Sappho's Leap by Erica Jong

life—and in gold. I shuddered to think of a world filled with men like Cercylas. Then, as often happens when you are thinking about a distant person, news of him arrived.
    A messenger from Naucratis came to my house bringing a papyrus scroll written in Egyptian hieroglyphics.
    â€œYour brother sends you news of your husband, Cercylas, late of Naucratis,” the messenger said.
    â€œLate?” I asked. My mother ran to my side, carrying baby Cleis.
    â€œIs he dead?” my mother asked hopefully.
    â€œRead for yourself,” the messenger said, handing me the sheaf of hieroglyphics. I could read some, but I was not sure of the whole contents of the missive.
    â€œLet me see,” my mother demanded. But she too was hardly fluent in Egyptian. For many centuries, we Greeks had no alphabet, until we borrowed the Phoenician, adding vowels. Some scrolls were written left to right, some right to left, some alternating directions on alternate lines. And Egyptian hieroglyphics were not so widely understood as they had once been. In Egypt itself, hieroglyphics were best understood by priests and priestesses.
    â€œI will bring it to Isis,” I said. “She will tell me everything.”
    Praxinoa gave me a filthy look. “You certainly trust your new friend—perhaps more than you trust me,” Prax said.
    â€œI don’t know what you mean, Prax,” I said.
    â€œI think you do,” said Prax. “I hardly think you are going back to her to decipher hieroglyphs—whatever you may say.”
    â€œThen come with me, Prax, to assuage your envy.”
    â€œI think I will!” said Prax.
    So Praxinoa followed me to Isis’ house through the crowded streets of Syracuse.
    It was almost midday and the sun was hot. We ran along the quay past the fishmongers touting the remains of their catch, the wine vendors with their sealed amphorae, the oil vendors with their pretty little decorated jugs— lekythoi , we called them—for serving fine oil. The herb sellers’ stands were redolent of dill. The fruit and vegetable sellers shined their multicolored gleaming wares. All the aromatic beauty of everyday life seduced us.
    We arrived at Isis’ domain and had to wait, as usual, to be admitted as she saw her full complement of clients seeking advice about the future.
    Finally, we were admitted to her chambers.
    Isis solemnly took the scroll and unrolled it. She read it once, then read it again.
    â€œWhat does it say?” I asked impatiently.
    â€œLet me read,” Isis said. “It is from your brother Charaxus in Naucratis. It was clearly written by an Egyptian scribe.”
    â€œ My beloved sister ,” he writes. “ It is my unhappy duty to tell you that your beloved husband Cercylas of Andros breathed his last yesterday. As you may know, Naucratis is renowned for its great Egyptian physicians. We called one named Anhkreni, who had attended the great Pharaoh Necho himself and was known for cures of all digestive ills. He made many potions — herbs compounded with mother’s milk, essences of grass, of tortoises, of dung — but Cercylas was too far gone. His liver had hardened like a great rock and his eyes and skin were yellow. Cures availed us not. All our best efforts failed. I fear that trading in the fabled wines of our native island only hastened his end. He could not keep out of the amphora once it was unsealed and each night he drank until he dropped. Many times he was warned of his overfondness for the elixir of Dionysus, but he could not refrain. He drank his wine unmixed and would not hear of diluting it. The riot and lustiness of Naucratis had an ill effect on him. The flute girls and acrobats played on his weaknesses in order to steal his gold. I feared it would come to this. Take heart! I share your grief Your loving brother, Charaxus. ”
    My heart took flight when I heard this missive. It felt like a bird straining to fly out of my