Shadow of Athena

by Elena Douglas

  She looked for the alley where she’d hidden before—couldn’t find it. She must have missed it. The footsteps—louder, faster. She saw a deep crack of darkness just ahead. The alley. With a last burst of strength she flung herself face down into it and lay still, holding her breath, trying to become invisible, non-living, a sack of grain in the shadows.

  The footsteps stopped just outside. She smelled heavy, rancid sweat. Menace loomed. Her heart froze.

  The man lunged and struck her in the side with something huge and hard. Pain flared, red lightning. She cried out.

  The club crashed down on her skull. Darkness. Nothing.

  Arion set down his adze, straightening to mop his brow and drink from the water jar. It was early morning, the sun not yet over the horizon, and already he was sweating from the hard work. He was building new stalls in the stable of a prosperous horse breeder whose lands lay near the western edge of the plain. He had started yesterday and was grateful to have mastered the skill of it, for this job would last several more days. He wiped his mouth and hefted the adze once more.

  At that moment he heard a frantic shout, the thud of running feet approaching. The owner of the stable was currying a horse just on the other side of the wall, unseen. Someone had run up to him, bringing urgent news.

  “Barbarians from the east—the Trares! They’re raiding and killing!”

  “Where?” the stable’s owner asked.

  “They attacked Troy last night. They plundered Athena’s temple—the riches, the women.”

  Arion froze. His knees wavered like columns of sand. The girls.

  “Now they’re roaming the countryside,” the messenger continued.

  “Coming this way?”

  But Arion didn’t wait hear the rest. There was no time to lose. He dropped the adze, slipped through the rear door of the stable and started running in what he hoped was the direction of Troy.

  After a time he had to stop to catch his breath. He slowed his pace to a brisk walk. The sun had barely risen when he forded a stream and scanned the wide, flat plain, green and marshy, dotted with grazing cattle. Pale sunbeams highlighted Mount Ida and its surrounding foothills to his right. Far ahead was a low bluff, barely distinct in the growing light. Atop the hillock he thought he saw a pale glimmer of walls though he could not be sure it was the citadel of Troy or even if he was even going in the right direction. If only he had paid more attention to the landmarks when he and Gortys took the girls there—but then he had been too intent on the danger.

  Now this danger was far deadlier. Athena’s temple—the riches, the women. The words repeated themselves urgently in Arion’s head. As the sky lightened, he continued toward the distant hill. A pall of smoke hung over it. His heart sank.

  He quickened his pace. There was no trail. The tall marsh grasses slowed him down, scratching his ankles. Again and again his feet sank into muddy water. He pushed on, pausing only to catch his breath and drink from the streams that crossed his path. Those girls. Let them not be hurt or ravished or dead. Let him not be too late to help them. He hurried on, running whenever he could, paying no heed to the exhaustion of his body.

  The hillock grew bigger. Uneven walls crested the top. Troy. With a frantic burst of energy, he ran until he came to the ring of tumbled boulders that surrounded the citadel, fallen from the oft-repaired walls. He slowed his pace then, careful not to turn an ankle on the uneven ground. From where he stood, all seemed quiet but for that dissipating cloud of smoke.

  The sun had risen a short distance above the citadel, blinding him. He scanned the walls, trying to remember where they had found the secret way in. Farther on, surely. The wall made a huge oval, looping around the crest of the hillock. He walked to his right along it, searching the uneven rock face above him. Many stones had crumbled away, leaving dark holes. He examined them all to make sure that none was the secret passage. How far had Gortys taken them around the wall?

  When he came upon the opening, deeper, darker than the others, he knew it at once. As he climbed up the wall and scrambled into the passage, the sun was high in the sky. Late morning. Arion cursed. A night and almost half a day had passed since the raid. Too much time.

  He crawled through the passage with urgent haste and came out on the street he remembered. Straightening, he stretched his cramped legs. He looked around for any sign of the marauders. But they were long gone. The messenger on the plain had said that they had looted Troy and moved on.

  He began to run up the street toward the temple. After a few paces he came upon an old woman huddled in a doorway holding the body of a young man in her arms. Arion saw a horribly crushed head, a chest covered with dried blood. The woman, rocking and weeping, paid him no heed. He paused, hesitating, but he could do nothing for her. He went on.

  Farther up the street lay two—no, three men’s bodies. Dried blood, flies swarming. A few paces away was a woman lying on her back, legs spread, eyes open. Flies lit on her eyes.

  All around him were broken doors, houses that had been invaded. Many more dead lay inside them, he was sure. He forced back sickness, went on. He must find the girls. The temple had a huge timber gate. Perhaps it had protected them. He began to run toward the looming temple.

  Then he stopped. Where the gate should have been was a huge heap of demolished timbers. A body was sprawled across one of the broken beams. A woman, her thighs spread. Just beyond her lay another—and another. He fell to his knees and spewed sickness. I can’t, he thought. I can’t go on and find them like that.

  He took deep breaths, trying to steady himself. Barely aware of what he was doing, he staggered upright on wobbly legs and walked part way back down the street. Then something made him look to his right.

  The body of a boy was huddled motionless in a small space between two houses. Arion stared at the dried blood matted in the brown hair that lay in wisps around the head. Near the hairline was a huge raised bruise, deep purple. He couldn’t tell if the boy was alive or dead. He was wearing some sort of rough sackcloth garment, bunched up to his knees, revealing slim calves, bare feet.

  Arion took a step nearer. The legs were smooth and hairless—feminine. This was no boy, and he had seen those legs before, when Marpessa vaulted up the mast of the ship. His eyes flew to her face. It was the color of parchment, the mouth slack, the eyes closed.

  Dropping to his knees, he leaned over the crumpled form and reached a trembling hand toward the delicate neck, deathly afraid that he would find no pulse.

  XVI

  FLIGHT

  U

  Darkness. Her head was being crushed by rocks. A fierce pain cut through her chest with every breath. But through it all she felt a touch, a presence. A gentle hand on the side of her neck, her face. She heard her name. With great effort she opened her eyes. A man’s face was bent over her, his eyes full of fear. A familiar face—but it couldn’t be. That face belonged far away, in Naryx. With effort she called forth the name of her home. But she couldn’t remember the name that belonged to the face.

  She tried to lift her head. Sickness surged up, spurted out. The man deftly turned her head to the side and wiped her mouth with a strip of cloth. All at once his name came to her lips.

  Arion. She wasn’t sure if she had made a sound, but he responded at once.

  “Marpessa! What happened?”

  Marauders— she tried to say, but it came out unintelligible, more a groan than a word. She struggled up, fell back. “I must find—” Haleia. But she couldn’t say the name aloud. Tears formed in her eyes.

  Arion kneeled at her side, unable to afford even a moment of relief. Marpessa was seriously hurt, barely alive. Where could he find help for her? He scanned the streets and saw only dazed survivors wandering among the dead. No one paid him any heed. No one would offer him aid. Perhaps he should take her out of the citadel? But she couldn’t make the trip through the secret passage in t
he wall, the long walk across the plain. And even if she could, he had nothing, no way to heal her. Better to return her to the temple, try to find someone there who would care for her. Although from what he had seen—

  “Are all in the temple dead?” he asked.

  Her body shuddered. She whispered so low he had to bend close, “Don’t know.”

  He feared the worst. The whole citadel was in disarray, many injured, many more dead. “There must be someone here who can care for you.” He took off his cloak and carefully wrapped it around her. “I’m going to carry you.” When he scooped her up into his arms, she flinched, gasped silently in pain.

  As he staggered to his feet, she stirred feebly against him and spoke. “Must go back.”

  “I have to find help, get you to safety—”

  But her fist gripped his tunic. “Haleia,” she whispered. “Must find.”

  Arion stopped, appalled. For the moment he had forgotten the other girl. “I’ll look for her,” he said quickly, thinking, If by some miracle she survived. If so, he would find help for her as well. A fierce determination drove him. After his long loneliness on the plain, he felt desperately alive, full of purpose. He searched for a safe place to hide Marpessa while he ran to the temple. But there was none. It was too risky to leave her here—or anywhere. Grimacing, he turned and trudged up the street toward the temple, carrying her.

  Gently though he held her, his steps jounced Marpessa as he walked. Everything hurt. The sight of the gray sky, the swaying walls, dizzied her. She closed her eyes, fighting nausea. Her head rested against the warmth of him. She focused on his solid chest, his heart beating against her ear, strong and steady. He would care for her. She was safe.

  But she needed Haleia to be safe too. She tried to move, tried to lift herself, but the effort was too much, and everything went dark again. Never mind. Arion would find her. He would take care of her too.

  She turned her face inward against his chest and sank into the darkness.

  When Arion reached the temple courtyard, the sight that met his eyes choked off his breath. Bodies were strewn everywhere. People wandered among them with dazed, slow movements.

  Where was Haleia?

  He stood still for long moments. His arms ached from the weight of Marpessa. He shifted her body gently. She was unconscious—or asleep. He was glad she couldn’t see the scene before him. He noticed a purposefulness to the movements of some in the courtyard. Men were gathering up corpses and putting them in rows; others were building a huge pile of stacked timbers.

  A funeral pyre to burn the dead priestesses.

  Shielding Marpessa in his cloak, Arion hurried to the pyre. He had to see if Haleia was among the dead. As he stepped forward, a couple of men glanced at him incuriously. He advanced until he could walk along the row of corpses and look at each pale, dead face. Some had their eyes still open as if in shock. Sickness rose in him, but he forced it down. There were so many—close to fifty, he guessed, their robes torn and spattered with blood. He walked along the line, stopping whenever a young face made him think it was Haleia. Not her...not her...not...Here was one with long straight hair like Haleia’s, the features too bloody for him to tell if— Then he remembered. Haleia’s hair would be cropped short like Marpessa’s. All these others had long hair. No Haleia. He felt a tiny hope.

  As he started to walk away, awkward with his burden, two men were crossing toward the gate carrying a corpse between them. There was something familiar about that body. Then he saw short dark hair—and Haleia’s dead face.

  He ran toward them before he could stop himself. “Where are you going with her?”

  The men paused. Two numb, weary, grimy faces looked at him. “This one must be taken outside the walls,” one said. “Burned on unfruitful wood.”

  “The ritual,” muttered the other man. “We must, even now—”

  “Ritual?” Arion breathed.

  “This is one of the sacrificial maidens. We must find the other also—”

  Marpessa. Without looking down, he felt her face buried in his chest, hidden under his cloak. He turned away quickly, glanced over his shoulder. The men had barely looked at him. They walked toward the colonnade and set down their burden for a moment.

  Haleia—dead. Arion drew in a ragged, painful breath. Nothing he could do to help her. The defilement demanded by the ritual didn’t matter now. What mattered was Marpessa.

  I’ll have to care for her myself.

  As soon as the men were well on their way, he would get her to the secret passage and somehow through it, if he had to drag her. He must carry her across the plain and hide her in his rough shelter.

  Here inside the walls of Troy, her life had no value.

  Carrying her in his cloak, Arion hurried down the street toward the secret way. Mercifully all those around him were too immersed in sorrow, shock, and the painful duties of survivors to notice him. Mercifully, Marpessa remained limp and unfeeling and made no sound. Once he felt her breath catch. He stopped, eased her face away from his chest so that she could breathe more easily.

  At last he reached the opening to the passage, a deep pool of blackness against the rough walls lit by the noon sun. He looked around. The street was empty. Quickly he bent and laid Marpessa on the dirt of the street. He arranged his cloak under her and set her feet in the opening of the passage. Then he crawled in. Reaching back to support her head, he began to ease her into the tunnel.

  At that moment he heard male voices, footsteps. Looking up he saw two men far up the street, coming from the temple—carrying a body. He knew them at once—the two men who had taken Haleia. They must have been delayed at the temple, and somehow he had gotten ahead of them. They mustn’t see Marpessa. He tugged on the cloak with both hands, dragging her into the darkness.

  She came awake with a cry. Arion slid his hand over her mouth. He pulled her farther down and flung himself over her, praying they were both completely concealed and that the men hadn’t heard her. Their slow footsteps came abreast of the tunnel—halted. Arion stopped breathing.

  A voice said, “—something moving. Did you see something?”

  “No. But isn’t this the opening to the old cistern?”

  Silence. Then a scraping noise, a footstep—another. One or both might stoop to look into the tunnel. But to do so they would have to lay down Haleia’s body. He waited, not breathing, his hand pressed over Marpessa’s mouth.

  They did not set their burden down. One of them said, “Nothing in here. Let’s go—get this sorry business over with.”

  Their footsteps moved away—stopped again. Arion’s hand hovered above Marpessa’s mouth.

  “Let’s hope the others have found the second girl,” said one of the men. At last the steps started up again, began to fade. Arion pulled himself forward to peer through the opening. They were farther down the street, probably heading for one of the gates.

  He bent over Marpessa and held own his breath until he heard her breathing, shallow, barely audible. Relief filled him. But she lay very still, senseless. A trickle of new blood ran down from her hairline. Oh, gods! She must have struck her head on a rock when he pulled her so quickly into the tunnel.

  If only he could carry her! He took a moment to study the passage by the dim light from the opening. It was a round bore carved through the rock, barely wide enough for a large man to crawl through. Not high enough to stand in. He eased Marpessa’s body around so that she lay head first in the tunnel and he could protect her head as he pulled her. Then he began creeping backward on his knees, lifting the cloak to keep her head and upper body from the floor, stopping often to rearrange the cloak under her. Near the opening the floor was of sandy dirt, but this soon gave way to solid rock. His progress was agonizingly slow. Even though the passage sloped downward, his effort was as great as that of Sysiphus in Hades, pushing a huge boulder up a mountain. The heat and the dar
kness were stifling. Sweat poured into his eyes.

  He stopped for breath and bent close to her. “Marpessa? Can you hear me?” A small, stifled groan answered him, filling him with relief. “Be brave,” he whispered, “just a little while longer. We’re almost there.” The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

  He continued to ease her down the passage, paying no mind to the burning ache in his muscles, the knifelike pains in his knees. All his attention was focused on Marpessa. He felt they had been buried forever in this tomb of rock. His eyes strained against the blackness. Surely it was lightening up ahead, or perhaps he only imagined it. He plowed on until at last he was surrounded by deep gray instead of black. Up ahead was a rough circle of blinding light—the outside world at last.

  Near the opening he stopped in case danger lurked, perhaps from those who were seeking Marpessa for the completion of the ritual. He bunched up his cloak to make a pillow for her. Then he crawled forward. Peering out, he couldn’t see much, just the steep slope of the wall.

  “Stay,” he whispered to Marpessa. “I’m going to make sure it’s safe.”

  He slipped down the wall. At the bottom he stood straight, drew a deep breath, shook the stiffness and pain out of his cramped muscles, all the while looking around. Nothing but fig trees and scrub oaks, dark against the dried grass. No sound but the chirping of crickets, the calls of birds hidden in the trees. How strange to hear these normal sounds of nature after such a massacre in the world of men! The sun was just past its zenith. Hours had elapsed. He felt a trickle down his shin. His knees were torn and bloody from the crawl through the passage in the rock. He had no way to wash them, nothing to bind them with. His stomach growled. No food, no drink.

  It couldn’t be helped. Only Marpessa mattered.