Sappho by Nancy Freedman Page A

herself.
    *   *   *
    In the morning Sappho volunteered to go with Leto to the washing springs, certain she would learn from the gossip of the women where her brother and Alkaios were lodged. Niobe attempted to accompany them, but Chloris, the woman of the house, had other plans for her. She did not order Sappho about, for who is out of favor one day may be in favor the next, and she was a great and powerful lady, though small. But when in her life again would the Fates provide her with a slave? Didymus, who had come home late, still snored against the wall when the young women left.
    Balancing her basket of clothes on her head, Leto asked, “Do the girls of Mitylene look like you?”
    â€œNo. For the most part they have light hair and are taller.”
    â€œI think it would be nice not to look like everybody else.”
    Sappho smiled. “I am accustomed to being Sappho. Tell me, do you have any idea where my brother is? He and Alkaios?”
    â€œMy father said they board with the hewer of wood. He is a rough man, but the gods gave him a good heart.”
    â€œIt will be all right then. My brother is a lord who tolerates no one over him.”
    â€œNo need to fear. I’m sure they were up half the night at odd-even.”
    They were on the main street of the town now, and people turned to look after them. Sappho had changed into a fresh chiton, adding a cloak of finespun wool, for it was cool in high Pyrrha, even when Sun was at his brightest. It was a respectable city, not the bare rock Sappho had imagined. Leto told her it was terraced to the sea and had a port and thriving trade.
    Sappho seized on this. “There is a way to the sea?”
    â€œYou must not think of escape,” Leto warned her. “They will not stop at killing, and a bad death it will be if you enter their boats.”
    â€œI do not think of escape, Leto. I have a love of the sand shore and the sea. Perhaps it could be a meeting place.”
    â€œLet a day or two pass,” the girl advised, “and you will not be so closely watched. I can get word to your brother and, when it is safe, guide you to him.”
    â€œThen you are my friend, Leto.”
    The girl took the basket from her head and dropped to her knees, kissing the hem of her cloak. Sappho, glancing quickly around, lifted her up, but they were by now in forested country and quite alone. They kept walking and soon heard the laughter and chatter from the washing springs. This at least is not different from Mitylene, Sappho thought. But as they drew near, the women fell silent. Their eyes took in the cut of Sappho’s garments, the rich material, the studded sandals. Nothing escaped their scrutiny. They did not need to know her history to see she was of a great house.
    The soldiers had made a good story during their drinking and dicing the night before, and everyone knew of the feud with Pittakos and the circumstance of the dead dog—everything, in fact, leading to the exiles being among them. What seemed most strange was that a woman should be famous among poets, and at the same time a rebel banished with men.
    Leto set down the bundle of clothes, gave greeting, and knelt at her accustomed place. Sappho would have knelt with her, but Leto prevented her, saying, “This is work not meant for you, Lady.” Then shyly, “I noticed you wrapped a flute under your cloak.”
    Sappho took it out and undid the fastenings. She sat and, with a prayer to the Nine, began to play. It was a pleasant tune with the familiar sounds of morning in it. The women continued their work, but they listened so they could say, “I heard Sappho play.”
    She sang:
    Though few,
    they are roses
    A spell was cast, an enchantment. Her vision was so sure that she made the roses bloom. The women murmured their thanks and went their way to tell of it in the village. Sappho, too, gave thanks to the Muses, who won her this sympathy. And when Leto