Thais of Athens

Chapter One. Earth and Stars

From out of the west came the wind, strengthening with every gust. Heavy waves, oily under the evening sky, thundered against the shore. Ptolemy was heavier than the others, his swimming skills less. He tired, especially when Cape Colnad no longer protected him against the wind, and struggled behind his friends, Nearchus, Alexander and Hephaestion. He didn’t dare venture farther from the shore and yet he feared the white fountains of surf spraying off the gloomy dark rocks. His friends had abandoned him, and his anger at them sucked his strength further.

Nearchus, the quiet and taciturn Cretan, was an unbeatable swimmer. He had absolutely no fear of the storm and simply could not fathom the idea that crossing the Faleron Bay from one cape to the next, especially in this weather, was dangerous for the Macedonians, who weren’t quite as close to the sea. But Alexander and his faithful Athenian, Hephaestion, were both desperately stubborn, so they followed Nearchus and forgot their comrade, assuming him lost among the waves.

‘Poseidon’s bull’, a huge wave, lifted Ptolemy on its ‘horns’, raising him high over the sea. From its height the Macedonian noticed a tiny lagoon nearby, surrounded by sharp boulders. At the sight of it, Ptolemy quit struggling. He lowered his tiring shoulders, covered his head with his arms and slipped under the wave, praying to Zeus the Protector to direct him into the gap between the rocks and keep him safe.

The wave scattered with a deafening roar, tossing him farther onto the sand than an ordinary wave would have. Temporarily blinded and deafened, Ptolemy wiggled and crawled a few pekises, carefully struggled to his knees, then finally stood. He rocked back and forth on unsteady legs and rubbed his aching head. The waves seemed to pummel him even here on earth.

He stood straighter, hearing a sound that did not belong. He listened carefully and heard a brief giggle needle through the noise of the surf. Ptolemy turned around so quickly that he lost his balance and fell to his knees again. The laughter rang again, quite nearby.

He looked up and saw a slender young girl of no great height standing before him. She had obviously just emerged from the sea. Water still sluiced down her smooth body, dark with a coppery tan, running in rivers off the mass of her raven black hair. The swimmer tipped her head to the side as she squeezed water out of her wavy tresses.

Ptolemy rose to his full height and set his feet firmly in the sand. He looked the girl straight in her brave and merry gray eyes, which appeared dark blue in reflection of the sea and the sky. Her long black lashes did not lower or flutter under the passionate and imperious gaze of the son of Lag, even though, at only twenty-four years of age, he was already a well known heartbreaker in Pella, the capital of Macedonia.

Ptolemy could not take his eyes off the girl. She had appeared from the foam and thunder of the sea like a goddess and her coppery face, gray eyes and raven black hair were unusual for an Athenian. Later he realized the girl’s copper skin meant she did not fear the sun, the rays of which were the bane of so many Athenian ladies of fashion. Athenian women tanned too thickly, turning purplish bronze like the Ethiopians. For that reason they avoided appearing outdoors without cover. But this girl was like the copper-bodied Circe, or one of the legendary daughters of Minos with blood of sunlight, and she stood before him with all the dignity of a priestess.

No, of course she was not a goddess or a priestess, this small, young girl. In Attica, as in most of Hellas, priestesses were chosen from the tallest, fair-haired beauties. But from where did this girl’s calm assurance come? She stood regally, as if she were in a temple and not standing naked before him on an empty shore. He wondered vaguely if she, too, had left her clothing at the distant Phoont Cape. Kharitas, who bestowed magical allure upon women, frequently appeared as girls, but they were an inseparable threesome. This girl was alone.

Before Ptolemy could guess any longer, a female slave in a red chiton^[1] appeared, emerging from behind a rock. She deftly wrapped the girl in a sheet of coarse fabric and started drying her body and hair.

Ptolemy shivered. He had warmed up while struggling against the waves, but now he had cooled off. The wind was brisk even for a Macedonian who was hardened by stern physical upbringing.

The girl tossed the hair away from her face and suddenly whistled through her teeth as if she were a boy. The whistle surprised Ptolemy and he frowned. The sound appeared both disdainful and obnoxious, completely unfit for her feminine beauty.

Apparently in response to the whistle, a small boy appeared and glanced cautiously at Ptolemy. The Macedonian, who was observant by nature and had developed this ability further while studying under Aristotle, returned his inquiring stare. He noticed the boy’s fingers clutched the hilt of a short dagger which was hidden in the folds of his clothing.

The girl said something in a voice too quiet for Ptolemy to hear over the splash of the waves, and the boy ran off. He returned and approached Ptolemy with greater trust this time, handing him a short cape. Ptolemy wrapped it around himself, then, obeying the girl’s silent request, turned so he faced the sea.

As he turned, he heard the farewell “Haire!” called from behind his back. Ptolemy spun on his heel and rushed toward the stranger, who was fastening her sash after a Cretan fashion, around her waist instead of beneath her breasts. The cinched waist was just as impossibly slender as those of the ancient women of the legendary island.

He shouted, “Who are you?”

The merry gray eyes squinted with restrained laughter. “I recognized you right away, even though you looked like a wet bird. You are a servant of the Macedonian prince. Where did you lose him and the other companions?”

“I am not his servant, but his friend,” Ptolemy said proudly, but held back from revealing anything more and possibly giving away a dangerous secret. “But how could you have seen us?”

“I saw the four of you standing in front of the wall, reading meeting requests at Ceramic. You didn’t even notice me. I am Thais.”

Ptolemy caught his breath. “Thais? You?”

“That surprises you so?”

“I read that one Philopatros offered Thais a talant, a cost of an entire trireme, and she still didn’t inscribe the time for their meeting. I started looking for this goddess …”

She chuckled. “Tall, golden-haired, with blue eyes of a Tritonid^[2], she who takes away one’s heart …”

“Yes, yes. How did you know?”

“You are not the first, not at all. But farewell again, my horses are anxious to go.”

“Wait!” Ptolemy exclaimed, feeling suddenly that he couldn’t stand to part with the girl. “Where do you live? Can I come to you? Can I bring my friends?”

Thais studied the Macedonian. Her eyes lost their twinkle and grew darker.

“Come,” she said after a pause. “You said that you know Ceramic and the Royal Market. There are big gardens between Ceramic and the Hill of Nymphs, to the east of Gamaxitos. You’ll find my house at the outskirts, clearly marked by two olive trees and two cypresses.” She stopped speaking abruptly and gave him a farewell nod. Then, just as suddenly, she disappeared among the rocks, following a well-defined path that wove its way to the top.

Ptolemy leaned forward, shook sand out of his hair and slowly made his way to the road. He shortly found himself not far from the Long Walls of Munikhion. The long trail of dust from Thais’ carriage floated toward the tree-covered mountain slopes, already blue with twilight. Her two-horse equipage traveled quickly; the young hetaera must have had splendid horses.

A rude exclamation from behind made Ptolemy leap to the side. Another carriage rushed past him, driven by a huge Boeotian. A fashionably dressed young man with long strands of curled hair stood next to the driver, grinning unpleasantly. He lashed Ptolemy with a long handled whip, scorching the Macedonian’s barely clad body.

The offender obviously didn’t know he was dealing with an experienced warrior. In a flash, Ptolemy grabbed one stone from the many on both sides of the road and tossed it after the carriage. The stone hit the Athenian in the neck just below the back of his head, and it was only the speed of the departing carriage that allowed the impact to soften. Still, the man fell and would have rolled out had his driver not grabbed him and slowed the horses.

The driver showered Ptolemy with curses, yelling that he had killed the wealthy citizen, Philopatros, and ought to be executed. The enraged Macedonian tossed away his cape and reached for a boulder. The one he chose weighed at least a talant, and he lifted it over his head and started toward the carriage. The driver, taking stock of the Macedonian’s powerful muscles, lost his desire to fight and drove away, still supporting his master, who was coming around. While he drove he yelled back at Ptolemy, cursing and threatening as loudly as his booming voice would allow.

Ptolemy calmed down and tossed the boulder away. With an exasperated sigh, he picked up the cape and resumed walking along the shore path. He followed it up an overhang where it took a shortcut across a wide loop of the carriage road. As he walked, he thought about the man on the carriage. Something in his memory kept bringing back the name ‘Philopatros’. That was what the driver had shouted out. Was Philopatros the one who had written an offer to Thais at Ceramic? Ptolemy grinned. Apparently he had acquired a rival in his offender.

The Macedonian could not offer a talant of silver to the hetaera for a brief liaison, that much was true. A few minas, perhaps. He had heard too much about Thais to simply give her up. Despite her seventeen years of age, Thais was considered to be an Athenian celebrity. For her skill as a dancer, her superior education and particular attractiveness, she was nicknamed ‘a fourth Kharita’.

The proud Macedonian would never have asked for money from relatives. Alexander, being the son of King Philip’s rejected wife, couldn’t help his friend either. The trophies after the battle at Chaeronea hadn’t amounted to much. Philip, who took great care of his soldiers, had split everything in such a manner that the prince’s friends got no more than the last infantryman. Then Philip had sent Ptolemy and Nearchus into exile, separating them from his son. The three had only managed to meet here, in Athens, when Alexander had called them. That was after Philip dispatched him and Hephaestion to explore Athens and establish themselves there. And while the Athenian wits said “a wolf can only produce a cub”, Alexander’s true Hellenic beauty and remarkable intelligence made an impression with the experienced citizens of Athens, “The Eye of Hellas”, “The Mother of Arts and Eloquence”.

Ptolemy considered himself to be Alexander’s half-brother. His mother, the famous hetaera Arsinoa, was once close to Philip, and was then married off to the tribal leader, Lag, or Hare. Lag was a man with no great accomplishments but was of noble origin. Ptolemy had remained in the Lagid family and was envious of Alexander for some time, competing with him in both childish games and military training. Once he’d grown up he couldn’t help but appreciate the prince’s remarkable abilities. He became even more proud of their secret blood relation, which his mother had told him about, but only after a terrible vow had been made.

And what of Thais? Well, Alexander had long since given Ptolemy supremacy in matters of Eros. As much as Ptolemy was flattered by it, he could not help but admit that had Alexander wanted, Alexander could rule among the countless swarms of Aphrodite’s admirers. But Alexander wasn’t at all interested in women, which worried his mother, Olympias. She was a divinely beautiful priestess of Demeter, and was considered a sorceress, a seductress and a wise ruler of sacred snakes. Despite his courage, daring and constant philandering with all manner of women, Philip had always been wary of his splendid wife, and joked that he was afraid he might someday discover a terrible serpent in bed between himself and his wife. There were persistent rumors, no doubt sustained by Olympias herself, that Alexander wasn’t even a son of one-eyed Philip, but that of a deity, to whom she gave herself in a temple one night.

Philip felt stronger after his victory at Chaeronea. On the eve of his being elected a military leader of the union of all Hellenic states in Corinth, he divorced Olympias and married young Cleopatra, the niece of an important tribal leader in Macedonia. Olympias, for all her foresight and cunning, managed to make a mistake after all, and was now dealing with the consequences.

Alexander’s first love occurred at sixteen, when masculinity first arose in him. She was an unknown slave from the shores of the Black Sea. The young man was a dreamer, enraptured by the adventures of Achilles and the heroic deeds of the Argonauts and Theseus. The fair-haired Amazon girl who captured his attention was barely covered by a short ecsomida, and carried her baskets proudly, as if she were not a slave but a warrior princess striding through the vast royal gardens in Pella.

Alexander’s meetings could not have remained secret. Spies watched his every step on Olympias’ orders. His mother, imperious and dreaming of greater power, could not allow her only son to pick his own lover. Especially when he chose one from the disobedient, barbaric Black Sea people. No. She would give him a girl who would be an obedient executor of Olympias’ will, so that she could influence her son even through love of another woman. She ordered the slave caught, her long braids cut short, and had her taken to the slave market in the distant city of Meliboa in Thessaly.

Olympias did not know her son well enough. This heavy blow destroyed the temple of the dreamer’s first love. The termination of that dream was far more serious than the simple first affair of a boy with an obliging slave. Alexander understood everything and asked no questions, but his mother had forever lost that opportunity for which she had ruined both his love and the girl. Her son didn’t speak a single word of it to her, but ever since then neither the beautiful slaves, nor hetaerae, nor the daughters of nobility attracted the prince’s attention. Olympias received no word of any partiality on her son’s behalf.

Ptolemy, unafraid of Alexander’s competition, decided he would come to visit Thais with his friends, including the mischievous Hephaestion, who knew all Athenian hetaerae. For Hephaestion, gambling and good wine surpassed the games of Eros. That game no longer held the former intensity of appeal for him.

It was not so for Ptolemy. Every meeting with a beautiful woman bore the desire of closeness, promising the yet unknown shades of passion, mysteries of beauty, in reality an entire world of bright and novel sensations. His expectations were not usually fulfilled, but tireless Eros pulled him into the arms of merry women again and again.

Not the talant of silver promised by Philopatros, but Ptolemy decided that he would win the contest for the famous hetaera’s heart. Let Philopatros set out ten talants, he thought. Pathetic coward.

The Macedonian patted the tender mark from the lash strike, swelling across his shoulder, and looked around.

A short cape, bordered by a sandbar, swung to the left from the shore and into the troubled, white-maned sea. This was the spot to which the four Macedonians had been swimming. No, he thought, correcting himself. Only three, since he had given up the competition, but ended up arriving earlier. A good walker would always cross the same distance faster on dry ground than a swimmer at sea, especially if the waves and the wind held back the ones in their power.

Slaves had been waiting for the swimmers, holding their clothes. They were surprised by the sight of Ptolemy as he came down from the steep shore toward them. He’d rinsed off sand and dust, gotten dressed, and carefully folded the woman’s cape, which had been given to him by Thais’ boy servant.

Two old olive trees stood silvery under the hill, shading a small, blindingly white house. It looked small under the giant tall cypresses. The Macedonians took a short flight of stairs and entered a miniature garden filled only with roses. On a blue sign over the door were painted the three usual letters, dark in vibrant crimson: omega, ksi, and epsilon. Below them was painted the word cochleon, or spiral seashell.

Unlike at other hetaerae’s houses, Thais’ name was not written over the entrance, nor was there the usual fragrant dusk in the front room. Wide open shutters displayed the view of the mass of Ceramic’s white houses. Mountain Licabett, shaped like a woman’s breast and overgrown by wolf-infested woods, rose in the distance behind the Acropolis. Pyrean road circled the hill and descended toward the Athenian harbor like a yellow stream among the cypresses.

Thais welcomed the four friends with a pleasant smile. Nearchus, who was slender and of average height for a Helenian or a Cretan, seemed small and fragile beside the two tall Macedonian and Hephaestion, the giant.

The guests settled in fragile armchairs with legs shaped like long horns of Cretan bulls. The huge Hephaestion, fearing he might shatter the chair, opted for a massive stool, and the quiet Nearchus chose a bench with a head rest.

Thais sat next to her friend, Nannion, who was slender and dark-skinned like an Egyptian woman. Nannion’s delicate Ionian chiton was covered by a blue himation^[3] embroidered in gold with the traditional trim of stylized, hook-shaped waves at the bottom. After the eastern fashion, the hetaera’s himation was tossed over her right shoulder, over the back and pinned with a brooch at her left side.

Thais was dressed in a chiton of pink transparent cloth from either Persia or India, gathered into soft pleats and pinned at the shoulders with five silver pins. Gray himation with a trim of blue daffodils covered her from her waist to the ankles of her small feet, which were dressed in sandals with narrow silver straps. Unlike Nannion, Thais’ mouth and eyes were not made up. Her face, unafraid of tan, wore no traces of powder.

She listened to Alexander with interest, objecting or agreeing from time to time. Ptolemy was surprised to find that he felt slightly jealous, as this was the first time he’d seen his friend, the prince, this enraptured.

Hephaestion took hold of Nannion’s thin hands, teaching her the Khalkidykian finger game: three and five. Ptolemy had trouble focusing on the conversation, so taken was he by watching Thais. He twice shrugged impatiently. Noticing that, Thais smiled and observed him with narrowed, mocking eyes.

“She will be here soon. Do not sulk, sea man.”

“Who?” Ptolemy asked.

“A goddess, fair-haired and blue eyed, the one you dreamed of on the shore near Khalipedon.”

Ptolemy was about to object, but just then a tall girl in a red and gold himation burst into the room, bringing with her the smell of sun-filled wind and magnolia. She moved swiftly, with purpose, a motion which the more delicate connoisseurs might have called overly strong compared to the snakelike movements of Egyptian and Asian female harp players. The men greeted her enthusiastically. To everyone’s surprise, the imperturbable Nearchus left his bench in the shadow corner of the room and came closer.

“Egesikhora, the Spartan, my best friend,” Thais introduced briskly, glancing sideways at Ptolemy.

“Egesikhora: a song on the road,” Alexander said thoughtfully. “This is the case when Laconic pronunciation is more attractive than the Attic one.”

“We don’t consider the Attic dialect to be very attractive,” the Spartan said. “They breathe in at the beginning of each word like the Asians do, whereas we speak openly.”

“And you yourself are open and beautiful,” Nearchus said smoothly.

Alexander, Ptolemy and Hephaestion exchanged glances.

“I interpret my friend’s name as ‘she who leads the dance’,” Thais said. “It works better for a Lacedemonian.”

“I like song better than dance,” Alexander said.

“Then you will not be happy with us women,” Thais replied.

The Macedonian prince frowned. “It is a strange friendship between a Spartan and an Athenian women,” he said. “Spartans consider Athenians to be brainless dolls, half-slaves, locked in their houses like women of the East, not having a single notion of their husbands’ business matters. Athenians call Lacedemonians slutty wives who act like prostitutes and bear dumb soldiers.”

“Both opinions are completely wrong,” Thais said, laughing.

Egesikhora smiled silently, looking much like a goddess. Her broad chest, the stretch of her shoulders and the straight setting of her strong head gave her the posture of an Erekhteyon^[4] statue when she turned serious. However, her face, when filled with merriment and youthful joy, was ever changing.

To Thais’ surprise, it was Nearchus, not Ptolemy, who was struck by the Laconian beauty.

The female slave served uncommonly simple food. The goblets for wine and water were decorated with black and white stripes resembling the ancient Cretan dishes, which were valued at more than their weight in gold.

“Do Athenians eat like Thessalians?” Nearchus asked. He splashed a little from his goblet for the gods, then handed it to Egesikhora.

“I am only half Athenian,” Thais replied. “My mother was an Etheo-Cretan of an ancient family that escaped the pirates from the island of Theru in order to seek protection in Sparta. There, in Emborion, she met my father and I was born, but …”

“There was no epigamy between the parents and the marriage was deemed illegitimate,” Nearchus finished for her. “So that is why you have such an ancient name.”

“And so I did not become a ‘bull bringing’ bride, but ended up in a school for hetaerae at the Aphrodite of Corinth temple.”

“And became the glory of Athens!” Ptolemy exclaimed, raising his goblet.

“And what of Egesikhora?” Nearchus asked.

“I am older than Thais. The story of my life is like a trace of a snake and is not for the curious,” the Spartan girl said, lifting her eyebrows disdainfully.

“Now I know why you are different,” Ptolemy said. “A true daughter of Crete in your image.”

Nearchus laughed unkindly. “What do you know of Crete, Macedonian? Crete is a nest of pirates who arrived from all corners of Hellas, Ionia, Sicily and Finikia. Scum who have destroyed and trampled the country, wiping out the ancient glory of the children of Minos.”

“When I spoke of Crete, I meant the splendid people, the rulers of the sea who long since departed into the kingdom of shadows.”

“And you were right, Nearchus, when you said this is Thessalian food before us,” Alexander intervened. “If it is correct that the Cretans are related to Thessalians and those to the Pelasgoans, as Herodotus wrote.”

“But Cretans are the rulers of the sea whereas Thessalians are horse people,” Nearchus objected.

“But they are not nomads. They are horse breeding farmers,” Thais said suddenly. “Poets have long since sung ‘the hilly Phtia of Hellas, glorious with the beauty of women’ …”

“And plains thundering with horses’ hooves,” Alexander added.

“I think Spartans are more likely descendants of the sea people,” Nearchus said, glancing at Egesikhora.

“Only legally, Nearchus. Look at Egesikhora’s golden hair. Where do you see Cretan blood?”

“As far as the sea is concerned, I have seen a Cretan woman sea bathing in a storm when no other woman would have dared,” Ptolemy said.

“And he who saw Thais on horseback had seen an Amazon,” Egesikhora said.

“Poet Alcman, who was a Spartan, compared Lacedemonian girls to Entheyan horses,” Hephaestion said, laughing. He had already consumed a good quantity of delicious bluish black wine.

“He who praises their beauty when they go to bring a sacrifice to the goddess, nude, with dances and songs, and their hair down akin the golden red manes of Paphlagonian mares,” Egesikhora replied.

“You both know a lot,” Alexander exclaimed.

“It is their profession. They do not sell only Eros, but also knowledge, manners, art and beauty of senses,” Hephaestion said with the air of a connoisseur. “Do you know,” he teased, “what is the highest class hetaera in the most splendid city of arts and poetry in the entire Ecumene^[5]? The most educated among scholars, the most skillful dancer and reader, the inspiration to artists and poets, with the irresistible allure of feminine charm? That is Egesikhora.”

“What of Thais?” Ptolemy interrupted.

“At seventeen she is a celebrity. In Athens that is well and above many great warriors, rulers and philosophers from other countries. And you cannot become one, lest the gods gift you with an insightful heart to which senses and the essence of people are open since childhood, the delicate sensations and knowledge of true beauty, far deeper than most people possess.”

“You speak of her as if she were a goddess,” Nearchus said, displeased that Hephaestion set the Spartan girl below Thais. “Can’t you see? She does not even view herself that way.”

“That is a true mark of spiritual height,” Alexander said, then fell deep into thought again. The Spartan’s words of ‘long manes’ awoke in him the longing for the black flanked, white-faced Bucefal. “Athenians here cut their horses’ manes, making them stick up like stiff brushes.”

“That is to make sure the horses don’t compete with the Athenian women, among whom thick hair is a rarity,” Egesikhora joked.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Nannion said. She had been quiet to this point but now joined the conversation. “Considering the Spartan women’s hair is as legendary as their freedom.”

“Had forty generations of your ancestors walked around with bare hips, wearing linen peploses^[6] and chitons year round, then your hair would have been just as thick.”

“Why are you called phainomeris? ‘Those who show their hips’?” Ptolemy asked.

“Show him how a Spartan woman is supposed to be dressed in her country,” Thais said to Egesikhora. “Your old peplos has been hanging in my opistocella since we staged a scene from Cadmian folklore.”

Egesikhora quietly went into an inner room of the house. Nearchus watched her until she disappeared behind a curtain.

“Fate sends us many strange gifts,” Hephaestion muttered mischievously, winking at Ptolemy.

He put his arms around the shy Nannion and whispered something to her. The hetaera blushed and obediently offered her lips for a kiss. Ptolemy tried to hug Thais, moving closer to her as soon as Alexander went to the table.

“Wait till you see your goddess,” she said and pushed him away.

Ptolemy obeyed without question, wondering how this young girl was able to charm and rule him at the same time.

Egesikhora did not keep them waiting long. She reappeared in a long white peplos, completely open along the sides, and held in place with a single woven tie at the waist. Strong muscles rippled under the smooth skin. The Lacedemonian’s hair flowed like gold down her back, curling into thick tendrils below her knees, forcing her to lift her head higher, thus opening her strong jaw line and powerful neck. She danced the ‘Hair dance’, ‘Cometike’ for them, accompanying herself with her own singing, rising high on tiptoe and resembling the splendid statues by Callimachus, those of the Spartan dancers who undulated like fire, as if they were about to take off in their ecstasy.

A general sigh of admiration met Egesikhora, who twirled slowly, relishing the power of her own beauty.

“The poet was right,” Hephaestion said, pulling away from Nannion. “There is a lot in common with the beauty and power of a thoroughbred horse.”

“Andrapodysts, the kidnappers of the free people, tried capturing Egesikhora once. There were two of them — big men. But Spartan women are taught to fight and these two thought they were dealing with the delicate daughter of Attica, destined to live in the women’s half of the house,” Thais said. “That was their mistake.”

Egesikhora, not even slightly flushed from her dance, sat next to her and hugged her friend. She paid no attention to Nearchus, who was gazing lustfully at her legs.

Alexander rose reluctantly. “Haire, Cretan. I wish I could love you and talk to you. You are uncommonly smart. But I must go to Kinosargos, the temple of Hercules. My father ordered me to Corinth, where there will be a great gathering. He is about to be elected the main warlord of Hellas, the new union of polices, without the stubborn Sparta, of course.”

“Are they separating again?” Thais exclaimed.

“What do you mean again? It has happened many times.”

“I was thinking about Chaeronea. Had the Spartans united with Athens, then your father …”

“Would have lost the battle and escaped into the Macedonian mountains. And I wouldn’t have met you,” Alexander said with a laugh.

“What did this meeting today give you?” Thais asked.

“The memory of your beauty.”

She smiled. “It’s like bringing an owl to Athens. Are there not enough women in Pella?”

“You did not understand. I was speaking of it as it ought to be. The kind of beauty that brings acceptance in life, comfort and clarity. You Helenians call it ‘astrophaes’, or starlight-like.”

Thais slipped from her chair and knelt on a cushion at Alexander’s feet. “You are young yet, but you said something I shall remember all my life,” she said. She lifted the prince’s large hand and pressed it to her cheek.

Alexander tipped her black-haired head back and said with a tinge of sadness, “I would ask you to come to Pella, but why would you? Here you are known to the entire Attica, even though you are not in eoas, the Lists of Women. I am just a son of a divorced royal wife.”

“You shall be a hero,” she replied. “I can feel it.”

“Well then you shall be my guest whenever you wish.”

“I thank you, and I shall remember that. But you remember also: Ergos and Logos, Action and Word are one, as the wise men say.”

Hephaestion withdrew from Nannion with regret, though he had already set up an evening rendezvous. Nearchus and Egesikhora disappeared. Ptolemy could not and did not wish to delay attending the Kinosargos. Unable to resist, he lifted Thais from the cushion and pulled her to him.

“You and only you have taken over me. Are you free? Do you wish me to come to you again?”

She gave him a small, intimate smile, meant only for him. “One does not settle such things on a doorstep. Come again, then we’ll see. Or are you, too, going to Corinth?”

“I have nothing to do there. Alexander and Hephaestion are the only ones going.”

“And what of the thousand hetaerae of the Corinthian Aphrodite? They serve the goddess and do not charge.”

“I already said and can repeat myself. There is only you for me.”

Thais squinted mischievously, sticking the tip of her tongue between her firm yet still childish lips.

Then the three Macedonians stepped out into the dry wind and blinding whiteness of the streets, leaving the women behind.

Thais and Nannion, left to themselves, sighed and shared their thoughts with each other.

“Such people,” Nannion said. “So young and already so mature. The mighty Hephaestion is only twenty-one, and the prince is only nineteen. But how many people have they already killed?”

“Alexander is handsome,” Thais agreed. “Educated and smart like an Athenian, and hardened like a Spartan, only …” Thais paused and shook her head slightly.

“He is not like the others somehow. I do not know how to say it,” Nannion mused.

“You look at him and feel his power, and yet also sense he is far away from us, thinking about things that would never occur to us. That is why he is lonely even among his close friends, even though they are not small, ordinary people either.”

“Like Ptolemy? I noticed you like him.”

“Yes. He is older than the prince, but closer and can be understood through and through.”

As Ptolemy came around the bend, following the path that circled the Barathron hill, the giant cypresses came into view and his heart filled with an unfamiliar joy. Her house stood before him, seeming simple and plain after ten days spent in Athens. He made his way up the opposite slope so quickly it was as if a gust of wind swept him along. Feeling the need to regain composure appropriate for a warrior, he paused near the rough stone wall and listened to the rustle of silvery green olive leaves over his head.

The outskirts of the city, with its scattering of houses through the gardens, seemed deserted at this hour. Everyone, young and old, went to celebrate at Agora and Acropolis, as well at the temple of Demeter, the goddess of fertility, who was also addressed as Gaea Pandora, the All-bringing Earth.

As usual, Tesmophorias were to take place during the first night of the full moon, at the time of the fall sowing. Today people celebrated the end of plowing, one of the most ancient holidays of the farming ancestors of the Athenians, who were no longer involved in this most honorable of labors, caring for Gaea’s face.

That morning Thais had passed a message to Ptolemy through Egesikhora and Nearchus. The message had stated that he was to come to her at sunset. Realizing what the invitation implied, Ptolemy became so anxious that even Nearchus was surprised, having long since acknowledged his friend’s supremacy in matters of love. Nearchus had also changed since his meeting with the Spartan beauty. Glumness he had so often displayed since childhood had vanished. Playful mischief, so typical for his people, peeked from under the shield of steady self-possession he had adopted so many years before, when he had found himself a child slave in a strange country.

Cretans had a reputation of being liars and traitors because, since they worshiped the Great Goddess, they were certain of the mortality of male gods. By having shown Zeus’ tomb to the Helenians, they had committed a terrible sacrilege. Nearchus said Helenians themselves had lied about Cretans, and there wasn’t a more faithful or reliable man than Nearchus in all of Pella. Therefore, the message he passed from Thais could not possibly have been a joke.

The sun was setting slowly. Ptolemy felt ridiculous standing at Thais’ garden gate, but he wanted to fulfill her wishes to the letter. He slowly lowered himself to the still-warm earth until he sat, leaning against the stones of the wall. He waited with the inexhaustible patience of a soldier, witnessing the last glimmer of sunset as it faded at the top of Egayleion, watching the dark trunks of the olive trees dissolve in the dusk. After a time, he glanced over the shoulder at the closed door, barely outlined under the overhang of the portico, and decided it was time. Anticipation made him shiver like a boy, as if he were sneaking to his first date with an obliging slave. Ptolemy flew up the steps, knocked on the unlocked door, then entered without waiting for an answer.

Thais stood in the doorway, lit by a double wick lantern which hung from a bronze chain. She wore a dark ecsomida, short, as an Amazon would wear. A ribbon the same color as her chiton held together the tight curls of her hair at the back of her head. Even in the faint light of the oil lamp Ptolemy noticed the young woman’s cheeks were flushed, and folds of fabric over her high breasts rose and fell from breathing quickly. Her eyes, almost black in her shadowed face, looked straight at Ptolemy, freezing him on the spot.

“Like Athena Lemnia,” Ptolemy thought, admiring her. Thais stood, serious and focused like a warrior before battle. With her unwavering gaze and almost threatening tip of her proud head, she really did look like the awe inspiring Lemnia.

“I am waiting for you, darling,” she said simply, addressing him that way for the first time. She put so much tender meaning into the word that Ptolemy sighed with impatience and stepped closer, holding out his arms.

Thais stepped back and pulled a broad himation from behind the door, putting out the lantern with its swing. Ptolemy stopped in the darkness, puzzled, and the young woman slipped toward the exit. Her hand found the Macedonian’s, clasped it firmly and pulled him after her.

“Come.”

They exited through a side gate hidden in the shrubs, and headed down a path. The path led to the Ilissus River, which flowed through the gardens from Lyceum and temple of Hercules until it merged with Kephisos. A heavy half moon hung low in the sky, showing the way.

Thais walked quickly, almost ran, never looking back. He felt her intensity and followed in silence, enjoying the straight, regal posture set in the small figure before him. Her shoulders were open, her slender neck proudly supporting her head, which was crowned by a heavy, high-set knot of hair. She pulled the dark himation close around herself and it creased deeply to the left and right of her waist with each step, emphasizing her flexibility. Small feet stepped lightly and assuredly, her periscelides, ankle bracelets, jingling like silver bells.

Shadows of giant sycamore trees crossed their path and the couple ran past the wall of darkness toward where a platform of white marble, a semicircle of smooth tiles, shone in the night. Ilissus murmured quietly somewhere below.

A bronze statue of the goddess stood on a tall pedestal, her head slightly tilted. She was tossing a thin cape off her shoulders and her gaze was hypnotic, burning through eyes made of green glowing stones. A peculiar expression of both compassion and sincerity, rare for a deity, combined in the omniscient gaze, adding to its mysterious depths. It seemed as if the goddess were descending toward the mortals with the goal of telling each of them their own secret in the silence and loneliness of the starry night.

This was Aphrodite Uranus in the Gardens, famous all around Hellas. In her left hand the goddess held a large rose, a symbol of feminine essence, the flower of Aphrodite and love. Her strong body, outlined by the folds of her peplos was in a state of calm enthasis. Her garment, unusually open on one shoulder according to an ancient Asian or Cretan standard, left her breasts bare — high, closely set together and wide like wine casks. Their sensual power was in sharp contrast to the inspired mystery of the face and the restrained pose of the Heavenly Aphrodite.

Of all Hellenic artists, Alcman was the first to succeed in combining the ancient power of sensual beauty with the spiritual ascent, creating a religious image of irresistible allure and filling it with a promise of flaming happiness. The Goddess: Mother and Urania in one.

Thais approached the goddess reverently. She whispered something Ptolemy couldn’t hear, then hugged the legs of Alcman’s famous creation. Afterwards, she paused at the feet of the statue, then suddenly pulled back toward the motionless Ptolemy. Leaning against his powerful arm, she peered silently into his face, trying to find the right response.

Ptolemy sensed that Thais was searching for something, but could do nothing but continue to wait for her, wearing a puzzled smile.

Suddenly she leapt onto the middle of the marble platform, clapped her hands thrice, then started singing Aphrodite’s anthem. She sang with an emphasized rhythm, the way it is sung in the goddess’ temples before the entrance of the sacred dancers.

“ … Smile never leaves her sweet face, and the goddess’ flower is lovely,” she sang, approaching Ptolemy in the measured movement of the dance.

He grinned, watching her. “Goddess, accept this song and set Thais on the fire of passion!” Ptolemy thundered and grabbed the girl.

This time she didn’t pull away. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him. The himation fell, and Thais’ firm body felt warm through the thin fabric of her chiton.

“You, soldier, know Aphrodite’s anthems?” she whispered, sounding surprised. “But do not ask the goddess about fire. You might burn in it.”

“Then …” Ptolemy found Thais’ lips, but the young hetaera pushed against Ptolemy’s broad chest, drawing away.

“Let’s go further,” she said, out of breath. “I purposefully waited until this day. The bulls were taken to the mountains today …”

“So what?” Ptolemy asked, not understanding the significance.

Thais rose on tiptoe and whispered into his ear. “I want to be yours. And I want to become yours by the ancient ritual of the Athenian farmers, in a freshly plowed field.”

“In a field? What for?”

“At night, on a thrice-plowed filed, to take Gaea’s life-bringing power into me, to awaken it …”

Ptolemy smiled, then squeezed the girl’s shoulders, silently agreeing with her. Thais headed along the river downstream, then turned north toward the sacred Elysian road, Ptolemy right behind her.

Deep darkness settled in the Ilissus valley, as the moon vanished behind the crest of the mountain.

“How can you see the way?” Ptolemy asked. “Do you know it?”

“I do. We are going to Skiron’s field. Women celebrate the holiday of Demeter the Law-bearer there at full moon.”

“Are hetaerae allowed to participate in Tesmophorias? And what happens at Skiron’s field? I’ll try to make it there if I am still in Athens during full moon.”

“No you won’t. You can’t. Only young women are allowed access there on the night of Tesmophorias after the torch run.”

“Then how did you find a way?”

“It was before I became a hetaera. After the torch run, Demeter’s priestesses picked me as one of the twelve. And when the celebration was over for the uninitiated, we ran in the nude, in the middle of the night, for thirty stadiums that separate the field from the temple.”

“And then?”

“I cannot tell you. It’s a female mystery and we are all under a terrible oath. But it’s something I will remember for the rest of my life. And the run across the field is unforgettable. You run under the bright moon, in the silence of the night, along with swift and beautiful friends. It was like we ran while barely touching the ground, because our entire bodies are like a string waiting for the goddess’ touch. The branches touch you in passing, the light wind cools your burning body. And when you pass the menacing road crossings, watched by Hecate’s guardians …” Thais stopped speaking, as if she felt to exhilarated to tell more.

“Go on. You tell it so well,” Ptolemy insisted.

“It’s only that there is a feeling of freedom from everything. You stop and your heart is beating fast, you spread your arms and take a deep breath and it seems as if in one more second you’ll fly away, into the scent of grass, woods and sea. That you will dissolve in the moonlight, like salt dissolves in water, like chimney smoke dissolves in the sky. There is nothing separating you from Mother Earth. You are Her and She is you.”

Thais picked up the pace again and turned left. A dark band of trees appeared, bordering the field from the north.

Everything around was silent, save for the rustling of the wind carrying the scent of thyme. Ptolemy could clearly see Thais, but nothing further in the distance. They stood listening to the night which wrapped around them like a black blanket, then finally descended from the path and stepped onto the field. The soil was fluffy after having been plowed many times, and their sandals pressed deeply into it. Finally Thais stopped, sighed and tossed off her himation. While Ptolemy watched, she lifted her hands to her head, loosed the ribbon and let her hair down. He came close and she went to him in silence. Her fingers dug into the thick softness of Ptolemy’s hair. They clasped and unclasped among the strands, then slid over the back of his head and neck.

A strong, fresh scent rose from the moist soil. It seemed that Gaea herself, eternally young and filled with life-bringing energy, had spread herself across the field in powerful languor.

Ptolemy filled with the strength of a titan. Every muscle in his powerful body became as firm as bronze. He swept Thais up in his arms and lifted her toward the glittering stars, challenging the indifferent eternity with her beauty.

Some time passed before they returned to reality on Skiron’s field. When his mind cleared so that he could think again, Ptolemy leaned over his lover’s face and whispered a verse from his favorite poem. He regretted now that he knew so few compared to Alexander’s vast knowledge of poetry.

“Asperos aysaugazo aster aymos.” “You are looking at stars, my star.”

Thais slowly turned her head, gazing at Ptolemy. Ptolemy saw her eyelashes, strands of hair on her forehead and dark circles around her eyes and wondered again at her beauty.

“You are well educated, darling. My countrymen are stupid to consider Macedonians to be barbaric mountain men. But I understand. You are removed from Urania. You would be happier with Gaea.”

He looked around. The edges of the field, which had seemed endless in the dark, now seemed nearby. The long end of summer night was over.

Thais propped herself on her elbow and watched in amazement as the dawn rose from behind Gimett. Bleating of the sheep could be heard from a grove below. Thais rose slowly and stretched toward the first rays of the sun, which emphasized the reddish copper tone of her skin. Her hands rose to her hair in an eternal gesture of a woman, a guardian and bearer of beauty, exhausting and appealing, vanishing and reappearing again, as long as humanity exists. Thais wrapped her himation around herself as if she were cold, and slowly walked with her head thoughtfully lowered until she was beside the proud Ptolemy.

When they reached the Elysian road, Thais went to the temple of Aphrodite Urania directly across Ceramic.

“You are back to your heavenly queen of love,” the Macedonian said, laughing. “As if you are not an Athenian. Aristotle said that the first people to worship Urania under the name of Anachita were some ancient people. Were they Assyrians, perhaps?”

Thais nodded. “They worshiped her even before that when they were on Crete, then on Citera, where Urania stands armed, then Theseus’ father Aegeus set up her temple in Athens,” Thais said reluctantly. “But you must not come with me. Go see your friends. No. Wait,” she said urgently. “Stand to the left of me.” and, not minding the passersby, Thais clung to Ptolemy and made Hecate’s protective sign with her right hand.

The Macedonian looked, but saw nothing but an old, forsaken sacrificial stone that must have been richly decorated at one time, with a trim of massive dark stone.

“What is it that can frighten the brave Thais? The Thais I know is not afraid of the night, the starry sky or the gloomy road crossings ruled by Hecate?”

She shuddered. “It’s a sacrificial stone of Anteros, god of anti-love, love’s terrible and cruel antithesis. Even if Aphrodite herself is afraid of the powerful Eros, we, her servants, are even more afraid of Anteros. But say no more. Let us get away from here.”

They climbed into the marble glow of squares and temples, above Ceramic and the market.

“Tell me more of Anteros,” Ptolemy asked.

“Later. Geliaine!” Thais lifted her hand in a farewell gesture and ran up the white steps of Urania’s temple.

A few weeks later, Thais sat in the garden, enjoying the last pale roses and clutching a himation around herself as protection from the brisk wind. Dry leaves rustled, sounding eerily as if ghosts stepped carefully over the couple, making their way to their unknown destinations.

Ptolemy handed Thais a simple cedar box and touched her knee. She glanced questioningly at the Macedonian.

“It is my anakalipterion,” he said solemnly. He was surprised to receive a peal of laughter in response.

“You shouldn’t laugh,” Ptolemy said sternly.

“Why not? You brought me a present normally given by a husband to his new bride after the wedding, as he is about to undress her for the night. But you give me your anakalipterion on the day of our parting? And after you have taken off my garments many times. Is it not too late?”

“Understand, Athenian … or Cretan,” he said, frowning. “I still do not know who you really are …”

“Does it matter? Or do you dream of a girl whose ancestors are from the eoas, the Lists of Women?”

“As I understand, any true Cretan woman is of more ancient bloodline than all Athenian foremothers taken together,” Ptolemy objected. “I don’t care anyway. This is different. Up until now, I haven’t given you anything, and that is bad manners. But what do I have to offer compared to the piles of silver you receive from your admirers? Only this …”

Ptolemy knelt on the floor before her and opened the box in Thais’ lap. The statuette of ivory and gold was unquestionably old. In fact, no fewer than a thousand years had passed since an incomparably skillful Cretan sculptor had created this image of a Tauromachia participant, a player in a sacred, dangerous game. The game was played with a particular breed of giant bulls, bred on Crete and since extinct.

Thais carefully picked up the little statue and touched it with her fingertips. She sighed in delight then laughed so infectiously that Ptolemy smiled as well.

“Darling, this piece is worth that very pile of silver of which you dream. Where did you get this?”

“At war,” Ptolemy replied.

“Why didn’t you give it to your friend Nearchus, the only true son of Crete among you?”

“I wanted to. But Nearchus said that it was a woman’s piece and would bring bad luck to a man. He is subject to the ancient superstitions of his country. Did you know that at one point his people considered the mother goddess to be the most important of all heavenly dwellers?”

Thais glanced at the Macedonian thoughtfully. “There are many people here who believed and still believe the same thing,” she said.

“And you too, perhaps?”

Thais closed the box without answering, then rose and led Ptolemy into the inner room of the house, toward the warmth and the smell of psestions. Thais occasionally did her own cooking, and had prepared the barley buns with honey, fried in butter. They were particularly tasty.

After setting her guest down, Thais fussed around the table, putting out wine and spicy sauce for the meat. She already knew that Macedonians were not fond of fish, though the dish was so popular in Athens.

Ptolemy watched her silent movements, entranced. Dressed as she was, in a transparent silvery chiton of Aeolian cut, made of the most delicate fabric imported from Persia, and working in a room shaded with green drapes, Thais appeared to be dressed in moonlight, akin to Artemis herself. She had let her hair down, tying it in the back with a simple ribbon, like a Pyrean teenager, and looked every bit an embodiment of merry youth: daring and tireless. She carried this quality in combination with the assured wisdom of a woman, aware of her beauty and capable of avoiding the traps of fate, the ability of a famous hetaera in the most splendid city in all of Hellas. The contrast was devastatingly irresistible, and Ptolemy clutched his fist, nearly moaning at the agony of their parting. More likely than not, he was losing Thais forever.

“I cannot help leaving,” he said, feeling the need to explain himself. “The prince’s matters are going poorly; he had another argument with his father. After that he escaped to Epirus with his mother, and I am afraid his life might now be in danger. Alexander won’t abandon his mother, and she is starved for power — a dangerous thing for a former wife.”

She frowned, confused by his explanation. “Am I reproaching you?”

“No, but that is what is so hard,” Ptolemy smiled sadly, feeling uncertain.

Thais felt sorry for this young, yet hardened warrior. She sat next to him, caressing his coarse wavy hair, cut short as was required by army rules. Ptolemy stretched to kiss Thais and noticed a new necklace, a thin, intricately woven chain of dark gold, connected in the center by two sparkling stars of bright yellow electron^[7].

“Is that new? A gift from Philopatros?” the Macedonian asked, unable to keep ugly tone of jealousy out of his voice.

A brief, quiet giggle, so typical for Thais, was his only answer. He kept waiting, so she finally answered. “Philopatros, or any other, must earn the right to give me another star.”

“I don’t understand. What right? Each one gives whatever he can.”

“Not in this case. Look carefully,” Thais said. She took off the necklace and handed it to Ptolemy.

Each star was one dactyl across. It was decorated with ten narrow, faceted rays and a letter kappa in the middle, which also meant the number ten. Ptolemy returned the necklace and shrugged, puzzled.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I forgot that you are from Macedonia and may not be familiar with hetaerae traditions, although your mother Arsinoa …”

“Wait. I recall something. Isn’t it a kind of distinction?”

“In love.”

“And kappa?”

“It’s not only a number, but also the name of the goddess Cotytto. She who is honored in Frakia, in Corinth, and along the southern shores of the Black Sea. You may add a third star.”

“Aphrodite Migonitida! I didn’t know, and I won’t have time to give it to you.”

She smiled. “I’ll do it myself.”

“No. I’ll send you one from Pella, if the gods look upon Alexander and myself. Our destinies are woven together. Whether we burst into the Ecumene or go underground, we’ll do it together.”

“I believe in Alexander. His purpose is unknown, but he has power uncommon among ordinary people.”

“And I don’t?”

“Not exactly like he has, but I am glad of it. You are my strong, smart and brave warrior and you might even become a king. I shall be your queen.”

“I swear by the White Hound of Hercules, you will be.”

“Someday. I am ready,” she purred.

Thais moved closer to Ptolemy and both stopped looking ahead into the unknown destiny. From the immeasurable distance of the future, time flowed in a slow current, unavoidably and steadily moving into the past. Their meeting came to its end. Then Thais stood in the doorway, and Ptolemy, unable to pull away from his lover, was urged ahead by the need to hurry to Gidaphineus, to Nearchus, where they had been ordered to bring their horses. He had no idea that the punctual, reliable Cretan was only just rushing along the streets of Ceramic with his head lowered after his parting from Egesikhora.

“You didn’t tell me what would happen if Alexander remained alive and became a king after his father,” Thais said.

“There will be a long road, then war, then road again, help us Athena Caleutia, the goddess of all roads. Alexander dreams of reaching the end of the world, the dwelling of gods where the sun rises. And Stagiritus Aristotle encourages his desire by all means necessary.”

“And will you go with him?”

“To the end. Thais, would you go with me? Not as with a soldier but as with an army leader?”

“I have always dreamed of distant countries, but such travels are unachievable to us women by any means other than in a carriage of a victor. Be a victor, and if I am still dear to you …”

Ptolemy had to leave. When he had long since disappeared behind a distant house, Thais still watched the road. It wasn’t until her slave touched her, reminding her that her bath was prepared, that she returned to reality.

Ptolemy, struggling with the ache of leaving his love, walked briskly, not allowing himself to glance back at Thais. It was an ill omen to look over one’s shoulder when leaving. He didn’t even look at her marble copy, one of the girls on a balcony of the temple of Nika the Wingless. She was one of the statues in an ancient peplos, her head thrown eternally back as if she were about to dash forward, and she resembled his beloved. Until now, the Macedonian had never passed the temple without pausing to glance at the bas relief.