by Marie Savage
Now he held Althaia in his arms and wanted nothing more than to keep her there, to bury his face in her hair, to wash away any memory of what had just happened to her. Then he heard voices and turned to see Praxis and another man scrambled up from the ravine. As Praxis ran toward them, Nikos could hear the other man sputtering as Diokles demanded an explanation. Then Praxis was there. He dropped to his knees and Althaia fell into his arms.
Nikos stood and stepped away as Althaia clung to Praxis and the emotion of the moment swept over her.
“Did he…?” Praxis whispered. He looked up at Nikos who shook his head.
Her voice caught in her throat. “He said—”
“Shh. I never should have left you up here alone.”
Althaia’s voice was just a whisper, and Nikos tried not to listen, but as he moved away he caught her words.
“He said we were thieves, that we’d murdered her for her jewels.
Nikos saw the blood drain from Praxis’s face. “Why didn’t you call out for me? Why didn’t you scream?”
“I couldn’t. I had to let him….” Althaia stammered. “He said they’d kill you if I screamed … because … because you’re just a slave and he’d say you tried to run.”’
Praxis’s voice was ragged, thick with rage. “I am pledged to protect you, Althaia. Not the other way around.”
She was quiet for a moment, and then she wiped her eyes and pushed herself away from Praxis. “No,” she said. “We protect each other. That’s what family does.”
Nikos gripped the hilt of his sword till his fingers turned white and clenched the muscles in his jaw so hard his teeth hurt. We protect each other. That’s what family does. So this is what a true family is like. Even though this man is a slave, his mistress treats him better than my own mother treats me. No, he told himself, after this morning, I have no mother. I have no family.
***
“Nikos,” Diokles said. “I’m sorry.”
The lieutenant held the skinny soldier at a respectful, and safe, distance while Althaia unwrapped the blanket from around Melanippe of Dodona’s body. Nikos sucked in his breath, but stood as still as a graven image.
“How long has she been dead?” he asked without looking up. He should feel something. Anything. Sorrow? Anger? Hatred? Disgust? But there was nothing. Or nothing he wanted to admit to. He could feel Diokles watching him.
“There is really no way to know for certain,” Althaia replied. “The death rigor has begun to set in, so several hours at least.”
Several hours? Nikos fought to make sense of everything. He looked up at his friend standing across the cart. So, it wasn’t you, Nikos thought. As often as Diokles had talked about giving Melanippe of Dodona a little nudge into the afterlife, Nikos didn’t really believe his best friend would have actually killed her. Or had her killed. Besides, they both knew her illness was getting the best of her, that she wasn’t long for this world, anyway. And there were plenty of other people who would be happy see his mother on the far side of the Styx.
He had to think. He reached out and took his mother’s hand in his. Cold. Just like it had been his whole life. Actually, that wasn’t right. He was her bodyguard and errand boy, not her nursemaid, and the truth was he couldn’t remember the last time he touched her. He looked at the rings on her fingers. The signet rings of a priestess. All except one. He tugged at the plain silver band, twisted it over her swollen knuckle, and placed it on his little finger. This one is mine.
He examined her face. Her neck. It must be back in Dodona, he thought. She didn’t wear her necklace anymore. Had refused to wear it since the day he started wearing his. And now his was gone. The necklace was the only thing he had ever owned that belonged to his father, besides the ring he now wore. The day his father walked into the Sacred Grove in Dodona, he was wearing a plain silver band on one finger and a torc with three silver balls—one for each orb in the sky, the sun, the moon and the earth—around his neck. He was red-headed and broad shouldered and he spoke but a little Greek. He told the priestesses he was a Brythonik Kelt from the Stone Circle at the center of the world. He’d been traveling for two years and was seeking wisdom. Melanippe did not know where Brythonik was, but she told him the center of the world was in Delphi, that Zeus himself had let loose two eagles and they had crossed over the exact spot now marked with the omphalos stone. And she told him all he needed to do to find wisdom was to stay right there and ask her. Zeus’s Sacred Oak would tell him whatever he needed to know. He doubted that could be true, but decided to stay for a while to find out.
He stayed long enough to get Melanippe with child and see his son born. Then he slipped his ring off and placed it on her finger. And he took two of the silver balls from his torc, threaded them on silver chains and gave them to her. One for his lover. One for his son. To remember him by. Then he walked back out of the grove and never returned.
At least that’s the story he heard from Thea, and she’d heard it from her mother. The great priestess of Dodona never mentioned it. Not once. He didn’t even know if it was true, although every time he caught his reflection in a pool of water and saw the reddish hair and green eyes staring back at him, he knew there was at least a fragment of truth to the story.
Now he would never hear the truth from his mother’s lips. It didn’t matter. He was finally free of her and he had someone to thank for doing what he could never have done himself. But if Diokles didn’t kill her, who did? Kleomon? Philon? Any of the other jealous priests or priestesses across Hellas who wondered how a rheumy, demented old woman could still wield such power and respect?
Althaia watched the emotion play out across Nikos’ face and her heart caught in her throat. It was all she could do to stand apart from him, to not take him in her arms, press his head against her breast and comfort him as he had comforted her.
“Several hours,” he mumbled. “I left her at midday.”
“The message from Thea said—” Praxis started.
“What message?”
“Thea sent a note to Theron. She didn’t know where you were. She said your mother received a message and that after that she and her handmaid left the farmhouse. The handmaid returned several hours later. But she was alone.”
“Theron is looking for you in Delphi and will meet us at the farmhouse where your mother was staying,” Althaia added.
Praxis gripped Nikos’ arm, “Know that we will do everything in our power to help you find your mother’s killer.” Praxis hadn’t liked the naked hunger in Nikos’s eyes when he looked at Althaia, but he had saved Althaia’s honor—and likely his own life. There was a debt to be repaid.
Nikos met Praxis’ eyes. “Thank you.”
Diokles spoke up. “The lieutenant has agreed to escort you up to where your mother was staying. If you want me to, I’ll accompany you.”
“No,” Nikos said. “Go home. Aphro will be waiting, and there’s nothing you can do.”
“Send word if you need anything.” Diokles mounted his horse. He looked down at Praxis “I wish it didn’t have to happen like this,” he whispered. “Truly.”
Nikos felt the pinpricks behind his eyes. He nodded at his friend and turned away.
***
After Diokles rode off toward Delphi, Nikos mounted and led the way toward the farmhouse with Althaia at his side while Praxis followed behind the wagon driven by the Lieutenant. In the back of the wagon, the young soldier, hands and feet bound, rode next to the two bodies—the priestess wrapped in her cloak and covered by the blanket and the other soldier staring, sightless, up at the night sky.
Althaia and Nikos rode in silence. The cold fog penetrated everything—cloaks, chitons, skin, bones, but Nikos paid no attention to it. Instead, he struggled to ignore the faint mixture of jasmine and fresh-pressed olive oil clinging to Althaia’s hair, tried to stop imagining what would have happened had they not been returning from Kirra, and did his best to catalogue the many people who may have wanted to see Melanippe of Dodona crumpl
ed in a heap at the bottom of a ravine. He gripped the reins in his fist and swore softly. He was failing miserably at all three.
“Nikos,” Althaia rasped, then cleared her throat and tried again. “I don’t know what to say, how to thank you for … for you know … and for saving Praxis’ life.”
The catch in her voice as she said his name nearly unmanned him. Two days earlier, he hadn’t even known she existed. Now he felt as if he’d been kicked by a rogue stallion. He didn’t want her to matter. But the mere sound of her voice drew him to her as if there were invisible ropes binding them together. He’d never felt anything like it before and wasn’t sure he wanted to feel it now. It was not a good time.
He was afraid to turn to face her, unsure of his voice. “You’re safe,” he finally managed.
“I’m so sorry about your mother,” she whispered and reached out to him, her fingers brushing lightly against the hair on his arm, sending a shudder into his very core. “My father died last year, so I know how you must feel.”
I doubt it, he thought. He looked down at the long, tapered fingers, moving on his skin with the rhythm of the horses beneath them. “You, being here … it’s good,” he murmured. He held his breath and placed a hand over hers, felt her hand turn over and her fingers curl into his. They rode like that, side by side in silence, and by the time they saw the lights of the farmhouse in the distance, he was almost able to breathe again.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Althaia saw the house ahead, set back from the path amidst a grove of plane trees that loomed like charcoal smears against the bleak night sky. Smoke rose from an unseen chimney inviting the group inside with the promise of a crackling fire and warm wine. But as cold as she was, she was not eager to go in and face any more strangers. Too much had happened.
Nikos dismounted and walked away from her without a word. He had withdrawn into his own thoughts as soon as Theron had caught up with them. After Praxis filled Theron in on everything that had happened and Althaia had assured him she was not hurt, Theron pledged to repay the debt Althaia’s family owed Nikos for protecting her honor, and he thanked him for his role in saving Praxis and swore he would help see Melanippe’s killer was brought to justice.
But Althaia sensed something had changed. Whereas before Theron had welcomed Nikos as an old friend because of his relationship with Thea, he now seemed wary, distant. What had happened? She slipped off her horse and watched Nikos go to the back of the wagon, scoop his mother’s frail body into his arms and walk purposefully toward the front door.
Diffuse light poured into the yard as the door swung open to reveal Thea at the threshold. She pushed the door wide and stepped aside as Nikos carried his mother’s body into the house. The main room was small and full of people. A group of children who sat in front of a stone fireplace grew wide-eyed and clamped their hands over their ears as several women began to wail in mourning. A couple of the attendants Althaia recognized from the Korycian Cave stood somber-faced against the wall. Two boys shuffled in carrying a long table. They set it in the center of the room and waited as Nikos placed the body upon it. Althaia,Theron, Praxis, and the lieutenant stood against the wall by the door watching, waiting. The scraggly-haired soldier sat tied to the wagon out in the cold.
Thea pulled back the blanket to reveal the woman’s battered face. She gently turned Melanippe’s head side to side to examine her bloodied skull. Without a word, she replaced the blanket and turned to the lieutenant. “I come from a long line of soldiers, farmers and priestesses. I have seen death in all its forms—when disease creeps into the house at night and steals children away, when accidents take the young and vibrant before their time, when war cuts deep, slicing limbs and piercing flesh, and when old age whispers softly and leads loved ones across the river to the underworld. I know a violent death when I see one. Go now and tell Heraklios that Melanippe, priestess of Zeus and Gaia of Dodona, has been murdered.”
“Madam,” the lieutenant began, but Thea had turned her back on him as the room erupted in a cacophony of keening. No one could hear another word he said. Althaia thought her head would explode at the noise, but the lieutenant looked relieved. He glanced at Praxis, shrugged, and backed out the door as fast as he could.
Stuck inside the room with the ululating women, Althaia fought the urge to stick her fingers in her ears. She glanced at Theron, who appeared unfazed, and at Praxis who looked stricken and who was edging toward the door. She wanted nothing more than to escape with him, and yet, Nikos was here and she felt, somehow, that her place was by here, too.
Thea held up a hand and the racket subsided. “Kalliope,” she said motioning to the girl Althaia remembered sitting behind Melanippe at the cave. The girl, who couldn’t have been more than fifteen, stepped forward and stood across Melanippe’s body from Nikos. She was about Althaia’s height, but was very thin and her pale face was pinched into a severe expression, like an attempted frown with a hint of anticipation lurking just beneath. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a bun so tight it gave Althaia a headache. The girl could have been pretty, Althaia thought, in a delicate, ethereal sort of way, had she not seemed so intense, so driven, so miserable. And had she not been looking up at Nikos with such unconcealed hunger.
“You have studied and traveled by Melanippe’s side for over five years,” Thea said. “On this trip, especially, she wished for you to travel with her to Delphi so you would meet the new Pythia of Gaia and be prepared for that day when you would replace her as priestess of Zeus and Gaia at Dodona. Unfortunately, that day has come sooner than we thought. You were at her side until the very end and, even, protected her with your very body.” Kalliope touched a scratch on her sallow cheek as Thea spoke. “And, yes, you bear the scars of that honor.
“Kalliope of Patra, you will, of course, be sanctified when you return to Dodona, but for now, we recognize you as Melanippe’s successor and a priestess in your own right. Tomorrow I will present you to the others when we meet at the Korycian Cave.” Thea turned to address everyone in the room. “The Pythia of Gaia is still in mourning and is feeling unwell. She is anxious to celebrate the funeral rites for her friend and she sent word this afternoon that although Georgios has been unable to find Charis’s brother, he and Phoibe’s mother claimed Charis’s mortal remains in the Sacred Precinct earlier today. We can wait no longer to perform the burial rites.” Thea turned back to Nikos and laid a familiar, comforting hand on his shoulder. “With your permission, we will build a pyre outside the sacred cave and celebrate the passing of these two servants of the goddess together. Afterward, you and Kalliope can escort your mother’s bones back to Dodona for burial.”
***
Nikos ignored Kalliope and took Thea’s hand, touching his lips to her palm and clutching it to his heart. This woman, now, was the closest thing he had to family. She had visited Dodona every summer since he could barely crawl. She had been more mother, sister and friend to him than any of the other priestesses at Dodona. Maybe it was because she, too, had been lonely. Maybe he had simply been a stand-in for the little brother who died and the twin who left. It didn’t matter. Thea would not abandon him—surely. Even if she knew about the stolen treasures he, Diokles and Kleomon sold to collectors across the Middle Sea and beyond, even if she knew about Charis, and about Charis’s brother’s still undiscovered body probably now half eaten by wild animals.
He never meant to hurt anyone. No, that’s not true. He had wanted to hurt her, the woman lying dead on the table before him. Despite all her fame, despite all those who respected her just because she wore the mantle of a priestess, just because she served Zeus and Gaia, despite all those who came from the four corners of the world to seek her wisdom, he, Nikos the son, knew she was a fraud. A cold, spiteful, lying, pathetic fraud who hadn’t had heard the voice of the gods in years, since his father abandoned her. As a boy, he had hidden in dark corners when she had cried out in vain, begging the gods to speak to her. And then he had followed her into the daylight as
she proclaimed to all what the gods had revealed. He had loved her for her determination, for her unwillingness to admit defeat, and he had hated her for her pride, for assuming she knew the wishes of the gods even though they had long been silent.
For years he had wanted to escape the long tentacles of her influence, to be free of her looks of recrimination and disappointment. But she had chained him to her like an intemperate dog. Every time he threatened to leave, she accused him of impiety, of abandoning the gods and their great priestess. She said she’d tell the authorities what she knew about his business with Diokles, or she would cry and say she was sorry she hadn’t been a better mother, that he couldn’t leave because he was all she had left. That lovely sentiment sometimes lasted as long as a whole day, and he fell for it every time even though he knew better. He knew each time his mother looked at him, she saw his father. She saw the Celt, the one man she had ever loved and the one man who had shown her no more respect than a common whore. He had paid for her favors with silver trinkets and left a son who was his mirror image. Melanippe the priestess never forgave the father and spent the rest of her life punishing the son.
He looked up when Kalliope cleared her throat. “Thea, priestess of Pytheion, it will be my honor,” she said softly. She raised her face and looked at Nikos with such calculation it made his blood run cold. Then she reached across Melanippe’s body to press her palm against Nikos’ chest. “Nikomachos, son of Melanippe, from this day forward, I will honor your mother with you. Together, as one, we will keep her memory alive.”