Ivan Yefremov - Thais of Athens

“You are right, my boy,” Eris said suddenly. “Your mother is not a mere mortal, but she is not a goddess, either.”

“I knew it. You are one of the daughters of Thetis from a mortal man. And this sash with the star that you wear. Is that a mark of the curse of mortality? Like Hyppolita’s sash?”

“Yes. I am not immortal — and I do not possess the goddess power to give you miraculous strength or invincibility in battle,” the Athenian rushed to add. “But I have given you the love of the sea. Thetis will always be merciful to you.”

“Mother, dear Mother! That is why you are so inhumanly beautiful. Being your son is such joy! I thank you,” Leontiscus covered Thais’ knees and hands with kisses.

She pulled him up and patted his curly dark hair. “Go get dressed. It is time to go!”

The boy’s face filled with sadness. “Can you not take me with you? We would be so happy together!”

“I cannot, Leontiscus,” Thais said, feeling a lump in her throat. “You must be with your father, not your mother. You are a man, a sailor. Conquer the sea to bring joy, not demise to people. Thetis and I shall always be with you.”

Leontiscus turned away and went to retrieve his clothes. A moment longer, and he would have seen his mother cry.

Their seaside expedition seemed to have caused Leontiscus to grow up. On their way back he held his head higher, his face bearing the distinctive Cretan features. As the boat approached the dock, the boy touched his mother’s arm and whispered, pointing at Eris. “Is she also?”

“Even more than I am,” Thais replied in a whisper.

Leontiscus took the black priestess’ hand, pressed it to his forehead and his cheek and kissed the palm. Astonished, Eris kissed both his cheeks, a favor she had never bestowed upon anyone. Thais thought how good it would have been for the boy to have a friend like that nearby.

Not being a goddess, she could not have known, that five years later Ptolemy would be utterly defeated during the great sea battle of Salamis, near the Famagusta Bay at the eastern shore of Cyprus, and that Leontiscus would be taken prisoner. Fortunately, the noble victor and the Athenian favorite, Demetrius Poliorcetus, would soon return the son to his father and would be, in turn, defeated by him shortly after. The monument honoring Demetrius’ victory, the statue of the winged Nika at the Samotrakia island, would delight people the world over for thousands of years.

The sea, as if celebrating the return of its daughter, carried Thais’ ship Circe swiftly and calmly to the northeast, from Alexandria toward the island of Cyprus. The Athenian thought about her prior sea voyages. Each one had been blessed by particularly good weather. How could she not believe in the mercy of Thetis?

“They say there are fifty Egyptian skhens from Pathos to Cyprus,” said the captain, who was the most experienced navigator from Astypalaya. “But I measured more — two thousand and eighty stadiums.”

“How can you measure the sea?” Eris asked in astonishment.

“There are several methods, but I use the simplest one,” the captain said. He squinted, peering into the distance. “The weather is good and the sea is calm, so you can see for yourself.”

The captain ordered two middle-aged sailors to come on deck, one with an enormous bow and a coil of thin rope, and the other with a sea clepsydra that was known for being exceptionally steady. Held by a wide sash, the sailor with the bow hung over the water, his feet planted against the ship’s side. He shot an arrow with the length of rope marked by brightly colored fish bladders. The first two times the rope settled poorly, but on the third try it flew in a straight line. As soon as the ship’s bow reached the starting point of the rope, the navigator struck a copper gong and the second sailor started the clepsydra. The second strike sounded when the ship’s stern passed the end of the rope.

“Drop count?” the navigator shouted.

“Thirty-one,” was the answer.

“See,” the captain explained to Eris. “The rope is half a stadium long and lays straight thanks to the skill of my sailors. The ship ran its length in thirty-one heartbeats or the drops of clepsydra. One must make a correction for waves and the deflection of the rope. I would say our Circe is doing approximately sixty stadiums per hour. This is a good speed under medium sails and without oars. One must make many measurements in order to calculate the distance correctly. You can calculate how much time it would take to reach Pathos, but do it silently. Do not anger the Old Man of the Sea.”

The navigator picked the time when ethesies, summer winds blowing toward Egypt, changed direction for a brief time and caused the waves to travel from the northwest. The sea grew darker, taking on the color of Khios wine, with Poseidon’s white-maned horses rushing across its dusky vastness. The strong wind tore the foam off the waves, carrying the glittering bubbles across the cloudless sky. Every Helenian was used to seeing the sea in that state, and the strength of the wind did not bother the seamen. They knew it would weaken by evening and there would be no terrible storm.

Thais and Eris settled at the bow and sang all kinds of songs, accompanying themselves on systra and sitar. They sang sad and melodious Helenian tunes, long and mournful Persian ones, abrupt and dissonant Finikian and Egyptian ones. They sang the songs of Libyan pirates accompanied by wild shouts and whistles, much to the delight of the sailors and the ire of the navigator, because they caused the seamen to lose their concentration.

Thais secluded herself for games and conversations with her daughter in a spot between the second deck level at the stern and the side of the ship, protected from wind and waves by reed baskets. During one such heart to heart conversation the little Irana stunned Thais by telling her about the dream she had had of becoming a hetaera. With the childish naïveté, Irana spoke of rich presents the hetaerae receive, of feasts with music and dancing, of being worshiped by men.

The more her mother frowned and the broader Eris smiled, the more eloquently the girl attempted to prove her point. She plunged into glorifying men’s kisses and tender embraces.

An enraged Thais realized whose words the girl was repeating, but held back her anger and explained patiently to her daughter that she had been told nothing but fairy tales. In real life, no matter what one did, especially for a woman, nothing happened easily or effortlessly.

“We women are not given that many paths by the gods,” she told her daughter quietly, smoothing her straight brown hair and looking into her serious brown eyes. “That is why each path must be selected thoroughly. One must know and weigh each of her abilities granted by the gods, and the possibilities for improvement.

“The path of hetaera is one of the most difficult ones out there. It is akin to the path of an artist, a musician or an architect. What man would be so stupid as to become a musician without a sense of pitch? Young girls often think that the youthful charm, melodious laughter and graceful walk are sufficient for achieving success. That is not true. After a year or two she would end up leading a lowly existence in drunken trysts with crass, beast-like strangers in the slums. Even if you possess a perfect body, a beautiful face, splendid hair and some ability as a singer and a dancer, all that is only sufficient for a slave actress, who is often subject to beatings by the theater owner.

“In order to become an outstanding hetaera, in addition to beauty and grace you must possess an outstanding memory, read in three dialects, love and know history, remember the foundations of philosophic teachings. Then you would be able to talk with poets and philosophers as an equal and elevate yourself above less educated men. And even that is not enough. You must have flawless taste in clothes, understand the art of sculpture and painting, perhaps even draw or sculpt yourself. You must be able to understand people’s character from the first glance, rule men without forcing them, and be a hostess of symposiums. You also must be an athlete in a sport in which you can compete with men. For instance, I am considered a good rider and an even better swimmer. I can hold my own against any man. I am not even talking about possessing the stamina of a Spartan, the wine tolerance of a barbarian, or the health of a Cretan bull.