knees, leaned down to rest my chin on my hands, then rubbed at the warm grit of exhaustion under my eyelids. Phylomache hadn’t slept well the night before, complaining that the baby she carried was restless, stirred by some night spirit. I’d had to light lamps and place them in the corners of the room, setting up a glow like a tamed sun to chase the ghosts away.
I’d spent nearly three years alone in the big bed, stretched out like a spider in the middle of the mattress. Three months ago I had turned fifteen and Phylomache’s daughter, Asteropia, had turned two, and Pelias had sent the child away from her pregnant mother, telling her she was old enough to sleep with me. Asteropia sobbed nightly, writhing in the bed as if she’d been poisoned and smearing her wet face on my bare arms, and I began to fear that her constant crying would keep the god of sleep from both of us. Three weeks later, Pelias had ordered Phylomache out of the royal bedchamber because her constant shifting kept him awake. Asteropia was delighted; Phylomache fumed and took to bed in a sulk as if she could gain revenge through laziness. She would struggle out of bed to go downstairs for the evening meal if she felt well enough, but for the rest of the day and night she would lie on the mattress, stroke her mound of belly, and ask, in a sweet voice, if I’d mind doing just one small thing for her.
She’d give birth in a month at most, and when she performed her daily rituals to Demeter and Eileithyia for a safe and fruitful labor I prayed with her. If she delivered a boy child, even a sickly one, Pelias would take her back. Until then I slept on Pisidice’s side of the mattress, crowded to the edge of the bed.
Today the palace was empty of men. Pelias and his steward were away with the hunters again, and Pelopia was collecting tribute from the men of Iolcus. Acastus had still not returned from Mycenae, though Pelias had received word that he was wintering in Corinth to add men to his party, having heard tales of bandits north of Athens. He might be home within a year. He’d stay with every lord or king who invited him to stop and rest, for such hospitality could not be refused, and I’d almost certainly be married and gone by the time he arrived in Iolcus, just a memory to him, a little girl with a messy mop of hair and coppery eyes like our mother’s, another sister gone.
I sat up tall on the stool, lifting my arms over my head, pointing my toes toward the gates. My feet were browned from sitting in the sun, paler strips of skin running beneath the straps of my sandals. If I leaned back and twitched my skirts up just enough, the sun god stroked my ankles and calves. I eyed the road beyond the gates, knowing that Pelias would shout at me for baring myself if he saw my skirts bunched up. I was too old to think that the men of the palace did not see me as a grown woman, ready for marriage, ready for bed.
I saw the cloud of dust on the western horizon just as the sentry shouted, and I bolted up from my seat in fright, staring at the dark mass at the center of the swirling dust. My father’s men, returning from the hunt, would not stir up so much earth. Once a pack of wild boars had raced toward the palace in just this way, turning aside at the last moment before entering the gates—Artemis had been angry with Pelias over some slight I couldn’t even recall—but these were not boars. These were horses, at least thirty, led by a chariot. From this distance they looked like carven toys.
Iolcus had never been attacked while I was alive. I didn’t know what to do. Were the horses armored? Were the men? The chariot did not belong to any family I knew, but the whole party was coming down the road at an almost processional pace. It didn’t look like an attack. If they knew that Pelias was gone, however, they had no need to rush. They could seize me whenever they liked.
Artemis, I thought frantically, hearing the approaching beat of hooves.
I’d spent nearly three years alone in the big bed, stretched out like a spider in the middle of the mattress. Three months ago I had turned fifteen and Phylomache’s daughter, Asteropia, had turned two, and Pelias had sent the child away from her pregnant mother, telling her she was old enough to sleep with me. Asteropia sobbed nightly, writhing in the bed as if she’d been poisoned and smearing her wet face on my bare arms, and I began to fear that her constant crying would keep the god of sleep from both of us. Three weeks later, Pelias had ordered Phylomache out of the royal bedchamber because her constant shifting kept him awake. Asteropia was delighted; Phylomache fumed and took to bed in a sulk as if she could gain revenge through laziness. She would struggle out of bed to go downstairs for the evening meal if she felt well enough, but for the rest of the day and night she would lie on the mattress, stroke her mound of belly, and ask, in a sweet voice, if I’d mind doing just one small thing for her.
She’d give birth in a month at most, and when she performed her daily rituals to Demeter and Eileithyia for a safe and fruitful labor I prayed with her. If she delivered a boy child, even a sickly one, Pelias would take her back. Until then I slept on Pisidice’s side of the mattress, crowded to the edge of the bed.
Today the palace was empty of men. Pelias and his steward were away with the hunters again, and Pelopia was collecting tribute from the men of Iolcus. Acastus had still not returned from Mycenae, though Pelias had received word that he was wintering in Corinth to add men to his party, having heard tales of bandits north of Athens. He might be home within a year. He’d stay with every lord or king who invited him to stop and rest, for such hospitality could not be refused, and I’d almost certainly be married and gone by the time he arrived in Iolcus, just a memory to him, a little girl with a messy mop of hair and coppery eyes like our mother’s, another sister gone.
I sat up tall on the stool, lifting my arms over my head, pointing my toes toward the gates. My feet were browned from sitting in the sun, paler strips of skin running beneath the straps of my sandals. If I leaned back and twitched my skirts up just enough, the sun god stroked my ankles and calves. I eyed the road beyond the gates, knowing that Pelias would shout at me for baring myself if he saw my skirts bunched up. I was too old to think that the men of the palace did not see me as a grown woman, ready for marriage, ready for bed.
I saw the cloud of dust on the western horizon just as the sentry shouted, and I bolted up from my seat in fright, staring at the dark mass at the center of the swirling dust. My father’s men, returning from the hunt, would not stir up so much earth. Once a pack of wild boars had raced toward the palace in just this way, turning aside at the last moment before entering the gates—Artemis had been angry with Pelias over some slight I couldn’t even recall—but these were not boars. These were horses, at least thirty, led by a chariot. From this distance they looked like carven toys.
Iolcus had never been attacked while I was alive. I didn’t know what to do. Were the horses armored? Were the men? The chariot did not belong to any family I knew, but the whole party was coming down the road at an almost processional pace. It didn’t look like an attack. If they knew that Pelias was gone, however, they had no need to rush. They could seize me whenever they liked.
Artemis, I thought frantically, hearing the approaching beat of hooves.
Similar Books
