by Laura Gill
Phileia greeted the captain’s return with an equal measure of amazement. “What are you doing bringing him back?”
Thalamika took a moment to catch her breath. “I couldn’t take him all the way. There was an apparition on the path, something, a terrible creature I’ve never seen before.” Her mouth moved, but no more words came. At last, she gave up the effort and placed Eurymedon on the cot. He did not appear affected by the excursion or the morning chill, but of course I could not know for certain until I examined him head to foot.
“Untie me,” I hissed at Thebeia. “I’m not going to go anywhere.”
She hesitated but a second before drawing her dagger to slice through my bonds. Blood surged through to my starved wrists and hands, causing my fingers to spasm and curl. Ignoring the pain, I raced toward the bed to undo my son’s wrappings. He came alive when he saw me, and laughed and waved his fists.
“What apparition?” Phileia asked from the hearth. “You had better come over here, Thalamika. Warm yourself, and start at the beginning.”
The captain spared a glance at me before traipsing to the hearth. A faint bruise splotched her jaw where I had struck her earlier. Had I actually punched the captain of the guard? I did not recall it being anything more than a glancing blow. But her eyes were glassy, unfocused, and she appeared to move in a daze. What had she encountered on the mountainside that frightened her so, when women like her and Sostrate feared nothing? Whatever it was, I did not want to contemplate what it might have done to my child.
Leaving him for a moment, I quickly relieved myself and washed. When I returned to the cot, Thalamika was sitting beside the high priestess, her head and shoulders slumped in defeat. They spoke in hushed tones.
“What is it?” As the mother of a child who might have been attacked and devoured in the wilderness, I felt no compunction about interrupting. “You spoke of an apparition, a creature that you’d never seen before.”
Phileia shook her head. “This is a private matter, Myrtale.” By now, she looked as fearful as Thalamika. Sostrate, too, who had come over to eavesdrop, wore an expression of extreme trepidation. Thebeia had returned to her post.
“My son could have been harmed, even killed by this thing, and you’re telling me that it’s not my concern?” I lifted Eurymedon in my arms, both to reassure myself that he had, indeed, returned safe and sound, and to reinforce my argument. “I demand to know what happened.”
The high priestess, most likely taking umbrage at my use of the word “demand,” started to refuse when Thalamika herself turned around and in a ragged voice replied, “The biggest, blackest, meanest wolf that’s ever haunted the Mountain. Right there in the middle of the path. He wouldn’t let us pass. I had Thettale with me, she’s taken wolves before, and this one was alone, no pack behind him. Wolves don’t attack humans when they’re alone unless they’re cornered or rabid, and this was neither.” Her account tumbled from her lips like gravel spilling down a hill during a landslide. “There was a god in that beast, I swear. Zeus Lykaios.”
Wolf-Zeus? I did not know that particular manifestation of the god, or even that he had any association with wolves; the animals were sacred to the Mistress of the Beasts. “Are you claiming that the god himself stopped you?” I might have laughed, even pointed out that I had told the women so had I myself not been so awestruck by the notion that no matter what they did, Eurymedon’s father would intervene.
Phileia looked genuinely torn, and sounded defeated when she said, “You may keep him here, Myrtale. I must go to the sanctuary and consult the Mistress. There must be some resolution to this situation.”
When she left, the high priestess took Thalamika with her, but Sostrate lingered a few moments longer. “You fought like a lioness,” she said approvingly, “though I can’t say why the god is set on you keeping the child. There’s no future for him here.”
I brought Eurymedon to the hearth, to watch over while I tucked into a much-belated breakfast. “Tell me about Wolf-Zeus.”
Sostrate frowned. “Don’t say that name lightly.” Joining me at the hearth, she claimed the second footstool. “He’s an ancient god of the mountains. They still worship him in remote parts, but not anywhere nearby that I know.” Awkwardly, she waggled her fingers at Eurymedon, who did not respond except to stare at the raven fronting her headdress; it clearly intimidated him. “There’s talk of human offerings and worshippers who can turn themselves into wolves. I don’t doubt that’s true, but that’s all I know of the practice.”
The bread had gone cold, but I ate eagerly. “Was the wolf that stopped Thalamika one of these strange man-wolves?” I asked around a mouthful of food.
Sostrate shrugged. “Could have been the god himself for all I know. Gods and goddesses do wander the wilderness. I’ve seen Pan at a distance many times, and discovered his tracks more often than that. But I’m not such a fool that I’d follow.”
When Eurymedon, frightened by the raven’s glittering eyes, started to fuss and cry, Sostrate apologetically took her leave. I was free to coddle and nurse him openly, and some of the sentries who visited later expressed a shy desire to hold him. Trusting no one, I demurred and made excuses. Even Rhona, who came by to check on me and the baby, remained suspect, for I reasoned that if the women intended to take him, they would not do so as blatantly as the last two times, but according to some subterfuge.
I told Rhona this, by way of instructing her to tell others. “But you’ll be wasting your time. Eurymedon has an immortal protector.” Maybe I should not have used that lofty tone, maybe it would offend both the Mistress and Zeus, but I was tired and agitated, all wound-up with uncertainty, and the pronouncement escaped my mouth before I could check myself. Immediately, I modulated my tone and added, “Thalamika and Thettale had an encounter with a great black wolf. It could have been the god himself, or a fearsome man-wolf who worships Zeus Lykaios, or even a rabid animal. I’m just grateful they and the baby weren’t hurt.”
Rhona eyed me sidelong. She must have heard how hard I fought that morning, and perhaps wondered whether I would fight her, too. Not unless she threatened my child. “You shouldn’t speculate,” she cautioned.
“Maybe that’s so,” I conceded defensively, “but if you were me you wouldn’t know what to think, either.”
Phileia returned the next morning with both Rhona and Ktimene in tow. A tension remained between us that proclaimed itself in the sullen stillness that descended on the house the moment the three appeared. Sitting upright in bed, I immediately reached for Eurymedon to hold him close, though it meant disturbing his sleep. I cooed and tried to soothe him by sending thoughts of love and safety, but he whimpered.
“You needn’t bother,” the high priestess said tightly. “Obviously the gods will not allow any separation.”
Nonetheless, I felt only distrust, even some contempt, where I ought to have been thoroughly relieved. “I told you that yesterday.” I wished the women would leave and take their ill tidings with them. For whatever Phileia was about to tell me surely could not be good. Was there another herdsman’s family? Perhaps a hastily arranged marriage with some brute of a man? Would there be more supernatural happenings?
Phileia shook her hands to signal that she was tired of the debate. “The Mistress will not allow Eurymedon to be brought up here, and we cannot risk your safety or his by banishing you both from the sanctuary to fend for yourselves.” Pausing, she exchanged glances with Ktimene and Rhona before continuing, “The only reasonable thing we can think to do is to send you home to your father in Argos.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Spring heralded warmer weather, but not easier traveling conditions. Winter snowmelt reduced sections of the road to Argos to a muddy track, and the nights were bitterly cold. Yet I counted myself grateful for small things: that the Argive soldiers who had come to collect me provided a mule so that I did not have to trudge through the mud like Sostrate and the six other Women of the Mountain who accompanied me; and that I coul
d keep Eurymedon with me, snugly swaddled in a sling that so he could nurse whenever he needed. I even devised a way to clean him and change his diaper while riding so as not to irritate the men.
Though gruffly courteous, the Argives did not address me as “Princess.” Perhaps they did not recognize me as the girl who had been the king’s daughter. Not that it mattered. Danaë was dead. I was Myrtale of the Mountain, fifteen years old.
But the men seemed to take perverse enjoyment in needling Sostrate and her Hunters by forcing a hard march through the mountains, catcalling them, and spying on their bodily functions even when Thettale broke one man’s nose with her quarterstaff. They treated me somewhat better, and even admired Eurymedon for his good looks and behavior, but Sostrate gave them no opportunity to lay their hands on me, not even to assist me onto or down from the mule. I was glad for her intervention. Being in such close quarters with men after so many years unsettled me.
I slept at night encircled by the Women, relieved myself with them acting as human shields, and always had one or more flanking the mule during the march.
Late on the fifth day, the Larissa appeared on its high hill. We passed through the lower town, whose narrow, cobbled streets greeted the coming twilight with the smells of frying onions and garlic, and people hurrying home. Other smells pervaded the air, too, signposts of a return to the world of men: excrement and horse dung, wood ash, rancid sweat, and the trash of too many people living too close together. We had such smells on the Mountain, too, I observed, but up high where the wind blew more freely, the odor of human habitation dissipated more quickly. I wondered what Sostrate and the other Women thought of high Argos, with its many houses, its markets and girdling walls, surrounded by olive groves and vineyards, fields and horse pastures. Maybe the wilderness of the Mountain was richer for its solitude. Certainly I experienced the sharp pangs of homesickness, and the dread that I would soon bid farewell to Sostrate and the others.
In the Larissa itself, I found very little that Danaë would have recognized. The whitewashed walls, now transmuted into gray in the twilight, the rooftops with their crenellations, even the blue-pillared portico facing the outer court where Thettale helped me and Eurymedon from the mule’s back—everything was physically the same, but the spirit had changed, diminished.
There in the outer court, I said farewell to Sostrate and the others, clinging to each Woman long enough that the Argive captain became impatient. So he had been days earlier when I had taken leave of Phileia, Ktimene, and the many other Women of the Mountain who turned out to bid me a safe journey. Relations between the priestesses and I had grown easier during the weeks of waiting for word from Argos, and I bitterly regretted having to depart.
“Will I still be Myrtale?” I had asked Phileia. I could not fathom becoming Danaë again, when Danaë had been dead for over five years.
“I do not know.” Phileia’s inability to offer up a definitive answer pricked me with unease. Who would I be, now that I had left the Mountain and the Mistress’s service?
The captain escorted me upstairs via a back entrance and a service passage to a plain chamber outfitted with a cot, a table, and wash basin. No royal comforts, obviously, for I was not the princess of Argos. Yet there was no servant woman on hand to receive me, only a sullen menial who came later with food and washing water; she must have been a deaf-mute not to acknowledge my questions. For Eurymedon, I had a ready supply of diapers that Phileia and Rhona had packed, and whoever had prepared the room had laid out enough blankets and fleeces that we could both rest comfortably.
Setting aside a generous portion of food and drink for the gods despite the fact that the room contained no idols, I ate and prepared for bed in total darkness; the menial had not even left an oil lamp burning.
Not surprisingly, I could not sleep. Days of hard travel on the back of a mule left me aching, while too many uncertainties crowded my mind. Never before had I been completely bereft of another woman’s company; whether on the Mountain or earlier, as a child, there had always been at least one woman within call. Sostrate and her women had to remain the night before setting out on the return journey. Could not one of them been allowed to accompany me upstairs? Was the king of Argos so incensed with me that he had decided I should have no comforting presence?
The fleeces smelled strange, but, having bedded down in far less accommodating places, I did my utmost to ignore my uneasiness. Of course the king would be angry. He had meant for me to be a consecrated virgin priestess, and here I was now, five years later, with a newborn infant and no husband. What a scandal for the court!
The sounds of the citadel did not help me relax. The weight of the building creaked and settled. Outside my narrow window, which looked down onto a rear alley, the lone sentry whistled to himself. Sometimes he paused to cough noisily and hawk up phlegm, or sing snatches of lewd songs. Thalamika’s women, by contrast, had been as silent as predators, for on the Mountain, stealth was the single most effective weapon.
Then I heard footfalls in the corridor outside. Another sentry? Stiffening, I closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep, and strained to listen. Whoever it was fumbling with my latch, they lacked the heavier tread I associated with men. A woman, then, at this late hour? A shaft of flickering light appeared through a crack in the door, then the stout oak creaked and someone bearing an oil lamp stepped inside before shutting the door again.
Holding my breath, I watched the stranger through slitted eyes. Draped over one of the woman’s arms was a blanket, while in her free hand she carried what looked like an idol. I clamped my eyes shut as she approached the bedside, and heard the ceramic idol touch the rough wood of the table. She deposited the lamp, too, and shook out the blanket to drape over me. When I chanced a second glance, I realized then that I recognized her.
“Wordeia?” I inquired softly.
She gasped as I moved to sit up. “I did not mean to wake you, Danaë.” The blanket hung limply from her hands.
Wordeia looked older than I remembered, more careworn. New lines etched her face, and the shadows revealed hollows in her cheeks and eyes. Maybe it was just a trick of the lamplight, but at the moment, it seemed that while only five years had passed for me on the Mountain, twenty had passed in Argos.
“That’s all right. I wasn’t sleeping, anyway,” I replied. “And my name is Myrtale. The girl called Danaë is dead.”
Wordeia cautiously perched on the edge of the thin mattress, as if I were a complete stranger. “Fifteen years old already. You speak like an Arcadian now. You have adopted the accent.” Just the statement, no judgment behind it. She gave me a strained smile that offered no warmth. I had forgotten how very correct her diction was, and how refined her accent and deliberate her gestures. A proper Argive noblewoman.
Before I could apologize for my lack of refinement, she cast an anxious glance at the sleeping Eurymedon, then, returning to me, took hold of my arm. “You should not be here, Danaë. Not as a mother,” she whispered urgently. “I know what you must think, that you and the child will be made welcome, that here is a male heir for the House of Danaus, but you are wrong. This son of yours is no blessing but a curse on your father.” I noticed how she kept looking over her shoulder toward the door. “You should have stayed in Arcadia, and married your son’s father, and forgotten about Argos.”
“You don’t know?” I watched the shadows around the door, listened for someone else’s surreptitious movement, but heard nothing. Nonetheless, I followed my aunt’s lead and kept my voice lowered. “Eurymedon’s father is the king most high, the god himself. He came to the sanctuary in a lightning strike, and came to me in a vision. I thought you knew. High Priestess Phileia told me she’d explained everything in her message.”
Wordeia’s eyes shone huge in their hollows; she wore an air of disbelief and hopelessness that I found hard to fathom. “That?” She exhaled. “No one here believes that. No one dares speak the tale, either.”
Now it was my turn to seize her arm. �
��You must believe it. I never broke my vow, never encountered a man on the Mountain. I swear it.” I swallowed. “There were signs. The earthquake, the man-wolf, the nine weeks I carried my son.”
Crow’s feet furrowed as Wordeia narrowed her eyes. “The man-wolf? A pregnancy lasting nine weeks? What nonsense is this? Your father insists you opened your legs to a man who entered the sanctuary.”
Obviously, Acrisius had dismissed Phileia’s message as some womanly fancy. “That’s not true.” I repeated everything, starting from the beginning, and ending with the various measures the priestesses had tried to separate me from my child. “You see? It’s because the god won’t allow anyone to take Eurymedon away from me that High Priestess Phileia had to send me home. What else was she to do with me?”
Wordeia groaned. “Anything but send you home. Oh, but how could she have known? The Mistress, she is an Arcadian goddess with no oracle.” She cast another glance at Eurymedon. “And you called him after your brother. Foolish child! It will only make things worse, when the time comes to take him away.”
I restrained a sudden urge to gather my sleeping infant into my arms. Had Wordeia not heard anything I just said? I could have shrieked at her in my frustration. “Anyone who tries to seize him will have to come through me.”
“Oh, Danaë!” Wordeia cried softly. “You understand nothing. The immortals despise your father. Why, I do not know. He admits to no offense. But the oracles all agree: his daughter will bear a son who will one day be the death of him. Why do you think he sent you away? All his other daughters, the bastards, he had put to death, but you he spared for your dead mother’s sake. Now, who knows what he will do with you? You are no longer an innocent. You have broken your vows. You are impious.”
My son was destined to kill his grandfather? Why, Eurymedon was only a baby, less than three months old! What did Acrisius have to fear from an infant? “That’s absurd. I lay with no man.” I turned my head away. “Eurymedon’s father is the Lord of the Heavens, the king most high. And I told you, my name is Myrtale.”