by Marie Savage
Nikos clenched his teeth, gripped the hilt of the ceremonial sword and swung it down hard on the bull’s neck, nearly lifting his feet off the ground with the effort. The animal’s knees buckled, its eyes rolled in the back of its head as it bellowed in pain and surprise. It was a clean cut, but still Nikos felt the spray of hot blood splatter across his face and arms. It was a priest’s job, and he was no priest. He took no pleasure in the sacrifice and quickly stepped aside to let Heraklios have his turn at the altar. The bull Heraklios faced was snow white. Must have cost a fortune. Nikos’ bull was black as pitch. Not exactly appropriate for the funeral of a priestess, but he was done caring about what was appropriate and what was not.
He reached for a cloth to wipe his face, and found Kalliope on the other end of it. Everywhere he turned, he found her staring up at him. She held out a pitcher of spring water, poured it over the cloth and started to dab at his face. Nikos pulled the cloth away, wiped his face and arms, made a feeble attempt at wiping the blood off his chiton, which only smeared it across the white fabric, then handed the cloth back to her, turned on his heel and walked back to where he had to wait for his next part in the macabre play.
Zeus, the girl was driving him mad, he thought as he heard Kalliope hurriedly replace the pitcher and fall in behind him. He said nothing as they took their places and waited. Eumelia of Argos led the other priestesses through the funerary rituals, pouring libations and setting out offerings of honey cakes and wine. He listened absently as they sang the prayers of the dead and wished it was Althaia standing next to him instead of Kalliope.
After a few moments, Kalliope could no longer keep her silence. She leaned in and whispered something about sharing the funeral feast and of their journey home to Dodona. She clutched at his sleeve and not-so-innocently rubbed her small breasts against his arm. She was nearly on top of him, sucking up all the air he needed to breathe. “By the gods—” he gasped.
She looked up sharply. “Are you alright? Can I get you something, anything? Wine? You look pale.” She reached up and touched her hand to his face. He pushed it away and saw a look of hurt and surprise flash across her face only to be replaced by something so hard it made him shudder. Her need to be needed by him made him dizzy, and he mumbled some platitude in apology. Back home, she seemed to be always bumping into him, turning up randomly as though she knew his movements before he did. But tonight was even worse. She stuck closer to him than his shadow. He couldn’t bear the way she stared at him—one minute all dewy-eyed with childish infatuation, the next narrow with cold determination. And always she seemed on the verge of revealing something, hinting at this and that like she knew his deepest secrets. Thea always thought there was something strange, too all-knowing and smug about her. But Melanippe never questioned Kalliope’s actions or motives. Perhaps because the girl was a sycophant of the highest degree and his mother never knew she was being taken for a fool.
Melanippe. His mother. Her body rigid on the bier for all to see. Nikos knew that when he touched the torch to her oil-soaked pyre, hundreds of mourners in the valley below would watch the flames leap high and dance in the night sky. He gripped the unlit torch in his hand and imagined the fire blazing, already consuming the fetid flesh of his mother’s decaying body. He just wanted it over with. He wanted it all over.
****
Georgios watched as Phoibe climbed atop the podium set before the two pyres. After her terrifying vision and violent seizures that morning, the poppy juice had calmed her and she’d slept most of the afternoon. But now, surrounded by torchlight, she looked like a daughter of heaven and his whole being ached with love—and fear. He saw her steady herself, raise her arms to the sky and wait for the valley to quiet. Then, in rich, clear tones, as if the goddess herself possessed her voice, she began to sing the elegy for Charis. Georgios prayed she would not falter, that her feet would stay strong and firm beneath her.
****
Rhea leaned against the rock face near the mouth of the sacred cave and listened to her daughter sing. Even as a child, Phoibe sang like one of the Mousai, her voice pure enough to inspire even the most frustrated poet. It usually filled her with joy, but now Rhea was exhausted, bone weary with worry and dread. Although Phoibe had wakened refreshed, she was wary. Whether of Rhea and Georgios or of her own daemons, Rhea could not say. While Phoibe slept, Rhea had prayed. She asked the goddess—and the gods—to show her how to help her daughter, how to protect her, but they were all were silent.
“Madam.” Rhea jumped as a man emerged from the shadows. “I am told you are Rhea of Arachova, Phoibe’s mother.”
Rhea pushed away from the mountainside and squared her shoulders. “The Pythia of Gaia is my daughter. Why? Who is asking, sir?”
“My apologies. I am Theron of Thessaly, brother to Theodora, priestess of Gaia Pytheion.”
“Ah! So you are the famous brother.” Rhea examined Theron head to toe. “My daughter does not have a high opinion of you.”
Theron smiled a smile that would warm the heart and soul of any weary widow. “Yes, I’m afraid you are right. Your daughter and I are, sadly, not destined to be the best of friends. But perhaps you and I might get off to a better start. In fact, I am hoping you can help me.”
“I help you? How?” Rhea arched her brow in suspicion.
“It has come to my attention that a woman accompanying Phoibe’s friend Georgios claimed to be Charis’s relations and took possession of the body from the priests of the Sacred Precinct. Do you know who that woman might have been?”
“What business is it of yours?”
“Heraklios tasked me with investigating Charis’s death. I had hoped to speak to her brother and was surprised he did not claim the body.”
“Unfortunately, Charis’s brother has gone missing.”
“Missing? That is interesting.”
“Not really. He was not, shall we say, a predictable sort of man.”
“So, that brings me back to my question. Do you know who the silent woman in the wagon accompanying Georgios was? Who acted the part of Charis’s mother?”
“I did.”
“Indeed….”
“And why not? It was my daughter’s prerogative to claim her handmaid and her duty to conduct the funeral rites. Charis’s brother was once again nowhere to be found, so Georgios and I took matters into our own hands and delivered Charis back to Phoibe in the hopes that—” Rhea looked past the torches surrounding her and watched Phoibe silhouetted against the starry sky.
“In the hopes that….” Theron urged.
She shut her eyes to listen and to shut out the prying man.
Theron watched Rhea. “Phoibe is young to hold such an important position.”
“What is it you want?” Rhea said. Her voice was ragged with exhaustion.
“I want to help you. And your daughter.”
“I do not need your help,” she said.
“Charis is dead. She was Phoibe’s handmaid. Melanippe is dead. She was Phoibe’s most trusted adviser amongst the priestesses.”
“And?” Rhea took a step back and steadied herself against the rock face. “What are you saying.”
“I am saying I believe Phoibe’s life is in danger.”
Rhea stumbled back and Theron reached out to steady her. “So she is right, it is the end,” she whispered.
“What is the end?” Theron took a step closer. “I know Phoibe believes the priests of Apollon are conspiring against her. You must tell me what you know so I can help prevent any harm from coming to her.”
“It is said the gods work in mysterious ways, and we are but instruments in their plans, but still I did not believe her.” Maybe it was just her exhaustion, but Rhea wanted to trust this man, tell him all her fears in the hopes he might be able to do something. But what could he, a mere mortal, do to change the course of history? If the gods have deemed something to be so, no man or woman can change it. We must accept it as best we can, even if….
Theron watched th
e emotions flash across Rhea’s face. “Rhea, you must trust me. I want to help Phoibe, so I am counting on you. If you see anything, hear anything, find anything that does not seem ‘right’—you know what I mean, a mother knows when things are not right—please contact me. I am staying with Menandros the playwright. If you feel do not feel comfortable contacting me directly, go through Theodora.”
Rhea straightened up again. “I have borne two sons and a daughter, buried a husband, and managed a farm alone for some fifteen years. I do not fear being seen in the company of a man, alone.”
Theron smiled again. “I thought not. Unfortunately, I cannot linger now. It seems Phoibe’s elegy is over and I am intent on watching Kalliope’s performance. Know, madam, that while some may call me a rogue, or worse, once I have signed on to a task, I am determined to see it done. On the funeral pyres are two women whose souls cry out for justice. Maybe you and I, Rhea of Arachova, can agree on that, even if your daughter and I cannot.” In a bold move, he took her free hand in his, bent, and let his lips brush lightly against her knuckles. “Please let me help you,” he whispered and then turned to walk away, to disappear back into the shadows from which he could watch Kalliope without being watched himself. But then Rhea spoke again.
“Phoibe is sick,” she said, and before she could stop her tongue from forming the next sentence, it was already too late. “Her mind is broken by violent visions, by the lure and threat of fulfilling Sofia’s prophecy.”
“I know of the prophecy,” Theron said, turning back to Rhea. “What form does her sickness take?” He was next to her, intent on hearing her every word as she continued.
“Her visions have always been troublesome, but lately … she has had three terrible episodes since last night, and this morning, we, Georgios and I, could barely keep her from doing herself harm. I had to lace her wine with poppy to calm her.”
“Who has access to her? Is there anyone new attending to her? Anyone new in the household?”
“No. At least I don’t think so. I am rarely here in Delphi. But Georgios keeps her well protected and everyone in her household is dedicated to Gaia and the oracle. No one would do her harm—no, this is the work of the gods. Apollon himself has appeared to her.” She leaned back heavily on the rock face and resisted the urge to sink to the ground. Theron reached out to her, brought her close, and held her tight against the broad plane of his chest. She relented for but a moment and then pushed herself away from the comfort of his arms. She would not allow herself to be overcome with fear and grief. Not yet. Even if it was the end, she must remain strong for her daughter. Phoibe would need her.
****
Like vapor from a steaming kettle, Kalliope’s high, unearthly voice rose above the crowd. In contrast to the rich timbre of Phoibe’s song, Kalliope’s was ghostly, as thin and pale as the girl herself. The mourners were transfixed until, finally, the last note of Melanippe’s elegy floated over the valley like the echo of a dream. Nikos and Phoibe stepped forward, lighted torches in hand, and, as one, set the two oil-soaked pyres ablaze.
Kalliope climbed down from the podium and hurried toward Nikos, but he had already tossed the torch into the inferno and headed in the opposite direction. She watched as he picked his way down the path to join Theodora and that woman from Athens. She saw him bend forward to kiss Theodora on the cheek and then take Althaia’s hand in greeting. No wealthy matron from Athens was going to show up and stand in the way of Kalliope finally achieving all her ambitions. She would make sure of that.
She searched the crowd for her attendant and found the silly girl gossiping and giggling like a child. Disgusting. Kalliope had no use for such ridiculous behavior. Tomorrow, she would have words with the girl. Tonight, there were more important things to attend to. She stepped back up on the podium, found the man she was looking for and signaled to him. At least she could count on him to do her bidding.
Chapter Forty-six
“I have never eaten so much in my life,” Althaia said, handing her plate to Thea’s attendant. “I heard someone say Heraklios and the priests arranged for 100 rams to be sacrificed on the plain below.” She searched her brain for interesting things to talk about, but kept coming up empty. They’d already covered the weather, the constellations, the vintage, and the best way to prepare squid. She was running out of things to say without saying the one thing she wanted most to express.
“One hundred rams would be a feast indeed,” Nikos said. “More like 10 if I know Philon and Kleomon. The amount of food doesn’t matter. Like all Hellenes, the people of Phokis will seize any excuse to celebrate and my mother’s funeral is as good as any. Look. It appears Praxis and your handmaid are going in search of some fresh, less crowded air,” Nikos said.
Althaia turned to see Praxis pull Nephthys to her feet. He smiled, bent, tilted her face to his, and whispered something that made Nephthys gasp and pull back, eyes wide in delight. She dug her brown fingers into his golden curls and pulled his lips down to hers. Althaia was sitting no more than ten feet from them, and neither one even turned to look at her. But, she noted, she did not feel even a twinge of jealousy as Praxis took Nephthys’ hand and guided her through the crowd, off to who knows where.
“Since Thea went in search of Theron, it appears we are alone,” Althaia smiled.
****
Nikos heart was full to bursting and he doubted he could ever thank Thea enough for this one fleeting moment of complete happiness after a week’s worth of absolute hell. “There’s no need to fear, we are not yet alone. Thea left her attendants to see to our every need. And the playwright is still here although his houseboy,” Nikos motioned off into the distance, “has found an entertaining diversion.” Althaia followed Nikos’ line of sight to see Zenon surrounded by a gaggle of eager young girls.
“By the gods, I believe poor Zenon will be too weary to journey back to Delphi tomorrow,” Althaia laughed. “And,” she said, her voice so soft Nikos could barely hear it, “I am not afraid.”
Nikos did not speak; he did not trust his voice. He wanted to bury himself in that place where the curve of her neck met the plane of her shoulder. She was a wonder of geometry and it struck him that he wanted nothing more than to make a lifelong study of her. He took hold of her hand, and like when they rode side by side to the farmhouse, felt Althaia’s fingers curl into his.
The warmth of her fingers slithered up his arms and his hair stood on end. He felt his pulse beat at his temple, at the base of his throat, and down to his center, thrumming in sync to the rhythm of the drums sounding on the plain below. Somewhere in the crowd, a flute and lyre played a duet while revelers clapped and sang along. The smell of hot coals, roasted meat, incense, kannabis, spilled wine and sex saturated the air. The night was alive with desire and his skin burned as hot as the pyres themselves. His fingers traced the outline of Althaia’s collarbone from the edge of her shoulder to the base of her throat. She held his gaze as he pressed his thumb into the small depression. “Perfect fit,” he whispered.
She wanted to lean back and pull him down to her. But instead of losing herself completely in the middle of the crowd, she tried to maintain her dignity, keep her bearings. “Um, is this a normal funeral for a priestess of Gaia?” she murmured.
“Nothing about my mother was normal, so why should her funeral be?” His fingers set off on their journey again, skimming her skin until they reached the smooth roundness of her other shoulder.
“About your mother, I must speak to you.”
Nikos spun around. Kalliope! By all that was holy, would the girl never leave him alone? He pulled back his hand and reluctantly looked up at the young priestess standing over them. The girl’s expression was somber and she looked like she had been crying.
“Now?”
“Now. It is of the utmost importance.”
Nikos made no move to get up. He was done with his mother. Done with the priestesses of Gaia—except for Thea, of course—and especially done with Kalliope. He had fulfilled h
is duty and now the new priestess could dig the bones out of the pyre and carry them home like the sacred icons the whole world believed they would be. “What is so important it cannot wait?”
Kalliope held up the small purse she had taken from Melanippe’s body. “Your mother’s most treasured possessions. I thought you would want to go through them with me. But if you don’t want to, if you would rather I keep the tokens your father left….”
The fury that flashed across Nikos’ face would have scared Althaia had she not felt the same rage in every atom of her being. She remembered how Kalliope had ripped the purse from between Melanippe’s, pale legs. Kalliope had not seemed eager to share the contents with anyone then. Althaia clasped Nikos hand tight, willing him not to leave her, not to go with this scheming little girl.
“Give me the purse,” he held his hand out. “I will go through it here. I’ll take what’s mine and you can have the rest.”
“I couldn’t,” Kalliope said, clutching the purse to her heart and stepping back out of his reach. “It is too painful for me. I apologize, Madam” she said to Althaia, her voice thick with the pretense of mourning, “but these small trinkets are so dear to me. I would rather review the contents of the purse in private, with my beloved mentor’s son.”
“All right, Kalliope,” he said through clenched teeth. “Stay here, Althaia. Do not move from this spot until I get back.” He squeezed her hand and stood to go.
****
Althaia watched as Nikos followed Kalliope up the path toward the cave and then disappeared over the ledge. She looked at the people around her, still drinking, eating, singing, kissing, fondling, still happy.
“Watch out for that one.” A familiar voice brought her back to her senses.
“What?” Althaia said as she turned to look at Menandros, who was watching her intently.
“That girl. I would wager a whole talent, if I had that much silver, that she would boil up her babies and serve them for dinner if it would get her what she wanted.”