THE TRIALS OF PATROCLUS AND PELOS
AS SOON AS I hauled the sack of clay into our workshop, a shiver rippled down my spine. On my shoulder my sparrow, Pelos, abruptly stopped chirping. A tall woman loomed over Father. Her skin gleamed like pearls against her violet peplos robe. Her floral-honeyed perfume drew me in from the doorway.
“You will craft it and paint it,” she ordered. “That’s why I’ve come all this way to your tiny workshop.”
When Father cleared his throat, as if to argue, she snapped, “You are Kleon, are you not?” Lifting a bowl, she smirked at the writing on the bottom, which said Kleon has made and painted. “Unless this boy is the potter and painter whose work is famous in Athens?” she mocked, fixing her mesmerizing gaze on me.
Her turquoise eyes swirled like the whirlpool Charybdis. I couldn’t breathe, as if I were drowning.
“No. Leave the boy alone. Please. I’m Kleon. I’ll do as you ask. A wedding present, right?”
My chest reinflated as her eyes slid back to Father. Wary of her charms, I emptied my sack into a basin of water and stared at
