Sappho (8 page)

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The third day of Dionysos there were games of chance, trials of strength, more feasting and drinking contests. Naked boys hopped about, running races with one leg in a wineskin. Revelers costumed as nymphs and satyrs held hands, winding through the crowd, a confetti of petals sprinkled on them from horse-whipped chariots.

Sappho watched her brothers at dice. Khar's throw; it came up Kios. She clapped her hands and laughed. It was the worst throw in the game. Eurygyos did better. But it was young Larichos, calling on Zeus, father of gods and men, who won when the knuckle bones came up Aphrodite. Her brothers invited her to join in the play, but she shook her head. She liked to gamble, but not with money.

That night, initiate youths danced to tunes in a trance. Suddenly snakes turned on their arms, flowed upon their necks and shoulders. A boy was bitten. Convulsing in every limb, he writhed on the ground before Dionysos, who smiled his serene smile as he looked upon mortal perishing. When the youth was dead, everyone dropped a flower upon his body until he was covered by a hill of multifarious colors.

The feasting went into the fourth day. Prisoners were released with a great clash of cymbals, bedecked animals were constantly slaughtered to the gods, and libations were made. That day, too, continued into night, and for the fourth time torches were thrust into the arms of statues and slaves.

With the final dawn, which was the fifth day, a subtle shift in the atmosphere hinted at heightened tension. Everyone was drinking satyrion, an aphrodisiac saved until this last day to madden the women. Sappho drank with care. She was not thinking of the performance still to give, when neither her feet nor her tongue must falter. No, she was thinking past it to the digging up of the body of Melanchros.

She leaned back upon cushions, surrounded by her brothers and several youths of noble family. Serving men poured water over their hands, and from mixing bowls of wine and water their cups were filled. Sappho's goblet was of rare craftsmanship, with a dove perched upon it for a handle. Each in turn cast wine upon the mighty blaze that roared before them, roasting the flesh of boars on a five-pronged spit, bellies slit and stuffed with young kid and capon, garnished with savories of wild onion and spices. Polished tables were brought, and a carver placed platters of flesh on gold-worked plates, while slaves passed among them pouring Kios from leather bottles. Female slaves serenaded them as they dressed their hair with fresh flowers. At a signal everyone had to show how far they had emptied their cups.

A shadow fell across Sappho. She glanced up. It was Pittakos. A flower had dropped from her hair. He stooped to pick it up and, smiling, held it out to her. A flush spread beneath her tinted face.

“Sappho,” he said, “of ravishing words.” This overture from Pittakos caused a stir in the great hall.

She reached for the flower but knocked it from his hand. Could it have been an accident? But Sappho was never clumsy.

Pittakos bowed stiffly and moved on; the laughter at her table resumed, only now there was a caustic edge in it. She sipped again at the satyrion. She no longer cared; somehow she would get through the Arkadian dances and accomplish what the gods willed. The men were singing skolia, waving their cups. To each table was brought a woman, naked from the waist up, whose breasts had been dipped in wine. The guests took turns suckling her, and between times the paps were redipped. Sappho climbed into the lap of the woman and suckled as her brothers and the young men had. The breasts were deep and soft; she nuzzled and bit gently.

The group at her table left together for the sacred grove, arriving in time to hear the
Overcoming by Dionysos of the Minos of Crete
recited. No sooner had they seated themselves than Alkaios sprang up with a poem:

I bid them summon the beautiful Menon,

if I may have him for an additional joy at my

drinking party

It was well known that Menon dispensed his beauty for a price to anyone and that Alkaios, who had taken him up, was mad with jealousy. The applause was mixed with good-natured laughter.

A stout man guffawing in the front row had a fig thrown at him. It hit its target, entering his mouth and sticking in his throat. He choked. Friends pounded him on the back. His face became purple, his eyes popped forward, and he fell over. They could not revive him.

“Flute and bells, flute and bells.” Sappho listened to the familiar meter and stepped in intricate, sinuous patterns. The chorus followed her fleet feet and when her voice was raised, theirs were silent. She sang the song she had composed in her chamber:

While the full moon rose, young girls

took their place around the altar.

In old days Cretan girls danced

supplely around an altar of love,

crushing the soft flowering grass

The priestesses surged forward, god-intoxicated, to fall upon the knoll. Feeling the entry of the god, divine madness overcame them. They mimed the positions of love, hips raised, thrusting forward.

Faster. Faster.

A handheld drum beat the rhythm, urging them on until they sweated at the edges of their hair. Sweat laved their armpits, while between their thighs another moisture washed, mingled with perfumes. Their tormented cries turned the mood to one of ill omen. A god who loves with human passion is subject to the terror of the human soul and body. The women on the ground gasped and collapsed, seemingly lifeless. Hysteria seized the spectators. With aphrodisiac alive in their veins, they broke like a wave upon the prone women.

The priestesses feigned exhaustion to lure their victims. On their upper legs were phalluses, which they now brandished. Others used pinecones, leaping up and charging like Erinyes after joy and blood. Some employed the thyrsos, a long ornamented rod. They fell upon the girls and sodomized the boy children.

Men watched the rape and themselves grew rods. But they were immobile as the priestesses rushed past, each swinging her phallus, bringing down and penetrating any they found. Titans had torn Dionysos's still-living flesh. So they tore flesh. The screaming and the suffering and the blood were his—the lust belonged to the Titans. The priestesses gave chase through the forest and the hunt continued in thickets and behind walls.

Sappho shuddered, her own body tingling with maddening desire and sick revulsion. She was protected by her high station and the holiness of a participant. However, while the atrocities lasted, she must act. Cautiously she left her place, backing away from the smiling, brilliantly waxed god. Alkaios and Khar waited for her. Together they fled until the cries were faint.

They did not pause until they were outside the gates of Mitylene. Breathless, they leaned against the whitewashed stones that marked their city.

“Here it is,” Khar said. “This is the place marked.”

Sappho nodded agreement. It was the place.

A shovel had been secreted nearby, and the men began to dig, taking turns.

Sappho paced nervously. Why was it taking so long?

“Ah!” Alkaios shouted.

“Shhh.” Sappho turned away to study the night.

“Come look.”

She went to the edge of the grave. Five feet down, a form wrapped in strips of cloth with clods of dirt adhering. “It is Melanchros,” she said. “Bring him up.”

Khar jumped into the hole and, as though this were a signal, night became day, bright with the light from a dozen torches. Not one of the three moved. It was a tableau. The circle of soldiers narrowed about them—Pittakos's private guard.

The captain stepped forward. “What have we here?” he asked almost jovially.

The white mask of Sappho's face turned on him. “The murdered body of Melanchros.”

The captain and his soldiers laughed. “Melanchros is in exile. Everyone knows that.”

“Melanchros is in this grave, butchered by order of Pittakos.”

There was no laughter now. “These are serious charges.”

“Bring up the body. You will see.”

“Step back then.” Going graveside, the captain yelled to Khar. “Out of there. Give him a hand up,” he instructed. Khar landed beside his sister.

Sappho turned to the soldiers. “You are witnesses.”

Alkaios whispered. “It is unwise to speak so to those in the pay of the Tyrant.”

“Why?” Sappho demanded. “Are they not citizens?”

The shrouded object was raised. There was something odd about its shape, even obscured by the winding sheet—it was too short. Had the body been dismembered? Was this but part of the torso? Was the head at some other site to make identification impossible?

The sheet was unrolled and the carcass tumbled out. Sappho peered to see. She gasped. It was the remains of a large dog.

She heard Alkaios groan, saw him tear his tunic. They were betrayed. Atreus had bargained for his life with theirs.

Sappho felt Alkaios's anguish, but there was no comfort for him. Khar's sandaled foot kicked the dead cur. Sappho drew back from the stench.

“Follow me,” the captain said. “You are prisoners.”

“For what crime?” Sappho demanded.

“Plotting treason.”

“We were teasing about Melanchros,” Sappho said. “Everyone knows he is in Rhodes. This is my good dog. How does it injure Mysilos or Pittakos if I bury my faithful dog?”

Khar grinned. But the soldiers closed ranks and marched them quickly through the city. Every doorpost was smeared with pitch to keep off wandering shades and ghosts from upper air. The frenzy of the death of Dionysos had passed, leaving the populace subdued, lethargic, worn out from the excesses of days of celebration. In the quiet of their houses, each family did honor to their dead. An intimate feast was decorously eaten as tribute to the joy-god, the tragic god, the only god to experience death. Wine jars, seed jars, and funeral jars, which had been opened to allow the spirits final hours of freedom, were once more bottled. In the morning the houses would be vigorously brushed with buckthorn to chase away any lingering shade. All would be born again in new crops, new stock, and new infants. The Earth replenishes itself and man has his part to play, in life and in death.

Past these shuttered houses the prisoners were marched. All Mitylene would hear of it and enjoy the joke: betrayed by the putrefaction of a dog. Claiming they were digging up the murdered body of Melanchros! What shame! For Sappho, the ridicule was worse than any punishment.

They entered the town hall, where Mysilos and Pittakos waited. These judges of her life were seated on high-backed chairs, their faces passive and unreadable.

The accused were led forward. It was Pittakos who spoke. Naturally—it was he who baited the trap. “I am sorry indeed to see you three before me again. Apparently a warning was not enough, for you are here on the same charges—calumny and plotting against the city. In particular, you persist in the belief that Melanchros was murdered, and tonight made an attempt to dig up the body. Tell me what you found.”

There was silence in the hall. For once Sappho had no words either sung or spoken.

Pittakos continued, “The gracious Tyrant of Lesbos cannot permit this seething atmosphere of suspicion, slander, and false accusation. You chose to disregard my counsel. You, Kharaxos, and you, Alkaios, and you, Sappho, have not desisted. You still plot. The body of the cur will be dragged to the main square and the story told. I am sorry. I am sorry, too, that sentence this time must be pronounced against you.” He nodded to a henchman, who read from a scroll that obviously had been memorized, as his eyes remained on the same spot. After a few words the meaning was clear: banishment.

“Excellent Lords,” Alkaios cried, “consider and grant—”

Sappho interposed her will against his. “Ask nothing.”

Sappho smiled suddenly at her two judges, and they shifted their eyes uneasily from hers.

The decree of banishment set her free.

She could almost have laughed in Pittakos's face. The pleasure he took in his small triumph, and the certain knowledge that Atreus had been tortured for his private seal and then killed, changed her life.

Had Pittakos buried the dead dog himself, or only thought of it? It was the kind of conniving his plodding mind would conceive.

Wonderful words formed new verse as she stood before him.

I begin with words of air

yet are they good to hear

The nine Muses had adopted her. And no man would again occupy her mind or keep her from song. In exile she would sing.

They were not being sent to the elder Kritias of Athens, or to Gamon in Syracuse. Or even into Egypt. Slowly the ramifications of what she must endure were borne in on her: she and her comrades were to sit out an indefinite sentence in high Pyrrha. The exile was more a mockery than true banishment. Only 140 stadia from Mitylene, Pyrrha by reputation was nothing more than a great crag on the Gulf of Kaloni, manned by a few poor huts and rude peasant folk. No one visited there. For what? A scrub pine or two, perhaps a stunted olive or lightning-struck oak. This for her, who loved the bright jonquils, the violets hidden under their leaves, the crimson wild rose, the streams and sacred groves. Things of beauty fed her poems. But she and her little band of fools were to rusticate with only Prometheus perhaps to visit them. Who knew, it might be his rock!

Their exile was a joke, as the dog was a joke. Men would laugh over it in the taverns as they raised mugs of mulled wine. But it must be borne.

Sappho's secret shame was that she had ever known feelings for and wasted thought on Pittakos. Love can make a poet out of a boor, she thought distractedly, or perhaps it is the other way around—love can imagine a poet even in a boor.

Pittakos ordered their immediate departure under guard from their homes. They were to take with them only those items that could be carried.

The daughter of Skamandronymos was allotted a single serving woman. “He is shaming himself, not me,” she told her mother. “A single serving woman or none, what does it matter?”