The Sweet Girl (25 page)

“Gods.” Plios laughs. “That was sudden. It’s almost painful, isn’t it? Well, go in. No sense both of us getting wet. I’ll see you soon.”

I kiss his cheek, as Glycera says I must, and go in, but not before the raindrops have stung the skin on my bare arms and shoulders. Hours later I’m freckled there with tiny red blisters, like burns from spitting oil.

The next day, I take the coins Glycera gave me to the temple and hand them over to the head priestess. Though I go veiled, accompanied by the big slave from Glycera’s house, I feel the townspeople’s eyes on me.

The next day is so stormy, the sun barely comes up. The sky is black all day and the rooms are like night. Plios stays for two lamps, a meal, and another lamp. The last time, I’m on my back when something makes me open my eyes. Past Plios’s ear, I see a movement in the shadows where the wall meets the ceiling. As I watch, the colour curls back on itself and rolls in a single long peel down to the ground. Then the next wall, and the next.

When Plios notices, he’s delighted. “We fucked the paint off the walls!”

After he’s gone, I fix my hair and strip the bed. The paint curls crumble to dust when I touch them. I go to fetch the broom and dustpan and find Obole is ahead of me, trying to clean the big dining room. Every room in the house is afflicted. Glycera and Aphrodisia are on their knees, trying to scoop up the dust in their cupped hands.

“Is it the humidity?” Meda appears in the doorway, wrapped in a sheet. They all look at me.

“I’m not sure,” I say. I think of Daddy, of Clea, of Euphranor, and add—honestly—“I doubt it.”

A client of Meda’s, an importer named Karpos, hires us to adorn his house for an evening symposium. He’s invited many prominent citizens of Chalcis. Glycera has taught me there are many kinds of intercourse between a man and a woman, and my sisters and I make our way through the room accordingly: stepping lightly on unsuspecting feet; pretending to trip and seizing elbows to steady ourselves; holding eye contact a little too long; taking a man’s cup from his hand and sipping from where he sipped; occasionally licking our lips, to offer sightings of the tips of our tongues.

I glide into the courtyard. Karpos the importer made his money in wine, and the stonework is carved and painted with vine motifs. I scrape with my fingernail at a cluster of black grapes painted on a column.

“Here you are.”

“Here I am.”

“Hiding?”

I shrug.

“
I’m
hiding.”

“I don’t care.”

“Course you care,” Euphranor says. “Don’t you want to know who I’m hiding from?”

I shrug.

“Everyone,” he says. “Everyone but you.”

I shrug.

“Do you want to see a trick?”

No.

“No,” he says. “But I’m going to show you anyway.”

He touches his finger to the painted column, where I’ve scored white scratches in the paint. The scratches heal.

“Very impressive,” I say. “You can put paint back on as well as take it off.”

“You noticed.”

I turn to go back inside.

“I’ve been very kind to you,” he says. “Very generous, very patient.”

It comes then, the change. The grapes burst into reality from the paint on the columns, hanging plump and ripe from the marble; the air suddenly goes warm and druggy sweet; the god, behind me, flickers into himself like a flame catching a bit of paper. A slave passing through the courtyard sees this, hesitates, then runs into the house. As though a person could run from this.

“I’ll kill Simon,” the god says. “I’ll kill Thale and Ambracis and Philo and Olympios. I’ll throw the baby down the well.
I’ll cut Tycho’s throat in front of your face, so help me, Pythias. I’ll make you watch.”

I tell him Tycho has had enough.

“He’s had enough when you decide he has,” the god says. “It’s entirely up to you.”

Inside, I tell Glycera I have a client. I don’t run; I walk.

The house is utterly overgrown with vines. It’s early, still, and there’s a supper laid out for us. Ambracis serves, eyes downcast, and Euphranor finds reason to summon each of the servants, one after another, on one pretext or another, so I can see they’re all well, plus meek and obedient. The house is tidy and in good order; the disarray is utterly gone.

I tell him I won’t do it in my father’s room, and he says he understands.

I have the god in my old bedroom. I tell him what to do and he does it. I tell him what I want. It’s not a matter of superior meltings or explosive joys.

“I love you,” he says. Warm, naked, breathing hard. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

I tell him he’s not allowed to talk.

The next morning, I’m woken by shouting. I’m alone in the bed.

Tycho is blocking the gate, trying to keep someone out.
I wrap my fur tighter around my naked self and venture closer, barefoot.

A soldier. Filthy, haggard, knife drawn. His eyes are sunken in a way I know. His voice is deep and rough, with a bit of sandpaper in it.

“Then wake her,” he’s saying. “I’ll wait.” I step closer, and he sees me over Tycho’s shoulder. “Pytho?”

I put my hand on Tycho’s shoulder.
It’s all right
.

“Cousin,” I say.

His smile, so sweet it hurts.

Nicanor’s ridden one horse and is leading a second. He smiles at me and sheathes his knife and dismounts and I open the gate and let him in.

“I went to Athens first,” he says, looking around the courtyard. “You weren’t there, but your brother was. And that tall fellow.”

“Theophrastos,” I say.

“He gave me all this money.” He opens a saddlebag on the second horse to show me a small fortune in gold coin. “From your father’s school. He said it rightfully belonged to me. Then I went to the garrison, here, and spoke to Thaulos. He said you’d be expecting me.”

“Ah.”

We both look down at the fur I’ve pulled tightly around me.

“I’d like a wash,” he says. “And something to eat.”

“Tycho,” I say.

“Lady.”

“Take care of our cousin. Give him whatever he wants.”

“Will you put that lot in the storeroom?” Nicanor says to me, nodding at the saddlebags. “After you put some clothes on. You, Tycho. Lead on.”

“Master,” Tycho says. He’s been playing his trick of keeping his big self half between us throughout this conversation.

“All right, man, I’m not going to eat her,” Nicanor says. “Show me the kitchen while she sorts herself out. I want some eggs.”

“This way, Master.”

I lock up the bags and return to my room, where I put on the brown dress from last night. I find Nicanor in the kitchen breakfasting on bread dipped in a bowlful of raw egg. He eats standing. “Want some?”

I shake my head.

“Thaulos told me there’s a man named Euphranor I owe some money to,” Nicanor says, without looking at me. “Is that right?”

I nod.

“Does your family know? Herpyllis, or your brother?”

I shake my head.

“I’ve been on campaign for twelve years,” he says. “I need rest. Your man here has explained the situation to me. It’s all right, Pythias. I’m not going to tell your family. The townspeople will talk, I suppose, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t care. Stay home like you’re supposed to, from now on, and you won’t even have to see them. I’m not going to punish you.”

He stops eating for a moment and looks at me to make sure I believe him.

“Oh,” I say.

“Write to them,” he says. “Your brother and the others. A small wedding, don’t you think? Nothing too elaborate. How soon do you think they might come?”

“I
S THAT WINE
?”
NICO ASKS
. “No, not for me, I’ll have water. Theophrastos has been teaching me. Water for thirst, wine for taste, that’s what he says. I’m thirsty. Are these cups new? I don’t recognize these cups. This is new.” His cloak. “Do you like it? Theophrastos had it made for me. It’s very good wool, very warm. It’s almost too warm for this time of year. He’s getting married, too, did you know? You’ll come to Athens for the wedding? I’m best in my class in astronomy and mathematics and I’m learning to play the
kithara
now. Theophrastos says I’m really good, especially considering I started so late. I brought it with me, I can show you. It’s a really good one. Theophrastos says you become a better musician if you play on a better instrument. It was actually pretty expensive. I have my own room, it’s bigger than my room here. You’ll see when you come to visit me. You can come visit now, can’t you? Now that it’s spring and the army is home? Theophrastos says it’s very safe for us Macedonians now. He says Daddy was over-cautious, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. He says—”

My little brother breaks off mid-thought to launch himself into Herpyllis’s lap and bury his face in her dress. She laughs and runs her fingers through his hair, slowly, over and over, until he lies still.

We’re sitting in the courtyard, early evening, enjoying one of the first really warm days of spring: new green, new birds, heavy clothes and winter shoes abandoned for linen and sandals. Me, Nico, Herpyllis, Pyrrhaios, Nicanor. Theophrastos is in Daddy’s old room, working. I think he wants to sit with us, but feels he’d be intruding on the family. Or maybe he feels he must keep Daddy’s ghost quick. Pyrrhaios is family now; he
and Herpyllis married in Stageira. He smiles often, touches her gently. And Nico—I can see he wants to love Pyrrhaios like a father. Nicanor sits on the far side of Pyrrhaios, listening with his head on one side to favour his good ear, patiently answering Pyrrhaios’s questions. When no one is speaking to him, he withdraws into himself, sipping from his cup. He, too, is thirsty.