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Chapter One
The day is hot, the sun fit to split the stones, but that’s not the reason for the beads of perspiration breaking out on the back of my neck.
“They’re late.” My father looks around impatiently, his thick soldier’s hands on his hips. When he paces, it kicks up dust from the dry ground. It hasn’t rained in Sikyon in many days.
“Where is Kiria Georgiou and that son of hers?”
Another bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck. Our chariots can’t take off until they arrive: Kiria Georgiou and her young son, Hector. Hector Georgiou is a vital part of today’s great pageant—almost as vital as me.
Here in Sikyon we worship all the gods, like any good Greek: we place an icon of Hestia beside the fire, and one of Hephaestus outside every smithy, and pray to Eileithyia when a woman is in labor. But every town chooses one god to honor above others, one god with whom it has a special affinity, and whom it chooses to be its protector. Our town chose Eros. I think we have chosen well. Other cities may choose to worship Zeus, or the God of war, Ares, but in Sikyon we choose to worship the god of love.
Eros’s temple stands above the village, high on a hill, and from the right vantage point you can see it from down in the Agora, towering golden in the sun or silver in the moonlight. On top of that, once a year we dedicate a festival to him: theErotidia. This year’s, though, is to be bigger, better, and grander than anything we have seen before. It marks the king’s twentieth year of rule, and he’s spared no expense to show his people a good time. The townsfolk are more than ready for the excuse tocelebrate—it’s been a hard summer with much work to be done, but the harvest is safe now and the year ahead looks prosperous. You can almost feel the exhale in the air, and the excitement of a long-promised party. I suspect many of our townspeople have been drinking since breakfast. They have a big day ahead.
Because this year, alongside the usual fare—singing, dancing, games, and sports tournaments—the king decreed a grand parade. A pageant, you could call it, to honor our patron god. As a rule, we don’t pretend to be the gods, even in theater. We tell their tales, but mostly it’s only the words of an old man by the fire, and only children play at reenacting them. But Sikyon will do whatever is required for the king’s amusement.
Which is why right now I’m standing on the outskirts of town, breathing the hot dry air, preparing to get into a two-horse chariot and parade through the streets, dressed as Aphrodite.
Trying to convince myself that it wasn’t all a terrible mistake.
Olive trees line the dirt road, drooping in the heat. It’s probably just the sun that’s giving me this twinge of headache and a strange sense of foreboding. I have this anxious feeling that we’re playing with fire. The gods are harsh judges. Our performance had better be pleasing.
I walk to the front of the chariot and hold out a hand to the horses I am to drive. Father is a soldier, and although he is conservative about other matters, he was always keen that his daughters should know a little of the arts of war—so, unlike most of the other girls of Sikyon, I can shoot a little and ride a horse, even bareback. But I have never driven a chariot before. The Demous have loaned us two of their horses—white as shells, muscled and lean, and, hopefully, obedient.
Aphrodite, at least in theory, is only the second most important part in today’s pageant. Eros, Aphrodite’s son, is supposed to be the real star, and that’s the part young Hector will be playing. But if we’re honest, I know full well that Sikyonis more excited about seeing me in the chariot. There have been rumors swirling around about me, and I suppose everyone wants to see if they’re true. What’s more, it’ll be the first good chance they get to gawk since my engagement to Yiannis Demou was announced a few days ago, which Father tells me has been the talk of the town. Everyone is turning out to watch the parade now, he says. The streets are empty here on the outskirts, but there’ll be crowds waiting for us when we get near the center.
The blue skies seem to intensify, as though the sun is burning them to their true color. Ahead of me, the dozen chariots with other young men and girls from the town are already full: they are to play the part of Aphrodite’s handmaidens and the young lord Eros’s attendants. I’ve had enough sideways glances from them to know that most aren’t best pleased at playing only handmaidens, having been passed over for the role of Aphrodite. I’d wager most of them aren’t best pleased I’m engaged to marry Yiannis Demou either. As for me, I’m happy enough about the marriage. As for the role of Aphrodite…Father says it’s a great honor, but the truth is, I didn’t want to be chosen at all. For one thing, I’ve never exactly identified with Aphrodite. I prefer Demeter, the calm lady of the harvest, or in my wilder moments I might fancy myself as Artemis—fearless, barefoot, an archer running through the woods with her band of huntress maids. But I have never fancied myself an Aphrodite. The appointments were handed out by the king’s council itself, though, and no one says no to the king’s council, or would dream of turning down an honor conferred on them.
Across the way I spot the two figures hurrying toward us: Hector and his mother. I sigh with relief. I was beginning to think we wouldn’t reach the temple before noon.
Yiannis Demou steps out of a cluster of youths nearby, ready to hand me up into the chariot.
“Steady,” he says, to me or the horse, I’m not sure. His red-gold hair flashes in the sun, his tawny eyes taking me in like a meal. The chariot is high, and I’m not used to wearing such a delicate and cumbersome dress. In fact, I’ve never worn anything this fine in my life.
“Your mother has outdone herself with this gown,” I say. Not that Kiria Demou made it herself, of course. She’s far above anything like that.
“It’s a shame you have to wear anything at all,” Yiannis smirks. He gives me a sly smile. “Don’t the legends say Aphrodite emerged naked from the sea?”
He helps me grip the bar of the chariot and arranges my stance. Then I feel his arm slide stealthily, quickly upward. His arms are long—he is Sikyon’s fastest discus-thrower—and his fingers are probing the top of my thigh before I can draw breath.
“Stop it!” I say fiercely, lest anyone see him, but his hand has already disappeared again. As long as he’s discreet, I don’t mind too much. I would have shouted had another boy tried to do it, but Yiannis has a claim on me.
“Psyche,” he murmurs, pleased with himself. The way he says my name,sigh-kee,sounds like a breath.The Demous are one of the wealthiest families in Sikyon, so Father is pleased. He says my looks have won the alliance. Father is a councilman. We have some status in the town, but we are not wealthy, and some people would say we have a questionable reputation. They like Father well enough, but my mother is not kindly remembered.
As for me, I am tired of the boys ogling me, tired of how they treat me like a heifer going to auction; as if my virginity is a prize they may compete for. A man’s body, it seems, commands respect in this world, while a woman’s may command only either lust or scorn, and I am ready to be rid of this virginity that has them all wound to such a frenzy. Once our wedding night is over, once Yiannis has claimed what is his, I know the luster will fade.They will lose interest then; I have seen it before when the girls of Sikyon become wives.
Dimitra says the ways of the flesh are only for men to enjoy. She says that a woman may use them for power, but not for pleasure. I hope she is wrong. I have heard other things, too, things whispered in undertones in the Agora, things that could never be repeated in polite company: that a woman may enjoy the bedroom just as much as men do; that there is an ecstasy in the body that can leave a woman transfixed. If there is, I should like to know it. It seems only a fair reward for the price I pay to carry this body around with me every day, for the stares, the leers, the “accidental” touches in the market-place; for the boys—and men, even acquaintances of Father’s, married councilmen—that I know better than to be in a room alone with. I must watch all of them enjoy my body with their eyes every day; is it not right that I should enjoy it too?
But words like these, I would never speak aloud.
“Kiria Georgiou!” My father is calling. He waves impatiently as the harried-looking woman and her young son move toward us. Little Hector is a sweet boy, skinny-limbed and shy. Perhaps in a few years he will have grown more like the boys of Sikyon that I am more familiar with—full of cat-calls and knowing comments. But I think not.
“Here, boy, I’ll help you up.” My father has a limp from his fighting days in the Atlantean war, but it doesn’t get in his way. He lifts Hector bodily into the seat beside me. Hector’s robed for the occasion too, looking uncomfortable in his unfamiliar clothing. But he smiles at me as Father hands him up.
“You look beautiful, Psyche,” he says shyly.
“So do you,” I whisper, and he giggles. I catch my father’s gaze then, briefly. His sun-wrinkled eyes, the quick pull of his lips to one side. I see pride there, and some sadder emotion I can’t name. I wonder what he’s thinking of—my mother,perhaps? He says I have a look of her. My father’s olive skin bears the mark of years, but he is still a handsome man. Many women would have liked to take my mother’s place after she died. It was unusual for a man like him, alone, to raise two young daughters, but he did it.
As for my sister Dimitra, she had no interest in coming to see me off. If she’s here at all, she’s gathered in the Agora with her friends, where the biggest crowds will be. Or maybe she’s at home, ignoring all this. She doesn’t like it when I get too much of the attention.
