by Laura Gill
As the afternoon sun threw patterns of light and shadow upon the walls, I found myself stirring, measuring and cutting yarn to hang the warp weights from. I could not wallow forever in my sorrow, and acknowledged that a certain violence attended the art of weaving: the vigor of beating the weft threads, the twisting penetration of the shuttle through the warp, back and forth, back and forth, and the constant interplay, the clash of vibrant colors.
I wove, too, because Athena the Mistress of Battles was a weaver. Mistress of Owls, Mistress of Stratagems and Secrets. And I chose my palette from shades of blood: bright scarlet for fresh wounds, precious purple and ocher rust for congealed blood, and lighter reds and pinks for the bloodstains washed clean by water. When I combed the weft threads to straighten them, or used the rod to beat them into orderly rows, I wanted the cloth to bleed.
As the cloth bled, it took shape, a haphazard fantasy of purple spirals and moons, crimson-black teardrops and golden keys. Those few who saw me at work inquired what it would be. A coverlet for an inlaid bed? An offering for a sanctuary? A rich cloak to drape around my bridegroom’s shoulders? There was a thought. Curses woven into the fabric, already pregnant with grief and anger, would suit Polydektes well. Weaving pins were weapons to blind a man with, and the beater a tool for bludgeoning. If I cut my finger and smeared the blood into the rust-colored threads, and made a charm the Women of the Mountain had taught me, Polydektes would brandish his blood pollution to the gods and demons every time he wore the garment. A beacon for the Erinyes.
Whoever said weaving was an innocent, woman’s pastime had never reckoned with a vengeful woman primed with priestess-knowledge.
Polydektes heard about the weaving, though when he next visited he graciously agreed to withhold prying eyes until the wedding. “You have some weeks left, if that is enough. The rites will not take place until spring. My followers need time to secure their estates against any further revolts, and I want the sea lanes open to welcome guests from Argolis and the other islands.” Upon his arrival, he had courteously kissed my hand, and now watched the embroidery frame where I worked turquoise blue and green threads into a length of white linen; the colors of the sea and sky soothed my eyes.
“You are sending to Argolis?” The ease of his announcement made me wonder whether he had already risked the winter seas to correspond with my kinsmen.
“Of course. It is only proper manners to send gifts to the bride’s father, and to my liege lord.” Polydektes glanced up at me. His demeanor was subdued, even wary. Another game he was playing, or a genuine response to the news the priestess of Hera must have given him. “Does this trouble you? King Acrisius is in a position to do nothing against you, and I am sure Proitus will give his consent now that Megapenthes is a grown man. Neither our liege lord nor your father have any reason to begrudge the children you and I might have.”
Securing the needle through a corner of the linen, I rested my hands. “Children? Your spies must have told you that my blood no longer comes regularly with the change of the moon. If ever I was fruitful before, I might not be—”
“Not fruitful? You have already borne a son!” Polydektes exclaimed. But then he frowned. “Eurymedon is actually the son of your body, and not a foundling? Because if you are a maiden as High Priestess Pyria says, then you could not possibly be a mother.” He visibly wrestled with the notion. “I suspect some woman’s trick.”
“The trickster always suspects a trick,” I said. “Would I blaspheme Zeus or Hera by lying about Eurymedon?”
Polydektes did not answer, but sat in silence a while as the evening shadows gathered and my attendants lighted more lamps.
Finally, he pried his gaze from the frescoed walls and regarded me, the sewing basket, and the abandoned embroidery hoop. “You spend so much time shuttered here. I should like you to take some exercise. My mother believed in the benefits of fresh air and movement. She...” He stumbled, glanced around again as if expecting Amphiera’s shade to materialize from the shadows. “The ladies of the court have started to complain that I am withholding you from them. There is a garden court—not much kept these days, I fear—and you should see the rest of the palace. The storerooms, the shrines, the megaron.” Polydektes’ eyes widened at some sudden remembrance. “Ah, the nursery,” he mused. “My children will have to learn to call you stepmother.”
“Does that include your grown children?” I retrieved the hoop and released the needle to distract myself from dwelling on Adeimon and Demaratos. Were all the king’s brood as badly behaved as the two eldest, or the wriggling, whining specimens I had seen in the corridor a few weeks ago? I often overheard their nursemaid down the corridor shouting at them to obey.
“They have their own establishments within the palace,” Polydektes answered. “They will not disturb you. My daughters in particular need instruction in becoming proper ladies and mistresses of the house. Their mothers...” He shrugged, made a gesture. “I did not choose my concubines for their breeding.”
I gazed from the bronze needle piercing the heart of the half-finished turquoise spiral stretched across my hoop and took a moment to study him. Apart from his gray hair and sagging chin, deep worry lines were etched into his brow. Polydektes was middle-aged, almost an old man, and with the passing of years, he appeared to genuinely want a family.
A thought formed in my mind, not full-sprung like Lady Athena from Zeus’s brow, but rather serpentine, as if uncoiling from a long slumber. Why not take Polydektes’ dream of making a princess of Argos his queen and transforming it into his worst nightmare?
Old men feared ghosts from their youth. Polydektes had confided much in me through his visits. The Erinyes made sure that his mother’s death always haunted him. Let her return, then, with a haughty daughter-in-law who ornamented herself with costly raiment and jewels, who insisted on scenting herself exclusively with Egyptian oil of lotus, who flouted her beauty at court, and who demanded every single privilege her exalted station afforded her. Normally a woman must be a creature of wanton abandon to manipulate her husband and exhaust him enough in bed to send him to a timely grave, but concubines could just as easily do that work. Only a queen could take control of the royal seal and the storerooms, of the palace sanctuary and the megaron.
Only a queen could be so perfect a wife, and set such an example of perfection in the palace that might drive a king to distraction.
“You wish me to meet the ladies of the court?” I had to start slowly, tentatively, lest Polydektes suspect my disingenuousness. “I have not visited with ladies since I was a girl. I barely remember the etiquette.”
Polydektes made a contented noise in his throat. “My steward will see to that. Wear something better than that.” His lazy gesture encompassed the plain woolen gown I wore. “Wear jewelry. Have a woman dress your hair. I want them to see a lady of quality, the princess of Argos, not a woman from Pelargos who once wove wool for the tallies.” But then his eyes narrowed. “And mind your tongue. Complaints and protestations of how much you despise me have no place among my courtiers. They are loyal.”
I expected his censure and let the barb slide. “Do you think me tactless? I have no idea what I would talk about with the court ladies, and I hate all the fuss of being dressed and primped, but if you demand I do so, then I suppose I could try.” Another thought occurred to me. “Am I to meet your steward?”
“My steward? Whatever for?”
“Am I not to be mistress of the house?”
He eyed me warily. “If you can be trusted.”
So we were going to argue over privileges, and engage in an endless back and forth of trust and trickery. “If you are so certain I am scheming, then I had better stay here at the loom.” For emphasis, I stabbed the needle through the linen and tugged the blue thread through. “Gods forbid I should try to escape.”
“You have nowhere to go,” he said.
“I know that.” Another stab, tug, and stitch. I had to be careful lest I distort the fabric. “Let m
e remind you that I don’t need access to your kitchen to gain hold of a knife. I already have one of your daggers in my safekeeping, remember?” I shrugged. “Of course, if you would rather I not explore the storerooms or the rest of the palace, you can always send the steward with the household tallies. I promise not to bite him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Menīs, they called it. Wrath. All-consuming, slow-burning, intense anger. The bards used it to describe a warrior’s battle-rage or an immortal’s wrath, but women, too, could smolder with menīs, glean strength and purpose from its noxious embers. Indeed, nurtured by a bitter woman who had mastered the arts of patience, insinuation, and subterfuge, menīs could bring down great men and their kingdoms, as I aspired to do.
In addition to menīs, there was khólos, the anger of a moment, and kótos, the rage of a blood feud. Too many words for anger. By day I felt its hot tendrils coiling in my gut, urging me onward when I despaired or faltered, yet it offered no real sustenance. Each night since Polydektes had manhandled me, since he had boasted of his brother’s death and the harsh measures he had taken to restore order on the island, I had lain down trembling, exhausted by the rigors of vengefulness. Where were my tears for Eurymedon, and for Diktys and my friends of Pelargos? Anger sufficed because without that rancor to fill me, where love, companionship, and hope ordinarily would have thrived there was only the emptiness of bereavement.
How many years would it take me to destroy Polydektes? How long before I came an embittered crone like the king’s mother, taking in pleasure in nothing but the unhappiness of others? I did not want future generations to say of Danaë, daughter of Acrisius, that she was hard-hearted, and that the paths she had trod and the places where she had twisted wool and slept had become thick with the miasma of a neglected shade.
Would I today be sitting at this loom mourning and seething, and weaving threads of menīs, khólos, and kótos if I had married Diktys instead? Circumstance had given me so many chances to live a happy, normal life as a wife, and I had thrown them all away! Such thoughts set my heart to aching.
Timandra relaxed her ruffled stance with each passing day that I minded my loom and the tasks Polydektes set me, and made no trouble. Her reserve, I learned, had more to do with the perpetual uncertainty under which the palace staff lived than with any inherent disapproval of me, especially after I asked to consult with her priestess-sister about the best way for a royal bride to acquaint herself with the deities of her bridegroom’s household, and with her about the correct manner of dress for the Seriphian court.
Timandra reserved the responsibilities of a tiring woman for herself, but provided me with the services of a skilled hairdresser who took an hour of my morning lamenting over the state of my hair. “A lovely color, Lady, but the ends are so thin and ragged! We must trim what we can’t save and lavish the remainder with care. A rinse with precious rosewater, then a vigorous treatment with warm lotus-scented olive oil will nourish your scalp and restore your locks to goddess-like loveliness.” Her fingers maintained constant contact with my head: measuring lengths of my hair, drawing it up and around to gauge what hairstyles looked best, massaging my scalp.
Another woman came who painted faces; she slathered my face and hands in scented creams to repair years of damage from sun and wind. She brought jars of henna and kohl, green malachite and gray galena for the eyelids, and powdered lead, and eggs and grease to mix it with on the alabaster palette Polydektes had chosen.
I slowly realized that I was stepping into the role my mother once played. Yet where the rites of primping had come naturally to her, I found it oddly uncomfortable, a perversion of a high priestess’s assumption of the aspect of the Mistress. Here, the juiciest gossip and latest beauty advice replaced the prayers, and while the stuff of the cosmetics was the same red ocher and white lead, the transformation assumed a more earthly tone, the transformation of an ordinary woman into a queen. If only the conversation buzzing around me would cease, to let me better meditate on the nature of hiding the self behind a mask.
Gradually, I realized that my lady’s toilette, which took valuable time I would rather have spent weaving, was a time for gleaning information; the women’s chatter could be as useful as prayers, and so I began soliciting my hairdresser and cosmetician, who had access to many other women of the court, for gossip and advice. I recalled the subjects that had most interested the noblewomen of Ganema when they visited me in sanctuary. Who was the most fashionable woman in town? Who had the wittiest, most sparkling conversation? Who wore the costliest scent or the most elaborate robes? Whose husband or kinsmen held the highest positions at court, or most sought promotion? I must have something to discuss with the ladies of Chora.
On a late winter morning, painted and primped, and accompanied by a guard of honor, I left the queen’s apartment for the first time since arriving.
The garden courtyard was an overgrown sprawl of herb beds, climbing vines, and pomegranate, quince, and fig trees that at a distance appeared healthy enough to fruit in season; it was a much a testament to the lack of a nurturing female presence in Polydektes’ court as it had been in my father’s. Consistent tending would restore the place.
Above the garden stood a portico that received the sea breezes and midmorning light, creating a popular place for the ladies of the court to take their exercise; some had their young daughters with them. Memories of accompanying my mother, and later my aunt, on similar excursions brought a smile. Chairs stood ready to receive the ladies, and attendants with sewing baskets and refreshments. I smoothed imaginary lint from my skirts, breathed, and approached the group.
“Good morning, ladies.” According to Timandra, the highest ranking woman dictated the tone. Etiquette demanded that the noblewomen wait on the queen’s pleasure before speaking. “What a pleasant day.”
Neutral pleasantries and a gracious manner elicited a friendly response. The ladies of Chora were varied, some clearly of mainland birth, others of Cycladic ancestry, but all adopted their fashions and pretenses from Crete. “How lovely!” I complimented many outfits this way, adding that my mother, daughter of the Minos, had owned similar raiment, and agreeing with the ladies that the court of Knossos was, indeed, the pinnacle of good taste.
I invited the ladies to sit with me, which they did in a hurried rustle of skirts and clink of jewels. Etiquette forbade them from taking refreshment or bringing out their sewing or spinning without my permission, and while a few brave souls continued to natter on about Cretan fashions—as I had established that the topic was acceptable—no one else dared suggest another avenue of conversation. Thus, I had to intervene again.
The hairdresser and cosmetician had dropped names and descriptions along with their gossip; it remained for me to match them to faces. Zoe, dressed as a lady’s maid, accompanied me to assist if I faltered.
“Ladies, you will have to indulge my ignorance. Does the garden fruit in summer?” Open ended questions, the kind I had learned to use with Eurymedon, stood to yield more information than general queries. “Why has it stood untended?”
Even so, the ladies gave cautious, noncommittal replies; clearly they had heard stories about the princess of Argos. Naked curiosity shone in their eyes, trembled on the tips of their tongues. King Polydektes had neither time nor inclination for gardening, and there had not been a royal woman to take charge of the court since the queen mother died. The trees and herbs fruited in season, and lent their fragrance to the inner court.
Time to dig deeper. “Are there blooms suitable for making scent? Sea daffodils make a lovely fragrance, but I have been told that other flowers grow here.” Perfume was far from the superfluous, innocuous topic my light tone suggested. If Polydektes regularly imported Egyptian lotus or eastern sandalwood into Seriphos, for example, that told me much about the preferences and expenditures of the court.
“Sea daffodils? Those smell lovely, yes, but they are scent for peasants,” one lady ventured. She owned the straightest nose I ha
d ever seen, the kind one saw on votive figures or frescoes. “The queen mother experimented with growing roses of Cyprus and the blue lilies of Egypt, but...” She shrugged delicately.
“If you like to distill perfumes, Lady, the best flowers come from the isle of Dia. Narcissus and white lily. We call the fragrance oil of Ariadne, for the bride of Dionysus.” The noblewoman who spoke invited me to inhale the light scent wafting from her wrist. “Avoid heavy scents, Lady. Sandalwood and kinnamon and frankincense. Costly stuff, to be sure, but it has become vogue with too many lowborn women.”
A veiled reference to the king’s concubines? I solicited their advice in matters of cosmetics and dress, particularly in what to avoid. Necklines that draped too low. Hemlines so high as to show a woman’s calves. Skirts with bells attached. Cheap faience beads such as pornai wore. I reflected on the bedizened garments awaiting my alteration. Polydektes knew how to dress himself, but either liked his women to look cheap, or simply possessed no clue.
In addition, the ladies supplied me with the names of merchants who supplied the best flax and fleece, and the finest ingredients for dye. One knew a hairdresser who worked miracles with ribbons, this season’s alternative to strands of pearls; another knew a woman from Egypt who specialized in scented lotions.
“Do you play senet, Lady?”
I did not even know what that was.
An Egyptian board game, currently all the rage in Crete. Only lowborn women told fortunes or diced with ivory knucklebones. Horses, too, were in vogue. “The king is proud of his chariot corps,” a matron told me. “Make sure you admire his matched team. They served him well in the recent troubles against the rebels.”