Tassels of the Cushion

Alcibiades was like a cultural chameleon, able to change his habits and way of dress depending on where he lived in Greece. In his native Athens he was a dandified society man, given to inclining his head leisurely while talking about his good looks, which he elevated to an artistic narcissism, or trailing the train of his chiton on the ground as he sashayed through the agora. In Sparta, however, he devoted himself to exercise and athletics, coarse clothing, cold baths, and frugal living. In Thessaly he distinguished himself as a seasoned equestrian, and a fine Attic vintage was never far from his lips in Thrace. But here in Ionia, home to the oriental pomp of the Asiatic Greek, Alcibiades wholeheartedly worshipped the cult of indolent luxury, his languid days filled with tranquil ease and comfort.

This evening he had been invited to attend a symposium given by a close acquaintance of his in Miletus. Just now he had emerged from a refreshing bath after spending a few hours in the portico of the local barber where he gossiped with other idle fops and had his golden hair tastefully styled for tonight's dinner party. Cool and dried, his nude body reclined lazily on a divan amidst soft cushions. His eyes, closed from a sense of general contentedness, opened presently, and he called out, "Xanthe, Xanthe, I'm ready for my oils."

Xanthe, a slim Corinthian, then appeared in the chamber carrying an assortment of scent flasks and oblong bottles which she placed on a low table near the divan. Peering at her recumbent master, she asked, "You are going out tonight, no?"

"Yes, a dinner party," Alcibiades replied, stretching his arms.

"A symposium no doubt with wine and flute girls?" she continued, unscrewing one of the oblong flasks. "This is surely an occasion where you should be your best. Come now, I have brought ten scents for you to wear."

"Ten!" he echoed in surprise. "I normally just use three."

"Why, master, you're in Ionia where there is great store in perfume. You Athenians are far too simple. Only three? Here, each part of the body is treated with a different fragrance. And your body has more than three parts," she returned, surveying his impressive physique. "Your arms, your legs, your chest, and back are all scented with a different perfume." She poured some violet essence onto her hands and began massaging it into Alcibiades' arms.

"Father Zeus will certainly accuse me of stealing the ambrosia of the gods," he quipped, toying with the tassel of a red cushion.

"Oh, I think Aphrodite would intercede on your behalf," she remarked. "Give me your other arm." She poured more violet essence on her palms.

"Would she, now?" he mused.

"You look like an Adonis enough," she noted, rubbing apricot oil on his shin, slowly moving up to his thigh.

"Enough? I am an Adonis," he shot back, twirling the silken fringes of the tassel between his fingers.

"No, master, the time you spend at your toilet makes you a Narcissus," she retorted, reaching for the gardenia essence. She spread the redolent oil on his bronzy chest which received its tan from remaining under the Mediterranean sun.

"You're cruel. Narcissus loved no one and died for it," he reasoned.

Xanthe smiled wryly. "He loved himself and perished from fatigue and exhaustion," she answered.

"What an awful death. I'd like to die laughing at something," Alcibiades declared, crossing his hands under his head.

"I'm sure you would amuse everyone in Elysium with that something," Xanthe responded sarcastically. She went to the back of the divan to apply musk on Alcibiades' sides.

"Indeed because Narcissus wouldn't be there," he stated.

"But all the other handsome men would be: Adonis, Hyacinthus, Harmodios, ... Charmides," she countered.

"Ah, let them. It's enough that I'm Alcibiades," he said. "There is no other."

"You're so sure of yourself, aren't you?" she returned, uncapping a bottle of mint essence.

"Of course, I'm Alcibiades. I'm Athenian. I'm rich and beautiful," he explained. "Better that you be what I am than anything else."

"You mean a naked mortal who has just stolen ambrosia?" she sagely observed, hoping to add some levity to her less than dignified position. Xanthe was applying the mint oil on her master's feet, almost groveling at the divan.

In mock irritation, Alcibiades stopped playing with the golden tassel of his cushion and vehemently hurled it toward Xanthe who, expecting the missile, smartly ducked out of its way. "And a bad shot," she added, tickling the soul of his left foot. Alcibiades threw another green cushion with silver embroidery at her, but she knew how to win a war of cushions. She had perfected her strategy when she entertained a powerful archon back in Corinth. He, still incumbent on the plush divan, searched the room critically, unable to see his slave. Xanthe quietly materialized at his head.

"Looking for me?" she inquired, holding a vial of attar of roses and smiling evilly. Alcibiades raised his eyes to her in confusion.

"Very funny," he said sardonically as she scented his hair with the rose oil. "I want my cushions back."

"Turn over. I need to get to your back," she instructed.

"Get them," he commanded, ignoring her request. Xanthe very well knew what tactic her master was using, so she carefully placed the vial of rose oil on the table before walking to the other side of the chamber where the two cushions had landed. One was at the door and the other by a bureau on top of which rested a small fountain that splashed melodically. As Xanthe bent over to pick up the cushions, Alcibiades chucked his remaining pillow in her direction. Prepared for such a predictable maneuver, she swiftly rose to stand and caught the purple projectile with graceful agility. She then airily tossed the green and purple cushions onto Alcibiades' abdomen. He possessively seized them and arranged the cushions on the divan to his liking. Xanthe smirked triumphantly as she fiddled with the golden tassels of the red cushion.

She approached the couch with an easy gait. "If you do that one more time again, I will torture you to the death," she threatened, holding the cushion with the fine tassel hanging precariously above Alcibiades' stomach.

"You wouldn't dare," he replied, smiling in spite of himself.

"But I would. You'd die laughing," she remarked. "You should take this cushion with you to Elysium and go about tickling everyone with the tassels."

"Spare me. I'm too young to die," he begged, opening his eyes very wide.

"Turn over then," she commanded "or else I'll show no mercy." Alcibiades huffed melodramatically before turning to lie on his stomach.

"You'd make a very good general," he conceded, placing his chin on his folded arms. She returned to his curly hair with the attar of roses on her hands. "But I like you better as my slave," he confessed after a while.

"You'd like every woman as your slave," she said, reaching for the cinnamon oil.

"True," he responded with a laugh. Xanthe smoothly massaged his back with the oil.

"If it weren't for you, half the flute girls in Miletus would be out of work," she stated. Just the previous evening, Alcibiades had come home hopelessly drunk on the arm of a dark-skinned dancer.

"That's quite enough, Xanthe," he retorted absently, playing with the tassels of the red cushion which had been restored to him. Xanthe snickered as she sprinkled the length of his body with the sandalwood powder from India.

"Have a good evening, you simple Athenian," she called before vanishing behind the portiere, expertly eluding the red cushion which Alcibiades threw at her. He shook his head before summoning his valet. "Geta, geta, my chiton."

Geta, a pleasant-faced Spartan helot, strolled in carrying his master's Egyptian linens. Alcibiades rose to greet his slave with the full glory of his nude and heavily perfumed body, shaking off some excess sandalwood powder as he did so. Geta let fall a square of linen and commenced to wrap it quickly around Alcibiades.

"You smell as if you swam in nectar," Geta remarked, bringing the fabric from back to front and fastening it in place with an ivory pin. He brought the cloth down Alcibiades' right shoulder then. "Do you want a train?" he asked, measuring the fabric in his hands.

"Yes, of course," Alcibiades replied. Geta knew this, though, and really had no reason to ask. He had already thrown a cubit of linen on the ground before his master answered. "And no," Alcibiades clarified, "I didn't swim in nectar. I instead stole the god's ambrosia."

"And you’re still here to boast of your exploit? You make Prometheus look like an amateur," Geta quipped. He let fall the second piece of linen which was to be the cloak-like himation. He arranged it like he did the chiton.

"The gods weary me," Alcibiades confessed.

"No doubt, you weary the gods," Geta responded, a remark which earned him an affectionate box on the ear.

"I weary anyone, indeed," Alcibiades said in exaggerated indignation. He put out his leg, bent his knee, and assessed how well the fabric cascaded down him. "Bring some more this way," he directed. Geta obliged, shifting the himation to the left. He finished with a diamond broach at Alcibiades' shoulder. The Athenian exquisite stepped forward to test the overall feel of the chiton and himation and then flounced about the room in his decorous drapery. Geta briefly left the chamber, smiling at his frivolous master.

He returned to find Alcibiades caught up in the transports of sartorial victory. But he soon had his master's feet in a pair of leather sandals before seeing him off. The dinner guest lazed back in his bronze chariot as his coachman whipped four palominos toward the posh residence of a Milesian gentleman.

It was late that night when the dinner party turned to the drinking bout, known more politely as a symposium. Alcibiades reclined sated on a low couch in the company of four other men, one of whom was the symposiarch, an arbiter bibendi, a kind of master of the wine who decided the proportion of water to that evening's vintage. As the slaves of the host began to ladle out the wine into the golden goblets of the diners, the symposiarch strutted around with a bunch of rose and ivy wreaths which he distributed to each guest to ward off intoxication. Alcibiades wore his ivy chaplet with evident pride, graciously accepting a glass of wine from the fair youth who handed it to him. The host smiled genially at everyone and conversation turned from the political to the comical.

"You know," Spidipides, the symposiarch began, "I have the most sensational story to tell you all. I heard it today at the barber's."

"Yes," the host Thiro encouraged, taking a sip of wine. Alcibiades and Diamon leaned in closer.

"Well, I'm sure you've all heard about the famous Melina of Corinth, that world class hetaira who was the mistress of Tivias the orator and Ianthecles the poet?" Spidipides continued with nods from the others. "It turned out Melina's latest patron, Aristophon, was a navy captain who had a lasting grudge against the Thebans. So this Aristophon borrowed his mistress' money and built an entire fleet of galleys with which he sailed to Thebes. He engaged the enemy at open sea and had every single one of his vessel sunk when the Thebans set fire to the wooden holds with ignited arrows.

“Of course, the ship builders and Aristophon's subordinate officers wanted their pay, but the captain did not have enough funds. After he came back to Corinth then, his property was seized, and he was enslaved for debt. When Melina heard of this, she paid for his freedom, essentially exchanging places with him. She didn't remain long on the slave market, however. No, here's the best part. Some bigshot Athenian aristocrat bought her for her good looks, not knowing that she was a famous hetaira.

“I'm sure no one would have recognized her without her silken ribbon and satin chiton by which she was distinguished. The irony is, this rich Athenian has a colorful history of womanizing and has no idea to this day that his slave was a former courtesan. Melina of Corinth of anything is a very confidential woman, never disclosing to any of her clients who had been her previous patrons or about business arrangements in the past. So she probably never told her master any of this." Spidipides ended his narration to sarcastic smiles.

"And where's the favored captain," Diamon inquired, sloshing the wine in his cup.

"Ah, that's the other funny thing. He's right here in Miletus. In fact, he was the one who told me this story, and he's trying to locate Melina who he believes is somewhere in Asia. He has already went to Carya but did not find her there," Spidipides replied.

"A very stupid but very honorable man," Harpsaus laconically stated.

"I think he's more stupid than anything else," Alcibiades asserted, draining his second cup.

"You're mistaken," Diamon interjected. "It's the Athenian who is the real idiot in this comedy."

The next day, Alcibiades, after recovering from a major hangover, spent another idle morning at the lounge where he saw the blonde-haired Aristophon in full naval regalia talking to a small contingent of Milesian dandies. They already had their hair curled and scented and were standing around exchanging gossip at the portico as if it were the exclusive gathering of a new school of philosophy. In the afternoon, he left this clique of coxcombs having been sufficiently titillated with the agora and its news.

Back in his own chambers, he told the spectacular story of the Corinthian courtesan to Xanthe who, like the earthly Hebe she was, massaged Alcibiades' with the fragrant oils. "I knew you Athenians were simple people, but this one is the simplest of all!" she teased. "Do you realize all of Miletus is laughing at this man and wondering who the slave could be?"

At that moment, he carelessly tossed the red cushion at her. "Oh come now," she urged, intercepting the missile, "I know it disappoints you to know there are some Athenians who are not as perfect as you are but really. I'm sure this Athenian is a genius of ignorance."

"What a blockhead he is!" Alcibiades complained. "He dishonors Athens. I would strike him soundly if I could."

"Like this?" Xanthe asked, giving her master a light blow between his shoulder blades with the red cushion.

"Xanthe!" he shouted. But when she finished powdering him with the sandalwood, she skipped out of the room, leaving an indignant Alcibiades behind her.

A few evening's later, a small party was taking a private cruise aboard Alcibiades' pleasure boat, a small golden vessel with purple and red sails. Geta was at the prow, steering the craft with a silver pole. Alcibiades reclined on a cushioned bench at the stern in the company of a soft-spoken man with a broad-brimmed hat which cast his face in shadow. Xanthe fanned the two with a large peacock feather as they quietly talked between themselves. The blue Aegean in which the party drifted was dotted with other pleasure boats and caiques. An occasional galley could also be spotted in the horizon.

"Geta, head that way," Alcibiades instructed, gesturing with a dripping hand which he had leisurely submerged in the azure waves. He pointed to a part of the shore lined with a row of sea-side villas. The man in the broad-brimmed hat looked up at the white sand beach. The villas, owned by rich Greeks and Persians, were as big as mansions and constructed from the finest marble the isle of Marmara could offer. They formed an ultra posh neighborhood and resort town.

"Pull into this anchorage here," Alcibiades said when they approached a natural harbor along the coastline. "Yes, that's good. Tether the boat." Geta hopped out and docked the vessel as Alcibiades and the man in the hat debarked. Xanthe remained in the stern, now fanning herself with the peacock feather.

"Aren't you coming, Melina?" the man in the hat asked, tipping his brim upward to reveal his face.

"Aristophon?" the woman in the barge replied quizzically. She looked at Alcibiades with a perplexed expression.

"What are you waiting for?" Alcibiades questioned with a smug air.

Before she could respond, Aristophon chimed in, "I've been looking for you all over Asia. The slave driver in Corinth said he had sold you to an Athenian aristocrat. Nearly everyone in Corinth knew this Athenian was a bit of a ladies man but hadn't realized you were Melina the Hetaira. And so this funny story spread as I traveled to Athens and Megara and Carya. When I arrived at Miletus I had a feeling you were living here. My hopes were realized when Alcibiades, here, introduced himself to me and told me he personally knew the Athenian gallant in question. A few days ago he promised to locate you for me and reunite us. I've gone to the archon's office and have obtained your freedom. So aren't you going to come out?"

"Alcibiades here," she pointed to the man who had been her master a few minutes ago, "knew the Athenian whose slave I was, and so he, from the kindness in his sole, brought me to you?"

Aristophon's smiled. "You have it now!" he exclaimed. Alcibiades shrugged.

"Yes, yes it's a beautiful love story, but there's one more point of business," Alcibiades drawled. "From the kindness of that Athenian's sole, he asked me to present you", nodding significantly at Melina "a property here. He has purchased a villa fully furnished and stocked with slaves. And he hopes, the sap, that you'll be happy with the Corinthian portico. He thought it would remind you of home or something like that." He rolled his eyes dramatically before stalking off to show Melina and Aristophon the stylish mansion.

That night Melina toured her chic, new villa. She really liked the central garden and peristyle with its little fountain and rose parterres. When she entered her bedroom, she admired the Persian rugs and chenille bed spread. But what caught her attention was an ivory casket and the cushions that surrounded it. Inside the casket were ten perfume bottles holding fragrant oils. And the cushions--purple, green with silver embroidery, and red with four golden tassels--turned out to be the very same which Alcibiades had in his own chamber. Smiling, she picked up the red one and playfully flung it at the headboard.