Bring Down the Sun (2 page)

Her elder sister Troas had been given to their uncle the king when she was old enough to marry. Their younger brother was still barely old enough to live among the men, but when he was a man, gods and his uncle and the royal council willing, he would be king. Polyxena was the odd one, the gift to the Mother whose grove had stood since long before human memory.

No one had asked her whether she wanted the life that had been chosen for her. She had a calling to the Mother; of that she had no doubt. But she was not called to be one of the oracles here in Dodona. That too she knew in her heart.

Her aunt would not hear these thoughts: she called them childish fancies. Polyxena had learned long since to keep them to herself. If she pressed too hard, she was kept at home when a message came from the king's house; and that, she could not bear. She loved that other world, with its strange horizons and myriad temptations.

It was a world of stone and bronze, hardened leather and hammered gold. The huge dogs of Molossia padded through the corridors and sprawled on the floors. Their masters were of much the same kind: big, tawny-skinned, and irresistibly lazy.

There were no women in the public halls. They kept to their own house and their own counsels. All the visible power here belonged to men.

That was the world's way, but the truth was not so simple. If Polyxena turned her mind to it, she could feel the thread that ran beneath, the subtle force that was the queen. Sometimes it was almost too subtle to find, but it was always there.

Nikandra in her black robe and bare feet walked through these halls like a shadow out of an older world. Those she met bowed—not always with good grace—and murmured words of respect. Whether that respect was real mattered less than that they acknowledged the need for it.

Polyxena attracted a different kind of attention, one that made her raise her chin and straighten her back. She had beauty: her mirror showed it, and so did people's faces. Her aunt never mentioned it, probably for her own good, but Polyxena was blessed or cursed with clear sight.

She knew better than to stare baldly at the men who stared at her. She drew up her veil until it half hid her face. That made them work harder to see the beauty that was there.

Nikandra troubled with no such artifice. She was blessed with height that Polyxena did not have, and she was still beautiful though she was past thirty: a beauty of broad clear brow and long straight profile and waving gold-red hair. She walked as straight as a man, with her head uncovered and her face bare to the world. Few men could meet those cold blue eyes.

Those same men suffered no such compunction when it came to Polyxena. She was enjoying herself much too much; she nearly let down her guard and smiled at a strong young thing who gaped unabashed as she passed. He must be new: she had not seen his face before.

Almost too late she flicked her eyes away and fixed them on the upright, black-clad back in front of her. When they reached the passage that turned toward the queen's house, Nikandra walked on past, somewhat to Polyxena's surprise. She was aiming toward the king's rooms.

Polyxena had never been this far into the palace. She knew the queen's house well and the great hall well enough, but had glimpsed the rooms beyond it rarely and never so close.

They were not as open or airy as the queen's rooms, nor were they as well kept. They were clean enough, but there was a certain air of dishevelment about them, a careless clutter of weapons, clothing, and oddments cast wherever their owners had let them fall. Those owners must be out and about: Polyxena saw only a servant or two struggling against the tide of disorder, and once a woman barely covered with a bit of gauze, who squeaked and fled at the sight of them.

Nikandra took no notice of her or, as far as Polyxena could see, of anything else. She threaded the maze of corridors as if she knew them well, emerging at last into a place that startled Polyxena with familiarity: the lesser hall where the king's Companions spent such idle hours as they had.

Polyxena had been there once before, following Nikandra to a gathering in the greater hall, but for that she had come in through the outer regions of the palace. This much more circuitous path was part of the lesson, then. It seemed Polyxena was to remark and remember, and take thought for the ways people lived outside the temple.

Or else she was to reflect that men were untidy, barely domesticated, and sorely in need of setting to rights. That would be a familiar lesson.

The Companions' hall was in much less disarray than the rooms behind it. Here the weapons on display were kept bright and polished, and the floor was as clean as it could be when there were dogs underfoot. Only a handful of men stood or sat or lounged on couches: half a dozen in all, and one was the king.

Polyxena spared her uncle a glance, but the others caught more of her attention. They bore a striking resemblance to one another: tall men, light and lean like gazehounds, with hair so fair it was nearly white. Arybbas beside them seemed as darkly massive as one of the Mother's oaks, though in any other company he was a tall and rangy man with hair more red than brown.

He greeted Nikandra with due respect, but the others offered her the full obeisance, kneeling and bowing their heads as if she had been the Mother herself. That was a rarity in these days. Polyxena saw how Arybbas' lips tightened at it, but Nikandra smiled and laid her hand on the eldest man's head. “May the Mother bless and keep you,” she said.

The strangers bowed even lower at that. Nikandra raised the eldest, who was old enough to have fathered the rest; they followed suit, as carefully in unison as dancers in a temple. Once they were upright, they all kept their eyes fixed on their feet, even the youngest, who might have been expected to show a glimmer of curiosity.

“Your manners do you credit,” Nikandra said. “Be at ease now; it's not the year-king we want you for.”

Most of them stiffened at that, but the youngest looked up quickly. His eyes were clear deep blue, and they sparkled with mirth before he lowered them again.

“These are Hymeneia's children,” Nikandra said, “from the vale of Acheron. She was never blessed with daughters, but the Mother sent her loyal and obedient sons.”

Polyxena wondered about the youngest, but the rest seemed as demure as a maiden was supposed to be. They were lovely boys, soft in their movements, well-spoken and gentle. If they had been a litter of puppies, Polyxena would have been pleased.

She eyed them in growing suspicion. That suspicion bloomed into certainty when her uncle said, “Chins up, lads. Let her take the measure of you.”

When they raised their heads, every eye fixed on Polyxena. They were lovely, every one. And not one was her measure of a man.

Nikandra's satisfaction was so strong it lay on Polyxena's tongue like a taste of unmixed wine. She must have scoured the wilds of Epiros to find a clan that still followed the ways of the Mother.

She had done well, by her lights. She had found the last six men in this part of the world who were fit to make a marriage with a daughter of the grove. It was a pity they were not fit to marry a daughter of Achilles.

Two

“I want to marry,” Polyxena said. “I dream of marrying. But if I'm given to choose, why must I choose
those?
”

Her sister Troas paused in stitching a state robe for the king. She was a softer spirit than Polyxena, and some said more beautiful: a beauty of milk-white skin and soft hands and wide blue eyes. Still, she was queen, and she had her own share of wisdom.

Her long fingers traced the curve of the embroidery along the hem: gold thread on crimson. One of her maids hastened to fetch a new coil of thread; green, this one, like new grass.

When the needle was ready, she set a row of tiny, perfect stitches. Then she said, “You only have to choose one.”

Polyxena tossed her head impatiently. “What's to choose between them? They're a flock of blue-eyed sheep.”

“They're handsome sheep,” said Troas. “Choose the handsomest and be glad you weren't born elsewhere in the world. Royal daughters aren't given to choose their marriages there, nor are royal sons, either, unless they're very lucky.”

“Kings can do as they please,” Polyxena said. “I want a king to choose me.”

“Any king? Even if he's old and ugly and smells like a he-goat?”

“There are young kings and strong kings. If my king hasn't mastered the art of the bath, I'll teach him.”

“You are young,” said Troas, who was a whole five years older. “These Hymenides already know how to bathe, and they're young and pleasing to look at, and they'll do your bidding. With them you'll be free to do as you please.”

“I want a man,” Polyxena said stubbornly, “and I want one who is worthy of me. I want a king.”

*   *   *

There was no budging the girl. She had always been headstrong, but with time and training she had learned to rein herself in. She had performed her duties and assisted in the rites of the temple as an acolyte should, albeit with a certain lack of passion.

Now that Polyxena's body was waking to itself, Nikandra had dared to hope for an end to her long vigilance. A young woman distracted by a handsome husband would be safe; once the children came, she would focus her powers on them and not, please the Mother, on more perilous things.

The Hymenides had been the answer to Nikandra's prayer. They were men of the old world, impossibly rare in this graceless age. Nikandra would have thought Polyxena would be delighted to choose a man who had been raised to do a woman's bidding.

But Polyxena was cursed with a contrary spirit. Troas was useless; her attempts at dissuasion only deepened Polyxena's defiance.

Nikandra had her own substantial share of stubbornness. She extricated Polyxena from the queen's house and brought her back to the temple with not a word spoken. Polyxena was obstinately silent, and Nikandra saw no profit in argument.

*   *   *

In the morning, as the first light of dawn struggled to brighten a sky gone dark and cold, Polyxena emerged from her cell and nearly fell over the youngest Hymenid. He sat cross-legged in front of her door, wrapped in a bearskin, rocking and singing softly to himself. The rhythm of his song had crept into Polyxena's dream; her heart was still beating to it.

“Go away,” she said.

He rose with grace he must have studied since he was old enough to walk. Her belly tightened in spite of itself. He was not the man she wanted, but he was a beautiful creature.

His voice was as lovely as the rest of him, light and melodious like a trained singer's. “Lady, I can't. I've been commanded.”

“I command you to let me be.”

“The Lady said you would say that,” he said. “I'm to assist you with your duties, and you are to allow it. That's her command, lady.”

Polyxena drew a long breath. She should not shriek and rail at this boy; it was hardly his fault that he had been inflicted on her. If anyone deserved a grand fit of temper, it was her aunt.

Nikandra would be expecting it. Polyxena refused to gratify her. With careful calm she said, “Do as you please. Goddess knows it's dull enough.”

“Surely not if you're with me, lady,” he said.

She ignored his flattery. There was water to fetch and the floor to sweep and the lamps to tend—all in biting cold that held no memory of the previous day's warmth. Only then could they break their fast with fresh bread and olives cured in salt and a cup of heavily watered wine.

He uttered no word of complaint. Even when the sleet turned to snow while they fetched water from the spring that ran only in the daylight and went dry as the sun set, he never failed of his carefully trained courtesy. He shielded her from the wind and insisted that she put on his bearskin, though her woolen mantle was warm enough.

He was an excellent servant. She would have kept him for that.

Only a handful of pilgrims had braved the storm to beg for oracles. Timarete had the unenviable task of sitting under the sacred oak, sheltered from the snow by its branches and warmed by a brazier, and making sense of the song the wind sang as it smote the flasks and jars of bronze that hung from the branches. To Polyxena when she passed, the god's voice sounded like a long and rambling complaint.

It set a thought in her head, which she left to take root and grow. When the temple was in order and the priestesses' comfort attended to, Polyxena had lessons to recite and a heap of mending to do.

Her shadow lent a hand with that; for a man he was deft with a needle. Then she learned that his name was Attalos and that he had been born in the year before her, as near as he could tell. She also discovered that he could sing; his voice was as tuneful as she might have expected.

She did enjoy his company. When she looked at him, the stirring she felt when she watched the king's Companions in the field was barely there. He was too smoothly pretty, and she did not incline toward women or unfledged boys.

*   *   *

Her dreams that night were dark and strange. She danced by moonlight in the sacred grove. The clashing of cymbals and the pounding of feet on the winter-hardened ground echoed and reechoed down the long corridors of trees. Cold light cast darts through the black branches. The night was full of eyes, of shadowy shapes and whispering voices.

In the dream the temple was either gone or not yet built, but the Mother's tree stood tall under the moon. Its leaves rubbed together like hands; a voice spoke from its heart, deep and slow, in a language older than any mortal thing. She almost understood the words; almost comprehended their meaning.

Her body was full of the dance. She had begun in her acolyte's tunic, but after a while it vanished. She danced naked with her long hair loose, whipping her flanks, and the blood-warm air caressing her skin.

The moon and the darkness spoke of winter, but the heavy heat was unmistakably summer. It rose from inside her, like the music and the dance, throbbing in her veins.