The Rose

by Tiffany Reisz

  He cradled the kylix in his two large hands and closed his eyes. He murmured something in Greek, something strange and lovely, as strange and lovely as he was.

  “What did you pray?”

  “I prayed for you. That you would enjoy worshipping with me.”

  “Who are we worshipping?” she asked. “Eros?”

  “Each other, of course,” he said. Then he sipped from the cup and passed it to her.

  She stared at it, suddenly frightened.

  “I’ll protect you,” August assured her. “Whatever happens, you’ll be safe.”

  Lia took a deep long breath. She drank from the cup.

  The wine tasted a little dusty but still sweet and warm and potent. She set the cup carefully on the bedside table.

  “Now what do we do?” she asked.

  “Kiss me,” August said.

  “What?”

  “Kiss me. I dare you.”

  “What’ll happen when I kiss you?”

  “Good things will happen.”

  “Like what?” she demanded.

  “I’ll put my tongue in your mouth, for starters.”

  “And after that?”

  “You’ll see,” he said. “If you dare.”

  She wanted his tongue in her mouth. And she wanted to see.

  Lia dared.

  The kiss was wine-flavored and heady. August didn’t wait to keep his promise. He pressed his tongue into her mouth to open and deepen the kiss. Lia wound her arms around his neck. He kissed a path from her mouth to her throat, then put his lips to her ear.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said.

  “Of what?”

  “The sea monster,” he said. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Where?”

  Before he could answer, the bottom fell out of her world.

  PART TWO

  Andromeda & Perseus

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Lia stood in a room made all of stone, though how she got there she didn’t know. Stone floors. Stone walls. Stone firepit. Tapestries hung on the walls, but they were nothing like hers. The colors were bold and bright, but they were simple color blocks. No patterns. No people or creatures embroidered on them. Why was she dreaming about tapestries?

  She knew the answer. She wasn’t dreaming about tapestries.

  She wasn’t dreaming at all.

  The stone blocks of the floor were warm under her bare feet and she felt the grit of sand between her toes. In the distance, not far at all, she heard the rush and roar of the sea.

  Closer, far too close, she heard voices and footsteps approaching, sandals on stone. Had she ever heard that sound before? Wooden soles on rock floors? No. Yet, she recognized it immediately.

  Lia walked to a window, which was nothing but a square cut out in the stone wall. There was no glass windowpane. Why was there no glass in the window?

  Oh. She knew why.

  Glass hadn’t been invented yet.

  This should have terrified her, but it didn’t. What did terrify her had nothing to do with the glass.

  She was going to die today.

  And the footsteps approaching belonged to those who would carry her to her death.

  But she would not be carried. Nor would she be dragged. She was the virgin daughter of King Cepheus and Queen Cassiopeia.

  “I am Andromeda...” Lia said, and knew it was true. She was, somehow, that ancient princess. She wasn’t dreaming it. Nor was she hallucinating. A black ant peeked in her window, twitched his antennae left and right before marching onward up the side of the palace.

  Was this real?

  The sun was near to setting. It hung so low in the sky, if it had been an apple she could have picked it without having to stand on her toes. Or asking her father to pluck it for her as he had done a thousand times. And he would have bowed when he presented it to her, as if it were one of the golden apples of King Atlas. How did she know this? The man in her memory was dark of skin with a beaming smile that he wore only for his daughter. He still called her away from her sewing in the evenings to play draughts with him on the terrace by the sea. Men came to seek her hand in marriage and he welcomed them warmly, saying, “If I beat her at this game, you may have her as a bride. If she wins, however, I’m afraid she’ll have to stay a maid.”

  Then he would lose on purpose.

  No daughter in the world was more loved than she, Andromeda, by her father, Cepheus.

  And perhaps that was what had made her mother say what she said...

  They had entertained a desert prince one week ago, a handsome dark-skinned, amber-eyed suitor who’d made the mistake of saying to her mother, Queen Cassiopeia, “Princess Andromeda is the most beautiful lady in all the kingdom.”

  Her mother had once worn that title and worn it proudly, too proudly. And surely it had stung to see that crown transferred to her daughter. The wine had flowed too freely that night. The words even more freely.

  “Oh, she is,” her mother said. “So beautiful my own husband the king would rather gaze at his daughter across the checkerboard than his own wife in his bedchamber. Her beauty surpasses even Poseidon’s lovely little Nereids. Perhaps Poseidon would like to come and take our Andromeda to his realm for a game of checkers. Then perhaps the king will remember he has a wife.”

  The danger when speaking of a god by name is this—the god hears.

  Poseidon heard.

  The door, solid wood with hinges of iron, opened behind Lia-Andromeda.

  The empty room was at once filled with ten of her father’s guards, the king and the queen. The king’s eyes were so red it looked as if, had he blinked, he would bleed from them. Tears had formed furrows on the cheeks of his dark and lovely face. The queen’s eyes were clear, though she shook like a flower in a storm.

  “What news?” Lia asked, though it was not her voice that came from her lips or even her language. Ancient words. An ancient tongue. How was she speaking words she didn’t know? How was she understanding them? Was she really here, in ancient Aethiopia? She felt like a marionette on a string and there was even a string on her tongue, making her speak. Who was pulling the strings?

  “The offering was made,” her father said. “Ten bulls slaughtered, twenty calves. No matter. Fourteen more houses fell today. Thirty-seven dead, if not more.”

  Lia nodded. She had already accepted her fate, but she had held out hope that her courage would appease Poseidon’s wrath. It seemed that, no, her death alone would do. Since the night of her mother’s “boast,” the city had been pummeled with storms, with waves, even earthquakes. The great city of temples and trade and markets and gardens was quickly being reduced to rubble. Nearly three hundred had died already.

  And so Andromeda had to die, too.

  “We mustn’t wait another day, then,” Lia said. Lia? Andromeda? They had become one and the same, as if Lia had slipped inside Andromeda’s skin or Andromeda’s spirit had inhabited Lia’s body. What strange magic was this? “We should go now, before the sun sets.”

  “Darling,” her mother said, and took a step toward her. Lia held up her hand.

  “No one touches me,” Lia said. Her father, a great and mighty king, turned away so his soldiers would not see him weeping.

  “But, my love...” her mother said.

  “I will die a maid,” she said. “And the next hand to touch me will be that of Hades. I hear he seeks a bride. Wish me well, Mother. This is my wedding night.”

  Lia swept past her father, past her mother, past the guards who had come to ensure that she would not run or hide from her fate.

  That morning she had bathed in spring water and had anointed herself with rich oils. Her maids had prepared her hair as if for a wedding, plaiting anemones into the black waves. Her gown was white and belted with blue. Around her neck she wore a cord and on the cord
hung a silver coin to pay Charon, the ferryman who would take her across the River Styx. Hades would receive a fine bride tonight. She prayed she would please him and he her.

  As Lia walked down the palace steps to the front doors held wide open by guards, she prayed.

  Artemis, grant this virgin your courage. Grant this maiden your protection. Grant your servant a quick death. Grant my people long life. Grant that Hades is a tender lover to his unwilling bride.

  A retinue formed behind her as she walked down the palace steps toward the sea. She had seen a hundred bridal parties like this, except always it was the guests who celebrated and danced and the bride who wept. This evening, the eyes of Andromeda were dry and all who followed her to her fate wailed a funeral dirge.

  Lia saw a girl, only nine or ten, break free from her mother’s hands and rush toward her.

  “Princess!” the little girl called. She was weeping now, and it was clear from the furrows of dirt on her tender cheeks that she had been crying all day. “Don’t do this, my lady. Throw your mother into the sea. You should be our queen, not her. I’ll die if you die.”

  Lia smiled down at the dark and comely little girl who knelt at her feet, weeping as if her own life were forfeit tonight.

  “Beautiful child,” Lia said. “You must not weep for me. I do not die tonight. I’m getting married.”

  “You are?” the girl asked. “But...”

  “It was a lie you were told. Your princess will not die. Go home with your mother.” Lia nodded toward the woman running toward them. “Weave a wreath of flowers and offer it to Artemis in honor of my marriage tomorrow. Will you do that for me? Right now? A fine wreath of ivy and anemones and...and...?”

  “Roses?”

  “Yes, yes, roses, if you can find them.”

  “I know where they grow, Princess. Who do you marry?”

  “A great hero,” Lia said. “Handsome as the night is dark with a smile like the first bright rays of dawn.”

  “Does he love you very much?” the little girl asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Lia said. “He loves me...very much.”

  The little girl smiled, delighted. Lia blinked the tears from her eyes.

  The girl’s mother looked at her with gratitude and sorrow.

  “You are a great lady,” she whispered as she bowed her head. “Surely your name will be written in the stars.”

  The woman took her daughter by the hand, and it was a sword in Lia’s heart to hear the girl calling out to all who would listen. “It’s a lie! It’s a lie! She’s getting married. The princess won’t die tonight! Do you hear? She’s not going to die! She’s marrying a hero who’s as handsome as the night is dark! And he loves her, too!”

  Old men muttered “Madness” and “Poor fool” and “Silly girl” as the child skipped down the lane back to her home.

  Forgive your maiden one last lie, Artemis, Lia prayed as she walked on. I could not bear to see the child cry.

  As she neared the edge of the sea, the water grew wilder. The sand shifted under her feet, and somewhere she heard what sounded like boulders falling off the cliffs and into the ocean. They were not boulders, however, but houses.

  This wrath must end.

  The sun was near its setting, so low its belly brushed the top of the water. The sea was red as blood, the blood dark as wine. Lia turned and saw one of the king’s guards holding a length of iron chain.

  “Is it heavy, sir?” Lia asked him.

  “It is a far lighter burden than you bear, my princess.”

  “If it is so light,” Lia said, “then my mother could carry it.”

  Her mother stepped forward. Her head was low, her eyes downcast.

  “Andromeda...” The queen’s voice clutched at her like a hand. “Please...”

  “Take the chain, Mother. You shall bind me,” Lia said.

  “But—”

  “Do as your daughter tells you,” her father ordered. “And be grateful she will speak to you at all.”

  The fury in his voice roused the queen’s dignity. She stepped forward quickly, took the chain from the guard and approached her daughter. They walked to the spot chosen for the sacrifice. Hooks had already been driven deep into the rock face closest to the sea. Lia brought her fingertips to her lips and then knelt to touch the water.

  “A kiss, Poseidon,” she said to the sea. “If you want more, I am here waiting for you.”

  She rose.

  Lia looked back over her shoulder at the faces of the hundreds gathered.

  “Please,” she said to the guard who had declared her burden so heavy. “Turn away.”

  The guard bowed once to her and obeyed.

  “Away!” he cried. “Look away!”

  She watched until every last man had turned his back to her.

  Lia, as Andromeda, unbelted her dress. She unhooked the pins from her shoulders. The gown whispered to the ground. Naked, she faced her mother.

  “I was born naked,” she said. “How fitting I will die naked, as well. By your labor I came into this world. By your labor I will leave it.”

  Her mother’s hands did not shake as she bound her daughter to the black rock. And no matter how tightly her mother bound her, Lia demanded she be bound tighter.

  “I want to die quickly,” she said. “Not cowering. Tighter.”

  Her mother bound her tighter.

  “Look well, Mother. Look well at your child. Am I beautiful now, in these chains? Is this the marriage you arranged for me? Your daughter wed to Death? Will you brag that you’re the most beautiful woman in Father’s kingdom when I’m gone? Was that your plan all along?”

  Her mother wept and did not speak.

  “Why do you weep?” Lia asked.

  “You can’t imagine what it is like to be unloved,” the queen said. “To be unwanted by your husband. He would rather play games with you than make love to me.”

  “Now you can have Father all to yourself. Be careful, Mother. He cheats at draughts. He plays to lose so he has an excuse to say, ‘Let’s play again. Surely I’ll win this time.’”

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I have been a fool...”

  “You have. All my life I have known this one thing...that my mother, in my eyes, was the most beautiful woman in all the world.”

  A sob caught in her mother’s throat. Her knees buckled, and she went down to the sand.

  “Leave me,” Lia said. “It is time to meet my husband, and a bride and her groom should be left alone.”

  Her mother stretched her long and lovely arm to touch the toes of Lia’s feet. But a soldier came forward then and gently pulled the queen away.

  “Andromeda...” she called out.

  “I forgive you, Mother. Now leave me to my fate.”

  Alone and chained to the rock, Lia waited.

  And before her, the dark water began to boil.

  Lia wanted free from this madness, but she was as bound to it as Andromeda to the rock. The iron chafed her wrists. Tears streaked down her face, and she would have given anything for her father to come and wipe them away. But he was far behind her. The last she’d seen of him, four guards held him back from flinging himself into the sea in his grief.

  A dark form appeared under the water’s surface.

  Long and dark, serpentine but not a snake, for surely no snake was as wide as her father’s throne room, nor as long as the path from the sea to the palace. She had thought Poseidon would send a wave to drown her or a stone to crush her.

  But no, he sent Cetus...to devour her.

  Artemis, let it be merciful, she prayed. Warn Hades his bride comes soon. Tell him to prepare our bedchamber. I pray his dark kingdom is kinder to me than this one has been.

  A thing with gray skin surfaced, breached and sunk down again.

  Almost time.


  Lia looked up at the sky in the hopes of seeing a star before she died, for there were no stars in Hades’s underworld. And she did see a star, the evening star, glowing like a white dove. The star most certainly had feathers.

  But, no, it wasn’t a star falling from the sky. What was this? A horse with wings? A winged horse and a man astride it?

  In the blink of an eye, the horse dropped its hooves hard into the sand and raised its proud head.

  “I have gone mad,” Lia, who was Andromeda, said to herself. “Terror has driven me to see things that cannot be.”

  A man in a white tunic stood next to the horse, holding it by the bridle. He gazed at her in wide wonder.

  “What is your name, maiden?” he asked. “And why are you thus chained? A lady of your great beauty should be bound in sweeter chains, those of lovers, not of criminals.”

  “I am no criminal, my lord.” Her voice shook, and she could not look at the man for her humiliation. Why didn’t he turn his head like the other men?

  “Who are you? Tell me? I may have service to render to you. Or are you here out of some secret shame?” he asked.

  “There is shame, but it is not mine,” she said.

  “Who are you? Tell me all. Tell me now.”

  “I am Andromeda and my mother is the queen Cassiopeia, who foolishly boasted and brought the wrath of Poseidon upon us. The priests of the temple say I must die to appease him. So you must leave me now to my fate or my kingdom will suffer evermore. Three hundred have died already and all because of idle words. Go now, my lord. It is too late for me, but not for you. Cetus comes and there is none who can stop him.”

  “Andromeda...” the man said. “Look at me.”

  Lia couldn’t do it.

  “You have courage enough to face Cetus but not to look at me?” he asked.

  How could he tease her at a time like this? But his words had pricked her pride. She turned her head and, for the first time, saw him truly.

  August... She knew it was him the moment she met his eyes. Yet it wasn’t him. He was too young. He looked no more than twenty-five, if that. Thinner; his hair longer and lighter in color, almost bronze. But those were August’s eyes, shining like silver. The hand that touched her face was August’s hand. The voice that spoke to her was August’s voice.