HETAERA: Daughter of the Gods

by Coffey, J. A.

  Sappho clapped her hands and a pair of young women ran to her sides. They giggled again as she held out her hands to each and kissed them lightly on the mouth. A third ambled into the room with a lyre and a dreamy expression.

  “They are lovely girls, all of them, Sappho,” Aesop said. He sucked noisily on the fig.

  “Erinna of Telos and Damophyla of Pamphylia. Of course, my own daughter, Kleis, you know.” She indicated the girl with the lyre at the last. “But Anaktoria has left us, and I feel her absence keenly.” Sappho’s eyes grew moist.

  “You feel all things keenly, poetess. Especially matters of love.”

  “And why should I not, when all that is noble in life is touched by the hand of the Cyprian?” Just like that, her tears evaporated, replaced by a beatific smile.

  “So you still sing to your goddess Aphrodite, then?” Aesop asked. “Well, you are a good servant of that one’s fickle attention.” Aesop reclined further in his chaise, his chin resting on his left elbow.

  “Bite your tongue, Fabulist, lest you bring shame to my household!” Sappho scolded, but her eyes twinkled. “I say it is what one loves, that does them credit in the eyes of the gods. Is it not so? Did not Helen leave behind her family, her fortune, even her own child for the sake of him she loved? Ah, one day I shall write of this and you will see I speak true.”

  I found myself infused with the excitement of this discourse, but Aesop waved away the servants who hovered over him with a measure of laconic skepticism.

  “She did and found herself cursed for it,” Aesop retorted. “You say love is mightier than the hand of man? This insipid love that poets and women croon and fawn over and call themselves wiser for the pain of it?” Aesop shook his head. “It is not so.”

  “Pah,” Sappho shooed away his disbelief with a slim hand. “You are a man, yourself, so how can you judge? Tell me, on what do you waste your love? An army of black horsemen? A fleet of fine ships? A jug of wine?”

  Oh, the sharp, silvered tongue of this poetess! Would that I was like her. I thought perhaps I was expected to stay silent, but as is ever my nature, I could not. I might look like a starved cur, but I could nip and bark as well as she.

  “Neither, lady,” I ventured. “It is knowledge, or the pursuit of it, that strikes fervor in his heart.”

  At this, both Aesop and Sappho paused.

  Then Aesop threw his head back and howled with laughter. I saw Sappho eye me with renewed interest, and I confess I burned a little under her gaze.

  “The girl speaks truly, Sappho.” Aesop wiped at his eyes. “She knows me well.”

  “If what she speaks is so, then I shall pray one day you may experience the true gifts of Aphrodite.” Sappho gave me a lingering, approving glance. “We’ve composed new epithalamia to be sung at the marriage of Tisias,” she said, changing the subject. “Would you care to hear it?”

  Aesop nodded his approval, and the girls sang as Kleis accompanied them on the lyre. I must say it was an astounding rendition, although I was but a slave and unused to hearing such niceties, save what bits I caught when Iadmon entertained. It reminded me a little of the hetaerae. I thought of that poor dead woman whose peplos I’d cherished and I shivered.

  When the music ended, Sappho stood before me. I had to clench the muscles in my legs and back not to shiver again.

  “You did not like the hymn?” she asked, with a pert frown.

  I risked a glance at Aesop who seemed overly interested in spitting the seeds of his fig onto a silver platter.

  “Who is to say I did not, great lady?” I replied and met her eyes. To my great surprise, her face lit up.

  “So,” said she. “A question for a question.”

  Her languid eyes flickered at Aesop and he preened for all the world like the prize cockerel we’d carted from Abdera. At that, Sappho laughed and clasped my hand between her soft, cool palms, and bade me sit by her feet.

  I did not know if I liked her approval or not, but it made the next hours pass easier. The girls sang and played for us again. I watched Sappho as she bantered and jested with Aesop. Her eyes were on me often enough, especially when I was asked to dance for them, and I daresay I should have guessed what was to come, but I did not.

  Sappho herself played the lyre, while I danced.

  The music was low and melodic, much like the voice of the Poetess. She played well, and I did my best to honor it with my body. I think, perhaps, Lukra would’ve approved.

  Afterwards, the girls, Erinna and Damophyla, grew bored with us and wandered away. I marveled at their freedom to do so. How long had it been since I had the freedom to wander where I wished? To come and go as I pleased without fear of retribution or displeasure?

  Sappho showed them no displeasure but released their supple wrists and hands as they slid from her grasp and meandered away. Their intertwined limbs reminded me of my near sister, Mara, and my heart clenched. I wondered how she’d fared after I’d left the temple.

  Aesop shielded his eyes with his palm and checked the sky. “The hour grows late, great Sappho. Moreover, you have graced us with your hospitality and your presence. We should go before the dinner hour.” He stood and brushed the crumbs from his beard, motioning for me to prepare to depart.

  Sappho rose gracefully from her chaise. “If you say, dear Aesop. But, I have no cause to retire just yet. I beg you to stay a moment.”

  Aesop’s brows drew together. I could sense this was most unplanned.

  “I find myself drawn to this girl,” Sappho said, moving to stand by me. “She is young and clever. I have a need for such a girl at present. Will you sell her to me?”

  I was dumbstruck. When sense returned to me, I turned to find Aesop considering Sappho with an expression not unlike my own. He shook his head.

  “I cannot, fair poetess. She is bound for Xanthes the Samian, by order of Iadmon himself.” He placed a hand in the small of my back and drew me nearer to the colonnade.

  “To what end? One sale is as good as another. There is somewhat about her expression--there, you see it?--in the eyes. I could learn to love such a face, I think. You will not deny me.” She smiled sweetly, very sweetly indeed.

  Aesop furrowed his brow further. “I cannot, dear lady. I gave my word.”

  “Then, take the words back again. For me.” This time Sappho’s smile did not quite reach her eyes.

  “No, Poetess, I cannot take back my promise.” Aesop gave a slight bow. “Not even for you. My words are all of what I am.”

  Sappho reached over and fingered a lock of my hair. I did not dare to draw back from her touch. Her eyes roamed my face, as if to memorize it.

  “And what say you? Will you be sent to warm some man’s bed, to bear him sons while Aphrodite’s songbird rejoices at the mere sight of you?” She sounded a touch scornful, and her brow arched like a sparrow’s wing.

  “You cannot ask me, for I am another man’s property.” The room grew unaccountably warm. I felt perspiration bead my upper lip as I followed Aesop to the gates.

  “What can I say to persuade you both?” asked Sappho, following after us with her hands on her hips. “Come, Aesop, you are a man of some reputed intelligence. Give me this girl, for my heart’s sake, if not your purse’s. Let me spare her from the childbirth grave and I shall love her with all the music in my soul.”

  Though a life of beauty and comfort tantalized me, I found I did not trust this woman. I did not like the way she dismissed Aesop’s excuses, as if they had no merit whatsoever. She meant to have her way with me, regardless of objections. How did that make her any different than The Swine, save that she had no phallus to spear me with? I suspected the weapon of her intellect would be sharp enough.

  “I will bear no son of Greece, Lady.” I could not halt the rush of words from my heedless tongue as we crossed the threshold out of her abode. I heard the crash of the ocean in my ears and the cry of sea birds overhead. It made me dizzy. “I have made my bargain with the gods. My womb shall close to all m
an’s seed until Love should open it. Can your fine words do any less for my heart?”

  Sappho blanched at my speech.

  “You dare…?” she whispered as she trailed us to the entrance of her lair. “You dare to speak to me of love? I am beloved by the Cyprian! I speak with her voice, her soul, her very heart. You are naught but a mote of dust buffeted in Aphrodite’s breath!”

  A flock of sparrows set up such a firestorm of chirping that anything else that might have been said by the poetess died away. Aesop bowed and mumbled a hasty goodbye. He pushed me out of the gate before him. We were halfway down the lane when Sappho’s words wafted to our ears on the perfumed breeze.

  “She is marked, Aesop. I have heard it,” she called loudly. “The gods of Greece declare doom for any man or woman who loves such a creature. Sell her to some unlucky wretch and be done with her.”

  I took three steps before I risked a glance at Aesop.

  He caught me looking.

  “We set sail for Samos in the morning,” was all he said.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You shouldn’t have spoken to her like that.” Aesop stared out over the water in a direction I can only presume was towards Samos.

  “What can she do to us now? We’ve sailed from Lesbos.” The waves lapped at the sides of our small ship. I glared at the water churned to froth by the oars.

  I’d lost the only likely chance of gaining some measure of freedom back, and all because I feared a lyricist’s touch. He was right, of course, but I was filled with dread as we sailed away towards a new slave stock. What did I care about Sappho when I would soon be sold, my life no longer my own? I shouldn’t have refused her. Perhaps then I might be free to slip from her grasp as did those other girls.

  “The Poetess holds much power in certain forums. It’s said they’ve even built a shrine to her on Syracuse. Who can say how far her influence spreads? She could make trouble for you.”

  “She briefly desired me and I was rude. It will pass.” I tossed a crust of hard bread at the birds circling overhead. “Besides, she thought no more of me than The Swine. Fie!”

  “Sappho has ever possessed a flair for the dramatic,” Aesop agreed. “Especially in regards to unrequited love.”

  “She knows nothing about love, Aesop. One cannot coerce such emotion. It must be freely given and I have no inclination to give my love to her. She would turn me out as soon as another nubile girl caught her eye.” I tried to make myself believe it. Sunlight glittered off the waves, its beauty like a sarisa’s tip in my eyes.

  Aesop frowned. “You do not want this woman as your enemy. Why are you so reluctant to heed me?”

  “This woman’s trouble will be the least of my worries once the Samian sells me to a new master. Kind or not, he will still own me, body and soul. What is a poetess’ wrath compared to that?”

  “She is not ‘a’ poetess, Doricha,” he chided. “But ‘the’ Poetess.”

  “Do not banter words with me, Aesop. I have not the heart for it, just now.”

  And I didn’t. I’d sold my chance at freedom for a sharp quip. Would I never learn to do as I must? I turned away and watched the coastline disappear into the distance.

  “Ah, Doricha. Do not be so discouraged. You are young still and alive. That is saying much. You will forget the pain of the past.”

  A breeze arose and the sailors scrambled to unfurl the sails and take a few moments of respite from rowing. The flap of the sails reminded me of the sound of bird’s wings.

  “Let me tell you a tale,” Aesop began.

  “No more of your stories!” I tried to wave him away, but he silenced me and began again.

  “A Crab, forsaking the seashore, chose a neighboring green meadow as its feeding ground. A Fox came across him and, being very hungry, gobbled him up. Just as he was on the point of being swallowed, the Crab said, ‘I well deserve my fate, for what business had I on the land, when by my nature and habits I am only adapted for the sea?’ Do you understand me, Doricha?”

  “I suppose,” I mumbled.

  “I have been a slave my whole existence until now. Contentment with our lot in life is an element of happiness in itself. If you cannot change your station, you must try to find some measure of satisfaction, Doricha.” He patted my hand awkwardly, but I pulled away.

  “It is an easier thing to do when one is free, Aesop. I only hope I do not need to give my life to find it, as did your Crab.”

  He crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Freedom does not always mean happiness. You would do well to remember that.”

  “It does to me,” I whispered.

  It had been over four years, now, since I’d been free and more since I’d been happy. I wiped the salt spray off my cheeks and turned my back on Aesop. What did he know?

  I resumed my watch of the coastline until the sailors shouted that the island of Samos drew nigh.

  *** ***

  Samos.

  What can I say about it, but that I dreaded its rocky shoreline? Samos, home of the woman who birthed the Swine who took me against my will. Another island, yes, and on it was a trade port, another marketplace, and another slave trader who would mark my name and price on a shard of pottery.

  Dark-skinned Xanthes the Samian was rough, as men who spend much time on the sea are wont to be. His robes were fine, if not elegantly pleated, but he needed to trim his grizzled beard. He appraised me with an eye of a horse trader.

  Aesop ordered the vessel on its way after paying our fare, for he planned to journey east by caravan to Lydia and then perhaps Egypt. I’d never heard of such places, and could only dream of what his life would be like. I suppose after a lifetime of slavery he was due to wander the world a little, but I could not help feeling forlorn as Xanthes, after a quiet discussion with Aesop, went about setting a price that made even the seasoned slave traders protest.

  “See here,” they shouted. One shook his fist at the burly Samian. “You’re ruining the market with her,” he said.

  But Xanthes fingered his stout club and paid them no heed.

  I hunched my shoulders miserably as he slung the thong over my neck and settled it between my breasts, flinching when his hands lingered too long around my neck. Aesop was deserting me. I would be vulnerable again. Panic turned my innards to ice, despite the sultry heat of the afternoon.

  “She is just a woman and a Thracian at that!” another said, eyeing me with distaste.

  Why should he not? I wasn’t his stock, and the price set upon me was exorbitant.

  It was Aesop who answered. “If this is all you see, then you do not see her.” The men eyed his burly physique, and ceased their grumbling.

  So, I stood there all morning.

  I watched while other men, women, and children became another man’s property. I stood there and endured the black stares, curses, and perverse interest of those looking to buy. I do not know which was worse--the first time I’d been sold, or now. Then, I’d still had the innocence to hope for mercy. Now, I knew better. I knew my life would never be my own again. I was a plucked flower, there for any man’s taking.

  I slouched in my place and tried to take as little notice of my surroundings as possible. By plastering a vacant expression on my face, I hoped to seem a poor purchase. Perhaps the high price would work to my advantage and repel any patrons.

  A desperate surge of hope flooded my heart as each would-be buyer passed me by. My plans were hastily laid. If Xanthes could not sell me, perhaps I could journey onward with Aesop. I had little hope he had enough coin to buy me, but surely Xanthes would be glad to be rid of me.

  I spent the rest of the morning crossing my eyes whenever the traders weren’t watching me. I wanted to clap my hands in relief, as midday passed and I was not yet sold. With relief, I was allowed to sit and take some bread and wine. A little luck, and Aesop could not desert me, not until I was resold.

  But luck had deserted me. If not for the hot temper of a man and the birds pecking at crumbs nearby, I
might have gone unnoticed and unbartered for that day.

  It was early afternoon, the hour when most forsake their work to spend a few moments of rest away from the hot sun. Most shops in the agora closed and would remain so until the early evening when the sea breeze cooled the city marketplace. At this hour, the market was a furnace of blazing sun reflected off the plaster buildings and gravel.

  An odor of rot gut infused the air. I wrinkled my nose, still unused to the stench of fishy brine in my nostrils. How I longed for clean mountain air!

  “Do you curl your lip at me, girl?” asked a testy patron of the slave pits. He had a surly expression and the fronts of his robes were spattered with food grease from some previous meal. I glanced around the agora. There was no one else about. Why should he not mistake my expression for one of displeasure towards him?

  He strode nearer to my platform. “Great Zeus! What madmen ask so much coin for an insolent girl?” He glared at Xanthes. Aesop put down his cup of wine and hitched up the pleats of his robe.

  “I have set the price. Pay it or be gone,” said Xanthes.

  “I have half a mind to pay it!” shouted the patron. “Do you not teach this girl better manners, I shall!”

  Sea birds scattered at the force of his words. They took to the air, screeching and flapping. The flock roused the attention of some nearby sailors loading goods onto a large trireme on the docks.

  My head began to ache from the heat.

  “The sun has addled your brain,” I said wearily, too overheated by the burning sun to hold my tongue. “I smelled a foul odor and that is all. It is a hot day. Perhaps you should rest.”

  My words brought a chuckle from the sailors. One suggested the patron soak his head in cask of wine to cool his temper.

  The patron’s cheeks mottled and he drew back his head and spat at me. It landed on my sandaled foot, the spittle soaking into the leather strap. Aesop strode over and I saw Xanthes loosen his club. This could mean trouble, both for me and the newly freed Aesop. Of a surety it would not bode well for poor Xanthes who was only following the directive of his friend. The sailors stopped their laughing chatter and drew nearer to the platform.