Ivan Yefremov - Thais of Athens

Thais lowered the sponge into the basin and watched it absorb almost all of the water. She ordered Hesiona to stand in it, then lifted the sponge with great effort and squeezed it over the Theban. A delighted squeal burst out of Hesiona, her breath caught by an entire shower of cold water.

“Make sure that Nearchus’ love doesn’t drown you like this sponge,” Thais joked, and the girl shook her head violently.

However, on the fourth day of their trip, Hesiona did not come out to the deck. She stayed in their room instead. Thais demanded an answer from the saddened commander.

“I grew to love her. But she … I am afraid Hesiona will never truly recover. I am afraid to ruin everything. Help me somehow. You, skillful priestess of Aphrodite, ought to know such things.”

“Trust me,” Thais reassured him. “While it is strange for me to be a man’s ally, I am certain that you shall not harm my Hesiona.”

“What more can I say?”

“No need,” Thais said, then went back into her quarters and stayed there till night.

Two more days passed. The ship approached Eshmun in the midst of a dark, moonless night. Thais lay awake in her quarters, thinking about what Nearchus had said about Alexander wanting to go to the end of the world in the east. What was she going to do now?

Suddenly, Hesiona burst into the room and threw herself on the carpet in front of the bed. Hiding her face, she held her arms out over the silk throw toward Thais.

Thais pulled Hesiona to her, kissed her flushed cheeks several times then pushed her away slightly. Thais looked into the chestnut colored eyes with an unspoken question.

“Yes, yes, yes,” the Theban whispered passionately. “And he gave me this bracelet and this ring. He bought them in Naucratis. These are not the other ones, not Egesikhora’s.”

“Are you going to him again?”

“I am. Right now.”

“Wait a little. I shall teach you how to become even more beautiful, though you are not bad as is. Take off your epoxida.”

Thais pulled out a set of cosmetics for the body as well as fragrant essences. She looked over her friend critically, then asked mischievously, “Is male love really that bad?”

“Oh no!” the Theban exclaimed, then blushed and added, “Except I don’t know what to do to make it good for him.”

“You must descend to him like a goddess to a poet, ready to give yourself to a sacred ritual without fear or impatience. Serve him as you would serve Aphrodite at a seashore, without limit or hesitation. I mean, if that is your way …”

“Yes, yes. I know that he is a fleet commander of the great Alexander, and I … But still, I am happy with whatever the fate holds. Who can argue with it?”

“Gods themselves cannot and dare not,” Thais agreed. “But we mortals must be spiritually strong in order to avoid humiliation.”

“What gives us strength?”

“Long preparation, demanding training, strict upbringing.”

“Even for hetaerae?”

“Especially for us. Many girls gifted by Aphrodite above all others, rose up and accepted adoration like queens, but ended up being pitiful slaves of men and wine, nothing but broken flowers. Any hetaera, who becomes famous, shall perish if she is not spiritually trained in advance. That is the meaning of the teachings at the temple of Corinthian Aphrodite.”

“I do not understand.”

“You will soon. And when you do realize that you cannot be famous by love alone, it won’t be too late to study dancing and the art of being a lively companion and storyteller.”

“I would so love to become a dancer, like you.”

“We’ll see. I know one Finikian woman in Memphis who could teach you the mysteries.”

“Oh, I need no mysteries. I love Nearchus and will not love anyone else except him.”

Thais looked carefully at the Theban. “This happens too, but rarely.”

Ptolemy saw Thais riding her dark, ash colored horse, as he returned from a visit to the pyramids with Alexander, Hephaestion, Black Cleitus, and Leontiscus, the head of Thessalian cavalry. Alexander rode Bucefal, exercising his beloved steed during the early morning hour. Usually he rode him only into battle, trying not to overheat the black horse in long trips under the scorching sun of Asia. Bucefal lifted his smart head, displaying a broad forehead marked with white, and neighed to greet the mare. Salmaakh danced coquettishly, controlled by Thais’ firm hand.

Three astonished shouts sounded almost simultaneously as the three friends recognized “the fourth Kharita”. The Thessalian froze, gazing at this small, modestly dressed woman, who had stopped three powerful men in their tracks, including the divine conqueror himself.

“It is her, my dream: the Athenian!” Ptolemy exclaimed, dismounting and grabbing Salmaakh’s reins.

“Such arrogance,” Hephaestion noted mockingly. “Yours without you?”

“I said dream,” Ptolemy repeated stubbornly, giving Thais a searching glance.

She rested both hands on the horse’s withers and held her head high. But her eyes were only for Alexander, as if she were mesmerized by his gaze.

Frowning slightly, Thais threw her leg over the horse’s left side and slid to the ground. She looked small in front of the three giant men on their horses. Alexander, Hephaestion and Cleitus were each an entire palysta taller than four elbows, while Thais was only three elbows, three palystas tall. Nevertheless, the hetaera hasn’t lost her dignity or daring independence that had initially struck Ptolemy back in Athens. He could not take his eyes from her. Thais was in her feminine prime, having lost all things boyish, and she had become inexplicably alluring, distant and even more desirable.

Thais’ horse stepped to the side, and Ptolemy had to look at her against the sun. Powerful golden light penetrated the hetaera’s light garment and wrapped her entire body in a glorious fire, as if Helios himself embraced the beautiful daughter of Hellas and Crete. Thais gazed into the distance as if she saw something invisible to others, and she reminded Ptolemy of Alexander. Ptolemy shuddered at the thought and lowered his eyes to avoid betraying his feelings.

Alexander dismounted, tossed Bucefal’s reins to Cleitus and approached Thais. He held his head even higher than he had during their first meeting and squinted his eyes with a proud and perceptive expression.

“Haire,” Thais said, raising her hand to the army leader’s chin.

“What do you wish to ask me for?”

“Nothing, my king,” Thais said, addressing Alexander by the title of Persian rulers. “You have become so imperious in the last few years, that we mere mortals involuntarily pause before you with a prayer.”

Alexander listened to Thais’ words carefully, but no, they held no tine of flattery. He smiled. “I hope my forefather Achilles forgives me, but truly, you have become more beautiful than Helen of Troy, the daughter of Tindar.”

The Macedonian king looked the hetaera over, but his curiosity was somehow different than Ptolemy’s.

“Her eyes are crystal clear, like the spring of Artemis,” Alexander thought. “Gray with glints of gold and blue, calm and kindly. Her lips seem to be carved out of crimson stone, and their outline is so clear, just like the long cut of her eyes under narrow eyebrows. Her skin is like pale copper, transparent and silky, like a thin cloth of fire burning on an altar at noon.”

After a silence, broken only by the clanging of reins and hoofbeats, Alexander said. “Remember my promise in Athens that you may be my guest whenever you wish? Would you like to?”