Shadow of Athena

by Elena Douglas

He cupped his hands about his mouth and raised his voice. “We can’t go on like this! We’re becoming paupers, our crops and animals dying, and the High Priestess sits in her fine house getting rich off temple offerings and doing nothing. We must force her to act.”

  “How?” a voice shouted out.

  “We’ll go now! To her house. To demand that she find a solution.”

  “Aye, a solution!” Someone took up the cry.

  At once the disorderly mob charged up the hill toward the house of the High Priestess. As they marched, the chant swelled their throats. “Find a solution! Find a solution!”

  The High Priestess, forced from her bed, stood at a window on the upper level of her house. An attendant behind her held a blazing torch that cast eerie shadows over the priestess’s white face. She raised her voice to the crowd. “What do you want?”

  “Find out why the gods have cursed us. Then take action,” the leader shouted back.

  “It’s not always possible to know the will of the gods.” The High Priestess’s voice carried across the crowd. “We have offered sacrifice to Athena, Apollo, Zeus. But they’ve turned their faces away.”

  There were angry shouts and mutterings. “Not good enough!”

  “We have even sent envoys to the oracle at Delphi,” the priestess shouted over them. “They’ve recently returned.”

  This got their attention. “And what did the oracle say?” asked the leader.

  “As usual the oracle has given us an enigma. Something about birds—turtledoves—not being a pleasing sacrifice to the goddess.” The priestess shook her head. “We could not make any sense of it. We will reward the one who can offer a correct interpretation, but so far no one no one has found the answer.”

  An angry, puzzled half-silence fell. Suddenly the leader cried out, “Then do something else! Find out who offended the goddess. And put that person to death!”

  Someone else shouted out, “Aye, death! Sacrifice the guilty one to Athena! Surely that would please her!”

  The mob came alive again, chanting, “Put the man to death! Put the man to death!”

  “Or woman,” somebody shouted.

  All they needed now was a culprit.

  XLVIII

  PREY

  U

  Two weeks later, as evening fell and the crew rested, the ship rocking at anchor in a small cove, Klonios sat on the foredeck. Praise the gods, the journey had gone well and swiftly so far, he thought. In just a few days they would round the island of Euboia and make land on the coast of Lokris. Now Klonios watched curiously as the newest crewmember walked with his brother along the gangway. With his narrowed eyes and detached gaze, Klonios could observe their every move without the appearance of watching. He had learned nothing of the man from the crew, only that his name was Lykaon—“wolf-like.” Indeed there was something feral about him. This made Klonios believe he was a runaway slave. The more he thought about it, the more certain he became that there was a bounty on this man’s head, a reward for his capture. When they made land, he could put the man in fetters until he found out the truth.

  He smiled to himself at his own cleverness. He was sure the man had no suspicions. Klonios had cultivated his trust by consulting with him about Phoenician navigation, had even pretended to listen to his opinions. He’d learned that the man had gotten some kind of chart from the Phoenicians. The chart might even be useful, and Klonios planned to get it for himself. Getting his hands on it would actually serve two purposes.

  He turned his attention to the brother. According to the crew, there had been rumors that the lad was ill with a plague; now Lykaon paraded him up and down the ship almost nightly, as if to dispel those rumors. He was just a weak, spiritless lad with no more stomach for the sea than a girl. Look at him now, holding a cloth to his brow, leaning heavily on Lykaon’s arm as if his legs wouldn’t carry his own weight! Klonios’s predator instincts were aroused. When the man was in bonds, he could have some sport with the boy.

  As they stood on the Lokrian shore at last, watching the crew unload the cargo into wagons, Arion felt numb. The long journey was all but over. They were close to the town of Naryx, no more than a few hours even if they had to walk all the way. It was early afternoon. With luck they would make it by nightfall. He’d worked long and hard for this moment, but now he wanted to postpone it forever. He could no more imagine turning Marpessa over to her mother and walking out of her life than he could imagine his own death.

  He glanced at her, but her head was lowered, her face hidden from him. She shivered. “What do we do now?” she asked.

  “Come,” he said. He hefted the pack that held their belongings, heavy with their stolen gold, and led her away from the windy shore to a sunlit spot near a stand of pines. He set the pack down at the base of a tree, then pulled out the clay tablet. “The captain asked me to wait. He wants to buy the Phoenician navigation chart. He’ll give us eight pieces of silver for it. After that,” his voice shook a little, “we’ll find a way to get you home.”

  He looked back at the ship. The captain, about to step onto the gangplank, turned to give instructions to a pair of crewmembers. As he began his descent, Marpessa stepped a little to the side and lowered her face so as not to attract attention. At last the captain came up them. He was smiling—a shark’s smile. Two men followed him, both holding something concealed behind their backs. The hairs on the back of Arion’s neck rose. He dropped the clay tablet so that both his hands were free. At the same moment he became aware that a third man had circled around behind him.

  Over Klonios’s shoulder, Arion saw the two closing in, menace in their faces.

  Arion smashed his right fist into Klonios’s face and drove his left as hard as he could into the captain’s gut. Klonios doubled over. One of the men swung a club. Arion dodged it. The other grabbed him, wielding a rope. Arion tore himself loose, hitting the man in the jaw. All three men closed in, seized his arms, and wrapped them in ropes. Arion kicked at the men with all his might, landing several blows. A club came crashing down on the side of Arion’s head. Pain exploded behind his brow. His knees gave way like columns of sand.

  As he went down, his eyes fell on Marpessa, frozen with horror just a few paces away.

  “Run!” he hissed.

  Marpessa bolted into the piney woods that bordered the shore.

  Klonios, one hand held over his bleeding nose, the other cradling his gut, saw her run. He bellowed in rage. “Secure this one! Then go after the lad!” The three thugs bound Arion’s wrists and ankles so tightly the rope bit into his flesh. Then they slung him violently into a wagon and took off after Marpessa.

  Arion’s head throbbed. There were bruises all over his body, and blood ran from his mouth. But he barely noticed. All his being was focused on one anguished prayer. Go, my Marpessa! he exhorted her silently.

  In one instant she understood two things: they were not going to kill Arion, at least not right away, or they would have done so at once; and if she didn’t escape, she didn’t have a prayer of helping him. So she ran as fast as she could, her chest bursting, until she could run no more. Then she found a depression behind a rock and burrowed into it like an animal, pulling handfuls of pine needles and dead branches over herself. She concentrated on quieting her gasping breaths. She lay still for a long time, managing not to move, not to make a sound. When heavy footsteps crunched the ground not far from where she huddled, the blood left her head, making it ache. At last the footsteps retreated. They hadn’t seen her.

  Her whole body shook. She had forgotten to breathe.

  She waited until silence returned—dared not wait too long. She must risk going back. She had to know what they’d done to Arion. They were taking him somewhere. She must follow. Pushing her face through the foliage, she looked out. No one. She got up cautiously. Crept from tree to tree until she was near the spot where they had attacked him.
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br />   When she reached the place, she hid behind a thick trunk and peered out. She saw a train of wagons harnessed to horses. They were preparing to set out. At once her eyes found Arion, bound hand and foot in one of the wagons and guarded by the three brutes that had attacked him. His face was bloody, his body slumped, but his eyes were open. Marpessa went so weak with relief she had to hold onto the tree. Then she remembered the pack that held their belongings—and their treasure. He had dropped it behind one of the pines. She found it, scooped it up, and silently backed deeper into the woods. She would keep out of sight until the wagon train set out. Then she would follow.

  Klonios shook with fury. His nose was broken, his gut horribly bruised. For a moment he thought of having this Lykaon, this rogue slave, killed outright. But no, it was better to wait, prolong it, and see what reward the slave might bring in Naryx. Surely a generous one, since he was strong and in his prime. No matter if it took a little longer; Klonios would have his revenge. Meanwhile he raged with impatience, waiting for his men to catch the boy. When they returned empty-handed, he bellowed at them, “Where is he?”

  One of the men muttered, “Master, we ran far and searched in all directions, but we found no sign of him.”

  “What kind of men are you that can’t outrun a sick lad?” Klonios lashed out.

  “Who would have thought that weakling could run like a deer and hide like a woodland animal?” retorted the man.

  “Never mind,” Klonios snapped. He couldn’t wait here any longer. He had his quarry, the one that mattered, in the back of a wagon. He climbed into his own wagon and they set off. The thought of revenge gnawed at him like a hunger. Even if the slave was punished, even if he was put to death for escaping, he was going to pay an even heavier penalty for what he had done. Nobody struck Klonios and got away with it. There was a satisfaction to having the slave in his power, bound and bleeding. Klonios’s groin tightened with excitement at the thought of what was to come.

  But after a time, during the long, jolting ride, his thoughts turned to the “brother” who had escaped. Something didn’t make sense. Was the brother really a catamite? The fugitive slave had been so anxious to protect him. And if the lad was sick, how was he able to escape and hide?

  Klonios wracked his brains. Something eluded him, something he should have noticed. Then all at once he remembered the moment when he saw the boy run off. So swiftly. But not like a boy. Like a girl.

  Klonios sat bolt upright. By the gods, they made a fool of me! What better way to hide a girl than to disguise her as a sickly boy and keep her concealed in the hold? And he had fallen for it. He almost ordered the driver to turn back, to look for her. But the girl was surely already far away.

  They were illicit lovers for certain. And he remembered that the girl’s “seasickness” usually afflicted her in the mornings. The slave must have gotten her with child. But why had the two been traveling in the far reaches of the Euxine? And who was she? If Lykaon—by now Klonios was convinced this wasn’t his real name—was from Naryx, the girl might be too.

  What if she was one of the two girls who had been sent to Athena in Troy? What if she was the girl—the one he wanted—Thrasios’s daughter? No, not possible. She was too scrawny and plain to be the glowing girl he had coveted. It must be the other one, whom he had never observed closely. Klonios’s thoughts raced. What if this girl had somehow survived the massacre by the marauders and Lykaon had rescued her? Hadn’t Thrasios sent a slave to accompany the girls? Klonios wondered if that slave had ever returned, and cursed himself for not bothering to find out.

  Suddenly he was almost sure. It must be the very same slave, the one he had seen in Thrasios’s warehouse. Nothing else made sense. But he had to make certain. Torn between outrage and elation, he ordered a halt. Climbing down from his wagon as fast as his injuries would allow, he went to the wagon where the accursed slave lay trussed like a sheep awaiting slaughter. Klonios smiled at the sight of him. “Your whore won’t get far,” he taunted. “I know who she is. And she’ll pay the price for defying the goddess. Just as you will.”

  The slave’s control was good, but the merest flicker in his eyes betrayed him. Klonios’s smile widened. I knew it! he thought. He could continue to the town with his captive, secure in the knowledge that the girl would follow. She would not abandon her lover. Once in Naryx, he would find her.

  He couldn’t wait to reach Naryx. Thrasios, the slave, and the girl would dance like shadow puppets at the movement of his fingers.

  A black beast was devouring Marpessa’s heart, urging her to go faster, faster. But even as she ran, exhausted, panting for breath, the speed brought no relief. More was needed. She was too far away, it was too late, he might be dead by the time she found him. Shadows were falling, evening dropping around her like a cloak. Hurry! urged the voice in her head. Carrying the heavy pack, Marpessa drove herself ever harder, gasping and wheezing until she could not get enough air into her lungs. She stopped, dropped her burden and rested, hands on her knees, until her breath caught up with her. The pack was too hard to carry. It was slowing her down.

  Leave it, an inner voice urged.

  Their hard-won fortune? Something that might buy a future, Arion had said.

  But what was it weighed against his life?

  Athena, help me! Looking around desperately, she found an oak with a large knothole that might once have been the burrow of an owl. She shoved the pack into it, paused for a moment trying to memorize the shape of the oak and its surroundings, and then ran on, pressing her hand against the tearing pain in her side.

  Stars sprang out in the sky and began to swing in their stately arc before she at last caught sight of farmhouses, their white walls faintly visible in the deep of night.

  Naryx, at last.

  XLIX

  HOME

  U

  Amaltheia dreamed that someone had come into her room and was shaking her. A figure bent over her in the dark, a hand caressing her face. “Mother, Mother!” Harsh breathing, an insistent whisper. “Mother, it’s me. Marpessa!”

  Amaltheia knew that beloved voice. Her daughter often came to her in the night. Amaltheia floated, waited to see what this visitation would bring. But the girl was demanding action. “Hurry! Light a lamp! Quietly!”

  Reflexively Amaltheia rolled to her side and reached toward the table that held the lamp, but her hands moved slowly, refusing to obey her commands. Then she heard the strike of flint on iron, a fumble, another attempt. She dreamed that someone else was lighting the lamp and taking a long time about it. When a small flame glowed, she saw in its light a thin, dirty boy bending over her, his bare arms scratched and bleeding.

  She sat bolt upright. “Who are you?”

  “Mother, it’s me.” The boy spoke with Marpessa’s voice, and the lamp moved upward so that it was beside the face. Amaltheia saw beyond the shorn hair to the eyes, Marpessa’s clear eyes, but they were enormous, swollen with love and grief and terror. “Help me, Mother!” The lamp disappeared with a clunk on the wooden table, and strong arms closed around Amaltheia, the slight body shaking, sobbing.

  Amaltheia put her arms around her daughter and surrendered to the embrace. Never before had Marpessa’s presence seemed so solid. Never again would Amaltheia let her go. But Marpessa was tearing herself loose. “Mother, I need your help! Hurry!”

  Almaltheia reached for her. “My daughter, are you come back from the dead? Tell me—”

  Marpessa tried to pull her to her feet. “Later! We must rescue Arion before they kill him!”

  “Arion? Who—? Will you stay this time, Marpessa?”

  Marpessa sat down on the bed as tensely as a bird poised for flight and shook her arm. “Mother! Wake up!”

  I’m dreaming, Amaltheia thought. Then she felt the cold floor beneath her feet, saw the flame gutter slightly, and smelled the burning lamp oil. These things seemed solid, re
al. Yet so many times before she had been betrayed by a dream into thinking Marpessa had come back. “It couldn’t be,” she muttered.

  “Mother, listen! You’re not dreaming. I didn’t die. Arion saved my life and risked his own to bring me home. Now Klonios has him, and we must help him.”

  Amaltheia tried to shake the confusion from her brain. “Arion the slave,” she said. “Klonios the merchant? This is men’s business. I’ll talk to your father in the morning—”

  “No! Father mustn’t know! Arion—he’s hurt. Klonios’s men beat him. We must go to him now.” Marpessa’s voice sank to a trembling whisper. “Mother, you must help me! Klonios will kill him.”

  The desperation in her daughter’s voice cleared Amaltheia’s mind. This was impossible, but somehow she accepted it. Even if it was a dream, her daughter needed her. Strength and purpose flowed through her. Swiftly she got to her feet. “I know the way into the women’s quarters of Klonios’s house, and I know one of his serving women who can be trusted.”

  Marpessa slipped her hands into Amaltheia’s and held on for dear life. “Can we go there at once?”

  Fully awake, Amaltheia stared at the wan, ragged figure before her. “Nay. First I must send a message to the serving woman. And you, my darling, you must eat, rest.”

  The cage that held Arion had been built for livestock. It was not big enough to stand up in nor stretch out completely. It seemed that Klonios expected to keep him alive at least for a day or two, for there was hay strewn on the floor, a slop bucket and a jar of water. But no food. The door was held shut by a large wooden lock on the outside. After the men threw him into the cage, Arion watched as Klonios twisted a wooden key that dropped pins into place, then removed it. When Klonios left, Arion shook the door and the bars violently. Nothing loosened. He reached through the bars and grabbed the wooden lock, twisted, pulled it with all his strength. It did not move. He looked around. The cage was on a patch of hard dirt, probably behind Klonios’s house. A guard was seated on the ground a short distance away, watching him impassively.