# Afterglow/The Greek

​THE GREEK
​Who shall be my love, this year? For it is spring; the breeze is sweet and the flowers are stirring within the earth. The ground is softer; the skies warmer. There are even green spots on the pastures.
Shall it be Lydia, who played with me last year? Her hair is golden, like wheat; her lips are soft; her white feet scarcely touch the herbs and grasses. She laughs joyously and is afraid of nothing.
Or shall it be Atthis, whose hair is brown and whom I have seen roving through the forests? Or Phyllis? Or Dorocleia?
Or shall it be—she whom I have not named—whose look is timid but very beautiful? I think I would prefer her; but she has never loved and perhaps she will not. She would protest and blush . . . I will speak to her, but I will give Lydia some flowers and a wooden bowl.
​Upon a housetop beneath the white disc of the moon, Thersites, a Greek, sat with Crobyle and Antonius, who was a Roman soldier. The evening was pleasant. A soft wind blew from the west, bearing with it, now and then, the distant cry of some night-prowler on the desert beyond the tombs of the kings. Spread out on both sides of the silent river lay the crumbling city, Thebes, once mighty and still beautiful, spectral and aloof in the moonlight. Within its temples, old men still clung to well-nigh forgotten ceremonies of the gods. In the great buildings, fissures and breaks had appeared, stones had fallen. In the houses, a discontented and poverty-stricken people muttered and prayed and starved. Yet all these, all things which were small, misshapen, unhappy, were blotted out in the clean light and the dense shadows of the Egyptian night . . .
"It was there, at the edge of the culti​vated ground," Antonius continued. "And when I saw her, I was speechless. She was a young girl, dressed like the Egyptians in the kalasiris; it was heavier than that affected by your city women, yet so light that, had it not been for her stola, it would have only shadowed the treasures beneath. One could see she might have disrobed without shame. Her cheeks were clear and light—almost too light for an Egyptian, but holding a delicate pallor, like the cheeks of an unhappy child. Her eyes were dark with an unknown depth, her lips were neither full nor thin, but red as the bloom of the desert rose. And her raised arms were full of flowers, innumerable flowers of all colors, which she held carefully against her young breast. An old woman was with her."
"Thou art poetic," observed Thersites.
"As thou wouldst have been. Hardly have I seen, in all Egypt, even at Alex​andria, such perfect beauty . . . She would have passed me. 'Whither goest thou' I said, 'O daughter of Venus.' I think I frightened her. The old woman grasped her arm, and said to me, in barbarous Greek, 'She does not understand Greek. Leave us alone!' I reached into my cloak and displayed a handful of golden staters. 'Take these,' I said, 'and talk to her for me.' The old woman's gaze wavered; she was tempted but afraid. She hurried the girl away."
Antonius paused.
"She is interesting, your Egyptian maiden," observed Thersites. "I have seen her. Her father cultivates a garden for some priests. A disappointed priest himself, perhaps. At any rate, he keeps a watchful eye on his daughter as well as on his vegetables."
"That is nothing to me. I could have, in Rome, a thousand loves, without even ​the asking. Why should I hesitate now, at a desire of my own, for an old man or a few gray-bearded priests? Besides, she is beautiful."
His eye shifted.
"No more so, I must admit, than Crobyle here, bounty of thy marvelous fortune, who has blessed me with so many smiles. But I would not venture, for all my bravery, a siege of Crobyle's experienced heart."
"Crobyle and I are hardly on speaking terms, these days," said Thersites, glancing from Antonius to the girl. "I think she enjoys provoking more fire than comes from such a temperament as mine. And she thinks my verses a poor substitute for more substantial adoration. What a shame she cannot leave me. Is it not so, my beloved?"
Crobyle would not answer. The Roman dwelt upon her for a moment.
​"Of course," he said, slowly, "My intention is to find a Crobyle for myself and I imagine she will find me fiery enough, this girl; at least, in her experience. But we soldiers have not the money power of such leisurely beings as thou art; what we want, and cannot buy, we must take by force.
"I followed the girl and found the house where she lives. The old woman stood upon the door-step; I believe I have bribed her. At least, I am going there tonight and I shall carry the girl away. I will make a Sabine of an Egyptian. That is why I have come to thee, as I have no other safe place to leave her until my boat sails tomorrow. Before any investigation can be made in this dead city, we shall be far away."
Antonius arose, drained his cup and drew in his cloak. The city had become very still.
​"Which reminds me," he said, "that it is time to go. If thou art willing, with the favor of the gods I will return very soon."
Thersites, a little disturbed, rose also.
"Bring her here, by all means. But I cannot say I approve thy project. There are innumerable women who, I think, would be more to thee than a young girl. At least, if thou must venture it, I beg of thee to shed no blood. The game is not worth that. For my shelter, wilt thou promise me this?"
"I will promise thee, unless it becomes a question of my life."
And Antonius went out quickly.
Thersites, leaning over the parapet, watched his departure. Crobyle spoke from the shadow of a couch.
"He is a fool."
The Greek turned to her.
"I grant thee that. But thou art a ​woman and thou hast a reason for saying it which is not the same as mine. Just why, in thine opinion, is he a fool? . . ."
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A distant shout echoed among the houses. Silence. Then quick steps in the street. Antonius, breathing heavily, his arms wrapped tight about a muffled figure, stepped out on the roof.
"Quick, where can I put her," he panted. "She is a fury. Look at her face. I am smothering her, but I am afraid she will scream."
"Thou hast done it!" Thersites sprang forward. "This becomes suddenly interesting! Wait. I can speak to her in her own language. Let me see what I can do."
Bending toward the girl's head, he spoke quickly and at some length. He ​paused on an interrogation; repeated it. A short, muffled word came from the captive.
"That is good," he said to Antonius. "Release her, now, she has promised me to be silent."
"What charm didst thou speak. She no longer struggles!"
Thersites smiled, but said nothing. The next moment, the young girl, half naked, trembling with fright and anger, stood in the moonlight. Her eyes sought Thersites and remained fixed on him. Antonius sat down, still breathing heavily.
"She is a wild animal. I spoke to her. I threatened and prayed. But the old woman, I suppose, told the truth, and she could not understand me. Will she remain as she is now?"
He took a step toward the girl. Her mouth opened, about to scream. Her hand ​clutched Thersites' cloak. Antonius stopped, preplexed.
"Why does she turn to thee?" he said.
"Why not? She knows what to expect from thee, her ravisher. I am more of an unknown quantity."
With this, Thersites, watching the girl, spoke to her again; and his voice was very soft. Crobyle stirred on her cushions. Antonius watched curiously.
Thersites walked to the edge of the parapet and looked out over the city. Finally he turned.
"Friend," he said to the Roman, "I will bargain with thee. This girl is less afraid of me because I can speak to her. Perhaps she has divined, also, some other qualities which, at this moment, might appeal to her . . . Leave her with me—and take Crobyle with thee tomorrow. She will go with thee more willingly? Say, wilt thou?"
​Antonius laughed suddenly, and arose.
"Dost thou hear that mad offer," he asked Crobyle. "And wouldst thou go with me in place of this stripling?"
Crobyle's warm voice replied from the shadows.
"I would go with thee, and gladly," she said.
"Then, my foolish friend, I accept thy bargain. I will take Venus; thou mayest have Tisiphone."
"And may Venus bring thee joy."
Thersites turned to the girl.
"Thou mayest go," he said. "My girl Crobyle loves this soldier and will take thy place. I am sorry thou wert frightened."
The girl looked searchingly at him. He returned a smiling look, without mockery. Watching the three people, she seemed to understand what had taken place. Still ​watching, she took a step backward, another, then disappeared through the door. Antonius watched in amazement.
"Thou hast sent her away!"
"Yes. We are both satisfied, thou and I."
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The next evening, Thersites sat alone upon the house-top. His calm held no expectance and no regret. A new poem, neatly copied on papyrus, was in his hand, and his voice rose and fell softly.
A servant appeared at the door.
"There is an Egyptian girl below, who asks to see thee," he said. "She has flowers in her arms."