Sappho (28 page)

“Let me bring you comfort in your grief, O Sappho. Together we could touch Sun.”

Sappho shook her head. “I do not look for another love, Gorgo.”

The girl's eyes darted the fire of an anger she did not speak.

That night Sappho pressed into wooden tablets the question

Why does that daughter of Pandim,

the heavenly swallow

weary me?

For it was certain that she was weary of Gorgo's constant importuning. What did she think? That Sappho replaced one toy with another? But it was herself she was most weary of. Oneself one cannot so easily dismiss.

*   *   *

She was aware finally that little Timas crouched on the floor by her bed and cried softly.

From her lethargy Sappho reached out a hand to her. “Dear little Timas, you alone come to me.”

Timas cried harder. “I do not wish to be here. I wish it, but not to say what I must.”

Sappho sat straight up. “Cry woe! Cry woe! There is more—tell it, though it tie up my bowels and stop my heart. What misfortune? Sweet little Timas, I would rather hear it from you than any I know.”

“Gorgo! She is also gone.”

The strength of anger flooded Sappho's voice. “Gorgo? Do you know where she is?”

“It is known. Dika only left because of Gorgo's advice. And it was Gorgo who helped her. She thinks someone told you what she did, so she has gone to hide herself with Andromeda.”

“Andromeda? Who is Andromeda?”

“No one, really. Just some country woman, who, hearing of the success you have made, has set up a school on the same model … or so she claims.”

Sappho was astounded. “There is some person who is imitating what I have done here, and no one told me of this insolence?” Anger brought color back to her face and fueled her body. She jumped to her feet. “I want to know about my ‘rival.'” She used the word with sarcasm, for who could rival Sappho? “Is she a poet?”

Timas laughed. “I do not think she understands either meter or song. She is without accomplishment … except…”

“Go on.”

“I have heard she is versed in witchcraft, that she sells potions for love and nostrums for sickness.”

“It is the same thing,” Sappho said tartly. “What else have you heard?”

Timas hesitated. “I do not know if it is true. But I have heard her women patronize the maker of leather.”

Sappho laughed scornfully. “You have completed the picture. Gorgo shall have no punishment from me; she has arranged it for herself.”

And because Timas was the only one she could speak freely to, she went on. “How the gods must laugh at our folly. There are women, Timas, who consider themselves inadequate men. They imitate men in all ways, even to the buying of the leather phallus which they strap to their thighs and use on their sisters. But this is a Sybarite evil. You see before you Sappho, a woman, who makes songs. And I tell you this, I love being female. I am not an inadequate male. I am inadequate at nothing. I am not jealous of the build of a man, nor his dangling accoutrements for love. No, in my person I am complete. And my way of loving is complete.

“My own sex stirs me deeply, for we are delicate of limb, fond of laughter, of music, and gentle with one another. We do not wish to be heroes, going into battle to make ourselves great by taking the lives of brothers. We abhor violence and live graciously, surrounding ourselves with flowers, with friends, with sweet play, and our kisses grow from affection to the madness the gods and goddesses procured for humankind. And which they envy, for do they not take our shapes to lie with mortals and taste the sweetness of our love? Then comes some monstrosity like this, this … what did you say her name is?”

“Andromeda.”

“This Andromeda, who takes it into her head to behave as a man. Oh, this is a great sin against our sex, for violence is against our nature. I have only pity for Gorgo, even though she took my Dika. At least Dika had the sense to go to her parents. Still, I mourn her, and the manner of her leaving—by stealth, Timas, as though I would have detained her.”

“Dika did not trust herself, Sappho. That is why she left.”

“She was afraid to love me?”

“Gorgo told her she would be cast off.”

Sappho frowned. “None is cast off, not ever. Any girl I have lain with, I love always.”

“But lie with others.”

Sappho bit her lip. Timas was allowed impertinences she accepted from no one else. She considered the complaint, then said, “There are many ways to love, little one. When one candle is burned out, another is lit, so there is always the blessed light which all love. Every one of my hetaerae, my dear companions, live in the light of this calmer love.”

She fell silent, but her curiosity was not satisfied regarding Andromeda. She guessed the woman would accept any for a fee. To test this she sent a serving maid, who, asking admittance to the society, learned all she could and reported back to Sappho.

“Describe this Andromeda,” Sappho ordered.

“A countrified woman who gives herself airs and does not even know how to drape her peplos.”

Sappho was unbelieving. “How can Gorgo, of royal family, bear it there?”

“She is taught many odious things—how to overcome a rival, and…”

“And how is that done?”

“One way is with footprints. You put your right foot into your rival's left print and your left foot into her right print and say: ‘I am trampling you. I am above you. I shall triumph over you.'”

Sappho laughed incredulously. “Can they really be so childish?”

“This is serious business for Andromeda, Lady. For this spell she receives a loaf of bread, salt, a drachma, and seven obols.”

“She is paid all this for such nonsense as footprints?”

“And there are other spells. For a faithless loved one, a bowl of watered wine is brought and an item of her clothing to bewitch her back. With sulphur and salt the old hag then starts a burning in the water and summons her by terrible oaths.”

“More nonsense.”

“I learned that the most expensive incantations are done with molds of Thessalian birds and wheels. Wax is melted, to melt the heart of the one who will not love.”

“And the wheel?”

“To grind her into the Earth if she does not come back.”

Sappho nodded, her picture of the woman borne out.

“And it is true,” the slave continued, “that she uses self-satisfiers on herself and her girls. They are made in Miletus by master cobblers and can be wielded by two girls together, who sometimes make an entertainment of it and ride upon each other naked as though they rode a sow. Also, they are not fastidious, but dip the monstrosity in a bowl of hiero, which oils it well, then use it again.”

“Enough! I have heard enough. I do not wish this woman or Gorgo or their vile practices mentioned in my house again.”

That night little Timas crept into Sappho's bed to kiss the palms of her hands and dampen her hair with sweet-smelling oil of crocus. Her innards, still burning for Dika, were soothed by the curling and uncurling of the rosy body burrowing into her flesh, kissing where she dared and then kissing where she dared not. Dear Timas, sweet and tender, could not put out the fire.

Sensing this, the girl tied her favorite purple-dyed kerchief on the sculptured curls of Sappho's finest statue, a Syracusan Aphrodite that watched over their bed. On discovering it in the morning, Sappho exclaimed, “A gift from a precious giver!” And later pressed her thanks into her stele, making the transfer, as always, in secret and at night.

And the purple

handkerchief,

arranged over both

thy cheeks, which

Timas sent for thee

from Phokaea, a

gift from a

devoted giver

But even the devotion of Timas could not help her find joy. Though she slept by the warm body of the little one, she was not warmed.

“Let us be happy,” Timas begged. “Let us have a feast or a contest.”

Sappho reminded her that contests had been popular since ancient times, when Hera, Pallas Athene, and Aphrodite disputed which was most beautiful. “And you know how that ended—with the unfortunate judging by Paris and the Trojan Wars.”

“Ours will be a little contest among ourselves, and we will be the judges, for the goddesses will grant us divine vision.”

“Perhaps later,” Sappho said, for she still brooded. Not only had Dika fled from her, Erinna had guessed the reason. Without giving voice to her grief she simply withdrew. Even her daughter stood to one side regarding her quizzically, and found no time for a private word. Sappho could not endure silent disapproval from those she loved.

Enough! Enough! She told herself Timas was right to demand a diversion and in the morning went out to her hetaerae. It was as though she returned from some far place. The girls rejoiced and played, chasing one another and throwing chains of flowers. Even Kleis smiled at her, though somewhat distantly.

For the noon repast Sappho ordered wine and cakes, and a large platter of pistachio nuts, which Timas adored. It was so easy to make the child happy. Why could she not succeed better with her own daughter?

But watching Timas's enjoyment lightened her mood, and she whispered to her that she could announce the contest. The hetaerae were delighted at the novelty and went to the baths to wash and make themselves ready. Afterward they gathered at the fountain, at first throwing baubles onto the water, then dashing wine on those they wanted to sink, for the owner must pay a forfeit. Much laughter and mock groans accompanied their misses.

As a prelude to the judging, Sappho had slaves carry in a naked Aphrodite and lay the statue beneath the water. She was their new target. They threw jewels at her breasts, her thighs, the perfect mound, so that their own parts would be enhanced by the goddess and made more beautiful. Then Sappho indicated they were to withdraw to the courtyard. There before the statue of Hera their embroidered robes fell, wafting down one upon the other in flaming red, pear pink, saffron, purple from Tyre. Sappho picked up her lyre and strummed an Aeolian rhythm as the harmonies of the maidens were revealed.

First to stand before them was Diomede of Lesbos, whose skin was pure alabaster. The girls formed a ring around her and the aulos piped shrilly as they gave her marks for the tilt of her breasts, the slenderness of her ankles, the high aristocratic instep, the delicate shell closeness of her ears, the heavy loop of hair, the wide setting of her eyes, straightness of nose, fullness of lips and buttocks, flatness of belly and length of leg, for the taller were most admired. Then Euneika, the bubbling, merry girl, even now laughing and making silly poses in imitation of a fawn or a statue. Her complexion was of coan transparency and her charm was in her movements, her lively eyes and quick-wittedness.

Hero was shoved forward to the center of the ring. She was a runner from Gyara, muscular but beautifully formed. All her features were pleasing, and she herself pleased.

Telesippa from Lesbos, stately, with gray eyes like Pallas Athene, born from the head of Zeus. Also from Lesbos was Megara, with luscious mouth of berry red, and glorious hair that caught the lights of Sun. She was a languorous girl, made for love, with heavy-lidded, sleepy eyes.

Atthis was pushed out next by her friend Anaktoria. Her hair fell in a thick plait over her shoulder, reflecting many shades from copper-gold to the yellow of a jonquil. Her body was slender of waist, wrist, and ankle, but womanly and full. Her eyes mirrored the sea, a tempestuous, changeable blue-green. And her legs were shapely, with rounded calf and thigh. She was given many marks for her beauty. And Sappho thought her beautiful, but with the kind of beauty that disturbs, for it was not harmonious or ideal. Somehow her features were at odds with one another.

They were now judging Anaktoria, who was as dark as Atthis was fair. Her eyes were blackly lashed, her hair thick and curly, and her navel a deep, inverted goblet in which Atthis playfully placed a purple bud that she might win the contest. This made the girls laugh and give her a high score.

The judging continued. There was the young and sturdy Damophyla, whom she and Erinna had once found pleasure in, but who paired now with Kydro. It was Erinna's turn. She was made to stand reluctantly at the center, so delicate, so graceful, and with the most sensual of bosoms, two doves with deep aureate blooms that hardened under the gaze of the girls and under Sappho's. Her light eyes were lowered, but how willowlike she was on her long, slender legs. And her fingers were most fragile.

She and Erinna disporting together without restraint while Cotytto, goddess of sensuality, looked on—Sappho remembered it all: how they played in the stream, caught each other's ankles until they lay, their bodies happy islands against which the current rushed: through their fingers, between their toes, across their legs, making a dash at their high breasts. Erinna was singing poems then, and Sappho knew that of all the young women that had joined her coterie, Erinna alone was visited by the Muses. But days give rise to new suns. Erinna no longer sang and was very distant with Sappho.

Sappho, to hide her hurt, found only formal words for her friend. She was conscious of loneliness even here among her maidens. She had turned thirty-four, and her companions seemed young indeed. Recently she searched her mirror for signs of the years. They had not yet appeared—still a cold fear flowed along the pathways that carry blood in the body and are its many rivers.

She made an effort to focus on the contest as Kleis, being too young herself, led Gongyla to the judging. Sappho looked casually at Kleis's special friend. The Dumpling was no more. Three years had formed the adolescent plumpness into shapely breasts and an enticing rump. Her thighs, still heavy, were well shaped.