When he was small, his father would take him to see the gods. Hand in hand, they climbed the steps until Nikos's legs ached and he begged his father to carry him.
"No, son," his father said. "It is a privilege to see the gods, and what is a little pain, next to all that they do for us?"
So young Nikos gritted his teeth and climbed as Athens receded behind him. At the zenith, they entered the temple, and Nikos, his fatigue forgotten, ran his hand against the columns, the marble cool and smooth beneath his fingers.
Nikos and his father tiptoed further into the temple. His father pointed and explained how Zeus, king of the gods, was suffering from pounding headaches. Hephaestus, the smith, took up hammer and chisel and split open Zeus's skull, freeing Athena, who burst out, radiant in her armor. Nikos stared open-mouthed at the marble scene as his father thanked Hephaestus for his work, as Athena would go on to become protector and namesake of Athens, their home.
Before they left, they stopped at the temple of Nike, spirit of victory and companion of Athena. "I named you after her, Nikos," his father said, nodding at the winged figure. "May success follow you always." They paid their last respects and began down the countless stairs, out of the realm of the gods and back into the city of men.
Nikos shook himself. He was back in his dim and dusty workshop. Before him was his latest piece, a monument to that noble Roman magnate, Scipio Fastosus. Resplendent in his raiment, composed and dignified, clutching a scroll to his chest, his other hand proffered, he smiled sagely atop his pedestal.
Except, no. The eyebrows were uneven. Again. Nikos sighed and picked up his tools.
When he was very young, he had believed that the gods on the Acropolis were the gods themselves. When his father told him that they were simply statues, carved centuries ago by humble men, Nikos was not disappointed. He declared then and there that he wanted to be a sculptor. What could be a truer calling, he thought, than to take a block of stone and carve out of it something beautiful and magnificent, to strike awe and reverence into all who beheld it? When he was old enough, he boarded a galley and sailed to Rome to apprentice himself to the masters. He wandered about the Palazzo and the Presidio and spend hours among the bronze and marble monuments.
The nudes captured his fascination. It was not erotic, he told himself, but reverent. The curves of the human body, from the angular muscles of the athletes to the graceful tapers of the nymphs, captivated him. He envied Praxiteles and Lysippos, whose labors of love had generated such vivid figures.
But his romanticism had ebbed. The masters worked his fingers and his spirit to the nub. Nikos had learned of the commission and of the patron. The masters—and he—did not labor for love, but for coin, and those with the coin...
There was a sharp knock at the door, then another. Shaken, Nikos climbed off the stepladder and hurried to the door, which crashed open from the other side, nearly toppling him.
Dominating the threshold stood Scipio Fastosus, in flesh abundant. His belly strained against his silks and his piggy eyes were twisted in malignant disgust. A pinch-faced attendant cowered in his wake.
"Nikos!" he barked, as the hapless sculptor regained his footing. "Where in Jupiter's name is my statue?"
"The Honorable Lord Scipio Fastosus," intoned the attendant, rather unnecessarily.
"He knows who I am, you buffoon!" growled Lord Scipio. "He's carving my likeness! That is, if he remembers our contract."
"Of course, my lord," mumbled Nikos.
Lord Scipio strode mightily into the workshop, sending Nikos stumbling back before his girth. The patron squinted at the statue and Nikos shivered as he took note of the innumerable rough, unfinished patches.
"Damned to infernum!" bellowed Lord Scipio, rounding on Nikos. "It's not nearly finished! And the eyebrows!"
"I apologize, my lord. I—"
Lord Scipio laughed, a caustic sound, and he looked so absurd next to the placid statue that Nikos could not help chuckling to himself.
"Do you find this is funny?" Lord Scipio's countenance darkened gruesomely.
"No, my lord."
"You're worthless," Lord Scipio spat. "You have one day to finish it."
"My lord!" Nikos palled. "I need more time—"
"One day!" Lord Scipio menaced toward Nikos, who flattened himself against the wall. "Or you will never find work in this city again!"
Nikos's tongue flopped soundlessly. Lord Scipio heaved himself around and stalked out of the workshop, rattling the tools on their hooks. The pinch-faced attendant gave Nikos one last scowl and slammed the door shut behind them.
The silence weighed on Nikos, crushing him even more than Lord Scipio's tirade. His legs faltered and he collapsed against the workshop wall and buried his head in his hands. One day? Impossible. But sculpting was his life, his livelihood, and Lord Scipio did not make empty threats. Images passed through his mind: his father, the birth of Athena, the nudes in the Palazzo. Now his father was gone and Nikos was far from home, prostituting himself to the sneering patrons.
His hopelessness warped to anger. In blind fury he rose, grasped his heaviest chisel, and drove it wildly into Scipio's blocky jaw.
The marble cracked and split and a large wedge of stone fell away, thudding dully against the floorboards.
Nikos stared, aghast. Scipio's left jowl, from ear to chin, was gone.
A thousand thoughts crashed about in his skull. Gods, what had he done? Scipio would exile him. Maybe kill him. Certainly he would never sculpt again. He ran a shaking hand over the rough embrasure where the jaw fragment used to be. He could improvise an armature to patch the jowl back in place. He could cover it with a thick patina. But patching would leave a seam and the patina would be the wrong coloring. Surely Scipio would notice. And then...
Nikos stared into the empty eyes beneath the unfinished brow. He followed the line of the face: the rectangular right side, the diagonal left. Something seemed amiss, different, hidden. He scrutinized the uneven jawline again. He took a few paces back and gawked.
There was a woman, a beautiful woman, trapped beneath the marble. The jowl was simply the first cut. He could envision the rest of her outline now—the cuts he would make, the edges he would follow—just as he could when he looked at a rough slab. Her body, her limbs, her face, all of her, stood on that pedestal, just beneath the surface of the statue of Lord Scipio. He shook himself and looked again and there she still was. And he swore he heard her calling to him from within the marble.
Doubts flooded his mind, doubts of his reason, of his sanity, but they evaporated before the image of Hephaestus freeing Athena from Zeus's skull. His fingers tightened around the heavy chisel and mallet and he began to work.
He did not bother with a bozzetto—he barely noticed what his hands were doing—but he did not hesitate, working solely from intuition. The masters would have criticized him as reckless, but each chisel strike seemed to bring her closer. The marble raiment shattered under his blows and the chips rose in heaps around the pedestal.
Unfatigued, Nikos worked until the day turned to dusk and the workshop grew dark. Pausing his fervor, he heaved at a thick rope dangling from the ceiling and the skylight yawned open, bathing the dim workshop in ethereal ivory moonlight. By its glow he labored like a lunatic. The figure was emerging: a classical nude, contrapposto, one hand covering her inguina, the other proffered. Nikos took up the lighter chisels and again his hands seemed guided and infallible as he eked out her features and musculature. He took great care to carve delicately around her breasts and buttocks, leaving them smooth, rounded, full-figured. His trousers felt uncomfortable and as he worked he often cast his eyes up at hers, as if expecting her to look down and scold him.
He finished on her face as the moonlight gave way to dawn. Her countenance was radiant, alert, the eyes penetrating and unfathomable. At least her brow is even, he thought. He gently brushed away the dust and then stood back to behold her. In the eos, she shimmered, and his heart skipped. Suddenly overcome with exhaustion, he laid at her feet against the pedestal and closed his eyes.
He was in the Palazzo, among the nudes. He meandered across the cobblestones and the athletes and nymphs and deities and heroes each seemed to wink or nod or wave as he passed. They crowded him as he strode toward the end of the Palazzo, where, waiting for him, stood—
A hand was on his shoulder and he stirred awake, then turned around, and there she was, bending down to rouse him. Nikos yelped, leapt to his feet, and staggered back.
