Chapter X
X
I am not sure what I expect to feel as Hermes ascends, holding me by the arm with all the ease of a child carrying a straw doll, so that we are side-by-side. In a matter of seconds, though, I become absolutely certain of one thing.
I am not a creature made for flying.
Below, I watch an expanse of blue-green waves—thousands of nautical miles—fly past us with nauseating speed.
Only once do I look over my shoulder in time to see the tiny white speck that is my island getting smaller and smaller in our wake.
The air grows chill and damp as we rise past the first stratus of clouds, despite the golden sunlight on our backs.
We are moving at such a speed that breathing is difficult; my eyes burn as the wind tears past, but I cannot bear to close them.
At first, I think to ask the messenger god to slow down, or at least to lower us to warmer air.
In the end, I decide it’s better to keep my mouth firmly shut, lest I swallow a bug.
From his slightly raised vantage point, Hermes smirks, as though he can hear my thoughts.
“We are almost there, Daughter of Phorcys.” His voice should be difficult to hear over the roar of the wind, and yet I hear him clearly, as though he were whispering directly into my ear. “Athens is up ahead.”
Meddy, I want to say, my name is Meddy. I never get the chance to correct him. I look ahead, and my breath catches.
The crashing tides below have suddenly given way to an expanse of golden grass peppered by viridescent olive trees. Beyond them lies a sprawling walled city. My vision blurs as I take in a thousand red-clay rooftops, a twining maze of brown dirt roads, and then…people.
There are people packed in everywhere, appearing in all manner of shapes, sizes, colors, and garb.
I have never seen so many people at once, people moving about like ants emerging from a hill.
Hermes’s pace doesn’t slow, but as we soar across the city, I catch snatches of life—a marketplace packed with stalls and vendors, a pair of well-dressed, clean-shaven men walking side by side in stern conversation.
As quickly as I spot them, they’re gone, but I find myself craving more of all of it, more of Athens.
My stomach swoops as we suddenly plunge, and I hold on to Hermes tighter.
The god, for his part, seems unfazed as the ground rises to meet us.
I am grateful when my feet find solid land again, and Hermes chuckles when I let go of him and stumble.
Once I’ve regained my footing, I take in my new surroundings.
We are standing at the base of a stony gray hill. At its peak, I make out a collection of white marble buildings set high above the rest of the city. I feel an innate power emanating from them, a foreboding that makes my heart thump wildly in my chest.
“The Acropolis,” Hermes explains. “Up there, you’ll find my sister’s temple, and her priestesses. This is where I leave you, Daughter of Phorcys.” He offers me a small smile that I find is not unkind. Then, without another word, he leaps into the air and disappears in the clouds again.
—
By the time I reach the Acropolis, I am trembling in earnest. It turns out summer in Athens is just as hot as summer on my island, but the city seems to draw out an even stickier kind of humidity.
Already the front of my tunic is dampened; the muscles in my calves are throbbing.
But my steps still slow as I behold the buildings before me.
Against a deep blue sky, the Acropolis complex stands gleaming high on a flat grassy lawn.
My eyes take in its white Pentelic marble, the intricate frieze that runs the length of one building’s perimeter.
A carved stone pediment has been neatly fitted into another building’s triangular roof.
I have only ever seen buildings like these in my scrolls, and even then they were rough, lifeless sketches.
With each step closer, I find myself reminded of the power I felt practically radiating from Athena’s person when she visited my island.
Farther down the lawn, I see a line of girls standing shoulder to shoulder with their backs to me.
A quick head count tells me there are nine of them.
Before the girls stands a stern-faced woman who looks to be in her sixties.
She is olive-skinned and wears her dark, gray-streaked hair in a severe-looking bun low on her neck.
“Excuse me,” I say in Greek, stepping forward. “I’m here for—”
“You’re late!” the older woman says curtly. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”
I quickly join the line of girls, choosing to stand at the end. The woman’s eyes stay on me a beat longer before she speaks again.
“I am called Eupraxia,” she says. “I serve our Goddess as her high priestess.” Her eyes move among us.
“If you are here, you’ve been chosen to serve as an acolyte to this temple, which means you will be given the opportunity to undergo the prerequisite tests required of those who wish to serve the Goddess as priestesses.
It is a great honor to be chosen, and my job while you are here is to ensure that each of you conducts herself in a way that befits that honor, starting with your appearance.
The first thing you’ll need to do is change into clothes appropriate for your station.
All acolytes are expected to wear a plain white chiton.
” She holds up what looks to be a large square of folded linen.
“You will be issued only two each, and you will be responsible for keeping them clean. Additionally, you are expected to remain modest.” She eyes my locs, then nods at the golden cuffs in them. “Those will need to be removed.”
Several of the girls in line lean forward slightly to eye me as the skin on the back of my neck prickles with embarrassment.
My sisters spent the better part of an hour just this morning meticulously placing each one of those cuffs onto my locs.
I’m now grateful that the shell necklace Stheno gave me is tucked behind my tunic’s neckline and out of sight.
“Yes.”
She arches a brow.
“Yes, what?”
I stare at her a moment before I realize what she’s waiting for me to say. “Yes, High Priestess.”
“You will change in the acolytes’ quarters and then report back here for further assignment,” Eupraxia says. “Be quick.”
—
The acolytes’ quarters, as it turns out, are on the eastern side of the Acropolis complex.
They consist of a bare room that is mostly unfurnished save for ten rolled-up sleeping pallets and a few wooden benches along the walls, where some of the girls sit as we shed our old clothes in favor of the uniform white chitons we’ve all been issued.
I sit at one of the benches alone and begin the work of gently pulling each of the golden cuffs from my locs.
It takes far less time to remove them than it took to put them into my hair, which makes parting with them feel all the worse.
When I’m finished, I stare at the small pile of cuffs beside me and feel as though I am saying goodbye to my sisters all over again.
Eventually, I force myself to look away from them.
This morning, I woke in my own bed, back on my island, my home.
It’s hard to believe so much has changed in the course of mere hours.
In truth, the change is jarring. I survey the room, taking subtle note of each acolyte.
Most of them are fair- or olive-skinned, and I feel some of their eyes on me when they think I’m not looking their way.
I stand to lift my gray tunic over my head, and I immediately hear giggles.
When I slip on my chiton and turn back around, several of the other acolytes are now staring at me.
One in particular steps forward, looking intrigued.
She is fair-skinned and short, with springy blond hair, a pert nose, and rosy cheeks.
Objectively, she’s pretty, but there’s something in the way she’s looking me over—examining me—that puts me on edge. She draws closer, then tilts her head.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
I answer automatically. “Meddy.”
“ ‘Meddy,’ ” she repeats. “That’s an interesting name.”
I’m not sure what to say in answer to that.
“We were wondering…” She gestures to the other acolytes as though she speaks for all of them. “Is your hair real, or is it a wig?”
I pause, confused. I’ve never been asked a question like that before.
It seems so ludicrous that at first I wonder if she’s asked it in jest. I self-consciously roll one of my locs between my forefinger and thumb.
“It’s mine,” I say quietly. “It’s my hair.
” I make a point of tugging on the loc just slightly, so that she can see it’s attached to my scalp.
“Oh.” The blond girl now appears fascinated. There’s nothing particularly malicious in her expression, but the way she’s looking at me reminds me of the way one might inspect an exotic species of bird. She stares at me a moment longer before she speaks again.
“…Could I touch it?”
I start. “Excuse me?”
She doesn’t wait, and I jump again when she closes the gap between us, plucks a single loc of my hair, and holds it up. “It’s so fuzzy,” she says, delighted. “Not nearly as heavy as it looks!”
I feel as though I’m being pulled in two opposing directions.
I know this girl is an acolyte like me. We may very well end up serving as priestesses together in this temple, and I don’t want to start things off with her on the wrong foot.
Beneath my chiton, I feel against my skin the light press of the shell necklace Stheno gave me.
I think of what she would say if she were here.
You are not a pet, her imaginary voice reminds me. Do not allow her to treat you like one.