Chapter XVII #2
The directions Haris has given me are accurate but misleading.
The city’s public latrines aren’t “just up the road”; rather, they are several blocks away.
At this hour of the night—I’ve long since abandoned trying to discern exactly what time it is—they are empty, and I realize I’ve left the main area designated for the festivities.
I duck inside, grateful to sit somewhere cool and dark for a spell.
When I am finished, I carefully trundle down the building’s steps and lean against one of the massive stone columns at its front.
I tell myself that I will return to Apollonia and the boys soon.
I just need a moment’s rest. I ease down to sit on the steps.
My eyes wander lazily, taking in my surroundings.
I discern that I am in a more residential part of Athens; the sounds of the city are subdued enough for me to hear trilling cicadas, the light trickling of a well somewhere in the distance.
I can tell that someone in one of the nearby buildings has lit a lamp; the smell of burning olive oil suffuses the night air.
That smell reminds me of the Acropolis and my waiting bed pallet.
I sigh, closing my eyes just for a moment.
“Hello there.”
I sit bolt upright at once, uneasy as I look around for the owner of the new voice that has interrupted the quiet.
The fair-skinned man who emerges from the dark is older, with salt-and-pepper stubble dusting his cheeks.
His clothes are ragged, and he offers me a toothy grin as he approaches. I get to my feet and step back.
“Got any coin?” he asks in a low, raspy voice.
“N-no. Sorry.” I try to keep my tone calm as I inch away. The man matches me step for step.
“Come now,” he presses, “I don’t need much, just a drachma or two?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have anything.” I steal a glance left, tense. “I really need to get back, actually. My friends are waiting for me.”
The man leers. “They won’t miss you.” He moves faster than I anticipate, snatching my upper arm and pulling me toward him.
“Take your hands off her.”
I feel my assailant’s grip loosen as both of us look in the direction of the third voice that’s filled the street.
The first thing I see doesn’t make sense: a pair of eyes, blue-green, searing impossibly through the darkness.
Then I make out the shape of a young man.
I realize, with a start, that he is familiar.
It is the young man from the market.
Without hesitating, he charges forward, his gaze locked on the older man. “Release her,” he bellows. “Now!”
The older man seems just as startled as I am, but he doesn’t comply. With a slightly less confident voice, he says: “Mind your business, boy. She’s none of your concern.”
“I won’t say it again,” says the boy. “Let her go.”
“And if I don’t?”
It happens suddenly. There is a great flash of light, a whooshing sound, and then the boy from the market is gone. In his place stands a man who isn’t a man at all. He has long black hair that falls to his shoulders and those same vivid blue-green eyes. In his right hand, he holds a golden trident.
He is a god.
“Great Poseidon.” My assailant whispers the name at the same time it blazes through my mind. “How—?”
“I offered clemency.” Poseidon’s new voice—his real voice—is both great and terrible. He sounds like a living, breathing storm. “Instead, you challenged a god.”
“Please!” My assailant releases me as he drops to his knees, sputtering. The air is fouled by a new stench, and I realize with some revulsion that he’s urinated on himself. I step away from him. “P-p-please, O mighty lord. Have mercy.”
“Leave my sight,” Poseidon commands.
The man doesn’t need to be told twice. His legs tremble so badly that the first time he rises, he nearly falls again, but once he’s found his feet, he is gone in seconds, running down the road. Poseidon stares after him, eyes narrowed, then looks to me.
“Medusa,” he says in a quieter voice.
A jolt of shock runs through me. I’d met the king of the sea—in this form, at least—only once.
I offer a deep bow. “Y-yes. Yes, my king.” I stare at the ground, waiting for him to speak, and am surprised to feel a finger tap my chin and direct my eyes up.
Poseidon has come closer. He is staring down at me with a much softer expression.
“What are you doing here?” His tone is chiding but gentle. “I’ve told you parts of this city are not safe at night.”
Shame fills me. At once I know he’s right, I shouldn’t be here. I am standing upright now, but again I look away. “Apologies, my king. I—”
“Poseidon.”
I look up. “Sorry—?”
“I would have you use my name: Poseidon.” The words are kind but imperative. “I prefer it.”
It takes me a moment to find my words. “Very well…Poseidon.”
He cocks his head. “You were telling me why you’d come to this place.”
I bite my lip. “I wanted to see Athens. Well, more of it.”
He gives me a sympathetic look. “I can understand that,” he says. “There’s no city like it.”
I think of the story Apollonia told me once, about the contest Poseidon and Athena waged to lay claim to this city. Though I’m not certain of it, I think I see a quiet grief in Poseidon’s eyes. It’s only there for a moment. Then he blinks, and his smile returns.
“Come,” he says kindly. “I will take you back to the temple.”