Thais of Athens

Chapter Two. Egesikhoras Heroics

Metageytnion, a month that had always been hot in Attica, turned out to be particularly scorching during the last year of the hundred and tenth Olympiad. The sky, always so clear and deep that even the foreigners marveled at it, acquired a tinge of lead. Crystal clear air that always gave the statues and structures miraculous distinction, shimmered and fluttered, as if someone had tossed a cover of uncertain and fleeting changefulness upon Athens. Like a cover of deceit and distortion, so typical for the desert countries on the distant southern shores.

Thais stopped going swimming when the road became too dusty. She only went riding at dawn from time to time so she could feel the wind from the swift gallop upon her flushed skin.

Afternoon heat settled heavily upon the city. All living things hid in shade, in the coolness of temples and colonnades, in the darkness of shuttered homes. Only the wheels of a lazily rolling cart or the hooves of a sweaty horse with a shade-seeking rider rumbled down the pavement.

Egesikhora entered briskly as usual, then stopped, blinded by the transition from light to the dusk of the bedroom. Without a moment’s hesitation, she dropped her light chiton and sat at the feet of her friend, who sprawled nude on the bed. Judging from Egesikhora’s fluttering nostrils and heaving breasts, Thais surmised that the Spartan was angry.

“What is wrong?” she asked lazily.

“I don’t know. I’m mad at everything. I am sick of our Athenians. They are loud, talkative, and too willing to gossip. Are they really those great builders, artists, scholars and warriors of whom so much was written in the times of Pericles? Or has everything changed since then?”

“I don’t understand,” Thais replied. “What’s come over you? Did you get food poisoning at yesterday’s symposium? The wine did taste a bit sour …”

“Maybe it was just the wine for you, but my entire life feels sour to me. Athens is getting more and more crowded. People are snappy from being cooped up, from being deafened by the noise, the shouting, the constant lack of water and food. In this heat everyone sees everyone else as if they were an enemy. And the gineconomes are mad for no good reason. Before long, an attractive woman won’t be able to show up at Agora or at the Acropolis in the evenings.”

Thais nodded thoughtfully. “I agree with you on that subject. Athens is getting tight, as is the entire Attica. They say five hundred thousand people now live in Attica.”

“Holy mother Demeter! There aren’t more than a hundred and fifty thousand in all of Sparta. In such multitudes, people can only interfere with each other and get angry. They see luxury and beauty and become jealous, saturating the air with vapors of black bitterness.”

“It’s not just a lack of space, Egesikhora. There are also consequences to the recent war, especially last year’s. Our handsome prince is now the king of Macedonia and essentially the ruler of Hellas. And he is not afraid to bare his wolfish teeth, glory be to the Lykean Apollo. To this day, Theban men are sold for a mere hundred drachmas at the market, and women for a hundred and fifty. The city itself has been wiped off the face of Gaea. The entire Hellas was horrified.”

“Except Sparta.”

“Will Sparta hold out on its own? Your king, Agis, is doing badly. He wanted to stand alone when joining forces with the Greeks would have resulted in victory. Now he is left to stand alone against a mighty enemy.”

Egesikhora sighed. “Only two years have passed since the Macedonian boys came to us,” she said.

“Only the Macedonian? And what about Crete?”

The Lacedemonian flushed, then continued. “Philip was murdered, Alexander became king and the main warlord of Hellas destroyed Thebes. Now …”

Thais nodded. “Now he is headed for Persia, continuing his father’s mission.”

“Have you heard from Ptolemy? Has it been long?”

“I have heard from him,” Thais said, closing her eyes. “It was during one of the dog days of Hekatombeon. There has been nothing since then. He does send me one letter a year.” She sighed. “In the beginning he used to send five.”

“When did he send you this?” the Spartan asked, touching the third star that glittered against her friend’s coppery skin.

Thais looked away, then spoke again after a pause. “Ptolemy writes that Alexander truly possesses a divine gift. Like Themistocles, he can instantly come up with a new maneuver, make a different decision if the first one isn’t working. But Themistocles was drawn to the west, whereas Alexander is going east.”

“Which one is right?”

“How would I know? The east is filled with legendary treasures, countless peoples, and limitless space. In the west there are fewer people, and Themistocles even dreamed of moving Athenians to Entoria, beyond the Ionic Sea. But he died in exile in the mountains of Thessaly. His tomb is on the western side of the Pyrean hill where he liked to sit, gazing upon the sea. I have been there. It is a secluded spot of both serenity and sadness.”

“Why sadness?”

“I don’t know. Can you say why deep grief, even terror overcomes people in the ruins of Mycenae? It is a menacing, forbidden place, rejected by gods. On Crete they take visitors to see Pasiphae’s^[8] tomb. It, too, fills travelers with fear, as if the shadow of the queen with a glorious name and terrible fame stands near them.”

“You ought to be called Pantodae, my dear,” Egesikhora said, then kissed her friend in delight. “Let’s go to Themistocles’ tomb and be melancholy together. I feel a kind of rage against this life. I need consolation but cannot find it.”

“You yourself are telktera, a consoling sorceress, as the poets say,” Thais objected. “It is just that we are becoming older and see life differently even as our expectations become greater.”

“What do you expect then?”

Thais shrugged. “I don’t know. A change, a voyage perhaps.”

“What about love? What about Ptolemy?”

“Ptolemy does not belong to me. He is a telictratus, a conqueror of women. I will not live with him like a hidden away Athenian or Macedonian wife. And I don’t wish to be called a rafanide in case of an affair. I could have gone with him far, far away but I did not.” She took a deep breath, then changed topic. “Let’s go to the Pyrean hill today. I’ll send Clonaria with a note to Olorus and Xenophilos. They are good young men, courageous and strong. Xenophilos performed at the last Olympic games in youth wrestling. They will accompany us. We’ll sail in the evening, when the heat diminishes, and spend a moonlit night there.”

“With two men?”

“Those two are so fond of each other they only need us as friends.”

Thais returned home before the sun’s rage befell the white streets of Athens. Strange musings came to her there, at the hill slope above Themistocleyon. She and Egesikhora sat together while their two companions sprawled out near the boat and discussed the upcoming trip to Parnea for the wild boar hunt.

When they were settled quietly, Egesikhora could hold her tongue no longer, and told her friend a secret. She said that Eositeus, the younger cousin of Agis, king of Sparta, was sailing to Egypt with a large detachment of soldiers, hired by the Egyptian pharaoh Hababash as his bodyguards. He was probably planning to oust the Persian envoy. Six ships were about to depart together and the leader of Lacedemonians was calling Egesikhora to come with him, promising the beautiful daughter of Sparta great glory in the country of poets and ancient art.

Egesikhora held Thais tightly against her and tried to talk her into coming with her to the legendary Egypt. She’d be able to visit Crete, and with such reliable guards she needn’t fear pirates or thieves.

Thais reminded her friend of what Nearchus had told them both about the demise of the ancient beauty of Crete, the disappearance of the original population, the squalor that presently reigned on the island, decimated by uncontrolled attacks and wars of various tribes. As a result of fires and earthquakes, the palaces of Knossos and Festus had turned into piles of rubble, the natives had left and no one could read the inscriptions in the forgotten language.

However, the giant stone horns could still be seen here and there in the hills, as if the bulls of Poseidon the Earth Keeper were rising from under the ground, and broad staircases still descended to the platforms designated for sacred games. Sometimes people ran into the shards of heavy amphorae as tall as two human heights, with snakes curling around their sides. Water still splashed in clean sparkling basins, still ran down the water pipes …

Thais pulled out the box she always carried, the box containing the Cretan statuette that had been Ptolemy’s gift. She took out the precious sculpture and stretched out on the bed, examining the little figure as if she were seeing for the first time. Time and sad ponderings of recent days had given her new eyes.

A thousand years was an enormous period of time, and the statuette was older than that. The splendid Athens hadn’t even been around then, and heroic Theseus had yet to travel to Knossos to slay Minotaur, and to crush the mighty sea state. From that immeasurable distance had come to her this delicately carved face with enormous eyes and a small, tragic mouth. The little figure’s arms were bent at the elbows and raised with her palms up, a signal either for a pause or for attention. Her long, girlishly thin legs were stretched and slightly spread, and she stood on tiptoe, as if caught in the moment of pushing away from earth. Her clothing was made of gold leaf and appeared to wear a short, ornate apron with a broad sash, wrapped around an incredibly thin waist. A close-fitting bodice was supported by two shoulder straps, leaving her breasts open. A wide necklace lay over her collarbones at the base of her strong neck, laying rather than hanging because of her pronounced chest. A head band ran under the girl’s chin, holding together a tall cone-shaped hairstyle. The tauropola was young, fourteen years old, fifteen at most.

Thais suddenly realized that by calling her a tauropola, she had called the unknown Cretan girl a bull hunter, one of Artemis’ titles. Gods were jealous and possessive of their rights, but what could the goddess do? She had long since vanished into the kingdom of Hades, inaccessible even to Zeus himself. Of course it was possible Artemis could become angry with the living Thais … But what did she, the virginal huntress, have in common with a hetaera, a servant of Aphrodite?

Thais calmly resumed her examination of the statuette. There was nothing childish left in the face or figure of the watchful girl. More than ever before, Thais was moved by her tragic mouth and fearless gaze. This girl knew what was coming. Her life was to be short, having been dedicated to the deadly game, the dance with the long-horned spotted bulls, which were considered to be the embodiments of Poseidon the Earth Shaker.

The tauropola girls were the main participants in the sacred ritual. The ancient meaning had nearly been lost, but remained in the victory of the feminine beginning of the masculine one, of the earth mother over her temporary spouse. The might of the awesome beast was spent during the dance, which was a duel between it and the quick young girls and boys who were specially trained as jumpers and prepared for this deadly ballet by the connoisseurs of the complex ritual. Cretans believed that this was a way to dissipate the god’s anger as it matured slowly and inevitably in the depths of earth and sea.

It was as if the dwellers of ancient Crete had sensed their sophisticated culture would perish from terrible earthquakes and tidal waves. Where had they come from, those distant ancestors of hers? Where had they come from, and where had they gone? Based on what she knew from the myths, and from what Nearchus had told his two enraptured listeners, she believed the beautiful, sophisticated people — the artists, seamen, and travelers — already lived on Crete when the surrounding lands were still inhabited by the savage ancestors of the Helenians. It was as if a magnolia tree, full of spicy, fragrant flowers, suddenly grew among the wind-beaten pines and poisonous oleanders. Such was the inexplicably delicate, poetic beauty of the Cretan culture among the coarse, war-loving nomads from the shores of the Inner Sea^[9], which were only comparable to that of Egypt.

Her slave, Clonaria came in, shaking her coarse-haired, closely cropped head.

“That man is here,” the girl said, and her voice shook from her deeply ingrained hatred toward the trader of human merchandise.

Thais returned to reality. “Take the money box, count out three minas worth of owls and give it to him.”

The slave laughed. Thais smiled and gestured her to come closer. “Let’s count together. Three minas are a hundred and eighty drachmas. Each owl is four drachmas, for the total of forty-five owls. Got it?”

“Yes, kiria. Is that for the Theban? It’s not much,” the girl said, giving a disdainful chuckle.

“Yes, you cost me more,” Thais agreed. “But do not judge quality based on price. Everyone is different, and just because you cost much, you can be sold cheaper.”

Before Thais had even finished speaking, Clonaria had pressed her face to her knees.

“Kiria, don’t sell me when you leave. Take me with you!”

“What are you talking about? Where am I going?” Thais asked, brushing the girl’s hair off her forehead.

“We, your servants, are afraid you are going somewhere. You don’t know how terrible it would be to end up with someone else, after you’ve been so kind and beautiful.”

“Are there so few good people in the world?”

“Few people like you, Mistress. Do not sell me.”

“Very well, I promise you. I’ll take you with me, even though I am not going anywhere. How is the Theban girl?”

“After we gave her something to eat she washed for so long that she used up all the water in the kitchen. She is sleeping now, sleeping as if she hasn’t had any sleep in a month.”

Thais nodded her approval. “Now off with you. The trader is waiting. And don’t bother me anymore. I want to sleep.”

Clonaria quickly counted off the silver and ran out of the bedroom, a smile on her face. Thais rolled onto her back and closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. She was too wide awake after the nighttime trip and the emotional discussions with her friend.

When they docked in the Pyrean harbor, the port was already full of people. Leaving their boat in the care of their two friends, Thais and Egesikhora decided to take advantage of the relative coolness of Leuconot, the “white” southern wind, and strolled along the large market, where trade was already going at full speed. The minor slave market was located at the intersection of the Faleron and Mid-wall Pyrean roads. The well packed, dusty square was bordered on one side by long low barracks that had been rented out to the slave traders. This market consisted of coarse slabs of stone and boards of the platforms, polished by the feet of countless visitors. This was in contrast to the large raised platform of pale marble which stood in the shade of a roofed colonnade within the walled-in porticos ornamenting the major slave market in Athens, fifteen stadiums from here.

Both hetaerae headed around, following the side path. Thais’ attention was attracted by a group of emaciated people displayed at the edge of the market, huddled pathetically on a separate wood platform. The group included two women, barely covered by their tattered clothes. Without a doubt, they were Helenians, most likely Thebans. Most of the citizens from the decimated Thebes had been sent to the distant harbors and long since sold. This group of four men and two women had probably been brought here, to the port market, by some rich landowner with the intent of simply getting rid of them. Thais was appalled by the sight of free citizens of what had once been a famous city, dumped here with so little respect.

A tall man paused before the platform. His face was powdered and framed by a thick beard in large curls. Thais thought he was possibly a Syrian. With a careless flick of one finger, he ordered the trader to push forth the younger of the two women. She was an attractive girl of about eighteen, not tall in height as was typical for Helenian women. Her cropped hair sat at the back of her head in a thick punch, held by a narrow blue ribbon. Judging by the thickness of her hair, Thais could see what splendid braids the Theban girl would have once had.

“Price?” the Syrian asked, his chin lifted at a haughty angle.

“Five minas. That’s practically free, I swear by Athena Aleya!”

“You are mad. Is she a musician or a dancer?”

“No, but she is virginal and beautiful.”

The potential buyer frowned, examining her as if she were a piece of meat. “That is questionable. She is a war trophy. Look at the outlines of her hips and breasts. I’ll give you a mina, or two. That is my last offer. A slave like that won’t be sold in Pyrea, but will be displayed in Athens. Undress her.”

The trader didn’t move, so the buyer himself yanked off the slave girl’s last covering. Mortified, she clung to the shred of worn out fabric and turned sideways. The Syrian buyer gasped and the passersby burst out laughing. The girl’s round bottom was ornamented with swollen stripes from a lash. They were fresh and red, crisscrossed by previously healed scars.

“You scoundrel!” the Syrian yelled, showing good mastery of the Attic dialect.

Grabbing the girl by the hand, he found the marks of leather straps that had been used to tie her hands. He then lifted the cheap necklace dangling around her neck and uncovered a scar from a leash.

The trader jumped forward, placing himself between the Syrian and the girl.

“Five minas for a stubborn bit of a girl, who has to be kept on a leash?” the Syrian demanded. “You can’t trick me. She is only good to be a maid or to carry water. After the destruction of the Hundred-gated Thebes the girls here have become cheaper. Even the beautiful ones. Houses all around the Inner Sea ports are filled with them.”

“Let it be three minas. A real bargain,” the subdued trader tried.

“No.” The Syrian frowned at the Thebans, thought it over, then said, “I’ll give you half: ninety drachmas total. I’ll take her to entertain my sailors on the way back. That is my last offer.” To show he was serious, the Syrian stepped decisively toward another group of slaves sitting on a stone platform a few paces away.

The trader hesitated, and the exhausted girl paled, or rather grayed through the layer of dust and sunburn covering her face.

Thais approached the platform. She lifted the light gauze scarf that was commonly worn by wealthy Athenian women to protect against dust, so that it slid off her raven black hair. The golden-haired Egesikhora stood next to her, and even the eyes of the slaves being sold shifted toward the two beautiful women.

While Thais watched, the dark, stubborn eyes of the young Theban widened, the fire of troubled hatred went out of them. Thais recognized before her the face of a person taught to read, appreciate art and comprehend life. Teonoa, the divine understanding, had left its trace on this proud face. The Theban saw the same reflected in Thais’ face, and her eyelashes fluttered, barely able to contain the insane sense of hope that suddenly flared within her. Thais couldn’t look away. It was as if an invisible thread stretched between the two women.

The trader glanced around, looking for the carriage which had brought the two beauties. When he saw none, a smug grin touched his lips, but it was immediately replaced by a look of respect when he noticed Thais’ two male companions just catching up. They were well-dressed and shaved according to the latest fashion, both striding imperiously through the parting crowds.

“I am offering two minas,” Thais said.

“No. I was here first,” the Syrian exclaimed. At the appearance of Thais, he had returned to stare at the two Athenian women. Now he already regretted, as would most people, that someone else might walk away with his potential purchase.

“You were only offering a mina and a half,” the trader objected.

“I’ll give you two.” He turned to Thais. “What do you need this girl for? You won’t be able to manage her.”

“Let us not argue,” she replied and faced the trader. “I’ll pay three, as you wanted. Send someone for the money or come to the house of Thais between the hill of Nymphs and Ceramic.”

“Thais!” exclaimed a man standing nearby, and a few more voices echoed, “Thais, Thais!”

The Athenian held out her hand to the Theban slave girl both to help her off the platform, and as the sign of her ownership. The girl clutched at it like a drowning person at a rope and hopped down, still holding Thais’ hand.

“What is your name?” Thais asked.

“Hesiona,” the Theban said proudly.

“It is a noble name,” Thais said. “Little Isis.”

The girl stood straighter. “I am the daughter of Astiochus, a philosopher of the ancient family,” the slave girl replied.

Thais was so weary she didn’t even realize she’d fallen asleep. She woke only when the window shutters were being opened toward Not, the southern wind from the sea that lifted the heavy heat from the Athenian streets this time of year. Scorching temperatures weakened the passions of Aphrodite’s admirers, and not a single symposium was scheduled over the next few days. In any case, Thais had at least two or three free evenings. She realized it had been many days since she’d last gone to read proposals at the Ceramic wall, and thought she might do that later on.

Thais, feeling fresh and rested, decided to dine alone. She knocked on the table twice and ordered Hesiona to be brought to her. The girl entered, smelling healthy and clean. Thais could see she was embarrassed by her dirty himation. Keeping her eyes lowered, she knelt at the hetaera’s feet with an awkward mix of shyness and grace. She had apparently gotten used to rudeness and beatings, and clearly did not know how to behave with the sweet, gentle Thais.

Thais asked her to toss off her cape, then examined the flawless body of her purchase and picked out a modest linen chiton from her own wardrobe. A dark blue himation she normally wore for her evening outings completed Hesiona’s outfit.

“You do not need the mastodetona, the breast binding, I do not wear it either. I gave you this old stuff.”

“To avoid distinguishing me from others,” the Theban said quietly. “But it’s not old at all, Mistress.”

The slave girl dressed quickly, skillfully arranging the folds of her chiton and straightening the ties at her shoulders. She was instantly transformed into the very picture of a dignified young lady from the educated upper classes of society. Looking at her, Thais realized that the beautiful Hesiona had caused inevitable hatred among her former mistresses, since they would have been devoid of all the qualities with which their slave was endowed. Education must have been at the top of that list. That was a thing no longer possessed by the Attic housewives, who were forced to lead a secluded life poisoned by bitter jealousy.

Thais chuckled inadvertently. They would have been jealous in their ignorance of every facet of Hesiona’s life, not realizing how defenseless and easily hurt a tender young woman could be when she found herself in the power of someone who acted like a pig.

Hesiona misinterpreted Thais’ chuckle. She flushed and hurriedly smoothed her clothes with her hands, looking for flaws and not daring to look in the mirror.

Thais smiled. “Everything is fine,” she said to the girl. “I was just thinking. But I forgot…” She leaned to the side and picked up a pretty silver belt, then wrappe it around the slave girl.

Hesiona flushed again, this time with pleasure.

“How can I thank you, Mistress? What can I give you for your kindness?”

Thais wrinkled her nose merrily, her eyes twinkling with mischief, and the Theban became wary again.

“Much time will pass,” Thais thought, saying nothing out loud, “before this young creature will acquire the human dignity and calm possessed by all free Helenians. Was this not the main difference between us and the barbarians who were destined for slavery? That they were in complete power of the free? The worse they are treated, the worse the slaves become, and in response, their owners turn beastly.”

It was strange, pondering these thoughts for the first time. For a long time she had simply accepted the world as it was. What if Thais and her mother had been kidnapped by the pirates, of whose cruelty and cunning she’d heard so much? Then it could have been her, standing on a platform covered by lash scars, being groped by some fat trader.

Thais hopped up and gazed into the hard, pale yellow, bronze mirror which had been brought by the Finikians from a country whose name they kept secret. Frowning slightly, she tried to make the expression of a proud and menacing Lemnia, but couldn’t do it because of the merry twinkle in her eyes.

She wanted to send Hesiona away and return to her own private thoughts, but her mind was taken up by one question, and she couldn’t let the girl leave without an answer. Thais began asking her new slave girl about the terrible days of the siege of Thebes and of her capture. She tried to hide her puzzlement, but couldn’t help wondering why this proud and well-bred girl hadn’t killed herself, instead opting for the pitiful fate of a slave?

Hesiona immediately understood what is was Thais wanted to know.

“Yes, I remained alive, Mistress. At first it was from sheer shock and the sudden fall of the great city. Our house, open and defenseless, was invaded by insane hordes who trampled, robbed and murdered. We were unarmed people who had grown up in honor and glory, well-respected citizens only moments prior. We were shoved into a crowd like a herd, beaten mercilessly if we lagged behind or were stubborn. They knocked us out with blunt ends of spears and shoved us behind a fence like sheep. It is impossible to think in this situation. It is as if a strange paralysis overcomes the people from such sudden turn of fate.”

Hesiona shivered and sniffed, but forced herself to continue. She explained that the place where they had been held was a livestock market. Before her eyes, Hesiona’s mother, still a young and beautiful woman, was dragged off by two shield bearers, despite desperate resistance. She vanished forever. Then somebody took Hesiona’s little sister away. Hesiona, hidden under a trough, decided to make her way to the walls and look for her father and brother. She hadn’t even been two plethors away from the fence when she was grabbed by a soldier who had only just dismounted from his horse. The man wished to have her right there and then, at the door of some empty house. Anger and desperation gave Hesiona such strength that the Macedonian couldn’t subdue her at first. He moved with experience, however. He must have raped and pillaged in many an invaded city, and had soon tied Hesiona up and tethered a horse’s harness on her so she couldn’t even bite back. After this, the Macedonian and one of his companions took turns raping the girl till late night. At dawn the dishonored and exhausted Hesiona was taken to the slave traders who followed the Macedonian army like vultures. One of them sold her to a Brauron noble, who in his turn sent her to the Pyrean market after unsuccessful attempts to get her to obey. He had been concerned that the girl might lose value from the constant beatings she was receiving.

Hesiona hung her head, shamed. “I was dedicated to the goddess Biris, and I was not to be with a man before I was twenty-two.”

“I do not know this goddess,” Thais said. “Does she rule in Boeotia?”

“Everywhere. She has a temple here in Athens, but I no longer have access to it. The Minians, our ancestors, who were a seashore people from before the Doric invasion, considered her to be a goddess of peace. Those who serve her are against war. I was already a wife to two soldiers and hadn’t killed either of them. I would have killed myself had I not felt obligated to find out what happened to my father and brother. If they are alive and in slavery, I shall become a port prostitute and will rob scoundrels until I have enough money to buy out my father. He is the wisest and kindest man in all of Hellas. That was the only reason I stayed alive.”

“How old are you, Hesiona?”

“Eighteen, almost nineteen, Mistress.”

“Do not call me Mistress,” Thais said, rising to her feet in the grip of sudden inspiration. “You shall not be my slave. I am setting you free.”

“Mistress!” the girl exclaimed. It was a moment before she could find her voice, then it was almost lost in her sobs. “You must be from the family of gods. Who else in Hellas would do such a thing? But allow me to remain at your house and serve you. Since I came here I have eaten and slept a lot, but I am not always like that. It’s was just after all the hungry days and the long standing at the slave trader’s platform …”

Thais fell into thought again, not listening to the girl, whose passionate plea momentarily left Thais as aloof as a goddess. Hesiona shrank away, then opened like a bloom at the sight of the hetaera’s attentive and mischievous gaze.

“You said your father was a famous philosopher? Is he famous enough to be known around Hellas and not only in the Hundred-gated Thebes?”

“Former Thebes,” Hesiona said bitterly. “But yes. The entire Hellas knows philosopher Astiochus. Not as a poet, perhaps. Have you not heard of him, Mistress?”

“I have not. But I am not a connoisseur, so let’s leave it be. Here is what I came up with.” Thais shared her plan with Hesiona, making the Theban shake with impatience.

After Philip of Macedonia was killed, his guest Aristotle left Pella and moved to Athens. Alexander provided him with money, and the philosopher from Stagira founded a school in Lycea, the sacred grove of Apollo the Wolf. The school held a collection of rarities and was a home for his students, who explored the laws of nature under his guidance. Aristotle’s establishment was dubbed Lyceum after the name of the grove.

Using her connection with Ptolemy and Alexander, Thais decided she could turn to Stagiritus. If Hesiona’s father were alive, then wherever he was, word of such a famous slave would have reached the philosophers and scientists of Lyceum.

A walk of a mere fifteen Olympic stadiums separated Thais’ house from Lyceum, but Thais decided to take her carriage so she would make the right impression. She ordered Hesiona to put a slave’s bracelet on her left arm and carry a box containing a rare jewel, a green chrysolite with yellow sparkles brought from a distant island in the Eritrean Sea. Thais had received it as a gift from the Egyptian merchants. Ptolemy had told her of Stagiritus’ great greed for rarities from distant lands, and was hoping to open his heart with this key.

Thais had wanted to eat her dinner with Hesiona that night, but the girl convinced her not to do that. She feared the role of a servant, which she honestly wished to uphold in Thais’ household, would become false and deprive her of a good opinion of the hetaera’s servants and other slaves. So Thais ate alone again, since Egesikhora had not appeared for dinner for some unknown reason.

The sacred pines silently and motionlessly soared into the scorched sky. Thais and Hesiona slowly approached a gallery dwarfed by ancient columns, where the old scholar studied with his students. Stagiritus was out of sorts when he met the hetaera on the broad steps of crooked stone slabs. Construction of new buildings was only just beginning.

“What brings here the pride of Athenian whores?” Aristotle asked haltingly.

Thais made a sign, Hesiona handed over the open box, and the chrysolite, the symbol of Cretan Crown, sparkled against the box’ black fabric. The philosopher’s disdainful mouth drew up into a grin. He picked up the stone with two fingers and examined it in the sunlight. Finally, he looked up and studied Thais, who waited quietly for his attention.

“So you are Ptolemy’s lover? I must say, he wasn’t a gifted student. His mind is too occupied with war and women. So. Now you have come. You need to find something out from me?” he asked, throwing a sharp, piercing glance at Thais.

The hetaera met his eyes calmly, then dropped her head modestly and asked whether he knew anything of the Theban philosopher’s fate. Aristotle pondered briefly.

“I heard that he either died of wounds or was captured and became a slave. But why does he interest you, hetaera?”

“And why does he not interest you, great philosopher? Does the fate of your brother, famous in Hellas, not concern you?” Thais demanded, then flushed when he frowned at her.

“You are becoming disrespectful, girl.”

“Have mercy, great Stagiritus. Due to my ignorance, I was surprised by your indifference to the fate of a great philosopher and poet. Is the life of such man not precious? Perhaps you could save him.”

“What for? Who dares to cross the path of fate, the will of gods? The defeated Boeotian fell to the level of a barbarian, a mere slave. You can consider that philosopher Astiochus no longer exists and forget about him. I do not care whether he was thrown into silver mines or is milling the grain for Carian bakers. Each free person chooses his fate. The Boeotian made his choice, and even the gods dare not interfere.”

The famous teacher turned away. Continuing his examination of the jewel sitting on his palm, he indicated that the conversation was over.

“You have a long way to go to Anaxagoras and Antiphontus, Stagiritus!” Hesiona shouted, beside herself with anger. “You are simply jealous of Astiochus’ glory as the singer of peace and beauty. Peace and beauty are alien to you, philosopher, and you know it.”

Aristotle spun angrily toward her. One of his students stood nearby, and when he heard the conversation he slapped Hesiona across the face. She shrieked and leaped forward, wanting to attack the muscular, bearded offender, but Thais grabbed her by the hand.

“Scum, slave girl, how dare you?” the student exclaimed. “Get out, pornodions!”

“Philosophers are dropping all pretenses,” Thais said mischievously. “Let us depart from this abode of wisdom.”

With these words, Thais snatched the chrysolite from the dismayed Aristotle, picked up the hem of her himation and sprinted down the wide path between the pines, headed toward the main road and followed by Hesiona. Several men, either overly devoted students or servant, rushed after them. Thais and Hesiona hopped into the waiting carriage, but the boy driver didn’t have time to start the horses before they were grabbed by the bridle, and three huge middle-aged men dashed toward the open back of the carriage to drag both women out of it.

“You won’t escape, whores! We’ve got you, you sluts!” yelled a man with a broad, untrimmed beard as he reached for Thais.

Hesiona grabbed the whip from the driver and shoved the handle into the man’s wide open, screaming mouth as hard as she could. The attacker collapsed on the ground.

Thais, now free, opened her bag, which hung on the side of the carriage, and snatched a box of powder, which she tossed into another man’s eyes. A short delay didn’t give them much. The carriage could not move and they could not get out of it.

Matters were turning serious. There were no other travelers on the road, and the angry philosophers could easily overwhelm the helpless girls. The boy driver, who Thais had taken with her that day instead of her regular, elderly stableman, gazed around helplessly, not knowing what to do. He was trapped behind a wall of people.

But Aphrodite was merciful toward Thais. A thunder of wheels and hooves suddenly sounded from the road and a foursome of madly running horses, harnessed into a racing carriage, appeared from around the corner. They were driven by a woman whose golden hair flew in the wind like a cape: Egesikhora!

“Thais, malakion (little friend), hold on!” she cried.

Knowing the Spartan was about to do something incredible, Thais grabbed the side of the carriage and shouted to Hesiona to hold on with all her might. Egesikhora turned sharply without slowing down, circled Thais’ carriage and suddenly yanked the horses to the right, hooking her axle into that of Thais’ wheel. The bearded men holding the horses ran away screaming, trying to dodge the wheels and hooves. Someone rolled in the dust right under the horses’ feet and screamed in pain. Thais’ horses pulled forward, and Egesikhora, holding the foursome back with unwomanly force, unhooked the two undamaged carriages.

“Go! Don’t wait!” Thais shouted, smacking the boy firmly. The driver came to his senses, and the bay pair ran forth at full speed, followed by Egesikhora’s foursome.

Yells, curses and threats could be heard from within the clouds of dust billowing behind. Hesiona, feeling relief surge through her, started laughing hysterically until Thais yelled at the girl to stop. Thais’ nerves were not well after all her trials.

They passed the intersection, crossing the Akharna road before they knew it. Holding back their horses, they turned back and to the right, descending toward Ilissus, then riding along the river toward the gardens.

Only when they reached the shadow of the giant cypresses did Egesikhora stop and jump off the carriage. Thais ran toward her, pulled her into an embrace and kissed her.

“Wasn’t it a nice amatrochia? It’s very dangerous to hook the axles like that in a competition.”

Thais laughed. “You really are Kiniska’s heiress, Egesikhora. But how did you end up on the road, thank the gods?“

“I came for you so we could go riding, but you’d gone to Lyceum. It wasn’t difficult to figure out that you went to look for Hesiona’s father, and that worried me. You must remember that we cannot talk properly to the scholars, and they are not fond of hetaerae. Especially if the latter are beautiful and smart. In their opinion, the combination of these qualities in a woman is unnatural and dangerous,” the Spartan said, laughing out loud.

“How did you make it just in time?”

“I rode from the Lykean grove up into the mountains, stopped there with the horses, and asked my driver to stand at the turn and watch for you to pass. He ran back with the news that the philosophers were about to beat you up. I barely made it. I actually left him there on the road.”

“What are we going to do? We have to hide in order to avoid punishment. You have crippled my enemies.”

“I’ll go to Seven Bronzes, where Dioreus lives and let him watch my carriage. Then we’ll go swimming at our favorite spot. Tell your driver boy to follow me to the turn, then wait.”

Then the brave Spartan rushed off with her mad foursome.

The women swam and dove in a secluded lagoon until evening. It was the same lagoon where Ptolemy had landed two years prior, after having been thrown by the waves.

When they grew tired, Thais and Egesikhora stretched out on the sand, which was like a sheet of bronze on the floor of a temple. Pebbles rolled down from a rocky overhang, dipping underwater, screeching and chafing as they went. A lovely breeze touched their bodies, exhausted by heat. Hesiona sat at the edge of the water, hugging her knees and resting her chin on them. Thais heard her humming something quiet amidst the noise of the waves.

“The angry Stagiritus will file a complaint against you to the gineconomes,” Thais said. “He’ll never forgive us.”

“He doesn’t know me,” the Spartan teased. “But you did give him your name. Most likely, he’ll send a dozen of his students to destroy your house.”

“I’ll have to ask some friends to sleep in my garden. Or maybe hire two or three armed guards, perhaps. That would be simpler. I only have to find people who are brave enough,” Thais said thoughtfully. “I am a little sick of them, my Athenian friends.”

“I am not afraid of Stagiritus, even if they do find out who ran over the philosophers,” Egesikhora declared. ”I have already decided to sail to Egypt with the Spartans. That was what I wanted to tell you when we went riding earlier today.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” Thais sat up, then, realizing the ridiculousness of her reproach, burst out laughing. When she was calm again, she frowned.

“Then you are leaving me in Athens alone?”

“No. Why alone?” Egesikhora replied calmly. “You are coming with me.”

“I never said that.”

“Ah well. No matter. The Gods have decided. I went to a fortuneteller — the one whose name is not uttered, nor is that of the goddess he serves.”

Thais shuddered and paled, curling up her toes. “Why did you do that? Why?”

Egesikhora’s eyes were dark on Thais. “I cannot bear to part with you. Also, I had to give an answer to Eositeus Euriponidos.”

“Is he from the ancient line of Laconian kings?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he-who-can-see-forward say to you?”

“That you will have a path in a loop for many years. And me, too, but my path will be short, although you will be with me to the end.”

Thais gazed silently into the scattering of pebbles on the slope before her, at the blades of grass fluttering in the wind. Egesikhora was watching her, a strange sadness deepening the corners of the Spartan’s full, sensual mouth.

“When are they sailing?”

“On the twentieth day of Boedromion. From Gitius.”

“How are they getting there?”

“A week prior to that we must sail from the Pyrean harbor. His ship will pick us up with all our possessions.”

“There isn’t much time left,” Thais said, rising and brushing the sand off her belly, hips and elbows.

Egesikhora rose as well, dividing her heavy hair into strands with her fingers. Hesiona ran up to Thais with a piece of cloth for wiping off the salt and rubbed her down. The women set off, managing to reach Thais’ house with barely a sound. Egesikhora covered her face with a veil and went home in the dusk, accompanied by a strong groom.

The next day the entire Agora buzzed with excited discussion about the incident at the Lykean grove. Athenians, who were fond of gossip, tried to outdo each other in describing the details. The number of “victims” grew steadily and reached fifteen by noon. Thais’ name was repeated either with admiration or with outrage, depending on the age and gender of those who were discussing her. All respectable women agreed that “ta metroten Kressa”, that Cretan on her mother’s side, had to be taught a lesson for being so audacious as to disturb the peace of the great scholar’s abode.

Gineconomes had already dispatched their representative to Thais to summon her to court for testifying. And while Thais herself was not accused of any serious crime, and had nothing to be afraid of save a monetary fine, even if the court decided against her, her friend could be severely punished. Witnesses had seen a woman riding in a carriage, and the entire city knew that only hetaera Egesikhora could drive a tetrippa, four horses at once. Her benefactors managed to delay the case, but it became known that the son of a wealthy and influential citizen, Aristodem, had been crippled by wheels and hooves. Three more of Stagiritus’ students demanded satisfaction for broken ribs, an arm and a leg.

During the “heavy days” of Megateynion, the last three days of each month, dedicated to the dead and the underground gods, Egesikhora suddenly appeared at Thais’ house, accompanied by her slaves and an entire detachment of young men who carried bundles of her most precious possessions.

“It is over,” the Spartan announced. “I sold everything else.”

“What of the horses?’ Thais exclaimed.

Her friend’s glower suddenly lightened. “They are already on the ship, at Munikhion. I will be there before dawn. So. Was the fortune teller wrong? Are we to be parted by the will of gods?”

“No,” Thais said passionately. “I decided, too.”

“When?”

“Just now.”

The Lacedemonian squeezed her friend in her arms, wiping tears of joy against her hair.

“But I need time to get ready. I won’t sell the house, I’ll just leave it to my faithful Akesius. The gardener and his wife will stay, too. The others, Clonaria, Hesiona and the stableman, are coming with me. I need three days.”

“Let it be so. We are sailing to Aegina and will come back for you in three days.”

“No. Don’t come back. Wait for me in Herculea. I will find sailors who will transport me willingly and without attracting anyone’s attention. Hurry, we have decided everything.”

“Thais, my darling,” Egesikhora said, beaming. She hugged her again. “You took a stone off my liver.”

At that, the Spartan led her improvised little army toward Pyrean road, humming a tune.

“I took off, and you put on,” Thais thought, looking after her friend.

Beloved constellation shone over the black tips of cypresses, having heard so many of Thais’ silent prayers to Aphrodite Urania. The hetaera sensed an unusual longing, as if she were forever leaving the great city, the focus of powerful beauty, created by dozens of generations of Helenian artists.

She sent Clonaria to get Talmid, a powerful athlete living nearby. Armed with a dagger and a copper bat, he had often accompanied the hetaera when she’d wanted to wander around at night. Thais paid well, and Talmid stepped after her silently, not interfering with the girl’s simple enjoyment of the night, stars and statues of gods and heroes.

That night Thais meandered toward Pelasgicon, the wall of enormous stones erected by the distant ancestors at the foot of

Acropolis. Perhaps it had been built by the mighty people, whose blood flowed through the veins of the half-Cretan. These stones had always attracted Thais. Even now she touched one slab and pressed her entire body against it, feeling its timeless hardness and warmth through her thin chiton.

The darkness of the moonless night was akin to translucent black fabric. Such a sensation could only be experienced in the clear, light-bearing air of Hellas. The night dressed everything in a delicate veil, akin to that on a statue of the nude Anachita in Corinth, hiding, yet simultaneously revealing the unknown depths of mysterious sensations.

Thais quietly ascended the worn steps toward the temple of Victory. A distant light flashed from behind Pnix, a lantern over Barathron the terrible abyss, reminding Athenians of the wrath of Poseidon the Earth Keeper. Sacrifices to the menacing underground gods and Erinias were thrown there. Thais wasn’t thinking about Hades yet, and she hadn’t done anything to anger the goddesses of retribution.

Gods were jealous, that much was true. Remarkable beauty, happiness, success and admiration, all things Thais had enjoyed in abundance since the age of fifteen, could bring on the anger of the gods. Disasters would surely follow. Wise people wanted success and failures to follow each other in equal measure, happiness mixed with sadness, hoping that by approaching life this way they would be protected from the more devastating blows of fate.

Thais thought it ridiculous. How could one buy happiness by groveling before gods and begging them to send you misfortune? The cunning goddesses could inflict a blow so painful that any happiness would feel bitter after it. No. It was better to ascend to the top of the mountain like Nika, and if a fall were to follow, then let it be forever.

Thais drew her eyes from the little light over Barathron, thinking she ought to bake a magis tomorrow, a sacrificial pie for Hecate, the goddess of road crossings. Hecate was the goddess who struck far and never granted passage to the late night travelers. She should also make a sacrifice to Athena Caleutia, the goddess of roads. Oh, and she shouldn’t forget Aphrodite Euploa, the goddess of trouble-free sailing. No trouble there. Egesikhora would take care of that.

Thais’ light footsteps resonated under the colonnade of her favorite temple to Nika Apteros. There, she sat on the steps for awhile, gazing upon the tiny lights that twinkled on the streets of her beloved city like fireflies scattered in the wind as well as at the

Pyrean lighthouse and two low lanterns of Munikhia. With a sigh, she realized Egesikhora’s ship would have already entered the Saron Gulf and turned south to the nearby Aegina.

Thais descended toward Agora. As she passed the old, deserted temple of Night, Niktoon, two “night ravens” (owls) flew by her right side: a double good omen. Many of these sacred birds of the goddess Athena flew around the city, but such coincidence was the first one for Thais. Sighing with relief, she sped toward the massive, glum walls of the ancient sanctuary of Mother Goddess. After the decline of the ancient Minian religion, the sanctuary had become a municipal archive of Athens; however, those who continued to believe in the might of Rhea and the feminine beginning in the world, came here at night to press their forehead against the corner stone and receive a warning of any upcoming danger.

Thais did so, pressing both her forehead and her temples to the time-polished stone, but didn’t hear either a light hum or the barely-there shaking of the wall. Rhea-Kibela knew nothing, and therefore nothing threatened the hetaera in the near future. Thais rose, then almost ran toward Ceramic and her house, moving so swiftly that Talmid grumbled behind her. Laughing, the hetaera waited for the athlete, threw her arms around his neck and rewarded him with a kiss. Slightly overwhelmed, the big man snatched her up in his arms and carried her home, despite her laughing protests.

On the day Thais designated for her departure, the weather changed. Gray clouds piled up in the mountains and hung low over the city, powdering the golden marble of statues, walls and columns with a tinge of ash.

Euriclidion, a strong northeast wind, justified its nickname of “the one rising broad waves” and swiftly propelled Thais’ little ship toward the island of Aegina.

Thais stood at the stern, turning her back to the departing shore of Attica, and giving herself up to the soothing roll of the ship over the swell. She couldn’t shake off the memory of a stranger she had met the day prior, a warrior with scars on his arm and face, which he’d half-covered with a beard. The stranger had stopped her at the Tripod Street, near the statue of Satire Periboeton, by Praxiteles.

Clear perceptive eyes had stared at her, and the hetaera felt deep in her soul that she could never lie to this man.

“You are Thais,” he said in a deep low voice. “And you are leaving our Athens to follow Chrisocoma the Spartan.”

Thais nodded, silent with awe.

“Athenian state must be doing poorly, if beauty is abandoning it,” he said. “Beauty of women, arts and crafts, all things beautiful used to converge here. Now they run away from us.”

She felt a need to defend herself. “I feel, stranger, that my compatriots are more occupied these days with cheating their competitors in war and trade, instead of admiring that which their ancestors and their land has created.”

“You are right, oh young one. I am a friend of Lysippus the sculptor, and a sculptor myself. Soon we shall be off to Asia to meet with Alexander. You are headed the same way. Sooner or later, we shall meet there.”

“I do not know. It is unlikely. My fate draws me in the other direction.”

“No,” he said calmly, shaking his head. “It shall be so. Lysippus is there. He has long wanted to meet you, and so have I. But he has his own desires, and I — my own …”

“It is too late,” the hetaera said, genuinely sorry. Attention of one of the greatest artists in Hellas was flattering to her. There were beautiful legends told of love between Praxiteles and Frina, Phidias and Aspasia.

He smiled. “I didn’t say now. You are too young. We require maturity of body for our purposes, not fame. But time will come, and you will not refuse me then. Geliaine!”

The stranger departed without naming himself, taking broad dignified strides. The bewildered hetaera returned home with the memory of their meeting imprinted on her mind.