DAUGHTER OF SPARTA: CHAPTER SEVEN
KRISTEN LEPINE
HISTORIC HEROINES PUBLISHING
www.historicheroines.org
Copyright © 2016 by Kristen LePine
All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval systems, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher.
Requests for permission should be addressed in writing to Historic Heroines at [email protected]
SEVEN
Gorgo and Perseus walked in awkward silence down the path toward the city of Sparta. Fields of crimson anemone carpeted the sides of their route, but Gorgo barely noticed. She felt uneasy being alone with the young barbarian who came to her in a dream. Who wanted to murder Medusa. She recalled what he said before aiming his sickle at the gorgon’s neck: “You are our last hope. Our realm is threatened, and it is only the power you possess that can stop this war.”
Perseus finally broke the silence, jolting Gorgo from her inner world, “Adonis’s windflower also grows in Miletus, but they are usually shades of purple – often lilac.”
Gorgo looked around, taking in the colorful meadow.
“I have heard the delicate flowers either ward against evil or signify a bad omen, which do you believe?” he asked, straining to make conversation.
“Neither,” Gorgo replied. “I don’t believe in superstitions.” Although that wasn’t wholly true, she didn’t want to share that with the stranger. “Anyway, the wind never lets them remain for long.”
Just beyond the red sea of anemones, stocky fig trees grew in long, neat lines. Helots moved between the straight rows picking the heavy purple fruit that hung toward the ground. Jay birds squawked along the tree line reaping their own harvest that grew at the leafy canopy. Perseus seemed very intrigued. “Looks like a bountiful crop,” he said, awkwardly continuing the struggle to force polite conversation.
Gradually, the dirt path became cobblestoned, and mid-morning activity along the road grew as they drew closer to the city center. They ambled past the crowded agora where rows of vendors displayed their wares. Gorgo pointed out the bouleuterioun where members of the Gerousia assembled regularly. It was a simply stone structure with steps leading up to the columned entryway. There, a group of young girls practiced a dance routine as their instructor stood nearby clapping out the rhythm. The familiarity of the scenery started to ease Gorgo’s apprehension. This is my great city, and these are my proud people; I am safe here, she thought starting to relax.
“What would you like me to show you of our city today?” Gorgo dutifully inquired.
“I would love to see your Acropolis. Perhaps there is a storyteller we can listen to on the steps of the Senate building,”
“A storyteller?” Gorgo asked surprised by his request.
“When I was last in Athens, I went to the Acropolis and listened to an old mystic captivate a crowd with his outlandish ideas. He spoke so emphatically that all were convinced of his veracity. He could have said anything, anything at all, and everyone would have agreed. It was a sight to behold.”
“What was his idea?”
“I don’t even recall. What struck me was his passion – his utter dedication to an idea. I would love to witness something like that again,” he reminisced.
“I can certainly show you to the Acropolis, but I doubt we will encounter any storytellers. We might be able to catch a wrestling match nearby.” Her voice lilted upward invitingly, and Perseus gave her a bewildered look before shrugging. “Anything is better than back there,” he nodded backwards in the direction that they had come from.
“But your uncle sounds very much like the storyteller who enchanted you?”
“My uncle can certainly spin a good story,” Perseus agreed without enthusiasm. “Tell me,” he said changing the subject, “How do you even know about Anaximander’s Map?”
“I read about it.”
“But how and why? You’re a girl.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I’ve just never met a girl who could read before; who was interested in such things. Girls your age are usually married, tending to their husbands and family.”
“Married already!” Gorgo choked. “I’m sure I will be when the time comes, but first I must be educated.” Gorgo had heard that girls were raised differently in Sparta than in other places around the Peloponnese, but it still astonished her never the less. “Where you are from, what do girls do if they are not doing lessons?”
“Weave, I guess. My mom is always weaving.” Perseus replied.
“Weaving?” Gorgo scoffed.
“I take it you don’t like weaving?”
“I don’t know how. It’s a helot’s job to weave.”
Perseus frowned, “There are very few slaves in Miletus or anywhere in the Persian Empire. Zoroastrians do not believe in the oppression of others.”
“Zoroastrians? I thought you were Greek – Ionian your uncle said – but you dress like a Persian. What exactly are you?” Gorgo blurted, unintentionally brusque.
“I like to think that I am all three. I am a follower of Zarathustra, living in the Persian Empire with Ionian lineage.”
“Who is Zarathustra? Is he a god?”
“No, he is a religious philosopher of great wisdom. Humata, Hukhta, Huvarshta, which means: Good Thoughts, Good Words, Good Deeds,” Perseus exclaimed. “His followers are called Zoroastrians and we believe there is only one god, Ahura Mazda, the Lord Creator, who has given us the right of free choice, and the responsibility of the consequences.”
“One god?” Gorgo gasped at the blasphemy. “Preposterous! How could a single god possibly preside over all of creation?” The sun, the moon, the harvest – war, peace, birth and death? It’s not logical!” She had now abandoned all propriety as she bristled at the absurd ideas of this mysterious foreigner.
Perseus stopped suddenly and turned sharply to confront her, but just as he was about to speak, a terrified scream interrupted their exchange. Startled, they both turned west toward the riverbank, then Perseus abruptly ran off toward the sound of distress. Gorgo immediately followed, with her long strides easily keeping pace.
As they ascended a hilltop and moved down toward the river, they found a woman kneeling at the edge of the rocky riverbank yelling frantically.
“Hold on, Nico. Don’t let go.”
Gorgo followed the woman’s gaze and spied a small boy surrounded by the rushing river water clutching with both his arms and legs the branch of a fallen tree that was partially submerged in the rapids between the shore and a large boulder. Water raced all around and over his small form causing the terrified boy to choke as he struggled to keep his head above the surface.
Perseus immediately ran to the river’s edge at full speed. Noticing his hasty approach, the woman turned to him and shouted, “Please sir, help my precious boy! He’s going to drown! I only turned my back for a moment and river took him. Help him, please!”
Without hesitation, Perseus pulled off his tunic and kicked off his sandals, reassuring the mother, “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Gorgo stopped a few paces behind. Time seemed to slow as her analytical mind rapidly assessed the situation. The boy was stuck in a precarious place, but Perseus didn’t care; he was getting ready to dive into the river head first.
“Stop!” Gorgo shouted with an inner force that surprised herself. Surprised, Perseus and the woman turned to her. “You can’t just jump in.”
“I grew up by the sea,
I’m a good swimmer,” Perseus waved her off and turned toward the water.
Gorgo leapt forward and grabbed his arm holding him back. “The Eurotas River does not care if you are a good swimmer or not. Jump in and you’ll make a bad situation worse. That branch is ready to give. If you add any weight, it will be swept down the river and you and the boy will be dragged along with it.”
“Please help my boy,” the mother begged, her eyes wild and desperate.
“We have to do something,” Perseus urged kneeling down to get a better look at the boy.
“We will. We just need to be smart,” Gorgo said looking around at a cluster of ash trees that bent toward the river.
The boy screamed louder, as the branch he hugged loosened and some debris that collected around him escaped and was swept up into the white water.
“The water is going to take him,” the mother panicked kneeling next to Perseus, grabbing his arm. “Please, please go, help my Nico.”
“Hold tight, Nico,” Perseus instructed. “We are going to get you out of there. Be brave.”
“Yes, be brave,” the mother echoed.
Gorgo pulled out her dagger from her thigh holder and ran toward the cluster of ash cutting away a grouping of vines that clung to the trees. “We can use this for rope,” she shouted over her shoulder, beginning to wrap the vine around her waist.
Perseus spotted a piece of abandoned fisherman’s netting on a nearby branch and plucked it off. “We can use this too,” he said handing it to Gorgo.
“Excellent,” she agreed taking it and tying it to
Daugher of Sparta: Chapter Seven Page 1
