quarters and saw Phylomache leaning against the frame of the bedchamber door, Antinoe on her hip, Asteropia clutching at her skirt with one hand and waving with the other, a solitary motion, slow and final. I felt with bitter surprise how much I loved them, and wished I could turn and bolt back to the little room where I had been born. But I had been promised elsewhere. I waved once, touched my hand to my lips, and followed the servants down the stairs.
Pelias stood in the doorway to the courtyard, a hulking shadow in a brown tunic. He should have been wearing a bright color, something celebratory. I stopped beside him. “I don’t suppose you’ve forgiven me yet,” I said softly.
He did not move or acknowledge me.
“Well, you’ll be rid of me soon enough.” I walked past him to join the group of guards and servants milling about in the courtyard, wondering with each step if he would stop me, seize my arm, or shout. He did nothing. That stung just as badly, and I paused for a moment, as if to give him a chance to haul me back inside. Finally he walked down the steps and brushed past me, going to the stallion tethered by the gate and barking at a slave to help him mount.
“Goodbye, Father,” I whispered. It felt superfluous to say it then. We had no connection to sever. When should I have bid him farewell? In the moment between my birth and my mother’s death? The day when I first began to bleed between my legs like a woman, or the day before Admetus came, when I had no suitors and no desire for them?
I would play my part in the wedding ceremony and serve Admetus honorably, and when I was wed it would not matter what my father thought. He would possess me no longer.
The men brought out the rest of the horses and donkeys, several of them laden with my belongings. For all the noise Phylomache had made about packing, I had few possessions. There were only twelve men accompanying us; the rest would stay in Iolcus to guard the palace, Phylomache, and the children.
We rode through the gate with no wailing or crying to send us off. From the middle of the procession, I turned back and saw the women of the household lined up on the steps, leaning against each other as if they needed support. I imagined my sisters standing in front of them: Hippothoe would’ve been near Phylomache, and would perhaps have wrapped a wiry arm about her rounder waist; Pisidice would have stood to the side, alone. But their images vanished like shades, slipping away to death and marriage. The head maid raised a hand and waved as silently as Asteropia had. I did not dare wave back.
I rode one of the quiet mares, my horse’s bridle tethered to a guard’s saddle, my legs on one side of the horse’s back and my rear on the other. My buttocks fell asleep almost at once, but I didn’t care—I was watching the sea pass by, and the juts of rock, and the way plants grew spidery in the cracks of cliffs. These things had always been here, only leagues from the palace, though I had never seen them, and they would still be here, along this road, when I had grown old in Pherae, worn out by childbearing and worry.
We turned inland from the coast, the afternoon sun bathing my left side in warmth. I listened to the clanking of the men’s gear and the horses’ bridles and tried not to think about the wedding or the ceremony or my husband. I thought instead of my sister’s grave, the mound of dirt slowly wearing down to nothingness, the wind gods smoothing her absence away. But oh, I couldn’t cry—Pelias would hit me if I arrived in Pherae tear soaked and swollen. I prayed silently to Hera the white armed, asking her for calm.
We rode first to Pheres’ house, a villa nearly as grand as the Iolcan palace. The courtyard bloomed with torches, lit even during the early evening hours, that gave off trails of pungent smoke. Light-headed, I clutched at my horse’s withers as the convoy came to a stop. The old king of Pherae stood on the steps of his
Pelias stood in the doorway to the courtyard, a hulking shadow in a brown tunic. He should have been wearing a bright color, something celebratory. I stopped beside him. “I don’t suppose you’ve forgiven me yet,” I said softly.
He did not move or acknowledge me.
“Well, you’ll be rid of me soon enough.” I walked past him to join the group of guards and servants milling about in the courtyard, wondering with each step if he would stop me, seize my arm, or shout. He did nothing. That stung just as badly, and I paused for a moment, as if to give him a chance to haul me back inside. Finally he walked down the steps and brushed past me, going to the stallion tethered by the gate and barking at a slave to help him mount.
“Goodbye, Father,” I whispered. It felt superfluous to say it then. We had no connection to sever. When should I have bid him farewell? In the moment between my birth and my mother’s death? The day when I first began to bleed between my legs like a woman, or the day before Admetus came, when I had no suitors and no desire for them?
I would play my part in the wedding ceremony and serve Admetus honorably, and when I was wed it would not matter what my father thought. He would possess me no longer.
The men brought out the rest of the horses and donkeys, several of them laden with my belongings. For all the noise Phylomache had made about packing, I had few possessions. There were only twelve men accompanying us; the rest would stay in Iolcus to guard the palace, Phylomache, and the children.
We rode through the gate with no wailing or crying to send us off. From the middle of the procession, I turned back and saw the women of the household lined up on the steps, leaning against each other as if they needed support. I imagined my sisters standing in front of them: Hippothoe would’ve been near Phylomache, and would perhaps have wrapped a wiry arm about her rounder waist; Pisidice would have stood to the side, alone. But their images vanished like shades, slipping away to death and marriage. The head maid raised a hand and waved as silently as Asteropia had. I did not dare wave back.
I rode one of the quiet mares, my horse’s bridle tethered to a guard’s saddle, my legs on one side of the horse’s back and my rear on the other. My buttocks fell asleep almost at once, but I didn’t care—I was watching the sea pass by, and the juts of rock, and the way plants grew spidery in the cracks of cliffs. These things had always been here, only leagues from the palace, though I had never seen them, and they would still be here, along this road, when I had grown old in Pherae, worn out by childbearing and worry.
We turned inland from the coast, the afternoon sun bathing my left side in warmth. I listened to the clanking of the men’s gear and the horses’ bridles and tried not to think about the wedding or the ceremony or my husband. I thought instead of my sister’s grave, the mound of dirt slowly wearing down to nothingness, the wind gods smoothing her absence away. But oh, I couldn’t cry—Pelias would hit me if I arrived in Pherae tear soaked and swollen. I prayed silently to Hera the white armed, asking her for calm.
We rode first to Pheres’ house, a villa nearly as grand as the Iolcan palace. The courtyard bloomed with torches, lit even during the early evening hours, that gave off trails of pungent smoke. Light-headed, I clutched at my horse’s withers as the convoy came to a stop. The old king of Pherae stood on the steps of his
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