The Praise Singer (21 page)

As it happened, I had just got half of a good line, and had had the rest almost in reach before he scattered my thoughts. I felt like telling him to jump off the Rock, but resigned myself to listen.

“You were right, some of those scrolls are old: the Pythians, the Orphics, the Mousaios. I asked to look at them; but no one’s to look at them any more, in case they crumble. Only Onomakritos, and guess why. Because he’s recopying them!”

Keeping my patience, I said that it seemed best, if they were to be read by men to come.

“Copying, he says. Hippias read me some of the Mousaios. Why, the old charlatan’s style is stamped all over it! The very plod of his feet. Listen to this.”

He had a sound memory, did Lasos. (How seldom one finds it now!) He had kept a dozen lines from a single hearing. They were very gnomic, about a lightning-flash from Macedon which would burn the Great King’s throne. I had to admit that, apart from their being nonsense, they did have an Onomakritan sound.

“Oh, some were crazier still. About Atlantis rising in the west, and aspiring to rule the moon, sending up heroes in flying chariots. And a thunderbolt that burned a whole city of men. I can’t give you above two lines of that, but they have his mark. He must be pl?otting something, just working up to it.”

“So what will you do? Tell Hippias?”

“No use. He has the ear of a cow. And I expect the old scrolls have all been tampered with to match. Never mind. From now on I see my way.” On which he took leave of me, and I tried to make a flying bird from the shed feathers of my shot-down song.

I had no quarrel of my own with Onomakritos; we had been judges together in one of the Homer contests, and worked on the recension. So I minded my own business. The Isthmian Games came on soon after; and the boxing was won by the son of one of my own tenants, young Glaukos of Karystos. His father found out by chance how strong he was; told him to fit a plowshare to the shaft, and came on him hammering it in with his naked fist. I’d encouraged him to enter; he was a sweet-natured boy whom I’d known from childhood, had never used his strength for bullying, had trained hard for the games, and looked almost godlike in the glow of victory. I made him an ode as a gift; I still think it is one of my best. After all this, Lasos’ feud slipped my mind; and the war was over before I knew it.

The inner shrine of Athene’s temple, before the Medes burned it down, was pretty full, and looked like an ancient lumber-room. It was less than thirty years old; but besides the sacred scrolls, it had all the goddess’s old clothes, discarded when the maidens rerobed her; any number of ritual vessels and emblems for processions; and a great scrap-heap of old iron and bronze, battle-trophies offered in thanksgiving. Nowadays they build treasuries to house such things, but then they were heaped up halfway to the roof, ships’ beaks and shields and helmets and so forth, from the Megarian and Salaminian wars. Behind all this stuff, it seems, Lasos had made himself a lair with a spyhole in it. He had seen Onomakritos visiting the place at daybreak, early enough to need a lamp, and bringing a fire-pot to kindle it. Lasos got up still earlier, feeling his way to his ambush in the dark.

Why do men do such things? Maybe, like dogs, they hate each other’s smell and ask no reason. Lasos had lost nothing much through Onomakritos-in the end his dithyramb had been put on another day-his place at court and his stipend had never been threatened. He had lost some face, which certain men feel more than others. Or, it may be he was just possessed with a love of truth.

Came at last the long-awaited morning. Onomakritos kindled his lamp, and brought forth his own new copy of the Mousaios oracles. He did not unroll the old one. He took a wax tablet from his breast, and began to copy from that.

It was Lasos’ moment. He sprang from his ambush, dislodging a heap of shields which crashed down with a noise like thunder. While Onomakritos sprang up open-mouthed, thinking no doubt that it was an earthquake, Lasos snatched the scroll from his nerveless hand, grabbed up the tablet, and ran straight to Hippias’ house.

The Archon rose early for his devotions. He had just poured the libation when Lasos came rushing up. The ink was still wet on the scroll, indeed had smudged in the scramble; and the wax of the tablet was soft and fresh.

I had thought Hippias a much milder man than his father. I had been wrong. Pisistratos’ hardness was a kind of tool, like a craftsman’s hammer. He used it when the work required, skillfully, and then he put it away. With Hippias, it was a thing you came upon; and so, I think, did the man himself. No Pisistratid ever took kindly to being made a fool of. Lasos told me later that when, for a moment, he wondered if he could have been wrong, it brought him out in a cold sweat.

What proved his case was simply his being alone. No injured seer had come after him to accuse him of impiety. Hippias sent for his brother; they scanned the scroll; went to the sanctuary, untenanted but for an acolyte clearing up the mess (unless you count the goddess, who one assumes had witnessed everything); compared the ancient writing with the new. A messenger, sent to Onomakritos’ house, found him already packing?.

Lasos was present when he was brought before the Archons. All he could find to say in his own defense was that these visions had come to him, sent him by some god; and that he wished them to be read by men to come. He was told to be over the Attic border by nightfall; an order he obeyed so fast that he never bade me goodbye.

Lasos came to me to report his triumph; and I asked him what oracle the man had been forging, when he was caught. A prophecy, Lasos said, that the islands off Lemnos would one day sink into the sea.

“What madness,” I said, “to lose a good living for. I’ve sailed by Lemnos, and those islets hardly serve for fishermen to put in overnight. I doubt more than a couple have water. What possessed the man?”

“I can tell you that. He was possessed with a belief that these things would really happen.”

“You mean he really took himself for a prophet?”

“I believe so, now.” He sat back in my guest-chair, quite limp. I called my boy to bring him a cup of wine. He had had his moment; now the flame had sunk in him, leaving him chilled. “Yes, I think that he really thought so. I never saw a man more earnest. He could have fudged up some story; but he never tried. He said he had sought no glory for himself; he’d been content to give Mousaios all the credit; he only wanted his predictions kept safe.”

The wine was good, but he swallowed it down untasted. “He was mad, of course. Not fit to be in charge of anything sacred. What could I do but say so? … Do you know, Simonides, I wish I’d let it alone. I wish I’d never found out.”

Perhaps he wished wisely. I shall never know. While I knew Onomakritos, I never found him base. His songs have lived; even some he made in Persian-held Ionia, when he’d sold himself to the Great King. In the end, he had sold everything: his new master, his old one, and any gift the gods had given him. All to buy him a recall to Athens, though she were enslaved. I wonder what happened to him after Salamis, that false prophet of Xerxes’ victory. And I ask myself even now: if he had stayed in Athens undiscovered, among his forged scrolls, would he have grown so base?

But there, he was mad. I suppose one day we would have found him raving. After all, he never foretold the fate of Samos.

I WAS IN KEOS, visiting Philomache for the naming of her third boy. She had borne her second son four or five years before, delighting the heart of the old grandfather Bacchylides, after whom of course he had been named. I had heard great tales of the celebrations, but had had to miss them for the Olympic Games. She had let me know that this was preferring the lesser to the greater. I was resolved not to fail twice.

I found a big baby with red hair and a carrying yell; built on Bacchylides’ pattern, I daresay. Indeed, when I got there, the ancient victor had him naked in his lap, jogging him and admiring his sturdy limbs. “Big babes, tall men,” he said. The infant kicked agreement, and made a puddle in his robe.

The dark elder son stood by, watching in silence. It was clear by now that he would never make the weight for the pankration. Even so, he had been, all his life, the wished-for heir, spoiled by his sisters, sole lord of his small estate. Though his parents were too kind to blow cold towards him, no one had much time for him just then. His throne had passed to another, and he saw it.

I admired the new tyrant, spoke good-luck words and offered gifts. But I was glad that when shopping I had remembered the fallen ruler. I had brought him a little flute, stopped for the Lokrian mode. It was ivory with a gold band; it’s never too soon to learn that music is precious. I saw his parents look sideways; some people think the aulos is no instrument for a gentleman. But he was too young for the lyre, and when he was only three I’d seen him beating time to songs. At all events, he was enraptured, tooted diligently, and was puzzled that he made no music. I took him outside and showed him how to finger it, and in no time he was picking out a tune. After that, he hardl?y glanced at the usurper’s court.

One thing clouded the feast: Theas had not come. He knew when the birth was due, had sworn to be at the naming, and had a short run to make, no further than from Samos. The sea was calm; but sudden squalls come down from the heights of Mykale, that can wreck a squadron when ships a mile off can barely fill their sails.

However, his ship was descried not long after the naming; and he rode up on a hired mule a little before sunset, when the feasting was still lively. Keos has laws against costly naming-feasts, as against all other extravagance; but Kean wine, if not up to Chian or Lesbian, is very drinkable, and at least there is no law telling guests when to go home.

As always, he appeared like some god of plenty, leading a pack-ass laden with spices and Samian wine, a lapis necklace for Philomache, and a handful of gold luck-charms to hang upon the child. After he had embraced us all and asked us how we did and praised the baby, he said, “Forgive me for being late. I waited in Samos till I was sure of the news. Well, it’s true. Polykrates is dead. Murdered in Sardis.”

There was a moment’s dead hush, then a clamor of questions. Most seamen are good at news-telling, from being so often first with it. Theas took a swallow from his wine-cup, and pitched his voice to carry. “He was lured over the strait by Oroites, the Satrap there, who wanted to buy Kambyses’ favor. He sent word over to Samos that Kambyses wanted him dead, and he planned to fly. Well, after all that madman’s killings, it sounded likely enough. So, would Polykrates take him in, if he brought all his wealth along? He had gold enough to make Samos master of the seas, just like old Minos’ Crete. If Polykrates would come across the strait and swear a peace with him, he could see the gold for himself.”

“And he went?” I said. “Had he lost his wits?”

“No, he was too clever by half. He sent an envoy to view the gold. The man was shown chests and chests of it, so he said. Spread thin over pebbles, I daresay, it’s a trick as old as the hills. At any rate, he reported this great hoard; so then Polykrates went.”

“But, if he was satisfied, why not have sent the Persian a safe-conduct under his seal, and a ship to carry him? He claimed he was living in fear. Why should Polykrates go to Sardis?”

“He was taken when he stepped ashore at Ephesos. Don’t ask me why he went; I asked in vain. Of course I met no one from the Palace, where I expect they were all running mad. But they said in the harbor that half his friends followed him down to his galley, begging him to change his mind. Even that daughter of his, crying out like Kassandra and telling her bad-luck dream. He told her to shut her mouth or he’d never get her a husband; and she called on the gods to grant her even that, if he came home safe again. And that was the last they saw of him.”

I did not pretend to mourn; I had too much to remember. While everyone was talking, I was thinking my own thoughts. Presently I said to Theas, “Will this have reached Athens yet?”

He looked round sharply. He saw what I was at. “I doubt it. The ship that brought it from Miletos was going on to Rhodes, to take word to young Polykrates; and no other shipmaster was ready to put out. What do you say, Sim? Shall we go and tell your Archons?”

“It could do neither of us harm. How soon could you sail?”

“Now, if I make it worth my fellows’ while. A good moon; the wind’s right; and my pilot knows that passage as well as he knows his wife’s. If he’s drunk by now, I can take the helm myself.”

He went over to his own wife, who was sitting among the women, and hoping no doubt for a night with him. But she was used to such things by now; and he’d brought her some earrings set with Arabian pearls. Kean dress laws were getting dented, since Laertes and Theas went into trade.

Down in Koressia we found the pilot nearly sober, only two seamen helpless, and two Keans on the dock ready to take their places. The cargo had been off-loaded, and we sailed at once. For some t?ime Theas had no time to spare for me; but after a while he came aft and said, “It must be chaos and old night by now in Samos. I hope you have no friends there.”

As if a snake had bitten me, I cried out, “Anakreon!” Being with the family, I suppose, had put it out of my mind. “He must be there.”

“Who?” Theas went to the side to peer at the steeps of Sounion, black against a shimmering sea. Its fickle winds were quiet; he spoke to the pilot and came back. “Is that the poet fellow, the Tyrant’s sycophant?”

“Poet yes, sycophant no. He is Anakreon . . . Well, never mind. I’m his guest-friend, Theas. He was good to me when I was poor and unknown, and he a great man already.”

“Oh,” said Theas at once, “that’s different. Then you must do whatever you can for him. Let’s see when you get to Athens.”

Between oars and sail, we made Piraeus by noon, and rode straight to Athens on the fastest beasts we could hire. Hippias saw us without delay (I had never wasted his time with trivialities) and sent at once for Hipparchos.

Theas told his tale. He was quite at ease before the Pisistratids. As Lyra had said, he was well known in many cities. At the outset I could see them comparing his looks with mine, and wondering which of us was the bastard; but we were used to that, and they soon had other things to think about. It was even plainer to them than it had been to us that the whole of Hellas, its balance and counterpoise with the Great King’s empire, would be changed if Samos fell.

All over Greece, the Pisistratids had allies, guest-friends, envoys and secret agents, who must be advised or warned; enemies too, who must be kept in the dark. This early news was worth gold to them; and with gold they paid for it. They were never cheeseparers. From what they gave Theas, he built himself a warehouse on Piraeus. He thanked them with unfeigned warmth-he had hugely enjoyed the whole adventure-saying with his open smile, “All this good fortune I owe to my young brother, who dragged me from a feast when I had only downed one cupful, telling me you must be the first to know.”

At this they turned to me and started all over again. But now Theas was taken care of, there was no more time to waste. The first time they paused for breath, I turned to Hipparchos. “Sir, as always you are too kind. But first let me say that when my brother left Samos, Anakreon was still there. What will become of him?”

Hipparchos started, much as I had done before. “What? By Herakles, Anakreon! Even that had been driven from my mind! Hippias, did you hear? Anakreon is still in Samos. We must get him out. Hippias, we must send a warship.”

“Let me go,” Theas said. “A small return to such princely givers. It will be a pleasure.” Hippias looked inclined to accept; chiefly I think to get the business out of the way; but Hipparchos cried out that Persians would be everywhere, if Samos no longer held the straits, and he would not repay Simonides’ gallant brother by making him their prey. Besides, a trader would be too slow. Without getting consent from Hippias, a thing never seen before, he summoned an officer of his guard, and sealed an order to take command of a naval pentekonter; let it be the fastest in the fleet, with the strongest rowers.

“Sir,” I said, “may I ask a favor? Let me go with the ship. I should be honored to fetch Anakreon here.”

At first he did not like it. (Hippias had gone, to attend to more important matters.) Putting out all his charm, he said, “We should all be poorer for Anakreon’s loss; but he at least is not an old and dear friend, as you are. To lose you would be insupportable.”

“I don’t think, sir, I shall be in danger. I’ve never taken part in Samian faction. But I do know a great many people there; and even if Anakreon has left already, I might be able to learn things that you would find useful.” This tempted him; and he let me go, ordering the captain not to put me ashore if he found the city in stasis, for no one was safe in a civil war. We sailed from Munychia at dawn next day.

I had never b?efore traveled by warship, or guessed what speed is like on those long snaky galleys with twenty-five oars a side, helping the sail. The wind had changed, and again was in our favor. The rising sun glittered laughing along the sea; the plash and creak of the oars kept time to the chanty-man’s bawdy song (these were crack rowers, not to be spoiled with the whip); and I felt a new song of my own twining around the beat, like a vine upon a trellis.

I was glad to be going; even though, with all these soldiers, Anakreon would have no need of me to save his life. I had other reasons. He and I were friends, and sharing a patron would not alter it-not that in itself. Athens had room for both of us; we could only gain from each other’s company and the lift of each other’s art. What I feared were the fools about the court and city who, measuring us by their own mean minds, would from the first expect us to be rivals. In my life here and there, I’ve seen poets who would never have wished each other harm, or envied each other’s honor, set almost at each other’s throats through base men’s expectations. So I was resolved his first welcome should come from me, to cut such things at the root.

We met no Persians; the soldiers played knucklebones in the waist. As we neared Samos, trade looked to be much as usual. The harbor, when we rowed in, was full of men gathered to talk; which, as I have found in my many travels, means trouble, but not the worst; then there will be men in arms, or nobody in sight. There could be no stasis yet. But the captain had been so hammered with orders to keep me safe, he’d have bound me to a thwart if I’d tried to go ashore before news had come back to him. This was brought at last by the pilot, who had not hurried, having found some old friends to drink with. They had all told him there was still law in Samos, no Persian fleet in sight; the city was being governed by the regent whom the Tyrant had left behind when he crossed the strait, one Maiandrios. I demanded my freedom, went ashore, and, avoiding any place where people might keep me talking, made straight for Anakreon’s house.

The door stood open; but when I tapped with my stick, nobody came. He must have fled already, I thought; I should find the place forsaken; so, without ceremony, I walked in.

The room was in confusion; stuffs thrown about, vases and scrolls tumbled upon the table; an open chest with a blanket half out of it, and the wall-hanging inside. Had he been murdered, then? But the place would have been looted. The street was noisy outside; and it was only now that I heard a moan, or a whimper, from the room beyond. I ran in. It was a dog that had been crying, a little white one, the kind they breed in Melita. It was standing on tiptoe to paw the knees of Anakreon, who sat on the bed with his head clasped in his hands, his fingers buried in his uncombed hair. As I looked, he picked the dog up blindly into his arms, like a distraught mother with a wailing baby. He was weeping himself.

“Anakreon!” I cried. He sat up looking desperate, as if the entrance of any stranger must portend something dreadful; yet not as if frightened for himself. When he saw who it was, he cried out my name, even then remembering to put the dog down gently, and came running to me. While I tried to soothe him, the first words I could hear from him were, “So horrible! Oh, horrible, horrible! Is he dead, Simonides? Tell me he is dead!”

I guided him to a chair in the outer room, found wine-it was plain the disorder had been no one’s work but his own-and gave him some. He threw it down like water, and, starting to command himself, begged me to drink too. The little dog, beseeching with its dark child’s eyes, jumped into his lap and licked his tear-stained face.

“Poor Blossom,” he said, and looked about him as if seeing the place for the first time. “Simonides, what are you doing here?” Without giving me time to answer, he ran on like a man in fever, “I am ashamed of the house. I am packing, you see, Simonides, that’s what it is. I would put you ?up, my dear, but it’s better not to stop here, if I were you I should go away at once. We might find a ship together. Let me get you something to eat; I know where everything is, it won’t take a moment. The cakes were here . . .” He went scurrying about, picking things up and putting them down, rather like some flustered dame whose daughter is giving birth before the time. Blossom ran busily to and fro behind him. “I don’t even know where I shall be going. Ah, here they are.” He brought the crock, and started looking for a place on the littered table.

I took it from him and put it down, and laid my hands on his shoulders. “I can tell you, my dear friend, where you are going. You’re coming with me to Athens, where the Archons will beg you to be their guest for life. Our ship is in harbor, waiting just for you. It’s true, Anakreon. I’m telling you, you are the first poet for whom a king ever sent a warship. I don’t think even for Orpheus anyone did that.”