“No. He has never asked me to flatter him. If the compliments stopped, he is still too proud to demand them.”
“Uncle, you know that story about the man who was boasting of Corinth. And the Athenian said, ‘But we have Simonides.’ It’s true, you know. You do belong to the Athenians, and their heroes and their gods. Hipparchos is just one man.”
“True. And we could eat well without his bread. But if I go to him saying, ‘You are no longer my patron,’ I would have to leave the city.”
“He might kill you, you mean? Could he do that?”
“No. He’d do nothing to me. Or for me, either. At the festivals he would just get other men to sing, and make sure I felt it.”
“Then you would have to go, of course. But you know, I was there, I saw him. I think your friendship’s over, Uncle Sim, whether you speak to him or not. As it is, it’s a long time now since he asked you up to supper. But I think he’ll still call on you to sing for the Athenians, because if he stopped they would be angry. And it’s for them that you’ll be singing.”
“Yes, that might be. There’s Hippias, too. He has no ear, but he thinks I am respectable and bring the city credit; and it’s he who has the last word.”
“Will Anakreon stay?” His mind often ran with my thought.
“I’ve not asked him, it would only give us pain. He will say it was all an unhappy business, but love is a lawless god. He’s his own man, I am mine.”
He walked on awhile in silence, then said, “Thank you for talking to me. I didn’t like to ask. At any rate, it will all have to wait till after the Panathenaia. That does belong to the Athenians and their gods. It’s only three days now, and you’ve a great deal to do. After all that, something may come to you; things do, when you’ve been thinking of something else. Or I’ve found that, with a song.”
It was the first time in his life that I had leaned on the boy like this, and his strength surprised me; which itself surprises me now. On the other hand, I have never thought him a seer. That one time only, a god breathed in his ear.
5
I SPENT THE NEXT night with Lyra, a promise long since exchanged. After hard work, I sought the refreshment of her healing springs, more needed than ever now. We lay at sundown, Aphrodite’s rites performed, watching the last light shine gold on the vine around the window, sharing a flask of Thracian wine cold from the well, lazily talking. She heard my story kindly, and told me I brooded on such things too much; though we both liked to choose our patrons, there were bound to be some misadventures here and there. She held up the wine-cup to my mouth, licked up what she’d spilled upon my shoulder, and added, “At least you tell me. There was a young man with me yesterday, who you’d have thought was having it for the last time in his life. I knew he’d be better for talking; but not a word. Some men don’t know how often we hold our tongues.”
“He was the loser.” But Aphrodite was recalling me to her worship, and I had no wish to hear about other men.
Next day the city buzzed, preparing for the festival. Crowds stood to watch the banners and garlands go up along the Sacred Way, from Athene’s temple down to the Kerameikos. I took my two choruses for last rehearsals, and was satisfied; in the presence of a watchful mother, I gave last advice to the leader of the maidens’ chorus. I would be leading the men, and she the maidens, standing on the prow of the Sacred Ship. She was a plump sparrowlike girl, who would not have looked much in the procession, but had a sweet strong voice and perfect pitch.
In the evening Anakreon called, full of the day’s gossip. As I’d guessed, he said nothing about the events at the Presentation. He had not been there, so had no need; and we understood each other. Our friendship was a thing neither of us would sacrifice, each knowing that the good in it far outweighed the rest. I have been glad ever since that we both felt it alike.
The day dawned perfect, sweet and balmy even before the sunrise, with a light breeze. The crowds were there already; in the Great Year, they come in from most cities in Greece, and from the islands. Bacchylides was away at cockcrow, to find his place in the dark; he had left a lamp kindled, for me to dress by, and beside it the kithara, groomed and polished like a race-horse. As I dipped my barley-cake in my breakfast wine, I gave myself to the day.
At this one festival, remembering all the heroes from Theseus on, Athenians of fighting age wore their arms. In their tribal groups, they were gathering all around the Kerameikos. They had made the best of their panoplies: leather corselets waxed and bronze ones burnished, helmets and spear-points gleaming. The cavalry, still more resplendent, were above within the city gate, wearing their scarlet cloaks. But Hippias himself was coming down to the Kerameikos, to lead the hoplites’ march.
Further up, near the foot of the ramp to the Acropolis, the Ship of Athene stood on its tall car. At first light came its team of snow-white oxen; then the troop of girls, bearing its colored sail. It was the goddess’ new robe, which they had all been embroidering to last her till next Great Year; two girls would hold it spread from the mast, to be seen by all the people. I wondered how many stitches the daughter of Proxenos had put into it, and with what hopes.
To be here, now, at the center of all this glory, making the music to which its heart would beat: what more could a man wish for, what more could he offer to his god? I thought, How can I go? It was for this I was born, if I was born for anything. I have grown into this, as a fig tree grows to its fruiting, rooted in a city wall. How can I forsake it, and not desert Apollo too? If he would only send me a sign!
The girls were all gathered now. I went up through the crowds, to look at them in their beauty. Gowned and girdled and combed and crowned with flowers, by the hands of loving mothers and skillful slaves, they gave me grave smiles, too solemn now for laughter. I turned back downhill; the people who saw my kithara on its sling making way to give it room.
A little way on, I heard my name called from above. Bacchylides had been in time to secure his chosen place. He had swarmed up the column of my victory tripod, and, like the Pythia at Delphi, was sitting snugly in the bowl. He grinned, calling out that it had the best view in the city. I shook my fist at him, laughing.
Just below was the shrine of Leos’ Daughters; it had a good-sized precinct, with a stone slab in the middle, on which stood Hipparchos, getting the procession into its starting order. From time to time he got down, to direct anyone who seemed confused. He was an expert at such things, and it was all going smoothly.
My chorus men were awaiting me; a fine tall troop, picked for presence as well as voice. (Once, I’d have feared to be laughed at, stepping out before men like these; now I thought nothing of it, and nor did the Athenians.) They had made themselves as handsome as they could, borrowing good panoplies from their kin if they did not own them; one had hired his, paying a whole sheep just for the day. I thanked them all for doing me so much credit. Hipparchos turned at my words, and called out cheerfully, “Are your songbirds in good voice, Simonides?” I answered, “And in spring feathers, sir.” “So they are, as bright as jays. But for you they will sing like nightingales. Down there, please. My brother wants you to walk before the horsemen.”
“That’s good,” I answered. “No one sings better for breathing cavalry dust.” How easy it is, I thought, when one can do it without thinking. But I shall have thought, next time. We went down towards the Kerameikos.
I left my men standing outside the city gates till I had got Hippias’ own orders. He had a little platform, in the middle of the potters’ field. At times like these, he always tried to put on his father’s mantle, more from duty than pride; when anyone came up to him he would smile, though awkwardly; one could see him seeking a gracious word or two.