by Laura Gill
The knot in my belly did not subside; the rocking of the boat only intensified the urge to vomit. Diktys, meanwhile, calmly plied the oars.
“We are we going?” I whispered. Anything louder than a murmur would have carried across the water. Hopefully, our destination was not too far away.
“Ganema.”
I had never been outside Pelargos in the more than sixteen years I had been on Seriphos, but I listened when others talked about places elsewhere on the island, and knew that the town, situated on the eastern edge of Koutalas Bay, was a shorter trip by land than sea. Diktys would have to bring us around a southern cape where the winds could blow hard, then west, and finally north into the bay. And from there, we still had to make our way to the sanctuary of Zeus. Could he accomplish all that that before dawn? I doubted that. “You don’t trust the road?”
“It’s being watched, and we’d have to pass more than one village.” Without a lantern, Diktys was nothing more than a barely audible murmur in the dark, a presence across from me in the boat.
Night on the water was cold, despite the cloak I wore. Having the fleece would have provided some much-needed comfort, but work would warm my bones just as well. We did not seem to be moving very swiftly. I kept watching the moon slip by degrees toward the west. Once in a while, a few pinpricks of light appeared on the beach or the black cliffs above: the hearth fires of the villages we passed. They, too, had their fishing boats out. Lantern lights twinkled in the water. Diktys banked the oars more than once and dropped the stone anchor weight to avoid encountering those vessels.
We came ashore on a deserted beach in the gray hour presaging the dawn. I held onto my small bundle of belongings, and nursed growing impatience while he dragged the boat from the water and concealed it among the rocks.
Soon, with the sky lightening around us, we moved down the beach. A bend brought us to the outskirts of a fishermen’s community, and then we were on the waterfront of a town. Was this Ganema? Fishermen on the beach waved greetings. Yawning women attended to their morning tasks and headed toward the market, which we circumvented via narrow alleys flanked by two-story houses. I heard the fishwives hawking their wares a few streets away. Children jostled past, and goats and sheep with their herders. An acrid reek of urine, old fish, and rancid olive oil offset the smell of baking bread.
At last, we emerged from the maze of alleys and climbed a hill upon which sat a whitewashed building banded in scarlet and bright yellow. Scarlet pillars with black bases supported the wide porch. Frescoes of worshippers adoring the god decorated the walls flanking the open doors. Roasting meat permeated the air. Fire burned in two immense bronze cauldrons, announcing to all that the sanctuary of Zeus was open.
I released a sigh of relief, only to withhold my breath when I realized that we were not alone. Townspeople brought their prayers and humble offerings; we had to wait in the narrow vestibule with craftsmen and fishermen and mothers, any of whom could have been one of Polydektes’ agents. As the benches lining the walls were occupied, Diktys and I had to stand. I did my best to shrink into my surroundings, while wondering how long we had before the king’s spies in Pelargos discovered we were missing.
This town sanctuary was larger than the small one in Pelargos, and modeled after a royal megaron, with its aithousa and vestibule. A curtain of rich midnight blue separated the vestibule from the central chamber. I could hear the priests on the other side chanting and dedicating libations. Were they not expecting us? Surely the steward in charge of marshaling the worshippers and tallying the offerings recognized Diktys.
Sometimes, a priest came out to attend to a worshipper who required special consideration. He would have the man or woman kneel, kiss the painted idol he held, and bow their heads for the lengthy prayer he said over them, yet he never paused by us or glanced our way, or gave any other hint of acknowledgment. I grew more apprehensive by the moment. Had we made a mistake in coming to the sanctuary? Were we about to be betrayed? Diktys did not seem the least bit perturbed, while my nerves jumped at every new arrival, unfamiliar sound, and pair of eyes that glanced in our direction. I had to get hold of myself, breathe normally, stop shaking, lest I become my own worst enemy.
A long time passed, with the worshippers coming and going, and apparently no one expecting us, before the steward indicated that it was our turn. From there, the situation progressed very quickly. He hustled us down a narrow corridor which, remembering the layout of the megaron complex in Argos, connected the sanctuary’s storerooms and other antechambers with the main megaron. Shadows crowded the space; the only illumination came from the steward’s lamp.
“Ariston apologizes for the wait,” he said. “He judged it best not to call attention to you by receiving you out of turn. Through here, now.”
The antechamber was of a generous size, and furnished with a bed, chest, and, to my amazement, a loom. High clerestory windows offered light. A brazier stood in one corner, while a table cluttered with deities and a kernos occupied another. All I noticed, however, was the absence of the high priest. Were we not going to see him?
“These accommodations are for the lady.” Setting down the lamp, the steward actively acknowledged me for the first time. “Princess.” He sketched a formal bow. “Ariston says you should rest. Are you hungry? I will bring something.”
Diktys answered on my behalf, “And what about my empty belly, Samos?”
Samos nodded, yet, showing himself to be that peculiar kind of functionary who was always as serious as the grave, he did not crack a smile. “There is enough sustenance for both of you, Prince Diktys. High Priest Ariston has also arranged a smaller, adjoining room for your comfort.”
“This is for me alone?” I swept the room with my gaze; it was as large as the main room in our house in Pelargos. Not since my childhood in the Larissa had so much space been allotted me. “There’s plenty of room for another cot.”
Samos turned his serious mien upon me. “Lady, you are a consort of Zeus, a mother of his offspring.” He ignored the flush spreading across my face, and the beginnings of my protest that Queen Hera was the god’s wife and worthier of such honors. “This is the high priest’s own chamber.”
“Yes,” Diktys interjected, “and it will serve. Lady Danaë, you’ll be grateful for the space inside a week.” He used my old name and a formal title for the steward’s sake, I guessed. “You won’t have very much to do here, or much space to wander around. Don’t expect to be able to go outside for a while. I requested the loom for you. Weaving will give you something to do.”
Samos bowed himself out with a sober promise to return with food. Diktys waited till he was gone before continuing, “The priests gave me a separate room because we’re not husband and wife, and they’re careful not to offend the god. I don’t need much, anyway.” He shrugged. “I won’t be staying as permanently as you.”
My gaze darted from the pristine fleeces and embroidered coverlet on the bed to his weathered face. “What do you mean? I thought you—”
“I have to take the boat back to Pelargos, and see to my responsibilities,” he quietly explained. “You’re the one in greatest danger. Polydektes is less likely to make trouble for the village if you’re gone—and if I’m present to remind him that I have powerful friends.” Edging closer, he wrapped me in his embrace, sturdy and fraternal. The idea of his leaving me with strangers struck me with the same apprehension I had known upon leaving Argos for the first time, and then upon leaving the Women of the Mountain.
“Ariston will pass on whatever news he can,” Diktys breathed into my hair. Then, breaking the embrace, he held me at arm’s length and laughed. “I’m not going right away! I’m exhausted, and where is Samos with our food?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Ariston visited after the morning observances, and after Diktys and I had finished breakfast. The high priest was as unprepossessing and kindly as Samos was stern; of medium build, browned by the sun, white hair a shade darker than the bleached b
rilliance of his white woolen robe. At once, he bowed to me. “It is an honor to finally meet you, Princess Danaë.”
Again with the formalities. “Please, nobody uses that name or calls me a princess anymore. I am simply Dorea.”
“Dorea.” Ariston repeated the name while exchanging a glance with Diktys. “Yes, I’ve been told about the miracle of your arrival and your subsequent purification. As you wish, Dorea.” A little pause before the name, the concession delivered with another crisp bow. “You will be comfortable here. Prince Diktys commanded that a loom be brought in to occupy you. The sanctuary has ample stores of raw and dyed wool. Perhaps you might weave something for the god’s pleasure?”
More concerned about Diktys’s absence, I nodded absently. Ariston assumed my silence meant interest, and so continued, “During the day, you will have to remain here in the back chambers and storerooms, but at night you may roam the sanctuary freely and offer your prayers. As long as no danger threatens, I will even arrange for you to take the air. We hope your presence here will bring blessings to Ganema.”
“Remember what we discussed earlier,” Diktys said to him. “Her being here might not be such a blessing.”
Ariston nodded. “Blessings do not come without sacrifice. We are prepared to shut the doors against the king.”
Then it was time for us to part, Diktys to rest a while and return to Pelargos, and I to remain and explore the chamber.
I insisted on throwing my arms around Diktys’s neck and pressing a kiss to his cheek, hardly as fraternal an embrace as it should have been in the god’s sanctuary. The mortal solidity of his presence offered more reassurance than the divine but remote and terrible might of Zeus could have done. His departure left me divided, a part of me compelled to run after him, and the other, more rational part acknowledging the common sense of his going.
Ariston walked him out. Before Samos withdrew and closed the door behind him, I said, “I’m heartily sorry you had to go to all this trouble.”
The steward’s brows furrowed as if I had spoken gibberish. “Lady, you are the consort of great Zeus. Rest now.”
Although I was tired enough from the night’s exertions and a lack of sleep to want to lie down, I knew I was not ready to close my eyes. So I tried to acclimate myself to my new surroundings and the absence of Diktys by thoroughly exploring the chamber: studying the whitewashed walls, peering into corners, and opening chests and baskets. A tall basket beside the loom contained a tangle of skeins of wool dyed in shades of brown, scarlet, pink, and yellow. The warp had not been weighted—the ceramic weights were thrown together in a second basket under the loom—and there were no shears or picks or shuttles, proof that the well-intentioned priests had not consulted a woman before bringing in the loom. Ariston could order those things later, when I had decided what to weave.
Inside the clothes chest, I found a pair of fine smocks, one sea blue and the other bright red, embroidered about the collar and shoulders; and a linen shift. Ariston must have left some of his garments behind in his haste to make the chamber suitable for a woman; only when I shook out the smocks did I realize that they were women’s clothes, meant for me. In addition, an alabaster lamp of Egyptian wrought in the shape of a duck and an ivory-handled comb awaited me on the bedside table. A sense of foreboding overcame me. Had Ariston traded for these items in the marketplace, or had the priests found them in the sanctuary’s own stores? If the latter, then I dared not touch them for fear of committing sacrilege.
Rest eluded me; the restorative sleep my body craved had to make do with dozing. My mind wandered. Several times I woke believing Eurymedon was nearby; other times I started awake because I imagined Polydektes outside the door. On the last occasion, I stirred to find the afternoon ending, the chamber dimmed.
A sudden creak and the shuffling of feet jolted me awake. Someone stood in the doorway. Polydektes?
The man with the lamp professed as much surprise as I. “Pardon, Lady,” he gasped. “I did not mean to disturb you.”
My eyes adjusted. Samos, the steward-priest, held the lamp. Then I remembered that I was in the sanctuary of Zeus. As the knowledge sank in, I slowly relaxed. “Forgive me,” I blurted. “I thought you were...”
“No need.” Yet his voice trembled as much as his hand as he lit the alabaster lamp from his own wick. “Are you hungry? High Priest Ariston will visit after the evening offerings, unless you—you do not care for visitors.”
I found myself apologizing again, but reserved a full explanation for the high priest when he appeared shortly thereafter. “I did not mean to startle Samos. I was asleep, and when he entered I immediately mistook him for an intruder. I fear even the smallest disturbances rattle me these days, and I sleep rather poorly.”
Ariston claimed a seat on the edge of the bed. “You have many cares, but you should not be consumed with worry. Zeus watches over you, and the temenos of the sanctuary cannot be violated.”
“It is not my safety I worry so much about. What of Diktys and the people of Pelargos, and the king’s threat toward them?”
The high priest’s neutral countenance did not change. “Prince Diktys believes the king will not bother with the village now that you are gone.” He raised his hairless eyebrows at my disbelief. “What reason would Polydektes have to trouble them?”
“Spite,” I said. “An obligation to his word. Diktys told me their father was much the same, a ruthless brute.”
Ariston conceded that point with a slow nod. “Diktys has powerful friends, and his presence in Pelargos may cause the king to think twice.”
I did not see Diktys leading an uprising on my account, but maybe I was mistaken. Lack of rest hampered my ability to think. “All the horses and chariots Polydektes has gathered, and the Thracian charioteers. I would say he’s about to crush his enemies.”
A long silence. Ariston’s probing gaze raised my hackles. Strange protectors in a strange place. Would I have felt differently had the sanctuary been run by priestesses, by women instead of men? The thought came unbidden, with a moment’s surprise that I had not considered it sooner.
“Lady,” Ariston said softly, “how long has it been since you have any peaceful rest?”
“Forever,” I admitted, quickly adding, “You should not call me ‘Lady,’ especially not here in the sanctuary. The only Lady in this holy place is Queen Hera.” The words tumbled out. This continued reverence would attract Hera’s displeasure. “I told you before, I am simply Dorea, a woman of Pelargos, worker of the king’s wool.”
“Of course.” Ariston sounded unconvinced; he would continue to call me whatever he pleased. “We have closed the doors for the night. Would you like to come out into the sanctuary, to meet the other servants of the god?”
I let him escort me into the main sanctuary because it pleased him as well as offered a diversion. Frescoes of bulls and processions of winged, eagle-headed daimons bearing gifts covered the walls, and stuccoed tiles of varying patterns decorated the floor. A fire burned on the central hearth, its supporting pillars zigzagged with stylized lightning bolts in yellow, blue, and black. A wooden xoanon of the god dominated the plinth above the altar. The priests had attired him in rich scarlet robes and a necklace of amethyst and gold, but his painted face conveyed none of the beauty or terror I remembered from my encounters with him.
Six priests and one acolyte served the god. The acolyte, a boy of eleven, jealously guarded his privileges of sweeping the floors at night and removing the used-up offerings which such vehemence that to suggest assisting him would have been to offend. Zeus of Ganema had no priestesses, though Ariston did mention that the priests’ wives sometimes prepared food for rituals.
“Did the clothes in the chest come from the wives?” I asked as he led me outside onto the wide aithousa. Sunset’s final moments cast crimson and violet shadows over the town; the bay of Koutala appeared as a cobalt haze, a reflection of the darkening sky. The onshore breeze carried the scent of brine, and the odors of cookin
g food.
“We would never think to present a consort of Zeus with cast-offs.” Ariston walked beside me, hands clasped behind his back. “Those garments come from the storehouse, presents from the noble ladies of the town to the god’s wife.”
Just as I feared. “And you expect me to wear what is rightfully hers?” I halted, stared at him. “Do you not know what became of the daughters of Proitus when they dared adorn themselves with Queen Hera’s finery?”
“Lady, those things belong to the god. If almighty Zeus wishes that Hera should have those garments, then he will grant them to her, but instead he has allotted them to you.”
Ariston was an equivocator, not an oracle, unless Diktys had neglected to tell me something. “My own clothes will serve, unless Zeus himself appears and instructs me to do otherwise.” Then I changed the subject. “May I ask you about my son? Diktys told me Eurymedon was seen here before he vanished. By any chance did he say anything to you that might suggest where he went?”
“Ah, your son. A remarkable young man for fifteen.” Ariston resumed walking, leaving me to follow. “He said only that he was a son of Zeus and wanted to go into the sanctuary to worship his father. We allowed him inside because he brought a goat for the sacrifice, and carried such an air of purpose. He refused to let any of us wield the knife.”
“Did he behave rudely?” I wished I had thought to bring along my shawl. “He can be quite obnoxious when he’s anxious.”
“No, Lady.” As we came to the west end of the aithousa, Ariston surveyed the hillside that comprised part of the temenos of the sanctuary. Wild thyme and fennel carpeted the area. “As I said, he carried about him a noble air of purpose.”
“Then he was rude and demanding,” I concluded, “and for that I must apologize. Diktys and I did not raise him to be a boor, but unfortunately he has a mind of his own.” The herbs added their subtle fragrance to the evening air; during high summer, the hill must be a riot of scent and attentive bees. “Did you see him leave the sanctuary?” More likely, the priests had evicted him and were now too embarrassed to admit it.