Winter lay about the cave in silence. It was too cold for icicles to drip, for birds to sing, for deer to browse, even for fresh snow to fall. Yesterday, there’d been a stiff wind shrieking through the trees’ bare limbs, and frequent groans from boughs laden with ice, but now, the air and wood were frozen mute.
Nerissa slumbered in the hidden chamber. Though it was noon outside, the gray light didn’t penetrate down here. Her poem was finished, polished, purified, and then reworked again. Lying in the darkness, she had nothing more to occupy her mind. She’d long since forced herself to stop grieving for her obliterated family. If she allowed them back into her thoughts, she’d succumb to despair.
And so Nerissa slept away the long, dark days, her heart and hopes and soul benumbed. But no, she couldn’t even claim the frozen solace of a hibernating bear. Each evening she woke to the hermit’s padding step. Once freed from her bindings, she’d follow to his warm fire in the cave mouth. There, she’d stretch her meal to hours while gazing deep into the coals.
It was a kind of marriage, she supposed. Far better than the one shared by Theoton and Phyllis. Or if she’d become Theoton’s courtesan, would the bond have been a fraction as secure as this?
Back home, she’d overheard talk of many households where the wife and husband had a difficult relationship. But here, the hermit was never cruel to her, never demanded anything, never tried to crush her with belittlement. He didn’t threaten their security with drink or gambling or vice. He never shamed them both by lusting after other women.
After all these years, Nerissa found his company a comfort. A silent company, admittedly. If he was capable of speech, she’d never heard his voice. Still, she much preferred the nighttime to the days. Her greatest dread was that he’d fail to return one evening, killed in a rock fall maybe, or run off by the townsmen. Then she’d slowly die alone down here, invisible, unloved by a single living human. She knew she couldn’t gnaw through her bonds. Each time she heard those padding footsteps come down the passageway, a warm sense of relief flooded through her. Though the hermit was her captor, he was also her protector.
He still hadn’t so much as tried to see her body. Sometimes, when handing her a roasted haunch of venison or an entire hare, he’d spread his lips, exposing his misshapen teeth. It was his version of a smile. Then he’d go back to his tasks. Mending a trap, perhaps, or sharpening his spear point. He seemed perfectly content with their arrangement. She still couldn’t say exactly why he’d captured her, but part of it must be that he liked to see her sitting there beside him.
Nerissa had to wonder if he’d ever led a normal life. Had speech been driven from his mind by some catastrophe? Had it been the same horror that destroyed his face? Had he lost his wife and all his family? Or had he never known the comfort of a loving home? Had he been born this way, then abandoned by his parents when they could bear his ugliness no more? Or had he been cast out so early, he had no memories of them? Was it possible her presence satisfied that absence in his mind? Had she become both father and mother to him? The father he longed to punish and the mother he longed to love?
All afternoon, Nerissa dreamed of Smyrna beneath her bearskin cover. She was a mother with four children of her own. The kingdom was at peace; no one had died. Though he wasn’t in the house, her husband Andrastus had a rich presence both in her heart and in her children’s faces. They owned a farm. The bullock Atlas pulled a plow through their deep soil. At their table, she kneaded dough made from the wheat they raised. Her infant daughter slept close by in the cradle. Andrastus had carved it lovingly from myrtle wood. Her toddler son played on the floor. Her older two were outside at their chores. That evening, she’d read to them again from Father’s Hesiod, the scroll that he’d presented as a wedding gift.
After Nerissa set aside the dough to rise, she took up her sewing. It would be Baron Iadros's birthday feast soon, the one time every year he welcomed villagers inside his hall. She was making a new robe for the occasion. The material was dyed to a deep crimson. It was a beautifully textured Damascus wool that felt so soft, she loved to run her fingers over it. Kestides, now grown fat and prosperous, had acquired many bolts of it during a recent voyage. She knew this gown would draw the eye of every man. Andrastus might be jealous, but she’d show him later that he alone possessed Smyrna’s greatest treasure. Once the children were asleep, she’d demonstrate why the only envy he should feel was that directed at him by all the other men.
Immediately, they were at the celebration. Enthusiastic voices rose over spirited music in the crowded hall. Though Baron Iadros was more feared than loved, he never stinted on his annual feast. Nerissa’s entire clan had come. It was so good to see them all.
There was barrel after barrel of good wine and platters of rich food. She danced all night with Andrastus, laughing with him as they whirled. Her parents joined the professional musicians for a round of lays. The new music commemorated Smyrna’s victory over the Lydians. Father played his lyre and Mother played her harp. Euredon and Uncle Xolon added their superb voices. Nerissa was delighted to discover that the words came from a poem she’d written. And all night long, merry Nikos and Philippos chased the pretty girls.
Suddenly, a man threw her over his shoulder. It wasn’t Andrastus, because she saw him reel away. She twisted in the man’s strong grasp, trying to see who it was. If this was Baron Iadros, she knew there would be trouble. Andrastus would never stand for the insult. He’d have to fight the Baron. Whether Andrastus won or lost, he’d die. She had to stop this outrage, before it hurtled into tragedy.
Nerissa struggled to writhe free, but couldn’t. Her hands and feet were tied. She realized that she wasn’t dreaming any more. Someone really was carrying her up the cold, dark tunnel.
But it wasn’t dark entirely. The man carried a lantern. From its dim light, she could see his back and legs. Her first thought was Theoton, but this man wore a heavy shearling robe. It was thoroughly unlike Theoton’s cape. Certainly, he would have replaced the one trimmed with a lion’s mane during the last seven years, but it wouldn’t be anything as coarse as this.
She remembered that Polyphemus once wore a shearling robe. She tried to remember if Father had taken it from him after they’d blinded the one-eyed giant. She didn’t think so, but this man’s wiry build was very similar to Father’s. But no, she remembered. Father’s dead.
And it couldn’t be Andrastus, could it? She’d prayed so many times for him to come, to have survived the fall from Scylla’s cliff, to have washed upon some scrap of beach after they’d been blown out of the channel, to have tracked her all the way to Ithaca. But the man who carried her had narrow shoulders. When she’d last seen Andrastus as a youth, he’d already been much brawnier.
Of course, it was possible that the labor of his search had worn down Andrastus. But why would he treat her so roughly, hauling her out of the cave without even a word? At the very least, Andrastus would have untied her first.
Or maybe he’d felt there wasn’t time. That he must hurry before his rescue mission was discovered. He couldn’t know the hermit was a gentle man. Remembering Polyphemus, he’d think they were in mortal peril.
“Andrastus?” she whispered. It had been so long since she’d spoken to another person, Nerissa’s voice came out very small. Even so, it echoed from the tunnel’s walls. She heard the hopeless doubt that filled her intonation as her beloved’s name returned.
The man didn’t answer, only paused to shift her weight, then hurried into the cave’s main chamber. Now she could see his clothing better. It was indeed the skin of a shearling ram. His worn sandals were made of ox hide. Odd, because with snow covering the slope outside, you’d think that he’d wear boots. Then she remembered Homer had a pair of sandals like this. And lost in verse, he might be oblivious to the cold.
“Homer?” she tried…
She still received no answer. No, of course it couldn’t be the poet. This man was carrying a lantern. Why would a blind man need one?
As they passed the fire pit, Nerissa caught a glimpse of the hermit’s neatly piled sleeping robes. A warm tear slid down her cheek before it turned cold welling at her jaw. Seven years she’d spent here. She should feel overjoyed at rescue, but instead, Nerissa knew she’d miss this place. She’d miss the hermit and his timid strangeness. She’d never have the chance to say goodbye.
Outside, the man threw her over a donkey’s back. Still without a word, he led them down the mountain. Now she knew with certainty it wasn’t Homer. Though he may have been familiar with the cave’s passageways, and though the lantern may have been intended for her benefit, Homer would have needed a guide to bring him here. But it was clear her savior was alone.
She couldn’t see his face, but he descended the track with a determined stride. Along with the donkey, he left broad tracks in the snow. Evidently, he had no fear of the hermit following.
Finally, they reached the road. Nerissa recognized the place. They’d come down the same path she took that stormy day seven years before. Soon, they came in sight of the clay pit belonging to Berenice’s friendly master Architalos. She knew this wasn’t him. He’d been a portly man. No amount of deprivation could have made him be this thin. And he was incapable of silence. She tried to think who else this might be.
What man knew that she was on this island? Many had seen her at Evander’s trial, but they’d hardly care about her. Anapater who’d flirted with her at Theoton’s feast? No, he was barrel chested and his hands were very big. Philemon? No, if still alive, he’d be very old. What if it were someone who’d grown obsessed with having her? Captain Hycron? He was taller than this man and vain about the way he dressed. It couldn’t be Chymides from the Thallia because this man had all his fingers. Or Hematheus, because he was blond. The slave dealer Antechron? She wouldn’t put it past him to profit by selling escaped slaves at distant markets, but she had little value. She thought of Theoton again. Maybe he’d disguised himself by wearing this rude coat. No, it seemed impossible. Why would Theoton want her now, when she was even uglier than the last time he’d seen her? He’d shown nothing but scorn and then self-interest that day she approached him on the street.
Nerissa turned her thoughts to how she’d been discovered. She’d never managed to leave a mark on the cave walls. Her hands were only free those times she’d sit beside the hermit at his fire. Had someone captured him? Had he revealed her presence? Or before the hermit burned it, maybe a scrap from her tattered gown was found clinging to a brier bush. Maybe someone noticed the smeared writing on it. But that was long ago. Why wait until now to rescue her? It seemed more likely that a devotee of Athena had noticed the hermit and her on a feast day. Maybe he hadn’t left the cave early enough last time. Or someone may have seen them foraging together in the woods.
An hour later, the man turned off the road. As they crossed a pebbled ford over a greenish brook, Nerissa knew who this must be. A shiver crawled across her skin. It hadn’t occurred to her before because this man didn’t stink.
When they reached the farm, Tragus confirmed she had good cause for fear. He threw her from the donkey, clamped irons on her ankles, attached a chain, and dragged her to the wood pile. She was momentarily heartened to see that Trumpet no longer occupied the ram pen. This relief faded quickly as she recalled the other punishment that Tragus had promised seven years ago. The consequence of her escape would be very painful.
Nerissa willed her heart to bear this bravely. She remembered Father’s tale of Cadmus, who’d overcome so many obstacles. She must defeat her terror. She must remain as staunch as that great hero. She let herself enjoy the sunshine as it broke free of iron colored clouds. She could still enjoy its warmth before mutilation drove every thought of comfort from her mind.
But Tragus didn’t lift his axe. He just kept staring at her. Now that she could see his face, he looked more dissolute than ever. His hair was patchy, salted with white. The veins on his face looked like a tracery of tiny worms. His eyes were bloodshot and several of his teeth were black. For such a man to gape as if he faced a monster, she must have become completely gruesome. Now that her hands were free, Nerissa reached to touch her scar. Odd, she hadn’t thought of it in years.
“This is too hard to bear,” she said. “I beg you, do it now before my horror grows too great. You don’t really want me soiling myself, do you? I knew the price you promised when I ran. I’m ready to accept it.”
But Tragus only stood there looking at her, his thick tongue working the gaps between his ruined teeth.
“I know that you’re a man who keeps proper respect for all Olympus.” Nerissa’s knees were trembling beneath her robe of fur. She felt ashamed she couldn’t still them. And that she couldn’t bear to wait in silence. “If you expect me to plead with you for mercy, it would only demean both of us further. Owners have a right to discipline their slaves, but you must fear eternal punishment if you leave me standing here in dread.”
“Your fear’s unnecessary,” Tragus said. “I could never do that to you.”
“That only means you’ve thought of something worse.”
“I’ve changed. You must forgive me as I’ve forgiven you. I only want you to be happy here. Let’s go into the house. You can bathe if you like. I’ve hauled in the sheep dip basin and many buckets of well water. I only used it once. I’ll even heat the water for you. And I know you must be hungry. There’s bread and Hesper’s made fresh cheese.”
So Hesper still was here. It explained why Tragus hadn’t fallen apart completely. He continued to earn a living from Hesper’s work. Though the old woman had never been exactly kind to Nerissa, she’d never been cruel, either. She’d only done what she had to in order to avoid beatings. Nerissa found herself pleased to hear she was alive.
“Where’s Hesper?” she asked. “I’d like to see her.”
“You will. We’ll probably find her in the cheese shed when we go to get some. And tonight, we’ll roast a lamb to celebrate your return.”
“To celebrate? I’m gone for seven years, and there’s to be no punishment? I’m sure you suffered many jokes at the tavern after I escaped. Why are you being kind to me?”
“I regret the things I did to you before. You must believe me. I was a bitter man… But now, I’m ready to be healed. Seeing you, I realize that it’s easy to take joy in life. A beautiful woman is the Gods’ greatest gift to man.”
“What? You know I’m ugly. Why do you mock me?”
“I don’t. You’re beautiful, Nerissa. Please, I only want to make you happy. Let’s go into the house. After you bathe, you can wear something from my late wife’s chest. I’ve saved all her clothing. You look about her size. Daphne had some fine robes I’m sure you’ll like.”
“I don’t know why you say these things. We both know that I’m hideous. And seven years spent in that cave could have only made my face look worse… Please, Master, stop tormenting me. Just lift the axe, I beg you.”
“I swear by all the Gods this isn’t mockery. You’re beautiful - you could be Daphne’s twin.”
“I don’t believe you. What about my scar? Don’t tell me she had one just like it.”
“Of course not. Daphne was a celebrated beauty. And so will you be, too. Sculptors will battle each other to gain the honor of immortalizing your profile.”
“Impossible. You used to call me a Gorgon. And that was before Trumpet gave me this scar across my cheek.”
“Your scar has faded to a coral colored line that’s barely visible. The way your hair curls over it just now, I don’t see it at all. And all your other wounds have healed. The hermit must have treated you extremely well. Your body has filled out to perfection and your hair glows with a lustrous sheen.”
Nerissa still didn’t believe him. And yet… she longed to see her reflection in a glass. She reached to feel her cheek again. Her jaw felt fine, except for a small bump. He was right about her hair. It had grown a great deal from the thin, lank strands that illness and the meager rations on the voyage left it. Now it was long and thick and full of curls. The hermit had given her a paste of ground roots with which she washed it every time he took her to the spring. Afterwards, she’d braid it into a long plait, then bind the end, but the leather cord had come loose during her struggle with Tragus in the cave. After bouncing on the donkey’s back for hours, it had come completely loose.
She pushed it back to feel the scar. Now that Tragus mentioned it, there wasn’t much of a raised welt any more. Only a thin line that she could barely feel beneath her fingertip. It must have been the hermit’s salve and his tisane that caused such a thorough healing. He’d be a rich man if he ever got it in his mind to sell his preparations.
“What happened to the man who held me?” asked Nerissa. “You haven’t hurt him, have you?”
“I’ve never seen him. I assume he’ll return to the Cave of Loizos, find you gone, and carry on just as he’s always done.”
“If you’ve never seen the hermit, how did you know where to find me?”
“Hesper’s seen him. She goes there on feast days. She told me of the rumors that he captured a woman to live with him.”
“I’ve been there seven years. How did these rumors suddenly start?”
“The sandal maker Petrolakis noticed two sets of footprints in the snow. One pair was much smaller. And both prints appeared to come from rough made shoes.”
“But how did you know where to find me in the hidden chamber?”
“I didn’t when I first entered. But I followed your voice. At first I thought that you’d gone mad, but then I realized you were singing in your dreams. First crooning to a baby, then something brighter, like it was a festival.”
“It was. Back home in Smyrna… All right, I believe you now. I’d like to bathe, if you’re still willing to heat water. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not wear Daphne’s clothes.”
“That’s fine. I understand. She’s dead and buried. I know that you’re not her. I’ll treat you very well, you’ll see. Let’s go into the house.”
Nerissa ran at the first opportunity. She’d behaved docilely all evening, then pleased him as best she could atop his musty bed. Just as she’d hoped, Tragus hadn’t chained her in the ewe shed for the night. In fact, he’d simply grunted something that may have been a word of thanks before he turned away and fell asleep. As he lay snoring, thick with wine, she’d crept out of the house.
Nerissa was relieved to see he hadn’t thought to post Hesper outside, either. She walked silently until she reached the road. Then she loped at a steady pace for half an hour. In much better condition than the last time, she didn’t ache or tire. She only stopped when she reached a lane that split off to the south.
She knew she couldn’t head back to the cave. Tragus would go there first thing after he awoke and found her gone. She couldn’t go to Berenice, either. During the long years of her absence, he’d probably learned that they were friends. And though she longed to see Homer, to hear the progress on his poem, to recite her own work for him, she couldn’t go there, either. Tragus would remember that they’d been together the first time she escaped. And even though she’d regained her looks, she had no wish to see Theoton ever again.
She decided that she must go to Alalcomenae, the fishing village at the island’s southern end. That’s where she’d been headed before, when the storm had stranded her inside the Cave of Loizos.
This time, I won’t stop until I get there, vowed Nerissa. I can trade this fine peplos Tragus gave me for passage on a vessel to the mainland. I don’t look like a slave any more. I’m freshly washed, well dressed, and best of all, not ugly.
She still hadn’t seen a glass, or passed by water smooth enough to see her face, but it must be true. Tragus never would have acted as he did if she hadn’t regained her beauty. If it were really true, she knew that men would all wish to accommodate her. Though a stranger in Alalcomenae, she’d easily find some fisherman to get her far away from Ithaca without delay.
Nerissa set off at an easy lope again. She fit the cadence of her epic to her footsteps. She let it roll out softly on her lips, verse after verse, from the starving times in Smyrna to rescue by fleet Hermes in the cave…
Tragus caught up halfway to Alalcomenae. Though Nerissa’s pace was fast, the donkey’s was much faster. She had only seconds after hearing its hooves to bend and grab a rock.
You stupid girl, she berated herself. Have you learned nothing? Why didn’t you think to make another sling before you ran?
She flung the rock, but Tragus ducked it in the moonlight. Before she could throw another, he was on her.
As Tragus beat her mercilessly, Nerissa realized that he must have posted Hesper as a lookout after all.
From her shed’s window, she saw me leave. She woke Tragus at once. She knows just how to rouse him when he’s in his cups. Though I had a head start, he’s used to riding drunk. Now I’ll never get another chance. Athena wasn’t sending Hermes, after all.
Homer would approve, at least. Didn’t he once tell me the only worthwhile epics must be tragic?
It was Nerissa’s last thought before blacking out.