Thais of Athens Read online

  Olympias did not know her son well enough. This heavy blow destroyed the temple of the dreamer’s first love. The termination of that dream was far more serious than the simple first affair of a boy with an obliging slave. Alexander understood everything and asked no questions, but his mother had forever lost that opportunity for which she had ruined both his love and the girl. Her son didn’t speak a single word of it to her, but ever since then neither the beautiful slaves, nor hetaerae, nor the daughters of nobility attracted the prince’s attention. Olympias received no word of any partiality on her son’s behalf.

  Ptolemy, unafraid of Alexander’s competition, decided he would come to visit Thais with his friends, including the mischievous Hephaestion, who knew all Athenian hetaerae. For Hephaestion, gambling and good wine surpassed the games of Eros. That game no longer held the former intensity of appeal for him.

  It was not so for Ptolemy. Every meeting with a beautiful woman bore the desire of closeness, promising the yet unknown shades of passion, mysteries of beauty, in reality an entire world of bright and novel sensations. His expectations were not usually fulfilled, but tireless Eros pulled him into the arms of merry women again and again.

  Not the talant of silver promised by Philopatros, but Ptolemy decided that he would win the contest for the famous hetaera’s heart. Let Philopatros set out ten talants, he thought. Pathetic coward.

  The Macedonian patted the tender mark from the lash strike, swelling across his shoulder, and looked around.

  A short cape, bordered by a sandbar, swung to the left from the shore and into the troubled, white-maned sea. This was the spot to which the four Macedonians had been swimming. No, he thought, correcting himself. Only three, since he had given up the competition, but ended up arriving earlier. A good walker would always cross the same distance faster on dry ground than a swimmer at sea, especially if the waves and the wind held back the ones in their power.

  Slaves had been waiting for the swimmers, holding their clothes. They were surprised by the sight of Ptolemy as he came down from the steep shore toward them. He’d rinsed off sand and dust, gotten dressed, and carefully folded the woman’s cape, which had been given to him by Thais’ boy servant.

  Two old olive trees stood silvery under the hill, shading a small, blindingly white house. It looked small under the giant tall cypresses. The Macedonians took a short flight of stairs and entered a miniature garden filled only with roses. On a blue sign over the door were painted the three usual letters, dark in vibrant crimson: omega, ksi, and epsilon. Below them was painted the word cochleon, or spiral seashell.

  Unlike at other hetaerae’s houses, Thais’ name was not written over the entrance, nor was there the usual fragrant dusk in the front room. Wide open shutters displayed the view of the mass of Ceramic’s white houses. Mountain Licabett, shaped like a woman’s breast and overgrown by wolf-infested woods, rose in the distance behind the Acropolis. Pyrean road circled the hill and descended toward the Athenian harbor like a yellow stream among the cypresses.

  Thais welcomed the four friends with a pleasant smile. Nearchus, who was slender and of average height for a Helenian or a Cretan, seemed small and fragile beside the two tall Macedonian and Hephaestion, the giant.

  The guests settled in fragile armchairs with legs shaped like long horns of Cretan bulls. The huge Hephaestion, fearing he might shatter the chair, opted for a massive stool, and the quiet Nearchus chose a bench with a head rest.

  Thais sat next to her friend, Nannion, who was slender and dark-skinned like an Egyptian woman. Nannion’s delicate Ionian chiton was covered by a blue himation[3] embroidered in gold with the traditional trim of stylized, hook-shaped waves at the bottom. After the eastern fashion, the hetaera’s himation was tossed over her right shoulder, over the back and pinned with a brooch at her left side.

  Thais was dressed in a chiton of pink transparent cloth from either Persia or India, gathered into soft pleats and pinned at the shoulders with five silver pins. Gray himation with a trim of blue daffodils covered her from her waist to the ankles of her small feet, which were dressed in sandals with narrow silver straps. Unlike Nannion, Thais’ mouth and eyes were not made up. Her face, unafraid of tan, wore no traces of powder.

  She listened to Alexander with interest, objecting or agreeing from time to time. Ptolemy was surprised to find that he felt slightly jealous, as this was the first time he’d seen his friend, the prince, this enraptured.

  Hephaestion took hold of Nannion’s thin hands, teaching her the Khalkidykian finger game: three and five. Ptolemy had trouble focusing on the conversation, so taken was he by watching Thais. He twice shrugged impatiently. Noticing that, Thais smiled and observed him with narrowed, mocking eyes.

  “She will be here soon. Do not sulk, sea man.”

  “Who?” Ptolemy asked.

  “A goddess, fair-haired and blue eyed, the one you dreamed of on the shore near Khalipedon.”

  Ptolemy was about to object, but just then a tall girl in a red and gold himation burst into the room, bringing with her the smell of sun-filled wind and magnolia. She moved swiftly, with purpose, a motion which the more delicate connoisseurs might have called overly strong compared to the snakelike movements of Egyptian and Asian female harp players. The men greeted her enthusiastically. To everyone’s surprise, the imperturbable Nearchus left his bench in the shadow corner of the room and came closer.

  “Egesikhora, the Spartan, my best friend,” Thais introduced briskly, glancing sideways at Ptolemy.

  “Egesikhora: a song on the road,” Alexander said thoughtfully. “This is the case when Laconic pronunciation is more attractive than the Attic one.”

  “We don’t consider the Attic dialect to be very attractive,” the Spartan said. “They breathe in at the beginning of each word like the Asians do, whereas we speak openly.”

  “And you yourself are open and beautiful,” Nearchus said smoothly.

  Alexander, Ptolemy and Hephaestion exchanged glances.

  “I interpret my friend’s name as ‘she who leads the dance’,” Thais said. “It works better for a Lacedemonian.”

  “I like song better than dance,” Alexander said.

  “Then you will not be happy with us women,” Thais replied.

  The Macedonian prince frowned. “It is a strange friendship between a Spartan and an Athenian women,” he said. “Spartans consider Athenians to be brainless dolls, half-slaves, locked in their houses like women of the East, not having a single notion of their husbands’ business matters. Athenians call Lacedemonians slutty wives who act like prostitutes and bear dumb soldiers.”

  “Both opinions are completely wrong,” Thais said, laughing.

  Egesikhora smiled silently, looking much like a goddess. Her broad chest, the stretch of her shoulders and the straight setting of her strong head gave her the posture of an Erekhteyon[4] statue when she turned serious. However, her face, when filled with merriment and youthful joy, was ever changing.

  To Thais’ surprise, it was Nearchus, not Ptolemy, who was struck by the Laconian beauty.

  The female slave served uncommonly simple food. The goblets for wine and water were decorated with black and white stripes resembling the ancient Cretan dishes, which were valued at more than their weight in gold.

  “Do Athenians eat like Thessalians?” Nearchus asked. He splashed a little from his goblet for the gods, then handed it to Egesikhora.

  “I am only half Athenian,” Thais replied. “My mother was an Etheo-Cretan of an ancient family that escaped the pirates from the island of Theru in order to seek protection in Sparta. There, in Emborion, she met my father and I was born, but …”

  “There was no epigamy between the parents and the marriage was deemed illegitimate,” Nearchus finished for her. “So that is why you have such an ancient name.”

  “And so I did not become a ‘bull bringing’ bride, but ended up in a school for hetaerae at the Aphrodite of Corinth temple.”

  “And became th
e glory of Athens!” Ptolemy exclaimed, raising his goblet.

  “And what of Egesikhora?” Nearchus asked.

  “I am older than Thais. The story of my life is like a trace of a snake and is not for the curious,” the Spartan girl said, lifting her eyebrows disdainfully.

  “Now I know why you are different,” Ptolemy said. “A true daughter of Crete in your image.”

  Nearchus laughed unkindly. “What do you know of Crete, Macedonian? Crete is a nest of pirates who arrived from all corners of Hellas, Ionia, Sicily and Finikia. Scum who have destroyed and trampled the country, wiping out the ancient glory of the children of Minos.”

  “When I spoke of Crete, I meant the splendid people, the rulers of the sea who long since departed into the kingdom of shadows.”

  “And you were right, Nearchus, when you said this is Thessalian food before us,” Alexander intervened. “If it is correct that the Cretans are related to Thessalians and those to the Pelasgoans, as Herodotus wrote.”

  “But Cretans are the rulers of the sea whereas Thessalians are horse people,” Nearchus objected.

  “But they are not nomads. They are horse breeding farmers,” Thais said suddenly. “Poets have long since sung ‘the hilly Phtia of Hellas, glorious with the beauty of women’ …”

  “And plains thundering with horses’ hooves,” Alexander added.

  “I think Spartans are more likely descendants of the sea people,” Nearchus said, glancing at Egesikhora.

  “Only legally, Nearchus. Look at Egesikhora’s golden hair. Where do you see Cretan blood?”

  “As far as the sea is concerned, I have seen a Cretan woman sea bathing in a storm when no other woman would have dared,” Ptolemy said.

  “And he who saw Thais on horseback had seen an Amazon,” Egesikhora said.

  “Poet Alcman, who was a Spartan, compared Lacedemonian girls to Entheyan horses,” Hephaestion said, laughing. He had already consumed a good quantity of delicious bluish black wine.

  “He who praises their beauty when they go to bring a sacrifice to the goddess, nude, with dances and songs, and their hair down akin the golden red manes of Paphlagonian mares,” Egesikhora replied.

  “You both know a lot,” Alexander exclaimed.

  “It is their profession. They do not sell only Eros, but also knowledge, manners, art and beauty of senses,” Hephaestion said with the air of a connoisseur. “Do you know,” he teased, “what is the highest class hetaera in the most splendid city of arts and poetry in the entire Ecumene[5]? The most educated among scholars, the most skillful dancer and reader, the inspiration to artists and poets, with the irresistible allure of feminine charm? That is Egesikhora.”

  “What of Thais?” Ptolemy interrupted.

  “At seventeen she is a celebrity. In Athens that is well and above many great warriors, rulers and philosophers from other countries. And you cannot become one, lest the gods gift you with an insightful heart to which senses and the essence of people are open since childhood, the delicate sensations and knowledge of true beauty, far deeper than most people possess.”

  “You speak of her as if she were a goddess,” Nearchus said, displeased that Hephaestion set the Spartan girl below Thais. “Can’t you see? She does not even view herself that way.”

  “That is a true mark of spiritual height,” Alexander said, then fell deep into thought again. The Spartan’s words of ‘long manes’ awoke in him the longing for the black flanked, white-faced Bucefal. “Athenians here cut their horses’ manes, making them stick up like stiff brushes.”

  “That is to make sure the horses don’t compete with the Athenian women, among whom thick hair is a rarity,” Egesikhora joked.

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Nannion said. She had been quiet to this point but now joined the conversation. “Considering the Spartan women’s hair is as legendary as their freedom.”

  “Had forty generations of your ancestors walked around with bare hips, wearing linen peploses[6] and chitons year round, then your hair would have been just as thick.”

  “Why are you called phainomeris? ‘Those who show their hips’?” Ptolemy asked.

  “Show him how a Spartan woman is supposed to be dressed in her country,” Thais said to Egesikhora. “Your old peplos has been hanging in my opistocella since we staged a scene from Cadmian folklore.”

  Egesikhora quietly went into an inner room of the house. Nearchus watched her until she disappeared behind a curtain.

  “Fate sends us many strange gifts,” Hephaestion muttered mischievously, winking at Ptolemy.

  He put his arms around the shy Nannion and whispered something to her. The hetaera blushed and obediently offered her lips for a kiss. Ptolemy tried to hug Thais, moving closer to her as soon as Alexander went to the table.

  “Wait till you see your goddess,” she said and pushed him away.

  Ptolemy obeyed without question, wondering how this young girl was able to charm and rule him at the same time.

  Egesikhora did not keep them waiting long. She reappeared in a long white peplos, completely open along the sides, and held in place with a single woven tie at the waist. Strong muscles rippled under the smooth skin. The Lacedemonian’s hair flowed like gold down her back, curling into thick tendrils below her knees, forcing her to lift her head higher, thus opening her strong jaw line and powerful neck. She danced the ‘Hair dance’, ‘Cometike’ for them, accompanying herself with her own singing, rising high on tiptoe and resembling the splendid statues by Callimachus, those of the Spartan dancers who undulated like fire, as if they were about to take off in their ecstasy.

  A general sigh of admiration met Egesikhora, who twirled slowly, relishing the power of her own beauty.

  “The poet was right,” Hephaestion said, pulling away from Nannion. “There is a lot in common with the beauty and power of a thoroughbred horse.”

  “Andrapodysts, the kidnappers of the free people, tried capturing Egesikhora once. There were two of them — big men. But Spartan women are taught to fight and these two thought they were dealing with the delicate daughter of Attica, destined to live in the women’s half of the house,” Thais said. “That was their mistake.”

  Egesikhora, not even slightly flushed from her dance, sat next to her and hugged her friend. She paid no attention to Nearchus, who was gazing lustfully at her legs.

  Alexander rose reluctantly. “Haire, Cretan. I wish I could love you and talk to you. You are uncommonly smart. But I must go to Kinosargos, the temple of Hercules. My father ordered me to Corinth, where there will be a great gathering. He is about to be elected the main warlord of Hellas, the new union of polices, without the stubborn Sparta, of course.”

  “Are they separating again?” Thais exclaimed.

  “What do you mean again? It has happened many times.”

  “I was thinking about Chaeronea. Had the Spartans united with Athens, then your father …”

  “Would have lost the battle and escaped into the Macedonian mountains. And I wouldn’t have met you,” Alexander said with a laugh.

  “What did this meeting today give you?” Thais asked.

  “The memory of your beauty.”

  She smiled. “It’s like bringing an owl to Athens. Are there not enough women in Pella?”

  “You did not understand. I was speaking of it as it ought to be. The kind of beauty that brings acceptance in life, comfort and clarity. You Helenians call it ‘astrophaes’, or starlight-like.”

  Thais slipped from her chair and knelt on a cushion at Alexander’s feet. “You are young yet, but you said something I shall remember all my life,” she said. She lifted the prince’s large hand and pressed it to her cheek.

  Alexander tipped her black-haired head back and said with a tinge of sadness, “I would ask you to come to Pella, but why would you? Here you are known to the entire Attica, even though you are not in eoas, the Lists of Women. I am just a son of a divorced royal wife.”

  “You shall be a hero,” she replied. “I c
an feel it.”

  “Well then you shall be my guest whenever you wish.”

  “I thank you, and I shall remember that. But you remember also: Ergos and Logos, Action and Word are one, as the wise men say.”

  Hephaestion withdrew from Nannion with regret, though he had already set up an evening rendezvous. Nearchus and Egesikhora disappeared. Ptolemy could not and did not wish to delay attending the Kinosargos. Unable to resist, he lifted Thais from the cushion and pulled her to him.

  “You and only you have taken over me. Are you free? Do you wish me to come to you again?”

  She gave him a small, intimate smile, meant only for him. “One does not settle such things on a doorstep. Come again, then we’ll see. Or are you, too, going to Corinth?”

  “I have nothing to do there. Alexander and Hephaestion are the only ones going.”

  “And what of the thousand hetaerae of the Corinthian Aphrodite? They serve the goddess and do not charge.”

  “I already said and can repeat myself. There is only you for me.”

  Thais squinted mischievously, sticking the tip of her tongue between her firm yet still childish lips.

  Then the three Macedonians stepped out into the dry wind and blinding whiteness of the streets, leaving the women behind.

  Thais and Nannion, left to themselves, sighed and shared their thoughts with each other.

  “Such people,” Nannion said. “So young and already so mature. The mighty Hephaestion is only twenty-one, and the prince is only nineteen. But how many people have they already killed?”

  “Alexander is handsome,” Thais agreed. “Educated and smart like an Athenian, and hardened like a Spartan, only …” Thais paused and shook her head slightly.