Shadow of Athena

by Elena Douglas

  At last the trees thinned and the mountainside opened out onto a wide space. “This is where we drop down to the coast,” he said. They stopped to look. Far below lay a calm blue expanse of water shimmering in the sun like liquid light. She could see fishing vessels, tiny in the distance. “The sea!” she exclaimed.

  “Not the sea.” For the first time that day, he gave a small smile. “The Adramyttenos Gulf.” He pointed across the water. What she had taken for a cloudbank was a long, uneven landmass on the far side. “I came this way the day I brought back the fishing lines and nets.” A lifetime ago. Before the flood. Before we became lovers, she thought. “That was when I learned about the Phoenicians,” he said.

  Marpessa felt his preoccupation. “Arion?”

  “We’ll have to cross the gulf. There are villages down there—boats. I’ll earn our passage.” Villages, she thought. The world of men. The silence between them was filled with thoughts of the strangers they must confront, the lies they must fabricate, the effort needed to earn their way. “I’ll have to start calling you Teukros again.” He spoke firmly, almost brusquely. “You must be Teukros. All the time. And you mustn’t look at me, Marpessa.”

  “Look at you?”

  “The way you are right now. We must be as brothers. Have you ever noticed that men—lads, companions—don’t really look at each other? They—glance.” He added, his voice unsteady, “And we can’t be—together any more, as we have been.”

  She gave a cry of protest. “Why not, Arion, if we are careful, if we are discreet?”

  “It’s too dangerous. I must do you no further harm.”

  She was at a loss. “But surely afterwards, Arion, once we’re—”

  “Once we’re what? Safe?” He was suddenly rough. “There is no safe, Marpessa. Not for us. Never again.”

  The words were so final. He can’t mean— A sudden terror came over her. She remembered another journey, to a town called Troas. And he had said—

  “Arion!” Her voice sounded strange in her own ears. “You won’t leave me, will you—alone among the Phoenicians?”

  He smiled, a smile of unbearable sadness, and gently kissed her brow. “Marpessa, I swear by the gods. I will see you safely home.”

  But she heard what lay unsaid behind his words. And she knew. He would keep his promise. But once they reached Lokris, he would leave her forever.

  XXXIII

  ANTANDROS

  U

  They stopped to rest at a rocky promontory from which they could see the gulf. Arion sat on top of it, his legs dangling. The sight of Marpessa sitting slumped on a log below, her head bowed, made his heart constrict. She knows, he thought, but she doesn’t understand. She’s still an innocent. She expected that, once they reached Lokris, she had only to ask for his life to be spared, and those in power would grant her wish. But he knew better. “Oh, gods!” he breathed, sinking his brow into his hand. How unfair the decrees of the gods and the laws of men! A slave could never have the rights that a freeborn man took for granted.

  I must leave her. I can’t let myself be killed before her eyes. But it did not good to dwell on that now. He pushed the thought forcefully away. Concentrate on getting her home.

  But how he would accomplish it? The difficulties were overwhelming. How to find the Phoenicians and gain passage with them. How to keep them from learning that Marpessa was a woman. And when we reach Lokris, I’ll have to devise a way to get her into safe hands and still make my escape.

  He drew a deep breath. One step at a time. The first thing to do was to find food, clothing, shelter, supplies for the journey. How? Alone he could easily earn his way from village to village. But with her at his side— Could she play the part of a young man, working, acting, and speaking as young men do?

  He had a sudden thought. He scrambled down the rock, jumping the last distance to land at her feet.

  “Marpessa, could you be—a simpleton?”

  Her hand came up to wipe the telltale signs of tears from her face. She didn’t answer at once. Then her face went slack, her lower lip hung open, her eyes glazed over. “What?” she mumbled with such convincing vagueness that Arion laughed aloud in surprise.

  “Wonderful! You could be a bit of a mute, someone who never learned proper speech. My poor, simple little brother, who can only perform very easy tasks!”

  The fire of her spirit blazed in her eyes. “Be careful, Arion, lest you go too far!”

  Heartened, he reached down a hand to help her to her feet. Then he enfolded her in his arms and pressed her close, breathing her scent, memorizing the feel of her body against his. He wondered if this was the last time he would ever hold her. He could not control the quiver in his hands as he released her.

  His sadness flooded through Marpessa. As they started down the slope again, she was too shaken to speak. Why didn’t he see that they belonged to each other? You think you will leave me, she said to him in silence. But I will not let you go.

  Then another thought stopped her cold. In holding onto him she would be the cause of his death. I can’t be that selfish. Even if my heart breaks at losing him. She looked at his broad shoulders, his arms swinging as he walked, the breeze lifting the dark brown hair off this neck. Her insides twisted.

  At least it was long way to the ports of the Phoenicians. A lot can happen before we find them—if we find them. Maybe by the will of the gods we’ll never get there.

  She stumbled over a small rock and looked down. Lying across the trail was a large feather, tawny with brown stripes. The feather of an owl. She stopped. A chill ran down her spine.

  “Arion!” she cried. “Look!” He picked it up and studied it. “An owl feather. It’s a sign. Athena is angry,” she whispered.

  “Nay!” he said with a note of conviction. “It might just as easily be a sign of her favor. It was pointing west toward the sea. Toward Lokris, showing us the way.”

  “How do you know that?” she asked.

  He answered with a half-grin and a twinkle in his eyes, “I’m an augurer!” And he handed back the feather.

  Hope soared in her heart. If Athena was helping them, they could prevail in Lokris. Please help us, goddess, she prayed. Show me the way to save Arion’s life.

  But what if he was wrong? Despite his jest, he wasn’t an augurer. And even augurers weren’t always right, except in the old tales of heroes. Her mind flew back to the owl in the woods. Athena is angry, she thought. And why not? I broke my oath.

  The feather seemed to burn in her hand. How much greater the danger from the goddess that from the men of Lokris! Oh, Athena, she prayed, do not turn your wrath on Arion. He swore no oath. She thought of the moment of their joining on the riverbank. It’s my fault, she said in her mind. Forgive me, goddess, and guide me. I will obey your will.

  But if Athena tried to destroy Arion— I won’t let her. Marpessa’s fist clenched around the feather. I will fight the gods themselves for him. Then she could hardly breathe. That was defiance, which the gods punished like no other sin. She remembered stories from her childhood. Tantalus in Hades, doomed to have food and drink dangled before him and forever snatched from reach. Sisiphus pushing a boulder uphill, only to have it crash down again each time. Defiance of the gods was punished for all eternity.

  But eternity was far away. Nothing mattered so much as Arion here beside her. His life. As they resumed walking, she fought to keep her steps even, her breathing regular, so that he would not read her fear.

  Marpessa was nearly dropping with exhaustion when they reached a town called Antandros not far from the shore of the gulf. After knocking on several doors they found a household willing to honor the sacred laws of hospitality, however grudgingly. A severe, silent man with leathery skin and iron gray hair opened the door and gestured for them to join the group eating the evening meal. At the table were three younger men, clearly his sons, who l
ooked them over suspiciously before continuing to mop the food off their trenchers with coarse brown bread. A small, stooped woman hovered in the background, muttering querulously as she set out extra bread and a platter with remnants of a bean and onion stew.

  It might have been a rough, plain meal, but to Marpessa it was nectar and ambrosia from the gods. As she gulped mouthfuls of bread and stew, she glanced covertly at Arion and saw that he was eating with the same satisfaction.

  As the law of hospitality dictated, their host waited until they had eaten their fill before asking, “Who are you, strangers? And where are you bound?”

  Arion finished chewing his last piece of bread. “I am Arion, and this is my brother Teukros. He’s a bit simple and has been in my care since he was a small boy.” Marpessa felt glances coming her way. She kept her head down, shoved a crust of bread into her mouth, and said nothing. “We went to Troy seeking work,” Arion continued. “But after the barbarian raid there was no extra food or silver for strangers. Then we lost our belongings in a flood on the mountain, so we’re returning to our village across the gulf.”

  Marpessa hoped their host wouldn’t ask for the name of the village, but he nodded and made no comment. “We’re destitute,” Arion continued. “I’m willing to work hard for you to earn our bread for the next few days.”

  Their host poured himself another goblet of the weak, sour wine. He offered some to Arion, who declined with a gesture of thanks. No one else spoke. At last their host said, “My name is Epistrophos. These are my sons, Aphareus, Pheidas, and Drakios.” He did not name his wife. Marpessa raised her head and made herself stare in a wide-eyed, childish way at each face. Aphareus and Pheidas looked as if they had passed thirty years, their faces almost as austere and leathery as that of their father. Drakios was younger, not many years older than Arion. He was shifty-eyed, with a smooth face, hardly any beard, and burnished locks that hung to his shoulders. He is vain of his looks, Marpessa thought. He stared at her penetratingly, and she turned away, uneasy.

  At last Epistrophos said, “Your visit is timely. We are cutting trees for an order of lumber that must be delivered across the gulf by the next full moon. We are behind and need extra help.” He paused and his eyes fell on Marpessa. “We have a small flock of sheep. Could young Teukros be trusted to take them up to the meadows during the day and bring them back at night? If Drakios could be freed of that duty, he could help us cut the trees.”

  Marpessa’s eyes met Arion’s, but she knew better than to speak. “Aye!” he answered for her. “Teukros watched our sheep at home. He can be trusted and understands well what to do.”

  “Then it’s settled.” Epistrophos gave a thin smile and poured Arion a glass of wine, brooking no refusal. “There is a small shed behind the house with clean straw. We use it at lambing time if the weather is bad. You may make your bed there. My wife will give you extra sleeping rugs.”

  Perfect! Arion thought. It was halfway to the full moon. That would give him work for many days. With any luck he could barter for a few supplies or some coppers to buy them with. And when that load of lumber crossed the gulf, they would go with it. His heart was lighter as he and Marpessa carried the sleeping rugs to the shed.

  Epistrophos had even given them a lamp. Inside the shed, Arion set it down carefully on a patch of bare ground and stole a glance to see where Marpessa was placing her rug. He ached with wanting her. He regretted his earlier words. Surely it was private enough here to take her in his arms and— As he spread his own rug over the straw, he kept his eyes lowered. But when Marpessa came close, his hands fumbled, and he straightened, looked up. Her eyes were shining in the lamplight. She gave a tremulous smile that made his knees go weak. “Arion,” she said softly, shyly, holding out her arms to him, “let’s enjoy the time we have together.”

  His heart leapt. I don’t have to give her up yet. Not yet! Maybe not for a long time, he exulted, and kissed her with fierce tenderness.

  Much later, when her head was resting against his chest and her soft, deep breaths told him she was asleep, he cursed himself for his weakness. There was another concern. If he couldn’t resist her, he’d best make some changes. So long as a man’s seed didn’t enter a woman’s body, there could be no baby. If there isn’t a baby already, he worried. If only I’d thought of this before!

  Sitting on the edge of a spring, Marpessa gave a sigh of contentment. The job of tending the sheep was ideal. It took her away from prying eyes and gave her freedom to roam the hills in the company of the animals: the sheep and a scruffy black and white dog whom she had promptly named Herakles. She had been tending the sheep for many days now and had given them all names as well. The old ram was called Odysseus, his favorite ewe was Penelope, and all the others had names befitting their age and status.

  How good it had felt to be clean, to be wearing a tunic that was not a filthy rag! Epistrophos’ wife had reluctantly given her a much-mended tunic that had belonged to one of the sons. When Marpessa had led the sheep high into the hills the first day, she had found this isolated spring surrounded by tall reeds. The water was icy, but she hadn’t been able to resist plunging in to scrub her hair and body clean. Now the bath had become an almost-daily ritual.

  The sheep had been grazing calmly. Suddenly their bodies became taut and all their heads swung around as one to stare through the reeds. Marpessa sprang to her feet. Something had startled them. She strained to listen. A stirring noise. The breeze? Or footsteps through foliage? She walked toward the sheep, becoming Teukros again, speaking to the animals in a broken mumble. The noise came again, louder. A crashing through the reeds, now retreating. She ran forward, parted the reeds.

  A man was running down the slope, long, burnished hair flying. Drakios! What was he doing here? He should be with the men in the woods. A thousand insects seemed to be crawling over her skin. She did not trust him—she had not from the first day. Had he spied on her? When she bathed in the spring, had he seen her?

  Nausea rose in her throat. She forced herself to draw a deep breath. Be calm, she told herself. Surely the sheep would have alerted you, as they did just now.

  But this spot was too isolated. And now that he knew where she brought the sheep, he might come back. Though the sun was only halfway down from its zenith, she clucked to the sheep and began to drive them down the slope.

  That night as she lay next to Arion, she told him what had happened. “I’m worried that he knows I’m a girl,” she said.

  Arion sounded troubled. “I’ll try to keep a watch on him as we cut down trees. But it’s hard. Epistrophos sends us to different parts of the woods. Drakios works with the oldest brother, and I almost never see him.” He gave a sigh. “Luckily we’ll soon be done with the wood-cutting. We can board that ship in two days. Still—” He got up, fumbled in the straw. “Take my knife tomorrow.” He reached for her hand, curled it around the wooden haft. “Hold it thus. Keep your fingers out of the way of the blade. Go for the weak places—the eyes, the neck under the jaw.” His voice hardened. “If need be, don’t hesitate to use it.”

  XXXIV

  BATTLE BY THE STREAM

  U

  One more day, Marpessa thought as she trudged up the hill with the sheep. If I can just elude him today—

  When they came near the spring, the sheep, drawn there by habit and the lure of the tender green shoots near the water, started to stray toward their usual spot. But she veered away and drove them onward with firm prods on their haunches from her staff. “Herakles!” she called to the dog. “Here! This way!” And with his energetic help, she led the flock higher up the slope. As she walked, her hand went to her belt and found the haft of Arion’s knife. I don’t know if I could use it, she thought. Yet its presence reassured her.

  She paused behind a shrub to survey her surroundings. They had climbed high enough to look down on the rooftops of the houses in the village below and the broad sweep of t
he gulf beyond. She could still see, faint in the distance, the small flock of goats with their drowsing goatherd that she had passed some time ago. The slope lay open below her without much cover except for the occasional olive tree and scrub oak. She had been careful as she set out, and she did not think she had been followed. But the sheep were noisy with their bleating, their hooves swishing through the grasses. It would be far easier for Drakios to track her than for her to be aware of his presence. Her stomach tightened.

  “Herakles!” she called. “Here!” The dog trotted to her side. As she reached down to scratch his ears and slip him a piece of dried meat, he gazed up at her with loving eyes. He had become absurdly loyal to her. Probably no one had ever treated him with kindness before, or even paid him any notice. She bent to rub the fur behind his ears. “Herakles, my hero! Stay by me. Be my eyes and ears!”

  Continuing up the slope, she veered northward, straight toward the mountains, in the opposite direction from the woods where the men would be cutting the last of lumber and carrying it down to the shore. She walked farther than ever before, until she came to a huge rock jutting out from the slope, surrounded by a stand of pines. Climbing around the rock, she found flat space behind it, and a stream bordered with willows and reeds. There was a grassy meadow by the side of the stream, where the sheep started to graze. She peered around the rock, her view of the slope obstructed by trees and shrubs. The landscape seemed unthreatening. She had not seen any people since the goatherd.

  She sat on the bank of the stream, listening to its burbling and the murmur of the breeze through reeds and branches. Birds chirped in the willow overhead. She feared she would not hear if anyone approached. Then she remembered how the sheep had alerted her yesterday. Artemis, she prayed, watch over me as you surely watch this lovely spot. She felt a surge of guilt. No longer a maiden, she could not expect Artemis’ help. Still, all will be well if I just stay watchful. She cupped her hands full of clear water, said a brief prayer of thanks to whatever naiad lived in this stream, and drank deeply. Then she reached for the bread and cheese she had brought.