Spartans at the Gates

by Noble Smith

  Nikias thought for a while. He didn’t have anything better to do until he found the doctor. And this Helena might be able to direct him to Chusor’s old lover—the hetaera named Sophia. Maybe he would be able to find someplace to sleep at the symposium—on a cushioned couch. And he had to admit that the woman he’d seen at the theatre was gorgeous. The thing about her that had intrigued him most, however, was the cheerful sound of her laughter.

  Nikias stood up and pulled on Konon’s tunic, forcing him to rise to his feet. “Come on, then.”

  “I—I can’t go with you!” spluttered Konon. “I won’t know what to say! It’s a symposium! There will be philosophers and playwrights and Zeus knows what other students from the brain-factories!”

  “Stuff that!” said Nikias. “I’m not going without you. And you don’t have to say anything. Eat and drink and if you have to fart, well, just find yourself a lonely corner and stuff a pillow over your arse.”

  Nikias followed the slave girl, who was already walking fast up the Street of Thieves with a determined stride.

  THIRTEEN

  The hetaera lived in a new two-story house in a neighborhood at the northeast base of the Akropolis. The house was lit up on the outside with hundreds of oil lamps, and Nikias heard odd, frenetic music playing from within.

  Two well-built men who stood guard at the front door to the courtyard stepped aside as the slave girl approached. She led Nikias and Konon inside and told them to sit on a stone bench that encircled a splashing fountain. She called for slaves to attend to their feet.

  “She has her own fountain,” whispered Konon with awe as one of the slaves took off his sandals and washed his feet in a bucket.

  Nikias said, “Let’s hope she has good food, because I’m still hungry.”

  “Me too,” said Konon. “One silver owl doesn’t go very far in the Street of Thieves.”

  “Hey!” said Nikias, appalled. “What are you putting on my feet?” The young foot-cleaner was dousing his toes with scent from a phallus-shaped bottle.

  “Everyone in the city does this, master,” replied the slave with barely contained contempt.

  “Smells good,” said Konon, lifting one of his feet to smell it.

  Nikias gently slapped the slave’s hand away before he could spray the scent into his hair. “Not in my hair,” he said. “I like the way it smells just fine.” The slave curled his upper lip slightly, but did as he was told. Konon was grinning as his attendant sprayed copious amounts of perfume into his hair.

  After the attendants were done with their work they bowed and departed. Konon leaned over and sniffed Nikias’s head. “You do smell of horse,” he said with a newfound superiority.

  “I like the way horses smell,” said Nikias. “If they’d sprayed me with horse sweat I would have been perfectly happy.”

  “I think the perfume is brilliant!” said Konon, rubbing his hair and sniffing his palm.

  The slave girl returned and handed each an empty wine cup, then asked them to follow her. Nikias looked into the bottom of his cup and saw an erotic painting of a young woman pulling back her dress to mount an aroused young man.

  “Did your mistress pick this one out herself?” Nikias quipped.

  “Yes,” said the slave girl, very serious. “Specifically for you.”

  That put Nikias back on his heels a little.

  Konon frowned as he peered at the painting on the bottom of his cup. “Mine’s got a dirty old satyr raping a goat’s arse,” he said, disappointed.

  The girl led them across the courtyard and down a long corridor. The walls were hung with erotic scenes—images more graphic than anything either Nikias or Konon had ever seen.

  “Gods,” whispered Konon reverently, pausing to gawk at an orgy scene set in a glade. “I didn’t even know centaurs could do that.”

  “And in a pond, no less,” said Nikias.

  The girl stopped them at the threshold to the drinking room and asked them their full titles and told them she would announce them once the music had ended. An older slave woman emerged from an alcove and put a garland of flowers around their necks.

  Nikias peered into the small room. It had couches along all four walls and a raised dais in the center upon which sat the musician. The kithara player was strumming rapidly on his harp in a mysterious style that Nikias had never heard before. About a dozen men were lounging on the couches, holding wine cups and nibbling on food.

  “Where is your mistress?” he asked the slave girl, looking everywhere in the room for the hetaera but not seeing her.

  “She is still dressing,” she replied. “She will come down soon.”

  The musician ended with a flourish—scraping the catgut so forcefully with his plectrum that Nikias thought he would snap the strings right off the tortoiseshell body. When he was done the men in the room cheered loudly. Several put down their drinking cups and clapped to show their appreciation. The musician smiled and bowed his head.

  “That was awful,” Konon whispered to Nikias.

  “Waste of a good cat,” said Nikias, slapping his hands together unenthusiastically.

  When the noise had quieted down, the slave girl took a step into the room and announced their names in a high, clear voice.

  Nikias and Konon walked hesitantly into the silent room. Nikias scanned the faces and saw mostly bearded men and only one or two beardless boys, all wearing garlands. Some of the guests stared back with bemused expressions, others with curiosity, a few with out-and-out hostility.

  “Somebody usher them in,” called out a stout man who was past military age. He carried an elaborate ceremonial staff showing that he was the symposiarch—the appointed master of the symposium. “You! Aristophanes. You’re the youngest.”

  Nikias recognized the smiling face coming toward him. It was the young man with the hawkish features he’d spoken to outside of the theatre in the agora.

  “Remember me?” he asked, giving Nikias an ironic smile. “My name is Aristophanes.”

  Nikias smiled and bowed his head politely. “Of course. You told me what a tragicomedy was all about.”

  “And you demonstrated one for us soon thereafter,” said Aristophanes. “When you beat young Apollo with one punch.” He glanced at Konon and acknowledged his presence with a curt bob of his head.

  “Aristophanes is famous for playing women upon the stage,” said the aged symposiarch.

  Aristophanes smiled and bowed slightly. “And Aeskylos, here,” he said, gesturing at the symposiarch, “is simply famous.” He put a hand on Nikias’s shoulder. “Come, both of you, I’ll show you to the wine.”

  He led Nikias and Konon to a gigantic clay vessel—big enough for Nikias to crawl into—sitting on a marble table at the back of the room. It looked several hundred years old and was decorated with little black painted figures. A slave boy stood inside it up to his waist in wine and dipped a ladle into the liquid, filling their cups to the top.

  Nikias and Konon sipped their wine and smiled.

  “Quality stuff,” whispered Konon.

  A voice broke the silence, asking, “What’s the news from the Oxlands?”

  “Yes,” demanded another partygoer. “Tell us about the battle with Thebes.”

  Aeskylos put his hands on his hips. “What is this?” he asked peevishly. “News corner at the agora? We are in a symposium, the subject of which was chosen by our hostess, the hetaera Helena. I will not insult her wishes by allowing the talk in this room to degenerate into gossip.”

  “What is the subject of this symposium?” asked Nikias politely.

  Aeskylos grinned at Nikias, showing a mouth missing several teeth. “Dear lad,” he said, “the subject of this gathering is ‘The Delights of Lovemaking.’”

  “Gods,” said Konon, choking on his wine. “I guess I’ll be keeping my mouth shut tonight.”

  A dashing fifty-year-old with brooding eyes and a thick black beard said, “What does some sheep-stuffer from the Oxlands know about lovemaking?” The
man was sprawling on a cushioned chair, glaring at Nikias.

  Several of the men in the room laughed at this insult. But Nikias raised his cup in a mock salute, then asked the man, “What do you call an Oxlander with a sheep under each arm?” After a suitable pause he delivered the punch line: “A pimp.”

  The room exploded with guffaws.

  “What do you call his best customer?” asked Nikias. “A Theban!”

  The laughter was much louder this time and the drinkers raised their cups, praising his wit. But the dashing man was not amused. He gave Nikias a slight smile and returned to his wine.

  Nikias was pleased with himself. Now all he had to do was get through the night without putting his foot in his mouth. He hoped the hetaera would come soon. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “Gods, look at her!”

  A chorus of exclamations—Nikias turned to look at the doorway. The figure standing there took his breath away. At first he thought it was a human-sized version of the giant golden statue of Athena in the temple on the Akropolis. But when the statue’s eyes turned to him, he realized it was Helena—naked to the waist. She was painted gold and dressed like the statue. She even wore a Korinthian helm perched on the back of her head, though it appeared to be made of papyrus. And with her platform shoes she stood as tall as Nikias.

  She smiled at everyone in the room, until her eyes finally locked onto Nikias. He bowed low. Helena nodded and walked over to her chair—a gilded, high-backed seat like a tyrant’s throne—followed by four scantily clad young slave women whose job it was to hold the train of her skirt. She sat down and rested her hands on her lap, staring about the room with a regal expression.

  “This is what it’s like in the home of the gods,” said Konon in a voice of reverence.

  A swarm of attendants bearing platters hustled into the room and handed out plates of steaming food to all of the men. Nikias took his plate and breathed in the aroma, smiling happily.

  “Bless Helena,” he said and started gorging himself on the sheep’s stomach packed with innards. He finished off his meal in no time and called for another. When he was done eating three more he licked his fingers, leaned back on a couch, and sighed contentedly.

  He glanced over at Helena and saw the black-bearded man who’d insulted him earlier was kneeling by her and speaking in a hushed yet vehement tone. She was listening to him with an expressionless face. She flicked her gaze over to Nikias and they held each other’s stares.

  She stood abruptly and said, “I have been in this room now some time and yet I have not heard any talk about lovemaking.” She wore an expression of mock outrage. “All I have seen is a lot of hungry men gorging themselves on my food and wine. I am rather put out.” She sat down again and cast an imperious look about the room—a look that made the men smile and laugh. She whispered something to Black Beard and he skulked back to his seat.

  Aeskylos got to his feet and shuffled to the center of the room. “My gracious host,” he said and bowed to Helena. “We are honored to be in your home and partake of your wine—the blessing of Dionysus. Nearly every man in this room is either an actor or a playwright, and as you know how difficult it is to make a living in this business, you have taken pity on us once again. Now that our physical appetites have been satiated, we are ready to nourish our minds and, hopefully, entertain you in the process. I propose to begin with a debate between two members of our present company on the subject of this symposium. I defer to you now to pick the men who will expand on the subject of the delights of lovemaking.” He went back to his cushioned seat and took a drinking cup proffered by a slave.

  “Thank you, dear Aeskylos,” said Helena. “I would be pleased to listen to the debate you have proposed. Since Euripides here”—she waved a hand at Black Beard—“seems so anxious to express his views on the subject to me in private, I would ask him now to express them in public for all to hear.”

  Euripides scowled, but he stood and bowed to Helena.

  “I’ve heard,” Konon said to Nikias, his voice already slurred from too much wine, “that this Euripides spends much of his time in a cave on the island of Salamis writing his plays. Isn’t that strange? I wonder who she’ll choose to take him on?”

  Nikias said under his breath, “I think I can guess.”

  Helena smiled. “Now for your opponent I pick someone whom I think can stand up to your threatening manner. I saw him defeat a pankrator today before the first punch was thrown, using only his words.” She turned her face to Nikias and made a sweeping gesture. “Nikias of Plataea.”

  The crowd voiced their approval for this choice and Nikias stood up and faced Euripides. The two threw their wine lees at a spot on the floor to see who’d go first and Euripides won the honor, for his lees stuck together in the bigger clump.

  The playwright bowed his head for some time before raising his dark eyes to look at Helena. “When love first struck me,” he said bitterly, “I tried to figure out how best to bear it. At first I thought silence was the thing, because my tongue is a fool. It criticizes others for the same faults that it possesses, yet brings down a heap of troubles upon my own head. You see, I believed I could defeat love, subdue it with caution and good judgment. And when that also let me down I resolved to die. Aphrodite, in her anger, has cast me into a vast sea of love! And my pathetic swimming will not bring me to shore.”

  Helena shook her head slowly, digesting his words, a bemused smile on her gold-painted lips.

  “But my dear Euripides,” said Helena in a goading voice, “you were supposed to elucidate on the delights of lovemaking. What you have described would be better suited to a symposium concerning the torments of unrequited love.”

  “How peculiar,” said Euripides, “that doctors have found remedies for snake venom, but against a bad woman—far deadlier than snakes and crueler than fire—no one has concocted a cure.”

  “Perhaps you should not step on them,” shot back Helena. “Perhaps then they will not bite you.”

  “I take no delight in any of this,” replied Euripides with a growl. “Let the Oxlander excite you with his rustic notions of pleasure.” And with that he stormed out of the room.

  The room was uncomfortably silent. Helena sat back down in her chair, trembling with fury. She looked as though she, too, might get up and leave the chamber. Nikias knew that Euripides had insulted her in some deep and painful way that went beyond his scathing words. Obviously there was a history between the two.

  “Euripides was right,” said Nikias. Helena shot him a wounded look, but he winked at her and continued. “He was right earlier when he said that farmers from the Oxlands like me have scant knowledge of the arts of lovemaking. I know men who believe that plowing a field should be considered a kind of foreplay.” Cordial laughter followed this little joke and Nikias took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “Our women, on the other hand,” he continued, “do know something about the delights of lovemaking. And it’s their task to tame us men and break us like wild horses—”

  “And then ride you across the plains of the Oxlands!” called out Aristophanes jovially, imitating a woman’s voice.

  Nikias smiled and nodded. “I tell you this: a man who is unwilling to bow before the altar of Aphrodite is nothing more than a stubborn and stupid beast. Euripides spoke of drowning in a sea of love. Well, I say, ‘Swim in that sea!’ You, Aristophanes, may wear gowns and pretend to be a woman when you’re on the stage, but until you’ve lived in the same house with three strong women like I have, you will never be able to understand their desires. They love and hate and dream just like us men.” He glanced at Helena out of the corner of his eye and saw she was smiling slightly. “Euripides talked about the cruelty and counterfeit nature of womankind. In my experience it is men who exhibit this kind of behavior, not women. And everything that I have learned about love has come from women, not men.”

  The guests clapped politely and Aeskylos called out, “Excellently said! Most excellent!”

&n
bsp; Helena stood up slowly and walked over to Nikias, stopping a few feet from him, regarding him with an inquisitive glint in her eye. “Would you agree, young bull,” she asked flirtatiously, “that lovemaking is like the pankration?”

  “Like the pankration?” asked Nikias with surprise.

  “Yes,” said Helena. “The lovers are the two fighters—”

  “The bed—the arena,” added Nikias playfully.

  Helena gave him a mischievous look and said, “The opponents face one another. Flexing their muscles. Eyeing each other haughtily. And then the fight begins with the first blow.”

  She stepped forward and kissed him briefly but sensually on the lips.

  “I wish this sort of fight were an Olympic event,” commented Aristophanes drily.

  “It’s an event that I would gladly enter,” said Nikias, “if my opponents were as beautiful as Helena.”

  “Hear him!” shouted Aeskylos merrily, and the other men in the room started talking all at once, calling for more wine and making jokes.

  Nikias’s eyes locked with Helena’s and her smile slowly faded. A queer look darkened her features and she turned away. She went back to her seat and sat staring into space, sipping her wine, brooding in silence.

  Nikias picked up a tortoiseshell harp that lay nearby and started plucking out a tune. His song was nothing like the frantic music that had been playing when he and Konon had entered Helena’s home. This was a melancholy ode, full of yearning, full of anguish. It was an ancient song that Nikias’s father had played. Nikias had spent many hours alone in his room, practicing upon his late father’s harp, as though to conjure the dead man back to this world. And he had written the words to accompany the music.

  “Hush!” said Aeskylos to the room. “It appears the Oxlander is going to play for us.”

  The crowd quieted down and Nikias started singing in his deep and mellow voice:

  “A shimmering star that hangs in the sky

  An apple on a limb too high

  A fragrant wind that rushes by