by Raye Wagner
“She’s my aunt.”
“Your aunt. I see. Well, how’s this: if you don’t want me to help you, I won’t; but nothing is going to stop me from following you home. So how about you let me carry that bundle while I follow you?” He was clearly teasing, but the banter was warm, and Phoibe found herself quite taken with the young man.
When they arrived at Priska’s, Phoibe contemplated how to explain Isaak’s presence. It turned out there was no need.
“Isaak Pallas, what on earth are you doing here?” Priska got up from the loom with a shake of her head.
“Miss Priska, I didn’t know you had a niece.” Isaak went right to Priska and kissed her cheek.
Phoibe was shocked. She had never seen anyone be so informal with Priska.
“What are we having for dinner? Do you still not have servants? I hope you are teaching Phoibe to cook.” He looked at Phoibe briefly. “No one can cook like Priska.”
“How… how do you know Priska?” Phoibe stammered.
“Everyone knows Priska.” Isaak looked around the inside of the home and went to a cupboard that held dishes. He pulled out plates, cups, and silverware for three. “I just know her better than most.”
Phoibe leaned on the table. Who was this man? How was it possible for him to be so familiar?
He approached and spoke as if he had read her thoughts. “When I was little I used to run away and come here, to Priska’s. When my parents finally realized this is where I would end up, they wouldn’t come and get me for days. I think they were hoping Priska would work me to death, or at least close enough that I would stop running away.”
“It didn’t work?”
“Of course not,” he laughed. “Who wouldn’t want to live here? It’s fabulous.” He waived his arms at the surroundings.
“How long are you home for?” Priska interrupted his ramblings.
“A week total, so three days more.”
“Well,” huffed Priska, “I don’t know why it took you so long to come out for a visit.” Priska dished stew onto their plates, then went to the oven and pulled out a fresh loaf of bread.
Phoibe was dumbfounded. She didn’t know Priska knew Isaak. Suddenly she felt unsure of her own place.
“Phoibe? Phoibe!” Priska’s voice interrupted her reverie. “Don’t just stand there. Go get some water,” she held out a jug to Phoibe, “or do you want wine Isaak?”
“No, water’s fine. Come on Phoibe, I’ll help.” He reached out, took her hand, and pulled her out the door before Priska could protest.
Phoibe let him guide her to the well, and when he released her hand, she felt the sudden loss of warmth.
“So, how long have you lived with Priska?” Isaak asked.
“Six years. How long ago did you know her?”
“I left for Athens six years ago. I only get back for short visits now and again, but I always make a point to come by when I’m here. I don’t remember seeing you before though. You’ve been here six years?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
He laughed, and the sound made her chest expand. “Yeah, that’s what you said. I just know I’ve been here in the past six years, and I’m sure I would have remembered you.”
“Yes, well,” Phoibe paused, suddenly remembering Priska periodically sending her to her father’s house to visit overnight over the past six years.
Isaak’s eyebrows were raised, “Well, what?”
“I guess I was off visiting family when you were here.” She paused for a moment, “I think I would have remembered you, too.” She blushed, knowing she was being ridiculous, but she couldn’t seem to help it.
“Hey, you two, get back in here. Bring that water, Isaak. You did remember to get water, right?” Priska called out to them.
“Yes, Priska. We’re coming.” Isaak held out his hand in invitation.
Phoibe felt a thrill when she took it.
Isaak spent the next three days in their company. Phoibe noticed Priska rarely left them alone for more than a few minutes, but she also had the knack of being just out of earshot.
“I don’t think Priska approves.” Isaak’s voice was full of mock chagrin, but there was tension in his shoulders as he pulled up the root vegetables in the garden.
“Approves of what?” Phoibe looked to Priska and then to Isaak.
“Of me.” He smiled at her, holding out a couple of carrots.
“What are you talking about? You know she loves you.”
“Yes, well, she might like me well enough…but I wonder if she likes me spending time with you, Phoibe.”
He pointed the carrots at her as he spoke, and Phoibe couldn’t help but absorb the joy in his features as he said her name.
“Please!” She tossed her hair over her shoulder, embarrassed that she had been practically staring at him. She pulled up a turnip. “I don’t think you can do any wrong. Besides, three for dinner is such company, don’t you think?”
“What? That’s all I am good for? Company at dinner?”
“No. You also help with the gardening.”
He was laughing at her, but she didn’t care. She loved the sound of his laugh; it was with such abandon.
“Well, I will be sad when I have to leave tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Phoibe knew the time was short but it seemed unfairly so. “What is so important in Athens?” She couldn’t help but feel bitter at the thought of him leaving.
“Wine, wild parties, liars, thieves, and scoundrels.”
“Uh-huh. Where do you fit in? Scoundrel?” The edge of bitterness cut between them, her disappointment raw.
“Thief,” he said taking the turnip from her. He added it to the basket.
Phoibe was surprised. “Really?”
When he nodded, she asked, “What do you steal?”
Isaak gathered up the vegetables and the two of them stood in the garden. It didn’t seem to bother Isaak to do “women’s work” alongside Phoibe and Priska, and for the first time Phoibe realized that Isaak never allowed either woman to work without joining in.
“I’ve just recently taken up thievery.”
“Are you any good at it?”
“It’s still too early to tell, but so far, I think it’s going well.” He indicated the vegetables he was carrying. “Look at my loot today.”
“Um, hint: if you’re going to steal something, don’t tell the person you’re stealing it from.” With that she grabbed the basket, and ran towards the house.
~ προχωρήσουμε ~
It was late, the moon was high in the night sky when Phoibe woke. She thought she had heard someone calling her name. She rolled over in bed and punched at her bed. It was still damp where her tears had fallen. Then she heard it again.
“Phoibe.”
She went to her window and looked out into the courtyard. There was no one there. She went back to her bed and sat with the covers pulled up over her knees. The disappointment of Isaak’s departure was fresh, perhaps she was just imagining things.
“Phoibe.” It was louder this time.
She looked out her window again and saw no one. Phoibe grabbed a shawl to cover her loose chiton, and closed her bedroom door behind her. Once outside she could see the courtyard was empty, but as she approached the front gate a hand reached through the bars and grabbed her arm. Phoibe stifled a scream.
“Shhh. Don’t wake up Priska.” It was Isaak.
“What are you doing here?” Phoibe was shocked, but her voice was subdued.
“I needed to ask you something. Well, a few things actually.” Isaak looked uncomfortable.
“What?”
“Are you hetera?”
“WHAT?” Phoibe’s voice was no longer quiet.
His hand cove
red her mouth, preventing further outburst. “I’m not saying that you look like hetera, I just, well, I’m trying to figure out... Oh, I am making an awful mess of this.” He sighed, and dropped his hand.
“Are you married?” Phoibe had a sinking feeling. Did he really think she was a courtesan?
“NO!” His head was shaking. “NO! Definitely not! Why would you ask that?”
“Well, you were asking if I was hetera. I was just thinking, well, I guess I don’t understand. What do you want?”
“Phoibe? If I write to you, will you write back?”
His words made no sense. “Why would you write to me?”
He swallowed, nervous, anxious. “Phoibe, these last few days… They’ve been the happiest days of my life.” His hand touched her cheek, and he continued, “My life is not my own, though. I am studying the law, and my work–well, I still have almost two years before I can come back to Belen. I mean come back and stay.”
Unsure of what to say, and fearful of further misinterpretation, Phoibe just nodded.
“I guess what I’m trying to find out is…Is Priska really your aunt?”
Phoibe shrugged. “For all intents and purposes she is.”
“Is she your closest relative?”
“Is that where this is going, Isaak Pallas?” She was suddenly angry at him. “Even if you ask her, she’ll tell you no. I will not become a courtesan, to come and sing and dance for you and your friends. I have no desire to be passed around, paid for my attentions…”
His hand covered her mouth again, halting the flow of speech. “I would never want you to be a courtesan, Phoibe. My father had the rare experience of falling in love with my mother. He never had a courtesan. I don’t want one either.” He again removed his hand from her mouth and took her hand in his. “I can’t even pay a bride price yet.” He was looking at her hand. His thumb traced circles on her palm. “I’m just hoping…”
“You like me?” Phoibe’s surprise burst open like a flower before the sun.
He laughed, low in his throat. “I do like you, and I’m hoping I can convince you to like me. So, if I write you, will you write me back?”
The emptiness that had been present since learning of his departure, flooded with warmth.
“I will write you. And you will visit?” She was excited with anticipation, and squeezed his hand.
He looked down at her hand briefly, and then back at her beautiful face. “When I can. It won’t be often, perhaps a few times a year. But, I can write you almost every day, and you can write and tell me of Priska, the pigs and goats, and whatever news there is.”
She smiled. “Yes, that will be wonderful.” Phoibe glanced up at the moon. She began to withdraw her hand from Isaak’s. “Good night, Isaak. May the gods watch over and protect you.”
“And you, Phoibe.” He caught her hand up and pressed it to his lips. He tried to search her face, but Phoibe had dropped her eyes. There was just enough light that he could see the faintest blush on her cheeks. He thought she was the most glorious creature he had ever seen. Knowing it wouldn’t get any easier; he dropped her hand and started walking.
Phoibe stood watching him walk the path toward town. Only when he had reached the bend, did she turn and walk back to her room. If she had waited, she would have seen Isaak stop, turn and stare longingly at her. Unconsciously, his fingertips were on his lips.
CHAPTER III
Phoibe was walking in the field behind Priska’s home. If truth were told, she was supposed to be looking for a lost pig. Phoibe and Priska did not do much farming; most of what they had, they earned in exchange for Phoibe’s milling and Priska’s weaving and healing. The pig had been given as payment, and Phoibe had been directed to retrieve the animal.
Despite this, Phoibe’s ambling was not terribly focused. The sun was shining, the air was warm, and there was the faint smell of honeysuckle in the field. Phoibe spun around drinking in the blue sky and the wildflowers, and then came to a sudden stop.
Directly in front of her was a man holding her pig. She blinked to see if the vision would go away, certain he hadn’t been there the moment before. When she opened her eyes, the man was smiling, as if enjoying a private joke. It was impossible not to notice how striking he was. The sun sparkled off his skin, and he practically glowed. His eyes and hair were the color of pale honey, and his chiseled features made Phoibe think of the sculptures artisans brought to the market to trade.
“Phoibe, daughter of Hera.” The man spoke.
The surprise of seeing someone suddenly appear, and then call her by name was unsettling.
“I believe you have my pig, sir.” Her voice was brusque with shock. Phoibe stepped forward to retrieve the animal from his arms.
“Oh, no,” he laughed, “I have already offended you? I so wanted to make a good first impression.” He looked briefly penitent, and then laughed again.
He handed her the pig, which, although it was heavy, was no significant weight for her to carry. It was, however, awkward, and she thought about her options before setting it down.
“What?” He looked at her with surprise. “Are you going to make me catch that smelly creature again?”
“No. I’m going to take him home. He’ll follow me.” She turned to leave, but his voice pulled her back.
“Yes. I bet he will. I’d happily follow you anywhere, too, Phoibe.”
She spun around. “Excuse me. Do I know you?” She scrutinized the man. Unable to identify him, she continued, “Is there a reason you are being so…” Phoibe struggled.
“Flirtatious?” He attempted to fill in the blank.
“Obnoxious!” She was practically glaring at him.
He laughed and drew close to her. Inexplicably her heart rate picked up.
“I’m Apollo.” His eyes grazed over her slowly, and Phoibe felt self-conscious in her faded peplos. He looked her in the eye. “I’m allowed to cause a little disquiet, because I’m usually so charming.” The smile was practically blinding.
“Really?” Phoibe’s surprise was nothing compared to the upset of her emotions. She let the irritation at his presumptuousness seep into her voice. “I’m not really seeing that.” She turned and walked back towards the house, her heart racing.
“But you will,” he replied. The voice was practically a whisper, but Phoibe could hear the promise.
Phoibe turned to look back at the man, but he was gone.
The walk home was quick. When Phoibe entered the house, Priska was at the loom and didn’t look up.
“I just met Apollo.” Phoibe’s words were like an explosion.
The loom fell silent. Priska looked at her, surveying her. “And?” Priska asked.
“And what?” Phoibe met Priska’s inquiring eyes with her own.
“What else happened?”
“Nothing, really. I thought he was trying to steal our pig, and then I told him how annoying he was.”
Priska laughed, but there was relief in her voice. “Oh, no, child. You can’t go around insulting the gods.”
“Well, how was I to know? And he was so…presumptuous. I have to say, he’s nothing like what I thought a god would be.”
“Really? And what is that?” Priska had started weaving again.
The rhythm of the loom was soothing to Phoibe’s still racing heart. “I don’t know. More god-like, you know.” She waved her arms, words seemed insufficient to explain. “It was just… peculiar,” she shrugged.
“Did he say he’d see you again?” Priska’s eyes were intent, but she masked her anxiety by focusing on the cloth.
“Something like that.”
“Be careful, Phoibe.” Priska stopped the weaving again to look the young lady in the eye. “Find out what his attention means before you get swept off your feet.”
/> “Um, Priska, I don’t think there is any risk of him sweeping me off my feet. I think he’s really quite insufferable.”
Priska shook her head and went back to weaving.
It was only a few days later, Phoibe was walking back from Jiri’s. She was carrying dye for the wool Priska was spinning. It had been overcast that morning, but the clouds were dispersing. The sunlight brought with it warmth, and Phoibe was smiling to herself.
She was just outside of town. The road narrowed where the number of travelers diminished, and just ahead, the sun seemed to reflect on small particles in the air. The particles sparkled, then started to glow. Surprised, Phoibe slowed her pace, then stopped. She stood in a state of shock as Apollo materialized in front of her.
“Don’t you think that’s a grand entrance?” He smiled at her.
“What are you doing here?” Phoibe looked around to see if anyone else had seen.
“I’m here to see you.” He said it as though it were the most obvious thing.
“Why?”
“Why? As in you don’t think your company is worth my attention?”
“No, why as in WHY?”
He laughed. “Aren’t you funny?” He stepped up to her, until there was only a small space separating them. He looked down into her eyes.
Inadvertently, Phoibe felt nervous. “Funny? What are you talking about?” She felt lightheaded, dizzy.
“You.” His thumb stroked across her cheekbone. “I find your conversation full of humor.”
She could feel where his touch left heat on her skin. She shook her head in an attempt to clear it. “I’m not trying to be funny.”
“I know.” He smiled again at her, and the space separating them shrank.
A longing filled her, and a vision of her being kissed by the god flitted through her mind. WHAT? She shook her head, and stepped away from the god. “What are you doing?” Her eyes narrowed, and she took another step back.
“What do you mean?” His voice was soft, lyrical.