Thief of Corinth

by Tessa Afshar

  I had always felt that the Unknown God would be better disposed toward me than the others would. I, too, had been unknown, a stranger among my own relatives. Even though I had long since stopped believing in the gods, this divinity could still sometimes stir my soul. If the heavens contained such a thing as a God, surely he was unknown. Now, facing defeat and shame, it was to him that I prayed, asking for strength beyond my own.

  I took my place at the starting line. The world shrank around me. I forgot the pain in my head; forgot the fire in my throat; forgot the shortness of my hemline. I forgot the strength of my competitors. Bending my knees, I arranged my body in a straight line, fingertips resting on the ground, and stretched my strongest leg, the left one, forward. The start signal rang out. My left arm came up, driving me forward as I took off with an explosion of movement.

  I had never raced against so many runners at once. I ignored their jostling bodies, the dust of their feet, and pressed on, lengthening my steps. The stadion required speed from start to finish. I pushed myself beyond the boundaries of my body, beyond pain and breath, until I started to pass other runners. Male, female, I flashed by them and pressed farther, holding on to the momentum I had gained at the start. Setting my gaze on the finish line, my arms swung hard, pumping me forward, my steps wide and fluid. I lost awareness of whether I was ahead or behind. My world narrowed to that one post, the slender painted column that indicated the end of the race.

  Only after I had passed it and come to a slow stop did I become aware of the world around me again, of the crowds cheering, of a dignified man shoving a wreath of pine on my head, and my father embracing me and shouting incoherent words. Theo seemed no better. His voice had grown hoarse from shrieking with excitement.

  Tears mingled with sweat and the fragrance of pine as it sank into my benumbed mind that I had won. I had truly won the stadion at the Isthmian Games. To this day, the scent of pine arouses a vague sense of weepy happiness in me.

  As my heart stopped pounding, I became mindful of the state of my body once more. My throat felt parched and burned with fresh agony. I felt light-headed with the pain in my skull. A wave of paralyzing nausea rolled over me without warning.

  “I don’t feel well,” I gasped. “Can we go home?”

  “Home? You just won the short race! There is a sea of people who want to congratulate you.” Father clapped me on the back.

  “Something is wrong with her,” Theo said.

  “I feel sick,” I moaned. “Please, Father! Take me home before I shame myself.”

  My father looked about. “It is a good distance to where we left the litter. Can you walk?”

  I bit my lip. I must have used the last of my strength at the race. Now I felt wobbly and uncertain on my feet. My stomach heaved. The thought of a long walk through the crowds overwhelmed me. I had run faster than the best athletes in Graecia, but I doubted I would be able to walk the length of the stadium. The irony made me want to weep.

  “I could carry you,” Theo offered.

  “No!” I cried. Everyone would say this was why women should not be permitted to participate in the games. They would blame the delicacy of my sex, claiming that the race had proven too much.

  “May I help?”

  “Justus!” Father sagged in relief. “We need to get Ariadne away from here. She feels unwell. My litter is too far away. I don’t want to carry her in front of the rabble.”

  Justus looked at me. His eyes were dark green, like my victory wreath, and filled with uncharacteristic kindness. “I have my chariot near. If you can lean on me, we will ride away together, and it will seem like we are making a triumphant parade. Two Corinthian winners, making a circuit. What do you think?”

  “It will be better than jostling through the crowd.”

  “Best praise I have received this day,” Justus said, his tone dry. I was too sick to appreciate that any of the thousands of men and women present at the stadium that day would consider it an unforgettable honor to ride in a champion’s chariot.

  He sent his groom and gave instructions for the chariot to be driven as close to our location as possible. He had driven the white chariot to the arena, the one in which Theo had won this year’s race. That vehicle had obtained supernatural acclaim, having now won four Isthmian Games. People made way for it as for a holy object.

  Justus stood near us like a sentinel. It dawned on me that his presence kept others at bay. Justus’s demeanor indicated that he wanted privacy. One victor to another. By remaining with me, he also added to the glory of my modest achievement. The stadion, being the shortest and easiest of the races, did not carry the weight of other competitions. Having Theo to one side and Justus to the other made up for that.

  By now, I was leaning heavily on my father, trying to keep the contents of my stomach in their rightful place, rather than on someone’s sandals. “Here comes the chariot,” he said. “You go home with Justus. Theo and I will follow as fast as we are able.”

  I pulled the last of my strength about me like a cloak and stood tall. “Shall we go?” I said, holding my head up like a queen.

  Justus laughed softly. “That’s the girl I know. Dionysius would be proud of you.”

  I climbed into the chariot, leaning on Justus’s arm. The spectators thought the ride a prearranged show, celebrating the athletic prowess of Corinth. They cheered us as we pulled forward, chanting Justus’s name.

  The horses pulled in smooth unison, keeping the chariot steady. Even the slight movement of wheels rolling on grass made my belly heave. I clasped the smooth wooden rim, my fingers bloodless from the force of my grip.

  “Was it something you ate?” Justus asked, turning to look at me.

  “No. I woke up with a sore throat and headache.”

  “You ran that race while you were ill?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time. Look,” I said, sensing a lecture coming, “could we forgo the conversation? I fear something other than words might spew from my lips. And the people would scourge me for fouling your precious chariot.”

  Justus’s eyes widened. “I will try to evade any large puddles in the road.”

  In a blur of motion and misery, we made our way home, and by some mercy, I avoided disgracing myself in front of Corinth’s favored son. When I was tucked into my bed that night, my stomach more settled, my throat eased by a physician’s potion, I cradled my pine wreath to my chest and tried to think of the race I had miraculously won. Instead, it was Justus’s face that swam before my eyes. The feel of his arms wrapped about my back and thighs as he carried me to my room haunted me as I fell asleep.

  My victory did not lift me into the annals of glory. I was a woman, and my gender prevented me from being catapulted into popularity. There had been polite applause when I won, a few congratulations over the following weeks, and then I returned to my ordinary life. I did not even enjoy the benefits of a monetary reward. The Isthmian Games, unlike other athletic events in Graecia, offered no silver or gold to its champions. Those of us who participated did so to win honor.

  Something within me wilted with the knowledge that all my hard work had not won me my heart’s desire. I had been a victor at the Isthmian Games and proved nothing. I used my pine wreath as a room freshener and said a permanent farewell to competitive training, though I would never give up running. That was a true part of me. I ran not to win glory now, but simply to experience the joy of the sport.

  With a restless heart, I returned to my reading and philosophy lessons with Claudia, Junia, and Fourth.

  One late evening Father and I lounged together in the atrium to watch the moon, which sat full and white, like a self-satisfied bride in the midnight sky.

  “I met a sea captain at a feast last week,” I said. Thanks to Theo, I now received a smattering of invitations and had something akin to a social life. “He claimed to have survived three shipwrecks. I told him I was surprised anyone hired him with that kind of track record.”

  “The fact that he
survived to tell the tale speaks highly of his skill,” Father said.

  “That is what he said. What ships are the safest, do you think? War ships or merchant ships?” I tipped my head back to see the moon better through the opening in the atrium roof.

  “The ones docked in a warehouse,” he said, making me laugh. He would never forget the anguish of his lost ship.

  We heard a distant crash at the front door. The hour had grown so late that the slaves had closed and barred the door even though Theo had not yet returned home. Then came the sound of the door opening, and another crash. I tensed.

  Theo stumbled into the courtyard and came to an abrupt stop when he saw Father and me.

  “Is this a party?” His voice echoed loudly, the words pronounced with exaggerated care.

  “It is now that you are here.” Father patted the cushion next to him. “Come join us.”

  Theo hesitated for a moment. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen. He looked exhausted. I thought he would refuse the invitation and go to bed. But he stayed, though he chose a seat across from Father instead of sitting next to him.

  A flagon of wine sat on the table, and he reached out for it. His hands were not quite steady and he knocked cup and flagon to the floor. The silver crashed on the tiles with a loud clatter. Theo swore.

  “Don’t you think you have had enough, Son?” Father said, retrieving the dented cup.

  “I am not your son,” Theo said through gritted teeth.

  If an archer had loosed his arrow into my belly, I would not have been more stunned.

  Theo’s stark pronouncement exploded in our midst like a thunderbolt. All three of us froze. The words stung. Bruised. Broke.

  Theo shot to his feet. His hands were balled into fists and a red flush crept up his face. “Or am I?”

  Father answered, his voice level. “Have I not always treated you like the son of my own flesh?”

  “Is that what I am? A son of your own flesh? Am I a by-blow of some slave you were too ashamed to acknowledge? Is that why Celandine hated me so much? Because when she looked at me, she knew you had cheated?” In his gray eyes, usually so warm and kind, I saw roiling resentment.

  Father let out a deep breath. “Is that what you have believed all these years? No, Theo. I found you as I said I did, the day Ariadne was born. You were not conceived from my seed.”

  Theo stared at Father defiantly, and then reading the truth in his expression, he sagged back onto the couch.

  Father reached out a hand. “Theo, even though you are not a child of my flesh, you are in every other way my son.”

  “I am not, though. Am I?”

  It was my father’s turn to flush. He could not hold Theo’s gaze. With shaking fingers, he rubbed his eyes. I felt like the ground under me had cracked open between my feet. With each passing moment, I was being torn further apart.

  Theo sat up, his back rigid. “I used to dream about it when I was a child, you know. Dream that you would adopt me. That one day, you would pull me into your arms and say, ‘It is done! It is real! Now the whole world will know that you are my son and I am your father.’ But it never happened. I told myself it was because of Celandine. Because she would not allow you to take such a public step.

  “Then you divorced and I thought, Now he will do it. With Celandine gone, Galenos will claim me. No one will dare call me a foundling anymore. I will finally be a real son. Instead, you sent me to Athens.” He held up his hand, clarifying his point. “I chose to go. I went willingly, knowing Celandine would never accept me if you adopted me. Going meant that yet again my dreams would be crushed under her foot. So I made a vow. If I could not be your son in the eyes of the world, I would be the son of your heart.”

  “And you were! You are.”

  Theo slashed a hand violently in the air, negating Father’s words. “I lived like a son, faithful to your concerns and your needs. I thought this would be enough.

  “When Ariadne and I ran away, I dared hope again. Finally! Finally he will acknowledge me, I thought. There were no more barriers to your adopting me. No Celandine. No Athens. Finally I would belong.” He took a shivering breath. Tears sprang to his eyes. Tears he would not release.

  I bounded over and tried to wrap my arms around him. He pushed me away. I was weeping for the pain he had borne these endless years. The pain of not being truly one of us. And the shame of being a castaway.

  Father rose on shaky legs. “Theo, I could not do it. Do you not understand? I had already chosen Ariadne over Dionysius. It was the only way to save her. I knew Dionysius felt the sting of that rejection. If I then went on to adopt you, he would have been devastated. Put yourself in his place. He would have believed I had completely replaced him.”

  The world crashed. This. This was my fault? Theo’s broken heart, his loneliness, his lack of proper family, all down to me. Because Father had chosen me over Dionysius, he could not also adopt Theo. Gods. I had shattered both my brothers’ lives. I had stolen their father.

  I bit my lip and swallowed both my blood and my words. It was the only gift I could give Theo. Silence. By quashing the devastating guilt that overwhelmed me, I could give Theo room to confront his own grief. To allow it to run its course. This night, this sorrow, this mourning, this bitterness was Theo’s due. I would not ask him to suppress his own emotions in order to comfort me.

  Theo shot back to his feet. “In the battle between you and Celandine, there was always a price to pay, and you chose me as the payment. Celandine’s anger had to be assuaged. So I paid that price. Ariadne had to be kept safe. So I paid that price. Dionysius had to feel loved. So I paid that price.

  “I am no son to you. I am your sacrificial lamb. Every time someone has to shed blood at the altar of this family, you drag me out and slit my throat.

  “You fed me and clothed me and paid for my education. But you also made sure that the world never forgot that I was nothing but an unwanted orphan.”

  The boil had burst and its infected purulence poured out, putrid, pungent, robbing us of breath. We stood, the three of us, in a haze of disbelief, covered in the suppuration of years, covered in guilt and bitterness, hurt and shame.

  Father staggered toward Theo. “I am . . . I am sorry, Theo! Forgive me. I have wronged you. You need to believe me, now. In spite of everything, I love you. You are my son in every way but the pronouncement of law.”

  We had been cut with the sharp edge of too many hurts to find healing that night. Father’s words, though sincere, did not yet have the power to calm Theo. You cannot cauterize a pus-filled wound without permitting the poison to ooze out first. It had taken wine and years of cumulated disappointment, but Theo had finally allowed his acrid accusations to flow freely.

  Winter gripped Corinth hard that year. When you breathed, your breath came out in white, thin wisps, like little bits of your soul that left you forever. We stepped on eggshells around each other. We lived as those who have lain under a surgeon’s knife, recuperating slowly. Theo acted like a polite acquaintance rather than my best friend. But I sensed a release in him, as if a boiling pot had blown its lid and now could rest. He stopped drinking to excess, and when he accepted an invitation, he seemed less on edge among strangers.

  I did not expect to see Dionysius again for two more years, when he would turn twenty-five. To my astonishment, one morning, before the midday bell had rung, a young man stepped into the courtyard. It took me a moment to recognize the tall, gangly man with the shock of dark, unruly hair and grim expression.

  “Dionysius!” I shouted and sprang wings to go to him. He accepted my embrace but did not return it.

  “Where is Father?” he said. No greeting. No expression of joy at seeing me.

  “Dionysius . . .”

  “Where. Is. Father?” His tone held no trace of affection. I felt like he had stabbed me with an icicle. Before I had a chance to respond, he shoved me aside and walked toward Father’s tablinum.

  I pursued him like a confused puppy and tri
ed to follow him into Father’s tablinum when he stepped inside. Dionysius pushed me back. “Not you.” He shut the door in my face.

  I stood, immobile, my mouth agape. Never had I seen my brother behave with such severity. I wondered if he had turned into my grandfather. Had the old man managed to leave his stamp on Dionysius’s soul? Had he twisted his affections into scorn?

  I sank to the floor, unable to take another step.

  Through the door, I could hear the murmur of voices, Father’s quiet statements interrupted by Dionysius’s staccato monotone.

  “Is it true?” he shouted once. Whatever Father said, I did not hear. He spoke for some time.

  “How could you do it? How?”

  “Dionysius,” Father said, his voice soothing. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Hurt me? You will be the ruin of me. This is your fault. The divorce. Our being torn apart from each other. For so many years, I blamed Mother. But it was you!” Dionysius howled. Even through the door I could hear the grief clogging his voice.

  It dawned on me that they were speaking of the Honorable Thief. Somehow, Dionysius had discovered Father’s secret. And unlike me, he could not bear the burden of it. I blamed my mother for Dionysius’s defection. Blamed her and Grandfather for filling him with their venom and their harsh judgments.

  “I never want to see you again,” Dionysius cried. “You are not my father. I am not your son.”

  I felt my world splinter. Our family had lived far away from each other for years. But Dionysius and the rest of us had been welded together by love. We were bonded so tightly that years and distance could not tear us apart. Whatever was happening inside Father’s tablinum meant the rupture of that love. Of that unity.

  The door slammed open and I bounded to my feet. At the threshold, Dionysius turned to face our father. His skin had turned the color of ivory. In his eyes hatred burned like a fever.