Thais of Athens

Chapter Six. The Thread of Laconian Fate

After nine days of cramped and dark temple rooms, her head spun slightly in the open space. The wind of Set was over. The air had become so clear that the giant pyramids could be seen eighty stadiums to the north. The two shallow lakes behind the temple had almost completely dried out. Thais pulled up the hem of her linen stola, walked across the well-trampled clay between the ponds, and headed to the large park, avoiding the noisy street. After so much quiet, she felt uncomfortable in the midst of a large crowd.

As soon as she stepped outside the wall which surrounded the park, and turned toward the pier, she heard the swift footfalls of a soldier behind her. She recognized the sound of Menedem without even looking.

“Where are you coming from, darling?” she gently greeted the Spartan.

“I was loitering around the temple. Today is the tenth day and the end of your captivity. I didn’t guess right away that you would go across the ponds. Oh Thais. I missed you so. I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye before you left because the damn sorcerer clouded all of our brains during the symposium. Thank gods for your Theban. She explained everything to me, or else I would have broken that Mitilenian’s every bone.”

Thais placed her hand on the warrior’s huge shoulder. “Don’t be jealous.”

“Oh no, not at all. I know now who you are, Mistress.”

Thais stopped walking, staring at him inquisitively.

“Yes, yes,” the Spartan continued. “Here.” He took her hand, bowed and kissed the ring with the triangular symbol on her finger.

“You are an Orphic?” Thais exclaimed in surprise. “Have you been initiated too?”

“Oh no. My elder brother is a priest of Rhea. From him I learned mysteries I am unable to comprehend. But they draw me, the way the curtain between life and death does, between love and beauty. And I can feel them, even though I do not understand, because I am but a simple soldier brought up for battles and death. A true Orphic doesn’t even kill animals and birds. He doesn’t eat meat.”

Thais suddenly felt a surge of tenderness toward this mighty man, who was as sensitive and gentle as a boy in the matters of gods and love.

“Come with me,” Menedem said. “I want to celebrate your initiation.”

“Very well,” Thais agreed. She smiled warmly at him. “I am glad you came to meet me.”

For his meetings with Thais, Menedem had rented a small adobe house on the western edge of the city, surrounded by scarce palm trees and vegetable gardens. The river valley narrowed here and the house stood not far from the third main alley. Thais was always touched at the sight of Menedem’s home, furnished plainly even for a Spartan. She kept forgetting that from the Laconian standpoint, Menedem was still not of age, was not an andros since he was not yet thirty years old. He still obeyed the army discipline, which was far more severe than even the society rules applied to free Spartan women.

Two or three lovely vases and several animal skins were all the decoration the modest soldier could afford. During Thais’ absence, a bronze tripod of ancient workmanship had appeared in the house.

Menedem offered Thais to take off her long linostolia, then lifted her up and set her on the tripod, as if she were an oracle priestess or a goddess. The surprised Athenian obeyed, curious as to what would happen next.

The Spartan brought some burning coals from the kitchen and poured them into two incense burners standing to the sides, and the fragrance of precious Arabian gums rose next to Thais in two smoky streams.

Menedem took her hand again and pressed his lips to the ring with the triangle. Bowing his head, he knelt slowly and remained in this position for so long that Thais started feeling awkward, both from his solemnity and from the uncomfortable seat on the tall tripod. She moved carefully, afraid to offend him.

The Spartan spoke. “You are so intelligent and beautiful. I believe you are not a mere mortal. Thank you for the divine joy you bring to me. I cannot express my great happiness, my tongue does not obey me, but even in my sleep I see the gentle smile of Aphrodite. I have nothing to give you except my life. But it is so little, the life of a soldier, destined for death.”

“Oh, you are the best for me, my Soter, my savior. I rejoice under the wing of your strength and I love you,” Thais leaned toward the Spartan and placed both hands on his curly head. “Get up, please.”

Menedem lifted his eyes and Thais sensed the adoration and joy of his pure and courageous soul. Embarrassed but happy, the Athenian tried to be cheerful and push away her worry that came from someplace unknown. She was concerned over the great responsibility of her lover, for whom she had become a goddess and the apple of his eye.

The day passed so quickly for them that Menedem barely managed to get ready for his night duty in stratopedon.

Ignoring her objections, Menedem sat her on his shoulder and ran down to the pier, then hired a boatman there and ordered him to transport her to the north side of the city. Only after that did he run to the camp. He was a tireless runner, and he always managed to make it on time.

A tired Thais sat in the boat, gazing sadly upon the clear cool water. The Nile was particularly clear this time of year. Perhaps the melancholy had been brought on by Menedem’s words about their approaching separation. He had been subdued when he’d told Thais about a letter, received by Eositeus from king Agis, in which he was ordering the detachment back to Sparta. The arrival of the Macedonian king, Alexander, to Egypt and his conquering of the country were inevitable. It would be senseless for a handful of Spartans to oppose the one who had beaten the Persians. Thus, their presence in Egypt was no longer required.

The pharaoh was a servant of priests. He departed for Elephantine and his treasury had already hinted to Eositeus that their payments might soon stop. Darius’ envoy hadn’t issued any orders either. Presently, the country was in the hands of priests.

“And so you must go with your people?” Thais asked, feeling panic race through her body.

“It is unavoidable. But how can I part with you? A goblet of coneyon^[14] would be better.”

Thais placed her fingers over the warrior’s lips. “Don’t say that. Would you like me to come with you? Come back to Hellas?”

“That would be beyond my greatest dreams. But …” The Spartan hesitated.

“What?”

“Had I been going home after the end of war, but now … Don’t tell anyone, but I think there will be a war.”

“Against the Hellenic union and Alexander?”

“Who else?”

“You, Spartans, are desperately brave and stupidly stubborn. You will end badly. But can’t you stay here with me?”

“As who? Salmaakh’s stableboy? Or to make flower wreaths?”

“Why so harsh? We’ll think about it, we’ll find a way. There is still time. Eositeus is not sailing anytime soon, is he?”

“No sooner than Alexander’s arrival.”

“It is too bad that you cannot join Alexander.”

“Ah, you understand. Yes, being a Spartan, of whom he is not fond … You know, he even rejected Sparta’s name on a trophy.”

“This can be resolved. He is my friend.”

“Your friend? Yes, of course, I forgot about Ptolemy. But I must be with my men either way, both in glory and in death.”

“I understand. This is why I do not think you’ll go into service for the Macedonians.”

Thais spent the entire trip home trying to come up with something for Menedem, but failed. She felt helpless and sadness overcame her more and more.

As soon as Thais appeared among the Persian apple trees of her little garden, Hesiona ran to her with a joyous squeal, then hugged the Theban like a sister. Clonaria ran over too, regarding the “Daughter of the Snake” jealously and trying to push her away from the mistress.

Without further ado, they made Thais lie down on a rough massage bench. Both girls fussed over her, reproaching her for completely letting herself go.

“We’ll have to work all night to get the mistress’ body into proper shape,” the slave girl said, deftly wielding a pair of bronze tweezers and a sponge which had been soaked in a solution of bryony root for eliminating skin hair and restoring the smoothness.

At the same time, Hesiona was preparing a fragrant liquid using Thais’ favorite scent: iris and neuron. Delicately feathered leaves of neuron with their sharp fragrance of slightly bitter freshness were available aplenty here in Egypt. In Hellas they only blossomed for a short time in the month of Elafebolion.

Thais’ transformation into a priestess of Aphrodite, fragrant and smooth as a statue, was interrupted by the arrival of a triumphant Egesikhora. She kissed her friend in greeting, but her horses were waiting so she was forced to rush off after promising to come and spend the night.

That night the friends relaxed in the dimly lit bedroom. The flame of lucnoses^[15], subdued by the tiles of yellow onyx, lit the room with a soft golden flickering. A nightlight was set near the bed, and Egesikhora thought that Thais’ clear profile looked carved out of some dark stone against its backdrop. Thais raised her hand and the sparkling ring attracted the Spartan’s attention.

“You started wearing that recently. Tell me, whose gift is it?” Egesikhora asked, examining the carved stone.

“It’s not a gift but a sign,” Thais objected.

The Spartan snorted mockingly. “We all wore such signs as auletridae. It was convenient. If you turn the tip of the triangle away from you everyone knows you are taken. If you turn the tip toward you, you are free. But the rings were bronze and the stone was blue glass.”

“Was the pattern the same as this?” Thais smiled mischievously.

“Yes, the triangle of the great goddess. No, wait. Ours were narrower, sharper. The triangle on your ring has its sides widely spread, like Astarte’s. And the background is a circle. Do you understand the meaning of this sign?”

“Not entirely,” Thais replied reluctantly, but Egesikhora lifted her head, distracted. Faint sounds could be heard from somewhere in the house, as if someone was composing a sad melody.

“It’s Hesiona,” the Athenian explained. “She made a siringa^[16] from reeds.”

“She is an odd one. Why don’t you marry her off if you don’t intend to teach her as a hetaera?”

“She needs to recover from all the horror, rape and slavery.”

“How long is she going to be recovering? It’s time.”

“Different people heal differently. What’s the rush? When Hesiona becomes a real woman and falls in love, a new star of beauty will rise. Beware then, gold-haired one.”

Egesikhora chuckled in disdain. “Your miserable Theban is going to compete with me, is she?”

“Anything is possible. Just wait till Alexander’s army gets here.”

Egesikhora’s expression suddenly turned serious. “Lie next to me, cheek to cheek, so that no one can hear us.”

The Spartan told her friend what she already knew: Eositeus was getting ready to leave Egypt. The Spartan strategist had demanded that Egesikhora come with him. He did not wish to part with her, thought he could not do it.

“What about you?” Thais asked.

Egisikhora shook her head. “I am sick of his jealousy. I don’t want to part with you and would rather wait for Nearchus.”

“What if Nearchus has long since forgotten you? Then what?”

“Then …” the Lacedemonian said, then smiled mysteriously. She hopped off the bed and returned with a small basket, woven from the leaves of a date palm.

Wealthy shoppers usually took such baskets to buy cosmetics. Egesikhora sat on the edge of the bed with one leg curled under her (the leg celebrated by the Memphis poets as a “silver-sculpted” one), and pulled out a box made of wood Thais hadn’t seen before.

Interested, she sat up and touched the smooth, grayish cover with her fingertips.

“This is narthex wood in whose trunk Prometheus brought fire from heaven to the people of earth. Alexander has an entire chest made of narthex. He keeps a copy of the Iliad in it, edited by your friend Aristotle.” Egesikhora burst out laughing.

“And who ran away from Athens because of this friend?” Thais replied, flicking an eyebrow at her friend. “But how do you know such details about Alexander?”

The Spartan silently opened the box and pulled out a sheet of papyrus, covered on both sides with Nearchus’ small, tidy handwriting.

“Nearchus, the son of Merion, sends wishes of health to Egesikhora and encloses all this.” The Spartan poured a handful of precious stones onto the bed, as well as two bottles of sparkly tiger’s eye set in gold.

High class hetaerae knew as much about precious stones as would a professional jeweler. Thais pulled one of the lanterns out of the onyx shade and the friends leaned over the gift. There were fiery red pyropes (“flaming eyes”), a huge ruby with a six point star inside, deep blue “royal” beryllium, several bright violet hyacinths, two large pink pearls, a flat pale purple stone with metallic sheen with which the hetaerae were not familiar, and the golden chrysolites of the Eritrean Sea. Nearchus knew his gems well and had made a truly royal gift to his lover, from whom he had been separated for so long.

Egesikhora, flushed with pride, lifted the jewels in her hand, reveling in their sparkle. Thais hugged and kissed her with congratulations.

“Oh, I almost forgot. Forgive me, I lose myself at the sight of the gift.”

The Spartan unrolled a piece of red leather and handed Thais a tiny statuette of Anaitis or Anachita, skillfully carved out of a large sapphire. It was approximately the size of a pinky finger. The goddess stood in a lifelike pose, different from the usual solemn, motionless one, with one arm behind her head and the other supporting a heavy spherical breast. The dark blue stone shimmered like silk around her curves.

“Nearchus sent this to you and asked to remember him.”

The Athenian picked up the precious knickknack with mixed feelings of irritation and relief. Ptolemy also could have sent something as a sign of remembrance, but considering he hadn’t sent anything, she thought he must have forgotten her. Thank Migonitida. If Alexander and his captains showed up here, she wouldn’t have to solve a problem of getting rid of a former lover who was now an army leader of a mighty conqueror.

“Are you thinking about Ptolemy?” the Spartan asked. She pressed a warm hand to her friend’s cheek, perceptive like all women are.

“No.” Thais shook her head, dismissing the subject. “What are you going to do?”

“Wait for Nearchus,” Egesikhora replied with certainty.

“What about Eositeus?”

“Let him go to Sparta, to Macedonia, even to Erebus itself.”

“Are you not afraid of his jealousy?”

“I am afraid of nothing.”

“I know you are timoleaina, as courageous as a lioness, but take my advice. Keep this box at my house.”

“Your advice is sound.”

At the end of the last Attica spring month, Skyrophorion, the entire land of Egypt became unusually restless. Alexander’s mechanics built a huge pier and finally took the invincible Tyre after a seven month siege. Eight thousand defenders of the city were killed, thirty thousand citizens were sold into slavery. Three thousand of them were now building a slope of sand at the walls of Gaza, suffering greatly from a lack of water, an abundance of beatings and the cruel sun. The city decided to resist, despite the lesson of the mighty Tyre. They had been deceived by the assurances of Darius’ messengers that the king of Persia was coming with an innumerable army.

Darius didn’t come to the walls of Gaza, rather they met with a wall of sand taller than its towers. From this wall the Macedonians struck the defenders as if they were in a valley. The cleverness of the mechanics didn’t stop there. Protected by the sand walls, the Macedonians dug under the walls of Gaza, causing them to crumble.

In the last cruel battle, Alexander was badly wounded. Aristander the seer warned the king that he would be in grave danger if he decided to participate in the battle, but Alexander’s hot blood kept him from heeding the warning. A boulder from an “apparatus”, as they called the war machines for throwing stones, pierced his shield and struck his left shoulder, breaking a rib and a collar bone. As he was carried away from the battlefield, accompanied by the dismayed cries of his army, Alexander smiled and greeted his soldiers by raising his right hand.

All male defenders of Gaza were slaughtered, all women and children were sold into slavery. Alexander ordered his men to destroy all temples. In Tyre he stopped and placed a military siege machine at the main temple of Bel, and left Nearchus’ ship in the main square of the city.

The way to Egypt lay open before him, and Alexander was expected in Memphis by the end of summer. In Boedromion, in fact, as soon as he recovered from the wound. Many wealthy people escaped across the sea. Beautiful houses with large gardens in the northern part of Memphis were sold at half price.

The Spartans were getting ready to leave. Two ships of the strategist Eositeus arrived from Naucratis. They waited at the pier, ready to take on a hundred goplits of the guards, the strategist’s possessions and Egesikhora’s horses.

The Spartan hetaera walked around as if lost, having learned of her friend’s decision to return to Hellas. After two sleepless nights, Thais came up with a job for her Spartan in Athens. Thais’ house was still intact with all the furnishings. She invited Egesikhora to stay with her. The term of punishment for crippling Aristotle’s philosophers had ended in Megateynion of the same year.

The Lacedemonian begged Thais and Menedem not to abandon her in Memphis.

“Why do you want to stay?” the Athenian asked. “Let us sail with Eositeus on the Spartan ships.”

“I can’t. Your clarity of mind has abandoned you because of your love for Menedem,” Egesikhora objected. “Once we are in Sparta, I shall never break free of Eositeus. And he has plans for a big war.”

“Again? Haven’t your compatriots had enough? I am so sick of their war mongering cruelty. Young Spartans learn how to hunt slaves since a tender age.”

“What is so bad about that? They are taught manly toughness in handling the slaves in order to suppress the mere thought of freedom in them.”

“A slave owner is a slave himself, even worse than his servants.”

Egesikhora shrugged her shoulders. “I have long since gotten used to the Athenian frivolity in such things, but you shall pay for it.”

“Sparta will fall sooner, like an elderly lion that becomes food for vile hyenas.”

“We are arguing about superficial things, as if we were men,” Egesikhora said impatiently. “You are avoiding my request. Why won’t you and Menedem stay with me until the Macedonians arrive. They won’t harm your lover, I swear.”

“I can protect him myself.”

“Then do it for me.”

“Very well, I’ll talk to Menedem.”

The Lacedemonian clasped her friend in her arms and covered her dark cheeks with kisses of gratitude.

But disaster fell upon them, unexpectedly as always, akin to a lightning strike. Both friends were walking along the pier, already accustomed to the shouts of admiration of the passing citizens both male and female. They were enjoying the river during the gentle Egyptian late summer evening.

At the height of its water level, the Nile flows faster. Its darkened waters carry fewer boats than during the shallow water period.

Menedem was on duty at the Spartan camp. Instead of him, Hesiona followed Thais, always walking a step behind, hiding her face behind a silk scarf from overly inviting glances. The endless procession of pedestrians moved slowly in both directions as they watched the Memphis celebrities. People here dressed much more modestly than in Athens, and especially more in wealthy cities of Asia Minor and Syrian coast. Further behind the two friends came Eositeus who attracted everyone’s attention with his height, which was over four elbows, and three enormous lokhagosi, or detachment captains. The Spartans, wearing battle sashes, capes and helms crowned by tall brushlike crests of horse hair, towered over the crowd like menacing gods. The Egyptian and Persian soldiers were nowhere to be seen.

In the spot where the Nile circled the ancient dam, used for setting a floating bridge, the pier widened into a large square, surrounded by huge trees. Two palm alleys spread in a fork, away from the west side of the square, decorated with two brightly polished obelisks.

A cloud of dust moved down the right alley toward them, coming from a rider in a blue cape of angareyon, Persian horseback mail. A bunch of hair similar to the tip of a lion’s tail hung from his spear, meaning that he had been dispatched with a special assignment. The rider halted his horse between the obelisks and searched the crowd of pedestrians. His experienced eyes quickly located that whom he sought. He dismounted and strode across the stream of people, walking in the awkward gait of someone who spent his life in the saddle. He shoved aside the curious and stopped before the hetaerae.

Egesikhora grew so pale that Thais became worried about her and hugged her, pulling her closer in the eternal feminine gesture of protection.

The rider in blue bowed. “I have ridden from your house, Mistress. They told me that I could find you walking along the river. Who could be mistaken, seeing you? You are Egesikhora the Spartan.”

The hetaera nodded silently, licking her lips.

The messenger pulled out a packet of thin red leather from behind his belt.

“Nearchus, the Cretan and the fleet leader of the divine Alexander, sends you this letter and requests an immediate answer.”

Egesikhora grabbed the small packet, clasping it in her delicate fingers.

Thais came to her aid. “Where can we find you in the evening for reply and reward?”

The messenger named a xenon of the mail station, where he was staying, and Egesikhora waved him away. She did so just in time. Eositeus made an attempt to grab the letter, but Egesikhora evaded him and hid the leather bundle under the sash of her chiton.

“Hey, come here!” the strategist yelled at the departing messenger.

The man in blue turned around and Eositeus grabbed him.

“Tell me, where is the letter from? Who sent you? Tell me, or else you shall be detained and answer to the whistling of a whip.”

The messenger flushed and wiped his dusty face with a corner of his cape.

“Captain, you threaten me against tradition and law. The letter came from afar, and from a powerful man. All I know are the words I was to say when I handed in the packet. You would have to ride for many parsangs through tens of mail statmoses (stations), before you find out where the gold-haired one’s letter came from.”

Eositeus came to his senses, released the messenger and approached Egesikhora. He scowled at her. “Gods are clearing my mind. Your reluctance to leave … Give me the letter. It is important for my military purposes.”

The hetaera lifted her chin higher. “I shall read it myself first. Step aside.”

Egesikhora’s tone was firm. Eositeus stepped away and the hetaera instantly opened the packet. Thais, who was watching her, saw that the stern wrinkle between her friend’s eyebrows disappeared. A light, carefree smile of the former Egesikhora of the Athenian days touched her lips. She whispered something to Hesiona. The girl stepped to the side, bent over, then handed a heavy stone to the Spartan. Before the strategist realized what was happening, Egesikhora wrapped the letter around the stone and tossed it deftly into the river with unfeminine force. The packet vanished in the depths of the river.

“You shall pay for this!” the strategist roared. The Memphis citizens who observed this scene laughed and joked.

Eositeus wanted to grab her hand, but Egesikhora twisted away and vanished in the crowd. The military captain considered it beneath his dignity to pursue a woman, and turned arrogantly toward his camp, accompanied by his associates.

Thais and Hesiona ran and caught up with the flushed Egesikhora. Overjoyed, her eyes shining with excitement, she looked so beautiful that everyone turned around to look at her.

“What was in the letter?” the Athenian asked briskly.

“Nearchus is in Naucratis. He offers to sail to meet him or to wait in Memphis. Alexander is to arrive here even sooner than planned,” Egesikhora said, slightly out of breath.

Thais was silent, regarding her friend as if she were a stranger. The sun was setting beyond the cliffs of the Libyan desert, and the soft light of pre-twilight calm clearly outlined Egesikhora’s entire figure. While she watched, Thais thought she saw a strange shadow tossing a veil of doom over the Spartan’s face. Black circles appeared around her eyes, dark grooves undercut her delicate nostrils and overshadowed the clear lines of her mouth. It was if her friend became instantly strange and distant, aged by dozens of years.

Thais sighed and reached out to touch a strand of the Lacedemonian’s golden hair, realizing it was only a play of shadows of the fast Egyptian sunset. Egesikhora laughed, not understanding her friend’s mood. But the vague foreboding had darkened Thais’ mood.

“You must disappear for a little bit, my friend,” Thais said, grabbing her friend’s arm. “Just until the Spartan detachment leaves.”

“No one will dare, especially now. Not as I am under the protection of the invincible one,” Egesikhora objected.

Thais could not agree with her. “Eositeus and his Spartans are people of particular courage. They are not afraid either of death or of fate. If you do not want to sail from Egypt tied up in a ship’s hold, I suggest that you think about it. I can find you such a hiding place, one so well hidden that even his spies wouldn’t know where to look.”

Egesikhora laughed again. “I cannot imagine that the chief strategist, a seasoned soldier, a king’s relative, would bother with a woman, a hetaera at such a time. Even if it is a woman as splendid as myself.”

“You are mistaken. He wants to own you. It is precisely because you are as beautiful as a goddess and are surrounded by everyone’s attention and admiration. To part from you, and especially to give you up to someone else, be it the killer of Argos himself, that is a humiliation worse than death. His death or yours, and I fear it will be yours first. But as soon as you drink the cup of humiliation, he shall reward you with your power over him and your disobedience.

Thais paused. Egesikhora was silent as well, not noticing the passersby or the torches being lit at the pier.

“Let’s go to your place,” she said, rousing herself. “I must write an answer.”

“Which is?”

“I shall wait here. I am afraid of ships. My compatriots might trap me anywhere above Naucratis. I am also afraid to leave the horses behind. Where would I hide them? Especially considering that you agreed to stay here with me for a time,” she said, and wrapped her arms around her faithful childhood friend.

The Spartan asked Thais to write a short reply filled with love in her neat handwriting, then sealed it using a signet ring sent by Nearchus. She borrowed two gold darics from her friend to dispatch the messenger to the next station immediately.

The slave gardener hid the letter in his loincloth and ran to the xenon of the mail station, not far from the oldest step pyramid of pharaoh Josser. Egesikhora waited for the slave to return, staying until late at night. Only after having confirmed that the messenger agreed to leave in the morning, did she go home with torches and two strong companions.

It was unlikely that anyone in Memphis would dare touch the lover of the strategist himself, but all nikteridae (bats) looked the same at night.

Having fallen asleep late, Thais slept longer than usual. She was awakened by Clonaria, who burst in screaming, “Mistress! Mistress!”

“What happened?” Thais jumped out of bed.

“We are just back from the market,” the slave girl rushed to tell her, “and all anyone can speak of is the murder of the messenger who arrived yesterday from Delta. He was found at dawn near the station gates.”

“Go get Hesiona,” the Athenian said, interrupting Clonaria.

Hesiona ran in from the garden and was immediately dispatched with the order to bring Egesikhora. Thais ordered them to prepare broad white Egyptian capes and to saddle Salmaakh. Having put on a short chiton for horseback riding, she paced impatiently in front of her terrace, waiting for her friend. Finally, alarmed by the delay, she told Clonaria to run and check on Egesikhora. A distance of a quarter skhen was nothing for the healthy girl. When the slave girl returned, out of breath but alone, Thais realized that her concerns were coming true.

“Chrisocoma and the ‘Daughter of the Snake’ rode off together on the tetrippa,” Clonaria said.

“Where?”

“Nobody knows. Down that road.” The slave girl pointed south.

Thais realized Egesikhora must have decided to hide her precious horses in the gardens, near the tombs of the ancient kings by the Blunt Pyramid. The owner of the gardens was a Helenian on his father’s side, and one of the most fervent of Egesikhora’s admirers.

Thais jumped into the saddle and disappeared in a cloud of dust before the slave girl could say another word. The western cliffs ran close to the river. Having circled them, Thais reined in Salmaakh. Egesikhora’s tetrippa appeared from behind the shrubs, approaching slowly. One glance was enough to confirm that something terrible had happened.

Hesiona stood leaning against arbila, the front wall of the carriage, with her head bowed. Her hair was tangled by the wind, her chiton slid off one shoulder. Pressing Salmaakh forward, Thais realized with piercing clarity that the fan of dusty golden strands fluttering in the wind through the cutouts in the right side of the carriage was her friend’s hair. Riding closer, she saw Hesiona’s bloodstained chiton, the dark stains on the yellow paint and slow terrible drops falling into dust behind the horses.

Hesiona, who was whiter than the walls of Athens, wrapped the reins around the ledge in the arbila, supporting the top harness pole. The girl was not guiding the horses, but rather holding them back. Salmaakh backed away from the carriage, sensing blood and death.

Thais jumped off her mare, tossed the reins to the side and caught up with the carriage at a run. Egesikhora leaned on the arbila sideways, her lifeless head hanging low under the burden of heavy hair. Stepping over the Spartan’s legs, Thais put her arms around the semiconscious Hesiona, took the reins away from her and stopped the tetrippa.

Hesiona came to her senses. Opening her mouth with difficulty, she whispered, “We can’t. There are murderers behind.”

Thais didn’t answer, but leaned over her beloved friend. She lifted her head and saw the gray lips and the whites of her eyes visible through half-closed lids. A wide wound below her left collarbone, inflicted from above with a military dart, had been deadly. Thais turned the still warm and flexible body of her friend to the side and settled it at the bottom of the carriage.

For a moment she imagined that Egesikhora, alive and well, had simply curled up and fallen asleep along the way, but reality brought Thais back to the moment. A sob shook the Athenian’s entire body. Trying to overcome her grief, Thais busied herself with Hesiona. There was a long wound along the girl’s right side from yet another strike. The killer had missed and only sliced through the skin and the surface muscles; however, blood still flowed in a wide band over her hip. Thais used her head wrap to bind the wound, then started the horses, whistling to Salmaakh, who trotted nearby.

She reached a small clear creek, still not saying a word to Hesiona. After giving the girl some water to drink and washing her face and blood-covered hands, Thais froze in thought. Hesiona, kept quiet. She had tried to say something but the hetaera’s expression frightened her into silence. It was distorted by grief and desperation, and turned increasingly menacing, yet was strangely filled with light at the same time.

Suddenly Thais dashed toward the carriage and examined it, fixing the crooked krinon, a ring on the harness pole. Hesiona followed her, but Thais shook her head and silently pointed at Salmaakh. Hesiona came out of her bewildered state and hopped into saddle with unexpected ease. As she sorted out the reins, Thais observed the Theban and felt confident the girl could stay in the saddle.

Suspicious figures in white Egyptian capes trotted up the straight portion of the road behind them. Thais smiled ominously, then emitted a piercing screech that sent the horses dashing forward like mad. The startled Salmaakh leaped sideways, almost tossing Hesiona off the saddle, but the Theban spread out on the horse’s back, clutching at her mane. Thais rushed forward headlong, driving the four horses as her friend had taught her. She have never before done that, not even with Egesikhora by her side.

Egesikhora, the gold-haired one, the silver-legged one, she of the beautiful shoulders … her inseparable friend, the confidant of all secrets, the companion of all travels … Thais shook with sobs. But the thought of the murderer and revenge, anger and rage overcame all other feelings. She flew forward like an Erinia herself, focused on nothing but reaching her goal.

She hadn’t had enough time to learn from Egesikhora the musical work of the fingers required to coordinate all four horses, but remembered that reins of the pole pair were held between the thumbs and the index fingers of the right and left hands, whereas the middle and ring fingers held the reins woven through the harness rings at the withers of the outrunners. The turns of tetrippa at her hands were awkward, so Thais rode in a straight line as much as she could, barely avoiding obstacles.

Thais’ urge transferred to Hesiona, who rode Salmaakh next to the carriage. The mare caught up with the carriage, rode ahead, then lagged behind when the road became straight and even, like a stadium field.

Whenever she caught up with Thais, Hesiona tried telling her what had happened. Thais didn’t need any explanations. What had happened was the one thing she had been most afraid of, and she rushed at full speed to the one she knew to be guilty of Egesikhora’s death.

From Hesiona’s halting, unconnected exclamations Thais understood that her friend was trapped on the way to the gardens, which were three skhens away from the center of Memphis. Egesikhora had asked Hesiona to accompany her and help handle the horses, in case her friend wasn’t home. Thais realized that Egesikhora must have sensed the approaching danger and didn’t want to be alone.

After covering more than two skhens, they reached a small grove, its trees leaning over the road. Two men with spears blocked their way. Egesikhora rode straight at them. The men jumped to the side, but someone hiding in the branches of a large tree threw a spear at Egesikhora. She collapsed instantly, dead on the spot.

Hesiona had no clear memory of what happened next. She could think of only one thing: to take Egesikhora to the city, to the mistress. She must have been forced to stop the running foursome and turn around on the narrow road when the murderers appeared again. That was when someone had thrown a knife and wounded her.

She rode away despite her bleeding wound. Having left her pursuers far behind, she slowed the horses and wrapped the reins around the arbila ledge in order to pull the spear out of Egesikhora’s body. With great effort she managed to yank the weapon out before she felt faint.

That was when Thais had found her. She claimed the gods themselves must have brought the mistress there, otherwise the assassins would have caught up with the carriage.

They rode through the crowded streets at a mad gallop, accompanied by the frightened screams and threats of the scattering pedestrians and porters. The foursome flew up to the gates of stratopedon like a storm.

The soldier on guard, sleepy from the heat, didn’t move initially, having recognized Egesikhora’s foursome. Then he noticed that something was wrong and reluctantly tipped his spear, blocking their way. Thais didn’t even bother slowing down the enraged horses. The shield flew to the side with a thud, the spear crunched under the wheels. The Spartan was tossed toward a pillar. He screamed, raising the alarm.

The carriage barreled through the wide yard for military exercises, heading toward a tent, which was surrounded by a grated barrier. This is where strategist Eositeus usually sat. His house was located further back, under the tent. Attracted by the shouts, Eositeus ran out from under the tent. Thais wasn’t strong enough to stop the tetrippa, so she made it swerve and hooked an axle through the grate. Pieces of dry wood flew everywhere as the carriage destroyed the fence. Having run the tetrippa into a pillar, the horses were stopped. They reared up, swinging their front hooves and tossing their heads.

Worried captains ran in from everywhere. A group of goplits, the soldiers in metal armor, rushed out of the barracks and lined up. Hesiona snuck through the gates, following the carriage, and rode up to Thais’ aid.

The Athenian jumped off the carriage, landing at the shocked strategist’s feet.

“Murderer! Miserable coward!” she shouted, straightening as tall as she could. She stood in front of the giant, pointing her finger at him. “Go, look at your handiwork,” Thais snarled, then pointed at the carriage.

After hitting the pillar, Egesikhora’s body had rolled back and slid toward the carriage step. With her head resting over the mass of golden hair and her arms spread wide, the Spartan appeared asleep after a long trip, albeit in an awkward pose. Her life path had turned out to be short, only twenty-five years, so her incredible beauty hadn’t been able to delight people for long.

“How dare you accuse me, the descendant of Spartan kings, the famous warrior?”

“Have you heard this hyena’s deceitful words?” Thais turned to the shocked soldiers who had gathered near the broken grate. She let out a disdainful laugh. “The assassins he sent have already been caught and admitted everything.”

Thais spoke with such unshakable conviction that Eositeus turned gray with anger.

“Be quiet, you vile whore!” he roared, covering Thais’ mouth with his huge hand.

Hetaera bit his fingers, and the strategist screamed in pain, yanking away his hand.

“The gold-haired one didn’t want to be with him anymore, and you were leaving Egypt,” Thais explained hurriedly. “So he bribed three …”

The Athenian barely managed to dodge an enormous fist. Then Hesiona, half-naked, jumped over Eositeus’ shoulders with a scream.

“I am a witness!” she screamed, clawing at his eyes.

The strategist pulled her off as if she were a cat, tossing her into a corner. He bore down upon Thais, pulling out a broad Kilian knife. Thais realized in that moment that she was about to be killed. Feeling no fear, she stood before the giant, looking him straight in the eye.

At the last moment Thais was defended by Menedem, who appeared out of nowhere.

Eositeus roared at him. “Away with you, cub, slave of a slut. Hey, someone grab the damn woman!”

None of the soldiers moved, despite the famous Spartan discipline. Everyone loved Egesikhora and Thais, and the accusation sounded too much like truth.

Eositeus realized hesitation would mean his downfall. Pushing Menedem aside, he grabbed Thais by her chiton and pulled her toward him, tearing the fabric. That was when Menedem struck him so hard in the chest that the strategist flew off by several steps and fell, hitting his head on the wall. When Eositeus jumped up, there was neither fear nor anger in his face, just determination. He was a skillful fighter, and deceived the unarmed young warrior with a side swipe of a knife. Then he turned suddenly, leaned over a bent knee and dealt a terrible blow into Menedem’s liver from underneath.

As if in a terrible dream, Thais saw the powerful muscles of her faithful athlete sag. As if he broke in half. Clasping his hands over the wound, Menedem fell to his knees, dark blood rushing out of his mouth. Eositeus leaned forward, trying to free the deeply set weapon, and at that moment, Menedem gathered the last of his strength and struck Eositeus over the top of the head with the edges of both hands. There was enough power left in the dying athlete to make the strategist’s neck crunch, causing him to fall at Thais’ feet with his arm reaching out, as for one last strike, still clutching the bloody knife.

Thais leaned over Menedem and the warrior managed to smile at her. Every true Helenian died with a smile, which always struck foreigners. Menedem’s lips moved, but Thais could not hear him. Light went out for her and she fainted over Menedem’s broad chest.

The Spartan captains silently lifted Thais, leaving her in the care of Hesiona. Menedem was dead, and Eositeus hummed dully, turning his head, unable to move his paralyzed arms and legs.

The strategist’s second in command, a Spartan of a noble family, approached Eositeus. He pulled out a sword and showed it to Eositeus. According to the sacred tradition, Laconians always finished off their deadly wounded with their consent, if they were conscious. The strategist asked for death with his eyes, and in a moment he was no more.

Hesiona managed to wake up her mistress. She begged her to wait till the strategist’s second provided a cart. The hetaera pushed the Theban away and jumped up.

“We must go. Bring Salmaakh,” she replied, ignoring Hesiona’s frightened gaze. “I must bury Egesikhora and Menedem, like ancient heroes of Hellas. And I must do it immediately, while they are still beautiful.” Thais looked around, then whispered, “Where is Archimachus, the strategist’s second?”

Hesiona managed to delay her mistress just long enough that she could brush out her hair a little bit and pin up her chiton.

Thais knew Archimachus well. She sought him out in the crowd of excited captains, seeking the stern, elderly warrior, and arranged the burial with him. Then she went back to the city with two junior officers, having sent Hesiona to Egesikhora’s house with a covered cart. Inside it, Egesikhora’s and Menedem’s bodies had been placed on a pile of capes. Archimachus provided an entire detachment, and a lumber merchant sent thirty slaves with sixty carts of fragrant cedar logs. Thais paid for the logs as well as for five trunks of fragrant Arabian trees with all of her remaining money, half of her jewelry and her bed of iron wood with ivory.

When the Athenian’s two most beloved people lay dressed in holiday garments, united in death on a giant pyre, decomposition hadn’t yet touched them. Their heads pointed north, and the golden red horses, killed, like in ancient times, to accompany Egesikhora on her way across the asphodel fields of Hades, lay on the left. Their manes and bright hides matched the Spartan hetaera’s long braids, flowing almost to her bare feet. The white pole horses were laid out on the right side, and the carriage was set at their feet.

The pyre towered on the ledge under the wall of the western cliff, almost exactly across from Egesikhora’s house. Thais climbed up to the corner of the pyre at the height of five elbows, and paused in her farewell grief, gazing for the last time at the beautiful faces of the two people most precious to her, taken away too soon.

Menedem’s comrades stood around in full armor, silent and glum, their spears tipped forward. Only an hour prior they had buried their strategist behind the wall of a small Helenian cemetery on the eastern bank of the Nile. Slaves of both hetaerae wept, but did not scream, as was appropriate in Hellas. Two servants who started wailing after the Egyptian fashion were quickly asked to leave. Only the sharp screams of the wooden burial gingras (flutes) violated the heavy silence.

A priest prepared to carry out the last pouring, and quietly prayed to the master of the underground world. A huge crowd of Memphis citizens stood respectfully at a distance, the admirers of the gold-haired horse tamer as well as simple onlookers.

Egesikhora’s and Menedem’s faces seemed calm and beautiful. The Spartan hetaera’s slightly lifted eyebrows gave her face an expression of sweet puzzlement, unusual for her. Menedem smiled with the same weak smile he’d sent Thais with his last breath.

Thais had no time to realize the depth of her loss. At the present she felt only the departing beauty of her loved ones, lying on a common burial pyre, akin to the ancient heroes of Hellas.

Thais looked around. The rows of Spartans still stood motionless, the soldiers regarded the dead. The Athenian jumped off the pyre and someone handed her a burning torch, which she raised high above her head. Every second soldier handed his spear to a friend, then picked up resin-covered sticks and lit them in the braziers which smoked at four corners of the pyre.

Thais circled the pyre until she stood at the north end, then shoved the torch under a pile of thin cedar shavings. The flame, almost invisible in the sunlight, breathed hotly and crawled to the top edge of the pyre. Thin blue smoke rose into the sky as the Laconian soldiers set fire to the entire pyre. The manes and tails of the horses crackled, and one could smell the sharp scent of burning hair. Thais glanced at the dead for the last time through the dancing flames. She imagined Menedem moved his hand in farewell, and the Athenian turned away. Lowering a light Egyptian scarf over her face, Thais went home with Hesiona, never looking back.

The next day, after the enormous fire had cooled, the Spartans would gather Egesikhora’s and Menedem’s ashes, mix them with the ashes of the horses, and scatter them in the middle of the Nile. From there they would flow to the Inner Sea, on whose shores they had both grown up. A day later the Spartans themselves would sail down the river to Naucratis, and from there the route would take them back to Lacedemonia.

The Spartans insisted that Thais leave with them, but the hetaera refused. She could not bear to leave Memphis right away. It no longer made sense to leave Hellas. Troubling gossip from Athens spoke of the riots caused by Demosthenes’ speeches, and the entire Hellenic world, excited by the incredible victories of the Macedonian king, seemed ready to move east, into the lands considered forbidden until then.