Sappho's Leap (6 page)

Do I still long for my virginity?

—S
APPHO

I
F MARRIAGE WAS DEATH,
then Syracuse was reincarnation: a city without peer in the greater Greek world, a city of festivals and temples, of wealthy aristocrats, wretched slaves, mean hovels, and shining palaces.

Syracuse stood on the eastern coast of the isle of Trinacria, where Odysseus blinded the savage cyclops and incurred the everlasting wrath of Poseidon. With that one sharp stick in the eye of Polyphemus, Odysseus nearly doomed himself to eternal wandering. But fortune found him again and he was able to return to Ithaca and find his family still alive and waiting. Even his ancient dog Argos waited until Odysseus returned home before he expired with old age. Maybe the gods would take pity on me as they had on Odysseus. I could only pray for that as I sailed far from home to beautiful Syracuse.

Syracuse was founded by the Corinthians, who worshiped Artemis. It was in Syracuse that virgin Artemis changed Arethusa into a rushing stream of water so that she could escape the advances of Alpheus, the lecherous river god. Arethusa's spring still gushed into a fountain here, and a famous temple to Artemis had stood in Syracuse from the beginnings of time. A temple of Athena faced the Great Harbor, while a Temple of Apollo faced the Little Harbor. There were also two huge amphitheaters on the mainland, beyond the agora.

The oldest sections of the city jutted out into the dark blue sea on a peninsula connected to the mainland by a narrow strip of land. The major palaces were here. Cercylas established our house in the very center of this quarter. We also had a farm in the countryside that provided us with all the meat, cheese, and fruit we required. Trinacria was a land even more bountiful and green than Lesbos—which did not mean I was not often hideously homesick. I dreamed myself back in Lesbos almost every night. And I dreamed of Alcaeus and wondered what had become of him. I did not have to wait long. I had only been in Syracuse a few months when a letter from Alcaeus reached me.

My funny little Sappho—

What shall I do without your laughter? What shall I do without your love songs? I am alive—just barely—though my heart is empty without you. We were caught by Pittacus, detained for months while he tried to cook up the most desperate charges against us. Several of my men were tortured brutally, their naked bodies dragged over carding combs. Thank the gods you were no longer with us. Pittacus could not decide what to do with me. He couldn't bring himself to kill me and he couldn't let me remain in Lesbos, so he banished me to Lydia, where I find myself most amused at court. Don't be jealous, little one, but the slave-boys here are even more delicious than in Lesbos—boys with tawny pricks that soar like birds, boys who cannot wait to pleasure a notorious warrior like me. And yet I think always of Sappho—violet-haired, holy, honey-smiling Sappho. I wish to say something to you, but shame prevents me. I have heard you are married off to an old buffoon. If I am responsible, forgive me. I shall find a way to come to you.

Trust in our love!

Alcaeus

I hid the letter, written on the finest Egyptian papyrus, among my most treasured possessions—my golden necklace of quinces, my dangling golden earrings with the trembling flowers and leaves, my scrolls of favorite poems, my
kithara.
In the days that followed, I was to read the papyrus so many times I smudged it with my eager fingertips. I touched it with my lips thinking my lips were touching his. In a way, they were.

What is more personal than a letter written by a hand you love? Words, breath, kisses. Papyrus can transmit all these. Alcaeus' scrawled letters kept me alive. Kissing the papyrus was almost like kissing him!

This is the mystery of words. Simple things made of reed and plant fibers, and yet they reproduce our heartbeats and our breath. Mouthfuls of air trapped in timelessness. The miracle of writing!

I had learned to make letters on clumsy wax-covered wooden tablets when I was a child. Then, when I was older, I was allowed animal skins to write on. They always betrayed the bloody odor of their origins. Papyrus was so much purer. I loved the feel of chaste papyrus sheets on which you could spill your heart's fresh blood!

As long as Alcaeus was teasing me about boys, I knew he still loved me. Boys were his defense against the fear he felt at giving all his love. I could play this game as well as he. And so I took a reed in hand and I began:

I am greener than grass and I seem to be a little short of dying…

Then I began to write to him about my life in Syracuse, but whatever I wrote seemed somehow not good enough. How could I intrigue and seduce him from this distance? He was surrounded by the amusements of a splendid court and I was living with an old buffoon! I wrote, but judged myself so harshly I could send nothing. And papyrus was not cheap! I covered the sheets with my words, then threw them in the fire, cursing myself for my profligacy. I wanted to woo Alcaeus with my words, but something held me back. What was I afraid of? If I gave my whole heart to him, perhaps I would never get it back.

And yet what use is having a heart if you do not share it? In this futile way, my thoughts went around and around like puppies chasing their tails. I wrote my shapely words, then burnt them. Such was the torment of my mind.

My grandfather and Cercylas had bargained with Pittacus to bring me here—as far from Alcaeus and his political plotters as they could. Or so they thought. How could I outwit them all if I was so afraid to write to Alcaeus?

Having equipped me with two houses, slaves, litters of gold, looms, Cercylas went about his business growing richer. Because of my dowry, he now had Lesbian wine to trade with as well as his ships. He and my grandfather had made a good business putting the family's wine business together with Cercylas' ships. Thanks to me! Sold off in marriage to an old sot so all could prosper! Woman's fate! My hunch was that Pittacus was getting rich on my fate as well.

Say what you will—

Gold is the child of Zeus.

Neither worms nor moths eat gold.

It is much stronger

Than the heart

Of a man.

I was to learn early that men can agree on very little but using women to cement their alliances and enrich themselves. Or using them as they used Helen—as excuses to fight wars.

If I had judged by my wedding night that I would never be bothered by my husband, I judged wrong. Usually he was too soaked in wine to bother me at night and I happily departed for my own quarters. But some mornings, he awakened in a fit of passion and came after me. Usually I got away, but on one occasion he
almost
managed to make love to me.

He smelled of fish and onions—and his breath was sour from the wine of the night before. He groped between my legs, pawed my breasts, and released his white force before he had a chance to enter me. Given the wobbly condition of his equipment, it was unlikely the marriage would ever be consummated—not that I cared.

Praxinoa had been restored to me before my departure for Syracuse and she had almost forgiven me for the troubles I'd caused her. When I discovered I was pregnant, she tried to forgive me entirely.

“A baby! What fun we'll have with your baby, Sappho.”

“Almost as much fun as I had making it with Alcaeus!”

“
Alcaeus
!” Prax exclaimed.

“Surely you don't think that old sot Cercylas was—or is—capable.”

“But what will he think?”

“Cercylas is usually so drunk that he hardly remembers the night before. I'm sure he'll be happy to take credit for any child I may bear.” I said this with great bravado, but I had my own misgivings. I needn't have. It was true that Cercylas never remembered anything in the morning.

“What a great lover you are!” I had said on several mornings, and he seemed to believe me. Was it possible men were so easy to fool? I asked Prax about this.

“Am I crazy, Prax, or can any husband be fooled with flattery?”

“You're not crazy. They believe what they want to believe and they hear what they want to hear. I know; after all, a slave is privy to everything. And I've learned the self-delusion of husbands is extraordinary.”

“I love you, Prax,” I said.

“I know you do. But your love is careless.”

“Then you still have not forgiven me.”

“I know you mean well,” Praxinoa said, “but you forget that we are not the same. You get away with things I never could chance.”

I looked at the angry red brand on Praxinoa's forehead and I knew she was right. Praxinoa's bouncy black curls were reduced to stubble on her skull. Her huge brown eyes were sad.

“I brought you a wedding gift,” she said.

“What is it, Prax? Tell me!”

“Something every wife needs.” From under her creamy linen chiton, she produced a cunningly made leather dildo, an
olisbos
three times the size of anything Cercylas had.

“
The groom comes like Ares
,” she said, laughing. “We'll use it together!” I said.

“Only you'll be dreaming of beautiful Alcaeus,” Praxinoa said, “and I'll be thinking only of you.”

When we were girls, Praxinoa and I had discovered pleasure together and had shared it in total innocence. We explored each other like little kittens playing and grooming. Many nights we fell asleep contented in each other's arms.

Without Praxinoa, I would have been lost; she was my only friend from home. For the longest time, I had no word from my mother, who had abandoned me to this horrible marriage. I sorely missed my brothers, who had been my playmates and protectors throughout my whole childhood. I was still not much older than a child—even though, as a married woman, I was expected to put my toys away. And I did—all except my
olisbos
!

Living with Cercylas was like sharing space with a sponge. Fortunately, I was rich enough now to greatly embellish the women's quarters on the upper levels of my town and country houses, to give Praxinoa and me the privacy we craved. But I certainly came to know why women so dreaded marriage. It was not only leaving the warmth of home and going away with a virtual stranger, but also having to completely make a life in an unfamiliar place. Without a slave who had tended and loved me from childhood, I would have been utterly friendless.

It turned out that Cercylas was thrilled to take the credit for the baby. He remembered nothing about our wedding night or any subsequent nights. He probably would have been amazed to discover that he'd never succeeded in doing the deed, and I had no intention of enlightening him. Cercylas walked through his life in a fog, and that was useful to me. Let him claim paternity if it would enrich the child.

Meanwhile, Zeus and his daughter were lounging on a cloud, looking down:

ZEUS:
Where are you going with this twisted love story? This was not our bet at all. If Sappho has only to choose between a drunken old husband with a paunch and a poet who prefers boys, she's hardly typical of all mortal women.

APHRODITE:
That's what you think! Besides, I'm only warming up. The girl is young. She hasn't experienced many of the delights of Eros except with Alcaeus and Praxinoa, and now with her olisbos—which doesn't really count. I know what I'm doing. Wait.

ZEUS:
Maybe she needs me. I could transform myself into a beautiful young maiden and have my way with her.

APHRODITE:
Don't you dare.

ZEUS:
Just to spice up the story. At this point we need a rape or a war. A rape and a war! Let's go!

APHRODITE:
Male madness is a terrible thing.

ZEUS:
Where would you be without it?

My reputation as a singer had preceded me from that fateful symposium at Lesbos. In Syracuse I found myself often asked to perform my hymn to Aphrodite at festivals and weddings. My songs had already become my means of escape. Every time I was asked to perform, I nursed the hope that I would encounter Alcaeus at some symposium. Alas, he was never there!

If my marriage had been better, would I have performed as much or composed as many songs? Would I have been as eager to travel? For I performed throughout my pregnancy and often I felt I carried a muse inside me. I first knew my daughter as a glowing presence under my navel that inspired song. She gave me authority, turning me from Persephone into Demeter, from maiden to mother, from girl to woman.

A priestess named Jezebel of Motya had attended a lavish symposium Cercylas and I had hosted in Syracuse. There I had again sung in honor of Aphrodite. Jezebel, who knew Greek and many other languages, was much taken with my songs and asked me if I would honor her god Baal with my performance.

“Gods cannot so easily be traded,” I told her. “Aphrodite is my tutelary goddess.”

“True,” she said, “but you have yet to see the power of Baal.”

Jezebel was tall, had ringlets of red hair, and wore only purple embellished with shimmering gold. She had invited me to visit her native island Motya and I had readily accepted the invitation in order to get away from Cercylas. Perhaps I would meet Alcaeus there!

Motya lay around the coast from Syracuse, about two days' sail westward. It was an island famous for its salt flats, its manufacture of purple dyes from murex shells, and its strange religious customs. This island had been settled in ancient times by small, wiry desert nomads from Canaan who were known as merchants, seafarers, explorers. It was said that they still worshiped Baal in a mysterious rite called “Walking Through the Fire.”

The Canaanites were cousins to that desert tribe who believed in a single god. Like the Egyptians under Akhenaton, they had succumbed to the madness of reducing their pantheon to only one.