Sappho by Nancy Freedman Page B

laid out their simple meal, she set aside a tenth part, and spilled a tenth part of the wine.
    *   *   *
    Three days later Leto whispered, “Do not sleep tonight.”
    Sappho pressed her hand, and when Chloris drowsed off and the father had gone to the tavern, the girls got up and left.
    Leto flitted like a shadow and Sappho after her. Finally, with their feet on the path, they raced down to the sand shore. Her brother caught her around the waist and lifted her into the air.
    â€œOh, Khar, Khar!”
    â€œMy turn,” said Alkaios, stepping forward, and they laughed.
    Leto kept watch while they talked. Khar prevailed upon Alkaios to recite his most recent poem, dedicated to Pittakos the Shuffle Foot, whom he referred to as “a lute without charm.”
    Sappho laughed until tears stood in her eyes. “Oh, if he could but hear this.”
    â€œHe will,” Khar said. “We worked half last night making wax impressions with a pointed stick, then sent them down this morning along with the timber to be delivered to a friend of Alkaios who will see they are copied and hung in the agora.”
    Again she was overcome with mirth. “Poor Pittakos! He cannot be rid of us even here.”
    They exchanged news. Alkaios composed and sang in the tavern, while Khar played games of skill and chance. They were treated as guests and had been invited to the villas lining the main thoroughfare. “We are instructed to bring you. Everyone is anxious to play host to Sappho.”
    Sappho shook her head. “My hosts take their role of jailer more seriously. But I have a friend in Leto, and if we can meet like this now and then, I will not feel alone.”
    *   *   *
    As the months of exile passed, Sappho expressed in a poem what her friendship with Leto meant to her. She called it “A Blossomy June.” Like two children, they bathed in icy streams and afterward combed and plaited hibiscus into each other’s hair. Sappho showed her how to stain her toes with the petals of crushed geranium, and found surprises for her among the many boxes of precious things that had been sent from Mitylene.
    It was still blossomy and still June when Sappho said softly, “Come beside me and I will show you what I have under my cloak. See—a wonderful perfume. Lean forward and I will place the scent between your breasts.”
    Leto exclaimed at the beauty of the small alabaster jar, and again when Sappho, removing the stopper, passed it under her nose. “Musk,” Sappho told her, “from the land of the Persians. It makes the skin breathe with desire.”
    â€œDesire? Desire for what?”
    The question was troubling. And she had been troubled by it. Just as she was troubled by Leto herself. Why? Why should a simple country girl become the felloe around which her thoughts turned? Leto’s glance, her touch, her voice, her presence determined how her own day went, whether it was happy or sad or both. When happiness and sadness intertwine, then great confusion occurs.
    Sappho lowered her head so nothing of what she felt could be read in her face and ran the perfume stopper between Leto’s wide young breasts and under them. The girl closed her eyes and shivered in delight. “Musk is like a whole garden, a field of flowers!”
    Sappho handed her the jar. “Now you do me.” When Leto bent over her, she caught her breath and held it.
    Leto laughed at the contrast of their skins, hers so fair, Sappho’s even more bronzed by the summer sun.
    When Leto finished, Sappho placed the alabaster container in her hands. “It is for you.”
    â€œI couldn’t,” Leto protested. “It is too dear.”
    â€œAre we not friends? You know we were from the first minute. And there is nothing that belongs to one friend that does not belong to the other. Take it from your friend.”
    Leto still hesitated.
    â€œI will share it with