HETAERA: Daughter of the Gods (3 page)

A large altar, complete with a sensuous carved
effigy of Dionysus, stood near the rear of the colonnade. Several young maidens
strung a garland of pale blooming flowers over the deity’s crown and shoulders.
Others swayed as they cleared away the wilted blossoms from the previous day. I
would discover later this was a special task reserved for the most promising of
inductees. For now, it was enough to mark that each of these girls was a study
in classical perfection. Their skin was the faultless rose-pink of our race,
and though their hair ranged from spun gold to crimson, each was ode to the
gods in her own right.

I stumbled, feeling weary in my grimy chiton, but
I wore my guilt and filth like a mantle to shield my pride. The immaculate
priest raised a brow in my direction and continued.

We came to an inner chamber, not far off the
immense temple. The priest told me to wait in the hall, and I sank gratefully
onto the cold stone floor. Then the priest and my mother disappeared behind a
wooden door. A gap the span of my palm existed between the door and the stone
tiles, so, in my cross-legged position, I could hear much of what went on
inside.

“Welcome, Sita. At last you have brought your
daughter for training?” asked a woman’s voice from the other side of the door. Perhaps
it was the chill interior of the cavern, but the welcome spoken in words did
not ring in her voice.

“If it pleases our lord, we have both journeyed to
enter in his service,” my mother responded.

“
Both
?”

“Yes.” Her voice caught a little, much like the
weight in my heart. “The Greeks raided our village. Delus is gone. I beg entry
from the Bacchae for my daughter and myself.”

There was a long pause.

Would they give us sanctuary? If they refused us,
I could not think of where we would go. If the temple turned us away, we were
surely lost.

The voice spoke again.

“We cannot. Your daughter may stay as is her due,
but you are unwelcome here.”

I heard my mother sob and bit my lip hard. I would
not stay without her.

“Please,” she said. “I wish to rededicate myself
to the gods’ service. I will do whatever tasks you set, so long as my daughter
and I may take refuge in the temple. I…I will teach or-”

“We have no need of your teachings here,”
interrupted the woman.

Another long pause, followed by murmurs of many
voices. I could not make them out, muffled as they were through the thick
wooden door.

“Please,” my mother said in a voice I’d never
heard her use. “I will do anything.”

The babble began anew. One man’s voice seemed to
carry over the others. I rubbed my hands on the undersides of my chilled legs
and fought the urge to peek into the gap. What would become of my poor mother if
the Bacchae turned her away?

“You were favored once by the gods, Sita,” said
the woman. “More than most can claim to be. Now you are spoilt by your time
amongst the villagers. Your hands are chapped and your body made slack for all
your youthful appearance.”

How those words must have stung my mother’s heart,
for the villagers had hated her so for her beauty. Now she was deemed unfit for
the Bacchae, the glory for which she was trained.

The voice continued. “Still, for the sake of the
girl, you may stay and take such tasks as will make you useful to the temple. Perhaps
your daughter will achieve the greater glory you forsook to breed a soldier’s
get.”

I wondered at the venom in that voice. I’d always
assumed my father had the temple blessing to take my mother to wife.

My mother murmured her thanks, and the door flew
open. The priest who’d led us through the temple peered down at me, still
crouched in the corridor. His eyes flickered once to the door and the corners
of his mouth deepened.

“You,” he said. “Follow me.” He started off down
the passage without explanation.

“My…my mother?” I stood and brushed the dust off
my knees. I was determined not to stay without her. The priest stopped. Though
his manner was abrupt, his eyes were not unkind when he turned to look at me.

“She will be given a place. Your place is with the
other supplicants. Over there.” He pointed to one of the halls where I had
heard music earlier. He waited until I shuffled forward before continuing. “You’ve
come at a fortunate time,” he said, as we once again crossed the great center
hall. “There’s to be a festival in honor of the last harvest. This winter we
should press twice the number of grapes than the previous year.”

This was fortunate news indeed, as there is
nothing quite so fine as good Thracian wine. Indeed, it is our lord Dionysus’
blood that runs in our veins and causes such jealousy in the hearts of other
men. And after our life in the village, I could not believe that I would be
given such fine clothes and good food. My exhaustion waned in anticipation of
seeing my first Bacchanal. I was certain it would live in my memory forever,
and so it has, but not for the reason I thought it would.

After being seen to my quarters, which were little
more than a small alcove in a room of five other inductees, I was given a clean
chiton and sent to bathe. A meager repast of bread, lamb, and cheese was
brought to curb my hunger.

I’d just brushed the crumbs from my lips when
weariness descended upon me, but I could not stop worrying for my poor mother. I
begged news from one of the women setting out figs and thyme for the meal and
was informed that she was settled into her own quarters. I should rest, as my
inspection and training would begin on the morrow. I yawned so hard, I thought
my jaw would crack from my skull. One of the temple priestesses saw and sent me
to my pallet until the feast.

I set my guilt aside and slept like the dead until
the moon sailed high in a curtain of the night sky. At least I thought it must
be evening. Who could tell? It was odd residing underneath the mountains, like
a serpent hiding under a rock. When my mother appeared to lead me to the
Bacchanal, all my misgivings vanished. Lines of grief still etched her
features, but her eyes were rested and alert. She seemed resigned and composed
among the frenetic excitement of the feast.

“You must be silent, unless spoken to, Dori,” she
admonished.

“What part will I take in the Bacchanal?” I asked.

Mother compressed her lips. “I do not know, but
for certain you should be as unobtrusive as you can.”

“Is it not safe, here?” I wondered.

“It is not safe anywhere, Dori.” Her voice
quavered with sorrow. “But here, you may find a place, if only you will devote
yourself.”

“
We
,” I corrected her. “We may find
a place here, together.”

My mother nodded and put a slim arm around my shoulders,
but she did not smile.

We entered the vast cavern of the central chamber,
which sparkled from the glow of torchlight reflected on the polished stone
floors. Hundreds of bodies sashayed to the tables piled high with Thracian
delicacies. There were hanks of roast lamb stuffed with raisins, garlic and
figs, smoked pork, and wild green salats with olive oil and tangy vinegar. Crimson
wine poured freely into hammered bronze and carved wooden goblets. Each hand
had only to stretch forth and the blood of the gods flowed comfortably into
reach. The sound of laughter drowned out the cries of the dying soldiers still
ringing in my ears, and I reached often to refill my cup.

For hours, the temple folk feasted and laughed,
while musicians played and the Bacchae danced. I ate, but no amount of mirth
could tease a smile to my face. The other neophytes were rapt with attention,
and I remembered my mother’s grace. It was a tribute to the gods, the skill
with which Bacchae played, and sang, and danced. Oh, the dancing! As graceful
as birds on the wing over the vast seas.

I did so want her to be proud of me.

Late into the night, the air grew thick from the
many torches, the scent of spiced foods and the press of bodies. I watched a
temple priest sprinkling powder on the flames. A heavy perfumed smoke permeated
the chamber. Soon, my vision wavered and my ears rang with the noise of the
revelry. My head began to ache. Several participants had wandered off in twos
and threes, no doubt to clear their senses, and so as the drums began to pound
in time to my heartbeat, I moved to the nearest hall to do the same.

Away from the miasma of smoke and dazzling beauty
of the feast, the pain of my father’s death sliced my heart. I didn’t belong
here, in this sacred and beautiful place. I don’t know why I thought of him,
then. Perhaps the sight of my mother, whose feet should have been dancing. She’d
sat alone on her stool and watched the men and women with a wistful expression,
as the music rattled the base of the mountain. Then she’d risen and disappeared
down one of the far halls. I’d felt too full of guilt to follow her. So I
dwelled on death, alone in the corridor of black granite. I flung myself
prostrate on the rough stone of the hallway and prayed for Dionysus to take
pity on me.

Dionysus, who governs our passions, both
rage and pleasure, chaos and love, if you accept me into your beloved arms, I
promise never to turn away from my faith. Watch over my father.

The smoke in the hallway made my chest began to
burn. I fancied I could hear the heart of Dionysus beating in my ears. The
world spun, and the very stones seemed to vibrate and come to life. I laid my
aching head on the cold stone. It felt so nice and cool beneath my cheek. My
hands stretched backwards, palms up and the blood rushed in my veins in time to
the quickening crescendo of drum beats emanating from the central hall. My
pulse beat. The wild pounding inside the temple swallowed me whole.

Then, without warning, the drums stopped.

I rose, dizzy, with my ears still ringing and
scuttled to the temple chamber. The air in the feast hall seemed charged with
frightening energy. I remember the scent, still, to this day. Heavy and
pervasive, sweet like the delicate hillside blossoms and thick with cloying
human musk. A fug of stinking herbed smoke permeated the room, hanging over our
heads like a pseudo-sky. Musicians sounded their flutes and harps. Chaotic
harmonies swelled and receded like the waves of the sea. And then I heard the
cries.

It seemed I’d entered a battlefield, though I saw
no weapons. My heart thundered in my chest. Half-clothed bodies lay in a
tangled mound on the cold stone floor, their wine goblets still clutched in
their fists. I could not discern male from female at first. They were all
connected by limbs and hips.

I was dizzy, so very dizzy. In my herb-muddled
thoughts, some great tragedy had befallen us. The floor tilted under my feet
and I stumbled. I blinked once, trying to clear my bleary vision and the smoky
room became the nightmare forest battlefield I’d escaped in Perperek. The
jutting columns became black limbs of the misty cypress grove. Crimson blood
covered everyone and ran down the stone floors to puddle at my feet. Surely, I
heard the mournful cries of the dying. My ears felt stuffed with wool.

I shook my head and the bloody scene vanished.

In its place was a scene I have difficulty
describing, even now.

I crept behind a large urn to search for my
mother, fearing most to see her amongst the tangled bodies. Fate was with me
and she was not to be found amongst them. I watched in fascinated horror as the
mass of temple denizens heaved and bucked. Many voices called out as if in
torturous pain. This was so very unlike my memories of the Greek invasion, yet
in my mind it seemed one and the same.

My vision wavered, and I clutched the columns for
support.

The room spun. I felt ill.

All around me, time seemed to slow.

The mound of exposed flesh and limbs writhed. They
seemed to grapple with one another, vying for some higher unattainable ground. Appendages
flexed and extended with agonizing slowness. My stomach clenched. Swirling
fumes coiled around each naked body, like demons. Men and women, women and
women, and yes, even men together sweated and slithered in a great pooling of
grunts and thrusts and sighs. The hairs on my neck prickled and I sensed that I
was both welcome and not.

The floor pitched beneath my feet. I toppled
sideways, and rolled before crawling on my hands and knees to escape. One of
the Bacchae nearest me reached out her hand towards me. Her beautiful eyes were
glazed in what I thought was the throes of death. How could I refuse?

I crept near to her and she grasped my hand. Her
pink tongue slipped between her lips to moisten them and she kept her eyes
focused on mine. I heard a grunt and my eyes traveled the length of her exposed
breasts to her trim abdomen. I glanced at the priest sweating between her legs,
at her robes hiked up to expose her womanhood.

“Stop,” I whispered. The floor bucked beneath me
and I swayed on my knees.

The priest’s eyes bored into me like a
sarisa
.
He groaned and his head lolled on his neck as he bucked against the Bacchae. I
panted with him, as pressure aching to be released simmered in my midsection. His
buttocks flexed and his hands held her legs wide like a butterfly’s wings. They
flapped as he continued his onslaught. She moaned low in her throat and
squeezed my hand harder.

“You’re killing her,” I whispered. My voice
refused to work properly.

I tried to let go of her hand, to beat at him with
my fists, but her grip was too strong for me to break. She pinioned me with the
huge ebony pupils of her gray eyes. Tears of frustration stung my eyes and
poured down my cheeks as she arched her back against the cold stone floor and
tried to buck him off. Her hips rose and pumped. Then she gave a small cry that
sent liquid heat rushing between my legs.

Her body strained and then fell limp. Her eyes
unfocused and then closed. I thought the Bacchae dead with the sheen of sweat still
dewy on her lips and breasts. The man gave a hoarse bark and then slid away
from her. I saw the spurting tip of his erect phallus as he spilled his
glistening, pearly seed onto the ground. His eyes rolled back into his head and
he crumpled to the tiles.