“You’ve never had a lesson?” The man called in a strained voice, though he stood three feet away from her.

“No,” the young girl said quietly, attempting to wipe some of the grime from her hands. The man cupped his hand around his ear and leaned towards her. She shouted over the busy crowd, “Never.”

The man stared at her with bewilderment. He made the girl nervous, with his gold and his clean clothes and his skin that had almost never seen the sun. On either side of him were boys who looked like her – hair cropped close to their skull; bland-coloured one-piece tunics – except that she was covered in layers of crust that showed exactly where she had been – she wore her home where you could see it. They, however, looked healthy and were neatly groomed.

“Have you ever thought about taking lessons?” He picked up one of her art pieces with his soft hands and she struggled not to snatch it back.

“Can’t afford any,” the urchin girl handled a piece of her work with nervous fingers and tried to will the rich man away. She sat crouched on the ground, her back against the rough wall behind her. The man’s wide shadow fell across her entire body and it made her feel inferior. The two boys were looking at her, one with bored non-interest and the other with a kind of knowing mischief that made her quickly shift her eyes away from him. She frowned and ruffled some of the dirt out of her short hair.

“Are you here every day?” She nodded. The rich man held his hand out to the mischievous boy, who dropped a bag of money into it. Reaching a fat hand into the equally fat bag, he took out a few gold coins and dropped them into a bowl at her feet. She watched them clink and spin before they settled, then looked back up at him in time to see him say, “I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t run away.”

The girl held her breath as he straightened his clothes and walked away. Her lungs burned and her muscles ached, but she didn’t breathe or relax until the sight of him had gotten lost in the far-away crowd. She ran her tongue along the inside of her teeth and stared down at her dirty feet. I hope he doesn’t come back tomorrow. She could always not show up tomorrow. But then what would I eat? There are other corners, other streets where she could try her luck at selling. I would be in someone else’s way. There would be fighting. I’d end up hurt. This was the only place she knew she could be safe.

Deep in her thoughts, she hadn’t noticed the little boy poking his head around the corner of the wall at her back. His face was as dirty as hers was, and he was calling her name. “Ares,” he whispered frantically, “Ares, are you dead?”

The girl blinked out of her contemplation and lazily rolled her head towards him, “Don’t call me that.”

Taking her cue to come forward, the boy sat down next to her, pushing some of her art out of the way. “Why don’t you want to be Ares? God of war and battle – feared by all!” He held up his arms as if preparing to fight.

“Because I am not a god, and even if I was – I would rather be the god of something less… gory.” Out of mindless habit, her hands picked up a piece she was working on – a mottled lump of clay she had made from the pit she discovered two blocks away. It had half-hardened and now was ready to be sculpted.

“I would want to be a brave, fierce god.” He scoffed at the clay in her hands, “I’m assuming you would want to be the god of art.”

“There is no god of art.” The girl’s tongue poked out of her mouth in concentration, her thumbs pressing into the clay and drawing some of it out to the sides. “There are only the muses.”

“But the muses are all women,” his face drew into a frown. “I wouldn’t want to be a woman.”

The girl sighed and smiled back at him, “Neither would I.”

With youthful frenzy, the boy danced around her creating space, brandishing a stick as a spear and pretending to attack the statues and other clay workings she had scattered around her. He called out to the crowd, declaring them his enemies and challenging them to fight. His companion wrinkled her brow and tried to ignore him, focusing on her clay, but he only got louder and more energetic. “Remus!” She finally shouted, “Could you please sit down? I need someone to buy something.”

“Why?” Remus teased with an ornery grin, “That man paid you plenty for talking to him.” The two looked silently at the handful of gold coins in her bowl.

“I don’t like him,” the girl finally admitted.

“I’d like anyone who paid me money for talking. I’d talk all day if I knew the person was paying.” He squatted down in front of her bowl, “Can I touch them?”

“Go ahead, just don’t take any.” Her eyes went back to her work, which was now beginning to look like a lump with wings.

“When have I ever taken anything?” Remus’ wide smile revealed two missing front teeth.

Rolling her eyes playfully, she smiled back, “Oh, you never have.”

The shiny yellow coins cast reflections in the boy’s fascinated brown eyes. “What did he want? Do you know?”

“Maybe he wanted me to sleep with him,” She muttered under her breath.

“Nah,” The boy rolled a coin between his fingers and stared at the Emperor’s face on its surface, “He didn’t seem like a man lover to me.”

“He had boys with him,” Her nails dug into the wings, drawing deep grooves into them and shaping tiny feathers. The two sat quietly, the boy staring at the coin and the girl making feathers.

Suddenly, Remus stood up and dropped the coin back into the bowl. “I’m going to go find out who he is,” he announced triumphantly, hands on his hips. Before the girl could even raise her eyebrows, he was shooting off into the crowd.

The young artist sighed with a kind smile on her lips. During the five years she had known Remus, she had grown to love him as a younger brother. They had first met when he was just a toddler, and she was still just a child. His sweet smile and babyish coos had driven the rich women mad. They never suspected his chubby fingers were walking away with their gold. He would show up in the mornings, tottering into the square with playful curiosity, then scurry away at night before the square got rough. The girl knew better than to assume he had parents to go home to every night. However, she thought, someone had to teach him that mischief.

Someone had taught her her own mischief – her art. Her first memories had emerged in his arms, watching his rough, clay-caked fingers form delicate creatures. Out of his hands spun tiny people, whistles shaped like birds, horses, nymphs, centaurs, and millions of flowers. He showed her how to make clay from the dirt in the ground, and how to tell if a fire was hot enough to act as a kiln. His rhythmic voice, rich with colour and personality, would serenade her with the stories of the gods and goddesses and she would listen while she watched his hands whittle the divine beings out of wood.

His name had been Aristo – tall and strong in the arms, with a kind face and warm eyes that shone with a knowing that could not be explained. Those eyes had always been there to watch over her and to see her as she grew up. Aristo had been her father, though he had never actually said if it was he who brought her into being. It really didn’t matter, though. He was her father, regardless.

The small corner of the square where the young girl did her work had been Aristo’s first. They had huddled together, making trinkets, pottery, jewelry, toys – whatever would sell. At night, she would sit in his lap, cuddle up against his chest, and fall asleep in his arms. When it rained, he would shelter her. When the square got rough, he would protect her. When customers were scarce and money was lacking, he would still make sure she had everything she needed.

Often during those hard times, he would become brooding and silent. A dark cloud would come over his face and the girl would pretend to fall asleep much earlier than usual. Secretly, she would watch him from his lap as he ran his fingers over the jagged scar that ran across his neck and chin. He would gaze into their tiny fire and sigh deeply to himself. When his broodings became too intense, she would squirm as though in sleep and a calm smile would replace the cloud in his face. It gave her comfort knowing that she could bring him comfort.

Despite all he did for her, however, Aristo never gave her a name. The people who saw them every day, sick of calling her “Aristo’s girl”, ended up named her Arista, which was just an easier way of saying “Aristo’s girl”. For this reason, Aristo’s mark, a simple A on the bottom or in the corner of every work he made, was also used by his protégé when she finished something.

And for all his love, devotion, and protection, Aristo eventually did what all mortal men must do – he died. One cold winter morning, when times had been especially hard and food had come less often than usual, Arista woke to find the arms that held her were stiff and cold. The joy that once danced in the man’s eyes when he looked at her was now shielded by lids that would never rise. The girl had screamed and cried and begged him to come back to her, but nothing would bring him back. She had beat her fists against his chest and tried to bury herself inside his embrace, think that if she pressed herself deep enough into him, surely she would feel that spark of warmth again.

The street that morning had been silent as Arista screamed and flailed, her tears big and innocent as only children’s tears can be. The other people who lived on that side of the square had watched. They understood. They knew the pain, but did not know what to do or say. Finally, the older woman who sold flowers in springtime came over and pulled the girl away from him.

Aristo was buried in an unmarked grave with other poor men that had died that day. There were no flowers sprinkled on his grave, no priest to speak a prayer to the gods, no proper dressing of the body. The girl was not allowed to see the burial or to even know the location of his final resting place. Some men had come to take him away like they were getting rid of trash. Arista had nothing left of him except some of the art pieces that he had made but not yet sold. In order to feed herself, Arista sold those art pieces, and quickly learned to make her own.

I guess I lied, she thought to herself as she looked down at the tiny bird she had created during her reminiscing. I have had plenty of lessons. The orange light from the setting sun cast ornamental shadows at her feet from all the sculptures that littered her open-air home. Tugging at her tunic, which was actually a sack with holes cut in it and a rope tied around the waist, she tried to cover up against the chilly evening winds. Where did Remus go? She glanced up the darkening street with the worry of a mother. He’s been gone for hours.

As if on cue, Remus’ voice spoke above her. “He owns an art school,” the boy leapt from his perch on top of the wall and barely avoided breaking a bowl with flames etched in its side. “He lives in a rich white house with columns and his name is Kaithos.” In both his hands were crusty rolls of bread and he held one out to Arista. “Did you miss me?”

Arista darkened her eyes to remove any hint of the worry she felt moments before. “Did you steal this bread?”

“You missed me,” he smirked and settled down on the mat beside her, his mouth half full of the doughy bread already.

“Where did you get this?” She brandished the bread in her fist as though she were going to hurl it at him.

“I bought it,” his mouth was full, crumbs tumbling out onto his lap.

“With what money?”

Remus smiled cheerfully, “Yours.”

“You rotten thief,” Arista took a bite of the bread to keep from smiling, “I told you not to take any.”

From out of his clothing he produced a few small coins and dropped them into the bowl full of gold, “And there’s your change.”

The two young people ate their bread in silence, watching the sun go down. Lights began to flicker in the windows they could see, and small fires began to burn all across the square as those with homes and those without all prepared to sleep. Arista’s own tiny fire danced wildly in the cold night wind, making her art seem like so many ghastly spectres. She was about to point this out to Remus when she felt his head knock softly on her shoulder as sleep finally overtook him. The motherly smile she had freely worn earlier returned and she put an arm around him. Closing her eyes and letting her own head bob down onto her chin, she fell asleep.