Chapter X #3
My first day at the Acropolis is spent shadowing its various priestesses.
Among other things, I learn quickly that no one in the temple is merely a priestess—alongside the expected religious duties, everyone here contributes to the maintenance and welfare of not only the Acropolis, but also the people of Athens.
Some of the priestesses work as weavers; others clean and cook.
There are even priestesses whose work is so secretive that it is shared only among a select few.
It is all a great deal to absorb alongside the newness of Athens itself, and by the time the sun sets, my mind feels like a goblet filled to the brim.
Our dinner that night is modest, an assortment of fresh vegetables, plates of cheese, and bowls of porridge.
I have enough time to register a small pang when I think of the lavish meals I’m used to at home, but just as quickly, I’m distracted.
Eupraxia has entered the room, and at once, all the acolytes rise.
It’s impossible to be certain, but the look in the high priestess’s dark eyes seems almost conspiratorial.
“Come with me,” she orders.
Several of the acolytes exchange looks, but we all obey. Eupraxia leads us out of the courtyard and to the very edge of the Acropolis.
Though the sun has already dipped below the horizon, a few of its lingering rays still cast the city in rose-gold light.
There’s a slight rustle to my right, and when I turn, I find that all the temple’s priestesses have gathered.
Acolytes wear plain white chitons, but the ones the priestesses don are sleeved, and dyed a blue that reminds me of an ocean’s depths.
Each one of them is holding a lit candle, and though no one has instructed us, not a single one of the acolytes says a word as we are shepherded into a tight line shoulder to shoulder while the priestesses form a circle around us.
For several seconds, there is only the sound of distant cicadas and brushing leaves.
Then Eupraxia begins to hum.
I’m at once taken by the low, dulcet timbre, by the way her hums reverberate through my entire body.
One by one, the other priestesses join her in unison, adding to and harmonizing with that melody.
Several of them bow their heads, and many close their eyes.
A part of me wonders if I should do the same, but the new, tangible current of energy in the air stops me.
It makes the hair on my arms and neck stand on end.
I sneak a glance at Apollonia, standing to my left in our small half circle.
Her head is bowed, but she looks back at me, and I know from her expression that she feels it, too.
This sensation is entirely new to me. I want to dance, or sing, or cry out in jubilation, but I am compelled by some invisible force to remain still.
Eventually, the priestesses stop humming.
In my peripheral vision, I detect new movement.
A small figure has broken away from the priestesses’ circle.
I’m surprised to see that it’s not an older woman but a little girl, no older than six or seven.
Her fair face is still pudgy and soft, but the solemnity in her expression belongs to a woman ten times her age.
Earlier in the day, I heard brief mention of the arrephoroi—the youngest priestesses of the temple, who serve only two years—but actually seeing one, this child, is more intimidating than I imagined.
On her thin arm she wears a leather gauntlet, and perched on that gauntlet is a large white owl.
The other priestesses bow their heads lower in reverence as the arrephoros passes them.
Then, as if on silent cue, they all raise their candles and begin to hum again, louder this time.
The owl on the little priestess’s arm soars into the air, and at once, each of the candles’ flames turns blue.
I hear gasps from the other acolytes as the flames burn brighter than should be possible, vivid like glowing sapphires.
Then, as quickly as it starts, it’s over.
The candles extinguish themselves in unison, and we are left in the dark.
The owl swoops down to land on the arrephoros’s covered arm again, and each of the priestesses bows to it before leaving the Acropolis’s lawn.
Once the last priestess is gone, Eupraxia gestures for us to follow her.
She does not speak until we are all back inside the acolytes’ quarters.
“You have just witnessed a mere glimpse of our Goddess’s power,” she says.
“As you begin your service to this temple, remember it, cherish it. There are many girls in this city and beyond who would take your place. As acolytes, you are to hold yourselves to an unimpeachable moral standard. You are to be rigorous, humble, chaste, and disciplined—anything less will result in your immediate dismissal. You are also instructed to stay within the bounds of the Acropolis at all times, unless you are given explicit permission to leave.” She juts her chin, as though daring someone to challenge her.
No one does, and she goes on. “As you all know by now, to become a priestess of this temple, you must undergo tests. Only those who pass all of them will enter priestesshood.”
“When will we find out what the tests are?” asks Kallisto.
“I’m not at liberty to tell you,” says Eupraxia. “But I would advise you all to get a good night’s sleep and be prepared to rise early on the morrow.” Her eyes flash. “At sunrise, we will see exactly what you are made of.”
She leaves us after that, but her words echo in my mind long after she’s gone. One by one, the acolytes turn in to their bed pallets, and eventually the sole oil lamp illuminating the room is extinguished.
I know I should be trying to fall asleep, but even in the dark, my mind is racing.
For the first time in all my life, I am not ending the day on my island or in my bed.
A quiet thrill arrows through me, and it’s all I can do not to kick my legs like a child under my blanket.
I think now of all the scrolls I’ve read, the maps Theo and I have spent hours poring over.
For years, we only guessed and dreamed about the world beyond our island, but in a single day, every one of those guesses has been supplanted by a far greater reality.
I can still hear the echo of the priestesses’ hummed song; the remnants of the sensation that came with it still tingle on my skin.
It all felt so different from the dullness of home.
I realize, for the first time, that I feel truly alive.
I cling to that feeling as my eyes close and I fall into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
—
I wake at dawn the next morning, my heart pounding like a drum.
For several seconds, I have no grasp of where I am or how I’ve gotten here. Then the pieces fall into place.
I am in the sleeping quarters allotted for the acolytes of Athena’s temple.
Acolyte. That’s what I am now.
A horn’s brassy blare tears through the quiet, jolting me upright. My eyes adjust, and through the pale gray light of a small window, I make out Apollonia’s silhouette beside me. She’s already risen from a modest pallet identical to my own and is slipping into her chiton. I follow suit.
Around us, the other eight acolytes are waking, too, blinking and yawning in the dark. Once we’re all dressed, we make our way to the temple’s main atrium. Eupraxia is there waiting for us.
On her right stands another middle-aged priestess; on her left, there is a table with several inkpots, styli, and what appear to be neat stacks of parchment paper on display. I note that there is also a small black urn on the table.
“Good morning, Acolytes.” Eupraxia’s tone is light and oddly friendlier than it was yesterday, which puts me on edge.
“The time has come for you to begin the first test. It will evaluate your intellect, your wit, and most chiefly your wisdom.” Eupraxia’s gaze sweeps over us.
“You’ll be solving a riddle today, predetermined by our Goddess.
” From the folds of her chiton, she produces a golden hourglass filled with white sand.
“Once I turn this over, you will have until the last grain of sand falls to submit your answer. Anyone who fails to submit an answer or who submits the incorrect answer will not proceed to the next test.”
A nervous ripple moves through the acolytes.
“You’ll each be given one of these styli, one inkpot, and one small piece of parchment on which to write your answer to the riddle along with your name,” Eupraxia continues.
“Once it is written, you will place your answer in this urn. You may not share or discuss your answer, and to ensure this, one final precaution will be taken before you begin.” She regards the other priestess, who reaches behind the table and produces a clay pitcher and a brass-colored goblet.
As she pours from the pitcher, I see a silvery liquid stream out of it.
“What is that?” asks one of the acolytes.
“Tacetaqua,” says Eupraxia. “A potion crafted by the god Apollo himself. Once consumed, it will render you completely silent until we provide you with its antidote.”
At the mention of Apollo’s name, the air itself seems to crackle.
Next to me, Apollonia shudders involuntarily, and goosebumps stipple the bare skin on my arms. The drink is a reminder that we are consorting with very real and very powerful gods.
The nameless temple priestess standing next to Eupraxia finishes pouring the tacetaqua into the goblet, then holds it up like an offering to us. No one moves.
“Who will be the first to drink?” asks Eupraxia.
I look around and find that every acolyte is eyeing the goblet with uncertainty. Apollonia had said just a day before that I had the advantage of standing apart in this group. For the first time since arriving in Athens, I decide to stand apart on purpose.
My feet are moving before I’ve truly registered my decision.
I feel the other girls’ eyes on me as I approach the second priestess.
I take the goblet from her and peer into the cup.
I’ve never seen tacetaqua before. It’s silvery and slick.
I bring the goblet to my lips and sip. The moment the drink touches my tongue, the inner walls of my mouth numb and my throat prickles.
I try to clear it, but there is no sound. My voice is entirely gone.
“Next,” says the priestess.
I hand the goblet to Apollonia—who has followed me—then watch as, one by one, the other eight acolytes take the tacetaqua. When we’re finished, we face Eupraxia again.
The light of sunrise is beginning to creep in through the atrium’s windows, and a single ray of sunlight winks against the hourglass she holds aloft. Our unnatural silence thickens the air.
“The riddle is as follows,” she says. “ ‘Men may give and take me, yet I consume them all. Who am I?’ ” She turns the hourglass over and places it on the table.
Then she and the other priestess leave the atrium, their footsteps echoing on the stone.
A door shuts in the distance, and my eyes shoot back to the hourglass.
The first test has begun.