*
All morning and into the afternoon spectators assembled: warriors, merchants, refugees poured in from the north, and the curious from nearby Corinth. Festive shouts erupted when Themistocles was recognized, and again when a captured Phoenician warship powered into port for dedication to Poseidon.
Melaina heard a tumult from the assembly of generals. Word came that the voting had not gone well. The civic award for valor had gone to Aegina, Athens being narrowly defeated due to Spartan jealousy. The generals could give no individual award because every commander had voted for himself. A many-sided tie resulted, although each had given second place to Themistocles, who bellowed insults and accusations of cowardice. The assembly broke up, but groups of men lingered about, shouting at each other and bickering about bravery.
Melaina saw scuffling, a fist fight, and wished she'd been wrong, hoped her uncle wouldn't remember her callous comment about awards ceremonies. She realized that the men were still caught up in war's afterglow. The forces of anarchy still controlled them. War had created internal chaos, and the coming celebration must restore each person's innate accord. They'd sing and dance to lofty-spirited, harmonious Apollo, god of light and order. Women would join in to help reweave the fabric of civilized life.
When the ruckus subsided, the men came to Poseidon's temple: magistrates, ambassadors, and purple-robed priests. A murmur spread through the crowd as it parted. Shouts and hurrahs followed, as a man of renown stepped forward. It was Pindar, poet from much-hated Thebes. Pindar had expressed no allegiance to his native city since it had gone over to Persia and had sat out the sea battle on Aegina.
Melaina and her mother ran to get close enough to hear the famous poet. Beside him stood his own lyre player, and Pindar let the instrument start first and lead him into song once he felt the beat. Pindar's light, speedy rhythms were known to be unrivaled. At first Melaina couldn't catch his words, but then held her breath as they flowed to her. They were severe, beautiful, and seemed to her that they came from the distant past, as if Pindar had just stepped out of Homer:
…therefore, I also, though stricken sorely at heart,
am bidden to invoke the golden Muse. Now
that we are set free from mighty woes, let us not
fall into brooding over our sorrows. If we cease
to dwell on unavailing ills, we shall be delighted
with some strain of sweetness, even after toil;
but, for me, the passing away of terror hath caused
stern care to cease; yet is it better to look
at that which lieth before one's foot, for man
is entangled in a treacherous time that maketh
crooked the path of life. Even this may be healed
for mortals, if only they have freedom.
Melaina recognized his rhythm as Dorian, the tone epic, though less adorned than Homer, strong and grave, grand. She was struck by the personal content of his ode, and that it had obviously been written since the battle of Salamis. She counted herself blessed to be in his presence, and mentally shuffled the words of her own troublesome lyrics with his insights. She was sorry to see him step back into the crowd.
The men's and women's choruses assembled. What a glorious sight: men and women all in congregation, voices intertwined, peaceful, and standing in camaraderie. Melaina stood with other girls her age, listening to the mature voices lofting from the temple out over the bay.
She heard a shrill note from their own aulos player and ran with the rest of the girls to start the procession. Melaina's chorus was composed of two groups of nine, one representing the Muses, the other divine Artemis. Melaina took the lead as Artemis' proxy: tall, stately. She marched to the aulete's festive beat. The girls entered Poseidon's outdoor altar on a promontory before the beach. They sang a hymn to the gods, their voices undulating to the aulete's thin tune, inviting the all-powerful to bridge the gulf separating mortals and immortals and join the festivities.
The boys' chorus came alongside the girls', and Melaina caught sight of Sophocles. His eyes were no longer red, and he looked as though the festivities had lightened his heart. All stood on a white stone floor among trellises of grapevines, plump, purple fruit in bunches glistening in sunlight. The most-cherished girls danced in soft-linen gowns and garlands. They touched wrists, twirled, while handsome young men with a sheen of olive oil and dressed in well-knit chitons, pounded a solid rhythm. The beat quickened, the pat of fast feet reaching a frenzy as the girls whirled and circled with ease, the way a weaver at her wheel will give it a spin between fingertips, then let it run. In lines first, then ranks, the boys and girls moved on one another, interlacing ranks to weave feminine and masculine motifs of a single fabric. Magical dancing, manic, the aulos piping shrill accompaniment.
The crowd stood quietly, ready for the solo dancing.
Melaina tried not to feel the eyes on her as she stepped forward, spun, felt the hair loft from her shoulders, her breasts bob. She felt the soft beat of her lightning feet tingle her toes. When her frantic pace could quicken no further, Sophocles charged on stage. He startled her by flinging aside his chiton. Naked he was, anointed with oil, as he struck a pose beside twirling Melaina. With lyre in hand, he harped sweetly, stroking with a plectrum, stepped high and gracefully around her, magnificent, as if the god of order and light himself had entered, sublime Apollo. Many poses he committed, this way and that, enacting divine order and expressing a stately profile of perfection. Around him, Melaina twisted, turned, each revolution gravitating closer to twine round him.
Freedom-coveting Melaina felt a great stirring. For Artemis' sake, she'd buried, she thought forever, all thoughts of male attraction. Whether it was sublime love or low-based lust bleeding into her now, she felt was quite easily told. Sophocles' small, unfettered penis and plump, tightly grouped testicles, glistening fruit, was an image virginity-loving Melaina could never purge.
"Aphrodite," she whispered, "you've come for me again?"
The Mysteries, A Novel of Ancient Eleusis Page 31