Sappho in violet and gra.., p.1
Sappho in Violet and Gray, page 1
Sappho in Violet and Gray
By K.A. Masters
Published by JMS Books LLC
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Copyright 2022 K.A. Masters
ISBN 9781685502881
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
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This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Sappho in Violet and Gray
By K.A. Masters
Prologue: The Wedding
Chapter 1: The Wedding Singer
Chapter 2: The Sister
Chapter 3: The Teacher
Chapter 4: The Rival
Chapter 5: The Wife
Chapter 6: The Student
Chapter 7: The Mother
Chapter 8: The Family
Epilogue
Prologue: The Wedding
To me he seems like a god
as he sits opposite you
and listens to your sweet voice as you laugh.
But the heart in my breast seizes up,
for when I look at you
I cannot speak—my tongue is tied—
Fire engulfs my senses
My eyes grow dark
My ears ring
I break out into sweat
I cannot stop shaking
My skin fades to pale…
* * * *
The dull thud that the bouquet made as it slipped through Sappho’s trembling fingers resounded through the atrium loudly enough to interrupt her cousin’s wedding vows. She could sense Larichus’ anger smoldering as he made a silent but menacing gesture to her, then returned his attention to his bride and resumed his speech. She felt like one of the hideous monsters she’d been warned about as a child, like Medusa or Scylla or Gello combined, as she sensed everyone’s eyes staring down at her in horror and revulsion while she knelt down to retrieve the flowers. She tried to be discreet wanting to disappear beneath the folds of her linen himation and she hoped that she hadn’t ruined the ceremony. But as she plucked the flowers from the marble tiled floor, she lost control of her tears. She covered her mouth to keep her sobs from escaping from her throat and fled outside into the waning daylight.
She was still weeping an hour later when her parents found her in the stables. She was clinging to the neck of her family’s mare, sobbing into its soft mane. In her mind, Sappho could not shake the beauty of Larichus’ bride, her cousin’s angry glower, the ruined ceremony.
Her silver-haired mother placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder, then gently pulled her into a soft, comforting embrace. “What happened, love?”
Sappho’s words flowed out of her in sobs and a waterfall of emotion. “I’m sorry, Mother.”
Her father merely rolled his eyes. “Oof! Weddings and women.”
Her mother gave an annoyed snort. “Hush, Scamander.”
He tried again, flashing a toothy grin from beneath the dark brown curls of his bushy beard. “Don’t worry, pet, that’ll be you someday. You’ll get a beautiful gown, and a handsome husband, and have lots of rambunctious kids who’ll drop their bouquets at other people’s weddings. Then they’ll grow up and repeat the cycle.”
Again her mother shushed him.
She told Sappho, “Don’t listen to your father, love. I cry at weddings, too. It was such a beautiful ceremony! And nobody is going to remember if you dropped the bouquet. Everybody will be talking about how beautiful Larichus’ girl—what’s her name?—was. Everyone will be so overwhelmed by emotion that they won’t even remember that you dropped the bouquet. I promise.”
“Mother, I’m sorry. I just—couldn’t.” She withdrew from her mother’s embrace and let out a long, soothing breath. “She’s so pretty, mother.”
“Yes,” she mused. “That’ll be you someday.” She gently squeezed her hand in encouragement.
“Mother.” Another pause, this time in realization. “I can’t. I can’t be a bride.”
“Oh, gods. Not this again.” Her father made a gesture of desperation. “Kleis, do your magic. You know I’m hopeless with this stuff.”
“Now, dear, I know you still haven’t grown into your curves, but you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. You are a beautiful, kind-hearted young woman, and it is only a matter of time before some handsome young man will come along and ask for your hand.”
“No, Mother. I can’t marry because I—because I can’t marry a girl.”
Her father sucked air through his teeth in exasperation. “This again? Sappho, dove, every child thinks they like girls at your age. I know I did.”
Her mother smacked him lightly on the stomach in a playful swat. “Let me handle this, dear.” She turned to Sappho and asked, “Are you sure? Sometimes we feel one way as kids, and then we grow up and feel differently.”
“No,. it hasn’t changed. I haven’t changed.” She turned to them both and begged, “Father, let me be like Artemis, please! I cannot marry a man.”
“A bride cannot make sons without a groom, my girl,” he replied awkwardly, still trying to use humor to mask his discomfort.
“I don’t need sons. I don’t need—a wedding.” And she wept anew, realizing that without a husband, she would never be a bride.
Through her tears, she could hear her father shuffling his feet in the hay on the floor of the stables and making sounds of distress.
“Hon, this is girl-talk stuff. Go back to the wedding. We’ll be back inside in a minute.” Her mother made a gentle shooing gesture.
He held up his hands in surrender. “I think you’re right, Kleis.” He returned his attention to Sappho and gave her an affectionate pat on the head. “Sappho, my girl, I’m sorry you’re sad. But I love you. I’ll see you inside.”
Her mother waited for him to leave before she resumed the conversation. “Sappho, love?”
She snuffed back a sob. “Yes, mother?”
“The horses—in the springtime. You know what they do?”
.” She nodded in embarrassment.
“And you know that stallions are with mares, and bulls are with cows, and roosters are with hens?”
She paused. “What about our rooster that mounts our neighbor’s rooster? Every three or four days, we have to round him up from our neighbors’ farm and separate them.”
Her mother shook her head, annoyed. “That’s an aberration.”
Sappho glared at her mother defiantly. “I’m an aberration, then?”
Her mother sighed, exasperated. “No, love. Do you—want to be a mare, with another mare? In the springtime?”
Sappho took a long pause before she replied, “No.” She kept her eyes on the ground as her fingers played with the ribbons in her horse’s mane.
“But the bride—you were attracted to her. I saw it in you—I saw you get butterflies when you first saw her, and you couldn’t keep your eyes off her. What about her?”
“I think she’s beautiful,” she stammered, pressing her face into the mare’s neck to hide her embarrassment.
“So you think the bride is beautiful—for what purpose?”
“I think I want to kiss her.”
“But not, erm, enjoy the spring together?” her mother asked awkwardly.
“No, Mother. I know that there are others who do! But I don’t love her that way. And I never have. And I think I never will.”
“But you’re young. I’m sure you’ll meet someone who you’ll want to enjoy the springtime with.”
“No, Mother. I don’t think that’s who I am.” She let out a ragged breath. “But, Mother?”
“Yes, my love?” Her voice was soft with concern.
“A bride will never want me, will she? If I can’t give her springtime?”
There was a long pause. It was a pause so long that Sappho’s heart felt like it knew the words that she would hear from her mother’s mouth, until at long last she heard, “There is springtime in your heart, my sweet. And it might take time to find a person who you can share your springtime with, a chaste springtime, but I think that if you feel this way, then there are other young ladies out there that also feel the same. Men, too—remember the story of Hippolytus?”
Sappho made a face. “The follower of Artemis who was murdered for rejecting love?”
“Bad example, then. But don’t you see? There are others who feel the same.”
Sappho was quiet for a long time. “Mother, are you going to feel sad that I’ll never have a wedding?”
Her mother pulled her in close. “It doesn’t matter what I think. But who’s to say you’ll never have a wedding? Look, that’s not what weddings are all about. Sure, ther
Sappho scrunched her nose in disgust.
“…and there’s the wedding night. But that’s not what weddings are about. You see, a wedding is the most beautiful thing. Sure, the kernel is romantic love, but the petals are about the community coming together to celebrate.”
Sappho gave a sarcastic snort. “No, it’s about a woman going from being the property of her father to becoming the property of her husband.”
Her mother tsked in impatience. “So bitter at such a young age! Sappho dear, look at what is happening today: the bride and groom love each other, and two families are united. But then why are we here?”
“To look at the beautiful bride and to get fat eating lots of cake,” Sappho huffed. “At least, that’s why I’m here.”
“Again with the attitude! You’re such a moody teenager! Ugh! Do me a favor. When we get back inside, take your eyes off your cousin’s new wife for a minute and look at the crowd around you. Really look at them, and see how this wedding affects them, and the love that they are putting into it. Look at the mother of the bride. She shows her love of her family by making the delicious food we’re about to eat—and that has nothing to do with lust. Your brothers showed their love of our little Lari by catching the delicious fish that we’re all going to eat—and that has nothing to do with lust. The bride’s sisters showed their love by weaving the bride’s beautiful peplos—you see what I’m saying? The jeweler showed his love of his community by casting their matching rings. See? Alright, now you try.”
In the distance, Sappho heard the shouts and applause as the singers ended their hymn of joy and celebration. Smiling, she said, “The wedding singer brings all of the love and joy together by making people happy.”
“And that kind of love isn’t about the bedroom. It’s about love and joy and springtime without lust. And that’s you, Sappho. That’s what your poems have been all along. Springtime without lust.”
“Springtime without lust,” Sappho repeated, processing her mother’s words.
“So do you think that we can go back to the wedding? Or do you want to sulk in these dusty stables all night?”
Sappho nodded.
“Good.” Her mother licked her hand and wiped away the smudged kohl from Sappho’s fawn brown eyes, then licked her other hand to smooth down the errant strands from her dark brown braids. “Maybe when you get back, you can apologize for distracting our poor Lari?”
She blushed, but nodded. “Aye, Mother.”
“And maybe you could sing him a song in apology? I really enjoy the ones you’ve written lately. I think maybe he will, too.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Her mother affectionately draped her arm over her shoulder, and together they went inside. By this time, the wedding hymns had concluded and now everyone was gathering around their tables to enjoy the impending feast.
“Go on, then.” Her mother gave her a loving smile, then walked over to the table where her father and brothers were seated.
Sappho timidly walked up to the bride and groom’s table and made a bow. She fixed her eyes on the platter of mutton and fish so that she wouldn’t have to look at Larichus’ disappointed expression, or worse still—his beautiful bride’s beautiful sunshine of a smile.
Her words trickled out of her in spurts, like icicles melting in the sunshine. “Lari, I…I’m so sorry I dropped the flowers…”
“You okay, little Sapph?” his cousin asked, with a smile in his tone. “Oof—you went pale. I thought maybe you were going to faint.”
A wave of relief swept through her that he wasn’t yelling at her. Still bracing herself for his anger, she nodded.
“I’m fine. I’m so sorry to disappoint you, though. I was just overcome by how beautiful your…” She cleared her throat, restraining the words she wanted to say. She continued, “how beautiful the two of you looked up there when you were taking your vows. It was like out of a myth! Like—Hector and Andromache.”
“Aww! I love Hector and Andromache!” Larichus’ bride cooed. “They are my favorite part of the Trojan War! I make my servants sing the Iliad to me every night, so I can hear their love story before I go to bed each night.”
Sappho replied, “Yes! Cousin, I, um, saw you getting married, and I, uh, had—I have a song in my heart. That I wrote about you and your, um, new wife. And I was thinking, since I ruined your ceremony, that maybe I could make it up to you if I sang it. Uh, right now? It is about the, uh, wedding of Hector and Andromache. And I think, um, I don’t know, that you would like it?”
His new bride squealed in excitement. “Yes, please!”
Larichus beamed. “Well, sure! I always enjoy the songs that you sing during festivals. I really like the Adonis ones. But I didn’t know you did wedding songs, too! Sappho, dear, I would have had you perform if I’d known that you did weddings, too! Sing on! Do you need a lyre?” He raised his hand and snapped his fingers, trying to get his slaves’ attention.
Sappho blushed, still wringing her trembling hands. “I’m sorry—my fingers aren’t working very well. I think it’s nerves. It’s just a song right now. But if you like it, I can, um, sing it again with musical accompaniment—maybe on your first anniversary?”
“What a thoughtful present!” Larichus chuckled. “Well, let’s hope we like it. Go on, then, cousin! Sing on!”
Sappho took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. She shook out her fingers and smoothed down her dress. She lifted her face, then fixed her gaze between the newlyweds’ shoulders so that it would appear that she was looking at them. She took one more cleansing breath, then began:
Idaos, Troy’s swift messenger
Came to King Priam
And said, “Behold!
Hector and his companions
Are traveling back home
Over the salt-sea
With nimble-footed Andromache,
The Princess from holy Thebe!
She brings with her delicate golden jewelry
And purple dresses
And silver chalices
And ivory jewelry boxes!”
And as the messenger spoke,
The aged king jumped for joy
A father, proud of his son.
And the news spread through the city,
Throughout all of Troy,
Throughout all of their family and friends,
Preparing for the wedding to come.
Chapter 1: The Wedding Singer
Twenty-five years later, Sappho’s hands still shook whenever she sang at weddings. Over the years, she’d built up a persona of professionalism and poise, but her nerves still kept her from enjoying the audience’s attention until she’d finished her very last note.
Tonight’s wedding had to be perfect. Sappho’s heart fluttered anxiously, afraid that her emotions and her nerves would ruin her performance. As her eyes met the bride’s, she smiled through her tears. Atthis had been one of her best and brightest students, and she was as proud as a mother to see her all grown up. Sappho wanted Atthis to have the perfect wedding that she’d envisioned, and she was terrified that her performance wouldn’t live up to her protégé’s expectations.
Taking a deep, prolonged breath, she forced a smile and began:
The honey-sweet apple blushes
On the tallest branch
Of the tallest tree.
The apple pickers didn’t forget it,
Didn’t leave it behind—
No, they could not reach it.
But it reddens, my husband, for thee.
As Sappho finished singing, the crowd erupted in applause. She gave an approving nod to Atthis and motioned for her to take a bow. She watched as Atthis, swept up in emotion, threw her arms around her new husband and dared to kiss him on the cheek. Sappho clapped in delight as she watched the newlyweds share yet another kiss, this time instigated by the burly groom. Although she did not have a high regard for Atthis’ choice in a husband, Sappho would not begrudge the man who made one of her brightest students happy.
The meal was delicious, and the wedding cake was superb. As she scooped up the last morsel of cake with her fingers, awkwardly dangling it into her mouth the way a mother bird feeds her young, she nearly choked, startled by a sudden joyful slap on her back. She turned and saw Kerkylas, the groom, with her younger brother Charaxus in tow. She frowned at the sight of the drunken pair.
