A Sea of Sorrow

by Libbie Hawker

  So began my knowledge of herb and tree, of grove and grassland. I started with silphium out of necessity, but soon I gathered other plants listed in my scroll—every herb I could find within a day’s walk of the slowly expanding farm. I made tinctures and teas, dried leaves on the sill of my window, and gathered seeds and roots, storing them in small pots and jars beneath my bed. When I had experimented with every plant listed in my scroll, I begged enough money from Lycus to visit the river traders again; I bought another list of herbs, more detailed and expansive, and passed the winter making plans for all the fascinating walks I would take in the spring, hunting up new varieties to add to my little bedside apothecary. Those lonesome walks to gather herbs were my only solace during the dark days of my marriage. The plants themselves were my only friends, yielding their hidden powers to me through my gentle attentions.

  Spring came again, but Pasiphaë did not visit me, despite her promise. The gynaeceum at Heliodoros’s house—our childhood home—was a dreary place without her. During my father’s feasts, I remained sequestered with the aging female servants and the young wives of my father’s friends, while Heliodoros and Lycus pretended camaraderie in the andron.

  I hated those dinners at my father’s house. Every corner seemed to echo with the memory of Pasihpaë’s laughter. My sister was a ghost there, fading a little more each time I visited. I could not bear to feel her disappearing from my life. On one night, while the andron rang with glad shouts and laughter, I left the gynaeceum and walked alone in the twilight, circling Heliodoros’s house aimlessly, searching the rocky ground for any interesting leaves or flowers.

  After a time, I became aware that someone walked with me. I looked up and found Perses, my eldest brother, strolling by my side.

  “Good evening, little sister,” he said.

  I nodded mutely, too harrowed up within my spirit to reply.

  “You’ve left dinner early. Aren’t you hungry?”

  I shrugged, then bent to pick a sprig of young marjoram. I twirled the stem between my fingers.

  “I’m glad to have the chance to speak to you tonight,” Perses said. He cleared his throat; he seemed to be searching rather awkwardly for his next words. “That is to say…Father told me to look for an opportunity to—”

  “Father,” I said. “What does he want with me?”

  Privately, I asked myself—and the gods—whether I hadn’t done more than enough for Heliodoros already. Hadn’t I gone without complaint to my wedding, as any dutiful daughter should? Didn’t I suffer through the loneliness of a cold, unfeeling marriage—through the pain of intercourse with a man whose touch, whose very presence, set my skin crawling? What more could Heliodoros ask?

  Perses seemed to sense my sudden outrage, though I tried to conceal it. He made a placating gesture, one hand uselessly patting the air between us. “Father is only worried about you, Circe. You have been married almost a year now, but you have no child. We have not heard that any child is expected, either.”

  Nor should anyone expect a child from my womb, I thought wryly. I had seen to that. I said only, “Sometimes it takes younger women many months to conceive. Years, even. That’s what all the wise women say.”

  My brother flushed in embarrassment. “Have you been…that is to say…”

  I rounded on him. “I know how children are made, Perses. I’m not a fool.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  Words and feelings I could no longer control came tumbling out against my will. “The gods know Lycus tries often enough, no matter how he claims to be disgusted by me and my blood.”

  “Your blood? I don’t understand.”

  I ignored Perses and ranted on, unwisely. “If the gods have seen fit to deny me a child, then I defer to their wisdom. Perhaps they wish me to be happy. At least someone does; it’s clear our father doesn’t care about my happiness. Nor do you, nor Aeëtes! If I remain barren, perhaps Lycus will set me aside. He’ll send me back here, to Father. I would rather live in this house, even as a servant, than with that ungrateful boor who pretends to be my husband!”

  “Circe.” Perses laid his hand on my shoulder. “Be easy. I had no idea you were unhappy. How was I to know?”

  I turned my face away. Tears blurred my vision. My brothers had no way of knowing, no way of seeing my misery, yet I could not help laying blame at their feet. Loneliness had made my heart bitter, my judgment unsound.

  “Does Lycus beat you?” Perses asked quietly.

  “No. But I’m sure he would, if I gave him cause. I’m the perfect wife, quiet and obedient, all but invisible. I never deny him anything, even when I want to. Even when my whole spirit screams at me to push him away, push him off me…”

  I shuddered and turned my back on my brother. Perses did not speak for a long while. The night songs of frogs and insects filled the silence.

  After a moment, he said, “I suppose Lycus has a goal of conceiving a son. Perhaps once you become a mother, he will give you peace.”

  “He may give me peace then, but don’t imagine my life will be happier for it. I am still doomed to live with a husband who hates me.”

  “Why should he hate you?” Perses sounded genuinely startled by my words.

  I turned back, looking into my brother’s eyes. My jaw had set itself so hard that it trembled and ached. “He hates me because I am not Pasiphaë. Because I am not as beautiful as she.”

  Perses was so surprised that he laughed. “You are every bit as beautiful as Pasiphaë.”

  “Well, my husband has never preferred my looks to hers. I believe Lycus read some insult in the matter, when our father gave me as his bride. Yet what could he do—spit on the offer of a Colchian chief, when Lycus must rely on Father’s kindness merely to survive? Lycus still sees himself as a prince of Sarmatia, with all the respect due a man of that station. But he is no prince. He is nothing but an exile, grubbing in another man’s soil.”

  “Still,” Perses said hesitantly, “when you share a child, you and Lycus may come to see one another in a better light.”

  My fists clenched. The marjoram was crushed in my grip; its warm, spicy scent rose up around me. “I will never see that revolting man in a better light. For it’s a certainty that he will never look on me with any favor. Do you know what he says about me—what he tells his friends? He tells them I’m a witch!”

  Perses frowned. “A ridiculous accusation.”

  “Ridiculous,” I agreed acidly, “yet he says it all the same. He tells other men I’m a daughter of Hekate. Tell me, Brother: do you truly think such a man will ever look on me with favor? He has already decided I’m born of a witch’s blood. If the gods are ever cruel enough to give me a son, no doubt Lycus will keep the child and cast me out. If he doesn’t kill me first.”

  “Have you any way to prove Lycus has called you a witch? If Father knew—”

  “What?” I laughed bitterly. “What would Father do? Take back his bastard, whore-born daughter? Who else would accept me as a wife, other than Lycus, the hopeless exile? Yet I would rather return home, if I could. I don’t care for the disgrace it would bring; it would not feel like any shame to me. But Father…he is far too proud; he would never suffer it.”

  Perses sighed. He knew I was right. He said weakly, “I hate to think of my own dear sister living in such sadness.”

  “I hate to think of it, too,” I said drily, wiping away the last of my tears. Weeping would do me no good. I knew that, but all too often I couldn’t help myself. I forced a smile. “We should both cheer up. Perhaps Lycus will die. Then I can return to my father’s house as a widow. Heliodoros would find no shame in that.”

  I had expected Perses to laugh—perhaps rather grimly. Instead, his broad, handsome face fell into a frown. “You shouldn’t jest about your husband’s death, Circe. A good wife would never say such a thing.”

  My mouth fell open. For several ragged heartbeats I stared at my brother, struck mute by the unfairness of his words. Then I regained
control of my tongue. “If I could not laugh now and then, I would die from sadness! Who do you care for more, Perses—your sister, or that stranger from Sarmatia?”

  “You mistake me,” Perses reached out again, as if to soothe away my anger, as one soothes a horse or a hound with a few half-hearted pats.

  I stepped back, out of his reach. “Don’t touch me. A good wife allows no man to touch her, except her husband.”

  “Circe, please—”

  “I don’t care what you say.” I all but spat the words. “You don’t know what my life is like. You don’t know what is in my heart. Nor do you know what’s in my husband’s heart—what he thinks of me, what he says to other men when he thinks I cannot hear. I will not be slandered by Lycus or you—nor by anyone else! I do still have my pride; the gods know, Heliodoros has left me with little else!”

  Perses tried to speak again, but I did not allow it. “I swear by Artemis and Hera: I wish Lycus were dead. I will pray every night for them to take his life, so that I may be free of the shadows he casts over me. Scowl at me all you like, Perses; I don’t care.”

  I whirled on my heel and stalked through the darkness toward the road.

  “Circe!” Perses shouted after me. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to my loving husband’s house.”

  “By yourself? You can’t! There are wolves in the forest tonight.”

  “I am not afraid. Tell Lycus I’ll wait for him at home.”

  The night was gentle and serene. No creature troubled me as I walked the handful of miles to my small, unhappy home in its stony clearing. By then, I had forayed so often into pasture and wood, seeking my herbs and roots, that the distance was nothing to me. If the wolves still lingered in the forest, they did not howl at me. I should have been frightened nevertheless—but a deep peace had come upon me as soon as I’d turned away from my brother. Somehow I knew I would not be harmed. I prayed to Artemis as I walked, not begging her to hold back the wild beasts of the night, but thanking her for safe passage. I felt absolute assurance that her creatures would leave me be; it was the kind of bone-deep certainty that can only come from the gods.

  After a mile or two, I included Hera in my beseeching, just as I’d told Perses I would do. Each alternating prayer to Artemis and Hera sent a thrill of power up by spine, even as I blushed with guilt. It was wicked, as Perses had said. I knew that much was true. But knowing didn’t silence me. “Remove Lycus from my path, Huntress,” I whispered to Artemis. And to golden Hera, Queen of Heaven, goddess of marriage, I said, “Make me a widow, that I may be happy again.”

  I saw the little house through the trees long before I reached it. The servants had left lamps burning to light the master’s way home. Everyone was abed by the time I crept through the door and into my bed chamber. The warm echo of power still pulsed along my limbs as I undressed and climbed into my bed. The subtle spice of my herbs and potions filled the chamber, lulling me to a satisfied sleep. I had walked off without Lycus; let him and Heliodoros make whatever they would of my audacity. I was already dreaming of Artemis and Hera—their shining faces, the Huntress’s poised and smiling arrow—before I’d fallen asleep.

  While I slept, the goddesses granted my petition.

  I was wrenched from sleep by the bang of my house’s wooden door and the shouts of Lycus’s men. I lurched up in bed, clutching the linen sheet to my chin. Through the jumble of men’s voices—panicked, angry, tense—I could hear a low, repetitive groan, as of someone suffering in great pain. Then came the cry of the kitchen maid, Ligeia, who had been pulled from sleep as rudely as I. “The master! The master is hurt! What shall we do?”

  I slipped quickly from bed and pulled on my chiton, cinching it sloppily with a woven belt. Then I hurried from my chamber, my unbound hair hanging loose over shoulders and breast. Several of my husband’s men clustered in the main room, pale-faced, shoving, jostling, shouting in hoarse voices. One of them saw me approach. “The lady of the house is here. Stand back; make way!”

  The crowd of men parted. There before me, curled and cringing on our best couch—soaking it with his blood—lay my husband. His himation hung shredded over one shoulder. Long slashes, oozing purplish blood, furrowed the flesh that showed through. He clutched his abdomen with both hands; I could see fresh blood welling up between his fingers, pooling in the fabric of his tunic.

  I rushed to his side. “Lycus! What has happened?”

  His face had been screwed up with pain, but at the sound of my voice, Lycus opened his eyes. He glowered at me; the look was feverish, hard and loathing. “Keep that witch away from me!”

  His men shifted on their feet, uncertain. I ignored Lycus’s words and dropped to my knees beside the couch. “Move your hands; let me see the wound.”

  Lycus gritted his teeth, shaking his head.

  “We were attacked on the road,” one of his men told me. “They came out of nowhere—no sound, no warning.”

  Another said, “Half a dozen of us, but still we couldn’t fight them off. They seemed to be everywhere at once.”

  I swallowed hard and looked again at the long scratches raked down the length of my husband’s arm. There was no need to tell me who—what—had attacked the men. There had been wolves in the forest that night, after all.

  “Was he bitten?” I asked the men calmly. “Or only scratched?”

  “Bitten, my lady,” someone said. “There, on his stomach.”

  “How deep is the bite? Are his innards exposed? Lycus, if you would only move your hands!”

  “Nothing vital exposed,” another man said. “Not that I could tell, out there in the darkness. But he’s bleeding badly.”

  I stood and brushed my hands together, ready to set to work. “He may take a serious fever from a wolf’s bite. I must treat him now, before any illness can set too firm a hold.”

  “I won’t.” Lycus grunted. He shuddered, then tried again. “I won’t swallow any of your brews, you hateful creature.”

  “Hateful creature?” I said coolly. “I?”

  “Keep that daughter of Hekate away from me,” he rasped to his men. “She’ll poison me!”

  I fought to keep my expression neutral, gripped by an overwhelming urge to roll my eyes. “I will do no such thing. You men, keep Lycus still. I will fetch herbs to stanch his bleeding. I’ll need boiling water for the fever potion, too. Ligeia, go and set a pot in the coals.”

  It may seem strange to you, to hear how I worked to save my husband’s life, when I had prayed for his death mere hours before. What I did that night, I did from a sense of duty—a wife’s instinct, startling and unexpected. I swear by Iaso, goddess of cures, that I made the poultice and the fever potion with all earnest intent, to the fullness of my ability. But even as I worked, pounding willow bark and one small leaf of dried aconite with my pestle, I knew my remedies would have no effect. Lycus would not recover from his wounds. The most skilled physician could not have saved him. It was the will of the gods that Lycus should perish. My freedom was at hand.

  Like the dutiful woman I had always tried to be, I did not leave my husband’s side. For three days and three nights I sat beside his couch, calmly tending his wounds—changing the poultice on the terrible, deep rent across his stomach, washing his body with strong wine to cool the fever I could not keep at bay. Aconite was the best treatment for wolf bites—all my scrolls agreed on that point—but I was careful to use the plant sparingly, as it could be deadly if administered in too high a dose. I watched as the skin around his wounds became inflamed, then oozed a foul greenish humor to mingle with the blood that still flowed now and again. I watched as lines of livid red spread through his flesh, like a demon reaching its claws toward his heart. I was no physician then—nor do I call myself a physician today—but despite my youth and inexperience, I knew what those signs meant. Lycus would not survive long.

  I did not owe my boorish, cold husband any kindness, but I offered him some, all the same. When Lycus reached the last extrem
ity of his suffering, I ground a few precious pieces of cannabis, the resinous herb from his native Sarmatia, for which I had traded a valuable pair of earrings at the riverside. I mixed the pungent chaff into warm olive oil and allowed it to steep for more than an hour. Then I trickled it, little by little, into Lycus’s mouth. Soon, his pain eased and his body relaxed for the first time in three days. I sat silent and resolutely straight on my stool at his bedside. I listened to his senseless babbling, wondering whether I ought to hold his hand as he left the mortal world behind.

  Two of his men entered the house, smelling of wet earth and cut wood—of the work they still carried on, clearing Lycus’s land, as if someday he would rise, hale and whole, to farm his gifted property. I shook my head, forestalling their questions.

  They stood for a moment near the door, watching Lycus wide-eyed as he smiled and whispered to himself. He even laughed weakly, reacting to some jest none of us could hear.

  “What has happened?” one man finally asked. “He is…different somehow.”

  I watched the workman’s face for a moment. Then I stared at the other. These plain, simple Colchian men. Were they the ones Lycus had spoken to that day when I had seen Pasiphaë off to Crete? The ones with whom Lycus had so freely shared stories of our marriage bed—things that should have remained secret and sacred to a husband and wife?

  At length, I answered his question. “He is dying. I could not save him.”

  “Dying?”

  Both of my husband’s friends glanced at my face, then at each other. An uneasy silence fell heavily across the room, broken only by Lycus’s strange, whispering laughter. Then the men turned together, as if directed by a single, shared mind, and left the house.

  When my father and brothers came for me the next morning, they found Lycus already laid out for this prothesis, the first of the triple funerary rites. Dutiful wife that I was, I had roused the kitchen maid Ligeia from her sleep. Together, we washed and anointed Lycus’s body and bound up his wounds with clean white wool, so they would not mar the look of his corpse when we carried it to the cemetery the following day. Then, when dawn came, I crawled into my bed, exhausted from my three-day vigil but entirely content. I did not grieve; I felt no sorrow. My dreams were sweet, full of golden light and the sensation of flying, as if my spirit was a dove loosed from its cote, taking gladly to wing after a long, dark period of confinement.