The Praise Singer: A Novel

3

ATHENS WAS QUIET WHEN I got back there. Young Bacchylides, whom I had left behind to get on with his schooling, had made a skolion on the music master, sung it too loudly, and had a beating. I had to own that the verse was neat.

All was much as usual about the court, but for a certain restlessness, hard to put a name to. Hipparchos’ latest friend, who had reigned for three months or more and seemed settled for half a year, no longer shared the supper-couch. He had been given a horse worth the price of a small town house, but was foolish enough to sulk, and was soon snubbed in public; after which he had the wit to retire into the country. Hipparchos remarked to me that he had grown tiresome, but said nothing of a successor. At the informal suppers, the couch would be shared with people not to be taken seriously, just guests, such as myself. Such times had been known before, and I thought little about it, till, meeting Anakreon at a concert one night of early summer, I asked him home for a drink.

I told the slave to leave us the wine and go to bed; our gossip was never very discreet. As soon as the door was shut, Anakreon said at once, “Well, I’ve done my best. I prophesy you’ll be the next one called on. I wish he’d gone to you first. Now I’ve not only failed, which has annoyed him; I’ve made the quarry wary, and spoiled the chase for you.”

I asked what he was talking about. He looked astonished. “What? Wherever have you been? Oh yes, among the horse-tamers. But surely you’ve heard by now what is going on?”

“No, not a word.”

“Our playful friend has been shot through the heart at last. Why is it that with people like him, it’s always someone impossible?”

“All praise impossible? That’s bad for us all. And him.”

“Oh, my dear, much worse than that. Impossible to get.”

Like a hen with one chick, my first foolish thought was of Bacchylides. We would have to go traveling.

“I have tried,” Anakreon was saying, “to drag him down out of the clouds; but he is blind with dreams. I tell you, he had better wake up soon. If he does it too late, there will be trouble.”

“Why, who is it?”

“I can’t believe you don’t know. Well, perhaps I can. But weren’t you on the stand at the Isthmian horse-race?”

I knew then. It gave me a shock, like bad news; the room felt colder. We poets sometimes have divinations.

“It’s Proxenos’ son,” I said.

“Harmodios, who hardly gave him good day. Who sucked in oligarchy with his mother’s milk. Who venerates his father, a man resentful even of Pisistratos.”

“And,” I said, “there is a lover.”

“Acknowledged before all the city. If you know any more, don’t tell me; I shall believe it in advance.”

“But how far has this gone? I don’t see how Hipparchos would even get to know him.”

“Oh, that was quite tastefully done at first. It was while you were away. The Athenians who had ridden at the Isthmus were asked to a parade and sacrifice for Ilissian Herakles. A mounted torch procession to the shrine; pleasant, a delightful spectacle, everyone on best behavior. After the rites, a supper at the riverside, with a little music. I sang.”

“What, a new one, and I have not heard it? Come, give!” I pushed the lyre at him.

It was his lyric about the fair young horseman who is begged not to caracole too high, because he is carrying someone’s heart and one more leap might break it. It is charming, and I told him so.

“Yes, I’ve done worse. The right song at the wrong time. Too soon. Not that he took it to himself, at first. But it was set in the wrong mode, it made him uneasy. Hipparchos should have sent for you, to sing about Perseus or Achilles; but he was impatient. He always was, but it’s grown on him.”

“And after the music, what?”

“The host mingled, of course, among the guests. It was all informal, you understand, no set couches, just cushions on the grass. The nightingales were in good voice; the river murmured; aromatic torches stood here and there, to lend enchantment without too much light. There was no lack of agreeable employment, with all those little walks among the plane trees; and as soon as my duty was done I took care to be invisible. A failed conjurer is better out of sight.”

“And a failed lover?”

“Ah. When I came back, and found they had both gone, I thought I’d been successful beyond my hopes. But it was worst, not best. They had not left together.”

“The boy had better leave town. What did he say; did anyone overhear it?”

“I learned from those in earshot that, after some trivial chat, not a word was uttered. But, alas, I fear that far too much was spoken, on either side. There has been an echoing silence ever since, which I do not like at all.”

“I knew his father. I could make some excuse to call. Only to see how things are, no more. The old grandfather’s been ailing; that will serve.”

Next day I took a jar of my best Euboian honey. Inside the courtyard, the first person I met was the young Harmodios, on his way out. Certainly, I thought, Anakreon had been right. I could see his hackles rise at the mere sight of somebody from the court. Taking no notice, I made my kind inquiries. His cool thanks put me in mind of that salute at the horse-race. At this rate, I thought, he will grow up a formidable man.

“You will find him rather weak, sir; but I am sure he will like to see you for a little while. The women will take you in to him. Please excuse me; I have to meet a friend.” He stopped to give some order to a household slave, in the voice of one already used to authority; then he was gone.

The women, as he had said, received me. Proxenos’ widow I had met once or twice while he was alive. She was a fragile anxious lady, brought up from childhood not to fidget or complain, and now looking overstretched; if you’d blown on her, she’d have thrummed like the strings of a lyre. However, it was clear that nothing was on her mind but her sick father-in-law and her upset house, for which she begged my pardon. One could be sure her son had confided nothing. He’d have thought it unbecoming; besides, he could be sure she’d be shocked to death, fall ill as like as not, and give him nothing but trouble. This was a woman who had always leaned on her menfolk. She was a part of his charge.

In me, she saw only a man of her own years who had known her husband, and treated me as a family friend, keeping the young daughter unveiled beside her. Her name, I now learned, was Delias; she was about fourteen, rather tall for her age, grey-eyed, with long fair hair falling nearly to her girdle, very much her father’s child. Though I saw that she was shy, she greeted me with courtesy, and after that kept her eyes upon her mother; anxious for her, I thought, rather than modest for herself. Proxenos’ children must be a close alliance. And yet, how much of his life must be unknown to her.

That was true indeed, and to her cost. But then, how much that would concern me was unknown to me.

I found the grandfather dozing. He roused himself feebly to say, “How kind, how kind,” and to hope my wife and children were in good health. I could see he wanted to be rid of me, and creep back into the womb of sleep. He was shrunk as small as a ten-year child, turned ninety years old; I wish I could have talked with him before his memory failed. I slipped quietly off. He would die kindly; they would hardly know when he was gone.

I had half a mind, next time I supped with Hipparchos, to mention this visit, just to see what it would bring forth. All poets should be inquisitive. But the old man’s name was Harmodios, his grandson having been named for him in the usual way, and I did not think I could carry that off easily. Besides, I remembered Anakreon’s saying that I might be asked in my turn to woo, and I did not mean to put myself in the way of it. I knew too much.

The old man died soon after. Once more I brought a grave-gift to the house and heard its women wailing, this time in kindness more than grief. He looked lost in his bier, like a child in a grown man’s bed; there had been handsome bones, though, in that fragile skull. The great-uncle was absent, sick or already dead. Harmodios was doing the honors.

It was his first family rite, as sole head of the house. I could see his sense of it, his resolve to perform it well. His earnestness made one feel what a boy he was, straining after manhood. Well, I thought, that will come to him soon enough. Poets don’t always have the gift of divination.

No friend of the dead man’s youth had survived to mourn him. Many of his clansmen had come, and former friends of Proxenos; but the guest I noticed most was Aristogeiton. Several times, at the funeral feast, he gave the mother a hand like a second son, and was so treated. It was only the young Delias who would be quietly gone from any place he came to. He was not yet thirty, and it would not have done for them to stand talking in public, especially at such a time; but there seemed more than that in her avoidance. Maybe, I thought, Harmodios wants to marry his friend into the family—that is often done—and she does not like it. Or then, again, brother and sister must have been lifelong confidants, and now the secrets are told to someone else. But I had done my duty by them all; I went back to my own concerns and soon forgot her. Bacchylides, who was now just about her age, gave me quite enough to think of.

His inquiring mind took him rambling about the city and the countryside, in what time he could spare from music; but I made him go to the gymnasium at least one day in two. He lived in Athens and must learn the carriage of a gentleman, whether or not he wished to become an athlete. He went obediently, and did his exercises; but, as he told me cheerfully, the best part of the palaestra was hearing all the gossip. Having no love affairs of his own he had no bashfulness, and chattered freely about those of his companions. I was amused by his mixture of shrewdness and simplicity; it made a good sauce to our midday meal.

“Harmodios was there today,” he said, soaking his bread in soup. “He came without Aristogeiton.”

“Why, have they parted?” I began to attend.

“Oh, no. Aristogeiton has to go out to his farm. Harmodios has more land, but he can afford a steward. And you know, Uncle Sim, if you can believe it, Hipparchos had another try at him?”

I nearly choked on my food. I don’t know why I had expected the boy to have heard nothing; no one had longer ears; but I sometimes forgot his childhood was well behind him. “I never knew he had been so open. It is unlike him.”

“Why, doesn’t he talk to you about it? I made sure he would.”

“No, indeed. I’m amazed that it’s common knowledge.”

“Well, I don’t know about the city. But it is in the boys’ palaestra. People would laugh, if it were anyone else. But I expect he could put us in prison.”

“The gymnasiarch would make you sorry. But you don’t mean to tell me the Archon pays his court on the wrestling-ground?”

“Well, almost. He stands staring. At first he used to just walk up and down with friends, only stealing glances; you know how, it always looks so silly. But now he stands and watches, as if he were a regular erastes waiting for his eromenos. Harmodios hates it. People look, you know. Today when it started, he simply broke off his bout and left the other man standing, and walked out. And Hipparchos followed him.” Seeing my startled face, and remembering I’d not been to school in Athens, he said, “Things like that often happen.”

“Not to him. Bacchylides, don’t gossip about this. I mean it. This is serious.”

“Yes, I know.” Indeed, his face had sobered. “I went to see.”

“Did he see you?” I was surprised by my own alarm.

“No fear. I looked out of the privy window. Harmodios had to wash down before he dressed, so he went to the fountain. He’d come by himself with no one to sluice him down; and Hipparchos went and picked up the jug to do it. I couldn’t hear all they said because of the fountain-spouts splashing. Harmodios said thank you, but it was too great an honor and he’d sooner do it himself. I couldn’t hear Hipparchos, he spoke too quietly. But he stood the jug on the curbstone, and started to put his hand on him. Harmodios shook him off, like—like a spider. I really thought for a moment he was going to hit him. But he didn’t; he snatched up the jug, and stood with it, ready to throw the water. So then Hipparchos went.”

I was too shocked to speak. There are people to whom such things are never done; everyone knows it to be impossible.

“Don’t worry, Uncle Sim. I didn’t tell the others. Just for your sake I kept back this very good story, which you are the first to hear. It would have made a better one still, if Harmodios had emptied the jug on him. He had his hair in curls across the front, and a robe with three-color borders. I would have liked to see him all wet.”

“I doubt you would.”

“Well, maybe not. I saw his face, as it was … And Aristogeiton won’t laugh, either.”

“If Harmodios is wise, he will not tell him.”

“He’ll have to do that. For all he knows, someone saw. Like I did. If he doesn’t tell, and Aristogeiton gets to hear, he might think he listened.” He nodded gravely, a citizen of his world. “Look who Hipparchos is, and what he owns. Harmodios must tell … But he’d do it anyway.”

“Yes. I fear that you are right.”

I knew it, next time I saw the two together. They were going about the city upon their business; Harmodios had a kind of sparkle upon him, and I saw what the boy had meant, when he likened him to the young Achilles at Aulis. Aristogeiton looked darker. I thought, That man is afraid. What of? He never looked like a coward. Though it was not likely they would talk of it, I knew how gossip seeps down through the gymnasium from older to younger; so presently I remarked to Bacchylides that Aristogeiton seemed oftener in the city than he used to be.

He answered at once, “Oh yes, he is. He comes to watch over Harmodios.”

“Well, there’s sense in that. It would be better still to take him out of town.”

“He’d never go. He’s the head of the family. Uncle Sim, do you think the Archon would ever carry him off? I think that’s what Aristogeiton is really frightened of.”

“Carry him off?” I could hardly credit my ears. It was too absurd for anger; I simply laughed. “A man like Hipparchos doesn’t run mad for love, like someone in a song. And he’d need be mad, to do that. Harmodios’ family is one of the oldest in Athens.”

“Yes, I know. But his father’s dead, and he hasn’t any brothers … They do say Hipparchos carried off a boy.”

“Not for long. Except for the slave; and that was little more than a prank.”

With his elbow on the table beside his bowl, he propped his chin on his hand and looked at me, thinking. I can still see his eyes, under those dark brows which now are starting to grey. Soft and thick they were, in those days.

“You are right,” I said. “It was an act of hubris, and unjust. You could say it was unworthy of a gentleman, let alone a ruler. But things are less simple when you know a man.”

“And he’s been good to you, too.” He meant just what he said, not more. He trusted me.

“That’s so. We are eating his bread this moment. But it’s not his gold that keeps me here. I don’t think we’d come to want if we took the road. You’d enjoy it, I daresay; at your age, I did.”

“I’d have enjoyed Ionia, I know that. But it’s gone, now. In those days Athens was just one city; but now it’s the center of the earth.”

In no time, I thought, he will be a man, and I’d best remember it. “That’s the root of the matter. Solon and Pisistratos brought the Muses to Athens. But only one man keeps them here. Without him, they’d fly away like birds scared out of a field. It takes more than gold to whistle them to your hand; more, even, than being a gracious giver. To keep them, you must understand their song.”

“Yes,” he said gravely. “You’re his friend; you really know him, and I’ve only seen him when he’s been making a fool of himself. Plenty of other men do it too, over boys who just make fun of them.”

“But they can afford it better. Well, only the gods are without a flaw. All one dares ask of any man is that he does more good than evil. And that he does no evil of free choice.”

I could see him getting that by heart, like a song. From loving the boy, I was beginning to love the man.

Presently he said, as he finished his watered wine, “It’s the Great Year. It will soon be the Panathenaia. I’ve only seen one. What hymn will you be doing?”

“Two, as it’s a Great Year. Men and girls. The men for a choral ode to Poseidon at the holy spring.”

“You’ll have to think of something new about Theseus, won’t you? Is there anything?”

“Certainly. He’s not yet been down to the underworld, to carry off Persephone.”

“That’s a dark tale, Uncle Sim. Do you think the Archons will like it?”

“That’s with the god, who sent the song to me.” I had asked myself the same question, but only as if asking whether it would rain tomorrow. This tale of the hero’s hubris and nemesis had seized my mind, and I had no time for anything else. “Herakles shall rescue him at the end.”

“And what about the girls?”

“That hymn is always joyful. It’s for the maidens, who bring the offerings to Athene. Yes, I shall be busy. Hipparchos, too. He’s been planning a full year for the Great Year. That will take his mind off his little folly.”

A thought came to me then, and I said, “I don’t think, this year, the city would grudge me the privilege of having my pupil carry my kithara. Just for the Presentation of the Maidens.”

Before he found his voice, he looked almost beautiful. Never mind, I thought; he is in no danger now, and if he were he can well look after himself. I took him to a robe-maker to have something made up, a short tunic proper to his age, and a red shoulder-cloak.

A few days later, Hipparchos sent for me to discuss the festival. Of course I was one of many: high priests and generals, the engineers who had charge of the Sacred Ship, and that year were making a new one; the other poets, and the musicians. The heralds were there, to learn their stations and cries. The eldest of them plied back and forth with messages to the High Priestess of Athene, who was too holy to appear among men at all. Both Archons were present; Thessalos too, who was to lead the youths’ cavalcade, by reason of rank, for he was past the age. Hipparchos, as usual, did almost all the business of the rite, and had a good deal to say to me; but all day I never had speech with him alone.

That I had expected; but I kept my eye on him, and what I saw disturbed me. In the last few years he had been thickening a little, till it threatened to spoil his looks; now he was lean. He had lost flesh so quickly, I wondered if he could have a wasting sickness. Men with a phthisis have this burned-up look, till one day they cough blood and die. But he did a great deal of talking that afternoon, and did not cough even once.

When all the business was over, he did beckon me up. I wondered if he wanted a private word, and didn’t know if I feared or wished it; it was a long time now since I had known his mind. But it was only to say he would be sending for me shortly, to discuss the Maidens’ Hymn.

Anakreon left with me, and we walked down the steps together. I said, “Is Hipparchos sick, or has he had too many late nights? The man looks raveled.”

“Something has happened. I don’t know what; nor does anyone else—except one, maybe. A few days back he passed me in the city within a yard, and never saw me or heard me greet him. No, it wasn’t meant; he might have been alone upon Mount Parnes. He looked as if the Furies were after him.”

I remembered Bacchylides; but I had given him good advice and meant to keep it myself. “Can it be love? I thought he’d be cured by this time.”

“He did not name his daimon. But it looked more like hate to me.”

“Or the terrible face of Eros, when he changes shape.”

He gave me his sweet smile; like a wise young boy’s, though by then he was over fifty. “My dear, there is no terrible face of Eros. There is just the one charming one, which he may decide to turn away. The Furies who follow him are all begotten by men.”

That was his truth; and even in sad old age, when his smiling god had turned away forever, he did not renounce it. Happy Anakreon!

Next day, Hipparchos sent for me about the maidens’ procession. I took my kithara to let him hear the hymn. This time, maybe I would be alone with him. But once more, no; Thessalos was sitting by him.

He at least was his usual self; a saffron robe, blue-bordered, gold clasps and studs on his sandals, an Egyptian girdle worked with ibises. His dark hair was cut to the nape in the very latest fashion, with an embroidered headband. He looked in high health and spirits. They waved me to sit at their writing-table. No clerk was there; Hipparchos wrote a very good hand himself.

Once again I wondered if he was sick. Beside his brother, glossy as a well-groomed horse, his lack of condition showed up. He was dressed with less than his usual care; his hair looked dull, and for the first time I was aware of grey in it; his cheeks were mottled, with broken veins, and when he held his stylos, I saw that he had a tremor. He spoke to me very civilly, but with only half his mind on me. It was Thessalos who saw my kithara, and jogged him into asking to hear the hymn.

I gave it, my own mind partly upon Thessalos himself. His concern with the maiden rite was something new. He was now about thirty, and might well be thinking of marriage. He was far from sharing his brother’s dislike of women; and the great festivals are good times for choosing brides. Men can look the girls well over, before getting caught up with matchmakers and kinfolk. Wellborn girls are hard to get a sight of at other times.

Hipparchos roused himself when my noise had stopped, and praised it as warmly as any man can who has not listened. Thessalos, who was missing nothing today, picked out one or two images for compliment. We went quickly over the rite, which had only to be remembered from one Great Year to the next. Thessalos said, “Was there anything else? Oh, yes, we never finished choosing the girls.”

He sounded too careless, and I was sure I had guessed right. If so, his choice would be on the list already. As usual, Hipparchos showed it me; sometimes I would ask for some girl of middle station, whom I’d marked down at a wedding or a feast, for her fine presence or sweet voice. I had no one in mind today; he rolled it up, saying, “We can finish it presently. Won’t you take some wine before you go?” I left the brothers with their heads together. He had one friend at least, it seemed, in whom he could still confide.

The maids were duly brought to the temple precinct, to be taught the hymn and the order of the procession. Their mothers led them proudly, dressed in their second best, their new ones saved for the day; their hair just loosened from the crimping-plaits, solemn-faced, too overawed even to catch one another’s eyes. Their mothers sat down on the seats along the wall, appraising each other’s daughters, and looking at me to be sure I valued their own.

I have never desired young maids, preferring ripe fruit to green; maybe it is because I feared their laughter when I was a boy. But at the rites they always moved me: those sure of their beauty, so ignorant of what Aphrodite may send them when they have served Athene; the shy ones, sure of nothing, except that this is their own Great Year, which they will have to remember forever. They give no trouble, as boys often do, who know they will find their fates elsewhere and would sooner impress each other than their teacher. The girls seek perfection before unknown eyes they have only seen in dreams.

It was the mother I noticed first, fanning herself, and condescending to the lady beside her. The girls stood in a clump, waiting for me to arrange them. There in the middle was the silver-gold hair of the young Delias.

I thought, Her name was not on the list; but it was not finished. He added her later, ashamed that I should see. And Anakreon says there is no terrible face of love! As surely as Dionysos, he can strike men mad. This poor wretch, who has had every gift he offered thrown back in his face, still hopes that by flattering the family he can buy his treasure. The girl is too young, hardly more than a child. Well, at least it will give her pleasure.

I felt a moment’s surprise that she had been allowed to accept. But how not? It was her right by birth. Her mother would rejoice that the orphan had not been forgotten. Harmodios could not interfere, unless he told them everything; and why, after all, oppose it? It would bring her the chance of a better marriage. She had some of his beauty; indeed was becoming not unlike him. Young though she was, she was one of the tallest there. Like enough she would catch some young noble’s eye.

With fifty girls to train, I had not much time to notice her. She was quiet and grave, and did not need to be told things twice. Though there were two or three girls more beautiful, she had the virgin candor of the young Athene herself, and the grace of a willow wand. The mother wafted her fan without a care. It was clear that Harmodios had kept his counsel.

I did not trouble the girls at first with their offering-baskets; highborn girls learn as young as peasants to balance loads on the head, ready for these occasions, and they could practice at home. But I had them pacing the precinct as they sang, to get the beat in their blood. There is the little ceremony some days before the great one, when the chosen girls are presented to the goddess and bring her offerings. I would have them ready for that.

Soon after this, I saw Aristogeiton walking across the Agora; and watched him with curiosity, after all I’d heard. I had lately seen one man scorching his soul to a crisp; here, by the look of him, went another. Since he was younger and much fitter, his sleepless nights had made him fine-drawn and handsome. But what would he know of that? An implacable god!

Just then he stopped a passing man, and they walked on talking. Soon he drew him out of the crowd, towards the stall of a pot-seller. She started pointing to her wares, and showing the price on her fingers. She was deaf and dumb.

They paid her no heed, and after talking there awhile went off together. I did not know the second man; he had a sharp discontented face, and did not look cheerful company. As they walked my way, I saw approaching a certain Charias, whom I did know; one of the lesser Alkmaionid clansmen, not of enough consequence to have been exiled. He used to say, rather too often, that he took no part in politics. He and Aristogeiton just lifted a hand in greeting as they passed; after which the young man spoke with great earnestness to his companion. When I came near, they became as dumb as the pot-seller.

I did not think much about it. Men with a grievance will go about getting sympathy from their friends; and if their complaint is against the great, everyone concerned will show a certain discretion.

As I walked on, I was wishing that I knew him as a friend, to quiet his fears; for, if Bacchylides had been right about them, they were quite absurd. Ah well, I thought, next year the boy will be a man with a stubble on his chin; and to both these poor fools, Archon and commoner, all this anguish will seem like a dream gone by. We are all children of Time, however much we may wish to kill our father. I walked on smiling, thinking how Anakreon could have contained it all in one short bitter-sweet song.

I rehearsed my girls each morning. The temple guard is there to keep out men, but some will always watch from beyond the walls. Bacchylides came most days. He had learned all his schoolmaster could teach him, and I’d let him leave; it was time he should study music as a man. The Maiden’s Hymn, he had by heart the first day; as he still appeared, I took it he had begun to notice girls. Afterwards at our meal he would pass judgment on them, rather severely lest I should suspect him of it, but fairly on the whole.

“You can see at once which is Harmodios’ sister, she’s so like him. She gets everything right. He came to watch her today.”

“He should be pleased with her. She holds herself very well. They must use their baskets tomorrow; the Presentation is in three days’ time.”

“Glaukos, Leagros’ son, was standing next me. He hardly took his eyes off her. I think he’s serious.”

“That would be a good match,” I said. It was an old house with wealth and reputation; Glaukos was the eldest son, an athlete of some distinction. It was just the marriage a family needed, so shorn of menfolk by death. I wished the girl luck with it.

Next day they carried their baskets. One girl had been too lazy to practice, and let hers wobble. I threatened that if she was not perfect by next day, I’d turn her out. It was only to scare her, for of course I could not do it; everyone would have thought her maidenhood was in question, and the scandal would have followed her for life. However, the silly girl was duly terrified, and performed without fault thereafter.

I was pleased with them all, on the day of the Presentation. The sky was bright; so were the girls, each in her festal dress, the peplos damp-pleated into tiny clinging folds, and fastened on the shoulders with gold brooches; the himation draped across, often an heirloom, with borders of six months’ work; hair freshly washed and waved, combed down over back and breasts. Some had brushed their lips with the juice of geranium petals, but their faces needed no heightening. Rosy or pale, their light came from within.

They gathered in their order, on the terrace below the crowded precinct, looking up at the temple porch with the priests’ and archons’ thrones. Hipparchos was there, with Thessalos beside him. Hippias seldom came to these minor rites.

Bacchylides paced behind me, carrying the kithara. His hours at the palaestra had not been wasted; at his age I should have been glad of half his grace. At my signal he brought the instrument and held the sling for me. He had been well rehearsed, and did it with-out fumbling. I was about to sign for the flautist to begin, when I was aware of people turning, and saw that Hipparchos had lifted his hand, signaling me to wait.

I looked up, puzzled, trying to catch his eye. But it was fixed on the line of girls. I was not too far off to see where it had rested.

It’s the likeness, I thought; I daresay it’s the first time he’s seen her. But what is the man about? He will never make a show of himself before all these people; he can’t be so far gone as that

To my surprise he turned to Thessalos, as if saying, “Is that the one?” His brother pointed, nodding. Hipparchos beckoned one of the sacred heralds, and said something; he came down the steps, looking grave as became his office, but also like a man who has been given a shock.

After saluting me respectfully, he said, “Sir, the Archon commands that the daughter of Proxenos must withdraw.”

I stared at him, wondering if everyone had gone mad. Such a thing was unheard of. I just said, “Why?”

The man, who under his ritual dignity was clearly as shaken as I was, answered, “The Archon says the girl was never invited. She is not a proper person for the rite.”

By this time my stare had become a glare; or so Bacchylides told me later. I said, “I know nothing of this. All these girls have rehearsed with me. Of course they have been invited.”

“Sir,” said the herald—an unhappy man if I ever saw one—“the Archon wishes to speak to you about it. Will you please go up to him?”

I looked round at the girls. Till just now, their happy whisperings had been like the hum of summer bees. What I’d heard was their silence. All their eyes were turned one way.

With a widening space around her, the young Delias stood still as a sculptor’s block. Then her basket began to tremble on her head. She grabbed at it, wildly without grace, and stood holding it in her hands before her. In her face, which had gone chalk-white, I saw not guilt, but horror; and yet, a kind of knowledge, a little, even if not enough. She knew why this had been done to her.

The herald looked at me. I looked at the steps, and did not start to climb them. I was very angry, and wished to have it seen. The girl turned her desperate eyes on me, as if I had power to say, “Don’t be afraid; I shall not allow it.” She knew, as well as I, that I could do nothing. I was just the straw nearest her drowning clutch.

I got rid of my kithara, and went and laid my hand on her shoulder. “My child, I am sorry. Some great mistake has been made, we can be sure. But we must all obey the Archon for the present. It is better that you go home.”

I looked round for the mother. Her neighbors were not struck dumb as the girls had been. Hissing whispers were everywhere; some were not even whispering. I beckoned her to come and take the girl away. As she got up, leaving her fan behind, I saw she was near fainting; but after all, she was not the widow of Proxenos for nothing. She kept on her feet, though the girl was holding her up as they went out. The women’s chatter rose, mixed now with titters.

There was a stir by the gate. A man was shouldering through the crowd to them. I had never seen Proxenos transformed with anger; but it seemed that I saw him now. The rage in Harmodios’ face was a boy’s no longer.

He put an arm round his mother, who at once threw all her weight on him; here was the man of the family. The other hand he held out to his sister. She paused a moment, fumbling with her basket. He took it from her and threw it on the ground, and led them both away. I don’t think that he looked at her.

I watched them go. Then I went up the steps to Hipparchos.

He was staring after them. When he became aware of me, he’d forgotten that I’d been summoned. His face was like a mask of clay, from which his bloodshot eyes asked how I dared accuse him.

“You sent for me.” In public, I should have called him Sir.

That brought him partly to himself. I was supposed to have been told why the girl must be sent away, and to have gone back and dismissed her. I had saved him this trouble, a thing he could hardly complain of; but now I was here, he did not know what to do with me. It was a messenger he had wanted, not a judge.

He said, “We will speak about this later.”

It was all I’d left him to say; but I had been in no hurry to come, and now was in none to go. I stood and looked at him. No, it would not be true to say I no longer knew him. I had known him a long time. All I saw now I’d known; but only as a man can know that his lynx kitten is getting bigger, not really believing that its claws are growing too. He had been much praised, much loved, and much of it deservedly. His sense of his deserts had grown. Now he was sure that what he desired, he deserved, and anyone who denied it merited punishment.

Whatever he’d become, it was not a fool. He had read me, as I’d read him. His bitter look said, Yes, I knew I could tell you nothing.

I said, aloud, “I should have been told of this.”

Thessalos leaned over. “How could we know she would dare show her face?” Hipparchos lifted a hand at him. I thought he’d brazen it out, but he fell silent.

Hipparchos said, without insolence or anything else one could put a name to, “Simonides, you are a poet but not a priest. This matter has been settled by those whose place it is. We are here to serve a goddess. The High Priestess is waiting. Let the rite proceed.”

I looked past him at the altar beside the porch, wreathed in its olive garlands, with the servers by it to take the offerings laid on it. There indeed stood the Maiden’s Maiden, robed in pure white, waiting to bless each girl as she did her reverence. A tall old lady, with a well-scrubbed, innocent virgin’s face, now looking severe as only innocence can. What could she know of all this, except that it was unseemly? Ever since she was a girl as young as these, she had served Athene Parthenos. It was for others, who knew the world, to see that the shrine was not polluted. Her work was holiness, not justice.

I went down the steps, and beckoned my pupil for my kithara. He slung it on me, his eyes begging that everything should be well. I met them, and shook my head, and looked up towards the priestess. He understood. The goldsmith’s apprentice knows that gold can burn; but there is always a first time for feeling it.

The girls were ready. They had closed the gap in their line. I signed to the flautist, and struck the first chord of the hymn. Their fresh voices rose, all together on the note, saluting the city’s Guardian, who gave us the olive for our wealth, craftsmanship for our beauty, music for our joy, and justice to make us great. Gracefully they went up singing, carrying their pretty baskets to the altar.

However, the grey eyes of Athene do not miss much. She knew, that day, that she was an offering short. It seems she did not forget it.