Chapter 5 #2
‘I have a proposition.’ He swells with his idea and I am reminded forcibly of my father, giddy with his own import, casting policy into the kingdom like dice on a board, watching how his chances might be affected, largely indifferent when his turn has passed.
But Poseidon’s turn has never passed. ‘I must have the best. It would not do to have a wife whose beauty is so easily bested by another. The sea is known to give rise to all beautiful things. Why, some even believe that Aphrodite herself walked forth from its foam. It would reflect poorly. King Cepheus of Aethiopia, Queen Cassiopeia. I would wait until your daughter is a woman, until she has bled and can give me sons. Then, if she is more beautiful than my most beautiful Nereid,’ here he gestures at Amphitrite, who has turned whiter still, ‘I would have her as a wife.’
There are murmurs. My father has straightened and is stuttering at my mother. Her expression remains carefully masked but I see the blazing glory in her eyes. I mean for you to have more, my little queen. I mean for you to have the world.
I feel Phineus shift behind me, the locking of his muscles, the quickening of his breath. I want to lean back into him, the solid flesh and earth of him, but I cannot move, cannot bear to look in his face.
‘You honour us, my lord!’ My father’s face shines with his imaginings. He licks his lips as if he can already taste the abundance. His daughter would be made an immortal. His daughter would be Queen of the Sea.
‘And if she is not?’ It is my grandmother. She steps towards me once more, pulls me against her. ‘If she is not more beautiful than Amphitrite? She can marry who she – who her family – choose?’
The sea god’s expression hardens. ‘Of course. But if she is not the most beautiful woman in the world, Cassiopeia has not spoken true and must answer for her hubris.’
‘Answer how?’
‘With her life. With immortal indignity.’
‘No!’ It is the first time I have spoken and the cry is rent from me, taken without my permission. ‘Mama, no! You must not agree!’
She does not look at me. She stands straight, a princess of oranges locked in a battle of wills with an immortal force.
I rush to her, clasp her ankles. ‘Mama, please! Beg pardon for your hasty words and let us be done with this! It is not worth it!’
She looks down at me then. ‘Stand up, Andromeda. You are making a spectacle of yourself.’ She faces Poseidon once more. ‘How can we trust you? How can we trust that you will not harm her?’
‘I shall swear an oath on my blood. I would not risk Horkos’ wrath.’ The god that curses oath breakers is known for inflicting punishment that correlates with power. Horkos would relish this humiliation, the sea god would suffer.
‘Who will decide that the girl is the most beautiful? One man’s prize is another’s poison. Surely this is too flimsy a thing to set such a store by.’ My grandmother strives to keep her voice level, reasonable, but her hands shake as she folds me into her reeds.
‘Ceto will do it.’
I lock eyes with the Nereid once more, the one who is not Amphitrite, gaze into the fathomless dark, and my fear is realized.
He had called her Ceto, but I know that this – that she – is the Cetus, the shape shifter, Poseidon’s most trusted.
I think of iridescent scales and a smooth, muscled body splintering ships.
My heart beats so loudly I am sure that even the mortals in the room must hear it.
‘My lord?’ Her low voice is mild, almost bored.
‘Ceto is blood-sworn to me. She cannot lie, she cannot betray. She will give an honest verdict when the time comes.’
‘She should watch over the girl, and her family.’ Amphitrite speaks from between barely moving lips.
She is rigid alabaster, as numb as I feel.
‘They may try to hide Cassiopeia. They may try to improve their chances. Alter the girl’s appearance, use pharmaka and whatever other such things mortals and river folk use to imitate the might of the sea. ’
The Cetus glares at her sister. ‘I think our lord would be able to see through such tricks without my assistance.’
But Poseidon holds up a hand and Amphitrite, whose mouth had opened to bite back a response, closes it again.
‘You will do as Amphitrite suggests, Ceto. You will watch over the young princess. Be her companion. When the time comes, you will tell me true if her beauty makes her worthy of me. It is not like you have better things to do. It is not a request.’
The Cetus dips her head. A priest is sent for, a devotee of Poseidon’s, a man who sobs openly at meeting his hero.
He mumbles words I do not hear as the sea god slices through his own hand and pours light into a bowl.
My mother imitates him, the vibrant red of her blood mixing with the spangled ichor.
He is vast and luminous but – oh gods! – she is alive.
Then it is done. Her life for my future.
The wind picks up, the rain returns and I welcome them this time, turn myself to their flagellation and will their intensity.
My father is gibbering, my mother slowly and methodically binds her hand.
I am ensconced between Achiroe and Phineus, their bodies pressing me close.
Beneath the raging storm, Poseidon vanishes, Amphitrite seeming to dissolve behind him.
The Cetus is watching me once more. Her eyes bore into mine. I cannot read them. She speaks and I somehow hear her, despite the shriek of the gale, as if she whispers in my ear.
‘What a lot of fuss over one who is just a face. I will come tomorrow.’ Then she is gone.
I am sent to my apartments. The guests bid hasty farewells, those who were supposed to stay beginning long journeys early. They want no more part in this. My father’s advisors, including Phineus, gather in his apartments and my mother and grandmother go with them. This no longer concerns me.
I lie on my bed. It is warm but I burrow beneath layers of blankets and linen throws, until I am a cocoon of sweat and breath.
Only then do I let the tears come, thick and fast, seeping into the fabric around me, as though I am afraid that their wet salt will betray me and summon the sea folk once more.
My mother. My mother. My mother. My heart beats for her painfully.
And for Phineus, for our future, for the longing I tasted but will not indulge because to long for him now is to speak a matricidal impulse into existence and I cannot, I cannot, lose my mother.
I must do as she says, always. Must exfoliate and oil my skin, must coil and braid my hair, must eat just the right amount of things that give me just the right amounts in just the right places.
I must be as she says. I am resolved; I do not let myself think past this.
I do not think of the Queen of the Sea, of who she might be.
Or of the sharp water, so different from the light freshness of our rivers, that will sting and suck at my skin.
I do not think of seabeds, of the behemoth I may share one with, of how I might be expected to please him.
I do not think of the Coral Kingdom, as bright as the hair of the nymph I might steal it from.
Just as I drift into sleep, plummeting down into jet depths that seem to watch me as I fall, I roll on to my side and something digs into my flesh.
I feel sharp edges and smooth wood. I pull out a tiny, carved hippopotamus.
Even in the dim light of the moon, I can see that she is perfect.
Her ears are curved like shells, and she is polished so well that it appears as though she has just emerged from below the banks beyond my window.
I think of days spent among people in markets.
I think of children playing in streets. I think of correspondence and arithmetic and clever conversation with farmers about produce.
A lump forms again in my throat. No, it would not have been so bad, being married to Phineus.