Sappho's Leap (3 page)

In fact, it was my slave Praxinoa who alerted me to my mother's intention to journey to Mytilene for Pittacus's victory feast—a great symposium such as no one had seen since before the war.

“Then we'll follow her!” I said.

“Sappho, you will get in trouble and so will I.”

“I refuse to be left in Eresus, where I know every house and every olive tree,” I said. “I long for adventure and if you love me, Prax, you'll go with me!”

“You know I love you. But I fear the punishment. It will fall more upon me than on you.”

“I'll protect you,” I said.

Praxinoa had been given to me when I was only five and she could refuse me nothing. We were more than slave and mistress. We were friends. And sometimes we were even more than friends. We bathed together, slept together, sheltered from the thunder in each other's arms.

“Your mother will kill you—and me.”

“She'll never know, Prax, we'll be so secretive. We'll shadow her to Mytilene. She'll never even guess we're there, I promise you.”

Praxinoa looked doubtful. I insisted she go with me—flaunting all the rules by which I had been raised. Even in Lesbos, two girls, free and slave, seldom left the family compound without men and without an entourage.

So we set out from Eresus together on the road to Mytilene. We traveled far enough behind my mother's procession to be invisible to her. Sometimes we even lost sight of the last stragglers in her entourage. We walked and walked in the morning shade, in the noontime sun, in the slanting late sun of the afternoon. It was twilight of the second day before we came anywhere near the villa of Pittacus, and we were exhausted. My mother traveled in a golden litter carried by slaves, but Praxinoa and I had to lean on each other. And sleep on the hillside with the goats.

We were bedraggled and dusty when we arrived. Nor had we bargained on the guards who barred the flower-strewn path to the tyrant's villa.

“Who goes there?” demanded the first guard, a tall Nubian with the face of an Adonis. Five other men, huge, with muscles and terrifying bronze-tipped spears, stood behind him. They glowered and looked down at us.

“I am Sappho, daughter of Cleis and Scamandronymus. We come from Eresus,” I said bravely.

“We have no orders to admit you,” the first guard said, blocking our way. We were hustled to the side of the road and seized roughly by two of the other guards.

“Sappho—I think we should be going home,” Praxinoa whispered, shaking.

“Sir, if you'll unhand us, you'll be rid of us,” I said. With that, they let us go and we started to run away from the villa.

“Who are you running from, little one?” It was a tall young man with a yellow beard and the scarred cheeks of a warrior. He was older than I—a mature man of at least twenty-five.

“I wasn't running.”

“I know running when I see it,” the man said, his eyes twinkling as he teased me. Those eyes looked deep into mine. “I am Alcaeus, who scoffs at war and heroes. I dropped my shield and fled the last battle. For this Pittacus means to banish me. I am supposed to be ashamed. But I defy shame. There's no shame in loving life above death. We are not stupid Spartans, after all. Otherwise, I would be dead. What use would that be to the gods, who will not die themselves?”

“Alcaeus the singer?” I asked the handsome stranger. My heart pounded in excitement just to behold him. I wanted him never to leave my sight!

“The same.”

“I know your verses by heart.”

“Well, don't just stand there trembling—sing one!”

Dog days—our throats are dry,

Our women bleed for love,

Our parched brains rattle like gourds,

Our knees creak.

Douse your voice with wine and water—sing!

“You think to make it better than it was!” he said in his arrogant way. But later, at Pittacus' symposium, I found out that he had truly liked my version better than his own, because he sang it just as I had rephrased it. He'd be damned before he'd admit his admiration for me. Yet I loved him helplessly from the moment I met him. It was his confidence, his self-possession—even his hubris—that so appealed to me. Eros had pierced me through the heart with his sharpest arrow.

Alcaeus looked like the sun god—an aureole of golden hair, a golden beard, and golden hair curling on his chest. He seemed to have power enough to pull a chariot across the sky. How could I know in an instant that our lives were linked? He walked with a swagger that made me long to open my legs to him—virgin though I was. Except for my father and grandfather, I had never even
liked
a man before.

“Come—let's get you two cleaned up!” he said to Praxinoa and me. And then, to the muscular guards: “Let us pass! These two are with me—my serving maids.”

The guards jumped aside to let us pass.

The winding path to the villa was carpeted thick with rose petals, shaded by white linen canopies embroidered in gold thread. You could hear flutes playing within and smell the aroma of grilled fish. The perfumes of the women floated on the hot night air. Dozens of magnificently dressed aristocrats could be seen circulating in the inner courtyard with their admirers and sycophants. Some of the women wore gold crowns. Some of the men wore laurel wreaths of gold. We were hardly well enough dressed for such elegant company.

Alcaeus hustled us to the
gynaikeion
or women's quarters and directed the slaves to dress and veil us all in cloth of gold like doe-eyed virgins from the East. Our faces half hidden, our eyes blackened with kohl, we felt strange and exotic. When we emerged, Alcaeus laughed at us.

“You look like temple virgins from Babylon,” he said, “ready to earn your dowries from strangers. Now stay close behind me in my shadow, but disappear when I tell you to. Do as I say!”

Following Alcaeus like simpering servants, we gaped at the many splendors of the house. The feasting rooms had couches in semicircles where guests could recline and eat and drink. (In Lesbos, men and women drank together.) The art and artifacts came from all over the known world—golden statues from Lydia encrusted with precious jewels, Egyptian granite statues of cats and gods, protective lions from Babylon. The wall paintings were the most seductive I had ever seen. In truth, they embarrassed me at first. A painted flute girl was playing a man's painted phallus as if it were a musical instrument. Three men were making love to a
hetaira
and to each other. Did nobody notice but me? The guests were so sophisticated that they ambled past these scenes as if they were invisible. From time to time, I glimpsed my beautiful mother, but, distracted by the important guests, she didn't notice me in my disguise.

Tables were piled high with loaves of barley bread, all the fish of the sea—including crabs and eels—and roasted vegetables piled like gifts gleaming with golden olive oil. There were pyramids of fresh fruit surrounded by fields of tangy cheeses and low bowls of burnished bronze honey. Little tables were brought before the feasters, who half reclined while they ate and drank their fill. Too afraid to eat for fear of dropping our veils, too afraid to speak to each other, Praxinoa and I shadowed Alcaeus. Before he went to recline and eat with the others, he stationed us in the courtyard behind a huge
krater
for mixing wine and water so we could not be seen.

“Don't move till I come to get you,” he said. Neither of us had any intention of moving. We pulled our veils across our faces and froze.

As we hid in the courtyard, we could marvel at the magnificence of the feast. We could smell the food but not taste it—and in truth we were starving.

“I'm dying of hunger,” I whispered to Prax.

“Shhhhhh,” she said. “Suck on this.” She stuck her finger in my mouth.

The feasting went on and on. It seemed it would never end. Finally, a battalion of household slaves swept the floors of fishbones and torn bits of bread. The spilled oil was wiped from the mosaic floors and hands were washed clean by the beautiful serving girls carrying bowls of water. The serving tables were whisked away. A huge mixing bowl was brought and an endless supply of flower-scented wine was ritually mixed with clear, pure water. Incense was ignited by invisible hands. It drifted heavenward like smoky prayers. Each guest received garlands and chaplets of flowers and dill. There was a pause as all the party wondered who would first break the silence. Competition at a symposium was always fierce, and skill at making songs was considered a sign of the gods' favor—particularly here in Lesbos. Guests were frightened that when their turn came they would be seen as tongue-tied clods.

I had observed many symposia at my parents' house—though none as luxurious as this. Always I held my tongue, wanting to sing but fearing I was too young, too green, and would make a fool of myself.

But Alcaeus was unafraid. He leapt in first and he amazed me by singing his song just as I had sung it. He leered at me flirtatiously as he did—but nobody knew at whom he was leering. Then he recited scurrilous satires about Pittacus and his cohorts, delighting in the outrage of the other guests.

I feared for Alcaeus. He called the company “empty braggarts” almost as if he were daring them—or Pittacus—to strike him down. Standing before this glittering company, he made fun of their clothes, their manners, their hauteur. It was clear that he despised them, and I trembled for him. “
Let us drink
!”
he
cried:

Why do we wait for the lamps?

There is barely an inch of day left!

Zeus gave us wine to forget our sorrows—

One part water to two of wine.

Pour in a brimful and let the cups jostle

Like courtiers before a king:

Base-born Pittacus, tyrant of our ill-starred city,

All of them loud in his praise!

Pittacus was drunk and merry, but his ears pricked up as he heard Alcaeus slander him, then describe Lesbos as “my poor, suffering homeland.” This was open treason at the symposium. The guests trembled to see what the leader would do.

But Pittacus was as wily as Alcaeus was brash. He listened. He absorbed it all thoughtfully without reacting. Was he pretending the slurs and insults did not apply to him? He even joked with his henchmen as if he didn't care about being criticized. But there was little doubt he noted it. He was no fool. He knew a traitor from a sycophant immediately. That was the source of his power.

Then Alcaeus did an even more outrageous thing. Suddenly he dragged me out in front of the whole company and bade me sing then and there as if I were a flute girl or a
hetaira.
With a theatrical flourish, he thrust his precious lyre—his marvelous wooden
kithara
—into my hands.

The audience gasped and tittered. Who was this girl, this veiled exotic “visitor” from the East?

I was terrified—not only because my mother was there and Pittacus, but because I was only a girl, and an uninvited girl at that. My heart was pounding in my throat. Somehow I opened my mouth and my tutelary goddess saved me:

Sacred tortoise shell,

Sing!

And transform yourself

Into a poem!

I began. The unseen muses filled my mouth with words. Once I began, I found to my surprise that I forgot all about my fear. It was there at Pittacus' symposium that I first felt my power to tame an audience, to feel them beating and breathing in the palm of my hand. Little by little I entranced them, and I entranced myself. When I sang, I became tall. When I sang, I became all the voices in the room. When I sang, the air ignited.

No one had ever told me I was beautiful. My mother was the beautiful one. I was small and dark and exotic. But when I claimed the stage that evening, I found I had the power to seduce the audience into a trance. I could feel their hunger, their lust, their throbbing need, and I could express whatever darkness and distraction they were feeling. It was as if their feelings filled me and I became their mouthpiece.

I still don't remember what I did that night. The music entered me, and with it the spirit of the goddess. I swayed and sang and raised my arms in supplication. I was possessed.

Immortal Aphrodite—

Rainbow-throned

In the shimmering air—

Weaver of webs,

I pray

Do not shackle my heart

With sorrow.

Fly to me

From your father's house

In a whirling of sparrows' wings,

Your chariot descending

Over the dark earth

As you smile

Your sly, immortal smile

Asking whom I desire

So desperately this time,

Asking whom to persuade to love me,

Promising to turn

Indifference to passion

To make her pursue

When she longs to flee…

Oh Aphrodite, give what only you can give,

Be my ally, my co-conspirator!

The room fell silent, then burst into mad applause. Where the words and music came from, I don't know—but fueled by the applause, I made up songs for all the guests. Finally, I sang this for Alcaeus:

You came, and you did well to come—

I needed you.

You have torched my heart

And set fire to my breast.

Everyone was shocked and titillated. My reputation—both as a singer and as a scandal—was made!

Alcaeus took me aside after that.

“You little minx,” he said, “you are so hungry—you want to devour the world. I know ambition when I see it, but I have never seen it blaze so high in a girl.”

“Sir, I don't know what you mean.”