Author's Note: These will be a series of short stories concerning the classical Greek poet Sappho. These stories are fictitious, since virtually no record remains of her private life, and will not be in chronological order. -Sappho the Matchmaker, Part I- ------ She stood near the bow of the ship, watching as the gulls flew and swooped through the skies. The air was thick with the scent of the salty Aegean Sea, and as she once more felt the breeze on her face she made her way with her walking staff to the edge of the boat and looked down at her reflection. She wore a plain woven brown shawl over a much more elaborate and ornate robe of white and violet with spun gold trimming, a gold and silver girdle was tied around her slim waste. Her hair was pulled up into a loose bun, with a few strands allowed to hang down and frame her face. The once luxuriously curly golden locks had lost much of their luster over the years and were now mostly off-white, although here and there an orange-yellow lock still survived to testify to her mane's former glory. The corners of her eyes and mouth were now creased, crows feet now etched into her formerly smooth skin. Looking down at herself looking back at her from the surface of the water, she smiled; she'd earned every wrinkle, every grey hair, every ache and pain of old age, and with it she'd earned fame, status, respect and even devotion from men and women (mostly women) the world over. She was proud of what she saw in her reflection, because it was a constant reminder that she was a survivor, and every line etched into her face she saw as a battle scar. As she saw the distant shore of Athens coming into view she pulled the shawl closer around her to protect her from the wind. As a hand came to rest upon her shoulder, she turned affectionately to the slightly younger woman who'd just come to join her. "Clara," she whispered tenderly as she turned to her traveling companion. She noted how the sunlight played on her traveling companion's long black hair, making the few grey ones pulled back in a pony tail stand out all the more. Clara wasn't dressed in anything nearly as elaborate as she was, just a simple white robe with a yellowish edging. Yet for all that she looked as comely to the elder as she did the first time they met many summers ago. She took her hand in hers, their fingers interlocking at they're eyes met. "Clara, did I ever tell you," she began, suddenly feeling a tinge of nostalgia, "About the time I had to leave my homeland because of that ass Pittacus and his rebellion?" "Several times," her companion answered warmly as she brought the older woman's hand to her lips and kissed the back of it, "But I never tire of hearing about it." "My daughter Cleis and I, along with my late husband," she said, Clara noting how she said the last part almost as an afterthought, "Were forced to head to Syracuse on the Isle of Sicily. It was then that I first realized just how much I hated traveling long distances by boat." At that, both women began to chuckle. Looking out, her companion saw that they were nearing the docks, and a large group of aristocrats and wealthy merchants were already waiting to greet them. "It looks like they've already assembled your welcoming committee." The older woman rolled her eyes, "There's always a welcoming committee," she said, "Usually with some trumped-up, pompous old windbag there to announce my accomplishments like I was being readied for a funeral rather than an entrance." Clara giggled at the remark as a rope was thrown to the dock and the boat was eased into landing. Meanwhile a balding man wearing a dark blue tunic stepped forward, produced a sheet of paper, and bowed. "Hail to thee, oh great Sappho," he bellowed, reading from his prepared sheet. "Here we go," Sappho muttered under her breath, earning yet another chuckle from Clara, "Aphrodite, give me strength..." "Hail to thee, Sappho the golden tongued. Hail, tenth muse, oh Sappho the..." "Sappho," Clara whispered, suddenly much more serious, "Take the shawl off. It's far too common for such an occasion." "Nonsense," she whispered back as she squeezed her companion's hand, "You wove it for me, besides," she said with a twinkle in her eye, "They probably expect me to be a bit eccentric. Now come on," she said, placing her hand in the crook of Clara's arm as, with walking staff firmly gripped in her other hand, she led the way to the landing plank now set up for them. "Sappho the pride of Lesbos," the orator continued, "Sappho, beloved of fair Aphrodite and..." "'Sappho the seasick'," she grumbled out as she stepped forth from the plank onto the dock. "Out of the way," she said as she waved her walking stick at the suddenly befuddled spokesperson for the welcoming committee, "'Sappho the rheumatic' wishes to stand on solid ground once more." As Sappho and Clara walked on, the group of dignitaries and their spokesman stood in stunned silence for several seconds before, in a flurry of purple and crimson tunics, bluish robes and ornate sandals they ran after her in time to catch up to the world-famous poet and lyricist before she and her companion entered the city. The news that one such as Sappho was come to their city in person to see King Adrastos about his daughter Gyrinna's admission into her school of conduct and etiquette spread quickly, and the streets and market places were filled with onlookers and curiosity seekers eager for a glimpse of her. This was much more than a mere visit concerning an admission into her girl's academy; it was also diplomatic in nature. Lesbos already had a fine relationship with the wealthy city state of Lydia, one which both had benefited from for quite some time, and they'd once also enjoyed a favorable trading rapport with Athens, but that was many years ago. In the intervening years there'd been a war between Athens and Lesbos, one in which Pittacus and his army had challenged and defeated the Athenians and their ruler Phrynon. Thereafter followed the rebellion, in which Pittacus led a violent coup against the aristocracy of Lesbos and seized the reigns of power for ten long years. Pittacus heavy-handed rule was over now, and with it Lesbos' isolationism. Now, wishing to once more enter into a mutually beneficial economic relationship with Athens, Lesbos sent their most prized commodity, Sappho herself, to the city state. The hope being that the visit, and subsequent enrollment of the Princess Gyrinna, would forge a bond between the two once warring cities and serve to heal old wounds. That was, Clara mused, if Sappho's tongue didn't start a new war. "Sappho," the spokesperson for the Athenian delegation called out of breath as he finally caught up to her, "Sappho, the king..." At that Sappho stopped. She turned around to see the richest and most influential of Athenians breathing heavily and red-faced as they also now reached her. One of whom, a middle-aged man around her own age and dressed in a becoming purple tunic with a shimmering cape of red silk over it and sporting a thin jewel encrusted gold crown came forward and, trying his best to hide his irritation, bowed before her. "Adrastos," he said, sticking his right foot forward as Athenians did when introducing themselves, "King of Athens." "Sappho," the poet and author of laureates answered as she held her hand limply outstretched to him, "Beloved of the gods." The king took the hand offered him and kissed the back of it. Sappho took her hand back and, after checking to make sure her jewels were still in the rings adorning her fingers and discreetly wiping off the back of her hand on her tunic, she allowed him to lead the way as she followed, arm and arm with her Clara, into the open royal carriage he had waiting to take the three of them to the city. The shouts of adoration were near deafening; it were as if one of the Immortals of Mt. Olympus itself had deigned to come down, and though she dared not say it aloud for fear of displeasing the gods Clara wondered as she watched Sappho's reception if even Pallas Athena herself would command such a fanfare were she to come to visit her namesake city. As they rode, the king pointed out various landmarks such as the road leading to the theater where they performed their tragedies and comedies, and in the distance the mountains peaked with snow. Sappho listened to none of it. Rather, she focused on the sights, colors, smells and spectacle that surrounded her as flowers thrown from a hundred hands fell before and into the carriage. As she surveyed the cheering multitude, she saw a delightful beauty with reddish hair and freckles. Avoiding Clara's glare, she picked up one a lily from her lap and tossed it to the fair lass, grinning at the enchanting way it made the young Athenian maiden blush. "And over there," Adrastos said, addressing himself now more to Clara than the seemingly unimpressed Sappho, "Is the marketplace, where poets, authors, artists and philosophers are as common as sandal makers and food merchants." Suddenly, Sappho perked up. She turned to the king, wide-eyed as a school girl as she now focused in on him. "Poets and philosophers, you say?" The king smiled; it seemed Sappho wasn't as difficult to impress as he'd at first imagined. "Oh yes, as well as authors of plays and artists skilled with marble and with the art of frescoes. But now," he said, "Let us go to Athena's temple where you may join us in paying respect to Athens' divine patron for your visit, followed by festivities at the royal palace." Sappho frowned. Given the opportunity, she'd much rather spend time with artists, philosophers and craftsmen than with professional politicians at state functions. Still, she herself was born into aristocracy, and she knew better than most how the game was played. She sat back in her seat with Clara's arm around her back, ignoring both the noise of the crowd and the boasting of the Athenian Patriarch as she began to devise a plan on how to sneak out and get at that marketplace King Adrastos had mentioned. ------ The day was filled with long and, to Sappho, interminably boring state functions. After the visit to Athena's temple she insisted on a visit to a roadside shrine to her patroness Aphrodite they'd passed within the city, after which they made their way to the palace itself where a grand reception awaited her and her companion. It was there that the king introduced the poet to both his wife, a snobbish woman named Deianira whom she took an instant disliking too, and their attractive yet shy daughter Gyrinna. Near the end of the festivities, as the light of the scented oil lamps burned low and both Sappho and Clara became quite tipsy on spiced wine, the poet and her companion were shown to the lushly furnished apartment prepared for them in the west quarter of the palace. At the sound of the cock crow the next morning, Sappho opened her eyes and surveyed her surroundings, silently thanking the gods for her lack of a hangover. She and Clara both lay naked upon a cushioned bed, with the younger woman's back spooned up against the poet's chest. "Clara," she whispered, shaking her companion's shoulder, "Oh, Clara beloved, do wake up." Clara grudgingly stirred, "mmmph, what, now?" she asked, her eyes still closed. "Sappho my love, not now, please. I'm still sore from last night, and... Ouch!" she cried out as Sappho pinched her. "Shhh," the poet whispered with her finger to her lips, "Keep it down; do you want to wake the entire palace? And anyways, you weren't complaining about my advances last night. Anyone heard the way you carried on they would think me an old letch. Clara," she said now in a more playful tone, "Didn't you pay attention to that boor of a king yesterday? There's an entire market place out there Clara, just swarming with artists, poets and musicians." "And trouble," Clara groused, "Sappho, have you taken leave of your senses? We can't just leave the palace like that." "We can if you get up out of bed and we're out before anyone else is awake. I thought ahead to pack some rather common looking garments, and after yesterday I feel the need for some intellectual stimulation, to be in the presence once more of creative folk and..." "You may feel such a need, but as for me the only presence I wish is that of Morpheus, to sleep and to dream of... Ouch!" "Shhh." And so a short time later, while the rest of the palace still slumbered, Sappho and Clara slipped out into the city incognito. After a brisk walk through the public sector, in which they both found themselves trying their best to maneuver the strange streets while avoiding the horse manure that seemed to be littered everywhere, they at last reached the marketplace King Adrastos indicated. It was just as Adrastos had said; all sorts or vendors of fine Persian silks, exotic spices, finely-woven rugs, artistically crafted local ceramics and Egyptian sandalwood incense, supposedly blessed by priestesses of Isis, filled the market. There were also one or two old men with great beards talking metaphysics to young impressionable Athenian youths, and every sort of street performer imaginable from magicians to flute players, each with a basket before then for coins that they hoped their audience would throw them. Sappho smiled gleefully as she breathed in the atmosphere around her. She felt home here, and though Clara had initially been reluctant to leave their bed this morning, the look of happiness upon her love's face made the venture worthwhile after all. As the unrecognized poet looked around her, she saw a young woman carrying a lyre and a basket enter the marketplace. She was obviously a street performer, yet something in her bearing seemed a bit off and out of place here. True, her lyre was common enough; it almost looked like one of the practice lyres she had her girls on Lesbos practice upon. But something about the brunette in the tattered cream-colored tunic who placed the basket before her upon the ground was anything but common. Taking up her lyre, and shaking the stiffness from her right hand, the young woman began to strum a simple tune upon the instrument as she sang. Good morning to one and all of you. Good morning, good tidings, good day. Gracious Apollo stands atop his fiery chariot, Beginning his daily travel, across the skies, once again. "Sappho?" Clara asked, noticing the look of concentration upon the poet's face, "Sappho, what's wrong?" "I'm not at all sure," she answered, "There's something most curious about that girl..." "Oh no," Clara muttered, "Whenever you become curious the Fates tremble." "Hush now," Sappho said as she grabbed her partner's arm and headed over to the performer. Rise yourselves up from your slumbers, Hear the birds' sing, smell the flowers, Let today be bright and gay. She sang four more verses of her lovely little song as a small crowd began to gather in front of her. She next sang a song of tragic King Midas of Lydia, and a rather bawdy tune about Dionysus. All the while Sappho watched and listened, silently studying the young woman. She began to sing a song by Alchaeus when there was a sudden disturbance near the back of the audience. Sappho turned to see an aristocrat with a green silk shawl drawn across her face to hide her identity, with an elderly female servant in accompaniment. The brunette stopped her song to bow and smile welcomingly at the newcomer, who bowed her head in reply. Taking up her lyre again, the performer began a very different song now. Would that Eros would take pity upon me, And remove this spell he placed me under, For every time I look upon her beauty from a distance, I an overcome with trembling, my heart flutters, My breath is snatched, and I'm left weak, fluttering like a reed in the wind... While she sang, the aristocrat pulled out a folded letter and handed it to her attendant, at which point her shawl fell from her face and she was revealed to in fact be the Princess Gyrinna. Once the performer was finished with her song of girl love, the attendant handed the letter to the singer, who quickly unfolded it. She read it, then looked back at the princess, a look of total devastation evident in her face. Gyrinna covered her mouth as tears began to well up in her now glistening blue eyes. She turned to head off back to the palace with her attendant as the performer looked on. Her lip trembling, she picked up the basket and the few coins it contained and started to walk slowly off. "I wonder what that was all about," Clara mused. "I've a sneaking suspicion," Sappho answered as she once more tugged her companion to come with her after the performer, "Quickly, before she gets away." "Oh, really," the other woman protested, "We need to get back before we're discovered missing. Why are we going after a common marketplace entertainer?" "Because unless I miss my guess," the poet answered, "She's not a commoner at all." The young brunette's head hung low as she left the market and sat in the early morning shade of a great oak. As she reread the letter and wiped the tears from her eyes, she became aware that she was no longer alone. Looking up, she saw two middle-aged women standing before her. "Child," the one holding the staff said in a gentle voice, "May we join you." The singer frowned as she studied the woman with the foreign accent, but grudgingly nodded her head. She was broken hearted, and though loathe to admit it she welcomed the company of even these two strangers. So she tried to compose herself as the two older women sat on either side of her. "Young one," Sappho began, "What is wrong, why are you so distressed?" "It's all her fault," she sobbed, "She's come to take my love away." "What do you mean," the poet persisted, "Who has come to take your love away?" The brunette clutched the letter tightly in her hand as she closed her eyes, "Sappho from Lesbos, the poetess. She's come to take my darling away." Both Sappho and Clara exchanged bewildered glances. The poet's companion was the first to find her voice, "Perhapse you should start from the beginning and tell us everything." The young woman looked up at her, "Why would I tell my problems to you? I don't even know you." "Because sometimes it's easier to tell your problems to strangers," Sappho answered, "And because there's no one else around for you to talk to." The youth looked at her in silence for a few seconds as she weighed the elder's words. Then, with a shrug of her shoulders, she let out a sigh and began her tale. She explained that her name was Efterpi and that, just as Sappho had suspected, she was born into a minor noble family. Her mother had died during childbirth, and her father had later married a wealthy widow with two daughters of her own. After he passed away though, her stepmother cast her out of her own house, keeping her late father's fortune for herself. No doubt she did so in order to assure more generous dowries for her own children, thus ensuring their marriage into wealth and her continued affluence into old age. Both of Efterpi's listeners frowned at her tale. Stories such as her were all too common in a world where women were seen as little more than chattel and often were used as bargaining chips. "And so," she continued, "Suddenly finding myself on the streets, and not willing to prostitute myself, I decided to use my lyre my father gave me as a child to earn a living. One day, a wealthy noblewoman happened to overhear me play." "Princess Gyrinna," Sappho interrupted, "Correct?" Efterpi's eyes widened in surprise, but she quickly composed herself and nodded her head sullenly. "Yes, the Princess Gyrinna became enamored you might say, as did I. Yet, we never met, never communicated directly, never even touched, for fear of those around us. I spoke to her in my songs, and she responded through letters. "How terribly romantic," Sappho mused. On the other side of the youth, Clara shook her head. She knew that look in Sappho's eyes. It was her ‘poor kitten' look, the one she always got when she took an interest in a girl in trouble, and it always seemed to spell trouble. "But now," Efterpi continued, "Well, of course I'd heard Sappho was coming to take Gyrinna away to Lesbos with her, one can't live here long without hearing such gossip after all. But... But I'd hoped it only a rumor, that someday she'd somehow escape the palace and we might somehow head for the mountains and..." at that the young woman began to weep once more, and Sappho wrapped an arm around her to try and comfort her. "It... It's almost funny," Efterpi said bitterly through sniffling, "The ironic part of all this is I'd heard a few years back that Sappho was dead." "Indeed?" Clara asked as she gave Sappho an amused look, "Tell me, what was Sappho of Lesbos said to have died of?" "Well," she explained, "The rumor was that she'd committed suicide over a man." Sappho raised an eyebrow at that. "Killed herself for a man?" she asked, "And exactly whom is she supposed to have killed herself over?" "Well," the girl answered, "According to what I'd been told, Sappho killed herself by jumping off the Leucadian cliffs for love of a ferryman named Phaon." "Phaon?" Sappho asked acerbically, her eyes narrowing at the name, "Phaon? That beady-eyed, garlic-breathed, brutish pimple-faced pig of a..." she stopped when she saw the looks Clara and Efterpi were giving her. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, her countenance lightened as she once more addressed the young girl. "Forgive me child, but no, Sappho didn't kill herself for love of a man, and certainly not for Phaon. The truth is that she fell in love with the young maiden Phaon was arranged to be married to, an enchanting youth whose beauty would've been wasted on the likes of him." "Oh," she said, "But then tell me; did Sappho manage to somehow beat Phaon and win the heart of his betrothed?" "That she did," Clara spoke up, smiling affectionately at her love as she did so, "That she did indeed." "I see," Efterpi whispered as she looked down at her hands, "But I'm afraid that my story won't end quite as happily as hers, will it? The farewell reception is tonight, and Princess Gyrinna will leave tomorrow, and we never even got to meet. Oh, we'd tried once; we were to meet in the palace garden, but her father the king found out and locked her within the East tower and set his guards out to await my arrival. I barely managed to escape." Done with her story, the girl hung her head silently as Sappho continued to hold her close, almost like a mother would. Clara mentally begged the gods to remind her love of the diplomatic nature of their mission, of the fact that Athens and Lesbos had a recent history of military aggression against one another, of the need to behave herself for once and not make waves... "Right," Sappho finally said, breaking the silence as she straightened herself and the girl up, "Then there's only one thing to be done about it. You'll simply have to accompany us back to the palace." "Oh no," Clara whimpered. "The palace?" Efterpi asked in shock, "But how can you get me in there? And how will I possibly get past the palace guards." "To answer your second question first, we will simply get you a disguise so we can get you into our quarters until tonight when the three of us will attend Princess Gyrinna's farewell reception. And in answer to your first question," she said, lowering her voice as she leaned in towards the girl, "I am Sappho, and you'd be surprised what I can do when I set my mind to it. Now come," she said, standing up with the help of her staff and holding out a hand to the stunned young woman, "Time is short if we are to sneak you in with us." Efterpi's jaw hung open in bewildered disbelief. Sappho, the greatest and most prolific poet since Homer, was here, now. More than that, she was offering to help her, a homeless young thing who sang songs in the street for change. Unable to find any words, she simply reached up and took the offered hand, allowing the older woman to help her to her feet. "I knew it," Clara moaned, images of all the trouble this scheme could get the three of them in suddenly flashing through her head, "I just knew it." Sappho turned to her, "What?" "Nothing," Clara sighed exasperatedly, "Hold up, wait for me."
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