by Laura Gill
Wordeia started again as if I had said nothing at all. “How blind you are! Your father sees enemies and plots everywhere, and your uncle in Tiryns only fuels his malady. Do you not see what will happen? Acrisius will say you are in collusion with Proitus, that you are impure, or that you are trying to pass some other woman’s bastard as your own child to frighten him with the prophecy. He is not at all in his right mind. He will take the child and leave it on a mountainside.” I felt her touch my arm. “The high priestess must not have known, or she never would have sent you back.”
I became conscious of Eurymedon sleeping in sweet oblivion beside me. Suddenly, I wished that Thalamika had returned him to the herdsmen, that the god had not intervened. What had I brought him into? I thought quickly. “Wordeia, the Women of the Mountain are lodging here for the night. Take me to them. They can return me to Arcadia, leave me in a village somewhere.” I grimaced to even think these things. “I can find a husband if I must, and never trouble—”
“It is far too late for that. There are guards in the corridor, and I am being watched. These days, everyone is watched. Acrisius already knows you are here with the child.” Wordeia sighed haplessly. “If it were you alone, there might be a chance, but there is no concealing your child.” She bit down on her lower lip, a thoroughly uncharacteristic gesture that further drove home the gravity of the situation, and studied Eurymedon. “Perhaps I can persuade him to send you far, far away, but I know too well how he thinks. Proitus will hear of this. If your father banishes you, your uncle may search for you, to use you and Eurymedon as pawns. Neither one of you would fare well under that man. I do not know, Danaë. You should not have come back.”
Wordeia, I thought, needed to stop repeating what could not be changed and strive harder to discover a solution. And she obviously had not heard a word I said about my name. “The Women of the Mountain,” I urged. “Find them. Maybe they can do something about the guards.” Men. Obstacles to be swept aside. Sostrate would know what to do. “The god will protect Eurymedon, and I’ll do whatever I must.”
She stared at me as if at a stranger, and her mouth hung open at my words. “You would have women murder the guards?”
“They’re not just any women, but the Women of the Mountain,” I insisted, but quietly, because it would not do to alert the guards to their impending fate. “Sostrate and her Hunters are the equal of any man.”
Wordeia’s refusal to latch onto the proposal with the same enthusiasm wore on my nerves. And when she started to tuck me in, to urge me to rest when she knew how impossible it would be now, I unleashed my annoyance. “Why did you even come?” I did not keep my voice down this time. Let the guards hear my dissatisfaction.
Useless cow, she had the gall to be taken aback. “Why, to see you, child, and offer you some comfort.”
“Well, now you’ve seen me, and you’ve offered no comfort.” I snatched the coverlet from her hands.
“Oh, Danaë, do not be...”
“Danaë isn’t here.” I stared her directly in the eye, an attitude most unbecoming an Argive noblewoman. “I’m Myrtale of the Mountain. Either help me find Sostrate so we can do something, or leave.”
Wordeia withdrew as if stung. “Please, believe me when I tell you that the best thing you can do right now is nothing at all. Do not argue, do not resist. You do not want to further incite your father’s anger.”
I grabbed her chin with pinching fingers. “Do you honestly expect me as a mother to sit by and allow my child to be killed?” Her eyes bulged, probably more from shock than pain. “I told you before, anyone who tries to take Eurymedon will have to come through me first.” I released her as suddenly and violently as I had seized her, and again turned my face away toward the wall. “You’re of no use to me or my son.”
Wordeia left, taking the oil lamp with her. Once again, the chamber plunged into a darkness that rivaled the blackness gathering in my spirit. What trap had I fallen into? I rose, donned my shoes, and fumbled for the door to try the latch, but found it locked; that came as no surprise, after what Wordeia had said about guards in the corridor. So I backtracked, bruising my shin on a corner of the bed as I found my way to the window, which proved to be little more than a crack in the wall admitting light and air. Too narrow for a woman to squeeze through, I realized, and I was not about to drop Eurymedon onto the pavement in the hope that some kind servant woman would find and take him. If Acrisius knew everything that went on in the Larissa, as Wordeia insisted, then there could be no permanently hiding the baby. Sostrate would have known what to do. If only the window were wide enough to let me wriggle through and jump. I did not care that I might break my bones hitting the pavement. Only the gods themselves could have stopped me from crawling my way to wherever the Women of the Mountain were billeted.
I did try, by dragging over a footstool, but regardless of how I twisted and turned my shoulders would not go through. At last, frustrated to the point of weeping, and out of breath, I stepped down and returned to the cot. Only when my hand brushed against a ceramic object did I remember the goddess Wordeia had brought.
Because I could not see her, I lifted the goddess to examine her features with my fingertips. Finely molded, with a clearly delineated face and lentil-sized breasts, she was precisely the type of idol one would find in a noble Argive household. Danaë had once possessed such a goddess. I found myself longing for the familiar Mistress of the House, for the xoanon of Potnia Theron, even for the forbidding goddess-pillar of the cave sanctuary. Potent spirits inhabited those objects, whereas the goddess in my hand might have come only yesterday from an idol maker’s workshop. She might be a representation of Hera. Wordeia meant well, I reflected, but the goddess had no reason to love me or my son.
Nonetheless, I thought, there was no one else who could help me. Zeus had already intervened; asking him to do so again felt sacrilegious, especially in Hera’s own domain. So I set the idol back on the table, knelt on the floor, and quietly addressed her. “Queen of Heaven, look kindly on me and my son Eurymedon. Do not allow King Acrisius to give offense by harming an innocent. Tell me what I must do to preserve my son. I will do it.” No matter how pure and worshipful I tried to keep my thoughts, a blasphemous notion that Hera would, purely out of spite, desire me to relinquish my son to die on a mountaintop kept entering my head. As did a chastising reminder that I had had the chance to save Eurymedon earlier by surrendering him to his surrogate family. Yet how could I, as young and naive a mother as ever the gods made, have known then what danger threatened now? I kissed the base of the goddess idol to speed my prayers along, while my mind raced, seeking whatever solutions I myself might undertake.
Eurymedon stirred just before dawn. I nursed him, changed his diaper, and bathed him with the cooled wash water, which set him wailing. A desperate need to silence him had me pacing the chamber, rocking him in my arms; I could only give him the breast for so long. Of course the guards knew I had an infant, and when the time came—sweet goddess, if it came—their orders would come from on high, but the lack of sleep made me irrational. Eurymedon could not afford to call attention to himself. What a shame he had no toys, nothing for amusement, only the finger pantomimes that I had taught myself how to make, that had sufficed on the Mountain.
Once the sun rose, the menial appeared with a breakfast tray and clean water; she removed the chamber pot with an upturned nose. Bread and cheese again, but this time I spied something new on the tray. A knife beside the spoon, a knife when there was no meat to cut. I murmured a prayer of thanksgiving to the goddess before breaking my fast. The bread was warm, fresh from the oven, and the cheese soft and white; its briny taste brought back memories of my childhood.
I had just started imagining the garden court and the ladies in their bright garb nibbling on spring delicacies when the tramp of multiple footfalls in the corridor outside abruptly ended my reverie. Then the door opened to admit a flood of strange men who smelled of horses and garlic, who wore boiled leather, linoth
orax, and roughspun cloth. None was the king, nor any man I recognized from the journey. Thrusting away the breakfast tray, I grabbed my son and the knife, and stood up. Why so many, to manhandle one woman and a baby? For that was what I assumed they had come to do. “What do you want?” My voice shook harder than I intended. Goddess above and below, where was Sostrate when I needed her?
The foremost of them, a man with scraggly black stubble and greasy hair, crooked a smile full of yellow teeth as he looked me up and down. “Not you. Too scrawny. Only the infant.” He nodded at Eurymedon.
“No,” I said.
“Don’t be troublesome, girl. Do as you’re told.” He gestured impatiently with his hand, as if demanding I turn over a trinket rather than my precious baby. “Hand him over. You can always have others.”
“No,” I repeated, but louder. “My son is the son of a god, of the king most high. Take him and commit blasphemy.” At this, the men exchanged glances and snickered among themselves. I instinctively took a step backward; the backs of my knees bumped against the edge of the bed, signaling that there was nowhere to go, and nothing else to do but stand my ground and fight. “The Thunderer protects this child. You will not have him!”
Rolling his eyes, the man replied, “Foolish girl. We have orders from the king. Lugros, take the brat.”
A scarred, ugly man advanced to wrestle Eurymedon from my grasp. For a few seconds, my son, now red-faced and squalling, was the prize in our tug-of-war, until I resorted to the only weapon I owned. Out came the knife, and before anyone realized that I was armed, that I was not surrendering but changing tactics, I drove the point as hard as I could into the man’s arm.
With a roar, he jerked back. I saw the blade sticking out of his upper arm, and, as if he had transformed into a rabid dog, the spittle flying from his mouth and the white fury blazing in his eyes. No matter. I had to use the distraction to my advantage. Grabbing Eurymedon, shielding him with my body, head lowered as if I were a bull about to charge, I plunged straight into the knot of men, heading for the door.
Several pairs of arms snagged me, caught me by the hair and my clothing, and dragged me back. Someone seized Eurymedon. I shrieked and twisted. When a hand closed over my mouth, I bit down savagely. Blood filled my mouth, along with a gobbet of flesh that I immediately spat out. “Give back my son!”
Next thing I knew, something hard struck the side of my head. The world went horizontal. Then another blow, to the stomach, and suddenly I could not breathe. I retched and gasped for oxygen, and meanwhile where was my son? His wails filled my ears, but from a distance, and I could not get enough breath to answer.
Above me, the man with the ugly face raised a knife over his head. Rabid eyes met mine. A slavering mouth moved, spat out incoherent epithets, but what he was about to do needed no language. I raised my hands to shield myself.
But the fatal blow never came. I tensed but no sharp blade pierced my flesh. Instead, I heard a second man’s voice shouting as if from a long way away, “Lugros, leave her! We’ve our orders. Just the baby.”
Feet tramped around my body. No one offered to help. I heard a grunt, the hawking of phlegm, then something wet and foul landed on my face. My son’s bawling stabbed my ears like daggers. Still retching for air, ignoring the dizziness and pain in my stomach, I started to lever myself upright, to go in pursuit.
Yet there he was in the doorway. The rabid dog called Lugros, a feral grin on his face, blood dripping from one arm, the hand of his other clenched into a fist. Last man from the room, last face I glimpsed, last voice I heard, barking, “Bitch,” before that fist crashed into my face and sent me spiraling down into the darkness.
*~*~*~*
I woke to a throbbing headache and an inability to open my left eye. Exploring gingerly, I discovered a lump the size of a pebble on the back of my head, and a second swelling around my eye that stung when I touched it. My fingertips came away discolored with drying blood.
The floor under me felt hard against my back; no one had come to tend me. Carefully, I started to move into a sitting position, pausing when my bruised stomach protested, reminding me that I had also been kicked, and then again as my vision doubled. I blinked, took several calming breaths against the inevitable wave of nausea. Blood smeared the floor, but I did not know whether it was mine. I recalled a struggle, and putting up a fight that would have satisfied Sostrate.
Then the memory came flooding back me with such intensity that it might as well have been a physical blow. Men had come to take my son away, to expose him on the mountainside. Only the infant. Don’t be troublesome. Words that hurt and haunted. You can have others. I shook my head to dislodge them; they persisted like the blows that had earlier rained down on me, each syllable a hammer. My breasts ached. Full of milk, with no child now to nurse. A great wail of anguish, starting under my heart, rose up through my throat to fill the chamber. “Eurymedon!”
Even as the echoes reverberated against the walls, the most incredible response made me instantly forget my anguish: an infant’s blubbering. Ignoring my pain, I scrambled toward the bed and beheld a miraculous sight. Eurymedon lay wrapped in his blanket but for his arms, which he waved in the air, beckoning me to come bounce him in my lap. His face radiated laughter and joy, as if he had no comprehension of what had happened earlier.
What did my son see or hear when his immortal protector rescued him? I envisioned the god carrying him swaddled under one arm, though perhaps that was blasphemous of me, to entertain such notions about Zeus, or even to assume that he did the returning. Maybe Hermes of the winged sandals had spirited my child away from his would-be murderers, or perhaps even some kindly goddess, Athena or rainbow-haloed Iris, had restored him to my arms. I gazed over at the idol, the sole locus of color in that chamber, and saluted the goddess with one hand. I must remember to make thank offerings to all the immortals.
What light entered through the window was gradually dimming, day surrendering to evening, meaning that I had been left unconscious for hours. If anyone had come, none had even owned enough decency to wipe away the blood or lay me on the bed and cover me.
Nursing my son eased the ache of fullness in my breasts yet did little to calm him. He drank, it seemed, my apprehensions through my very mother’s milk, and fussed. I burped and changed him afterwards, and set him down to sleep.
Eventually, someone would come to deal with me, either to maintain my captivity or to kill me—whatever punishment the king thought befitting a disobedient daughter who had broken her oath to the Mistress—and then they would discover the miracle. They would not believe the gods were involved. Once again, because they were blind and impious, they would take Eurymedon from my arms, attempt to finish the deed, only it had been three times already, and how much longer would the gods continue to help me?
I started at the sound of the latch. Where were the telltale footfalls outside? I must have missed them, so lost had I been in thought and in the act of nursing. If the men were returning... An involuntary shudder passed through me, deepened yet further as the door creaked open and the glow of a lamp illuminated a woman’s figure.
Wordeia’s lamp reflected eyes that shone as huge, dark pools of disbelief. As she focused on Eurymedon, her mouth fell open in an unbecoming rictus of shock. “How did this happen?” She did not take her eyes from my son as she croaked out the query. As I started to answer, I realized she had not noticed my presence. I was invisible to her. She addressed the darkness, the empty air between us, even Eurymedon himself, but not me.
“How can this be? Who brought him back?” Blinking and shaking her head, Wordeia turned to address someone I could not see. “How did this happen?” she exclaimed fearfully. A man mumbled something about a great black wolf. A man’s throat torn out. An eagle lancing down from the heavens to snatch the bundle from the mountainside, but always, always against the undercurrent of Wordeia’s most emphatic no.
“You know what happened,” I called out to her. “The gods themselves p
rotect Eurymedon.” Hubristic words, foolish words, words to tempt divine retribution, but the evidence was there, and Aunt Wordeia too blind to acknowledge it. “Do you think I ran after him? Look at me!” I cried. “Jailed and knocked about?”
Wordeia’s gaze slid past my bruised face without seeing; the only thing inside the cell calling her attention was the horror of the baby that should not still be alive. “The Women of the Mountain,” she gasped, motioning to the man, whoever he was. “Mestor, where are they now? Question Captain Kresteus. Make sure those women left this morning by the Lerna Gate as they were supposed to, and are not—”
“Zeus’s eagle, woman!” I swallowed the urge to march straight over to Wordeia and slap her. “The black wolf of Zeus Lykaios tearing out a man’s throat. Was the fiend’s name Lugros? Serves him right!” I uttered a joyless laugh. “Zeus protects the child. I know only the terrible shadow of an oak tree and the shaking at midnight, the fear of a black wolf that defeats even the fearless, and the eagle’s wings that speed an infant back to his mother’s arms. Go tell the king that, if you must say anything at all. I am blameless in this matter.”
Wordeia’s mouth moved wordlessly. She did not linger as she had before, but turned with the lamp and left. The door closed after her.
Twilight plunged the chamber into near-total darkness before I heard sounds in the corridor again. A man’s footfalls this time, tramping the stuccoed floor. An angry voice whose bass I recognized almost at once as belonging to the king of Argos. My heart leapt in recognition. Hesitantly, I stood.
Yet the man who barged into my chamber was not the Acrisius I remembered. The king of Argos was stooped and grizzled, predatory, with lank, greasy hair and yellow teeth. Truly a man to fear. Despite myself, I gasped.
“What’s this?” Cruel eyes stared at Eurymedon. “I gave orders.”
