Sappho (5 page)

There was a thought in her mind she had not expressed to the others. Her position was unique, she recognized this. Was she, the only woman, included because she was Khar's sister, Alkaios's good friend, because it was her aunt's home—or because she was Sappho? Until she could be more sure, she kept the question to herself.

Atreus struck the table with his fist. “Then we are agreed. The Tyrant Melanchros and his bribe-devouring council must go. And tonight one is coming who will help us accomplish this.”

Who should walk through the door at that moment but Pittakos? Sappho could not believe what her eyes beheld. Trembling, she got to her feet. “You are here without invitation, sir.”

“Sappho!” Kharaxos remonstrated, for the laws of hospitality were strong.

Her small face was white as a death mask. “I speak as I am minded.”

“He is our guest,” her brother said, “here by my invitation. I remind you, Sister, that all guests are from Zeus.”

And when this formula failed to soften her, Atreus spoke: “Pittakos is our chance to rid ourselves of Melanchros.”

Sappho did not relent. “Look at him. I have insulted him and he stands there to hear more.”

Pittakos was a man turned to stone. He did not know how to battle in words. He did not know how to battle a woman, especially one who spat so fiercely. Atreus leapt to his defense. “Sappho, I, not Khar, asked Pittakos to come tonight. I tell you, the army is with him, and through him the Tyrant can be overthrown.”

Sappho turned on him. “You are children! Would you trade the Tyrant Melanchros for the Tyrant Pittakos?”

Pittakos took a step toward her, he had found his tongue. “Sappho, songstress of Lesbos, your words are both true and untrue. It is true that I am a rude fellow unused to the company of such as you and your noble friends and brother. It is untrue that I would raise myself in rank, thereby placing in jeopardy all I have gained. As for becoming Tyrant … you could not have said it but in jest.”

Sappho sank back in her place, her ever-ready words gone from her. She had never been so close to him. She watched as he took command of the little group. He was, after all, a commander of men. She felt the power in him, not only in his person but in the thoughts he set before them.

Pittakos spoke of democratic goals, a council in which all voices were heard.

“Even women's?” Sappho asked, bringing out the thought she had so long suppressed.

“Sappho.” Khar was embarrassed. “What god puts such mad notions into your head?”

“Who do you think ran the city of Mitylene for ten long years?”

But it was Pittakos who, weighing his words, said, “It is good that a woman's voice be heard. For did not far-darting Athene spring from the head of great Father Zeus?”

The topic turned to various problems the city faced and how best to address them. Sappho did not follow this. She was thinking that Pittakos had spoken well, better than Khar, and the others had made no comment at all. A new young Tyrant with the juice of manhood in him might indeed be more generous toward women. She excused herself and went upstairs.

She sat statue-still in her room, waiting for the meeting below to break up. Then she reached for a cloak and slipped along the interstices of the house, using both interior and exterior staircases. Knowing the habits of the family and servants, she was able to avoid being seen.

She gained the courtyard unobserved, moving stealthily along its walls, lifted the latch, and, once in the street, ran. This she had done since she was a child, when she wanted to escape herself.

She felt her heavy hair fall rhythmically against her shoulders as she sped the night-darkened world. But tonight she could not outrun the many impressions that jumbled in her. Had she been mistaken? Had Pittakos magnanimously forgiven her public humiliation of him? How well he had spoken regarding far-darting Athene, to whose counsel great Zeus gives ear. Was it true he did not think of becoming Tyrant? Perhaps he should.

So absorbed was Sappho in introspection that she did not see the man until he stepped in front of her.

Where had he come from? He stood blocking her way in a narrow alley. She was not afraid, merely annoyed that he did not move aside. She was about to raise her voice to request this, for he was a common soldier, his single garment coarsely woven—when two rough arms took her and she was brought against a body like a boulder. One of the kolossos's arms was all that was needed to hold her; with it, he backed her against a building, bringing his face against hers. A rank man-smell combining sweat and wine and something more intangible made her frantic. But she was too shrewd to struggle.

“Well, well, what have we here?” The misbegotten creature smiled down at her, showing a space in his mouth through which wine dribbled. Protuberant lips fastened against hers and a callused hand felt its way inside her chiton. A thumb dug painfully into her buttocks, and she was tipped toward the blunt weapon of flesh rising under his tunic. It was a searching thing with a life of its own, groping for the center of the three folds which must not be violated.

“I am virgin.” She hissed the words between their two mouths. “My family is powerful. You will die for this. Consider, is it worth it to have your parts hacked off, and your head afterward?”

Her body twisted to keep from being penetrated by that blind, thrusting organ. “My father is the prince Skamandronymos,” she cried.

The soldier laughed. “He's dead.”

“And Pittakos, that leader of men, was earlier at my house.”

“And you would call on him? On Pittakos?” The man's laugh rumbled through his body. “He's the one who tells his friends to be on the lookout for a pretty morsel like you. Any girl who wanders alone at night is looking for trouble.”

Sappho sank deadweight in his arms. He bent over her to hoist her up so he could finish his business. But she had positioned herself under him so she could knee him in the vulnerables, as vicious a blow as he'd ever been struck. He doubled over.

Sappho gave a shove and was under his arm, racing away. She didn't know which turnings she took. She ran wildly, her breath coming jerkily. A great rasping filled her lungs and the cavities of her head, and she thought she would strangle. She was not crying, but tears hung before her vision—
I am blinded like the Cyclops
—and she fell upon the stones of the street.

Lying in a heap, her skin prickling in anticipation of that rough hand falling upon her to finish what had been started, she slowly became aware that no one followed. And at the same instant the gods showed her herself, debased by fear, cowering in filth. Sappho, descendant of a noble house, humiliated by one of Pittakos's soldiers.

Her question had been answered. Pittakos had not forgotten, nor would he. He must know her habit of running about the streets at night. She had always done it, and thought nothing of it. But now the men had returned. Presenting themselves as protectors, they were violators lying in wait. And he encouraged them. Had he singled her out? Did he have her in mind when he let loose his dogs? Did he plan to ask for particulars, insist on details, deriving as much pleasure as though his rod committed the rape? And she had softened toward him, believed his glib, easy speech.

If only he had known. Had he himself come after her, she would have put up no resistance. And she cried for shame to be swept by unbearable desire.

What had become of the Sappho of old, who abhorred the rough and the vulgar? “O Artemis, Apollo's lovely twin, I will burn hekatombs! Pure virgin, help Sappho be as she was.”

*   *   *

Zeus, capricious in all things, gave victory to the forces raised against Melanchros, and the Tyrant was exiled. Mysilos of Leanex became the new Tyrant. Atreus and Pittakos, as the chief architects of this political insurgency, were his closest counselors. Pittakos had the favor of the army and the mass of freemen, while the presence of Atreus soothed the aristocrats. Embers of Sappho's discontent continued to smolder, as the new Tyrant proved no less harsh than Melanchros. With this Alkaios agreed, but he shrugged. “In this world what is perfect?”

“It is clear to me,” Sappho went on, “we must form ranks again and unseat Mysilos.”

“Hold on, Sappho. We've had our revolution.”

“I tell you,” she said adamantly, “Mysilos must go, and Pittakos with him.”

Alkaios gave her a long, shrewd look. “So it comes down to Pittakos.”

*   *   *

In spite of Sappho's persistence, the conspirators would have disbanded had it not been for Atreus. He arranged for his brother to call a meeting but keep his coming secret. Alkaios simply said a comrade would join them. When Atreus appeared, the others were amazed and somewhat intimidated. For although not first in power, Atreus was one of the triumvirate. He approached the little group, hand on his heart.

“Speak then,” Alkaios told his brother.

Atreus explained that he felt remorse at his part in bringing the new regime to power. Mysilos, with his profligate ways, was impoverishing the city, forever concocting schemes to defraud the people. It had come to the point, Atreus concluded, when a patriot could no longer stand by. If he could count on the support of their group, perhaps something could be done.

He saw their hesitation. But he had come prepared, and hastened to tell them he was in possession of information of such a shameful sort that it would topple Mysilos.

Khar shoved a goblet across the table at Atreus as a sign that he should tell what he knew. Into the expectant quiet, Atreus said, “Melanchros, our former Tyrant, is not in exile.”

Sappho's face grew white. “Where then?”

“I can take you to the spot where his butchered body lies.”

There was appalled silence.

“Oh, let me sing my anger,” Sappho said softly.

And she did, asking in an anonymous poem where Melanchros was and suggesting that perhaps he was closer to home than any suspected. The verse was repeated the next day in the taverns, at the polished baths, and in the marketplace. By nightfall it was sung in every home.

*   *   *

The next morning the villa where Sappho lived was surrounded by soldiers. At the sight of them, her mother and aunt and the female servants set up a great wailing.

The captain saluted. “We have an arrest order for Sappho, daughter of Skamandronymos.”

“In whose name is it issued?” Sappho demanded.

“It bears the seal of Commander Pittakos.”

Sappho's lips smiled, but her eyes did not smile. She kissed her mother and aunt, assuring them, “It is nothing. He is not a lover of poetry, that is all.” She walked lightly between her escorts, not looking at them but at the row of stately poplars they passed. If he wanted her silent, he would have to kill her. And as she plunged from time she would still sing his perfidy.

They passed a group of boys marching naked and in good order on their way to the school of the harpmaster. They looked curiously at her. She was taken to the portico of the town hall with its statues of gods and princes vividly painted and waxed.

Up the stairs they went to the great chamber. There, where a short time earlier Melanchros had presided, were her co-conspirators. Sappho's heart pulsed in her throat. All had been rounded up, not only Khar and Alkaios but such high-spirited dandies as Pelops and the firebrand Pinytos, as well as Kepalus. They greeted her in a subdued manner, Alkaios murmuring hurriedly, “Atreus has fled into Egypt.”

“He was wise,” Pinytos said. “The gods alone know what retribution will be taken. All sorts of allegations are spreading through the city.” And he looked reproachfully at Sappho.

Pelops, the latest golden boy of Alkaios's passion, began to blubber. “If ever I burnt heifer, sheep, or these things…”

“Hush,” Sappho said sharply.

Pittakos entered with his attendants. Seating himself, he looked with a mild gaze at the young troublemakers. When he spoke, it was courteously. “A harmful rumor flies around Mitylene from the white stone bridges that span the narrows to Mount Lesbos itself.” He adopted the lecturing tone of a teacher with wayward children. At this condescension, Sappho held her head higher.

“Murder,” Pittakos continued in the same patient tone, “is outside civilized law. Yet the rumor is that murder was done on Melanchros, whom we all know to be residing in Rhodes.” He paused, giving them a chance to speak, wanting them perhaps to deny this. Seeing they would not, he continued. “I have word from my captains that Atreus has taken boat for Egypt. I do not know how deeply you youngsters were involved in his treasonous plotting. But I am inclined to think your only crime is that of being young, and of having a way with words that leads you to excesses.” Here he smiled at Sappho.

To check her anger she dug her nails into the palms of her hands. “Apollo, god of Truth, looks over my shoulder when I sing.”

“Yes, yes. But it is well to ascertain the facts before you sing.”

She retorted haughtily, “The Muses themselves guide my mind. You perhaps do not know that Art was born in the temple and flowered in the sacred grove. If you use your power against me and my friends, let it be on grounds other than poetry. For if it be a lying song, it will die its own death. If it be true, then Melanchros's murder will be only the first.”

“How you misunderstand me, young Sappho of a noble sire. Mysilos and I do not fear idle words, but neither do we want slander—it creates an atmosphere of unrest. Believe me, there has been no murder. Melanchros is as hale as I am. And a token will be dispatched by him from Rhodes, so that all Lesbos may know he prospers. And now…” His mood was almost fatherly. A crease of blood appeared on the inside of Sappho's hands. “I wish to persuade you that forgiveness is better than punishment. That is the lesson I want you to learn in this room.” He smiled on them benignly. “Why linger,” he said lightly, “when you are free to go?”