Chapter 19 #2
Then the girl padded around the edge of the pool and held out her hands. “I can wash your dress while you bathe?”
“No.” Danae wrapped her arms around her chest, acutely aware of how dirty and bloodstained her clothing was. She noticed then, the scars that circled the girl’s thin wrists.
“Here.” Danae opened her bag and drew out the purse of coins.
The girl backed away.
“I want to give you something.”
The girl shook her head. She looked scared. “I’ll get in trouble.”
“All right.” Reluctantly, Danae placed the purse back in her bag. “I’d like privacy please.”
The girl bowed and stepped behind the curtain into the shadow of the passageway.
Danae shrugged off her dress. She dropped it in the bath, then waded into the water down stone steps carved into the side of the pool.
She gasped. It was warm, like the sea at the height of summer.
She inhaled the spiced, steaming air as the oil coated her skin.
Rubbing her face, she sighed as the tight crust of salt was washed away.
Then she ran her hands through her short hair to dislodge the dirt.
Its length still felt alien to her, but she had to admit it was much easier to wash.
A rust-colored cloud seeped into the water around her dress.
After cleaning herself she gathered it in her fists and scrubbed, wincing as the friction stung her raw hands.
Once she’d washed out all the blood and dirt she could, she wrung out the fabric, then climbed out of the pool and draped it over the stone bench.
Hopefully it would dry by the time she left.
Dripping across the floor, she retrieved her bag, placed it on the side of the bath and slipped back in.
Carefully, she drew out the prophecy stone and placed it on the floor.
She peeled back each side of the fabric wrapping until the obsidian shard lay naked, shining in the light of the bathhouse room.
As she leaned closer, she thought she could hear whispers coming from inside the stone.
She was afraid to touch it and yet she was compelled to.
As her hand hovered over it, her fingertips began to ache.
The whispers grew louder. They were men’s voices. Then she realized they weren’t coming from the stone. The words “Athens” and “ring” carried down the corridor.
Danae leaped out of the water, hastily rewrapped the prophecy stone, shoved it back into her bag, then tugged on her wet dress. She slung her bag over her shoulder and grabbed her sandals with the other hand. There was no time to put them on.
She ducked through the curtain, almost colliding with the slave girl. They looked at each other for a moment, then the girl’s eyes darted toward a narrow passage that led away from the entrance hall.
Danae ran until she reached the end of the corridor, skidding to a halt outside a small wooden door.
As she opened it, steam billowed in her face.
In the room beyond, vast iron tubs with fires lit beneath them were stationed at intervals along the floor and rows of folded laundry were stacked on shelves at either side.
Red-faced women in stained aprons leaned over the vats, stirring the contents with large wooden sticks.
She hesitated for a moment, then darted forward, ignoring the women’s cries as she sprinted out of the bathhouse.
She pelted through the streets, every few moments glancing behind her to make sure she wasn’t being followed.
Her wet dress clung uncomfortably to her body, restricting her movements.
Then a flash of blue at the end of the street sent her pulse racing.
Without waiting to find out if it was the cloak of an Athenian guard, she dived through the doorway of the nearest shop.
Spools of fabric were stacked along the walls in rainbows of silk, linen and wool. She paced to the back of the room and, keeping an eye on the door, pretended to examine a length of green cloth.
“May the Twelve see you and know you. A seer in my shop. Now that’s not something that happens every day.”
Danae whirled around. An ancient woman was peering up at her through rheumy eyes.
“Oh, you’re soaking wet.”
Danae glanced down at the puddle around her bare feet.
The old woman shook her head. “I’ll never understand you mystic types. Still, who am I to question those who speak to the gods.”
Danae was barely listening, tensing with each shadow that passed the door.
“Not even a cloak to keep you warm...” She tutted at the sandals in Danae’s hand. “Those look like you’ve run across half of Greece.”
“What did you say?”
The old woman shrank back. “I’m sorry, I only meant—”
“A cloak.” That was exactly what she needed. A large, hooded cloak. “Do you have one in black?”
The shopkeeper looked relieved. “I’ll have to check in the back.” She scurried under a drape at the rear of the shop.
After a few scrapes and bangs, the old woman reemerged with a pair of long strapped leather sandals and a folded pile of fine black, woolen fabric.
“Thought you might like these, as well.”
She lay the sandals down and Danae slipped her feet between the woven leather. They fit perfectly. As she bent down to tie up the straps she admired the fine craftsmanship, stitching so delicate you could barely see it, yet they felt much sturdier than her old sandals.
The shopkeeper unfurled the obsidian cloak and swung it over Danae’s shoulders. She fastened the neck with a copper clasp.
“Come,” she grabbed Danae’s hand and pulled her toward the front of the shop, where a large bronze mirror hung on the wall.
Danae glanced worriedly at the door, then stopped as she caught sight of herself.
She didn’t recognize the woman in front of her.
She’d only ever caught glimpses of her reflection in still rock pools.
Her family and the village had effectively been her mirror.
She looked so much older than the child she’d been on Naxos.
Draped in the black folds of the cloak, she was every stitch a seer.
Her breath fluttered in her chest. Her short hair drew out a whisper of Alea in her cheekbones.
She was still the image of her father, but it was a comfort to know that she carried her sister in her bones.
“Well?” the shopkeeper asked.
“Yes.” Danae smiled. “It will do.”
Her purse several coins lighter, Danae emerged onto the street, the hood of her cloak pulled over her face. She had to find Prometheus, but she had no idea which way the Black Sea was. What she needed was a map.
A bell tolled as she walked away from the shop.
A step later, she flinched as the door slammed shut behind her.
She looked back to see the old shopkeeper heave a wooden board over the window.
By the time she turned back around, the street was deserted.
Doors that had previously been open were bolted, and iron locks had been slid across the painted shutters.
Her frown deepening, she walked back to the fabric shop and rapped on the door.
“Hello, what’s happening?”
The shopkeeper did not answer.
Clutching her bag, she broke into a run and turned a corner to find herself in a large square lined with eateries.
Despite the tantalizing smell of roasted meat filling the air, there was not a soul to be seen.
The establishments had closed in such a hurry, the tables outside were still strewn with half-eaten plates.
A laugh rippled across the square. Danae’s head snapped toward it.
Four people leaned against the wall of a modest kapeleion, hidden in the shade of its tattered green awning.
They all had cups of wine in their hands and did not seem in the least bit concerned that everyone else appeared to have fled.
The tallest of the group was a man with ivory skin peppered with freckles and hair the color of fire.
To his left was an older man with sun-leathered cheeks and a slight build, and next to him was a youth who looked around Danae’s age, with a broad, rosy face and ears that stuck out beyond his mop of chestnut curls.
But it was the fourth member of the group that held Danae’s attention.
A woman. The only females that frequented kapeleia on Naxos were women of the night, but this person looked more accustomed to providing pain than pleasure.
Her ochre skin was laced with pearly scars, and she was dressed in battered silver armor that looked as though it had been beaten to follow the contours of her lean body.
A bow and quiver of arrows were strapped across her chest, as well as at least three knives that Danae could see.
Her companions were just as heavily armed.
Danae had barely taken two steps toward them, when a cry that sounded like the slaughter of a thousand lambs ruptured the air.
She backed away and flattened herself against the bricks of an eatery as something vast slithered out from a street on the far side of the square.
Danae’s mouth stretched in a silent scream.
An obsidian serpentine body wound across the stones.
The creature had no legs, only long double-jointed arms ending in vicious talons that scraped along the ground as it dragged itself forward.
Danae was violently reminded of the harpies at the sight of its bulbous head, which looked like a diabolical amalgam of a woman’s and a snake’s.
Ropes of long matted hair hung past its undulating neck, and vertical eyelids blinked across yellow irises and black slitted pupils.
Its flat nostrils flared, and a mouth cut from cheek to cheek, peeled open to reveal two rows of fangs.
The creature’s sickly eyes roved across the square and settled on Danae.
It slid toward her with terrifying speed.
Then something leaped from the roof of a building to her right. All she could see was a mass of fur before the serpent-creature snarled in pain and twisted back on itself.
She gaped. A lion stood upon its tail.
No, not a lion, a man wearing the animal’s hide.
He looked like a god, his golden-brown skin gleaming like the fur upon his back.
He knelt astride the beast, his sword buried deep in its thrashing tail.
He was dressed in nothing but a kilt, his powerful torso bare save for the lion hide draped over his shoulders, the animal’s head crowning his own.
Below it was a face Danae knew well, despite never having seen it in the flesh.
An arrestingly handsome face that would have been a replica of his divine father’s, were it not for the scar that sliced his cheek from his eyebrow to the bone of his strong jaw.
Heracles’s ocean-blue eyes met hers, and Danae was sure her heart stopped beating.
Then he wrenched his sword free of the monster’s scales and swung it to meet the talons swiping toward him.
The creature shrieked as the hero cleaved its fingers straight through the bone.
An arc of blood painted a dark rainbow across the sky, then splattered onto the square along with the severed digits.
Incensed, the creature bared its fangs and lunged at him, milky venom dripping from its teeth. He leaped to meet it, lowering his head so his impenetrable lion hide collided with its mouth, while thrusting forward and burying his sword in its throat.
Teeth shattered; wine-dark blood sluiced from the creature’s mouth as it thundered to the ground with a last rattling shriek.
Heracles jumped down from the trunk-thick body and wiped his sword against its scales as though he’d done little more than fell a tree for firewood.
Danae remained fused to the wall as he approached her, only moving when something prickled against her thigh. She glanced down. Heat was pulsing into her skin from something inside her bag.
The prophecy stone.
“Are you hurt?” The hero’s voice was honey and thunder all at once. He stood before her, his cerulean eyes scanning her for injuries.
“N-no.”
A slight crease formed between his brows. His lips parted as though he would speak again, just as the woman outside the kapeleion shouted, “What took you so long?”
Heracles’s attention snapped to her. He grinned, his blue eyes sparkling as he strode toward the group.
“Thanks for the assistance, you lazy bastards. You’d better have at least got me a drink.”
The woman tossed an empty cup to the side and shrugged. “I got thirsty waiting.”
The older man rolled his eyes.
The youngest held out his cup. “You can have mine.”
The hero took the wine, just as the kapeleion door cracked open and the barkeeper peered through the gap. He beheld the monster lying in the square and cried, “Heracles has slain the Lamia!”
“Here we go,” said the hero and downed the contents of his cup.
Wood creaked on its hinges, and faces emerged in doorways and windows.
Tentatively at first, the people of Corinth crept from their homes.
When they saw Heracles and the bloody carcass of the Lamia, the dam of fear erupted, and people flooded into the square, clustering around the hero like ants to an overripe fig.
“Now where is that boy...” The flame-haired man spied his prey and stalked over to a younger man—nobility by the looks of his clothing—loitering at the edge of the adoring crowd.
“Drinks for everyone on Polyphemus!” He clapped the lad on the back.
The gathered Corinthians cheered while the young noble scowled.
The flame-haired man laughed. “That will teach you to bet against the greatest hero who ever lived.” He steered him toward the kapeleion. “Come on, you wouldn’t want to keep all these people waiting for a drink now, would you?”
Danae watched them go, her breath still raw and heavy. She slid her hand into her bag and curled her fingers around the prophecy stone. Even through its cloth wrapping she could feel it pulsing. Like a heartbeat.
Through the wonder and amazement and sheer blood-boiling terror, when she watched Heracles slay that beast she had felt a deeper truth, free of logic or reason. And the same voice that had awoken in her outside Delphi had spoken again, whispering one word.
Fate.