Shadow of Athena

by Elena Douglas

  Praise for

  Shadow of Athena

  A story of adventure and love that transports you to ancient shores. It takes hold from the first pages and never lets up until it reaches a shattering and shocking climax.

  Bud Gundy, author, two-time Emmy award winning producer, PBS

  An enchanting love story with compelling characters and suspense that keeps you turning the pages. Authentic details bring ancient Greece to life. A must-read for lovers of historical novels.

  Patricia Elmore, mystery writer and Edgar nominee

  A fast-paced intriguing story with vivid characters set in the ancient world. The suspense never lets up and builds to an unexpected and satisfying ending.

  Charlene Weir, mystery writer, winner, Malice Domestic Award

  The far past comes alive in this historical novel with a cast of unforgettable characters. A story that lingers in the mind long after the book is closed.

  Cleo Jones, author of Sister Wives and The Case of the Fragmented Woman

  SHADOW OF ATHENA

  ELENA DOUGLAS

  KNOX ROBINSON

  PUBLISHING

  London & Atlanta

  KNOX ROBINSON

  PUBLISHING

  34 New House

  67-68 Hatton Garden

  London, EC1N 8JY

  &

  3104 Briarcliff Rd NE 98414

  Atlanta, Georgia 30345

  Copyright © Elena Douglas 2017

  The right of Elena Douglas to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN PB 978-1-910282-66-3

  Typeset in Bembo

  Printed in the United States of America and the United Kingdom.

  www.knoxrobinsonpublishing.com

  To Tom, André, Lula, Tazia, and Erik

  You’re the best!

  PROLOGUE

  AJAX: THE LEGEND

  U

  During the sack of Troy, the Greek warrior Ajax of Lokris committed a terrible sacrilege. As the Trojan princess Kassandra sought refuge in the temple of Athena, Ajax tore her brutally from the sanctuary and raped her. When his own warriors threatened to kill him for it, Ajax saved himself by vowing to expiate his sin. But on his homeward journey, the unappeased Athena wrecked his ship near the coast of Greece. Ajax managed to scramble onto a rock near the shore and, in his arrogance, shouted defiance at the gods, enraging Poseidon, who split the rock and sent Ajax plunging into the sea. He drowned without ever atoning for his sin.

  Deprived of her revenge, Athena turned the full force of her wrath against his homeland, Lokris.

  PART I

  I

  THE CHOOSING

  U

  Once a year at midsummer, the Hundred Houses of Lokris gathered in the agora with their marriageable daughters for the dreaded ceremony of the Choosing. Anguished mothers, and even a few fathers, clutched their girls by the arms, knowing that regardless of the tightest hold, the most loving embrace, Athena would have her way. This year, as every year, the blind hand of the goddess would pluck two maidens from their midst like fledglings from a nest.

  This year Marpessa’s name was in the drawing for the first time. As the somber crowd waited beneath the statue of Athena, she stood numbly with her mother and her nursemaid in the heat-shimmer glare of noon. In all her sixteen years she had never feared anything but her father’s rages, his hard hand striking her face. And Mother would never let him really hurt me. The fear she felt now was different, unearthly. An invisible goddess-shadow hovered, raising the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. Her future, until now so secure, was suddenly an all-enveloping fog that could swallow her. She smelled the stink of her own cold sweat and clung to her mother’s hand, realizing that for the first time in her life Amaltheia could not protect her. Oh, Goddess, she whispered in her mind, please not me, not me, not me.

  But that was cowardly, shameful. If you choose me, Athena, I will accept my lot and try to serve you well, she amended silently, knowing the words were hollow. Gently she released her mother’s hand and reached into her sash to pull out the downy white feather she’d found in the woods yesterday. She stroked it with a finger, but its softness failed to soothe her. Above her, dominating the agora, loomed the immense marble Athena with shield and spear, brought out of the temple for the ceremony. The blazing sun pooled the statue’s shadow onto part of the crowd. As Marpessa gazed up, the goddess’s fixed stone smile became a menacing rictus, the painted eyes boring right into hers as if the goddess could read her thoughts. The knot of dread tightened in her stomach. She turned to Amaltheia for reassurance and caught an unguarded look on her mother’s face that rendered it suddenly haggard and old.

  All at once someone shouted, “The High Priestess has arrived!” A lightning bolt of tension skittered through the throng. Shoulders tightened, breaths were sucked in. One young girl clinging to her mother’s arm seemed about to weep. A woman with a hard, weathered face enveloped her daughter in her cloak and pulled her close, hiding her from sight. Marpessa felt her mother’s hands come to rest on her shoulders. Oh, Mother, take me away from here! But she knew better than to say it. Its very futility weakened her knees.

  “What’s happening?” someone demanded, straining to see.

  “The High Priestess is approaching the altar, followed by the other priestesses,” answered a man taller than the rest. People craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the woman with the power to speak the goddess’s will. Marpessa stood on desperate tiptoes but was too far back to see either the High Priestess or the makeshift altar.

  An unseen hand struck a gong, and a silence fell that had weight and substance. Marpessa couldn’t breathe. She was sure the shadow of Athena had grown darker, more forbidding. The High Priestess’s voice rang out. “We’re here to choose the two maidens who will this year appease the goddess for Ajax’s sin and the curse he brought to our land.”

  An uneasy rumble greeted her words. Glances came Marpessa’s way. She wanted to run, to hide. They know I’m Ajax’s direct descendant. Oh goddess, please— But she couldn’t finish the thought.

  The hands gripping Marpessa’s shoulders began to tremble, sending coldness through her instead of comfort. Never before had her mother shown fear. Marpessa turned to her and tried a smile, but her lips were stiff as wood. “Mother—”

  A loud clattering began on the altar.

  “What’s that?” a woman nearby asked in a hushed tone, and the tall man said, “The High Priestess is reaching into the caldron on the altar, stirring the ceramic pieces. She’s about to draw a name.”

  “There are more than two hundred names in that caldron—” the hard-faced woman said, her voice trailing off, leaving unsaid the hope of every mother there: Out of all those names, let my daughter not be chosen.

  Two hundred, Marpessa thought. Not me, not me, not me. She couldn’t stop repeating it. She did not see the priestess lift out the first square of baked clay, but she heard the woman’s strident voice call out a name. “Haleia, daughter of Polites!”

  Not me. She exhaled, her knees going even weaker. Cries came from the middle of the crowd. Heads turned. Hands reached sympathetically to the family whose daughter had been called. At first Marpessa couldn’t remember who this girl was. Though I must know her. The priestess commanded, “Haleia, come forward to stand before the Goddess,” and through the parting crowd Marpessa caught a glimpse of a tall young woman with a high, proud forehead and straight brown hair. Then she saw the girl’s stricken face. H
er! The one with the ailing mother and all the younger brothers and sisters. She’s a few years older than I, perhaps eighteen, Marpessa remembered. What lies ahead for her now? But she knew. A dangerous journey. A year of harsh servitude. A lifetime of virginity.

  A weight fell on Marpessa’s heart. I’ll never again talk to her over the washing at the spring. Then a shiver ran through her. Why did I think never? It’s only for a year.

  “Mother,” she whispered, “what will happen to her?”

  Amaltheia murmured something inaudible and her hands ran through her daughter’s unbound hair. The gesture should have been calming, but her movements were jerky, frenetic. A crackling sound came from the altar, then the smell of smoke. Marpessa’s nose caught the spicy fragrance of incense. Faces looked up as a white plume of smoke rose straight into the clear sky. “An auspicious sign,” the High Priestess intoned. “The goddess finds Haleia acceptable.” A pause. The priestess added, “I will now seek the other who will accompany her.”

  Again the crowd went deathly still. Again the clatter of ceramic pieces in the bronze caldron. Breaths were held. Marpessa’s muscles clenched tightly enough to snap. Only one more. After that, please gods, I’ll be safe. She was afraid she might be sick.

  Then came the summons from the priestess, so loud and terrifying it seemed to issue from the goddess herself. “Marpessa, daughter of Thrasios, come forward! You have been chosen.”

  II

  THE CURSE OF AJAX

  U

  Amaltheia flung her arms around her daughter. “Oh, no, not you, my darling!” she cried. Marpessa felt her mother, the mainstay of her life, crumpling against her shoulder.

  “Mother, it’s only for a year,” she tried to reassure them both. “It’s all right.”

  But Amaltheia’s face was pale as ashes. “No, it isn’t. You don’t know what—”

  “Hush!” said the nursemaid Eumene. “The priestess is speaking.”

  They heard the insistent call from the altar, louder this time. “Marpessa, of the house of Thrasios, come forward.”

  Amaltheia grabbed Marpessa’s arms. “I won’t let them take you!”

  Shocked faces swung around to stare at them. “That’s blasphemy!” Eumene said. “Let her go.”

  Marpessa’s knees felt as if they were filled with sand and would crumble. “Go,” someone urged her. The throng parted, and as all eyes watched, she made her way on trembling legs to the altar. It was the longest journey she had ever taken. Each step carried her a world away from her mother, her home, her life.

  My life no longer. The goddess’s now.

  She would spend a year of servitude in a distant land. And when it was done, forbidden to marry, she would live out her life in shameful dependence on male relatives. It can’t be. I don’t believe it.

  But it was no use to think of it. It isn’t life or death, she told herself. I must keep up my courage. That’s what matters now.

  At last she reached the altar. Through a blur she saw the white-robed acolytes gathered behind the High Priestess and the small priestess who tended the smoking censer. Then her gaze was drawn to the huge stone Athena, her helmet pushed back, her long crimped hair flowing over her shoulders. Once more Marpessa looked up into the goddess’s eyes, searching them for meaning. Why? she asked silently. Why me? Then across the altar she saw Haleia. The other girl was visibly shaking. Her eyes locked with Marpessa’s, the pain in them striking her like a wave, and Marpessa knew that her own eyes looked back at Haleia in exactly the same way.

  So it’s the two of us, Marpessa thought. Alone together.

  The High Priestess, a stern figure swathed in white, gestured to the small woman at her side who sprinkled handfuls of incense onto the charcoal in the censer. Once more, white smoke plumed skyward. The High Priestess, watching it with evident satisfaction, raised her voice to the crowd. “Athena finds Marpessa acceptable.” Then she directed the two girls to join hands across the altar. Marpessa reached out to Haleia, feeling as if some force outside her will were commanding her movements. She squeezed the other girl’s hands in hers and found them cold and damp with fear. Like mine. The priestess wrapped a woven band around the girls’ wrists. Marpessa stared at the bright, intricate design on the band, geometric owls worked in purple thread. The owl was sacred to Athena. A memory jolted Marpessa. The white feather. An owl’s. Yesterday morning, rambling in the woods, she had found it caught in shrubbery and stuck it in her sash as a talisman. But it was the wrong kind of talisman. It had drawn the goddess’s notice just as a tall tree attracts the lightning.

  As the priestess looped the band once, twice, thrice around the girls’ wrists, Marpessa felt her hands as numbed and immobilized as a prisoner’s.

  The priestess’s next words were almost superfluous. “Now you are bound to Athena. You belong to her for life.”

  Amaltheia watched through a blur of tears as the High Priestess held up the bound wrists of the two girls. Raising her voice to be heard in the farthest reaches of the crowded agora, she called out, “People of Lokris! Behold the two maidens who have been chosen to keep Athena’s wrath from us for another year!” All were familiar with the story. All knew that, hundreds of years ago, because of Ajax’s sacrilege, the goddess had sent drought, plague, and famine to his homeland Lokris. The oracle at Delphi had decreed that, to atone for his sin, two maidens must be sent every summer to serve as menial slaves in Athena’s temple at Troy. Every year for a thousand years.

  A clamor of applause broke from the crowd. Of course they’re cheering, Amaltheia thought bitterly. Their own daughters are safe for another year. “My Marpessa,” she whispered. “You don’t know what lies ahead for you.”

  She feared she might faint. Clinging to Eumene’s hand, she begged the old woman, “Don’t let me disgrace myself.” With all her being she focused on the distant figure of Marpessa standing by the altar.

  Amaltheia began to push forward through the crowd.

  “My lady, what are you doing?” panted Eumene, rushing to keep up with her.

  “I must see her before they take her away!”

  “Wait! Everyone is staring at us.” The old nursemaid grasped her mistress’s arm. “I’m sure they’ll let you see her when the ceremony is over.”

  Amaltheia stopped and drew a deep breath. She was near enough to see her daughter clearly now. At that moment Marpessa’s eyes flew to meet hers. I must be strong for her, Amaltheia thought. Words she had often said to her daughter came back to her. To show weakness is shame, dishonor. She straightened, tried to radiate courage. She even forced a smile. The faintest answering curve touched her daughter’s lips. Then the girl lifted her head and faced the High Priestess, who embarked on a long-winded prayer.

  Amaltheia’s eyes clung to her daughter. Marpessa’s brown hair, tinged with gold from the sun, cascaded down her back. Her skin was brown as a boy’s, her arms and legs slender but well muscled from climbing and running. An Amazon, Amaltheia thought, but with love and pride. Why did Athena pick her? She’s more Artemis’s child than Athena’s. Whenever she could, Marpessa escaped from the women’s quarters and ran to the orchards and woods to listen to the birds, to watch wild animals. She found happiness there and often brought home creatures to care for: a fledgling with a broken wing, an orphaned baby hare. Thrasios despised what he called her unwomanly ways, and Amaltheia often defended her daughter against his heavy hand. This dreadful servitude to Athena will stifle her. But that was the least of it.

  Once you reach Troy, my love, they will hunt you like prey. You could be broken with rocks or speared to death. And they will count themselves heroes if they kill you.

  As part of the ritual, until they reached the temple the girls were at the mercy of Trojan men who stalked them with murderous intent. Two years ago one of the girls had been killed. We had another drawing and sent a replacement, Amaltheia remembered. But Marpess
a didn’t know. I forbade the servants from talking in front of her. And how can I tell her now?

  Then, for the first time, her eyes fell on the other girl, Haleia. A horrifying premonition struck Amaltheia. Something will happen to these two in Troy. She’d had the same nightmare for the last three nights. A harpy swooped down and carried Marpessa off to a far land, and then came a message that her daughter was dead. Amaltheia went cold at the memory. Everyone knew that dreams were prophetic. It was as if her daughter were already lost to her. This was Marpessa’s first summer of womanhood, her first time in the drawing. The Fates are cruel, Amaltheia thought. By this time next year I could have had her married and never again in danger from the curse of Ajax. Her husband Thrasios had hoped to wed Marpessa to the powerful merchant Klonios. Not him! she had vowed. Someone who will care for her and make her happy. As I never was.

  But now it was too late.

  Amaltheia stood frozen until the end of the ceremony. Then as the crowd started to disperse, she strode with determination toward the altar. Several acolytes stood in front of the two girls and barred her path, but Amaltheia said, “Let me through!” and thrust her way up to the High Priestess. “I must see Marpessa. She’s my only daughter, my youngest child.” My most beloved. But she did not say it aloud.

  “It is not permitted,” said the High Priestess. “The maidens must be tested and purified. Then they must swear the oath before the goddess.”

  “Tested?” Amaltheia whispered.

  “It must be determined that they are virgins,” the High Priestess answered sternly.