It was the Persians who sailed waters untouched by the ravages of this storm. They sailed beneath the rays of the sun, on gentle seas. While Greece’s sons were tossed about on waves that threw their ships from trough to peak, a force greater than the mortal foes they battled.
It was a message for her.
Was Athena so angry that she could turn a blind eye to this? Would the Goddess take the lives of so many soldiers to punish her? Could she punish Medusa for a deed born of love?
She felt her heart drop with the ships as they slid into a trough from the top of a wave, towering twenty feet over them. One ship could not right itself, listing so far its sailors were thrown into the sea. She cried out, but it was lost to the angry call of the raging storm.
The sea was not controlled by Athena. The Goddess would not sacrifice these men; she loved her city too well. Nor would she willfully endanger those loyal to her.
This was Poseidon’s doing.
Her love had brought this about. And her fidelity to a mortal man would be the end of these Greek soldiers. The Gods, it seemed, would not intercede.
Her heart, her love, would die with them.
Ariston, tender and loyal, filled her senses. She could not lose him.
If she went to the temple…but there was no time. And Poseidon would not stop.
She had no time for sadness. He needed her help, her protection. She would do what she must to ensure he came back to her. She would fight for him the only way she could.
Forgive me, husband. She cried, a sob choking her.
A scream tore from her – carried on the wind – taking all of the air in her lungs. It was a wordless, sorrowful sound, tearing at her throat and staunching her tears.
She must cling to her resolve. For no matter how much she feared Poseidon, or the deed she must endure, she must bend to his will. There was no other way.
She closed her eyes, pulling an image of Ariston to mind. He was smiling as she cast the net into the water. His hair lifted in the breeze off the waves, his eyes sparkled in the sunshine. It steadied her, to think of him so.
She drew air deep into her lungs. “Poseidon!”
He was there before her instantly. His near colorless eyes regarded her with mocking amusement, while the muscle in his jaw tightened. “Did you call me, fair Medusa?”
She met his eyes, met his undisguised lust with only the slightest flinch. Her panic rose, choking her, so she nodded silently.
“Very well.” He reached for her, offering his hand.
She stared at his hand, at his long fingers and well-formed arm. To have the power he controlled. What would she do with such power? Would she grow jaded and use it to suit her purposes?
She turned her eyes towards the ships churning below, dismissing her fear – and her fury.
She placed her hand in his.
His hand was hard and cold. His grasp unbreakable, she suspected, though she did not try. His fingers seemed to undulate about her, free flowing yet molding to her. His touch was alive, rippling as the winter seas upon her skin. To the eye, he simply held her hand. But his coldness leached all warmth from her and chilled her to the bone.
He looked at their hands, joined, and smiled.
In that instant the wind calmed. Her cloak no longer whipped about her. The rain lessened, then stopped. The waves settled, falling flat and lifeless.
They churned anew, shifting against the Persians without mercy. Those waves that had toppled Athens’ triremes now towered over the Persian vessels with a mighty vengeance. Eight Persian ships were swallowed, two more driven to collide. So quickly he’d turned the tide on Athens’ enemies, with terrifying and immediate finality.
Poseidon had played with her.
As the sun broke through the grey clouds, Medusa thought she heard a cheer from the ships below.
Medusa took a steadying breath. Her heart would survive, if Ariston did. “You will protect them? Promise me you will keep my husband safe.”
He inclined his head, his cold hand tightened about hers. “And you will carry out your part of our bargain.”
She nodded once. She would not beg. She would not cower or tremble. She would be strong now.
“This is your fate.” His voice wasn’t harsh or angry. He spoke to her with the same cajoling tones one might use with a child. “Come with me now.”
Medusa turned to him, meeting his eyes. “I will honor our bargain, Poseidon. But I ask you a kindness.”
“You ask for more?” His eyebrow arched higher, but he waited.
“Let this be done in darkness… so that I might bear it more easily.”
Poseidon’s smile twisted, the muscle of his jaw tightening. “I could take on his form, Medusa, for you.”
“No, no. I beg of you.” She feared she would cry then.
His eyes narrowed as he lifted his hand and covered her eyes. Darkness found her, though she no longer felt his hand upon her. She blinked, for her vision was dark and cloudy. She jumped as his breath stirred the hair at her ear.
He whispered, “Then I will close your eyes, and keep them closed until I am done.”
###
Ariston felt the thrust of the sword, piercing his skin to bury itself in his chest. The blade was cold, slicing cleanly. The spurt of heat that followed, running down his chest, was his own blood. He grabbed for the sword’s hilt, but his combatant was faster. He pulled back, tearing the wound wide as the serrated edges came free. White-hot pain blinded him, but he fought through it.
His strength must hold.
He shook his head, narrowing his eyes. He must focus. His attacker would lift his blade again, Ariston was certain. And before he could wield his vile sword again, Ariston must overcome him and end this. He steadied himself.
His foes black eyes widened.
Ariston sneered, goading the man. “It will take more than your blade to kill me.”
As the Persian raised his sword arm, Ariston reached for him.
He grabbed the man about the waist and ran, slamming his opponent into the mast with the last of his waning strength. His attacker’s head bounced off the mast, the rewarding thunk jarring his bones. Ariston slid his short sword into the man, relaxing his hold only when the Persian went limp against him.
He waited, too weak to stand. No new sword bit into him, no fist gouged, or spear pierced. With no one left to fight, he felt the depth of his injuries. The wound on his arm was deep, bleeding freely. His chest wound made breathing difficult, but he did not linger over it.
He fought upright, swaying as he propped himself against the mast for support. He stared at the man he’d killed, and then shifted slowly to assess the rest on the ship. What he saw amazed him.
The rain, the thick sheets of freezing rain stopped, the wind died. The sun attempted to break through grey clouds, its rays shooting shafts of light onto the calming waters and the pitching deck of his ship.
The sight that greeted him, bathed in pools of white hot sunlight, was grim. The deck was littered with the dead and wounded. Some were Ekdromoi, but most were Persians. He shifted, but could not find the strength to push himself from the mast supporting him.
His lungs seemed to constrict and he drew a shallow breath. It did little to help, and he gasped.
A cry went up, catching his attention. He was not alone as he watched the sky. The grey-black cloud towering over them parted to the blue sky beyond. The tossing waves that had made defense secondary to staying afloat now rolled steadily beneath the ship.
The Persians lost the wind.
The closest Persian ship, whose men had swung aboard his own, dropped suddenly. The sea seemed to yawn, opening wide to ensnare the Persian vessel, before the water rose over the ship, pulling it beneath the water’s surface and out of sight.
He heard the cheers of his men.
“Poseidon is merciful,” one said.
“He’s come to our aid,” another declared.
The pain of his wounds paled in comparison to th
e anguish he felt. He knew what had saved him and his men. She had saved them… she had… His hands fisted and he bit back the cry as his mind and heart fought the truth.
For two days he’d tried to break through the ships that had circled him. For two days he’d pleaded with the Gods, begged for mercy, threatened his men and exhausted those at the oars.
But fate was against him. A Persian ship had caught them. And he’d had to fight.
Now the sun burst from behind the clouds, casting the blood-soaked deck in brilliant light. The sun’s rays poured over his skin and chased the chill from the air, but he began to shiver uncontrollably.
She’d sacrificed too much – for him. For the Gods. His lungs constricted.
His agony was unbearable. He’d failed her, leaving her alone with no protection.
Forgive me, lady.
Poseidon was not merciful. He deserved no tributes. He deserved nothing but the wrath of these men, earned by the God’s selfishness.
Anger surged through him. He stood tall, bracing himself on the ships rail as his fury stoked strength he thought he’d exhausted.
“Ariston?” Pamphilos said hesitantly, regarding him with unconcealed concern. “You fought more fiercely than any I’ve ever seen. I am honored to be at your side.”
Ariston stared at his second in confusion. Pamphilos could do little but stare at him, his chest. Ariston glanced down. His chest was grave indeed. The skin was flayed from his collar bone, his muscles split wide from the jagged teeth of the Persian’s blade. Blood seeped, sluggish and red.
He closed his eyes and cursed the Gods anew.
“I will not die, Pamphilos.” His face was resolved as he regarded his second. “There is too much left to be done.” His words were rough and unsteady, taxing him with the simple effort of speaking.
He would not die. The battle was far from over. He must make it back to his lady. He’d given his word.
A queer coldness flowed over him, lessening his pain. He gazed over the ships, relieved to see the Persians had turned away from Athens’ shore.
“Send me Chariton. He will stitch me up.” He could not bear the feel of Pamphilos’ hand upon his arm, offering support. He blinked, his sight blurring momentarily. “Take us back to Athens, Pamphilos.”
Pamphilos nodded, staring at his wounds. “Find your bed, for you can barely stand. I will send Chariton to you.”
Ariston nodded, moving slowly toward his sleeping quarters on the ship. He was shivering in earnest when he reached it. His hand, cold and numb, found his chlamys by his mat. He lay slowly, feeling heavy and oddly numb. He covered the wound on his chest, pressing against it with weakening limbs.
Though the words were garbled and his eyes fell closed, he heard his second speak. Pamphilos’ words reached him, a familiar soldier’s farewell. “May you find glory in Elysium, Ariston.”
Elysium must wait, Ariston thought before his eyes closed.
###
Medusa searched the ground, fighting tears. She was freezing, even covered as she was. But that mattered little. Her necklace was gone.
He’d pulled it from her neck.
The crescent moon was high, but its slight light did nothing to aid in her search. Instead, it cast long shadows across the ground –as if even Selene was scorning her.
She could not stop shivering, or catch the soft moan that slipped from her throat as her search became frantic. Every part of her throbbed, her body and soul ached.
“Medusa?” Stheno stood, a wraith-like visage illuminated by the glow of the lamp she held aloft. “We’ve searched these two days, to bring you home.”
She couldn’t speak, so she nodded.
“What ails you, sister?” Euryale moved closer, holding her lantern high above them.
The two stood, regarding her from the depths of their veils.
Medusa stared back, swallowing convulsively as she sought the words to explain. None came. Even if she had the words, she would never speak them.
“What has he done to you?” Stheno asked in a voice so full of despair that Medusa closed her eyes.
“What Poseidon always does, I fear.” Even Euryale spoke gently. “He is a beast.”
Their pity chafed her, forcing her to stand straight. But the effort cost her, making her sway on unsteady feet.
“Come with us, sister. Come home,” Stheno implored. “It is done. Father will welcome you back.”
“Life will go on,” Euryale added, not unkindly. “And you may…heal at home.”
Medusa shook her head. “I will wait for my husband.” She would not leave.
“Will he want you now?” Stheno spoke so softly that Medusa wondered if her sister had said the words or if she’d asked herself such a question.
“If he is alive,” Euryale said. “Many lives were lost to the storm and the battle…”
“He is alive.” Medusa’s voice rasped from her throat.
“Will he still want you?” Stheno repeated. She moved closer and draped her arm carefully about Medusa’s shoulders. “Come away. Let us find you a bed. Galenus has been searching for you, worried and fearful.”
Medusa shook her head. “Look at me. Will seeing me make all right for them once more?” Her voice hitched as she held tightly to what little control she still had.
“You look as you always do.” Stheno hugged her.
“Whatever injury Poseidon has inflicted, it is visible only to you. Galenus and Xenia will be pleased, in their own way.” Euryale shook her head, making the long veils sway. “Your suffering has brought joy to all else, sweet sister. You have fulfilled the will of Olympus.”
Medusa stared at her sister.
“Poseidon is appeased. Father will be appeased. An alliance will be forged. It is done,” Euryale shrugged.
“Come, Medusa, let us go…”
Medusa wrenched from Stheno’s grasp, horrified by the truth of her sister’s words. She’d done her duty once more. And, in betraying her husband, she’d likely once more earned favor with her father, her family and the Gods. It galled her, making a knot tighten and twist in her stomach.
None of them mattered.
Ariston was all now.
And she would wait for him.
Until he came home, she would have his gift. “I must find my necklace.” She stumbled once, but continued to peer into the darkness. “I will not go until I have it.”
“We will help.” Stheno moved forward, holding the lantern high for Medusa.
###
Zeus leveled a hard look upon Poseidon. “You are satisfied?”
Poseidon nodded. His brother need never know the truth.
Zeus sat back in his throne, a smile upon his face. “And was the bedding worthy of such a hunger?”
“She was lovely.” His words were curt.
More lovely than he’d expected. When she’d taken his hand, his delight knew no bounds. Yet she’d refused to look on him, refused to move beneath him – as she’d done on the beach with her man. No matter how soft his lips or how gentle his touch, she was unmoved. And his delight vanished.
Zeus laughed. “Would you still have her as wife?”
Poseidon felt anger rise within him.
Her body was undeniably soft and inviting. And his need had consumed him as he’d touched her. But the memory of her gasping and mewling beneath her husband had twisted his desire, had mocked him. His lust had turned to anger – an anger that overwhelmed him. No matter what caresses or strokes he bestowed upon her, she’d refused pleasure at his hand.
And if she would not sigh with pleasure, he would have her cry out for mercy. He had used her badly. But her tears, when they came, had been silent. She’d robbed him of satisfaction even then.
The things he’d done, he could never take back.
He should have killed her beloved husband. He should have drowned them both in their cove, and wiped away his longing. Instead she’d stirred his heart and made him want.
Not her. He knew the truth
of that now. Such love, to know the depth of real love for another and have it returned, was beyond his understanding. And yet, someday, he might deign to consider such a partnership. Someday.
“Would you, brother?” Zeus interrupted his musing.
Poseidon regarded his brother, noting the impatience on Zeus’ face. “No. Medusa belongs with the man she calls husband. Her heart is true and there is no room for another.” Though he thought her husband was a foolish man, leaving her behind to fight Athena’s battle.
“Then peace,” Zeus sighed. “Your lustful nature is most worrisome. Let us hope you will find a partner to calm the fire in your blood.” Zeus led him into the Council Chamber.
“You believe such a woman exists for me?” Poseidon laughed. He doubted one woman would be able to love him, and he her, with such true devotion.
Zeus regarded him with amused eyes, shrugging. “And Athena? Have you made peace with her?”
“Was there need to make peace?” Exasperation tinged his voice. “I cannot bed a woman, raise a storm or send an earthquake without needing to apologize to your daughter.” And yet, he would be forced to apologize to Athena if she discovered his latest exploit. Athena, chaste virgin Goddess that she was, would likely turn her spear on him if she learned that he’d found his pleasure with Medusa on the dais of her temple.
It was more than an insult, but his fury had been beyond control. He’d dragged her to the temple, intending to throw her at Athena, to expose her as a trollop. But watching her shiver upon the cold marble had stirred his blood again.
“Find a way to end this feud between you. It is unseemly.” Zeus spoke with authority, scowling at him in subtle warning. “She is a Goddess and worthy of your respect.”
“I will try, brother. I will.” He resented his brother’s superiority at times such as this. If he, Hera, and Athena had been successful in their attempt to overthrow Zeus – would Poseidon himself have become so insufferable and self-righteous?
But then he wouldn’t enjoy haranguing his niece. Controlling her was a chore he would never attempt. If their conquest had been successful, he would have been forced to kill Athena for the right to rule Olympus.
Medusa, A Love Story (The Loves of Olympus) Page 16
