“Now that the barbarians have swallowed Ionia for as long as the gods allow”—he turned to me, not to leave me neglected—“Samos is the only place for us artists. For the mathematicians, of course, it’s different. Why should they go? The properties of a circle, the shadow of a staff at the meridian, will not change their laws, whoever is making laws for men.”
Kleobis nodded. “None have left Ephesos. Well, some of them are impious fellows; but Harpagos won’t care if our gods are mocked, so long as his are left alone.”
Soon after this we said good night; he would certainly be wishing to improve his acquaintance here. As we parted, he called that we would be meeting soon at the Palace.
He meant it, too. In no time at all he was the darling of the court; appointed tutor to young Polykrates, the Tyrant’s heir; a sturdy, curly-haired lad, not bad-looking, and, people said, the image of his father, meaning before his father put on weight. There was a daughter, too, who came to the recitals; Samian women lived with the Ionian freedom. (Graceful and pleasant I always found it, and Athens has lost by its strictness in this later age.) She took after her father too, which in a girl was no great dower; still, she worshipped him, and any artist he admired was great with her.
It was Anakreon, I am sure, who got Kleobis a recital in the supper-room. Twenty years later he still would not admit to it, from respect for my master’s memory. A mean man would not have done it; a small one would have done it and let us know; but he was Anakreon.
Of course, it was beyond his power to get me invited. It distressed Kleobis, who in Ionia had taken me everywhere as a matter of course. On the day, however, he picked up his spirits, ran through most of his repertoire, and asked me which songs to choose. I said he must certainly sing the Lament for Hyakinthos. We discussed a couple of others, which he could give as encores. Then he spent an hour at the bathhouse, before going on to the barber to have his hair and beard trimmed and curled. I always looked after his recital robe. I had shaken it out the day before, aired it, and tuned the kithara.
I had to leave before him, to go to work, but he was dressed already. Not so richly, it seemed, as when last he’d sung, though the robe was just the same. Bright colors and gold thread were the wear in Samos; I had not known that my eye had got so used to them. But he had aged, as well. I embraced him, wished him every good fortune the gods can give, and went off to the Victory.
It was full that night. I was cheered when I came in, which got the best from me. When I broke off, I was asked to several tables; it was Theodoros’s I went to. He said, “When I have time, I’ll do a bronze of your Perseus, just as you made me see him. The Gorgon’s head, now; the snakes we could work in the forge, and weld on after the casting …” He ran on, while I sat there as mute as a cream-filled cat. “Now Ibykos, last night at the Palace, he’s been cried up enough; he should have worked with the tools he knew. A foolish business.”
I sat up like a cat drenched from a bucket, “Ibykos? But he lives in Sicily.”
“Yes, that’s where he’s from. Landed two days back. Samos is the honeypot now, my boy.”
My pleasure in the evening trickled away; it seemed treachery to my master. The great Ibykos, pupil of Stesichoros himself; the singer of heroes. Polykrates had imported another treasure. So tonight’s supper would be for often-invited guests, who had tasted all the treats and must be offered a change of fare, even though the dish was simpler.
Youthful and hopeful still, I told myself that if Kleobis made his mark tonight, he would be asked again; thanked Theodoros for his wine, and went back to my singing. After my supper-break, I always gave the late guests something; so Kleobis would be home before me.
He was sleeping when I got back. At least, it was clear that he wanted me to think so. I went quietly to bed, and pretended to sleep myself. When the late guests came in, some had come on from the Palace, and told us all about Ibykos’ recital.
His ode had first promised to reject all former themes, and then declared its own: the gifts and graces of the Tyrant’s son, young Polykrates, whose beauty he compared with that of the young Troilos, to the Trojan’s disadvantage. This was his offering, the gift of undying fame.
The promise was kept, as such promises sometimes are. The song is still given sometimes, and people have asked me who this young Polykrates was. Only Ibykos’ name has kept it in the repertoire. Anakreon always said it was the worst thing he’d ever done, notable only for its gross sycophancy. As he said later, “Shameless as a dog, my dear. He must have made it before he’d even seen the boy, who was no fool and knew it. He hardly knew where to look, any more than I did. However, he’s the apple of Father’s eye, and that’s all Ibykos cared for. It’s made his fortune in Samos.”
For Anakreon, this was sharp. But different men as we were and different artists, we had some things in common. I have never come to want in my calling, I am glad to say; but I have gone where my work was liked as I chose to do it. Neither he nor I were like robe-makers to whom anyone can say, “Cut it this size, and trim it so.”
Kleobis did not say much next morning; only that everyone had been very civil, and the fee would be useful till something came our way. Soon he was picking up small engagements at houses of the Landsharers. They would never have been offered to a man in the Tyrant’s favor; nor accepted by a man who had any hope of it. He was an old-fashioned singer, who had no more sense than to take on an ugly pupil, and sing of immortal loves where mortal ones were the mode. The court had already forgotten him.
Perhaps he should have stayed in Ephesos, and cheered the citizens in their servitude. The Medes, after all, only required that poets should not abuse them; they could sing about anything else they chose. Here in Samos, it was not what one must not sing, but what one must. Tell a man what he may not sing, and he is still half free; even all free, if he never wanted to sing it. But tell him what he must sing, take up his time with it so that his true voice cannot sound even in secret—there, I have seen, is slavery.
I suppose this is hardly just to Polykrates. In his way, he loved the Muses. He paid well for what he liked, and if he did not get it he did nothing worse than lose interest. We had been free to come, and were free to go. Now he is dead and I am old, I can see all this. In those days I was young and bitter.
At the tavern I was making enough to keep us both. But man does not live only by bread and olives. Kleobis’ heart was dying in him. His new patrons gave few feasts, so did not invite him twice. Before long, he would depend on my base employment. He blamed himself for it, guessing that if alone I would have moved on by now; but he had lost the will to plan ahead. He talked always about the past, and lived in that.
Where could we go? He was too old to start again in the wild north; Anakreon, young and among his own people, had found he could not bear it. Athens, an old friend to art, was near; but they had had civil wars for years, lords against commons, coast against plain; Pisistratos, the commons’ choice for Tyrant, was now in, now out, now back, and would no doubt be out again. By myself, I might have tried my luck in Thessaly. Though some of its little lords were not much better than bandits, and I did not know the country, I was strong, and used to hardship. My master was used to it too, but it had begun to tell. It was for me, the son of his art, to see that he had no more.
I thought of my father in blood. I was a rich man’s son, and much good it did me.
I had sent no news home since the fall of Ephesos. They did not know I could write, and I’d trusted to word of mouth to tell them I was alive. My occupation was no fault of mine; but I could not see my father thinking so. However, my pride was no longer mine to do as I liked with. I bought reed-paper; when Kleobis was out, I sat down and wrote a letter.