Lysistrata

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She was in bed.

Athens slept, and so did Lysistrata. But even as the streets of sleeping Athens were disturbed by nocturnal rowdies — in spite of the vigilance of Scythian police from marketplace to the brothels of the Piraeus — so was the sleeping mind of Lysistrata disturbed by dreams of Lycon and Lycon’s love.

It had been now seven long and barren months since he had left her for the fortress of Pylos in distant Messenia. Seven months of days since she had served him Boeotian eels and the wines of Hellas. Seven months of nights since she had received him in the service of Aphrodite. Seven months of days and nights of empty heart and aching groin. It simply did not pay in these days of endless war to be the respected wife of a citizen. One had much better become one of the hetairai, the highest of courtesans, and dye one’s hair yellow and wear flowery robes. One could then, at least, have a little fun out of life.

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