So it was that the Feather of Ma’at continued her journey on the Nile, toward the great city of Alexandria. Xena lay on a pallet on the deck, swathed like a mummy, insensate. Gabrielle sat at her side, her eyes alternating from the solemnity of the warrior’s face, and watching the land slide by between the strokes of the sailor’s oars. During the day the shining gold of the sunlight, each ray ending in the touch of Life, caressed the teeming green universe of the river. At first Gabrielle had wanted to keep Xena in the cabin, aware of the effect the sight of her immobilized had on the Amazons of their guard. It was the touch of the sunlight, rippling with life, which convinced her to ask Captain Horem to create a pallet for the warrior on the deck. There she lay in state, like a fallen king, like a savior god awaiting rebirth.
The first day, the sight of the warrior’s body made the Amazons nervous as cats, and they took any opportunity to stay clear of the area. On the second day, when Xena had not stirred, nor had Gabrielle left her side, the Amazons began to inch closer. An informal guard sprang up, without any orders being issued from Captain Musu. At all hours of the day and night, a guard of four stood at the cardinal points, forming a square around the pallet. A canopy was erected during the hottest hours of the afternoon, made of a bolt of fine linen one of the sailors had bashfully purchased in a local town and proffered to the towering Dahomean guard.
As the ship moved up the river, Gabrielle began to notice more people along the banks, not just fishermen and farmers pausing at their labors, but children, women, officials, soldiers. It took her half a day to realize that they had heard of the ship, and of its cargo, and had come to the river to watch the boat pass by. One woman held her toddler up to see. Xena had passed into legend.
Gabrielle asked Geb about that, as soon as she realized that the Egyptians along the banks were pointing and standing as the Feather of Ma’at swept along the water.
“Geb, what is going on? At first it was just people noticing the boat, or so I thought. But they are coming to the riverbank just to watch us pass by. And they are pointing at Xena.”
“I can only imagine, but knowing the Egyptian mind, I’d say that the word has spread that an incarnation of the soter has come, in the form of the warrior. The people gather to see the bier of Osiris as he makes his way into the West. Or, in this case, she. ” Geb said, calmly.
“Soter? They see Xena as a savior?” Gabrielle’s voice pitched upward.
“As one of the dying and rising gods. An incarnation of Osiris. It was bound to happen, storyteller. This part of the world is rife with such myths- you cannot swing a mummified cat anywhere from Egypt to Babylon without hitting a dying and rising god, a savior who brings beneficence to the common people. The myth is real, storyteller. They drink it in with their mother’s milk. Every Pharaoh is a god, a form of the incarnate Horus, son of Osiris. It makes sense that they would see Xena in this myth.”
“We’re Greeks!” Gabrielle protested.
“So are the Ptolemaic kings, well, Macedonians with Greek pretensions, and they are often surnamed soter. It is a Greek word after all.” Geb said, serenely.
“But...how did this happen?” Gabrielle shaded her eyes and looked toward the riverbank. A line of people stood in respect as the ship came by. Music drifted up, and a spontaneous song arouse from the watchers. Gabrielle didn’t need to speak Egyptian to know that it was a song of praise for Osiris.
“The exorcist who helped us stands high in the temple of Osiris. It is likely he told the tale, of the Greek hero struck down in the Underworld, and of the woman who will wander the world to make her whole and bring her back. This is as much about you as it is about Xena, storyteller. The people look at you sitting by her side, and they see their beloved Isis, sister and wife to Osiris. She who loved him enough to gather his scattered body and bring him back to life after his murder by the evil Seth. Your devotion touches the deepest chord in the Egyptians. They hail you as Isis.”
The Feather of Ma’at stopped at the next town for supplies. The word passed from the limestone quay to the town like a falling star, ripping across the sky. By the time the sailors and Amazons, led by Geb, walked into the town, a spontaneous religious festival was in full swing. Geb found it all deeply amusing. The sailors found it exciting, as they were now servants of the new Osiris. Their status came with flowers, dancing, beer, and adoration from the townspeople. The Amazons conducted themselves as soldiers, but allowed the Egyptians to weave garlands and press small gifts into their hands after Captain Musu indicated consent.
Supplies were cheaper, the welcome was lavish and heartfelt. No harm in it, that Geb could see. He thanked the village headman graciously, told him that they, ans the Osiris, appreciated their devotion. He then made what he thought was a graceful exit. They started to walk back to the ship. Ten paces from the quay, Geb heard a familiar set of noises. It couldn’t be, he thought, then looked behind them. The entire town followed in a parade, complete with lyres, lutes, rattles, sistrums, tambourines, cymbals, trilling, clapping and dancing in their wake. The women carried offerings of bread, beer, cloth, and incense, the men drove oxen and geese.
“What?” Musu demanded, of Geb.
The Nubian sighed. “I’ve been away from Egyptian life too long. I should have foreseen this. They want to see the Osiris and make offerings to the Isis. Quick, get on the ship and warn Gabrielle.”
The afternoon sun gilded the palaestra, the gymnasium full of young women in the flower of their youth and strength, practicing at the discus, lifting weights, tossing the javelin, and mastering the dust of the wrestling-ground.
In the colonnade sat the soldiers of various companies, women who had proven themselves in war, in political life, in the arts, idly sitting and discoursing as if they presence of the youths were a chance, a happenstance.
In fact, they came to sit by the palaestra to view the girls, and pick out the most promising, for soon they would be of an age to graduate from their first military training, and would be ready to choose their company, in war and in life, and accept suitors. So, noted philosophers would wax important when the girls came near, preening like peacocks before the youths. Modesty forbade the girls from lingering, and they passed by with eyes averted, as befitted their good name and family. yet, glances managed to be exchanged, on occasion, often behind the back of the trainer or tutor assigned to keep the girl’s reputation impeccable. This cohort would be eighteen by the turn of the year, time and to spare to get to know the dance of Eros.
So custom said.
The reality of the matter was that many of the girls had already gotten secret notes, passed in bunches of wild violets, a painted cup fresh from the potter inscribed with their name and the word beautiful, a hare or a cock, love-gifts from a suitor seeking their favor. They’d been taught, in as prim and modest a means as custom decreed, how to accept a suitors’ advances, how to react to bad poetry or singing more distinguished by passion than method. How to smile shyly but not inflame the easily wounded hearts of the suitors.
It did a girl and her family honor to have many suitors. They’d learned the way of such courtship since childhood. It reflected well on the beauty, nobility and grace of a girl to be sought after, to be the fashion. But it was up to her to choose the appropriate suitor. The most important thing, no trainer or tutor could teach them- how to love. How to fling their whole heart before the feet of the one noble suitor that would be worthy of them, that would love, protect and stand by them, in war and in peace. That, no one gets to learn without trial.
On the wrestling-ground, two young women strove. One, the smaller, dark haired and dark eyed, spat out the dust of the arena and regarded her friend.
“Enough of you throwing me around like a sack of meal. You defend,” Chariclo said.
Agave, tall, of a fair and noble aspect, with eyes blue and green and grey as the sea, smiled. “Whatever you say. You’d be fine if you set your feet when you took the hold.”
“You’d make a good trainer. Have you chosen your path?” Chariclo asked, and charged.
She was a good foot shorter than her comrade, a difference Agave illustrated by hoisting her up and tossing her aside. There was a whipcord strength concealed in that lithe form, a dancer’s strength. “Watch your hips. Same path I’ve always had.”
Chariclo waved off the hand Agave extended and wiped the dust from her cheek. “Thought that getting close to graduation might have sobered you.”
“I’m a Theban. I’ve wanted to serve in the Band since I was a girl. You know that.”
“I also know that the Band is made up only of pairs of lovers and beloveds. I know that you don’t have a lover.” Chariclo stood, weight shifted to one hip, like a woman in a philosopher’s debate, not a warrior in training.
“Yet. Stop posing for statuary and try that attack again, the trainer is looking this way,” Agave said.
Her friend did so, but her mind was not in the motion. After sliding off Agave’s exasperated defense, she resumed the conversation, uninterrupted. “Agave, are you sure you’re ready for that? The philosophy of the other self, the danger in losing your partner..there are easier ways to get into an elite unit. The Sacred Band isn’t the only one.”
The question was serious enough for Agave to abandon her stance and answer with her full attention. This was her life’s blood, more important than wrestling, more important than incurring the trainer’s wrath. “It is for me. It would mean nothing, the rewards, the honors, the danger, without the love bond. ‘Despising infamy, rivaling one another in honor’ as the poet says. The gods created us as pairs.”
Chariclo glanced over her shoulder. “The trainer’s coming. Put me in a headlock.” When Agave had done so, Chariclo whispered, “So you’ll start accepting suitors. Any interest yet?”
From the angle she was held, Chariclo had a unique perspective on her tall friend. The wellborn, well bred Agave was modest, and kept up a firm displace of decorum whenever they trained together, but from here, Chariclo could see her friend’s sea-eyes shift, subtly, under their long lashes. Toward the warriors who had just entered the palaestra. Members, from their insignia, of the Sacred Band.
“Oh, I get it. The race is already won,” Chariclo said.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re drooling like a hound before a roast hare. Which one is your Zeus?” Chariclo asked, forgetting to whisper.
Agave blushed, and dropped Chariclo as if she’d been burned. She didn’t answer Chariclo’s question, but turned her eyes to the colonnade, where the warriors were walking, seemingly absorbed in conversation. Her eyes fell on one warrior, and stopped there, hungry and open.
Chariclo followed the javelin of Agave’s gaze, and picked out its object. There, in a blue chiton, standing conversing with their trainer, who had abandoned her charges and was animatedly speaking to the warrior. A firm nod, a well formed face that held its stillness, no hint of amusement. The trainer flirted like a girl, the warrior looked away, across the palaestra. Chariclo recognized her then, from the cold steel of her eyes.
“Hiero? A veteran of Leuktra, ” She said, to Agave.
“And Mantinea, and Chaeronea. A warrior of the first rank, always in the van of the battle,” Agave said, worshipfully.
“You’re reaching high there, Ganymede,” Chariclo said.
That brought Agave’s attention back to her. The high blood of excitement was still in her cheek, the light that shone from her eyes rivaled the afternoon sun.
“Its not reaching. I’ve belonged to her since I first saw her. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
“Have you spoken? Any secret notes, any longing looks?” Chariclo asked.
Agave became a picture of sadness. “None. She has no idea that I exist.”
“We have our work cut out for us. Sometimes its the beloved’s responsibility to clout the lover over the head, and make her wake up. No matter what the tutors say about propriety.”
Later, after scraping down and dressing, Chariclo and Agave sat in the colonnade to catch the breeze, as they informed their tutors, and plot, as they told one another. The tutors sat just within earshot, ready enough to accept the excuse as long as the spring evening was so profound, and as long as no suitors lingered nearby. As the two girls were age mates, and had been friends since childhood, there was no fear for their reputations. Besides, they’d be eighteen in a month, the age of majority. So the tutors had relaxed their vigilance, and started a conversation themselves about a new play out of Attica.
“Any polemarch knows you review your intelligence before setting a battle plan. What do we know about your target?” Chariclo said, and started to answer her own question, ticking the points off on her fingers. “One, she’s famous. Two, she’s ridiculously brave. Holding the line at Mantinea, alone, after her shield-mate fell is the stuff of legend. Three, she has had no beloved since, that I know of, and I know the best gossips in the city.”
“No, she hasn’t courted anyone since Appolonia fell,” Agave said.
“Ok, single. Good for you, difficult because we don’t know what she likes. That will make attracting her attention harder.” Chariclo mused.
“The lover is supposed to do the courting,” Agave said, sounding unsure.
Chariclo rolled her eyes. “For Aphrodite’s sake. We let them think that, so they feel important. Alcibiades had to throw himself at Socrates.”
“We’re not Athenians. Hiero’s not a philosopher. What do I do? What do I say?” Agave asked.
“I’ll know that better after we get a chance to talk to her. Does she frequent the philosophers for conversation?” Chariclo asked.
“No, not that I’d ever noticed,” Agave said.
“Does she have servants?” Chariclo asked.
“A few, a household steward, a cook.”
“Does she give dinner parties?” Chariclo asked.
“Not often. For the festivals.”
“Ok. We get close to her at the Harmonia, that’s the next festival. Girls and women aren’t separated, and we can mingle freely. Go to the sacrifice, and we will arrange for you to toss a basket of hyacinths in her path. She, being noble, will stop and help you gather them. Get a word or two in. Be modest, but be memorable. Get invited to the dinner party at her place. We will bribe the cook if we have to; the steward will be too full of her own importance. It shouldn’t be hard, you’re of excellent family. We’ll have graduated by then, and will be expected to be mingling with the warriors.”
“You make it sound so easy.” Agave said.
“Of course I do. I don’t have to do the dirty work. And if all else fails, pray to Harmonia, she loves the bonding of companions. She’ll set things right, and before Hiero knows what hit her, she will think it was her idea all along to be your lover.”
The day of the sacrifice came like a pony running the last bend before the barn, bursting and headstrong. All the City gathered for the sacrifice at the Temple of Harmonia on the Cadmeia, women and girls mingling freely. Festivals were an agreed upon time to let down social barriers, let the classes stand shoulder to shoulder, soldiers and merchants, workers and aristocrats, philosophers and stonecutters.
Chariclo had jockeyed their position a dozen times in the crowd, the sacrifice being at the public altar. Finally, when Agave felt that the annoyed looks cast at them outweighed any potential advantage to being closer to their target, she grabbed her friend’s wrist and told her to stop.
“Here is fine.”
“We can see her, but if we were two rows over-“
“Chariclo-“
“All right, here’s good.”
The priestess elected to perform the sacrifice had done so nobly, all agreed, making the cut with precisions. The white cow went willingly, head obediently bowed, grains of barley mixed with raw wine dripping down her broad forehead.
Agave watched Hiero from the corner of her eye, afraid to be caught staring. The warrior stood, arms folded, exchanging an occasional word with the members of her company, other soldiers from the Sacred Band. Though dressed for the festival in unadorned white, she still carried herself as if armed. There was a straightness, a dignity, that could easily be seen as arrogance. She holds herself too far apart, Agave thought. She doesn’t smile. The sternness would crack away if she just smiled. She’s been only one thing too long, only one part of herself, as if she’d forgotten the rest.
“Look sharp. The sacrifice is done, the crowd is breaking up. Go wait by the corner of the Sacred Way, where it turns into the street. Hiero’s house is down past Eastern Gate that way, and I’ve noticed that she likes to take the longer walk. Watch. When she goes by, spill this basket of hyacinths.”
Chariclo concluded by shoving the basket into Agave’s hands, and giving her a push in the direction of the Sacred Way.
Agave, whose innate courage in the face of danger had yet to be tested, felt the woven basket hang like lead in hands suddenly cold. Was she mad, to do such a thing? She was eighteen now, an ephebe, a youth, not yet a woman until her age of majority at twenty. About the fling herself into Fate’s hands. She breathed a quick prayer to Harmonia- Lady, hear me, if this is your will, look with favor on our bonding. Ask your mother, the heavenly Aphrodite, to bless us. Already she thought of Hiero as her erastes, her lover. She just had to convince Hiero, shortly after letting the warrior know that she existed.
There wasn’t time for more thought. She stood at the corner of a building, watching the crowd stream away from the sacrifice. Just a few chose this route. Hiero. She would know that stride anywhere. In a moment she would pass the corner, and stride right past her, on toward her home. Now, or never.
The basket spilled. The waterfall of brilliant purple splashed in the warrior’s path, too quick for her to check her stride. Fragrance escaped from bruised petals from the blossoms caught under Hiero’s sandals.
Agave knew she should say something, anything, but all of Chariclo’s advice ran away from her when she looked right into Hiero’s surprised blue eyes. Not the color of steel at all, Agave thought. Warmer than metal. Like lapis from Egypt.
They knelt at the same moment, Hiero filling her hands with the errant flowers. Agave held out the basket to be filled.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you standing there.” Hiero said.
Didn’t see me lurking in a corner waiting for you, Agave thought, smiling. The smile caught at Hiero, who finally looked the youth in the eye. Wide, open, generous eyes, lovely with all the gifts of youth. Too lovely. Warm as a welcome home after a long journey. Hiero looked away, down at the wreckage, the flower-blood running from crushed bells, broken stalks.
”Hyacinths. Poor, beautiful Hyakinthos, whom Apollo loved,” Hiero said.
“They’re for wreaths,” Agave said, not knowing what else to say. Hiero had looked at her, right at it, but then looked away, closed back off. The moment of surprise had passed, the armor of reserve was back in place.
“You’ll never make proper wreaths with these,” Hiero said, holding one of the hyacinths.
She stood, handing the flower back to Agave. With perfect aristocrat’s manners, crisp and ceremonial, she said- “My house lies down by the Eastern Gate. My steward, Eudaimonia, will replace them for you. Tell her that I sent you.”
With that, she walked away from Agave, down the street.
Agave felt her future walking away from her. “Wait!”
Hiero turned, clearly puzzled at being stopped.
“You haven’t told me your name,” Agave said. As if anyone in Thebes didn’t know who Hiero was.
The warrior, rather than being angered by this, smiled, the first time Agave had ever seen her do so. It melted her. “I am Hiero, daughter of Agatha.”
“Agave, daughter of Charis.”
The conversational thread, gossamer as it was, drew the warrior closer.
Agave gave in to an impulse, and blurted out -"I don't think Hyakinthos was poor."
"Pardon?"
"What you said earlier. 'Poor Hyakinthos.' I think he was blessed," Agave said, before stopping to consider what Chariclo would make of this. One did not debate mythology with a well known warrior. Why couldn't she have started to talk about the manufacture of spears, the new shipment of iron the blacksmiths were expecting, the Thracian's battle formation, anything but this? -Agave thought, feeling a drop in her stomach.
Hiero was looking at her now, with that same intensity. Enemies must see those eyes over her shield-rim, and faint, Agave thought. I feel like fainting.
"He died a youth," Hiero said.
"He died a youth beloved, in the arms of a god. His erastes," Agave countered.
"Slain, by that same god," Hiero said.
"Slain by the treachery of a jealous rival, Zephyros. Apollo adored him, and mourned his death by creating the flower from his blood. To this day, we all know the story of the love of Apollo and Hyakinthos. His erastes saw that his name would live in honor forever. I don't think that anyone who is loved completely is poor. They should be envied," Agave finished, aware that she'd just made a speech. She swallowed. What would Hiero make of all this, an ephebe lecturing her on the gods?
Hiero was silent for a jaw-grinding long time, evidently considering something deeply. Finally, she said- "Are you engaged?"
"W-what?"
"For the Festival," Hiero clarified.
"Oh. No. No," Agave stammered.
"Come and dine with me tonight. I have a few friends coming by. I think you will add to the conversation."
The sun was setting, mixing into the night like wine through water. The sky was the color of Hyakinthos’ blood, Agave thought, when she and Chariclo reached the street outside Hiero’s house. The outer gate was open, the sounds of excited conversation drew them on through the gate, past the laurel tree and the small cedar. Though Hiero had invited her, Agave insisted that Chariclo come along. For her part, her philosophically minded friend was thrilled at the invitation to a dinner party at a famous warrior’s house. The chance to have a real conversation with women, away from the strictures of pedagogues and chaperones, was too good to miss. They were eighteen now, and entitled to join the women.
Eudaimonia, the steward, met them at the door and took their cloaks and their names. For a soul freezing moment Agave wondered if Hiero had forgotten all about the spontaneous gesture, and forgotten to tell her formidable steward. Eudaimonia was a stout woman with round, dark eyes and a Dorian accent. With a slight sniff and a tilt of her head, she let them know clearly that they were being honored above their station by the invitation, but Eudaimonia was too devoted to her mistress to question Hiero’s whims. She led them to the supper room, and left them at the doorway.
The room was long and rectangular, with walls painted a bright red and hung with musical instruments- a tortoise shell lyre that Apollo wouldn’t disdain, a kithara, cymbals. Ten supper couches were arraigned in a rough circle. A young girl, dressed lightly as a dancer, played the double-flute in the center of the room.
The dinner guests were reclining on the supper couches, two to each, save for Hiero, who stretched out alone. The banquet was beginning, servants were moving between the couches, across the mosaic floor.
The only open couch was to Hiero’s left, a position of honor. Agave blushed scarlet to her hairline, but Chariclo, never one to turn down an opportunity presented by necessity, led her friend to the couch. She motioned Agave to recline first, certain that her height would be shown to better advantage thus.
Hiero was engaged in conversation with the pair on the couch to her right- warriors both, from the scars that showed on their brown right arms- infantry scars. The left arm, covered by the shield, was less often wounded. Agave glanced at Hiero, and saw the same pattern- scars on the right arm, between where the arm-guard would end and the cuirass began at the shoulder. The marks of a professional long in the field.
Agave looked back at the pair Hiero was conversing with. Erastes and eromenos, no doubt of it, the elder woman in her thirties, the younger twenty. Both handsome, powerfully built, radiating the easy confidence of the Sacred Band. The elder had her arm around the younger, the younger rested back against her. It was a casual pose, but the intimacy of it scalded Agave. She had to look away.
“How is the farm, Autonoe?” Hiero asked, to the elder.
“Going splendidly. The vines are planted on the north slope, barley in the lower fields. My Molossian will be dropping a litter in Hekatombaion. Would you like a pup?”
Agave watched Hiero, as covertly as she could manage. The warrior smiled at the offer.
“I would love one. I haven’t had time to properly raise a hunting dog in years.”
“I keep after you to write that treatise on it, so that we may have your method. Xenophon for horses, Hiero for dogs, I always say.” Autonoe said, and laughed.
Hiero shook her head. “I’ll retire and write as an aristocrat farmer, if ever I live so long as Xenophon? My destiny is war, my old friend. I won’t live to retire.”
“All our destiny is war,” The youth said.
“The blood of a lion! Well spoken, Diokleia.”
Hiero noticed the couch to her left, and welcomed Agave and Chariclo. If she were surprised that Agave came accompanied, she was too well mannered to let it show.
The banquet proceeded, from bread and appetizers, to fruit, fish, and for the special event of the Festival, meat. Hiero showed her status in the abundance of the food and the quality, though the repast itself was simple. Elaborate gustatory adventures were for Lydians, not honest, well bred Thebans.
The banquet finished, the second portion, the epidorpion, began. Dried fruits, nuts, cheeses, and sweets went round, along with watered wine.
It was time for the libation to be poured, and the real focus of the evening to begin- drinking and talking.
Hiero nominated Autonoe for symposiarch- for the leader of the revels. Autonoe objected, but allowed herself to be persuaded by her beloved Diokleia.
“Very well! Fellow symposiasts, we are here in good fellowship, that Harmonia dearly loves. What shall be the mixture of wine to water?” Autonoe asked the room.
“Half!” Called a few, laughing boisterously.
“You’ve mistaken us for barbarians, or Macedonians. I propose one to three, wine to water. Then you can keep your heads long enough for the dancing.” Autonoe said.
The measure was agreed upon. Autonoe went to the mixing-bowl and supervised the first round. Hiero called her steward over, whispered a few words. Eudaimonia bowed, and left. The servants brought each couch wine bowls- black figure kylixes. Chariclo was given one with athletes preparing for a race.
Agave looked at the bowl she held. In the center was an image of a beautiful boy, playing at throwing the discus with his erastes. The lover was Apollo. Hot and cold ran through her, and she looked up at Hiero. The warrior was talking with Autonoe, but Agave felt certain that Hiero noticed her looking. This couldn’t be a coincidence., being given a wine cup with the story of Hyakinthos and Apollo.
Hiero poured the libation to the Agathos Daimon. Autonoe to the Graces Euphrosynę , Thalia and Aglaia. The paean was sung to Harmonia.