Sappho's Leap (9 page)

My mother had ridiculous old-fashioned ideas about babies; she dictated to the nurses, who grew huffy and snappish. She preached about adding solid food to the baby's diet of milk. She wanted honey-barley water given to the baby before bed; she insisted the baby would sleep better. She rearranged the nursery and the women's quarters; she criticized everything I did. Eventually I got so furious at her for meddling that I accused her of marrying me off to an old sot to better her own financial situation.

“It was only to save your life, Sappho, that I sacrificed myself to Pittacus and married you off to his friend Cercylas. You are such a child and so naive about politics, so unaware of how women are sacrificed—do you think I would let you move all the way to Syracuse if there were any other way? Would I relinquish my only daughter? How can you say that? How can you be so blind? Pittacus knew about your conspiracy with Alcaeus. He was not inclined to be lenient until I interceded. Do you think I enjoyed making love to that bag of guts? Do you think I lusted for that red face and that pendulous belly? Do you think his fat ass made me think of your beautiful muscular father? How dare you fault me for saving your life the only way I could?”

“So you let me be raped by Cercylas!”

“I hardly think that sot had the power to rape you. Better a rapist with a little prick than a satyr with a battering ram. Besides, the world is based on rape! Europa was raped. Thetis was raped. Even Leto, the mother of Apollo, was raped. And she was one of the titans! Only Penthesilea, queen of the amazons, was killed, not raped. She would have been
happy
only to be raped. Grow up, Sappho—and look around you. This world was not made for women. Lesbos was once the home of the amazons. Look at Lesbos now—under Pittacus! You're better off with an old, impotent, pliable lush of a husband than with no husband at all! A dumb rich husband who travels is what you want—and what you got! I refuse to feel sorry for you, Sappho.”

“At least you had a husband you
loved
!”

“Yes, I loved him. Yes, I was bewitched by passion. Yes, I was enthralled by his beautiful legs, his chest like the shield of Achilles, his glinting green eyes. And he had four children by me and forty more by slaves and concubines. And he never missed an occasion to make himself glorious in battle until he came home in a jar, leaving me to the mercies of his parents—and Pittacus.

“You should see the way that man is covering Mytilene with images of himself! He has the sculptors make him resemble Zeus—or Poseidon! Long beard, sage eyes, a philosopher's knowing smile. He doesn't just want to be a tyrant; he wants to be a sage! And a singer! He has that young fool Pherecydes of Syros writing songs, aphorisms, and philosophical treatises for him to put his name on! It's not enough to be absolute ruler—he wants to be a singer
and
a philosopher! Don't they all!

“I had my suffering too, Sappho, little whirlwind—ohhhhh, whenever I think of your father I still want to cry. And rage! And rage and cry! Aphrodite cursed me too. Passion is a curse, and lack of passion is a curse! Don't think you are the only one to know the capriciousness of Aphrodite and her scheming little son with the poison-tipped arrows!”

I started to cry. “Will it be any better for the little one? Will it be better for Cleis? Will it
change
?”

“I doubt it greatly,” my mother said. “Women don't know where their own interest lies. If we ever joined together like the amazons of old, we might do something about our plight. But we paint and smile, stagger about simpering in golden sandals, let ourselves be bought for collars and earrings and slaves and houses. A sorry lot we are—always fighting among ourselves for men's praise. Once we loosen our thighs for love, we can be defeated. Artemis and Athena had the right idea—perpetual virginity! Once Alcaeus took your maidenhead, you were doomed!”

I was amazed. How did she know?

“Mother!”

“You don't want to hear the truth, Sappho. Rape is our destiny. But rape is better than murder. The amazons always put up with rape if it saved them from being murdered. They kept the girls and gave the boys away—to their own rapists, usually. They were practical. Then they made their girls strong. They were wise. At least you have your golden flower, your little girl—as I had you.”

She bent down to the baby and lifted it gently in her arms as if it were a crystal egg—utterly fragile, utterly precious.

“I think of all the daughters who died in childbirth, all the granddaughters who died trying to come to this world of darkness and light—and I rejoice for you—despite the pain of life, despite the treachery of men….It is not so bad—this gift the gods gave us. It is a mixture of pain and pleasure, of sweets and bitters, like all gifts, but it is ours to keep awhile and revel in.”

She lifted up her little namesake and smiled the smile of the blessed.

I ran fluttering

Like a girl

After her mother.

—S
APPHO

N
EW MOTHERHOOD IS A
time of tempestuous emotions. Even though my own mother was here with me in Syracuse, even though I had Praxinoa at my side, my mind was full of fantasies and fears as I fell more and more deeply in love with my baby.

My mind was a seething cauldron. Tenderness for my baby warred with terror for her fate. I understood why babies have often been sacrificed—from the beginning of time. Their little dented skulls show us the thinness of the membrane between life and death. Their new unsteady breath reminds us of the slender difference between being and nonbeing. Only a sigh of air released from the new wet lungs divides them. A baby's fierce life-cries sometimes sound like death-cries to the anxious mother. All of existence hangs on a thread during those early days. I never stopped thinking I would walk into Cleis' nursery in the middle of the night to find her still, stopped, mute, a little lump of putty without air.

A gift so newly given may be snatched back by the gods. It seems tentative, provisional, fragile. We know the gods are nothing if not capricious. What they give with golden hands, they may take away with bloody ones. From one minute to the next, their will may change. Until you know this in the pit of your gut, you are no parent. Persephone's dark bedroom awaits us all. Demeter's desperation for her lost daughter, kidnapped by the king of death, could be the fate of any mother.

I was always glad that I had borne a daughter. Her beauty and fragility never ceased to stir me in that secret place where fear and desire mingle. But as Cleis grew, I also wondered what it would be like to be the mother of a son—a little Alcaeus who would smile and coo for me when I unfastened his loincloth, a little boy whose tender phallus would come to overmaster him and guide his fate, a little hero offered up to Ares to be killed on the battlefield, to be transported home as cold ashes in a jar. No! It was too horrible to think about. I was grateful for my daughter. At least she could be kept off the battlefield—until she came to the battlefield of birth.

Still, my mother and I left nothing to chance. We used all the magic at our command to ensure the baby's life. This time I did not go back to Cretaea, but instead we found an Egyptian priestess who was reputed to be able to read the future.

In the ancient quarter, not far from the fountain of Arethusa, lived the one who called herself the priestess of Isis. My mother and I visited her with little Cleis in our arms.

The priestess' house was full of cats—which are sacred to the Egyptians. They leapt about, meowed, rolled over like dogs, urging you to rub their soft bellies. There must have been at least twenty living cats I could see and surely more in hiding. Against every wall stood small sarcophagi, which held the mummified remains of other cats. I later learned that every cat the priestess had ever loved was here. Despite the fact that Egyptians are very clean, the smell was overpowering. I guess, with that many cats, even the most meticulous practices cannot remove the odor.

A female slave led us to the inner courtyard.

“The priestess will see you soon,” she said.

My mother held the baby. I busied myself with observing the decorations of the priestess' courtyard.

Isis is the name the Egyptians give to Demeter. There was a statue of her in the middle of the courtyard and one cat stood unceremoniously on Isis' shoulder. Isis is usually depicted as having horns—the way we Greeks depict Io. Cows are sacred to Egyptians and cannot be eaten.

There was a fountain with lotus flowers in one corner of the courtyard and the sound of running water gentled the air. Most soothsayers, I had found, live in squalor and seem to grub for bits of gold—but this one had obviously grown rich in the practice of her craft.

“How much money did you bring?” I asked my mother.

“Enough,” she said, gazing down into the baby's face as if it were a precious jewel that twinkled on her finger.

A slave who had greeted us padded into the courtyard on bare feet. “The priestess will see you now,” she said, “but first you must purify yourselves.” She led us to a tinkling fountain, bade us wash, then dried our hands with clean linen. She anointed our hands with sweet-smelling almond oil.

We were led into a small chamber draped with red silk where the priestess sat on a throne. I had expected an old crone, but this priestess was young and beautiful, with shaved eyebrows and jewelry that seemed like liquid gold.

“You bring a babe for me to bless,” she said, speaking Greek with only the smallest hint of an Egyptian accent.

“Yes,” my mother said. I was silenced by the priestess' beauty—her long almond-shaped golden eyes, her tawny skin, her aureole of red-brown ringlets, her breasts plainly rising and falling under her silken chiton, which fell into a hundred rainbow pleats of red and purple. I could not help but stare. My breath caught in my throat.

“Are you wondering about my eyebrows?” she asked. No, I was wondering about her beauty, but did not dare to say so.

“I have shaved them in mourning for my favorite cat, Sesostris. He died some days past. He is being mummified and a splendid golden sarcophagus is being made for him. He is the only babe I will ever have. If I could reincarnate him I would, but alas, not even priestesses have that power. Tell me, what can I do for you?”

“I need to know the fate of my child,” I blurted out, “and my fate.”

“A tall order,” said the priestess. “One fate at a time. Show me the baby.”

My mother reluctantly handed over Cleis. The priestess held the baby tenderly and gazed down at her. She gazed for a long time but said nothing. Then she handed the babe back to me. I was almost afraid I would drop the infant, since my knees were weak from the priestess' beauty. Her tawny oval face seemed to hold the secrets of the universe.

“Usually I sacrifice a bird and read its entrails, but the words of the goddess are so clear, I do not have to.

“Isis says that you and this child will someday return across the sea's broad back to a land you love, that you will be a singer and a teacher there, that you will teach the air to resound with your syllables so that they will forever echo, that you will be a muse to all who come after you, all except your own daughter, and that when you die, your name will live forever.”

“But what about baby Cleis?”

“She will grow and prosper,” the priestess said. “She will have her own renown and she will live to bury you. That is all a mother can ask.”

The prophecy was so clear and precise that I immediately doubted it. I knew that soothsayers, like oracles, sometimes spoke in riddles. I knew it took a strong and clever mind to understand them correctly. But on this day my mind was far from strong! Not only was I crazed with worry over my child, but also the beauty of this priestess had weakened me. Already confused by my tumultuous feelings for my daughter and Alcaeus, I was further confused by my sudden feelings for this priestess. Her skin was golden, her hair a mass of ringlets, her arms and legs long and sinewy, her aroma that of frankincense and myrrh. My breath caught in my throat. My knees seemed to sway under me. I could feel the sweat under my arms and the moisture between my legs. If she had touched me, I would have swooned and fallen over backward on one of the soft pillows that lined the room. My mother steadied me. She quickly took the baby out of my arms.

“Sappho!” she said, as if to awaken me from some reverie. Syllables formed in my mind:

Love, that loosener of limbs,

Makes me tremble to the root.

I did not say these words aloud.

“Where are you, Sappho?” my mother asked again.

“The girl is flower-picking on Parnassus,” the priestess said. “She will come back to us by and by.”

The baby suddenly cried as if it knew it had a rival. My mother hushed her, rocked her, comforted her. I knelt before the priestess with my hands on my knees in the Egyptian style.

“I do not even know your name,” I said, prostrating myself.

“You can call me Isis,” the almond-eyed beauty said.

“Isis, tell me the prophecy again,” I asked.

“I never repeat my prophecies,” she said. “If you want a more complex and confusing prediction, go to Delphi, spend your money needlessly. Leave me! I have no time for those who question me!”

Love is a fever, a contagion, a storm among the old oak trees. I went home with my mother and my daughter, but in my mind I remained with Isis.

Praxinoa knew instinctively that something had changed.

“Sappho—you walk like someone in a dream. What has happened to you? What did the soothsayer say?”

“Only good things, Prax.”

“Then what has come over you?”

“Nothing, I'm fine, I promise you.”

But Praxinoa knew me too well to believe me. She sensed that strong winds of change were blowing in our lives. She watched me carefully after that and I felt her uneasiness. My love for Alcaeus and the baby she could almost accept, but love for another woman—never.