The Praise Singer

by Mary Renault

  Everyone was amazed to see him. His native city was Teos, north along the coast from Ephesos; one of those whose people had fled by sea with all their shipping, and anyone else’s which was in port just then, and found empty land to start again; on the Thracian coast, in a place called Abdera. Here they had hewed timber, made mud-bricks, planted their vine-slips and their seed-grain, bred from the few cattle they had managed to bring; all the time fighting off the Thracian tribesmen, who thought it unmanly to grow what they could steal. In time, they found that pickings were easier elsewhere; and the Abderans, though they lost some fine men in battle, still held on. The young heroes’ names were known to us already. Their elegies had reached us in Ephesos, along with some charming love songs. No traveling minstrel wasted anything of Anakreon’s.

  He told us that this was his second visit to Samos; before the war, he had crossed over for the Hera festival. Now he was here to stay.

  I had guessed it. Something about his entrance had told me.

  “My kin are established,” he said. “The Abderans can eat and sleep and rear their children in safety, and not many of them want more. I’ve given them two years of my life; and, believe me, two years in Thrace are longer than ten in Ionia.”

  Kleobis said smiling, “We had thought you were still running after that little mane-tossing Thracian filly you’d vowed to ride.” That song was already famous.

  He laughed and shrugged. “Fillies at fifteen, mares at twenty. Branded ones, too; by now she’s been tattooed into her husband’s clan. Beauty is thin upon the ground in Abdera. This is a banquet after a wayside inn.” Here he looked under his lashes at the most-sought Ganymede. The glance was caught and thrown back before the modest gaze was dropped; certainly, Anakreon knew his Samos. He turned back to us, as easily as if he’d merely beckoned the server, which he went on to do.

  “So, as you can suppose, my summons here was welcome. I have just come from the Palace. What a civil-spoken man! And generous, as I have no need to tell you.”

  He always had princely manners. If he had known that we’d come as suppliants where he was an invited guest, not a hint would have escaped him.

  How simple we had been! A king like Polykrates—he was that, whatever they called him—who sent to Tyre for purple, to Persia for sapphires, to Egypt for ebony and emeralds; of course he had sent, too, for the poets of his choice, not waited for chance to bring them.

  “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 i
n 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.

  To Theasides son of Leoprepes, his brother wishes joy. Suddenly I started laughing. I could hear him say, “Sim, by the dog! Whatever did the boy pay to this learned fellow? The street-corner scrivener would have done.”

  I told him everything. I was not in want, I said, and had no need to beg of our father; but the war had ruined my master’s former patrons. Were any feasts or contests being planned in Keos, where he could come and sing? I did not ask Theas to hide my letter; that would come naturally at home.

  It was easy to find a Kean ship. Since Ionia fell, two-thirds of them put in at Samos. It was my luck to see Laertes, whose wedding had changed my fate, walk into the Victory. He had carried landless fugitives from half-a-dozen cities, and found nothing surprising in my present work. Nor, being a neighbor, was he surprised at being asked to give my letter privately to Theas. To my father, I sent respects by word of mouth.

  Before I sealed my letter, I added by way of postscript,

  A horn-handled knife, my brother,

  you won for strength at the games.

  Me it won from dark Hades,

  saved by your gift though the sea divided us.

  That was the first time I wrote a poem down. It felt very strange.

  The days passed. I found the uses of memory. What with my own songs, and all those I’d learned (I had the Sons of Homer entire), by the time I ran out, I could start again at the beginning. Meantime I ate and drank and could take home all my pay. Often I could make as much as an extra drachma, if a song was asked for by name. And it might even be one of mine.

  Anakreon looked in sometimes, and was always charming. He and Ibykos seemed to have patched things up. Ibykos, having sung his way into royal favor, had sense enough not to make an enemy of a poet whom fame and charm alike had made secure. As for Anakreon, he liked to please and be pleased; the bile Hipponax lived on would have poisoned him. Indeed, he resented Ibykos less than I. In Anakreon I knew a master. I suppose, in my heart, I thought I could better Ibykos myself.

  About eight days after I’d sent my letter, Theodoros gave a supper for his apprentices; they had just set a new marble up. He asked me for my Bellerophon, a favorite of his (though I’ve improved it since then) and I was singing to his table, when I was half aware of someone with presence, standing in the doorway till the song was done. I took my applause, and turned. A tall splendid man, gold-bearded like a young Zeus, shouted out, “Sim!” and grasped me in his arms.

  After a while, aware of everyone staring, I said, “Gentlemen, this is Theasides, son of Leoprepes of Keos, my brother.” It was my proudest moment in that house.

  The house enjoyed it. Ionians are curious and love news. We put off private talk, while Theas told how he’d heard of the fall of Ephesos, feared for my life, and so on. You’d have thought, to hear him, that I was Keos’ most honored citizen, the ornament of my family. Time fell away, as I felt the cloak of his kindness once more drawn over me.

  Theodoros had been eating him with his eyes; soon he pulled a chalk out of his pouch and made sketches on the table. He had lately been employed to sculpt Polykrates’ favorite, Bathyllos, the green-eyed flute-player. Like a fish he was all head, and boneless beneath the neck; you could have wound him round a flagpole.

  Everyone cried that I must sing something for my brother. I gave them some old favorite with a clapping chorus; then everyone danced. When the party broke up, and we walked into the street, we poured out our news as if we had been meeting every day, except that there was more to tell. Outside my lodging, he said, “I won’t trouble your bard to find a bed for me. I’ve put up at that inn the pilot’s brother keeps, the Vinestock.”

  “What?” I cried. “Theas, that’s the dearest place in town. The rich merchants stay there. They’ll seize your baggage if you can’t pay. Come, settle for what you’ve had, and come back here.”

  He laughed, and slapped a jingling purse at his belt. “All found. I’m here to do credit to the family.” I looked at him. He grew serious, “Laertes slipped me your letter in the fields. But he had to tell them you were alive; and he never thought to hide what you were doing. He knows Ionia, thought nothing of it, and said you were one of the lucky ones. But you know the father.”

  Yes indeed. I should have been singing for the Landsharers, men of decent birth; that would have pleased him, even more than the Tyrant’s patronage. Before disgracing us all at a common wineshop, I should have come home, asked for his favor, and lived decently on the farm. My choice must have spoken for itself; there seemed nothing I could do that did not wound him.

  Theas clapped me on the shoulder. “Next time, write a letter we can show off to our friends. No one knows you’ve become a scholar. But what got into you, not to know what to do? Have you been so long away, you’ve forgotten the Apollo festival?”

  It was true; I had. The moon was waxing now, and it came at the next new moon.

  “Only stand up at the contest,” he said, “and sing as you did tonight, and the rest will be wondering why they troubled to try.”

  It had long been out of my thoughts, to sing in Keos. Time and change had touched the boy who had flinched before; the roads of the earth and the ways of men, learning and skill, pride and anger. A man thought now, Yes, I could sing before my father.

  I knew it should be now, while the mood and strength were in me. But I knew also that here, at last, was something I had to give. “Another year; not this. Kleobis must compete this time, and I can’t enter against my master. He needs to be crowned again.”

  “Why? How could he grudge it you? He’s won a dozen crowns to your one.”

  “That is why. He is going down and feels it, and it’s no fault of his. He is losing pride, and with that he will lose everything. I can wait; he can’t.”

  He looked at me, in a patch of moonlight. “The old man took good care of you.”
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br />   I nodded. I did not say, He has been my father. We never said things like that aloud. “When you meet him, don’t speak about my competing.”

  “Very well, Sim. If that’s the way of it, you must pay your debts.”

  Next morning at our lodging he kept his word. “Everyone still talks of Laertes’ wedding, sir. Your song must have brought good luck; two boys and a girl, and lively as young goats. It would be a great day if you came again.”

  Kleobis smiled, and his eye kindled a little. He sat stroking his beard. Presently he said, “My dear boys, it is part of a poet’s skill to judge occasions. There are times to compete, and times to present a pupil. When the pupil returns to his native city, not having yet been heard there, he will arouse, if he does well, both pride and wonder. In these the teacher has his share.”

  Theas looked at me, meaning, “Just what I thought myself.”

  I, too, could see the truth in it. It was also true that if he entered, and someone of note should chance to come and win, that would be his death-blow; and I thought he knew it. He had not pushed me when I was afraid, and I owed him the like return.

  “Sir, if I can show Keos even half of what I owe you, it will be the best day of my life. But only if you are there to see it.” Never mind if I don’t win, I thought; if they see Black Sim, Leoprepes’ youngest, do anything at all, they’ll believe his teacher can work miracles.

  “You’ll honor our house, I hope, sir,” Theas said. I nearly jumped out of my skin; but he spoke with confidence. Clearly, he had come to be a power in the family; Leoprepes’ eldest was already a man to reckon with.

  As he left, he said, “If you want me later, Sim, I’ll be at the workshop of your sculptor friend, Theodoros. He wants to sketch my buttocks, or some such thing.” We exchanged mock punches, as we’d done when we were boys.