The Praise Singer by Mary Renault Page A

write the farm accounts, and, at a pinch, a letter to a trader; why give the little brother more troubles than he had? Kleobis, however, had found it tiresome that I could do no written business, and sent me to a scribe for lessons. He taught me a fine square even hand; left to right, or plow-ways, or straight down, I can do them all. As a kind of craft, it even gives me pleasure. When I compose a letter, my mind sees the written words. As for my songs, I could no more sing in writing than make love. It belongs to another part of me.
    Since it would never have done for Kleobis to be seen running his own errands, I took the letter, glad of a chance to see the famous palace.
    It stands on a mountain spur, a little above the bay. A massive earthwork and ditch were being dug by a horde of slaves. Some passer-by, seeing I was a stranger, stopped to tell me that they were men of Lesbos, which the Tyrant had lately conquered; a great stroke against the Persians, that island being so near the Ionian shore. I could not see that the slaves looked very grateful.
    I found my way through to a terrace, with a fine prospect of the city. Before a columned portico stood two soldiers in high-crested helmets, holding shields blazoned with hawks. One thumped his spear-butt; a chamberlain came and took my letter. I waited, seeing across the bay the purple hills of Ionia, and wondering if I should ever tread them more. They seemed more my home, now, than my birthplace had ever been.
    The high oaken doors had bronze trims of lion-heads and roses, gleaming like gold. They opened, and I was led inside. The entry hall was patterned with colored marbles; beyond were more doors, of Egyptian ebony. Beyond one of these was Polykrates.
    I had not dreamed of getting further than his steward; but this was certainly the man. He had finished his morning’s business, and was taking luncheon to music, sitting in a chair before a table with silver plates and wine-cups. As I entered, his wine-server was leaning over him; a boy of about fourteen, lissome and dark. Across his master’s shoulder he was making a face at the corner of the room, where sat two musicians of about his age, with harp and flute. Their master was rising forty, a big florid man, not yet as heavy as he would be later; his hair ?and beard curly and dark, his eyes light blue in a ruddy face. He had a cheerful look. Why not, indeed?
    He waved his hand, which had a great emerald on the forefinger, for the concert to leave off. When the flute-player ceased to blow, one saw a handsome but sullen mouth, and green languid eyes. What the lyre-player was like I had no time to see; as I came forward, this youth clapped a hand across his mouth, to stifle a fit of giggles.
    Polykrates raised the emerald once again, in a gesture of rebuke. No one looked much alarmed. The wine-pourer was winking behind the chair. As I went on, I could feel the others pulling straight faces. One had a fit of coughing, to cover a laugh.
    I had been about the world by now; but I was still quite young, and my childhood wounds were tender. I felt myself go white, which cannot have improved me. Remembering I was my master’s envoy on whom much depended, I looked straight before me, bowed, and spoke my piece word-perfect. But as I handed the letter, I saw the paper shake.
    No one could say the Tyrant was not civil. He took it with a kindly smile, as if to say, “Ah well, we can’t expect old heads on such young shoulders, can we?” He read it nearly all through, and said my master would surely hear from him. He deplored the misfortunes of Ephesos, and said he was glad to offer something which would provide for our comfort here. The emerald waved; the steward, who had waited in the open doorway, ushered me out through the marble hall to his business-room, and gave me a purse of silver. There was a whole coffer of them, each neatly tied and marked with its weight.
    Kleobis was waiting at the tavern next the lyre-maker’s. By