Medusa, A Love Story (The Loves of Olympus) (20 page)

She prayed to Hera for her husband, for all of the husbands.

She prayed to Aphrodite for her love.

She prayed to Ares for prowess and skill – for Ariston, for all those fighting.

She prayed to Apollo, entreating him to shine.

She prayed to Athena for wisdom, to guide her troops to a victory.

For hours she pleaded and prayed.

But they would not hear her.

The sky cracked, shot through with spindly lightening fingers, chased by mighty bursts of thunder. The sky, this storm, was rife with threat.

And there was no one to blame but herself.

Thunder shook the hill, jarring her from her useless musings.

Thea slept, her head buried beneath her wing. How she could stay so unaffected by such a tempest, Medusa couldn’t fathom. But she knew her little friend, like Elpis, worried over their uncertain circumstances. Circumstances she’d caused.

Only one solution offered hope. She must go to Athena and entreat her to listen. Surely the Goddess would see Poseidon’s pettiness and prevent any harm to the soldiers who fought to protect her city. Athena would save her soldiers to save her city, Medusa prayed.

She stood, draping her chiton over her head as a hood and pulling it tightly about her shoulders. “I can bear it no longer, Elpis. I must go to the temple and beg for her mercy. For her soldiers, for their lives…”

Thea roused, cawing loudly and flapping her wings in alarm.

“You cannot,” Elpis protested. “Even Thea sees that. Athena will not hear you. She will not. In truth, you risk her wrath – a fearful prospect to be sure.”

Medusa refused to give in to tears. “I cannot sit by and do nothing. This is my fault!”

“I will go.” Elpis stood as she spoke, gathering her robes about her.

“It’s my burden to bear…”

“You’re wrong, mistress. Whatever the cause, Athens suffers. Tis my burden, as well as yours.” Elpis’ tone was soothing, her brown eyes regarding her earnestly.

“I… You shouldn’t…” she began, but Elpis held up a hand to silence her.

“I want to.”

“Thank you, Elpis.”

Elpis kissed her cheek and hurried from the cave.

Medusa knelt to pray, but words stuck in her throat. It was not enough. She had to do something, for the storm most certainly hindered any progress Athens’ soldiers might make against the Persians.

She waited only moments longer before following her companion, ignoring the plaintive coos from Thea.

Though it was midday, the sky was inky black. She could see the sun, but it could not reach the shore. There was no break in the massive thunderheads surrounding Athens to provide its rays entry. The sky had been torn apart, two separate halves atop the sea.

The sea… She moved to the edge of the cliff.

Below her, the sea rolled. Gone was its clear green and blue depths, a thing of beauty. The sea that greeted her was black and grey, its waves twisting and tossing angrily, striking out at the ships that tried to stay afloat.

What sun was visible shone brilliantly over only part of the Aegean, the other roiled with the destruction of the storm.

It was the Persians who sailed waters untouched by the ravages of this storm. They sailed beneath the rays of the sun, on gentle seas. While Greece’s sons were tossed about on waves that threw their ships from trough to peak, a force greater than the mortal foes they battled.

It was a message for her.

Was Athena so angry that she could turn a blind eye to this? Would the Goddess take the lives of so many soldiers to punish her? Could she punish Medusa for a deed born of love?

She felt her heart drop with the ships as they slid into a trough from the top of a wave, towering twenty feet over them. One ship could not right itself, listing so far its sailors were thrown into the sea. She cried out, but it was lost to the angry call of the raging storm.

The sea was not controlled by Athena. The Goddess would not sacrifice these men; she loved her city too well. Nor would she willfully endanger those loyal to her.

This was Poseidon’s doing.

Her love had brought this about. And her fidelity to a mortal man would be the end of these Greek soldiers. The Gods, it seemed, would not intercede.

Her heart, her love, would die with them.

Ariston, tender and loyal, filled her senses. She could not lose him.

If she went to the temple…but there was no time. And Poseidon would not stop.

She had no time for sadness. He needed her help, her protection. She would do what she must to ensure he came back to her. She would fight for him the only way she could.

Forgive me, husband.
She cried, a sob choking her.

A scream tore from her – carried on the wind – taking all of the air in her lungs. It was a wordless, sorrowful sound, tearing at her throat and staunching her tears.

She must cling to her resolve. For no matter how much she feared Poseidon, or the deed she must endure, she must bend to his will. There was no other way.

She closed her eyes, pulling an image of Ariston to mind. He was smiling as she cast the net into the water. His hair lifted in the breeze off the waves, his eyes sparkled in the sunshine. It steadied her, to think of him so.

She drew air deep into her lungs. “Poseidon!”

He was there before her instantly. His near colorless eyes regarded her with mocking amusement, while the muscle in his jaw tightened. “Did you call me, fair Medusa?”

She met his eyes, met his undisguised lust with only the slightest flinch. Her panic rose, choking her, so she nodded silently.

“Very well.” He reached for her, offering his hand.

She stared at his hand, at his long fingers and well-formed arm. To have the power he controlled. What would she do with such power? Would she grow jaded and use it to suit her purposes?

She turned her eyes towards the ships churning below, dismissing her fear – and her fury. 

She placed her hand in his.

His hand was hard and cold. His grasp unbreakable, she suspected, though she did not try. His fingers seemed to undulate about her, free flowing yet molding to her. His touch was alive, rippling as the winter seas upon her skin. To the eye, he simply held her hand. But his coldness leached all warmth from her and chilled her to the bone.

He looked at their hands, joined, and smiled.

In that instant the wind calmed. Her cloak no longer whipped about her. The rain lessened, then stopped. The waves settled, falling flat and lifeless.

They churned anew, shifting against the Persians without mercy. Those waves that had toppled Athens’ triremes now towered over the Persian vessels with a mighty vengeance. Eight Persian ships were swallowed, two more driven to collide. So quickly he’d turned the tide on Athens’ enemies, with terrifying and immediate finality.

Poseidon had played with her.

As the sun broke through the grey clouds, Medusa thought she heard a cheer from the ships below.

Medusa took a steadying breath. Her heart would survive, if Ariston did. “You will protect them? Promise me you will keep my husband safe.”

He inclined his head, his cold hand tightened about hers. “And you will carry out your part of our bargain.”

She nodded once. She would not beg. She would not cower or tremble. She would be strong now.

“This is your fate.” His voice wasn’t harsh or angry. He spoke to her with the same cajoling tones one might use with a child. “Come with me now.”

Medusa turned to him, meeting his eyes. “I will honor our bargain, Poseidon. But I ask you a kindness.”

“You ask for more?” His eyebrow arched higher, but he waited.

“Let this be done in darkness… so that I might bear it more easily.”

Poseidon’s smile twisted, the muscle of his jaw tightening. “I could take on his form, Medusa, for you.”

“No, no. I beg of you.” She feared she would cry then.

His eyes narrowed as he lifted his hand and covered her eyes. Darkness found her, though she no longer felt his hand upon her. She blinked, for her vision was dark and cloudy. She jumped as his breath stirred the hair at her ear.

He whispered, “Then I will close your eyes, and keep them closed until I am done.”

###

Ariston felt the thrust of the sword, piercing his skin to bury itself in his chest. The blade was cold, slicing cleanly. The spurt of heat that followed, running down his chest, was his own blood. He grabbed for the sword’s hilt, but his combatant was faster. He pulled back, tearing the wound wide as the serrated edges came free. White-hot pain blinded him, but he fought through it.

His strength must hold. 

He shook his head, narrowing his eyes. He must focus. His attacker would lift his blade again, Ariston was certain. And before he could wield his vile sword again, Ariston must overcome him and end this. He steadied himself.

His foes black eyes widened.

Ariston sneered, goading the man. “It will take more than your blade to kill me.”

As the Persian raised his sword arm, Ariston reached for him.

He grabbed the man about the waist and ran, slamming his opponent into the mast with the last of his waning strength. His attacker’s head bounced off the mast, the rewarding thunk jarring his bones. Ariston slid his short sword into the man, relaxing his hold only when the Persian went limp against him.

He waited, too weak to stand. No new sword bit into him, no fist gouged, or spear pierced. With no one left to fight, he felt the depth of his injuries. The wound on his arm was deep, bleeding freely. His chest wound made breathing difficult, but he did not linger over it.

He fought upright, swaying as he propped himself against the mast for support. He stared at the man he’d killed, and then shifted slowly to assess the rest on the ship. What he saw amazed him.

The rain, the thick sheets of freezing rain stopped, the wind died. The sun attempted to break through grey clouds, its rays shooting shafts of light onto the calming waters and the pitching deck of his ship.

The sight that greeted him, bathed in pools of white hot sunlight, was grim. The deck was littered with the dead and wounded. Some were Ekdromoi, but most were Persians. He shifted, but could not find the strength to push himself from the mast supporting him.

His lungs seemed to constrict and he drew a shallow breath. It did little to help, and he gasped.

A cry went up, catching his attention. He was not alone as he watched the sky. The grey-black cloud towering over them parted to the blue sky beyond. The tossing waves that had made defense secondary to staying afloat now rolled steadily beneath the ship.

The Persians lost the wind.

The closest Persian ship, whose men had swung aboard his own, dropped suddenly. The sea seemed to yawn, opening wide to ensnare the Persian vessel, before the water rose over the ship, pulling it beneath the water’s surface and out of sight.

He heard the cheers of his men.

“Poseidon is merciful,” one said.

“He’s come to our aid,” another declared.

The pain of his wounds paled in comparison to the anguish he felt. He knew what had saved him and his men. She had saved them… she had… His hands fisted and he bit back the cry as his mind and heart fought the truth.

For two days he’d tried to break through the ships that had circled him. For two days he’d pleaded with the Gods, begged for mercy, threatened his men and exhausted those at the oars.

But fate was against him. A Persian ship had caught them. And he’d had to fight.

Now the sun burst from behind the clouds, casting the blood-soaked deck in brilliant light. The sun’s rays poured over his skin and chased the chill from the air, but he began to shiver uncontrollably.

She’d sacrificed too much – for him. For the Gods. His lungs constricted.

His agony was unbearable. He’d failed her, leaving her alone with no protection.

Forgive me, lady. 

Poseidon was not merciful. He deserved no tributes. He deserved nothing but the wrath of these men, earned by the God’s selfishness.

Anger surged through him. He stood tall, bracing himself on the ships rail as his fury stoked strength he thought he’d exhausted.

“Ariston?” Pamphilos said hesitantly, regarding him with unconcealed concern. “You fought more fiercely than any I’ve ever seen. I am honored to be at your side.”

Ariston stared at his second in confusion. Pamphilos could do little but stare at him, his chest. Ariston glanced down. His chest was grave indeed. The skin was flayed from his collar bone, his muscles split wide from the jagged teeth of the Persian’s blade. Blood seeped, sluggish and red.

He closed his eyes and cursed the Gods anew.

“I will not die, Pamphilos.” His face was resolved as he regarded his second. “There is too much left to be done.” His words were rough and unsteady, taxing him with the simple effort of speaking.

He would not die. The battle was far from over. He must make it back to his lady. He’d given his word.

A queer coldness flowed over him, lessening his pain. He gazed over the ships, relieved to see the Persians had turned away from Athens’ shore.

“Send me Chariton. He will stitch me up.” He could not bear the feel of Pamphilos’ hand upon his arm, offering support. He blinked, his sight blurring momentarily. “Take us back to Athens, Pamphilos.”

Pamphilos nodded, staring at his wounds. “Find your bed, for you can barely stand. I will send Chariton to you.”

Ariston nodded, moving slowly toward his sleeping quarters on the ship. He was shivering in earnest when he reached it. His hand, cold and numb, found his chlamys by his mat. He lay slowly, feeling heavy and oddly numb. He covered the wound on his chest, pressing against it with weakening limbs.

Though the words were garbled and his eyes fell closed, he heard his second speak. Pamphilos’ words reached him, a familiar soldier’s farewell. “May you find glory in Elysium, Ariston.”

Elysium must wait, Ariston thought before his eyes closed.

###

Medusa searched the ground, fighting tears. She was freezing, even covered as she was. But that mattered little. Her necklace was gone.