Ivan Yefremov - Thais of Athens

Thais finished tending to Eris, gave her some poppy broth and put her do bed despite the protests. Roykos arrived with a note from the doctor, who had already been informed of what had taken place.

“I sewed up the scoundrel’s stomach with a coarse thread,” Alkander wrote. “He’ll live if his fat doesn’t interfere.”

The day after the attack, Thais asked for Eris. Her slave stood, unusually serious and solemn. Lysippus and Cleophrades sat in the comfortable armchairs of Babylonian craftsmanship with the look of judges. By the fluttering of her nostrils, Thais noticed the hidden concern of the black priestess.

“I hereby testify before the two respected and well-known citizens above the age of thirty,” the Athenian recited the established formula, “that this woman named Eris is not my slave, but is a free person. She is not obligated to anyone in her actions and is her own mistress.”

Eris trembled. The whites of her eyes looked enormous on her bronze face.

Cleophrades, being the elder, rose. He hid a grin in his grizzled dark beard.

“We should examine you to establish the absence of any markings or brands. But there is no need for that, as we have all seen you without clothing as recently as five days ago. I suggest we sign.” He leaned over the document that had been prepared in advance, and scratched his sign with the long-lasting ink made of walnuts. Lysippus signed as well, then he and Thais approached a frozen Eris. With his strong sculptor’s fingers, Lysippus opened and removed the silver bracelet above her left elbow.

“You are sending me away, Mistress?” Eris asked sadly, her breath coming out in gasps.

“No, not at all. It’s just that you will not be seen as my slave anymore. We have had enough of this masquerade. Hesiona, as you know, considered herself to be my slave, too. She was also a priestess, like you, only serving a different goddess. And now, as you know, the Daughter of a Snake is my best friend, replacing my beautiful Egesikhora.”

“Who am I going to replace?”

“You don’t have to replace anyone. You are your own person.”

“And I can live here with you?”

“As long as you wish. You have become a near and dear person to me,” the Athenian said. She put her arms around Eris’ neck and kissed her, feeling the trembling of the black priestess’ body.

Two large teardrops rolled down her dark cheeks, her shoulders relaxed, and a sigh escaped her lips. Then came a smile as brief and beautiful as lightning.

“And here I thought it was my death hour,” Eris said simply.

“How so?”

“I would have killed myself to wait for you at the shore of the River.”

“I realized your mistake,” Cleophrades said, “and I was watching you so I would be able to interfere in time.”

“Is there any difference whether it’s sooner or later?” Eris asked with a shrug.

“There is a difference. You would have realized later what you hadn’t understood now, and would have subjected Thais and both of us to much grief from your silly ingratitude.”

Eris gazed at the sculptor, then knelt before him and lifted his hand to her lips. Cleophrades picked her up, kissed her cheeks and made her sit in a chair next to him, as was appropriate for a free woman.

Thais rose and nodded to Eris. “I’ll be right back,” she said and left the room.

“Tell us about yourself, Eris,” Lysippus said. “You must be a daughter of famous parents, and of good ancestry down both male and female lines. Such perfection, callocagatia, can only be acquired over a long course of generations. It is different from talent.”

“I cannot tell you anything, great sculptor. I do not know anything and can only vaguely remember some other country. I was taken to the temple of the Mother of Gods when I was very small.”

“Pity. I really wish to know. We would have undoubtedly confirmed what we already know about our famous beauties: Aspasia, Lais, Frina, Thais and Egesikhora.”

Thais came back, carrying a white ecsomida with blue trim. “Put this on. Don’t be shy. Don’t forget, they are artists.”

“I have known that they were different since our first visit,” Eris replied, nevertheless hiding behind her mistress as she changed.

Thais did Eris’ hair and added a beautiful gold diadem. Instead of the simple sandals, albeit with fighting claws, the Athenian told her to put on the holiday ones. These were made of silver leather. The main strap was tied in two bows in silver clasps to three strips of leather. They hugged the heel as well as a wide bracelet with bells around the ankle. The effect was stunning. The artists started slapping their hips with appreciation.

“She is an Ethiopian princess,” Lysippus exclaimed.

“I will say to you the same thing I said to that rage-obsessed Lydian. She is not a princess, she is a goddess,” Thais said.

The great sculptor studied the Athenian, trying to figure out whether she was joking or serious. When he could not decide, he said just in case, “Will the goddess consent to be a model for my favorite student?”

“That is a primary duty of goddesses and muses,” Thais replied.

The Lydian scoundrel who had attempted to steal Eris did survive. Three weeks later, he showed up at Lysippus’ house complaining about Thais, and showing the ugly scar that sliced through his body. Thais decided it was necessary to convey all to the city chief. The Lydian was exiled and prohibited from ever showing up in Ecbatana, Susa or Babylon.

Thais’ life in Ecbatana took on a monotonous rhythm after Cleophrades started sculpting her and Ehephilos started sculpting Eris. Both of them had to rise at first light. The sculptors, much like Lysippus himself, preferred morning hours. The women appeared as soon as the sun rose from beyond the eastern hills, and the clouds above the giant granite ridge turned pink, scattering before the power of Helios. Ehephilos didn’t rush, proceeding slowly and not working Eris overly hard. Cleophrades, however, worked as zealously as if he were consumed with sacred madness. The pose he chose was difficult even for someone as physically well-developed as Thais.

Lysippus, who had set aside a section of his verandah for the sculptors, frequently showed up to rescue his friend.

Ptolemy sent surprisingly little news. He stopped writing long letters and sent only quick word of himself twice, sending it through sick and wounded officers when they returned to the capital of Persia. All was well. Both detachments of the army — one led by Hephaestion and the other by Alexander — took different paths to cross the icy mountain ridges of terrible height, where one could never get warm and suffered from sleeping sickness. Now the troops were descending toward the long awaited Indus.

One time, Lysippus invited Thais into his apartments. There, behind a carefully hidden door, was an absida with a tall, crack-like window that reminded Thais of the Temple of Neit in Memphis. A narrow beam of the midday sun fell onto a tile of pure white marble, reflecting a column of light at Lysippus. He looked stern and solemn. The light over his head gave the sculptor the look of a priest holding some secret knowledge.

“Our great divine teacher Orpheus discovered ovomanthy, or divination by the egg. Sometimes one can see the future hidden in the yolk and white of a bird’s egg. Only those who have been initiated and know how to find the signs, then decipher them using multi-level mathematical calculation, can predict the future. Different birds have different purposes.

“In order to find out what I wish to know, I need an egg of a long-living and high-flying bird. A condor would be best. Here it is,” said the sculptor. He unwrapped a bundle of fleece to reveal a large gray egg. “And to help it, there is a second one from a mountain raven.”