Sappho (29 page)

The judging before the shrine of Hera of the glancing eyes was at an end. Sappho followed Gongyla's movements as she dressed. Kydro was acclaimed the most perfect. And with this Sappho agreed, but her perfection was unanimated. It was the overly rounded thighs that pleased her most in Gongyla.

Sappho thought of another reason to be pleased with the girl—her memory for songs and for sums was excellent. A girl like this could be helpful to her in keeping her accounts, and she convinced herself that that was why she went out of her way to speak to her.

Kleis stood chatting with her friend, discussing what to their minds had been the merits and demerits of the contestants, when Sappho approached them. “Next year, Kleis, you will be ready for judging as well. And I don't know which of you should win. But,” she went on, “I take this opportunity to speak of more serious matters. My black ships have once again returned. In the past I have allowed slaves to tally up their wares, and I believe I have been defrauded of a fortune over the years. Since you are so quick with numbers, Gongyla, I thought you might help me oversee this enterprise.”

Gongyla looked startled. “I don't know that I am capable.”

“Oh, you are capable. I am your teacher and I know. But perhaps such serious business would keep you from your diversions?”

“If I could assist in any way…” Gongyla began.

Sappho smiled. “You can. And I will call on you.”

“You didn't have to agree,” she heard Kleis say as the two girls walked away.

Borrowing her friend for a few hours each day will not inconvenience Kleis too much, Sappho told herself. After all, she has many friends to play with. Still, she was uneasy that Kleis would not see it that way. But a twelve-year-old would be quickly diverted, she concluded, and she put it from her mind.

*   *   *

Her black ships roamed the seas even as they had in Kerkolas's time, bringing booty of gold, spices, and slaves. In spite of the expenditures incurred in the maintenance of her sumptuous villa, the far-flung grounds, and the lavish style in which she provided for herself and her hetaerae, she was richer now than even in Syracuse. It was like tumbling downhill—wealth begot wealth at an ever-increasing rate.

She was grateful, for these riches protected her. She knew in the town there was resentment at the conspicuous style in which she lived. Her people reported to her what was said: a woman alone, knowing such freedom, administering a fortune, managing a shipping empire—it set a dangerous precedent.

Because she was Sappho, she could ignore this subterranean hiss of disapproval. Because she was rich, she paid the eunuch army that defended her house a handsome wage. She was secure. She was safe.

In her dealings with sailors and captains alike, she was generous and her crews loyal, boasting that they sailed in her service. It was a small inconvenience that now and then she must spend a few hours assessing the fruits of their journeys. She congratulated herself in thinking of Gongyla. The girl was always ready to laugh and would make the drudgery easier.

In fact, there was no drudgery, only a few guilt pangs at taking the girl from Kleis so much of the day. But in all probability, by now Kleis had filled the gap with other companions.

Sappho's head and that of Gongyla met over a single scroll of papyrus, as they scratched off another bundle of sticks representing bales of silks. She found herself glancing tenderly at the curve of cheek and swelling of breast, at the milk-white shoulder.

Sappho attempted to curb her thoughts. But Aphrodite willed that she imagine herself framed by those heavy thighs, imagine the girl's breath against her and the flick of her pink, pointed tongue. The madness inflicted by the gods entered her.

Can I still desire? her wearied heart asked. She thought of Kleis and sent the girl away.

At the door Gongyla turned back. “Have I done something wrong? Where is my mistake? Show me and I will do it over.”

“There is no mistake. My head bothers me. I will take a walk to clear it.”

Still Gongyla lingered. “May I come with you?”

“No.” The word rang out more sternly than she intended and she called after Gongyla, “It is only a small walk to the orchard. Come if you like.”

The girl was at her side in a moment. If she was surprised that Sappho had changed her mind, she did not show it. That was one of Gongyla's attractions. You did not know what she thought behind her wide-spaced eyes.

Sappho led the girl deep into the orchard, aware of how freely she moved, for she prized freedom in walking almost as much as in the dance. Grace was given of the gods; it could not be taught. When they stood among the bearing trees, Sappho said, “Pick me an apple.”

Gongyla looked puzzled; surely Sappho could pick her own apple. But she hunted among the branches for a perfect one while Sappho sang:

Like the last red apple

sweet and high;

high as the topmost twigs,

which the apple-pickers missed.

O no, not missed

but found beyond their fingertips

She broke off and said to Gongyla, who had selected one, “Toss it to me.” Catching it, she laughed, and Sappho's laugh was very sweet. Many lights came into her eyes. “On holy Mount Olympus, where the gods dwell, the apple is the symbol of love. Did you know this?”

Gongyla nodded.

“Don't you see? You have thrown it to me and I have caught it. That has significance. It means there is something special between us.”

Gongyla remained impassive. Sappho's heart beat in her throat. Had she chosen another Dika, who would not love her? She could not go through such misery again. So she hazarded everything. “You know me as Sappho the Aeolian poet, teacher, singer of songs. Could you know me in love?”

Gongyla was quite motionless and her expression did not change. She could have been rechecking and tallying the cargo of the black ships.

When she spoke it was formally. “O Sappho, O great teacher,” she began, and Sappho's bodily organs cringed and tightened. “O Sappho, there is none among us who do not love you and none who are not proud when you notice us, speak to us, fling us a garland, or allow us to sit beside you or at your feet. But Sappho's love is scorching love. I am afraid to change my status. I would rather you look on me kindly sometimes as you pass than ascend with you in a flame. Only gods can drink fire. And yet if you are angry and shut me from your presence, I cannot imagine worse pain.”

“Listen to me, Gongyla. Erinna is all intellect, my sister in art. Damophyla has found another friend. Dika went back to her parents without knowing my touch. Gorgo I turned away, and because of this she did me much harm—” Sappho broke off. What was she saying? It was as if she were in Dika's bungalow, pleading. Would Gongyla leave her as Dika had? Trembling with dread, she waited for the girl to speak.

“You name so many, Sappho. And this I understand, for all run after you and would be noticed by you. And I also,” she added softly. “How can I explain myself? I have a dream—perhaps foam-born Aphrodite put it in my mind, I do not know. My dream is that on this Earth there is one who will love me and whom I will love to the edge of time. O Sappho … I fear suffering. You cannot help it; you will make me suffer.”

“As you now make me!” Sappho turned away from her and from the orchard.

Yearning followed where she went. By day it was present in her, and in the night would not leave her. She analyzed and agonized over each word of Gongyla's. It was true that constancy had not been a strong point of hers. But that was a thymos from the gods; they had made her so that even the way a girl slipped on a thonged sandal could stab her with longing. But all this was before Gongyla, who now took up all her thoughts. She entered the garden with her barbitos, for it was with its lower, more poignant voice that she would make an ode to Gongyla. She called it “Ode to Aphrodite”:

Throned on many colors, undying Aphrodite, child of

Zeus, weaver of wiles, I pray you do not with anguish

nor with torture break down, Lady, my heart,

But come hither, even before at any time you have

left your father's domain, the golden, and have come

With yoked chariot, toward the dark Earth the

strong pinions of your two swans, fair and swift, have

drawn thee, beating down from heaven through the midether.

Quickly then you came, O blest Lady,

with a smile on your undying face and quietly did ask

what now had upset me, why I called

And what thing it was that I so much wanted to

accomplish in my mad heart. “Whom now must I

tempt to give you her love? Who is it, Sappho, that

hurts you?

For even if she fly now, she soon shall follow; if she

spurn the flight, yet shall she give; and if she love

not still shall she soon love, though she be not

willing.”

Come to me now! Loose me from cruel trouble, and

accomplish for me that thing which my heart desireth

to be accomplished: yourself be my assistant!

As always, composing restored Sappho's confidence. With the enchantment of this eleven-syllabled meter she would besiege her love. She did not go herself but sent the poem by the hand of a slave to Gongyla. Prompted by the nine golden-crowned sisters, the girl came with her own slave, and stood uncertainly, clutching the parchment. “You have written it down,” she said.

“Yes.”

“It is wonderful and strange, so simple and yet each word chosen with precision and care.”

“It is so,” Sappho acknowledged.

“May I sit and listen to your glorious art?”

“We will sing together.”

Gongyla had brought her Lydian lyre and she played on this while Sappho beat time and sang. Slowly Gongyla gathered courage to sing with her. Her voice was a bit unsure, but there was sweetness in it, as in all she did. Imperceptibly Sappho signed for the slave woman to withdraw. She gave Gongyla a lesson, but the girl ended by laughing at her own effort.

How sweet a sound her laughter! She talked to Sappho of her home, Kolophon, one of the many Ionian strongholds which held Lydian waterways.

Gongyla was coaxed into giving an account of her house and of the meals they ate. Kandaulos was a favorite, prepared from boiled flesh, thickened with cheese and breadcrumbs into a gravy to which grapes, pickles, honey, hard-cooked eggs, and a dash of aniseed were added. Another famous Kolophon sauce was the spicy kakuke.

“No wonder you were called the Dumpling when you arrived,” Sappho teased. “However, my women will prepare these wonders, and later we will feast on them.”

“But if I return here tonight Kleis will…”

“Miss you? And if you do not return,
I
shall miss you. Kleis will miss you with a child's heart, for a moment. Then on to other things.” Sappho touched Gongyla's small foot and drew its arch lightly with pearl-shaped nails. “I shall miss you in the deepest recess of my being.”

Gongyla said softly, “In the poem you have Aphrodite say: ‘Who is it, Sappho, that hurts you?'”

“And you want to know who that person is?”

“Oh, don't let it be me!” And Gongyla threw herself on Sappho's breast and wept.

Sappho comforted her with a stroking of her hands both languid and intimate. Gongyla was very like Kleis, an unawakened child.

Sappho's hands slipped down her chiton and caressed the wide immature breasts, turning the nipples hard. Gongyla seemed to notice only now that her servant was gone. She jumped up and pulled her garment about her. “If I come back tonight, it will be worse pain for you, and for me, too!”

“Come tonight,” Sappho said as Gongyla ran from the garden.

Sappho smiled, for Gongyla had left behind the lyre of Lydia. She went into her kitchen and ordered a menu that included the sauces of Kolophon.

She waited, but not long. Gongyla came in hesitantly by the gate. The gods had granted this.

“Sit on my lap, beautiful one, facing me,” Sappho said. “My hands will be at your shoulders to support you, and you shall lean back and dance for my delight.”

“Dance in your lap?”

“Even so. You shall tremble in the embrace of my knees. But first remove your chiton that I may make your body glisten and gleam with rich oils when the torchlight falls on you.” She began with her hands a slow movement, well away from the centers of love. “When I was a child,” she whispered, “my slaves from Ethiopia were black and shone like ebony, and they anointed me in other ways.”

“How?” The word was long in coming.

“Close your eyes. Pretend I am your lover.”

“I have not had a lover.”

“That is an offense against Aphrodite. In Syracuse mothers slit their girl-children with a ritual knife to win favor with that goddess. But I do no such thing that is violent, for I love all things delicate. I practice an ancient art, learned from slaves who taught well.”

“Teach me.” Gongyla scarcely breathed.

“You must not cry out, though you think you will faint.”

“Is it painful then?”

“Past pain. Past anything.” She spoke against her ear, pushing back the long silky hair. “Begin the dance.”

Gongyla swayed against Sappho's hands, one of which roamed her heavy thighs, which were on either side of Sappho's hips. Sappho slid to the door of pleasure, and the girl opened like a pearl shell. The song in Sappho became deep. “I worship at the very apex of the mound of Aphrodite. Ah, know you madden me. Your delta hides a flower of crimson, full of honey that I must taste.” And she raised her to her feet. “See, it opens fully to me.”