by Tessa Afshar
“How long does the passage take?” I asked.
“Five hours if the wind blows right.”
“Is it blowing right today?”
The captain lifted his face and sniffed the air. “Right enough.” He told us to sit in the bow of the ship while the crew readied for departure, out of the way of the sails. We sat quietly, hoping the sailors would forget our existence. Hoping the captain wouldn’t change his mind.
We discovered that the Kushites called their ship Whirring Wings. They told us that the ships in their land were all called by that name.
We found out why when we set sail an hour later. As those tall sails, so awkward-looking at rest, unfurled fully, they looked like wings, stretching out from our hull. For a moment, I wondered if we would take off into the air like an osprey. Once we left the shelter of the harbor and found our way into the Saronic Gulf, the other part of the ship’s name began to make sense. Something about the fabric of the sails caused them to flutter and shiver in the wind, sounding like a thousand birds in flight. The noise was deafening, making our attempts at conversation futile.
The vibrations wormed their way into your ears, into your head, into your heart, and it became impossible to hear anything but their noise. I found the experience strangely familiar. In a way, this was how life had felt at Grandfather’s house for the past eight years. The whirring wings of everyone’s demands, the noise of their expectations swallowing my voice, drowning out life and desire and dreams, so that only they could be heard. Once in Corinth, there would be blessed silence and I would live again.
We had sailed for two hours when dark clouds whipped across the sun with sudden ferociousness. A fierce squall shook the hull of our ship. Lulled into sleepy stupor by the calm of our passage, I snapped awake as a huge wave rolled over us, followed by another. Wind gusts snapped at the sails viciously, and before the sailors could pull them down, the largest tore in half.
Another wave broke over us, raising the ship as high as a two-story building, and flinging it back down into the restless sea with such force that Theo, who was sitting near the stern, flew bodily into the air, and to my horror, was thrown overboard.
I lunged after him, and at the last moment was able to grab at his ankle. By then, half of my own body had sailed overboard and I dangled into the stormy sea, salty water spurting into my eyes and nose. Both my hands held on to Theo’s ankle with a strength I did not know I possessed. To let go of him meant losing him to the storm. But with my hands thus occupied, I had no way of securing myself. The force of Theo’s weight pulled on me, and I slipped over the edge.
There is a thin line between courage and stupidity, and I crossed it with a frequency that pointed to a lack of wit rather than a surfeit of bravery. I did not know how to swim, not even in calm waters. I certainly would not survive a dunking in this tempest. I tried to anchor my feet into the edge of the ship’s railing and found it a losing battle. One deep breath, and my head sank into the waves.
CHAPTER 2
FINGERS SANK INTO THE MUSCLES of my calf and pulled hard, followed by a hand that tangled in the fabric twisted at my waist. Coming out of the water, I bashed my jaw against the hull and saw a burst of shimmering stars. Still I held on to Theo’s ankle. Together, we were pulled out of what might have been our grave.
Panting and retching water, we collapsed on the deck. I looked up at the sailor who had saved us, a man the size of a city gate with a complexion the warm hue of cinnamon bark.
“Thank you,” I shouted over the noise of the wind. “You saved our lives.”
He flashed a smile. “Don’t thank me yet. You could still die.” He waved at the squall whipping about us, then vanished to help the other sailors who were busy with ropes and sails, trying to keep the ship from sinking.
Theo coughed next to me, spewing water. When he had breath to spare, he said, “You have no sense. You almost drowned.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, grinning.
He pointed at my jaw. “You look like you were in a fight.”
I pointed at his eye, which was swelling and red. “You look like you lost.”
Reaching for his hand, I squeezed it, resisting the urge to throw a toddler-size emotional tirade. He had come too close to dying.
The storm passed as quickly as it had come, like a nightmare vanishing in moments. The sun shone again, drying our soaking clothes and restoring hope that we would see land again.
Theo motioned to the large sailor who had saved our lives, and the man joined us. Opening his bundle, Theo pulled out a piece of fresh cheese and bread fragrant with the scent of cloves and offered it to the man.
The sailor politely took only a small piece and returned the rest to Theo. “Smells good,” he said. He stretched the words and added to them a strange music, so they lengthened by an extra syllable. “Almost as good as our Kushite bread,” he said after he tasted the morsel.
“Where is that?” I asked.
“Far from here, little man, a kingdom south of Egypt.” He drew a pouch out of his belt and extracted a couple of pieces of dried fruit, which he gave to Theo and me. I bit into mine and tasted apricot.
“Goood,” I said, mimicking his cadence, and he laughed.
The sailors repaired the torn sail and hoisted it aloft again. Once more, the noise of the whirring wings intruded into our conversation, and Theo and I lapsed back into silence. I studied his battered face, my stomach twisting with guilt. Away from Grandfather’s home for barely four hours, and I had already almost caused his death.
I could not regret my decision to leave, however. I needed to be free from that house. I needed to find my father.
That was the sum total of my plan.
I was like a child bitten by a viper. All I could think of was finding a way to remove the fangs sunken into my skin. I had no notion that I still had to contend with the venom pumping through my veins. Thinking myself free of Athens, I wilted with relief, not knowing the poison of that household still lurked inside me.
I had known for years that my father harbored a secret. Even as a young child I could not miss the comings and goings at odd hours, the stealthy meetings, the whispered conversations. It was not until my brother’s twelfth birthday that I realized whatever he held so close to his chest had the power to destroy. To unravel marriages and consume families.
That evening, my father had thrown a lavish feast in Dionysius’s honor. The house was crawling with young lads and men, and my mother had kept me out of the way so I would not be a nuisance to Dionysius and his friends.
My father, an athlete in spite of his age, never fully understood his son, who preferred books to the sweat-drenched grunts of a gymnasium. For all that he found Dionysius incomprehensible, his gaze never fell on him without pride or affection. So on his birthday, instead of purchasing him wrestling instructions by a great athlete at the palaestra, Father bought Dionysius an ancient scroll by Plato and earned one of my brother’s rare smiles.
As soon as the guests left, Dionysius tucked his new treasure under an arm and disappeared into the eaves of the house to read by lamplight. I saw my chance, after a whole day of separation, to sneak to Father’s side for a private chat. My father had a great heart and loved me with the same passion as he did my brother, though I was a mere girl, and by Greek standards, hardly worth his notice.
As I made my way on bare feet through the atrium, I could see him in his library, a tired smile on his lips. He was slouching in a high-backed chair, fingers playing absently with an ornate stylus he kept on his table. Then I spied my mother, and knowing that I would earn her displeasure for being out of bed at this hour, hid myself behind a broad marble column. Mother sailed past without seeing me, her beautiful face shuttered with displeasure. This was not an unusual sight, for she often found reason to be displeased. But on this particular evening, it welled out of her like a flood.
My parents did not have a happy union. My mother’s unremitting disappointment was too great a burden
for any man to carry without growing weary.
“Celandine!” Father sat up when he saw my mother approach him. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“To my departure. I am taking leave of you.” I could only see her back, which was as straight as a sword shaft. But her voice was shaking with rage.
“Pardon?” Father sounded confused. He half rose from his chair. Then stopped when my mother threw a roll of papyrus in his face. He took his time reading it. Even from where I stood, I saw his face drain. His features went limp.
“You disgust me,” Mother said.
“Celandine, it’s not what you imagine.”
She ignored his attempts at an explanation. “You have shamed me, shamed the name I was born with, shamed the blood of Athens in my veins.”
“Please! Listen to me!”
“I am leaving. And the children are coming with me. I don’t want you to ever see them again.”
“No! Celandine, you can’t take them. I won’t allow it.”
“I think you will. You have no choice. I will share what I know with the world. You will lose them, in any case. Lose them in honor, or lose them in dishonor. I care not what you do.”
“For pity’s sake, woman. They need me. They need their father!”
“They will have mine. What can you give them but ruin and disgrace? What do you think they will learn from you? To grow into a man and woman I can be proud of? You will only corrupt them.”
“I will love them. Celandine, listen. I will stop. It was an aberration. And besides, I never took advantage—”
“Enough. I am leaving in the morning for Athens. And the children are going with me.”
I ran into the room then. “I won’t go with you to stupid Athens!” I screamed. “I won’t.”
“Ariadne, be still,” Father said. I froze when I saw tears running down those beloved cheeks.
Mother turned her wrath on me. “You will do as you are told.”
My temper was ever a nuisance. In the intervening years, I sometimes asked myself if pleading with her, using honeyed words in that moment, might not have softened her heart where my father’s supplications had left her cold. But an eight-year-old has no sweet words when gripped by fear. I sensed that I might lose my father and my home. The dread of such a loss overwhelmed me. And with the fear came a fury I could not master. I kicked my mother in the shin as hard as I could.
Her scream echoed in my ears as I ran out of the house and into the night. I did not go far. I was young but not entirely stupid. In the orchard behind the villa one of the old oak trees had died, leaving a hollow at the base of the tree trunk. I was just small enough to fit inside it.
It was Dionysius and Theo who found me two hours later.
“Did you hit Mother?” Dionysius asked, his voice high with shocked accusation.
“I did not. I kicked her. And I would do it again. She made Father cry.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“She did, I tell you. And she is going to take us to Athens in the morning. Except I am not going to filthy Athens. I am staying right here.”
“What are you talking about?” Theo said.
“Athens isn’t filthy. It’s beautiful. What’s wrong with visiting Grandfather for a week or two?” My brother grasped my arm and tried to pull me out. “Now stop making a goose of yourself and come apologize to Mother.”
I dug desperate nails into the side of the tree, my fingers wrapping themselves about the dried wood like vines. “It’s not for a visit, Dionysius! It’s forever.”
His hold on me slackened. “What?”
“She wants to take us away from Father. She told him so.”
The boys went quiet and looked at each other. Dionysius shrugged. “They had a fight. In a month it will blow over, and we will come back, and life will be normal.”
I stuck my head out of the hole. “Do you really think so?” Next to my father and Theo, there was no one on earth I trusted so much as my big brother. He was never wrong.
“I do.”
“Then why was Father crying? He didn’t think we were coming back.”
Dionysius hesitated. “Maybe he had drunk too much wine.”
“Have you ever seen Father cry, even when he is in his cups?”
Dionysius shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on, but you can’t spend the night here. There are wild dogs and hordes of mosquitoes. You have to come inside.”
It showed the measure of my brother’s agitation that he did not return straight to his Plato. Instead, he took hold of my hand and went to find our father in his tablinum, Theo trailing behind. Father was slumped in his chair, head buried in his hands. There was no sign of Mother, thank the gods.
Dionysius cleared his throat, and my father jerked. For a moment he stared at us, and then opened his arms, fell to his knees, and enclosed the three of us in an embrace. This was far from the first time we had found ourselves in the grip of his affection. That night, though, we felt the difference. Felt a sting of desperation, of choking anguish in those tender hands.
“Is it true?” Dionysius said, his voice faint. “Are you sending us away to Athens?”
“Sending you? Gods! Never. But you are going. Yes. You are going away from me.”
“I don’t understand. Surely you will come and fetch us when Mother has cooled?”
There was a rumble in his chest that made his massive torso shake. It took me a moment to realize that the giant of a man I had thought indestructible was weeping like a babe.
And I had my answer. He would not come for us. Mother would not allow him.
I made to fly, to hide again, but he held me fast. “No, child. Don’t run. It’s no use. She will only grow more agitated with you. You ought not to have kicked her.”
I frowned. “I should have kicked her harder.”
He laughed through his tears. “Well, save some ammunition for the coming months. You still owe her an apology. She is your mother, and you must respect her.”
“I won’t go.” A donkey had nothing on me. I could be more stubborn than a block of stone.
“You have no choice. You will go, you and Dionysius.”
A blanket of frost covered the ice that had become my heart. “What about Theo?” To lose my father and my home was like losing an arm. To lose Theo, too . . . You might as well plunge a dagger into me.
Father wiped a hand over his white face. “He needs to stay here, Ariadne. Life in Athens would be too hard for him.”
“No!” I screamed. “You can’t send me without Theo! I won’t go.”
“Be reasonable, child. Your mother barely tolerates Theo. I hate to think how she will treat him without me there to shield him.”
“I’ll take care of him,” I said. “I promise.” I was too young to appreciate how impossible it would prove to keep such a promise, too ignorant to know how selfish was my desire to cling to my foster brother. “I can’t go without him,” I pleaded, wet lashes sticking to each other, blurring my vision.
Father squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Turning to face Theo, he said, “You have a choice, Son. You can go with Ariadne, or you can stay with me.”
“I must choose?” Theo took a staggered step back. “Between you?”
Father caressed his head. “Dionysius will fare well in Athens, I think. He will bond with his grandfather; they are drawn to similar interests. He will have many companions. Be happy.
“Ariadne, on the other hand . . . Well, she could use a faithful friend like you, Theo.”
Theo reached out a hand and took hold of mine. The pressure of that small hand steadied my spiraling world.
Father gazed at us, his eyes swimming. “If you choose to go and keep watch over Ariadne, I would owe you my life, Theo. But you must know that in Athens you will not be treated as you are here. They will consider you little better than a slave. I have always treated you as if you were my own flesh. In my father-in-law’s house, you will not receive the same consideration.
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br /> “Whatever you choose, to stay or to leave, I will love you. The decision is yours. It is unfair to ask a boy of eight to make such a choice. Know this: if a day dawns that you change your mind, you write me, and I will bring you home. I give you my word as a Corinthian.”
For a moment Theo looked what he was: a frightened little boy. He pursed his lips and dashed the back of a hand against red eyes. “I will go,” he said.
His hair was in disarray, standing in spikes toward the front, revealing the silver streak he often tried to hide. I sometimes thought that it was a mark from the gods, an acknowledgment of the wisdom they had poured into him. At eight, Theo was more adult than most grown-ups I knew. Once he gave his word, his whole soul braced that commitment. Stolid and dry-eyed, he clung to me while I was dragged wailing and battling every step of the way to my new life in Athens.
To my knowledge, he never wrote my father to ask for help. Though in my grandfather’s house his life proved harder than mine, Theo did not complain. Once, after Grandfather beat him for some minor infraction, I demanded that he return to my father. He looked at me as if I had kicked him in the teeth. I never suggested it again.
I could not remember life without Theo. He came to us without warning on the day of my birth, like a lightning strike. I had been born in the middle of the night, too impatient to wait for a convenient time, apparently. When the sun rose, Father went to offer libations to the gods and to thank them for my safe delivery.
On his way to the public square, the outdoor court with its exquisite cream and blue marble, he walked past the bema, his mind wrapped up in his newborn daughter. A sound distracted him, a soft mewling that reminded him of a kitten. Tender from the recent experience of becoming a father to his second child, he turned aside to investigate and to feed the starving feline he imagined he would find.
In a corner of the deserted platform, under the shade of a column, he found a blanket made of high-quality wool, woven to perfection. Something within cried and wriggled, making my father rear back in surprise. Pulling the corner of the blanket aside cautiously, he found a baby, fresh to this world, judging by the size of him.
