Sappho (37 page)

mortals in beauty—desert the best

of men, her king,

and sail off to Troy and forget

her daughter and dear kinsmen? Merely

the Kyprian's gaze made her bend and led

her from her path;

these things remind me now

of Anaktoria who is far,

and I

for one

would rather see her warm supple step

and the sparkle of her face—than watch all the

dazzling chariots and armored hoplites of Lydia

Atthis was greatly agitated. “You do not think that Anaktoria forgets? No, she could not, she promised, not one second of our time together. She is true, Lady. And loyal to me, her dearest friend. She did not want to go to Sardis, it was not her doing. It was her parents. She obeyed them, what else could she do?”

Sappho thought about this. “Not obey them,” she said and rose to leave.

Atthis ran after her and clutched her arm. “What do you mean, not obey them? Is there any girl who would not obey her parents?”

Sappho laughed. “It is only my madness. You know those whom the Muses inhabit are made frenzied and have lawlessness of mind.… If I loved one who dances as Queen Hera walks, with golden sandals … then neither parents nor Erinyes could drag me away.”

“But you are Sappho. Another could not be so strong.”

“Of that I do not know. As you say, I am Sappho.” Then, relenting, “Shall I stay with you awhile? Perhaps I can bring you comfort. I have thought of another way to praise Anaktoria. Listen.”

The charm of Anaktoria's bearing,

her radiant features

would give me more pleasure

to see

than all the chariots of the Lydians

and all their armored infantry

marching to attack

Atthis responded with apathy.

“I will cheer you with some very old songs.”

“Oh, would you? I dared not ask it.”

Sappho replied, “First, lie across your bed and I will comb out the snarls and tangles of your hair. What a state you have allowed yourself to get into.”

“I am so unhappy. So alone.”

“You are not alone. I am with you.” And seating herself on the bed, she took Atthis's head in her lap and with a comb of jade began to sort out and separate the curls. “I said I would sing to you. Let me begin with this.”

I saw one day gathering flowers

a very dainty little girl

“How pretty that is.”

“The little girl was you, Atthis.”

“Me?”

“Perhaps you were four, I don't know. But you held more jonquils than your small hands could clasp. One dropped and I picked it up and gave it to you. And you were as golden as the flowers you held, and as perfect.”

Atthis frowned slightly in concentration. “I think I almost remember, perhaps I do … a kind lady…”

“There. Now your hair is combed through.”

“Don't go, stay with me.”

“Shall I bathe you then and put you to bed, like the little girl I sang of long ago?”

“Yes, oh yes. I fear so to be alone.”

Sappho took the rings from her toes and ordered the marble pool filled. A pipe coming downstream led through the kitchen, where it was heated by passing above the open hearth. This ingenious method of receiving warm water when one turned the satyr's golden head she had learned in Syracuse and, being much impressed by it, installed the system here in her own villa. When one was finished bathing, other pipes carried the water to the sea.

The pool was filled and tested for warmth by the hand of slaves. When it was pronounced satisfactory, Sappho threw down her chiton and stepped into the polished bath.

Atthis hung back and did not raise her eyes to Sappho or remove her garment.

Sappho laughed at her shyness. “All my girls have seen me naked in my bath. Why not in yours? Come, drop your chiton and enter the water.”

Atthis did as Sappho said.

“O mortal-enchanting daughter of Aphrodite!” Sappho exclaimed taking her hand and drawing her down the marble steps. She floated Atthis's body in the perfumed water. “Are you girl or nymph?” she asked bending over her.

Atthis closed her eyes and the water lifted and buoyed her against Sappho, who caressed her, saying, “This is as the gods would have it. Lean against me and pretend I am Anaktoria.”

“Anaktoria?”

“Yes, Anaktoria. I will show you the twenty-two places of the skin that are made for love.”

“I do not know … I do not think…” the girl said in perturbation, but her nipples rose against Sappho's touch.

Sappho stroked gently. Love was an art she had studied well. Leaving the bath, she urged the dazed girl to the couch, where she sketched the slender lines of her groin with her finger. “All is rosy and perfect in you.” And she ravished her until there was frenzied response in the body she tasted. “You are the sister of my bed,” she whispered.

Selene, the Moon goddess, beaming eye of night, looked on their pleasure. Atthis, bewildered yet sated, dropped into sleep, but Sappho roused her to love again, murmuring:

I loved you, Atthis,

long ago,

when my own girlhood was still

all flowers

For a while Sappho drowsed, too, but she could not miss a second of this night. She spoke to the evening star:

Fairest of all stars that shine …

Atthis tucked her feet under her to listen. It was one of her favorites that Sappho sang to her:

They said that Leda

once found hidden

an egg of hyacinth color

And once more she recalled to her:

It was summer when I found you in the meadow

long ago

And the golden vetch was growing by the shore …

Then she prayed aloud, and it almost seemed she prayed to Atthis:

May this night last for me as long as two

With careful strokes she rouged Atthis's nether lips, and the young form undulated with a rhythm Sappho invented for them. Still she must peak once more, and she cried in her throat for release from the frenzy the girl brought her.

But the golden-sandaled one could no longer be held back. The night that Sappho wished doubled, had ended.

Atthis clung to her. “O miraculous Sappho, I see now I never loved, or even knew its meaning, never suspected how it tingles the skin and grips the body in paroxysms that are almost pain. Anaktoria was just my friend, we were two girls. Until this night I did not know how it could be. I am shaken. I fear you will tire of me.”

“How could I tire of you, when of all my hetaerae you sing most prettily?” Instead of leaving, in the full light of morning she drew the girl to her. One more time the ache, one more time the rush of fulfillment. “All nights are ours, Atthis.”

The days, too, were theirs. Leaving the instruction of her hetaerae to her most accomplished freemen and slaves, she walked in mountain paths with Atthis. Sappho told stories of bearded satyrs with tails and pointed ears, who longed for the flesh of women. These tales made Atthis cling to her more closely. Searching her mind, Sappho found a story or myth for every sacred place they visited. Resting in sweet clover they rolled over on each other.

For me

love possesses

the brightness

and the beauty of the sun

And, squinting, they made rainbow-colored shafts appear.

In gratitude to Kyprian Aphrodite, Sappho and Atthis spent a day in decking and making fair her temple.

Sappho sang:

Hither to me from Crete

to this holy temple where you

will find

your lovely grove of apples

And your altars smoked with frankincense

Many times Sappho settled her head in Atthis's lap and asked the girl to sing to her. The young voice delighted her, and she declared it “more sweet singing than the lyre.”

Alone in her chambers Sappho started a new song:

Love, fatal creature …

But she was too happy to work and put it by, sending again for Atthis. In a simple cadence she told her:

It is time now

for you who are so

pretty and charming

to share in games

that the pink-ankled

Graces play, and Aphrodite

She teased her, too, with riddles:

What is

far sweeter tuned

than a lyre,

colder than gold

softer than velvet,

much whiter

than an egg?

Sometimes she was conscious that Gongyla watched them. She was sorry the girl insisted on staying on, and sorrier still that she sought for ways to please her. When the hetaerae were set sums to do, it was Gongyla who finished first and looked to her for praise. She could not give even that. The shade of Erinna would not permit it, and she turned away from the hurt in Gongyla's eyes. Why, oh why, could not everyone be happy as she was?

In the midst of their play and their happiness, a missive came from Sardis. Atthis brought it solemnly and gave it to Sappho.

Sappho looked not at it, but at her. “Well? How is it with our sister Anaktoria?”

“It is as you said, O illustrious Sappho. Anaktoria is a fine lady now and much admired. Sometimes her thoughts turn to us.”

Sappho said probingly, “We have not thought of her as often as we should.”

Atthis tossed her head. “She left, didn't she?” Then creeping close, added, “Her leaving brought me to your side. And in your effort to console me, look what has happened to us.”

Sappho appeared to agree, nibbling at the precious body as though it were a fruit. But she was frightened. She knew the gods were jealous, and she sang:

Afraid of losing you

I ran fluttering

like a little girl

after her mother

Dismissing her fears, she decided it was time for another story. Her store was endless. “In far Samos there was an incisor of gems, who drew dexterously on their surfaces, and with the finest line produced the lineaments of a loved one's features, or a rose, or a verse so small it took another gem to read it. When we love, Atthis, I feel I am inside a gem. I cannot describe to you what your love does to me.”

But Atthis was intrigued by another story, one Sappho had told previously. “When the peacock and the woman mated, and she wound her legs around its body and clung with her arms about its neck…”

Sappho waited.

“I wonder, was the bird's organ larger than a man's?”

“And longer,” Sappho said emphatically.

“Sometimes I wish I were married just to know what it is like.”

The words were spoken heedlessly, yet Sappho brooded over them. She ended by sending for her daughter. “Kleis, I do not like being at odds with you, especially now that Gongyla is no longer close to me. If you cannot make up with her, surely that is not my fault.” Then taking a different tack, she smiled on her, a warm full smile. “For my part, I have forgiven you. You cannot doubt it, Kleis, because I ask a favor.”

Kleis said warily, “What do you wish, Mother?”

“Only this—that you go to the caves of the priestesses and make offering for me of Sardinian coins of much worth, which I will give you. In return, bring back the poppy they grow and a jar of satyrion.”

“Yes, Mother.” There was heavy judgment in each word.

Sappho endured it. She dared not send a house slave, as she could not bear Niobe's censure, and they all reported to her. A base slave from the fields might be sent, but such a one could be counted on to water the satyrion and reserve a portion of the poppies for herself. And these were the precious ingredients needed to bind Atthis to her.

Kleis was gone a long time. But late afternoon a basket was left outside Sappho's door. Sappho withdrew the ingredients, trembling as she did so. The poppy seeds she ordered baked in little cakes with caraway. These she served Atthis herself. Then, sending away her women, she poured the aphrodisiac, watching with hidden glances as Atthis ate and drank. While she waited she sang new songs hymned to her loveliness:

I render your beauty the sacrifice of all my thoughts,

and worship you with all my senses

Atthis began to laugh. It was true that she could not be serious long, but now her laugh was mindless. She tore off her clothes and before Sappho realized what she intended, ran out the door of the chamber and out of the house, where she offered herself to the other hetaerae as they passed singly or in twos and threes.

Sappho did not know whether to run after her or hide in the house. She watched from behind a wooden lattice. It was Gongyla who finally took Atthis by the hand and led her to her cottage.

The time seemed endless to Sappho, but it was only ten or fifteen minutes before Atthis ran back outside, naked still, screaming wildly, and clutching her mound. To Sappho's horror she ran at and rubbed herself against any protuberance that offered.

Sappho sent a eunuch to lay hands on the girl and bring her inside. Atthis was sobbing hysterically. “Gongyla pretended she would love me,” she gasped out, “but when I lay on my back to receive her she poured black pepper into me. My body is on fire. I burn. I burn!”

Together, Sappho and the slave dragged Atthis to the bath and rinsed away the irritant.

Atthis cried all night with humiliation, but Desire had not left her. Only this time none of Sappho's tricks satisfied her; the drug had raised a lust she could not assuage. Where was the delicacy of her golden girl? Where the daintiness, for she masturbated against her Samian shoe, then, grabbing a taper from the wall, plunged it into herself, grinding her body against it. She taunted Sappho, saying, “You, O Sappho, cannot bring me peace. I want a man. I want a man's rod.”