He coughed and sharpened his pencil. “It’s difficult just now. A week or two ago, I could have got half a dozen models of the build I need. But today …” He shrugged his shoulders. “Sound anatomy’s the tradition in this shop. My father made his name on Olympic victors. It goes against the grain, to work without flesh and bone in front of me. But one finds nothing now by walking about the streets; only hard trained muscle keeps its shape these days; and when a gentleman looks in, well, one’s afraid to suggest any arrangement, for fear of giving offence.”
I nearly laughed aloud. I suppose I had usually happened to come and look on with Xenophon or someone well-off. I relieved his fears, trying not to sound too eager. “The most one can offer,” he said, “is a little hospitality.” But it was a good deal; he was going to pay me with a meal, which was worth more than money. It would mean that as long as the job lasted, I need take nothing from home. I soon learned that every sculptor still working did this, to make sure the model did not lose flesh too quickly.
Polykleitos treated me very well. He even had a little pan of charcoal brought in to warm me. But I had to stand after all, leaning on one foot with a hip curved outward, for this pose had just come in and was all the rage. I stood holding out in one hand something supposed to be the shell of the lyre, and pointing at it with the other; a simpering pose, as I still think; he was a gentleman for a craftsman, but not the artist his father was.
The pose looked soft, but it was hard work to hold it, especially the first day, for last night’s supper had been dog-tail soup and a few olives. Once I felt a sinking in the belly, and a web of darkness spun before my eyes; but Polykleitos gave me a rest just then, and I was better. The supper was more than we had at home. I thought I might get a chance to save something, but though he conversed very civilly, he kept his eye on me.
I hoped that Sokrates would not turn up to watch the work. Man or god, he liked to see a statue planted firmly on both feet, as they were made when he served his time. My father took my employment very quietly. He himself bore all the hardship without complaint, as one who has known worse. He was not as lean yet as when he got home from Sicily.
Time passed, and no word from Theramenes. When a month was through, we signalled the Spartans and asked if he was dead. But they said the terms were still being debated. One could not buy oil any more, except by barter. The corn was a quarter-pint a head, if you were early. I had arranged to collect Lysis’ for him, while he was laid up. It was all I had to give him, to save him from limping out in the black of the winter night; if his wound mortified he would be finished. When my father and I got home, my mother used to make a little fire, and give us our wine in hot water, to warm us up. Then I would stand my watch on the walls, or pose for Polykleitos.
The clay model for the Hermes took him three weeks. Still nothing from Theramenes. When the work was finished and ready for casting, Polykleitos gave me cheese with my supper as an extra, and bade me goodbye. I had half hoped someone might have given him another commission, but of course no one had. At the door he called me back. “Chremon was asking about you the other day. I think he is still working.” He spoke without looking at me. He knew I had heard the talk of the workshops by this time. I said, “So I hear. Day and night work. No, thank you, Polykleitos.”—“I am sorry,” he said. “But sometimes people are glad to know.”
I went out next morning without telling them at home my work was over. I thought if I searched the City, there must surely be something that would bring a few obols in. The last of our tenants had stopped paying rent now, and the store was nearly bare. There were still a few things to be bought for money; olives, a wild bird, a marten-cat, or even fish if you walked to Piraeus. There was meat too, but it cost a stater a pound. I could go home for once and say I had eaten out, if it came to the worst; but much of that would finish my chance with the sculptors. Polykleitos had been flattering me as it was, towards the end.
I was not attending much to the people around me, and I don’t know what made me look up, especially at a woman. It was in one of the streets where the Kerameikos runs into the Agora. At first I was not sure, for she had grown half a span since the wedding; soon she would be tall. Then I thought, “She is too young to know what she is about. Someone must tell her.” So I overtook her, and, speaking gently so as not to alarm her, said, “Wife of Lysis, are you out alone?”
She caught her breath as if I had stabbed her. Her flesh nearly started from her bones. I said, “Don’t be frightened, wife of Lysis. Have you forgotten Alexias, who was groomsman at your wedding? You know you are safe with me. But you ought not to do this; it would trouble him if he knew.” She did not speak. I heard her teeth knock together, like my father’s when the fever took him.
“The streets are not safe,” I said, “for a woman alone. You need not look like a hetaira, to be accosted these days. There are too many ready to do anything for a handful of barley meal.”—“We can’t afford,” she said, finding her voice, “to hire a market-girl. And we had to sell the boy. Nobody minds it now.”—“The women go two and three together; look and you will see. Since we sold our girl, my mother does always. Another time, you could go with her. But indeed you mustn’t go alone, or people will talk. Come, I will walk with you, and see you safe home. If you keep your veil drawn, no one will know.”—“No,” she said, “I don’t care to walk with men in the City.” I began to speak, then saw her eyes; like a broke gambler, making the last throw.
“Wife of Lysis,” I said, “what is it? You can tell me; I am his friend.” She looked up at me sullenly, without hope. “Tell me,” I said, “and I will do anything.” And then, feeling my own folly, “I won’t tell him. As a gentleman, I give you my word.”
She pressed her veil with both hands over her face, and started weeping. People were passing, jostling us indeed, but no one took notice. Crying women were not so rare in the City. There was an open space near by, full of rubble. I drew her over, and we sat down on a stone that said, “Here stood the house of the traitor Archestratos.”
She said, “If you are his friend, you must let me go. In the name of all the gods, Alexias. If he doesn’t eat he will die.” I was silent, looking down at the broken stone, and thinking, “Why did I speak to her? It was enough before; must I know of this?” Then presently I said, “Is this the first time?”
She nodded into her cupped hands, sitting cramped upon the stone. “He has fever, every night now, and his wound doesn’t heal. I dress it three times a day, but it’s no use without food, and he won’t touch anything till he has seen me eat before him. He watches me even, to be sure I swallow it. When I said no, he got up and tried to go out. He thinks he can do anything. He thinks he can live on water.” She wept again. I said, “I can’t take anything from home. My mother is seven months gone. But we’ll find some way.” She went on crying. Her tears made great dark patches in her veil.
“An old woman came,” she said, “selling clay lamps. She said a rich young man had seen me and … and fallen in love with me, and if I met him at her house, he would give me anything. I was angry and sent her away, and then …”
“It’s always a rich young man. Some clapped-out old Syrian street-seller. He’ll expect you to do it for a supper, and thank him afterwards.” I felt cruel, as the defeated are. “If you don’t go straight back to Lysis, I shall go.”—“You gave me your word,” she said. As she lifted heir head, her veil slipped down. It showed me Timasion’s daughter, and the sister of his sons.