by Marie Savage
“Good morning.” The corner of his mouth tugged up in a smile.
Flustered and embarrassed, she realized her hair was a still probably mess and she wasn’t wearing shoes. Had she remembered to chew mint leaves before she left her room?
She turned to Theron and Praxis. “Why did you not wake me?” she demanded.
“Nephthys said you slept fitfully last night so we thought it best to allow you to rest this morning. Nikos had just arrived when the cook pulled the bread from the oven, and we couldn’t resist.” Theron broke off a piece of bread from a still-warm loaf and handed it to her. Dumbly, she took it and stood there like she didn’t know what to do with it.
“Menandros already left for the theater,” Praxis said. “Zenon, Palamedes, and I are going to meet him there. I promised to help him move some props and work with some of the new gears and gadgets he has assembled for his stagecraft.”
He pulled off chunk of bread, dipped it in a bowl of honey, and stuffed it in his mouth. He picked up his cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders in one, elegant flourish and disappeared down the hallway and out the front door.
“Come,” Theron said, “let us take advantage of the comforts of Menandros’s hospitality and sit by the brazier.” In the andron, Althaia perched on the edge of a chair, poked at the fire and watched Nikos out of the corner of her eye. He settled in a chair opposite her and leaned forward. Had she dared, she could have stretched out her fingers and touched him. Sappho’s lines flooded her memory:
When I see you, for a moment,
My voice goes,
My tongue freezes. Fire,
Delicate fire, in the flesh.
Blind, stunned, the sound
Of thunder, in my ears.
Shivering with sweat, cold
Tremors over the skin,
I turn the color of dead grass,
And I’m an inch from dying.
“Now, what news can I deliver to the priestesses of Gaia?” His voice was low, as if the question was for Althaia’s ears only.
Althaia locked her eyes on his. “I found a—”
She jumped as Theron clapped his hands and stood in a flourish. “I forgot Menandros has fresh goat’s milk for us. Nephthys! Nephthys!” Nephthys hurried in as if the house were aflame. “Please see to it that we have a pitcher of milk and three cups. And warm it, please. That’s the way I like it best.”
Nephthys, confused, hastily returned to the kitchen and Theron returned to his chair by the fire. “Now, where we’re we? Ah, yes. We’re still trying to understand what Althaia discovered,” Theron said. “The practice of the autopsia examination is complicated, and we did not have much time.”
Althaia saw the muscles in Nikos’s jaw clench. He surely knew she had started to tell him something Theron did not want him to know. “I must have something to tell Thea, to tell my mother,” he protested.
He is eager for news, she thought. And not just for the priestesses. Perhaps his interest in the girl was deeper than he let on. The muscles in her own jaw clenched as she fought to keep her mouth shut. I must watch myself. I do not know this man. She reminded herself that no matter how much she felt drawn to him, she must not say more than Theron felt appropriate. She had, after all, agreed to keep the findings secret for now.
“Yes,” Theron agreed, “but it is important to set our findings in context so we can make sense of them. You said you often saw Charis on your visits to Delphi.”
“We were often in the same company, yes.”
“Nikos, we are all adults here, so I will speak frankly,” Theron said. “I wonder if you knew whether or not she had a lover, perhaps someone who would not want the relationship to become known.”
Nikos’s face went ashen. He ran his tongue over his lip and fought the instinct to reach up and touch the scratches on his shoulders where Charis had clawed at him in her death throes. His voice was low, but steady. “What do you mean? Was she … violated?”
Althaia’s heart skipped a beat, and she prayed his look of alarm was simply the face of a man who cared for a friend, not a man who mourned a lover. “Her shoulders and arms were bruised, but I did not find evidence of a violation,” she said, her voice quiet. “I did find skin and dried blood under her fingernails. Whoever was with her still bears her marks on his skin.”
“We have reason to believe Charis’s death occurred in the heat of a struggle,” Theron added. The question is what kind of struggle. Was it an attempted robbery? A lover’s quarrel? Or something else entirely? Determining what happened in her last moments will help us discover the motive for leaving her body in the theater. Based on Althaia’s examination, we believe she died somewhere else and was moved. We also believe her death was, perhaps, an accident. Of course we cannot be certain, but it is possible this is no longer a murder investigation, but rather an investigation into the desecration of the body and the sacred altar of Dionysos.”
Nikos’s heart clutched in his chest as if grasping at the possibility—the hope—that this investigation would be dismissed and Charis’s death would soon be behind him. He sat forward. “If she was not murdered, how did she die? Of natural causes?”
“We are not prepared to detail our proofs at this time, and I did not say her death was natural. Only that it may not have been purposeful.” Theron stood. “As for the priestesses, tell them we are still working to find the man responsible for desecrating her body and the sacred altar. For now, that must be enough.”
“There is nothing more I can tell them?” Nikos stood, realizing the meeting was over.
“Nothing at pres—” Theron started.
“Tell them Phoibe is wrong,” Althaia interrupted as she stood to face him. “The power of Apollon is undiminished, and the vapors of the oracle still emanate from the sacred fissure.”
Nikos whirled to look down at Althaia. “You were in the adyton?”
From Theron’s glare, Althaia knew he thought she’d said too much. He’d most likely want to throttle her as soon as Nikos left. But she knew what she was doing. Once Nikos delivered this news to the priestesses, Phoibe would surely know their cult was no threat to Apollon’s great Oracle of Delphi, and perhaps the enmity between the two cults would diminish. “Apparently Philon had advance knowledge of your diversion, of the mob you organized to give us time to the storehouse, and he saw fit to move the body for safekeeping. What safer place is there than the adyton?”
“But … how?” Nikos looked to Theron for answers. “How did you know? How did you get in there?”
“Ah, ‘we’ did not get in there,” Theron said. “The examination was conducted by Althaia and her handmaid. They went in alone.”
“Alone? But was it not guarded? Was it not reckless to send two women on such a mission? How could you make her do such a thing?”
Theron smiled and put his arm around Althaia’s shoulders. “As you can see, she returned perfectly sound. And, always remember one thing, Nikomachos of Dodona, no man makes Althaia of Athens do what she does not wish to do herself.”
“But still….”
“But still,” Althaia placed her hand on Nikomachos’s arm, “I went willingly into the dark and returned the richer for it.” Nikos looked down at her, his gaze a branding iron on her soul. His face flushed, and her desire awoke as every logical thought flew from her mind. I would go into the dark again, if it was with you….
Chapter Twent-nine
Nikos leaned forward and urged his horse to a canter. What happened back there? Not a murder investigation? The relief that had flooded through him when Theron said those words almost brought tears to his eyes. For a brief moment, he wanted to confess everything, but the truth was that Charis had died because of him, he had killed her brother, and he was trafficking in stolen treasures from the Sacred Precinct. Charis might not have died by his own hand, but he was no innocent. But how did they know? His horse slowed to round a narrow bend in the road, but he dug his heels in and pressed on as stones skittered under his mou
nt’s hooves. What kind of woman would examine a dead body? Would sneak into the sacred adyton? What kind of woman was Althaia of Athens?
At least he now knew Theron would be asking the same questions he had been asking himself: who placed Charis on the altar in the theater? Who moved her body and why? Nikos could think of only one man who would have had both motive and opportunity—Kleomon.
“Damn him!” Nikos swore, and his horse’s ears flickered flat at the sound of his voice. With unfettered access to the Sacred Precinct, Kleomon could have seen him leave Charis on the temple steps. He would have realized it was an opportunity too good to pass up—eliminate Nikos, keep his share from the sale of the stolen temple treasures, and cause problems for the priestesses. All he would have had to to do was move the body away from his temple and up to the altar of Dionysos, a favorite god of the women who also worshipped Gaia. Once the body was discovered, he could accuse the priestesses of practicing some ancient and long-forgotten sacrificial rite and get Heraklios looking in their direction—which also happened to be Nikos’s direction. Take care of two problems in one swoop. The only thing Nikos had ever been good for was the contacts he’d made while traveling with or on behalf of his mother. But those contacts were already made. Kleomon and Diokles didn’t need him anymore, and Kleomon, who hadn’t been in favor of him getting involved in the first place, had made that clear on more than one occasion.
There was only one problem with this theory. Kleomon was not as stupid as he appeared—if he had known it had been Nikos who left the body on the temple steps, he would have already used that information against him. He was not the type of man to waste time with silly games. If he’d known, he would have had Heraklios tracking him down before morning’s first light. So why hadn’t he?
****
“Can you do nothing right?” Melanippe’s fingers, gnarled and knobby with arthritis, shook as she grasped her walking stick and tried to stand. Her handmaid, Kalliope, always at her side, jumped to help.
“Mother—” Nikos started.
“You did not stop the cursed examination. You did not discover what supposed proofs they found regarding Charis’s murderer. In fact, you now say it was likely not a murder at all when it is obvious to everyone that her death cannot be explained any other way! You carry a torch and lead a band of misfits to the storehouse without even knowing Charis’s body had been moved to the adyton. Once again, you disappoint me.”
“Melanippe,” Theodora soothed. “How could he know what the gods have hidden from us? He has discovered a great deal.”
“He discovered nothing useful. He brought us no information that can help bring Charis’s murderers to justice.”
“But, what if it is as Nikos says? What if it was not murder at all?”
“Theodora, where is your respect for the Pythia? For Phoibe? She has seen that Apollon’s priests are responsible for Charis’s death and desecration. Why do you find it so hard to believe her?”
Theodora glanced at Kalliope, whose face was pale and tight with frustration. Theodora wasn’t fond of Kalliope, but the gods only knew how the girl had put up with Melanippe these last few years. The old woman’s illness had warped not only her body, but her mind—and she had always been quick to anger and even quicker to judge. Now she saw plots and threats in every shadow and around every corner.
“I do not discount what Phoibe saw in her vision,” Theodora replied evenly. “But neither do I believe we should discount what Nikos learned from his visit with Theron.”
Melanippe’s leaned on her walking stick and struggled toward the front door of their host’s farmhouse. She wrestled with the heavy bolt and Kalliope once again leapt to her side. The girl, her face like a mask, void of all emotion, lifted the bolt and opened the door. Melanippe stood bent, framed against an increasingly angry sky. It was not even noon, but already the lamps were lit. The wind was picking up and a light mist threatened to turn into sleet. “Always the diplomat, Theodora. Perhaps if you had a son of your own, you would not be so inclined to favor mine.”
Nikos stood and towered over his mother. “I will suffer on your behalf, but I will not permit you to lash out at Thea for no cause.”
“No cause?” Melanippe laughed. “Listen to you both defending each other. Always it is the two of you together, always my son runs to another woman for comfort, always to Theodora when your knee is scraped or your precious feelings are hurt. And when she was not around? When she returned home to tend to her own duties, you wrote to her of my cruelty or turned to the women from the village, and relied on the tradesmen and hunters to feed and nurture you. Yes, I admit it. I read your silly letters always complaining that I did not love you, always wishing you could have gone ‘home’ with her. So what allegiance do I owe you? You are nothing but a bastard son.”
“Melanippe!” Theodora jumped to her feet and Kalliope looked as if she could strike the old woman where she stood. Nikos held his hand up to the two women and advanced on his mother.
“What you say is nothing new. You have spent the better part of my life telling me I am nothing but a burden. Theodora’s friendship has always been a refuge when you turned away, when you set me aside even when I sought nothing more but to serve you. It is I who have no allegiance to you. And from this day forward I will serve you no more. We, Melanippe and Nikomachos of Dodona, are mother and son no longer.” He gathered his cloak around him and stormed out the door past her. His horse reared as he yanked its head around, leapt on its back, and rode off into the gathering darkness at a gallop.
“Finally,” Melanippe said. She leaned heavily on her walking staff—the same staff Nikos had so patiently carved for her years before. Her thumb rubbed absently over the head of the ruby-eyed serpent carved into it, and she stared after him. “Finally, he is a man.”
Chapter Thirty
Sweating and breathing heavily beneath the blanket, Althaia opened her eyes to find Theron sitting in a chair watching her. “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough.” In truth, he hadn’t been there more than a few moments.
Althaia reddened, her face flush with embarrassment.
She looked around. Thank the gods no one else was in the room. She had fallen asleep on the couch in the andron, and was now groggy, with no conception of time. She readjusted her chiton, pulled the blanket around her, and sat up. “I was dreaming.”
“Another nightmare or a dream of a different sort?”
Oh gods, could he know? Had she talked in her sleep? Had she touched herself? Had she cried out? What had he seen? Or heard? She brushed the hair out of her eyes and tried to read his face.
“It’s all right,” he said, his voice tender, soft, like when she was younger, when she confided her fears about the monsters and shades that had stalked her dreams since the day her mother died. She’d described the dreams to him a thousand times and each time he said they wouldn’t stop until she stopped tormenting herself. Women died in childbirth all the time. Infant sons were mourned every day. She had been just a little girl who wanted her mother when she pushed past Praxis to burst in on the physician as he sliced open her mother’s belly and pulled the stillborn baby out feet first. Theron insisted she could not blame herself for screaming and crying so hard that her father had to drag her from the room even as her mother’s life-blood blossomed crimson on the pale sheet below her.
It didn’t matter what Theron told her because the old mantis had told her otherwise. The blind soothsayer sat at the city gate near Keramikos, at the edge of the ancient cemetery where Althaia’s ancestors were buried.
“Stay away from that old woman,” her father had warned. “She’s lost her senses. She sits at the city gates with the sole purpose of relieving passersby of an obol or two for her wine and bread. She deserves pity, not payment.”
“Besides,” Praxis teased, “If she is such an expert in divination, she should divine where to take a bath. She stinks of urine and incense.”
No matter what her
father said, Althaia was fascinated by the old woman. The day the mantis finally spoke to her, her mother and brother had not been dead a year. Althaia had sped down the road ahead of Praxis and as she swept through the city gates, the old crone called her name.
“Althaia of Athens.”
Althaia skidded to a stop.
“How is it you live though the heir of Lysandros has been ferried across the Styx?”
Althaia took a step toward the old woman. The mantis sniffed the air and laughed softly.
“Pretty flowers and fragrant offerings will not appease the gods,” the woman continued. “Such gifts will never change the fact that fathers want sons, not daughters.”
The fistful of crocuses clenched in Althaia’s hand fell to the dusty paving stones.
“You must atone for your father’s loss. You must satisfy the gods by bringing me—”
Althaia never heard the old woman finish. She fainted dead away and did not wake until Praxis had carried her well away from the city gates. Then she clung to his neck and cried until he laid her on the couch in her father’s study. She opened her eyes to the dark fury on her father’s face and soaked Praxis’s cloak wet with tears after Lysandros stormed out of the house. Her father’s anger merely confirmed the mantis’s words. Althaia lived while the son of Lysandros was no more. At seven years old, she did not realize her father loved her more than many men loved their sons, that he feared only for her safety. All she knew was that the blind woman had known who she was, and that the gods wanted something from her. After that day, her father forbade her from visiting the cemetery without him, and the next time they passed near the city gates, the old woman was nowhere to be seen.