‘My lord?’ Her low voice is mild, almost bored.
‘Ceto is blood-sworn to me. She cannot lie, she cannot betray. She will give an honest verdict when the time comes.’
‘She should watch over the girl, and her family.’ Amphitrite speaks from between barely moving lips. She is rigid alabaster, as numb as I feel. ‘They may try to hide Cassiopeia. They may try to improve their chances. Alter the girl’sappearance, usepharmakaand whatever other such things mortals and river folk use to imitate the might of the sea.’
The Cetus glares at her sister. ‘I think our lord would be able to see through such tricks without my assistance.’
But Poseidon holds up a hand and Amphitrite, whose mouth had opened to bite back a response, closes it again. ‘You will do as Amphitrite suggests, Ceto. You will watch over the young princess. Be her companion. When the time comes, you will tell me true if her beauty makes her worthy of me. It is not like you have better things to do. It is not a request.’
The Cetus dips her head. A priest is sent for, a devotee of Poseidon’s, a man who sobs openly at meeting his hero. He mumbles words I do not hear as the sea god slices through his own hand and pours light into a bowl. My mother imitates him, the vibrant red of her blood mixing with the spangled ichor. He is vast and luminous but – oh gods! – she isalive. Then it is done. Her life for my future.
The wind picks up, the rain returns and I welcome them this time, turn myself to their flagellation and will their intensity. My father is gibbering, my mother slowly and methodically binds her hand. I am ensconced between Achiroe and Phineus, their bodies pressing me close. Beneath the raging storm, Poseidon vanishes, Amphitrite seeming to dissolve behind him.
The Cetus is watching me once more. Her eyes bore into mine. I cannot read them. She speaks and I somehow hear her, despite the shriek of the gale, as if she whispers in my ear.
‘What a lot of fuss over one who is just a face. I will come tomorrow.’ Then she is gone.
I am sent to my apartments. The guests bid hasty farewells, those who were supposed to stay beginning long journeys early. They want no more part in this. My father’s advisors, including Phineus, gather in his apartments and my mother and grandmother go with them. This no longer concerns me.
I lie on my bed. It is warm but I burrow beneath layers of blankets and linen throws, until I am a cocoon of sweat and breath. Only then do I let the tears come, thick and fast, seeping into the fabric around me, as though I am afraid that their wet salt will betray me and summon the sea folk once more.My mother. My mother. My mother.My heart beats for her painfully. And for Phineus, for our future, for the longing I tasted but will not indulge because to long for him now is to speak a matricidal impulse into existence and I cannot, Icannot, lose my mother.
I must do as she says, always. Must exfoliate and oil my skin, must coil and braid my hair, must eat just the right amount of things that give me just the right amounts in just the right places. I must be as she says. I am resolved; I do not let myself think past this. I do not think of the Queen of the Sea, of who she might be. Or of the sharp water, so different from the light freshness of our rivers, that will sting and suck at my skin. I do not think of seabeds, of the behemoth I may share one with, of how I might be expected to please him. I do not think of the Coral Kingdom, as bright as the hair of the nymph I might steal it from.
Just as I drift into sleep, plummeting down into jet depths that seem to watch me as I fall, I roll on to my side and something digs into my flesh.
I feel sharp edges and smooth wood. I pull out a tiny, carved hippopotamus. Even in the dim light of the moon, Ican see that she is perfect. Her ears are curved like shells, and she is polished so well that it appears as though she has just emerged from below the banks beyond my window. I think of days spent among people in markets. I think of children playing in streets. I think of correspondence and arithmetic and clever conversation with farmers about produce. A lump forms again in my throat. No, it would not have been so bad, being married to Phineus.
6
Aethiopia
I am called to the hearth room by my parents the following morning. They wish to breakfast together. This is unusual. I am the earliest to rise in my family; the sun hits my windows first, Eos’ rosy fingers tickling my chin, tugging gently at my hair, braided for sleep. I greet the day and enjoy the solitude. I do not feel lonely when I am left to my daydreams, telling myself stories, or dancing to songs only I can hear, my feet matching the beats of imaginary drums. My grandmother is an early riser also and sometimes I join her, stealing out of my window to splash my feet as the Nile heats. Sometimes Phineus sends for me. We slip covertly into the kitchens, take bread warm from the pans and find our fists stuffed with boiled eggs and fruit by the cooks. I often bring a basket and we stroll around the palace, appreciating the quiet before the noise, the halls drowsy with shadow. I enjoy thesesometimes, relish their indecisive spontaneity.
I rarely see my mother until after my lessons, in the afternoon. If I am not swimming or fishing or picking fruit and flowers, she sends for me, gives me her own kinds of lessons. She will speak to me of my future, of what it is to be a wife and a mother, of what it is to be a queen. These days aremy favourites: assisting in her correspondence, discussing this crop or that yield, seeing the proud half-scrunch of her nose at my swift arithmetic. On these days, I am her successor. On other days, I am her daughter, her princess, herlittle queen. She will show me which colours complement my features, whichkalasirisflatters my shape as it warps and changes with womanhood. She will teach me how to reject a man’s advances without inciting violent ego, how to compliment a woman’s beauty without seeming to condescend, how to judge a friend or foe based on the minutest of details – the angle of a head, the widening of an eye, the sharpening of a smile. And other days still, she will pull me into the privacy of her apartments, her women with us, closing one of the few doors with surreptitious glances.
There they will murmur things that make my face heat, things I already know but I have not heard spoken of in such detail. My mother in particular is exact in describing how it will be when I first bleed, the colour and texture and smell. She does not want me to be afraid, she wants me to be ready. She is the same when describing what it is to labour and what it will be like when I first lie with a man; how it will hurt; how, if I have time, I might rub myself with oils – gentle ones, coconut or olive – beforehand so that my husband will slide inside more easily; how I shall please him. How hard to grip, how to use my mouth, how essential it is that, when he is nearly finished, I pull him astride me once more. ‘That is very important, mylittle queen. He must always finish inside. You will give him many princes that way, many sons. That is how you will keep him.’
My mother once told me that she believes that we die three times. First when our physical bodies fail us. A second timewhen the last person who knew us dies. And a third and final when our names are last spoken. She, though as preoccupied by immortality as the Hellenics, speaks of motherhood as a fortification against a finite end. I am reminded again of her old stories of Isis, as I see her now, sitting on her rug-strewn pallet as though it is her throne.
In one tale, after reviving Osiris, Isis lies with him. Her magic flows into him, bringing him back to life, and somewhere in all this shared breath is desire; they conceive their son, Horus. An heir and an avenger to ensure their immortality. And so, a coupling is political, and motherhood is a crafty, cunning force.
Cassiopeia does not, as the nobles’ daughters do, speak of pleasure. Of beating hearts or whispered promises. These things are closer to what I bring flickeringly to life, alone in my room, thinking of the jasmine-scented girl. I know through some unspoken, intuited thing that what she speaks of existssomewherein the same plane as that swift tightening of my belly, but I cannot see how, when they are so dissimilar and strange. My mother speaks only of duty and it is of duty she speaks now, as she sits coolly beside my father.
‘Smooth your forehead, Andromeda, it is unbecoming.’ She sips her tea, the tendrils of camomile reaching for me where I sit across from her. I wonder if they are the same that I picked yesterday. Was it only yesterday? When I sat and gossiped with my grandmother about Poseidon and his bride? ‘I do not know why you look so worried. There is only abundance in your future. You will marry Phineus and sit on my throne, or you will marry the Lord Poseidon and be Queen of the Sea.’
And my father, somehow, is nodding. ‘Your motherhas negotiated you a fine deal, Andromeda. Just think of it – my daughter, mylittle queen, sat beside Poseidon, skin shining with ichor, bestowing blessings upon her father’s kingdom.’
They seem so far away. I had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that my father would feel as I did. He is risk averse, he is not shrewd and calculating like my mother. He is the great-grandson of a Titan and I had thought that he would see the folly in bargaining with Olympians. But he sees only immortal grandsons on his throne; the pearls and fine cloth and spices brought to him on calm seas.
I struggle with my sentiment. ‘I feel … I am tied to two terrible things. How can you not see this? I wished to marry Phineus, to rule Aethiopia as you have. Now I cannot wish for it without wishing for my mother’s doom.’
‘Then do not wish for it. Wish to be Queen of the Sea, the Lady Andromeda, Ruler of the Oceans. The greatest fulfilment of your name.’
‘But I do not wish to marry the sea god! I cannot! I have heard brutish things, horrible stories of him—’
‘Gossip only!’ My father drinks from his cup and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. ‘Fear-mongering lies! No doubt you heard them from my mother?’ He takes my silence as acquiescence. ‘Exactly! Tales told by river folk who fear and resent the supremacy of the sea.’
My mother says, ‘He will not hurt you when you are his wife.’ I do not believe her. We both know of what some men do to women, the vows they break and somehow are not punished for. Horkos, it seems, does not care to uphold all oaths and Hera, it seems, does not care for all wives. I do not know if she believes it either because she adds, ‘You will beimmortal. You will have Olympian allies, you will have power of your own.’
