I don’t expect to reach the sky.
—SAPPHO
I WENT INTO A long black tunnel after that. After the loss of my daughter I could not eat for weeks. I barely touched a drop of water. I slept and slept to escape the curse of consciousness. In my dreams the baby was restored to me. I could smell her sweet smell and press her to my breasts. Life seemed worth living again. Then I awoke and found myself newly bereft.
It was an excruciating punishment, to dream of her with me and wake up to find her snatched away. If I’d had the courage then, I would have drunk poison or opened my veins. But something always stopped me.
“Your mother may relent and come back,” Praxinoa said, trying to comfort me. I doubted that. But maybe we’d find a way to get back to Lesbos. Perhaps there would be a revolution and Pittacus would be expelled from power. As long as there was the remotest chance of seeing my daughter again, I could not take my own life. Not then.
I had no wish to see Isis. Because she knew that I was through with her, she sent me endless gifts. I returned them all—except for a golden cartouche with her name written in hieroglyphics and a golden cat curled on top of the symbols in sweet sleep. Praxinoa took great pleasure tossing it into the sea.
Eventually Cyrus came to find me. I had not thought of him or his stories about Alcaeus since my mother had decamped with my daughter. In my misery, I had scarcely thought of Alcaeus. It seemed my life was over and love would never be mine again. I slept all day and paced all night. The sun seemed black, the nights were haunted. If it had been up to me, I would never have admitted Cyrus of Sardis through my door, but Praxinoa thought he might distract me from my grief, so she let him in.
“Send him away!” I said.
“He claims he has news of Alcaeus.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “I only care for news of Cleis. I’m sure he has none of that.”
“Sappho—hear what he has to say. It may even lead you to your daughter.”
“I doubt it,” I said gloomily, but by then Cyrus stood at the door with a long scroll in his hand.
“A letter from Alcaeus of Lesbos,” he said. “For you.”
“Go away,” I said.
“Aren’t you even a tiny bit curious?”
“No,” I said. “I am only curious about my baby.”
“The letter is in Greek,” he said, waving it. He came closer. I could see it was in Alcaeus’ hand.
He brought it to me. In fact it was not a letter to me, but my name was mentioned several times. Cyrus was beseeched for news of me and how I was faring in Syracuse. “If you should meet the lovely violet-haired Sappho,” it said, “tell her she is always in my thoughts.” He also reported that he was on the way to Delphi to consult the oracle for the Lydian king.
“If we journey to Delphi, we can also consult the oracle for news of your daughter,” Cyrus wheedled. “And there is money to be made in Delphi. People are so bored waiting for the oracle that they pay well for entertainment. Perhaps also we shall find Alcaeus there. In fact, I’m sure we shall!”
“Go away!” I said.
Cyrus went away that time, but he proved to be persistent. He came back again and again, always with new temptations. If I would agree to sing at a certain symposium, he could guarantee me my weight in gold.
“Sappho—I know who will pay, and pay well, for songs. I know the rich all over the known world. I met them all in Sardis—ahhh, I should have bought land near the palace in Sardis when it was still cheap—but that is another story.”
“Go away!” I screamed.
“Her weight in gold?” Praxinoa asked. “She’s a tiny thing, but we could use the gold.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“You may not have noticed this in your despair, but ever since Cercylas died, no money has been coming in from the ships or the wine trade. We owe everyone. We have been trading the produce of our farm for bread and wine, but soon we may lose the farm. Cercylas was improvident. It appears that even when he was alive he had enormous debts. While you have been sleeping, I’ve been managing all this. You’d better sing for your supper or there’ll be no supper.”
“How can this be true?” I asked.
“I don’t know the how of it—but we do have debts. Every morning the merchants are at our door, looking for payment. I have held them off till now, but if there is a way to get gold—you have no choice.”
“I concur,” said Cyrus.
“But if I sing for gold, my goddess will desert me.”
“But if you don’t, your stomach will be empty. And mine,” said Prax. “Sappho, you have never been very practical—so let me be practical for you, for us both. We need the gold. We need to go to Egypt to protect your legacy, and that will be expensive. If we can earn some money here and earn some more in Delphi—then that’s what we must do. We no longer have any choice in the matter.”
Cyrus was trembling with excitement. “She’s right!” he said. “I can arrange for you to sing at a symposium tomorrow night! Get your songs ready! I shall bring the golden litter for you at sundown!”
“Wait,” said Prax. “How much will she make tomorrow?”
“That’s hard to say,” said Cyrus.
“What about her weight in gold?” asked Prax.
“A figure of speech,” said Cyrus.
“Then my mistress will not sing.”
“Are you crazy, Prax? I thought we needed the money,” I burst out.
“Shhh,” said Prax. And then to Cyrus: “If you will bring me half her weight this afternoon, I will let my mistress sing.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” said Cyrus. “I’ll bring my own scale.”
“I’d rather use mine,” said Prax with obvious satisfaction. “Sappho—go get your repertory ready. Hurry!”
When Cyrus returned later that afternoon, he and Prax argued over weights and measures. I heard them shrieking at each other as I was trying to rehearse my songs. Eventually, I was summoned out of my chamber to sit in a swing hooked up to an elaborate scale. Prax was loading one side of the scale with weights. Cyrus was removing them. Both of them were accusing each other of cheating.
“You’ll break me!” Cyrus was protesting while Prax loaded on the weights.
“My mistress is the biggest bargain of your life!” Prax countered. The weights went on. The weights came off. I myself climbed on and off the swing while they argued over whose mechanism was better and whose weights more accurate. It was excruciating. All the while I was tuning my lyre.
“Can I go now?” I asked, as they seemed to be reaching some sort of compromise.
“Go rehearse and rest and make yourself beautiful,” said Cyrus. “You never know how a symposium can change your life.”
Cyrus came back at six leading a golden litter carried by four burly slaves. The canopy was purple linen embroidered with gold and matched the costumes of the slaves. Praxinoa and I climbed into the litter, which took us through the busy streets of Syracuse. We came into the courtyard of a great villa. Before anyone could see me, Cyrus and Praxinoa led me to private dressing quarters to robe me in royal purple, paint my face elaborately, and perfume me for my performance. Then I waited for the dinner to be over and the floor swept before I appeared with my lyre.
Cyrus introduced me as the “legendary Sappho of Lesbos.” I emerged from the shadows, surrounded by slaves bearing torches and sweet incense. I started with my “Hymn to Aphrodite,” which had so moved the company at Lesbos. Even before I came to the whirling of wings and the chariot descending, I could feel the audience warming to me. What a wonderful feeling! I enchanted myself as I enchanted them! I was in love with the sound of my own voice, in love with their applause and laughter. When I had softened them up with Aphrodite, I moved on to other songs of love.
Some say a host of horsemen
And some say a line of ships
Is the most beautiful thing
On the dark earth—
But I say it is what you love!
Helen deserted her husband
And daughter
And sailed to Troy
When the goddess of love
Called her.
Here I paused and waited for the audience to remember all their own impossible loves. How I knew to do this I cannot say, but I knew it intuitively and it enabled me to manipulate my listeners. I embodied their hunger and yearning perhaps because deep within me there was so much yearning for Cleis and Alcaeus. My desperation fueled my singing.
I would rather see the bright face
Of my beloved
Than Lydian chariots
And full-armed infantry.
There was a catch in my throat because of my recent losses, and the audience felt it. I had become the orphaned, yearning part of them. I felt their pulse and became one with it. Though I had rehearsed all my songs before the symposium, I decided which of them to sing when I met the audience and appraised their hunger. I even improvised for the crowd. Did they lust for young girls? I sang of young girls. Did they dream of sweet-cheeked boys? I sang of them. Did they dream of marriage for their daughters? I dazzled them with epithalamia. I tugged on their heartstrings by ending with this refrain:
The moon and the Pleiades are set.
It is midnight and time spins away.
I lie in my bed alone.
And they rewarded me with thunderous applause.
Later, when I walked among the guests, I was amazed at how well I had taken their measure.
“You speak my own thoughts,” one woman said.
“No—you speak mine!” said her husband.
“I am honored to be your mouthpiece,” I said. And I was. But I was also thinking of the gold.
Cyrus of Sardis charged ever more gold for my performances. And the more he charged, the more the people thought they were worth. They bragged to their guests about how much they had paid for my performances. It was a point of pride that I was so expensive.
But Aphrodite appeared less and less frequently to me. I knew she was angry. My gifts had been given to honor her, not to earn a fortune. I knew she would take her revenge, but I could not imagine what it would be. She had already humbled me with the loss of my daughter and Alcaeus. What more could she do to me? I trembled to contemplate her wrath.
What does the singer learn? Enchantment. We love the gods for their powers of enchantment and we seek to summon them by imitating these powers. We burn incense; we utter incantations in order to become like the gods, in order to attract them. But if the motivation is false—gold, not godliness—the gods will know. Eventually our powers will fail. We will not be able to attract the muses to replenish our song.
I knew these things, but I banished them from my consciousness, as I tried—unsuccessfully—to banish thoughts of baby Cleis and my beloved Alcaeus. Driven by the desire to hoard gold to protect myself, I followed Cyrus’ lead. Or was it that I loved performing so? I was intoxicated with my own singing. Each time I ventured to transport the crowd, I transported myself. Perhaps their laughter and shouts of encouragement were dearer to me even than their gold. When the floor was swept for my performance, when I took up the lyre and cleared my throat, when I saw the spectators sitting rapt, I was transported to another realm. Yes, the truth is, performing made me feel equal to the gods because I could so manipulate the feelings of my spectators. I thought I was as powerful as Aphrodite. I thought I held the keys to her enchantments. I sang of her, but secretly I sang of myself.
That much-quoted line—I don’t expect to reach the sky—was written in a fit of remorse after one of these lucrative symposia in Syracuse. It was the night before we sailed for Delphi and I was disgusted with what I had become.
“I began by honoring the gods,” I said to Prax, “and now I honor gold. Something terrible will surely happen.”
“What can be worse than what has already happened?” asked Praxinoa.
The voyage to Delphi was harsh. Fog banks stalled us. Storms pummeled our vessel. The gods tossed us around like corks in the sea. I had never been prone to seasickness before, but on this occasion I was.
We have all heard the minstrels sing the adventures of Odysseus—but the women in the legends of our founders sit and spin. Penelope weaves and unweaves. Helen is captured for love—but where is there one woman who sets out on the sea to earn her wisdom? I would be that woman.
From Trinacria to Delphi was fierce open ocean, unbroken by islands. There was no way to hug the shore, to stop overnight, to stop for provisions, to stop for rest. It was cloudy that night; the captain could not steer by the stars. After a time we realized that he had no idea where we were headed. We were as likely to wind up in Hades’ realm as at Delphi.
Still worse, the captain and sailors had heard that we were rich in gold and they were determined to have it and then throw me into the sea. When I protested that all my gold had been left in Syracuse, they did not believe me.
“Surely you must have some aboard,” the captain said.
“Not enough to content you—but if you take me back to Syracuse alive, I will show you my hoard of gold and give you all you wish.”
They debated among themselves, thinking this was a plot to outwit them. But Cyrus intervened, denuding himself of all his golden ornaments and promising more upon our return to Syracuse. I think they were divided among themselves about what to do. The captain attempted to convince them to follow Cyrus’ plan, promising them riches beyond measure if they returned to Syracuse—which was easier said than done. The wind had begun to blow in great gusts and a heady storm was brewing. All future plans were forgotten as we clung to the craft for our lives.
I thought I had known rough seas—at Pyrrha, sailing to Syracuse, at Motya—but I had never known the full power of Poseidon before this. The boat heeled so far over that men were lost overboard with every pitch. I clung to the side of the ship as the waves buffeted me, but it was only by entangling my feet in the lines that I managed to stay aboard. Alcaeus had taught me this—and it saved my life.
The captain was lost, and most of his men. Overboard they went—their pockets filled with. Cyrus’ gold, which had no power to save them. The bottom of the sea must be paved with gold, I thought, and the bones of those who died diving for it.
ZEUS: I would let her perish right there—unlikely heroine that she is….
APHRODITE: You have no patience. This woman will be a myth for three millennia if you let me finish her story.
ZEUS: I see no point….
APHRODITE: You never see the point of women’s lives unless they bear you children.
ZEUS: I can even do that myself. Drown Sappho, give me Cleis. I’ll sew her up in my thigh, give birth to her again, and then we’ll start fresh with her story.
APHRODITE: I will not silence the only woman’s voice that reverberates through time.
ZEUS: Who cares?
APHRODITE: I care! And so will others.
ZEUS: Then you save her.
APHRODITE: I will, with Poseidon’s help—if not with yours.
ZEUS: Poseidon! My brother always was a pest. Look what he did to Odysseus.
Praxinoa was struck by a wooden crosspiece from the mast ripped loose by the wind. She was knocked unconscious. Cyrus of Sardis held on for a time, then went the way of his gold. I clung on through the storm, wishing for unconsciousness but remaining damnably awake. Then, by the grace of the gods, I slept.
I dreamed I was Odysseus being pummeled by Poseidon and not knowing which way to turn. Then the white sea goddess, Leucothea, appeared to me as she had to him.
“Get clear of the wreckage, Sappho,” she said to me, “for it will kill you more surely than the sea. Ride the steering oar as fit were a horse. Take this magic veil and cover yourself and Praxinoa with it. It will protect you both as you make your way to shore.”
“But there is no shore!” I said. “This is open sea all the way to Delphi.”
“Trust me,” the sea goddess said.
I ditched my heavy clothes and stripped the sleeping Praxinoa naked as well. Catching her up in the magic veil, straddling the steering oar as I’d been told, I paddled with all my might. Out of the corners of my eyes, I seemed to see white dolphins pulling the magic veil, but perhaps this was a dream.
When at last I reached the sea-lapped shores of a tranquil island and put Praxinoa gently down, I was certain I was dead. Were these the Elysian Fields?
Three women were dancing gracefully together on the edge of the sea. One was Helen, her luxuriant red hair still singed by the burning towers of Troy. The second was Demeter, with her crown of fruits and flowers, and the third Athena, with her battle helmet. They were all voluptuously naked and fair. They seemed to welcome me.
“Is it best to live for love?” Helen asked. “We have been discussing this. Can you resolve it?”
“Motherhood is what I live for,” said Demeter, “and so must all women.”
“Intellect is best,” Athena said. “Love and motherhood will drag you down into the mire like animals. Only virginity and a warrior’s pride can save a woman from her fate.”
“But without love we are only half alive!” Helen exclaimed as if she were Aphrodite.
They danced around and around as their argument went around and around. They seemed to have been dancing forever.
Praxinoa awoke. She couldn’t believe her eyes.
“We are among immortals!” she cried—half in delight, half in fear.
“Then join our debate,” said beautiful half-immortal Helen, with her breasts like ripe pears, her pubic thatch like fire, her white thighs the color of cream rising.
“Shall we live for love or motherhood or intellect?” the daughter of Zeus and Leda sang. Her voice was as beautiful as her face.
“Motherhood and all its joys and woes,” Demeter sighed. “Without it there would be no people on the face of the earth.”
“The brain above the heart,” Athena said, “or we are all beasts of the field.”
“Love,” said Helen, “for love alone inspires all things to grow—even children and the glory of war.”
“Look where love took you,” I said, “and the world!”
“I would do it all again!” said Helen. “I regret nothing!”
Praxinoa was laughing, laughing, laughing. I was afraid she would offend the immortals.
“Look at you all,” she said, “arguing like free women—not even dreaming that liberty is at the root of your choices. What if you were slaves?”
The dancing stopped and the three lovely ones looked quizzical and perplexed.
“Liberty is at the root of all we want,” said Praxinoa, “for only free women can participate in this debate. Choice is the luxury of the free.”
The goddesses and Helen danced away. Praxinoa and I woke up on a sandy beach with salt on our lashes and seaweed in our hair.