The search for burgundy olives took me back into the agora and all the way across the market district. I gave up on finding any and set out on a personal errand.
On my way, I passed the palaestra, where wrestling was taught and practiced. Men were hard at work training in the open arena. Every two years, teams of the best wrestlers from the First, Second, Third, Fourth, and Fifth Houses gathered here to compete. I knew the basic rules of the game, but women weren’t permitted into the palaestra.
I arrived at the fisherman’s booth. Buckets of oysters, clams, and mussels were packed around the lean-to, and silver fish hung from the canopy. The wind slapped the sign against the tent: OCEANUS’S CATCH.
The fish merchant’s face lit up. “Bronte!”
“Close. I’m Althea.”
“With your velo on, you look just like your sister.”
Bronte and I were both tall, but the similarities stopped there. She had hazel eyes; mine were gray. Her hair was blonde; mine was coppery auburn. “It’s good to see you, Proteus.”
“What can I get you?” he asked. “I have fresh octopus, caught this morning.”
I held down my velo as another gust pushed past us. “I was wondering if you know of anyone selling a boat.”
“I’m selling a boat myself. Who’s the buyer?”
“Me.”
Proteus stepped out from behind his booth to whisper, “Women cannot own property. You know that.”
“Then I won’t tell anyone I’m a woman.”
His belly shook with laughter. “A blind man wouldn’t make that mistake.”
“What if he was a very kind man who sold the best fish in all of Thessaly?”
Proteus’s lips spread wide. “For you, I’ll make an exception. I’ll leave your name with the harbormaster. Do you sail?”
“Not yet.” I passed him the pouch of coins. “Two hundred silver pieces.”
“The boat is worth two seventy-five,” he said.
My shoulders drooped. I had nothing else of value except Mother’s arm cuff. Cleora had inherited our mother’s lyre, Bronte her necklace, and me her arm cuff with the lioness heads. They were her most precious possessions, but Mother would never want me to value a bangle above my sisters.
“What’s this worth?” I asked, sliding the cuff down my arm.
Proteus gestured for me to stop. “Keep it. I owe your mother and father a favor for helping my daughter a long time ago.”
People hardly ever mentioned my father, Tassos. He passed away when I was very young. Cleora and Bronte remembered some things about him, but very little. “What did my parents—?”
“Just a moment.” Proteus left to assist an older woman who was grousing about his selection of shellfish.
A gust of wind plucked harder at my velo. I held it down while I waited for Proteus, but the day was growing late, and now I had everything I had come for except the olives. I signaled goodbye to him and started back to the tavern. My whole body hummed, and my steps lightened. I bought a boat. I practically danced down the road and to the courtyard ahead where people surrounded a stage. A group of actors was performing a reenactment of The Fall of Uranus. They were at the part when the Almighty accepts the adamant sickle from Gaea. The painted ceramic sickle the actor held was a mediocre representation of adamantine, a rare, very hard, lusterless metal. The God of Gods’ brothers—Coeus, Crius, Hyperion, and Iapetus—were represented on stage by other actors. Only the sixth brother, Oceanus, who refused to join them in overthrowing their father and was now an outcast because of it, was not depicted.
The actors’ masks reflected each Titan brother well: Coeus, the intellectual, in the likeness of an owl; Crius, the seer, covered in stars; Hyperion, the light of heaven, with the face of the sun; and Iapetus, the spear of mortality, in a warrior’s helmet. To the delight of the audience, the four brothers held down their father, the sky, from the earthly pillars where they dwelled—north, south, east, and west—while the Almighty swung the sickle and castrated Uranus. He sank to the ground in agony, and the Almighty lifted the sickle over his head. The audience cheered.
My insides coiled into a hard knot. This was how our ruler came to power, through treachery and violence and bloodshed. Eons ago, when this dethroning took place, the Almighty was known by another name, a name no longer spoken. Members of the First House staged reenactments year-round, and while this production was decent, the real play took place during the First House Festival when Titans from all over the world gathered in the city to celebrate the Almighty’s triumph. In a fortnight, Othrys would be flooded with visitors come to feast and drink and make merry.
The crowd shifted, and my view of the stage was lost. I pushed past the audience to a white tent I had never seen before, half-hidden in an alley of the ramshackle buildings. The sign out front read, ORACLE. WHAT WILL FATE BRING YOU?
The vestals didn’t believe in oracles. Matron Prosymna said our fate could only be found in giving our lives in service to Gaea. My mother, though, believed that fate itself directed us. At times, the night of her death was muddled and too painful to recall, while other times, I remembered her words with stark plainness: Your destiny is to guide and protect your sisters.
A bearded soldier with long hair ducked out of the oracle’s tent. He carried a basket, looked left and right as if checking to see whether anyone saw him, then lumbered away.
Another gust swept around me, yanking at my clothes and velo. I grabbed my mask as the bands loosened, catching it before it slid off. Unable to undo the knot without removing the mask, I tied another to secure it and walked back to the donkey.
As I packed my goods into the saddlebags, another gust pushed my mask askew again. I dropped the sack to catch it, and the figs fell out, plunking around my feet. I bent down to pick them up with one hand, my other on my velo, but a big fist grabbed the figs first and stuffed them back into the sack.
I glanced up. The soldier from the oracle’s tent rose to his full height, a good deal taller than me. His wide shoulders tapered to a trim waist and strong legs. A short brown beard covered his sculpted jaw and pointed chin, making it difficult to determine his age, though he was definitely older than me. The soft ends of his hair curled around his ears, framing his face and accentuating his amber eyes. He looked familiar, though I couldn’t recall from where.
“Let me help you,” he said, stepping behind me.
He untied my mask without permission. The knife was in the saddlebag on the other side of the donkey, too far out of reach. My heart thundered as he retied the strings and backed away. I lowered my hands, my velo securely in place.
“Divine day,” he said in farewell as he picked up his basket of burgundy olives.
“Wait. Where did you find those? I’ve been looking all over. Every merchant I asked is out of them.”
His eyes tensed at the corners, then he held out the basket. “Take them. They’re yours.”
“You don’t want them?”
“They were given to me.”
“If they were a gift, you should keep them.”
His lips lifted coyly. “I think they were meant for you.”
I didn’t understand what that meant, but if he was giving me the olives, I couldn’t refuse. “I’ll pay you for them.”
“They’re a gift, from me to you.”
Paying him for a gift would be an insult, so I accepted the basket with a murmured thanks and packed it away.
The soldier’s keen gaze darted down the length of me, then back to my face. How did I recognize him? “You should return to your husband,” he said.
“I’m not married.”
“Then you’re betrothed?”
“Oh, I’m never getting married.”
“But you’re tagged.”
My hand darted to the back of my neck, my U-shaped scar.
“I apologize for the overfamiliarity,” he said. “I noticed it while I was tying your velo.”
Discussing my tag with a soldier was the last
thing I wanted to do. “I’m a ward of the Guild of Gaea.”
“You’re a vestal?”
“No. I live with them.”
He gave a confused frown. “You’ll never marry, yet you aren’t a vestal?”
The sides of my mouth flattened. Those were a woman’s only options: surrender to the gods or to a man.
An army officer stepped out of the tavern beside us. At the sight of his ratlike face, I turned away. He was the soldier who’d stolen my half-Titan sister: Brigadier Orrin—Ratface—General Decimus’s right-hand man. The back of my neck began to itch. I half expected Decimus to exit the tavern, but no one else came out.
“Theo,” the brigadier called. “What are you doing here? I thought you were working.”
“I came for a drink after my shift, sir,” answered the soldier who had given me the olives—Theo, apparently.
“You should have told me you were coming,” Ratface said. “I would have waited. It’s been too long since we’ve shared a cask of wine.”
Theo gave an uncomfortable swallow that he covered with a sideways smile. “An oversight on my part,” he said. “I understand if you don’t have time for one now.”
“I do have to get back . . .” Brigadier Orrin slapped him on the back. “But I have time for one more.”
Theo cast me a farewell glance over his shoulder, and the two men ambled into the tavern.
I mounted the donkey, my stiff movements unhurried despite my urge to flee, and rode toward the city gates, with one eye on the lookout for Decimus. Only after I was far down the road and away from Othrys did I exhale. And still, the scar on the back of my neck itched.
3
The temple lights shone in the soft late-day sun. I returned the donkey to his pen and hefted the supplies to the kitchen, my back and bottom aching. Dozens of loaves of fresh bread were set out on the corner table, ready to be put in baskets. Acraea was busily straining yogurt at the worktable while the slaves gossiped and pretended to sweep. A group of vestals was just now sitting down to roasted lamb and honey-hearted cups of wine.
The vestals quieted as I entered, took off my velo, and untied my hair. The vestals always ate first, before the slaves. My sisters and I didn’t have set mealtimes. Though we sometimes dined with the slaves, we usually waited until all the chores were finished. That’s when we could finally convince Cleora to get off her feet for the day. Sometimes Bronte and I would eat first, then perform for Cleora while she dined. I would dance while Bronte sang silly ditties, and Cleora would beam. We saw her happy too seldom.
“Good, you remembered the olives,” Acraea said as I unloaded the wares I’d purchased.
“You have no idea how difficult those were to find.”
“Really? I suppose I did hear about a hard frost making them scarce.”
One of the slaves spoke up. “I heard about that from a maiden at the watering pool. She said Menoetius and Epimetheus got into some sort of argument over which of them had impregnated a woodland nymph. When it was discovered that Epimetheus was the father, Menoetius flew into a rage. The poor nymph fled to an olive grove to hide. Menoetius called down a terrible frost that froze all the trees, and the nymph, to death.”
That would have been good to know before I spent hours searching the market.
The sons of Iapetus, second-generation Titans, were often getting into squabbles that affected mankind. Menoetius, known for his rashness, and Epimetheus, known for his thick-headedness, once burned down an entire forest in a wager about which could catch a shooting star and throw it farther.
“Where are Cleora and Bronte?” I asked.
“Bronte hasn’t returned from the fields yet,” Acraea replied, her attention on the honeycomb she was crushing in a bowl.
“And Cleora?” I asked, scanning the room. None of the vestals would meet my gaze. The slaves were behind on preparations for tomorrow’s meals, half the pots still needed scrubbing, and more people had yet to be served supper. Bronte would stay out as long as possible before returning, but Cleora hardly left the kitchen until all the meals were finished and everything was tidy.
“I, ah, believe she’s meeting with the matron,” Acraea said, drizzling honey over the yogurt.
Cleora would not leave the kitchen unattended at supper hour unless it was important. I thought back to the morning. “Is this about me blaspheming? I apologized.” Not to the matron, but Acraea didn’t need to know that.
“I don’t think so? I believe they’re finishing her music lesson.”
Acraea’s vagueness poked at me. As second-in-command in the kitchen, she always knew where Cleora was and what she was doing. It wasn’t hard to keep track of her. She never left the compound.
“It’s a little early in the evening for lessons,” I noted. And why, if the matron was giving Cleora a lesson, didn’t I hear her lyre?
Acraea gripped the side of the mixing bowl, her knuckles paling to white. “Althea, don’t do anything rash.”
“Why would you say that? I’m not Menoetius, after all.”
Acraea waved her sticky hands about, mumbling indecipherably.
Something wasn’t right.
I started toward the stairs.
“The matron asked not to be disturbed,” Acraea called after me.
“During a music lesson?” I walked faster.
“This is what Cleora wants!”
I took the stairs two at a time, yelling so my voice would carry up the stairwell ahead of me. “Cleora, you’re needed in the kitchen!”
The gynaeceum where the women weaved and spun, and where the matron gave music lessons, was dark and empty. I marched down the hall to our bedchamber. No one was there either.
The matron’s chamber was at the far end of the corridor. I slammed through the door. Cleora lay on the floor in front of the hearth, seemingly unconscious. The matron held a red-hot poker above Cleora’s face.
I wrestled the poker from the matron’s hand. “What are you doing?” I yelled.
Matron Prosymna’s velo hid her face, except her frightened eyes. “Your sister asked for this. She was too afraid to do it herself.”
My whole arm shook as I held the fire poker over my head. I scoured my sister’s face for damage, but her pale skin was unmarked. “Be grateful you didn’t burn her, or I would have had to shove this down your throat.”
The matron gulped.
I tossed the poker aside and bent over my sister. “Cleora? Cleora, wake up.” Her arms hung from her sides. I shook her, but she didn’t stir. “What did you do to her?”
Matron Prosymna lifted her chin, her tone unapologetic. “She asked for a sedative.”
“You should have told her no! No to the sedative! No to the burnings!” I regretted putting down the poker. The matron appeared more afraid of me when I held it.
“I told Cleora I would take her to a nurse with experience giving chastity crosses, but you know her fear of leaving the temple.”
“Chastity crosses?” My voice broke to a scraggly whisper. “Those horrible scars have a name?”
“That’s what they call them in the city. Oh, quit judging, Althea. Practices such as these have been around since the beginning of time.”
“My mother didn’t believe in following practices just because others said they were acceptable. She taught us to think for ourselves.”
“You don’t know your mother as well as you think you do.” The matron shook her head and gave no further explanation.
“Cleora works her hands to the bone for this place, and this is how you reward her? You preach about loyalty, virtue, and restraint, but my mother was more of a follower of Gaea than you’ll ever be.”
Matron Prosymna removed her velo, uncovering her sharp sneer. “Stavra’s teachings were wrong.”
“Wrong?” I pointed at my drugged sister. “What you did here was wrong!”
“Cleora lives in fear. You would deny her peace of mind?”
“I would deny her unnecessary pain and a lifetime of
regret.” I gathered Cleora in my arms and hefted her upper half off the floor. Her lifeless weight sank against me, so I tugged her backward out the door, dragging her feet.
Matron Prosymna followed us to the threshold. “You aren’t children anymore. The guild cannot protect you forever.”
I threw a daggered glare at her. “Never come near my sister again.”
My arms and legs shook as I lugged Cleora down the hall and into our chamber. I lifted her limp body onto her bed, splashed her face with tepid water from the washbasin, and patted her cheeks.
“Althea?” she moaned, waking up and shielding her eyes. “Oh, my head.”
“You deserve more than a headache. What were you thinking?”
Cleora sank back into her pillow. “You wouldn’t understand.”
I kneeled beside the bed and took her hand in mine. “Scarring your face . . . ? Cleora, what would Mama say?”
“Mama might still be with us if she had chastity crosses,” Cleora whispered. “I don’t want to end up like her.”
“You won’t.”
“You can’t guarantee that. Not for me or yourself or Bronte or any other woman.”
“Cronus would have to come down off his mountain and fetch you himself,” I seethed. “Uranus is more likely to escape Tartarus.”
Cleora turned her head away and shut her eyes. “You shouldn’t speak the Almighty’s name. It brings ill fortune.”
“I will not be silenced, Cleora.” I scowled out the window at the mountain peak, the palace, and the city lights. After he overthrew Uranus, Cronus had demanded that he be referred to as “the Almighty” or “the God of Gods” and forbade the use of the name his mother and father gave him.
I stroked Cleora’s hair from her face. “We’ll be all right.”
“You cannot foresee the future, Althea.”
“No, but I . . .” I stopped myself from telling her about the boat, waiting until both my sisters were present. “I cannot guarantee what will happen, but I can tell you what will not happen. I vow Cronus will never have you.”
Wings of Fury Page 4
