Chapter XVI
XVI
Two weeks later, we rise at dawn for the festival of Panathenaia.
Excitement crackles in the air as I don my freshly washed chiton alongside the rest of the acolytes, taking special care to braid my locs in an elaborate crown atop my head in honor of the celebration.
When we are ready, we meet Eupraxia and the other priestesses in the courtyard; then, together, we head into Athens.
The sun has not risen over most of the city yet; the sky is still a leached pale blue.
I did not expect many Athenians to be awake at this hour, so I’m pleasantly surprised to find that when Eupraxia finally stops us in a small neighborhood in the eastern part of the city, there is already a crowd of people waiting.
There are old men dressed in fine white tunics, women with weather-beaten faces, and children who’ve obviously just been scrubbed clean by their mothers.
Eupraxia regards them all with a gracious nod, then begins to walk.
There is no one to direct the crowd, no one to give instruction, but everyone seems to know where and when to move.
As the high priestess, Eupraxia continues to lead the procession; the senior priestesses and acolytes follow, and I’m surprised to see people of the city now joining us, too.
Others bow their heads as we pass; some fall to their knees or touch their fingers to crude pendants of owls.
Athena may not be physically present, but as we walk, I feel the people’s love and veneration for her, directed toward us as her chosen representatives.
Yet again, I find myself wondering what that kind of love, power, and influence must feel like.
Another senior priestess is waiting for us when we reach the monumental gateway of the Acropolis.
Beside her is an old white bull whose hide gleams in the morning light.
We gather around in silence as Eupraxia steps forward, holding a beautiful peplos of yellow, blue, and purple.
Embroidered flowers line its hems, and though I’m not close enough to examine their detail, I know the craftwork is precise.
When I sat with the priestesses of the temple responsible for making that peplos, they explained to me that their work took nine months, sometimes longer.
Now Eupraxia carries the sacred peplos and stops right before the bull. She regards the creature solemnly.
“To our Goddess, holy Athena.” Her voice is sonorous as she lifts the peplos high in the air. “Goddess of wisdom, warfare, and craft, on this sacred day, all of Athens sings your praises and lifts your name. In a show of our gratitude, we offer you this gift, and this sacrifice.”
Eupraxia nods to the priestess standing beside the bull. When she cuts the beast’s throat, it dies quietly—a good omen. As its dark blood seeps across the ground, the crowd begins to cheer; some break out in song. Pride swells within me until I’m certain I will burst. Tears fill my eyes.
“Meddy?” Apollonia has stayed beside me all morning. I’m not sure we’ve totally recovered from what happened in the city two weeks earlier, but we’ve repaired things enough for her to look at me now with sincere concern. “Are you all right?”
At first, I don’t have the strength to speak. For so many years, I’ve dreamed of leaving my island and seeing more. It occurs to me that now I have realized that dream.
I turn to Apollonia, beaming. “I’m glad to be here,” I say earnestly. “I’m really glad to be here.”
My friend smiles back. “I’m glad you’re here, too.”
When the crowd stops singing and cheers again, we both join them.
—
The rest of Panathenaia is marked by a series of various events across the city, but the one I’m most looking forward to is the chariot racing.
I’ve never seen a race before, and Apollonia does her best to explain its rules as we head to the Panathenaic Stadium.
Still, nothing prepares me for the sight that greets me as we reach the top of the hill.
The Panathenaic Stadium is the largest site I’ve ever seen, larger than even the Acropolis.
It consists of a long, narrow dirt track in an oval, with rising hills surrounding it on all sides for spectators.
Already hundreds of people are sprawled on the grass, and a race is about to start.
I can make out two teams of chariots parading toward the starting line.
Both teams’ horses are black, but one charioteer wears a blue tunic, while the other wears green.
I decide at random to cheer for the latter.
The men orient their horses as an official raises his hands, indicating that they should wait.
There is a moment of stillness, a beat in which a thick tension builds.
Then a horn blares, and the chariots surge forward.
I’m now sitting on a soft knoll with the other priestesses, a safe distance from the track, but my heart still thunders wildly in my chest as the two chariots fly past us and head for the first bend.
Both manage it without error, and the crowd roars its approval as they pick up speed.
They pass the second bend as easily, but when they reach the third, the driver in blue rams his chariot into the green’s.
The latter flies off his chariot and lands in the dirt with a sickening crunch.
The crowd collectively groans, and the green driver doesn’t get up again.
“Chariot racing is one of the most exciting sports,” Apollonia says in my ear. “It’s also one of the bloodiest.”
I find myself staring at the green driver, still unmoving, as the crowd cheers on for the blue.
Mere minutes ago, the green driver was alive; now he’s likely dead.
For a second, I remember Maheer’s body on the floor of his bedchamber, and a chill stipples my skin.
It is a reminder of how easy it is to die.
The suddenness of it is oddly sobering amid so much festivity and cheer, but I seem to be the only person who notices.
After the first race, while a crew of men work to retrieve the green charioteer’s body and corral his abandoned horses, Apollonia and I venture slightly closer to the track.
As we draw near, new smells fill my nose—the stink of sweat, old wine, and horse dung—but I find I don’t mind it.
I’ve seen illustrations of horses in my scrolls, but we did not have them back home on my island.
I find myself awed by the creatures, lithe and glossy, but still so full of power.
Already, the drivers for the next race are on the track and readying themselves.
One of them has attracted a crowd of women.
He’s tall, pale, and skinny, with shorn blond hair that gives him a slightly hard edge but doesn’t hide the fact that he’s young.
His opponent, who is sitting beside his own team of horses alone, is almost the exact opposite.
He looks to be in his late thirties, with fair freckled skin and light brown hair.
Scars and cuts mark his bare arms, and I find myself wondering how many of these races he’s completed.
When he notices I’m looking at him, he smiles and stands.
“Would you like to see the horses?” he calls out. “They’re friendly, I promise.”
I look to Eupraxia, who nods from her spot on the hill, then approach the charioteer cautiously. Up close, I can appreciate his horses. All four are a glossy chestnut brown and share the same dark, intelligent eyes.
“Your horses are beautiful,” I remark. “What are their names?”
The charioteer nods to each of them. “Boreas, Zephyrus, Notus, and Eurus.”
I grin. “You’ve named your horses after the wind gods,” I note, then point to one of them. “Is he truly as fast as the southern wind?”
The charioteer nods again. “She is, as are her sisters.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll win with them.”
The chariot driver’s smile turns rueful, and he shakes his head. “I’m afraid you might be the only one who thinks so,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not favored to win this race,” he says. “You see that other driver? He’s younger, faster. The better odds are on him.”
“Well, I still believe in you and your four winds.”
“Thank you.” He smiles in earnest now. “My name is Kallinikos,” he says. “Yours?”
“I’m Meddy.”
“You’re a priestess?” he asks.
“I’m an acolyte, training to become a priestess.”
His eyes crinkle at their corners. “That’s close enough. I wonder if you might be willing to do me a small favor?”
The question surprises me, but I nod. “Of course.”
“I wonder if I might ask you to pray to Athena for my victory. The Goddess listens to her priestesses.” He winks at me. “And her acolytes.”
“I will.” The words sound more solemn than I intend.
He inclines his head and, before I can say anything else, climbs aboard his chariot and takes off.
His blond opponent is already at the starting line, and I scramble back up the hill to my spot with the other priestesses as the official from the first race returns and raises his hands.
I close my eyes quickly, unsure of how best to shape my prayer, and let instinct lead me.
Athena, please watch over Kallinikos. Please let him be victorious.
The horn blares a second time, and my eyes open again. The two chariot teams are off.
I thought I’d been attentive during the first round of chariot racing.
But that was nothing compared to how I feel now as I watch Kallinikos and the blond driver reach the first bend in the track.
The blond, perhaps inspired by the former race, tries to ram his chariot into Kallinikos’s, but the latter deftly shifts out of the way just in time.
When they reach the second bend, the blond tries again, but this time Kallinikos is ready.
He rams back, nearly sending the blond driver out of his seat.
The crowd roars its approval. They pass the third bend without issue, then begin the second lap, but now it’s obvious the blond’s horses are faster.
His crop flies through the air as he goads them on, leaning forward so he’s nearly parallel to their backs.
Slowly, he inches ahead. Kallinikos pushes his four winds to follow suit, but the horses can’t keep up.
The harder he pushes, the more quickly they seem to fall behind. The gap between the chariots widens.
He’s not going to win. I come to the realization slowly. He’s going to lose.
I watch the blond round the final bend. Already, he’s grinning in celebration.
He releases the reins to wave a hand at the cheering crowd: a mistake.
Something swoops into the stadium, too small for me to see, and flies right in front of the blond charioteer’s horses.
I can’t be sure, but it looks suspiciously like an owl.
The blond’s front horses come up short, frightening the others in the process so that they do the same.
It’s a momentary lapse, but it’s all Kallinikos needs.
He soars past the blond and crosses the finish line.
The crowd erupts, and I jump to my feet.
I have never felt such sheer elation before.
I feel triumphant as the blond charioteer’s screams of frustration are drowned out by the crowd’s praise.
Kallinikos takes his four winds around the track for another whole lap as Athenians clap their hands and stomp their feet for him.
When he reaches the starting line again, Eupraxia is waiting for him with a prize amphora.
He takes it from her and raises it high; the applause from the stadium is so total that I feel it in my rib cage.
A crowd of well-wishers is waiting to congratulate him once he’s dismounted his chariot, but he searches until he finds me and waves.
“It was you!” he says, pointing. “It was your blessing!”
I’m more inclined to think that it was Kallinikos’s skill and experience, coupled with a bit of chance, that won him the race, but I still wave back and smile.
Apollonia joins me. “Here’s to your first Panathenaia,” she says, grinning from ear to ear. “And to many more!”
“What happens now?” I ask. Already, people are clearing from the stadium, and many seem to be heading back toward the city.
“There will be festivities, parties in the streets,” she says. “I expect they’ll go well into the night.”
I look toward the city, wistful. “That sounds fun.”
Apollonia’s expression changes. Suddenly, she looks decidedly mischievous. “We could go.”
I eye her, surprised. “We aren’t supposed to.”
Apollonia waves a hand. “This is Panathenaia. The entire city will be celebrating, even the priestesses.” She looks into the distance, as though remembering something fond.
“When I was younger, my brothers would take me with them into the city. We’d eat and dance until the sun came up.
We had so much fun.” There’s a wistfulness in her voice now, a longing. Something in my stomach knots.
After what happened on our last trip into the city, I’ve worried that my friendship with Apollonia might change.
In the days after the incident with the little boy, we seemed to fall back into our normal routine, but the worry has remained, stuck in me like a stubborn thorn.
She is my only true friend in this city, the one who has made me feel welcomed from the very start.
In the end, that’s what makes me say the words.
“All right,” I say. “Tonight, we’ll go.”