Goddess of Yesterday by Caroline B. Cooney

game was. Each man played by himself, and each seemed proud of his results, but I saw no dice and no game pieces.
    I asked Menelaus, who loved to give answers. Sometimes when men gathered in the megaron for the king's decisions, they squirmed with boredom as the king answered and answered and answered.
    “Those are my scribes. I have twelve. They sit all day making keeping-track lines. I have difficulty doing it myself, but my slaves have spent their lives mastering the art. Into wet clay they make marks for storage counts and trading records. How many amphorae of wine, how many bales of leather, how many horses or spears.”
    I did not understand. “Can't you keep track of spears by looking?”
    “I would have to walk from room to room, from wing to wing,” said Menelaus. “I would have to visit every citadel and barn and outbuilding and guardhouse.”
    It was true that the palace was crammed with goods. He was a king and yet he lived like a sea trader: rooms full of pottery and wine and grain and oil and nuts and linen, all awaiting exchange. Helen despised everything but the precious metals.
    Helen had seen through me. And yet she was making no real effort to destroy me. Because in spite of everything, she is still a wife who must obey, I thought. Menelaus has given me his protection and she cannot void that promise.
    “This way,” said Menelaus, who never noticed if the people around him began thinking of other things, “the keeping-track lines are on a tablet, and my slave can tell methat so many shields are kept here and so many vats of oil are stored there. Sometimes we put rent arrangements or the sale of property on the tablets, and then when men argue about what month the payment is due, it is saved, right there on the clay. It makes it easier to be a king.”
    I figured out some lines right away. The mark for barley was a tilted stroke holding up one grain. Cloth was a square sagging at the top, like a sheet hanging from a line. Sheep was a line crossed twice, while goat was the same but with a ripple on top. I puzzled over these two.
    “Crossing the line twice gives each figure four feet,” said the slave. “The ripple is because goats dash around, while sheep just stand there.”
    I ran my finger over the little dents; the clay had now dried and was permanent.
    Keeping-track lines were for sheep and shields. But what if you could use them for keeping track of a family lost to you? For keeping track of your heart and your sorrow?
    The thought was as smoky and dark as the megaron, and I could not see it clearly enough to speak of it. It did not matter anyway.
    Anaxandra had ceased to be. Only Callisto drew breath.
    For a long and lovely week I played with Hermione and Pleis.
    The real Callisto's pursuits had been so quiet they were motionless, but Hermione and I ran races and played tag and hopscotch. We loved ball games, hitting with bats or feet or forehead as each game required. We had dolls and dollhouses, and Hermione stole the boys' toy soldiers and when nobody was looking we played war instead of house.
    We played chess and checkers, kings and pegs. Hermioneespecially loved pegs. A throw of the dice told you how far you could move your pegs, and if you could get all your pegs into the circles before the other person, you won.
    Pleis was still struggling with my name. He separated the word “Callisto,” as if I were two people. “Calli?” he said anxiously. “Sto?” he added.
    He was solemn. He laughed only when tickled or chased. His nurse, Rhodea, was tender and loving with him. How her name suited her. Rhodea was indeed a rose, pink and sweet smelling.
    But it was I who crawled on tiles and rugs, in the grass and up and down stairs, making Pleis laugh, wrestling with him and wiggling under furniture.
    There was a dinner party every night, for Menelaus loved company.
    He always asked after a guest's family. Some men could not answer, on voyages so long that they had not seen their families