Free The Praise Singer by Mary Renault Page A

mortal ones were the mode. The court had already forgotten him.
    Perhaps he should have stayed in Ephesos, and cheered the citizens in their servitude. The Medes, after all, only required that poets should not abuse them; they could sing about anything else they chose. Here in Samos, it was not what one must not sing, but what one must. Tell a man what he may not sing, and he is still half free; even all free, if he never wanted to sing it. But tell him what he must sing, take up his time with it so that his true voice cannot sound even in secret-there, I have seen, is slavery.
    I suppose this is hardly just to Polykrates. In his way, he loved the Muses. He paid well for what he liked, and if he did not get it he did nothing worse than lose interest. We had been free to come, and were free to go. Now he is dead and I am old, I can see all this. In those days I was young and bitter.
    At the tavern I was making enough to keep us both. But man does not live only by bread and olives. Kleobis’ heart was dying in him. His new patrons gave few feasts, so did not invite him twice. Before long, he would depend on my base employment. He blamed himself for it, guessing that if alone I would have moved on by now; but he had lost the will to plan ahead. He talked always about the past, and lived in that.
    Where could we go? He was too old to start again in the wild north; Anakreon, young and among his own people, had found he could not bear it. Athens, an old friend to art, was near; but they had had civil wars for years, lords against commons, coast against plain; Pisistratos, the commons’ choice for Tyrant, was now in, now out, now back, and would no doubt be out again. By myself, I might have tried my luck in Thessaly. Though some of its little lords were not much better than bandits, and I did not know the country, I was strong, and used to hardship. My master was used to it too, but it had begun to tell. It was for me, the son of his art, to see that he had no more.
    I thought of my father in blood. I was a rich man’s son, and much good it did me.
    I had sent no news home since the fall of Ephesos. They did not know I could write, and I’d trusted to word of mouth to tell them I was alive. My occupation was no fault of mine; but I could not see my father thinking so. However, my pride was no longer mine to do as I liked with. I bought reed-paper; when Kleobis was out, I sat down and wrote a letter.
    To Theasides son of Leoprepes, his brother wishes joy. Suddenly I started laughing. I could hear him say, “Sim, by the dog! Whatever did the boy pay to this learned fellow? The street-corner scrivener would have done.”
    I told him everything. I was not in want, I said, and had no need to beg of our father; but the war had ruined my master’s former patrons. Were any feasts or contests being planned in Keos, where he could come and sing? I did not ask Theas to hide my letter; that would come naturally at home.
    It was easy to find a Kean ship. Since Ionia fell, two-thirds of them put in at Samos. It was my luck to see Laertes, whose wedding had changed my fate, walk into the Victory. He had carried landless fugitives from half-a-dozen cities, and found nothing surprising in my present work. Nor, being a neighbor, was he surprised at being asked to give my letter privately to Theas. To my father, I sent respects by word of mouth. Before I sealed my letter, I added by way of postscript,
    A horn-handled knife, my brother,
    you won for strength at the games.
    Me it won from dark Hades,
    saved by your gift though the sea divided us.,/p>
    That was the first time I wrote a poem down. It felt very strange.
    The days passed. I found the uses of memory. What with my own songs, and all those I’d learned (I had the Sons of Homer entire), by the time I ran out, I could start again at the beginning. Meantime I ate and drank and could take home all my pay. Often I could make as much as an extra drachma, if a song was asked for by name. And