SAPPHO SINGS chapter one

“Psappha, as she called herself in her soft Aeolian dialect, was born at Eresus, on Lesbos”
The Life of Greece by Will Durant’

-- I --

On the opposite side of the island from her birthplace, on a hill
above and somewhat south of Mitylene, Psappha leaned her back
against the outside of her stepfather’s garden wall and stared across
open water. The mainland shore remained in shadow as Dawn
dressed ancient mountaintops in brilliant white. Soon the sun would
move higher to grace the twelve mainland Aeolian cities with early
morning light. Near the second to last, a thin column of smoke
wafted upward. Whatever vessel had the signal fires ablaze
throughout the night was getting closer. It should reach Mitylene by
noon.
She edged into the shadows as her mother’s husband exited the
main gate. His robes drew a dark green line across dew-drenched
grass as he hurried toward the oleander-shrouded path that led down
to The Lady’s Park and from there to the beach, which would soon
be crowded with people headed into the city of New Mitylene to
learn what news the night fires foretold.
Despite her mothers repeated warnings of what could happen to
her afoot in the city “now that you’re almost all grown up”, Psappha
followed Eurigios, being careful to not let her former nursemaid

 Psappha (Suh-FAH)
 Eurigios (you-ri-GUY-aus)

catch her. Praxinoa would make her use her mother’s sedan chair.
“Its curtains will protect you from prying eyes,” Praxinoa would have
said. They’d also hide everything interesting from me, Psappha secretly
replied.
She peered between towering oleanders to catch fleeting teasing
glimpses of the twin cities beyond The Lady’s Park. When she
stepped from between the hedges, Old Mitylene displayed itself
before her. Like a jade and ivory cameo, tied with two golden-ribbon bridges
to the teeming young city on the shore. A jewel in a crescent of noise, Psappha
thought as a poem began to form. Before she went to bed, she
would inscribe it into the wax tablet that lay always ready on her
dressing table.
The ancient city of mansions and gardens rested on an island in
the middle of the bay. In the near harbor, the fishing fleet nestled
like a flock of many-colored ducks. In the deep harbor beyond the
bridges, a black-sailed trireme strained at anchor. A great, chained
panther its three rows of oars like claws reaching skyward.
On the farthest shore, The Lady’s sacred olive grove stretched
away from the beach with young leaves shimmering in dawn-light.
Like a thousand needles sewing up the sky.
Eurigios spoke and the next line of some future poem escaped
her. “Where do you think you’re going, young lady? And where’s
your chair?” Eurigios stroked his neatly cropped blond beard in a
pretense of age and authority. “Your mother will never forgive me if
I allow you to stroll about the city like a street urchin.”
Determined, Psappha squared her shoulders to accent small,
pointed breasts beneath a clinging Egyptian linen peplos. The
ribbons girdling her trim waist held her skirt just above her
unpainted toes. “Please,” she said, in a studied imitation of her
mother’s most seductive tone.
Eurigios blinked. “But . . . .” His uncertain demeanor
advertised his youth.

 Praxinoa (prax-in-NO-ah)

Scarcely ten years older than Psappha, Eurigios was born a scant
year before her brother Charaxos. Maybe that’s why Charaxos chose to
study with Pythagoras in Croton instead of joining Mother and I in exile: Or
was it because his birth twin Alkaios left to rent his sword to King Neccho of
Egypt? A pity. They used to all be such good friends.
Eurigios paid a high price in friendship to gain my mother’s hand. A
shame he never gained her love. Then nobody does-- except maybe Charaxos.
Eurigios moved onto and across the grass at the beachside edge
of The Lady’s Park. Psappha hurried to follow. Enveloped as she
was in bitter childhood memories, she failed to notice the marble
bench half hidden in a cluster of azaleas. It nearly toppled her.
"O-o-oh," she moaned as she collapsed onto the bench. "I've
stubbed my toe."
Across the glade, a giggle of girls danced among the trees,
following a lithe young woman whose ivory-cream skin and long,
silver-gold hair perfectly defined the generally accepted concept of
beauty. If only Mother could have such a child. Long-legged, graceful,
creamy-skinned and golden-haired, the dancer was the embodiment
of everything Psappha considered beautiful in a human being: The
opposite of her abbreviated, olive-hided, dark-haired self. "Who is
she?"
"Who?"
"That marvelous dancer, who is she?"
Eurigios arched a brow, then shrugged and said, "I don't know
much about her but if you’ll stop dawdling I’ll tell you what I do
know as we walk.”
Psappha hurried ahead of him then turned and walked toward
the city backward. “Tell me.”

 Charaxos (KAY-rah-khaus)
 Alkaios (Al-KAY-aus)
 Neccho, Pharaoh of Egypt (609-593 bce)

“Most suppose she is Athenian or an Aeolian from the far
country. Her coloring is Athenian, like your mother’s, but she knew
no Hellene when they found her."
"Found her? Where? What is she called?"
"Turn around, Psappha’ and walk beside me before you stumble
again and fall. Here. Give me your hand. They found her in some
wreckage on the beach. That’s why they call her Atthis.”
“Is she really Atthis, Goddess of the Rugged Coast come to live
among us?”
“I don’t know,” Eurigios said. “She could be I suppose. Who
knows? From the way Poseidon-Earthshaker raged that day, she
must at least have his protection."
"Oh, yes.” Psappha skipped a step to keep pace with him. “I
remember. A few weeks ago, Earth trembled greatly as she repulsed
Poseidon’s advances."
Eurigios nodded. “They discovered Atthis on the beach the
next morning.”
“Atthis,” Psappha whispered. The name tickled her palette.
“Come, Psapph’. You’re dawdling again.”
The marketplace on the beach in New Mitylene was a wonder of
riches from throughout the world and Psappha loved every noisy,
stinking inch of it. She would have dashed ahead but for his firm
hold on her hand. Fascinated by the crowds, colors and varying
smells, she barely noticed the shabbiness of the booths that lined the
filthy street.
“Here, little lady, sir,” a hawker whined, “the finest wines of the
house of Judah. Sweet wine fit only for so beautiful a lady.”
“No, no, friends,” another pleaded, “only the moon-kissed dates
of Libya are sweet enough to pass the lips of so fair a child of
Aphrodite.”
Psappha laughed at their exaggerations. Fair indeed. Ha!

 Atthis (AT-this)
 Aphrodite = one of The Lady’s many names.

They brushed by another merchant dressed in gaudy foreign
garb, his voice dripping honey. “Pay no attention to them, good sir.
No wine nor dates can compare with the sweetness of Apollo's
succulent, golden globes. From the Sun's own sacred groves I bring
you the biggest and the sweetest of his blessed fruits.”
Psappha edged through a crowd near the temple of Zeus,
pulling Eurigios with her. In the shop there, amid bins of figs, nuts
and dried grapes, a dark little man displayed rough gold disks.
“These are what Achaeans use for trade,” he said, stroking his
small, dark beard. “See the fine image of Aphaea by which they
mark them. No more must merchants spend their days in idle
bargaining solely to end up with more goods for still more
bargaining. Now you can pay us in gold coins and with them we can
purchase only that which will sell quickly.”
“But, where would we get them?”
Psappha turned her head enough to see who spoke. Near the
edge of the crowd, a muscular peasant stood, arms akimbo, eyes
prancing.
“From me,” said the merchant. “Sell me goods I want and
you'll soon have a supply of gold coins.”
“Where would I carry them?” the man scoffed. “Do you expect
me to carry a basket like a woman?”
Psappha giggled at a mental picture of the huge ruffian with a
basket on his head.
The bearded merchant was not amused. “Where else but in
your mouth?” he snapped. “I'm sure you could carry a fortune
there.”
The bleating of a trio of goats being driven into the temple
caught Psappha's attention. Their perfect beauty reminded her of
her distrust of priests and gods who, unable to bleed painlessly
themselves, murdered Gaea's sacred creatures to appease their
jealousy.

 Aphaea (a [as in at] FAY-ah)

A grubby merchant in desert robes insinuated a small,
jewel-encrusted mirror in front of Psappha's frown.
“Ah, sir,” he proclaimed, addressing Eurigios. “It is for such
beauty as this that my master makes his magic glass.”
Psappha turned away from him in a huff and confronted her
own image, full-length in a magnificent piece of standing glass.
“Eurigios,” she exclaimed bringing her palms together sharply.
“You must buy this for Mother.”
“I doubt she would like it much right now.”
“I know,” Psappha admitted; her enthusiasm dampened, “but
the reflection is so much clearer than in her polished-copper one.
You could save it and present it to her as a birthing gift.”
“Perhaps it is you who would like it,” he teased.
She crinkled her nose. “I have no use for mirrors. Even if I
did, I could not let you buy me presents.”
“Why not? You are my wife’s daughter and you will marry my
brother when he returns. Why should you feel shy with me?”
Psappha hung her head and scuffed the dust with her shoe.
How could she tell him that she hated the thought of Alkaios’s
return? How could she tell that after seven years his beloved
younger brother had become a stranger: A stranger to whom our parents
betrothed me at birth: A stranger to trap me in a life of sedan-chairs and babes.
I want more. Unsure as to what that something more might be she
decided that hurting Eurigios would be pointless. Instead, she
smiled and walked quickly on.
They made their way through the crowds, passing booths bright
with fabrics from unknown lands, brought to Mitylene by
Phoenician traders -- stalls overflowing with figurines and presided
over by stiff-bearded Egyptians -- open corrals filled with bellowing
cattle. Eurigios hurried her past a refinery where naked slaves stirred
great vats of boiling fleece. Psappha sidestepped huge jars of lanolin.
She ran past slaughter pens swarming with green flies and held her
nose before swine pens deep in slime.
She dawdled near stalls of rare oils, tables strewn with exotic
herbs, brocade-bedecked bins of rare spice. Eurigios tugged her
hand and they stepped onto the quay. Psappha paused once more to
admire the sleek, black trireme. A fitting tribute to the shipwrights of Tyre
who built her.
Such contrast, she thought as a flamboyant Egyptian dragon ship
slid past the black trireme.
“Come, Psapph’. The Egyptian will have news.” Eurigios’s grip
tightened but Psappha held her ground.
From here she could see her ancestral home in the old city,
tucked close by the citadel’s south wall, close beside the seat of
power. As was my father. The House of Scamandronomous should belong to
me! Not Charaxos. He left. Our father would want me to have it. And, not
this new babe Mother’s expecting. Let Eurigios provide for his own.
Eurigios tugged her hand and pulled her along as he hurried the
length of the wharf. The pleasing scents of incense, spices and rare
oils quickly gave way to the stench of rotting fish and sweating
stevedores. The dock nearest the dragon ship gabbled with people.
At the very end, a man shouted from atop a bale of papyrus.
“. . . on the west bank of the river Euphrates, near its
westernmost bend. We camped behind the city. From our fires, we
could see Neccho's encampment.
“The enemy arrived at night. Their fires lit most of the
riverbank. We did not find out who they were until after the battle.
By then, they had pushed us south into Judea. We camped again
near Jerusalem.
“The Chaldeans must have been fat with victory. They left us
to make our way back to Egypt as best we could: Nipping at our
heels to keep us moving.”
“What of the Lesbians?” someone called from the crowd.

 Skamandronomos (Skam-an-DRO-no-maus)
 The 11th dynasty of the Kings of Babylon (6th century BC) is conventionally
known to historians as the Chaldean Dynasty

“They fought bravely and well,” the man said. “Those who did
not fall at Charchemish have earned their wages.”
“Where are they now?” another in the throng shouted.
“Many elected to remain in the Pharaoh's new city for Greeks
called Naucratis,” the man said. “The rest we brought home with
us.”
Eurigios did not wait to hear more. Psappha ran to keep pace
with him.
“Wait!” she gasped.
“I'm sorry,” he said when she arrived at his side breathless and
panting. “I thought Alkaios might have returned and I forgot
everything else.”
“It doesn't matter.” She sighed as her breathing slowed. “I
know how much you love your brother.”
They had re-entered The Lady’s Park. The stone path crackled
beneath their sandals. The dust of the street fell softly from their
feet. Psappha glanced over her shoulder, holding Mitylene in her
gaze until the trees blocked her view.
“Hurry, Psapph’, your mother will be worried.”
No, she won’t.
Eurigios took the hill in sure strides. Psappha’s legs seemed to
grow shorter the longer they climbed. The way seemed rougher than
it had in the morning.
They reached the house to find the outer gate already bolted for
the night. Eurigios called to the guard and the gate squeaked open.
“Word has come from your father's house,” the gatekeeper
announced. “Your brother has returned.”
Eurigios danced an impromptu jig that ended in an exuberant
hug. “I must greet him,” he said as he let her go. “Don’t look so
glum. I’ll tell Praxinoa it’s my fault you’re late.” But not before she’s
boxed my ears. “Torches,” he shouted into the darkness. “Tell your

 Naucratis (gnaw-KRAT-tiss) Egypt

mother where I've gone. I won’t be long,” he called over his
shoulder as he hurried away. Two torchbearers ran to precede him.
Psappha slumped through the gate. A large dog growled softly
then ambled toward her as she entered the garden. Turquoise-black
birds scattered in his wake.
Psappha knelt to scratch Gruff’s long, drooping ears. Nuzzling
his neck while his tail whipped up dust clouds, she watched the
strange new birds. They glistened in the sunlight. Their excited
clucking tickled her belly. She chuckled softly, not wanting to
disturb the old gardener who puttered near the kitchen door. She
smiled an apology as he approached.
"The Minorcan who sold them to us claimed their eggs finer
than duck eggs,” the old gardener said.
“I doubt we’ll ever convince my mother. Though they're the
whitest eggs I've ever seen.”
The old man nodded agreement. “The merchant said they rival
those of the peahen. Perhaps you could have some prepared
without telling her.”
"Nothing in this house goes without her notice.” Except me.
"I suppose you're right,” the old gardener said. “But, if that
he-bird doesn't stop waking Dawn, I'll wager he gets eaten before the
eggs.”
Psappha returned his grin. “I don’t think I’ll take that wager.”
Most of her understanding of passing events had come from
overheard conversations between this wily old man and her
nursemaid, Praxinoa.
As if conjured by a thought, the front door creaked and
Praxinoa’s presence filled the doorway. Psappha’s hands sprang to
protect her ears.
“What kept you so late? Don’t plug your ears when I’m talking
to you. I had a terrible time getting your mother to rest.”
“I’m sorry.” Psappha lowered her hands and picked at the
folds of her peplos. “I was with Eurigios.”
“Of course you were. Eurigios left half an hour ago.”
Psappha breathed in as much false confidence as her chest
would hold. “I was in the garden trying to find the right words to
tell Mother that he’s gone to welcome Alkaios. I didn’t want her to
be angry with him.”
“It’s you she’s displeased with. I had to tell her where you’ve
been all day. This will be your last childish jaunt, I’m sure.”
Psappha hung her head.
“Change your dress and wash the city from your feet before you
see her.”
* * *
Psappha’s satin slippers made no sound as she slipped into her
mother’s chamber. The room was huge and trimmed throughout
with precious purple and intricate ‘broidery. A great lavender-veiled
bed dominated one corner; an orchid draped chaise at its foot.
Klies reclined upon it, the back of one hand shading her closed
eyes while a servant-girl brushed pale hair that glistened like
sun-drenched sacred spider-webs. The sheer violet linen of her
gown parted below her distended abdomen to frame long, slender
legs. A second slim, perfectly manicured hand lay over her
voluptuous breasts. Psappha remembered when her mother’s nails
had been cracked and broken, when, in the bad times following
Scamandronomos’s death there was no time for pampering and the
purple dye had been too dear. Was that when I failed her? Did she turn
cold because she needed rest and all I did was cry for her to hold me?
She took a step closer to the chaise, silently catching the
servant's attention.
“Mind you don’t wake her,” the girl whispered as she passed
Psappha the brush. “To awaken a pregnant woman is to endanger
the life within.”
Psappha perched on the edge of the servant-girl’s stool.
Superstitious nonsense, she thought as she continued the brushing of her
mother’s hair without missing a stroke. The long, moon-gold

 Klies (KLEE-ace

tendrils entwined her fingers like gossamer silk. Strands of downy
hair draped themselves across her lap. She wished that she could
weave a kiton of them and walk forever with its kiss upon her skin.
After about ninety strokes, she decided Klies was asleep.
Silently signaling the girl, she whispered, “Come for me the instant
she awakes.”
Klies’s azure-blue eyes opened wide and threatening. “Must you
come in here chattering like a blue monkey every time I try to rest?”
“I’m sorry,” Psappha choked through a hidden sob. She had
broken a primary rule. Klies was not to be upset, yet Psappha
invariably managed to do exactly that. In a fluster of movement, she
sprang to her feet and fluffed Klies’s cushions. “Eurigios sent me.
He told me to tell you his brother has returned.”
“I know.”
Psappha sighed. I should have been first with the news. “He said to
tell you he’d return soon.”
“With the dawn no doubt. No matter. It will give us time to
talk. Here. Come. Sit by me. That’s better,” she added as Psappha
returned to the servant girl’s stool. “It’s time to plan your wedding.”
Psappha flinched. “Can’t we do that tomorrow?”
“Now that Alkaios has returned, there’s no reason to wait.
Your marriage has been postponed far too long already.”
Psappha felt as if her mind was on fire. An emotional fever ran
through her veins as she tried to recall his face.
“Psappha, you’re shivering, dear. Run lower the tapestry over
the window.”
“I’m not cold,” Psappha responded honestly, and then went to
lower the tapestry.
The moment she returned, Klies continued. “We must set a
date,”
“Yes, ma’am. I s’pose we must.”
“By Aphrodite's sandals, Psappha!” Klies swung her long legs
off the side of the couch and sat up. One would think you’d be
pleased.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why must I marry? I have my songs. I could hire myself out
to sing at other people’s weddings.”
“You’re much too old to waste your time plucking your lyre &
longing for fame that will never come. You’ll have enough glory in
Alkaios’s shadow, if he’ll still have you. Every woman needs a
husband.”
“Why?”
“Why to raise your children of course.”
“I don’t need children.”
“Of course you need children. Every woman needs children.”
You don’t need me. Psappha hung her head, avoiding the
impatience in Klies’s eyes. What good to be the daughter of kings when my
own mother thinks I’m ugly? I’d rather be a golden-haired goose-girl. She
blushed as she remembered things overheard from goose-girls and
shepherd boys while hidden in the orchard.
“Don’t you want to be loved?”
“Of course but why must I marry?”
“Why? Because. That’s why.”
“I will not marry just because.”
“You will marry whom and when you are told.”
“I won’t!”
Klies slapped her. Psappha jumped to her feet, threw the brush
across the room and kicked the stool after it. “I won’t! I’ll weep and
wail and cut my hair.”
“You’ll do no such thing.”
“I will. I will.” Psappha paced the room, keeping just out of
view, measuring her thoughts. “I’ll wed when and if I’m ready or I’ll
go to my marriage bed veiled in black with hair no longer than a
robin’s tail. And -- I won’t wed a stranger; Eurigios’s brother or no.
I’d rather spend the rest of my life in The Lady’s temple. I saw what
happened to Dika. She married against her will and she’s not played
or sung a note since. The Lady revoked her gift.”
“That’s enough, Psappha. You will marry Alkaios and that’s
that. It’s what your father wanted.”
Psappha plunked her hands on her hips and glared. “That’s not
fair. Everything I don’t want to do is ‘what your father wished’. My
father didn’t wish to die but it didn’t stop him.”
Klies looked as if Psappha had hit her. Now I’ve done it. What
was it the girl said? Too awaken… but she’s already awake so maybe it’s all
right. In a fluster of fear for her unborn sister, Psappha hastily
fluffed Klies’s cushions and eased her among them. “I’m sorry,” she
said and this time she meant it. “I’ll go. You need to rest.”
“No.” Klies restrained her with a light touch on her arm. “Stay.
We can talk about weddings another time.”
Must we? “Can’t it wait until after my sister is born?”
Klies smiled. “Sister?”
“Of course a sister.” Psappha retrieved her mother’s brush.
With the hairbrush once more in her hand, she resumed her
brushing as deftly as she sometimes stroked the strings of her lyre.
The lyre Alkaios made me after Charaxos failed to teach my immature
fingers the secrets of his kithara. She remembered the day he gave it to
her. That was the day she decided she’d be a notable in The
Congress of Poets someday. She couldn’t wait to tell Alkaios but
when she did, he laughed. “Only men receive invitations from that
exalted bunch.” We’ll see, she remembered thinking. We’ll see.
She had once shared her dream with her mother but Klies had
scoffed. Now, she shyly shared another. “The child you carry will
be a beautiful little golden sister who will grow up looking just like
you.”
“For shame, Psappha. Such flattery. You shouldn’t defy the
gods. They’ll get jealous.”
“It isn’t flattery when it’s true. You’re beautiful. I can’t wait to
see you dance at the summer festivals. Oh-h-h,” she groaned with
exaggerated grief. “I can’t possibly marry without you there to
dance.”
Klies sniggered. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps we should
delay the wedding until after the birth. I have but one daughter. I
will want to dance at your marriage feast. Perhaps Alkaios will agree
to wait for the youngest guest.” She cast a wry smile toward her
abdomen.
Psappha fought to hide her exultation. The child is not due for
weeks. There’s ample time for everyone to change their minds.
* * *
Later, in her own chamber, Psappha devoured the fresh fruit
and nuts that Praxinoa had left for her. Praxinoa had prepared her
for sleep since before she could remember. This night, Psappha was
glad she wasn’t there. She needed time alone to sort her thoughts.
Her mind was a maze of questions she preferred to ignore.
Determinedly, she covered her doubts with Praxinoa’s habitual
evening queries. What did you do all day? Did you study your Homer?
Did you make any new songs?
When that no longer worked, she left her clothes in a rumple
on the floor and snuggled into bed where she hugged her goose
down pillow and scrunched her eyelids tight. However, Morphios
was busy elsewhere and his dream-evoking son Hypnos was nowhere
to be found.
Toward midnight, she got up, took up her lyre and went to
perch, nude, on the sill of the open arch that served her as a window.
At first, her touch on the strings was automatic; her throaty alto
voice doleful as she sang, “Maidenhood, maidenhood why wouldst
thou fly from me? Golden-tressed Lady-of-the-pure-and-beautiful
where is thy compassion? Electrum-crowned Majesty, have mercy,”
she sang to Aphrodite but it was Klies she envisioned on the
peacock throne. “I am to wed a man I no longer know.”
After a time, her music brought her calm and comfort and
finally, inevitably, joy. Her fingers danced upon the sacred strings;
composing; creating prayer-songs of such beauty and power that she
was herself amazed by The Lady’s gifts.
The heavy throb of a kithara vibrated through the night and she
missed a note. A moment later, she joined the unseen kitharist in an
ode to Eros that caused her pulse to quicken. Each note blended
with those of her dulcet lyre.
The tempo increased as the kitharist led her into a rousing paean
to Pan. She recognized the melody. She had heard it often as a
child. She blushed, remembering the day Alkaios taught her the
paean’s naughty words. She sighed almost with relief when the
irreverent paean strummed to a close.
Her rest was brief. A moment and then the twang of martial
music stormed the night. The composition, an intricacy of trills and
patterns designed to defeat the skill of a lesser artist was one
Psappha had never heard but she quickly rose to the kitharist’s
challenge then followed with a new piece of her own. The kithara
quieted, as if the kitharist had faltered. Not so. When she finished
her piece, the challenger continued.
Psappha picked up the next tune with little effort. This time she
recognized the song. It was a toast to wine and roistering, played as
only Alkaios could play it. She recalled the first time she heard it.
She was nine. A week later, he was gone.
Now, as their duet carried her back to childhood -- yesterday --
when encumbering responsibilities had been a distant illusion she set
aside her distaste for his martial compositions, his fascination for war
and wine, and heard only the interwoven harmony. Alkaios was her
teacher and her friend. She had forgotten that she missed him.
As she matched his kithara with her grown up lyre, perfect
harmony brought back the beauty of his face. It was a boy’s face.
But -- he is no longer a boy!