Ivan Yefremov - Thais of Athens

“After surviving fits of deep depression and guilt, Alexander went against the cloudy fortress of Bactriana. There he married Roxanne, the daughter of a Bactrian nobleman who had been captured as a war slave. Ptolemy wrote that the marriage did not soften Alexander’s outbursts of rage which occurred more and more frequently. Even his closest friends were forced to take great care in their dealings with the king.

“At the beginning of their march across the eastern plains, Alexander replaced his lion head helmet with another, this time decorated with the wings of a large bird. Local priests assured the king that he was possessed by Simurg, the spirit of high hills who descended to earth in the shape of a gryphon to help people in their troubles.

“However, I do not know how much Alexander helped the inhabitants of the eastern plains.”

Thais interrupted the sentence, chuckled quietly and added, “You see, I have fallen under Ptolemy’s influence. The wise warrior likes to predict troubles and list all former tragedies, even though it never interferes with his courage and happy temper. He is too happy, when it comes to women. In this he equals Alexander’s passion for new discoveries. However, you already knew that. A long time ago in Egypt you foretold that he would have many women but only one goddess. Now this ‘goddess’ is his wife. Now what?”

“Enough. I am tired of writing and you will get tired of reading. Come here to Ecbatana and you and I shall have plenty of time to talk, ride and dance. There are many poets, philosophers, artists, musicians and performers here. Lysippus is here too, with his apprentices, as well as the Eubian Stemlos famous for his horse sculptures, and the famous singer Aminomena. There are many wonderful people. Travelers from distant countries like India and Iberia are arriving as well, and all wait for Alexander.

“Come over. You will be better off here than alone in Babylon. Let us not suffer too much for our husbands. Aside from battle— and campaign-related hardships, they have their own share of happiness. Ptolemy wrote about vast valleys covered with fragrant sylphius, of the breathtaking views of gigantic snow mountains with rows upon rows, peak upon peak, blocking the way to the south and east. He writes of mountain lakes of magical blue, as deep as the skies. Of the unimaginable spaces where flat hills, crowned with strange statues of flat-face and broad-hipped women, rise in an endless line, like sea waves between Crete and Egypt. It is possible that above all, he delights in the feeling of everyday changes, the expectation of wonders and the approaching end of dry land.

“Ptolemy writes that the closer they get to India, the more trees they see that are similar to those we have in Hellas. Firs and pines in the mountains beyond Parapamizes are exactly the same as in the ones that grow in the mountains of Macedonia, and sometimes it feels to him like he is home again. There is no explanation to this.”

Thais finished the letter and sealed it. To ensure it departed as soon as possible, she ordered it to be taken to the house of the city overseer and treasurer Garpal, who had replaced the murdered Parmenius. Four thousand and five hundred stadiums was the distance between Ecbatana and Babylon, but angareyon, the state mail, would deliver the letter in only six days.

Ptolemy had made Thais promise that she would not use skilled secretaries to write their letters. These people could betray all their secrets. But writing this letter had tired Thais. She went down to the swimming pool near the staircase, to which Ptolemy had connected a water line from a mountain spring so it remained cool even in the summer. She dove into the seashell-like enclosure with a joyous yelp, cutting through the greenish water. Having heard the shout, Eris ran in too. She splash around, then rubbed down her copper — skinned mistress with a thick towel.

Eris had barely had a chance to cover Thais with a towel before a messenger from Lysippus arrived. The great sculptor was inviting Thais and, for some reason, Eris to visit him the next morning.

Thais handed the letter to the black priestess, saying, “You are invited, too. Someone wants to make a statue of you. It’s about time. I was wondering about other sculptors who saw you at least once. Although this is strange, because Lysippus and his students have little interest in the beauty of women. They prefer to portray men, battle scenes, and horses.”

Eris pushed away the Athenian’s hand with the letter. “You are forgetting that I cannot read your language, Mistress. And has the honorable Lysippus forgotten that I am obligated to go with you?”

“You do always accompany me, that is true. But if Lysippus mentions you in the invitation, it means there is something he wants with you specifically. What is it? A sculptor puts sculpting above all things. We Helenians value a man’s perfection, his harmonious development, both physical and spiritual. We call it callocagatia. We also value a man’s portrayal by various arts. That is why our cities and temples are filled with countless statues and paintings, and more are created each year. Would you like for someone to make a statue of a goddess or a nymph based on you?”

“No. Or rather, I do not care. But if that is your wish …”

“Of course it is my wish. Keep that in mind if you receive an offer. And don’t rub me so hard. I am not a statue.”

“You are better than all the statues in the world, Mistress.”

“How many have you seen? And where?”

“Many. I traveled a lot as a girl in the entourage of the high priestess.”

“I didn’t know anything about that.”

The black priestess allowed a smile to light her face for a moment.

Alexander had ordered an enormous studio to be constructed for Lysippus near the palace of a former Persian nobleman which had been given to the sculptor as his new home. The rooms, shielded by thick walls of red stone, were always cool and had to be heated during winter. Dry cedar logs with fragrant bits if thyme, lavender, rosemary or myrrh burned in semicircular niches.

Lysippus received his guests on the veranda under a tall roof supported by palm tree pillars and surrounded by a wall of pink granite. The veranda served both as a studio and as a classroom for the apprentices, who came from Hellas, Ionia, Cyprus and even Egypt, where artists began borrowing the methods of their former students, the Helenians. These in turn had begun studying in Egypt nearly seven centuries prior.

As usual, there were others present: several philosophers, wealthy art patrons, poets who sought to find inspiration in enlightened conversations, and travelers from distant countries, who had heard about the wide open home of the famous artist.

Lysippus, the Athenian’s old friend and an Orphic of high initiation, put his arm around Thais’ shoulders. He beckoned Eris, who stood near the entrance, and silently pointed at a broad bench where two of his students sat. Eris flashed her eyes at them and sat down at the edge, as far as she could from the merry young men. They sent admiring and meaningful gazes and gestures her way, but it was all in vain. They might as well have tried to attract the attention of one of the statues decorating the studio, home and garden of Lysippus.

“Come, Athenian. I shall introduce you to my old friend and your compatriot, sculptor Cleophrades. He despises war and does not make statues of kings or army leaders. He only sculpts women, which is why he is not as famous as he deserves to be. Besides, he knows you.”

Thais was about to object, but choked on her own words when she saw the sculptor. The man’s harsh blue eyes bulged slightly, like those of Athena herself. The scarred face, under a thick gray beard, brought back the memory of a brief meeting near Theseyon, on the way to the hill of Nymphs.