Sappho (35 page)

yet the lot they spin for man

is full of sorrow

For the glad echoing voice of Atthis was lifted in happy song. And her happiness was in Anaktoria. Surely my brain is blighted, Sappho thought, and with relief stepped aboard her brother's vessel. Niobe had prepared a couch of rugs and pillows, and from its comfort she indolently watched Khar set his sail to the wind, cresting wave after wave as they were born.

At night she entered her draped tent, while her brother lay on coils of rope in the stern. Their curved bark went steadily on, for as Alkaios had said, Khar did not tie up at night as other captains. He watched the sky and constantly took soundings, so their journey was cut by half.

On the third day some god shrouded the land, and Sea was roused to passion. Her brother told her to sit by him and watch as the storm swelled. Calling on Poseidon, he fell as a reveler into a dance. No matter what partner Sea raised against him, he skimmed and tacked and bore lightly over her until by day's light he had worn her out.

Sappho laughed in glee at his prowess.

She discovered, after the storm had died, that the entire time of its churning she had been afraid. But the excitement of watching Khar turn into the troughs and leap to the peaks had hidden this from her. Now, exhausted, she made ablutions and fell into a deep sleep. Her tent, which had been torn apart during the storm, her women quietly erected again about her.

*   *   *

Samos was a dream island. Opening her eyes, she thought she still slept. It lay in striped water, the many shoals reflecting tan, the gouged basins a dark sparkling blue. The slopes of Mount Mylale were terraced in vineyards, and orchards perfumed the air.

A lookout had been kept for them, and welcoming crowds threw blossoms into the harbor, so that the oarsmen caught petals of roses on their blades. The most beautiful lads dived naked into the water and caught hold of their craft, laughing and pretending to pull the ship in.

On the shore maidens formed a procession singing Sappho's songs to the accompaniment of tambourines. Khar drew her to him before he let her go. It happened so quickly that she could not recall any words of good-bye.

Samos was a miniature Lesbos, being only 243 stadia across. A mole ran the length of the protected harbor, in which bobbed bright red triremes, the ships for which Samos was famous. The houses, too, were red-roofed and richly gilded. From the hills a temple shone, home of Hera, who gave special love and care to women.

On the quay Iadmon, her host, stepped from beneath a colorful canopy to embrace her and pour libation that Sea had allowed her safe passage.

Khar's rowers lifted oars in salute. It was a powerful sight. As each man in each ship hefted his oar simultaneously, there were wild cries from the shore. Sappho murmured a blessing under her breath as the fleet headed out of the harbor, and the boys who had gained the decks dived again into the water. Her gaze followed the lead ship. Khar must follow his path as she followed hers.

Beside the imposing Iadmon was a dark, ugly figure with a hunched back. Sappho could scarcely hide her horror when told this was the bard-slave Aesop, whom she had come so far to honor. The small, wizened creature hopped forward and croaked a welcome. Whereupon she was driven to the villa, a long procession of girls and boys winding behind. Those going before pelted her path with flowers.

They passed within guarded gates, and she exclaimed at gardens made bright with jonquils and fountains, and dazzling ornate birds who spread great tails covered with mock eyes. “It is the peacock,” Iadmon told her, “indigenous to our island, the bird beloved of Hera.”

Dismounting, Sappho followed her host up marble stairs along a portico supported by slender-stalked columns. Iadmon led her to an apartment reserved for her, and murmuring, “Divine Sappho, I and my house are honored forever,” left her to the ministration of his women and hers.

From her bath she whispered to Niobe, “I would not have made the perilous trip had I known Aesop was a grotesque. I can hardly bear to look on him.”

“Then do not, Lady. The guests are many distinguished princes and merchant princes, lords of far lands.” She slipped a gossamer robe over her. “From Lydia they are here, and distant Rhodes. It is meant that Sappho shall reign over all in revelry and celebration.”

“At what hour do festivities begin?”

“Upon the arrival of Sappho,” Niobe replied and with utmost art fashioned a visage heightened by fard and tints of color. “There are slaves placed along the way to announce it when you choose to visit the large hall.” She fetched the jewel-case from among the wrapped parcels.

“The amethyst,” Sappho decided, and the single gem fell between her breasts.

In the great hall the guests strained to see this small but elegant woman with the figure of a girl and the bearing of a queen. There was a compelling quality about her, intriguing, withdrawn. She moved lightly, but her eyes were eyes one would do well to draw back from, for they saw where only gods looked. A glance from them and the soul was no longer hid.

Her host placed her at his right hand, where Hermes the god of good fortune stood and where the lucky Heron came when he visited men.

To the other side of Iadmon, where she did not have to look on him, was Aesop. Her aversion had been discreetly relayed. Sappho bent her head to receive a crown of cyclamen from her host. A cup of honeyed wine was placed in her hand and she was proffered a dish of wild pomegranates. The servants were naked girls and boys without blemish. The air seemed to breathe a strange exotic fragrance; when she asked what it was, she was told “Nardus from India.”

Iadmon introduced her with lavish words. She nodded an acknowledgment, received her lyre from Niobe, and began with her usual invocation:

Come now, my heavenly

tortoiseshell; become

a speaking instrument

To herself she murmured, Daughters of Zeus, I greet you. Add passion to my song! She lowered her eyes and began a chant:

Come here to us

gentle Gaiety, Revelry, Radiance

and you, Muses with lovely hair

When the songstress was done, Iadmon motioned Aesop to stand forward. He had been festooned in gold fetters. With a jewel-encrusted sword Iadmon ceremoniously struck off the bonds. Aesop knelt in gratitude before him, then, rising, thanked peerless Sappho for making this moment of freedom even more memorable. “Honorable guests of my great lord and patron, mighty Iadmon, I stand before you—ugly, humpbacked, deformed in my limbs. As a child I was no prettier, besides which I was a slave. I despaired of myself. And my mother, seeing me so unhappy, one day stopped the work of her fingers and, drying my tears, said, ‘Aesop, I tell you this: Be diligent to perfect the little tales you sing and if you please the Lord Apollo, who is a lover of poetry and paeans, one day he will come down from Heaven and give you treasure greater than beauty.'”

Aesop's glance rested on them. “This day my mother's words are made truth. For freedom is the greatest treasure of all.”

Applause swelled in the room, at the end of which Aesop of the hunched back and shoulders approached Sappho. To indicate how greatly he was honored by her presence, he touched the hem of her gown. At that instant, the journey, the departure of Khar, the heat—all combined with the sensation of his little claws on her garment. Sappho fell to the floor in a faint.

Consternation prevailed, with everyone hovering about the fallen songstress. Each, while afraid to touch her, had some nostrum or remedy to offer. Niobe saw to it that she was carried to her chamber, where she chafed her hands and spoke soft words. Sappho's eyes sprang wide. “He touched me, that hideous apparition. He must have been forged beneath the roots of Aetna by Hephaestus the lame in his own image.”

“Fear not.” Both women were startled by the male voice. Aesop, out of concern, had followed. He did not enter, but stood at the door in shadow. “I myself do not look in a mirror, or my day is spoiled for me. I realized at once it was my hand upon your robe that made you ill. The others, being used to me, hardly notice. Wonderful Sappho, I must make amends. Having shown you the ugliest being on Samos, I have permission from my lord to bring you the most beautiful.” And Aesop stepped aside, drawing into the room a statue of Aphrodite, except that her flesh had tints of life.

“She is Doricha, the White Rose, a young Thracian trained in the arts of love. She is yours for your stay—and may her beauty bring you forgetfulness of myself, so that when you think of Aesop in future, you remember only my thanks.”

As he turned to go, Sappho called to him. “Wait, Aesop … I bow to your genius, which was touching tonight, and at other times has made me laugh. You were never a slave in your soul and it is right you are a free man.” Then she sang:

He is fair in appearance,

but he who is good

will soon seem fair also

Aesop smiled at her attempt and replied, “I honor you as no other mortal. Accept the White Rose and when your thoughts would stray to a vision of me, see her instead.”

The beautiful child-courtesan smiled at Sappho when they were alone. Sappho inspected her with interest. “You are all white and gold. I see you shave the fullness between your legs, and that it is gilded.”

“It is my treasure,” Doricha whispered and swayed toward her.

Sappho sank back against cushions. “I would see your treasure closer up, to make sure it is not dross.”

To approach her the White Rose slid to the floor and wriggled her body across the marble and spread herself. The long lips were filled with purple grapes. “The juice of this fruit,” Doricha whispered, “is not like any other. It is hot with life. May I plant in your vineyard, Lady?”

Sappho was delighted by the novelty. The girl was so practiced that her touch alone roused, while the rosy tongue brought madness and the convulsion of utmost desire.

“You destroy me,” Sappho cried when both were reddened by the crushed grapes. She held the reins of long blond hair, while the pony bucked and was wild beneath her. She had satisfaction and pressed a gold talent where there had been grapes.

Sappho became so intrigued by the Thracian that she sent to buy her from Iadmon, but he replied regretfully that he could not part from her.

“It is a lie,” hissed the White Rose at their next tryst. She uncoiled herself from Sappho's arms. “He has already sold me to one Xanthes, who plans to take me into Egypt, to Naukratis, where garrisons of Hellenic soldiers are stationed. I am much afraid, for I have known the favor of Iadmon and his guests, and have not been the property of soldiers.”

“You are too valuable, Doricha, to receive other than delicate treatment, for you will bring a fortune to your new master. Tell me, have you been with a woman before? How do you find it?”

“I love being at your side and having you remove my grapes with your mouth. Your passion comes suddenly like a storm. It shakes us both, as the leaves from the bough you sing of. I prefer men to women. But I prefer Sappho to any.”

Sappho laughed. “Your words are paid for, but they are nonetheless pleasing.”

So that her pleasure did not flag, Doricha brought one of the enormous peacocks with its oriental coloring of bright gold-and-blue patterns into the chamber; then, from a vial she poured and rubbed a certain scent upon her full crescent and inside the crimson slit. The giant bird, roused to orgasm by the preparation, flew at Doricha. Flapping his wings and unfurling his dazzling tail, he extended a huge organ that had been retracted in its body. Its wings beat wildly about the slave girl, fanning her nakedness. The White Rose gave the sexual cry of women; the shrill sound of the cock answered. It was like watching a god mate with a mortal. The bird lifted his dangling white burden off the ground. It half hopped, half flew, the girl hanging from its swollen member in the most bizarre sexual act Sappho had ever witnessed. The scream of two species mingled, and it was done. The cock shook Doricha from him and a slave led it from the room.

Sappho stared at the voluptuous child, who lay before her with flecks of blood upon her legs. “Lick off the blood,” the White Rose begged. But the spell was broken. Sappho shook her head.

“Do you want to try it with the peacock?” Doricha asked.

“No,” Sappho said in horror.

“Then let me show you what it was like.”

Such was Sappho's visit to the isle of Samos.

*   *   *

During the course of her stay she met a young man who had journeyed from Sardis, in Lydia. He was the eldest son of a great house. “I came because I wished to hear famed Sappho sing. But also I look for a wife, and thought perhaps I might find one here.”

“I have seen in fair Samos girls most lovely to look upon,” Sappho replied. “Of course,” she continued thoughtfully, “they are not trained in the gracious arts of song and dance as are my fair companions in the House of the Servants of the Muses.”

“Can the maidens of great Sappho ever be persuaded to leave her?”

She smiled. “That is why they come to me. I prepare them to be wives in the finest homes, to go as princesses. Although it always saddens me to part with one of my hetaerae,” she added.

“Perhaps there is one among them who is ready to become a wife?”

“I will give the matter thought,” she told the young man. “Of course if I do think of an especially gifted friend, I would not want my name mentioned, lest any think that my school is something I do for profit. I make no profit, nor want any. We are dedicated to the Muses only. And no unseemly ideas should go abroad.”

“If you could but call to mind one girl with a fair face and good disposition, who is versed in song, I would be discreet, and forever in your debt.”

“I promise nothing other than what I said; I will think on it.”