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"Rhodopis died not, O Herodotus," said Nicarete, "but is yet living, and as fair as ever she was; and he who is now my lover, even this Phanes of Phocaea, hath lately beheld her."
While I was considering these things they led me into the booth of one that sold wine; and when Nicarete had set garlands of roses on our heads, Phanes began and told me what I now tell thee but whether speaking truly or falsely I know not. And thereby is a rock, no common one, but fashioned into the likeness of the head of an Ethiopian.
But he and Nicarete are about to sail together without delay to the country of the Amagardoi, believing that there they will enter the fire and become immortal. Yet methinks that Rhodopis will not look lovingly on Nicarete, when they meet in that land, nor Nicarete on Rhodopis. Nay, belike the amphora will be made hot for one or the other.
"Hail to thee, Nicarete," said I; "verily thou art this morning as lovely as the dawn, or as the beautiful Rhodopis that died ere thou wert born to us through the favour of Aphrodite." Now this Rhodopis was she who built, they say, the Pyramid of Mycerinus: wherein they speak not truly but falsely, for Rhodopis lived long after the kings who built the Pyramids.
Herodotus describes, in a letter to his friend Sophocles, a curious encounter with a mariner just returned from unknown parts of Africa. To Sophocles, the Athenian, greeting. Yesterday, as I was going down to the market-place of Naucratis, I met Nicarete, who of all the hetairai in this place is the most beautiful.
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