by Laura Gill
When Perseus turned his gaze toward me, it brought another shock. Men of the east had dark eyes, but his were light-colored, blue as the domain of the Lord of Heaven. “Gracious queen, this present is strictly for the king of Seriphos.” His voice, full-bodied but gentle, contained not a hint of a Canaanite accent; he spoke perfect Hellene. I knew him then. How had I failed to recognize him earlier? “King Polydektes, I have brought a gift also for your lady, that she will delight in. But let her withdraw first with the ladies of the court. This sight is not for the fairer sex.”
The eyes are the important thing. Guard them. Whatever head from whichever enemy Perseus carried in that scarlet pouch, I suddenly realized that was the thing Morpheus and lizard-Zeus had warned me against. Without glancing away from the young man, I groped for Polydektes. “My lord, I have no wish to spoil the day with the ugliness of a rotting head.” Everything was falling into place, so quickly, so precisely, that I could scarcely breathe.
But my bridegroom, clearly intrigued by the richly dressed stranger and the prospect of receiving proof of an enemy’s demise, was in the mood to be indulgent. “Of course, my dear.” At his gesture, the ladies came forward in a bright, bejeweled swarm to lead me away. “Do not go far, fair ladies!” he laughed. “The feast still awaits.”
Once away from the dais, I hastened my steps, only now, when it most mattered, my limbs became leaden, where only a short time earlier I had imagined myself skipping across the ocean on eagle wings. And then, to my dismay, the priestess of Hera insisted on stopping me short in the corridor just outside the vestibule.
“Are you quite well, Lady?” I was by then visibly shivering and agitated, and the ladies crowded around in alarm when they should have run. From the direction of the megaron there was an ominous silence. We all needed to run from that place, to find a safe haven, before...
No sooner had I shrugged off the priestess and advanced a step toward the staircase than an unearthly shriek halted my progress. An ululating scream that went on forever, ripping through flesh and bone. The priestess of Hera released me to clasp her hands over her ears. Wailing, whimpering, their faces frozen in grimaces of terror, the ladies doubled over as if in physical pain. Zoe wept and clung to me. “Mistress!” she cried.
I stumbled on ahead, taking her with me, away from the strangled cries, from the sudden, terrible compulsion to turn and run back into the megaron. Some of the ladies, still holding their ears, still whimpering, sought their husbands and fathers and sons this way, wobbling into what was certain death despite my pleas. “He has the Gorgon’s head!” I screamed. “She’ll turn you to stone!” The eyes are the important thing. Guard them, and do not look upon any others.
Zoe started tugging at me. “Mistress, she’s calling me!” Fear impregnated her voice, yet she appeared powerless to resist. I held onto her, fought her, tried to haul her toward the stairs, but the supernatural impulse driving her lent her a strength beyond my ability to overcome. Seeing no other way, I raised my fist to knock her out when the largest man I had ever seen, dark skinned and wearing the rich raiment of the Canaanite delegation, barreled down the corridor toward us waving his arms.
His speech was guttural, almost unintelligible. “Queen Mother, you must go this way. Here is not safe.” Grabbing me with one large hand, and Zoe with the other, he half-pushed, half-hauled us through the palace light-well and up the broad staircase. Just as we ascended, armed men surged through the corridor where we had been.
Shouts echoed through the narrow space:
“Rebels in the citadel!”
“Secure the king!”
As the large Canaanite hustled me upstairs, one thought dominated in the jumble that had become my mind: Eurymedon was in danger. Half a dozen Canaanites against thrice that number of followers, without weapons; as a common courtesy, they would have left their swords and spears in the vestibule. But then, as the mad shrieking continued, another notion pierced the chaos: armed with a Gorgon’s head, what need had Eurymedon—Perseus?—for sharp bronze?
My apartment was empty but for the terrified scrub maid crouched against the far wall, hands clapped over her ears, and sobbing uncontrollably. Our Canaanite minder, who seemed strangely unaffected, grabbed a scarf from the clothes heaped upon the bed and wadded it against my head. His meaning was clear. I muffled my ears while he performed the same service for Zoe and the scrub maid. Then he commandeered a footstool and stationed himself by the door.
Then, suddenly, the ghastly shrieking stopped, and with it the terrible compulsion to run toward the source of the noise subsided. Trembling, I cautiously removed the cloth from my ears and glanced around. Zoe and the maid, oblivious that anything had changed, were still hysterical. Apart from their sobbing and hiccupping, I heard nothing. Not the usual silence of a household at rest, but rather the absolute quiet of death; even the birdsong outside my window was stilled, and the flies that had buzzed around the leftover paint on my dressing table when I had departed with Polydektes and the bridal procession now lay motionless.
I wobbled toward the Canaanite, whose head remained turned toward the door. For such a conscientious sentry, he seemed oddly surprised by my approach. “Who are you?” I asked, but when he failed to reply, my growing suspicions prompted me to try my question another way. I tapped my breast, saying my name, and then gestured to him.
“Paebel,” he answered in the thick voice of the deaf who had learned to speak. “You stay here, Queen Mother. It is not safe downstairs.” He cocked his large head as if listening; it took me a moment to realize that he was testing the air with his nose, his sense of touch. “No more cold, but the power of the Storm God remains.”
I nodded to convey my understanding, and went to reassure Zoe and the scrub maid. What we needed to do was keep busy until we could learn more. Paebel appeared confident that none of the king’s men would attack, for he sat very still, hands poised on his thighs, unconcerned by the fact that he only carried a knife fit for cutting meat.
Together, the younger women and I collected, folded, and put away the garments the ladies had dumped all over the bedchamber. Then we turned our attention to the mess that was the dressing table. Helle, the scrub maid, sopped up spilled scent and paint with rags, and Zoe took charge of the scattered baubles. I poked at the dead flies. Why would they, at such a distance from the Gorgon’s fatal head, drop from the air when Helle was unaffected? Puzzled, I went to the windows in the sitting room and peered down.
A dead songbird lay belly-up on the pavement alongside the cypress growing by the window. Unfamiliar men moved back and forth along the walkway carting wheelbarrows in which were heaped corpses. Ladies in their finery, and their courtier-kinsmen. Scribes, soldiers, and hapless servants who had only an hour ago distributed wine and delicacies in the megaron. I refrained from counting the dead. All those crowded into the megaron, for certain, plus the warriors who had run to the king’s defense, and perhaps those who had been inexorably drawn to their own destruction. Polydektes I did not glimpse anywhere.
The sound of children crying diverted my attention from the scene below. The king’s youngest offspring, they must have been sequestered in the nursery when the Gorgon’s head was unleashed. Had anyone told them what had happened? The mother in me went to the door, but I could not persuade my Canaanite minder of the importance of tending to children whose cries he could not hear.
“You stay here,” he said firmly, and kept repeating as if to a child. “You obey. Only when it is safe again, and when the prince allows, only then you may go.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I woke alone in the great bed, undressed and tucked under the fleeces and embroidered covers. Hovering over me was an exotic young woman who rhythmically smoothed my brow while exclaiming, “Mother, mother,” in accented tones; her voice was as rich and mellow as rare wood, evoking images of precious stones and clouds of incense.
Her regal bearing indicated a woman of quality, as did her raiment. A veil of loosely woven
blue linen shot through with gold covered her plaited black hair and floated down over a tight sheath of white almost entirely concealed by yards of scarlet wrapping fringed in yellow and blue. She had skin like sandalwood, dark and fragrant, and almond-shaped eyes rimmed in kohl. She must have belonged to the Canaanite delegation.
“Mistress, are you awake?” Zoe edged toward the bed despite the foreign woman’s dismissive gestures. “The guards at the door say this lady is the prince’s wife. She won’t let anyone but herself tend you.”
I blinked away the remnants of sleep. “The prince’s wife?” Only after a moment passed did I remember the horrific events of earlier: the wedding rites, the Canaanites and the prince with his scarlet pouch. Perseus—no, Eurymedon. And this richly dressed girl was my son’s wife, my daughter-in-law? When during his trials had Eurymedon found time to wed a Canaanite princess or collect men such as Paebel to serve him?
Zoe helped me sit upright while the princess observed. “Do you speak any Hellene?” I asked the woman, keeping my tone loud and slow that she might understand, except that she, shaking her head, apparently did not. So I did what I had done with Paebel, and gave her an example to follow by indicating myself and saying my name.
“Danaë,” she repeated eagerly, nodding, eyes sparkling with recognition. Then she motioned to herself. “Ya’el.” At that, she shook her head as if she had forgotten something. “Andro... Androm’da?” She struggled with what sounded like a Hellene name.
“Andromeda?” I ventured. The delight suffusing her face told me I had guessed correctly. Andromeda. Queen of Men. Eurymedon apparently went around calling himself Perseus, Sacker of Cities, and had bestowed another grandiose name on his Canaanite wife. Had he actually sacked any cities during his absence, or was he ambitious enough to aspire to such depredations here on Seriphos, or elsewhere? I immediately thought of Argos and the prophecy, and resolved to subject Eurymedon to a thorough interrogation.
Food enough for several had been brought. I threw on a smock and tied back my hair. When I searched the apartment, I found Helle absent, but spied an additional Canaanite guard on duty alongside Paebel, armed now with a spear. Andromeda, who followed me, urged me through gestures and broken Hellene to stay away from the corridor. “Bad. Much bad.”
The second guard proved fluent in Hellene. “Do not worry, Queen Mother. The prince will return soon. He meets with the new king.”
“The new king?” Polydektes and his adult bastard sons were without a doubt dead; Eurymedon would not have spared them after the insult they had done him. Did the sentry mean one of the younger sons?
“His foster father, the dead king’s brother, who leads the rebels of the island,” the man answered. “He says you should eat and make yourself comfortable, and wait for his return.”
I tried to wrap my head around the guard’s words. Eurymedon’s foster father? Diktys was alive, after all? Had I heard that correctly? However, as hard as I pressed them for more information, the Canaanite men treated my questions as superfluous, intimating that a woman should obey her kinsman’s instructions and not speak too much.
Retreating, I turned my attention to the food. My stomach growled, because I had not eaten a substantial meal since last night, and now it was late afternoon. Mine had been a tactical retreat, to collect resources and fortify myself. Eating restored my strength. Withdrawing to my bedchamber afterward provided a welcome opportunity to select more regal garments than the plain shift I had worn to sleep, because now I felt like celebrating. Eurymedon had returned. Diktys was alive, well, and apparently in Chora. Would I see them soon? My hands trembled. The serving maid had to paint my lips and eyes. Andromeda chose my jewels.
Thus armed, I returned to the door to confront the Canaanites. I drew back my shoulders to emphasize my full height, and stated, “I am the queen of the palace, Prince Perseus’s mother.” My gaze never wavered from theirs. A woman who expected immediate obedience could not afford to show weakness. “I intend to go downstairs, so step aside.” Neither man moved. “You may either follow me down or remain here.”
“It is not safe,” Paebel insisted.
“I am not afraid of corpses.”
“The prince has commanded us to keep you here,” the second guard said.
“And what is your name?” I asked in an acid-sweet tone.
“Keret, Queen Mother.”
“Keret,” I continued, maintaining my deceptively sweet facade, “I am sure you obey my son’s commands without question.” Now I dropped the pretense, letting my hardness show through. “But I am his mother, and he does not instruct me. The Gorgon’s head has been stowed away, and the prince’s allies roam the palace freely. There is no danger. Stand aside.” I gestured without a hint of hesitation. “Either follow me or stay where you are.”
My victory rang hollow in light of the grimness awaiting me downstairs. An unnatural stillness pervaded the palace despite the activity; even as the sun set the men in control of the citadel worked to remove the dead. One of these crews I stopped just outside the megaron, to inquire about their situation. “Who commands you?”
“King Diktys, Lady.” The man who spoke did not bother to conceal his impatience, nor did the others with him. Yet I was not finished, either with my questions or my natural curiosity about the corpses heaped in the cart and covered with blankets.
“Diktys was killed months ago, was he not?”
“No, Lady. That was a rumor.” Had I not clearly been a noblewoman of the palace, his attitude said, he would have dismissed me outright. Of course, the polite thing to do would have been to let the workers return to their task, but one more matter remained.
“Have the dead truly been turned to stone?”
His exasperation showed. “Lady, we haven’t the time.”
“Then you will make time. I am the mother of the Gorgon-slayer, and I insist on knowing what manner of destruction my son has wrought.”
Chastened, the man drew up a corner of the blanket to let me see the dead. Not a single one resembled a stone statue, except that they were cold and stiff, and all had died grimacing, lips drawn back from their teeth, eyes wide open and staring at some indescribable horror. Each corpse had also been stripped of its finery—a practical measure, I reasoned. I replaced the cloth, thanked the men for their indulgence, and continued on into the megaron. Shuddering, Andromeda hastened to keep pace.
Servants had pulled down the wedding garlands, which lay in a withered heap on the aithousa. Inside, the air was unnaturally cold, even with the hearth burning high. Detritus from the interrupted festivities still littered the floor, and rich presents were heaped in the corner where the scribes had deposited them. What corpses remained were laid out in neat rows in the vestibule and adjoining corridors, and covered for decency’s sake; the megaron itself held no dead, only two men deep in conversation. One occupied the throne, the other the chair I had vacated hours ago.
First, I acknowledged the man seated on the throne. “Diktys?” The solidity of his presence felt unreal.
Six months had passed, but in that brief span he had aged ten years, sporting new worry lines and white hair. Even his eyes, once sparkling with good humor, showed a change. His plain homespun contrasted sharply with the ostentatious splendor of the young man seated beside him. “Eurymedon?” I asked.
“Perseus Eurymedon,” he corrected, stepping down from the dais to wrap me in an embrace so fierce that he lifted me off my feet. He kissed my cheeks, buried his face in my hair, then set me down and held me at arm’s length for a thorough inspection. “You look well. Ah, I see you’ve met my wife, Andromeda.”
He ordered Keret, who with Paebel had accompanied me and Andromeda downstairs, to bring footstools and refreshments. “My apologies, Mother. I assumed you would want to rest after today’s events.”
“You assumed wrongly. When and where did you find time to marry and acquire a Canaanite retinue?” I motioned to Andromeda and the guards. “I had to take sanctuary in the te
mple of Zeus in Ganema, and Pelargos was devastated and its people driven out or slaughtered because you did not return. And all the while, you have been loitering in a Canaanite city with a beautiful wife, basking in riches?” I struck him across the face, Gorgon-slayer or no. Behind me, Andromeda gasped aloud. “Shame on you, Eurymedon!”
He grasped my wrist. “Mother! You misunderstand. I didn’t delay in Joppa because I forgot all about you or the people of Pelargos. I had no choice.”
“Who are you to criticize, Danaë?” Diktys’s judgmental tone proved a greater shock than his appearance. “All this talk of your suffering, and what do we find when we arrive? You married to Polydektes, receiving tributes.”
I froze. Where was the congenial, warm Diktys I had known in Pelargos? I recovered from my initial shock quickly enough to round on him. “How dare you! Do you think Polydektes gave me much choice? I only submitted because I saw no other way to stop the bloodshed. Where were you, anyway? Everyone said you were dead.”
“Enough!” Eurymedon cried. “Obviously, this is not a happy reunion. Ah, come here, Andromeda.” While we hurled recriminations at each other, the princess of Joppa, unable to comprehend our speech, had backed away into the wall, where she leaned against an object I recognized as the wooden chest. Polydektes must have left it on display, where the crowd of wedding guests had been so thick as to obscure it from view.
She humbly went to his side, and managed a smile while he caressed her and spoke to her in Canaanite. Servants had entered with folding stools and cushions. Eurymedon persuaded his wife to sit, though I refused. Sitting in this case meant compliance, submission, while I was not satisfied enough with the men’s answers to accommodate them.
“Where is it? The thing, the Gorgon’s head.” I searched Eurymedon for the scarlet pouch he had worn earlier that day. “What have you done with it?” I pushed memories of the unearthly shrieking and unnatural compulsion from my head. “There’s no chance of our being exposed to it again, is there?”