This is perhaps the longest speech I have ever heard my stepfather make, and I have no idea how to respond. The silence stretches between us. I hear a pat-pat-pat, and the dog comes trotting out of the house. She sits and looks up at me. I look down at her, then across at my stepfather. Both stare back at me.
"All right," I say. "I'll go."
Chapter 10
WHEN MY COUSIN Maera was sent to Korinthos to marry an ally of our grandfather, King Pittheus, her mother wept and wailed for days as though Maera had died, and as though she didn't leave behind four sisters to occupy my aunt's time. When Kastor, the son of a fisherman, joined the crew of a merchant ship heading for far-off Lydia, his father threw a feast that lasted all night and into the next day, with wine and roast goat and sweet cakes for all who attended.
When I leave for Athens in search of my father, my mother looks up from where she's arranging dried flowers just long enough to smile and remark that it's a lovely day for a walk.
Konnidas accompanies me to the place where the path to the sea forks and turns into the road running northwest along the edge of the water and thence to Athens. He carries a pack, and before we part he helps me hoist it onto my back. "There's a warm blanket in there." He adjusts the straps and settles it firmly on my shoulders. "And enough food to last you for a few days, if you're careful, and as much water as I thought you could carry."
"Surely there are springs leading down to the sea." I busy myself tightening the buckles and hope he doesn't hear the catch in my voice.
"Maybe. Maybe not. Can't be too careful." My stepfather looks searchingly at my face. "I have tried to be a father to you, Theseus. When I first arrived at your house and you threw rocks at me—remember?" I shake my head. "Oh yes, you were quite the little defender of your home and your mother. I took no offense, and I convinced you that I was harmless. When I stayed, it was as much for your sake as your mother's." At my raised eyebrows, he breaks into one of his rare grins. "All right, then, almost as much. I've loved you as I would have loved any son of my own, and I know that this journey is necessary to you. I just ask that you not forget us."
This speech is so unexpected that I have nothing to say beyond, "I never will." A swift embrace, and he thrusts a small pouch into my hand, and then I'm on the road.
The day is chilly, and I know that as I near the sea it will only grow colder. In the weeks I've had to wait for the winter storms to end, the spring has drawn closer but warmth has proven elusive. I'm glad for the cloak that Konnidas bought me, even though my mother pouted when she saw it and accused him of thinking that her weaving wasn't good enough for me (she was right).
I carry the rotten sandals in my pack. My father's sword is belted to my waist, the side with the gold figures toward me so that their gleam won't attract the eye, and the greed, of anyone I might encounter on the road. It slaps against my thigh at each step with a reassuring sound. I'm not expecting trouble, but you never know.
"Why don't you take a boat?" Arkas asked me when I said that I was going to Athens. "It's so much faster."
"Safer, too," said one of his dull-witted friends, unwittingly showing me the honorable way out.
"Do you think I'm a coward?" I asked, feigning astonishment. "Of course I'm going by the overland route. More adventure that way." So, although they must have known that the real reason was that I had no money for boat passage, they had nothing to say.
I haven't gone very far when I hear a soft, high sound behind me. My hand flies to the hilt of my sword, and then I lower it, feeling foolish. It sounds like a baby. How cruel, I think. If someone exposes an unwanted child, they should leave it where someone might find it and care for it, not out here in this wasteland. The odds of a passerby finding an exposed child are slim, and the hope that someone might adopt such a child slimmer yet, but it's nothing short of murder to leave it where no one is likely to pass for weeks. I poke around in the brush. No baby. I'm about to look further, when I hear a rustling, and the dog that my mother has been caring for these last weeks bounds out of a thicket.
She runs to me on her long legs, her ears streaming behind her, and jumps up, her paws scraping at my waist, her mouth open in what looks like a smile, her tail wagging. If anyone were present I would be embarrassed at how glad I am to see her. I squat and rub her head, scratching her behind the ears, then cup her face in my hands and gaze into her eyes.
"What am I to do with you?" Her tail wags even faster. I consider. My mother has made no effort to train her, and even if she had, I don't know if the dog would obey if I told her to go home. I can't take her back myself; the last thing I want to do is turn around and go slinking into Troizena as though I've changed my mind. Some are expecting that, and the thought of the satisfaction on Arkas's ugly face as he sees me enter the village mere hours after my departure turns my stomach.
I wonder if the dog can keep up with me. She's large but young, and she already appears tired. She'll probably manage for a while and then will lag behind. I can't stand the thought of leaving her alone on the road, hearing her whine grow fainter as I continue on my way. Besides, I have barely enough food for myself, much less a large dog, and I don't carry any hunting weapons. I'm not much of a hunter anyway, and I don't think that she is any better.
I know what Arkas would do. He'd slit the dog's throat without thinking twice and leave her body there for the crows. But I'm not Arkas, and I look into the brown eyes and know that I can't do it. I straighten.
"Come on, then, dog," I say, and take to the road again, accompanied by the sound of her panting and her footsteps.
"I can't keep calling you 'dog.'" We walk for a while as I think. I've heard of a moon goddess called Artemis, a patron deity of the hunt. This Artemis supposedly once asked her father, Zeus, for six lop-eared hunting hounds. I glance down at the cream-colored dog whose ears flap as she paces next to me.
"Artemis," I say. She looks up, still wearing what appears to be a smile, and wags her tail. I shrug. She probably would have done the same if I'd said "seagull" or "cheese." It's as good a name as any, though, so Artemis it is.
The land we're walking over is unappealing—rocky, sandy, difficult to traverse. I am lost in my thoughts and at first don't notice that Artemis has fallen behind. I stop and wait for her to catch up, and as soon as she's reached me she flops down on her belly. Her sides are heaving, and I decide to take my midday meal here—our midday meal, rather.
I've just found a relatively rock less stretch of sandy earth and am rummaging in my pack when a loud snort and the tramp of many feet rushing in my direction makes me spring up, sword drawn. A shape bursts from behind a rock, and before I can focus on exactly what it is, it runs straight into my sword and then drops on its side, screaming.
Chapter 11
I'M SORRY," I say for what feels like the thousandth time. "I didn't mean to kill your pig. I didn't even know it was a pig. I was just holding my sword up at the ready, and it ran right into—"
"She," the old woman says.
"I'm sorry—she?"
"You keep saying 'it.' My Phyllis wasn't an it. She was a she."
At least, that's what I think the crone says. She's missing most of her teeth, and her words come out somewhere between a mumble and a whistle.
"Sorry," I repeat, feeling inadequate to her grief. I don't know what else to say or what to do about the pig, which lies motionless between us.
"A dozen piglets at each farrowing." She ignores my apology. "Most of them would live to grow up, too, and make fine eating."
I wish she hadn't mentioned eating. I look at the pig and mentally carve it—her—i nto chops and loins, into fat cheeks and delectable trotters. My stomach rumbles. The old woman looks at me indignantly, and even Artemis lays her ears back as though my hunger, in the presence of this tragedy, is in bad taste.
I end up giving the old woman the blanket that Konnidas packed for me. She is so pleased with it that she becomes friendly and talkative, even recommending an inn farthe
r up the road where I'll be able to sleep in exchange for one of the small pieces of silver from the pouch my stepfather pressed into my hand as I left.
I trudge along the seaside path, first thinking that I should save the silver, then reminding myself that I've been forced to give up my blanket and that the late-winter night is sure to be chilly this close to the water.
The inn is farther on than the old woman said, and it's not much more than a shack, but the old man sitting outside of it chewing on laurel leaves is hospitality itself. "Welcome!" he cries, hauling himself to his feet. He's skinny and wrinkled, and he leans heavily on his staff.
"Sit, grandfather," I say respectfully, but he ignores me.
"Just in time for supper!" he says. "And then you shall have the finest bed in Hellas. What brings a young gentleman so far out into the country?"
"Actually, I'm on my way to—"
"Come in!" He practically shoves me through the doorway. A fire burns in a pit in the middle of the floor, the heavy smoke barely drifting through the hole in the roof. "Sit here." He points at a three-legged stool very like the one that Konnidas must be sitting on at this moment, back inTroizena. He reaches into a bucket and pulls out a fistful of wriggling silver fish, which he proceeds to thread onto long, thin pieces of wood that have been soaking in a barrel next to the fire. He sprinkles the fish with herbs and pops them directly onto the hot coals. They sizzle and send up pungent smoke. After a minute, he turns them, and then he picks up a stick by its end and hands it to me.
I suck the small, salty bodies off the warm twig and wonder if I've ever eaten anything this good. The old man watches me with a satisfied grin, and when my belly is full he takes the three sticks I've emptied and pops them back into the barrel.
"Now, sir, if you're ready for bed?" I look around.
"Where?" I ask.
"Why, right there!" He points to a kind of platform raised about knee height from the floor. There's a sleeping-pallet on it. "Most comfortable bed in Hellas." He puffs out his chest like a dove. "Raised off the floor out of the way of drafts, and to keep the bugs away. Not that there are any bugs here," he adds a little too quickly.
I don't care if the mattress holds a herd of lice the size of sparrows. I'm suddenly so tired that I nod my thanks and tumble into the bed. It wobbles, and I fling myself upright, gripping its edges. I've never slept off the floor before (it has never occurred to me that you could sleep off the floor), and I feel as exposed as if I were on a mountaintop.
"Sorry, sir!" He shuffles forward, a wicked-looking blade in his hand. "If you'll step down for a moment?" I'm only too glad to comply, and he hacks off the bottom of one leg and tests the balance of the bed. Now another leg is too long. He trims that one, too. He tests it again, and the bed is still unstable. I'm about to tell him that it doesn't matter, that I prefer a pallet on the floor, when he's finally satisfied. "There's always one either too long or too short," he says as I settle myself in cautiously. "But once they're even, there's no more comfortable bed—"
"In Hellas," I finish for him. "I know. I thank you."
And while he's thanking me back I fall asleep, with Artemis curled on the floor beneath my head.
Chapter 12
TELL MY FRIEND here what you just told me." The guard's pimply face indicates that he is no older than I am, and the mirth that stretches his mouth wide makes my hand itch to strike him. Artemis senses my anger, and a low rumble issues from her long throat. Instead of punching the palace guard, I drop my hand to her head. She falls silent, but I can feel that her every muscle is quivering.
I turn to the older man indicated by the youth. "I'm the king's son," I repeat. "I've come to meet him and to take my place at his side."
"The king's son?" The heavyset man doesn't seem as amused as his companion, but he doesn't move from his spot in front of the door, where he's planted like a tree trunk.
I'm tired. I want to go in and meet the man who supposedly sired me. I'm filthy and I'm hungry, and Artemis is even more worn out than I am. The trip was uneventful, except for the pig that I killed the first day out. A few days later I met a man I thought was a thief, but since I carried nothing of value with me except my sword and my hand rested on its hilt during the whole of our short conversation on the edge of a cliff, I'd had nothing to fear from him.
I should be disappointed by this lack of adventures, but secretly I'm pleased to have made it to my destination in such a short time and with no injuries or loss of more of my meager property than the blanket I had given to the pig-woman. I finished my food quickly, though, and I'm hungry. I can feel Artemis's ribs through her thick coat.
And now that I've come all the way here, and when the man I seek is finally just on the other side of the door, this officious boy and his large friend are blocking my entry. The injustice of it swells my chest, and I want to shout at them. I know it would do me no good and might cause them to throw me out in front of all the people passing on the wide street.
The older man pulls thoughtfully at his lower lip. He lets go of it and it snaps back into place. "What makes you think you're his son, boy?" His tone isn't unfriendly, and even Artemis seems to relax a little.
"He left me something. He wanted me to come to him once I found it."
"Oh, so he left you something, did he? What was it, a golden crown?" The pimple-faced boy's sneering voice is the sardine that broke the pelican's beak, and before I know what I'm doing, I haul back and punch the smirk off his face.
A big hand claps me on the shoulder. I wince, resigned to being tossed out, but instead the hand is steering me forward in a friendly way. "You've just earned yourself entry into the king's chamber." The big man chuckles and pushes the door open. "I've been wanting to do that ever since the oaf joined the guard service. You'll find the king and his lady having their dinner. And boy"—his voice turns serious, and I glance at him, not sure I can believe what I'm hearing—"be careful of the queen. She's a tricky one." He thrusts me forward, and I find myself on the other side of the door.
I'm too dazed at the sudden turn of events to wonder what he means. The chamber is larger than any room I've ever seen before and is so lovely that I can't take it all in. I see a gleaming stone floor laid out in an intricate pattern of blue and red and white and green. The ceiling is open above a pool in the center of the room. White flowers float on the smooth surface of the clear water, and all around the edge of the little rectangular pond, caged birds are singing.
For a moment, I can't make out any people. Then I realize that the men ranged at the far end of the room are not statues, as I first thought, but guards. In the middle of the group is a low table of white stone, and two people are sitting at it on heaped-up cushions, eating something that smells lovely and popping little bits of whatever it is into each other's mouths.
They look up as I approach with Artemis close by my side. I hope that my stomach doesn't growl at the sight of the roasted songbirds and olives and fresh bread piled on platters. The woman, plump and rosy as a baby, is the first to speak. "What a lovely dog!" She reaches out her chubby hand, and Artemis moves closer, and then stretches her long neck and sniffs the woman's fingers politely, her plumed tail waving.
"Thank you, lady." I feel awkward. I don't know how to address her, not certain who she is, though I suspect she is the queen. Artemis, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease as she goes from the woman to the man, who is also round and smiling.
"Who might you be?" the man asks.
I try to frame my answer. Finally, I squeak, "Theseus" and stop. A proper introduction includes at least the father's name, if not the grandfather's, and so on as far back as the speaker knows. They both smile and nod to encourage me, and I manage to stammer, "Son of Aethra." Somehow, I forgot to ask my mother the name of the king, and in any case I feel shy about using it until I know where I stand. They continue smiling, knowing as well as I do that one who introduces himself by giving his mother's name is the son of an unmarried woman. I blurt out,
"Son of Aethra and of the king of Athens."
"Dear me," the woman says, turning to her husband. "Is this another one of yours?"
"Another—another one?" I sputter.
The man seems unperturbed. He tilts his head to one side and looks at me. "Could be," he muses. "He does have something of the look of the House of Aegeus."
The woman nods. "He does indeed. He puts me in mind of Hippon, don't you think? The king's nephew," she explains to me. "He's a nice boy, very strong, broad in the shoulders like you."
My head is whirling. "My mother—"
He frowns. "Who did you say your mother was?"
"Aethra."
The king looks puzzled.
"From Troizena," I explain. "She's the daughter of King Pittheus."
He shakes his head. "I'm sorry, boy, but I don't remember. It must be a long time ago. How old are you, anyway?" Without waiting for an answer, he picks up his cup and drains it, then gestures behind him at a servant, who hurries to pour dark wine into it.
"Sixteen," I say, but he has turned his attention back to his meal.
"Have some wine, dear." The queen passes me a brimming cup.
I begin to feel desperate. It appears the king doesn't believe me. "You left me something." I pull the sword out of its sheath. "You put this and a pair of sandals under a rock, and you told her—"
"Now, that sounds familiar!" he cries. He holds out his hand and I give him the weapon. "Ah yes, my old sword. The boulder by the path! I tipped it over on top of this sword and a pair of sandals. You have the sandals, boy?" I tug the straps of my pack and pull out the rotten things. I pass them to him, and he beams. "Move aside, dear," he says to his wife. "Make room for my son—what did you say your name was?"
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