Ivan Yefremov - Thais of Athens

The day passed so quickly for them that Menedem barely managed to get ready for his night duty in stratopedon.

Ignoring her objections, Menedem sat her on his shoulder and ran down to the pier, then hired a boatman there and ordered him to transport her to the north side of the city. Only after that did he run to the camp. He was a tireless runner, and he always managed to make it on time.

A tired Thais sat in the boat, gazing sadly upon the clear cool water. The Nile was particularly clear this time of year. Perhaps the melancholy had been brought on by Menedem’s words about their approaching separation. He had been subdued when he’d told Thais about a letter, received by Eositeus from king Agis, in which he was ordering the detachment back to Sparta. The arrival of the Macedonian king, Alexander, to Egypt and his conquering of the country were inevitable. It would be senseless for a handful of Spartans to oppose the one who had beaten the Persians. Thus, their presence in Egypt was no longer required.

The pharaoh was a servant of priests. He departed for Elephantine and his treasury had already hinted to Eositeus that their payments might soon stop. Darius’ envoy hadn’t issued any orders either. Presently, the country was in the hands of priests.

“And so you must go with your people?” Thais asked, feeling panic race through her body.

“It is unavoidable. But how can I part with you? A goblet of coneyon [14] Very strong poison would be better.”

Thais placed her fingers over the warrior’s lips. “Don’t say that. Would you like me to come with you? Come back to Hellas?”

“That would be beyond my greatest dreams. But …” The Spartan hesitated.

“What?”

“Had I been going home after the end of war, but now … Don’t tell anyone, but I think there will be a war.”

“Against the Hellenic union and Alexander?”

“Who else?”

“You, Spartans, are desperately brave and stupidly stubborn. You will end badly. But can’t you stay here with me?”

“As who? Salmaakh’s stableboy? Or to make flower wreaths?”

“Why so harsh? We’ll think about it, we’ll find a way. There is still time. Eositeus is not sailing anytime soon, is he?”

“No sooner than Alexander’s arrival.”

“It is too bad that you cannot join Alexander.”

“Ah, you understand. Yes, being a Spartan, of whom he is not fond … You know, he even rejected Sparta’s name on a trophy.”

“This can be resolved. He is my friend.”

“Your friend? Yes, of course, I forgot about Ptolemy. But I must be with my men either way, both in glory and in death.”

“I understand. This is why I do not think you’ll go into service for the Macedonians.”

Thais spent the entire trip home trying to come up with something for Menedem, but failed. She felt helpless and sadness overcame her more and more.

As soon as Thais appeared among the Persian apple trees of her little garden, Hesiona ran to her with a joyous squeal, then hugged the Theban like a sister. Clonaria ran over too, regarding the “Daughter of the Snake” jealously and trying to push her away from the mistress.

Without further ado, they made Thais lie down on a rough massage bench. Both girls fussed over her, reproaching her for completely letting herself go.

“We’ll have to work all night to get the mistress’ body into proper shape,” the slave girl said, deftly wielding a pair of bronze tweezers and a sponge which had been soaked in a solution of bryony root for eliminating skin hair and restoring the smoothness.

At the same time, Hesiona was preparing a fragrant liquid using Thais’ favorite scent: iris and neuron. Delicately feathered leaves of neuron with their sharp fragrance of slightly bitter freshness were available aplenty here in Egypt. In Hellas they only blossomed for a short time in the month of Elafebolion.

Thais’ transformation into a priestess of Aphrodite, fragrant and smooth as a statue, was interrupted by the arrival of a triumphant Egesikhora. She kissed her friend in greeting, but her horses were waiting so she was forced to rush off after promising to come and spend the night.

That night the friends relaxed in the dimly lit bedroom. The flame of lucnoses [15] Luminaries in the shape of goblets or jugs. , subdued by the tiles of yellow onyx, lit the room with a soft golden flickering. A nightlight was set near the bed, and Egesikhora thought that Thais’ clear profile looked carved out of some dark stone against its backdrop. Thais raised her hand and the sparkling ring attracted the Spartan’s attention.

“You started wearing that recently. Tell me, whose gift is it?” Egesikhora asked, examining the carved stone.

“It’s not a gift but a sign,” Thais objected.

The Spartan snorted mockingly. “We all wore such signs as auletridae. It was convenient. If you turn the tip of the triangle away from you everyone knows you are taken. If you turn the tip toward you, you are free. But the rings were bronze and the stone was blue glass.”

“Was the pattern the same as this?” Thais smiled mischievously.

“Yes, the triangle of the great goddess. No, wait. Ours were narrower, sharper. The triangle on your ring has its sides widely spread, like Astarte’s. And the background is a circle. Do you understand the meaning of this sign?”

“Not entirely,” Thais replied reluctantly, but Egesikhora lifted her head, distracted. Faint sounds could be heard from somewhere in the house, as if someone was composing a sad melody.

“It’s Hesiona,” the Athenian explained. “She made a siringa [16] A kind of flute from reeds.”

“She is an odd one. Why don’t you marry her off if you don’t intend to teach her as a hetaera?”

“She needs to recover from all the horror, rape and slavery.”

“How long is she going to be recovering? It’s time.”

“Different people heal differently. What’s the rush? When Hesiona becomes a real woman and falls in love, a new star of beauty will rise. Beware then, gold-haired one.”

Egesikhora chuckled in disdain. “Your miserable Theban is going to compete with me, is she?”

“Anything is possible. Just wait till Alexander’s army gets here.”

Egesikhora’s expression suddenly turned serious. “Lie next to me, cheek to cheek, so that no one can hear us.”

The Spartan told her friend what she already knew: Eositeus was getting ready to leave Egypt. The Spartan strategist had demanded that Egesikhora come with him. He did not wish to part with her, thought he could not do it.

“What about you?” Thais asked.

Egisikhora shook her head. “I am sick of his jealousy. I don’t want to part with you and would rather wait for Nearchus.”

“What if Nearchus has long since forgotten you? Then what?”

“Then …” the Lacedemonian said, then smiled mysteriously. She hopped off the bed and returned with a small basket, woven from the leaves of a date palm.

Wealthy shoppers usually took such baskets to buy cosmetics. Egesikhora sat on the edge of the bed with one leg curled under her (the leg celebrated by the Memphis poets as a “silver-sculpted” one), and pulled out a box made of wood Thais hadn’t seen before.

Interested, she sat up and touched the smooth, grayish cover with her fingertips.

“This is narthex wood in whose trunk Prometheus brought fire from heaven to the people of earth. Alexander has an entire chest made of narthex. He keeps a copy of the Iliad in it, edited by your friend Aristotle.” Egesikhora burst out laughing.

“And who ran away from Athens because of this friend?” Thais replied, flicking an eyebrow at her friend. “But how do you know such details about Alexander?”