The Praise Singer by Mary Renault Page B

that time I could come up smiling, plank down the purse with a flourish, and make the most of my message. There was no need to tell him what I thought it was worth.
    “Excellent!” he said. “Did he name a day for me to sing?”
    “No,” I answered, doing my best. “He has so much business, I don’t expect he knows himself when he will be free, he has to ask his chamberlain. He made himself very pleasant. But I suppose if he goes off on campaign again, everything else will be at a stand. At all events, he was delighted to hear of your coming.”
    I knew no way to lessen the wrong I’d done him. Five paces into that room, and I’d known I could have made his fortune with a single glance, if my face had offered those pretty boys some rivalry. Kleobis had made a famous song about the love of Zeus for Ganymede. It was Ganymede who should have walked through that door, not I.
    It was something, that by now I had grown my beard. It made an ugly man of me, but a man at least. It would have been far worse, on Samos, to be an ugly boy.
    A quarter-month then passed, in which we saw the fine sights of Samos, or as many as were free. We ate at the next-door tavern; for the rest, we thought we should be seen only at the good ones, and these cost money.
    There were two of especial consequence. At the Peacock, the Landsharers met to exchange their wrongs and plot. One visit taught us that one went there only if invited. The other, the Victory, was the resort of Polykrates’ new men. I was surprised to find it so lively, till I became aware that most of them were craftsmen, the best artists from Ionia.
    Often some man would pick up the tavern lyre to start a song; but it was clear their skill lay elsewhere. This set me thinking. When we had been ten days without word from the Palace, I went out on some excuse, and presented myself to the host, offering to entertain the guests. It being about noon, he let me try my skill on those who were eating there. I got a plate of stewed squid and a drink, and was taken on to start that evening, at a real Samian drachma.
    When I broke this news to Kleobis, who could never have done it and held up his head again, he exclaimed with horror that he would rather starve than accept this sacrifice. He was a man of his generation; to sing for pay at a craftsmen’s tavern seemed nearly as bad to him as if I had proposed to hire out? my body, supposing there had been a market for it. Had I not learned by now that since the Age of Heroes ours was a sacred calling, which princes had not disdained? Orpheus! Achilles! Solon the Good, even in our own day! (He meant his, not mine.) How could our praise songs be desired by kings, if we cheapened ourselves like mountebanks? Did I want to ruin my future? “Let us sail, my son, while we have some money left. You cannot do this for me.”
    “Truly, sir,” I said, “it’s different here in Samos. It would never do for you, of course, with your reputation; but it won’t hurt me. I still need to learn from an audience, and this is a very good one. If they enjoy it, so shall I.” This was no more than the truth. Much as I loved and honored him, I looked forward to coming before strangers, for once, not as any man’s pupil, but simply as Simonides.
    The tavern had been named after Polykrates’ first trireme; and its host thought more of his own dignity than I did of mine. He introduced me as a most distinguished bard, exiled from Ionia; which in those days was the best passport to Samos. I chose my songs to suit my audience; and, when I had done, was asked to so many tables that if I had sat at all of them I would have gone home as drunk as a muleteer.
    After only one evening, I was initiate enough to burst in on Kleobis with, “Sir! Theodoros bought me a drink!”
    Even the free sights of Samos had told him who Theodoros was. He ran his hands through his hair. “Drink from a marble-carver! A pupil of mine!”
    “I’ve not told them that, sir; I knew you