HETAERA: Daughter of the Gods

by Coffey, J. A.

  “Will no one come to greet us?” I asked.

  “Whist, Dori. You heard them sound the gongs, did you not?” But her nostrils were white and pinched.

  So, not thunder, as I had thought before, but the hammerings of mortal men upon a polished disc of bronze. I wondered what portent the alarm held for us, but feared to ask. We traversed the long hall in silence, my mother praying and myself, eyes downcast, feigning penitence for I was certain the priests would know of my unworthiness. I scurried beside her and shrank from the serpentine shadows that seemed to follow my every movement.

  The sudden appearance of a robed figure in the tunnel startled me. A priest materialized out of the shadows like a wraith, tall and sinuous. I skidded to a stop to avoid colliding with his pale robed legs. His eyes were deeply set and obscured by the shadow of his brows, but they flickered once like burning pitch over me before settling on my mother.

  “Greetings, Sita,” he said after an uncomfortable length of time.

  “May the gods find favor on you,” replied my mother. She bowed her head.

  “You’ve brought the girl for induction.” It was not a question.

  “Please, we...I must speak with the Branch Order. Will you take us?”

  He considered her for a moment longer before answering. “As you wish.”

  My mother exhaled audibly, and her icy fingers gripped my hand as we stepped from Orpheus’ Throat into the temple’s embrace.

  My first impression was that I had shrunk in stature. The temple had an enormous central hall painstakingly carved out of the natural cavern. Pale granite columns supported the entire cavern, jutting like wolf’s teeth from the polished stone floor. The air felt moist and cool upon my skin, as if I walked inside a tomb. Our footsteps echoed as we crossed the stone floor, and I could hear the far off whistle of an avlos being played. The priest shortened his stride, to accommodate my pace. It made me only a little less afraid.

  The ceiling lay hidden in the black beyond the torchlight, so high I could not see it no matter how I strained my weary eyes. The sharp acrid stench of burning pitch stung my nostrils. Hundreds of torches shed their smoky illumination on the adorned stone walls. Painted grapevines blossomed in earthy red, ochre, and black, resplendent in their full harvest beauty. Stag and hare cavorted on mountain hillsides beyond. I followed their painted forms to aerial depictions of birds soaring toward the sea. They reminded me of my seaside village, now gone, so I turned away.

  Attendants, all with the close-cropped, curling locks of the ktístai, swept the floors with rush bundled brooms. Their pallid robes flowed with the same unconscious grace that marked my mother and the priest we followed. The ktístai took pride in their work, completing each task with meticulous care. So will mortal man ever toil to make life upon the earth worthy of the gods’ notice.

  A large altar, complete with a sensuous carved effigy of Dionysus, stood near the rear of the colonnade. Several young maidens strung a garland of pale blooming flowers over the deity’s crown and shoulders. Others swayed as they cleared away the wilted blossoms from the previous day. I would discover later this was a special task reserved for the most promising of inductees. For now, it was enough to mark that each of these girls was a study in classical perfection. Their skin was the faultless rose-pink of our race, and though their hair ranged from spun gold to crimson, each was ode to the gods in her own right.

  I stumbled, feeling weary in my grimy chiton, but I wore my guilt and filth like a mantle to shield my pride. The immaculate priest raised a brow in my direction and continued.

  We came to an inner chamber, not far off the immense temple. The priest told me to wait in the hall, and I sank gratefully onto the cold stone floor. Then the priest and my mother disappeared behind a wooden door. A gap the span of my palm existed between the door and the stone tiles, so, in my cross-legged position, I could hear much of what went on inside.

  “Welcome, Sita. At last you have brought your daughter for training?” asked a woman’s voice from the other side of the door. Perhaps it was the chill interior of the cavern, but the welcome spoken in words did not ring in her voice.

  “If it pleases our lord, we have both journeyed to enter in his service,” my mother responded.

  “Both?”

  “Yes.” Her voice caught a little, much like the weight in my heart. “The Greeks raided our village. Delus is gone. I beg entry from the Bacchae for my daughter and myself.”

  There was a long pause.

  Would they give us sanctuary? If they refused us, I could not think of where we would go. If the temple turned us away, we were surely lost.

  The voice spoke again.

  “We cannot. Your daughter may stay as is her due, but you are unwelcome here.”

  I heard my mother sob and bit my lip hard. I would not stay without her.

  “Please,” she said. “I wish to rededicate myself to the gods’ service. I will do whatever tasks you set, so long as my daughter and I may take refuge in the temple. I…I will teach or-”

  “We have no need of your teachings here,” interrupted the woman.

  Another long pause, followed by murmurs of many voices. I could not make them out, muffled as they were through the thick wooden door.

  “Please,” my mother said in a voice I’d never heard her use. “I will do anything.”

  The babble began anew. One man’s voice seemed to carry over the others. I rubbed my hands on the undersides of my chilled legs and fought the urge to peek into the gap. What would become of my poor mother if the Bacchae turned her away?

  “You were favored once by the gods, Sita,” said the woman. “More than most can claim to be. Now you are spoilt by your time amongst the villagers. Your hands are chapped and your body made slack for all your youthful appearance.”

  How those words must have stung my mother’s heart, for the villagers had hated her so for her beauty. Now she was deemed unfit for the Bacchae, the glory for which she was trained.

  The voice continued. “Still, for the sake of the girl, you may stay and take such tasks as will make you useful to the temple. Perhaps your daughter will achieve the greater glory you forsook to breed a soldier’s get.”

  I wondered at the venom in that voice. I’d always assumed my father had the temple blessing to take my mother to wife.

  My mother murmured her thanks, and the door flew open. The priest who’d led us through the temple peered down at me, still crouched in the corridor. His eyes flickered once to the door and the corners of his mouth deepened.

  “You,” he said. “Follow me.” He started off down the passage without explanation.

  “My…my mother?” I stood and brushed the dust off my knees. I was determined not to stay without her. The priest stopped. Though his manner was abrupt, his eyes were not unkind when he turned to look at me.

  “She will be given a place. Your place is with the other supplicants. Over there.” He pointed to one of the halls where I had heard music earlier. He waited until I shuffled forward before continuing. “You’ve come at a fortunate time,” he said, as we once again crossed the great center hall. “There’s to be a festival in honor of the last harvest. This winter we should press twice the number of grapes than the previous year.”

  This was fortunate news indeed, as there is nothing quite so fine as good Thracian wine. Indeed, it is our lord Dionysus’ blood that runs in our veins and causes such jealousy in the hearts of other men. And after our life in the village, I could not believe that I would be given such fine clothes and good food. My exhaustion waned in anticipation of seeing my first Bacchanal. I was certain it would live in my memory forever, and so it has, but not for the reason I thought it would.

  After being seen to my quarters, which were little more than a small alcove in a room of five other inductees, I was given a clean chiton and sent to bathe. A meager repast of bread, lamb, and cheese was brought to curb my hunger.

  I’d just brushed the crumbs from my lips when wearines
s descended upon me, but I could not stop worrying for my poor mother. I begged news from one of the women setting out figs and thyme for the meal and was informed that she was settled into her own quarters. I should rest, as my inspection and training would begin on the morrow. I yawned so hard, I thought my jaw would crack from my skull. One of the temple priestesses saw and sent me to my pallet until the feast.

  I set my guilt aside and slept like the dead until the moon sailed high in a curtain of the night sky. At least I thought it must be evening. Who could tell? It was odd residing underneath the mountains, like a serpent hiding under a rock. When my mother appeared to lead me to the Bacchanal, all my misgivings vanished. Lines of grief still etched her features, but her eyes were rested and alert. She seemed resigned and composed among the frenetic excitement of the feast.

  “You must be silent, unless spoken to, Dori,” she admonished.

  “What part will I take in the Bacchanal?” I asked.

  Mother compressed her lips. “I do not know, but for certain you should be as unobtrusive as you can.”

  “Is it not safe, here?” I wondered.

  “It is not safe anywhere, Dori.” Her voice quavered with sorrow. “But here, you may find a place, if only you will devote yourself.”

  “We,” I corrected her. “We may find a place here, together.”

  My mother nodded and put a slim arm around my shoulders, but she did not smile.

  We entered the vast cavern of the central chamber, which sparkled from the glow of torchlight reflected on the polished stone floors. Hundreds of bodies sashayed to the tables piled high with Thracian delicacies. There were hanks of roast lamb stuffed with raisins, garlic and figs, smoked pork, and wild green salats with olive oil and tangy vinegar. Crimson wine poured freely into hammered bronze and carved wooden goblets. Each hand had only to stretch forth and the blood of the gods flowed comfortably into reach. The sound of laughter drowned out the cries of the dying soldiers still ringing in my ears, and I reached often to refill my cup.

  For hours, the temple folk feasted and laughed, while musicians played and the Bacchae danced. I ate, but no amount of mirth could tease a smile to my face. The other neophytes were rapt with attention, and I remembered my mother’s grace. It was a tribute to the gods, the skill with which Bacchae played, and sang, and danced. Oh, the dancing! As graceful as birds on the wing over the vast seas.

  I did so want her to be proud of me.

  Late into the night, the air grew thick from the many torches, the scent of spiced foods and the press of bodies. I watched a temple priest sprinkling powder on the flames. A heavy perfumed smoke permeated the chamber. Soon, my vision wavered and my ears rang with the noise of the revelry. My head began to ache. Several participants had wandered off in twos and threes, no doubt to clear their senses, and so as the drums began to pound in time to my heartbeat, I moved to the nearest hall to do the same.

  Away from the miasma of smoke and dazzling beauty of the feast, the pain of my father’s death sliced my heart. I didn’t belong here, in this sacred and beautiful place. I don’t know why I thought of him, then. Perhaps the sight of my mother, whose feet should have been dancing. She’d sat alone on her stool and watched the men and women with a wistful expression, as the music rattled the base of the mountain. Then she’d risen and disappeared down one of the far halls. I’d felt too full of guilt to follow her. So I dwelled on death, alone in the corridor of black granite. I flung myself prostrate on the rough stone of the hallway and prayed for Dionysus to take pity on me.

  Dionysus, who governs our passions, both rage and pleasure, chaos and love, if you accept me into your beloved arms, I promise never to turn away from my faith. Watch over my father.

  The smoke in the hallway made my chest began to burn. I fancied I could hear the heart of Dionysus beating in my ears. The world spun, and the very stones seemed to vibrate and come to life. I laid my aching head on the cold stone. It felt so nice and cool beneath my cheek. My hands stretched backwards, palms up and the blood rushed in my veins in time to the quickening crescendo of drum beats emanating from the central hall. My pulse beat. The wild pounding inside the temple swallowed me whole.

  Then, without warning, the drums stopped.

  I rose, dizzy, with my ears still ringing and scuttled to the temple chamber. The air in the feast hall seemed charged with frightening energy. I remember the scent, still, to this day. Heavy and pervasive, sweet like the delicate hillside blossoms and thick with cloying human musk. A fug of stinking herbed smoke permeated the room, hanging over our heads like a pseudo-sky. Musicians sounded their flutes and harps. Chaotic harmonies swelled and receded like the waves of the sea. And then I heard the cries.

  It seemed I’d entered a battlefield, though I saw no weapons. My heart thundered in my chest. Half-clothed bodies lay in a tangled mound on the cold stone floor, their wine goblets still clutched in their fists. I could not discern male from female at first. They were all connected by limbs and hips.

  I was dizzy, so very dizzy. In my herb-muddled thoughts, some great tragedy had befallen us. The floor tilted under my feet and I stumbled. I blinked once, trying to clear my bleary vision and the smoky room became the nightmare forest battlefield I’d escaped in Perperek. The jutting columns became black limbs of the misty cypress grove. Crimson blood covered everyone and ran down the stone floors to puddle at my feet. Surely, I heard the mournful cries of the dying. My ears felt stuffed with wool.

  I shook my head and the bloody scene vanished.

  In its place was a scene I have difficulty describing, even now.

  I crept behind a large urn to search for my mother, fearing most to see her amongst the tangled bodies. Fate was with me and she was not to be found amongst them. I watched in fascinated horror as the mass of temple denizens heaved and bucked. Many voices called out as if in torturous pain. This was so very unlike my memories of the Greek invasion, yet in my mind it seemed one and the same.

  My vision wavered, and I clutched the columns for support.

  The room spun. I felt ill.

  All around me, time seemed to slow.

  The mound of exposed flesh and limbs writhed. They seemed to grapple with one another, vying for some higher unattainable ground. Appendages flexed and extended with agonizing slowness. My stomach clenched. Swirling fumes coiled around each naked body, like demons. Men and women, women and women, and yes, even men together sweated and slithered in a great pooling of grunts and thrusts and sighs. The hairs on my neck prickled and I sensed that I was both welcome and not.

  The floor pitched beneath my feet. I toppled sideways, and rolled before crawling on my hands and knees to escape. One of the Bacchae nearest me reached out her hand towards me. Her beautiful eyes were glazed in what I thought was the throes of death. How could I refuse?

  I crept near to her and she grasped my hand. Her pink tongue slipped between her lips to moisten them and she kept her eyes focused on mine. I heard a grunt and my eyes traveled the length of her exposed breasts to her trim abdomen. I glanced at the priest sweating between her legs, at her robes hiked up to expose her womanhood.

  “Stop,” I whispered. The floor bucked beneath me and I swayed on my knees.

  The priest’s eyes bored into me like a sarisa. He groaned and his head lolled on his neck as he bucked against the Bacchae. I panted with him, as pressure aching to be released simmered in my midsection. His buttocks flexed and his hands held her legs wide like a butterfly’s wings. They flapped as he continued his onslaught. She moaned low in her throat and squeezed my hand harder.

  “You’re killing her,” I whispered. My voice refused to work properly.

  I tried to let go of her hand, to beat at him with my fists, but her grip was too strong for me to break. She pinioned me with the huge ebony pupils of her gray eyes. Tears of frustration stung my eyes and poured down my cheeks as she arched her back against the cold stone floor and tried to buck him off. Her hips rose and pumped. Then she gave a small c
ry that sent liquid heat rushing between my legs.

  Her body strained and then fell limp. Her eyes unfocused and then closed. I thought the Bacchae dead with the sheen of sweat still dewy on her lips and breasts. The man gave a hoarse bark and then slid away from her. I saw the spurting tip of his erect phallus as he spilled his glistening, pearly seed onto the ground. His eyes rolled back into his head and he crumpled to the tiles.

  My hands shook as I pried at the Bacchae’s fingers. I lifted my gaze, only to meet my mother’s across the room. She smiled at me, a terrible pride shining in her gaze. It was then the haze of perfumed smoke lifted, and I realized what I had witnessed. My blood ran colder than a sea storm.

  Not a battlefield at all, but a levy to the wild rites of Dionysus. I had heard of men who spilt themselves on the earth, as a recompense for Orpheus who was murdered and brought back to us as a god. For just as the seed of man brings life, so it does rebirth. It was one of the most sacred of rituals. One where Dionysus himself moved in our veins.

  I knew these truths from the lessons of my mother. And now I’d seen how it was done.

  I felt shaky and sickened as I wrenched my hand free of the Bacchae’s grasp and stumbled from the hall. Was this was what my mother had meant for me, even before our village was taken? Before necessity forced us to take refuge in the temple. My intended destiny was to sweat and seethe beneath a temple priest, no better than a receptacle for lust?

  With my heart lodged in my throat, I went to find her and demand the truth. I made it two steps before the world dimmed and I slid to the floor.

  Chapter Three

  “It was the wine.” My mother set aside her mending.

  Her chamber was not as small as my own but still not as large as some I had seen. She had a straw pallet, as did we all, but also a low wooden stool and a candle.

  “The wine?” I was puzzled. “Was it poisoned like the smoke?”

  My mother’s lips twisted in a wry smile.