Artemis, O goddess of chaste girls, protect me from them!
In a moment they’d reach the gate. I jammed my feet into my sandals and fumbled with the straps, flicking my eyes back up to the road. Men ran from the stables to answer the sentry’s call, light glancing off the hilts of their daggers. The chariot was close now, wheels rattling on the packed dirt, the thunder of hooves resolving into the sound of individual horses—jangling tack and air forced through flared nostrils. I stumbled over the distaff and spindle and kicked them under my stool. I could imagine the weight of a dagger in my own hand, the heft of sharp-edged metal, and wondered if I should have prayed to Athena instead.
The sentry stepped into the arch of the gate and held up a hand, nodding when the chariot pulled to a halt. His other hand was curved around his dagger hilt. He said something to the men on the chariot; I couldn’t hear the words. But there was a pause, and his hand fell away from the dagger, and I watched in fearful disbelief as he stepped back to let the chariot enter the courtyard.
Two young men rode the chariot, one driving, the other gripping the rails as if he expected to be thrown off at any moment. They were not wearing armor. I had expected them to, and they looked small without it, almost girlish. The driver had golden hair, wavy and shining in the afternoon sun, but I could not see his face. The man beside him looked up as the chariot came to a perfect halt, his eyes skimming over the sentry and finding me where I stood alone on the palace steps. Even at that distance, I saw his smile, a pale flash in his dark beard.
He stepped down from the chariot. My hands ran over my skirt out of habit, smoothed out wrinkles in the fabric. Stupid, I thought, so stupid, he doesn’t care what you look like. But it was as if I had been possessed by a god—I couldn’t stop the rush of blood to my cheeks as the men approached. And then I could not stop staring, for the man who had stepped down from the chariot, the man leading the others, was beautiful.
It was the kind of beauty that seems unremarkable at a distance but gorgeous in fine detail. The man was slender, only slightly taller than Pelopia, and might have been ten years older than I, but his face was boyish beneath his beard, his straight brow uncreased. His red tunic was as fine as my clothing and just as wrinkled. He stopped a respectful distance from the steps and inclined his head. The charioteer stayed behind, but several of the mounted men came through the gates and stood in a loose phalanx behind their leader. Men now stood behind me too, stable boys and guards, thrumming with nervous energy. I heard them breathing. I heard the rasp of my own breath.
I stared at the handsome young man. He was still smiling, gracious and polite, as if we had just been introduced at the Mycenaean court. He was not a god, that much was clear— I had always thought somehow that if I were to be snatched away, it might be by a god’s hands, as my grandmother had been—and he had not come to kill me. Now there were two ways this encounter could turn: toward rape or hospitality.
“May the gods keep you so beautiful, lady,” he said. His voice was pleasant as a bard’s and he didn’t lean toward me as he spoke. His hands stayed open and relaxed at his sides, not twitching toward his dagger or clawing out to grab me. “You are, I expect, the lady Alcestis?”
He was supposed to say, May the gods keep you well. “I am,” I said, keeping my eyes on the ground. The young man wore well-made sandals, covered in road dust that crept up to his knees. “I regret that my father, the king, is hunting and cannot welcome you now, but if you care to come in, my servants can offer you whatever you may need.” The formal words came haltingly to my tongue, like a language I had heard before but never spoken.
“Pelias is away?” the young man asked, startled. He furtively wiped one palm on his hip.
In a moment they’d reach the gate. I jammed my feet into my sandals and fumbled with the straps, flicking my eyes back up to the road. Men ran from the stables to answer the sentry’s call, light glancing off the hilts of their daggers. The chariot was close now, wheels rattling on the packed dirt, the thunder of hooves resolving into the sound of individual horses—jangling tack and air forced through flared nostrils. I stumbled over the distaff and spindle and kicked them under my stool. I could imagine the weight of a dagger in my own hand, the heft of sharp-edged metal, and wondered if I should have prayed to Athena instead.
The sentry stepped into the arch of the gate and held up a hand, nodding when the chariot pulled to a halt. His other hand was curved around his dagger hilt. He said something to the men on the chariot; I couldn’t hear the words. But there was a pause, and his hand fell away from the dagger, and I watched in fearful disbelief as he stepped back to let the chariot enter the courtyard.
Two young men rode the chariot, one driving, the other gripping the rails as if he expected to be thrown off at any moment. They were not wearing armor. I had expected them to, and they looked small without it, almost girlish. The driver had golden hair, wavy and shining in the afternoon sun, but I could not see his face. The man beside him looked up as the chariot came to a perfect halt, his eyes skimming over the sentry and finding me where I stood alone on the palace steps. Even at that distance, I saw his smile, a pale flash in his dark beard.
He stepped down from the chariot. My hands ran over my skirt out of habit, smoothed out wrinkles in the fabric. Stupid, I thought, so stupid, he doesn’t care what you look like. But it was as if I had been possessed by a god—I couldn’t stop the rush of blood to my cheeks as the men approached. And then I could not stop staring, for the man who had stepped down from the chariot, the man leading the others, was beautiful.
It was the kind of beauty that seems unremarkable at a distance but gorgeous in fine detail. The man was slender, only slightly taller than Pelopia, and might have been ten years older than I, but his face was boyish beneath his beard, his straight brow uncreased. His red tunic was as fine as my clothing and just as wrinkled. He stopped a respectful distance from the steps and inclined his head. The charioteer stayed behind, but several of the mounted men came through the gates and stood in a loose phalanx behind their leader. Men now stood behind me too, stable boys and guards, thrumming with nervous energy. I heard them breathing. I heard the rasp of my own breath.
I stared at the handsome young man. He was still smiling, gracious and polite, as if we had just been introduced at the Mycenaean court. He was not a god, that much was clear— I had always thought somehow that if I were to be snatched away, it might be by a god’s hands, as my grandmother had been—and he had not come to kill me. Now there were two ways this encounter could turn: toward rape or hospitality.
“May the gods keep you so beautiful, lady,” he said. His voice was pleasant as a bard’s and he didn’t lean toward me as he spoke. His hands stayed open and relaxed at his sides, not twitching toward his dagger or clawing out to grab me. “You are, I expect, the lady Alcestis?”
He was supposed to say, May the gods keep you well. “I am,” I said, keeping my eyes on the ground. The young man wore well-made sandals, covered in road dust that crept up to his knees. “I regret that my father, the king, is hunting and cannot welcome you now, but if you care to come in, my servants can offer you whatever you may need.” The formal words came haltingly to my tongue, like a language I had heard before but never spoken.
“Pelias is away?” the young man asked, startled. He furtively wiped one palm on his hip.
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