The Bee Maker

by Mobi Warren

  “This son of a goat will be sacrificed tomorrow morning at high tide. He will perish in the sea and take the fever with him.”

  Shouts of approval went up from the crowd. Amethea pressed her body against the side of a shop and stared in horror. Two hollow goat horns had been tied over the stubs on his head and he was naked. She wanted to rush to him and take his thin, frightened body into her arms, but the elder yanked at the ropes that bound him and shoved him back towards the jailhouse.

  Two men stood near an herbalist’s shop opposite Amethea and watched the scene with solemn faces. The older man, obviously a foreigner, was dressed in a pair of white linen trousers and a white over-tunic that reached to his knees. His jet-black hair fell past his shoulders in thick curls. He had a hawk-like nose, a broad forehead and high cheekbones, a trimmed beard. She was struck by the intense gaze of his dark eyes, like burning coals or orbs of polished obsidian. The younger man had wheat-colored hair and was dressed in the usual chiton. He had an amiable, intelligent face, and a large papyrus scroll tucked under his left arm. Amethea had never seen them before.

  Suddenly the market scene blurred before her eyes. She leaned against the shop wall as darkness swallowed her. When she came to it was to the scent of spices. The man in the white linen tunic was massaging her hands with aromatic oil poured from a small glass vial.

  Dika crouched by her, moaning and wringing her hands. “Not the fever, please not the fever.”

  “There is no sign of fever,” the man reassured her. “Her skin is cool, but she has suffered a shock.”

  “Seeing her brother tethered like a goat,” Dika muttered.

  People who had gathered to listen to the elder’s proclamation had dispersed and there was no sign of Hippasus. Amethea tried to sit up but another wave of dizziness prevented her.

  The man in white motioned for her to lie still, then turned to Dika and said, “Is the dwelling of your mistress close by? She is not strong enough to walk on her own, but my companion and I will be glad to support her steps.”

  Dika waivered and the older man read her reluctance.

  “My name is Pythagoras,” he said. “Pythagoras of Samos. I journey with Hecataeus of Miletus. We are men of honor. I serve Apollo through the study of Number and Music. We are headed for Croton, but at my insistence, our ship has anchored in Dia. I came seeking some of your island’s legendary honey. I never expected to find human sacrifice here.”

  Dika appeared dumbfounded by this unexpected and lengthy speech, but its effect on Amethea was like a splash of cold water. She sat upright and clasped the august man’s hand.

  “Hippasus studies Number! His pebbles make pictures before the altar of the Bee Goddess. I can lead you to the finest source of honey on the island, but you must agree to help my brother!”

  It was Pythagoras’ turn to look startled and he peered at Amethea with a hard gaze as if gauging whether or not she was infected with fever or madness or both. But then his gaze softened and he motioned to his friend to help her to her feet. Hecataeus placed an arm around her waist to provide support but she lightly pushed it away.

  “I feel better now. The clouds have cleared from my head.”

  “Your brother is the young goat boy, the sacrificial victim,” murmured Pythagoras.

  Amethea nodded. “We should not speak here,” she said, “but if you will come with me, I will take you to the shrine of the Bee Goddess and show you my brother’s counting pebbles.” She led the two men up the narrow, rocky trails until they reached the secret shrine hidden among thorny acanthus and wild thyme bushes. There she dipped a wooden spoon into a small clay urn and scooped out a piece of honeycomb dripping with honey. She handed it to Pythagoras and he closed his eyes as he tasted the honey. He stood without moving for so long that Amethea wondered if he, like Hippasus, had spells. She felt herself grow calm. Serenity emanated from the philosopher as if he possessed an invisible power that could gather every natural sound, bird trill and bee drone, crashing wave and soughing wind, into one unified song.

  At last he opened his eyes and spoke. “This is honey blessed. Dia is indeed touched by the Goddess.”

  “Hippasus, my brother, gathered this honey.” She pointed to the tree snag that housed the hive. “The bees allow him to take honey from time to time, as though they consider him kin. They do not sting or chase him as they would anyone else.”

  Pythagoras gazed out over the cliff at the restless sea. He turned to Hecataeus and said, “As I had hoped, honey from Dia will be a worthy gift to offer the priests in Hyperborea.” His companion nodded.

  Amethea looked puzzled. “Hyperborea? Where is that?.”

  “Farther than any man from Samos or Miletus or Crete has ever been,” the younger man with wheat-colored hair answered.

  “How will you find it if no one has ever been there?”

  “Apollo has shown me in dreams,” said Pythagoras, “and I travel with the most learned geographer in all the world.” He nodded at Hecataeus who sat on a flat rock twirling a twig of thyme in his mouth. The geographer’s eyes danced and Amethea found it hard to believe that a man who looked barely past thirty could be so learned.

  “What is a geographer?” she asked.

  Hecataeus answered, “One who travels by foot and by sea to known and unknown places. From my travels, I have drawn a map that shows the farthest known boundaries of the world. Hyperborea lies yet beyond.”

  “Before you travel there, will you help my brother?”

  “Show me your brother’s pebbles,” said Pythagoras.

  Amethea pointed to the ground behind the altar stone. Pythagoras examined the neat formations Hippasus had laid out. He knelt down and touched the one pebble, two pebbles, three pebbles, all the way to the triangle-shaped decad. He stroked the geometric figures Hippasus had made and measured some of them with a short rod he pulled from his tunic. He whispered syllables in a language Amethea had never heard, some kind of incantation, and traced Hippasus’ hexagons several times with his forefinger. At last he stood up and Amethea was surprised to see tears glistening in his eyes.

  He further surprised her by solemnly lifting his tunic and folding up his pant’s leg to reveal his right thigh. She stared at it, awe-stricken, for his thigh, unlike the rest of his dark olive skin, was a bright golden color and covered in downy golden hairs like the fuzz on a honeybee. He looked into Amethea’s wondering eyes and said, “Your brother has been marked by the gods, as have I.” He folded his trouser leg back down.

  “Tell me about your brother. What signs were there at his birth?”

  Amethea told Pythagoras how a swarm of honeybees had hovered in the doorway to welcome Hippasus when he was born and how their father, repulsed by his infant son’s deformed foot and head bumps had abandoned the family. “My mother held Hippasus in her arms and would not relinquish him. My father had brought daffodils and violets to honor my mother but threw them down in disgust when he saw Hippasus. But the bees, they hovered near Hippasus for days as if they meant to protect him.”

  “What is this? It looks like a honeybee.” Pythagoras lifted something from the altar and held it aloft in his palm.

  “Hippasus said that came from the Bee Maker.”

  “The Bee Maker? Tell me more, child.”

  “Hippasus has spells. He grows still and looks into the air and sees things others do not. Shortly after our mother died, he said that the Bee Maker came and gave him that ornament.”

  Hecataeus who had been listening quietly leaned forward, his eyes round with interest.

  Pythagoras examined the origami bee closely, touching every surface and angle of it with his fingertip. “What strange and marvelous material, so light and thin. It is not skin or linen or hammered gold or any leaf I know of. Who is this Bee Maker? A priestess on your island?”

  “I have never seen her, Sir. Only Hippasus sees her when he is in
a spell. Hippasus thinks she is in the service of Artemis, or even Artemis herself.”

  “This is a marvel of craftsmanship. I should like to learn how it was made.”

  “At first I thought my brother had somehow made it himself, but I couldn’t guess how. Sometimes it moves, comes to life. It unfolds into a square and then back into a bee.”

  Pythagoras blew softly on the origami bee. In a low voice, he sang again in a foreign tongue and moved his legs and arms in a slow, flowing dance as he held the origami bee aloft. The ornament bee remained an ornament, but that did not seem to bother Pythagoras. He stroked the body and wings and dangling legs. Amethea could tell he was fascinated and wanted to know how it was made.

  “Forgive me, Bee Maker,” he whispered, as he slowly and gently unfolded the origami bee until he held a small square of paper. He studied the square and with his finger traced triangles and angles formed by fold lines in the paper. “Amethea, with your consent, I would like to examine this ornament further. It has much to teach me.”

  Amethea nodded and Pythagoras tucked the paper square into his tunic.

  “Will you help my brother?” Amethea asked again, her voice urgent.

  “I dreamt I would find my greatest pupil on Dia. I have found him.”

  Pythagoras turned to Hecataeus and said, “We must find a way to ransom the boy’s life and then take him with us to Hyperborea.” He turned to Amethea. “With your consent, I will care for Hippasus as my own son.”

  Relief rippled through Amethea’s limbs. “Will you ask the Council elders to release him to you?”

  Pythagoras shook his head. “Your elders have already issued a proclamation. Pride will not allow them to retract it. I must think on this. Can we return to your home?”

  “We have little time,” said Amethea. “They mean to drown him tomorrow morning.”

  “If he is under the protection of the Bee Maker, we will find a way.”

  Back at the cottage, Amethea prepared a simple meal of wild leeks simmered with purslane and served it to her guests with a small round of goat cheese. They tore sections from a flat loaf of barley bread and dipped the crusts in olive oil. She apologized she had no meat to serve such illustrious guests but Pythagoras informed her he abstained from meat.

  “Hippasus has made the same vow!”

  “Meat dulls the mind,” Pythagoras said, “and Apollo abhors blood sacrifice. Upon his altar only honey, wildflowers, and branches of laurel should be offered.”

  Amethea pondered his words, she who had always hoped to win the victor’s share of the slaughtered ox at the Heraea Games. She caught the glance of Hecataeus who stood behind Pythagoras. He lifted an eyebrow. He, she sensed, would not refuse onions grilled with lamb or a spiced blood sausage.

  Refreshed by food, Pythagoras plied Amethea with questions. When he learned she was a runner and that her uncle Karpos had persuaded her to accept her brother’s sacrifice by promising to escort her to the Heraea Games that summer, he clapped his hands together and said, “That is it, that is how I will approach your Dia elders.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Amethea.

  “In distant times,” Pythagoras explained, “when human sacrifice was more common than it is now, I have heard that the victim was sometimes offered a chance to escape. The gods admire athletic talent as much as burnt offerings and a swift runner might thus secure his freedom. I will appeal to your elders to allow for this chance.”

  “But Hippasus cannot run!” protested Amethea. “You have seen his foot. He could never outrun anyone.”

  “I do not speak of your goat-footed brother,” Pythagoras said, and somehow the way he said the epithet ‘goat-footed’ did not sound insulting but affectionate. “I speak of you.”

  Amethea stared at him, not understanding.

  “Amethea, refuse the Heraea Games and ask instead to run a race here on Dia to save your brother. If you win your race, Hippasus goes free. I will leave at once and seek an audience with the Council to persuade them to accept this.”

  With his impressive height, piercing eyes, and learned speech, Pythagoras was a formidable figure, but Amethea wondered, would the Council heed a stranger? After he had left, Hecataeus assured her that Pythagoras was known and esteemed by eminent priests and powerful kings throughout Babylonia, Egypt, and Greece. “If any man can sway your elders, it is Pythagoras.”

  “What did he mean, Hecataeus, when he said he had found a pupil here?”

  “After our voyage to Hyperborea, Pythagoras plans to start a school in Croton. He will teach initiates the secrets of Number and Music. Hippasus, he believes, will become his greatest student.”

  “How can he know this?”

  “Pythagoras speaks with Apollo.”

  “Like Hippasus speaks with the Bee Goddess.”

  “Artemis,” observed the geographer, “is Apollo’s twin sister.”

  Amethea nodded, but her stomach twisted with fear and worry as she anxiously awaited Pythagoras’ return. It was mid-afternoon when she finally heard his firm, sure steps coming up the path. She ran to greet him and hurriedly led him into the cottage where she poured him a cup of wine.

  She held her breath, waiting for him to speak. Hecataeus leaned forward, anxious to learn the Council’s decision.

  “It is decided,” said Pythagoras. “Amethea, you will be given a chance to race for your brother’s life tomorrow morning. However,” he paused as if reluctant to share the conditions, “you must race against the swiftest boy your age on Dia.”

  Hecataeus exclaimed, “A maiden to race against a young man? Do they think she is Atalanta? This is no way to give Hippasus a chance.”

  “They do not want to give him a chance,” said Amethea.

  “That is not all,” said Pythagoras. “The elders have decided

  the race will be a dolichos.”

  “This is madness!” shouted Hecataeus.

  Amethea was stunned. The dolichos, run by male athletes at the Olympics, was twenty-four stades long. At the Heraea Games, the women’s footrace was a mere stade, a couple hundred meters. She straightened her shoulders and bowed to Pythagoras.

  “You have done your best.”

  “This is the only way the elders will allow Hippasus a chance to be spared.” His eyes were full of kindness but also the harder edge of challenge.

  “Eucles,” she murmured. “They mean Eucles. He is the youth chosen to carry messages from one end of the island to the other on account of his swift feet. I have seen him run along the shore calling to dolphins as if they were his kin. I could never beat him in a race, especially one so long.”

  “Would you refuse to try?” Pythagoras asked.

  She looked down at her sandaled feet. How could they ever bear her fast enough to beat Eucles over such a long distance? Yet, how could she refuse? “No,” she said, “I do not refuse. I will race this dolichos.”

  “Your spirit is strong, child. Eucles may run as a dolphin swims, but you will run as swift as the fiery horse you are named for. The race will begin on the beach and wind up and over the island before returning to the start line. The trail is to be marked by red ribbons. The council is already sending out men to measure and mark the trail.” He paused, then added, “Your uncle Karpos argued against this race but when he could not prevail, he is the one who insisted it be a dolichos.”

  Amethea rose and walked to the trellis of white roses. It was covered with new blooms. “I will offer flowers on the altar of the Bee Goddess and pray for her help.” She walked with graceful, firm steps, but inside she already felt defeated.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ATTACK

  As Amethea made her way to the shrine with an armful of white roses, she suddenly stopped to listen. Someone was following her; the sound of hasty footsteps and labored breathing could only belong to Karpos. Fearful, she looked behind and there h
e was, gaining on her, red-faced and scowling. She tried to run but the hem of her tunic caught on a thorn and gave Karpos the extra moment he needed to reach her. He grabbed her arm and forced her around. Sneering, he dropped his hand but moved to block the path that led to the shrine. She glared at him.

  “Let me pass, Uncle.”

  “Niece, why this sudden coldness?”

  “There is nothing to say to each other.”

  “I know it is hard for you to accept your brother’s death, but you are an athlete. You must show courage.”

  “I will summon my courage when I race against Eucles.”

  Amethea tried to walk around Karpos but he shoved her back in place and gripped her arm. She flung her head, shaking a tumble of red curls.

  “You would defy the gods? This is folly, Amethea. You cannot hope to win. You will destroy your only chance to claim true victory at Olympia.”

  “I was blind to accept your offer. Hippasus’ life means more to me than the Heraea Games.”

  “You would throw away your dream, you who could be Atalanta and bring glory to Crete?”

  Amethea knew it was hopeless to race against Eucles. She could never hope to outrun him, but at least Hippasus would drown knowing she had not abandoned him, had not placed the Heraea Games above his life. Her eyes flashed defiance. “If you are so certain I cannot win this race, why bother trying to dissuade me? You will have what you want in the end.”

  Karpos tensed his jaw and Amethea was surprised to detect uncertainty beneath his hard gaze. He was not completely convinced she would lose!

  “Amethea, do not disgrace our family by running this race.” His grip on her arm tightened and she cried out in pain.

  “There is nothing you can say that will change my mind.”

  “Nothing I can say? But there is plenty I can do.”

  She struggled to break away from his hold but he seized her with both arms and shoved his face against hers. He snarled, “You are a fool, niece.”