Hand of Fire Page 9

  Briseis approached. “I know you gave the queen henbane from the temple.”

  Zitha moaned. “Only to help her. I used some cast off by the priests. I serve as the Stormgod’s voice. I know how soothing henbane can be.”

  Briseis’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, revealing Zitha’s swollen face, misshapen and covered with patches of dried blood. No wonder her father didn’t want her to see this woman.

  Zitha dragged herself upright. “It did help her. I was right. She liked it. Until she threatened to throw me out of the temple. Where would I go? I was terrified.”

  “Is that why you placed a curse on her?” Fragments of old chaff and mouse droppings littered the floor.

  “No! Your father and those men kept asking me about a curse. I don’t know how to make a curse. All I could do was weep.”

  Briseis pulled out her satchel. “Your wounds need attention. May I tend to them? Kamrusepa would wish it.” Zitha nodded.

  Briseis looked around for water and saw a pitcher and cup set in a corner by the door. They’d left water too far away for Zitha to find in the dark. Briseis pressed her lips tightly together as she brought it over and poured some for Zitha to drink. “Are you sure you didn’t retaliate? I would have.”

  Zitha coughed as she drank, fresh blood dribbling from her mouth where a tooth was missing. “You have the power to do so. How could I change the queen’s mind or make her regret her cruelty to me?”

  “Didn’t you take the queen’s handkerchief to use in a curse? That gave you power.” She dampened some linen and began washing Zitha’s wounds.

  Zitha gasped in pain. Briseis softened her touch and Zitha asked, “Handkerchief? I don’t understand.”

  “You took it the last day you visited her.”

  “The dirty handkerchief?” Zitha frowned. “I put it in the basket I’d brought with me. I do the laundry in the temple. I would have washed it and brought it back. How could I make a curse from dirty laundry?”

  Zitha sounded genuinely puzzled.

  “Are there wounds or hurts that I can’t see? Do you feel pain here?” Briseis touched Zitha’s chest. The smooth wool of her brown priestess’s robe had been torn at the shoulder.

  “When I move or take a deep breath, it hurts here by my side.”

  Briseis gently felt where Zitha indicated. “That sort of hurt heals with time if you rest.” And if the king lets you live long enough.

  Briseis shook her head. “I don’t understand. If you did not curse the queen, why did she thrash and see wolves attacking her?”

  Fear shot across Zitha’s battered face. “What? Is that why they beat me?”

  Briseis nodded.

  In a tiny voice Zitha said, “The old ones in the temple tell some tales about priestesses of the stormgod who died screaming about wolves and beasts. To scare us, I thought. It could be the henbane. I will be blamed, executed.”

  Briseis refilled Zitha’s cup and encouraged her to drink. “You meant no harm, however much you’ve done. Perhaps I can persuade the king to let you live.” Somehow the dilapidated storage barn chosen for Zitha’s prison, with its filthy floor and smell of decay, didn’t offer much hope of that.

  “Why would you? I said those awful things to you in the temple, and I did try to win the queen’s support. I feared that only I was dedicated enough to Kamrusepa to keep the city safe. I didn’t see devotion in your actions as I had always seen in your mother. Forgive me. I thought I spoke for the goddess, but the will of the gods is difficult to understand, and they have little regard for mortals’ feelings. You can’t save me now.”

  “I’ll try. I must go to the palace for the rest of the henbane.”

  “Thank you. Thank your father for me, also. If he had not been here yesterday, those men would have beaten me to death, yet he had the greatest reason to fear me. If I had really made a curse, your life would have been at stake.”

  Briseis squeezed Zitha’s hand. “Will the dark frighten you when I close the door?”

  “It isn’t the dark that I fear.”

  The queen’s screams, when Briseis and Glaukos arrived at the palace, reverberated far from her rooms. Father and daughter ran behind a panicked servant toward Hatepa. At the door of the queen’s chamber, Briseis pushed through several servants yelling and clinging to each other. Hatepa thrashed on the floor. Her limbs and torso jerked.

  “Aieee! Help! Their teeth, their teeth…”

  The high-pitched wails knifed into Briseis. She clutched her head. Each shriek pummeled Briseis like storm surge. She was so tired. Her communion with Kamrusepa felt lost. If henbane alone caused these visions, what of her wolf god? Hadn’t his benign power filled her?

  “They tear my arm. Blood dripping from their mouths—Ayy!—everywhere—Husband, kill them! Where are my guards? Help—they come at my neck…”

  Euenos brandished his sword above his wife.

  “Appear, you demons. Are you afraid to face me? Cowards! Threaten me, not this defenseless woman!”

  One of Hatepa’s legs struck the floor in spasmodic blows.

  Briseis put her hands over her ears. Amidst the flailing and screaming, only Maira sat silent, couching the queen’s head and shoulders in her lap, shielding them from the stone floor. The slave woman sensed Briseis’s presence and raised her head. On her face Briseis saw no fear or panic. Maira gave a slight nod. Briseis dropped her hands and stepped toward the seated figure. In Maira’s calm, Briseis saw her wolf god’s benign presence. She felt Kamrusepa’s sacred stele giving off soothing warmth into this chaos. Here was the clear and confident voice Briseis had found in the meadow, expressed in stillness. She found her own voice in Maira’s strength.

  “Stop,” Briseis shouted. “No wolves haunt this room. Look! Maira holds the queen and no wolf attacks her. An herb, not a curse, causes these visions. Father, Maira, help me lift the queen to the bed.”

  Exhaustion’s fog burned away. Briseis grabbed Hatepa’s hips and helped her father and Maira raise the queen from the floor. Lifting Hatepa to the bed’s shelter had as dramatic an effect as Briseis’s words. Quiet fell on the room. The king put up his sword.

  “You,” said Briseis to the cowering servants in the door, “bring a large pitcher of cool water—quickly.” She had no patience with their fear.

  She climbed onto the sprawling bed and braced Hatepa’s face in her hands. “Hatepa, no danger threatens you. No wolves—no matter what your eyes tell you. Look at me.”

  The queen’s eyes showed no understanding. Her bulging eyeballs, looking even more exposed than usual, lolled from side to side without seeming to be under the queen’s control. Their circles of muddy green-brown with huge black centers seemed both sightless and disconnected from a human being. Briseis waved her hand before the queen’s face. The eyes did not focus. Perhaps they never would.

  Briseis sat back and turned to the king. “Her flesh is whole. No bloody harm comes to her. Do you see?”

  A servant crept forward with a pitcher and cup. Briseis said to Maira, “Help me get the queen to drink this water. I hope she can swallow. We must wash out the henbane. It’s too late to make her throw it up and she seems so weak. Retching would do more harm than good, I fear.”

  Water dribbled down the queen’s chin, but she drank. Briseis and Maira worked sip after sip into the queen. It took patience. Gradually Hatepa seemed to gain more control over her limbs. Her eyes sometimes followed Briseis’s movements. After a long effort, they let her lie back and sleep. Briseis slumped down onto a stool and prayed the visions had made their final visit.

  Briseis felt as if she floated somewhere outside her own body in an exhaustion she had never known before. Assisting Antiope with long labors had brought her close, especially when the mother or infant remained in danger for hours, but nothing like this. She needed sleep. She wanted to hold onto the elation she felt about Kamrusepa, but her fatigue clouded it.

  “Is she safe?” asked Euenos.

  Briseis nodded. “I thin
k so.”

  “You are brave. How could you face those unseen demons?”

  Briseis shrugged. “There are no demons here.”

  “What did you mean about an herb?”

  Briseis explained to him. She took the remaining henbane from the queen. Now she could give Euenos certainty about the source of the visions. He refused to decide what to do about Zitha, saying it would be up to the Stormgod’s priest. That seemed enough to Briseis. Zitha must have friends in the temple.

  Euenos proclaimed her bravery and declared that such a woman was more than ready for marriage.

  “Why delay the wedding any longer? Your mother’s death was tragic, but certainly you’ve had enough time since that loss. And today you were so brave. You have the courage to face anything.”

  Briseis backed away from Euenos and reached for her father. She couldn’t understand why the king brought up the marriage now. She shuddered. Even the king thought courage was the necessary quality for marriage to his son.

  Glaukos interrupted the king’s urging and said Briseis and he both needed to return home to rest after the strain and sleeplessness of the last two days.

  “You are right,” said Euenos, dipping his head in apology. “I owe everything to Briseis today. She deserves a long rest. We can discuss marriage another time.”

  Glaukos put his arm around her shoulders. Briseis leaned against her father in gratitude as he guided her slowly to the outer courtyard where their cart and horse still stood abandoned from their panicked rush. A bewildered groom stroked their horse’s neck, unsure whether to stable the beast or not, and perhaps needing reassurance as much as his charge after the unnatural shrieking.

  Several days later Euenos made good on his promise to discuss the marriage, although he did more than talk. He sent Mynes on a courtship visit.

  Chapter Ten

  Visions and Sweet, Seductive Flames

  A messenger had come the day before to announce the prince’s impending visit. In preparation, Eurome dressed Briseis in her best dark russet skirt, the pleats picked out with multicolored braid, and a cream linen veil to cover her bright hair. Briseis stood flanked by her father and nursemaid in the megaron hall. Antiope’s absence stung like a reopened wound.

  A retinue of the king’s servants entered and laid out the bride-price gifts. Behind them in the doorway Mynes stood with his legs braced, his eyes darting like a hawk seeking prey. Briseis pulled Eurome’s arm closer. Her father placed his hand on Briseis’s shoulder. One by one the servants placed the gifts on the plank table: a necklace and earrings of gold rosettes and garnets, then a set of makeup jars carved from a rainbow of exotic stones fitted with gold and filled with kohl, ochre rouge and perfumes.

  Mynes stepped forward when the slaves completed the gift offering. Briseis’s father’s hand slipped from her shoulder. She remembered to lower her head in modesty. Glaukos welcomed Mynes and thanked him for the gifts on behalf of Briseis, then led Mynes to a place of honor near the hearth.

  Seated across from her, Mynes stammered a few conventional greetings and fell silent. She peeked at his powerful limbs and his square chest, clothed in dark purple wool worked with gold threads. He drew his lips tight in a nervous line and tapped his foot repetitively. Over his long dark hair he wore a thin gold band, a detail she’d never seen on him before—perhaps Euenos’s reminder to them of the importance of this marriage. She folded her hands in her lap to conceal their shaking and tried to think of some topic of interest to him.

  “My brothers say you are training hard in case we must send warriors to Troy.”

  “Every day.” Mynes sat up and his foot went quiet. “I hope the Trojans don’t drive off the Greeks too soon. I want to fight, but Father keeps insisting we wait. For what? All the glory to be taken before we get there?” His full lips turned down.

  “Perhaps your father wishes to protect the young men of Lyrnessos. Men die in battle no matter how brave they are.” She hoped she didn’t sound like an old woman. Her father nodded as she spoke, but he did not interrupt the two young people.

  “I will fight Achilles and kill him. Him and that Patroklos.”

  “Patroklos?”

  Mynes looked directly at her for the first time. His black eyes glinted. “They say Achilles is a great warrior, but he never goes into battle without his companion, Patroklos, at his side to protect him. The tales make out that Patroklos is there to dampen the immortal flames his mother put inside Achilles—sounds like some drunken sot made that story up—otherwise, the gossip says, Achilles could not control his battle rage. Ha! What a ridiculous way to hide the fact that he’s too big a coward to go into battle without his friend’s help. The Greeks hope we don’t figure out what a frightened child Achilles is, but I’ll be the one to strip off his armor. You’ll see.”

  Briseis was silent. Her brothers bragged about their fighting prowess, but not like this. Mynes was boasting. She hated fighting. Euenos was wise to keep his son far from Troy. She only wished he had as strong a desire to keep his son from the wedding chamber.

  In her imagination a giant warrior in golden armor raced toward Mynes, sliding his spear with agile grace under the protection of his opponent’s shield and piercing his armor with deadly precision. Then, under Mynes’s helmet she saw only terror in those black eyes. She closed her own eyes, and when she opened them a moment later, Mynes was looking at her with a strange expression on his face. She shivered with a sudden chill, although the fire in the hearth gave off a pleasant heat.

  At the first crack of the Stormgod’s thunder, the priests declared the time had arrived for the Spring Festival. The orchard trees had leafed out fully. Crocus and iris dappled Mount Ida’s meadows with bright hues.

  On the appointed day, Briseis rose before dawn to make the needed preparations at the temple. Her discomfort had lessened—doing each rite precisely pleased the gods and seemed enough. Her voice would join with Kamrusepa’s on the mountain, if the goddess willed it. Zitha had been allowed back, and she had gone out of her way to assist Briseis.

  After the temple rites, the procession to the sacred grove formed. Taking her place for the first time in the procession felt daunting, but the other priestesses around her gossiped and enjoyed the celebratory day, and she relaxed. This had always been her favorite Festival. Briseis peered around the priests and sacred litters to watch the royal family.

  The king and queen walked at the head, of course. Euenos carried a ceremonial axe in one hand and a sun disc on a golden staff in the other. Hatepa wore a gown of red-purple trimmed in gold braid. Antiope had once noted to Briseis that the queen never shirked her religious obligations—she attended all the festivals throughout the year without regard to her health. Briseis thought it unlikely that Hatepa would ever miss being the center of the show and pomp.

  The king’s bodyguard marched on all sides around the king and queen. These noblemen wore their bronze armor, polished to its brightest, as they would in war, the leather guards they used in practice put away for this festive day. Colored plumes cascaded from their helmets and caught the wind. Mynes marched at their forefront, his gold embossed breastplate catching the sunlight. Briseis watched him strut before his men as he ordered them into their places. She turned away.

  Behind the royal family, she admired the aged Stormgod’s priest in his long gray robe. Despite his advanced years, he held aloft the heavy golden standard that represented the Stormgod as a golden bull. In front of him, the divine statue of the Stormgod as King rose above the priests, supported on the powerful shoulders of four honored men. Their chief god was dressed in his finest robes and seated upon a throne of crouching lions.

  Briseis walked with the other priestesses behind the litter that carried Kamrusepa. She smiled at the others, but couldn’t join in their conversations. With so much at stake for Lyrnessos, she must succeed in bringing the gods’ goodwill to her people. She hoped the sureness she’d felt on the mountain by Kamrusepa’s stele would return. A fluttering in he
r stomach when she dressed that morning had made her skip breakfast, but her nerves gave her a heightened energy. She hoped it would be enough to bring the goddess’s presence.

  Like her goddess, Briseis wore a deep blue gown decorated with golden sun disks, and with each step she shook her sistrum—a square rattle on a staff surmounted with Kamrusepa’s silver stag. The thin metal strips strung on the cross pieces made a silvery rustle. Briseis loved being adorned like her goddess. These sacred garments would draw the goddess’s identity into her and her voice would fill with Kamrusepa’s power as she told Telipinu’s tale later that day.

  Behind her followed the singers and players of drums, cymbals and horns. Jugglers and acrobats leapt and twirled as they progressed toward the grove—a less dignified part of the procession, but important. Briseis knew it was wise to entice the gods with entertainment so they would give the town blessings. She preferred the songs of the bards, but most people liked the acrobats and jugglers along with the instrumental music, so the gods must also.

  The temple servants walked behind the performers, carrying offerings. Baskets of breads in every shape: circles and twists, even birds and hands. Pitchers of wine and beer. Barley to scatter on the sacrificial animals. Bowls, baskets, and trays carefully loaded up with all manner of food. Also the sheep, cattle, and goats to be sacrificed, each animal washed and garlanded. Briseis glanced back. Poor things, the animals were already frightened by the noise and crowds. It took all the skill of the herdsmen to keep them from bolting. Everyone knew their part from long practice, and eventually the distressed cries of the animals went quiet and even they fell under the spell of this day with its combination of solemnity and joyous celebration. The citizens of Lyrnessos brought up the end of the procession.

  Briseis shook her sistrum and felt comfort in this familiar process—now as one of the celebrants, fulfilling her mother’s role for the community. She closed her eyes for a moment and prayed to her mother’s spirit for success. Please, don’t let me bring suffering and ill-health on Lyrnessos because I am not as devoted as you were, Mama.