“And you too, perhaps?”
Thais closed the box without answering, then rose and led Ptolemy into the inner room of the house, toward the warmth and the smell of psestions. Thais occasionally did her own cooking, and had prepared the barley buns with honey, fried in butter. They were particularly tasty.
After setting her guest down, Thais fussed around the table, putting out wine and spicy sauce for the meat. She already knew that Macedonians were not fond of fish, though the dish was so popular in Athens.
Ptolemy watched her silent movements, entranced. Dressed as she was, in a transparent silvery chiton of Aeolian cut, made of the most delicate fabric imported from Persia, and working in a room shaded with green drapes, Thais appeared to be dressed in moonlight, akin to Artemis herself. She had let her hair down, tying it in the back with a simple ribbon, like a Pyrean teenager, and looked every bit an embodiment of merry youth: daring and tireless. She carried this quality in combination with the assured wisdom of a woman, aware of her beauty and capable of avoiding the traps of fate, the ability of a famous hetaera in the most splendid city in all of Hellas. The contrast was devastatingly irresistible, and Ptolemy clutched his fist, nearly moaning at the agony of their parting. More likely than not, he was losing Thais forever.
“I cannot help leaving,” he said, feeling the need to explain himself. “The prince’s matters are going poorly; he had another argument with his father. After that he escaped to Epirus with his mother, and I am afraid his life might now be in danger. Alexander won’t abandon his mother, and she is starved for power — a dangerous thing for a former wife.”
She frowned, confused by his explanation. “Am I reproaching you?”
“No, but that is what is so hard,” Ptolemy smiled sadly, feeling uncertain.
Thais felt sorry for this young, yet hardened warrior. She sat next to him, caressing his coarse wavy hair, cut short as was required by army rules. Ptolemy stretched to kiss Thais and noticed a new necklace, a thin, intricately woven chain of dark gold, connected in the center by two sparkling stars of bright yellow electron[7].
“Is that new? A gift from Philopatros?” the Macedonian asked, unable to keep ugly tone of jealousy out of his voice.
A brief, quiet giggle, so typical for Thais, was his only answer. He kept waiting, so she finally answered. “Philopatros, or any other, must earn the right to give me another star.”
“I don’t understand. What right? Each one gives whatever he can.”
“Not in this case. Look carefully,” Thais said. She took off the necklace and handed it to Ptolemy.
Each star was one dactyl across. It was decorated with ten narrow, faceted rays and a letter kappa in the middle, which also meant the number ten. Ptolemy returned the necklace and shrugged, puzzled.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I forgot that you are from Macedonia and may not be familiar with hetaerae traditions, although your mother Arsinoa …”
“Wait. I recall something. Isn’t it a kind of distinction?”
“In love.”
“And kappa?”
“It’s not only a number, but also the name of the goddess Cotytto. She who is honored in Frakia, in Corinth, and along the southern shores of the Black Sea. You may add a third star.”
“Aphrodite Migonitida! I didn’t know, and I won’t have time to give it to you.”
She smiled. “I’ll do it myself.”
“No. I’ll send you one from Pella, if the gods look upon Alexander and myself. Our destinies are woven together. Whether we burst into the Ecumene or go underground, we’ll do it together.”
“I believe in Alexander. His purpose is unknown, but he has power uncommon among ordinary people.”
“And I don’t?”
“Not exactly like he has, but I am glad of it. You are my strong, smart and brave warrior and you might even become a king. I shall be your queen.”
“I swear by the White Hound of Hercules, you will be.”
“Someday. I am ready,” she purred.
Thais moved closer to Ptolemy and both stopped looking ahead into the unknown destiny. From the immeasurable distance of the future, time flowed in a slow current, unavoidably and steadily moving into the past. Their meeting came to its end. Then Thais stood in the doorway, and Ptolemy, unable to pull away from his lover, was urged ahead by the need to hurry to Gidaphineus, to Nearchus, where they had been ordered to bring their horses. He had no idea that the punctual, reliable Cretan was only just rushing along the streets of Ceramic with his head lowered after his parting from Egesikhora.
“You didn’t tell me what would happen if Alexander remained alive and became a king after his father,” Thais said.
“There will be a long road, then war, then road again, help us Athena Caleutia, the goddess of all roads. Alexander dreams of reaching the end of the world, the dwelling of gods where the sun rises. And Stagiritus Aristotle encourages his desire by all means necessary.”
“And will you go with him?”
“To the end. Thais, would you go with me? Not as with a soldier but as with an army leader?”
“I have always dreamed of distant countries, but such travels are unachievable to us women by any means other than in a carriage of a victor. Be a victor, and if I am still dear to you …”
Ptolemy had to leave. When he had long since disappeared behind a distant house, Thais still watched the road. It wasn’t until her slave touched her, reminding her that her bath was prepared, that she returned to reality.
Ptolemy, struggling with the ache of leaving his love, walked briskly, not allowing himself to glance back at Thais. It was an ill omen to look over one’s shoulder when leaving. He didn’t even look at her marble copy, one of the girls on a balcony of the temple of Nika the Wingless. She was one of the statues in an ancient peplos, her head thrown eternally back as if she were about to dash forward, and she resembled his beloved. Until now, the Macedonian had never passed the temple without pausing to glance at the bas relief.
Chapter Two. Egesikhoras Heroics
Metageytnion, a month that had always been hot in Attica, turned out to be particularly scorching during the last year of the hundred and tenth Olympiad. The sky, always so clear and deep that even the foreigners marveled at it, acquired a tinge of lead. Crystal clear air that always gave the statues and structures miraculous distinction, shimmered and fluttered, as if someone had tossed a cover of uncertain and fleeting changefulness upon Athens. Like a cover of deceit and distortion, so typical for the desert countries on the distant southern shores.
Thais stopped going swimming when the road became too dusty. She only went riding at dawn from time to time so she could feel the wind from the swift gallop upon her flushed skin.
Afternoon heat settled heavily upon the city. All living things hid in shade, in the coolness of temples and colonnades, in the darkness of shuttered homes. Only the wheels of a lazily rolling cart or the hooves of a sweaty horse with a shade-seeking rider rumbled down the pavement.
Egesikhora entered briskly as usual, then stopped, blinded by the transition from light to the dusk of the bedroom. Without a moment’s hesitation, she dropped her light chiton and sat at the feet of her friend, who sprawled nude on the bed. Judging from Egesikhora’s fluttering nostrils and heaving breasts, Thais surmised that the Spartan was angry.
“What is wrong?” she asked lazily.
“I don’t know. I’m mad at everything. I am sick of our Athenians. They are loud, talkative, and too willing to gossip. Are they really those great builders, artists, scholars and warriors of whom so much was written in the times of Pericles? Or has everything changed since then?”