Meantime, in Athens, I was a man with a man’s desires. The Archons had installed me in one of their guest-houses on the Acropolis, looking south to Phaleron and the sea. I ran it with my Karian boy and an old woman to cook. I never bought a slave-girl. I do not like the unwilling service of barbarians, with whom one cannot exchange a thought. I have never been a man who needs a woman every second night; I’ve had other things to save my vital spirits for. So when I did feel the need, I walked out to the Kerameikos.
It was a place, then as now, for the women of the middle sort, who liked to call themselves hetairas and not whores. This was a time when the great courtesans of Athens rivaled even the Corinthians, but I never thought of attempting them. They scared the ugly Kean shepherd who still lived on in me; I feared their mockery. Where I went, I was welcome enough. I had money, and was somebody from the court. It was an easygoing way of life; most of the time, at least.
Well, there was one girl … She was working for an old madam who’d been a beauty in her day, and ran a clean friendly house; not one of those where the girl’s name and price are painted over the door of every room. The girls who were free would treat one like a guest, just catching one’s eye and pulling their dresses tighter. All except this one girl. Thalatta was the youngest, I suppose about fifteen; a small face, triangular, a wide mouth and tilted nose; thin, with the air of having been betrayed by fortune, and taking it very bravely. She never displayed herself as the others did; just gave one a look and half a smile, as if saying, “We two could understand each other, if you did but know it.”
I don’t care for thin girls as a rule; the delight of the sculptor is also mine, I like the living marble. But she was clever, and her fragile body flattered a man’s. “We two,” she could say without a spoken word, “we have our secrets from all those fools.” At first she did not talk much; after a while, she told me she came from Naxos, and that her father had pledged her for a debt. The truth, as I later learned, was that she’d run off from there with a sailor, and was no one’s thrall, but kept a third of her takings. She used to tell me—never whining, she was too clever for that—that she was saving to buy her freedom, but lived in dread that her mistress would sell her first. Two or three men were offering to buy her. She would hint at dreadful things about them, always as if making light of it to spare my feelings. Sometimes she would point one out, if someone gross or drunken should be leaving as I came in.
“Oh,” she would say, “one can put up with them now and then, that’s only the luck of the trade, there are far worse houses than this one. But to be shut up alone with a man like that, always at his bidding, never to see a friend again—never you again, the only one who has understood me …! Oh, I think I should kill myself before long.”
Of course, I would always slip her something extra to save towards her freedom; and, of course, the time duly came when she was to be sold that very month. The buyer (a fat man with scrofula) would have the money soon. True, the mistress would wait till she saw his silver; but it was just a matter of days.
Well, she pleased me in bed, and I liked the thought of having her to myself; but most of all it was because, as it seemed, she had only me to care for her, that made me say I would be there with the money first. She embraced me, and warned me to say nothing yet to the mistress; the other man was rich, and if he knew, would raise his offer. It would be best if I gave her the money, not at the brothel, but at my house. I can’t think how I swallowed that; I daresay because she was too clever to make excuses. Presently she led me out to the common guest-room and saw me off with a tender kiss. I was still on the threshold when I remembered I’d left my walking-stick inside the door, and turned back to get it. She was looking towards another girl who was sitting there, a painted Egyptian; and though she’d not had time even to open her mouth, her face said louder than words, “What did I tell you? The fool will pay.” The other girl saw me first, and grimaced to warn her. That killed my last doubt, even before she saw me and tried to face it out. There was no need to say anything, and I went away.
For a while, this brought me back to my prentice days in Ionia. It was lucky that at least I remembered Hipponax, and did not spoil my work with tedious scoldings. She was not Women, but one girl, as Hipponax was one man, by whom one must not judge others. My pride was not so tender to blows as in those old days, and a visit to Dorothea healed its bruises. Presently, feeling cured, I pulled the scab off my wound by making a good story of it for Hipparchos, one evening when I was sharing his supper-couch.
When I had done, he cried, “My dear fellow! Wherever have you been wasting yourself? A man like you, in Athens, to be making do with a common trull! Tell me, what price did she set on herself, this little vixen?”
“A hundred drachmas. But then, there were the other bidders.”
“You must be joking. Why, you could buy a good dog for that. Well, she has played that game for the last time. I’ll see to it.”
“By all means,” I said, “if you know of any other fish she is playing on the line, give them a word of warning.”
“We shall see. My dear Simonides, I blame myself for all this. I have been a selfish host; I don’t invite enough women here. A man of your worth should not have to go foraging. People will think I don’t look after you … Come to supper—yes—three nights from now. I shall try to make amends.”
When the night came, it was clear that he’d taken trouble. The room was garlanded, smelling of roses and rich spiced food. The other men, of whom one was Thessalos, were all distinguished; and the women did not appear with the wine and wreaths, like common flute-girls or dancers. They were to share the meal. After our host had greeted us, and each man had been shown to a couch with room for two, an inner door was thrown open with a flourish, and in they came.
I wondered, indeed, where I’d been wasting my time. They walked with the dignity of ladies bringing offerings to a temple, but much more gracefully; their paint, if they wore any, was as delicate as nature; their gowns in clear bright colors were thin, but not tight, so that their bodies were just glimpsed softly as they moved; their hair was put up into embroidered snoods, as the fashion was just then; and from their softly hennaed ear-lobes dangled worked gold. They brought in the scents of a rose garden, planted here and there with aromatics.
Hipparchos stepped down from his supper-couch to greet them, just as if they’d been men; and I understood the nature of this occasion. These were the royalty of their calling. No lesser man could have brought them into one room together. Certainly, he took on nothing he did not mean to do well.
I don’t know how they were allotted among the guests, it flowed so naturally. I do know that from the moment they came in, one had especially dazzled me: a young woman with that brilliant fairness which art can never counterfeit, and large deep blue eyes. It’s a coloring that often goes with silliness; when you see wit and sense there, it can seem almost divine. Her gown was deep blue, sewn all over with small gold stars, and starry clusters hung from her ears. I was wondering who would have the god-sent luck to get her, when she walked towards my couch, and said, like a queen being gracious to a worthy subject, “Greetings, Simonides, and good health to you. Why have you never called on me?”