As if she had been struck hard in the stomach, Marpessa couldn’t breathe.
“What!” Arion exclaimed, staring at the man.
“It’s the storm season,” The fisherman pointed at the huge mountains of dark clouds piling up along the horizon. “No more ships will be sailing over these seas ’till spring.”
XXII
WRATH
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The last ship to cross the sea to Lokris ran swiftly before the wind and brought a man bearing a clay tablet from the Prince-Governor of Troy to the High Priestess of Athena in Naryx.
The High Priestess lived in a well-built house near the temple. It was evening, and she had removed her headdress. Her graying hair fell about her shoulders. She held the tablet close to the lamp, squinted, then read the news with growing horror. Her knees gave way, and she sat down abruptly. She was completely at a loss. The situation was unprecedented. Occasionally one of the girls had been killed by the Trojans on the way to the citadel, and they’d had to send a replacement girl immediately. But never both girls! And never had there been killing in the middle of their servitude.
The priestess decided to consult at once with two of the elders of Naryx, the most important oligarchs. She called her servant. “Go and rouse Klonios and Archippos and bid them come here. It is of the utmost urgency.” Quickly she replaced her headdress and smoothed her gown. Then she waited, impatient yet nervous, for the two men to arrive. She would be glad of Archippos’ counsel. He was the oldest oligarch and the most levelheaded. She wished she had not had to summon Klonios, for she did not trust him. But since he had recently returned from his trading voyage, she’d had no choice. He was the wealthiest and most powerful man in Naryx, perhaps in all of Lokris. He used his power to gain what he wanted, by means fair or foul. Many times in the past he had gotten her to do his bidding in the matter of temple policy, or sacrifices, or festivals, or who should or shouldn’t be elevated in the ranks of priests and priestesses. Just because he contributed generously to the temple treasury, he thought he could—
Her musings were interrupted by the arrival of the oligarchs. The servant led them to her hearth. When they had sat down and declined her offer of wine, she showed them the tablet.
“It says we are to send two replacements at once,” she told them. “As soon as—” She broke off. Klonios’s face became suffused with rage, his eyes narrow slits, his sharp teeth bared in a beastlike grimace. She watched as his fists clenched and unclenched, the knuckles white.
“Both girls?” he snarled at her.
Her heart gave a jolt of astonished fear. She compensated by straightening her shoulders. “Aye. My lord, what is it?”
Instantly his face went as smooth as if someone had passed a hand over it to wipe away all emotion. The change was so quick that, if she didn’t know better, the High Priestess might have thought she imagined the whole thing. “Nothing at all,” he said, and continued in a level tone, “Two replacements? That’s impossible! The Hundred Houses would never agree to such a thing.”
Still shaken but refusing to show it, she lifted her chin. “I think they must!” she said sternly.
Archippos pointed out, “During the season of storms, most would be unwilling to risk a ship, but—“ He broke off. Both he and the High Priestess looked at Klonios, who was known to undertake trading journeys up the coast and often beyond, even during winter.
Guessing their thoughts, Klonios stared back, his eyes cold and hard. “Absolutely not!” he said. “I will have nothing to do with this wretched business.”
The priestess sighed deeply. “Well—“ she began.
“Sending two replacements in the middle of the year was never part of the agreement,” Archippos temporized. “Once those girls reached Troy safely, they became the Trojans’ responsibility, and—”
Klonios’s mouth became a thin slit and his eyes turned adamant. “If the Trojans couldn’t protect the girls in their own temple, that’s their affair. We will not bear the cost!”
“Perhaps we could wait until spring—or even the next drawing,” Archippos suggested mildly. “We’re halfway through the year anyway.”
Klonios drove his point home. “They can’t expect us to do the impossible.”
The High Priestess hesitated. Whenever Klonios mandated something, she always wanted to do the opposite. Yet she knew it was not wise give in to that impulse. “Then we’ll wait,” she said at last.
“So be it. If there’s no more to be said—” Klonios started to rise.
But Archippos ignored him. “Of course we risk offending the goddess,” he pointed out.
Athena’s wrath. There was a moment’s silence as all three of them remembered the tales of famine and pestilence that the goddess had wrought on their land hundreds of years ago. Then Klonios, who had sat down again, slammed his fist against the arm of his chair. “By all the gods, what of it? Make sacrifice to Athena then! That’s why we have this temple! That’s why I keep you well supplied with riches!”
The priestess heaved a deep sigh, knowing she could not argue. “Very well. We will offer reparation in advance. I’ll arrange a large sacrifice to remind the goddess of our promise of two more maidens in the spring. I don’t know what else we can do.”
“Then it’s settled.” Klonios rose abruptly, and Archippos got to his feet more slowly. The High Priestess escorted them to the door. “I thank you, gentlemen. Good evening. Now,” she added sadly, “I must send a message to the families of the girls who died.”
Outside on the dark street, Klonios went in swift strides to his house. Only when he was inside did he give in to his rage. He let out a sound like a fierce animal on the attack. He hefted a large decorative urn as if it weighed nothing and threw it against the wall, watching in satisfaction as it shattered. Then he yelled for an attendant. “Bring me wine!” When it came, handed to him by a timorous slave, he downed it in one gulp.
The servant hovered. “My lord, will there be anything else?”
“Begone!” Klonios roared.
Hastily the man backed away, bowing.
That girl! Thrasios’s daughter. Klonios leapt to his feet, paced like a leopard in a cage. I meant to have her, Athena or no Athena, when all this was done! It’s Thrasios’s fault for letting her go. He’ll pay for this! I’ll ruin him.
Then another thought struck him. We risk offending the goddess, Archippos had said. A lot of people in Naryx would begin to fear Athena’s wrath. Klonios found pleasure in the idea. It presented interesting possibilities. He smiled as a scheme began to form in his mind.
At about the same time, in the courtyard of the house of Thrasios, a messenger from the temple pounded on the door. When a maidservant answered, he told her, “I must speak with the master. I have news for him and orders to deliver it personally.”
Thrasios came to the door. “What is it, man?” he demanded in his usual harsh manner.
“This was brought to the temple of Athena. The High Priestess bade me take it to the house of Polites, father of Haleia, then bring it here. It concerns your daughter Marpessa.” He thrust the clay tablet in Thrasios’ hands and bowed briefly. “Now I’ll take my leave.”
Thrasios was left staring at the clay tablet. His hand shook and his breathing quickened. Amaltheia had followed him out to the courtyard, her face white. “What does it say?” she whispered.
After the first glance he did not deign to look at her. “Terrible news! The goddess Athena is wroth with us. I fear she will send us doom and destruction.” He slammed the tablet down. It broke into jagged pieces as it hit the ground. “Our daughter—” His voice choked with impotent anger. “Athena didn’t find her worthy of fulfilling her obligation to the temple. She’s dead!”
Amaltheia stood still as stone. Then she fainted.
PART II
XXIII
SHIP AT ANCHOR
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After shouting orders for his men to drop the anchor, Klonios paced furiously up and down the gangway of his ship. He was glad he had sailed away, glad to be quit of Lokris. With their accursed ritual, the citizens of Naryx had stolen his fair young bride, and now she was dead. A pestilence on them all! he thought. All they cared about was Athena’s wrath. What about his feelings? He would show them wrath. After he had arranged certain vitally important and secret things, he had sailed away on his largest trading ship, up the coast to the peninsula of Mende, a small settlement where he had holdings. The arrangements he had made before leaving caused him to smirk. They’ll be sorry they trifled with me, he thought.
“You there!” he shouted at a passing crew member. “A goblet of wine and be quick about it!” When the wine came, he sat on the stern deck, drinking.
Though it was autumn, the beginning of the season of storms, the sky was a high, bright blue, the sea calm. The weather was as unseasonably warm and dry here as it was not far away in Lokris. Earlier there had been a wild but brief storm, but the rainfall had mostly bypassed Naryx. There were reports of storms elsewhere, but none came near Lokris. It looked to be a drought year.
Klonios laughed aloud. Though droughts occurred every few years, the timing of this one was incredibly fortuitous. Events were playing right into his hands. He imagined the Lokrian farmers looking at their fields, worrying about their crops. As for the vintners— Klonios smiled. Thrasios would be expending precious well water to irrigate his vines. Thrasios, Thrasios, you spineless excuse for a man, he thought. Little good it will do you!
And this was only the beginning. What had started as a simple drought over which he had no control would change, through his careful planning, into something so much worse. He had laid the groundwork. Now all he had to do was wait.
He just might winter here or, if the weather continued mild, head out on another trading journey. There was money to be made when lesser merchants were afraid to leave their home ports. Klonios smiled again and lifted his wine goblet to the sky. Thank you, Athena, for the boon of this drought, he thought. You and I are partners now.
Partners in vengeance.
XXIV
THE WARNING
U
The first birdcalls awakened Arion. He sat up and groaned, still tired, then came out of his cave into the early morning mist. He stretched. The sun had not yet risen, and no sound came from the cave where Marpessa slept. He dipped his hands in the water jar and dashed the sleep from his eyes, then helped himself to bread from their small store of food. As he ate, he looked around the glade where they had made their camp. They’d been lucky in finding this spot on the wooded slopes of Mount Ida. It was bordered by a steep wall of rock indented with caves where they could sleep and store food and belongings. Not far away was a deep, cold spring. With luck they could stay here until the warm weather returned and they could find Marpessa a ship. The fact that it was so high in the mountains, so far from dwellings and villages, was both a blessing and a curse. Here they were safely hidden from strangers. Yet when he had no success hunting, he had to trek great distances in search of food and work.
Arion stepped to the opening of the cave where Marpessa slept. “Teukros!” They’d agreed that he would continue to call her Teukros. If strangers ever came upon them, they could pass for two brothers living together. But in his most secret, unguarded thoughts, she was always Marpessa. “I’m leaving now,” he called, softly enough so that she would hear him only if she was awake. He worried about her during the long hours she spent alone each day. Uneasy, he uttered a silent prayer: Athena, keep her safe while I’m gone! wondering if the gods heard, or even concerned themselves with the troubles of men, especially those of a lowly slave with no wealth who had never had the means to offer a single sacrifice.
Then he slung his sack over his shoulder and started down the trail. One more day of building a fence for that farmer, he thought. Then what? As he walked he continued to worry about Marpessa. She’d seemed so despondent and homesick ever since they came to the mountain. Yet he was secretly glad that they would be together through the winter. And at the same time terrified. There were many dangers in the mountains: starvation, wild animals. The yoke was heavy on his shoulders—the burden of their survival.
Walking down the slope was easy. Daylight grew, and he followed his markers, torn rags and strips of hide tied to branches. He’d put them along the trail to guide his way down the mountain. The hard part would be climbing back at the day’s end with darkness falling, when he was exhausted. And with autumn far advanced, night was closing in ever earlier.
Marpessa lifted the bow, nocked an arrow, then sighted along it and shot. The arrow went on a short, wobbly trajectory, missing the tree at which she had been aiming. Gods! Will I ever learn to do this? Arion had made it look so easy. Sighing, she retrieved the arrow and tried again. It was mid afternoon, and her innards cramped with hunger.
She tried to ignore not only her empty stomach but her heavy heart. In Troas she had prayed to Athena not to let Arion desert her. The goddess granted her prayer but took away all possibility of going home. Now Marpessa was afraid she’d never see her family again. Never had she felt so isolated. No one save Arion even knew where she was, for her mother surely believed her still safe in Troy, faithfully serving the goddess at Haleia’s side. The thought made her unbearably lonely.
Though Arion had not deserted her, he left at daybreak every day, often not returning until after dusk. When he did return, he was often so tired he barely spoke as he shared a brief meal with her before going to sleep in his cave. She never complained, for he put all his energy and strength into assuring their survival. But the days without him were long and empty. She had never minded solitude—had sought it even, in Lokris when she left her home to wander in the woods. But now her aloneness was so unremitting that often she spoke aloud to herself just to hear a human voice.
Learning to use this bow might take her mind off her troubles. Arion had bartered for it a few days ago. She’d been practicing for hours. Her growling stomach reminded her that their store of food was almost depleted. How surprised and pleased Arion would be if she learned to hunt!
Just then a large deer streaked across the edge of the glade. A sign! I’ll go into the woods and try my luck right now, Marpessa decided. But as she slung the bow and quiver over her shoulder, she thought, I’m not ready! Shooting at a tree was very different from hitting a moving target, a living creature. And trying to kill it. I can’t!
You must, she told herself.
She crept up the slope following the deer, her bare feet finding places that made no sound. Little sunlight penetrated the deep gloom of the forest. Her eyes searched the leafy shadows while her ears strained for any sound beyond the birdcalls and the wind in the trees. But the deer had vanished.
Suddenly a loud, high-pitched, quavering cry rang through the trees. Marpessa froze. The haunting call reverberated again, raising her hackles, sending chills down her spine. The songbirds fell silent. The forest had suddenly gone cold and dark. She stood still, looked around. Then it came a third time, a long drawn-out, unearthly keening. Her eyes searched and found its source. A tawny owl, taller than her forearm, sat on a branch, transfixing her with its unblinking black gaze. She could not move nor tear her eyes away. What was an owl, predator of the night, doing here in daylight?
The answer came: It’s Athena’s messenger. Marpessa couldn’t draw a breath. Legs trembling, she dropped to her knees. The bow fell from her hands. She tried in vain to form words of prayer, supplication. But after another moment of its cold indifferent stare, the owl lifted from the branch and glided away through the trees on silent wings. She groped to her feet, prickles all over her skin. Oh, Athena, what do you want me to do?
Then, as if the goddess had sent the thought into her mind, she suddenly knew. Get away from here. You are in danger.
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Danger from what? And where could they go? Arion might know what to do, she thought. If only he were here and she didn’t have to wait to talk to him. She picked up the bow and quiver, realizing she’d forgotten her hunger. Never mind killing an animal today. Feeling a slight relief at that, she started down the slope.
A deer—a small doe this time—came soundlessly through the trees not twenty paces away. Marpessa’s arms were heavy as she raised the bow, nocked an arrow, aimed. The doe stood motionless, its beautiful amber eyes looking right into hers. Her fingers trembled. She released the arrow clumsily and it went awry, landing far from the deer, which sprinted into the trees.
Tears of shame scorched her eyes as she retrieved the arrow. Arion, I’ve let you down. If his own quest for meat was fruitless, they’d go hungry again tonight. Then a small sound made her look up. A plump rabbit crept from behind a tree. Without letting herself hesitate, she lifted the bow, nocked the arrow in one smooth movement, and shot. This time her aim was true. The rabbit rolled on its side, dead. But instead of triumph, she felt an empty sadness.
Back in the camp, she forced herself to skin the rabbit. Its little body was still warm, and its eyes, dulled by death, seemed to stare at her in reproach. Tears slipped down her cheeks. Artemis, forgive me for taking the life of one of your creatures! She understood the need to kill animals for food, but she would never get used it, never!
While she was working to free the hide from the body and remove the slippery innards, the weather grew dark and cold. She shivered, wishing she had a warmer tunic. The sun vanished behind clouds before it set, and twilight fell without warning. The wind quickened. She wished Arion would come back.
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