by Laura Gill
I missed the distraction of babbling back and forth with Eurymedon while at the loom, but on account of his best interests and mine I released him to Klymene’s care. Keremaia marked the change without much comment; she remained a harsh taskmistress. Let her criticize. It took more than a malcontent’s mere grousing to unnerve a Woman of the Mountain. Plus, in earning my own keep, I experienced a sense of accomplishment I had not enjoyed in many months. Keremaia struck me as an unhappy woman. Had she been more approachable, I might have addressed a kindly word to her, but as matters stood, I left her alone with her complaints and concentrated on making new friends among the weavers.
The pregnant woman was Panope, at seventeen about to give birth to her second child. Plump Ornis had the swiftest hands at the loom, and, though Keremaia never let her touch the natural yarn, exceptionally talented with dyestuffs. Fair-haired Auge was painfully shy, which was not surprising given Keremaia’s vicious habit of mocking her stammer. Had I not been so wary of attracting the unwelcome attention of the palace, I would have defended her from the first; as the weeks passed and the abuse continued, I felt increasingly guilty. Perhaps it was my upbringing, too, in that a Woman of the Mountain took responsibility for maintaining her own dignity.
“I-It’s n-nothing. The g-gods have a-a-af-af—” Auge struggled with the word “afflicted,” but I resisted any attempt to finish her sentences for her. All I could do was remain patient while she got her thoughts out. Several times in her childhood, her family had taken her to a nearby shrine of Apollo to persuade the god to relent and heal her speech; the god affected the same indifference toward Auge’s suffering as he had toward my mother and brother, and the other plague victims who had died more than a decade ago in Argos.
To have female friends my own age brightened my days and dimmed the terrors that still occasionally visited the night hours. On summer mornings when Keremaia stayed home, we carried the laundry to the nearby stream. We collected mussels from the rocks, and paid homage to Posidaeia and Diktynna. And on the hottest afternoons, I overcame my fear of the sea long enough to accompany my friends to the shoreline to squish my toes in the wet sand and dabble them in the foaming surf; it did not matter that I could not swim because the village women rarely waded out. Poseidon, it seemed, was as susceptible to the charms of mortal women as Zeus himself.
Panope bore a daughter two weeks before the summer solstice, and named her Klytie after the sunflowers the market women sometimes brought back from Livadi. Now that he was no longer the sole focus of the women’s cosseting, Eurymedon expressed his disapproval of his new neighbor by being obnoxious whenever Panope brought Klytie over to visit; he fussed and made faces. He could sit upright without help, and babbled more than over, imperfectly mimicking the words I taught him, “ma-a” for “Mama” and “pa-a” for “Papa,” which was what he had learned to call Diktys; the distinction between father and uncle could wait.
Weaning Eurymedon brought the unwelcome return of my menses. The first twinge of cramps brought a stab of regret for not continuing to nurse; I could have kept producing milk for much longer, avoiding the pain and mess of a woman’s monthly ordeal altogether. It was too late now. My body had changed.
And yet, it had not. When I first probed inside to insert the woolen plug, I realized to my astonishment that my body had somehow reverted to its virgin state. How could that even be possible? Rhona herself had inspected me after the labor, she had told me that my maidenhead was torn. It was impossible.
For days, I kept both the fact and my bewilderment to myself. Only a priestess could have interpreted this mystery, and I balked at confiding in Leukothea. Telling her meant revealing everything; withholding the crucial knowledge of Eurymedon’s paternity meant risking disbelief and outright ridicule. What would be the point, then?
Zeus would not have done this, would he?
I searched my memory, waded through the wisps of dreams, past golden trees and hemorrhaging butterflies to a caldera beneath a brilliantly blue sky. Hera had said something about healing all my hurts. I assumed she meant my bruises and broken bones, the effects of being manhandled. Could she have meant this as well?
Choosing a length of tablet weaving I had intended for my son, I approached the altar in the sanctuary and left the offering on the kernos with my thanks. Hera must have been the one to restore my virginity.
The next afternoon, the fishwives returned from the market with a basket of pomegranates a merchant’s wife had offered in exchange for only two sardines. So cheaply bartered, when pomegranates were not yet even in season? Yet there they were, glossy red and mouthwateringly plump in the basket, and when split open the arils glistened like rubies; they broke between the teeth with a burst of sour-sweetness that made the tongue sing.
“Who is this merchant’s wife who has fruit before season?” the villagers clamored to know. “Does she have more?”
“We’ve never seen her before,” replied one fishwife.
“What does she look like? Who is her husband?”
Several fishwives spoke all at once. “She has green eyes and white arms. She wore gold pomegranates in her ears.”
Back and forth the questions went, with the villagers urging the fishwives to find the woman again. They would be wasting their time, I thought. What would a goddess want with a pair of two-day old sardines? Of course, I said none of this and pretended the same ignorance. Yet I did not have to feign delight. Hera had sent the pomegranates to acknowledge my offering. I had my answer.
*~*~*~*
Eventually, summer turned toward autumn, the days shortening as the equinox approached. Merciful Demeter granted summer a parting blaze of glory in the carpets of delicate pink cyclamen that clothed the hills, and in the exquisite white sea daffodils that appeared on the dunes.
Diktys brought me a single daffodil to keep; the rest of the blooms the women harvested for offerings to the immortal gods. Daffodil chains were tossed into the waves to honor Poseidon. They wilted on the open-air altars to Posidaeia and Diktynna, they garlanded the roadside herms, and covered the floor and altar in the village sanctuary. So many flowers, for deities great and small.
The seas roughened, Poseidon withdrawing his favor for the cold seasons, and the fishing boats made the midnight runs less frequently. The elders marked the annual closing of the sea lanes with the sacrifice of a bull. Fish were now salted and smoked in outdoor ovens, and stored in pithoi submerged within the floor of the communal storehouse.
An official from the palace in Chora arrived in Pelargos to assess and collect the allotment. Keremaia fawned over Megistokritos, whose supercilious attitude and mode of dress reminded me of Acrisius’s officials. His fringed, striped scribal robes had seen better days, but his meticulously curled hair practically dripped oil, and the ocher reddening his thin lips matched the jasper seal-stone attached to his wrist. Not the type to soil his hands by touching clay, he employed a harried-looking assistant to take his dictation.
Even before Keremaia opened it to present the finished bales of cloth, the chest attracted Megistokritos’s attention. “What is this?” He then spent considerable time examining the scenes and assessing the workmanship. Keremaia had tried to have the pitch removed from the joins, but the carpenter—apparently a cousin of hers—refused to undertake the project for fear of further damaging the paintings.
Somehow, it never occurred to Keremaia that the chest was not her property to leave or restore. Because she never socialized with the other villagers, she had no inkling of the chest’s origin. When Megistokritos interrogated her about its provenance, Keremaia dithered, finally concocting a tale about a benefactor.
Megistokritos gave the inside of the chest a final once-over. “As long as this sealing damage here doesn’t affect the quality of the cloth.” He indicated the pitch. “I am more concerned that you’ve been neglecting the wormwood and yarrow. King Polydektes and King Proitus will not pay out if the cloth is moth-eaten.”
Wringing her hands, Ke
remaia made feeble excuses about the unavailability of quality herbs for repellent. Megistokritos waved aside her words with a stern warning. “Never forget, you are here on sufferance. There are at least twenty-five other women who can do your job with equal or even greater efficiency. Now...”
With that, he shifted his scrutiny from the woolen cloth, which passed muster, to us workers. “Panope, I understand you are a mother again. Have you fully recovered from the birth? Ornis, still unmarried? Auge?” Rather than ask her a question requiring an articulated answer, Megistokritos simply grunted his acknowledgment of her and moved on to me. “You must be Dorea.” A check of the wax diptych containing the ledger confirmed this. “Hmm, this seems rather strange. You are entered in the accounts as the sister of Diktys. I assume we are talking about Klymene’s nephew, the young elder? I was not aware that he had a sister.”
Keremaia was incredulous. “Sister?”
Megistokritos consulted the ledger further. “It also says here that you have a child, a son, nine months old.”
Because he had not asked me a direct question, I did not speak until he cleared his throat meaningfully and ordered me to answer outright. “Yes. Diktys has adopted my son Eurymedon as his nephew.”
“Ah, I understand the situation now,” he drawled, nodding. “You are an uncommonly pretty woman.”
What did he mean? Was he implying that Diktys had sired my son only to lie about it? Circumstances made it next to impossible for me to demand clarification, and despite my irritation and inexplicable embarrassment I judged it better to hold my tongue. If others chose to believe the lie, what difference did that make as long as Diktys himself provided us shelter and protection, and did not start believing in the fiction himself?
Diktys did not appear at all surprised about Megistokritos’s questions. “Scribes always pry,” he explained. “It’s their job to discover whatever and whoever can be taxed for a maximum profit. Megistokritos will cause no trouble.”
His nonchalance about the matter did not wear off on me. To me, there was something vaguely ominous in the way the scribe took interest in my “situation,” as he called it, even after my girlfriends reassured me that Megistokritos always made probing inquiries and that he never touched the women workers.
The weaving house was open to the village women in the autumn and winter months. Without Keremaia’s presence to darken the atmosphere, it became an ideal place to congregate, work wool, and gossip. Out in the rear yard, we dyed wool with woad and weld. The island specialized in a pale sage green that I liked.
Three of us stood around waiting to add the powdered woad and weld to the cauldron’s boiling water to make the green when we heard the unmistakable rattle and jingle of an approaching chariot. Everyone froze. Iolanthe suddenly grasped my forearm. Luktia left the cauldron to peer around the corner and ascertain who the arrival was.
“It’s the king.” Luktia reported to us all, but for some reason her gaze rested on me. Agitated muttering ensued, and again, I noticed many of the women, including those who had ventured outside to see what was going on, staring at me. I started to feel self-conscious, as if I were unwittingly wearing smeared dye on my cheek.
“Why is the king here?” I asked.
“To make trouble with his brother.” Luktia seized my hand, tugging. “Come, we should get you into the safety of the sanctuary.”
Why did I require the protection of the sanctuary? Then I remembered Polydektes’ rumored predilection toward pretty women. What nonsense! While I might not be ugly, I was nothing to tempt a king. “Wait!” I wanted explanations, not this hustling about. “What about the king’s brother? He lives here?”
Luktia threw me an incredulous look. “Diktys!”
I heard the name without actually processing the information. The lapse allowed Luktia greater control, and with half a dozen women flanking she managed to pull me along behind the houses. Klymene met us on the path ten yards from the sanctuary. Holding out her arms, she urged greater haste. “Hurry! He’s almost here.”
But as we rounded the building to gain access to the entrance, I heard the chariot again, drawing closer, the charioteer’s commands to the horses now audible. Sparing a glance backward, I saw a vehicle painted red and yellow, its bronze bosses and other accoutrements flashing in the sunlight. “Ho, there, ladies!” a man’s voice cheerfully called out. “Where are you going? Stay a while.” Meanwhile, the royal chariot bore down on us, the matched pair of blacks snorting, churning up the ground with sharp hooves. What choice did we have but to duck into the shelter of the sanctuary and hope the charioteer had sense enough to stop?
His teeth gleaming as he laughed at the terror he inspired in us, the young charioteer drew on the reins at the last possible second. The chariot slowed into the turn, the horses lathered and panting, walking now to bring the vehicle full circle.
A splendidly dressed man stepped down from the chariot. He sported a scarlet tunic shot through with threads of glittering gold under a cloak as deeply blue as the midnight sky. Gold bands encircled his wrists, gold hoops swung from his ears, and a silver pectoral set with precious stones emphasized the broadness of his chest. Oiled black ringlets brushed an athlete’s shoulders, and more oil glistened from his neatly trimmed, pointed beard. A cloud of fragrance enveloped him, and then us women as he drew near.
“My dear Aunt Klymene!” he exclaimed in a musical voice. “Wherever are you going in such a hurry?”
Defeated but not quenched, Klymene pushed her way through our ranks to confront King Polydektes. She was his aunt? Then that meant Diktys must be his brother. Why had I not heard this before?
The king of Seriphos, too, was young and handsome, but the cold cunning lurking behind his honeyed smile bore no resemblance to the fisherman I called brother.
“What you want?” Klymene asked, with more nerve than the rest of us women put together. “There’s always mischief with you.”
Polydektes snatched her hand and kissed it while she glowered, as well she might; his gesture conveyed more a sense of custom than affection. “Dear aunt, I intended to come by the weaving house, but for some unfathomable reason all of you decided to flee. Is it my charioteer?” He gestured to his young companion. “He’s a rough Thracian, to be sure, and has unfortunately gained a reputation for playing unsavory jests on some of the townsfolk, but I assure you I would never let him run you down.” I noticed then his constantly roving gaze. Like a predator on the scent. I stiffened, leaned into Luktia, and wished myself invisible.
It was no use. “Ah, I see a newcomer, a lovely stranger!” he exclaimed. Forgetting his aunt, Polydektes sauntered over to me and claimed my clammy hand in his firm grasp. “You must be the beautiful Dorea. I have heard such tales of your grace and loveliness. How selfish of Diktys to keep you confined to this rough village!”
I felt the graze of his beard as his lips touched my knuckles, but was too paralyzed to remove my hand from his grasp or rebuff him. His snake’s stare never relented, held me in complete thrall. Cold revulsion churned in my stomach.
“You were meant to be covered in pearls and roses of Cyprus.” His assertion struck me as ridiculous. “Come back with me to Chora, Dorea, and my women will anoint your curvaceous limbs with fragrant oils and dress you in the finest linen.” He leaned close to my neck and tried to breathe hot persuasion into my ears. His breath smelled of cloves.
“Let her be. She’s Diktys’s sister.” Klymene’s strident protest shattered the spell. Some of my equilibrium returned.
As politely as possible, I extricated myself from Polydektes’ grasp. “Thank you, but my place is here.”
He glanced from me to Klymene and back to me again with an attitude of fast-waning tolerance. “Young lady,” he said sternly, “I am not asking.”
Nevertheless, I stood my ground. “King Polydektes, I am a free woman, under your brother’s protection.”
“And I am the king.” He seized my wrist. “If I want a woman, I will—”
I could practically smell the enmity between them. Stags in rut. Diktys bypassed his brother’s charioteer and, without so much as an apology, jerked me away from Polydektes; my grunt of protest went unheeded as he interposed his own body between me and the king.
“This woman is under my protection.” His words to Polydektes held a knife’s edge. “She is my sister.”
Polydektes laughed harshly. “She is not my sister, if that’s what you are implying. Is she your woman?”
“Yes,” Diktys lied.
“And her child? Yours, also?”
“Yes.”
How did the king know about Eurymedon? And who had told him about me? My brain worked frantically.
Meanwhile, Polydektes was challenging his brother’s assertions. “You, siring a bastard without wedding this woman? That’s not your way, Diktys.”
“I don’t care what you think, as long as you leave her alone,” Diktys growled. The women surrounding me tensed. I wished I could disappear into the sanctuary, so afraid was I that the argument would turn to physical violence. I spied the knife thrust through Diktys’s belt, but rejected the notion of seizing it to defend myself. Nor did I want Diktys himself using it. Polydektes was no amorous fisherman but the king of the island.
“You should leave,” Diktys was telling his brother. “There’s nothing for you here. Dorea is lowborn, crude.”
I reached behind me to scratch my bottom. Perhaps if I did something disgusting Polydektes’ interest would wane.
“What, not even a cup of wine?” No hint that the king had even noticed my attempt to dissuade him.
Diktys folded his arms across his chest. “You loathe the village wine.”
To my surprise, Polydektes backed down and left. Diktys nonetheless stood at the ready, shielding me until the danger retreated. Then he questioned the women. “Why didn’t you go straight into the sanctuary?”