Chapter XIV
XIV
We have been at the temple for a full week when Eupraxia calls us into the main courtyard after lunch.
I have spent most of the morning watching some of the priestesses work on the sacred peplos to be presented at the upcoming festival of Panathenaia.
As an acolyte, I am not allowed to touch the peplos, and watching the older women work is a dull pastime.
My mind is foggy with fatigue as we make our way toward the courtyard, but I stop when I see what’s within it.
The normally empty space now has several baskets in its center filled to the brim with reams of fabric, beads, and balls of yarn. A few of the acolytes murmur their appreciation, but a sense of dread begins to creep up my neck.
“The time has come for your second test,” Eupraxia announces. “Our Goddess is one of superior intellect, but she is also a patron of craftwork. Her temples serve as sanctuaries for those gifted in such arts.” She smiles. “For your second test, your own abilities in craftwork will be tested.”
There it is, the source of my dread. The courtyard’s temperature seems to plummet, despite its abundance of sunlight. I feel distinctly as though I’ve swallowed a sea urchin.
“You will have three hours to create some work of craft to honor our Goddess,” Eupraxia goes on.
“You may use any items found in this courtyard, but you must create and complete your work entirely on your own before the time is up. Your crafts will then be judged and voted upon. Those who receive a favorable vote will advance. Are there any questions?” When no one answers, Eupraxia nods. “You may begin.”
We haven’t been given tacetaqua this time, so the other acolytes begin to talk among themselves as soon as Eupraxia is gone. I barely register their voices as I stand in the middle of the courtyard, frozen. Several seconds pass before Apollonia glances over at me.
“Meddy, are you all right?”
I meet her gaze, but I can’t actually make myself say the words in front of the others. Apollonia seems to understand and guides me to a far corner.
“What’s wrong?” she whispers.
“I can’t do it.”
“Can’t do what?”
The confusion on her face makes it so much worse. I have to force every syllable out through gritted teeth. “I can’t make anything. I have no skill in craftwork.”
Apollonia’s expression turns sympathetic. “Did your mother never teach you embroidery, or weaving?”
“No.” In truth, I doubt my mother even knew a craft to teach. “I don’t know how to do anything—embroidery, weaving, pottery—nothing.”
“There has to be something you can make with the supplies here,” Apollonia argues.
I note that she doesn’t say what both of us are likely thinking: that it won’t be enough to simply make something.
If this is a test, I’ll need to make something good, something to impress the temple’s priestesses. Apollonia purses her lips thoughtfully.
“I was going to weave a basket,” she says. “I could teach you, and we could—”
“No.” The word comes out more forcefully than I intend, but I don’t care. “You heard what Eupraxia said. We have to do this entirely on our own.” I glance at Kallisto across the courtyard. “I don’t want to give anyone here a reason to think we’ve cheated.”
Apollonia seems to be at war with herself. She gnaws at her bottom lip, and I see her hesitation, her pity. I also see a desire in her eyes that I recognize. I know in that moment that she wants to be a priestess just as badly as I do.
“It’s all right,” I insist. “Really.”
Apollonia sighs. “Keep thinking. An idea will come to you.”
I’m doubtful, but I settle by her side while she gathers her materials and begins to weave her basket.
The terrace is bathed in brilliant gold; early afternoon sunlight casts a silhouette around Apollonia’s frame.
I note that she’s pretty in that light, with her thick lashes downcast and her lips parted just slightly while she works. I watch her in awe.
“Where did you learn to basket-weave?” I ask before I can stop myself.
A wistful, faraway look passes over Apollonia’s face. “One of our servants taught me, when I was seven or so. It’s funny.” She looks down at her work. “I don’t really remember learning how to do it. It feels like something I’ve always known how to do, like an instinct.”
I nod, understanding that. Of course, neither Stheno nor Euryale ever taught me something like basket weaving, but they taught me other things.
I don’t remember, for example, learning how to read and write, but I know it was Euryale who patiently went over my letters with me until I understood them.
The memory is hazy, but I can just barely recall the first time Stheno took my hand in hers and placed it into my own locs, guiding my fingers and showing me how to wash them.
Be gentle and start at the roots, she explained. Then work your way down. Moisturize them with castor oil and shea butter, to keep them healthy.
Absently, I tug on one of my locs. I’m still rolling it between my forefinger and thumb when a thought renders me perfectly still. It comes crackling through my mind with an urgency so sudden, I draw in a sharp, involuntary breath.
Apollonia looks up. “Meddy?”
I don’t answer her, I can’t. An idea has taken root, and now it’s sprouting so fast, I fear I will lose it if I don’t move.
“Meddy!” Apollonia’s voice is sharper. “Meddy, what’s wrong?”
“I have an idea,” I say, standing, “but I don’t have much time.”
I run to the supplies at the center of the courtyard.
They’ve already been picked through, so my choices are limited, but I snatch as many beads as I can from the bottom of one of the baskets.
My gaze pans the room quickly, searching, and I’m relieved to find a single oil lamp in the courtyard’s corner.
I snatch it. Eupraxia has said we can use any item in this room…
Some of the other acolytes watch me as I settle on the floor; Apollonia shoots me a concerned look.
I ignore them all as I grab several of my locs, begin at my temple, and start to braid.
I have no mirror, no idea what I look like, but I trust my instinct as I plunge my fingers into the lamp oil and keep working.
Within minutes, my biceps are trembling with the fatigue of having to keep my arms raised; my fingertips ache as I twist and coil my locs.
I try to ignore that, too. There is no hourglass to mark my time here, but I can still feel time slipping away from me. Every second counts. I can’t stop.
I will do this, I tell myself through the pain. I won’t just pass this test. I will win it.
—
When Eupraxia returns, there are four other senior priestesses with her.
They give us all one sweeping look before they settle together on the ground.
I look around. At least two of the acolytes—Galene and Xanthe—are holding crafts I know will not be acceptable.
Galene’s reed basket is half finished, while Xanthe’s tunic might have been nice if not for its clumsy stitches.
Kallisto is brandishing a small but undeniably beautiful piece of embroidery, and it looks like Amersa has made some type of beaded necklace.
I don’t miss the curious way Eupraxia glances at me.
“Your time is up,” she announces. “If your craft is incomplete, you are dismissed.”
Galene leaves the room at once, weeping.
Eupraxia looks at me expectantly, but I stay put.
“One by one, the remaining five of you will come forward and present your crafts,” she continues. “You must receive a majority vote of favor from the five of us to advance.”
Kallisto approaches the priestesses first, her head held high.
In a matter of seconds, she receives a favorable vote and moves to sit in a spot on the floor Eupraxia indicates.
Xanthe, the girl who sewed the clumsy tunic, goes next; almost as quickly as Kallisto, she receives an unfavorable vote and is dismissed.
Amersa is luckier, and after a moment’s deliberation, she is directed to sit next to Kallisto.
When it is Apollonia’s turn, I hold my breath, but the moment the priestesses see her basket, they collectively sigh in appreciation.
It takes mere seconds for her to receive the third favorable vote.
Eupraxia indicates a place on the floor for her to sit, too, then turns her attention to me.
“Come here, girl.”
My entire body trembles as I step forward. Several of the priestesses look to my empty hands and frown. Eupraxia clears her throat.
“You were asked to create a work of craft,” she says. “What do you offer?”
I steel myself, then say: “I offer myself.”
If the priestesses looked confused before, they look absolutely bewildered now. Eupraxia’s brows rise. “Yourself?”
Slowly, I turn so that my back is to her and the other priestesses. There is a gasp—from whom, I’m not sure—then a silence, sudden and total.
“You…”
I look over my shoulder, enough to see the expression on Eupraxia’s face. Of course, I can’t see exactly what she can, but I have an idea of it.
I’ve braided my locs down my scalp so that they form a crosshatched design that much resembles the interlocked pattern of a woven basket.
Some of the inspiration came from Stheno’s and Euryale’s teachings, but most of it was informed by years of inadvertent practice.
All the times I had to take down my own locs to wash them, all the times I helped my sisters braid their own, proved useful.
After a moment, I turn and reface Eupraxia. “This is my craft,” I say to her and the rest of the room. “Hair braiding.”
The high priestess’s mouth opens and closes. For the first time since our initial encounter, she seems speechless.
“That can’t be allowed!” Kallisto interjects. “Hair braiding isn’t a real craft!”
Fear pulses through my body, but I’m careful not to show it. Instead, I stand tall and meet Eupraxia’s gaze squarely. “I was tasked with creating something with my own hands. I have done that.”
Eupraxia crosses her arms. “So you have.” She cocks her head. “You did this just now, in the time allotted?”
“Yes, High Priestess.”
Eupraxia frowns. “Do you not know any other craft, child?”
I shake my head.
“We will have to rectify that.” She turns and addresses the room. “In all my years of conducting these tests, I’ve yet to see an acolyte choose hair braiding as their craft.” She purses her lips. “It is an unusual choice, but impressive.”
“But, High Priestess”—Kallisto is turning red—“surely it can’t count as a true craft?”
Eupraxia arches her brows. “Quite the contrary,” she says flatly. “Hair braiding is one of the oldest crafts, and not one easily learned or mastered. I would expect an acolyte to know as much, Kallisto.”
Kallisto flushes even more deeply, but Eupraxia has already turned back to me.
“What you did was clever,” she says matter-of-factly. “And well executed.”
“Thank you, High Priestess.”
Eupraxia nods. “That will be all, Acolytes. The four of you may return to your normal duties.”
I stammer, unsure of what to say, but it doesn’t matter. Without another word Eupraxia and the other senior priestesses rise and leave the courtyard. It’s only when they’re gone that I realize I’m grinning from ear to ear.
I have passed my second test.