Thais of Athens

Chapter Twelve. The Heirs of Crete

Mountain wind, cool even at summer’s dazzling midday, picked up the parchment lying in front of Thais. She pressed it back down with the golden hilt of her dagger. The mental image of her friend faded, then vanished somewhere in the scorched valley that spread to the east from the seven walls of Ecbatana.

After two years of silence, Hesiona had sent a long letter. Nearchus’ faithful lover had been forced to go through a lot in order to be with her beloved. One could only envy the Cretan who found such love and patience in the Theban. Unfortunately, Alexander’s grand plans required a large fleet. The ships were built at the Euphrates delta and at the Tigris. The second site was run by Nearchus’ new assistant, half-Cretan, half-Finikian Onesikrit.

Cedars, black pine, oaks and elms were floated down the Euphrates and Tigris to Nearchus’ docks. Hesiona wrote in a typical Theban epic style, describing her wanderings between Babylon and small shipbuilding towns, various palm oases, lonely temples and poor fishing villages lost among the reeds. Flies, the bane of Babylon and Susa that hovered in black swarms over markets, homes and even in the temples, looked harmless in comparison to the billions of stinging bloodsuckers that gathered in clouds above the still waters. Fortunately, the frequent winds brought on some relief. People spent the rest of the time surrounded by smoke, and Hesiona assured her friend that she was now completely smoked through and indestructible as an Egyptian mummy.

Thais looked around and sighed. Flies were never a problem in the clear air of Ecbatana. Hesiona would have been happier in this city that resembled her native, destroyed Thebes.

A child’s footsteps rang loudly over the marble tiles of the high terrace. Ptolemy’s son looked more like his mother than his father. The strategist had convinced Thais to enter into an official marriage with him as soon as the Macedonians returned from their chase after Darius.

A crippled Thessalian appeared at the end of the terrace, limping and grumbling. He had stayed with Thais in Ecbatana as a housekeeper and a stable master after the Thessalian riders and the rest of the Helenian soldiers were allowed to go home. Now Roykos also looked after the boy, who needed a man’s hand and a warrior’s skill. After he’d gone east with Alexander, the captain of riders, Leontiscus, had not returned. Thais did not like to think about that. The wound was still too fresh.

The boy was begging for permission to ride Boanergos. Roykos was convinced that they should wait until a smaller horse from beyond the mountains of Iberia, one who had been sent by Ptolemy, was completely tame. Thais made peace between the two by promising to take her son riding in the evening. It was a habit she observed religiously in order to stay in shape in case of a sudden departure.

Little Leontiscus hopped down the broad steps toward a pavilion of rough gray stone, Eris’ favorite sanctuary. No one dared violate her seclusion during those hours, when the former black priestess sat and dreamed about the unknown with her eyes open. Thais’ son was allowed to run up to the pavilion and call out to Eris, inviting her to wrestle or to race. His mother frequently participated in the wild scrambling, delighting in the rush around the wide yard in front of the house.

Za-Asht went to Thessaly with her Lykophon. She was replaced by Okiale, a sad, kind and shy girl from northern Syria. As far as Okiale was concerned, there was nothing above little Leontiscus. She spoiled the boy beyond belief, not listening even to Eris, of whom she was terrified. The only child was surrounded by childless women, and couldn’t help but be a favorite. Especially because he was just as lively, smart and pretty as Thais. The main danger lay with the cook, who was always eager to overfeed the boy somewhere in a secluded corner.

Only now had Thais come to appreciate the meaning of the tradition common in all of Hellas: to give one’s son to be fostered with relatives who had many children. That way, the boys formed groups and learned under the guidance of experienced instructors. In any case, they were to be away from their mother’s household, especially if it were a wealthy household with multitudes of slave girls and servants. The Spartans believed that children could only grow into soldiers if they were brought up separately from their families, living in special military dormitories. The more enlightened Athenians, Boeotians and Thessalians used the military upbringing in combination with the necessary education.

As she observed her growing son, seeing how he possessed the energy and liveliness of both his parents, Thais couldn’t wait for Ptolemy to return and arrange for the boy’s upbringing among other boys of the same age and skilled teachers. For some reason, it never occurred to her that Ptolemy could die in the unknown faraway, at the edge of the Earth, at the Roof of the World.

The immeasurably courageous, modest and romantic Thessalian, Leontiscus, was gone from her life. He had died from a wound on the third day after the battle, wearing a smile as was expected from a Helenian. He called Hephaestion and left Thais his last greeting and all his possessions, which he had left in Ecbatana, including great quantities of gold and jewels. A year later Thais ordered the men to locate the relatives of the cavalry captain. They lived in a village near Phtia and the Athenian sent them everything except a few mementos.

Leontiscus had died during a brutal battle against the Scythians at Alexandria Eskhata, the Most Distant One, beyond Sogdiana and the River of Sands. His body now rested under a heavy stone slab in the fortress city of Alexandria Eskhata, nicknamed “Nymphe Tanaton”, the “Bride of Death” by the Macedonian soldiers. The arrows of the Scythian riders, too swift for the heavy Macedonian cavalry who were armed with both long swords and powerful bows, took many victims.

Even Alexander limped for a long time after that from an arrow that had pierced his tibia on that day. He managed his anger through displaying mad courage, dashing at the enemy ahead of everyone else. As a result he received such a strike on the head from a slingshot rock that his vision faltered for twelve days, and he could not think with the same divine clarity as he had before.

The last battles against the Scythians broke him. The king returned from Alexandria Eskhata on a stretcher after reaching a peace agreement with the incredible tribes from the steppes which stretched far into the cold land of darkness beyond the Sea of Birds, Thanais and the Black Sea. Several centuries later, a beautiful city was built over the ruins of Alexandria Eskhata, and would be called “Tirozi Chakhon”, the “Bride of Peace”.

More than once, Thais recalled Leontiscus’ story about the Massaget who had been executed by Alexander after the battle of Gaugamela. The young tribe leader had turned out to be a prophet. The fighting methods of which he told Alexander were used by the Scythians, and ultimately stopped the undefeated army’s movement to the east. Alexander turned south, moving upstream along the River of Sands, headed toward the giant, ice-covered ridges of the Roof of the World and Parapamizes, which had glimmered on the horizon since the beginning of the campaign almost three years before.

Ptolemy was courageous and careful, insightful, but not fond of showing off. He knew his own value but was not prone to bragging. He had gradually risen above the other six of Alexander’s closest associates, becoming known as the most reliable and cautious one. He kept a journal of the campaign and proved to be a talented writer in his letters to Thais. His wife felt that nothing could possibly happen to this intelligent warrior, whose fate was taking him toward dazzling heights. Only the proximity of the superhuman Alexander left him in the shadow.

Thais returned to reading Hesiona’s letter.

The Theban asked her to come to Babylon and stay at the house bought for her by Nearchus before his departure. Alexander had asked him to assist the other sailor, Onesikrit, who was Nearchus’ assistant at navigation and map reading. Nearchus had gone to Bactriana with a group of shipbuilders so they could participate in the march beyond India. They were going to the limits of the world at the edge of the ocean which could not be reached from across the steppes. The river Indus flowed beyond the colossal mountains of Parapamizes and Gindukush, connecting with the Nile somewhere in the west. The edge of the dry land was only a few thousand stadiums to the south.

Nearchus had been forced to say goodbye to Hesiona for a long time. “And just imagine …” Thais could hear Hesiona’s laughter in her mind. “The latest news from Nearchus is that my brave sailor was appointed to command the Agrian cavalry in addition to his countrymen, the Cretan archers, of which there are not many left.”

“I should probably quit hoping for Ptolemy’s speedy return and take care of my son’s education on my own,” Thais thought and quickly read through the remainder of the letter. Hesiona wrote about a big theater being constructed in Babylon. In order to speed up the delivery of construction materials, Alexander had ordered them to demolish the Etemenanki tower, thus committing an act of barbarism unheard of for a true Helenian. It was also unwarranted, despite the fact that the tower had been damaged by time.

The statue of Alexander which had been created by Lysippus now stood in a courtyard of a temple. Priests of a new cult prayed to it. Having placed the letter under her dagger, Thais sat for awhile in contemplation, listening to the wind beat against the coarse foliage of the trees which threw shade over the terrace. She then straightened, rung a silver disk to call a slave in an eastern fashion, and ordered the slave to bring her the writing set.

“Year one of the hundred and thirteenth Olympiad. Rejoice, Hesiona!

“I think you ought to come to Ecbatana and wait here for the army’s return from the Indian campaign. I have lived in this city for three years now. Once in the winter, snow fell for several minutes. It reminded me of my native Athens, where we get severe winters and at least once a year snow stays on the ground for a day. You have already noticed the similarity with your Thebes. And the air here, at higher levels, is similar to the luminous, delicate and life-giving air of our Hellas, the breath of Olympus and the beating of the wings of sacred birds.

“Everywhere in Asia, with the exception of the three blessed cities of Ionia: Khios, Clazomene and Ethos, the sun is heavy and blinding. It oppresses the mind and emotions, and dust covers the horizon. Even in Egypt the light is too strong, and the air doesn’t sparkle or shimmer with the magical glow in which all objects are so clear, and women and statues appear so alluring that every Helenian becomes an artist. It is time for you to rest from the humid heat and flies of Babylon. I am afraid for Alexander, Ptolemy, Hephaestion and all our people, who spent these three years in battles and marches beyond the borders of Persia from the Sea of Birds, in the steppes and mountains, where winter carries snowy winds and cold never heard of in Hellas. The resistance of Bactrians, Sogdians and especially Scythians have exceeded Alexander’s imagination and the abilities of his army. The army of experienced veterans melts away as they struggle further east, and the people of the defeated countries who now comprise almost a half of the army are much less reliable.

“Elevated through his unprecedented victories, Alexander, the divine pharaoh of Egypt, who is already being worshipped in the ancient cities of the Mother of People, Mesopotamia, has become intolerant of any contradiction. In the past he was assured of his wisdom and strength and was capable of listening to the arguments of his comrades. Now he finds it humiliating to the dignity of a great king and conqueror. Sadly, the Asians turned out to be artful flatterers, ready for all manner of humiliation. My teacher in Egypt once said that the worst poison, even for the wisest and strongest of men, is the constant edification of themselves and their deeds. Alexander has taken a full cup of this poison and has become capable of things previously incompatible with his truly great personality.

“You must already know of the murder of the brave, albeit stupid and vain Philotas, the leader of the getaerosi and of Alexander’s personal guard. Having killed Philotas, Alexander immediately dispatched assassins to Ecbatana, ruled by his old and experienced warrior Parmenius, who was also killed before he even heard of his son’s execution. I believe the accusations of an assassination plot against Alexander were invented by the obliging advisers in order to justify the killings.

“This instance of injustice was followed by others. I don’t think you have heard about the branchides massacre. When our army faced great difficulties and much danger while they crossed the swift and free flowing Ocsos (also known as the River of the Sea), they met with a huge crowd of dirty, bedraggled and wild people. They carried green branches (thus, their name branchides), danced and screamed with joy in nearly unrecognizable Coyne. These were the descendants, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Helenian captives, whom Xerxes had taken deep into Persia to construction sites on its eastern borders. Alexander rode off to the side, from where he surveyed the savage vagrants. Suddenly he became enraged and ordered every single one of them killed. The pitiful crowd had no time to scatter.

“At the beginning of the campaign, when they marched through woods and plains at the edge of the Sea of Birds rich in game, Alexander hunted lions, tigers and bears, and encouraged his comrades to go up against the mighty animals with nothing but short spears. Ptolemy was the only one who did not participate in the savage sport, calmly ignoring the mockery from Alexander himself. However, when Crateros was bitten by a bear, Alexander stopped the hunt …”

Thais was tired of writing. She called Roykos and ordered her servants to prepare the horses: Boanergos for herself and Salmaakh for Eris. She had to bring Eris because the black priestess refused to let her mistress go riding without her protection.

“We will have to part at some point,” Thais had reproached her. “We cannot die at the same moment.”

“Yes we can,” Eris replied calmly. “I shall follow you.” She touched the knot of hair at the back of her head.

“And what if you die first?” the Athenian asked.

“I shall wait for you on the shore of the River of Death. We shall descend into the kingdom of Hades hand in hand. I have already asked the Great Mother to let me wait for you in the fields of asphodels.”

Thais gazed upon this strange woman, this slave, this goddess who had descended to the mortal world to protect her. Her smooth, firm face did not wear the expression of blood thirst or a deadly threat to the enemies, as Thais had imagined in the past. It was filled with faith in something unknown to the free-thinking Athenian, the victory over fear and pain, akin to the virginal priestesses of Artemis in Ethes, who set forth the legend of the Amazons. But they plunged into sacred rage of the maenadae, fighting with the fierceness of wild cats. Eris’ typical expression was such that it should have been adopted by Athenian sculptors for the statue of Leanna, instead of portraying the symbolic lioness with her tongue cut off. Eris’ restrained behavior was merely a reflection of her inner focus and seriousness, captured in the direct gaze of her clear blue eyes, the slight tension in her eyebrows, and the even, slightly metallic sound of her voice. Only the darkness of her skin, hair and lips reminded one of the fact that she was a daughter of the Night, possessing of knowledge of Gaea-Kibela.

Helenians have always admired those Olympic champions who overcame their opponents using a quality rare in mere mortals: divine calm, the virtue of gods. A poet once said that “they spent their lives keeping delicious calm, the first of their great achievements. There is nothing beyond this virtue, enhancing every passing day …”

Olympic calm was Eris’ distinctive feature as well, and it gave a peculiar depth to her every gesture and word. Even now, Thais watched with pleasure as Eris sat firmly on the prancing, temperamental Salmaakh. The Syrian slave girl handed over Leontiscus as if he were a fragile Miletan vase, while he wiggled and squealed with delight. Both women rode down paved streets, choosing short and steep descents and ignoring the admiring gazes of pedestrians. Thais and Eris had long since become used to them. Just as Thais and Egesikhora in the past, this pair could not help but draw attention. Young men in particular were left breathless as they gazed after the beautiful riders.

After a wild dash around a racing field, deserted and abandoned after the Persian carriage races were forgotten, Thais came home pacified. Once she had washed off the dust and put her tired son to bed, she returned to her letter in a different mood.

“Alexander,” she wrote, “continues to distance himself from his soldiers and even his military advisers, philosophers, geographers and mechanics.

“The great Macedonian carried out a deed that surpasses those of mythical heroes Hercules, Theseus and Dionysus. Hellas was always closer to the east than to the dark and savage west. It was as if it reached out to the ancient arts and great knowledge accumulated in vanished kingdoms across the Ionia that sat at the edge of Asia, and across the legendary Crete. Alexander opened the gates to the east wide open. A flood of enterprising Helenians poured over the lands that were now either free or emptied by war: craftsmen, merchants, artists and teachers.

“The Macedonians, with their war spoils of money and slaves, received large estates and settled in places with warmer climate and better soil than their mountainous homeland. New cities required food, lumber and stone for new construction. The soldiers lived well and quickly became wealthy. The conquered lands turned out to be so vast that Hellas started feeling a lack of people, similar to how Sparta had felt after its men had hired themselves out as mercenaries. That was what caused their country to decline completely in its final effort to fight Alexander. The entire land of Hellas could become deserted, as its people rush to Asia and become scattered among the masses of its native population and the limitless valleys and mountains. If things go that way, what sort of Hellas will we come back to?”

Thais pondered, tickling her chin with her stylus as she did so.

“Alexander and all the Macedonians became coarse through the difficult war,” the Athenian continued. “The mutual relationships between the subordinates and their superiors are now more strained than ever. The overly humble obedience of the new associates made the army leader even more susceptible. The old dream of homonoya, the intellectual equality of all people, was forgotten.

“The divinity of the great Macedonian was now established by methods more appropriate for a leader of a savage tribe than for the ruler of the world. With the prompting of his Persian advisers, Alexander decided to introduce the ritual requiring people to throw themselves on the ground before him, but ran into strong opposition from his old comrades. At first, when the captains and soldiers from Alexander’s inner circle saw their leader seated on a golden throne, wearing a long Persian garment and a tall tiara, they laughed. They asked Alexander what sort of a masquerade or game he was playing at.

“Athenian philosopher Callisthenes believed in Alexander’s divinity at first and even started writing Anabasis, a history of his glorious campaigns. Now he became the first to state that deification had never taken place during a hero’s life, even if he were the son of a god. Not with Hercules and his great heroics; not with Dionysus, who carried out the first march into India. Both were only deified after they died. In his earthly life Dionysus was a Theban, and Hercules was an Argevan. Deification of a living man, even a son of the gods, was against the spirit of Hellenism and was no more than barbarism.

“’Alexander is not a god,’ the philosopher stated publicly. ‘He is not a son of Zeus from a mortal woman. He is the most courageous of the men of courage, he is the most intelligent of the most talented army leaders. But only his deeds, divine in their meaning, can make him a glorious hero and elevate him to a demigod.’

“Alexander bore a grudge against Callisthenes. The philosopher was supported by the Macedonian veterans, but had no influential friends. In the end, he and a few young men from the king’s guards were convicted for a conspiracy to murder Alexander as well as for some other crimes. The young men were stoned by Alexander’s captains. Callisthenes was chained, put into a cage and, according to the latest rumors, hung in Bactriana.

“Alexander did, however, get rid of the humiliating ritual. Before the army retreated from the River of Sands to Marakanda, Alexander drank a lot, trying to alleviate his suffering from the headache caused by the head wound from a stone. In a fit of rage he killed Black Cleitus, the brother of Lanisa, Alexander’s nurse in Pella. Black Cleitus, the faithful, if slightly dim, giant who had saved his life twice.

“After surviving fits of deep depression and guilt, Alexander went against the cloudy fortress of Bactriana. There he married Roxanne, the daughter of a Bactrian nobleman who had been captured as a war slave. Ptolemy wrote that the marriage did not soften Alexander’s outbursts of rage which occurred more and more frequently. Even his closest friends were forced to take great care in their dealings with the king.

“At the beginning of their march across the eastern plains, Alexander replaced his lion head helmet with another, this time decorated with the wings of a large bird. Local priests assured the king that he was possessed by Simurg, the spirit of high hills who descended to earth in the shape of a gryphon to help people in their troubles.

“However, I do not know how much Alexander helped the inhabitants of the eastern plains.”

Thais interrupted the sentence, chuckled quietly and added, “You see, I have fallen under Ptolemy’s influence. The wise warrior likes to predict troubles and list all former tragedies, even though it never interferes with his courage and happy temper. He is too happy, when it comes to women. In this he equals Alexander’s passion for new discoveries. However, you already knew that. A long time ago in Egypt you foretold that he would have many women but only one goddess. Now this ‘goddess’ is his wife. Now what?”

“Enough. I am tired of writing and you will get tired of reading. Come here to Ecbatana and you and I shall have plenty of time to talk, ride and dance. There are many poets, philosophers, artists, musicians and performers here. Lysippus is here too, with his apprentices, as well as the Eubian Stemlos famous for his horse sculptures, and the famous singer Aminomena. There are many wonderful people. Travelers from distant countries like India and Iberia are arriving as well, and all wait for Alexander.

“Come over. You will be better off here than alone in Babylon. Let us not suffer too much for our husbands. Aside from battle— and campaign-related hardships, they have their own share of happiness. Ptolemy wrote about vast valleys covered with fragrant sylphius, of the breathtaking views of gigantic snow mountains with rows upon rows, peak upon peak, blocking the way to the south and east. He writes of mountain lakes of magical blue, as deep as the skies. Of the unimaginable spaces where flat hills, crowned with strange statues of flat-face and broad-hipped women, rise in an endless line, like sea waves between Crete and Egypt. It is possible that above all, he delights in the feeling of everyday changes, the expectation of wonders and the approaching end of dry land.

“Ptolemy writes that the closer they get to India, the more trees they see that are similar to those we have in Hellas. Firs and pines in the mountains beyond Parapamizes are exactly the same as in the ones that grow in the mountains of Macedonia, and sometimes it feels to him like he is home again. There is no explanation to this.”

Thais finished the letter and sealed it. To ensure it departed as soon as possible, she ordered it to be taken to the house of the city overseer and treasurer Garpal, who had replaced the murdered Parmenius. Four thousand and five hundred stadiums was the distance between Ecbatana and Babylon, but angareyon, the state mail, would deliver the letter in only six days.

Ptolemy had made Thais promise that she would not use skilled secretaries to write their letters. These people could betray all their secrets. But writing this letter had tired Thais. She went down to the swimming pool near the staircase, to which Ptolemy had connected a water line from a mountain spring so it remained cool even in the summer. She dove into the seashell-like enclosure with a joyous yelp, cutting through the greenish water. Having heard the shout, Eris ran in too. She splash around, then rubbed down her copper — skinned mistress with a thick towel.

Eris had barely had a chance to cover Thais with a towel before a messenger from Lysippus arrived. The great sculptor was inviting Thais and, for some reason, Eris to visit him the next morning.

Thais handed the letter to the black priestess, saying, “You are invited, too. Someone wants to make a statue of you. It’s about time. I was wondering about other sculptors who saw you at least once. Although this is strange, because Lysippus and his students have little interest in the beauty of women. They prefer to portray men, battle scenes, and horses.”

Eris pushed away the Athenian’s hand with the letter. “You are forgetting that I cannot read your language, Mistress. And has the honorable Lysippus forgotten that I am obligated to go with you?”

“You do always accompany me, that is true. But if Lysippus mentions you in the invitation, it means there is something he wants with you specifically. What is it? A sculptor puts sculpting above all things. We Helenians value a man’s perfection, his harmonious development, both physical and spiritual. We call it callocagatia. We also value a man’s portrayal by various arts. That is why our cities and temples are filled with countless statues and paintings, and more are created each year. Would you like for someone to make a statue of a goddess or a nymph based on you?”

“No. Or rather, I do not care. But if that is your wish …”

“Of course it is my wish. Keep that in mind if you receive an offer. And don’t rub me so hard. I am not a statue.”

“You are better than all the statues in the world, Mistress.”

“How many have you seen? And where?”

“Many. I traveled a lot as a girl in the entourage of the high priestess.”

“I didn’t know anything about that.”

The black priestess allowed a smile to light her face for a moment.

Alexander had ordered an enormous studio to be constructed for Lysippus near the palace of a former Persian nobleman which had been given to the sculptor as his new home. The rooms, shielded by thick walls of red stone, were always cool and had to be heated during winter. Dry cedar logs with fragrant bits if thyme, lavender, rosemary or myrrh burned in semicircular niches.

Lysippus received his guests on the veranda under a tall roof supported by palm tree pillars and surrounded by a wall of pink granite. The veranda served both as a studio and as a classroom for the apprentices, who came from Hellas, Ionia, Cyprus and even Egypt, where artists began borrowing the methods of their former students, the Helenians. These in turn had begun studying in Egypt nearly seven centuries prior.

As usual, there were others present: several philosophers, wealthy art patrons, poets who sought to find inspiration in enlightened conversations, and travelers from distant countries, who had heard about the wide open home of the famous artist.

Lysippus, the Athenian’s old friend and an Orphic of high initiation, put his arm around Thais’ shoulders. He beckoned Eris, who stood near the entrance, and silently pointed at a broad bench where two of his students sat. Eris flashed her eyes at them and sat down at the edge, as far as she could from the merry young men. They sent admiring and meaningful gazes and gestures her way, but it was all in vain. They might as well have tried to attract the attention of one of the statues decorating the studio, home and garden of Lysippus.

“Come, Athenian. I shall introduce you to my old friend and your compatriot, sculptor Cleophrades. He despises war and does not make statues of kings or army leaders. He only sculpts women, which is why he is not as famous as he deserves to be. Besides, he knows you.”

Thais was about to object, but choked on her own words when she saw the sculptor. The man’s harsh blue eyes bulged slightly, like those of Athena herself. The scarred face, under a thick gray beard, brought back the memory of a brief meeting near Theseyon, on the way to the hill of Nymphs.

“I promised to see you some years later,” Cleophrades said in his deep voice. “Very well, two Olympiads have passed, and I now see not a girl, but a woman at the height of her strength and beauty. You must be about twenty-six,” the sculptor said, looking Thais over unceremoniously. “Have you given birth?”

“Yes,” Thais found herself replying obediently. “Once.”

“Not enough. Two would have been better. A woman of your strength and health would only benefit from that.”

“Gneziotes apamphoyn,” Lysippus said in the Attic dialect, pointing at Thais. She blushed from the direct gaze of one artist and the direct words of the other.

“Yes, you are right,” the stern Cleophrades agreed. “Purity of origin down both lines, father’s and mother’s. You shall be my model, Athenian. You were destined for me. I have waited patiently for your maturity,” he said, leveling an imperious gaze at Thais.

Thais paused, then nodded.

“Yet again you pick that which will not bring you wealth,” Lysippus mused. “Thais is too seductive for a goddess, too small and agile for a cora, and not menacing enough for a female warrior. She is a woman, and not a standard established in Helenian art over the centuries.”

“I think you are both right and not right, great master. When you created your Apoxiomenes, the image of an athlete, you bravely departed from the standard set by Polycleitus, and even more so by Doriphorus. And I understand why. Doriphorus’ standard was that of a mighty Spartan, a warrior created by Lacedemonians over millennia of parental selection, the killing of the weak, and the harshest development of strength and stamina. Huge chests and incredibly thick stomach muscles, especially the obliques. Such man can run for many stadiums in heavy armor, carry a massive shield into battle as well as a spear longer than that of any other warrior, and survive being run over by a heavy cart. Until the invention of heavy bows and slingshots, Spartans defeated all enemies without exception.”

“You understood me well, Cleophrades, although you are a sculptor of women. My Apoxiomenes is lighter and more agile. Now, however, everything has changed again. More soldiers fight on horseback, and infantry no longer fight one to one, but in hundreds of soldiers, forged into one machine by discipline and the ability to fight side by side. The times of Doriphorus and Apoxiomenes are over.”

“Not entirely, Lysippus,” Thais said. “Think of Alexander’s guards who earned the title of ‘Silver Shields’. They required heavy armor, swift step, and strong strike.”

“You are correct, Athenian. But that is a special part of the army, akin to battle elephants, and not the majority of soldiers.”

“Battle elephants. What a comparison,” Thais said. She laughed, paused, then added, “Still, I knew one Spartan. He could have been a model for Doriphorus.”

“Of course such men still exist,” Lysippus agreed. “They became a rarity because they are no longer needed. Too much is required to create them, and it takes a long time. The army requires more people now and as quickly as possible.”

“We speak of men,” Cleophrades rumbled. “Was that why we invited Thais?”

“Yes,” Lysippus said, then caught himself. “Thais, help us. We started a dispute about a new statue with our guests.” The sculptor pointed at a group of four men with thick beards and strange head wraps, who stood separately from the regular visitors. ”They are Indian sculptors, and we disagree in the key criteria of feminine beauty. They reject the outstanding charm of the statue by Agesander, and believe that the modern fashionable sculptures represent a wrong trend. Is that so?” He turned to the Indian and one of them, apparently an interpreter, quickly said something in a lovely fluid language.

One of the guests, the one with the thickest beard, nodded energetically and said through the interpreter, “Our impression is that the Helenian artists no longer love women. They love men more.”

“That is an odd impression.” Lysippus shrugged, while Cleophrades grinned broadly and with a hint of menace.

“I don’t know anything,” Thais said. “Who is Agesander, and what is this statue?”

“He is a new sculptor and a great master,” Lysippus explained. “His statue of Aphrodite for a temple in Melos^[33] became famous among other sculptors, although I find her more similar to Hera.”

“The model was not a Helenian woman, but more likely a Syrian. These women have beautiful breasts and shoulders, but lack waist and have a flat flabby bottom. Their legs are always disproportionately thin,” Cleophrades said.

“Agesander had skillfully draped all that,” Diophosus said, who was also a sculptor and Thais’ acquaintance.

“But he failed to hide the awkward lower body,” Lysippus objected. “And a poorly developed lower belly.”

“I do not understand all the praises,” Cleophrades said calmly. “I do not deny Agesander’s skill and have no envy of his great ability, I only dislike his choice of model. Does his goddess have a Helenian face? He gave her a classic profile, but the bones of her head appear fragile and narrow, as is common for a Syrian or any other woman from the eastern shores. Had no one noticed how closely set her eyes were and how narrow her jaw?”

“What is so bad about that?” Stemlos asked with a chuckle.

“It is bad even for your horses,” Cleophrades retorted. “Remember Bucefal’s broad forehead. And for us Helenians, ancient Cretans, and Egyptians, the favorite image is Europa. You can translate this ancient name as you wish: euryopis, wide-eyed or europis, wide-faced, and it is more likely to be both. Europa’s bones are still carried around in a huge myrtle wreath during the Ellotia celebration on Crete. We artists should pay more attention to our women and foremothers, instead of flaunting the foreign models. They are quite lovely, but ours are more beautiful.”

“Good health to you, Cleophrades,” Lysippus exclaimed. “One of the many nicknames of my friend Thais is ‘wide-eyed one’. Have you noticed how similar she is to Athena Parthenos by Phidias? You know the one. She was the model for several copies. She wore a crown and had eyes made of chrysolite.”

Much to the surprise of all present, the Indians started bowing with their hands folded and exclaiming something in approval.

“Good for you, euryopis,” Lysippus said. He smiled at Thais, then glanced at Eris and added, “We asked you here to serve as a model for our debate. You and Eris will have to pose nude. We want to see in you the combination of the ancient Cretan and our Helenian blood. Eris too combines two lines: ancient Nubian and another one, possibly Libyan.” He pointed at the broad heavy stool for modeling. Thais obligingly dropped her clothes into the arms of the patient Eris. A sigh of admiration rushed through the studio. Everyone here adored feminine beauty and valued it as the greatest natural treasure.

“Morphe teliteres goetis! Oh, the enchanting, thrilling feminine form,” one of the young poets exclaimed.

Cleophrades froze, his left palm pressed to his temple, his eyes leveled on the copper tanned figure. Thais stood as easily as if she were alone with her mirror and not on a stand before a group of strangers. Calm certainty in her own perfection and in the fact that she inspired nothing but admiration among the artists, surrounded the young woman with an almost tangible aura of the immortal gods.

“Have you found what you were looking for?” Lysippus asked.

“Yes,” Cleophrades almost shouted.

The Indians were startled and looked with surprise at this Helenian, suddenly consumed by inspiration.

“This is the most ancient image of a woman,” Lysippus said triumphantly. “Strong, not very tall, broad-hipped, round-faced and wide-eyed. Is she not beautiful? Who can object to that?” he asked his students.

Leptines, a sculptor from Ethes, said this was the exact image created by the artists of Ionia two centuries ago. The artists Exekias and Psyacs, for example.

“It is as if they copied her face and body,” the sculptor said, pointing at Thais.

“I cannot find a reason for this,” Lysippus said. “But only two sculptural standards became fashionable over the last century. One imitates the unrivaled coras of Acropolis and recreates a tall woman with a powerful chest, widely spaced breasts, broad shoulders and stomach muscles akin to male athletes. They are not agile and do not require strong development of rear muscles, which is why they are flatter in the back. The other standard, introduced by Polycleitus, Cresilaus or perhaps even Phradionus, is a broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, small-breasted woman with no waist, who looks more like a boy and also has an undeveloped behind. Such are female runners, Amazons and female Olympians created by these artists. You, Ephesian, know about the statues created for the temple of Artemis in your city by the sculptors I just named a hundred or more years ago.”

“They ruined the image of Artemis and the Amazons,” Leptines exclaimed. “Enchanted by teenage youths, they attempted to find the image of a boy in a woman. And why would a man need a boy instead of a woman? The harsh and simple life of my ancestors, who escaped from the Dorian invaders to come to the shores of Asia Minor, created stout, muscular, agile women of small height. They and Carian and Phrygian women, who went to the north and made it to the river Thermodont, founded the city of the Amazons. They served Artemis with a motto: no obedience to any man.”

“What you tell is so interesting, sculptor,” Thais exclaimed. “Then I am a woman created for a harsh life?”

“You are from a pure bloodline of those who lead a harsh life,” Leptines replied.

“Ephesian, you took us away from the main conversation, though your story is interesting,” Lysippus interrupted, then pointed at a second stool next to Thais. “Eris, stand here.”

The black priestess looked at her mistress questioningly. “Go ahead, Eris, and do not be embarrassed. These are not regular people, these are artists. And we are not just women to them, but the embodiments of goddesses, nymphs, or muses, all things that enlighten a poet. We elevate his dreams into the vastness of the world, sea and sky. Don’t resist if they touch you. They need to know which muscles are concealed under the skin in order to portray the body correctly.”

“I understand, Mistress. But why are there only men here? Are there no female sculptors?”

“You ask a deep question. I shall ask Lysippus. I think it is that we do not possess the same love and desire toward a female image as men do. And we have not yet matured to realization of beauty outside of our personal relations. Perhaps there are women sculptors among the followers of Sappho of Lesbos.”

Eris climbed onto the second stool, dark as Egyptian bronze. She did not possess that self-assured, coquettish supremacy that overflowed in Thais, but had the even greater serenity of a goddess, indifferent to earthly fuss, whose youthful liveliness was the only thing separating her from a harsh or even tragic destiny.

“Bombaks!” Leptines exclaimed in astonishment. “They look alike.”

“I expected as much,” Lysippus said. “Similar purpose of their bodies and the equal level of harmonious development led to inevitable likeness. But let us take these features separately, in order to understand Agesander and his predecessors, who turned the fashion of Helenian sculpture toward foreign images and models. You, Cleophrades, shall correct me or add to my statements, as I am not a great connoisseur of feminine beauty. So shall you, Leptines, because while you are young, you clearly understand the true language of the body.

“We must not repeat a common mistake of the Helenian artists, which the sculptors and painters of Egypt and Crete managed to avoid. It is particularly important to remember that when you attempt to create a composite image, its purpose is to convey beauty to the entire people, not just to fulfill an order from one customer. If that is done, the image will be created to serve only two people: the client and the sculptor himself. When gods bestow the gift of vision and recreation upon an artist, and give him a tender, sensitive soul, they often take away some of his manliness.”

Lysippus hesitated, noticing that his listeners were flushed and frowning.

“I do not wish to accuse artists of lacking in manhood compared to an average person. I refer of that Herculean courage which exists in a wrathful soul, filling heroes and other remarkable people. Compared to them, you are fragile.”

“What is so bad about that?” Leptines said impatiently, interrupting his teacher.

“Nothing. But the demands are the same both from a hero and from a great artist, if he dreams of creating a truly great work of art. Lack of courage leads us toward errors in selection of a model and an image of a woman. We are discussing women, after all, and that is most important. Frequently the artist chooses a model and creates a sculpture of a maiden or a goddess with large facial features, very manlike, broad-shouldered and tall. A hero will never pick a woman like that, nor would a strong courageous man who is a leader to his people. A hero requires a woman filled with feminine power, capable of being his wife and companion and of bearing strong offspring.

Such lovers accompanied artists from the ancient times, for the artists themselves were also warriors, farmers and hunters.

“Watch and listen.” He turned toward the models, gesturing with his hands. “They are both of small, nearly identical, height, as appropriate for a Kharita. Thais is,” Lysippus squinted an exacting eye, ”three elbows and three palystas, Eris is taller by half a palysta. That is shorter than the modern standard, based on Persian and Finikian women.

“The second important feature is a combination of a small waist with rounded hips, forming uninterrupted lines of an amphora without a single chink. This has been celebrated by our poets since the ancient times and was once valued greatly by our sculptors. Nowadays, from Polycleitus to the newly-fashionable Agesander, women’s stomach muscles are portrayed to be the same as men’s, but the hips are forgotten. It is a serious mistake. Look here.” He approached Thais and ran his hands over her hips. ”The wide pelvis of a mother demands balance. How? By developing the muscles that are weak in a man, and less necessary of course. Instead of a thick layer of upper abdominal muscles, a well-built woman has deeply set muscles, here,” Lysippus pressed into Thais’ side, causing her to half-sigh, half-groan.

Lysippus went over to Eris and placed his hands, pale from working with wet clay, over her dark skin.

“See? She too has a very strong muscle that hides behind the oblique abdominal one. It spreads like a broad leaf from here, from the lower ribs to the pelvic bones and the pubic bone. Along its center line is another muscle in the shape of a pyramid. See how well it is outlined under the smooth skin?

“These muscles support the lower part of the stomach and press it between the convex front side of the hip, near the groin. This is also a result of their constant development. Remember this well, because this illustrates the proportions contrary to those of Agesander’s statue, whose stomach protrudes too much at the bottom. As I understand it, the delightful convexity of the hips is caused by exercising the muscles that lift the leg forward. But that is not enough.”

“She,” said the sculptor, going back to Thais, “has very strong, deep-set muscles that pull the leg up to the pelvis. Neither the Creto-Helenian or the Nubian women have a single flaw in the line where the leg connects to the pelvis. That is not an accident either. Some people possess this gift of the Kharitas since birth. The outline of Thais’ hips is even more pronounced from exercising the rear muscles that go up: this one in the middle, between the two big ones and some other ones that cannot be felt, but that lift up the layer of the top muscles. They all connect the pelvis and the hip, turn the leg, lift it back and to the side, as well as straighten the body. I would call those muscles “dancing muscles”, and those that press the legs together “riding muscles”.

“Remember, women must develop their deep muscles just as much as the men must develop their surface muscles. Keep that in mind, when you create an image that is beautiful, healthy and harmonious, strong without coarseness, as the daughters of Hellas should be. And not only those of Hellas, but those of the entire Ecumene. Agility without the loss of the power of Eros, and motherhood. That is an ideal and a standard removed as far from Agesander’s Melos statue as it is from the runners and Amazons by Polycleitus.

“A woman is not a delicate youth. She is his opposite, and stronger than him. Women of many nations have dances with undulations of the waist and rocking of the hips. These movements are natural for them, as they exercise the deep-set muscles, create a flexible waist and polish the internal organs of her womb, where a child is conceived and grown. Where such dances do not exist, or where they are forbidden, I have heard childbearing is painful and the offspring are weaker.”

The great sculptor finished his speech and stepped away, pleased. There was applause from his students who had listened intently and now expressed their overwhelming agreement.

Cleophrades rose from his seat and went to stand between Thais and Eris.

“No one could say it more clearly and wisely than you. I want to add only one thing, perhaps because I find Agesander’s Aphrodite to be an interpretation contrary to my own. Look. Here before you stand two beautiful women of different origins. The great Lysippus pointed out immediately how alike they are, as they were created by the gods according to one standard.

“But he forgot to mention one more feature that is important in the definition of beauty. Their breasts sit high, are both wide at the bottom and more rounded than those of Agesander’s model. His Aphrodite, despite the maturity of her body, has slightly sharpened breasts, as those of a young woman, and at the same time their centers are at least one dactyl lower than those of Thais and Eris. That is not a mistake of the artist, but a blind following of the model. Syrian women are often proportioned such.”

“You are right, Cleophrades, I memorized Agesander’s creation less well than you, and I agree with you,” Lysippus replied.

Both the great sculptor of Hellas and his friend, a nearly unknown creator of a few statues of women, would have been saddened if they could see into the future. Then they would discover that thousands of years later the improper representation of the feminine body by Agesander would be mistaken by artists for a true standard of Helenian beauty.

“Do you wish to add something, Leptines?” Lysippus asked.

The Ephesian sculptor nodded, then held out a hand, asking for silence. “You said nothing about the rear portion of the body.”

“There is nothing drastically different there compared to Agesander, or rather to the statue that inspired our debate,” Lysippus said with a frown.

“No. But there is, great master. You yourself spoke about the lowered and flat buttocks of Agesander’s Syrian model. As you can see, our model is sphayropigeon, round-bottomed.” He drew in the air, following Thais’ outline but not daring to touch her.

“Yes, of course. The reason is the same: the development of dancing muscles that bend the body backward and forward. Their greatest convexity is shifted higher and protrudes more, forming a pronounced roundness. The Milos statue is flat in the upper back, and the models of Polycleitus and Cresilaus are flat-backed as well. Looking at those models you can see clearly that they would never excel at dancing balarita or even eumelea. And our guests can perform even the most difficult of dances, is that not so, Thais?”

“Why ask the ‘fourth Kharita’?” Leptines exclaimed, then pointed at Eris. “What about her?”

“Eris, would you please show them something from the Great Mother’s dances?” Thais said. “They need to see.”

“Why?”

“To understand feminine strength and beauty, and to create images of goddesses that would captivate the imaginations of those not fortunate enough to see you in real life.”

“Very well, Mistress.”

Eris pulled out the dagger from her hair and handed it to Thais. Leptines tried to take a closer look at the weapon, but Eris glared at him so savagely that he pulled his hand away. She did however, reluctantly allow Lysippus to take the dagger and the great artist froze at the sight of the ancient treasure.

The narrow blade, made of the hardest black bronze and decorated with parallel golden grooves, was topped by a hilt made of electron in the shape of letter tau of delicate craftsmanship. The top horizontal bar of the hilt was slightly bent and had gryphon heads on each side. It was molded in one piece with the cylindrical handle slightly thicker in the middle, and carved with circular grooves. On the outside, the handle was decorated with three round black agates set between the grooves. Near the blade the handle split in two, hugging the base of the blade with two taloned gryphon paws. The weapon had been created by masters who had died many centuries before. It was worth a great deal of money, but all black priestesses were armed with the identical daggers.

Thais took the blade away from Lysippus, and Eris let out a sigh of relief. Turning toward Thais, she asked her to sing the morning anthem of the Mother of Gods.

“Start slowly, Mistress, and speed up the rhythm after each half-verse.”

“In the early spring I walk among white asphodel flowers,” Thais began. “The sun rises higher, shadow of the night slips away …”

Eris lifted her arms above her head, folding her hands in a peculiar way, with palms turned up. She started slowly bending backwards with her eyes fixed on her chest. When the dark tips of her breasts, as wide as the steppe hills, rose vertically as if pointing at the zenith, Eris turned her head to the right. Tapping the rhythm with her right foot, she started turning right to left, raising and stretching out her leg for balance. The dazzling, almost bluish whites of her eyes were visible in thin strips between her half-closed eyelids, and her mouth formed a menacing, toothy smile.

Thais increased the tempo of the song. Never changing her pose, Eris spun first one way, then the other, switching her feet imperceptibly.

Lysippus pointed at her, obviously pleased. Who else could have done this?

Thais clapped her hands, stopping Eris, who straightened in one movement and froze on the spot.

The fragment of the dance impressed the Indian artists. The eldest of them bowed and held out his arms. Eris hesitated. The man pulled out a jewel which glittered over his forehead in his turban, and held it out to Eris, saying something in his own language. Eris looked at her mistress for direction. Thais glanced at the interpreter.

“Our great master presents the only thing he has of value as a sign of his utmost admiration for the perfection of the soul, body and dance. These are all three components that make a chitrini,” the interpreter said.

“You see, Eris? You must take this gift. One cannot decline such a sign of respect. The foreigner recognized perfection of the soul in you. What did the Indian say? Chitrini? What is that?” Thais asked.

“Let us ask the honorable guest to explain,” Lysippus chimed in.

The elderly Indian asked for a board, covered with a layer of alabaster. Such pieces were used by artists for large sketches. The interpreter stepped forward, bowed, then raised his hands and folded them in front of his forehead. This was a sign of readiness, meaning he was prepare to serve the guest and the host.

“Worshiping a woman and her beauty is greater among our people, it seems,” the Indian began. “And the power of beauty is stronger in our country. We think that when a man and a woman come together in love, it increases the spirituality of both and improves their Psyche, the soul of any offspring they conceive. The greatest of gods don’t only obey the charms of the heavenly beauties, the apsaras, or hetaerae, as you call them, but also use them as powerful weapons. The main heavenly hetaera, Urvashi was designated to seduce the wise men when they achieved too high a level of perfection and power compared to the gods. Physical love in our country is elevated not only to serve beauty and the mysteries of nature, as in Hellas, but also to serve the gods, as it was among the ancestors of Indian people on Crete, in Asia and in Finikia.

“The scores of gods and goddesses include a multitude of celestial beauties of sunlight, including surasundari or apsaras, Urvashi’s helpers. One of their chief missions is to inspire artists to create beautiful things and to bring comprehension and comfort to all people. The celestial maidens bring their own image to us artists, and thus are called chitrini, from the word chitra, which is a painting, a statue, or a verbal poetic description. Imbued with the magical power of art and the ability to create the miracle of beauty, chitrini bring us all under the same law. He who cannot fulfill his task loses his power and becomes blind to the invisible, becoming a mere craftsman.”

“This is very close to the Orphic teaching of the muses,” Lysippus whispered to Thais. “There is a reason why, according to legend, Orpheus brought his knowledge from India.”

“Or from Crete,” the Athenian replied quietly.

“One of the main secrets of the artists’ skill,” the Indian continued, “is the inexhaustible wealth of colors and forms in the world. The soul of any man will always get an answer to his call, if he calls. The mystery will only increase his curiosity. But there are main forms and main gods. Their embodiment is the most difficult task and requires a heroic deed from the artist. His creation, however, lives longer than mountains and rivers on the face of the Earth, akin to the eternal life of the celestial world.

“That is why the entire multitude of chitrini possesses common features shared by them all. This feminine image was described by a poet fifteen hundred years ago.”

The Indian held out his arms and started reciting in another dialect, apparently quoting something. The interpreter looked around helplessly. Then another Indian started translating into a more common language he knew.

“This woman is a joyous dancer, a courageous lover, an agile and strong chitrini. She is of small height with a slender waist and curved hips, with a strong straight neck, with small hands and feet. Her shoulders are straight and more narrow than her hips, her breasts are firm and set high and close, because they are wide at the base. Her face is round, her nose is small and straight. Her eyes are large, eyebrows narrow, hair darker than Indian nights. Her only scent is the smell of honey. Her ears are small and set high.” The Indian caught his breath. “And now look at them,” he said suddenly, pointing at Thais and Eris. “The poet inspired by gods who died so long ago described them both. Do we need any more proof of the immortal beauty of chitrini?”

The Helenians gave loud exclamations of delight. Lysippus, who sent for a chest to be brought from another room, approached the speaker, carefully carrying a statuette made of ivory and gold.

“This is a gift to you, Indian, to confirm what you said,” Lysippus said, then lifted the sculpture in his palm.

Time had damaged the statuette of a semi-nude woman slightly around her face, headdress and right arm. With her left hand, the woman was pulling up the broad floor length skirt that flowed in waves. Deep gores appeared lower down the middle, in the shape of the letter mu. Her loose, wide sash sat at a slant, revealing almost all of her stomach, tiny waist and the top part of her curvy hips. Large, round breasts sat high and close but seemed too well-developed for the narrow torso and shoulders. Her face, though damaged by time, still held its round shape and a steadfast gaze of long widely set eyes.

“Chitrini?” Lysippus asked, smiling.

“Chitrini!” the Indian said, then nodded. “Where from?”

“From the island of Crete. Connoisseurs believe she is one thousand five hundred years old. That means she is a contemporary of your poet. Take it.”

“For me?” the Indian asked, stepping back in reverent awe.

“For you. Take it to your country where beliefs, standards of art and attitude toward women are so close to the great lost art of Crete.”

The Indian said something to his companions and they began chattering loudly and excitedly, raising his arms like Athenians at Agora.

“Today is a true holiday for us at your house, oh wise teacher,” the eldest Indian said. “We have long since heard of your fame as the most incorruptible and greatest artist of Hellas, who came to Asia with Alexander. We have now seen that there is far more glory in the depth and generosity of your knowledge, and we have met not one, but two surasundari — chitrini at your home. But this last gift is particularly special. Even with all of your wisdom you may not know of a legend, that there once was a land in the west which was wiped out by terrible earthquakes and underwater volcano eruptions.”

“I know this legend, and she does too,” Lysippus said, pointing at Thais. “And so do those of my students who have read Creteus and Timeus by Plato. There once was a rich and powerful seafaring country in the west. Its capital, the City of Waters, perished from the wrath of Poseidon and Gaea. Egyptian priests, from whom Plato learned this legend, did not give the precise location of that country, which was called Atlantis. Followers of Plato believe Atlantis to have been located to the west of the Pillars of Hercules in the great ocean. Creteus, unfortunately, remained unfinished, and we do not know what else the great scholar might have wanted to tell us.”

“Then you know the rest. Our legend states that the seafaring country was in your sea. Its position, description and time coincide with those of the island of Crete. The time of demise, not of the country itself, but of its wisdom and the best of its people, took place eleven centuries ago.”

“Right at the time of the fall of the Cretan state after the terrible eruption and flood,” Lysippus said, addressing Thais.

“Some of the most skillful and knowledgeable people of Crete survived the disaster and subsequent capture by people who attacked

Crete the moment its might was crushed and its fleet was gone. They escaped to the east, to their new motherland of Licaonia and Cilicia, as well as Phrygia. But they found the places for possible settlements were already occupied, so they continued their journey.

“The legend says nothing of how they could have reached the river Indus, where they founded their city. They found people there who were distantly related to them: the Dravidians, and taught them arts. Whether they traveled across the land through Parthia, Bactria and the mountains or whether they managed to sail down the Euphrates and make it into the delta of the Indus from the sea using their seafaring skills, the legend doesn’t say. Now you can see that your gift is sacred, for it brings to us a creation of an artist whose people founded the art of our country. I haven’t enough words to thank you, Lysippus.”

The Indians bowed in unison before the somewhat overwhelmed great sculptor. Then the eldest Indian approached Thais and Eris, now both dazzlingly beautiful in sunny yellow and dark blue ecsomidae. The eldest took the women’s hands and pressed them to his forehead, speaking mysterious words that sounded like a prayer or an incantation.

Then the four Indian guests covered the statuette with a snow white cloth and carried it home with reverence. Eris stood with her eyes downcast, her skin looking even darker from the flush. Lysippus looked after them and spread his hands.

“I agree with the Indian master, that days of meetings and conversations such as these are rare,” he said.

“I wish I could see him again,” Thais said.

“You will soon meet a traveler from an even more distant and ancient Middle empire, who had only just arrived to Ecbatana.”

“Can I invite him to my house?”

“No, it may not be appropriate among his people. You’d better come here. I shall arrange it so there is no big gathering and we can talk freely. I am certain that you and I will both hear many new things.”

Thais clapped her hands with delight and tenderly kissed her friend, who had replaced her Memphis teacher. However, the news came in a completely different form from what Thais had expected.

The day after she met Cleophrades, Thais received a visitor. It was one of the participants of the gathering at Lysippus’ house. He was an art patron, a wealthy young Lydian who multiplied his fortune by slave and livestock trade. He arrived accompanied by a secretary and a strong slave, who carried a heavy leather sack.

“You will not deny my request, Mistress Thais,” he began directly, fanning himself with a perfumed purple handkerchief.

The Athenian instantly disliked the tone of half-request, half-statement carelessly uttered by the Lydian’s handsome lips. She did not like him, either. Still, by the rules of hospitality she asked what his request was.

“Sell me your slave,” the Lydian said insistently. “She is more beautiful than anyone I have ever seen, and thousands have passed through my hands.”

Thais leaned against the railing of the verandah, no longer hiding her disdainful smile.

“You mustn’t laugh at me, Mistress. I know the value of a good thing and brought you two talants,” he said, then pointed at his mighty slave who was sweating under the weight of the sack of gold. “It is an unprecedented price for a dark-skinned slave, but I am not used to being denied. Having seen her, I was consumed by unconquerable desire.”

“Aside from the fact that nothing in this house is for sale,” Thais said calmly, “or the fact that Eris is not a slave, this woman is not for you nor for any mere mortal.”

“But I am not a mere mortal,” the Lydian said imperiously. “I understand a thing or two about love. And if she is not a slave then who is she?”

“A goddess,” Thais replied seriously.

The Lydian laughed. “A goddess serving you? That is too much even for such a famous and beautiful hetaera as yourself.”

Thais straightened. “It is time for you to leave, guest. In Athens those who cannot watch their tongue, and do not know the rules of proper conduct, are tossed down the stairs.”

“And my people tend to remember what is said, and obtain what they desire by any means. The prize justifies the means,” the man said ominously, but Thais ran up to the upper balcony, no longer listening to him.

A day later, when Eris and Okiale went to the market, the Lydian connoisseur of women stopped Eris and attempted to seduce her away with various promises. Eris continued on without listening to him. The enraged slave trader grabbed her shoulder, then froze when he was faced with the blade of a dagger.

Eris laughed when she told her mistress about the failed admirer, and the Athenian laughed along with her. Unfortunately, both young women turned out to be lacking in insight. They did not realize the extent of the intense and petty anger of the Asian traders in living merchandise.

A new caravan arrived from Bactria. Thais was dressing up to go see the chief and find out the latest war news. Much to her vexation, she realized she was out of the dark crimson paint made of Cyprus seashells, and used for tinting nipples and toes. Eris volunteered to run to the market. Only a horseman could make it faster than she, and even then he would have gotten stuck in the market stampede. Thais agreed.

Eris was gone a lot longer than expected. The Athenian became worried and sent a swift-footed girl, Roykos stepdaughter, to find out what had happened. The girl rushed back, out of breath, pale and with her sash missing. She told Thais that Eris was tied up and surrounded by a crowd of men who were about to kill her.

Thais had long since sensed a shadow hanging over Eris, and now the trouble had come. Roykos had already taken out Boanergos and Salmaakh and armed himself with a shield and a spear. Thais hopped onto Salmaakh. They dashed down the steep narrow street at breakneck speed, the way Eris always went. Thais was not mistaken in the path she chose. She saw a small crowd in a wide semi-portico, a niche within a tall wall. The crowd surrounded five huge slaves who were holding Eris. Her arms were twisted mercilessly behind her back, her neck was pushed back by a thick rope, and one of the slaves was trying to catch her feet. The Lydian who had visited Thais was sprawled in the dust at Eris’ feet with his stomach cut open. Thais instantly knew what to do.

“E-e-e-e-eh!” she screamed right over Salmaakh’s ear.

The mare went mad and rushed at the people, bucking and biting. The stunned slaves let go of Eris’ arms. At the same moment Thais cut the rope with her left hand, and Salmaakh’s front hooves landed on the back of the man trying to tie Eris’ feet.

Roykos also took active part. One of the slaves who had held Eris’ arms crashed on the ground from a hard hit with the shield right in the face. Another one jumped aside and grabbed his knife, but the old warrior raised his spear. By then, people were running in from everywhere, yelling and screaming. Thais held out a hand to Eris and turned the rearing mare. The black priestess hopped easily behind Thais and the horse carried the two women out of the crowd. Roykos would have covered their retreat, had it been necessary, but the slaves didn’t dare follow Thais and Eris because the sympathies of the crowd were entirely on the side of the women.

Thais ordered Roykos to tell the people who surrounded the wounded man not to touch him until help arrived, and to get him the most famous doctor in Ecbatana.

The Athenian rushed home, examined Eris, then ordered her to go bathe in the pool. She put medicinal lotion over the many scratches in Eris’ dense and supple dark skin. Eris, who was extremely pleased that her sacred dagger was safe, told her mistress about her adventure.

The Lydian with five strong slaves had waited for Eris, having spied on her during prior trips. They grabbed her so that she couldn’t break free, and started dragging her under the portico. The Lydian knocked and the door at the back of the portico opened. Apparently, they intended to drag Eris inside and tie her up. Unfortunately for them, the Lydian was too quick to celebrate and decided to rip off the black priestess’ clothes right there and then.

“In the case of rape we carry this in our sandals,” Eris said, and lifted her right foot. There was a small roll of leather on the sole, in front of the strap that went between the toes. Shifting her big toe to the side, Eris tapped her toes on the floor, and a razor-sharp blade that looked like a leopard claw popped out of the leather roll. One swipe of such a terrible talon could inflict a huge wound. The Lydian’s exposed intestines were a good example of that.

Thais finished tending to Eris, gave her some poppy broth and put her do bed despite the protests. Roykos arrived with a note from the doctor, who had already been informed of what had taken place.

“I sewed up the scoundrel’s stomach with a coarse thread,” Alkander wrote. “He’ll live if his fat doesn’t interfere.”

The day after the attack, Thais asked for Eris. Her slave stood, unusually serious and solemn. Lysippus and Cleophrades sat in the comfortable armchairs of Babylonian craftsmanship with the look of judges. By the fluttering of her nostrils, Thais noticed the hidden concern of the black priestess.

“I hereby testify before the two respected and well-known citizens above the age of thirty,” the Athenian recited the established formula, “that this woman named Eris is not my slave, but is a free person. She is not obligated to anyone in her actions and is her own mistress.”

Eris trembled. The whites of her eyes looked enormous on her bronze face.

Cleophrades, being the elder, rose. He hid a grin in his grizzled dark beard.

“We should examine you to establish the absence of any markings or brands. But there is no need for that, as we have all seen you without clothing as recently as five days ago. I suggest we sign.” He leaned over the document that had been prepared in advance, and scratched his sign with the long-lasting ink made of walnuts. Lysippus signed as well, then he and Thais approached a frozen Eris. With his strong sculptor’s fingers, Lysippus opened and removed the silver bracelet above her left elbow.

“You are sending me away, Mistress?” Eris asked sadly, her breath coming out in gasps.

“No, not at all. It’s just that you will not be seen as my slave anymore. We have had enough of this masquerade. Hesiona, as you know, considered herself to be my slave, too. She was also a priestess, like you, only serving a different goddess. And now, as you know, the Daughter of a Snake is my best friend, replacing my beautiful Egesikhora.”

“Who am I going to replace?”

“You don’t have to replace anyone. You are your own person.”

“And I can live here with you?”

“As long as you wish. You have become a near and dear person to me,” the Athenian said. She put her arms around Eris’ neck and kissed her, feeling the trembling of the black priestess’ body.

Two large teardrops rolled down her dark cheeks, her shoulders relaxed, and a sigh escaped her lips. Then came a smile as brief and beautiful as lightning.

“And here I thought it was my death hour,” Eris said simply.

“How so?”

“I would have killed myself to wait for you at the shore of the River.”

“I realized your mistake,” Cleophrades said, “and I was watching you so I would be able to interfere in time.”

“Is there any difference whether it’s sooner or later?” Eris asked with a shrug.

“There is a difference. You would have realized later what you hadn’t understood now, and would have subjected Thais and both of us to much grief from your silly ingratitude.”

Eris gazed at the sculptor, then knelt before him and lifted his hand to her lips. Cleophrades picked her up, kissed her cheeks and made her sit in a chair next to him, as was appropriate for a free woman.

Thais rose and nodded to Eris. “I’ll be right back,” she said and left the room.

“Tell us about yourself, Eris,” Lysippus said. “You must be a daughter of famous parents, and of good ancestry down both male and female lines. Such perfection, callocagatia, can only be acquired over a long course of generations. It is different from talent.”

“I cannot tell you anything, great sculptor. I do not know anything and can only vaguely remember some other country. I was taken to the temple of the Mother of Gods when I was very small.”

“Pity. I really wish to know. We would have undoubtedly confirmed what we already know about our famous beauties: Aspasia, Lais, Frina, Thais and Egesikhora.”

Thais came back, carrying a white ecsomida with blue trim. “Put this on. Don’t be shy. Don’t forget, they are artists.”

“I have known that they were different since our first visit,” Eris replied, nevertheless hiding behind her mistress as she changed.

Thais did Eris’ hair and added a beautiful gold diadem. Instead of the simple sandals, albeit with fighting claws, the Athenian told her to put on the holiday ones. These were made of silver leather. The main strap was tied in two bows in silver clasps to three strips of leather. They hugged the heel as well as a wide bracelet with bells around the ankle. The effect was stunning. The artists started slapping their hips with appreciation.

“She is an Ethiopian princess,” Lysippus exclaimed.

“I will say to you the same thing I said to that rage-obsessed Lydian. She is not a princess, she is a goddess,” Thais said.

The great sculptor studied the Athenian, trying to figure out whether she was joking or serious. When he could not decide, he said just in case, “Will the goddess consent to be a model for my favorite student?”

“That is a primary duty of goddesses and muses,” Thais replied.