Thais of Athens

Chapter Thirteen. Keoss Ritual

The Lydian scoundrel who had attempted to steal Eris did survive. Three weeks later, he showed up at Lysippus’ house complaining about Thais, and showing the ugly scar that sliced through his body. Thais decided it was necessary to convey all to the city chief. The Lydian was exiled and prohibited from ever showing up in Ecbatana, Susa or Babylon.

Thais’ life in Ecbatana took on a monotonous rhythm after Cleophrades started sculpting her and Ehephilos started sculpting Eris. Both of them had to rise at first light. The sculptors, much like Lysippus himself, preferred morning hours. The women appeared as soon as the sun rose from beyond the eastern hills, and the clouds above the giant granite ridge turned pink, scattering before the power of Helios. Ehephilos didn’t rush, proceeding slowly and not working Eris overly hard. Cleophrades, however, worked as zealously as if he were consumed with sacred madness. The pose he chose was difficult even for someone as physically well-developed as Thais.

Lysippus, who had set aside a section of his verandah for the sculptors, frequently showed up to rescue his friend.

Ptolemy sent surprisingly little news. He stopped writing long letters and sent only quick word of himself twice, sending it through sick and wounded officers when they returned to the capital of Persia. All was well. Both detachments of the army — one led by Hephaestion and the other by Alexander — took different paths to cross the icy mountain ridges of terrible height, where one could never get warm and suffered from sleeping sickness. Now the troops were descending toward the long awaited Indus.

One time, Lysippus invited Thais into his apartments. There, behind a carefully hidden door, was an absida with a tall, crack-like window that reminded Thais of the Temple of Neit in Memphis. A narrow beam of the midday sun fell onto a tile of pure white marble, reflecting a column of light at Lysippus. He looked stern and solemn. The light over his head gave the sculptor the look of a priest holding some secret knowledge.

“Our great divine teacher Orpheus discovered ovomanthy, or divination by the egg. Sometimes one can see the future hidden in the yolk and white of a bird’s egg. Only those who have been initiated and know how to find the signs, then decipher them using multi-level mathematical calculation, can predict the future. Different birds have different purposes.

“In order to find out what I wish to know, I need an egg of a long-living and high-flying bird. A condor would be best. Here it is,” said the sculptor. He unwrapped a bundle of fleece to reveal a large gray egg. “And to help it, there is a second one from a mountain raven.”

Lysippus skillfully sliced the condor egg with a sharp dagger and allowed its contents to spread over the marble. He poured the raven’s egg over a black lacquered tile. Peering carefully at both and correlating what he saw, he whispered something, then made mysterious markings on the edges of the marble slab. Not daring to move, Thais observed what was taking place, though she didn’t understand anything of what she was seeing.

Lysippus started calculating and summarizing. Thais, who was enjoying the respite from the many difficult posing sessions with the ruthless Cleophrades, did not notice that the sunbeam had shifted to the left and off the marble slab. Lysippus rose abruptly and wiped sweat from his large, balding brow.

“The Indian campaign is destined to fail.”

“What? Did everyone perish?” Thais started, not immediately comprehending the words spoken by the sculptor.

“There are no indications of that and there cannot be any. The flow of destiny is not beneficial and the space they plan to cross is unconquerable.”

“But Alexander has maps, skilled geographers, cryptii and navigators. Everything he could get from Helenian science and the guidance of the great Aristotle.”

“Aristotle turned out to be blind and deaf not only toward the ancient wisdom of Asia, but also to the Helenian’s own science. Although this often happens when one becomes admired and successful on his path. He forgets that he is but a student, following one of many roads of discovery. He forgets the necessity of keeping his eyes open, preserving the ancient knowledge in his memory and combining it with the new.”

“What did he forget, for example?”

“Democritus and Anaximander of Millet, the Pythagoreans, and Plato, who taught in agreement with our Orphic legends that Earth is a hemisphere, or even a sphere. That is why all maps of flat Earth, calculated by Hecateus are incorrect. Eudox of Knid, who lived in Egypt, calculated the size of the Gaea globe by observing the star Canopus and discovered it to be 330 thousand stadiums in circumference. These wise men wrote that the distance to the stars is incomprehensibly large for a human mind, and that there are dark stars as well as other inhabited lands, like our Gaea. In addition to the planets we already know about, there are many distant ones, and we cannot see them with naked eye, just as not everyone sees the sickle of the planet of Morning, dedicated to your goddess.”

Thais looked around in alarm, as if afraid to see one of the enraged Olympians behind her back. “How could Democritus know about the planets invisible to him?”

“I think from the teachers who possessed the knowledge of the ancient people. At one Babylonian temple I was shown a small tower with a copper dome that could rotate on a thick axle. The dome was inset with a window made of convex glass of splendidly polished transparent mountain crystal. This round window, three podes in diameter, had been called the “Eye of the World” by the Chaldeans since the ancient times. Through it the priests managed to see four tiny stars in the night sky, near the biggest planet. They also saw a greenish planet beyond the gloomy Chronos. I saw it, too.”

“And Aristotle knew nothing of this?”

“I cannot tell you whether he dismissed it or simply did not know. The former is worse, for it is criminal for a philosopher. He himself writes that Earth is a sphere, but he left Alexander ignorant.”

“What else does Alexander’s teacher not know?”

“You ask a question that is unacceptable for an Orphic, who believes in the limitlessness of the world and knowledge.”

“Forgive me, teacher. I am ignorant and do my best to partake from the spring of your knowledge.”

“Aristotle should know,” Lysippus said more gently, “that several centuries ago the Finikians followed the order of the Pharaoh Neho, and sailed around the shores of Libya. Having spent two years on this heroic undertaking, they proved that Libya is an island of the size surpassing all imagination. They did not find the edge of the world, nor did they find gods or spirits, but the sun started doing strange things in the sky. It rose straight above their heads at noon, but then tilted to the side, although the sailors were still headed south. Then the sun started rising on their right instead of their left.”

“I do not understand what that means.”

“It means that first they went around Libya and turned north while following its shores. The change of the noonday location of the sun toward the south or north during their voyage speaks of that, which has long since been known to the Orphics and priests of India and Babylon, who used a wheel as the symbol of the world.”

“But Earth looks like a wheel on the maps by Hecateus, too.”

“A flat wheel. The Orphics know that this wheel is, in fact, a sphere, and Indians have long since considered Earth to be a globe.”

“But if that is so, then Alexander is trying to reach the edges of the world, not knowing its true shape and size. Then Aristotle …”

“Thousands of pseudo-prophets have deceived thousands of kings, certain of the truth of their pitiful knowledge.”

“They ought to be killed.”

“Are you that bloodthirsty?”

“You know I am not. But those who preach false knowledge, not knowing the truth, will bring about terrible disasters. Especially if they are followed by such mighty conquerors and kings as Alexander.”

“So far Aristotle has caused no disaster to Alexander. On the contrary. Having convinced him of the closeness of the edges of the world, he has made him reach for that goal with all his might. Alexander has a share of madness from his maenad mother, and he has invested it in his divine power and the abilities of an army leader.”

“What will happen when the truth comes out? Will Alexander forgive him for his ignorance in geography?”

“Some of it has already come out. There was a reason why Alexander went to India using the route of Dionysus. Perhaps he found out about the Middle Empire.”

“You said you wanted to show me a man who came from there. When?”

“Very well. Tomorrow. But now you must go to Cleophrades or else he will smash my entire collection of Egyptian statuettes. I was careless and left it at the workshop.”

While he waited for her, the Athenian sculptor dashed around the verandah as if he were a leopard. Thais’ punishment was being forced to pose till evening. Eris, who had long since been free of her obligations, had to wait a long time for her in Lysippus’ garden.

“Tell me, Mistress,” Eris asked on their way home. “What makes you serve as a model so obligingly? It tires you more than any other occupation and uses so much of your time. Do they pay a lot of money?” She looked doubtful. “I do not think that Cleophrades is rich.”

Thais shook her head. “You see, Eris, every person has his or her own duties that correspond to whatever gifts the fate bestowed. The greater the gift, the greater the duty. A king must care about his citizens and about the development of his country. An artist must create that which brings joy to others, a poet …”

“I understand,” Eris interrupted. “I was taught also that if I possess greater beauty than that of my friends, then my service must be greater and more difficult as well.”

“You have answered your own question. We were gifted by Aphrodite. We must serve people or else the divine gift will vanish before we fulfill our destiny. There are many sculptors and artists who would have paid a handful of gold to us for each hour of posing, but I shall be an obliging model to Cleophrades without a single obol. What about you?”

“Ehephilos asked me and I refused because I understand that I serve the Great Mother and, as you know, one cannot take money for that. Although sometimes I wish I had a lot of money.”

Thais was surprised. “What for?”

“To make you a present. The most expensive and beautiful one I could find.”

“You have long since done that,” Thais said, chuckling, “having given yourself to me.”

“Not at all. You bought me, or rather exchanged me when I was sentence.”

“Do you not understand, priestess of the Highest Goddess, the Queen of Earth and Fertility? How I found and kept you is an accident. Any slave girl could have been obtained that way. But you did not become a slave girl. Instead you become someone completely different, unique and unlike any other. And that was when I found you again, and you found me.”

“I am happy that you understand that, Thais,” Eris said, addressing her by name for the first time in all the years of their life together.

There were days when Cleophrades was simply a man. On those days he was a true Athenian: gregarious, merry, hungry for news. He was definitely that way on the day in which he met a guest from the distant East, a yellow-skinned man with eyes that were even more narrow and slanted than those of the dwellers of Central Asia. The features of his face were delicate, and looked somewhat like a mask carved out of pear wood. His clothing, threadbare and faded, was made of especially thick and heavy material. It was most likely silk, which was both rare and expensive on the shores of Asia Minor and Finikia. A loose blouse hung limply over his thin body and his wide pants. The pants were cut in a similar way to barbaric fashion, much different from the tight Scythian leggings. Deep wrinkles betrayed both the traveler’s age and his fatigue from the innumerable hardships of his journey. Dark eyes observed everything carefully and with obvious intelligence. He was so attentive it almost made the speaker uncomfortable.

Thais could not remember his complex name with its unusual intonations. The guest spoke the old-fashioned Persian fairly well, though he raised his voice in a funny way and swallowed the “rho” sound. A scholarly Persian friend of Lysippus easily managed the duties of an interpreter. Fortunately, both Lysippus and Thais knew some Persian as well.

The traveler assured them that it had been eight years since he’d left his native country. He had crossed monstrous expanses of mountains, valleys, deserts and forests, all inhabited by different people. According to his calculations, he had walked, ridden and sailed a distance three times greater than that covered by Alexander when he voyaged from Ecbatana to Alexandria Eskhata.

Thais and Lysippus exchanged glances.

“If I understand the honored traveler correctly, he states that the inhabited land, Ecumene, stretches much further beyond Alexandria Eskhata than it is marked on the map by Hecateus. On that map there are only twenty thousand uninhabited stadiums to Cape Tamar, where the enormous wall of snowy mountains reaches the shore of the Eastern ocean.”

The guest’s face betrayed a hidden smile. “My Heavenly Empire, or Middle Empire, as we call it, lies twenty thousand stadiums to the east of the River of Sands, using your measure.”

“What do you know of the Eastern ocean?”

“Our empire reaches its shores and my compatriots fish in its waters. We do not know how large the ocean is or what lies beyond it. But there are sixty thousand stadiums from here to its shores.”

Lysippus opened his mouth, not even attempting to hide his surprise, and Thais felt a cold shiver run down her spine. Only yesterday Lysippus had told her about the vast expanses of Libya spread to the south, and today the strange, yellow-faced man spoke of unimaginably huge and inhabited lands, Ecumene, with unquestionable sincerity. Ever since her childhood, the journey Dionysus had taken to India had always been a deed Thais viewed as that of a mighty god. Now it appeared small compared to what had been accomplished by this frail man of average height, with wrinkle-covered yellow face, who came from lands far beyond the imaginary dwelling of gods.

Thais’ heart filled with deep pity for Alexander. He was fighting through scores of enemies with superhuman heroism and was still separated from his goal by a distance twice greater than that which he had covered so far. The student of a great philosopher had no idea he was being led by an ignorant blind man. Lysippus’ ovomanthy filled Thais with certainty that even if he followed the Indian route, the limits of Ecumene would turn out to be much farther away than those shown on Helenian maps.

The world was turning out to be much more complex and vast than Alexander’s companions and philosophers had ever thought. How could she communicate that to Alexander? He no longer wished to listen even to his own cryptii, who had discovered a great desert and long mountain ranges to the east of the Roof of the World. Had it not been for the savagely warlike Scythians he would have gone further to the east, beyond Alexandria Eskhata, which was the city nicknamed ‘Bride of Death’ where Leontiscus had fallen. Thais knew it was not possible to take away Alexander’s dream to be the first mortal to reach the edges of the world. But where were those edges? Judging by the traveler with unpronounceable name, millions of yellow-faced dwellers of the Heavenly Empire along the Eastern ocean already possessed far greater knowledge and art than what they termed common barbarians.

Such were the Athenian’s thoughts as she watched the guest. She watched him fold his delicate hands and settle comfortably in a deep Persian armchair as if to rest. He gladly accepted an invitation to stay at Lysippus’ house before continuing on to Babylon, where he hoped to get to know the capital of wise men and mages of western Asia. After then he hoped to meet Alexander.

During the few days during which the traveler stayed with Lysippus, Thais discovered many things she would have considered a fairy tale in her home country. The yellow-faced traveler taught her that the Heavenly Empire was born during times as ancient as those of the origins of Egypt, Crete and Mesopotamia. He spoke of a precise calendar created two thousand years before the construction of the Parthenon. According to him, the state had been founded two thousand years prior to the establishment of that calendar. He spoke of skilled craftsmen and artists, of astronomers who made maps of the sky, and of mechanics who created complex water powered devices. He told her of unusually tall bridges, temple towers of iron, china and bronze, of palaces erected atop manmade hills, and artificial lakes dug by thousands of slaves.

The wise men of the Heavenly Empire had even created a device which could predict earthquakes and where they were to take place. The traveler described in detail places where nature had been made more beautiful by human hands, like the mountains crowned by temples whose wide staircases of thousands of steps were surrounded by ancient trees. He spoke of roads made of blue-glazed bricks which led to sacred places, and alleys of tall, white-barked pines, every tree the identical height and age, stretching for hundreds of stadiums.

The son of the Heavenly Empire spoke of skilled doctors who healed patients by sticking tiny gold needles into affected areas. He amazed the Helenians with his story of two glass and metal mirrors at the emperor’s palace which could help a doctor see through a person and find places impacted by illness inside the body. Thais, who earned the traveler’s respect with her insatiable curiosity and intelligent questions, received from him a gift of a small china cup. It was decorated with a wonderful blue pattern of reeds and birds in flight, wrapped in a length of dazzling gold silk.

The Athenian hurried to thank the slant-eyed scholar by presenting him with a saucer made of black china. He had never seen anything like it, despite the many countries through which he had traveled. With the perceptiveness of a caring woman, Thais pressed the traveler to take a cedar box filled with gold staters which had been recently minted with Alexander’s profile, based on the model by Lysippus. The scholar was clearly limited in his means, and possibly even hopeful of asking for Alexander’s help, and he was deeply touched by the gift. Following Thais’ example, Lysippus also gave him a substantial sum with which to complete his journey. Now the yellow-faced traveler could afford to go to Babylon and wait for Alexander even if it took two or three years.

Then he gave to Thais a pair of earrings of astonishing craftsmanship, which she thought were most likely the last thing of value he had managed to keep over his long journey. The earrings were made of transparent pale green stone of uncommon strength and consisted of rings and miniature balls, one inside the other. The amazing piece of art had been carved out of a solid piece without the integrity of the stone being broken. The earrings dangled from gold hooks, jingling delicately and sounding like the echo of a distant wind over dry reeds. Tiny rosettes enclosed within the balls were made of faceted pieces of stone which were called “tiger’s eye” in the distant empire. They shimmered through the slits in the stone with a mysterious, moon-like light. The incredible artistry of that country’s stone carvers surpassed everything the Helenians had ever seen. It only convinced them further of the truth of the traveler’s story. The Athenians took time to marvel at the creation, but Thais was afraid to wear such a rarity too often.

The yellow-faced man surprised Lysippus and Thais by telling them a legend about the birth of the first creatures. He said they had come from an egg, dropped by the God of the Sky Tian’ into the Great Waters. Thais was very interested in the story because this legend closely resembled the Orphic teachings about the beginning of all beginnings.

Guan-Yin, the mother of mercy and knowledge, was equal in power to the male deities of Sky and Thunder. She was also similar to the Great Mother of Crete and Asia Minor.

In the end, the traveler saddened Thais with his conviction that all things in the world have two beginnings: Yang and Yin. All things of light, day and heaven were associated with the male beginning called Yang, while all things of darkness, night and earth were associated with the female beginning called Yin. Yin was obliged to obey Yang, for only then would life flow toward light and heaven.

Thais shook her head with disdain, then told the yellow-faced man that his empire would always exist at a lower level of spiritual development than those countries in which the female beginning was recognized as that of benevolence and creation. Besides, countries where the female population was oppressed had never been known for their valor or courage in war or their struggle against enemies. Enslavement of women was inevitably followed by the birth of men with souls of slaves.

Lysippus gently reminded the enraged Athenian of some of the names of Kibela, the great female goddess. For instance, he said, there was the Ruler of the Lower Abyss and Queen of Earth, which were consistent with the aspect of Yin. Thais retorted that the Great Mother had many guises. The problem was not in them, but in the consequences of societal structure which had been created by men attempting to establish their supremacy.

Much to the Athenian’s surprise, the yellow-faced man suddenly slumped. The piercing lights in his narrow eyes faded with sadness. He admitted that despite all the might of his country, the skill of the artists, and the hard work of the people, the Heavenly Empire was torn by civil wars and frequent external attacks from battle-skilled nomadic tribes.

The cruelty of their rulers made life intolerable. They distanced themselves from the lives of their people and were indifferent to disasters such as poor crops, floods and droughts. If they’d possessed more courage, this man and his compatriots would have long since revolted, overthrown the evil rulers, and eliminated cruel laws. The man lamented that all they needed was a little courage so they could escape from the country where they lived in crowded, suffering poverty, subject to injustice because of overpopulation. They needed at least as much valour as the weakest soldier in Alexander’s army. Through this admission, the Helenians realized that the legendary empire, while bearing a proud name, was no better than any other country ruled by tyranny.

Thais was completely undone by another of the traveler’s confessions. He told them he had been inspired by a legend about paradise. The legend said he should go west, to a land inhabited by Dragons of Wisdom and located within a circle of tall mountains somewhere in the center of Asia. He had crossed Central Asia and all of its rocky deserts and come to Mesopotamia, where western legends placed another paradise of perfect happiness. But he had found nothing like that which the legend had said existed. Instead, he discovered it was simply a fairy tale invented by European scholars in order to take their people out of slavery in Egypt and lead them to the east.

The yellow-faced man consoled himself with the truth that he might not have found paradise, but he had discovered a wisdom which was much different from the mindset of his native people.

Thais was reluctant to part from the traveler. The Athenian’s irresistible charm broke some of his reluctance, but he refused to draw any maps or mark any distances until he met with Alexander.

He confided in her that instead of paradise and Dragons of Wisdom, he had met kind, welcoming people. They lived in stone structures on the slopes of tall mountains at the origins of the greatest river of the Heavenly Empire, the River Blue. These people considered themselves to be followers of a great Indian wise man. The wise man taught them to always follow the middle way between two extremes, between good and evil, between light and dark. He advised this because he said all things in the world change with time. What was good today could become bad tomorrow, and evil could turn good overnight. The traveler wanted to stay with them and become their student, but they sent him further to the west, where nobody knew of the great countries of the east. They said there he would find a man who had power enough to unite East and West by using the wisdom of both. The traveler was to see that man, the great conqueror Alexander, and tell him of the paths and countries beyond the Roof of the World. But he was only to share this knowledge if Alexander turned out to be as wise and perceptive as they had heard.

“And what if he is not?” Lysippus asked quickly.

“Then I am not to tell him anything,” the traveler said evenly.

“They could find out by force,” the sculptor insisted.

The yellow-faced man chuckled disdainfully. “The road is long, the distances are tremendous, mountains and deserts carry no water and are swept by terrible winds. A small error in directions would only be discovered years later, but it would lead them astray by thousands of stadiums, toward their deaths.” He suddenly erupted into a broken, squealing laugh.

A huge caravan arrived in Ecbatana, dispatched by Alexander from the tallest range of Parapamizes. The mountains, their surfaces glittering with ice, stood twice as tall as Olympus and even more majestic. Much to their delight, when the Macedonian army, or rather the part of it led by Alexander and Ptolemy, reached the foot, they ran into ivy-covered hills. Among them lay the city of Nyssa.

In Alexander’s opinion, both the ivy and the name of the city proved that Dionysus had stopped here at the end of his journey to India. The local tribes weren’t dark but had a slightly coppery skin color. They did not look like the surrounding tribes and undoubtedly had arrived from the west. The Macedonians were struck by the sight of numerous herds of thriving livestock, especially the bulls, which were spotted, long-horned and enormous. The king immediately sent a caravan of these bulls to Macedonia.

When the caravan arrived at Ecbatana, three quarters of the animals were still intact. Thais ran to inspect the bulls, moved more by them than she had been by a letter from Ptolemy. She had to force herself to walk away from the splendid animals. They would rest for two months at a mountain pasture near Ecbatana before the next march to Tyre, followed by a sea voyage to Alexander’s homeland.

The bulls looked much like the famous Cretan breed used during the sacred games. According to the legend told by the Indian sculptor, the settlers from the west could possibly have been Cretan. Lysippus agreed with that interpretation. Myths about Dionysus were as ancient as Crete itself. The great artist added that the journey of Dionysus to India was nothing more than the exodus of people who managed to escape from Crete. The Athenian jumped in delight and kissed Lysippus for this interesting idea.

Afterwards, she went home to read Ptolemy’s letter. His missives from Sogda and Bactriana were filled with accumulated irritation and fatigue. This last letter, however, reminded her of the old Ptolemy. The army leader, who had become the head of Alexander’s advisers, had no illusions. He anticipated much work ahead, but also the approaching end of the campaign.

Indeed, after celebrations at Nyssa and a lightning fast raid on the fortress of Aornos, they passed the three-peaked mountain, Mera. The mountain was located near the boundaries of Ecumene, according to the calculations of geographers and navigators, and descended into Svat. A messenger arrived, informing them that Hephaestion had been successful in getting his cavalry and infantry, as well as the supply carts supervised by Crateros, to the shores of the Indus. As usual, Hephaestion began constructing a bridge to cross the river. It was not wide in that area and, in both Aristotle’s and Alexander’s opinion, led to the East Ocean. Nearchus and the Agrian cavalry rushed there as well. They brought skilled Finikian, Ionian and Cypriot shipbuilders in order to construct ships for the trip to the east.

Alexander’s plan was simple. Having crossed the Indus, the army would march two to three thousand stadiums over dry land, uninhabited all the way to the ocean shores, while Nearchus’ fleet prepared to transport everyone back to the west by sea, to the Nile and to Alexandria on the shores of the Inner Sea.

“Expect us not from the east but from the west,” Ptolemy wrote. “We shall arrive at Tyre, then take the ‘royal road’ through Damascus into Babylon. We will need no more than six months to accomplish this, although interruptions along the way are possible. If Aphrodite is merciful, go to Babylon to meet us eight months after receiving this letter. This will be the end of Asian campaigns for good. Forever. After that, we shall only wage war around the Inner Sea, conquering Libya, Carthage, and Italian cities. Everything to the Pillars of Hercules.

“New cavalry detachments from the Persian aristocracy as well as splendid horsemen-archers from Sogdiana and Bactriana have agreed to sail with us to Egypt. We managed to pull together a cavalry no worse than the brave Thessalians. Your admirers, the Argiroaspides, have become so few after the battles with Scythians and Bactrians that they were made a part of Alexander’s personal guard, joining Agema and the getaerosi. Only the infantry, the veteran phalanx, is still the same. The army, having grown to a hundred thousand people, is now half cavalry. The importance of infantry, once the most important factor in battle, has been reduced. The indestructible wall of shields and long spears that used to crush even the most daring enemy became too vulnerable here, among the endless plains and mountain labyrinths. It was subject to long distance shooting attacks from horseback archers, who were as swift as the wind.”

Over a year and a half, Alexander had managed to restructure the army to suit the war conditions in Asia.

New officers became prominent, Seleucus among them. He was a man of enormous height and superior strength even to the Black Cleitus, but much merrier and smarter than the unfortunate brother of Lanisa.

Ptolemy wrote that as they moved further into India, the mountains became taller and they ran into more snow and glacier ice at the inhospitable ranges. The rivers, half-covered with enormous boulders, became swifter. Through these increasing difficulties

Alexander saw a sign of the approaching end of the campaign. The end of the world should be obstructed precisely so, making it inaccessible to mere mortals. Beyond these obstacles, demigods dwelled in gardens filled with trees of Eternal Wisdom, along the shores of the Waters of Life, the resting place of the sun. These waters gave immortality to gods and titans. Could the titans have been the original dwellers of the world’s boundaries?

Aristotle dispatched special messengers with new considerations for his student. Of course Alexander had had no time to read them during the difficult march up the slopes of Parapamizes and Bactria. He now pondered the writings of the great philosopher and shared his doubts with Ptolemy. In the past, Aristotle had encouraged the king’s push to the east, to meet the carriage of Helios; however, in his latest writings he warned Alexander against blind faith in ancient myths, of which the son of Olympias was so fond. Aristotle wrote that Alexander was unlikely to meet supernatural creatures, for none of the serious travelers have ever met godlike people or manlike gods in any of known Ecumene.

Alexander only chuckled. For him, the traces of Dionysus discovered in Nyssa were more convincing than the sophistry of the old scholar.

In his letter, Ptolemy reminded Thais of the meeting in Babylon and asked that she not bring their son into the hot climate. He promised to tell her many interesting things about countries that had never been seen, not even by mythical heroes.

Even at this point he had traveled further than Dionysus. The voyage of Argonauts to Colchis, according to Nearchus’ calculations, was three times shorter than the distance the army had covered over dry land. And the army had crossed over much greater obstacles and met against much greater enemy resistance.

Ptolemy was writing from the valley of Svat. There, he said, “morning fog sparkled in millions of pearls over the groves of low trees, covered with dark pink blossoms. The emerald water over swift river rushes over purple rocks. Its shores, covered with bright blue flowers that spread in a wide border to the gentle slopes, were overgrown with trees of incredible size that we have never seen in Hellas. They are only comparable to the cedars of Finikia and Cilicia. But those trees spread out, and these grow straight up, raising their dark green tips half a stadium high. Here, as before, the firs and pines are much like those in Macedonia, and my heart was sick with yearning for my native mountains.”

Thais regretted that she could not participate in the amazing journey, but quickly consoled herself, realizing how difficult it would have been for Ptolemy to protect her during the march. It had been difficult even for the tough men of remarkable strength. Her faithful Thessalians and the dear Leontiscus were no longer there to come to her rescue.

Ptolemy wrote about Roxanne, who accompanied the king. She was the wife of the great army leader, the divine Alexander. The entire army was at her service and should she become pregnant from the king, any soldier would give his life to guard the heir to the undefeated ruler of Asia.

Who was Thais? A hetaera, whose love Alexander both desired and feared, publicly rejecting her. She was a wife to Ptolemy, but after how many lovers of this collector of beauty? Even the merry tone of the letter made her think that Ptolemy had found many beautiful girls in Bactria and in the valley of the Indus. She was sure he had also collected a nice loot of precious stones. Of course she would get some of the latter, but quite would it be given in compensation for the former?

No, Ptolemy knew of her indifference. He was sometimes hurt by it. However, it was also convenient for him.

Before the bulls of Dionysus left the pastures of Ecbatana, Hesiona arrived. She had heard nothing of Nearchus and read Ptolemy’s letter anxiously. It was clear that the Cretan fleet leader was back to his preferred role of navigator, map expert and shipbuilder.

The “Daughter of a Snake” had recovered from the hardships of life with her restless sea-goer and looked as pretty as ever in her pink Babylonian dress. Thais invited her to visit Lysippus, but Hesiona preferred to spend the morning hours, while the sculptors were busy with their models, at home playing with Leontiscus.

Now there was one more childless female admirer of her son, and that was most displeasing to the Athenian. Nearchus did not want children, believing he could not provide enough reliability for them; a sailor’s fate was much too uncertain. To Hesiona’s question of what he thought of her, Nearchus smiled slightly and told her that she was sufficiently intelligent, beautiful and rich to take care of herself in the case of his demise. Hesiona tried to explain to the Cretan that, aside from being provided for, she needed many other things from him which she did not want from anyone else in the world. The fleet leader told the Theban that she was quite free, but that he would be glad if she waited for his return because, much to his surprise, he had never found a woman better than her.

“Did you look?” Hesiona asked.

“We all like to take chances,” he said with a shrug.

Gradually, the Theban realized that her intended was as obsessed with the dreams of the hidden Ocean as was his childhood friend, Alexander. Alexander never felt at peace without Nearchus. He always tried to find something for Nearchus to do that was near him, calling himself the chief navigator of his army. As a result, Hesiona was left alone in a big house for so long that she considered divorcing her famous husband. He seemed to have dissolved in the unreachable distance.

The “Daughter of a Snake” asked how Thais managed to bear Ptolemy’s even longer absences. Her friend replied that she didn’t need Ptolemy as much as Hesiona needed Nearchus.

“I am presently impatient for his return,” Thais said, “because of his son. Leontiscus must be separated from this house before you and your like spoil him irrevocably.”

“You shall miss him,” Hesiona exclaimed.

“No more and no less than any Helenian mother. I’ll bear myself a girl to brighten things up. She will be with me for eighteen years and by then I shall be finished with my wanderings and ready to take care of the house.”

“Ptolemy’s house?”

“Unlikely. The older he and I get, the younger will his lovers be. It will be difficult for me to tolerate dazzling youth near me when I have nothing left with which to compete against her, except for my good name and position. When all that is left are the name and position, one’s old life is over and it is time to begin another one.”

“What other one?”

“How am I to know? Ask me about it in fifteen years.”

Hesiona laughed and agreed, having no idea that fate had prepared amazing but different paths for them both. They would soon separate forever.

The friends rode their old horses and bought another horse for Eris, a spotless Parthenian stallion as black as night. Eris had become a respectable rider and could manage a strong horse. In the evening they rode into the mountains, up the slopes overgrown with wormwood and thyme, passing rare outcroppings of dense dark stone which had been smoothed by the wind. Letting the horses graze, the three women chose a large, flat boulder which had absorbed sunlight all day and spread out on it, feeling the welcoming warmth on their skin. A cool wind flowing through the rocky valley carried the scent of gum from the woods above, mixed with the fresh and sharp smell of the grasses. An enormous snow-covered peak obstructed the sun from the west, and the gentle warmth from the rock was quite pleasing. Sometimes the first faint stars appeared in the twilight sky, and brias, the desert owl, called out several times before the riders returned to the city.

Each of them behaved differently during these silent mountain vigils. Eris sat hugging her knees and resting her chin on them, observing the jagged mountain range and the shimmering, pearly mist of the distant plain. Hesiona pulled herself to the edge of a drop overhanging the valley and lay on her stomach, observing the play of water in a creek at the bottom of the crevasse. She watched for mountain goats and for chipmunks who popped out of their burrows and whistled to their neighbors. Thais settled on her back with her arms spread and watched the sky with its few slow clouds and mighty gryphs. Observation of the sky hypnotized her.

Hesiona quietly watched Thais, whom she considered to be the best of women, and was astonished by the constant change of expressions on her face, though her body remained completely still. As she gazed at the sky, Thais suddenly smiled, then transformed into a picture of deep sadness, or even dared the fates with an expression of menacing stubbornness. It was all done with a barely perceptible movement of her lips, eyelids, eyebrows and the nostrils of her nose, which was as straight as if it had been smoothed along a carver’s ruler, with a Cretan dip at the bridge that softened the heavy, classic Helenian profile. Watching Thais reminded Hesiona of the mysterious art of the Egyptians, who managed to communicate a change in mood even though their statues were made of hard polished stone.

Once, when Thais appeared more sad and thoughtful than usual, the Theban asked, “Do you still love him?”

“Who?” Thais asked, not turning her head.

“Alexander. Was he not your greatest love?”

Thais sighed deeply. “Lysippus once told me that a skilled sculptor can use the same outlines to create flesh as mighty and heavy as a rock, and can imbue his creation with incredible power of inner flame and desire. In the same image … almost.”

“I did not quite understand you. I became a bit savage among swamps and sailors,” Hesiona said with a smile.

The Athenian turned serious. “If a man wishes to follow gods, his love must be as free as theirs. Not like an irresistible force that crushes and tears us apart. Strangely, the more it possesses its victims, the weaker they are before it. The more enslaved they are by their feelings, the more poets glorify these pitiful people who are ready to commit any humiliation and lowly deed. They would lie, kill, steal, break a vow … Why is that? Is that the wish of the light-bearing. silver-footed Aphrodite?”

“I understand. You have no hope, have you?”

“I have long since known that. Now you know too. Then why must I weep under the star that cannot be taken from the sky? It follows its predestined path. And you follow yours.”

They visited symposiums, adopted enthusiastically by the Persians, who followed the artists’ example. Only Eris flatly refused to go. She was disgusted by the sight of people who ate and drank too much.

Thais also admitted to Hesiona her aversion toward gluttons. She had been sensitive toward any expression of crudeness ever since she was a child, and presently lost all tolerance for it. Loud laughter, shallow jokes, uncontrolled eating and drinking, hungry glances that used to glide over her without bothering her, now irritated her. The Athenian decided this attitude meant she was growing old. Spirited discussions heated with wine, poetic improvisations and love dances felt more and more like nonsense. She could hardly believe that she and the golden-haired Spartan used to be called the queens of symposiums.

“It is not old age, my beautiful friend,” Lysippus said in response to the Athenian’s question He pinched her lightly on her smooth cheek. “Call it wisdom. Or call it maturity, if the first term seems too formal. Each year you will move further away from the games of your youth. The circle of your interests will become broader and your expectations of yourself and others will go deeper. You must be more demanding of yourself first, then toward others, or else you shall turn into a haughty aristocrat with an impoverished heart and mind. And you will die. Not physically, of course. With your health, you may live a long time. But you will die spiritually and walk around as your own outer shell, which would truly be a corpse. You are likely unaware of how many such living corpses trample the face of Gaea. They are deprived of conscience, honor, dignity and kindness. These are all things that form the basis of a man’s soul and are awakened, strengthened and upheld by artists, philosophers and poets. But these people get in the way of the living while looking exactly like them. Except they are insatiable in the most basic and simplest of desires: food, drink, women, the power over others. And they seek to satisfy themselves by all means. Have you heard of the Hecate’s companions?”

“The Lamias or Mormos or whatever they are called? Those who travel with her at night and drink the blood of passersby at the crossroads? Vampires?”

“That is primitive symbolism. In the secret knowledge, the creatures of Underworld that drink living blood are those insatiable living dead, ready to take everything possible from their countries, communities, people — their own and those of others. They are the ones that beat and overwork their slaves to death just to get more gold, silver, houses, spears, and new slaves. The more they take, the greedier they become, reveling in the labor and sweat of people subservient to them.”

“You speak of terrible things, teacher.” Thais shrugged as if from cold. “Now I will look at everyone more carefully.”

“Then my words have reached their goal.”

“What is to be done with such living dead?”

“They ought to be killed, of course, stripping them of their false living appearance,” Lysippus said after a pause. “The trouble is that only rare people can recognize them, and those who have reached such a spiritual level are no longer capable of killing. I think the final elimination of the vampires is a matter of distant future; when homonoya, the intellectual equality among people, is established the number of those rare people will increase many fold.”

Thais went to the studio, sad and thoughtful. Cleophrades was waiting for her near the clay version of the statue. During the last few days, the sculptor had been delaying the completion of his work, letting her go early or suddenly pausing as if he forgot about his model and thought about something else. Today he did not sign to her impatiently to get onto the posing cube as he usually did. Instead, he stopped her with an outstretched arm.

“Tell me, Athenian. Are you fond of money?” Cleophrades asked with gloomy shyness.

Thais was surprised and saddened by this question “Why do you ask me this?”

“Wait,” he said, looking away. “I cannot speak. I can only work with my hands.”

Thais frowned. “Not just with your hands, but also with your head and heart,” she objected. “So tell me, why did you speak of money?”

“You see, you are as wealthy as Frina, but Frina was insanely wasteful. In contrast, you live modestly, despite your income and your position as the wife of Alexander’s first advisor.”

“Now you speak more clearly,” she said, and sighed with relief. “And here is my answer. Money is not a goal, but an opportunity. If you treat it like a power that gives you various opportunities, then you shall value money but it will not enslave you. That is why I disdain miserly people, but I am also disgusted by stupid spending. Money means much work from a lot of people and tossing it away is the same as tossing away bread. One can bring upon himself the wrath of gods and become empty and dead, as Lysippus says.”

Cleophrades listened, frowned and suddenly made a decision. “I shall tell you what prompted this thought. I decided to cast the statue from silver, but what I saved up is not enough. I don’t have time to wait and save more. I will be sixty in Hekatombeon.”

“Why do you wish to use such expensive metal?”

“I could reply to you like a young man by asking are you not worthy of it? But I shall give you a different answer. This is the best work of my life, and the best model. This would fulfill my dream to complete my life journey in a worthy manner. I could ask Lysippus. But I already owe him too much. And besides, this creator of athletes and horsemen only recognizes bronze and, I shudder to say, uses the Thelmes alloy^[34].”

“How much silver do you need?”

“I am planning to use not the pure metal but an alloy including fourteen parts of red Cyprus copper. Such silver does not stain and does not become fogged, as we say, with the dusty dew. It holds polish as well as the dark stone of Egypt. I need twelve talants of pure silver to cast, and all I have is a little more than four and a half. A huge difference.”

“So you need seven and a half talants? Very well. I shall send for it tomorrow and will dispatch eight talants to you the day after tomorrow, just in case.”

Cleophrades froze, gazed at his model at length, then took her face in his hands and kissed her on the forehead.

“You do not know the value of your good deed. This isn’t just tremendous treasure, it is … You will understand after Hekatombeon. You will have to pose a bit more after casting, while I work on minting. That is nearly the most important part of the work,” he said, finishing in his usual brisk, businesslike tone. “But it is quick. I am myself in a great hurry.”

Thais did not understand the meaning of Cleophrades’ last words. The Athenian sculptor and Ehephilos finished their work almost simultaneously, the young Ionian wrapping up about ten days sooner. Cleophrades invited Thais and Eris to come late to Lysippus’ house and spend the end of the night till morning. To ensure nothing happened to them at such late hour, several friends showed up to accompany them.

The late half moon shone over the pale gray cobblestones, giving them a bluish tinge. Like a heavenly road stretched between dark walls and rustling garden foliage.

At the door they were welcomed by Ehephilos and Cleophrades, dressed in light-colored holiday garments. They crowned their models with wreaths of fragrant yellow flowers that seemed to glimmer in the moonlight as if emitting their own light. Each took his model by the hand and led her into the dark unlit house, leaving their companions in the garden. Before they stepped into the moonlit verandah, welcoming them with its wide-open curtains, Cleophrades ordered Thais to close her eyes. Holding her by the shoulders, he placed the Athenian in the proper spot, then allowed her to look.

Ehephilos did the same with Eris.

Thais cried out with amazement, and Eris sighed deeply and loudly.

Before them, the nude Aphrodite Anadiomena with Thais’ head and body stood on the toes of one foot. Her other foot was bent behind her in a light run, rising from porous silver that resembled foam. The uplifted face and the arms outstretched toward the sky combined the upward movement and the gentle, love-filled embrace of the entire world.

The shimmer of moonlight on polished silver gave the goddess miraculous transparency. Foam-born, woven from starlight, she appeared on the shore of Cyprus, emerging from the sea to raise the eyes of mortal toward stars and beauty of their lovers, pulling them away from the monotonous necessity of Gaea and the dark power of the underworld, Kibela. The aura of spiritual and physical purity possessed by Thais was vastly multiplied in the goddess, and surrounded her with a soft glow. Thais, who was a Helenian and had grown up surrounded by sculptures of people, gods and goddesses, hetaerae and heroes, without whom Hellas would have been unimaginable, had never before seen a statue with such power of enchantment.

Next to her, half a step behind, Artemis Acsiopena was cast from dark, almost black bronze. She held out her left arm as if moving aside an invisible curtain, reaching with her right hand for the dagger hidden in the knot of hair at the back of her head. Moonbeams reflecting on her indomitable face emphasized the unstoppable movement of her entire body, which was appropriate for the goddess of retribution.

Thais sniffed, unable to contain her emotions. This quiet sound told Cleophrades of the success of his creation better than any words. Only then did Thais notice Lysippus. He sat in an armchair nearby, his eyes squinted and his hands folded. The great sculptor was silent, watching both women, and finally nodded with satisfaction.

“Rejoice, Cleophrades and Ehephilos! Two great creations appear to celebrate Hellas here, thousands of stadiums away from our homeland. You, Athenian, surpassed everything you created before. And you, apprentice, have become equal to some of the greatest artists. I am pleased that both goddesses are not novelties and not built to suit the fickle taste of current generation. They are examples of the original beauty, so difficult for the artists to achieve and so necessary for the proper understanding of life. Let us sit and be quiet as we wait for dawn.”

Thais, captivated by both statues, did not notice that the moon had set. The outlines of both sculptures changed in the predawn twilight. Acsiopena seemed to have stepped further back into the shadows and Anadiomena dissolved in the air.

With stunning suddenness, the rosy eyes of Eos flashed from behind the mountain range with the appearance of the bright dawn, and one more miracle took place. Crimson light played over the polished silver body of Anadiomena and the goddess lost the starry weightlessness of the moonlit night. She appeared before the enraptured spectators in all her light-filled, nearly tangible might.

Competing with her in power and in beauty of clear and powerful outlines, Artemis the Avenger no longer appeared to be a menacing black shadow. She stood like a warrior approaching her goal without rage or anger. Each line of Ehephilos’ statue was sharper than those of the sculpture by Cleophrades, embodying inevitability. The power of the rising Anadiomena resonated with the reddish black embodiment of fate. Both sides of existence — the beauty of a dream and the merciless responsibility for one’s actions — stood together so overwhelmingly that Lysippus shook his head. He said the two goddesses should be displayed separately, otherwise they would cause confusion and contradictory emotions.

Thais silently took off her wreath, put it onto Cleophrades and knelt in front of the sculptor. The moved Athenian lifted her up and kissed her. Eris followed her friend’s example, but she did not kneel before her much younger sculptor. Instead, she clutched him in a firm embrace and kissed him fully on the lips. The kiss lasted a long time. For the first time, the Athenian saw the unapproachable priestess as a woman and realized that those who sought higher bliss in the temple of the Mother of Gods did not risk and give their lives in vain. When it was Thais’ turn to kiss Ehephilos, the sculptor barely responded to the touch of her lips, busy as he was in trying to contain his breath and his madly beating heart.

Lysippus offered to continue the “ritual of the gratitude of muses”, as he referred to Thais’ and Eris’ actions, at the table. There the black Khios wine with the scent of rose petals was already prepared. This was a rarity even for the “glory of Helenian arts”. There was also an oynohoya vessel, filled with water from freshly melted snow. Everyone lifted the precious glass goblet to the glory, health and joy of the two sculptors, Cleophrades and Ehephilos, as well as to the master of masters, Lysippus. The artists responded with praise to their models.

“The day before yesterday an artist from Hellas told me about a new painting by Apelles, the Ionian, at the temple on the island of Cos,” Lysippus said. “It too shows Aphrodite Anadiomena. The painting is already famous. It is hard to judge by description. Painting and sculpture can only be compared by the level of their impact upon people.”

“Perhaps it is because I am a sculptor,” Cleophrades said. “But I feel that your portrait of Alexander is deeper and stronger than his painted portrait by Apelles. In the past, in the last century, Apollodorus of Athens and Parrasius of Ethes could express beauty beyond many sculptures with a mere outline. Our great artist Nikias helped Praxiteles by painting marble with hot wax paints and giving it a miraculous semblance to a living body. You love bronze and you don’t need Nikias; however, one cannot help but admit that a union between a painter and a sculptor is truly great for marble.”

“Paintings by Nikias are great on their own,” Lysippus said. “His Andromeda is a true Helenian, death-defying courage combined with her youthful desire to live, although according to the legend she is an Ethiopian princess, like Eris. This silver Anadiomena may well turn out to be better both in workmanship and in the beauty of the model. As far as Artemis is concerned, there is nothing like her in Hellas and has never been. Not even in the temple at Ethes, where artists have been competing to create the best image of Artemis for four centuries. There are seventy of her statues there. Of course they did not possess the modern skill in the ancient times.”

“I know of a splendid Artemis at Leros,” Cleophrades said. “I think it has the same idea as the one by Ehephilos, although it is a century older.”

“What is she like?” Eris asked, her voice tight with a tinge of jealousy.

“She is not like you. She is a maiden who has yet to know a man but is already blossoming with the first feminine beauty. She is filled with the fire of sensations and her breasts nearly burst from insatiable desire. She leans forward with her arm outstretched, like your Artemis, but before a huge Cretan bull. The monster, stubborn yet already overcome, is beginning to kneel before her.”

“According to an ancient legend, the Cretan bull is defeated by a woman,” Thais said. “I wish I could see a sculpture of that.”

“You would sooner see the battle at Granic,” Lysippus said with a laugh, implying the tremendous group of twenty-five horsemen he couldn’t seem to finish, much to the displeasure of Alexander, who wished to erect it in Trojan Alexandria.

“I hesitated at length, whether to show Eris my Artemis with the dagger fully exposed,” Ehephilos said thoughtfully.

“You did well not to show it. A muse can carry a sword, but only to defend, never attack,” Lysippus said.

“Acsiopena, much like the black priestess of Kibela, attacks when she punishes,” Thais objected. “You know, teacher, only here in Persia and in Egypt, where an artist is recognized as a master of elevating royalty, did I realize true meaning of beauty. There is no spiritual elevation without it. People must be lifted beyond the usual level of everyday life. An artist, by creating beauty, gives comfort in a memorial, poeticizes the past in a monument, expands heart and soul in the images of gods, women and heroes. One must not distort beauty, or else it would stop giving strength, consolation and spiritual fortitude. Beauty is fleeting, our touch with it is all too brief, and that is why, as we grieve the loss of it, we gain deeper understanding and appreciation of beauty yet to come, and look for it that much harder. That is why the sadness of songs, paintings and tomb memorials is so lovely.”

“You have surpassed yourself, Thais,” Lysippus exclaimed. “Wisdom speaks through your lips. Art cannot disgust and corrupt or else it would stop being art as we Helenians understand it. Art either rejoices in the splendor of beauty or grieves for the loss of it. It can only be so.”

These words by the great sculptor would forever remain with the four that met dawn at his house.

Thais was sorry Hesiona could not have been there, but after having thought about it she realized the little celebration had to include only the artists, their models and the main patron of the endeavor. Hesiona saw the statues the following day and burst into tears with delight and a strange anxiety. She remained pensive all day and only managed to sort out her emotions in the evening, when the two friends were settling for the night in Thais’ room. This was where they often stayed when they wanted to talk.

“Having seen such harmonious and inspiring creations, I suddenly felt fear for their fate. It is as uncertain as the future of any of us. Our lives are so short, but these goddesses must exist forever, traveling thorough future centuries, as we do through light wind. And Cleophrades …” Hesiona fell silent.

“What about Cleophrades?” Thais asked anxiously.

“He made your statue out of silver instead of bronze. There is no question about the splendor of such material. But silver is valuable by itself. It is money. Something you can use to pay for land, house, livestock, and slaves. Only a powerful polis or ruler can allow twelve talants to sit without use. And think of all the greedy scum that don’t believe in our gods? They wouldn’t hesitate to chop off Anadiomena’s arm and take it to a merchant, like a piece of dead metal.”

“You have alarmed me,” Thais admitted. “I really hadn’t thought of the uncertain destiny of not only people, but entire states. During the few years of Alexander’s campaigns we have seen old order fall apart and thousands of people lose their place in life. Fates, tastes, moods, attitude toward the world, possessions and each other — everything is feeble and changeable. What would you suggest?”

“I do not know. Should Cleophrades give or sell her to some famous temple, I would be much more at rest than if she went to some art patron, even if he were as wealthy as Midas.”

“I shall talk to Cleophrades,” Thais decided.

Some time passed before the Athenian had a chance to fulfill her intentions.

The sculptor showed Anadiomena to anyone who wished to see her. Visitors came to Lysippus’ garden where the statue was placed in one of the pavilions, and admired her at length, unable to pull away. Then Anadiomena was transferred back into the house, and Cleophrades disappeared. He returned in Hekatombeon, when even Ecbatana became hot, and the snow cap on the southwest ridge turned into a narrow strip resembling a cloud.

“I beg you,” Thais said to him as soon as they met, “to tell me what you want to do with Anadiomena.”

Cleophrades gazed upon her at length. A sad, almost tender smile rested upon his usually stern and glum face.

“If the world was arranged according to dreams and myths, then I would be the one begging, not you. But unlike with Pygmalion, in addition to the silver goddess, a live Thais is before me. And everything is too late.”

“What is too late?”

“Both Anadiomena and Thais. Still, I do have a request for you. My friends are holding a symposium in my honor. You must be there. Then we shall settle the matter of the statue. It contains not only your beauty but also your silver. I cannot manage it singlehandedly.”

“Why then and not now?”

“It’s too early.”

“If you intend to torment me with riddles,” the Athenian said, slightly put out, “then you have succeeded in this unworthy mission. When is the symposium?”

“At hebdomeros. Bring Eris, too. Although, I hardly need to say that, since you are practically inseparable. And also Nearchus’ wife.”

“The seventh day of the first decade? The day after tomorrow?”

Cleophrades nodded silently, then raised his hand and vanished into the back of Lysippus’ great house.

The symposium began in the early evening. It was set in the garden and included nearly sixty people of various ages. They were almost exclusively Helenians, settled at narrow tables in the shade of great sycamores. Among the attendees there were only five women: Thais, Hesiona, Eris, and two new Ionian models of Lysippus, who assumed hosting the party in the old bachelor’s house. Thais knew one of them well. She was short with a long neck, a merry round face, and constantly smiling, plump lips. She resembled a cora in Delphi, at the entrance to the Scythian treasury of the Apollo’s temple. The other woman was a complete opposite of the first one, indicating the host’s broad tastes. She was tall with long, slanted eyes on an elongated face, and a mouth with its tips pointing upward like the moon. She had joined Lysippus’ household only recently, and everyone grew to like her for her slow, graceful movements, modest demeanor and beautiful garments of dark crimson cloth.

Thais chose to wear a shocking yellow ecsomida. Eris wore a sky blue one, while Hesiona showed up in a strange, draping garment of bright blue and gray, a south Mesopotamian costume. The seductive quintet took their places to the left of the host while Cleophrades and other sculptors: Ehephilos, Leptines, Diosphos, and Stemlos settled on the right. There was more black Khios wine, as well as rose Knid wine, diluted with ice cold water. The gathering was becoming rambunctious.

Thais found the verboseness of the speakers rather unusual. One after the other they stepped forth and, instead of toasting, spoke about Cleophrades’ deeds, his military heroics, and his sculptures, praising him without superfluous flattery. On his request, the new model sang strange, sad songs in a low, resonating voice, and Hesiona performed a hymn to Dindimena.

“I could ask you to sing in the nude, as is customary for hymns, as their name indicates,” Cleophrades said, thanking the Theban. “But let the dances be our hymns to physical beauty, of which I ask Thais and Eris. That is my final request.”

“Why your final one, Cleophrades?” the unsuspecting Athenian asked.

“Only you and your friends do not know of the true purpose of this symposium. I shall answer you with Menander’s verses. ‘There is a beautiful custom among the Keossians, Phania: he who does not live well must not live poorly, either.’”

Thais shuddered and paled. “You are not from Keoss, Cleophrades. You are an Athenian.”

“I am from Keoss. Attica is my second homeland. And my island is really not that far from Sunion, where the famous temple with seven columns is raised to the sky over the sheer marble drops eight hundred elbows tall. Since childhood, it became for me a symbol of spiritual heights reached by the creators of the art of Attica. When I came to Sunion, I saw the spear and the crest on the helm of Athena Promakhos. The bronze Maiden twenty elbows tall stood on a huge pedestal at the Acropolis between Propyleus and Erekhteyon. I sailed to her call and saw her, proud and strong, with slender neck and high, prominent breasts. That was the image of a woman that enchanted me forever. And that was how I became an Athenian. None of it matters anymore. The future will meet the past, and that is why you must dance for me.”

Thais, obedient model that she was, improvised complex dances of the highest skill level, in which a woman’s body transformed and granted a dream after dream, a legend after legend. In the end, Thais was exhausted.

“As I watched you,” Cleophrades said, “I was reminded of your Athenian nickname. You are not only a Fourth Kharita, but you were also called Euryale, or Storm. Let Eris take your place.”

At Cleophrades’ sign, Eris danced as she had before the Indian artists. When the black priestess froze in the last pose and Ehephilos wrapped a light cape around her body, Cleophrades rose, holding a large golden goblet.

“I have turned sixty years old, and I cannot do more than my last Anadiomena. I cannot love women, I cannot enjoy travel, sea-bathing, good food or loud singing. Ahead of me is a spiritually deprived, miserable life. We Keossians have long since forbidden that a man should live that way, for he must only live in a worthy fashion. I thank you, my friends, who came to honor me in my last hour. Rejoice, rejoice all, and you, splendid Thais. How I would have wanted to love you. Forgive me, but I cannot. Lysippus will take care of the statue. I gave it to him. And let me embrace you, my godlike friend.”

Lysippus put his arms around the sculptor, not hiding the tears in his eyes.

Cleophrades stepped back and raised his goblet. At the same time, all others raised their cups, filled with life-giving wine. So did Thais. Only Hesiona remained motionless, observing the scene with horror in her wide eyes. Eris watched the Athenian’s every movement in admiration and shock.

Tipping his head back, Cleophrades downed the poison, faltered, then straightened out, leaning against Lysippus’ shoulder. The goblet rang as it fell on the ground. The other guests drank their cups and threw them as well, shattering glass, china and clay. The pieces would be placed under the tombstone.

“Haire! Easy sailing across the river. Our memories are with you, Cleophrades!” everyone exclaimed.

The sculptor, his face gray and his lips trembling, made one last tremendous effort. He smiled broadly, gazed into the darkness of Hades before him, and collapsed.

At that moment, or so it seemed to Thais, the sun vanished behind the mountain range. Light summer twilight fell upon the silent group of people.

There were two physicians among the guests. They examined Cleophrades and placed him on a stretcher. The others placed a wreath on his head, crowning him as a victor in a competition. Had he not walked victoriously along the difficult path of his life? In the light of torches and the moon, the sculptor was carried to the Helenian and Macedonian cemetery.

High above the city in a juniper grove, low trees shed their bronze-like needles over a few graves. The Athenian sculptor had asked in advance that he be buried rather than arranging a funeral pyre. The grave had already been prepared and was covered with a temporary slab until the friends of the late sculptor, other sculptors, could design and build another tombstone.

The participants of the sad ceremony returned to Lysippus’ house after the cemetery, where they held a midnight memorial feast. Night drew to a close.

Shocked and tired, Thais remembered another dawn, a dawn when she had admired the power of the artist who had just departed to the kingdom of Hades. As if guessing her thoughts, Lysippus invited her, Eris and Ehephilos, as well as a few other friends, into a workroom lit by alabaster lanterns.

“You heard from Cleophrades that he left Anadiomena to me,” Lysippus said, addressing Thais. “Even before that he told me of your generous donation to complete the statue. Thus, you and I are co-owners of Anadiomena and Cleophrades’ heirs. Tell me, what would you prefer: to keep the statue, let me keep it or entrust me to sell it? Its value is tremendous, not even considering the material. I cannot pay you back your share. You can probably pay me back mine, but I think that this statue ought not to be owned by you or any person who understands that the miracle of art and the goddess cannot be held in singular possession.”

“You are right as always, teacher. Allow me to surrender my share, as you call it, and leave the statue with you.”

“My generous Thais,” Lysippus exclaimed with pleasure. “Perhaps there will be no need of your generosity. I admit that I once spoke with Alexander about Cleophrades’ intention to sculpt you and …”

Thais’ heart beat faster and she sighed.

“He said,” Lysippus continued, “that if, in my opinion, the statue is successful, he would be the first contender for it. I asked him why he wouldn’t simply order it. He looked at me as if I had asked an inappropriate question. I suppose you would not mind if I sell Anadiomena to Alexander. He will send it to Hellas, perhaps to Athens or to Cythera.”

Thais lowered her lashes and tipped her head, then asked, with her gaze still lowered. “What will Ehephilos do with his Acsiopena?”

The young sculptor frowned. “I shall keep Acsiopena until Eris agrees to be mine.”

“One does not discuss such things in front of everyone, as if I were a market whore,” Eris replied indignantly. “The Great Mother requires nighttime for her mysteries. Those who dare violate her rules become akin to beasts, not knowing that love is sacred and requires preparation of body and soul. Have you Helenians forgotten the orders of the Mother of Abyss, Kibela?”

Thais looked at the black priestess in amazement. What made her pronounce such a tirade? Having guessed, she smiled and her sad eyes twinkled merrily.

“Ehephilos — or should we call you Eriphilos^[35]? Were you not an artist, I would have used all my power to keep you from this mad pursuit that could mean your death. Even to you, the creator of Acsiopena, I say beware, beware and beware again. You will not gain happiness, but will discover Eros available only to a few people, but at the cost of their lives.”

“What do you speak of, Mistress?” Eris exclaimed, wheeling towards her. “Are you encouraging him?”

“Why not? It’s about time you shed the darkness that descended upon you at the temple of Kibela. Whether you want it or not, part of you has already been consumed by the statue.”

“Do you suggest that I serve a man?”

“Not at all. The man will serve you. Look at him. He can barely resist the urge to wrap his arms around your legs.”

“I cannot violate my vow and abandon you.”

“It is entirely up to you and him how to reach an understanding. And if not, then you had better kill him and put him out of his misery.”

“I agree, Mistress Thais,” Ehephilos exclaimed.

“Do not rush to celebrate,” Eris interrupted sternly. “Nothing happened yet.”

“It will,” Thais said with certainty then apologized to Lysippus, who observed this “family scene” curiously.

Arguments aside, a few days later Artemis Acsiopena left Lysippus’ home, bought for an enormous sum — not by a Helenian, but by one of the Indian artists that visited Lysippus. He purchased the statue for an ancient temple of strange faith called Eridu. It was located at the Euphrates delta, near the most ancient city in Mesopotamia. The sculptor saw a particularly good omen in the similarity between the name of the temple and that of his love.

What happened between him and Eris remained forever under the cover of night. Thais, who was naturally observant, noticed that that night, Eris’ swift movements became a bit smoother and her blue eyes sometimes lost their cold steely glint.

A couple of months after the sale of the statue, Ehephilos came to Thais, looking utterly miserable. He begged her to take a walk in the garden with him. Not far from the stone wall where the stream from the pool flowed across a small pit, the sculptor jumped into waist-high water, ignoring his clean and pressed clothes. Ehephilos knelt, reached into the pit and raised his folded hands. Large rubies, emeralds, sapphires, sardonyxes, gold and silver bracelets, belts and a golden goblet with turquoise glittered in the sun.

Having figured out what the matter was, Thais burst out laughing and advised the young sculptor to pick up his gifts, gather them into a sack, take them home and not give Eris any more jewelry. She would not accept anything unless it came from Thais herself.

“Why is that?”

“She and I are tied together in life and death by our mutual salvation. If you really want to, you can give her sandals with silver straps. It’s the only article of clothing she cannot resist. And not only from you, but from anyone who wants to make her a present.”

The new Olympiad started after the death of the Athenian artist. Time flew swiftly, approaching the date set by Ptolemy. Winter nights in Ecbatana grew cooler. Thais spent long evenings in conversation with Lysippus and his learned friends.

There was no fresh news from Alexander or his comrades. There were neither caravans with loot nor carts with the sick and wounded. Perhaps the great conqueror had truly managed to realize his dream and go beyond the limits of Ecumene, to the forbidden boundary of the world?

Hesiona was worried. Thais started considering life without Ptolemy, in case he did not wish to return from the Gardens of Wisdom, having tasted the Water of Life. At four years old, Leontiscus already boldly rode a small horse delivered from Iberia, from the Sea of Birds, and competed with his mother at swimming in a lake. Leontiscus, who couldn’t yet read, already spoke three languages: Attic, Macedonian, and Aramaic. Thais did not want to part from her son. But she had to fulfill Ptolemy’s request and leave him behind under the watchful eye of the Macedonian veteran Roykos, his wife, and the Syrian slave girl who was utterly devoted to the boy. In the month of Gamelion, Thais left Ecbatana. Lysippus traveled with her to meet his patron and main client, as did Ehephilos, who allegedly went to see his Acsiopena, as Lysippus had promised them a trip to Eridu. He received quite a few leusa dregma dracontos — dragon glares, as Thais called them, flashed at him by Eris. The sculptor bore them valiantly.

Babylon met them with huge crowds of people, noisy markets, sounds of unimaginable languages and a mix of strange costumes. Ambassadors from various countries were waiting for Alexander, but there was still no news from him. Worse yet, there were rumors of his demise — first in the waters of the Indus, then somewhere in the mountains. Alexander’s envoy in Babylon was ordered to capture anyone who spread these rumors and bring them in for interrogation in order to discover the source of their information, under the threat of flogging or even death. The connections pointed to foreign merchants or politicians who wished to cause panic and somehow use it to their advantage.

Thais realized that the wait could be long and decided to rent the same house in the New City, on the other bank of the Euphrates, near the Lugalgira gates, where she lived before. Much to her astonishment, when she went to look, she did not find her former home there. Only the garden, the old wooden pier and the path remained unchanged. The house had been replaced with a beautiful pavilion tiled in translucent pink marble, with pillars of bright blue stone and gold surrounding the rectangular pool with clear fresh water. All this belonged to Alexander and was guarded by two savage-looking Scythians, who unceremoniously chased Thais away. An enraged Eris offered to kill them right there and then, but the Athenian, touched by this proof of Alexander’s love, ordered Eris in no uncertain terms to do nothing. In the end, all Ecbatana visitors settled at Hesiona’s house, much to Ehephilos’ joy. The city was overfilled.

Thais discovered other news in Babylon. The huge theater of Dionysus, of which she had heard from Hesiona, remained unfinished. Its construction materials, which were the remains of the Etemenanki tower, had been bought by the priests of the Marduk temple. Alexander had allowed its restoration against the advice of his old seer, Aristander. The old man had predicted great personal peril for the king should the sinister temple be revived; however, Alexander wished to increase his influence with the help of priests of various religions, and hadn’t listened.