Shadow of Athena

by Elena Douglas

  The drought seemed to be continuing, even worsening. Klonios had promised Thrasios ruin. Now even the gods were playing into his hands.

  Inevitably some of his own vines had withered and several of his crops had failed with the lack of rain. It mattered not. He was far from ruined. He had vast holdings in Ionia and other colonies. He prided himself on being too smart a man to keep all his eggs in one basket.

  Klonios read on avidly. More bad news. Crops were withering on the vine. Sheep and goats were dying, the ewes miscarrying, the mares producing stillborn foals. The people believed that Athena was angry and had cursed them. Particularly hard-hit was the vintner Thrasios.

  Klonios smiled. It’s working! he thought.

  He pitched the clay tablet into an urn near the wall and left the chamber, his steps almost jaunty.

  Amaltheia stared at the vineyards extending beyond sight behind their house. Where there should have been new shoots and green leaves on the vines, all she saw was brown stubble from autumn’s harvest. She glanced at the cloudless sky. How often she had chafed at the icy rains of winter, at being confined indoors! Yet now there was no pleasure in the sunny weather, for without rain the vines were dying.

  We’re all dying, she thought, cursed by the Goddess. For me it doesn’t matter.

  But it mattered to those in her care. To her three sons and her grandchildren. To the citizens of Naryx.

  She whispered to the lifeless fields, Oh, Goddess Athena, wise one, show us your will.

  XXXIX

  ON THE SHIP

  U

  In the darkness of their shack, Marpessa’s and Arion’s lips came together with infinite longing and tenderness. Their arms enveloped each other and held fast. Then, as searching hands touched warm flesh, their breath quickened and they lay entwined on the rugs, clinging to each moment of the passing night. Perhaps never again, each thought but dared not say.

  In the morning they walked toward the shore, each carrying a small pack with their few belongings. They stopped just before they reached the strand. Through a mist of tears, Marpessa’s eyes devoured Arion as he stood looking back at her in exactly the same way. She managed a brave smile, then turned aside. Their bodies separated ever so slightly, and for the eyes of the world they became brothers, Arion and Teukros.

  They found the Phoenicians in the midst of final negotiations with men from Pergamos who came to gather the goods offered for trade and give payment for them. Although Hamilcar lent his services as an interpreter, his efforts were largely ignored, and the negotiations took place in pantomime. The spokesman from Pergamos gestured to the proffered payment, and the captain of the Phoenicians turned away in a grand gesture of scorn. More silver and gold were added to the heap at the feet of the spokesman until finally the captain indicated with a magnanimous sweep of his right arm that he was satisfied.

  Marpessa and Arion stood with the onlookers until the transaction was completed. Then Arion advanced toward the captain, Marpessa at his side. Hamilcar, who stood to the left of the captain, gave her a broad smile. She forced herself to grin in return. The captain gestured them toward one of the boats at the water’s edge. As Arion stepped toward it, she followed with a boyish stride.

  On board the ship, one of the men pointed Arion pointed toward a rowing bench. Marpessa’s heart sank. That quickly they were to be separated. Arion shot her a quick glance with pain and worry in his eyes. She could not muster a smile as he turned and toward his place on the lower level, disappearing from her sight.

  Left alone among the foreigners, Marpessa looked long at the spot where Arion vanished. At least he was near. She found comfort in that. But what was the good of it if she never saw him? Her throat tightened. Men were moving about the ship, stowing belongings, settling onto rowing benches, calling out to each other in so strange a tongue that she could not begin to guess what they were saying. She and Arion were at the mercy of these Phoenicians. Anything could happen on the journey ahead—a journey that might end all too quickly. Zeus, father of the gods, and Athena, goddess of wisdom, she begged in silence, send me a sign that you will help me.

  It did no good to give way to fear—and the foreigners might be observing her. She straightened and forced herself to inspect her surroundings. Two banks of oars! she marveled. And the hull—so thick! But where should I go? The only space not occupied by rowers was the small triangular deck at the prow. The front of the ship. She did not want to be there before so many staring eyes. But there was nowhere else. And the men, as they settled at their rowing stations, for the most part ignored her. She went to the foredeck and crouched down, making herself as inconspicuous as possible. Another occupant sat on the deck: Hamilcar, too slight a man to be a rower. He met her eyes with a squinty-eyed, lopsided grin and motioned her to sit down. At least he seemed friendly—and could speak Greek.

  Feeling not quite so alone, Marpessa watched as the captain shouted orders. The huge stone anchors were hauled up on ropes, and, on each side of the ship, two banks of dripping oars were lifted from the water and held poised above the curving hull. Then, at a shout from the captain, the oars were thrust into the water as one, and the ship swung away from the shore. Someone was beating a drum to keep the rowers in rhythm. Marpessa started at the familiar sensation of a swaying deck beneath her. She watched the shore dwindle away. Their journey had begun.

  When they were underway, Hamilcar said to her, “I show you your work.” He gestured her to follow him along the gangway to a ladder that led to the hold. As they climbed down into half-darkness, a familiar smell assailed her nostrils: the earthy odor of farmyard animals. Hamilcar led her toward a penned-off area near the fore. In the pen were the sheep and goats that would provide meat on the long journey.

  “You take care animals. Food, water.” He gestured toward piles of fresh excrement in the sawdust and straw on the bottom of the hold. “You clean up mess two, three times day.” He pointed to some wooden pails and a shovel. As she hesitated, he gave his friendly grin. “You clean now. Later I show you ship.” Then he left her.

  The stench and the mess were overwhelming. She longed to be up on the deck as close as possible to Arion. Then she took heart. The great Herakles himself had not been too proud to clean the Augean stables. She loved animals, she did not mind hard work, and she would be out of the sight of these rough, foreign men. Below deck she would have privacy and less chance of discovery.

  She laughed aloud. This might be an answer to her prayer. Perhaps one of the gods was helping her after all.

  Her work in the hold finished, Marpessa went to the rail amidships, not far from Arion’s rowing bench. Though she strained to look for him, she couldn’t see the lower level where he sat. It was a blustery, cloudy day. The land lay far to their right. We’re heading north, she realized. With the wind southeasterly, a group of men loosened ties and hauled on ropes, and gradually the huge square sail unfurled from the yard. The captain shouted an order from the foredeck: the rowers shipped their oars, letting their tired arms go limp.

  The sail bellied out. The ship swung in an arc to catch the wind and pranced through the waves like a frisky horse. The deep blue water churned restlessly, flinging up spray. Resting against one of the beams that supported the rail, Marpessa watched the sea gulls gliding in the ship’s wake, dropping away one by one as the land receded to a brown haze. She licked her lips and tasted salt.

  It had taken many days for the ship that brought her from Lokris to reach the Trojan shore. But with this huge ship cutting through the open sea, with a favorable wind— We might reach Lokris in five days, she calculated. Five short days during which she might never see Arion, and then he would leave her. Must I let him go? Aye, she must, if it was the way to save his life. She thought of her premonition. If her return to Lokris meant her death, it would be best to let him go at once, so that he would never learn of it. A tear slipped down her cheek. At that moment a shad
ow fell over her. She wiped her face surreptitiously and turned.

  Hamilcar, smiling as usual, stood at her side. “Come, Teukros!” he said. “I show you ship.”

  Marpessa straightened eagerly, glad to banish her dark thoughts. Anything she could learn about these foreigners might be useful. She forced an answering smile and followed him along the gangway.

  “Sail, ropes, pulleys.” With his wide grin, he pointed out the obvious. It seemed he wanted to practice speaking Greek. “Captain lead, helmsman steer, men row.” He pantomimed vigorously. “But I, Hamilcar, take care. I lookout man for ship,” he said with pride in his voice. His broad gesture encompassed the whole of his world. Halfway along the gangway, he pointed down into the hold where, in the dimness, she could see a large storage area. “Things for trade,” he explained. Near the mast was a small tent like structure. “For captain sleep.” They continued down the gangway. But when they came to a spacious aft deck covered with canvas that she hadn’t noticed before, he made no comment about it and hurried her past. He pointed out the helmsman and the steering oars.

  But Marpessa stopped and gestured toward the covered deck. “What’s that?”

  Hamilcar’s eyes evaded hers. “Only things for ship.” He did not offer to let her see them. “Come, I show you where food cooked, and where we worship gods.”

  The helmsman was looking at her, an odd, flat look. Because I’m Greek—and less than human to him. But at least he did not seem to have penetrated her disguise. Then his eyes shifted and something unspoken flashed between him and Hamilcar. Hamilcar looked away too quickly, his smile suddenly shallow and forced. A shiver ran along her skin. She longed for Arion.

  As she followed Hamilcar down to the stern of the hold, she thought. I’d best keep my eyes open and my wits about me.

  At sundown at the end of the first day’s sailing, they dropped anchor, not far from the land to their right. The oarsmen spread out about the ship to rest. Some straddled the rowing benches and leaned their heads back over the rail, eyes closed in exhaustion, while scents of cooking meat wafted from the stern.

  His body unused to the hard work of rowing, Arion arose painfully from his bench. He flexed his fingers and shook out his tired arms. Blisters had popped out all over his hands, some open and oozing, some bleeding. He’d only had time only to wrap a thin band of cloth around the worst ones. Stretching his cramped legs, he climbed to the deck level and sought Marpessa, who stood near the stern. She gave him a huge smile. As she started swiftly along the gangway toward him, he lifted his fingers in a gesture of restraint.

  They met amidships and stopped just short of touching. As much as he dared, he drank in the sight of her. He could find no words. Aware of glances that might come their way, he turned toward the rail, indicating with a quick glance that she should join him. Side by side, they rested their arms on the rail and looked into the deep orange sky in the west.

  “Are you well?” Arion whispered at last.

  “Aye. Arion, they’ve given me the job of cleaning the pens of the animals,” she told him. He felt rather than saw her grin. “It’s perfect!”

  An enormous relief came over him. He ventured a sidelong glance. “The hold is a place where you can have privacy and be safe.”

  They were silent, staring out to sea. He edged as close as he dared, his forearm near enough to hers on the rail to feel the warmth from her flesh. His body was starved for her. The desire to touch her, to engulf her in his arms throbbed through him. She must have felt it, for she crept closer until her arm brushed his skin.

  He jerked back as if scalded. “You mustn’t,” he said, barely moving his lips.

  She lowered her gaze, moved away. He felt the pain of even that small separation like a sharp wound.

  The second day, when the ship dropped anchor in the evening, Arion rose and stretched. They were somewhere north of Troy, and soon they should be heading west. He and Marpessa ate the evening meal together: rounds of bread and cooked lamb seasoned with spices strange to their tongues but not unpleasant. All too soon they parted, Marpessa going to the hold, Arion lying down uncomfortably on his narrow rowing bench. All around he heard unintelligible, murmured conversations, short sharp comments, bursts of laughter. He could not shake the feeling that some of those comments were about him, the laughs at his expense.

  Ridiculous! he told himself. Still, he didn’t trust the foreigners.

  Another oarsman nudged him awake at dawn. The rowers were handed a quick meal of bread and cheese and summoned to their oars. The helmsman shouted commands that Arion could not understand. He’d become used to being surrounded by a strange tongue, although he still jumped if someone shouted or something unexpected happened. Now he guessed that the ship was making a tricky maneuver. He followed the motions of the other oarsmen near him, holding his oar aloft while those on the right side of the boat rowed furiously. Then it was the turn of those on the left, Arion’s side. It was barely light and he could see nothing through the narrow opening for his oar.

  Then for a long, exhausting time with the wind unfavorable, they pulled on their oars without respite. Arion had never rowed so hard. Sweat poured down his back. His arms ached. The men around him were working equally hard, some grunting in agony. A current surged against them, pushing them back, impeding their progress. The voice of the helmsman lashed them like a whip, exhorting them to pull with greater strength.

  At last Arion felt a breeze on his neck. A sharp command from the helmsman caused the men to cheer. They were allowed to ship the oars. Arion heard the creaking of rope through pulleys, and the sail rose. As the ship leapt forward, he looked through the oar opening and saw gulls skimming over the water. Land was not far away. He lurched upright in shock. He was on the left side of the ship. If they were heading west to Hellas, he should see nothing but open water.

  Surely I’m mistaken, he thought. They were probably passing an island he hadn’t remembered from the earlier trip to Troy. Soon the breeze died, and he was commanded to row again, his arms protesting at the pain. He had no more time to look or even worry.

  When evening fell and the anchors were dropped, he scrambled from his post below the deck, and even before searching for Marpessa, his eyes found the setting sun. Behind him! The shock buckled his knees.

  There was no doubt. They were heading east, away from Hellas.

  The Phoenician captain had lied to him.

  XL

  ANGRY SEAS

  U

  He dreaded telling Marpessa. Sailing with the Phoenicians was a reckless plan, he saw now, which he had leapt into too precipitously. “Marpessa,” he began when she came to the rail where they met each evening. He kept his tone expressionless, his eyes fixed on the sea. “The Phoenicians—that is, the ship is going—” His voice stumbled.

  She sidled close to him. “I know.”

  Surprised, he risked a look. “How?”

  “I saw where the land lay and where the sun set.”

  In an undertone he voiced his vehemence. “I shouldn’t have trusted them!”

  To his surprise she did not look worried. “I don’t like it any more than you,” she whispered. “But what are we to do? If we left the ship, we might land in worse trouble than we are in right now. At least here we have food and shelter.”

  She was right. For the time being they were reasonably safe. But what lay ahead? “There are Greek colonies along this coast,” he pointed out.

  “We still wouldn’t be able to cross the seas to Hellas,” Marpessa said. “The Phoenicians can’t go east forever. Who knows? Perhaps the captain was telling the truth and they intend to sail to Hellas after they return from the east.”

  He thought about how hard things had been for her in the fishing village. At last he said, “We may as well stay with the foreigners, then. At least for now.”

  The ship rocked on great swells. He had grown
used to the constant rolling motion, the straining and creaking of ropes against wood, the frequent bouts of queasiness, but there was an urgency to the ship’s movement now. A surging current was pushing them back. The ship strained against the anchors. A cold wind from the east blew against them.

  A sudden clanging of the ship’s gong called sailors to the evening meal. As men went toward the stern where trenchers of grilled meat and dark, flat rounds of bread were handed around, Marpessa and Arion followed, always under the rude scrutiny of the foreigners. As if we’re some strange kind of animal—or their prey. But do they know Marpessa is a woman? He tried to read those blank eyes. They don’t know, he guessed as a familiar anxiety gnawed at his heart. Yet.

  The next morning he awoke to a ferocious bucking of the ship and the bellowing of the helmsman. He understood the Phoenician command: “To your oars, men!” They rowed against a mighty current. The muscles in his arms seemed as if they would break, but there was no respite. They were traveling northeast. Through the opening for his oar, he caught glimpses of low, barren hills.

  As they rowed endlessly, Arion noticed an idle man wandering about, his arm in a sling. This man looked at him in a smug, gloating way. This must be the one I’ve been hired to replace, he realized. He also saw that there were more Phoenicians sailors than oars. Tired rowers around him were replaced with fresh ones. This happened more often as they rowed against the current. Arion, exhausted, looked around for relief. But no one came to take his place. The only rests he had were those that everyone got, when the rowers stopped briefly for food and water.

  A rough, surly man named Barekbaal, a kind of foreman, arranged substitutions on the lower level. The next time Barekbaal directed a man in front of him to be replaced, Arion called out, “Barekbaal—” and pantomimed tiredness. Barekbaal looked at him, eyes narrowed, then made a show of not understanding and turned away, shaking his head. Arion was furious. His meaning had been perfectly clear to the Phoenician. But he was granted no relief.