Ivan Yefremov - Thais of Athens

“Egesikhora knows that the Eurot originates from under the ground,” Eositeus said. “At its upper reaches, near Phenius in Arcadia where the Nine Peaks are, there are ruins of the city called in honor of pelasgus Licaon, son of Callisto. There is a chasm of terrifying depth at the foot of the nine peak mountain Aroania, where snow lies even in summer. The river Styx falls from the chasm in a small waterfall and crashes on the rocks. Its waters are deadly to all living things and can dissolve iron, bronze, lead, tin and silver, even gold. The Styx’s black waters run through the black rocks, then turn bright blue where the rocks become colored with black and red stripes: colors of death. The Styx falls into the Cretos, then into our river, where it dissolves and becomes harmless. However, on certain days known only to the oracles, the waters of the Styx do not mix with those of the Eurot. They say you can see the difference. On those days the Styx water shimmers with rainbow colors, like old glass. He who spends time in that water will meet aoria, untimely death. That is why swimming in our river can cause trouble sometimes.”

“And what of you all? Do you dare?”

“I swear by the killer of Argos, we do not even think of it,” Menedem said, catching up with them. “For if we did, we should all meet aorotanatos, early death.”

“Then why do you frighten us?” Thais reproached the Spartans. She untied a ribbon under the heavy knot of her hair and the black waves fell across her back and shoulders. As if in response, Egesikhora let her golden tresses down and Eositeus slapped his hips in delight.

“Look, Menedem, how lovely they are side by side. Gold and black. They should always be together.”

“And so we shall be!” Egesikhora exclaimed.

Thais shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. I have yet to arrange my naulon, the price of my journey to Egypt, with Eositeus. I don’t have nearly as much silver as they gossiped about in Athens. My house there was quite expensive.”

“Serves you right, settling near Pelargicon,” Egesikhora scolded. “I told you …”

“What did you call it?” Thais chuckled.

“Pelargicon. A slope of cranes. That is what Lacedemonians jokingly call your Pelasgicon at the Acropolis. Let us go up the stream. I see a willow grove there.”

Willows were particularly revered by hetaerae as they were trees dedicated to such powerful and deadly goddesses as Hecate, Hera, Circe and Persephone. Willows played an important role during the mysterious moonlit rituals of Mother Goddess. The trunks of the old trees hung low over the water, bathing their branches in the light swift stream, as if surrounding the deep backwater with a curtain.

Thais, having tied her hair back into a tight knot, swam toward the opposite shore, leaving her friend behind. Egesikhora wasn’t as good a swimmer, so she was more careful around water.

White water lilies, nenufars, covered the deep pool near the shore, their leaves flooded with noon sun. Thais had loved nenufar thickets ever since childhood. She thought they seemed to be hiding some kind of a secret in the dark deep waters. Perhaps a dwelling of the beautiful river nymphs, a delicate precious vase, or a sparkling shell. Thais had taught herself how to dive and oh, how she loved to go deep down under the lilies and admire the small columns of sunlight piercing the dusky water. Then she would suddenly burst through the water into the blinding heat, surfacing amidst the floating leaves and flowers, laughing at the rainbow winged dragonflies hovering above them.

Now, as she had in her childhood, Thais came up among the lilies. She found a crooked tree trunk at the bottom with her foot and stood on its slippery bark with her arms spread wide over the leaves. She looked around, enjoying the quiet. The babbling of the stream over the pebbles and branches was the only sound breaking the scorching silence of Boedromion, the last month of summer. The pretty green and gold birds had long since had their babies and taught them how to fly. Black bee-eater nests could be seen in the overhang of the riverbank. The bee-eaters themselves, swift, colorful and sharp-nosed, sat in a row on a dry branch, warming themselves after the nighttime chill.

“Soon, very soon, they will fly south, to Libya, where they come from every year,” Thais thought. “And I shall sail there even sooner.”

She glanced around the quiet pool, warm in the beating sun, admiring the silvery green leaves of the old willows. She noticed two halcyons, or kingfishers, their bright blue wings fluttering over a fallen tree.

As a child, Thais had lived near a small river. Sweet memories came to her, ran through in a bittersweet wave of sad joy, then flew away. Bright and dark life experiences. She had come to know the limitless sea, its power and might, as well as the sea of human life. But the young hetaera was not intimidated by it. Instead, filled with energy and confidence, she was drawn further away to Egypt, the ancient country of wisdom and mystery to all Helenians.

It took her awhile to find Egesikhora. She swam along a channel that looked like a dusky corridor made of trees, their arm-like branches woven tightly above and found the Spartan settled comfortably in a curve of a thick tree. Her beautiful hair hung on both sides of the tree like a cover of golden silk. Her white skin, so carefully protected from tan, had a milky opal glow to it, possessed only by the true chriseides, the gold-haired women. Thais, who was tanned in the face in the Attica fashion, and had the Cretan raven black hair, climbed out of the water on the dark shade of the channel, looking like a sun scorched dweller of southern countries.

“Enough laying around. They are calling us, can’t you hear?” Thais said. She started crawling toward her friend’s feet, her fingers curled like claws.

“I am not scared,” the Spartan said. She shoved Thais with her foot so that Thais tumbled off the tree and into the water. Egesikhora, too, rolled off the trunk with an indignant yelp.

“My hair! I was drying it!” she cried, and fell into the deep pool.

Both hetaerae swam to the shore, got dressed and helped brush out each other’s hair.

The swim, having brought back childhood memories for Thais, had also prompted a surge of sadness. No matter how alluring the distant lands may seem, leaving her home country was difficult.

The Athenian turned to her friend. “Tell me. Would you want to return to Athens now, without any delay?”

Egesikhora squinted one eye in amusement. “Are you mad? I’ll be captured as soon as I am seen.”

“We could dock at Freato and ask for the judges to come there,” Thais said, reminding the Spartan of an ancient Athenian tradition. Every exile or fugitive could dock near Pyrean harbor, where there was a well, and there he could defend himself from his ship. The place was considered sacred, and even if the fugitive was found guilty, he could not be captured as long as he stayed on his ship.

“I do not believe in the sacredness of this tradition. Your compatriots became traitorous over the last few centuries, after Pericles,” Egesikhora replied. “I am not planning to go back anyway. And you have nothing to worry about. My Spartans will take you as far as it takes.”

Thais’ concerns that she would not have enough silver to pay for her journey turned out to be groundless. After Egesikhora intervened, Eositeus allowed her to take all her servants and promised to deliver her not to Naucratis, but to Memphis, where the detachment of Spartan mercenaries was to settle in the former Tyrrean stratopedon, a military camp.

Thais had absolutely no problems with sea sickness. She would remember enate phtinontos, the ninth day of the departing Boedromion, for the rest of her life. It was the day when the ship of strategist and sea captain Eositeus came to the shores of Crete. They sailed without stopping at Citera, directly across the Ionic Sea, taking advantage of the last few weeks of the pre-fall calm and steady west wind. Lacedemonians have always been excellent seafarers, and the sight of their vessels struck terror into the hearts of all pirates of the Cretan Sea. The ships passed the western edge of Crete and sailed around the Cold Cape, also known as Ram’s Forehead, at the southwest of the island, where ancient demons were still rumored to dwell in the dark woods. The woods covered the entire island, which seemed to consist solely of mountains looming nearly black in the distance, dotted white from lime outcroppings near the shores.