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The boy laughed. “I told you she was hungry.”
“She is, Spiridion, so run. The soldier can find his way inside, surely?” a woman’s rough voice called from the recesses of the cabin.
“Don’t stare,” the boy whispered before he ran ahead, into the cabin.
Tread carefully. He would find the truth.
“For a soldier, you lack both speed and stealth,” the voice goaded.
“I wasn’t aware I needed speed or stealth, lady,” he answered. “Should I retreat and start again?”
Laughter, hoarse and grating, “You do have an excellent sense of humor.”
His first impression was one of height. The woman, a Gorgon to be sure, stood in the doorway staring down at him. She shifted, exposing her features to him. And he understood why the boy had warned him about staring.
“You are Ariston?” she asked.
“You know me?”
“Of course,” another said, stepping forward. This one wasn’t smiling. “Our sister dreamed of little else and we were forced to sleep under one roof… In the time we had with her.”
“Where is she?” he asked.
The unsmiling Gorgon answered quickly, “She is no longer with us…”
“She joined Hades this very morn,” the other added.
Ariston surged forward, staring about the dimly lit cabin.
They were wrong, they had to be. She could not be dead. If she were dead he could no longer look for her – hope for her.
He fought the urge to run. But six prying eyes watched him with various expressions, and he would find what answers he could.
“She suffers no more. That is more than she’d dare hope for.” The Gorgon continued, “I will take you to her grave after we eat.”
“Come in and sit,” the other suggested. “Let us cool our tempers and our tongues before we exchange tales, shall we? Leave him be, Euryale. Spiridion, fetch him some water.”
The boy did as he was told, handing the water skin to him with tear-filled eyes. “Here you are,” the boy whispered.
Ariston stared at the boy, at the pain on his young face. He said nothing as he took the water skin from him.
###
Medusa crept onto the beach, keeping to the shadows that leapt and danced about the crackling fire.
Her heart, thumping wildly, rebelled against what she was about to do. She knew these men were monsters, she had seen the torturous handwork of their retreating swords and spears. She and her sisters had buried their victims, praying that their souls might still find entry to Hades’ realm – and peace.
If she could but think on those faces, those beaten and murdered by these men, then she might find some satisfaction in this task.
The men talked amongst themselves, laughing and jesting as comrades often do. To look upon them, as she did now, she would never have suspected them of such treachery. They were men, no different in appearance than those who visited the temple in Athens or Galenus’ house.
Was it possible that the men she knew, men she loved, could be capable of such heinous acts?
Images of Ektor’s young face, Galenus’ fiery temperament, and Ariston rose unbidden. Could their hands have struck down women and children under the guise of war? Violated them with such ruthless abandon?
The serpents writhed, pulling upon her head wrap with deliberate intent. They could hear the men. She knew it by their rhythmic motions – and their absolute silence.
The Persians’ words rose and fell. She understood none of them, though they seemed at ease and jovial.
