HETAERA: Daughter of the Gods

by Coffey, J. A.

  “You have so much to learn.” She shook her head. “Not poisoned. Mixed with special herbs to give it the power of Dionysus’ blood during the Bacchanal. It helps us to commune with our lord. I felt so close to him...closer than I have in years.” Tears glittered in her eyes. “I am proud you were chosen to join in. It is a great boon!”

  “A boon! I thought he was killing her! I was frightened!” I plucked at a loose thread in my chiton.

  I knew what the rutting of animals was, having tended more than my share in our village. And I knew of the passion between men and women, being a child of two lovers. But the herbs in the wine and smoke had twisted it all in my mind. I was conflicted--sickened, and yet strangely thrilled by what I witnessed at the Bacchanal.

  “Mamita, must I lay with any ktístai who desires me?” I asked, worriedly. “How could you wish such a thing for me? I’m still a child.” I was afraid of what I must do in the temple to earn our keep. Was this the life of a Bacchae?

  “You are old enough to be wed.” My mother shook her head and clucked like an offended thrush. “Have you remembered nothing of my lessons? Whist, Dori, these teachings are far beneath your years. We give honor to the gods through our grace and beauty. It is good we have come.”

  I could not believe my ears.

  Had she forgotten the very reason for our flight to the temple? Had she forgotten my father’s heart so soon? I wanted to find love in a marriage bed, the same passion that bound my father to my mother. I was afraid of what my part in the temple rites might be, but much more terrifying was the heat running through my veins. I’d never thought to see such lust, nor did I think to take part in it. Such things were the tales of women.

  “Good? Good that my father should have died at the hands of the Greeks?” My voice was shrill and hot tears welled up to blur my vision. “You think it a fine thing that I should offer up my body to the service of the gods? If my father were alive he would never have allowed you to sell me to the temple priests for your own survival.”

  I do not know where the words came from, perhaps the black stain on my guilty soul. My mother rounded on me, and slapped me hard across the cheek.

  Thracian children are not beaten, as are the Spartans and Greeks. Her loss of control was a marked sign of the pain my words caused her. But the anguish of my father’s death was too new, too raw for me to care about her pain.

  “Never speak such words to me again.” She pointed a long tapered finger at me and her eyes flashed. “It is a blessing the temple accepted us. For you to witness the most holy of rites. To be respected and beloved by the gods. Think you, on where we would be now, if not for here? Brutalized by some Grecian dog? Fodder for the worms?” She turned away from me, and I heard her stifle a sob. “Not a sun will set that I will not ache for my husband’s arms to comfort me. I will never feel them again. But you hold hope in your future, should you have the courage to grasp it. You know the entrance to the temple, Doricha. There are no gates to hinder you should you choose to go.”

  What can I say, but that I was a child then, and I fled from her anger and her pain. I padded through the hallways, confused and alone. I had not meant to argue with her, and yet I could not stop myself from hasty words to test the bond between us.

  I staggered against the walls, unseen by any. My head pounded from both her blow and the thoughts turning round in my brain. I’d wanted to wound her. I wanted to scream at her, why did you not keep him home with you that night?

  And what’s worse, I found my anger had tainted even my father’s memory. The temple was my duty, my birth right as the daughter of a Bacchae. Dionysus was our lord and master, so handsome and so virile. Who was my father to keep me from such a god’s embrace? I felt angry, ignorant and ill-used. And then, a moment later, came the shame.

  “Forgive me,” I whispered into the darkness. I don’t know which of them I meant.

  I covered my face with my hands and wept for my dead father, my poor, beautiful mother, and myself, still lost between the both of them.

  A priestess found me there, with my face buried against the stone wall. She mistook my tears and led me back to my quarters. I laid myself out on my pallet, wretched and expecting the gods to curse me for my blasphemous thoughts.

  I must have dozed, because I awoke to the sounds of someone entering my chamber. Soft hesitant footfalls padded across the silent expanse of my small room. I bolted upright and peered into the darkness.

  “Who’s there?” I whispered. The familiar scent of sorrow enfolded me.

  “Shh, Daughter.” My mother’s words floated out of the darkness like welcome birdsong. Her voice was hoarse; I could tell she had been weeping. “I should not have exposed you to our sacred rites without preparing you first. It was a mistake. Allow me to stay with you this last time. Tomorrow your training will begin.”

  She slipped onto the straw pallet, and I felt the soft warmth of her body mold against my back and legs. Tears pricked my eyes anew. We lay side by side for long moments, while she stroked my hair. She let it run through her fingers like water, and the movement soothed my troubled heart.

  “I am sorry,” I said.

  She sighed and rested her arm over my waist. “So am I, Doricha. So am I.”

  “I do want to make you proud to call me Daughter.” And I did, deep in my heart. I fancied I could hear her smiling in the darkness.

  “And so you shall. You are special, Doricha. One day, all the world will know your name,” she promised.

  We fell asleep smiling at our own absurdity.

  *** ***

  In the wee morning hours, I arose to an empty bed. My mother entered the room with a neophyte’s robes. She held them out for me to try.

  I slipped into the fresh robes and allowed her to brush my hair out. She left it long and shining. If her eyes were a touch wistful at the sight of my red-gold tresses, I pretended not to notice. There had been enough harsh words between us regarding my father, and I would offer up no more to wound her with.

  “Aidne will see you first. She will determine your strengths and skills, if she establishes you have any.” Mother placed her hand under my chin and tipped my head back. “You have very fine eyes, I think, and your skin is fair. Well,” she said with a sigh. “We shall see.”

  I was too nervous to eat much the first meal, but with crease worrying my mother’s forehead, I managed to gulp down some wine and a bit of coarse bread. Then, a pretty blushing girl with a devotee’s robes came to lead me away.

  “My name is Mara,” said the girl. She took my hand and smiled. I could not help but smile back at her dimpled cheeks. She did not appear the least bit nervous to see this Aidne, and it eased my trepidation.

  “I am Doricha, but my mother calls me Dori.”

  “Then so shall I call you, if you’ll have it. I can tell we shall be near-sisters in no time.” Mara tucked my hand in the crook of her elbow and whispered, “Don’t be nervous.”

  “Why? Is not Aidne very stern?”

  “Oh no! She is very stern. And she is likely to be rough with you as well, considering…but nervousness will not please her.”

  “Considering what?” I asked, beginning to feel faint in my sandals.

  “Your mother,” she replied.

  I had not time to ask her more, for we arrived at Aidne’s chamber. Mara knocked on the wood, and waited until she was bid entry. She closed the door soundly in my face, and alas, there was no hand-sized crevice through which to listen. I stood in the hall and shifted in my sandals unsure if I should knock on the door myself. And all the while, a sinking fear I might disgrace my mother churned my stomach.

  At last the door was opened, but not by Mara. It was another devotee, a girl of no more than sixteen winters, with dull red hair and a surly frown. She gestured for me to enter.

  “Come close where I can see you.” I turned my head and found a woman of advanced age. Her pale hair had faded to grey near her temples, but her face bore the beauty of our race like a shield
to battle. Faint lines etched the skin around her mouth and eyes. Those eyes were sharp and not kind when she turned to me.

  “Step quick, girl! The gods wait for no one, least of all you.” I recognized that voice as the faceless woman who had almost denied us entrance to the temple.

  Oh, how I fought the urge to scurry to her side, like a kit cleaves to its mother when nipped. Instead, I forced myself to walk at a sedate pace and tried my best to emulate my mother’s graceful sway. In the corner of the room, Mara shifted her weight to the balls of her feet as if she could force me to hurry.

  “Same eyes,” grunted the old woman. “More green than grey. Pah!” She made a shooing motion with her hand. “That’s his hair, too, I’ll wager.” She scrutinized every inch of my face. I felt my flesh crawl under the touch of her gaze and I resisted the urge to scratch my nose.

  Aidne circled me, slowly like a serpent. “Well, strip off your robes.”

  I must have displayed my shock, because as I felt my brows draw up, hers narrowed until I could see the glimmer of her black pupils. She hates me, I thought. My arms felt wooden as I moved to unpin my woven pleats and my cheeks burned fiercer than the hottest flame.

  “Here, I will help her,” Mara volunteered. She scooted to my side and I felt better to have her step between Aidne and me, as if she could shield me from the old woman’s displeasure. Aidne moved away from us to scold the red-haired girl.

  “She despises me,” I hissed. My eyes darted beyond Mara’s pale pink shoulder to where Aidne muttered.

  “Perhaps,” whispered Mara, unclasping my robes. “She was devastated when your mother left the temple, or so they say.”

  “She knew my mother?” I risked another furtive glance. Aidne frowned at me and strode over to the pair of us. The sullen red-haired girl glared at us. Mara bit her lip and glided back to the wall like a shadow.

  “Drop your hands,” Aidne commanded. I realized I was clutching my robes over my body. Well, if she was determined to hate me, I would not give her the satisfaction of seeing me cringe.

  I lowered my hands, and my robes followed. The soft woven material puddled at my feet. The room was cold, but I would not show her my discomfort. Chill bumps grew on my legs. I thrust out my budding breasts and lifted my chin, feeling my nipples pucker. My vision, I affixed to a far off spot on the chamber wall, as my audacity did not extend to meeting her eyes.

  “Your limbs are long and spindly. You will be tall, I think.” She sniffed. “That is something, at least. Your buttocks are round and high. Good. You will be especially suited to dance, if you have any grace about you at all. Time will tell, girl, what blood runs through those veins of yours. Now, open your mouth.”

  I blushed with pride at her assessment.

  Aidne counted my teeth and peered down my throat. She pinched the flesh of my arms and legs. Oh, would this inspection never cease? I felt like a brood nanny goat. When she was satisfied, at least as much as she could be, she instructed me to sing.

  My heart sank, for song is not one of my finest gifts. My legs quivered and my throat closed with nervousness, but I sang. I sang loudly, though perhaps not well. When I finished, Aidne folded her arms across her chest.

  “Well, you will never be exceptional, but you will not be the lowliest among us, unless you are idle,” she said. Her eyes flitted to the red-haired girl. I caught Mara stifling a smile.

  “You may report to Lukra for dance this morning. After the midday meal, I wish you to study our sacred histories with Merikos, the priest who met you at the tunnels.”

  Merikos. The priest with the kind eyes. I repeated his name until I was certain not to forget.

  “In the days that follow, you will be assigned a different tutor for song, or harp and flute, for tumbling and gymnastikas. If you show promise, you will be set new tasks and find a position in the temple. But if you are idle, you will be sent to the kitchens and serve the priests with menial chores for the rest of your days. What do they call you, girl?”

  “Doricha.”

  Aidne grunted. “Very well, Doricha. You may go.”

  I’d never minded the sound of my own name, until I heard it spoken from her lips. Mara moved to escort me out.

  “Stay, Mara. Let Suvra take her. I have need of you elsewhere.”

  My heart plummeted again.

  Suvra the Surly, as I came to call her in my own mind, shuffled forward with no pretense at grace and led me from the chamber. I had one last glance at a meek-eyed Mara before the door was closed.

  “I saw you smile.” Suvra lifted her squared chin several notches. “You think I am the lowliest of the devotees? Humph! I serve my grandmother well enough.”

  Disbelief hit me like a thunderclap. “Aidne is your…?”

  “My grandmother.” She sneered. “You’re lucky she asked to see you. They would not have let you or your mother stay if my grandmother had declined to see you. Think on that, little devotee.” Suvra smiled, a sight which, I’m sorry to say, did not improve her looks.

  “Why would she do such a thing?” I mused aloud.

  “Why would she not!” Suvra cried indignantly. “Your mother was her sister’s child, and most beloved when she forsook our ways to lay with a mere village warrior. She, who was trained to service gods and kings!”

  A pair of priests entered the cold, damp hall and stared at us. They veered away, frowning.

  “My mother,” I murmured. “I must speak with her….”

  “In there.” Suvra grabbed my shoulder. She pointed to a chamber where I could hear the steady staccato of wood striking stone. “Or will you shame both our names by refusing your first instruction?”

  My mind was as scattered as the leaves of a cypress before winter’s frozen mantle lays all aside. I was to report to Lukra for dance. I wanted to speak with my mother, but even more desperate was the desire to do well, to be worthy. To become a woman of honor, a beloved Bacchae. If Aidne saw merit in me, I would not fail her or my mother.

  Dionysus, if it be your will let me bring glory to your service. And so I prayed and stepped over the threshold.

  Chapter Four

  “Stand up straight!” Lukra clapped her hands in a steady rhythm. “Make your spine a sarisa, to battle against age and ugliness. Your limbs should float like foam on the waves. No, no. Not that like. Like this.” She jabbed between my shoulder blades. “Now, again.”

  Sweat trickled down my back and soaked into my robes as I performed the agonizingly slow steps. Next to me, Mara’s face shone with perspiration and her customary merry expression. I had been at the temple for ninety days, with little time to rest or see my mother. I learned quickly and, indeed, Aidne had spoken true. I did have some gift for dance.

  Mara had become my near-sister, indeed. We took most our meals together and could oft be found whispering in the halls, when we were not training or serving. She was my first true friend, as the village children were somewhat fearful of my mother’s training. Mara, like me, was finding joy in newly gained secrets taught to the temple devotees.

  In addition to being required to serve in the temple professions, the Bacchae taught us the rudiments of the five arts of love making: the movements and positions, with special emphasis on the kelēs--the female superior “race horse” position. Mara and I had giggled through them at first, but upon recalling the Bacchanal, I quickly sobered. I was becoming a woman now.

  Second, we were instructed in the arts of song and dance, though Sophriae despaired of my learning to sing well. Then, instruction in cosmetics and hygiene, the art of persuasive speech, poetry, and recitation, and how to use empathy, sensitivity and all the ruses and charms of amorous relations. Now that I was perceived a woman, I could not wait to employ my new found knowledge.

  I devoted myself to learning my letters and learned to write my own name. I even helped Aidne to sort herbs, fragrant artemesia, fennel for protection, golden flowered rue for healing, and pennyroyal used in Bacchanal initiation and to prevent babes. One of th
em made my nose tickle and drip until Aidne cursed and sent me away. Weeks passed as I exhausted my body and mind, too filled with temple training to mourn my lost father and the freedom of my youth.

  Every afternoon, I slipped away from the mid-day meal to arrive early for my lessons with Merikos. He began with the history every Thracian child is taught, how roving tribes of men settled in this most sacred place and paid tribute to Dionysus. Satisfied I had memorized those simple tales, he ventured into the lesser-known aspects of our religion; those studied only by the holy temple devotees who must spread the word of the gods to those less fortunate. He had changed since our acceptance into the temple, or perhaps it was only my knowing him better that made it so. I was reminded of the lithe form of Dionysus, older than me in years but still youthful with his handsome form and unlined skin.

  That was Merikos.

  And even more secret, he spoke of Orpheus, son of the muse Kalliope and Oiagros, a river god. Orpheus, who charmed the wild animals, beguiled the trees and flowers with his lyre, and drew followers with the beauty of his song. Orpheus, who sailed with the Grecian Argonauts to search for the Golden Fleece and protected them from the Sirens with his magic song. When he descended into Hades to rescue his beloved Eurydice, Dionysus was angered. Our lord turned his face from his favored son of Thrace, and the Maenads murdered Orpheus. Some priests still paid homage to Orpheus in secret and I guessed Merikos was one of them.

  For if it is not here, where our dense forests, fertile valleys and gentle shores ring the power of the gods, then where? If not in our towering mountains with their wide green gorges and slopes tilting under the weight of poplars, willows, and humble shrubs that perfume the breeze, then it is not anywhere on this earth. Such were the teachings of Merikos and my ears never tired of hearing them, or my lips of repeating them to Mara.

  “I do not believe a man could hold sway over the gods merely with his voice.” Mara fluffed her hair with her hands.

  It was very late. We had lingered over the evening meal until none were left, save the old crone who cleared away the platters. She gave us a dark look and we jumped to our feet and moved towards the devotees’ hall.