The Bronze God of Rhodes

BOOK I — KALLIAS

I am Chares of Lindos, who built the Colossus of Rhodes. Stranger, as you look upon this mighty eidolon of glowing bronze, you may think: Happy Chares! As long as that great statue stands, the glory of his name will remain green.

But will it? Time buries all. Who now knows the name of him who built the gigantic pyramid of King Souphis, which rises in gleaming majesty from the desert sands above the Nile?

Nor is the question solely one of my personal credit. My statue also honors the people of Rhodes for their heroic resistance to the forces of lawless greed and tyrannical power. It honors them for proving that, in this world of sprawling empires and royal rapacity, the spirit of free, self-governing Hellenes, living under laws that they themselves have made, still lives.

With the ever-widening spread of letters and libraries in the world, it has become the fashion for men of mark to set down their personal recollections. Therefore, lest the honor due my city-state and my statue wither like an anemone in the summer sun, I shall write an account of the deadly struggle that led up to the construction of the Colossus. Perhaps when, as the Chaldeans prophesy, Rhodes shall have sunk back into the sea which gave her birth, this memoir shall still be copied by scribbling slaves, and the glory of Chares the Lindian and of the city which he adorned shall live on in the minds of men.

Sixteen years after the death of the divine Alexander of Macedon, I returned to the Isle of the Three Cities from seven years' study abroad.

These were restless times. The Successors still contended over the corpse of Alexander's empire, none being strong enough to possess himself of the whole, none willing to content himself with less. Kasandros ruled Macedonia; Lysi-machos governed Thrace; Antigonos held sway over Anatolia and Syria; Ptolemaios held Egypt; and Seleukos controlled Babylonia. As they shamelessly pursued their selfish interests, the world resounded to the tramp of armored men. Great cities were sacked and burnt by mercenary hordes, and the flames that consumed them were reflected redly in the scarlet streams that ran through the streets.

Few of the city-states of Hellas retained their independence, however ardently they connived, dodged, and sought by secret plot and frantic flattery to fend off the Macedonian warlords. But my beloved Rhodes, though briefly invested with a Macedonian garrison in the days of Alexander, now stubbornly maintained its liberty. Although, in the first war of the Successors, the Macedonian general Attalos, of Eumenes' faction, had attacked us, our small but superbly trained navy had roundly trounced him.

On a fine summer morn in the second year of the 118th Olympiad, the trading ship Galatea, of Kition in Cyprus, entered the harbor of Rhodes. Standing on the cargo-cluttered deck and braced against the roll by leaning against an oil jar, I watched the sailors furl the yellow sail and put out the oars. Slowly we pulled around the North Mole, which shields the Little Harbor from Boreas, and steered for the quays.

Before me lay the City of Roses. Red-roofed houses, with gleaming whitewashed walls, rose tier upon tier, like the curving seats of a theater. Along the waterfront, emerald palms waved languid fronds in the gentle breeze, while farther back the dark green spearheads of cypresses stood in soldierly rows. On the left, in the middle distance, rose the tawny slopes of the akropolis, crowned by the golden-marble temple of. Helios-Apollon, our ancestor and tutelary deity.

Above all glowed the bright blue bowl of the luminous Rhodian sky. Perhaps the brilliance of the colors made my eyes smart; perhaps it was the sight of my homeland that brought the tears, in spite of the fact that I had embarked unwillingly, brought to heel by my father's threat to cut off all support.

Beside me, Zenon said: "It looks more like a painting than an authentic city. The gods grant that the warlords destroy it not."

Zenon was a tall, swart, stoop-shouldered, gangling young Phoenician of my own age, with a great hooked beak of a nose. He was returning home to Kition from a trading voyage to Argos. We chatted as fellow travelers will, although to tell the truth I found him a dour and somber companion.

Bemusedly, I replied: "Yes, Protogenes the artist used to say that, given the colors of Rhodes, what painter would look elsewhere for a background? Can't you see a colossal statue of Alexander, like the one I have dreamt of building, towering over the waterfront?"

"I can imagine a colossal statue readily enough, but why of Alexander?"

"Why not? For all that he was a little fellow, didn't he achieve the greatest deeds of any mortal since the beginning of time?"

Zenon spat over the rail. "Such as massacring and enslaving the Tyrians? You are part Phoenician yourself; you should weigh such monstrous crimes before ascribing godhood to that backwoods butcher."

"I don't approve of all that he did; but, if not Alexander, whom? Who is great enough to stand beside him?"

Zenon shrugged. "I am neither artist nor historian."

My slave Kavaros leaned against the rail, moodily tugging his long red mustache. He was a Kelt, one of those tall, pale-faced, warlike barbarians who, swarming out of the trackless northern forests, have overrun the Getic country and raided deeply into Thrace and Macedonia. He turned his head to say:

"Ah, if I was only a free man, young master, I would be finding that city as beautiful as you do. Why do you not let me work a bit for myself in my off time, now? I would soon be buying myself back, so you would not be the loser at all."

"We tried that on the mainland," said I sharply. "As soon as you had a few drachmai, you either gave it away to beggars or got drunk and went around breaking people's heads, and I had to pay your fines. Is all the gear packed?"

"It is that, sir."

We tied up to a quay. I thanked the captain for a safe voyage and said to Kavaros:

"Let's get the gear ashore. Take that end of the chest."

A sculptor cannot travel light. The box with my hammers, chisels, gouges, rasps, files, knives, modeling tools, calipers, scales, square, plumb bob, brushes, and whetstones weighed nearly three talents* (*A talent = about 60 pounds.). There were also our bags of clothes and effects and a special workstand that my fellow pupil Eutychides and I had invented, with a top pivoted to turn like a potter's wheel, so that the sculptor could spin his model any way he liked instead of trotting round and round his stand.

Kavaros raised his end of the chest with a grunt, his great arm muscles rippling. "A pity it is; sir, that you could not have picked a profession like the gentleman in Athens who collects butterflies. Your gear would make easier carrying, I am thinking."

I helped Kavaros to carry the stuff down the gangplank. A sculptor cannot be snobbish about using his hands. Kavaros set down his end of the chest on his toes and clove the luminous Rhodian air with a howl. While he cursed in Keltic, I sought for bearers, knowing Kavaros to be useless in any mission that called for chaffering.

Many dock side loafers lounged in the sunshine, but none offered himself. I suppose our liturgies, whereby the rich are made to feed the poor, are better than the class warfare that once ravaged the island. But it does give us a group of idlers who will not work though work be proffered.

I accosted a pair with a carrying pole. Doubtless my Argive tunic made them take us for strangers, for one said:

"Five drachmai will do, young sir."

I let my temper boil over. "Dog-faced temple thieves!" I shouted. "D'you think that as a stranger I'm fair game?" I laid on my strongest Rhodian Doric, the dialect of Lindos, and after a bit of bargaining they cut the price in half.

When the chest had been lashed to the pole, I said: "Kavaros, pick up the rest and follow me."

Zenon was at my elbow. "Are you taking me to your cousin's house as you promised, O Chares?"

"Certainly. Come along."

The Phoenician tipped the watchman to ward his cargo against pilferage and followed us like some melancholy marsh bird. We picked our way among bales and bundles and jars of many shapes and hues, which littered the flagstones of the waterfront: oil, honey, and marble from Attika, pitch from Macedonia, salt fish from Byzantion, cheese from Bithynia, nuts and rare woods from Pontos, wool from Miletos, figs from Syria, dates from Babylonia, raw silk from India, spices from Arabia, and papyrus, linen, and wheat from Egypt.

We crowded through the fortified gate in the harbor wall and passed on into the city. A broad thoroughfare, wide enough for a four-horse chariot, led from harbor to marketplace. It was thronged by a mixed multitude: bearded Phoenicians in bright-hued kilts, jerseys, and little round caps; clean-shaven Egyptians in white linen; Syrians in tall spiral hats and shimmering robes; men with the long hair and flapping trews of the sunrise lands; slaves of all shapes and hues, from Keltic pallor to Ethiopian black. And, of course, the native Rhodians, in cloaks and shirts of sober hue, pacing sedately and punctuating their rolling periods with graceful gestures.

"Phy!" said Zenon. "I hate crowds."

"Oh?" said I. "I like them. I like anything with color and contrast."

Instead of heading straight for home, I went first, at Zenon's behest, to the house of my mother's cousin. Giskon and his brother Pymiathon, in Cyprus, were shipowners, in whose ships my father imported most of the copper and tin for his foundry.

We found Giskon amid his accounts. I said: "Rejoice, O Giskon! Do you remember me?"

My kinsman raised his busy black brows. "Certainly, Chares. Have you been away?"

He roared with laughter at my expression, jumped up, and came around the table to hug me like a great bald bear. "Don't take it so hard, boy. I knew you would be home soon. Let's look at you. It's a shame you never grew any larger."

I hid my vexation at this remark, for I was touchy about my size. Giskon went on:

"And handsome as a god! Watch yourself, or every boy-lover in Rhodes will be chasing you."

"Never fear. I don't care for those games."

"Thank the gods for that! But, with your size, you might not be the one to decide."

"Indeed?" I took his swart, hairy paw in mine. "I can handle most men of half again my own weight." I squeezed.

"Io!" he cried, wringing his hand. "Wrestling with clay and marble has given you a grip like that of the serpents of Laokoön."

"I've also been trained in the Argive mode of wrestling. It sometimes comes in useful with middle-aged admirers."

"Good boy! Will you tarry for a bite and a swallow of wine?"

"I thank you, but I must get on home. I only stopped to present Zenon of Kition, who asked to make your acquaintance."

"Rejoice!" said Giskon. "Whom in Kition do we know in common?"

"I am the son of Mnaseas the trader," said Zenon, "of the firm of Mnaseas and Demeas."

"My brother does business with them all the time," said Giskon. "Use my house as your own while you are here." He turned to me. "Chares, will you be free the evening of the day after tomorrow?"

"As far as I know. Why, what is doing, cousin?"

"My dinner club meets here that night, and I should like you to be my guest."

"You're very kind, Giskon. I shall be there."

As I departed, the voices of Giskon and Zenon rang out in the harsh sounds of the Punic tongue. They had spoken Greek out of politeness, although in fact I know enough Phoenician to get along with. I resented my Phoenician blood in a way, because it greatly diminished my chances of ever attaining full citizenship; although, paradoxically, I liked my Phoenician kinsmen better than my father's people. Punic influence has always been strong in Rhodes, ever since the settlements of Kadmos and other Phoenician chiefs before the Trojan War.

In the marketplace, as of yore, hucksters cried their wares from folding booths amid the statues and memorials; businessmen chaffered; politicians orated; sophists lectured; idlers gossiped; and charlatans beguiled. I paused to look once more upon Lysippos' great bronze of the sun god driving his four-horse chariot across a copper cloud. It was love of that statue, now green with the patina of years, that had led me to seek out Lysippos for my teacher.

We breasted the slope of one of the narrow cobbled streets that run back from the marketplace, where business establishments give way to a mixture of small shops and middle-class residences. The sounds of hammer and saw in the workshops mingled with the whir of querns and the clack of looms in the dwellings.

My route took me past the shop of Makar the stonecutter. Although other artists looked down upon Makar as a mere mechanic, I esteemed him, for he had taught me the rudiments of stonecutting and had set my feet upon the path to the practice of sculpture. He was there in the yard before his shop, a dwarfish brown figure, working on a kind of marble bowl. Another was being roughed out by one of his slaves, while a third, gleaming whitely, stood finished atop a marble post.

"Be of good health, O Makar!" I said.

"O Chares!" he cried. "Welcome home! When I heard you were apprenticing under Lysippos, I thought you'd sure stay on the mainland."

I smiled. "Why compete with the greatest sculptor of the age on his own grounds?"

"I would think he'd have taken you for his successor."

"No, Lysippos has three strapping sons, all sculptors, and he naturally favors his own kin. But now that I've mastered his methods, I will put them into practice here. The art shall be revolutionized."

"I suppose you're one of these new realists, who carves old beggar women instead of immortal gods?"

"More than that, O best one. Lysippos and his brother have invented a new method of casting. You'll be struck dead with astonishment when I tell you about it, but now I must get along home." I started to leave but paused to look into the finished marble bowl. Its milky inner surface was divided into zones by inscribed lines, and a bronze pointer jutted from one side out over the center of the depression. "What is this?"

"It's a new kind of sundial," said Makar. "I make them for a Babylonian refugee, who sells them to rich Rhodians."

"Very interesting; I must know this fellow. When does the Artists' Guild meet next?"

"Tomorrow evening, as it happens. Shall I put you up for membership?"

"I was about to ask you to. I have a letter of commendation from Lysippos', and I can explain the new method of bronze casting at this time. These ought to get me in, don't you think?"

"Oh, sure. Be at the Town Hall at sundown."

I plodded on up the hillside. Once I lost my way. Although I was born in Lindos, my father had removed to Rhodes while I was yet a small boy. Still, boyhood memories fade in seven long years, and there had been much new building hereabouts since the great flood, which had wrought much ruin three years before I left home.

"Is it that the young master does not know his own country any more?" said Kavaros. "Or have we come to the wrong city?"

"Hold your tongue, you impudent rogue!" I said.

"Now, sir, you will never—"

"I said to stop!" I shouted, aiming a cuff.

Kavaros jerked his head, so that the blow glanced off with little effect, and muttered something into his mustache. I cast about until I picked up the smoke plume from the foundry. From then on, the clang of the bronzesmiths' hammers guided me home.

My father had written that he had bought the house next door to the foundry, so that he no longer had to sleep over the smithy. It was an imposing dwelling, covered with fine white plaster and as large as those of many full citizens. I gave my name to the porter, who called:

"Mistress! A man here says he is your son!"

My mother, a small, dark, birdlike woman, flew into my arms in a whirl of draperies, asking a hundred questions at once. She sent the porter to the foundry to fetch the master.

I was a little nervous about meeting my father, as our last correspondence had been far from friendly. However, his welcome was hearty enough. He was a big, brown-haired man, upright, sensible, determined, and hard-driving.

When I had freed myself from my parents' embraces and paid off the bearers, I followed my mother and father into the court. The house had a fine interior. The larger rooms opening on the court had windows with shutters in which were set sheets of Kappadokian talc, to let in the light even when the shutters were closed.

The court itself was filled by an elaborate flower garden, vivid with roses of scarlet and yellow.

"What's all this?" I asked, indicating the garden.

My father explained: "Oh, growing flowers is the latest fashion. A Persian woman brought it to Rhodes. Your mother won the prize last spring for the best display. You should see it when the violets and narcissi and hyacinths are in bloom. Is this fellow with the horrible red mustache the slave you insisted on buying?"

"Yes, sir. Kavaros is a Tektosagian from beyond the Istros. Don't ask him to do any task that calls for delicacy, for he doesn't know his own strength. Kavaros, these are my parents, Nikon and Elissa. Obey them as you would me."

Kavaros nodded with his lordly air. "It is pleased that I am to meet you, sir and madam. Indeed and your son is a fine young gentleman, and it has been a pleasure to save the life of him."

"When did you save my life?" I demanded.

"Do you not remember, master dear? The last time was on the ship, when we had the little bit of a storm, and I stood by to catch you if you were swept overboard."

I laughed. "Off to quarters with you. The porter will show you where to go."

I knew it would be useless to pin down Kavaros' lies one by one. If I explained that during the storm he had been too seasick to think of saving lives, he would bring up some other tale, equally false. Nor did beating seem to improve him.

"An impudent brute," said my father. "Kelts are better off in mines than in private houses. They're apt to get moody and slay themselves or their masters."

"I can manage him," I said. "If one appeals to his warrior's pride, his strength can accomplish wonders."

My father grunted. "I don't hold with this profligate modern idea that every middle-class youth should have his own slave before he's old enough to shave. I never had one when I was your age."

"As I told you, I need him in the practice of my art. I'm not big enough to move all those heavy weights by myself. Besides, at a pound and a half he was a good bargain. A whole war band was captured on the Macedonian frontier."

"More of that later. Now we must have a banquet to celebrate your return. How about tomorrow night?"

"The Guild meets then, Father. I told Makar I should be there, as I wish to get started at once in my profession."

My father's stern, strong-boned countenance darkened. "Are you determined to go ahead with this sculptural folly?"

I said: "You don't understand, Father. I have a mission."

"To reform the art of sculpture in Rhodes?"

"Why, that's part of it. How did you know?"

He gave me a wry smile. "At your age I wanted to reform the craft of bronze founding."

"Now you mock me. I will not only reform the art of sculpture; I'll do much more than that." I shook a fist. "Do you remember all those abandoned villains, Hippon and the rest, who tormented me when I was a puny little boy? They shall see who's the bigger man! And do you think we are forever barred from full citizenship because mother's mother was a Phoenician? Just watch!"

My mother said: "Chares, don't take life so hard!"

"I'll take it as I'm made to take it!"

My father, in tones of badly tried patience, said: "Let me explain, son. If you want to be accepted among the best people in Rhodes, having no ancient family to boast of, you need two things: money and well-placed friends. The business, well handled, will furnish you with money; but you'll have to spend years learning to run it. As for friends, you have shown little talent for making them; though, if you're as clever as you think you are, I suppose you can learn."

"I care nothing for money or friends," I growled. "Someday I will put up such a magnificent statue that people will have to respect me whether they wish to or not."

"That's an idle boast, I fear. You cannot compel people to like what they are determined not to like. However, we're forgetting our feast. Shall we set the following night then?"

"I'm sorry, Father, but I promised Giskon to attend a meeting of his club."

"Oh, to the crows with you! You fill your days with engagements before you even see your poor parents."

"I deeply regret it, Father. It wasn't very thoughtful of me."

"Never mind, I cannot be angry with you today. We'll make it tonight—you have no engagements tonight, I trust?"

"No, sir."

"Good! I'll send Sosias out with a list of my friends. Elissa, find out what the cook will need."

While my father waited for the slave to bring him writing materials, I asked: "What sort of eating club does Giskon belong to?"

"The Seven Strangers. Originally there were seven members of different nationalities. Although the group is larger now, it is still in the main a club of mixed foreigners. If your taste runs to tales of distant lands and exotic peoples, by all means go to the Seven Strangers."

Five of the six guests at the banquet were my father's long-time friends, as he was a man with a few faithful cronies rather than a wide circle of acquaintances. One was my mother's cousin Giskon, whom I had already seen that day.

Another was Genetor, of the Kameiran tribe, who owned a deposit of bituminous earth that was mined for the use of vine growers. He was a stout man, sumptuously clad, with a grave, formal manner. Though his big-jowled face was that of a man of sixty, he had a fine head of curly hair, as glossy black as my own, which closer inspection showed to be a wig. The lamplight winked on the golden rings upon his fingers.

Other guests were Tryphon son of Anax, a visitor who owned a silk factory in Kôs, and Damophilos, a full citizen and naval officer, just in from a cruise. Damophilos, a small, lean, beak-nosed man, was talking when I joined the group:

"We searched the coasts in both directions for a day's row and stopped a score of merchantmen, but no sign of them did we find."

"Excuse me, sir," I said, "but for whom were you looking?"

"The book thieves. Didn't you know? Three days ago there occurred a most daring robbery. The library was broken into and all its books stolen."

"Library?"

Genetor enlightened me: "Five years ago some of our citizens decided to build a public library. They assembled a nice collection, too: over two hundred scrolls, and they raised enough endowment to hire a full-time librarian. I may say that my contribution was not among the least."

"Last month," continued Damophilos, "a Phoenician ship put in, bringing goods to trade. On this ship were two men calling themselves booksellers. They went around to the houses of the richer citizens and sold them several rare volumes. These booksellers also visited the public library and asked many questions.

"When they had completed their business, they departed without arousing suspicion. Then came this burglary. The navy was ordered out, but to no avail."

Tryphon of Kôs spoke up: "I had not heard of this. Did you know that the same thing happened in Kôs, several ten-days earlier?"

"No!" we cried. "Tell us!"

"The tale is much the same as yours. The two booksellers were a Hellene and an Egyptian."

Damophilos said: "Here one was a Hellene, I think—a big broad-shouldered man, almost as blond as a Kelt, speaking Kilikian Greek. The other may have been an Egyptian; at least he was very dark and spoke with a curious accent. A small, curly-haired, wiry fellow, like Chares here, with a scar on his chin."

"Yes," said the Koan. "First came the visit of the booksellers; then, a month later, the. rape of the library. I fear that with even slaves and paupers learning to read, book stealing is becoming one of the finer arts."

"That is what comes of giving foreigners such a free run of our city," grumped Genetor. "Between those immoral transparent dresses that our friend Tryphon sells, and robbery, corruption, and inflation everywhere, and women demanding the rights of men, we live in a degenerate age."

"At least," said Damophilos, "Tryphon's dresses will keep men so busy looking at the women that they will not have time for reading. So the demand for books will slacken, and the price will fall."

Giskon laughed "Such knowledge of money is a Phoenician trade secret. If it get out, we shall be ruined. But let the stripling talk; after all, the feast is for him. O Chares, what can you tell us of the doings of Demetrios son of Antigonos?"

I said: "The last I heard, he had settled in Athens after driving out Kasandros' men. He was visiting the historic sights, talking with philosophers, and making merry."

"I hear he is a man of lewd character," said Genetor.

"I don't know," I said. "They say that he likes a joke, a wench, and a skin of wine; that is to say, he is not dedicated to war and conquest like another Alexander. But he is withal accounted a most able and formidable general."

"So? One cannot make a lance head from a lettuce nor a soldier from a pleasure-loving debauchee."

I started to protest this harsh description of Demetrios when Damophilos broke in: "But what is he doing now?"

"Before I left Argos," I said, "I heard a rumor that Antigonos had ordered his son back to Asia."

Genetor said: "We must pray to the Sun that he leave Rhodes alone. Let us hope that my many costly offerings will incline the god in our favor."

"He'll loose the polluted pirates," said Damophilos, "just when we are getting them under control."

Giskon added: "Thrice evil to evildoers! This bodes ill for Cyprus. Antigonos has had his one eye on the isle ever since the Ptolemaios seized it."

"You can always earn your bread in Rhodes," said another.

"Easier said than done," replied Giskon. "You natives won't let a foreigner like me set up in trade here."

Another guest spoke: "If you would shave off that bush, Giskon, and learn to speak without that foul Punic accent, we could pass you off as a Hellene."

Damophilos: "We might even contrive a pedigree for you, showing descent from Herakles or Helios-Apollon."

"Let us not play fast and loose with the gods," said Genetor. "Life is risky enough without antagonizing the unseen powers."

"I doubt if they bother with mortals," said Damophilos with a yawn. "At least one cannot see any divine pattern to modern politics. You might as well address your prayers to Lady Luck and have done with it."

"That is probably why the gods have withdrawn," said Genetor. "With so many turning away from them for Eastern cults and godless philosophies, they might indeed lose interest in men. What the world needs is a great spiritual awakening, a return to the faith of our fathers ... That reminds me," he said, looking at me. "Chares, my cousin Nereus is high priest of the temple of the Sun. He has a vacancy on his Board of Sacrificers, for which he seeks a sober young tribesman. The citizens' sons, he says, are too spoilt and immoral, while most tribesmen are chary of taking on a responsibility that carries no pay. Are you a registered member of the Lindian tribe?"

My father put in: "He was registered before he left."

"Well, then, would you be interested?"

I said: "That's kind of you, sir; but—"

"But what?"

I could not see myself taking many hours from my art for unpaid rites in which I did not believe. However, that did not seem quite the way to put it. "It's—it's a matter of conscience, sir."

"Conscience? Do not tell me that you, too, have succumbed to this modern unbelief!"

"I had my eyes opened in Hellas, O Genetor. I heard the lectures of Pyrron, who shows the folly of all dogma. I listened to Evemeros, who proves that the gods are but mortals whose deeds have been magnified ..."

My father, who shared the couch with me, jabbed my back with his thumb. I would have burst into angry words, but my guardian spirit checked my tongue. I mumbled something about my faith's having been unsettled by travel.

"Ah, youth!" said Genetor, lying back on his couch. "Always running after novelties, always seeking to cast aside the wisdom of their forebears. You will no doubt settle down in time, as the rest of us have; especially when you acquire property. There is nothing like a little hard-earned wealth to give a sound conservative point of view. I know."

I would have given this stuffy old dogmatist an argument, but I felt my father's brown eyes boring into me.

Then the wine was brought and the entertainers came in. These were three girls, one of whom played the double flute while another twanged the Rhodian sambuke and the third danced, wriggling like an octopus on a fisherman's spear. They wore shifts of Koan silk, through which every rosy nipple and raven pubic hair transpired as plain as day. Damophilos cried:

"O Tryphon, this is some of your doing! Who will lay a bet as to what these girls are wearing? How about you, Genetor? We'll make them strip to settle the wager."

"Thank you, but I am not a gambling man," said Genetor. "I prefer sound investments. Besides, my eyesight is not what it was."

"Nor some of your other powers, forsooth," said the naval officer, "or you would show more interest in these little lovelies. Speaking of which, I know a man who claims that the eating of sea food has no effect on the love life of the middle-aged."

"By our lady Persephonê!" said Tryphon. "Then have we been stuffing ourselves with oysters and squids in vain all these years?"

Watching the dancer's supple body through the sheer film of silk, I was moved to desire. But I forebore, as it had hardly been decent to lay a proposal before her openly. My respectable father gave respectable parties, at which nobody vomited or punched a slave or tried to rape the entertainers or seduce his fellow diners. Nor did we auction off the flute girl, a pretty little thing named Doris who belonged to a girlmonger on the waterfront.

The party was, however, merry enough, for a gathering of Rhodians always finds plenty to talk about. We drank from Rhodian pots in which aromatic herbs had been steeped in water before the wine was poured in. This precaution is supposed to arrest intoxication, though I have never seen it stop a man from getting drunk if he really put his mind to it.

When the company had gone, I burst out: "Father, why wouldn't you let me speak my piece to Genetor? Am I not a free Hellene, entitled to say what I please?"

"Son," he said, "you may hold what opinions you like for all of me. But this man is your future father-in-law."

"What?"

"Yes, it's all arranged but the signing. Genetor wanted to look you over first."

"Who's the girl?"

"His daughter Io, and you needn't look as if you'd seen a headless specter in a graveyard at midnight. Io is no Gorgon but a thoroughly nice, attractive girl."

"But who said I wanted to wed?"

"Now, Chares, don't be difficult. I hoped you had outgrown that headstrong streak that used to plague us so."

My mother said: "Everybody knows that a man of your age should be married. She's just the perfect age—fifteen— and the Genetor is rich."

"As he never wearies of reminding us," I said.

My father added: "He may soon be admitted to full citizenship, and he's related to several citizens' families. We're lucky. We are after all self-made men and tradesmen, and only by such an alliance can we hope to be accepted by gentlemen."

"I tell you I will not marry at all!"

"Why not? Are you in love with some mainland woman? Or some man?"

"No, I'm in love with nothing but my art."

My mother said: "Oh, Chares, what has that to do with your being married, like any decent young man? You can't carve and cast every hour of the day."

My father added: "Moreover, if you insist on going ahead with this impractical sculptural career, instead of helping me to manage the foundry as you ought, you'll need a good marriage connection more than ever."

"You shall see. When I have achieved fame, I may think of marrying, but for now I'm convinced that I shall go faster in my craft without the comforts and distractions of domesticity."

This idea I had picked up in Athens from Pyrron of Elis, the skeptical philosopher, when he lectured there during my first year of study abroad. Once I had asked Pyrron if there was any general rule by which a man might achieve great deeds. Pyrron rubbed his chin in his absent way—he was a tall, gangling fellow of middle age, so woolly-minded that he was always tripping over things if his friends did not warn him—and replied:

"I suspect that a certain amount of solitude and discomfort enters into the formula." When another student asked if this precluded marriage, Pyrron rejoined:

"I am sure that bachelorhood is a help. You know what Diogenes said of the time to marry: for young men, not yet; for older men, never. On the other hand, many great men have been married; whereas I, who hardly rank as great, have never been. However, I would not advise the seeker after greatness to wed a Greek girl in any case."

"Why not?" I had asked.

"They are too subdued by our one-sided rules of familial life, so that there is no stimulation in their company. A man's wife is chosen for him, and serves him well or badly, but he finds his companionship among men or professional entertainers. Now, in some other lands, such as Egypt and Persia, the women have more spirit. For instance, when I was out east with the Alexander fifteen years ago, there was a lovely Persian maid ..." Pyrron sighed and changed the subject.

My father, however, stuck to his subject like a limpet to a rock, beating his large, work-hardened fist into his palm. "But what shall your parents do for descendants? I'm a nobody; and, besides, I married into a mixed family—now, now, Elissa, I am not criticizing your Phoenician relatives. Some of my best friends are Phoenicians. I'm merely pointing out why I can never be a full citizen; nor, I should think, can Chares. But if we handle our tiller with care and craft, there's no reason why his children should not attain the franchise.

"That means," he went on, "you must step into my shoes when I'm gone—and, of course, beget children to succeed you. I've worked like a mine slave to build up the foundry and give you a good start. If I saw you well settled, learning the business and rearing healthy children, I shouldn't feel I had wasted my life.

"Moreover, since poor little Nikon died, you are our only hope. It is your duty ..."

The dispute raged on for an hour, with shouts, threats, and tears. I refused to yield a digit from my stand.

"Oh, plague!" said my father at last. "We cannot argue all night. At least, Chares, promise me not to antagonize Genetor. When the lusts of the flesh come upon you, you may change your mind."

I said: "The whorehouse will take care of my lusts and steal less time from my art."

"But promise not to speak out of turn to Genetor!"

"For you I will. I'll treat the pompous old peacock like a piece of Egyptian glass!"

The next day my first concern was to find quarters for a studio. My father, when he saw that I was determined to go ahead with sculpture, said:

"Why don't you work at home or in the foundry? Then you could still help me out when I need you."

"No, Father, it wouldn't do. A sculptor must have not only lots of light but also space in which to stand back from his work. If he sees it at arm's length only, he finds when he has finished that his warrior looks like a monkey and his athlete looks like a frog. And the house and the foundry are much too cluttered and cut up by walls. What I need is some old house out on the edge of town, where I can knock out most of one wall."

"I daresay such places exist," said my father, "but you'll have to pay for any such house yourself. Since you won't help me, there's no reason why I should buy or rent another house for you, and I cannot afford it anyway."

"That doesn't worry me. I shall pay my own way as soon as I get some commissions. But I must get a commission first and then start hunting for a studio. Who is the municipal architect?"

"Diognetos. He lives not far from here. Sosias can show you."

Diognetos was a tall, thin, elderly man, with little red veins in his skin and a long gray beard such as few Hellenes wear today save philosophers and back-country shepherds.

"Yes, yes, my boy, I know your father," he said. "A fine man, Nikon Charetos. So you desire a commission from the city, eh? What of your qualifications?"

"I have a letter from Lysippos of Sikyon, under whom I studied."

"I have heard strange things of Lysippos and his brother. It is said that they make casts of living faces and use them for models."

"Why, yes, they do. It's their own invention and a very ingenious one. What about it?"

Diognetos pursed his thin lips. "Ingenious though it be, it is not art. It is reducing sculpture to mere mechanical craftsmanship, such as any clever Asiatic slave can turn his hand to. No, a letter from Lysippos is no recommendation to me. Have you executed any sculptures since your return?"

"No, sir, I arrived only yesterday."

"Then why do you not make some samples in clay to give me an idea of your work?"

I explained about my need for a proper studio, and how I had to have a commission before I could afford to rent and fit out such an establishment.

"Phy!" he said. "A real sculptor can work in a corner of a dungeon cell. If you think you need a Persian palace to work in, you have chosen the wrong trade. Then, have you joined the Guild? I should deem that a good recommendation. Our artists are shrewd critics of each other's work."

"Why, I plan to attend their meeting tonight, and Makar will propose me. It will be a mere formality. There is no question of their not admitting me when they hear what I have to offer."

"Indeed? And what have you to offer?"

"I can teach a whole new method of bronze casting, invented by Lysippos and Lysistratos."

"What newfangled nonsense is this?" growled Diognetos, looking like an aged eagle to whom a rabbit was being saucy.

Irked, I spoke in a loud, emphatic tone. "It's an advance on the piece mold of clay. With a model of clay, you must either dig the clay out of the extremities of the mold, often marring the mold, or else failing to get all the clay out, leaving a defect in the cast; or you must make your mold in sections, and in a free-standing figure of any real complication you can never break the mold down into enough pieces. And there is always the difficulty of building up cores.

"Lysippos' method gets around all these difficulties. He makes a model of sandy clay, a little smaller than the final piece. Then he brushes melted beeswax over it until it is built out beyond the surfaces that the final bronze is to have. He works on the waxen surface, shaving the piece down to size and inscribing surface detail.

"Then he applies the sand of the mold to the waxen surface, leaving pipes to admit the molten bronze and allow the air to escape."

"I see nothing new so far," said Diognetos. "Wax has been used for casting patterns since ancient times."

"Ah, but wait! When the mold is finished, instead of taking , the mold off the model or digging the model out of the mold bit by bit, he puts the entire thing in an oven. The wax melts and runs out through pipes called sprues, which the sculptor has provided, leaving a thin but continuous space between model and mold. Then this vacant mold is taken out and inverted. The sculptor pours the molten bronze into the sprues, filling this empty space. When the mold is broken off the outside, and the core broken up and shaken out of the inside, he has a hollow casting, perfect save for rods of bronze where the sprues and air vents were. These have to be sawn off and the surfaces finished by hand."

Diognetos had become more hostile with each sentence. Now he shook his fist and burst out:

"Oh, tricks, technical tricks! A plague upon them! That sort of thing is killing the spirit of the arts. A true artist should work without casts and models and measurements. Do not tell me about your wonderful Sikyonians! Mere mechanics, I deem them. Go to a real sculptor if you can find one, somebody who preserves the true spirit of Pheidias and Praxiteles. Learn from him not to lean on tricks of technique.

"At least, if you will take an older man's advice, do not try to bully your way into the Guild by boasting of your technical sleights. And now, if you will excuse me ..."

I left Diognetos' house in a fury. Kavaros, who had waited outside, said: "Does the young master be angry, now?"

"I certainly am," I said. "The old dung-eater put me off. He even had the insolence to suggest that I needed another apprenticeship!"

"Shall .we break his neck?" said the Kelt, little savage lights dancing in his blue eyes. "I am thinking his head would look fine over your door."

"No, you bloodthirsty savage! Come along."

"It is like the time my great-grandfather called on the king of the Elves," said Kavaros, plunging into another of his many tales of fascinating if improbable adventures, which he employed to put me in a good humor:

"Gargantyos—that was my great-grandfather's name— went into the king's castle and asked for the king's daughter as his bride, for she was more beautiful nor any mortal woman. But the king of the Elves was not pleased. 'A mortal asking for my darling daughter? Be off, you impudent rogue, you!' he said, putting out his tongue at my ancestor to show how he despised him.

" 'So that is your Elvish courtesy?' said my great-grandfather. And he caught hold of that tongue and with one jerk turned the king of the Elves inside out. 'Now, my fine lad, we will talk of plans for the wedding,' said he.

"Of course, the king of the Elves was even less pleased than he had been before. He uttered a terrible spell at my ancestor, to turn him into a spider. But, what with being inside out and all, the spell came out backwards and turned a spider into my great-grandfather instead. Then there were two of them, and before the confabulation could go further, they had to find out which was the real one.

"Now, to a Keltic gentleman there is only one way to settle such a question. The two Gargantyoi pulled out their swords and had at each other. But, because they were exactly alike, they fought for three days and three nights without being able to break through each other's guard at all. By then the swords were so notched that they would have made better saws than swords; and, to tell the truth, one of them was used as a saw in building the magical ship Nodon's Chariot, which I will be telling you about someday.

"They would be fighting still, except that, when they paused to catch their breath, the king of the Elves called time out for refreshments. 'For,' he said, 'this is the finest fight I have seen since my father fought his shadow, that the witch Morrigana had put a spell on, and I do not want it to stop because the fighters are after getting tired.'

"But when the cakes and wine were brought, one of the Gargantyoi would not eat them. Instead, he leaped upon a cricket that was creeping by and ate it. So the king of the Elves knew that this one was really a spider, and he said to my forebear—the real one—'Quick, Gargantyos darling, turn me back right side out, so I can reverse the spell, and you will be marrying my dear Brigantia as fast as I can fetch the Druid.' So my ancestor caught hold of him by the spleen—which was on the outside, naturally—and jerked him back right side out. And that is how I come to have one part in eight of Elf blood in my veins. And the moral is: Do not despise any man until he has done something despicable, or you may have to own you are wrong."

When I got home, I told my father of Diognetos' refusal and urged him to think again about renting me space for a studio. But he was firm.

"For seven years," he said, "we've been sending you money whenever you wrote that you were short, even though we often disapproved of how you spent it. First, you hadn't been in Athens two years when you left the professors recommended to you and rushed off to Sikyon to take up sculpture under Lysippos. Then you bought that great lout of a slave. Well, now that you're a man, no longer to be bent to your parents' will, you can take care of yourself. If you fall foul of the one man in Rhodes whom you ought to treat with extra care, I don't see why I should pay for your folly. Besides, we cannot afford it."

"It's not my fault if that stupid old Cyprian ox—"

"That will do, Chares. The Diognetos may be conservative, but stupid he is not. I've dealt with him and know."

"Well, then, why not let me tear up all these useless flowers and use that as a working space?"

"You would tear up your mother's flower garden?"

"Why not? It's but a Persian fad that will soon—"

"Hold your tongue! I always told your mother she was spoiling you, and this proves me right. The answer is 'no'."

He turned his back and returned to the foundry. I ate my midday meal in glowering silence, feeling abused by the world.

I spent the afternoon pacing the court and going over the argument I should present to the Guild, while Kavaros brushed my clothes and blacked my shoes. I could not afford to fail again.

I reached the Town Hall at sunset, being the first to arrive except for Makar. The other members of the Artists' Guild straggled in. Some I knew from aforetime, such as Lykon the sculptor, Glôs the engraver, and Protogenes the painter. Glôs, our fattest member, greeted me:

"Rejoice, old fellow! How are the girls on the mainland?"

I said: "The pickings are poor. They expose so many daughters that the men outnumber the women two to one."

Glôs laughed. "The mainlanders so love their sodomy that they'd never notice the lack of women."

Protogenes, as president, led the Artists' Guild in adoration of the Telchines, the demigods who invented the graphic and plastic arts. Dinner was a typical Rhodian meal of assorted sea foods. A Rhodian gentleman proves his refinement by judicious criticism of each finny or tentacled item, but I could not be bothered. Instead, I made much of my work under Lysippos and Lysistratos.

"I have even," I said, "helped in the building of the world's largest statue."

"What's that?" asked Lykon. He was a broad-shouldered man, a few years older than I, with cold gray eyes in a sharply chiseled face; he had lately been elected herald of the Guild.

"The bronze Zeus at Taras," I said. "It stands forty cubits* (*A cubit = about 1-1/2 feet.) high and took us nearly two years to complete. Lysippos also made a twenty-cubit bronze Herakles for Taras, but that was before my time. I suppose that, in sheer mass, I've handled a greater weight of material for statuary than all of you together."

"By the Dog!" said Lykon. "How can that be, young man, when we are experienced artists and you are a mere beginner?"

"Why, compute it for yourself. The Tarentine Zeus must weigh over a thousand times as much as a life-sized statue, as it's more than ten times as high."

"Is its skin ten times as thick?" asked Lykon. "That, it seems to me, would make an extravagantly costly construction."

"Not quite, but the difference is made up by the internal bracing needed. Someday I shall build an even bigger statue here in Rhodes."

"So?" said Lykon. "The Tarentine Zeus must be near the practical limit. You'll never erect a bigger one, even if you find some city so mad as to pay for the monstrosity."

"I will, too!" said I, smiting the table. "I'll erect a statue twice as tall as the Tarentine Zeus. You shall see!"

Lykon gave a short, derisive laugh. "I shan't want to be standing nearby when you take the scaffolding away."

Protogenes leaned over. "Boys! You are as silly as the old man and his wife who broke every dish in their house, fighting over the question of what they would have named a child if one had ever been born to them. Wait till Chares gets a contract for his superstatue before you quarrel over its design."

"Well," I said with a shrug that was meant to be magnanimous, "let's agree that mere size is less important than the revolutionary new methods of Lysippos and Lysistratos, which I shall tell you about later."

"Oh, pest!" said Strabon the potter. "Isn't it bad enough that we've got to learn this new Athenian trick of decorating pots with reliefs instead of painting, or get driven out of business, without you upsetting things even more?"

When the meal was over and the wine had been brought, Makar formally introduced me. "Chares will say a few words about his qualifications," quoth he.

I ought to have taken Makar at his word. However, I was still so full of my new ideas that I plunged at once into Lysippos' lost-wax method, in even more detail than I had given Diognetos that morning. I insisted that all the other methods of sculpture had been made obsolete, and that all sculptors would have to come to Lysippos or to those who, like me, had learnt from him.

"Were I mean and niggardly," I said, "I would keep this method secret. Instead, I offer it to all of you, asking but a reasonable payment for my time in teaching you. I advise you to apply soon, for otherwise you'll find yourselves hopelessly out of date."

Then I went on to tell of the various pieces that I had helped Lysippos with, such as his "Man Scraping Oil from Himself." I fear I enlarged on the part I had played in this work, until one might have thought that I had been the master and Lysippos the apprentice. I also boasted of my architectural and engineering studies in Athens.

So full was I of my message that I did not at first notice that my hearers had begun to squirm with impatience. At length their scowling, yawning, and whispering reminded me that I had been speaking longer than was altogether tactful. I finished my speech with a flourish of Lysippos' letter of commendation.

Somebody muttered: "If that's a few words, the gods protect us from a full-blown address!"

I expected that it would be moved that I be accepted into the Guild; that I be asked to step out while the matter was discussed and voted on; and that then all would be over but the congratulations. Instead, Protogenes stood up and said:

"As it is nearly midnight and too late for further business, I adjourn this meeting. Good night, blessed ones."

"But—" I said. "But what about me?"

Protogenes: "We will take up that matter at some future meeting. If we take any affirmative action, we will let you know."

"Don't hold your breath while waiting," said Lykon.

"Your mortal subjects bid you farewell, O god," said another.

"We shall see you again, we hope—after Protogenes has finished his 'Ialysos'," said yet another.

This brought a laugh, as Protogenes had been working on his huge picture for six years, and nobody thought he would ever complete it. I said to Makar:

"I'll see you home." When we were out of earshot, I asked: "What's wrong? They seem displeased."

"No wonder!" he said.

"But why?"

"Chares, are you out of your mind?"

"I think not. Why?"

"You come here, a young sprout just out of apprenticeship. You harangue the established artists of Rhodes for three hours, like you was a god teaching the first mortal men how to live civilized. You brag about how good you are and what wonderful things you're going to do. Then you wonder why they don't fall all over themselves welcoming you!"

"I only told them the truth!"

"That may be, but what do you suppose they think of your way of doing it?"

"I don't care what they think. I know my own worth and the value of my innovations, so it is for them to change their thinking, not me mine."

"You might as well say to a piece of clay that won't take the shape you want: 'It's for the clay to obey me, not for me to act humble to it.' But suit yourself. It's your life."

I trudged home in gloomy silence while the stalwart Kavaros walked ahead with his link. He said:

"Master dear, if you would only be listening to good advice, now—"

"Shut up!" I cried and aimed a kick at his shin.

The Kelt moved like a shadow. My kick went wide and caused me to stumble. As I recovered my balance, I heard a snicker. Grasping my walking stick in both hands, I swung. The stick struck Kavaros' shoulder and broke with a loud crack. The link fell to the ground and went out.

"Aral" he said. "That hurt, sir. Someday you will be doing that to a free man and it will not be well for you."

Although I was in a mood to kill anybody who crossed me, the quiet menace in Kavaros' tone made me pause. True, he was not likely to risk death by attacking me. But then, one could never tell with these irrational foreigners, and his execution would do me no good if I were no longer there to enjoy it.

With his usual lack of foresight, Kavaros had not brought any tinder to relight the link, so we groped our way home in darkness.

The next morning my father said: "The porter tells me that you came in after midnight. Your amusements are your own affair, but don't expect me to pay for them."

I told him what had happened, without hiding anything. He sighed. "I fear you learn only by the costliest mistakes, Chares. I wonder that Lysippos ever put up with you."

In fact, the Sikyonian had almost sent me packing thrice. My relations with him had been stormy. I exasperated him by my willfulness and by my insistence that I knew everything, while he goaded me to fury by teasing me about my size.

"Sculpture needs a big man with plenty of brute strength," he would say. "You, boy, would be better off as a dancer."

Or he would twit me about my Phoenician blood, saying: "That is Phoenician work, Chares. A Phoenician is all right if you want somebody to run a bank or sail a ship, but they have no more sense of beauty than a turtle. Having no art of their own, they can only make cheap copies of other nations' art."

I grimly stuck to my task, however, despite Lysippos' gibes. When we parted, he said: "You may make a sculptor yet, Chares my lad, if you do not cause someone to murder you first by that overweening manner."

Now I said: "It's unjust, Father. A man's fate should be determined impersonally, on the basis of his virtues and abilities alone, without regard to all these petty personal likes and dislikes."

My father replied: "Perhaps it should be but it isn't. If they like you, they'll excuse your faults; if they dislike you, they'll overlook your virtues."

"Then they're a lot of stupid fools!"

"Are you only just now learning that? But if they are, you won't change them, not in one lifetime. He wrongly Nature blames who suffers shipwreck twice."

"Well, I seem to have lost all my anchors. I can't get a commission from Diognetos until I can show him some work; I can't work without a studio; and I can't get a studio until I get a commission. Perhaps I ought to sell Kavaros and hire myself out to turn a stone in a gristmill, or take ship to Aspendos and enlist as a mercenary. I can bear my own oil flask if I must."

"It's not so bad as that," said my father, "even if you're pretty small for soldiering and lack the charm to make a good parasite. You know how to handle bronze. I taught you the elements years ago, and you've had practice with Lysippos. Now I need you. I have a contract for fifty mirrors and a hundred lamps, and the trader is pressing me for delivery."

"Otherwise?"

"Otherwise, out you go. Make up your mind."

I gave in, silently swearing never to forgive my father for thus humbling me; but my grudge against him lasted no more than a day. I awoke Kavaros, who was snoring in a corner of the court.

"Come along," I said. "We're bronze founders after all."

"Eh? But I am trained as a warrior, not as a smith!"

"Who spoke of smithing? There will be plenty of lifting and hauling."

He groaned: "Ah, the black shame of it, that the son of a chief should be worked like an ass!"

"Cats always like to sleep soft. If I can dirty my hands, so can you."

Besides myself and Kavaros and Proteus, the foreman, there were two free workers and four slaves. My father put me under Proteus' orders, warning me:

"Now, son, I will not have you bullying and bossing the slaves as you used to do."

"Did I really?" said I in amazement. My father whistled.

"Oh, all right," I said. "I'll be good."

"And no unauthorized experiments with my equipment, either!"

So I avoided putting on airs to the foundry workers, while they were not so rash as to try any tricks on the owner's son. As a result, we got along well enough; some, in later years, I came to regard as good personal friends.

In such low spirits was I because of my failures that I nearly stayed away from the meeting of the Seven Strangers. My father persuaded me to go, saying:

"When have we given up the war because of losing two skirmishes? Besides, the third try is said to be lucky."

At the end of the first day's toil I washed off the grime for the meeting. It took me so long that I arrived late. Giskon led me in, explaining:

"Any member may be president of the club by giving a dinner to all the other members, and it's my turn. The president may also invite guests. Mine, this time, are you and two of my fellow Punics. After the meal you shall be put to the question."

At my startled look he added: "Oh, you won't be tortured, at least not bodily, though the questions the Strangers ask have made some guests wish for the scourge and rack instead. They will do all they tan to embarrass you, and judge your worth by the good humor with which you bear their inquisition."

We reached the andron. Giskon threw a hairy arm about my shoulders and roared:

"Behold my cousin, Chares Nikonos! He's just back from apprenticeship under the greatest sculptor of the age. Or so he says, but you know what liars these Hellenes are. He'll talk your ears off about methods of sculpture, or horrify you with skeptical theories of the gods. We will start at the left. Chares, this is Berosos of Babylon, who makes sundials for birds to bathe in and reads your fortune in the stars."

The Babylonian was a short pudgy fellow a bit older than I, with liquid black eyes and soft brown features. He said:

"May your stars be propitious! Not quite the truth does our host impart, O Chares. If you wish to keep birds from bathing in one of my sundials, you need only to pull the plug from the bottom of the bowl."

"So you'd make me out a liar?" said Giskon. "Go howl! Next we have a man from Egypt, land of mystery and magic, as he never wearies of telling us. He is Onas of Sebennytos, gem cutter by trade and dabbler in the higher mysteries by avocation."

The Egyptian was a tall, powerful man, even darker than the Babylonian, with strong, coarse features. A string of beetle-shaped amulets hung around his neck.

"Life to you, O Chares!" he said. "This scoffing skeptic thinks that, because his mercenary mind is deaf to the deeper secrets of the universe, they do not exist."

"Next," said Giskon, "swilling away in Scythian fashion at my best Byblian, is Sarpedon, a Lykian. The fellow in the beard and the trousers is Gobryas of Synnada. He is a Persian who ruled an estate in Phrygia until Antigonos One-eye thought it would look better on one of his Macedonian officers. We all hate Gobryas because his wife has infected our wives with this passion for flower gardens.

"Next, this prim-looking person is Vindex of Rome—Quintus Iunius Vindex, a trader. They have some barbarous custom there of bearing three names apiece."

"That is in Italy, isn't it?" I said.

"So they tell me," said Giskon. "It seems that the Romans have lately extended their sway over much of the central peninsula, and even over the Greek city of Naples."

"Foreigners ruling Hellenes?" I said.

The Roman, a slight, bearded man, said: "Blame us not, O Chares. We are a peaceful little folk who only desire to be let alone, but we must defend ourselves. Nor am I really a foreigner. I had to prove my descent from Aineias of Troy ere your Board of Trade would grant my license."

Giskon continued: "Next we have Zenon of Kition, whom you already know, and Kallias of Arados, a visiting architect."

Kallias, Giskon's other Phoenician guest, was a man of about forty, with a mop of curly black hair flecked with gray; handsome in a florid, fleshy way. With a charming smile he said:

"I rejoice to meet you, O Chares. We must talk of your new methods of sculpture, for I am sure I can learn something of value from you."

He spoke Greek almost perfectly. Giskon continued around the circle until all had been presented. The Strangers did not look so exotic after all, for all but the Persian wore Greek dress, and most were clean-shaven. They spoke Greek, however, in a fascinating variety of accents. The club was mixed not only as to nation but also as to station. They ranged from a rich Rhodian citizen, Nikolaos, to mere mechanics in shabby cloaks and shirts.

However, none heeded rank. All were men of keen and eager minds, curious about everything under Helios. As Giskon served an appetizer of spiced wine and salt fish, the company was already merry.

I was drawn into a dispute between the Babylonian and the Egyptian. Each appealed to Zenon of Kition.

"Heed him not," said Onas. "Berosos means well but he is no Egyptian. We are the oldest race of mankind, to whom the gods directly gave words of wisdom ere they withdrew from the earth. Therefore we must be the wisest—"

"Rubbish!" cried Berosos. "Our records go further back than yours. And what do you with your wisdom? Mumble spells and incantations, concoct potions and poisons, appeal to demons and demigods that, for aught you know, exist not. We, now, are scientific. Records of the stars for thousands of years we have kept, to show how by the radiations of these divine bodies the world is governed. There is no chance in the world, no caprice. All—men, spirits, and gods alike—do obey the stars, like the parts of a well-oiled machine."

"A dismal concept," I said. "Why strive to master my art, if the stars decide beforehand whether or not I shall succeed?"

Onas: "He has a good point, Berosos."

"Not good at all," said Berosos. "If you strive, the reason is that the rays of the stars compel you, willy-nilly, to strive."

The sobersided Zenon had stood with eyes bulging, so that he looked even more like a prawn than usual. Now he said: "For my part, I incline to the beliefs of the Babylonians: that all is foreordained by the glittering stars. I find comfort in the thought that, behind the bloody turmoil of this frantic life, calm impersonal forces determine all in advance."

"Determine they nought that an Egyptian wizard Cannot upset by a mighty spell," said Onas. "Why, in the terrible Book of Thôth there are two cantrips. If you recite the first, you shall enchant the heavens, the earth, the underworld, the sea, and the mountains. If you recite the second, though you be dead in your tomb, you shall rise from the dead and see the sun in the sky, the moon in her courses, and all the company of the ever-glorious gods in heaven."

I said: "How shall I recite this spell when I'm moldering in my grave?"

"If you have the benefit of Egyptian embalming, you will not molder. And your double—or 'soul,' as you call it—will recite the cantrip."

"I have yet to see proof that the soul exists."

"How ill informed you are!" said Onas. "The records of our ancient wisdom, going back a myriad of years, describe not only one soul but at least three per man."

"To the afterworld with your ancient records!" said Berosos. "Our history goes back thirty-six thousand years; that is, to the times before the Flood."

"The chronicle of our kings is longer than that," said Onas. "Would that my cousin Manethôs. were here to recite the whole tally of reigns and dynasties!"

I said: "Who cares how far back your records go? Modern science had done away with all your spells and spooks and stargazing prophecies. All those old notions are based upon hearsay and self-serving dogma, as proved by Pyrron and Theodoros—"

Both disputants sprang upon me. I was saved from being torn to pieces, dialectically if not literally, by Giskon's announcement:

"Dinner is served. Move aside, friends, to let the servants set the tables."

Giskon served a veritable Erymanthian boar. The Strangers discussed a wide range of topics; politics, geography, war, philosophy, and the arts all came within their ken. Any one of them was keen to learn about anything. All, too, were eager to show off their knowledge to one another.

I asked Berosos how he came to be in Rhodes. He explained: "I was a minor priest in the Temple of Mardoukos. Five years ago the armies of Antigonos, seeking to overthrow Seleukos, invaded Babylonia and our holy city seized. Their enemies in the citadels they besieged; much of the city they burnt or demolished; many of the people they slew or sold. Now in ruins lies beautiful Babylon, once the world's greatest city. Finding my own temple sacked and my kinsfolk scattered, I fled with the rest. Methought to seek my fortune in the West, by means of the sundial that I had invented in the course of my studies."

"What was the outcome of the war?"

"First, Antigonos his son Demetrios sent, while Seleukos was fighting Antigonos' other generals in Media; but the boy achieved little besides looting and wanton destruction ere to Syria he returned. Then old One-eye himself with a larger force came down. Seleukos, by clever maneuvering amid the canals and watercourses, kept Antigonos from winning a decisive victory, although Antigonos was too strong to defeat in the field. At last Antigonos, hearing of trouble in his western domains, patched up a peace with Seleukos and returned to Anatolia." Berosos sighed. "So here am I, the most erudite scholar on the Research Committee of the Temple of Mardoukos, eking out a living by selling sundials and casting horoscopes. The most pitiful part is that, having just begun a little to prosper, doomed I find myself."

"How, doomed?" I asked. "Have you some wasting disease?"

"Nay, my health of the best is. But the stars say that, ere the year be out, caught again in the hideous claws of war shall I be."

"That's a chance we all take."

"Ah, but worse than that it is. For to become a soldier I am fated. Me, of all people!" Berosos glanced down at himself. "Far too fat and soft am I, and the mere thought of swords and lances thirsting for my blood inspires me with terror. Yet no escape see I. I was born under the Ram, a belligerent sign, with Nerigal—or Ares, as you call the red planet—in the Scorpion. That forces a warrior's career upon me, willy-nilly. I sought to escape my fate in the priesthood, but the Antigonian army drove me out of that. This year Ares reaches its exaltation in the Ram, which is also my house of life. It is, therefore, scientifically proved that I shall soon be wading in gore—I, the most peaceful of men. Of what use should I be to any army?"

Onas licked his fingers and said: "They could always hang you up and use you for an archery target. You do have the shape for it."

"Perhaps your calculations erred," I said.

"That will be his excuse in any case," said Onas the Egyptian. "Whenever their prophecies prove false, these Chaldeans say: 'Oh, I overlooked that little star and must recompute.' "

"I have cast my own horoscope thrice in a ten-day," said Berosos in a voice of doom. "Each time it came out more ominous. With Aphrodite opposed to Kronos—"

I interrupted. "How do you come to be in Rhodes?" I asked Onas.

"My case is the opposite to that of Berosos," he said. "A frustrated warrior, I. For I belong to the old warrior class of Egypt, though little chance to show our valor have we had since the Persians drove out our last king. Six years ago, when the Ptolemaios contended with Antigonos for Syria, he raised a native corps among my class and marched us along the coast of the land of Sos to fight Demetrios."

"Did you fight at Gaza?" I asked.

"Say that I was there, though we pikemen had but little to do. From where I stood, nought could be seen but clouds of dust, through which came the hoofbeats of cavalry and the squeals of elephants. When Demetrios' elephants were halted by spiked iron caltrops, Demetrios' horsemen fled and his foot were surrounded and captured.

"Like many of my class, I thought we Egyptian warriors had earned quality with all these greasy Gr—excuse me, sir, with these ambitious Hellenes who have swarmed into the land of Chem and taken all the posts of honor and profit. But nay, perhaps the satrap feared that, were we suffered to keep our arms, we might revolt and put one of our own on Egypt's empty throne. So our arms were taken away and locked up, all but some which had vanished. It was said that some Egyptian warriors hid them for their own use. Came word that I was suspected of being in on this plot, if plot there was.

"Or ever all this befell, it was decided that I, as the youngest son, should learn a trade, as my father's allotment was too small to support all his sons. Therefore, I was apprenticed to my father's cousin in Sebennytos. When the matter of the missing pikes made Egypt too warm for comfort, I came to Rhodes and have practiced my craft here ever since." Onas stretched his powerful arms. "Gem-cutting is a good trade, at least whilst one's eyes hold out. But betimes I yearn for something more active."

Later, as we munched dried chick-peas and sipped sweet wine, Giskon said: "The time has come to choose the next president. Who puts himself forward?"

Sarpedon the Lykian said: "I"—here he said a name that sounded like a sneeze* (*Sppntaza)—"of Xanthos, name myself to be the next president."

"Anybody who can make noises like that deserves to head the Strangers," said Giskon. "As I hear no other nominations, Sarpedon shall be our next chief. And now comes the inquisition. Chares of Lindos, stand up! Gobryas, begin the questioning."

The Persian, a brawny, balding, blunt-featured man with a deep, rasping voice, who painted his face in the Persian manner, said: "O Chares, how justify you your existence?"

I thought a moment and said: "My existence is justified by my mission."

"What is that?"

"To raise the practice of sculpture to a level higher than it has hitherto known."

"How will you do that?"

"By applying the methods of my master, Lysippos of Sikyon, and his brother, with such improvements as I can devise."

"What are these new methods?"

"There is—let's see—making a small model before beginning a full-sized statue; there is the life mask; there is the lost-wax method of casting. At least, these are the main ones."

"Explain them."

"Do you really wish to hear all about them?" I said, for I feared another disaster.

"Go ahead!" they cried. "We'll stop you when we become bored, fear not!"

So I plunged again into an account of the new techniques I had learnt. When my speech flagged, they shot searching questions at me. Lucky it was that I knew my subject; a poseur would soon have been stripped of his pretensions.

I also defended the modern realistic school of sculpture against the outmoded idealistic school of Pheidias and Polykleitos. "My master always said: 'If you want models, look about you! Be as faithful to nature as you can, and do not worry about how you compare with Pheidias.' But alas! Things being what they are, I don't know when I shall have a chance to practice these fine ideals."

"What mean you?" said Vindex of Rome.

I explained my difficulties with Diognetos and the Artists' Guild, wringing all the pathos from my plight of which it was capable.

Kallias, the Phoenician architect, said: "In Arados such shameful injustice would never be allowed."

"It is a shame," said Nikolaos, the full citizen. "Some of us on the Council think that old Diognetos, however brilliant he may have been, has become too rigid. It is all very well to conserve the wisdom of our forebears, but one should not reject all new ideas merely because they are new."

Vindex added: "You should have heard him roar when I suggested that he try arches of stone or brick, as we do, instead of these costly and fragile solid architraves."

"I can well believe it," said Nikolaos. "It was all we could do to get him to build some catapults of the torsion type. He said the flexion catapult had served Dionysios and Philip well, so why rush into some short-lived fad?"

"What was his objection to the torsion type?" I asked.

Nikolaos: "Too complex and hard to maintain, he said."

Giskon put in: "Time flees, so we must pass on to the next victim. Zenon of Kition, arise. Berosos, question him."

The Babylonian began with the same question that Gobryas had asked me, namely: how did Zenon justify his existence?

The young Phoenician twisted his hands and feet and finally answered: "I—I really cannot justify it at all, my masters. Th-that is, in fact, the thing I most ardently seek."

"Mean you that you seek justification for existing?" said Berosos.

"Yes. That is it."

"Why?"

"B-because I am not happy about it. I must know, why am I here? How should I live? How can I protect myself against the bludgeonings of Fate?" Zenon gained courage and fluency. "I've read the legends of the Phoenicians and the Judaeans and the Hellenes, as far as my business allowed me, and none satisfies me. In fact, they seem childish. Imagine, immortal gods breaking one another's heads, tumbling one another's wives, and massacring harmless mortals with lightnings and floods!"

Giskon munched up a fistful of chick-peas, saying: "What's the use of being a god if you cannot amuse yourself as you like?"

"Disgusting!" said Zenon without cracking a smile. "What sort of gods are those? If they are as foolish and lustful as men, why should we appeal to them for help? Something more rational must rule the universe."

Nikolaos said: "Advanced thinkers say those tales are merely allegories to convey deeper truths to the initiated."

"That may be, but how does that help a simple trader like me? How do I know, when I set out with a cargo of purple or spices, that a storm will not send my ship to the bottom, or that I shan't be seized by pirates and sold as a slave? When I come ashore in a fair city like this, what assurance have I that I shan't awaken to find the roaring mercenaries of some shameless warlord battering down the gates? How, in such a frightful world, can there be any relation between my virtue and my fate? How can I find a sound moral basis for my actions?"

"You might try the philosophers," said Nikolaos.

"I have never known a philosopher. Are there any in Rhodes?"

"There is Eudemos, who is editing the treatises of Aristoteles of Stageira. I believe, however, that he is in Miletos just now. You might arrange a trading voyage to Athens, where you will find more philosophers gathered than in any other city."

Giskon said: "Let's pass on to the last victim. I shall question Kallias of Arados myself. Tell us, O Kallias: How do you justify your existence?"

Kallias patted his hair into place, rose, and said: "First, my masters, let me thank you for a delightful banquet, far beyond my poor deserts.

"As to self-justification, I am, as you know, an architect, traveling in search of commissions. It is with some diffidence that I bring up the subject in the city of Rhodes, which has given such outstanding architects to the world. The great Deinokrates, for one, was born in Rhodes, albeit reared in Macedonia. Your present municipal architect, Diognetos, might well be numbered among the great architects. By comparison my achievements count for little.

"However, even the strongest cedar succumbs with time to age and rot. I am concerned whether this magnificent city be protected by the latest and most effective methods of siege warfare. We all know that in the last century siegecraft has been revolutionized. You may have heard of the invention of the movable suspended ram by my countryman, Pephrasmenos of Tyre; or of the inventions of Diades, who served the divine Alexander: his movable tower, his borer, his climbing machine, and his crane."

Zenon said: "If machines of war become any more frightful, people will insist on doing away with war altogether. This cannot go on."

"I sympatize with that idea," said Kallias, "but I fear that is easier said than done. To continue: Is Rhodes prepared to withstand assault by these and even more modern machines? Whilst I do not claim to read the minds of the warlords, it is known that the surest way to invite attack is to be unprepared for it."

"We have the friendship of Ptolemaios," said Nikolaos, "with all the wealth of Egypt behind him."

"Yes? And what will befall when the Antigonos and his all-daring son fight another round of their eternal war against the Ptolemaios? Will not Rhodes' very alliance with Ptolemaios bring the Antigonos upon you? Rich though the satrap of Egypt be, Antigonos is not poor either, and he is much closer to hand. Who knows the future?"

"The stars say—" began Berosos, but Kallias plunged on:

"Who knows but that the Antigonians and the Ptolemaians may destroy one another, leaving Kasandros or Lysimachos to pick up the remains? These are grim and ruthless men who will stick at nought to serve their ambition. If it suited them to pile the heads of every living being in Rhodes in the marketplace, be assured they would do it without a qualm. Are you ready for such an outcome? It is the municipal architect's duty to prepare the defense of the city. What has your Diognetos done?" Kallias ended with an impassioned gesture.

"I believe that our walls are in good condition," said Nikolaos. "We have an adequate artillery, with missiles, besides small arms and armor for all the men in the city."

"Think you that bows, slings, and catapults of the ordinary kinds will stop the great armored engines Demetrios could bring against you? Your artillery, I gather, is mostly of the solid-bow type. Modern torsion catapults will outrange and outshoot these and drive the defenders from the wall. You will be like a man fighting with a sword of lath and a shield of papyrus."

"Well, then, what would you?" said Nikolaos.

Kallias drew a long breath. "First, let me protest my un-worthiness and lack of personal ambition. I would not meddle in Rhodian affairs, save that I love the beauty of Rhodes and hate to think of her going down to destruction, as did proud Tyre within the memory of many here. I have, however, given thought to the defense of the city. Here are some of my ideas."

Kallias picked up a roll of large sheets of papyrus and began unrolling them one by one and holding them up to our view.

"Here," he said, "is my sluing crane. Can you all see the drawing? When a hostile siege engine nears the wall, the crane swings on its pivot until its end is over the machine. Then it seizes the engine by means of these tongs. When the crew pulls on the ropes, the hostile machine is raised into the air, thus. Naturally, the enemies in the engine are shaken out, and most are slain by the fall. Then the crane rotates on its base, carrying the captured engine over the wall, and lowers it to the ground inside the city."

"Euge! Euge!" cried several of the Strangers.

"Thank you, sirs," said Kallias. He went on to explain the mechanical features of his turning crane. Knowing something of architectural engineering, I found his ideas most ingenious.

Other sheets illustrated other devices. There was an enormous hammer, mechanically operated so as to smash siege machines near the walls. There were catapults that worked on new principles, such as falling weights or the compression of air by a piston in a bronze cylinder. The turning crane, however, elicited the most admiration.

Nikolaos: "Your voice has the sound of Dodonian bronze, O Kallias. Could you repeat that lecture before the Council?"

"Oh, sir, you are much too kind! Of course I can, if you think my poor ideas worthy of their notice."

"I think we ought to go into this further. Diognetos' contract runs out soon, and there is a question of whether we ought to renew it. Tell me where I can reach you, and we shall see."

The party soon broke up. The last I saw of Berosos, he stood at a street corner, pointing up to the stars, which spangled the sky like daisies on a black meadow, and expounded his theories of astrology to Zenon of Kition.

The day after my dinner with the Seven Strangers, my father said:

"Genetor was here last night, Chares. He's pleased with you, despite your radicalism, and wants to know when the betrothal will be made formal."

"Oh, divinity! I haven't even seen the girl."

"That can be arranged."

I beat my head with my fists. "For Hera's sake, Father, put him off! I'm too confused to think clearly about such things. At the moment I don't even have a future in my chosen profession to offer."

My father sighed. "I'll try, but henceforth you must think up your own excuses."

Two days later, with Kavaros' help, I loaded fifty bronzen mirrors on an ass and took them across the town to the house of Glôs the engraver for finishing. Glôs said:

"Have you heard the news?"

"What news?"

"About Diognetos and the Council."

"No, what is it?"

"The Council has refused to renew his contract. Nay more, they'll recommend to the Assembly a new contract with this Phoenician wanderer, this Kallias of Arados. Do you know him?"

"I've met him."

"What is he like?"

"I was much impressed. He combined great charm with brilliant ideas."

Glôs: "Well, then, perhaps it won't be a disaster for our beautiful city after all. Of course the Council has long been at loggerheads with Diognetos because of his conservatism. Still, he is deemed one of the world's ablest municipal architects. And he can't be bribed."

"Diognetos did not impress me," I said. "At least, with Kallias I might have a chance to get some commissions."

When work slackened at the foundry, I amused myself by modeling a clay head of Kavaros in a corner. The Kelt said:

"To be sure, young master, if I did not know that this was me here and that was the statue there, I would be expecting to hear that thing talking with my own voice. If I ever need a spare head, I will know where to get one, like those three champions I fought in the battle with the Trokmoi."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Did I not tell you? We put our bravest fighters in the front rank; so, being the most valiant of my clan, I was foremost—"

"Except at climbing masts," I put in. On the Galatea we had amused and warmed ourselves by playing tag, until I found that I could always escape the Kelt by swarming up the rope ladder to the masthead, for he had a deathly fear of heights. Mere height has never bothered me, and I could have made a living as a sailor. Kavaros rejoined:

"I was trained as a warrior, sir, not a—what do you call these beasties the young gentlemen keep for pets, that look like ugly little men?"

"A monkey?"

"A monkey, that is it. Anyway, the Trokmoi had three champions, who fought side by side in their front rank, so I found myself fighting all three of them at once. It was real warm work for a while, until I struck a blow the like of which has never been seen, nor ever will be seen. Would you believe it, sir, it took off the heads of all three of those omadhauns at the same time? If you will come to the land of the Tektosages, I will show you the heads to prove it."

"Kavaros," I said, "why are slaves such liars?"

"Why, Master Chares! Everything I tell you is the perfect truth, and I can prove it."

"I didn't say you; I said slaves in general."

"Oh, well, now, that is different. If I may ask you one in return, sir, what other defense does a poor slave have? As we say, who has no shield must use his cloak; who has no sword must use his stick, only it sounds prettier in the Keltic.

"Now, as I was saying, one of these fellows I hit was Genthios, a famous fighter of the Trokmoi. And would you believe it? Such a fierce man was he that he fought on for hours before he discovered that the head of him was off. It was only when he put up his hand to wipe the sweat off his face that he found it out and fell down dead."

A few days after my talk with Glôs, the Assembly met. As a mere tribesman, I could not attend. In Rhodes we have about six thousand adult men classed as citizens in the broad sense of the word. However, the property qualification for full or voting citizenship is so high that less than a third of these can take part in the government. The rest are second-class or non-voting citizens, or, as I have called them here, tribesmen.

I was working on my father's contract when there came a noise from the street. From the door of the foundry I saw a crowd approaching. At the head was Kallias, flushed with triumph. Others crowded after him, showering him with praise and congratulations. He stopped at our door, grasped my hand, and pulled me into the street.

"Behold!" he said. "Here is the first of past injustices that I, as your new architect, shall right. This is the most brilliant of our young artists, just returned from study on the mainland and denied a chance to exercise his genius by the hidebound stupidity and malignant jealousy of his elders. O Chares, I, Kallias, say that you shall have a commission from the city ere the year be out."

The admirers cheered. I was delighted, if embarrassed at being hauled without warning into public view. Kallias continued:

"Can you show me an example of your work?"

I said: "If you will step in, I'll show you a piece I've been working on."

Kallias entered the foundry, hitching his cloak up daintily to avoid soiling it. I showed him the clay head of Kavaros.

"This is only a rough sketch, a mere bagatelle," I said. "You can see that I lack the space for serious work."

"It shows real talent, Chares," he said. "You will be a great sculptor if you persist. I shall certainly arrange for you to receive an opportunity to match your promise with performance. Rejoice!"

When several days passed without my hearing from Kallias, I went to his temporary office, which Giskon had allowed him to set up in one of the rooms of his house. Kallias was cordial but vague about the reason for my coming until I reminded him of his promise of a commission.

"Of course!" he said. "Forgive me, O best one, I have been so submerged in detail that things have slipped my memory. Yes, you shall have a commission. However, you must first give evidence of being a responsible contractor."

"What does that mean, sir?"

"You will have to have a proper workshop, and you must submit a sample of your work. A bronze casting of that head of the Kelt would do for the latter."

I explained about my difficulty in getting a studio. Kallias promised to speak to Nikolaos.

Again there came a delay of a ten-day. When I again went to Kallias' office and reminded him, he bestirred himself at once.

Nikolaos, it transpired, owned a tumbledown barn of a house on the slopes of the akropolis, on the outskirts of the city, which was now vacant. He agreed to let me rent it on credit until I could get started.

I had a quarrel with my father when he learned what I was up to. The poor man kept hoping against hope that I should settle down for good and all, to become a foundry manager.

"Very well, Chares," he said, "if you are so independent as all that, you can live in your new palace. Expect no more free food and lodging from me."

"All right, I won't," I said, and marched out in high dudgeon, Kavaros staggering after me with my baggage. At the new house we slept on moldy straw pallets and ate sitting on the floor for want of chairs.

It took some time to turn the house into a studio, especially as Kavaros and I had to build most of our equipment— ovens, furnaces, and the like—by ourselves. Before we had finished, I ran out of money. Kavaros and I got hungrier and hungrier until Sosias dropped in one day to say:

"Master Chares, this is not official. But your mother asked me to tell you that if you offered to help your father in the foundry from time to time, when there is a rush on, he is willing that you should eat at home."

"Thanks for the offer, Sosias. I will think about the matter and let them know," I said. When Sosias had gone, I turned on Kavaros. "You didn't tell Sosias we were starving so he could pass the word to my mother, who, you knew, would try to bring about a compromise between my father and me, now did you?"

"Why, sir, I do not know what you are talking about! But it is true that, unless I get some food to put between my belly and my backbone, I will be as weak as green wine, and so of no help to you. And you do not want that, now do you, master dear?"

"Dog-faced savage!" I growled. "But I suppose it would be defying Fate to refuse the offer."

So matters were again patched up between my father and myself. To complete my equipment, lay in some bronze stock, and pay my rent, I had to earn some quick money. This I undertook to do by making terra-cotta statuettes for household ornaments and votive offerings. To find outlets for these, I used my acquaintance with Genetor to get an introduction to his cousin Nereus, the high priest of Helios-Apollon.

I was actually making a few drachmai from my terra cot-tas when I had a visitor at the studio. This was Lykon, the older sculptor who had been so nasty at the meeting of the Artists' Guild.

"Be in good health, O Chares," he said. "What's this I hear about your breaking into the manufacture of terra cottas?"

"It's true enough. There are some waiting to be painted. Why?"

"Because I am Rhodes's maker of terra cottas. I have an established business, which I have built up by several years of effort. There is not enough demand to support two manufactories, and I will certainly not give up mine. So you had better find something else."

"Has Rhodes given you a legal monopoly of this business?"

"No, but custom has the force of law. I'm giving you a chance to withdraw gracefully."

"To the afterworld with you! I'll make what I please and sell it where I can."

"I'm giving you fair warning—"

"Get out!"

Lykon looked as if he were about to say: "Put me out if you can!" But then he caught sight of Kavaros, absently tapping his open palm with a heavy mallet. The sculptor went without further word.

"We seem to gather enemies as offal gathers flies," I said. "If I could only get a commission for something big: say, a colossal Alexander. Can't you imagine one standing down there?" I pointed down the hillside towards the harbor.

"I am after thinking about this fellow Alexander," said Kavaros. "You do talk about making a great statue of him, but belike that is not the best plan."

"Why not?"

"Well, for one thing, sir, Master Lysippos has made statues of Alexander—little statues and life-sized statues and gigantical statues—all over Hellas and the islands. I have seen some of them myself. So who will dance and sing for joy when you say you want to make one more? Then again, too, the fellow is dead. Perhaps he was the greatest general of all, or even the son of a god, but still, he is not here to pay for statues of himself. And they do be saying that all his children and kinsmen have been murthered; so there is no commission there, either. A dead corpse has no vanity. Why do you not take some living prince or general for your model? I do not rightly understand money, as a Keltic gentleman does things only for honor and friendship; but it seems to me that, if you need the stuff, that is the way to get it."

I gave the slave a hard look. "You may be a barbarian from the unexplored wilds of the trackless North, but at times you show a keen wit indeed. I'll think about your suggestion. Meanwhile let's get that head of you cast, to have something to show Kallias."

Three days later I arrived again at Giskon's house. Kavaros carried the bronze head, saying: "Indeed and it is a two-headed man that I am, like the giant that my greatgrandfather fought in the Land of Mist. Why do you not make a double of me, master dear, and then you could let me go and keep the statue?"

Kallias greeted me with effusive charm. "A splendid work!" he cried. "So vital! One can almost hear it speaking with a Keltic accent. Now to business. The most important project now in progress is the new theater. This will require statues, and I hope to number yours among them.

"However, there is an obstacle. The Artists' Guild, having gotten wind of my intentions, protested against my hiring a sculptor not of their membership. My reply was that Chares is perfectly willing to join but has been kept out because of the personal prejudice of some members, and that it were unjust to deprive a man of his livelihood on such grounds.

"Now, I daresay I could force the issue and defeat your detractors. But I would not begin my term of office by a quarrel with those with whom I must work. I have therefore arranged with Protogenes to decide the matter by a contest in which you shall have a chance to show off your new method of sculpture. If you win, you shall enter the Guild without further delay.

"In the marketplace stands a bronze bust of Homer. You and Lykon, who seems to be your principal foe, shall each make a copy of it. He shall use a clay copy and a sand or plaster mold, while you shall employ your lost-wax method. Both the fidelity of the copy and the speed with which it is made shall be considered in judging the results. The judges shall be Protogenes, Nikolaos, and myself. As your studio is short of facilities, you shall both use that of Lykon. Does that suit you?"

"Certainly, sir," I said. "When will this be?"

"Tomorrow. Now another matter. I find that, as municipal architect, I am also director of Rhodes's defenses and general of her artillery. In the arsenal are six new catapults built under my predecessor. While they are not of the latest and most efficient design, they are still a substantial addition to the city's defenses. And crews have not yet been assigned to them. Have you been enrolled in the armed forces?"

"No, sir."

"If a war scare arise, you will hear from the Board of Generals soon enough. However, let us consider your position. You cannot join the marines, because that branch is reserved for rich young citizens. Our cavalry is a joke, and anyway you own no horse. That leaves the infantry and the artillery. You are rather small to bear the panoply of a hoplites, but in the artillery your knowledge of engineering would stand you in good stead."

"What had you in mind, O Kallias?"

"With your education, you could be a double-pay man in command of a catapult. How say you?"

"That would be fine. Thank you, sir."

Lykon and I stood in Lykon's studio, with the bust of Homer before us and our materials around us. The audience comprised the three judges and most of the Artists' Guild.

When Protogenes said: "Go!" Lykon and I oiled our hands and sprang to our tasks. While our slaves cut slabs of clay to convenient size, we picked up these slabs and built up models on the armatures that rose from our workstands.

We worked in tense silence, save when we both tried to measure the original bust at the same time and got in each other's way. In a trice we were thrusting at each other with our calipers and shouting threats and curses. Lykon had dealt me a scratch in the forearm when Kallias and Nikolaos pulled us apart, and Protogenes admonished us.

"After this," he said, "he who gets to the bust first shall finish his measurements before the other may approach it. He who breaks this rule shall be disqualified."

I finished the core of my bust—a rough shape of sandy clay like the final head but a little smaller—while Lykon was still bringing his clay bust up to size; my revolving workstand gave me an advantage. Then Kavaros handed me a brush and a bucketful of melted red-tinted beeswax. The tedious task of painting on the wax let Lykon get ahead of me. Once I had built my wax to its final size, however, the process of shaving it down, inscribing the surface detail, and adding the sprues and vents went faster than Lykon's finishing his clay bust. I had almost caught up with him when he began laying on the clay slip he was using for his one-piece mold.

Then I constructed my mold of oily sand held in place by a flask of reinforced clay laid on around it. When my mold was built out, I secured it to the core by driving long bronze nails into it.

When both molds had set, Lykon turned his mold on its side and began digging out the clay, while Kavaros kindled a fire in the brick oven that Lykon used for baking his terra cottas. Meanwhile I turned my mold over and nailed a board to its base. Then Kavaros and I used the board to maneuver the mold into the oven.

Lykon continued to scrape the clay out of his mold. When that task was done, he began to build up his core, even and anon thrusting it into the mold to see how it fitted. After a while my stare made him nervous, for he jerked around and said:

"Why aren't you working on your mold and core?"

"They're all done. In a few hours, when the wax has melted out and the mold has dried, I shall be ready to pour."

Lykon threw his tool to the floor. "What sort of Thessalian wit is this?" he shouted.

"Nothing but Lysippos' lost-wax process, man. I once tried to tell you about it, but you wouldn't listen."

"There's no use trying to compete with such trickery!"

Protogenes spoke: "O Lykon, you agreed to the terms of this contest, knowing that Chares had a new method. Do you wish to be known as a poor sport?"

"I'll show you!" said Lykon. Without bothering to build his core further, he put it, and his mold, in the oven to dry beside my mold.

"Let us lunch while waiting," said Kallias.

The slaves brought food. As we ate, the tension relaxed, although Lykon continued to grumble and brood. Afterwards, over a jug of wine, we entertained one another with jokes and stories.

"This contest," said Kavaros, "reminds me of the time my great-grandfather contested with Agnoman the Ogre. This ogre was an unpleasant fellow, nine cubits tall, with long green hair all over and a pair of bat's wings growing out of his back, the which he could take off and hang up when they inconvenienced him. He lived in a cave on top of Mount Golameira, which is so high that if a young man fell off the top, he would be dead of old age before he got to the bottom.

"Now, this Agnoman flew far and wide over the lands of the Scythians and the Roxolanians and the Issedonians, raiding caravans and kidnaping princesses and having himself a rare old time. At last he kidnaped Nessia, the daughter of the king of the Tektosages. So the king called in my ancestor, as he always did when things got insurmountable. 'Gargantyos,' he said—for that was my forebear's name—'if you will rescue my darling Nessia, you shall have her and half my kingdom.'

"Well, my ancestor's first job was to get to the top of Mount Golameira. So he made himself a special chariot to be pulled by four-and-twenty eagles. He had a terrible time training the eagles, but at last, on a fine summer's evening, he took off and guided these birds over the plains of Getika and Scythia and the Rhiphaian Mountains until he came to Mount Golameira. So tall was it that my great-grandfather had to fly back and forth zigzag for hours to reach the top.

"My ancestor had been flying by moonlight, because, being a clever man, he had found out about the habits of Agnoman. The ogre did his hunting at night, returning to his cave at sunrise. So it was well before sunrise when my great-grandfather brought the eagles to a halt on the ledge outside the cave and went in.

"Agnoman must have been a Persian ogre, because he had most luxurious ideas. The cave was all fixed up with gold and jewels that the ogre had stolen, and there on a silken couch lay Nessia. Indeed and she was glad to see my ancestor, calling him her hero and savior and hugging and kissing him until the breath was fair squeezed out of him, and him a big strong warrior.

" 'That is fine, my dear,' said he at last, 'but soon the sun will be up and Agnoman will be back on those horrid bat's wings. So let us be going!'

"Nessia agreed. But then the difficulty arose, of what she was to take with her. My great-grandfather would have gone without taking anything, except perhaps a handful of gold and jewels such as a man could snatch up in a hurry. But Nessia must try on gorgeous silken gowns, one after another, until she found the most becoming one. And she must try on the earrings and necklaces and other gew-gaws to see which went best with which gown, and all the time my ancestor getting more and more nervous; not that he was a timorous man, you understand, but it seemed like spitting in the faces of the immortal gods to fool around so.

"Sure enough, the sun arose and Agnoman came back while Nessia was still trying on goodly gowns and glittering jewels. The ogre understood right away what was going on, being intelligent as ogres go, and bared the big teeth of him to eat my ancestor. But my forebear, backing up against the wall and holding Agnoman off with his sword, said: 'If you have any Keltic blood in your veins, Agnoman my lad, it is sporting blood, and you will not decline a fair contest.'

" 'What have ye in mind?' said Agnoman.

" 'I will fight you with broadswords, fair and square,' said my great-grandfather, 'and if I win I take the maid and such of your wealth as I can carry, while if you win you may eat me without resistance.'

"The ogre said: 'I am thinking there is a catch to that offer, as I can eat you anyway. Howsomever, I do like the spirit of you; so let us not quibble but have at it.' And he hung his wings up on the wall and went for my ancestor with his sword.

"Indeed and that was a gigantical fight. For three days and three nights they fenced, and so loud was the clatter that the king of Persia, a thousand leagues away, ordered out his army, thinking he was invaded. At the end of that time the swords of both were worn down to the hilts, and neither had laid a scratch upon the other.

" 'It is fools that we are,' said my great-grandfather. 'Since swords will get us nowhere, let us make a wrestle of it.'

"So for three days and three nights they wrestled. Such was the force with which they threw each other around that rocks as big as houses were shaken loose from the ceiling of the cave and fell down upon them, but so busy with their wrestle were they that they never noticed.

"Then Agnoman said: 'Wrestling is getting us nowhere either. But I will propose another contest. Do ye see my bathtub, there? Well, I will fill it, and we will put our heads under water, and the one who takes his head out first is the loser.'

"And so they did. My ancestor took a deep breath and plunged his head into the bathtub, which was big enough to sail a ship in. When he had held his head under water for three days and three nights, he found he was getting short of breath. Thinking he might as well be eaten as drowned, he took his head out. Then he nudged Agnoman, saying: 'Come on up, ogre darling; you win.' But never a bit did Agnoman move, having drowned himself dead rather than lose the contest. And the moral is, games are fine, but do not confuse them with serious business."

"What happened then?" I asked.

"Nothing much. Nessia insisted on loading the car with gold and jewels from the ogre's hoard. My ancestor objected that the eagles could not carry the weight, but the lady was determined, and as she was a king's daughter, he did not take so strong a line with her as he might have.

"Sure enough, when the four-and-twenty eagles took flight, they quickly lost height because of the extra weight. When they were over a lake in the Atmonian country, and losing height with every flap of their wings, a flock of ducks flew up from the lake. The four-and-twenty eagles, thinking that what they most needed was a duck dinner, twisted about and upset the chariot. The next thing my ancestor knew, he and the lady and the ogre's hoard were all dumped in a patch of soft black mud in a marsh in the middle of the lake.

"When my ancestor had dug the mud off the face of him, he saw it was a good ten or twelve furlongs' swim to the nearest land.-So he said to the girl: 'Nessia, my dear, off with the clothes and into the water, for it is no warmer nor less hungry we will be, waiting around here until nightfall.'

"But the king's daughter cried and carried on because she would not give up the Persian queen's gown she was wearing, or the thirty pounds of gold and jewels she had on besides, which is unsuitable for to swim with. So my greatgrandfather hit her a bit of a clip on the jaw and took the things off her himself. He swam to the mainland, holding her face above water with one arm; and there he stole clothes and food and horses from the Atmonians, and so they got home.

"But when the king wanted to give his daughter to my ancestor, he said: 'Thank you, sir, and I will be having the half of the kingdom, if you do not mind. But as for the wench, keep her. Honor is worth more nor life, but gold and jewels are not, and a woman who proves three times running that she values them so is too big a fool for me to wish to be related to her by marriage.'

"Becoming angry, the king would not give the half of the kingdom without the maid. So my ancestor went off by himself and met the Elf-king's daughter, but that is another story."

When the sun went down behind the akropolis, we lit the furnace and set our crucibles to heating. We withdrew our molds from the oven, wherein they had baked all day. The red beeswax in mine had melted and run down into the bowl we had set on the floor of the oven. Lykon assembled his core and mold, and we both placed our molds in the sand pit and packed them against upset.

Then, when our bronze had melted, we poured. I left the hoisting and tipping of my crucible to Kavaros; not that I was not strong enough, but that forty pounds of crucible and molten metal on the end of a long-handled tongs are more safely manipulated by a large man than by a small one.

Next morning we chiseled off our molds and dug out our cores. Anybody could see that the surface of my casting presented a far better texture than Lykon's. However, I still had the task of cutting off my sprues, rods, and nail ends. While Lykon ground and filed at the surface flaws in his bust, I filed down the stumps of the rods. At last I stopped work and said:

"There you are, gentlemen."

Lykon stopped, too, for his bust had so many surface flaws that he could have worked on them for days. After the judges had conferred in whispers, Protogenes said:

"The two busts were finished at about the same time. The two are of about equally good—or bad—workmanship. To tell the truth, neither looks much like the original; but that, I suppose, is the inevitable result of haste. Anyway, since nobody knows what Homer really looked like, one bust may be as much like him as the other.

"However, Chares' method allows a better control of surface texture, especially in giving smoothness where smoothness is desired. It also saves bronze, as his core follows the surface of the mold more closely. Hence his bust weighs less than half as much as Lykon's. Chares wins."

"Euge!" cried my friends among the audience.

Lykon glared at me and stalked out without another word. Feeling magnanimous, I should have been glad to be friends with him, but he had evidently made up his mind that I was the leading fly in his ointment. Now that I look back, I can see that Lykon was in many ways not a bad sort, with the usual assortment of human virtues and faults. Unfortunately his virtues did not include a liking for Chares the Lindian.

I sat in Kallias' office in Giskon's house while the architect talked of his plans for the new theater. Most of the stonework was already in place, but not the colonnades, the stage, and the ornamental statuary.

"One must think on a large scale," said Kallias. "Poor old Diognetos could think of no more than two statues to flank the seats. I shall have four: of Aischylos, Sophokles, Euripides, and Aristophanes."

I said: "When I was in Athens, a fellow named Menandros was making quite a reputation as a writer of comedies. Ought we to consider him?"

"No, it were safer to stick to those who are safely dead. Now, it should be possible to give you a contract for two of these and Lykon that for the other two. Would that suit you?"

Considering that I was still young and unknown, the offer was very flattering. "It pleases me greatly," I said.

Then we argued prices, with the usual hours of haggling. Kallias cited my youth and inexperience, while I brought forward the never-ending rise in the costs of materials, which could throw all one's calculations awry.

At length we agreed on a price of five hundred drachmai for each statue. This was more than I expected.

"Now," said Kallias, "there is the matter of the models to be used. By good luck, Protogenes made a set of sketches, years ago in Athens, of an authentic bust of Sophokles, said to have been made from life. These will, I think, enable us to make an adequate statue without going outside Rhodes.

"For the other three, however, we have nothing on Rhodes as to how they looked. I may be able to write to Athens, to have some sketches sent. But if you will get to work on the Sophokles, I will take care of the rest."

"I understand."

"Good. Now, there is one other matter, which I hope you will also understand." Kallias glanced towards the door. "You will admit, young man, that I have gone to a lot of trouble on your account. A ten-day ago you faced a life of bronze founding and the thwarting of all your high artistic hopes. Now you are a member of the Guild and have been offered a contract that would make many experienced sculptors envious. Think not that I am unaware that the terms are generous."

"True," I said.

"Furthermore, I have staked my own reputation on your turning out statues that shall do the city credit. Now, perhaps you think I have done all these things solely for admiration of your blazing young genius."

So self-conceited was I that I had thought that Kallias had favored me for just that reason. My guardian spirit, however, warned me not to say so.

"Having done much and risked much for you," he said, "I expect you to show equal generosity towards me, out of the money you will get for these statues. Let us say, about a hundred and fifty drachmai a statue."

I sat with my mouth open. Then I croaked: "I—I shall have to think this over, O Kallias. Give me until tomorrow."

"Oh, no! I know what you plan. You would go home and discuss the matter with your father or with some trusted friend. Thus our deal would become known. You must make up your mind here and now, or never hope to get a contract from me again."

I pondered the matter. I should have known what was coming. For an instant I even regretted that old Diognetos was not still the city's architect. He at least was not one of those who, as the saying goes, praises the good while pursuing his own profit at all costs.

Kallias put on his charm. "After all, my dear young man, have I not been your friend? And friends have all in common. Well, despite my fine new post, I am pinched for money. I face the cost of buying a house and moving my family hither from Arados. You would not starve your friend, would you?"

At length, eagerness to get a start and lust for fame overcame my scruples. I said: "I agree in principle, but you ask too much. Make it a hundred drachmai per statue."

Kallias laughed. "One could tell that you are part Phoenician. Make it a hundred and twenty-five, no less."

"Done," I said. "Now, if you will show me where the finished statues are to stand—"

Giskon burst in, his beard abristle. "Kallias!" he cried. "I've just come from the marketplace. Demetrios has sailed from Peiraieus, and the Board of Generals meets tonight in the Town Hall."

"Indeed?" said Kallias. "Very well, I shall be there. Chares, I fear we must drop this talk of statuary. Come with me to the arsenal and meet your new command. Wait! You must be identified."

Kallias brought out from his secretarial chest a disk of clay with a thong strung through a hole. With a stylus he scratched on the disk: "This is Chares Nikonos, auth. by Kallias."

He hung the disk about my neck, saying: "Do not take this tag off whilst you are on restricted ground unless you want a sentry's spear through your brisket. Come."

The arsenal and the dockyards form a mass of buildings that take up a good part of the shore of the Great Harbor. The whole is surrounded by a high brick wall with iron spikes along the top. It is constantly patrolled, even in peacetime. The sentries at the gate struck their spears against their shields in salute to Kallias.

We passed through the dockyard, where a new trireme was completing. Kallias said:

"I keep telling Superintendent Rhesos that we shall be destroyed if we build nought but these obsolete little craft when all the other powers are launching fivers, sixers, and so on up. Compared to them, our ships are like sardines to sharks. But"—he shrugged—"none heeds the prophet of new ideas until too late."

He led me into the arsenal. We passed long rows of spears, swords, cuirasses, helmets, and greaves, gleaming quietly in I heir racks, before we came to the section where the missile weapons were stored.

Here stood scores of bows, hundreds of sheaves of arrows, stacks of javelins, bundles of slings, and bags of sling bullets. There was also a rack of those small hand catapults called scorpions or belly bows. There were stacks of catapult darts of various lengths, and pyramids of catapult balls.

At last we reached the large catapults. Those most in evidence were four enormous stone throwers of the flexion type, twelve cubits long over all, with huge bows of horn and wood affixed to their muzzles by iron brackets. Kallias jerked a contemptuous thumb.

"This was my predecessor's idea of defending the city," he said. "As lately as five years ago he bought these from one lsidoros of Abydos, even though the flexion catapult is obsolete. Today one can get the same cast of the same weight of projectile, with half the over-all weight, by the use of the torsion principle. Now these are something else."

Kallias indicated the six new torsion catapults, smaller than those of lsidoros but still of imposing size, lined up on the main floor. They stood on rollers with their metal parts greased and their wood polished. The architect said:

"Thank the gods that Rhodes has one intelligent man: Bias the carpenter. Failing to convert Diognetos to the torsion principle, he carried his battle to the Council, which authorized these engines on an experimental basis. Take your pick."

I gasped with delighted astonishment, stammered my thanks, and went to the machines. I chose the one that seemed to have the stoutest and tautest torsion skeins.

"Know you how to work one?" asked Kallias.

"A little. I played around them as a child; I have read about them; and in Argos they let me load and shoot one at practice."

"Well, that puts you ahead of most recruits. If I be any prophet, crews will be assigned tomorrow. If there be anybody whom you wish for your crew, enlist him forthwith, or you will have to take whom fate allots."