Shadow of Athena
Page 19
She spent long, empty hours in the hut. The inactivity drove her wild. Her muscles twitched with restlessness. She paced the confines of the tiny space. She even ventured out into the freezing rain but soon came back shivering. I can’t stand it, she thought.
Yet there was no end to it. No Phoenician ship came.
One morning when the rain slackened, she said, “Arion, I’m going into the village. Just to look around.”
The thought of her venturing among strangers filled him with alarm. What if someone guesses? Like before, in Antandros. What if she doesn’t come back? “You mustn’t!” The words burst from him.
“But I’ve been confined here for days!”
“It’s not safe anywhere else,” he snapped.
“I must practice being Teukros. How do you think I’ll manage on a Phoenician ship?”
“On a ship you’d never be out of my sight.” There was a harsh edge to his voice. He paused, drew a breath, and tried to speak calmly. “Stay here, where nothing can happen to you.”
“Arion, I must get out or I’ll go mad!”
The rage and pain, the fear he had known on the day when Drakios nearly raped her rushed through him anew. “By the gods! Why won’t you understand?” He heard his voice snap like a lash. “This is for your own safety!”
She flinched as if he had struck her. Turning away from him, she burst into tears. “No, it’s for your peace of mind!”
“Marpessa—”
He reached out to her, but she fended him off with an out-flung hand. “Very well, I’ll stay here. Don’t worry about me!”
He hesitated. “Go!” she cried. “Your friends on the shore are waiting for you.”
Arion left. Just outside he stopped, sick with remorse. I’m stifling her. With the rough haircut, the loose tunic that hid her figure, he’d made her as plain as possible. Yet every time he looked at her, he could only see her beauty: the bright eyes, the smile that lit her whole face and made his heart jump. He worried that everyone would see what he saw. She must stay hidden, he thought, but now he had opened a rift between them. Oh, gods, will we be trapped here forever? Let there be a ship soon!
Yet the thought of a Phoenician ship caused him fierce pain, for its arrival would bring him closer to the time when he must leave her forever.
As he set off for the shore, he felt torn in two.
When he joined the other fishermen, he heard some unexpected news. “Tomorrow we don’t work. There’s a festival honoring Zeus, Apollo, and Athena, up in Pergamos.”
His heart lifted. A festival meant food and drink, song and dance. It was just what Marpessa needed. We’ll make a sacrifice to Athena and beg her for a ship to take Marpessa home. He remembered Marpessa’s worry that the goddess was angry. I’ll plead to be forgiven for taking Marpessa’s maidenhood, he vowed.
On the following morn, when they climbed into a small boat whose owner, for a copper piece, ferried passengers up the river Kaikos, Marpessa’s heart was still bruised from their quarrel. Other than Arion telling her about the festival, they had barely spoken since.
The boat was crowded with other festival-goers whose loud, jubilant mood was in no way dampened by the rain. Marpessa and Arion sat silently on a plank near the stern. She was aware that they must behave as brothers who rarely looked at each other and spoke mostly in monosyllables. Still, she ached for a word or a look from him. When the others on the boat broke into raucous song and Marpessa felt sure she would not be noticed, she peeped at him, willing him to understand that her anger had passed. After a moment he returned her look, the briefest of glances, but she read in his eyes his apology and his desire to take and squeeze her hand. Happiness came alight inside her, a small, cautious flame. She had to restrain herself from touching him.
They disembarked where the river curved to within a league of Pergamos. Walking with a growing crowd, they climbed a rocky slope and found themselves in a marketplace three times the size of the one in the village on the shore. They threaded their way among the stalls, looking for something to sacrifice to Athena, and settled on a large honey cake and a flagon of wine that cost several of Arion’s hard-earned coppers.
High above the town was the acropolis where the festival would take place. Following throngs of people, Arion and Marpessa trudged up the path. At the top they stopped to admire the panorama that lay below: coves and inlets on the coast and, in the distance, the island of Lesbos, half-hidden in clouds. As the crowd dispersed in search of various entertainments, Arion and Marpessa went to find the sanctuary of Athena.
It was a simple stone building with four granite columns adorning the entrance. A small crowd had gathered there. Marpessa and Arion had to wait as each group took time in private with the goddess. At last their turn came, and they entered the sanctuary. Inside, behind a low altar on which many offerings were laid, was a life-sized statue of the goddess. As Marpessa looked into the graven face of the helmeted Athena with its huge empty black eyes, all her memories of the goddess flooded back—the choosing, the ceremony of dedication in Naryx, the oath, the long days on her knees scrubbing the porch of the sanctuary in Troy—the raid. Her heart ached with remorse as she thought of Haleia. Then she remembered the owl in the forest, and she was afraid.
She tried to compose her thoughts into a prayer. But she wanted two irreconcilable things: Arion and home. Athena, release me from my servitude and let me be with Arion in Lokris, she begged. I promise to make offerings to you for the rest of my life.
As she gazed into those fathomless black eyes, words formed in her mind that seemed to come from the goddess. You are mine to do my will. And you do not even know my will.
Marpessa started in surprise. But I belong to Arion now.
Then you must be willing to pay the price. She was not sure if this was her own thought or the goddess’s answer. Then all at once the altar before her seemed to fade, and she saw a different altar, a larger one, outside, with smoke rising. A knife flashed, and just before cold darkness closed over her, she saw it enter her flesh.
She heard a muffled, agonized cry, barely aware that it came from her. The ground dropped away, and she realized she had fallen. Strong arms gathered her up. She could not stop shaking.
“Marpessa, Marpessa!” She felt the heat of him, his breath in her hair as he held her close. “You’re pale as a ghost! What is it?”
The vision had faded. Gradually some warmth came back to her, but she could not form words or thoughts. Nausea rose in her throat as she put all her effort into standing on shaky legs. The cold would not leave her heart.
Arion was looking at her with anxious eyes. “What happened?”
She managed to shake her head. “It’s nothing. I felt faint. Hunger, I think.”
To her relief, he seemed to accept that. “Come then, my love,” he said. “If you’ve made your prayer, we’ll give our sacrifice to the goddess. Then we’ll find you something to eat.”
As they walked forward together to lay their offering on the altar, she averted her face. He mustn’t see, he mustn’t guess that she had just seen her own death.
XXXVII
STILLBIRTH
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Amaltheia lit the incense she had placed at the foot of the small statue of Hera, patroness of childbirth. Then she knelt beside the bed of one of her servants, a woman far advanced in labor who writhed and cried in agony. But it was much too soon. There was scarcely a bulge in her belly. She could not be more than four or five months along.
Amaltheia had no means of stopping the birth. She muttered soothing words and rubbed a damp cloth over the woman’s brow. Then she signaled to another servant to bring her what she needed. Just as in a full-term birth, the woman’s breathing quickened, and her body tightened to expel the infant.
Amaltheia’s hands caught the tiny, grotesque body, already dead and putrefying. An odor of decay filled the
room. The servants quickly carried the corpse away, and Amaltheia worked through the night trying to save the woman’s life.
It was futile. She died before dawn.
Amaltheia sat back with a deep sigh. A slight breeze stirred in the room. She looked over her shoulder at the shrine of Hera. The incense had gone out. A wisp of smoke obscured the goddess’s face. A chill went through Amaltheia. She had heard of two stillbirths in the next village, and on the other side of Naryx a babe born with a huge opening in its belly leaving its entrails exposed. And one of the goats in their own pen had been delivered of dead, malformed twins.
Death was all around them. There could only be one reason. A powerful god or goddess was angry.
XXXVII
THE ARRIVAL OF THE PHOENICIANS
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Days had passed since Pergamos, but an unremitting knot of dread stayed lodged in Marpessa’s stomach. It immobilized her. It made breathing difficult. The rain had stopped, and on most days she sat huddled outside the hut, too listless to stir. She longed to speak to Arion about the terrible vision in Athena’s temple, but she could not. She could barely speak at all. When he came home in the evening, she tried to smile, tried to listen as he talked about the events of the day, tried to act as though nothing were wrong. This took all her energy when all she wanted was to be left alone. And when she was alone, all she could do was turn the questions over and over in her mind. How will it happen? And when?
If she could only speak to Arion, he would surely take her in his arms and comfort her, and she longed for comfort. Maybe it’s not a message from the goddess at all, he might say. Sometimes people imagine their deaths. It doesn’t mean anything. And perhaps that was true. Marpessa remembered a serving girl at home who dreamed that she would die at the next full moon. She cowered and wept and carried on, but the moon grew full and waned, and at last she realized it had just been a fancy.
Yet try as she would, Marpessa could not shake herself out of this terrible state of lethargy. Sitting outside the hut, she buried her face on her drawn-up knees. It was cold. She should get up, stretch her legs, wrap the blanket around herself. She should start the cooking fire. But she couldn’t bring herself to move.
The Phoencian ship arrived without warning as Arion was working on the shore. The fishermen stopped to watch its approach. When it came in close, two sailors dropped stone anchors, one from the bow and one from amidships, for the ship was far too large to be run up on the sand. Its great round hull loomed out of the water. A high beam, topped with the carved head of a sea horse, curved above the prow. Attached by a rope to the stern were the two smaller vessels used to ferry the sailors to and from the shore. The ship was twice as long as the one that had brought them from Lokris, and much wider and deeper. As Arion’s eyes went to the brown-skinned men who lounged at the oars or stood at the rails, he felt a chill at the foreignness of them. They wore tight, knee-length kilts and round caps. Their black hair and long beards were oiled and curled. Sounds of the strange sibilant Phoenician language wafted across the water.
Then, at a shouted order, several men brought the rowboats around to the side of the hull and began loading amphorae, bales, and bulky canvas bundles into them. As Arion watched them row the loaded boats toward the shore, his thoughts flew to Marpessa. He carried her unhappiness within him, though he didn’t know what was wrong. She had been so silent and withdrawn since Pergamos. Maybe she would be happy now. Then his stomach tightened. How will I protect her from these aliens? How will I even get them to take us to Lokris?
Lokris. The end of their journey. Their final parting. He had avoided thinking of it these past weeks. Now the pain of it struck him in the gut with a sickening jolt. Oh, gods! How can I even consider leaving her? He couldn’t breathe. How will I live without her? He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked again at the Phoenician ship rocking at anchor. I have to take her home, he told himself. We can’t stay here. This is no life for her. She’s sad all the time.
He inhaled deeply and forced his thoughts back to the present.
The Phoenicians made a massive heap of their assorted goods on the shore. This took several trips from ship to shore in the small boats. Then they built a large bonfire a short distance away, piling it with driftwood and dried seaweed, making a fire big enough to be seen from Pergamos. To alert the townsfolk of their arrival, Arion guessed.
There was a chill in the wind, and when flames leapt skyward sending the smoke billowing, the Phoenician sailors stood on the leeward side of the fire, near enough for warmth. Now was the moment to approach them. But Marpessa must be with him. He ran to the shack and found her sitting just outside. She looked up in surprise.
“The Phoenicians are here!” he told her.
She scrambled to her feet in dismay. “So soon?” How long would the journey take? Days? Weeks? Too short! Her homecoming might mean her death. And even if she lived, she had thought of no plan to save Arion and no way keep him at her side. We’ll both die, she thought.
“I was hoping you’d be pleased,” he said. She saw the puzzlement in his eyes, the silent questions she couldn’t bring herself to answer, the rift between them that had never quite closed. He reached toward her with both hands. “Come with me, my love,” he said gently. “We’ll ask them for passage—together.”
She couldn’t resist the appeal in his voice. As if he had called it forth, her courage came rushing back. Long ago I promised myself I wouldn’t live in fear. I’ll make the most of what’s left of my life. She smiled and put her hands in his.
At the shore Arion approached the nearest Phoenicians, who stopped talking and stared at him. He quailed before the blank, dark gazes of so many foreigners. Then he asked, “Adon? Where is your adon?” One of the fishermen had told him that this word, which meant “lord,” would get him speech with the Phoenician captain.
Someone gestured toward a broad-shouldered Phoenician of middle years who stood with his back to the fire looking out to sea. Arion and Marpessa approached him.“Adon.” Arion made a shallow bow, then gestured toward the big ship. “Are you bound for Hellas?” He pointed to himself and Marpessa, “We seek passage to Lokris in Hellas.”
The man shook his head, muttering something in his own tongue. He turned and called out to one of his men. Amidst the flood of Phoenician words, Arion caught the repeated word hamilcar.
Hamilcar turned out to be the name of a short, stocky man with a lined face who came quickly toward them. Smiling, he pointed to himself. “I Hamilcar. I talk Greek.”
Arion repeated the name, then pointed to himself and Marpessa. “Arion—Teukros.”
The captain watched impassively, but Hamilcar’s smile widened. “Good, good! What you want? I tell captain.”
“Is your ship going to Hellas?” Arion asked again.
A speaking glance passed between Hamilcar and the captain as the little man translated. The captain replied in Phoenician, and Hamilcar turned back to Arion, grinning hugely. “Oh, aye, Hellas! Captain say aye.”
Arion drew a deep breath. “We seek passage—to Hellas. To Lokris.” Again he pointed to the water. “I’ll work.”
“You want come on boat?” Hamilcar’s face clouded, and he turned to his captain. A long conversation ensued. Arion could guess nothing from the tone of it. He and Marpessa exchanged an anxious glance. At last Hamilcar turned back to them. “Captain not take Greeks on ship. Not ever before.”
Arion’s hopes sank. “I’ll help,” he said emphatically. “Work hard.” He pantomimed energetic rowing, hauling, hammering. “I also help with speaking Greek.”
Again there was an exchange between the two Phoenicians. At last Hamilcar pointed to the ship and said, “We have man hurt. Break arm. He very strong rower. You strong rower?”
Arion nodded vigorously.
But Hamilcar gestured at Marpessa. “What about friend?”
“Brother,”
Arion corrected. “My brother’s not strong. Can’t row. He can do other work.”
The captain, watching closely, evidently caught the gist of this. He made a sharp comment, and Hamilcar gave an appreciative laugh.
“Captain say aye. We have work for brother. We sail morning.”
Tomorrow! Too soon! As he and Marpessa walked silently back to their shack, Arion was filled with misgivings. He didn’t trust the foreigners, hadn’t liked that final exchange between Hamilcar and the captain. What work will they expect Marpessa to do? he wondered.
XXXVIII
NEWS FROM NARYX
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Klonios was in his warehouse in the settlement of Kysikos when a messenger arrived with the news from far-off Naryx. The cowering messenger handed him the clay tablet, fearing the temper of his master when he read what was happening at home. “The news is bad, my lord,” he warned.
Klonios took at the clay tablet. The man hovered uneasily in the doorway, awaiting dismissal. Klonios looked up. “What are you doing here? Begone!”
The messenger was only too glad to obey.
When the man left, Klonios perused the tablet. His wife had died, and there was drought in the land of Lokris, the worst in memory. Bad news? That depended on one’s perspective.
Klonios gave a harsh laugh. His wife’s death was good news. He had expected it, of course. He was now free to remarry, but his thoughts flew to that girl, Thrasios’s daughter. Dead. And why? Because instead of giving her to Klonios, Thrasios hadn’t had the manhood to stand up to the priestess. He had allowed her to be sent to serve the goddess, who had evidently deemed her unworthy, unfit.