Nerissa woke up first. Light streamed in through the cave mouth. The air had lost its chill. Outside, it must be well into the morning. She felt surprised she’d slept so long. This was the first good night of rest she’d had in years.
With Homer still inside his dreams of fame, nothing would be easier than to walk away alone. Then he couldn’t make her return to Tragus. By the time someone found the poet, either groping his way home or raging impotently inside the cave, she’d be far away. Maybe even on an outbound ship before word reached Tragus.
No, she decided. Not so much because of Mother’s admonition in the breeze: “You know it would be heartless to abandon a blind man. I taught you loyalty, not deceit.” The words came very faintly after so much time and distance. She’d grown inured to Mother’s exacting standards.
This wasn’t why she didn’t leave. Nerissa simply recognized her best chance lay with Homer. They’d both felt the connection. He might be rigid in his disdain for women’s minds, and insensate to her personal disasters, but they shared a deep, sustaining love for poetry. They each could hear Calliope’s stirring voice. Besides, Nerissa knew she’d look even more like an escaped slave now, dressed only in a blanket. It would be all but impossible to pass through Polis undetected, then slip aboard a ship.
She went outside, greeted by a bright sun and a sky somewhere between dark blue and purple, like violets when they first unfold. Directly overhead were streaks of cirrus like wispy fleece from milkweed pods. Waxwings, redstarts, and wheatears were in full throat. Unless this glorious day was the most outrageous liar, it promised everything would turn out well.
Nerissa followed a burbling sound around the hillside to a spring. She washed out Homer’s empty wineskin, then filled it with cold water. She noticed her reflection in the pool -the swelling from Tragus's latest beating had gone down, but she still looked like Medusa.
Not willing to see herself like this, Nerissa plunged her head into the water. She pulled back immediately, gasping at the chilly shock, but smiling. It felt odd to be almost… could the feeling be happiness? No, more like hopeful expectation. She turned away from the pond, then used her fingers to comb out the wet tangles of her hair. She tied it back with a thread pulled from the blanket.
She gathered berries for akratismos, also fruit from primrose bushes to make a tea. After returning to the cave mouth, Nerissa found some scraps of flint. She built a pile of tinder, then lit it by striking one of the flints against Homer’s knife. She built a fire, then placed small stones close to the flames. Since the wineskin would burn if she heated it directly, Nerissa picked up the stones with a corner of her blanket, then dropped them in the spring water. When it was hot, she put the rose hips in to steep. All the while, she sang favorite songs from Smyrna.
Homer woke up to her music. He threw his cape over his shoulders and came outside. The sun felt wonderful. The rose tea smelled delicious.
“That was pleasant waking to your song,” he said. “It blended with my dream of Sirens. Your wounded mouth must be much recovered now. Your voice was very sweet.”
Surprised at Homer’s cordial mood, Nerissa wished him a fine morning. She brought the wineskin to his hand. She warned him that it was a hot tea made of rose hips. Tipping his head back, Homer drank a sip. He smiled, then took a much longer drink.
“I would have preferred this tea with honey,” he said, “but it still was very good. Just hot enough to warm me from the inside, but not too hot to scald my throat.”
He returned the wineskin to Nerissa, knowing exactly where she stood though she’d moved closer to the fire. In exchange, she gave him a handful of berries.
“Now these are very sweet,” he said. “An unexpectedly delicious breakfast. Though I would have liked some cheese and bread.”
They ate together, as they’d done last night. Homer didn’t seem to think that she should serve him. Unusual, because men and women rarely ate together, even when it wasn’t a question of slave and master. That’s how it had been in Smyrna, too.
“I’ve been wondering,” Homer said after savoring another drink from the wineskin. “You aren’t captured in any of your tales. How did you become a slave?”
“You’d really like to know?”
Nerissa looked closely at Homer’s face. His expression was much softer than it had been all yesterday. But that could merely result from a good sleep, not a change in attitude. Still, his question seemed like progress. Maybe he’d spent the night reconsidering whether he should buy her, after all.
“Why would I ask you if I didn’t want an answer?”
“I’ll give you one, if you promise not to call it a tale. Everything I’ve told you is the truth.”
“I never said it wasn’t. Are you always so prickly in the morning?”
“Not at all… I’d just like you to understand that I value honesty as the most important human quality.”
“Agreed. Now will you tell me of your capture?”
“Gladly, if you have no objection to spending another hour listening to me.”
“Not so long as this tea and the morning sun hold out. I find both very pleasant.”
“We’d better be off,” was all that Homer said when Nerissa finished her account of the events on Scheria. “Judging from its heat, I’d say the sun is well up in the sky already. If we wait any longer, Tragus will be drinking by the time we get there. Which will do neither of us a bit of good.”
“Couldn’t you send a messenger to him?” Nerissa asked.
“A message saying what?”
“Why, an offer to purchase me, of course.”
“Are you still on that? I told you, it’s impossible.”
“But I thought--”
“Thought what? Sharing two meals and a dry cave in the storm doesn’t mean I intend
our association to be permanent.”
“After everything I’ve told you? You still don’t believe me, do you? You must be the
most cynical of men, if you can’t tell a truthful person from a liar.”
“It makes no difference what I believe.”
“I’ll work very hard for you, I promise. I’ll be your guide and scribe and errand girl and
more. Philemon would be very happy to have only household tasks, I’m sure.” “Yes, like testing the softness of my bed each day as soon as I depart. But that’s not why.
Didn’t I make it clear that this could never work?”
“You’ve said so, yes, but I can’t see the reason. I’ve proven my worth in driving ruffians
away. I’ve shown myself to be an able scribe. And you value my poetic instincts, I know you
do.”
“You have a high opinion of yourself.” “You praised my work, yourself.”
“I said no such thing. I merely indicated there’s a hope you’ll understand heroic verse
some day.”
“Yes, if I had a wise and gifted teacher. Couldn’t that be you? Forgive me, but I sense
you crave a worthy pupil.”
“Again, you have a high opinion of yourself.”
“No, in fact it couldn’t be much lower. But you could lift me, sir.” Homer was
wavering, she knew. Maybe just another stroke on his great pride would do it. “In this
benighted world, I sense that you alone possess the power.”
“That, I might. But still, we’ll never know. Come, it’s time to take the road to my
cousin’s farm.”
“He’ll kill me, sir. Is that really what you wish?”
“It’s not a question of what I wish.”
“Then why? Why can’t you simply buy me?”
“Will you be still? I thought you had better breeding. There are some things you cannot
force a man to say.”
“Say what, sir? I don’t understand.”
“No, I’d be a fool to expect a girl to understand questions of commerce.” “Commerce? There’s hardly a fortune depending on this transaction. Tragus only paid
fifty drachmai for me. And now, after two months of his beatings, no one would spend that
much for an ugly slave girl. I’m sure he’d be satisfied to recoup his investment.” “By Zeus’s teeth, please let the matter drop!”
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to be insistent. It’s just, I was so taken with your brilliance,
I had my heart set on working for you.”
“Yes, all right. No need for apologies. Look, I would have valued your assistance. It’s
not easy for me to say, but you truly have a remarkably fine ear for a girl.” Homer grimaced, as
if conceding this point pained him gravely. “But it’s impossible -- there’s no use discussing this
further. We’ll just return you to Tragus. Don’t worry, he won’t abuse you further. I’ll put the
fear of all the Pantheon in him.”
“He’s far past that. Forgive me, sir, but I don’t think anything you say will stop him.
Tragus knows he’s doomed to the foulest reaches of Tartarus. With nothing more to lose, that’s
why he takes it out on those within his power.”
“What would you have me do? Once more, you’re forcing me to say that I don’t wish to
buy you.”
“Then could you possibly lend me a chiton? Your cook must have an extra. Doesn’t
matter if it’s old, long as it’s clean.” She still didn’t know if Homer had a wife. “And a length
of linen for a veil, so I won’t be recognized. I’d be eternally grateful, sir.”
“If I enable you to disguise yourself, I’ll be a criminal.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t think of that… But couldn’t you do nothing?”
“What do you mean? I can’t say I didn’t know of your escape. Jeremos saw us together.
He’d love nothing better than to catch me in a lie. He’ll demand I be imprisoned.” “You don’t have to deny we’ve met. But how could a blind man stop me from going on
my way this morning?”
“I couldn’t. But I’d be duty bound to tell Tragus.”
“Why? Has he ever done the least good thing for you?”
“No. But that has nothing to do with it. Look, I know that you’re intelligent. Don’t
pretend you’re just a simple girl who can’t understand a point of honor. Loyalty is everything,
and Tragus is my kinsman.”
“But there’s honor on both sides of the question, isn’t there? After all, the way that
Tragus treated me, only the worst cur would do that. And he’s sworn to make me suffer terribly
if I dared to escape. So returning me to Tragus would be like participating in his cruelty. What
honor is there in that?”
“I can’t believe he’d kill you. Tragus is much too near with money to do that. Don’t try
to turn this into a weighty question of philosophy.”
“Can’t you at least consider the question? Say, long enough for me to reach the port?” “And how would I get home? You’d have to tell Philemon to come fetch me, then he’d
be drawn into the crime, as well.”
“It’s not a crime. Don’t I have a right to save my life?”
“You establish a false question. Suppose we posit that your life really is in danger -- it’s
a life that doesn’t belong to you. That’s what your rationales omit.” Homer sighed, then drew a
cloth out of his satchel to wipe his berry-stained hands. “I’m sorry, Nerissa, I sympathize, I
really do. But Tragus is your lawful master. Oh, and just one thing before we go. If you’ll read
back that verse I recited last night, I’d like to hear how those changes you suggested sound.” “Of all the-You have the gall to ask me for this service even now? When you’ve just
condemned me to a brutal death?”
But Nerissa and Homer didn’t get the chance to finish their argument. Or the verse, for
that matter. They heard the crackle of a broken stick, and then the skitter of a rock tumbling
down the slope. Something large was rapidly approaching, making no effort at stealth. A
human, then, not a wolf or panther.
Before they could stand up, Tragus stepped around a hemlock. His hair was wild, laced
with bits of bramble and fragments of dead leaves. What looked like scraps of wool were caught
in his tangled beard. His clothes were filthy, bloodstained, almost as bad as the rags that Nerissa
had abandoned. As he came out of the shadow, Nerissa could see his close-set eyes were shot
with red. Obviously, Tragus's search for her hadn’t diminished his thirst.
“Aha!” he shouted. “I knew I’d find you here.”
Nerissa grabbed for the wineskin as Tragus charged at them. She dumped the stones
she’d used to heat the tea. She picked one up, though it still was hot enough to sizzle in her
palm. But when she reached for Homer’s satchel, he felt the motion of her arm. Guessing her
intention, Homer snatched away the sack that made such an effective sling.
“No stones!” he said. “If you brain Tragus, we’ll both be tried for murder.” “Murder?” said Tragus as he drew up. “What’s this? She killed one of my sheep, but
what have you to do with it?”
“Nothing, except Nerissa told me that she only put it from its misery after you stomped it
half to death.”
“She lies. This damned girl’s been nothing but trouble. But I’ll deal with her. She’ll
earn me the full price of my sheep, plus the whole day I spent looking for her.” “She says she ran away because of your abuse. And feared for her life because of the
sheep.”
“More lies.” Tragus glared at Homer, though he must have known his vicious scowl
would go unseen. “But what I want to know is what you’re doing with her?”
“We met by chance in Polis. I was returning Nerissa to your farm when the storm struck
yesterday. We had to shelter here for the night.”
“This is far out of the way from Polis to my farm.”
“We took a wrong turn. Philemon went lame with gout, so he couldn’t come with us.
And naturally, Nerissa’s unfamiliar with our roads. What made you look here, anyway?” “Jeremos said he saw you with the girl.”
That word “saw” was interesting, Nerissa noticed. Clearly, Jeremos hadn’t given Tragus
the full story, ashamed that he’d been routed by a girl.
“He tried to start an argument with me yesterday,” said Homer. “So what?” “So it wasn’t hard to guess where you were headed. I remembered our family history
that says the hero Odysseus was born here.”
“I might have known it was Jeremos.” Homer pronounced his enemy’s name with curdling disgust. “He’d gladly slaughter me, and bribe his way out of execution, if he had any
money.”
“Yes, maybe I’ll lend him some.” Tragus’s grin was positively evil.
“The two of you make a most unwelcome pair to turn my stomach sour. That murderous
swine is the largest pile of manure that’s ever fouled this land. And you--”
“What of me, Cousin?”
“You’re not fit to own livestock, let alone people. You can’t deny you’ve sorely beaten
this poor girl. Philemon described her injuries to me.”
“Of course I hit her. So would any man who owns an insolent slave. But you wouldn’t
know how men act, would you?”
“Don’t try my patience, Tragus. I won’t rise to your insults. If you still have a scrap of
honor, you’ll give me proper respect.”
“Respect? For what? You may be my elder by a few years, but you’ve never been my
better.”
“Every man’s your better, you despicable tosspot. Nerissa tells me that you’ve raped her
many times.”
“I’ll do as I please. She’s of age and she’s my property. I’ll thank you not to interfere.” “And I’ll thank you to act human. The self-contempt that you must feel each moment of
your life is no excuse. You bring shame on our lineage.”
“Oh, I’m the big disgrace. This, from the biggest fool around. Walking the hills
incessantly, trailed by that limping dotard Philemon. Spouting your nonsense at every festival.
Claiming you’ve won prizes far and wide. But tell me, what’s happened to all your golden
laurels? The only one we ever saw turned out to be plated tin.”
“It’s not my fault those cheats from Samos tricked me. Unscrupulous charlatans! I drew
thousands of poetry lovers to the Apturian Festival, I had the people weeping at the beauty of my
Iliad, and they reward me with base metal. I ask you -- did they treat Archilochus this way?” “Who’s Archilochus?”
“He’s a coward who ran from the Saians on Thasos, then had the gall to write: Some barbarian is waving my shield,
since I was obliged to
leave that perfectly good piece of equipment behind
But I got away, so what does it matter?
Life seemed somehow more precious.
Let the shield go; I can buy another one equally good.”
“Do you claim this other poet caused your failure to return my slave?”
“What failure? I told you that the storm delayed us… My point is that they gave that craven Archilochus a golden tripod, like the one that Hesiod unjustly won at Chalcis.”
“Do you expect us to believe you were tricked out of all your other supposed laurels, too?”
“You know very well I lost them in that shipwreck coming back from Lesvos. Anyone with the wit to look for proof could find a full accounting of my victories in the city annals of Mytilene.”
“I know none of these things. I know only that the last person I’d ask for advice about the management of slaves is you. You’re an utter laughingstock. I’d be surprised if you’re not ridiculed by all Olympus.”
“Cur! You dare to say this? If I still had my sight, I’d take a horsewhip to you.”
“If you still had your balls, I’d stomp them for you.”
“Enough! I see you’ve sunken even lower since the last we met. I won’t waste further time on a man who refuses to hear reason. But you may not keep the girl. I’m told that you paid fifty drachmai. You’ve damaged her, but I’ll still match this sum.”
“Fifty drachmai, Cousin? From what I hear, you don’t have two oboloi to rub together.”
“Who told you this? That’s outrageous! I’ll bet it was Jeremos. I’ll have you both tried for slander.”
“It’s not slander if it’s true. We’d win, and you’d be publicly disgraced. Face it, you’re in debt up to your ears. If you had fifty drachmai to your name, you wouldn’t have to rent a hovel in the worst quarter of Polis.”
Now Nerissa understood. So that’s what Homer was doing on the shabby street where she’d first bowled over Philemon. She’d assumed that they were headed for the market, taking the most direct route from an estate north of town. It also explained why he only had a hobbled old man for a guide. And why Jeremos had been so enraged at Homer about a debt. Again, she sensed that it involved a woman.
“I may be short of funds just now, but that doesn’t change what I must do. Your ill behavior shames us both. These rapes and beatings won’t continue. You’ll sell me Nerissa and take a promissory note.”
“Your bond is worthless. It’s common knowledge that you have no more earning power than a beggar. That’s why your intended’s father broke off the marriage contract.” Tragus smirked with deep self-satisfaction. It confirmed Nerissa’s guess that Homer suffered from a failed romance. “If you weren’t a pauper, you’d have a proper household, with proper slaves to cook and clean for you, instead of that corpse Philemon and that old crone whatshername who fries everything in lard. You’d have someone to warm your bed… or does Philemon do that for you, too?”
Homer reddened furiously. He grabbed his eating knife and slashed it in the direction of his cousin’s voice. But Tragus jumped away each time Homer flailed, laughing with derision.
Nerissa grabbed for the empty satchel. She got it in her hands, folded it into a sling, and loaded in the stone she’d dropped. But Tragus lunged and caught her arm. She tried to fight back, but her injuries and the poor diet she’d endured for many months had made her weak.
Tragus stunned her with a fist to the temple. After disarming Homer, too, Tragus knelt over Nerissa’s crumpled body. He smiled with the thought of what he’d do to her back at the farm. He brought a chain and leg irons out of his pack attached them to her ankles. He roused Nerissa by pouring the still-hot tea over her face, then dragged her stumbling away.
Nerissa looked back once at Homer, as he stood there helpless by their pleasant breakfast fire. In the end, he’d tried to aid her.
Does that count for anything? she wondered. Or is Tragus right? He’s just a fool, who can’t even earn a living with his poems. A brilliant man, but thoroughly incapable to set the least thing right.