Who would take care of the boys, and lead them in the closing procession? The flute-player? I had never shown him what to do, he had only to walk behind me. He could set the note for the paean, but it ought to be sung, not played, and he could no more sing than a frog; I did not trust the boys not to burst out laughing. How would I get word to the High Priest, now sitting in state and not to be approached, that I had to leave? Suppose the judges called for me? What would the Pisistratids think?
All this rushed through my head; while young Lasos’ choir sang about half a line. “Yes,” I said, “I will come.”
I beckoned the flute-player; gave him some hasty instructions; chose the boy with the finest voice to start the paean when the flute gave the note. I told the younger ones to behave themselves in the precinct, or I’d tell their fathers of them. I did everything as if my thoughts had been what they should.
As we edged through the press, I put my arm out to protect the kithara, still slung about my neck. How should I get it cared for? I would be crossing in a leaky ferryboat. After a salt drenching, it would never be the same again. It had been made by a master for a master; for his sake it was dear to me; it had spoken with his voice, and had come now to speak with mine; its beauty was closer to me than any woman’s. Because of the fine weather, I had left its case at the Kean lodge.
The little boy said, “Uncle Midylos, why did they take Granddad away? Why couldn’t he go to bed?”
Midylos said, “He has gone to see the doctor.”
“What happened?” I asked. “He seemed quite well this morning.”
“Yes, it was sudden; while you were singing. He leaned on me—Theas was still busy over the games—and said he felt giddy, and one of his legs was prickling. While we were leaving he fell down, and some men helped me carry him out of the crowd. He tried to speak, but the half of his face was numb. It sounded like ‘Rhenaia,’ and that seemed best. Theas has taken him over, and I came for you.
“Yes. Yes, let us go at once.”
“Look, that’s the way to the ferry. Only big ships are using the harbor now.”
“I know. But there is something I must …” The kithara seemed to cling to me, like a frightened child. I forget how far I went out of our way towards the Kean lodge, before I found a man I knew and trusted, who promised he would get its case from the warden of the lodge, and put it in safekeeping. If I had not met him, perhaps I would have gone to the lodge myself. I cannot tell.
Most of the ferryboats were idle, waiting on the Delos side to take people back to their lodgings after the festival. I had never before been over to Rhenaia. Its living is mostly fish, between the festivals. Anyone who can afford it has built a room onto his house, to make something at the Delia and the summer Apollonia. Some rent their houses out and just sleep in their boats. We crossed where the channel is narrow, alongside the Chain of Polykrates. He had the notion of offering the whole island as a dedication to Delian Apollo, by tying it, so to speak, to his feet. It was just like Polykrates. Most of the chain was under water, hidden by weed; our boatman cursed it as a danger to the ships.
The feast had emptied the island. The jetty seemed forsaken. Theas’ little boy said, “Uncle, where does the doctor live? Can I see Granddad?”
“When he is better.” Midylos murmured to me, “He thinks the world of Leo.” The child bore his name, and was Theas to the life as I first remembered him.
As we tied up, a boy got up from the shadow of a bollard, and limped towards us. “Is either of you gentlemen Simonides, Leoprepes of Iulis’ son?”
“I am; where is he?”
The lad’s face brightened. He did not look poor, just bored and lonely. “In the shelter, sir. I’ll show you the way.”
“What?” I said. He had used the word for a soldier’s bivouac or shepherd’s hut. I turned angrily to Midylos; but he laid finger on lip and shook his head. I understood. All the lodgings had been paid for, by people who would be back at night to sleep. To a sick man they might offer hospitality; not to a dead one, who would leave the place defiled. Rhenaia, it seemed, had a proper place for that.
The boy said, “Are you famous, sir? Your mother said so. And Melesias gave your father a new bed. This way, sirs, it’s not far.” He led us on at a lurching trot. He was clubfooted; I expect his kin had not cared to show him at the feast.
The death-house was past the harbor, along the shore; a stonewalled hut, with a roof of driftwood held down with stones. No one was wailing, so I knew he was still alive.
A man was sitting outside upon a boulder. He looked round at us; by the time we came up, he was grinning like a pi-dog that scents meat. He was the man who had been ready to stay away from Delos, in case anyone arrived to die. Pythagoras’ followers, as they told me when I visited their city, do things like this as an offering to the gods. This fellow was not one of them.
I suppose the plain dress of Keos had not promised well. At the sight of my robes he almost dribbled. Anything he could do for the poor old gentleman … not that it was easy with so many folk away, but hospitality to the stranger …
We walked past him. The doorway had no door. Only the family was there, but there was barely room inside. I could see my mother kneeling by my father, and hear his heavy breathing. A cold, damp stink of old sickness and death crept out. Little Leo did not ask again where Granddad was; he started to back away.
Philomache peered out. Midylos beckoned her, and she took the child by the hand. “Come, let’s look on the beach for something pretty, to give to Grandpa when he’s better.” He went with her silently, not deceived but thankful to be gone.
Her leaving made room inside. My father lay with his feet to the door, on his new bed. The boy had spoken truly; the straw was fresh.
I stood by my mother and looked down. Theas’ cloak was rolled under his head for a pillow. Half his mouth had dropped, so that he seemed to gaze at me with an angry and sour disgust. In the prison of his face his eyes had moved, and were fixed on me. I knelt and took his hand. It felt cold and dead. The straw smelled of the urine his body could not contain.
“Father.” What more? I was as dumb as the child had been. “I am sorry, Father.” The good side of his mouth moved, and it seemed that he spoke my name.
“This won’t do, Father,” I said. “We must find you something better.” Then I remembered that despite my splendid clothes, or rather because of them, I was the only man there who carried no coin at all. My money was at the Kean lodge, in the warden’s keeping.
He could move his head a little. He turned his eyes towards a block of stone that served as the only table. There was a cup on it; my mother lifted it to his mouth, and raised his head. He swallowed some, though more was spilled; then he looked hard at her, and his eyes moved to me. I said, “He wants more”; but with every inch of face he could make work, he seemed to say, “You fool!” He looked at Theas, and his loose mouth mumbled again. I could not catch the words; but I saw Theas go white. He bent down and said, “You are my father. You know I cannot do it.” He turned to me, his face telling me everything. “And nor can Sim, Father. You know that.”
Indeed, I had been slow. This should have happened to him at home on Keos, where old custom met his need. He would have had no trouble there in getting what he wanted, and a friend to give it.
Theas said to me, “Sim, you know Delos. Would there be someone there?” He spoke quite simply; we were all Keans.
I shook my head. “Doctors, yes. But they’re servants of Apollo. They have to take a vow never to give such things. ‘Even if it is asked of me.’ That’s in their oath.”
My father said, “Keoth.” It was the best he could do, and clear enough.
“Yes, Father,” Theas said. “Just rest now. We will take you home.”