worth his while.
The boy rose, without looking at Phoinix. Chin up, looking straight ahead, he thrust his way through the lingering chattering crowd. All along their way, talk stopped for them; but not soon enough. Just outside the propylon, he turned round, looked Phoinix in the face, and said, ‘She was better than the actors.’
‘Yes indeed. The god inspired her. It was her dedication to do him honour. Such offerings are very pleasing to Dionysos.’
They came out into the square of tramped earth outside the theatre. The women, in twittering groups, were drifting homeward, the men standing about. Close by, exempt from convention, stood a cluster of well-dressed hetairas, expensive girls from Ephesos and Corinth, who served the officers at Pella. One said in a sweet carrying voice, ‘Poor dear little lad, you can see he feels it.’ Without turning, the boy walked on.
They were nearly out of the press; Phoinix was starting to breathe more easily, then found him gone. How not, indeed? But no; there he was not twenty feet off, near a huddle of talking men. Phoinix heard their laughter; he ran, but was still too late.
The man who had spoken the last and unambiguous word, had been aware of nothing amiss. But another, whose back was to the boy, felt a quick low tug at his sword-belt. Looking about at man-height, he was only just in time to knock up the boy’s arm. The man who had spoken got the dagger along his side, instead of straight in his belly.
It had been so swift and silent, no bystander had turned. The group stood stock-still; the stabbed man with a snake of blood running down his leg; the dagger’s owner, who had grabbed the boy before he saw who it was, gazing blankly at the stained weapon in his hand; Phoinix behind the boy, both hands on his shoulders; the boy staring into the face of the wounded man, and finding it one he knew. The man, clutching the warm ooze from his side, stared back in astonishment and pain; then with a shock of recognition.
Breath was drawn in all round. Before anyone spoke, Phoinix lifted his hand as if he had been at war; his square face grew bull-like, they would hardly have known him. ‘It will be better for you all to keep your mouths shut.’ He pulled at the boy, breaking off the exchange of looks still unresolved, and led him away.
Knowing nowhere else to hide him, he took him to his own lodging in the one good street of the little town. The small room was frowsty with old wool, old scrolls, old bedding, and the ointment Phoinix rubbed on his stiff knees. On the bed, with its blanket of blue and red squares, the boy fell face down and lay soundless. Phoinix patted his shoulders and his head, and, when he broke into convulsive weeping, gathered him up.
Beyond this instant and its needs, the man saw no call to look. His love, being sexless, seemed to him proved selfless. Certainly he would have given all he had, shed his own blood. Much less was wanted now, only comfort and a healing word.
‘A filthy fellow. Small loss if you had killed him. No man of honour could let it pass-A godless fellow who mocks a dedication-There, my Achilles, don’t weep that the warrior came out in you. He’ll mend, it’s more than he deserves; and keep quiet if he knows what’s good for him. No one shall hear a word from me.’
The boy choked into Phoinix’ shoulder. ‘He made me my bow.’
‘Throw it out, I’ll get you a better.’
There was a pause. ‘It wasn’t said to me. He didn’t know I was there.’
‘And who wants such a friend?’
‘He wasn’t ready.’
‘Nor were you, to hear him.’
Gently, with a careful courtesy, the boy disengaged himself, and lay down again with his face hidden. Presently he sa?t up, wiping his hand across his eyes and nose. Phoinix wrung out a towel from the ewer and cleaned his face. He sat staring, saying ‘Thank you’ now and then.
Phoinix got out his best silver cup from his pillow-box, and the last of his breakfast wine. The boy
The boy rose, without looking at Phoinix. Chin up, looking straight ahead, he thrust his way through the lingering chattering crowd. All along their way, talk stopped for them; but not soon enough. Just outside the propylon, he turned round, looked Phoinix in the face, and said, ‘She was better than the actors.’
‘Yes indeed. The god inspired her. It was her dedication to do him honour. Such offerings are very pleasing to Dionysos.’
They came out into the square of tramped earth outside the theatre. The women, in twittering groups, were drifting homeward, the men standing about. Close by, exempt from convention, stood a cluster of well-dressed hetairas, expensive girls from Ephesos and Corinth, who served the officers at Pella. One said in a sweet carrying voice, ‘Poor dear little lad, you can see he feels it.’ Without turning, the boy walked on.
They were nearly out of the press; Phoinix was starting to breathe more easily, then found him gone. How not, indeed? But no; there he was not twenty feet off, near a huddle of talking men. Phoinix heard their laughter; he ran, but was still too late.
The man who had spoken the last and unambiguous word, had been aware of nothing amiss. But another, whose back was to the boy, felt a quick low tug at his sword-belt. Looking about at man-height, he was only just in time to knock up the boy’s arm. The man who had spoken got the dagger along his side, instead of straight in his belly.
It had been so swift and silent, no bystander had turned. The group stood stock-still; the stabbed man with a snake of blood running down his leg; the dagger’s owner, who had grabbed the boy before he saw who it was, gazing blankly at the stained weapon in his hand; Phoinix behind the boy, both hands on his shoulders; the boy staring into the face of the wounded man, and finding it one he knew. The man, clutching the warm ooze from his side, stared back in astonishment and pain; then with a shock of recognition.
Breath was drawn in all round. Before anyone spoke, Phoinix lifted his hand as if he had been at war; his square face grew bull-like, they would hardly have known him. ‘It will be better for you all to keep your mouths shut.’ He pulled at the boy, breaking off the exchange of looks still unresolved, and led him away.
Knowing nowhere else to hide him, he took him to his own lodging in the one good street of the little town. The small room was frowsty with old wool, old scrolls, old bedding, and the ointment Phoinix rubbed on his stiff knees. On the bed, with its blanket of blue and red squares, the boy fell face down and lay soundless. Phoinix patted his shoulders and his head, and, when he broke into convulsive weeping, gathered him up.
Beyond this instant and its needs, the man saw no call to look. His love, being sexless, seemed to him proved selfless. Certainly he would have given all he had, shed his own blood. Much less was wanted now, only comfort and a healing word.
‘A filthy fellow. Small loss if you had killed him. No man of honour could let it pass-A godless fellow who mocks a dedication-There, my Achilles, don’t weep that the warrior came out in you. He’ll mend, it’s more than he deserves; and keep quiet if he knows what’s good for him. No one shall hear a word from me.’
The boy choked into Phoinix’ shoulder. ‘He made me my bow.’
‘Throw it out, I’ll get you a better.’
There was a pause. ‘It wasn’t said to me. He didn’t know I was there.’
‘And who wants such a friend?’
‘He wasn’t ready.’
‘Nor were you, to hear him.’
Gently, with a careful courtesy, the boy disengaged himself, and lay down again with his face hidden. Presently he sa?t up, wiping his hand across his eyes and nose. Phoinix wrung out a towel from the ewer and cleaned his face. He sat staring, saying ‘Thank you’ now and then.
Phoinix got out his best silver cup from his pillow-box, and the last of his breakfast wine. The boy
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