Diores waved a mocking hand. “A fine speech, little sister!”
“Be silent, Diores!” Thrasios growled. “You cannot know what a disaster this is for our house.” The others all stared at him in surprise, but he did not explain. He swung in his chair to face Marpessa. The look in his eyes could have melted iron in the forge. “What provisions must be made for the journey?”
Marpessa clutched her hands together. “A ship will be provided. I need the clothes I will travel in, but when I am there I will need nothing. In the temple of Athena I am to wear one garment, the robe of a slave, and go barefoot, my head shaved.”
Amaltheia gave a stifled gasp. Thrasios, ignoring her, said, “This ship. Are we to send a crew? Slaves?”
“Nay, Father. It is the ship that goes every year. There are to be two guides to take us from the shore to Troy.” Amaltheia tensed, wondering if Marpessa knew how perilous this part of the journey would be. But the girl gave no sign of it as she continued, “They should be men who know the country well and can get us there safely, but—” She paused and swallowed hard.
Impatiently, Thrasios stared at Marpessa. “But what?” he snapped.
“Two experienced men have served as guides for years, but this year one of them died in a hunting accident. And the other—” Marpessa hesitated. Amaltheia found she was holding her breath.
“Speak, girl!” her father ordered. “What of this other?”
“Well, he’s old, Father. More than your years, but not strong like you. His back is bent and his legs are frail. The High Priestess says that we must find another guide to go with him. One who knows the country. Or at least one who is strong and able. And Haleia’s family—they have no one. She is the oldest, her brothers are all too young, her father cannot leave, they have no slaves, and—” Her voice trailed into silence.
Thrasios scrubbed a hand through his already-disheveled gray hair. Then he said, the words pulled from him, “Well, we have a slave or two who might be spared. Though the timing couldn’t be worse.”
“A slave?” Amaltheia burst out. “What of our sons! Marpessa must be protected. Surely Leukos or Mydon could go. Or Diores.”
“Silence, woman!” Thrasios slammed his fist into the arm of his chair so hard that she winced. “I can’t spare my sons from the vineyards at this time! And I won’t have them risking their necks.”
Amaltheia met his eyes. “Not even to keep Marpessa safe?” she challenged.
Thrasios turned the full force of his venomous rage on her. “This is a useless venture! Worse than useless. I will not waste one valuable life.”
And Marpessa’s life isn’t valuable? Amaltheia felt hatred growing within her, bitter and cold as steel. Her body shook with the strength of it. She shot Thrasios a look, wishing it could wound him with its force, but he turned away and did not even seem to notice. As they all sat in silence, not one of the men looked at her. She sank back in helpless fury, tightening her clasped hands until the knuckles ached.
When the silence seemed to become too weighty even for Thrasios, he said reluctantly, “There’s that slave we have. The one from Ionia. He must know his way around, since Ionia is not far from Troy. He’s a hard worker, but I suppose I could spare him for a little while.”
Amaltheia felt sick. Over the years several maidens had been lost, though most had lived. But how would Marpessa survive with only a crippled old man and a slave to protect her? She could hardly look at Thrasios. “Which one is he?” she asked.
“Arion,” Thrasios said shortly. Amaltheia had a vague image of a tall, brown-haired young man she had occasionally seen working in the warehouse or the vineyards, but she had no memory of his face.
Leukos made a scornful noise. “That one? He doesn’t know anything! He’s sullen, contentious, cares only for himself. Why, he’d murder us all in our sleep if he thought it would win him his freedom!”
Thrasios narrowed his eyes. “Be silent, Leukos. You’re exaggerating as usual and frightening your mother needlessly. It’s Arion, or no one.”
VI
THE SLAVE
U
The next morning, Leukos walked through the vineyards to the edge of the woods, where he came upon a small shack. The slave Arion lived here. Leukos opened the door, looked in. Empty. He glanced around, then walked a few paces into the woods where the trees were still spaced apart, and the sunlight shone through, dappled with leaf shadows. But Leukos was in no mood to appreciate the beauty of the morning.
“Arion!” he shouted.
After a pause a reluctant voice answered, “Here.” There was a thrashing of leaves and branches, and Arion appeared from behind a thicket, carrying a cloth sack. Leukos stared at him in silence, noting the large ugly bruise just below the slave’s knee. He wondered what foolishness the slave had done to get that bruise.
Arion was tall, almost as tall as Leukos himself and somewhat broader in the chest and shoulders. He wore the plain tunic of a slave. His beard was short, and his unruly brown hair was held off his brow with a thin strip of dark red cloth. His eyes, the same oak brown as his hair, held Leukos’ gaze with an expression that reminded Leukos of a stag—a mixture of fearlessness and subtle menace. Feral was the word that came into Leukos’s mind. Arion waited for Leukos to state his business. Not overtly defiant, he refused to be subservient. And it rankled. He’s a slave, Leukos reminded himself.
“What’s in that bag?” he demanded.
Arion gave a slight shrug, continued staring with that stag gaze, and made no answer. His thoughts were as clear as if he had said aloud: It’s not your business.
Leukos backed away from a confrontation he feared he wouldn’t win. “My father sent me to tell you,” he began, “that his daughter Marpessa was chosen to go to the temple of Athena at Troy. The ship sails in four days. You’re to be one of the escorts to guide the maidens to Troy.”
Not a muscle of Arion’s face moved, but his eyes registered surprise. “I know nothing of Troy.”
“You came from Ionia.”
“Nowhere near Troy. And I was only a boy when I was sold into slavery.” Arion frowned. “I understand the girls’ lives are forfeit on their way to the temple. She’s your sister. Why don’t you go?”
How dare he? A burst of fury sent the blood rushing to Leukos’ face. “I’m needed here. My father has decided he can spare you. So that’s the end of it.” He turned abruptly and walked away.
After Leukos left, Arion stood still, his arms fallen to his sides. Then he lifted the sack, stared at it, shook it futilely. Just like that, his masters could change the course of his life. He crossed the clearing to his hut, went in, and closed the door hard.
As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he went to the rough table and dumped out the contents of the sack: wild mushrooms. He’d found a place where they grew in plenty and had barely started gathering them when Leukos appeared. The Furies take him, and his father and brothers too! Arion thought angrily. He looked down at the meager harvest. If he could have collected the lot of them, they would have fetched a goodly amount in the marketplace for some rich man’s table. Now Arion wondered if there was any point in going back to finish the harvest. In a short while he would be expected to work in the vineyard.
Arion pushed his pallet aside and dropped to his knees behind it. He scraped away the loosened dirt that hid a sack with his small store of silver and copper pieces that he had been earning whenever he could over the years. What a pitiful handful he had saved! By the time he had enough to buy his freedom, he would probably be an old man, too old to earn his own living.
Arion replaced the sack, shoved the bed back against the wall, and sat down on it. Thrasios’s daughter. He had barely been aware that Thrasios had a daughter. He’d seen her a few times with her mother when the lady Amaltheia visited the warehouse on some errand. He tried to remember what the girl looked like: a slender young
thing with a springy stride. Arion was surprised that she’d been chosen in the drawing. He’d thought she was too young. But then, he had not seen her for some time.
Because of her, his whole life had just been turned upside down. Arion had not left this place, these fields and vineyards since he’d been brought here as a boy. He could barely remember his home in Ionia. His mother had been a widow with several children and no means of sustenance. When she became ill unto death and they were all in danger of starving, she had no choice but to sell them as slaves to the Lokrian and Boethian merchants who came periodically in ships to Ionia.
Arion, the youngest, had been seven. Terrified and lonely, he learned not to show it. Nobody cared. For much of the journey by ship he’d clung to the rail in utter misery. He didn’t know if he was more seasick or homesick. At the journey’s end he was sold to an old man and his wife to wait on them and help around the house. Easy work, and they were not unkind. When his master died several years later, the destitute widow sold him to Thrasios, who was seeking another worker for his prosperous wine business.
Now he was twenty-three or twenty-four, he calculated. And all he owned was this meager pile of precious metal scraps, a tiny portion of what he needed to buy his freedom.
Perhaps this could all be turned to good account. He did not yet see how, but an idea might come to him.
It was time to report to Thrasios for work. Arion stood up and walked thoughtfully out of the hut. He never contemplated escape because most slaves who escaped were caught, punished, often branded or maimed to prevent a recurrence. Or sometimes put to death.
But...a sea journey. It would take what? Seven or eight days? Many more than that if seas were rough or the winds unfavorable. Sea travel was perilous, and many things could happen. He smiled bitterly to himself.
Perhaps the slave Arion would somehow be lost at sea, never to return.
A stone was crushing Amaltheia’s heart, pressing on her day and night, stealing her breath. The weight of it grew more unbearable as the hour approached. Now she stood with the crowd outside the temple, waiting. Marpessa and the other girl had gone in there hours ago for the final consecration, then the ceremony of adornment, the giving of gifts. For the two maidens would be sent forth as brides to a wedding.
Outside the temple were four horse-drawn wagons that were being made ready for the trip to the port where the ship awaited. Men were piling the wagons with goods for the journey. The slave Arion was helping load supplies along with Gortys, the other escort, a strongly built but stooped man with a wrinkled face and gray hair. Also accompanying them were two middle-aged priestesses who would chaperone the maidens to ensure that every part of the ritual was carried out according to the goddess’s will.
Once Marpessa emerged from the temple, there would be time only for a farewell embrace. Then the journey would begin. A sigh burst from Amaltheia, and her lungs hurt with it. A timid hand touched her elbow. Amaltheia half-turned. She had forgotten Eumene at her side. Now she squeezed the older woman’s hand in acknowledgement, but her thoughts were far away, thinking of last night when she had been awakened by the soft pad of Marpessa’s bare feet. After looking to make certain Thrasios wasn’t there, she crawled into her mother’s bed. You curled yourself into my arms, Amaltheia remembered, as you used to when you were a little girl awakened by a nightmare. Neither of us spoke. As I held you, I relived your childhood so swiftly gone. In comforting you, in caring for you, in drying the tears you shed over small sorrows, I was the one who was comforted. Amaltheia’s weeping had surged up like a burning tide, yet she held it back, squeezing her eyes shut. How can I ever let you go?
Suddenly there was a blare of trumpets from the temple guards who stood on each side of the double doors that led to the inner precinct. Amaltheia started. All at once she couldn’t breathe. So soon. Her knees shook and threatened to give way. She willed strength into them.
A few more precious moments only. I must not burden her with my grief. When she is gone, I can weep.
Marpessa and the other girl came out, led by the High Priestess. They halted at the top of the temple steps. The High Priestess lifted her arms.
“Behold our gift, the maidens Lokris sends forth consecrated to Athena! They go with our blessing, and they bring the good will of the goddess to our land.”
The crowd cheered. Amaltheia stared, barely able to recognize her daughter. Both girls wore long flowing robes with loosely draping sleeves. Each had a gossamer veil concealing her face and hair. The veil was held in place by a crown of wildflowers and hung almost to the knees. Amaltheia could not see Marpessa’s face, but the girl’s back was straight, her head held high. The other girl, Haleia, drooped, her chin sunk on her chest. Both girls were adorned with necklaces of gold and gemstones—like brides. A mockery, a sham, Amaltheia thought savagely. Marriage was a woman’s lot, but these two were not granted this right. The gold, the gems, the fancy gowns, all would be taken from them soon, along with their hopes of a normal life—or perhaps any life at all. Amaltheia knew her thoughts were blasphemy, but she could not help them.
“Make way! Make way!” shouted the High Priestess, and as the crowd parted, she led the girls down the steps toward the wagon that awaited them. Amaltheia knew that this was the only moment she was allowed. She rushed forward and caught Marpessa in her arms.
“My love, my little one!” she whispered.
“Mother!” Marpessa hugged her. A tremor ran through Amaltheia’s body. “Mother, you mustn’t weep. Be strong for me. Give me your strength.”
Amaltheia forced back the tears. “Very well, my darling!” She held her daughter a bit apart and lifted the veil so that she could look one last time at the beloved face. She managed a feat greater than all the labors of Herakles: a smile, though her eyes were wet. “Marpessa, my strength is yours, and my love goes with you always.”
Marpessa smiled back, a heartbreaking smile. “I will return, Mother, if the gods will it.”
That was all the time they had. The High Priestess drew the two girls from their mothers’ arms and ushered them away. Marpessa managed a quick kiss on Eumene’s withered cheek, a last brave smile at her mother. Then she climbed into the waiting wagon.
Before the cavalcade could leave, Amaltheia moved quickly. She had another important errand. She sought out the slave Arion, who was still helping to load the supply wagon.
“Arion! Come here. A moment, please.”
He glanced her way, handed up the water jar he was holding, and came toward her. He looked different from the slave she had seen laboring in the vineyards, as if this errand had given him dignity and importance. Someone had provided him with a better tunic, of finely woven dark red wool. A wide leather belt encircled his waist.
“My lady?” he inquired.
She looked up into his brown eyes: impassive, nothing to be read in them. She gripped his arm. “Take care of her!” she whispered fiercely. “Make sure no one harms her while she is in your care.” Don’t let them kill her. But she dared not say the words aloud. She reached quickly into her girdle and pulled out three heavy silver pieces saved over many years from her dowry. She held them out to him. “These are all I have, but they’re yours,” she said. “Protect her well. Promise me!”
Arion’s eyes widened. His hand covered hers in a quick movement as he took the silver. “Thanks, my lady. I’ll do my best.”
“If —” Amaltheia’s voice quavered. “If she comes home safely in a year’s time, I will contrive to secure your freedom.”
Arion merely looked at her. Nothing moved in his face. She felt a fool for having spoken thus. What she promised was impossible, for they both knew that, as a woman, she had few more rights than he, and no say in how Thrasios handled his business, his property. Arion’s eyes softened into an expression of pity. He opened his mouth to speak, but there was a whistle, a shout. The wagon convoy was about to start moving. He ga
ve Amaltheia a quick nod, then ran to climb into the supply wagon.
Amaltheia hurried back to the wagon that held Marpessa. The girl was standing, her veil thrown back so that Amaltheia could see the smile held firmly on her lips. Marpessa lifted her hand and waved as the wagon rolled forward. Their eyes remained locked, Marpessa turning her head to keep her mother in her sight. Amaltheia watched the wagon grow smaller and smaller in the distance, the golden sunlight washed in a bath of tears.
Slightly apart from the crowd, Klonios was standing in the shadow of the statue of Zeus so that he could watch the maidens’ departure unseen. While he waited for them to appear, he unobtrusively observed the faces around him. Some onlookers were avidly curious, others impassive, preoccupied with their own lives. People were transparent to him, but none noticed him, and none would ever guess his thoughts and plans. Klonios smiled to himself. It was the eve of his departure, and he looked forward to this trading journey as well as one or two more he planned to take this year, the time during which the girl would be gone, serving the goddess. The year would go by fast, he was sure.
When the trumpets announced the presence of the girls, he saw them come forth from the temple swathed in veils. He had no trouble discerning which one was Thrasios’s daughter. Aside from her slighter stature, there was a grace and fluidity to her movements. Inflamed with lust, he imagined the youthful body hidden beneath that voluminous gown. He watched her climb into the wagon, never taking his eyes off her until the cavalcade rolled down the road and out of sight.
My sweet bride! he thought. I’ll be waiting when you return.
VII
THE JOURNEY BEGINS
U
Marpessa kept her head up and her back straight until the wagon rounded a curve in the road and her mother could not longer see her. She felt tears coming and fought them so fiercely that her throat clogged and her eyes burned. Barely aware of the clopping of the horses’ hooves, the bumping of the solid wooden wheels over ruts in the road, or the girl next to her patting her shoulder timidly as the convoy of wagons made its way to the shore, she slumped in the seat and pressed her hands over her eyes, while deep, silent sobs shook her, all the stronger for her efforts to hold them back. After a time, she felt the comfort of Haleia’s hand and lifted her head. Both girls had discarded their veils and crowns of flowers. In Haleia’s clear hazel eyes Marpessa saw a reflection of her own pain.
Shadow of Athena Page 3