The Last of the Wine

by Mary Renault

  She caught her breath as if I had stabbed her. Her flesh nearly started from her bones. I said, Don't be frightened, wife of Lysis. Have you forgotten Alexias, who was groomsman at your wedding? You know you are safe with me. But you ought not to do this; it would trouble him if he knew. She did not speak. I heard her teeth knock together, like my father's when the fever took him.

  The streets are not safe, I said, for a woman alone. You need not look like a hetaira, to be accosted these days. There are too many ready to do anything for a handful of barley meal. — We can't afford, she said, finding her voice, to hire a market-girl. And we had to sell the boy. Nobody minds it now. — The women go two and three together; look and you will see. Since we sold our girl, my mother does always. Another time, you could go with her. But indeed you mustn't go alone, or people will talk. Come, I will walk with you, and see you safe home. If you keep your veil drawn, no one will know. — No, she said, I don't care to walk with men in the City. I began to speak, then saw her eyes; like a broke gambler, making the last throw.

  Wife of Lysis, I said, what is it? You can tell me; I am his friend. She looked up at me sullenly, without hope. Tell me, I said, and I will do anything. And then, feeling my own folly, I won't tell him. As a gentleman, I give you my word.

  She pressed her veil with both hands over her face, and started weeping. People were passing, jostling us indeed, but no one took notice. Crying women were not so rare in the City. There was an open space near by, full of rubble. I drew her over, and we sat down on a stone that said, Here stood the house of the traitor Archestratos.

  She said, If you are his friend, you must let me go. In the name of all the gods, Alexias. If he doesn't eat he will die. I was silent, looking down at the broken stone, and thinking, Why did I speak to her? It was enough before; must I know of this? Then presently I said, Is this the first time?

  She nodded into her cupped hands, sitting cramped upon the stone. He has fever, every night now, and his wound doesn't heal. I dress it three times a day, but it's no use without food, and he won't touch anything till he has seen me eat before him. He watches me even, to be sure I swallow it. When I said no, he got up and tried to go out. He thinks he can do anything. He thinks he can live on water. She wept again. I said, I can't take anything from home. My mother is seven months gone. But we'll find some way. She went on crying. Her tears made great dark patches in her veil.

  An old woman came, she said, selling clay lamps. She said a rich young man had seen me and . . . and fallen in love with me, and if I met him at her house, he would give me anything. I was angry and sent her away, and then . . .

  It's always a rich young man. Some clapped-out old Syrian street-seller. He'll expect you to do it for a supper, and thank him afterwards. I felt cruel, as the defeated are. If you don't go straight back to Lysis, I shall go. — You gave me your word, she said. As she lifted her head, her veil slipped down. It showed me Timasion's daughter, and the sister of his sons.

  Cover your face. Do you want the City to know you? He will find it out later, and what then? — If he is here, she said, to know of it later, then my life has been long enough.

  Thalia, I said. She looked round at me, as a child does when the beating is over. I reached out, and took her hand in mine; it was young and cold, and roughened with work. Go home to Lysis, and leave all this to me. Remember, he gave you charge of his honour. Do you think he would sell it for bread? Then nor must you. Go home, and give me your word not to think of this again, and I'll send you something tonight. Tonight or first thing tomorrow. Will you give your word for mine? — But how can you, Alexias? You can't take it from your mother. — I shan't do that. There are a dozen things a man can turn his hand to. For a woman it's different. But you must promise me. She swore with her hand in mine, and I saw her back to the end of their street.

  I walked on through the City, along the Street of the Armourers, and of the Coppersmiths, and of the Herm-Makers, where each shop had its little crowd of craftsmen lined up for a chance to do the work of slaves. Presently I got to the sculptors' quarter, and found the workshop of Chremon. The door was ajar, and I went in.

  He had just finished a marble, and was watching the painter colour it; an Apollo, with long hair dressed in a knot like a woman's, playing with a snake made of enamelled bronze. Chremon had made quite a name for himself among the ultra-modern schools. It was the thing to say of him that his marble breathed. I could have sworn that if I pinched Apollo's backside, it would make him jump.

  The shelf round the wall was full of sketches in wax or clay; if Chremon had sold as many statues, he had done pretty well. They were all of young men, or youths near manhood; leaning, lounging, crouching, lying, and doing everything but stand on their heads. Just then he half glanced over his shoulder and said, Not today.

  Good, I said, that was all I needed to know. At that he turned round, and I added, I only called because I promised you first. — Wait a moment, he said. He was a pale squat man, with a bald head, a reddish beard, and great flat ends to his fingers. There was still a good deal of flesh on him. I was glad to see he could afford to eat so well. I took you for someone else, he said. Come in. Then he said to the painter, You can finish tomorrow.

  I came in, and he walked round me two or three times. Take off, he said, and let me see. I stripped, and he walked round again. H'm, yes. Take a pose for me. Sitting on your heels, and reaching forward, as if you were putting down a cock to fight. No, no, no, my dear. Like this. He took my waist between his thick hands. I gave him a moment or two, and then said, I charge two drachmas a day.

  He stood back from me, crying out, You must be mad. Two drachmas! Come, come. A good supper at my own table; no one pays more. He added, I give my models wine. — That's good. But I charge two drachmas. I looked at him over my shoulder. No one else has complained.

  He shook his head from side to side, clicking his tongue. What are young men coming to nowadays? No feeling, no sense of the grace of life . . . Ankles of wing-footed Hermes, face of Hyakinthos, a body for Hylas at the pool; and 'I charge two drachmas,' like the rap of a mallet. It's a terrible thing, this war; nothing will ever be the same. Well, well, yes. But you must work for that. Here, hold this pot; that's your fighting-cock. The left knee down, touching the floor, and out a little. No, no, like this.

  After a time he got a lump of beeswax off the shelf, and began working it up with his flat fingers. Beside me pink-cheeked Apollo, the Double Talker, smiled down sidelong at his thick green snake.

  25

  the second month drew into the third, and Theramenes did not come.

  Chremon made six studies of me, in wax or clay: holding a fighting-cock; tying my sandal; binding my hair with a ribbon; as Hylas, kneeling at the pool; as Hyakinthos slain by the disk; and as Dionysos sleeping. The Dionysos was a quick one, done without my knowledge. He kept his word about the wine; we had it every evening, half-and-half or stronger. They say any human state has some good in it if you look; and in those days one could be drunk on very little.

  I believe he kept me longer than anyone; for I could not count on the shelf more than four sketches from any one model. He fed me better than Polykleitos had, and he paid me my two drachmas every day. I used to meet Thalia at the ruins of the traitor's house, and give her anything I could get for the money, telling her not always to say it came from me, lest Lysis should wonder how I got it. When I came to see him he looked a little better, but strange, with deep eyes and a very clear skin like a boy's. This, I think, came from his drinking much water to kill his hunger; a physician once told me this is good for an unhealed wound, washing the morbid humours from the body; I daresay it was what kept him alive.

  It was hard to account to my family for my staying out so late, when, if any man had been seen using oil to burn, his house would have been stoned. If I was gone all night, I said I was on guard duty. Sometimes I saw my father look at me. But there was not much left in the cupboard, and my mother was getting near her time; i
f he thought it better not to ask questions, I do not blame him.

  When she was far gone with child she never looked very well; and she moved slowly now about the house for one whose habit was as brisk as a bird's. Little Charis helped her, and once, getting home at dawn, I found my father sweeping the courtyard, as smartly as if he had done it for years. Then I remembered. I took the broom from him; but we said nothing.

  When I had time I used to look about in the open places, getting grass and green stuff to put in the soup. There was a kind of pine that had a kernel good for eating. The Pythagoreans, from their never eating flesh, were very knowing in such matters; anything you saw them pick up you could be sure was safe.

  Sometimes Chremon did not feel like work, and had no use for me till evening, and I could not show myself at home. Such days I spent with Phaedo as a rule. I used to lie on the pallet in his room, reading while he wrote, or hearing him teach. He was a good teacher; crisp, sometimes even severe, but always even-tempered. The light from a little window over his shoulder touched his fair hair and fine cheekbone; thinness brought out the breeding in him, but the intellect more. He looked already a philosopher, and as pure as a temple-priest of Apollo. I never told him everything; but once he said, It is easier these days to be a man alone.

  Sokrates went about all this while just as usual, barefoot in the cold, in his old mantle, talking and asking questions. Once I found him visiting Lysis. They were discussing Homer. It has always seemed to me that this was when Lysis took a turn for the better; though I daresay the wine and dried figs helped, which Plato sent him next day. Sokrates always knew who could spare a little and who was in most need, and how to bring them together.

  But I did not often follow him into the colonnades. Plato would be there with him, and seldom alone. If it is Aphrodite of the Agora who has possessed one, winter and want will cool one soon enough, and the beauty that kept one sleepless is only a little warmth to crowd up to when the wind is blowing. But with this love it was otherwise. He had the innocent eye that looks straight at the soul; and mine seemed written all over with the lessons of Chremon's workshop. So I kept away, and thanked the god who had bestowed him where he could be taken care of. His eyes looked bigger, but bright and clear; his cheek, though it curved in a little, had a touch of fresh colour, from happiness, as I supposed, such as time and change have no power upon; and in his face one could still see music.

  Chremon chose the slain Hyakinthos, in the end, to make his statue on. I was glad of this; Hyakinthos lay prone, with an arm flung before the face. At one time Chremon had been very much taken with the Dionysos, who was lying face up.

  The third month drew near its end, and on the fig-tree one could see where the buds would be. Then one morning, while my company was on watch upon the wall, a trumpet sounded before the Dipylon Gate, and word ran round that Theramenes was back.

  Presently came the call for the Assembly to be convened. The walls had to be guarded, so we could only wait. At last the relief came up. We scanned their faces, and were slow to ask what news. The captain who was taking over from me met my eyes and said, Nothing.

  I stared, and said, Isn't Theramenes back, then? — Oh, yes, and looking very well. He's been on Salamis, with Lysander. — Well, then, what terms? — Nothing. Lysander sends word he has no power to treat, nor the kings, only the Ephors at Sparta. — After three months? Are you well, Myrtilos? His only son had died the day before.— I suppose, to a man from Athens, even the black broth of Sparta tasted good. He could not get them to better their terms; so he waited. — By Herakles, but for what? — For the City to like the smell of black broth. The oligarchs are rich; they can hold out a little longer. The democrats are dying every day. Soon there will be none; and those who are left, the good and the beautiful, can open the gates to their friends on what terms they choose.

  No man spoke to another, as we went down from the wall. Thinking of the faces at home, I found my courage fail, and went straight to Chremon's. He was cheerful, and offered me a drink though it was not noon. Not long now, he said. He must have looked forward all along to the day of surrender; not because he was an oligarch, but because he liked his comforts, and the rest was all one to him. I took the wine, for I was already cold enough without stripping. The workshop had a little high window, which showed a glimpse of the High City; there was a gleam of light upon Athene's spear. I looked from it to Chremon, rubbing his hands over the charcoal to warm them for work. So much suffered and spent, and this for the end.

  Coming home at evening, I found my mother and sister sitting alone. Charis said, Father's gone to Sparta. Being in no mood for games I answered sharply; but it was true. Theramenes had been sent off again as envoy, with full powers to treat. Nine delegates had been sent with him. Since the Spartans would do no business with democrats, and the City did not trust the oligarchs, the nine were chosen from among Theramenes' former moderates, the poorer of them, who had good cause to end the siege quickly. These three months had taught the citizens something.

  Your father had no time, my mother said, to seek you about the City. I guessed he had not cared to look very far. But he sent you his blessing. — You forget, Mother, Charis said, It was 'Tell Alexias I commit you to his care.' Alexias, will the Spartans give Father some of their dinner? I looked at my charges, drawn close to a little fire of pine-cones and wood, saved all day against the evening; the child with an old doll on her knees, taken up when her housework was done; my mother sitting in her chair, awkwardly as big-bellied women do, her head small and delicate above her shapeless body, dark lashes lying on a cheek of ivory, all threaded, as I saw in the firelight, with little lines. I passed on Chremon's good cheer, saying, Not much longer now. When they had gone to bed, I sat over the warm white embers, thinking, What if her time comes at night, and no oil to light the midwife?

  Next day more people than usual dropped in to watch Chremon working. One or two were men who knew me. They greeted me, but I thought they looked at one another. There were also some of Chremon's friends, with whom he withdrew to gossip in a corner. I heard one of them say laughing, Well, when you have done with him, send him to me. I knew the man's name; he was not a sculptor. They left, and Chremon came back before I was quite ready for him; my arm partly hiding my face, I did not always watch it as carefully as I should. I knew he was put out by what he saw; he was a man who liked to persuade himself that things were as he wished. If he had been the Great King, he would not have spared the messenger of bad news.

  The City granary was empty now; there was no more need to fetch the corn. But a few days later, I woke to find a pigeon limed in the fig-tree; a fat bird too, from beyond the walls. I climbed up for it, and wrung its neck, thinking, This day will be fortunate. As I carried it in, feeling the flesh on it and full of my news, Charis met me in the doorway, saying, Oh, Alexias, run quickly. Mother is ill, it's the baby coming.

  I ran to the house of the midwife, who grumbled at going out in the cold, and asked what we had to pay with. I promised a jar of wine, our last, being afraid she would ask for food. She set out complaining; in the porch Charis stood wringing her hands and crying, Hurry, hurry. As I let the woman into the room, I heard my mother groaning, a muffled sound; she had stuffed something into her mouth lest the child should hear.

  I sent Charis into the kitchen, and waited before the door. It was time for Chremon, but I did not care. I was pacing about the courtyard when I heard from within a great shriek, and my mother's voice cried out, Alexias! I ran upon the door and flung it open. The midwife called out in anger, but I saw only my mother's face turned towards me, the lips white, and moving without sound. I knelt, and took hold of her about the shoulders. But even as I touched her, her eyes set in her head, and her soul went out of her.

  I looked upon her, and closed her eyes. She slept. I thought, Here is one, then, for whom I need fear no longer. And then I thought, She has borne a child before, and miscarried a child, yet did not die. Famine killed her. If I had brought h
ome what I earned at Chremon's, perhaps she would be alive. It had seemed to me that, doing what no one is called upon to do, I could dispose the price as I chose; but what is a man, when he sits down to chop logic with Necessity? If I had not meddled, I thought, when I saw Thalia in the street, she would have gone on to the house of the bawd, and come back with a little money; Lysis would have eaten, and known nothing, and the food would have kept life in him like any other. What is honour? In Athens it is one thing, in Sparta another; and among the Medes it is something else again. But go where you will, there is no land where the dead return across the river.

  The midwife had been clacking, and pulling at the clothes. They lay flat now upon the body, which looked as small as a yearling doe. Then hearing another sound I turned, and saw behind me the woman sitting, tying the navel-cord of the newborn child. She said, Whom shall I give it to? It is a boy.

  Towards evening, when I had arranged for the burial; I came back to the house. My sister had dried her tears; she had got out her old cradle, and was rocking the child in it. Hush, she said. He is sleeping. What a good baby he is! Since I tucked him up here, he has not once cried.

  Her words gave me a hope, and I bent over the cradle. But the child was sleeping, as she had said. He favoured my father's looks; he was fair-haired, and a big child; too big, I suppose, for my mother to bear. How shall I feed him, Alexias? If I chew the food first, and make it soft, won't it be as good as milk for him? It is what the birds do.