He walked a short distance around the wall in both directions. To his right, the way was clear. He would follow this way around the wall and back to the plain. To the left the wall curved, and he could not see around it, but he suspected that not too far away there was a gate. Suddenly he heard a noise. He jumped, then froze. A man, clearing his throat just beyond the curve of the wall. Arion flattened himself against the rough stones and crept forward to a shrub that would conceal him as he peered through it. Several paces away from the wall someone had made a huge pile of dead branches, and a corpse lay sprawled on it. Arion recognized the white-clad dead body, the shorn head. Haleia. The pyre of unfruitful wood.
A man, his back turned, was standing guard. Heart pounding, Arion backed away until he was out of sight. Soundlessly he made his way back up the slope to the passage. He bent over Marpessa and listened to her shallow breathing.
“We made it through the tunnel,” he whispered. “But we dare not go on. We’ll have to wait, I don’t know how long, until it’s safe.” She made no sound. He did not know if she had heard. He crouched uncomfortably next to her. What seemed like hours passed. His legs cramped, then ached, then screamed silently in pain. His thirst was fierce. Once he heard a tiny sound from Marpessa’s lips, a broken word that sounded like “water”.
Twice he made his way out of the passage and around the wall to peer out at the pyre. It was unchanged, save that a different man sat next to it. The sun began to slip down the western sky. On his third trip down the wall he smelled smoke. When he crept forward stealthily, the pyre was alight, the flames a pale thin orange in the sunlight, four or five men standing around it. Arion backed away and said a silent prayer to the gods for Haleia on her journey to the underworld.
On his fourth trip down the wall, the pyre was a smoldering heap of ashes, and unguarded.
He returned to Marpessa and took her up in his arms. The only way to climb down the wall with her was to put her over his shoulder like a sack—as he had done an age ago, climbing up the same wall with Haleia. Easing his way backward down the steep slope of the wall, he felt sadness for Haleia and for all who had died such cruel deaths in the raid. For Marpessa, who had climbed so nimbly and so gallantly up this same wall with him that long-ago day, her steps springy as a mountain goat’s. He wondered if she’d ever be able to climb again.
At last he stood on the path beneath the wall. The sun was far down the sky, its rays deep gold, the shadows around him lengthening. He made a sling from his cloak to help him bear Marpessa’s weight. Then, awkward with his burden, he began the long walk back across the plain.
XVII
ON THE PLAIN
U
Darkness fell as soon as he left the citadel, making it impossible to see landmarks or a trail. He lost his way almost at once and had to guess at the general direction of the shore. His arms and back ached unbearably. He had to stop often and lay Marpessa on the ground while he fought off tiredness and waited for his breathing and heartbeat to slow. He was hungry and thirsty. There was water aplenty if he didn’t mind stooping to drink from muddy marshes, but his hunger raged. Each time he stopped, Marpessa lay inert and senseless. Even when he picked her up, shifted her, or lost his footing in rough terrain, she did not stir. Once in a while, just often enough to let him know she was still alive, she gave a small gasp or moan. Just when he thought his hellish journey would never end, he stumbled on a stream and followed its course by starlight. By the good will of the gods it was the one that led to his hut. When he reached it, he had no idea how many hours had passed. Staggering from exhaustion, he lowered Marpessa onto his pallet and drew the sleeping rug over her. Then he sat slumped on the floor at her side, too weary to even light a lamp.
A few moments later he bestirred himself to fetch water from the stream. Mostly by feel, he lifted her head, held the cup to her lips. She coughed and sputtered, then roused just enough for him to get a few drops down her throat before she sank into sleep again. Exhausted, he went to lie outside, wrapped in his cloak and an extra rug, for there was no room stretch out on the floor of his hut. He thought his fear for Marpessa would keep him awake, but he fell deeply asleep the instant his head rested on the ground. Once only he awoke in the night, straining for any sound through the thin wall. Should he look in on her? He was terrified of what he might find. He wanted to go to her, but his spent body would not obey his will, and he drifted into sleep again.
In the wan light of dawn he arose and crept into the hut. She lay so still that his own breath stopped. When he saw the rise and fall of her chest, his knees gave way in relief, and he sat on the floor at her side.
What to do next? She needed the care of a healer, but he didn’t know how to find one. He would have to care for her himself. But how?
He took up the water cup and held it to her lips. “Drink,” he commanded gently. She opened her lips and swallowed several times. He stopped when water ran down the sides of her face. Then he went outside to look around, belatedly worried about the marauders. But all was quiet. He had seen no sign of them yesterday or last night. They must have moved on, or returned to their homeland glutted with the spoils of Troy.
He washed in the stream, then ate some bread and dried fish from his store of food. There was little left. He would need more for Marpessa. He remembered the stalls he was building when he left to go to Troy. Maybe the owner of the stables would hire him back when Marpessa was better. The man’s farm was not far, no more than an hour’s walk north. I’ll go today and ask him, but I’ll have to leave her alone, he thought uneasily.
He went into the hut. She lay still except for her shallow breathing. He laid his hand on her cold, damp brow. “Marpessa, I must leave you, but I won’t be gone long.” She didn’t move or open her eyes, but he continued, “I’m just going to see about some work. I’ll come back as soon as I can. Here’s water if you need it.” He set the refilled cup beside her, though if she awoke thirsty she was too weak to help herself. Then he let himself quietly out of the hut.
“You!” The owner of the stables, a portly man in his middle fifties, looked at him with hostility. “Where have you been? You left yesterday without saying a word.”
Arion told a partial truth. “When the marauders raided Troy, sir, I had to go. I have a young cousin there apprenticed to a tanner.”
The horse breeder narrowed his eyes. “A cousin!” he said as if naming a noisome pest.
Arion persisted. “By the grace of the gods I found him, alive but grievously hurt. I brought him back to my homestead.”
“Well! You’d best get to work at once.”
“I can’t, sir. There is none but me to tend the lad. But when he’s better I can come back to finish my—”
“I don’t care about your cousin.” The horse breeder emphasized the word contemptuously. “I just need my stalls built.”
Desperation grew inside Arion. “I’ll come back in two days,” he said recklessly, praying that by then Marpessa would be well enough to stay alone.
“Why should I have you back at all? If some other handy lad comes along, I’ll—”
“I can work hard, sir!” Arion interrupted. “I do good work, you said so yourself.”
The man shrugged. “We’ll see. But no promises. Go! You’ve wasted enough of my time.” Turning away, he waved his hand in dismissal.
And Arion had to be satisfied with that.
When he returned, Marpessa was conscious but very weak. He gave her water and some bread, but she took only a bite of the food before she slumped back on the pallet. The small effort drained her. Her breathing, so much more labored than this morning, took all her strength. The rasping noise of her breath alarmed him. She met his eyes and clutched her side, letting him know that it hurt to breathe. Broken ribs, he thought. The nasty purple swelling in her temple was going down, the bruise yellowing around the edges. Her head wound, serious as it was, would mo
st likely heal. So would her bruised, swollen ankle. It was the injured ribs that filled him with fear. He had heard of men dying from such chest wounds, the pain slowly stealing their breath until they drowned from the water in their lungs.
What can I do? he worried. What would a healer do? He remembered a thing from the long ago days with the elderly couple who had been his first owners. When the man was ill with lung fever, the woman had propped him up in bed to ease his breathing. I can do that, he thought. He could also bind her ribs. A few years ago when a worker in Thrasios’s warehouse had broken a rib, a physician had wrapped a wide strip of cloth tightly around his chest.
Outside, Arion found some boards left over from building the hut. He wrapped them in his extra sleeping rug. It meant that he would sleep with only his cloak for a cover. But no matter. Inside the hut, he arranged the board behind her head.
“Come, little one! I’m going to move you. Best not sleep lying flat until you can breathe easier.” He gathered her in his arms, but as he pulled her up, her whole body clenched and she gave a cry. Quickly he arranged her in a reclining position against the backboard. As he straightened, she bit her lower lip, tears welling in her eyes.
He felt a stab of pain in his own chest. “I’m sorry, Marpessa!” But he would have to cause her further pain. He tore a long piece of cloth from his one extra tunic. When he turned back to her, her eyes were closed. “Can you sit up?” he asked. “I’m going to bind your ribs.” She stirred, made a vain effort, but didn’t have enough strength. So he pulled her gently forward and slipped the cloth behind her back. As he wound it around her ribcage, she made sharp gasps. Before he was done, she slipped into unconsciousness.
He watched her helplessly. Zeus and all gods, let her live! he prayed.
He did little that day but hover near her, offering water and small bites of bread whenever she roused. She seemed suspended in a dream state, opening her eyes at times, giving cries of pain whenever she moved. Arion wished he could breathe for her. He wished he could take away her pain. There was a potion made from poppies called nepenthes that he had heard could bring sleep and forgetting, but where and how could he get such a thing?
The second day by late afternoon her breathing was slightly easier. Seeing her asleep, he slipped out of the hut to fish in the stream. When he returned with two small fish, her eyes were open. She seemed stronger. He sank to his knees beside her in relief. “Look, Marpessa!” He held up his catch. “Fish for dinner.”
Her eyes fixed on his, suddenly wide and clear with a look that pierced him. “Haleia?” she croaked.
The question caught him unprepared. He turned away, fumbled for the goblet. “Here,” he said, “drink some water.”
She took a quick sip, then pushed the cup away. She sat up, catching his tunic in a weak grip. “Haleia,” she insisted.
“Dead,” he whispered helplessly.
“No!” Tears sprang from her eyes. She gave a sob that turned into a gasp, and soon she was coughing, crying, and holding her side. Her eyes showed agony.
“Marpessa, Marpessa!” His hands on her shoulders eased her back into a reclining position. “Rest, there is nothing you can do.” He heard the uselessness of his own words. But she subsided at last into some private nightmare.
He cursed himself for his bluntness. I shouldn’t have told her until she was stronger. As he sat by her side, his resolve, the strength and will that had driven his efforts to save Marpessa, drained away. He did not move for a long time. Then he looked down. The fish he had caught lay on the floor. I should cook them, he told himself. Still he didn’t move.
You must not give up. The thought sprang into his mind. He wasn’t sure where it came from, but he stood, full of determination. There was nothing he could do at this moment for Marpessa, but those fish should not go to waste. He went outside and began gathering twigs and wood to make a fire. He cleaned the fish, spitted them, and hunkered down to cook them over the flames. When they were done, he took them into the hut. Marpessa’s eyes were open.
“Here, eat a little.” He held a piece to her mouth. When she did not respond, he said, “Take it! Haleia would want you to get well, to live.” He held his breath. At last she reached for the fish with a weak hand. “That’s it, that’s it!” Excited by this small victory, he gave her a smile of encouragement.
Then he felt his smile vanish. Tomorrow he would have to leave for the whole day to work for the horse breeder—if the chance hadn’t already slipped from his grasp.
How would Marpessa fare without him?
XVIII
THE HERDSMAN
U
Marpessa shut her eyes, wishing she could shut out her thoughts. Haleia—dead. And why am I alive?
She struggled to remember. I wasn’t with her. I was on the street. The flaring torches, men shouting and running. The acrid smell of smoke. Monstrous barbarians wielding knives and cudgels. But how was I on the street? Useless tears burned through her closed eyelids. I left the temple. Just because I wanted a bit of freedom.
She felt a searing shame. I should have stayed by her side. I should have died with her. Now Haleia was dead, while she was alive—safe. I don’t deserve life.
Bit by bit her memory came back. I returned to the temple. Screams of the dying in the temple courtyard. The dead woman she had stumbled over. Had Haleia had looked like that in death? Too vividly she imagined Haleia’s last moments—mind-numbing terror and agony. Oh, Athena! she prayed, if only Haleia was senseless at the end and felt nothing! But it was most likely a vain prayer.
Faces appeared in her mind. All those she had known at Troy: the Head Priestess; the Mistress of Discipline; the priestesses who had walked past her and Haleia daily as they scrubbed the steps; the drudges who worked in the storeroom and the kitchen. She could see all their dead faces, hideous, twisted. And Haleia. Oh, Haleia! she sobbed. So much death could not be real. Yet the cold emptiness her heart told her that it was.
Pain brought her abruptly back to the present. Her head throbbed and her chest and side ached, though not as much as before. How weak and helpless she felt! Arion had left a cup of water and a round of bread at her side. She ate and drank to pass the time. Where was Arion? He’d said something about going to earn their bread. If he had left her here in this small hut, she was surely safe. But where was here? Somewhere on the Trojan plain, she guessed. How had he known to come to Troy and save her? How was he here at all? She had no answers, and she couldn’t think. Sadness swamped her. She wept for Haleia until she fell asleep.
Arion returned just after twilight. He looked in on her quickly, then went outside. She heard him rustling around. Soon she smelled wood smoke and something cooking. When he brought in rounds of bread, goat cheese, and a cup of barley gruel, she managed to sit up. At the welcome sight of his face, she managed a smile.
Arion lit a small lamp and set it on the storage chest so that he could see her. Her pale face was not as waxen as yesterday, and her breath no longer rasped and strained as much. Feeling hopeful, he set some food before her. She took small bites. For a while they ate in silence. Then she turned to face him. “Arion, how did you come to be here and not in Naryx?”
He thought about telling her how he had planned his escape, how he had swum from the ship, letting them think he had drowned. But this was Thrasios’s daughter and he had best be cautious. He only said, “I—I did not go back with the ship.”
She seemed to accept this, for she asked no more. Silence fell between them. Then she said, “What will happen to me now?”
“First you must get well. That will take time. Then, somehow, we’ll find a way to get you home.”
Marpessa smiled wanly but slumped down. Arion realized that she was exhausted from the effort of eating, talking.
“It’s late. You must rest.” Gently he pulled her up on the board so that her chest was raised. She drew a sharp, silent bre
ath but made no other protest. Her eyes started to close. “Sleep well! If you need me, I’ll be outside.”
But he did not leave at once. He sat by her side in the flickering light, thinking over the day. He had finished building the stalls for the horse breeder. Though well off, the man was a miser and gave Arion only two coppers and the bread, cheese, and barley meal that had been their supper. But Marpessa needed hearty food in order to heal, and Arion wasn’t sure when he would find more work. “Have you any meat?” he had asked.
The man shook his head dismissively. “Only enough for my household.” And that was that.
A muffled sound came from Marpessa. Arion turned swiftly. She was twitching and moaning, her face a grimace of fear. A nightmare! The gods knew he’d had some after what he had seen in Troy. How much worse it must be for her! He shook her shoulder gently. “It’s all right, Marpessa!” he whispered. “All’s well.” That quieted her. As her breathing grew even again, Arion’s eyes traveled over her face, her closed eyelids, the shadows of her lashes, the soft round chin and tender neck. Her skin would surely feel smooth, warm, soft to the touch. His hand came up, fingers reaching— No! He stopped, straightened sharply. He felt an ache deep inside. Think of something else, he told himself. He drew a deep breath and made his mind dark and blank. Yet he stood looking down at her for several moments before extinguishing the lamp.
Time to sleep. As he went to his bed outside, he thought, I must find work. Tomorrow. Find a way to earn some meat.
But several days passed during which he had no success. Those early days he did not want leave Marpessa any longer than necessary. She was breathing better, growing stronger. She could sit up and even walk around for short periods. But their food was almost gone, and though she did not complain, Arion knew she was as hungry as he. He had heard that people recovering from wounds needed meat. She could stay alone all day now if need be. More than his presence, she must have food to regain her strength.
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