealing children and taking them away from their homes. That’s why you can’t help with the water anymore.”

Melisto puzzled over the words. “But why — ” She bit back the word, remembering Thratta’s dislike of it. “I mean, who does it? Who steals the children?”

“I don’t know.” Thratta pulled up a blade of grass and tore it down the midrib. “I only know what the other slaves tell me, and they only know what they overhear. There are thirty men in charge of Athens now, men who were friendly with the Spartans. They want to get rid of their enemies. So there have been deaths — ”

“Children?” interrupted Melisto.

“No. It’s mostly men who’ve died. Citizens — some of them rich men, like your father. They’ve been arrested and put to death.”

“Men like my father?” echoed Melisto.

Thratta put out her hand, silencing her. “There’s a list of men the Thirty have agreed not to harm. Your father’s on that list. At least, that’s what Sosias says. But other men have been killed by the Thirty. Hundreds of them. Perhaps more.”

“How do they kill them?”

Thratta averted her eyes. “Your father wouldn’t want me to say.”

Melisto jabbed her fingers against Thratta’s knee. “I want to know.”

“The Thirty give them hemlock to drink. That’s poison. It’s not an easy death, but it’s easier than the other. Sometimes they’ll strap a man to a board with an iron collar around his neck, and choke him to death. Some men are never arrested or charged; they’re killed at night, murdered with a club or a sword.” Thratta dug her fingers into the earth and ripped up a handful of grass. “Are you satisfied? You like the answer to your why? The city’s still at war. The Thirty are on one side, and the rest of the people on the other. Everyone knows how much your father loves you. Don’t give his enemies the chance to hurt him.”

Melisto nodded slowly. She imagined an iron collar around her neck and touched her throat. “What happens to the children?”

“Nobody knows. Maybe they’re sold as slaves. Whatever happens to them, your father doesn’t want it to happen to you. That’s why you must stay indoors where it’s safe. Your father will be safe, too, as long as he doesn’t go against the Thirty.” She paused to let the words sink in. “So for once in your life, you’re going to do as you’re told and stay indoors. If you run away again, I’ll beat you black and blue, and tell your father that you’re bad. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but — ” Melisto stopped. The silence was so fraught with questions that Thratta snapped, “But what?”

“But why did you run after that boy?”

Thratta tensed. She answered in a voice so low that Melisto scarcely caught the words. “I thought he was my son.”

Melisto’s mouth opened in a silent O. A wave of emotion swept over her: astonishment, pity, jealousy. “Was he?”

“No.”

“Where is he? Your son.”

“Thessaly.”

“Where’s Thessaly?”

“North. Over the mountains. By sea it took three days.”

“What’s his name?”

“Rhaskos.”

“Why didn’t you bring him with you?”

“My old master wouldn’t allow it. Rhaskos is his son, too.”

Melisto worked this out in her head. First and foremost she was her father’s daughter; she knew that. It was the male parent who gave life; she belonged to Lysandra in a lesser way. She supposed it must be the same way for Rhaskos.

“What was he like?”

Thratta was silent. Overhead, the leaves shifted, and the woodpecker attacked the tree trunk: a brittle staccato in the stillness. Melisto shifted, peeling her bottom away from the damp grass. She hoped this would not be one of those times when Thratta didn’t answer.

When Thratta spoke, her voice was full of longing.

“He was quick. I