Summer 2026 · Torch: U.S. · PAMPHILUS AND EUPOMPUS
16
Raphael Arjad, Upper Dublin School, Pennsylvania
Pamphilus and Eupompus
Pamphilus arose from his bed, casting aside his thin, ragged blanket and tying worn sandals onto his feet. The paint was now dry on his latest work, and he stared nervously at it for a few seconds before he left to buy bread for his breakfast. Almost frantically his gaunt figure strode down the alley while his bright, sullen eyes flitted about as if following the contours of some invisible scene. He returned with a piece of black bread, which he was already eating as he crossed the narrow threshold of his house. He wrapped his painting in a linen sheet and, setting it under his arm, left for Sicyon. There he would show his work to the master painter Eupompus, and seek his counsel.
The dusty road pounded at his feet, and the summer sun beat down on his sweating back. The air was so sticky that he feared the wax paint of his picture had begun to melt, and he paused to unwrap it. For an unnerving moment, the linen seemed to cling to the panel. Breathlessly he lifted it. The cloth rose cleanly. From behind it the dark eyes of Artemis stared back at him. The deep, watery greens of the picture for a moment relieved him of the deafening heat. As he folded the sheet over his painting again, he cast his gaze, eyes swimming, upon the blistering horizon. He could not see Sicyon.
When he finally arrived at the city, the sky glowed a febrile vermilion and his shadow stretched thrice his length across the ochre earth. He trudged down the noisy alleys, hoping he hadn’t misheard the directions that impatient merchant had given him. As the walls darkened around him, his exhaustion mingled with frantic worries. Would he find the house of Eupompus, or wander until he fell prey to bandits lurking in the night? If he did find the house, would anyone answer? Would the master, awoken from his sleep, storm down and open the door irate—yell at this presumptuous young buck for calling upon him at such an hour, expecting an audience with the great Eupompus?
As these morose musings filled his brain and the last miserable slice of sun retreated below the horizon, he realized he had come to a junction in the road. A fountain, spewing water from a stone Medusa’s gruesome mouth, bubbled at him from the facing wall. A stone Medusa—he recalled the merchant’s rasping voice. “...Turn left, then walk until you are twenty paces away from the fountain with a stone Medusa. To your right will be the house of Eupompus.” Remembering this, the excited Pamphilus turned and ran back down the quiet street, clutching at the white linen covering his precious panel. He could not count his paces, for he flung himself down the road in frantic strides, but he needn’t’ve: he kept his eyes facing left, and halted at the only nameplate he had seen on the entire street. It read, of course, ΕΥΠΟΜΠΟΣ.
“What is your name, young man?”
So said the dignified, ruddy-faced master who answered the door in a large white tunic.
“I am Pamphilus. Am I correct to assume you are the great and esteemed Eupompus?”
“Eupompus I indeed am, although perhaps not esteemed and certainly not great. What brings you to my door?”
“I am a poor young painter who wishes your advice upon his work. Though I apologize for coming at so late an hour—if you could kindly spare a few minutes to view the—”
“Nonsense, young man. It is dark, and I do not wish to view your work by lamplight. How could I make any sense of the colours, even of the fainter forms?”
“Sir, I’m very sorry. I left Amphipolis in the morning; but it took me all day to walk to Sicyon, and the sun was already setting as I began to search for your house.”
“Worry not, young man. Stay for a night, and I will examine your work in the morning.”
“Excuse me, sir?”