Ivan Yefremov - Thais of Athens

“Of course I would. Especially now that you surprised me by remembering a brief meeting with a girl-hetaera.”

“I have been planning to invite you for a long time,” Ptolemy interrupted. “Any horses, slaves or tents are at your disposal. I have everything aplenty.”

Ptolemy caught himself under Alexander’s gaze. Thais thought the army leader looked at his comrade not with anger, but with pity. Then he returned his attention to Thais.

“I am but at the beginning of my path,” the king said. “But you may accompany us. Not in battles and chases, but in the peaceful part of my army, with artists, philosophers and performers. Ptolemy will take care of you. He is good at that,” he said, and a light smile scattered the awkwardness between the king’s companions.

Thais bowed her head, revealing with a heavy knot of hair arranged in a tall updo, and childishly pursed her lips into an arch.

“I thank you, my king.”

“Call me Alexander, as before. And come to the celebration I am arranging for the city. Show them the high art of Helenian women.”

Alexander hopped back onto his black horse with an agility that was amazing for someone so large. The horse was covered by a sweat blanket fastened with three belts, after a Persian fashion, and wore a Persian harness of glittering gold shaped like letter xi, with gold starbursts at the intersection of the straps and under the horse’s ears. Thais swiftly mounted Salmaakh, still saddled with a worn panther hide, making the horse rear up and turn deftly after the departing Macedonians. Then she turned again and slowly rode to the spot where Hesiona waited, having decided to part from Nearchus for a few days. The fleet commander had promised to come back before the big symposium, and their separation would not be long.

Memphis was swept up in a celebratory mood. People greeted the young “pharaoh” Alexander, marveling at his beauty, strength, and the feeling of supremacy and power, exuded by the deified army leader.

As always, people hoped for big changes in their destinies, something to alter their sad lives under of the will of the new king. They always hoped for immediate improvement, not understanding that the course of history is slow and difficult to change. Nothing could be changed for the people living at that moment. Military disasters, riots, fires and floods would invariably burst into the colorless existence of human mobs with stunning suddenness. Historic experience existed only for the wise.

Among those who greeted the victorious Macedonians and Helenians were a few people akin to Thais, those joyous bundles of life, with body and muscles seemingly cast out of bronze and with steadfast souls, imagining themselves to be the masters of Ecumene.

“Will you help me, Hesiona?” the hetaera asked on the eve of symposium. It had been arranged by Alexander for the Memphis nobility in the so-called Southern Gardens.

“You are very brave to perform before such a crowd of people. Won’t Salmaakh be scared?”

Thais stretched lazily and took out a bottle of dark ancient glass. From it she pulled a pinch of greenish powder which emitted an unpleasant smell, and placed it in a small cup.

“I’ll mix this with water and give it to Salmaakh to drink. A little bit of this Asian herb is enough for a man or an animal to shed the chains of embarrassment or fear. A bit more and the body gets out from under the heart’s control. That is why, not having much experience, I shall only give her a tiny bit.”

Flames burst into the dark sky within spinning columns of smoke, rising out of resin-filled stone vessels. Large tents protected the guests from the north wind. Musicians and a Greek choir with actors performed a Tragedy, “The Song of Goats”, on the smooth tiles of the courtyard, an excerpt from adventures of Dionysus during his Indian voyage. Alexander was particularly fond of that legend.

The great victor half-reclined in the midst of his inebriated and arrogant companions. Only Nearchus and Leontiscus sat slightly aside from everyone, listening to a splendid Tinos singer. She was tall and dressed in a peplos that was black as night, looking much like Hecate. Instead of the mean hounds, the goddess’ usual companions, she was performing with two lively female flutists, who were nude, according to tradition. They accompanied her deep voice with the power well beyond that of an army captain. A broad flow of the song washed away human disappointments, like the sea, compelling everyone to be calmer, kinder and more attentive.

Drums thundered. The steady beat of the wood drumsticks sharpened. Slaves fired up the incense burners, causing bands of heavy scented smoke to undulate around the tiles of the improvised stage.

Six nude Finikian dancers, dark and slender, with narrow hips and low breasts, twirled in the fragrant smoke. As they pulled apart and dashed madly at one another, they presented the outrageous, coarse and straightforward portrayal of the strength of the sexual desire that possessed them. These were the victims of goddess Cotytto, obsessed with one goal: to become free of her tormenting power as quickly as possible.

Hoarse shouts of approval sounded around the room, but neither Alexander nor Black Cleitus expressed any admiration. Nearchus and Leontiscus remained calm as well. The incense burners went out, the dancers’ bodies glistened with sweat, and the deafening drumbeat grew silent. The Finikians vanished along with the last few fading beats.

Without any pause, a curtain of the most delicate silvery cloth fell in front of the stage, stretched between two torch pillars. Large mirrors made of silver covered copper sheets were placed behind the curtain and set to reflect the light of large oil lanterns.

String instruments rang out, flutes joined them in a melodious song, and eight more nude girls appeared in a beam of light projected from the mirrors behind the fabric. They were all small in height, muscular and busty. Their hair did not slither down their shoulders in thin, snakelike braids as had that of the Finikians’, but was closely cropped, akin to the mythical Amazons. Their small feet stepped forth in unison, in one coordinated movement. They were Thessalians, the daughters of the ancient country of witches, and their dance looked like a magical act or a secret ritual.

The silvery cloth fluttered slightly, separating the dancers from the dusk under the party tent like light fog. The Thessalians’ agile bodies obeyed a different musical rhythm than what the others had followed. The dance was free and flowing. As the tempo increased, the young dancers, who were just as impassioned as the Finikians, seemed to rush through the wide, horse-running planes of Thessaly. The spectators appreciated the flight of their imagination and watched in silence, captivated by the feeling of tinoesthesis, a sensation through the heart that Helenians considered the embodiment of the soul.

A somewhat sad Leontiscus leaned toward Nearchus and murmured, “Once upon a time I saw Thessalian women performing the dance of the Amazons. It was so beautiful.”

“Would you like to see that again?” the Cretan asked, smiling mysteriously. He already knew everything through Hesiona.

“I would pay a talant to her, she who could perform the Amazon dance.”

“Very well, pay up,” Nearchus said calmly and held out a hand.

The chief of Thessalian cavalry laughed in surprise.

Just then, the curtain was removed. Reddish glints of the resin torches scattered through the tiles of the courtyard. A girl with her hair down appeared near the left torch pillar, wearing a short ecsomida, which left her left shoulder and breast exposed. Nearchus recognized Hesiona, and no one paid attention to her at first.

The Theban raised a tambourine over her head and demanded everyone’s attention with a few sharp strikes. The bells around the rim of the tambourine jingled and Thais, riding Salmaakh, burst into the bright circle of light. The horse wore nothing but a bridle, and the rider wore nothing but an Amazon’s battle bracelet.