Marpessa quieted the anxiety gnawing her belly. Arion, my beloved, wait for me! She clutched the feather of Athena hidden in her hand, reminding herself that she had known since that day by the mountain spring that she would have Arion and no other. The Phoenicians, the gods, the Fates, and Klonios himself had not been able to stop her. Nor would Thrasios. Facing him, she lifted her chin.
“Father, you were there at the altar when the goddess made her will plain. If I wed him, she will lift the curse, and Naryx will flourish.” Marpessa narrowed her eyes at her father and lifted her chin. “If you do not grant us permission, we will escape, and none shall stop us. We will wander the world as beggars, as we have learned well how to do. But we will be together, and we will wed.” Thrasios was silent. “I am carrying Arion’s child,” she reminded him.
He frowned mightily. “That disgrace changes nothing!”
Marpessa stood like an implacable cliff face. “Father, there’s no other life for me. No other man will have me.”
“And it’s clear from the oracle,” Amaltheia pointed out, “that Athena blesses their union.”
Thrasios’s eyes wavered. “It’s out of the question!” he said gruffly, but with less force. “The slave hasn’t two coppers to his name, save for ones I gave him.”
Marpessa gave a beatific smile. “That’s not true. He has a fortune, Father!”
It took Arion and Marpessa all day to scour the woods for the old oak where Marpessa had hidden the Phoenician gold ingots. As they searched, a gentle rain began to fall, the first to touch the parched soil in many months. A good omen, Marpessa said. At last they found their treasure—enough to buy Arion a small holding on the edge of town with a house, a few outbuildings, and fields behind.
Enough to buy a future.
On her wedding day, Marpessa, veiled in gossamer and wearing a crown of wildflowers, was led forth between her parents to Arion’s house where he awaited her. A procession followed: her brothers with their wives and children, their friends and servants, and a troupe of musicians. The beating of drums, the ringing rhythm of tambourines, and the insistent wailing of flutes quickened her heart as she saw him from afar, her Arion, clad in the white chiton of the bridegroom, waiting for her in front of their new home.
At last came the sacred moment when she stood before her husband. His fathomless brown eyes looked at her the way the first man created by Prometheus must have looked upon the first woman. He spoke not a word—only reached out and, with utmost tenderness, took her hands in his.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you to all my family, both immediate and extended, whose unstinting love and belief in me have enabled me to persevere in my writing—too many to name, but you know who you are. Thanks also to the members of my writers’ group, who have endured so many drafts of all my novels, and who with your wisdom through the years have taught me everything I know: Pat Elmore, Cleo Jones, Nellie Romero, the late Charlene Weir, and the late Avis Worthington. Thanks to Beth Barany for helping me frame my synopses and queries. Thank you, Dan Levine, for the book jacket photograph; you did wonders! A big thanks to Carol Collier for the wonderful map you made. And above all, thanks to my publisher, Dana Celeste Robinson, for making it all possible.
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