He nodded at that. The tall statue of her nude—carved as Aphrodite—always stood in the courtyard, shiny with a fresh sheen of olive oil. She had paid Eurybiades to have it carted off from Athens and the studio of Praxiteles. That brought as many into her house as did her ripe girls. Mêlon found himself wondering who was more alive, the stone or Phrynê herself. Soon she had the statue brought into a special antechamber and charged an Athenian drachma a look. Many from Athens and beyond trudged over Kithairon to gaze at the godly marble work. Yet the statue and her courtyard of pots were only a foretaste of what Phrynê had prepared inside her tall halls. There were torches around a large common room. A shallow splash pool in the middle was usually full. When Mêlon entered, there were often naked fat men whose slaves tilled all their fields, with two heavy-set girls each, all entwined in the water. Though from the look of it, Mêlon scoffed to himself, the bald-heads looked more in pain than in the thrall of Erôs. Did any of these shield-bellies, men or women, ever plow or prune?
Stone couches with pillows lined the room. Carved arms and legs served as arm rests. A mural ran around all four walls above the heads of the dozen or so who were drinking wine. A flock of airborne phalloi, erect with feathered wings, were painted above, like harpies attacking naked girls in flight. One had eyes wide and was spitting out from its fanged mouth at a targeted woman below with legs wide open. About half of these figures had penetrated the fleeing in every way imaginable. In two scenes, six or seven of the winged shafts had cornered a smiling yellow-headed Amazon and were hovering over her erect nipples as she fought them back with a club. Instead of the gnarly bark of the olive and the rocks of the barley field, this was now the afternoon view of Mêlon, son of Malgis, whose hands became more polished than cut.
On one table was an array of leather dildos, olisboi of various sizes and shapes soaking in olive oil. If that weren’t enough, the bottoms of all the wine cups of Phrynê were decorated with even worse, Satyrs and centaurs mounting men and women who themselves were mounting each other—the painted scenes all visible to the guests each time a man put wine to his lips. Yet Phrynê’s actual guests seemed far older than those frolicking on the walls and pots. Still, all this was of no concern for Mêlon, or so he said to himself, since it was usually enough for him to lie down, drink some wine, and listen to the gossip of the Thespians—especially the mention of the growing war circle of Epaminondas. He often met the roustabout Murmex and his master trader Eurybiades in the house of Phrynê as well. They had three wagons, as he once boasted, and they made the trip over Kithairon every ten days. Each month the two also went northward to the hot gates and the great plains of Thessaly and the vale of Tempê. “Democracy in Thebes and Athens at the same time?” Eurybiades laughed. “So border peddling is good for us. It will stay that way—unless that philosopher Epaminondas objects. That faker with Orpheus on his shield may get one of his war ideas again. He thinks he’s god and so starts up the war and heads into the morass down south.” The profits of Eurybiades from love piled higher even than those from the loot after Leuktra, so he now praised Erôs and damned the war gods Artemis and Ares.
Phrynê had claimed friendship with the sophists in Thebes. When she first opened her salon, she had courted the famous Alkidamas—who few saw, but whose words many heard. In the days before Leuktra, he had told Phrynê (so she said), “I say you are as firm as Naïs, my Phrynê, and with a livelier tongue. I knew her at twenty-five, but not at your thirty.” Phrynê wanted even more from the man. “Did she sing her Simonides and Alkman? Did she dance on her toes, or swing from a limb, or have breasts as these? How many of the Spartan bibases can she do? Can she jump up and hit her buttocks with her heels, hit them five hundred times as I do? Did she speak with Platôn in Attic, and dally in the bow and arrow with an Iphikrates?”
“No, no to all that,” conceded Alkidamas. “She bore me a son, the one Lichas or his foul son cut down at Leuktra. As handsome as I am ugly, Kalliphon was, though his shoulders were narrow and bottom too wide—like his mother’s. Now the earth of Leuktra covers his ashes. His name is carved in black marble with the others on the road to Tanagra, since he died for the dream of Epaminondas.”
“Our beloved general,” Phrynê spoke softly of Epaminondas to Alkidamas, “is some idol that we worship as if he were gold and ivory. And why not, given his strong right arm and his honey tongue and simple dress? For your Mêlon of the prophecies, Epaminondas promises that the lame-leg’s genius is at last appreciated, that he has an ordeal only worthy of a few select like himself, at least enough to pleasure us with his godhead as he now puffs himself up and struts down from his vineyard. For our dear Nêto, she thinks not just that she is a helot again, but has invented herself, of course, as a lord of the helots, our new Penesthelia, the Amazon general, at the head of some great serf horde that shall take down Sparta—quite something for a raisin seller just last year in the stalls weaving her webs to trap her rich master. And you, our brilliant Alkidamas, in your arrogance you believe your Epaminondas will make you first philosopher of Hellas, or maybe the new ruler of helot Messenia. Oh yes, then we have the gold-bags wall-builder Proxenos, who builds himself a castle and playhouse above the Asopos, and when that is not enough wants entire cities for his sport—as he frolics on his marble couches with that troublemaker Nêto. He too says he “is for Epaminondas,” without a clue that he is building these huge citadels for those who will turn on Sparta—and perhaps eventually on us. I’ve even had the great hoplite Ainias of Stymphalos in my halls, the best killer of all the circle of Epaminondas. He wants walls for his beaten-down Arkadians, and pledges his spear craft to Epaminondas in the exchange, the most honest thug of the lot. Touch a hair on the head of Lord Proxenos of the golden coins, the builder of Ainias’s fantasy walls, and you earn a spear in the gut from Ainias, who prides himself a “Tactician” after Leuktra. Oh, I forgot Chiôn. Chiôn always loose at night, even as he dares prance in here in day as first citizen of Thespiai, as if we must praise his killing of the far better men at Leuktra. Quite a crowd, this circle the childless, wifeless Epaminondas has conjured up. My, my, I must talk with him again some day.”
Mêlon had heard the same from Phrynê. He took solace in the knowledge that she, as the spurned lover, was now obsessed with the circle of Epaminondas, and that should the great man ever walk in, Phrynê herself, like some Kappadochian plaything out of the great king’s harem, would kowtow before the Theban. Mêlon still told himself he was here, he insisted, only on business and so saw Proxenos the Plataian on the fourth day of each new moon as he came into the halls of Phrynê covered with the dust of bricks and stone and the smell of lead and iron. Phrynê gave him free rein of her house, since Proxenos had promised that her salon would stay untouched amid his rework of the fortifications of Thespiai. His new walls would go out around her crumbling corner tower, built into what was left after the Thebans had dismantled the circuit. After Leuktra the frightened Thespians, who had abandoned the cause of the Boiotians, had hired Proxenos to raise their walls, lest Epaminondas pay them a visit. As for Proxenos, he wished to try out some of his circular towers on the town before he built a new one thirty cubits high down in the Peloponnesos. Proxenos and Ainias had been down in the south each month, busy with what they called “the big things,” ta megala pragma that were turning Hellas upside down in the land of the Spartans. So here in the house of Phrynê, Mêlon began putting together from the rumors of guests something more also about this Proxenos who appeared now to be committed to the plans of Epaminondas. And he assumed as well that anything he might tell Phrynê would up in about six days in the ears of Lichas himself—and on to the shadowy Lord Kuniskos of Messenia, the new master of the helots known even in the north.
As Mêlon pondered this Proxenos, more memories came to him. He knew of old talk of a a rich Proxenos, an oligarch who had lived on a farm with a high tower near the battlefield of Plataia, along the reedy banks of the Asopos River. The older Proxenos was a killer, with great
chests of silver (and more still that Mêlon did not know of with gold), who foolishly went east to Babylon for pay under the Spartan Klearchos—the Spartan thug whose son had killed Staphis at Leuktra.
The shadow from his father’s past, he learned from Phrynê, was the father of this present Proxenos, this dusty man on the couch beside him. The older Proxenos, Mêlon remembered as well, had been murdered by the Persians while he parleyed for the Ten Thousand. Unlike the father, this aristocrat Proxenos spoke softly to Mêlon, in a careful Boiotian more like Attic as some did from the border town of Plataia. Watch these tame ones like Proxenos, Phrynê warned Mêlon later, these men who plan vast new cities that will only cause more war for the price of their craft—and their vanity and their sense of entitlement and their desire to be pure and loved and all the other fat fruit that the carrion Nemesis gorges on. In their cases, she hoped the furies would be Lichas and his son Antikrates, who got their prompts from tall-ears Phrynê up north.
Yes, the dreamers smile and keep their bile inside, or so Phrynê preached to her clients who followed Epaminondas. Give me your ugly Lichas at Leuktra any afternoon, who is what he is by his own scars. So Phrynê spoke to any who would listen and flirted when Proxenos entered, often with Ainias to discover the when and where of a winter march to the south: the one to found the great cities of the Arkadians, the new fetters of the Peloponnesos, the other to ensure that the Plataian would live to remake his fatherland in stone, and so at last keep it free from the hated Spartans.
Mêlon listened to her bile, but wondered perhaps if he, the hide-clad farmer on Helikon, might still match the aristocrat Proxenos, might earn Phrynê’s hatred as well with some great deed to trump even Leuktra. The delusions of the town now had him and squeezed him nightly. Yes, Mêlon, son of Malgis, might himself plan some big upheaval to the south, something of the sort his son Lophis had once boasted about. Yes, he might do even greater things to the south. He liked the rumor and big anger from Phrynê about Leuktra as he came in from Helikon and greeted the obsequious townspeople on his way to Toad’s house. No longer deemed crazy, he was no longer even mysterious, but was seen and trusted when the Thespians went to the assembly to vote for the blocks on the wall and to pay fair prices for the emancipated slaves that had earned their freedom when they went to Leuktra.
The road from eccentricity to respectability is not as long as one might think. Both rely first on being known. Mêlon’s name was certainly on the lips of most before, but especially after, Leuktra.
CHAPTER 15
Nêto Unbound
During these dog days on the farm in the calm year after Leuktra, when the midday sleeps were the longest, Nêto moved out of the estate and prepared to head south on the scent of an autumn war and upheaval. She was, of course, her own person after the emancipation decree of the Thespians for all those who had gone to Leuktra—even those slaves in the camp who had not put on armor and joined the ranks. Nêto had known no other home but Helikon, since her sale ten and more years earlier. Nêto was now renowned in Thespiai as the conduit to the voice of divine Pasiphai. She was acclaimed as the one seer of the north who rightly had seen in her sleep that her master Mêlon, the apple, would kill Kleombrotos. She had promised that the Thebans would prove mightier in war at Leuktra. That too had happened. That she knew even more about the fates of Proxenos, Chiôn, and Gorgos, perhaps even Mêlon and Epaminondas, she now kept quiet.
The new freedman Myron was about town as Nêto once had been, talking up the Malgidai and soon to reopen the family fruit stall that Nêto had begun. Myron talked with much more zeal, since for a collector of dung it was quite a rise in life to sell cucumbers and raisins as a free man, in the shade of a stone stoa no less. Of course, his master Hippias had been murdered and could not sue to reclaim his property, and he had no agenda about helots and Spartans and such things in the south. Few on Helikon cared that Nêto had found and hired Myron—only that he was the new Nêto without the babble. Soon she was now as irrelevant when freed as she had been valued when a slave despite her fame in town. Eudoros and Neander needed no guide, either. She even faulted herself for the dead Sturax, who had gone with Gorgos to the camp of the Spartans, but never returned. Worse still, she had lost the other Molossian hound Porpax as well. All these thoughts, both trivial and fundamental, piled high in her mind. Each was like the stones on Chiôn’s terraces, and together they pressed her down to a sort of mania—that she was now the enemy of her own people, now the exile in her own land. Be careful, she remembered her Pythagoras, of getting too much of what you dream for.
Added to these constant second thoughts and regrets was the growing paradox of her long harangues about the freedom of the Messenians delivered from her safe perch on Helikon. Was it not more honest, as Damô had lectured her, to agitate when actually on Mt. Ithômê with Nikôn and his helots, where such talk meant often death? After Leuktra, with her freedom and the fame of her master, she thought at last Mêlon might wed her. He was a recluse, a duskolos anyway and would care little of what the Thespians might say about taking a freedwoman as wife. With Chiôn and Damô and the three boys of Lophis, and her boys to come, the farm would enter its greatest phase and would no doubt carve even more new fields from Helikon. Instead Mêlon had ignored her and talked more of the rumor-monger Phrynê’s salon than the high pond where they used to gaze out at the hillsides below when she put him to sleep with her Thisbean strains. Nêto had tried to purge herself to cleanse out the black bile. A doctor in Thespiai had bled her as well. Still the cloud surrounded her. Night became more welcome than day.
With her pupil Proxenos gone often to the south, Nêto had also met a strange new teacher, this Alkidamas, who kept his hands out of her chiton and instead encouraged her visions. On the day before she decided to leave Helikon, she saw him coming out of the house of Phrynê, outside of which she had developed a habit of lingering and watching when she finished peddling the farm’s harvests. His admonitions had helped to convince her to leave, although that was not necessarily his intent. “You are our bridge to the Olympians. As their superstitions fade with the bright sun of logos, they impart shadows of things to come to you as their final gifts. Use them for us, Nêto. Leuktra was not the end of things as they say. But as the Olympians whisper, the beginning of them all. Things are on the move to the south, though we cannot sense that yet in the quiet up here.”
Be careful of surrendering completely to geometry and measures and numbers, Alkidamas had also taught her—lest she build her house on false reason, one weak foundation supporting ever more mud bricks of logic before collapsing altogether. Logos is a cold god. It could not explain all that he promised to explain. Reason might tell us why and how black and yellow bile differ, or how to measure the distance to the moon. But logos cannot say why one farmer suffered so from the bad air and fevers and another didn’t. Or why one man was run over by a wild cart and another veteran of five battles lived to eighty. No, she needed faith in a moral god as well, not just pure reason and not just the deathless ones on Olympos who were worse than men. On the afternoon after listening to Alkidamas, Nêto passed Mêlon on her way down the trail and sealed the parting. “Whoa master, it is too hot to hike up in the sun. Look at you without your broad hat. Fetch it from the shed.”
“Is that where it is?”
“Yes. Put it on.”
“Nêto, Nêto, always the slave. Though you are freer than any politês in Boiotia and all that you saw came to pass. So well did the gods—or at least Pasiphai in the south—breathe into you the ways of the future. But remember, Hellas is wild. You are weak and a woman and going where such kind do not venture—even if you claim to be a priestess and a freedwoman at that, and under the protect of Chiôn and Mêlon of Leuktra. I gave you freedom, and you trumped it, but that does not mean others see that way. If I was foolish enough to come up bareheaded in the heat, why are you so silly coming down alone and without a hat as well?”
“Let me worry about the heat, man of the city
.”
“Well, you alone on Helikon have a fountain pipe to bring you cold water. Here are five silver shields I got for the bag of dried pears I carried down today to peddle in town, though I hear I did not do as well as you did yesterday.”
“Pay me nothing, Mêlon. I eat more on your farm alone than I earn these days. I am going to see Theanô, the widow of Staphis, to help her with the vintage. It is not safe anymore with even tough Thrakians murdered in the wild—and Hippias, master of Myron, killed like a dog. Yes, this man-bear that killed Hippias and maybe Dirkê’s two men, he is out there above the timber line. They say that Hipponichos, son of Hippias, bars himself in fear in his tower—although I figure he may already be rotting up there hung from the rafters, and can’t answer the door. Theanô is a Messenian—again like me, a helot at birth.”
“Theanô is good and poor, you mean, Nêto,” Mêlon went on, “But you have chores here. Neander wants to learn your block letters. Damô says you must nurse Chiôn’s new one. It comes with the spring. Your shovel-head Myron needs help. He is a dull one, an empty skull to begin with. The vintage is good. But only because you clipped off the excess bunches. We—I most of all—have more need for you than ever. I miss your tune of Thisbê to call me down from the high orchard.”
The End of Sparta Page 19