by Marie Savage
“By the way, I saw Heraklios leave your quarters earlier,” Kleomon went on. “For my part, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him. Perhaps he didn’t need to question me because I’m not at the top of the suspect list.”
“We were discussing the re-dedication. And he was boasting about his contribution to the funeral tonight,” Philon sneered. “Being a Makedonían with both family and official connections to Epirus, he is donating a white bull for sacrifice—on behalf of Philip, Olympias and Alexander, of course.”
“Pray, what are we donating? The usual? A couple of fatted rams?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. A dozen of of our best. It promises to be a big crowd and there must be plenty to eat for the feast. Perhaps tonight will mark the beginning of a new relationship with the priestesses of Gaia. I imagine the rams should be getting there soon.”
“It’s so good I can depend on you, Philon.”
“Are you ready?” Philon asked, remembering to keep his breathing even. “If we do not leave soon, we will be late.”
“I am always ready, my friend. You should know that by now.”
Chapter Forty-two
The frigid mist and the dusting of snow Delphi received the night before were gone. After the previous day’s bone-chilling weather, they had all hoped the day would break clearer. Now, Althaia wondered if there had ever been a day as bright and crisp. She stood at the edge of the outcrop and looked across the horizon. Rock-studded hillsides tumbled down into small plateaus and then down again to the valley floor. Whitewashed Kirra gleamed like a pearl against the glittering lapis gulf beyond. Below her, Theron and Praxis poked around at the rocks looking for more fragments or splinters of wood. Behind her, Heraklios and his nephew, the lieutenant, who could barely meet Althaia’s eyes, were busy doing the same. She, however, found it hard to keep her mind focused. She squinted and shaded her eyes with her hand. Her hat was at Menandros’s and she knew she’d have a headache fit for a titan before the morning was over. But she didn’t care, because even though the day was beautiful, she thought only of the night to come.
With messengers riding back and forth between Thea and Phoibe since first light, plans had been finalized for a funeral ceremony for both Charis and Melanippe. On the wide shelf below the Korycian Cave, pyres would be lit, paeans sung, and a funeral feast celebrated. Althaia could not stop wondering what a funeral for a priestess of Zeus and Gaia would be like. Would there be sacrifices to Dionysos, the god that bound Zeus and Gaia together? And if so, would there be drumming and dancing maenads? Satyrs? Would it evolve into a Dionysian bakkheia? She knew the wine would flow, but she wondered just how far the priestesses would go—how far she would go. Nikos would be there. He would carry the torch to light his mother’s oil-soaked bier. And after that? Would she and Nikos meet? Or would he disappear like he had last night—after Kalliope reached across and laid her hand on his. If he didn’t disappear, if he stayed, if….
Her heart pounded and a flush of heat rippled through her body. It had been too long since she felt a man’s fingers on her skin. Even then the fingers had belonged to her tender but half-hearted husband, Lycon, who, while he was intent on upholding his obligations under the marriage contract, was more intent on hurrying back to his lover, the Olympic hopeful he worshipped. She had to give Lycon credit for at least trying to please her.
No, Lycon was not a terrible lover. But Althaia wanted more. She was not naive. Living in close proximity with three grown men, she had overheard—and seen—plenty. Lysandros had money to burn and when he hosted a symposium, he went all out—hetaerae, pornai, acrobats, musicians. He made sure everyone left satisfied and sated. She knew that, despite what her stupid, sheltered cousins said, women could, and did, enjoy sex. She would never forget the time Lysandros’s sister visited and Althaia found an olisbos among her aunt’s belongings. It took all Althaia’s resolve to not collapse into uncontrollable giggles as the distinguished Athenian matron tried to explain that the obvious marble phallus was a pestle and that she had simply forgotten to pack the mortar.
Lying with Lycon was an obligatory part of the marriage contract, one that had only one purpose—to produce an heir. He always performed with perfunctory politeness and then got up and left her alone with her thoughts. Now, the thought of Nikos’ sparkling green eyes, the little crinkles that spilled down his cheeks when he smiled, his full lips tasting hers, his tongue teasing her breasts and his fingers probing her most private places made her lightheaded. Even the air seemed to be quivering with excitement.
***
“They’re not going to find anything. Not after that rain.” Heraklios came up behind her.
Startled and disturbed from her pleasant thoughts, Althaia turned red as a pomegranate. “It doesn’t hurt to look,” she said, hoping her voice sounded normal.
“It’s a waste of time.”
“Still….”
There was an awkward silence. Heraklios didn’t seem inclined to move and Althaia wasn’t inclined to make small talk. “I wanted to apologize,” he said finally. “For my men. For last night.”
Althaia didn’t look at him. She did not want to talk about last night. She didn’t want to think about Half-an-ear’s threats, his breath, his hand between her legs. She was safe, and she didn’t ever want to think of it again. Ever.
“The young one. I shaved his head, personally. He’ll be in irons for a few days. I thought you’d like to know.”
She thought of the boy’s long stringy curls, probably the most handsome thing he owned. Now gone. She wanted to hate him. She could see him standing near the ledge, a lookout, straining to watch, laughing. But he wasn’t the one who touched her. She had wished the boy dead, but now she almost felt sorry for him. Humiliation among his fellow soldiers was punishment enough.
“I understand members of the Makedonían court are frequent visitors to Dodona,” she said, changing the subject.
“Indeed. Alexander himself consulted with Melanippe before he joined his father’s troops.”
“Then there will be many powerful people glad to know you are going to great lengths to find the priestess’s murderer,” she offered.
“That’s why I’m here,” he smiled grimly.
“Althaia!” Theron called up to her as he and Praxis scrambled out of the ravine. Praxis reached the top first and held up a small piece of wood between his fingers.
“We’ll be right up. Keep looking, maybe there’s more up there on the ledge,” he yelled.
Althaia looked up at Heraklios and smiled. “It doesn’t hurt to look,” she said and started walking along the ledge, examining the ground as she went.
“Okay,” Heraklios looked at his nephew, “spread out and keep searching.
It didn’t take long for Theron and Praxis to ride back up to the road and around to the outcrop on the other side of the ravine. Althaia ran up to Praxis as he dismounted.
“Let me see.”
Praxis drew the fragment from his pouch and handed it to Althaia. She held it up between her fingers. The piece was not quite two inches long, slender, cylindrical, and carved in a distinctly elegant arc marked by delicate geometric grooves. Between the engraved marks, the wood was smooth, fragrant and burnished so it shone with a rich gold hue in the bright sun.
Heraklios came up behind her and grabbed it from her hand. “It’s intricate. An overlaying design almost like a—”
“Serpent,” Theron said as he joined them. He drew out the pieces Althaia found the night before.
“Where’d you get those?” Heraklios asked.
“In Melanippe’s cloak. Althaia found them last night during the ritual washing of the body.”
He offered it to Heraklios who tried to fit the ruby-eyed piece to the new one. “It doesn’t quite fit, but its obviously the same wood. The same design.”
“So it looks like we’ve found ourselves a murder weapon.”
This morning, when I showed the ruby-eyed fragment to Thea—”
“Who’s Thea?” Heraklios interrupted.
Theron ignored the question and continued. “—she recognized it immediately. It was part of Melanippe’s walking staff. But, and here’s the important part, Thea said Nikos carved it for his mother years ago and that now Melanippe could barely get around with out it. She also said Melanippe had it with her when she and Kalliope left the farmhouse after the message arrived.
“Who is Thea and what message arrived when?”
“Look, there’s nothing on the ground here,” the lieutenant said, joining the group at last. “The only thing up here,” he held his mud-covered shoe up for everyone to see, “is plenty of mud from yesterday’s sloppy weather.”
Theron stopped and slapped his hand to his forehead. “We’re looking for the wrong thing. We don’t need any more pieces of the walking stick.”
“What are you talking about?” Heraklios asked.
“Thea’s note,” he answered.
“Who the hell is Thea?”
Theron shielded his eyes and surveyed the ledge. The others watched, waiting. After a moment, he found what he was looking for and headed toward it. “According to Althaia’s observations,” Theron said as the others followed in his footsteps, “Melanippe was dead before she hit the rocks. And because the body was contorted by the way she lay in the ravine, she had to have died, or at least have been in the ravine two or three hours earlier, enough time for the death rigor to begin to take hold. Now, in Thea’s note, she said a message arrived for Melanippe and that she and Kalliope had immediately gone out. Because of her infirmities, she took her walking stick which was then, obviously, used to bludgeon her to death. Thea said it was midmorning when they left. The boy found the body in the mid-afternoon.”
“Late afternoon,” Heraklios corrected him. “Who is Thea?”
“Mid-afternoon. It was late afternoon by the time he and his father got to your office. They had to walk from here into Delphi.”
“Go on,” Praxis encouraged, as Althaia watched Theron put the pieces together.
“Melanippe was ill, nearly blind and the weather was terrible. She couldn’t have gotten very far from the farmhouse before she met her killer. Either she was killed near the farmhouse, brought here and dumped into the ravine or brought here, killed and then dumped in the ravine. Either way, she had to have been transported here. It is too far for her to have walked.”
“And it’s doubtful a murderer would just sling a dead body over his shoulder and walk down the road with it,” Praxis added. “He could have draped the body on a horse or a donkey, but it still would’ve looked like a body. He must have put it in a cart or wagon so it was hidden from any passersby they might meet. Then he could have pulled the cart close to the edge and simply given her a nudge.”
“Then, out she’d roll, right down onto the rocks below. All we have to do to find where she was killed, or at least to find where she was picked up and brought here, is to find cart tracks,” Althaia said.
Without saying a word, Theron pointed at the ground, and the rest of them looked down to see Theron’ muddy boots straddling the unmistakable impression of the narrow wheels of a small cart.
“Oh, and Heraklios,” Theron said, “Thea is Theodora, the priestess of Gaia from Pytheion in Thessaly, my twin sister.”
Chapter Forty-three
Nikos tied a bedroll to his horse’s saddle cloth and surcingle and cinched it tight. The door to The Cove’s stable slid open and he looked up to see Diokles’ walk in with two bedrolls and a stuffed carryall bag. “Where are you going?” Nikos asked.
“Your mother’s funeral.”
“I didn’t invite you.”
“No, but Phoibe did. She’s invited all the families with ties to Gaia’s cult. I’m taking Aphro. To make up for being so rudely interrupted last night.”
Nikos’ heart skipped a beat. He was still nursing a headache and still embarrassed by his behavior last night.
“So if you happen to get in the mood tonight after the feast,” Diokles went on, trying to keep the mood light, “you’ll have to find someone else to fuck. Aphro’s off limits.”
“Can’t imagine I’ll be in the mood.”
“Who knows, maybe your Athenian will be in attendance.”
“Her shadows, Theron and Praxis, will be there too.”
“A young soldier with a very bad haircut is sitting in irons out in the middle of Heraklios’s courtyard today, and our names are on everyone’s lips. We’re apparently heroes, Nikos. Riding in on our thundering steeds and saving the helpless maid and her slave.”
“She’s not a maid. She’s married.”
“Doesn’t matter. I bet she’s spent the whole day dreaming of delicious ways to demonstrate her gratitude.”
Nikos gripped his horse’s reins and started for the door. He turned and looked back at Diokles. “Why are you really going?”
“I told you. Phoibe invited me.” Diokles led his horse from its stall and began brushing it. “And, I figure your mother’s murderer will be there celebrating his success. Two people keeping an eye out is better than one.”
“Theron has his teeth in this as well.”
“Good. You play that right and he can help us find your mother’s killer while we keep him away from discovering your role in Charis’s death.”
“If Theron suspects I had anything to do with Charis, he’ll see I pay—or worse. It won’t matter what happened at that damned ravine.”
“What’s the worst punishment you could suffer? You didn’t kill her, and all they can do is pin her desecration on you. It’s not like they’re going to stone you or give you a big draught of hemlock. There might be a hefty fine and maybe a period of banishment. But so what? You’ve got plenty of money, and it’s not like you live here anyway. So what’s are you worried about? ”
“Althaia will find out.”
Diokles stopped brushing and took a long look at Nikos. “Aphrodite really has you by the balls with this one, doesn’t she?”
Nikos’s chest constricted and he felt he might choke with the pain of it, but he stroked his horse’s muzzle and said nothing. What was there to say? It didn’t matter if Eros’ arrow pierced him straight through the heart, a married woman like Althaia of Athens could not take a lover and would never have a man like him anyway.
“You know Phoibe even made a big show of peace by inviting Kleomon and Philon,” Diokles said, changing the subject.
“My mother served Zeus as well as Gaia. The priests of the Sacred Precinct of Apollon cannot be excluded from her funeral rites.”
“Phoibe’s crazy enough to do whatever she damn well pleases.”
“Crazy, but not that crazy.”
“It’s just like you, Nikos. Always willing to give a woman the benefit of the doubt. Rumor has it she’s been holed up sick since Charis turned up dead—visions, seizures, can’t keep her food down—the works. I’ll be surprised if she can hold herself together for the funeral.”
“Georgios will keep Phoibe grounded. He is a simple, but honest man—and he loves her.”
“Okay, darling Sappho, your unshakeable faith in the power of love is astounding. It’s foolhardy, and I don’t understand it, but for mysterious reasons that completely baffle me, I’m beginning to admire it. Tell you what, let’s bet on it. I’ll wager all the proceeds from that Palamedes psykter we’re saving for our favorite Etruscan collector that Phoibe gives us all a night we’ll not soon forget.”
Nikos thought of the broken pots he’d destroyed in his rage. He had swept them up and held the shattered fragments in his hand, turning the bigger pieces over and over in his fingers. Palamedes’ talent was truly a gift from the gods and Nikos had destroyed some its most beautiful expression. Figures etched in the deepest blacks and ochre reds on backgrounds of snow white. They were so alive, he wondered they did not they leap out of his hand and dance gaily across the room or charge ferociously into battle.
“I’ll take the bet,” Nikos said with his first sm
ile of the day. “But if I win, we don’t sell it. I keep the wine cooler.”
Chapter Forty-four
“Where did all these people come from?” Althaia gasped. She struggled to hold on to Praxis’ hand as he barreled his way through the crowd.
“I think all Phokis is here,” Praxis yelled.
“Look at the torches on the plain below,” Nephthys gasped. “It’s like hundreds of stars twinkling beneath our feet.”
“Free food.” Theron called out as he came up behind them. “Phoibe, Philon and Kleomon, and Heraklios are all trying to outdo each other. There’s going to be enough food here to feed an army encampment. Alright everyone, stay together. I found my sister. We have a place right up front. With the priestesses.”
“With the priestesses of Gaia?” Zenon could not believe his luck. Menandros told him that each priestess traveled with at least two attendants. Eight priestesses multiplied by two attendants equaled a good chance of finally losing his virginity.
“Let’s get settled quickly. I must set up my writing desk before the ceremony starts.” Menandros shuffled along behind, breathing heavily.
The shelf below the Korycian Cave was filled with dignitaries from Delphi, Krissa, Kirra, Arakhova, Amphissa and the other surrounding villages while the rest of mourners were camped out on the plain below the cave.
Althaia saw Philon and Kleomon right up front—lying regally upon their couches, beds fit for kings, not servants of the gods. Immediately behind them, rested a curtained palanquin in which, rumor had it, the Pythia of the Oracle of Apollon sat. Kleomon fussed with his robe and openly fondled a clearly devoted attendant while Philon scanned the crowd with the look of someone already bored with the whole occasion. Theron guided their group toward Thea who, with her attendants, had saved an ample area for them. They settled in on blankets already cornered by lamps, cups and plates piled with dried fruits, bread, cheeses and bladders of wine enough for a week of festivals.