Nerissa woke up very hungry. It was full light outside the shed and all the ewes were gone. But not sold off, she gathered, because there were fresh droppings in the straw. Hesper must have led them up the hill to graze in the lemon grove. The last thing Nerissa remembered clearly was Hesper explaining that Tragus wouldn’t buy another slave. Which meant the old woman had to be his shepherdess, along with all her other duties.
Then Nerissa remembered why.
Surprisingly, there was no pain. She pulled the filthy blanket off to see her foot. It was a stump, of course. She hadn’t dreamed that part. But it had healed. As much as it was going to, that is. A puckered kind of skin covered the end. It was pink, much cleaner than the rest of her foot and leg. Hesper must have washed it recently. And she hadn’t reapplied the tar. Probably so the wound could benefit from air and fire, the elements of sunshine coming through the doorway. That’s what they’d always done with sheep’s wounds once the swelling ebbed.
Nerissa bent her knee and reached to touch the stump. Pressing on its wrinkled skin, she felt no soreness. No pus leaked from the edges. So Hesper must have been a capable herbalist, after all.
Either that, or she’s determined to save the one person who can ease her workload. She must have nursed me every moment she could spare.
Nerissa felt ravenous, but Hesper must have fed her well. She looked plumper than she’d ever been, her breasts were full and round, and those parts of her skin that weren’t streaked with grime glowed with a healthy shine. As soon as Hesper returned, she’d tell the old woman that she was truly grateful.
What’s this? As Nerissa sat up, her belly looked more than full, and her breasts seemed enormous. They were larger than Chloe’s had ever been. Nerissa realized she was pregnant!
She gaped with astonishment. Then smiled with deep pleasure. The choice of forfeiting her foot had been correct. It seemed miraculous. After all these years of bitter hardship, the Gods had turned their favor on her. During her long sleep, they’d sent a child. Someone to love, someone to replace all those she’d lost. Maybe a son with Euredon’s valor, Nikos's laughter, Mavros's innocence, and Father’s wisdom. Or a daughter with Geneia’s purity, Aunt Melissa’s goodness, and Mother’s strength.
Nerissa could hardly believe her good fortune. What a joy it would be to raise the child. She’d call it Andros if it was a boy, Andrea for a girl. These were fitting names to honor Andrastus, who must have been involved. After all, his cherished goddess Demeter had the power to grant pregnancy. He must have interceded with her.
Then Nerissa realized that her pregnancy all but proved that Andrastus was really dead. As a shade, he’d have much greater access to Demeter.
Nerissa felt sad for her lost love, but he’d never really been hers, had he? In her heart, she’d long known that he must be dead. All those dreams of bold Andrastus came flooding back. Her heart brimming with warmth, Nerissa savored every one.
Now she struggled to sit up against the post, then checked her body carefully. Except for her maimed foot, everything seemed fine. No swollen joints, no soreness in her nipples, no aching back, no nausea, and certainly no lack of appetite. All these things had plagued Mother and her aunts during their many pregnancies. Nerissa realized that she must be past the point of morning sickness.
Judging from her size, the healing of her stump, and the summer weather, she’d slept through most of the worst part. She hadn’t had to do any work. Even had she been free, a married woman on a Smyrnan farm or in a fishing village, she would have needed to bake and weave and clean and launder clothes and tend small children all day long, while feeling tired, sick, and irritable, and carrying this extra weight. All this time, she’d been well fed and well rested. It had to bode well for the child’s health. She probably had about three months to go. In another month or two, she’d need to use the privy every hour. As a matter of fact, she needed to pee now.
Holding onto the post, Nerissa pulled herself up. She saw she wasn’t chained. Tragus must have decided that it wasn’t necessary. He was right. She wasn’t even sure if she could walk, let alone run. Holding the post with one hand now, she tried a careful step with her maimed foot.
Not bad. It wasn’t difficult. Nerissa shifted weight to her right leg. Perfect. She exhaled with relief. There still was no pain. But now for something much harder. She knew the real test was whether she could support herself on half a right foot while taking a step with her left leg.
She tried a tiny one, still holding to the post. It worked! Now she tried another while withdrawing her hand a little. She didn’t stumble. She tried another and another, each one a bit further. She could walk! Nerissa felt so happy. Her pace was slow and halting, but it served. She might be a cripple, but she could manage everything necessary to take care of her baby.
In fact, she walked so much better than expected, Nerissa realized this couldn’t be the first time she’d tried. There must have been periods during her illness when she’d felt well enough to practice. But all those long months were a haze. She’d have to ask about it when Hesper came back with the ewes.
She hobbled outside, crossed the farm yard, and used the privy. When she came out, she spotted Hesper in the neglected orchard with the flock. She waved, but Hesper didn’t see her. Since the wind was blowing in her face, it was probably too far to call. Anyway, if she shouted at the top of her lungs, she might wake Tragus from a drunk.
So she slowly made her way to the cheese shed to get some akratismos. She’d never done this before; she’d never had the freedom. But surely it wouldn’t anger Tragus. Cheese was part of her normal diet here. He must want her to eat, so she could work. Since Hesper was up the hillside, what objection could there be to a hungry slave getting her own meal?
She passed the ram’s pen. Still empty, praise Almighty Zeus. Old Trumpet must be dead and not replaced. She felt great relief that Tragus hadn’t revived his idea of exhibiting her at festivals as the bedmate of a beast.
Coming to the wood pile, Nerissa blanched with revulsion when she saw the axe. The same one that had cleaved her foot. Was it her imagination or was there still a rust colored stain on the blade? A sickening memory of the pain and fear suffused her mind. She saw the severed toes curling slowly. The blood that gushed out of her stump. The cloud of acrid smoke when Hesper cauterized her wound.
And then she recalled something else. It made her slump down on a log with horror. That first night before the fever gripped her in its haze. Tragus entering the shed. Tragus gazing at her, not with anger now, or lust, or even with contempt. The look was unmistakable, a lovesick kind of hunger. He’d forced her legs open the same as ever, but hadn’t turned her on her knees. Unlike those other times seven years earlier, he didn’t take her from behind while raping her, but stared into her face.
All the while, there was a desperation in his eyes. It shouted, “Please Nerissa, I know I’m worthless, but if you could just love me a little, I’d become the kindest man in all the world.”
He’d kept it up for many days. Nerissa remembered it all clearly now. Even after she’d grown hot with fever, he’d taken her sweat-drenched body night after night. He’d brought her food from his own table, food she couldn’t eat. She remembered a black pudding’s smell particularly. The blood and fat roasted in a pig’s bladder had sickened her so badly, she spewed until it felt like pieces of her empty stomach were torn loose.
It hadn’t done a thing to deter Tragus. He’d purchased herbs from the most learned physician in Polis, or so he’d claimed. He’d mixed them into heated wine to treat her. He’d had Hesper cover her with blankets and stay with her all night to keep wet linen on her forehead and change the dressings on her foot and empty her bedpan. Later when the fever broke, he’d come regularly to make sure she was eating.
With a cry of rage toward the sky, Nerissa cursed the Gods. She’d been so wrong about them. They hadn’t turned merciful at all. Instead, they’d chosen Tragus as the father of her child.
During the remainder of her pregnancy, Nerissa resumed her duties. Except for servicing Tragus, of course. Even her debauched master didn’t dare break the ancient prohibition against bedding a woman heavy with child. So she was left alone to milk the ewes and tend the flock and fill the oakum barrels. It took much longer to walk up the hillside, and getting down was even slower, but the ewes didn’t seem to mind. Nerissa didn’t worry that she couldn’t protect them from wolves. She’d made another sling and practiced with it until she was as accurate as ever, despite her altered stance. Tragus knew about the weapon -- she’d seen him staring at her from the farm yard -- but he never said a word about it.
He’d even loaned a shepherd’s staff to help her balance as she walked. Not the one with which he’d once defiled her, thank all the Gods. It was a beautifully polished piece of olive wood, deep brown in color, carved into a ram’s head at its crook. It must be very old, she thought. Two-thirds up its length were four concentric grooves, as if fingers had been gripping there for centuries. She wondered if it had passed through countless generations of Tragus's ancestors.
He hadn’t presented it in person; he’d made the gift through Hesper. For the last three months, in fact, he hadn’t come near Nerissa once. She decided that Tragus must be ashamed of what he’d done.
She’d long since forgiven him. It wasn’t only so she might know some peace. She’d given the rape a much improved position in her mind. She wanted this baby very much. If she must be a slave, if she was never to be granted a husband’s love, then Tragus had done her the service of enabling a child. Something that none of those sailors on the Thallia had accomplished.
Already, Nerissa cherished the baby with all her heart. She hummed Smyrnan melodies as he slept, singing louder when he stirred within her belly. She had fond memories of Mother doing this while carrying Geneia and Mavros. Maybe that’s why Geneia had developed such a sweet voice and Mavros such a gentle nature.
But Nerissa knew she didn’t have nearly as melodious a voice as Mother. The Muses spoke to her with poetry rather than their Music strains. So she recited every poem she could remember. Day after day, she began with words of gratitude to numerous immortals, including Father for his gift of Hesiod and all the others.
The child seemed to enjoy Aspis Herakleous best. He kicked boldly whenever Nerissa recited the Shield of Heracles. He seemed more restless when Nerissa did her own favorite Theogony. Apparently, he didn’t find the lineage of Gods an interesting topic. Unlike her, he wasn’t fascinated with the world’s origins, either. But he liked the poem that she’d composed those long years in the cave. He’d always settle when she’d recite another episode.
All right, she knew that Mother would say it was inappropriate, hardly the cheerful sort of verse one should croon to an infant, but Nerissa could tell he enjoyed its tragic themes, its farflung scenes, its encounters with strange enemies.
She caught herself thinking of the child as a boy again. Somehow, Nerissa knew he was. It was her strong preference. A female’s lot was much too precarious in this harsh world. Sadness came in far too many forms. But a male, though born a slave, could overcome his mean condition. He could rise to prominence and wealth and power. He could be a warrior like brave Euredon and valiant Andrastus. Or a leader of men like she felt certain that charismatic Philippos would have been. Or a rich merchant like adventurous Nikos. Or even a great scholar like Father.
Two weeks later, Nerissa’s feeling proved correct. The infant was a boy, a very lusty one who screamed from the moment Hesper cleared the mucous from his airways. He continued through the cutting of his cord and the washing of his skin. He became even louder as Hesper swaddled him in a clean linen sheet. He only ceased when the old woman placed him in his mother’s arms, whereupon he firmly clamped his gums around Nerissa’s swollen nipple.
At first, she thought him very ugly. Not that she didn’t love him. What she’d felt before, what she’d thought was absolute, it was a minor infatuation compared to this enveloping bliss as she held him to her breast. Still, she was surprised to see what a squashed face he had. Not to mention the brick red color, like Captain Hycron just before he’d slashed her. This tiny boy, her precious son, seemed full of fury at the world.
He looked so much like his angry father, Nerissa almost changed her mind and named him Tragophagus. Maybe Tragus would acknowledge him. Then he’d be no slave, but a citizen with full rights.
By the next day, the child’s complexion had cleared to a normal infant shade like parchment. His features had coalesced into a pretty little face. Nerissa loved to touch the softness of his cheeks. His eyes were the same gray shade as his father’s, but they were anything but shifty. Though Mother said that newborns could see little, he’d stare for minutes at her as he nursed with perfect trust and love.
At one month, he looked very little like Tragus. He had Aunt Irene’s hair and Father’s nose and the same dimple in his chin as Mavros. Most of all, he looked like Euredon, so that’s what Nerissa named him. As she performed the ceremony, Nerissa murmured an apology heavenward to Andrastus.
I know I said I’d call my child after you, but that wouldn’t be right, would it? There’s nothing of you in him. You were never meant to be my lover or my husband. I see that now. You didn’t send this child. I’ll love you always, but I need to let you go.
Andrastus sent no answer. She listened for at least half an hour while Euredon nursed, but the only sounds there on the hillside were bird calls, the chirr of crickets, and an occasional bleat from one of the ewes. Nerissa hadn’t really expected that Andrastus might reply. He’d been silent for almost eight years. Why should the birth of her son make any difference to him? Andrastus didn’t care about her. No one did, except for little Euredon.
As for Tragus, he paid no more attention to their son than he did to Nerissa. He still didn’t come near her. He relayed any necessary instructions through Hesper. Nerissa continued to milk the ewes and tend the flock and fill the oakum barrels. The only difference was that Euredon was strapped to her back now. That, and her much slower step.
After nearly three months of this, Nerissa knew she might see Tragus very soon. When an infant passed its first quarter, that’s when men were allowed to resume sleeping with their women. Whether they were wives or slaves. In Smyrna, anyway. She assumed the rule was similar on Ithaca.
In fact, Tragus entered the ewe shed two days early. Maybe he’d counted wrong. Or maybe he wanted a good look at his child in the sunlight, before deciding what to do with Nerissa in the night.
He stepped inside just as Nerissa finished milking the last ewe. By now, the morning light was strong. Tragus stood staring at his son. Euredon had gone back to sleep after Nerissa nursed him first thing at dawn. Tragus frowned, then knelt down in the straw. He lifted Euredon from his blanket, not taking any particular care to cradle the child’s head. Nerissa started to say something, but she’d learned enough to hold her tongue.
Tragus stood, holding his son with two stiff arms. He stared into little Euredon’s features, then strode outside to get a better look. Not taking the time to get her staff, Nerissa hobbled after him. Riled as he looked, she knew that Tragus was capable of anything. At this hour especially, when he’d be suffering a deep hangover.
“WHORE!” he shouted at her.He spat into her face. The glob slid down her cheek, tracing the faint path where her scar had been. Tragus looked so angry, she feared he’d hurl down Euredon. She lurched toward them, holding her arms out.
“Master, no,” she pleaded. “We haven’t done anything wrong. I beg you, give him to me. Euredon’s a good baby, a fine and handsome son for you.”
“This whelp’s no son of mine. Whose is he really? Who fucked you when you ran away?”
“No one. I spent seven years in that cave with the hermit. Except when he made me come out in the forest on feast days, I never went anywhere else.”
“Then it was him. I knew it! You let that madman plow your field.”
“He never touched me. Not that I had any choice about it. Just as I’ve had no choice with you. This child is your son. You’re the only one I’ve lain with since I came to Ithaca.”
“That’s a lie, you stinking slut. I know my cousin Homer fucked you. I could see it in his smirking expression outside the Grotto of the Nymphs. And Architalos, too. That’s right -- I discovered who your friends were among the slaves. And I remembered Architalos buying that one called Berenice, the one with the huge udders. So I thought you might run to her when you escaped. I went to Architalos and demanded where you were. That rich goat lied and said he never saw you, but he could hardly hide his satisfaction. I could see exactly what you gave him in exchange for food and clothing.”
“It wasn’t like that, Master. Architalos wasn’t even there. May great Zeus turn me into the foulest of all creatures if I haven’t told the truth. Euredon’s your son.”
“Liar! All the time you let Architalos screw you, you were laughing at me. Then every night for seven years, it was like you were shoving it up my ass when you and that madman made the beast with two heads and two backs.”
“He never touched me. I don’t know why, but he didn’t. You have no cause to doubt me. If the hermit bedded me for seven years, wouldn’t I have quickened before this?”
“Maybe you did. Maybe he ate the others.”
“He’s not a monster. Just a hermit. And Euredon’s your son.”
“Why should I believe you? Just look at him. The brat looks nothing like me.”
“He has your eyes. And he’s extremely clever. See how he watches everything?”
Tragus held the child out again. He stared into those soft brown eyes, never breaking his frown. At last, he handed Euredon back to Nerissa.
“I don’t know. Maybe. But there’s one way to be sure the next one will be mine.”
He pushed Nerissa toward the shed. She stumbled, but fought hard to keep from falling. She turned and let her back slam into the wooden wall, protecting Euredon. Though scraped and pierced with splinters, she regained her balance, went inside, and shuffled to the post, murmuring softly to the baby all the while. She gently laid him on his blanket, then pushed him behind a stall. She hoped this would prevent him from seeing what his father did to his compliant mother.
Tragus finished very quickly. He scowled as he refastened his chiton, but he didn’t beat Nerissa. Without a word, he paced into the stall, scooped up Euredon, and marched out the doorway.
“No, wait!” Nerissa cried, hobbling after Tragus. “What are you going to do to him?”
“Take him in the house, of course. If he’s my son, he isn’t living in a filthy byre.”
“But what about me? He needs my milk.”
“Sheep’s milk will do. I grew up on it and I turned out just fine.”
“But Master, he’s my baby. He needs my love.”
“You can see him when you learn how to treat me right.”
“Treat you right? I don’t understand. I do everything you say.”
“I shouldn’t have to order you.”
“What is it that you want?”
Tragus stared directly at her. For once, his eyes didn’t dart about. He held the gaze so long, Nerissa felt sure he’d do something unspeakable if she didn’t find the answer. But she couldn’t think of anything. If she gave the wrong response, he’d do something even worse. Finally, his eyes shifted. He muttered something, than stormed away.
For a long time afterward, she thought about it. No matter how she tried, the mumbled words kept resolving into, “I want you to be nice to me.”