Shadow of Athena

by Elena Douglas

  Amaltheia was speechless at this indignity. She strained to catch a glimpse of Marpessa, but the acolytes were leading the girls toward the great black open doors that led into the temple.

  “Let me at least speak to her!” Amaltheia cried. And hold her in my arms, she added silently.

  But the High Priestess shook her head. “Go home, lady. Your daughter will be returned to you. For a brief time. In five days the ship will sail.”

  Only the eyes of the watching bystanders kept Amaltheia from crumpling to the dusty ground. I’ve lost her, she thought. How will I live?

  III

  THE VINTNER

  U

  Marpessa’s father’s warehouse was a long way from the agora, and his mind a long way from the Choosing. In fact, he had forgotten all about it. When Klonios came charging into his counting room, Thrasios the vintner looked desperately around, wishing he could escape. He knew why Klonios had come.

  “You don’t have my quota of wine!” Klonios slammed his fist onto the table. “How dare you default on our agreement?”

  Thrasios’s gut clenched. Then he lifted his head to return Klonios’s glare. “It wasn’t possible. An early frost ruined many of my grapes.”

  “It wasn’t possible!” Klonios mocked. Deep-cut lines surrounded his narrowed eyes and down-turned mouth. He was taut, wiry, muscular, his skin weathered and his black hair shot with gray, about Thrasios’s own age of sixty winters. All his movements were quick and abrupt. “So,” he demanded. “Just how many amphorae do you have ready for my trading voyage?”

  Thrasios gulped, his throat dry. “Twelve, my lord.”

  “Only twelve?” Klonios’s words stung like a blow. “Last fall you promised at least twenty. You swore by the gods.”

  Thrasios made his voice hard. “It was the best I could do.” To produce even that amount, he’d gone into debt buying mature vines from other vintners. What a reckless gamble, he thought now. “I can make up the losses next year.”

  “Too late!” Klonios snapped. “I overestimated your abilities. I was sadly mistaken. And to think I was going to make you an oligarch!” Klonios’s malicious eyes glared so fiercely that Thrasios’s gaze fell, but his whole being ignited with fury at what he had lost. Klonios shrugged, turned toward the door. “Fortunately there are other vintners in Lokris.”

  Thrasios’s stomach plunged. I’ll be ruined if he doesn’t buy my wine! He put out his hands imploringly. “My lord, please! Take the twelve amphorae at a reduced cost!”

  Klonios made no reply. In a sudden change of mood he sat down at the table. Thrasios hastily pushed aside scrolls and tally sheets to make a place for him and produced two bronze goblets and a wine jar. “Will you at least sample this year’s vintage?” His voice sounded servile, yet he couldn’t help it. Klonios was the richest, most powerful man in Lokris, and his ships plied the seas between mainland Hellas and all the colonies, carrying goods from Lokris to the far corners of the world. He was one of the six oligarchs who governed the Council of the Hundred. Every man on the council feared him.

  Thrasios poured wine, mixed in water, and watched tensely while the other man sipped. “Not bad,” Klonios pronounced grudgingly and fell silent. He seemed to be waiting. He came here for something other than the wine, Thrasios realized. He searched his mind desperately. What does he want?

  All at once he knew. A memory filled his head. The Dionysian festival last year. His daughter Marpessa dancing in the maidens’ dance. All the other girls kept their gazes cast down, but not Marpessa. Her eyes shone, and her hair flew about, loosened from the vigor of her movements. So immodest, dancing with abandon like a Maenad! The shame of it—he wanted to strike her. Then, glancing across the crowd he saw Klonios staring at her with naked desire. Thrasios was stunned. Klonios’s wife lay ill with a wasting sickness. When she dies, I can offer him Marpessa. Praise the gods, daughters can be of some use after all!

  Klonios was watching him expectantly. How ill is the wife? Thrasios wondered. “I have a marriageable daughter,” he blurted.

  The other man sat back, gratified, and gave a lascivious smile. “How interesting that you should mention her! How old is she?”

  “Sixteen. Blossoming into womanhood.”

  “I like them young.” Klonios lowered his gaze to drink, but not before Thrasios saw his greedy look of lust. “Has she a sizeable dowry?”

  “Aye!” Thrasios prayed Klonios wouldn’t ask how sizeable, for much of it had gone into this reckless venture.

  Klonios gave a cold smile like one on a mask. “My wife won’t live to see me return from this voyage. When I come back, I’ll offer for your daughter’s hand.”

  The blood rushed to Thrasios’s head. All was not lost. Klonios’s marriage to Marpessa would be an undreamed-of distinction, and it would also save Thrasios’s neck. He smiled. “I would be most honored!”

  “And the girl’s mother? Will she be equally honored?” Klonios asked with biting sarcasm.

  Thrasios’s face heated at the implication that Amaltheia was not under his control. When he’d made the mistake of bragging to her about his secret hope, she had snarled like an enraged cat. Not that old villain! And his wife not even dead yet. Have you considered Marpessa’s wishes at all? A blow across her jaw had served to silence her. What foolishness! Thrasios thought. Neither his wife nor the girl had any say in this, and they would know nothing until the time came.

  “My wife,” he said stiffly, “agrees completely with all my decisions.”

  Klonios gave a rude snort, then rose. “That is well. Let us swear a solemn oath on it and offer libation to Zeus.”

  Thrasios lifted his untouched goblet. “I swear before Father Zeus and all gods that my daughter will belong to Klonios and no other.” He poured the libation onto the dirt floor. Both men watched the purple stream sink into the earth. “May the gods steal the breath from my body and the light from my eyes if I do not honor this vow.”

  Klonios gave a dark smile, his eyes like stones. “Let it be so.”

  IV

  BROKEN VOW

  U

  Klonios walked to his house from Thrasios’s warehouse well satisfied with how things had gone. The daughter was his, and he’d maneuvered Thrasios into offering her, so that he hadn’t even had to ask. His thoughts dwelled on the girl. He remembered her dancing at some festival last year, her sparkling eyes and graceful movements so full of life. As if it were yesterday he saw again her slim, lovely body, her loosened hair with the shimmer of sunlight. How different she was from the other maidens of the town, pale, insipid, hiding in their mothers’ shadows, afraid to raise their eyes! And how different from his cold-blooded, barren wife, grown old and ill, for whom he felt nothing. He would teach this new young bride how to please a man. And what a pleasure her education would be! He looked forward eagerly to the end of his upcoming journey.

  A passerby jostled him, and he came to himself with a start. He realized the street was crowded. People were streaming away from the agora. Some kind of ceremony, he recalled, involving girls and women. He hadn’t paid attention.

  Then he heard someone mutter, “—saw her at the Choosing, and—“

  The Choosing! Though he spent many months journeying on his trading ships, Klonios prided himself on knowing everything of importance that happened in Naryx and the countryside of Lokris. How had this slipped his mind? When he reached his house, he quickly sent a manservant to the temple to find out whose daughters had been chosen for the yearly ritual.

  Some time later, when the servant returned with the report of the two names drawn, Klonios sat for a moment, stunned. It couldn’t be. Then he leapt up. The servant looked astonished when a huge bronze tripod came hurtling at his head. Ducking barely in time to avoid having his skull crushed, he fell to his knees and begged, “Master, with your leave—”

  “Go!” Klonios snarled
. Without waiting to see the creature crawl from his presence, he slung his mantle over his shoulder and stormed out of the house.

  Thrasios, working on his accounts in the warehouse, knew nothing until Klonios burst into his counting room like an angry bull. Thrasios jumped to his feet.

  “Deceiver!” Klonios bellowed. “Your vow meant nothing!”

  “W–what?” stammered Thrasios.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know! Your daughter—chosen by the priestess for a long journey to Troy.”

  Thrasios went cold all over and for several heartbeats couldn’t breathe. The Choosing! It was today, he remembered. The High Priestess had reached into his household and taken his daughter. With the girl no longer his to rule, his power over his family was undermined. He lowered his eyes quickly and for long moments was speechless. Then at last he sputtered, “I didn’t know. I—I forgot. How could I have—”

  “Silence!” roared Klonios. His fists clenched. His eyes shot flames. He turned and paced. “Who else knows that we spoke of a betrothal?”

  “No one,” whispered Thrasios.

  “I won’t be a laughingstock.” Klonios stopped before the table and snatched up a goblet, which Thrasios hastened to fill. “She’ll be gone for how long? A year? Then she’ll return?”

  “Aye. If she survives.”

  Klonios gave his mask-like smile. “Then I’ll wed her in a year. Just as we planned.”

  Thrasios swallowed hard. “The rules of this—this rite we perform for the goddess demand that, once chosen, the girls belong to Athena. They must remain maidens all their days.”

  Klonios’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I care nothing for the rules. They were made by men. They can be changed.”

  Thrasios shook his head, forced himself to say, “This pact between the Hundred Houses and the goddess has been in place for untold generations. Since my daughter has been chosen, I am honor-bound to uphold that choice.”

  “Honor!” Klonios spat. “Say rather fear.”

  “We can’t displease the goddess,” Thrasios said pleadingly. “As a consequence of her wrath, we risk—“

  “What? Drought? Famine? As she sent us before? I don’t fear these things. They won’t ruin me. I’ve holdings all around the Great Sea.” His mouth twisted scornfully. “Out of all the wine-makers I chose you for my partner—and my future father-in-law. You—the most weak-kneed man in Lokris.”

  “I–I— It wasn’t my fault.” It came out almost as a whimper.

  “Oath breaker! You’ve betrayed me.” Spittle flew from Klonios’ mouth. “You knew it could happen! I will have your daughter—with the goddess’s will or without it! And for the lying promise you gave me this day, I will destroy you!” He stood still, letting the words sink in. Then he upended the table and sent it crashing to the floor.

  Thrasios’ eyes fell away. “The wine—the amphorae are ready for you.” He silently cursed the beseeching note in his voice. “Ready to be shipped.” Please, Zeus and Dionysius, god of the vine, he thought. I’ll be impoverished if he doesn’t take them.

  “I‘ll send my men for the amphorae.” Klonios turned and strode out. Thrasios stared after him, sick with dismay.

  Curse Thrasios! I had what I wanted from him—and now this! Curse the whole city of Naryx for continuing this whole damnable yearly ritual! Klonios raged. As he went toward the door, he viciously kicked at objects that lay in his way.

  He came upon a slave carefully stacking piles of empty wineskins. He kicked the pile, scattering wineskins all over the warehouse floor. The slave looked at him in distress. “Sir, you—” Then, seeing Klonios’s eyes, he changed his mind about whatever he had been about to say. He hastily bent down and began to pick up the wineskins.

  Klonios was wearing heavy, hard-toed sandals. Waiting until the slave straightened, he launched a vicious kick at his shin with all the force of his rage.

  The slave fell to the ground with a muted groan. The sound gave Klonios a small measure of satisfaction as he strode outside.

  He did not return to the warehouse. He sent his workers with wagons to collect the amphorae and take them to his ship.

  He had no intention of paying for them.

  V

  PREPARATION

  U

  Marpessa had never been so miserable. With Haleia next to her, she sat wet and shivering on a stone bench within the temple precincts. Inside she was numb. They had just undergone the rite of purification, which meant having icy water poured all over them, their hair washed, their skin scrubbed and scraped with pumice. Then, with all the priestesses in the temple as witnesses, they had knelt naked before the altar of Athena and sworn the sacred oath of obedience to the goddess. Marpessa could still feel the cold flagstones pressing into her knees and hear the words issuing from her mouth, her voice strange and unreal as she repeated after the High Priestess: “I swear to dedicate my body and soul to the goddess from now until death, and to obey her every wish and command.” Now, wrapped only in a large white cloth, their drenched hair tumbled down their backs, they sat where they had been told to wait.

  Marpessa shook her wet hair and attempted a laugh. It came out as a choking sound, more like a sob. She held up her reddened arms. “That pumice hurt. If they purify us any more, I won’t have any skin left!”

  Haleia nodded in agreement. “And this is only the beginning,” she said. “Next the priestesses will examine us to make sure we are pure. To see if we are maidens.”

  Marpessa shivered. Her mother had not told her of this, but the servants had. “I’ve heard the test is very unpleasant.” Then, determined to lift the older girl’s spirits, she said, “Never mind! We’ll face many hardships, but we’ll endure. And in a year, with the will of the gods, we will return.”

  “If we survive!” With a shuddering sigh, Haleia gave in to weeping.

  Marpessa reached for her hand and clasped it hard for a moment. “Of course we’ll survive! We’ll have skillful sailors and capable guides who—”

  But Haleia raised her head to interrupt. “When we reach the Trojan shore, we’re considered a defilement. Before we reach the temple they will try to—to kill us.” Her voice fell to an almost inaudible mutter.

  “Kill?” Marpessa breathed, thinking she must have misheard, but Haleia shook her head. “I don’t want to talk of it, or I’ll never be able to keep my courage up.” She straightened and tried to smile. “I’m sure you’re right. The guides will protect us. They must.” She wiped her eyes on the edge of the cloth that wrapped her. “My mother is very frail and counts on me to look after all the little ones.”

  “I know,” Marpessa said. “You’re the oldest, aren’t you?” She put her arm around Haleia’s shoulders, but this brought on fresh tears.

  “Why did I have to be chosen?” Haleia asked in a broken whisper.

  Marpessa had no answer. She echoed the question in silence. Why me?

  But swift upon that thought came another question. Why not me? I come from a proud family, one of the Hundred Houses who willingly undertook this sacrifice to save Lokris. Why should I shirk from this duty? I’m young, I’m strong, and I can keep my wits about me.

  Haleia was bent so that her damp hair completely covered her face. Marpessa brushed that hair back comfortingly out of the other girl’s eyes. I’ll help her, she thought. I’ll be strong for both of us. Aloud she said, ”We’re setting out on an adventure, like the heroes of old.” But the words sounded hollow to her own ears.

  Later the High Priestess sent the chosen girls home, along with a message to the two households telling them to prepare for the journey. When she received it, Amaltheia summoned Thrasios and their three older sons to meet after the evening meal. Now, the meal having been cleared away, the family gathered around the hearth, where the fire had burned down to glowing coals. The servants had lighted lamps and set them on the low tables
before departing. As Amaltheia studied the faces of her family in the dim, flickering light, she thought how strange it was to be together like this. Indeed it had never happened before.

  Thrasios sat in his great chair. Though he was silent, it was clear that he was in a towering fury. His glare shot from one face to another, boring hardest into Marpessa, as if this were her fault. Even after all their years of marriage, Amaltheia still feared his unpredictable moods and rages. When his furious gaze came to rest on her, she dropped her eyes. Then her own anger flared. All my life I’ve never been good enough for him, she thought. Nor has Marpessa. But how dare he be angry now?

  She looked at her daughter, who sat between them. As if clinging to the comfort of her childhood, Marpessa wore a faded, outgrown gown that came only to her ankles. Yet something in the girl had changed since this morning. She seemed composed, less like a child. Her calm gray-green eyes met Amaltheia’s, and she gave a small smile. That smile did not reassure her mother. Instead it made her sad, as though her daughter were already flown far away from her, never to return.

  Amaltheia looked past Marpessa to her three sons, who sat to the left of Thrasios. She felt a surge of pride. Leukos and Mydon, both tall and lean with dark beards, had wives and had come from their households on the northern edge of the vineyards to take part in this meeting. Diores, the youngest son, curly-haired, smiling, and handsome, was twenty-four, unmarried, and still lived in the house of Thrasios.

  After Eumene handed around warmed wine and withdrew, the family sat still, waiting. Thrasios continued to glower. Leukos, the eldest, opened his lips to speak, but at the same instant Marpessa shot forward in her chair and broke the silence.

  “We should be proud,” she said, looking right at her father, defying his anger. “The Hundred Houses have been making this sacrifice for generations, and now it has fallen to us. It is an honor. I accept it willingly.”