HETAERA: Daughter of the Gods Read Online Free PDF

voice
quavered with sorrow. “But here, you may find a place, if only you will devote
yourself.”
    “ We ,” I corrected her. “We may find
a place here, together.”
    My mother nodded and put a slim arm around my shoulders,
but she did not smile.
    We entered the vast cavern of the central chamber,
which sparkled from the glow of torchlight reflected on the polished stone
floors. Hundreds of bodies sashayed to the tables piled high with Thracian
delicacies. There were hanks of roast lamb stuffed with raisins, garlic and
figs, smoked pork, and wild green salats with olive oil and tangy vinegar. Crimson
wine poured freely into hammered bronze and carved wooden goblets. Each hand
had only to stretch forth and the blood of the gods flowed comfortably into
reach. The sound of laughter drowned out the cries of the dying soldiers still
ringing in my ears, and I reached often to refill my cup.
    For hours, the temple folk feasted and laughed,
while musicians played and the Bacchae danced. I ate, but no amount of mirth
could tease a smile to my face. The other neophytes were rapt with attention,
and I remembered my mother’s grace. It was a tribute to the gods, the skill
with which Bacchae played, and sang, and danced. Oh, the dancing! As graceful
as birds on the wing over the vast seas.
    I did so want her to be proud of me.
    Late into the night, the air grew thick from the
many torches, the scent of spiced foods and the press of bodies. I watched a
temple priest sprinkling powder on the flames. A heavy perfumed smoke permeated
the chamber. Soon, my vision wavered and my ears rang with the noise of the
revelry. My head began to ache. Several participants had wandered off in twos
and threes, no doubt to clear their senses, and so as the drums began to pound
in time to my heartbeat, I moved to the nearest hall to do the same.
    Away from the miasma of smoke and dazzling beauty
of the feast, the pain of my father’s death sliced my heart. I didn’t belong
here, in this sacred and beautiful place. I don’t know why I thought of him,
then. Perhaps the sight of my mother, whose feet should have been dancing. She’d
sat alone on her stool and watched the men and women with a wistful expression,
as the music rattled the base of the mountain. Then she’d risen and disappeared
down one of the far halls. I’d felt too full of guilt to follow her. So I
dwelled on death, alone in the corridor of black granite. I flung myself
prostrate on the rough stone of the hallway and prayed for Dionysus to take
pity on me.
    Dionysus, who governs our passions, both
rage and pleasure, chaos and love, if you accept me into your beloved arms, I
promise never to turn away from my faith. Watch over my father.
    The smoke in the hallway made my chest began to
burn. I fancied I could hear the heart of Dionysus beating in my ears. The
world spun, and the very stones seemed to vibrate and come to life. I laid my
aching head on the cold stone. It felt so nice and cool beneath my cheek. My
hands stretched backwards, palms up and the blood rushed in my veins in time to
the quickening crescendo of drum beats emanating from the central hall. My
pulse beat. The wild pounding inside the temple swallowed me whole.
    Then, without warning, the drums stopped.
    I rose, dizzy, with my ears still ringing and
scuttled to the temple chamber. The air in the feast hall seemed charged with
frightening energy. I remember the scent, still, to this day. Heavy and
pervasive, sweet like the delicate hillside blossoms and thick with cloying
human musk. A fug of stinking herbed smoke permeated the room, hanging over our
heads like a pseudo-sky. Musicians sounded their flutes and harps. Chaotic
harmonies swelled and receded like the waves of the sea. And then I heard the
cries.
    It seemed I’d entered a battlefield, though I saw
no weapons. My heart thundered in my chest. Half-clothed bodies lay in a
tangled mound on the cold stone floor, their wine goblets still clutched in
their