Chapter 3 #2
My mother does not want me to marry Phineus. If she fears men, she does not say so, but then she is too rational for fear. Better to be clever than afraid.
After the drying of the Nile, she had chastised me for my inattention. ‘You had no business wandering into your father’s merriment! Look at the trouble it’s caused!’
‘May I not fetch a few pomegranate seeds? In my own home?’
‘This is not your home.’ She’d caught my face in her hands, her nails pinching slightly, as though she wished to imprint the lesson into my skin. ‘This is your father’s home, and my home. This would not happen in your home. Your home will be wherever your husband is, where you are most protected.’
I did not bother to argue that Phineus was to be my husband and so this was, in fact, my home, and always would be.
My mother had spent much of my life presenting me to kings of more powerful kingdoms, rulers in Kerma and Carthage and Canaan.
They would arrive on fine brushed horses, sometimes camels and even the occasional elephant.
They would be dressed in gold, smelling of sweet oils, almond and vanilla, entirely too densely concentrated.
They would line my father’s palace, from the throne to the northern court, packing the halls with musk.
In Aethiopia, strong perfumes, those that drown out the smell of our land, are considered offensive.
The Nile smells honest and earthy, the air of fruit and flowers; everything is balanced.
It is all I could do not to retch or swoon with each breath.
They, of course, are charmed by this, and believe me overcome by their princely prowess and kingly presence.
I assume tonight will be much the same as usual.
I hurry through the eastern court, sidestepping my mother’s ladies with pretty, deterring noises, reminding them that I must dress for dinner and that my mother has instructed that I take special care.
My apartments are a series of small, connected chambers, decorated with the faces of goddesses.
Aphrodite being attended to by the Graces.
Persephone and Demeter abloom. Artemis bathed in the light of the moon, wolves howling behind her.
The latter, in my bedchamber, is my favourite.
It is so very skilled, I have admired it often, the brushwork perfectly capturing the lightness of her feet, her speed across the forest. It is as though the painter wished to leave me with some secret intent, allowing me to read warning in each stroke, feeling a prickle at the action in painted Artemis’ stride. Run.
My bedchamber is the one door that I am permitted, and I barricade myself behind it.
It is immediately opened by servants, carrying warm spring water and natron and a small amount of blue lily oil, my preferred choice, which, when mixed with the salt and water, forms a satisfying foam beneath which I submerge myself.
The smell is soothing; the water from my grandmother’s favoured spring is lightly infused with violets, the scent subtle and fresh.
I breathe, sigh, breathe again. Sink deeper into the limestone basin and feel momentary reassurance.
It will not be so bad, being married to Phineus.
He will be kind to me, he will not hurt me when he takes me to his bed – I might even enjoy myself.
I have heard the girls of the palace – servants, daughters of nobles and advisors – murmuring of such things.
And I won’t have to leave. I cannot imagine life without the gnomon shadow swing of each day across the sundial of my home.
The ceaseless churn of the Nile in the east; the verdant south-facing gardens ripe with all my favoured treats; the flurrying activity of the western villas, where nobles and administrators live, houses strewn beside the two temples in the palace compound, devoted to Zeus and Athena.
Beyond these, over the walls, lie the lives of people; markets, homes, work, play.
People who, in Phineus’ care, will be safe, will be my people – tall and handsome and long-lived with their many elephants, rich in gold and ebony.
I rise and dress, my servants bringing the white kalasiris that my mother has laid out for me, its edges trimmed with silver.
With it they carry something new, something that I have not seen before.
A beaded overlay in lapis lazuli and turquoise, the kind I have seen my mother wear in jasper and carnelian.
My stomach twists and I raise my brows, but I say nothing as I am shucked into it, feel its press against me, hugging my body in ways to which I am unaccustomed.
My face remains unadorned; cosmetics are viewed as deception in Aethiopia and are unfashionable.
And there is no kohl or ochre that can improve my appearance.
It makes me nervous, to always be on show; I have heard much of how the goddess of beauty is jealous with her gifts.
She is unsatisfied by gratitude – she fears it as evidence that her own overgenerosity might create a mortal capable of outshining her – and resentful of thanklessness, as all gods are.
I slip my feet into my sandals, the buckles freshly polished, and lean over the limestone basin. My reflection is muddied by that which I have cleaned off my skin. I blink slowly at her, the rippling grey-green creature, blurred and inconsistent. I am called and I envy her.