“Psappha,, as she called herself in her soft Aeolian dialect, was born at Eresus, on Lesbos”
The Life of Greece by Will Durant’
-- I --
On the opposite side of the island from her birthplace, on a hill above and
somewhat south of Mitylene, Psappha leaned her back against the outside of
her stepfather’s garden wall and stared across open water. The mainland shore
remained in shadow as Dawn dressed ancient mountaintops in brilliant white.
Soon the sun would move higher to grace the twelve mainland Aeolian cities
with early morning light. Near the second to last, a thin column of smoke
wafted upward. Whatever vessel had the signal fires ablaze throughout the
night was getting closer. It should reach Mitylene by noon.
She edged into the shadows as her mother’s husband exited the main gate.
His robes drew a dark green line across dew-drenched grass as he hurried
toward the oleander-shrouded path that led down to The Lady’s Park and from
there to the beach, which would soon be crowded with people headed into the
city of New Mitylene to learn what news the night fires foretold.
Despite her mothers repeated warnings of what could happen to her afoot
in the city “now that you’re almost all grown up”, Psappha followed Eurigios∗,
being careful to not let her former nursemaid catch her. Praxinoa∗ would
make her use her mother’s sedan chair. “Its curtains will protect you from
prying eyes,” Praxinoa would have said. They’d also hide everything interesting from
me, Psappha secretly replied.
She peered between towering oleanders to catch fleeting teasing glimpses
of the twin cities beyond The Lady’s Park. When she stepped from between
the hedges, Old Mitylene displayed itself before her. Like a jade and ivory cameo,
tied with two golden-ribbon bridges to the teeming young city on the shore. A jewel in a
crescent of noise, Psappha thought as a poem began to form. Before she went to
bed, she would inscribe it into the wax tablet that lay always ready on her
dressing table.
The ancient city of mansions and gardens rested on an island in the middle
of the bay. In the near harbor, the fishing fleet nestled like a flock of
many-colored ducks. In the deep harbor beyond the bridges, a black-sailed
trireme strained at anchor. A great, chained panther its three rows of oars like claws
reaching skyward.
On the farthest shore, The Lady’s sacred olive grove stretched away from
the beach with young leaves shimmering in dawn-light. Like a thousand needles
sewing up the sky.
Eurigios spoke and the next line of some future poem escaped her.
“Where do you think you’re going, young lady? And where’s your chair?”
Eurigios stroked his neatly cropped blond beard in a pretense of age and
authority. “Your mother will never forgive me if I allow you to stroll about the
city like a street urchin.”
Determined, Psappha squared her shoulders to accent small, pointed
breasts beneath a clinging Egyptian linen peplos. The ribbons girdling her trim
waist held her skirt just above her unpainted toes. “Please,” she said, in a
studied imitation of her mother’s most seductive tone.
Eurigios blinked. “But . . . .” His uncertain demeanor advertised his
youth.
Scarcely ten years older than Psappha, Eurigios was born a scant year
before her brother Charaxos. Maybe that’s why Charaxos chose to study with
Pythagoras in Croton instead of joining Mother and I in exile: Or was it because his birth
twin Alkaios left to rent his sword to King Neccho of Egypt? A pity. They used to all be
such good friends.
Eurigios paid a high price in friendship to gain my mother’s hand. A shame he never
gained her love. Then nobody does-- except maybe Charaxos.
Eurigios moved onto and across the grass at the beachside edge of The
Lady’s Park. Psappha hurried to follow. Enveloped as she was in bitter
childhood memories, she failed to notice the marble bench half hidden in a
cluster of azaleas. It nearly toppled her.
"O-o-oh," she moaned as she collapsed onto the bench. "I've stubbed my
toe."
Across the glade, a giggle of girls danced among the trees, following a lithe
young woman whose ivory-cream skin and long, silver-gold hair perfectly
defined the generally accepted concept of beauty. If only Mother could have such a
child. Long-legged, graceful, creamy-skinned and golden-haired, the dancer was
the embodiment of everything Psappha considered beautiful in a human being:
The opposite of her abbreviated, olive-hided, dark-haired self. "Who is she?"
"Who?"
"That marvelous dancer, who is she?"
Eurigios arched a brow, then shrugged and said, "I don't know much about
her but if you’ll stop dawdling I’ll tell you what I do know as we walk.”
Psappha hurried ahead of him then turned and walked toward the city
backward. “Tell me.”
“Most suppose she is Athenian or an Aeolian from the far country. Her
coloring is Athenian, like your mother’s, but she knew no Hellene when they
found her."
"Found her? Where? What is she called?"
"Turn around, Psappha’ and walk beside me before you stumble again and
fall. Here. Give me your hand. They found her in some wreckage on the
beach. That’s why they call her Atthis.”
“Is she really Atthis, Goddess of the Rugged Coast come to live among
us?”
“I don’t know,” Eurigios said. “She could be I suppose. Who knows?
From the way Poseidon-Earthshaker raged that day, she must at least have his
protection."
"Oh, yes.” Psappha skipped a step to keep pace with him. “I remember.
A few weeks ago, Earth trembled greatly as she repulsed Poseidon’s advances."
Eurigios nodded. “They discovered Atthis on the beach the next
morning.”
“Atthis,” Psappha whispered. The name tickled her palette.
“Come, Psapph’. You’re dawdling again.”
The marketplace on the beach in New Mitylene was a wonder of riches
from throughout the world and Psappha loved every noisy, stinking inch of it.
She would have dashed ahead but for his firm hold on her hand. Fascinated by
the crowds, colors and varying smells, she barely noticed the shabbiness of the
booths that lined the filthy street.
“Here, little lady, sir,” a hawker whined, “the finest wines of the house of
Judah. Sweet wine fit only for so beautiful a lady.”
“No, no, friends,” another pleaded, “only the moon-kissed dates of Libya
are sweet enough to pass the lips of so fair a child of Aphrodite.”
Psappha laughed at their exaggerations. Fair indeed. Ha!
They brushed by another merchant dressed in gaudy foreign garb, his voice
dripping honey. “Pay no attention to them, good sir. No wine nor dates can
compare with the sweetness of Apollo's succulent, golden globes. From the
Sun's own sacred groves I bring you the biggest and the sweetest of his blessed
fruits.”
Psappha edged through a crowd near the temple of Zeus, pulling Eurigios
with her. In the shop there, amid bins of figs, nuts and dried grapes, a dark
little man displayed rough gold disks.
“These are what Achaeans use for trade,” he said, stroking his small, dark
beard. “See the fine image of Aphaea∗ by which they mark them. No more
must merchants spend their days in idle bargaining solely to end up with more
goods for still more bargaining. Now you can pay us in gold coins and with
them we can purchase only that which will sell quickly.”
“But, where would we get them?”
Psappha turned her head enough to see who spoke. Near the edge of the
crowd, a muscular peasant stood, arms akimbo, eyes prancing.
“From me,” said the merchant. “Sell me goods I want and you'll soon have
a supply of gold coins.”
“Where would I carry them?” the man scoffed. “Do you expect me to
carry a basket like a woman?”
Psappha giggled at a mental picture of the huge ruffian with a basket on his
head.
The bearded merchant was not amused. “Where else but in your mouth?”
he snapped. “I'm sure you could carry a fortune there.”
The bleating of a trio of goats being driven into the temple caught
Psappha's attention. Their perfect beauty reminded her of her distrust of
priests and gods who, unable to bleed painlessly themselves, murdered Gaea's
sacred creatures to appease their jealousy.
A grubby merchant in desert robes insinuated a small, jewel-encrusted
mirror in front of Psappha's frown.
“Ah, sir,” he proclaimed, addressing Eurigios. “It is for such beauty as this
that my master makes his magic glass.”
Psappha turned away from him in a huff and confronted her own image,
full-length in a magnificent piece of standing glass.
“Eurigios,” she exclaimed bringing her palms together sharply. “You must
buy this for Mother.”
“I doubt she would like it much right now.”
“I know,” Psappha admitted; her enthusiasm dampened, “but the reflection
is so much clearer than in her polished-copper one. You could save it and
present it to her as a birthing gift.”
“Perhaps it is you who would like it,” he teased.
She crinkled her nose. “I have no use for mirrors. Even if I did, I could
not let you buy me presents.”
“Why not? You are my wife’s daughter and you will marry my brother
when he returns. Why should you feel shy with me?”
Psappha hung her head and scuffed the dust with her shoe. How could she
tell him that she hated the thought of Alkaios’s return? How could she tell that
after seven years his beloved younger brother had become a stranger: A stranger
to whom our parents betrothed me at birth: A stranger to trap me in a life of sedan-chairs
and babes. I want more. Unsure as to what that something more might be she
decided that hurting Eurigios would be pointless. Instead, she smiled and
walked quickly on.
They made their way through the crowds, passing booths bright with
fabrics from unknown lands, brought to Mitylene by Phoenician traders -- stalls
overflowing with figurines and presided over by stiff-bearded Egyptians --
open corrals filled with bellowing cattle. Eurigios hurried her past a refinery
where naked slaves stirred great vats of boiling fleece. Psappha sidestepped
huge jars of lanolin. She ran past slaughter pens swarming with green flies and
held her nose before swine pens deep in slime.
She dawdled near stalls of rare oils, tables strewn with exotic herbs,
brocade-bedecked bins of rare spice. Eurigios tugged her hand and they
stepped onto the quay. Psappha paused once more to admire the sleek, black
trireme. A fitting tribute to the shipwrights of Tyre who built her.
Such contrast, she thought as a flamboyant Egyptian dragon ship slid past the
black trireme.
“Come, Psapph’. The Egyptian will have news.” Eurigios’s grip tightened
but Psappha held her ground.
From here she could see her ancestral home in the old city, tucked close by
the citadel’s south wall, close beside the seat of power. As was my father. The
House of Scamandronomous ∗ should belong to me! Not Charaxos. He left. Our father
would want me to have it. And, not this new babe Mother’s expecting. Let Eurigios provide
for his own.
Eurigios tugged her hand and pulled her along as he hurried the length of
the wharf. The pleasing scents of incense, spices and rare oils quickly gave way
to the stench of rotting fish and sweating stevedores. The dock nearest the
∗ Skamandronomos (Skam-an-DRO-no-maus)
dragon ship gabbled with people. At the very end, a man shouted from atop a
bale of papyrus.
“. . . on the west bank of the river Euphrates, near its westernmost bend.
We camped behind the city. From our fires, we could see Neccho's
encampment.
“The enemy arrived at night. Their fires lit most of the riverbank. We did
not find out who they were until after the battle. By then, they had pushed us
south into Judea. We camped again near Jerusalem.
“The Chaldeans must have been fat with victory. They left us to make
our way back to Egypt as best we could: Nipping at our heels to keep us
moving.”
“What of the Lesbians?” someone called from the crowd.
“They fought bravely and well,” the man said. “Those who did not fall at
Charchemish have earned their wages.”
“Where are they now?” another in the throng shouted.
“Many elected to remain in the Pharaoh's new city for Greeks called
Naucratis,” the man said. “The rest we brought home with us.”
Eurigios did not wait to hear more. Psappha ran to keep pace with him.
“Wait!” she gasped.
“I'm sorry,” he said when she arrived at his side breathless and panting. “I
thought Alkaios might have returned and I forgot everything else.”
“It doesn't matter.” She sighed as her breathing slowed. “I know how
much you love your brother.”
They had re-entered The Lady’s Park. The stone path crackled beneath
their sandals. The dust of the street fell softly from their feet. Psappha glanced
over her shoulder, holding Mitylene in her gaze until the trees blocked her
view.
“Hurry, Psapph’, your mother will be worried.”
No, she won’t.
Eurigios took the hill in sure strides. Psappha’s legs seemed to grow
shorter the longer they climbed. The way seemed rougher than it had in the
morning.
They reached the house to find the outer gate already bolted for the night.
Eurigios called to the guard and the gate squeaked open. “Word has come
from your father's house,” the gatekeeper announced. “Your brother has
returned.”
Eurigios danced an impromptu jig that ended in an exuberant hug. “I must
greet him,” he said as he let her go. “Don’t look so glum. I’ll tell Praxinoa it’s
my fault you’re late.” But not before she’s boxed my ears. “Torches,” he shouted
into the darkness. “Tell your mother where I've gone. I won’t be long,” he
called over his shoulder as he hurried away. Two torchbearers ran to precede
him.
Psappha slumped through the gate. A large dog growled softly then
ambled toward her as she entered the garden. Turquoise-black birds scattered
in his wake.
Psappha knelt to scratch Gruff’s long, drooping ears. Nuzzling his neck
while his tail whipped up dust clouds, she watched the strange new birds. They
glistened in the sunlight. Their excited clucking tickled her belly. She chuckled
softly, not wanting to disturb the old gardener who puttered near the kitchen
door. She smiled an apology as he approached.
"The Minorcan who sold them to us claimed their eggs finer than duck
eggs,” the old gardener said.
“I doubt we’ll ever convince my mother. Though they're the whitest eggs
I've ever seen.”
The old man nodded agreement. “The merchant said they rival those of
the peahen. Perhaps you could have some prepared without telling her.”
"Nothing in this house goes without her notice.” Except me.
"I suppose you're right,” the old gardener said. “But, if that he-bird doesn't
stop waking Dawn, I'll wager he gets eaten before the eggs.”
Psappha returned his grin. “I don’t think I’ll take that wager.”
Most of her understanding of passing events had come from overheard
conversations between this wily old man and her nursemaid, Praxinoa.
As if conjured by a thought, the front door creaked and Praxinoa’s
presence filled the doorway. Psappha’s hands sprang to protect her ears.
“What kept you so late? Don’t plug your ears when I’m talking to you. I
had a terrible time getting your mother to rest.”
“I’m sorry.” Psappha lowered her hands and picked at the folds of her
peplos. “I was with Eurigios.”
“Of course you were. Eurigios left half an hour ago.”
Psappha breathed in as much false confidence as her chest would hold. “I
was in the garden trying to find the right words to tell Mother that he’s gone to
welcome Alkaios. I didn’t want her to be angry with him.”
“It’s you she’s displeased with. I had to tell her where you’ve been all day.
This will be your last childish jaunt, I’m sure.”
Psappha hung her head.
“Change your dress and wash the city from your feet before you see her.”
* * *
Psappha’s satin slippers made no sound as she slipped into her mother’s
chamber. The room was huge and trimmed throughout with precious purple
and intricate ‘broidery. A great lavender-veiled bed dominated one corner; an
orchid draped chaise at its foot.
Klies reclined upon it, the back of one hand shading her closed eyes while
a servant-girl brushed pale hair that glistened like sun-drenched sacred
spider-webs. The sheer violet linen of her gown parted below her distended
abdomen to frame long, slender legs. A second slim, perfectly manicured hand
lay over her voluptuous breasts. Psappha remembered when her mother’s nails
had been cracked and broken, when, in the bad times following
Scamandronomos’s death there was no time for pampering and the purple dye
had been too dear. Was that when I failed her? Did she turn cold because she needed
rest and all I did was cry for her to hold me?
She took a step closer to the chaise, silently catching the servant's attention.
“Mind you don’t wake her,” the girl whispered as she passed Psappha the
brush. “To awaken a pregnant woman is to endanger the life within.”
Psappha perched on the edge of the servant-girl’s stool. Superstitious
nonsense, she thought as she continued the brushing of her mother’s hair
without missing a stroke. The long, moon-gold tendrils entwined her fingers
like gossamer silk. Strands of downy hair draped themselves across her lap.
She wished that she could weave a kiton of them and walk forever with its kiss
upon her skin.
After about ninety strokes, she decided Klies was asleep. Silently signaling
the girl, she whispered, “Come for me the instant she awakes.”
Klies’s azure-blue eyes opened wide and threatening. “Must you come in
here chattering like a blue monkey every time I try to rest?”
“I’m sorry,” Psappha choked through a hidden sob. She had broken a
primary rule. Klies was not to be upset, yet Psappha invariably managed to do
exactly that. In a fluster of movement, she sprang to her feet and fluffed
Klies’s cushions. “Eurigios sent me. He told me to tell you his brother has
returned.”
“I know.”
Psappha sighed. I should have been first with the news. “He said to tell you he’d
return soon.”
“With the dawn no doubt. No matter. It will give us time to talk. Here.
Come. Sit by me. That’s better,” she added as Psappha returned to the servant
girl’s stool. “It’s time to plan your wedding.”
Psappha flinched. “Can’t we do that tomorrow?”
“Now that Alkaios has returned, there’s no reason to wait. Your marriage
has been postponed far too long already.”
Psappha felt as if her mind was on fire. An emotional fever ran through
her veins as she tried to recall his face.
“Psappha, you’re shivering, dear. Run lower the tapestry over the
window.”
“I’m not cold,” Psappha responded honestly, and then went to lower the
tapestry.
The moment she returned, Klies continued. “We must set a date,”
“Yes, ma’am. I s’pose we must.”
“By Aphrodite's sandals, Psappha!” Klies swung her long legs off the side
of the couch and sat up. One would think you’d be pleased.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why must I marry? I have my songs. I could hire myself out to sing at
other people’s weddings.”
“You’re much too old to waste your time plucking your lyre & longing for
fame that will never come. You’ll have enough glory in Alkaios’s shadow, if
he’ll still have you. Every woman needs a husband.”
“Why?”
“Why to raise your children of course.”
“I don’t need children.”
“Of course you need children. Every woman needs children.”
You don’t need me. Psappha hung her head, avoiding the impatience in
Klies’s eyes. What good to be the daughter of kings when my own mother thinks I’m ugly?
I’d rather be a golden-haired goose-girl. She blushed as she remembered things
overheard from goose-girls and shepherd boys while hidden in the orchard.
“Don’t you want to be loved?”
“Of course but why must I marry?”
“Why? Because. That’s why.”
“I will not marry just because.”
“You will marry whom and when you are told.”
“I won’t!”
Klies slapped her. Psappha jumped to her feet, threw the brush across the
room and kicked the stool after it. “I won’t! I’ll weep and wail and cut my
hair.”
“You’ll do no such thing.”
“I will. I will.” Psappha paced the room, keeping just out of view,
measuring her thoughts. “I’ll wed when and if I’m ready or I’ll go to my
marriage bed veiled in black with hair no longer than a robin’s tail. And -- I
won’t wed a stranger; Eurigios’s brother or no. I’d rather spend the rest of my
life in The Lady’s temple. I saw what happened to Dika. She married against
her will and she’s not played or sung a note since. The Lady revoked her gift.”
“That’s enough, Psappha. You will marry Alkaios and that’s that. It’s what
your father wanted.”
Psappha plunked her hands on her hips and glared. “That’s not fair.
Everything I don’t want to do is ‘what your father wished’. My father didn’t
wish to die but it didn’t stop him.”
Klies looked as if Psappha had hit her. Now I’ve done it. What was it the girl
said? Too awaken… but she’s already awake so maybe it’s all right. In a fluster of fear
for her unborn sister, Psappha hastily fluffed Klies’s cushions and eased her
among them. “I’m sorry,” she said and this time she meant it. “I’ll go. You
need to rest.”
“No.” Klies restrained her with a light touch on her arm. “Stay. We can
talk about weddings another time.”
Must we? “Can’t it wait until after my sister is born?”
Klies smiled. “Sister?”
“Of course a sister.” Psappha retrieved her mother’s brush. With the
hairbrush once more in her hand, she resumed her brushing as deftly as she
sometimes stroked the strings of her lyre.
The lyre Alkaios made me after Charaxos failed to teach my immature fingers the secrets
of his kithara. She remembered the day he gave it to her. That was the day she
decided she’d be a notable in The Congress of Poets someday. She couldn’t
wait to tell Alkaios but when she did, he laughed. “Only men receive
invitations from that exalted bunch.” We’ll see, she remembered thinking. We’ll
see.
She had once shared her dream with her mother but Klies had scoffed.
Now, she shyly shared another. “The child you carry will be a beautiful little
golden sister who will grow up looking just like you.”
“For shame, Psappha. Such flattery. You shouldn’t defy the gods. They’ll
get jealous.”
“It isn’t flattery when it’s true. You’re beautiful. I can’t wait to see you
dance at the summer festivals. Oh-h-h,” she groaned with exaggerated grief.
“I can’t possibly marry without you there to dance.”
Klies sniggered. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps we should delay the
wedding until after the birth. I have but one daughter. I will want to dance at
your marriage feast. Perhaps Alkaios will agree to wait for the youngest guest.”
She cast a wry smile toward her abdomen.
Psappha fought to hide her exultation. The child is not due for weeks. There’s
ample time for everyone to change their minds.
* * *
Later, in her own chamber, Psappha devoured the fresh fruit and nuts that
Praxinoa had left for her. Praxinoa had prepared her for sleep since before she
could remember. This night, Psappha was glad she wasn’t there. She needed
time alone to sort her thoughts. Her mind was a maze of questions she
preferred to ignore. Determinedly, she covered her doubts with Praxinoa’s
habitual evening queries. What did you do all day? Did you study your Homer? Did
you make any new songs?
When that no longer worked, she left her clothes in a rumple on the floor
and snuggled into bed where she hugged her goose down pillow and scrunched
her eyelids tight. However, Morphios was busy elsewhere and his dreamevoking
son Hypnos was nowhere to be found.
Toward midnight, she got up, took up her lyre and went to perch, nude, on
the sill of the open arch that served her as a window. At first, her touch on the
strings was automatic; her throaty alto voice doleful as she sang, “Maidenhood,
maidenhood why wouldst thou fly from me? Golden-tressed Lady-of-thepure-
and-beautiful where is thy compassion? Electrum-crowned Majesty, have
mercy,” she sang to Aphrodite but it was Klies she envisioned on the peacock
throne. “I am to wed a man I no longer know.”
After a time, her music brought her calm and comfort and finally,
inevitably, joy. Her fingers danced upon the sacred strings; composing;
creating prayer-songs of such beauty and power that she was herself amazed by
The Lady’s gifts.
The heavy throb of a kithara vibrated through the night and she missed a
note. A moment later, she joined the unseen kitharist in an ode to Eros that
caused her pulse to quicken. Each note blended with those of her dulcet lyre.
The tempo increased as the kitharist led her into a rousing paean to Pan.
She recognized the melody. She had heard it often as a child. She blushed,
remembering the day Alkaios taught her the paean’s naughty words. She
sighed almost with relief when the irreverent paean strummed to a close.
Her rest was brief. A moment and then the twang of martial music
stormed the night. The composition, an intricacy of trills and patterns designed
to defeat the skill of a lesser artist was one Psappha had never heard but she
quickly rose to the kitharist’s challenge then followed with a new piece of her
own. The kithara quieted, as if the kitharist had faltered. Not so. When she
finished her piece, the challenger continued.
Psappha picked up the next tune with little effort. This time she
recognized the song. It was a toast to wine and roistering, played as only
Alkaios could play it. She recalled the first time she heard it. She was nine. A
week later, he was gone.
Now, as their duet carried her back to childhood -- yesterday -- when
encumbering responsibilities had been a distant illusion she set aside her
distaste for his martial compositions, his fascination for war and wine, and
heard only the interwoven harmony. Alkaios was her teacher and her friend.
She had forgotten that she missed him.
As she matched his kithara with her grown up lyre, perfect harmony
brought back the beauty of his face. It was a boy’s face. But -- he is no longer a
boy!
(Notes)
Psappha (Suh-FAH)
Eurigios (you-ri-GUY-aus)
Praxinoa (prax-in-NO-ah)
Charaxos (KAY-rah-khaus)
Alkaios (Al-KAY-aus)
Neccho, Pharaoh of Egypt (609-593 bce)
Atthis (AT-this)
Aphrodite = one of The Lady’s many names.
Aphaea (a [as in at] FAY-ah)
The 11th dynasty of the Kings of Babylon (6th century BC) is conventionally known to
historians as the Chaldean Dynasty.
Naucratis (gnaw-KRAT-tiss) Egypt
Klies (KLEE-ace)