Danae

by Laura Gill

  When I shook my head, his smile seemed sincere. “Never mind about keeping a maiden’s fashion. Even though you are...” He respectfully said no more with regard to that. “Purple lightens your skin, makes you look like the gods carved you from ivory. And there should be the luster of gold. Drape yourself in golden ornaments and jewels, Danaë. Even your sandals should gleam with riches.”

  His leaving brought a twinge of sadness I had not expected to feel. Perhaps the act of pouring my malice into the cloak had drained me of the loathing I had for him, or, more likely, the sentiment I experienced was a momentary lapse, regret for what could have been had he not been so repulsive in the beginning, had he not rejected my son from the outset and then plotted Eurymedon’s banishment and destruction. I could forgive him some things, even the killing of his brother in battle, but never, ever his crimes against my son.

  *~*~*~*

  In the afternoon, the ladies of the court descended upon me as a tiding of magpies, bearing gifts of food, drink, and the figures of goddesses: Hera, Eleuthia, and Aphrodite. And like magpies, the ladies pounced upon all that was shiny in my wardrobe and jewel casket to make certain that I owned nothing that was not the height of fashion. Eastern shawls and Egyptian linens went flying. Cretan bodices and Canaanite skirts with their heavy folds landed on the floor, where Zoe tried to retrieve them from under careless feet.

  “You must wear blue!” the eldest of them exclaimed, pawing through the piles for something suitable. Zoe and I had done our best to alter the most offensive garments. Had either of us anticipated that the ladies would barge into the queen’s apartment on the wedding eve to nose through my clothes press, we might have striven harder.

  “The king has already specified a preference for royal purple,” I answered calmly. “I will not countermand him.” Let the ladies wreak havoc as long as they did not touch my gift to Polydektes, and produced something suitable to wear.

  A younger lady held up a pair of earrings. “Bells,” she cried derisively.

  At length, order emerged from the chaos. The ladies agreed upon a skirt flounced in the Cretan style, colored in varying shades of blue with a rich trim of purple and gold bullion, complimented by an indigo bodice. No strands of pearls for the hair, they decided, though I fondly remembered my mother wearing them. Instead, I would wear ornaments of heavy gold and amethyst, and the blue glass paste fashionable in the Cretan court. My own preferences played precious little part in the selection; the queen belonged to her people as a sacred xoanon belonged to its worshippers.

  While the ladies piled the rejected finery onto the bed for the serving maid to store away later, I noticed a trio of girls peering around the doorjamb. Before Timandra or one of the noblewomen could banish them, I instructed the maid to bring the girls to me.

  Polydektes’ daughters, ranging in age from five to eleven, were shy, pretty, and naturally curious, wanting to touch everything, and asking questions without inhibition; their caretaker, whoever she was, evidently had not instilled in them a sense of etiquette. I let them try on the jewelry and play with the unfashionable shawls and scarves the ladies had discarded, and try though I might saw nothing in their behavior suggesting that they were spoiled rotten.

  That came almost an hour later, with the unannounced arrival of a fourth daughter, the eldest at fourteen, so haughty and laden with cosmetics that I initially mistook her for one of the concubines; Timandra had to whisper the girl’s identity and true age in my ear while the noblewomen stood around looking scandalized.

  “So you must be the stepmother, the Lady Danaë,” she drawled imperiously, waving a spangled shawl that had seen better days. “I am Princess Aleta, the king’s daughter.”

  “Impertinent hussy!” someone hissed. The girl’s younger half-sisters, visibly alarmed by her appearance, cringed as though expecting her to drag them back to the nursery, or me to angrily banish them all.

  Signaling the ladies to be silent, I stood. “You are mistaken, young lady.” I kept my tone lighthearted; the acid would come later. “A princess is the legitimate daughter of a king, and you are a concubine’s child.”

  Aleta’s nostrils flared. “I am the king’s daughter, and you—”

  “One of many, and with such delightful manners.”

  “They say you’re nothing but a fishwife.” She made a show of sniffing the air. “You certainly reek of fish.”

  The disapproval of the ladies thrummed like an angry hive, yet I did not require the assistance they appeared eager to give. One recalcitrant girl was not going to threaten me. “You smell of too much sandalwood and frankincense, and are wearing cosmetics without cause. Paint is for...” I almost said concubines. “It is for court and the rites of the goddess, and you have been summoned to neither. Return to your chamber this instant, young lady. Wash your face and mend your manners before you approach me again.”

  Aleta’s standing her ground had far less to do with courage than sheer bullheadedness. “How dare you! Who do you think you are?”

  “Should I tell your father of your insolence?” There was no need to announce my titles; that indicated weakness.

  Adopting an injured air that everybody but she found absurd, the girl beat a hasty retreat to her quarters. Upon her departure, with the ladies shaking their heads and returning to their interrupted tasks, Aleta’s youngest half-sister shyly tugged my skirt. “Are you mad, Lady?” She asked in such a way that indicated that was often the case with her elders.

  “Not at you, sweetheart.”

  Her brows furrowed. “Nurse says you’ll be a wicked stepmother.”

  Time to be rid of that nurse, then. “Your nurse tells stories she shouldn’t.” I smiled at all three sisters. “Would you like to see a pretty thing I am making?” I bade Zoe fetch the embroidery hoop Timandra had hidden, so the girls could see the work in blue and green, and spent the next quarter-hour explaining to them how spirals were sacred to Posidaeia and Diktynna. In return, they timidly shared their names.

  The nurse who scurried in to collect her charges wore an unctuous air that did not fool me in the slightest. “They truly are delightful children. Send them to me again the day after tomorrow,” I told her. “And in the meantime, take care what tales you tell them.”

  All this was done before an audience of ladies who could not agree among themselves whether I ought to be so gracious to the daughters of lowborn concubines. My only answer was an observation, “I have no daughters of my own,” a neutral response where I would have liked to point out what so many, including myself, often forgot: that the king’s women were frequently taken unwilling from their families and spouses.

  But then the ladies brought out their lotions and grooming tools to make me ready. Timandra ordered the tub filled with steaming water. I stripped down before the women of the court, to let them appraise my hips and breasts—fit enough for childbearing, they agreed—before they ordered me to soak in the scented water to soften my skin. Zoe washed my hair and scrubbed me with pumice, while the ladies themselves offered conflicting advice on what scent I should wear tomorrow, and what foods to avoid to prevent unseemly belching and breaking of wind.

  I had no respite from their company, for they stayed throughout the rest of the day and all night, feasting, chanting to goddesses associated with marriage, love, and childbearing, and assuring me of their protection against any amorous adventurers.

  I bedded down amid a sea of ladies snoring on cots, and wondered how much rest Hypnos and Morpheus would allow me before tomorrow dawned.

  No sooner had I closed my eyes than a visitor crawled into the bed, nudged my chin with its cool, scaly hide, and, to my astonishment, started licking my eyelids with a long, forked tongue. “Now, Danaë, remain sleeping,” a man’s voice said. “You know what it means when a serpent licks your ears.” The lizard’s tongue felt raspy against my eyelids and my freshly plucked, sore eyebrows; his breath smelled of earthy, yeasty things.

  “You are not a serpent.”

&
nbsp; “No, that is for Apollo and the goddess,” he agreed. “Besides, I am not conferring upon you a permanent gift of prophecy. Only a little kiss to protect your eyes, and to remind you not to ignore any premonitions you have. The eyes are the important thing, sweetheart. Guard yours, and do not look at others.”

  *~*~*~*

  When the ladies roused me, an hour after sunrise, they scarcely allowed me space enough for breakfast before subjecting me to their ministrations. Fortunately, I had scant appetite, and was content to passively sit at the dressing table while they called in the cosmetician and hairdresser. My face tingled from where the lizard had licked my eyes. The dream lingered long in my thoughts when it should have begun dissipating; though I could not remember every single word the lizard had uttered, its warning about protecting the eyes struck me the deepest. Protect my eyes from what? The cosmetician’s generous applications of kohl and green malachite?

  Silence and solitude would have aided my recollection, but the ladies were everywhere: chanting hymns to Queen Hera, passing a golden pomegranate before my lips for me to kiss, releasing a dove that I blessed. Those who dressed me tucked fertility charms into my girdle with cries of praise to Eleuthia that custom compelled me to echo. The press of bodies and the clash of multitudinous perfumes gave me a headache, while I remained painfully aware that there was the marriage ceremony itself and the feast afterward still to suffer through.

  Polydektes arriving in his bridal finery offered an incongruous sort of relief. Scented and gleaming with gold, he turned on the full charm of his smile. “How lovely you look this morning, my dearest!” he crowed. For my benefit, I wondered, or to reassure the emissaries of Tiryns that Proitus’s niece was well-treated?

  I almost forgot the wedding present I had promised until Timandra appeared at my shoulder to prompt me. Polydektes stood quietly, thoughtfully studying the cloak as I held it out for his inspection. Everyone admired the rich colors, but the riotous decoration gave them pause. I dared not breathe. Could Polydektes sense the malice the soft wool contained?

  “Tell me you like it?” I played the part of the anxious bride and supplicant, if only to elicit some reaction other than silence.

  Polydektes tore his gaze from the length of scarlet, purple, and gold. “I have never seen the like.” Yet the smile on his face did not match the turbulence clouding his eyes. Had he not already promised before witnesses to wear the cloak, I might have found it impossible to coax him into letting me drape the garment over his left shoulder, where I secured it with a carnelian and amethyst fibula. The ladies unanimously proclaimed the effect breathtaking, a triumph of the queen’s skill at the loom, but his uncertainty lingered.

  His followers, meanwhile, awaited him just outside the apartment. For the bridal procession, he intended to escort me downstairs himself. “So our guests and the people will see that we are in perfect accord.”

  Whatever he liked. The woman he led by the hand was not Danaë but the figurehead of a queen, hidden behind a mask of white lead and red ocher, embroidered wool and golden ornaments. I moved absentmindedly, setting one foot before the other, nodding woodenly to those crammed along the processional route, yet all the while receding from myself into a chilly and hazy place where it suddenly seemed possible to skip across the ocean with eagle wings strapped to my ankles, or to find death in a serpent’s gaze. Something the lizard had said to me about premonitions, about remembering the most important thing.

  Had the ladies slipped something into my wine? I did not feel nauseous, or even drowsy, only detached, watching myself from afar go through the marriage ritual. The ceremony took place in the megaron, where Timandra’s sister, the high priestess of Hera, bound my left hand to Polydektes’ right with scarlet thread; her chanting struck my ears as toneless, unintelligible, but somehow—perhaps someone prompted me—I managed to give the proper responses. The warmth of Polydektes’ hand seemed the only warmth anywhere, for, despite the press of people crammed into the megaron my blood ran cold, and I found myself glancing to and fro, looking for something or someone I could not name.

  Polydektes noticed. “What is wrong with you?” he grumbled as he led me shuffling and half-stumbling around the hearth.

  “I don’t know. I feel so cold.” I concentrated on the solid warmth of him as a beacon toward recovery.

  His reaction, not surprisingly, took the form of a reprimand. “You had best find yourself in better health, and soon,” he said from the corner of his mouth. “We have guests.”

  When the Hera-priestess unbound our hands, Polydektes carried me across the threshold to ceremonially bring me into the protection of his household, then announced that I was now his wedded wife, Queen Danaë of Seriphos. “Come back tomorrow morning to witness proof of our union!” Laughter attended his crass remark, but darkened by an undercurrent of unrest. No doubt many thought Polydektes boasting for form’s sake. Had everything not been so distant, the scene might have grated.

  Servants circulated with jugs of wine mixed from the communal krater. Polydektes poured out libations to Zeus and Hera, then led me onto the dais. He occupied his throne, and I the inlaid chair to his right, for the reception of the guests. Dread coiled in the pit of my stomach. I gripped the ebony and mother-of-pearl armrests reflexively, ignoring the whispered inquiries of the ladies offering wine for my sustenance, a fan, tidbits of bread and olives to abate my hunger until the feast. Polydektes indulged his appetite.

  Faces swirled before me. Ladies of the court with their husbands. Adeimon and Demaratos, snickering. Captain Deiphontes, that self-satisfied brute, brought a flush of heat to my limbs when he declared himself my devoted servant. Gold and other precious objects changed hands; chits were issued for gifts that could not be displayed in the megaron: chariots, head of cattle, horses from Argos, which I distantly registered as somewhat absurd. Had Polydektes not received all the horses he would ever need when he deceived his subjects into donating to the bride gift meant for the princess of Pisatis? Scribes recorded everything, meanwhile.

  Gold flashed before my eyes. “Look at this fine piece, my dear!” Polydektes exclaimed, grinning. “How well it would look on the consort of Zeus.”

  The blur of mellow gold resolved into mass of intricately wrought oak leaves, a necklace a maenad could love. I stared with a premonition of horror. “No.” My tongue stopped my mouth like wet fleece. “Dedicate it to him.”

  A servant’s whisking away the offending necklace left Polydektes’ hands free to pinch me. Pain lanced up my forearm. “Smile, dear, and try to pretend that you are happy,” he hissed. “Here comes your uncle’s ambassador.”

  The herald called out the name of the ambassador of Tiryns, a small man who tried to conceal his baldness by combing his remaining hair over his scalp. His effusive smile filled me with mistrust. His salutations fell on my ears as so much wind, but with Polydektes’ hand firmly on my arm I spoke the necessary courtesies, thanking him for the generous present of gold and silver rings set with precious lapis lazuli.

  “Was that so painful?” Polydektes offered me his cup. “Here, drink something. You look peaked. Our guests will think I mistreat you.”

  I accepted a draught of wine, thinking perhaps that it might calm whatever foreboding tormented me. “I had the strangest dream last night, of a lizard telling me to beware, to watch my eyes. And now everything is so cold, distant, as if seen through a mist.” Why confide such secrets in him? What did it matter to him how well his captive bride liked her wedding day? “I do not behave so to offend you, Polydektes, only—”

  “Perseus, Prince of Joppa, and his retinue!” the herald called in his booming voice.

  Polydektes looked skeptical, but took my hand in his for reassurance. “Why, you truly are ice cold, Danaë.” He touched my rouged cheek, my throat, then signaled for his manservant. “Bring the queen something hot to drink. Mulled wine. Tidbits of red meat to strengthen her blood.” He continued to massage my hand as he regarded the newcomers, a group of ric
hly dressed foreigners led by their tall, imposing prince.

  “Visitors from the Canaanite lands?” Smiling graciously, he nodded. “You are most welcome on this happy occasion.”

  The Canaanite prince inclined his head. “We landed yesterday for water and supplies, and heard tidings that the king of Seriphos was to take the princess of Argos to wife. How could we not bring a wedding gift?” A chill shuddered through me at his ironic tone. Something about him sparked a nagging sense that he was not a stranger, that I ought to have recognized him immediately. Polydektes liked his flowery speech and, obviously, the prospect of exotic gifts. I, on the other hand, was not so certain that I wanted to see what the young man had brought.

  Prince Perseus of Joppa stood half a head taller than the seven men in his retinue. Corkscrews of oiled black hair fell to his shoulders; more oil glistened in his trim black beard. His garments were a rich panoply of scarlet and gold embroidery, and elaborate fringes that the ladies of the court would have considered unfashionable—or perhaps not, seeing how well they complimented the muscular limbs and broad chest of the handsome foreigner. Yet I felt a twinge of disgust at entertaining such thoughts about him.

  “What manner of gift does the prince of Joppa bring?” Polydektes could not contain his natural curiosity.

  “A thing much-desired by the king of Seriphos, though his queen may not wish to look upon it.” Perseus’s hand moved toward the elaborate scarlet pouch hanging from his belt. “The head of a dreadful enemy.”

  My throat went dry. Diktys? Had the Canaanite prince somehow recovered the rotting, missing corpse of the king’s brother and brought the head to court for a bounty? Whatever warmth the wine had restored now fled in an instant. I felt simultaneously hot and cold all over. Nausea replaced the coldness roiling in my belly.