Nerissa looped around the hill, then waded the greenish brook upstream from its ford. As she hurried on, Nerissa watched for any spot where she could hide. Before going to Polis, she needed to wait at least a month until her face recovered. If Theoton had returned to Ithaca, she didn’t want him seeing her like this.
She knew she’d have to find a place near water and some source of food. But if she hid out in the countryside, Tragus wouldn’t stop until he found her. Whether drunk or sober, his rage would make him kill her, but first he’d make her suffer terribly. She knew that she deserved it, and maybe this loathsome man was the Gods’ instrument, but still, she could hear Father’s wise voice urging that a mortal must do everything to stay alive.
She changed her mind about hiding and decided that her best chance lay in reaching Polis. She prayed that Theoton was there. He’d understand about her face. He’d seen it almost as badly damaged when she first entered his household. He was a patient, thoughtful man, and she trusted that he’d shelter her.
He’d wait until she healed, then honor his promise to make her his courtesan. He’d establish her where Lady Phyllis couldn’t interfere. But if Theoton didn’t want her now, she’d convince him to take her case before the council. She might have lasting scars, but their friendship had been genuine. She couldn’t imagine him refusing to help. If only out of gratitude for her assistance at Evander’s trial, he’d argue that she must be released from Tragus's bond. He’d tell the council that she was a freeborn woman of Hellene stock. Maybe even noble, if there was anything in what Smyrna’s harbormaster once implied.
But as she crossed the brook, the bright sun showed Nerissa an ill omen. Her reflection in the greenish water looked far worse than she’d imagined. Even the good side of her face was heavily bruised. The side with the cracked jaw was badly swollen. Her eye was nearly closed, black blood crusted her thick lips, and her hair was densely matted. She took a precious minute to scrub. Though the water felt like vinegar as it stung her lacerations, she couldn’t bear looking like a wild ogress. Worse, no one would believe anything that such a monster claimed.
There was only so much Nerissa could do to improve her appearance. She cleaned and coiled her hair, but her chiton was still a rag. Her face looked only marginally better. And as she said a prayer to Athena the Wise, the Pure, the Never-wearying, the one Olympian who’d ever shown her favor, Nerissa couldn’t keep her words from slurring. Her jaw, two broken teeth, and swollen tongue made it impossible to speak correctly. How could she ask Theoton to bring such a wreck before the council? Even if he agreed, its members would mock the garbled words she spoke. They’d look at her and see a girl whose wits had flown. If she couldn’t get onto some ship unseen, Nerissa knew no one would help her.
But still, she had to try. It was disloyal to a man as principled as Theoton to believe he wouldn’t help. There had to be some reason why he hadn’t come for her, or told her that he’d be away for months. Nerissa straightened up as best she could, then hurried toward Polis. Had Father ever given up? Had valiant Andrastus? She saw an oxcart coming toward her. It made dust billow on the lane. She walked at a brisk pace, as if her master had sent her on an errand, warned her she’d be beaten even harder if she dawdled.
Nerissa kept her eyes averted as the oxcart passed. But she noticed that its driver gave her a long, suspicious stare. She recognized him as the fat man who’d shouted with a Stentorian voice at the trial. He’d know who she was. He’d wonder what she was doing out here in the countryside. Nerissa could do nothing but walk on. The fat man didn’t stop her. He didn’t say a word. He must have heard that she’d been sold, and wanted nothing to do with Tragus. If asked later, he’d just pretend that he never saw her on the lane. Tragus's unpopularity was one bit of luck, at least.
She passed no one else before coming into town. She hurried to the neighborhood of large homes where she used to work. She knew its turns precisely from her many visits to the natatorium. If she followed this sloping street of thick stone walls, she’d come to the cypress shaded one where Theoton lived.
Down at its end, Nerissa saw a well dressed man. His back was turned, but her pulse lurched at his black hair, curling at its tips, and his muscular physique. She knew that noble bearing, too. Not to mention that unique cape trimmed in long, black fur.
As she caught up across the street, Nerissa confirmed that it was Theoton walking with his wife. Three paces behind them, the Scythian beauty Dzunga carried two baskets. Nerissa was close enough to see that one contained produce, the other meat. The last they’d met, Dzunga had warned her not to flirt with Aetes. She’d boasted of her ugly master’s gifts. And now it seemed he’d sold her to Theoton.
Nerissa wondered what Dzunga had done to lose her master’s favor. Maybe her sharp tongue had displeased Aetes. But why sell Dzunga to his rival? Most of all, Nerissa wondered why Lady Phyllis would tolerate such a lusty and attractive slave girl in her home. No doubt, Dzunga would follow her fortunate move into this household by a move into Theoton’s bed.
He must have bought her with that talent of silver he’d once offered Stenarch for Rinea’s rescue. Instead of reclaiming me from Tragus, he bought Dzunga instead. How long will it be until Lady Phyllis learns of this? Or is it possible that she approves?
Now that she could see them from the side, Nerissa noticed something very different about Dzunga. Instead of finery, she wore a plain woolen chiton now. Her eyes looked down dully at the street. She seemed to have lost all interest in life. And her step was nothing like before. She used to swing her hips with pride. Now she waddled like a duck, as if it gave her pain to let her thighs brush past each other.
Nerissa guessed the cause at once. She’d overheard Praegon threaten Dora with such a thing. Female slaves as well as male could be sterilized for sexual activity. From what she gathered, it wasn’t even considered a punishment. Owners simply didn’t want their slaves to breed. Either Praegon had caught Dzunga at it with another slave, or Lady Phyllis had insisted that she must be cut before Theoton could have her. Come to think of it, Thea once mentioned that Theoton’s courtesan in town was beautiful, but barren. Poor girl, she’d said, but lucky for her, too.
And now Nerissa realized that Lady Phyllis didn’t care if Theoton bedded slave girls. Her only concern was that one of them would give him a son. She feared that Vasy would die before his father. Then Theoton would name a different heir. And Lady Phyllis would lose everything.
Before Nerissa could gather her courage to approach Theoton, Lady Phyllis spotted her. She stopped walking and stared with narrow eyes. Nerissa felt surprised that the Mistress had recognized her in this state.
I’m filthy, dressed in rags, my face no better than the Gorgon that Tragus called me on the slave trader’s platform.
Then Theoton noticed where his wife was staring. Behind her back, he made slight, but urgent signals for Nerissa to turn and leave at once. She wondered if he’d ever left Ithaca at all. Or if he’d even bothered to learn where Lady Phyllis sent her. There was no chance he’d tried to buy her back. A man as dissipated as Tragus would have jumped at any profit. Let alone a talent of silver.
Hideous or not, Nerissa had no choice. Theoton may have turned against her, he may have forgotten her entirely, but he still considered himself a moral man. Before Tragus reached Polis, she must secure Theoton’s help. She crossed the street toward them. Theoton waved her off, his motions large and angry now, his face turned very hard. He stepped in front of Lady Phyllis, as if to protect her.
“I’ll let no thieving slave girls near my wife!” he shouted. “Come one step closer and I’ll beat you, myself.”
Lady Phyllis must have told him that I stole something. But he wouldn’t believe that, would he? And even if he had, would it really be enough to change his feelings for me?
As he turned his wife away with a protective arm around her shoulders, Theoton looked back at Nerissa. His expression was completely different. There was no courage on his broad face now. And certainly not anger. Instead, Nerissa saw a plea to walk on and say nothing. It said, “If my wife learns the truth about us, she’ll destroy me.”
This means that she controls him, after all. Theoton knew exactly what happened to me and didn’t do a thing about it. No matter what hold Lady Phyllis has on him, could he really be such a self-serving coward? We genuinely admired each other. What threat did Lady Phyllis give that stopped him from retrieving me?
Nerissa’s last few hopes collapsed. She had no friends on this island.
Well, there’s Berenice, she realized. But even if I knew who bought her, how could Berenice persuade her master to help? There hasn’t been enough time for her to learn much Ionian. And it wouldn’t do any good for me to translate. No one will want to risk Lady Phyllis’s malice to aid an ugly slave girl.
No, her only chance was to find a merchant ship about to leave the port. Maybe she could hide herself aboard. Maybe her luck would turn and it would be a pentecontor. With fifty oars, it would be fast. Even a triantacontor with thirty oars would do.
Leaving the wealthy neighborhood and hurrying as best she could, Nerissa made it to the port unchallenged. There were two vessels at the pier, a long-ship that sailors were refitting, and a sailing vessel making ready to depart.
Its two masts each had lateen sails. From its shallow draft, Nerissa knew it was a coastal freighter. And this was even better than a long ship. Built to be maneuverable in narrow channels, it would have far fewer crewmen. Without galley slaves and overseers, she might be able to make her way unnoticed into the hold.
Peering around the corner of a warehouse, Nerissa watched for a chance to slip aboard. They were loading on the last few crates. The freighter’s captain was shouting orders to seamen in the rigging.
Nerissa stepped out on the pier, hoping to lift one of the smaller crates onto her shoulder. If she could get up the gangway, it would shield her face from view. Her slender form might be mistaken for a boy’s. And her ragged clothes could certainly belong to a dock slave.
After she took her crate into the hold, she’d find some nook where she could hide. But Nerissa didn’t get the chance. The captain was too vigilant. He glared straight at her from the leeward rail before she could attempt her ruse. He marched down the gangway, his long legs covering it in three great strides. Jumping before he reached the end, he landed on the pier, then came at her. He shouted in Ionian, saying how he handled thieves by cutting off their hands.
Nerissa raised her head, attempted a smile. She raised her chiton’s skirt as well. Though mottled with bruises, her legs still were very shapely. Maybe the captain would agree to let her serve as a galley wench. These Ionians didn’t seem to think that women doomed a voyage to ill luck. While living in Polis, she’d learned it wasn’t unusual for young women to assist the cook or serve the officers. Which meant she’d serve their bed needs, too. After what she’d already suffered, the prospect hardly bothered Nerissa.
But it was no good. Seeing her close up, the captain only scowled.
“Please, sir,” she said, setting down the crate. “You’ll find me very grateful. I know that I’m not pretty any more, but in the dark, I’m sure that I can please you.”
He only laughed and waved her off. He turned on his heel, marched back on board, then shouted at a group of idling slaves to get the last crates sorted. Within ten minutes, the ship had sailed.
Nerissa retreated behind the warehouse. She felt lucky that the captain hadn’t come after her. With none too friendly an expression, the dock foreman watched Nerissa leave. He’d been close enough to hear her offer to the captain. He probably thought she was a thief and harlot, too. She moved away as fast as possible, expecting he’d shout for the town watch to arrest her.
But no cry came and no one chased her. Come to think of it, she’d never seen an armed patrol in Polis. Ithaca must be a very civilized place, she thought, free from brigands or the threat of warfare.
She went up the wide road leading to the agora, the same climb she’d made chained two months ago. As she came into the square, Nerissa saw a man of noble bearing. His chlamys was a beautiful, rich purple. Though it was the product of a barrel full of rotting spiny murexes, Father said this dye was worth its weight in gold. The fibula that bound the old man’s mantle also displayed his wealth, sparkling with wine-red glints. She’d guess the rubies on this brooch were worth more than he’d paid for all his slaves.
The elder’s hair was white, but his back erect. Though he must be at least forty years of age, his eyes were sharp with concentration. His face was stern, his attendants many. She didn’t know him, but she’d seen him with Telander the day of the slave auction. A man this rich must be on the council. She didn’t know which faction, but if he was Telander’s friend, maybe he would save her.
“My lord, I call on you for help,” Nerissa said in a loud voice, though it hurt her swollen lips and tongue. Her jaw’s ache had become so familiar, it was almost like she couldn’t feel it any more. “I’ve been sorely abused -- may I trouble you with my situation?”
“Be off!” His face pinched into an angry grimace. “How dare a filthy leper speak to me?”
“I’m not diseased, merely bloodied by a violent, dangerous man called Tragus.” She knew that Tragus was widely disliked by the Ithacans. She’d seen the looks of distaste he’d inspired at the auction. And during her near month at his farm, not a single person had visited. So Tragus was considered a pariah. Surely he’d broken some law in the way he treated her. If not her, then the sheep. “If you’re one of the council members as your lofty appearance suggests, isn’t it your duty to hear me out? Crimes have been committed against me and the dignity of Ithaca.”
At a curl of the elder’s hand, two guardsmen ran at Nerissa with their pikes extended. She retreated as briskly as her injuries allowed. She collided with a woman selling stoppered phials of perfume from a handcart. The woman cursed at her, but Nerissa couldn’t stop to help pick up the scattered wares. The elder snapped his fingers with impatience, so his escort didn’t pursue. The noise drew stares, however. Nerissa left the square immediately.
In a few minutes, she reached a meaner quarter on the edge of town. It was largely deserted now that the heat of day was rising, except for dogs that bared their teeth. One charged at her, its curling tail held high above the ridgeline of its back. Nerissa ran again, her ribs aching, every breath producing a sharp pain in her side.
Turning the corner, she almost collided with a lanky man. When she dodged to avoid him, Nerissa tripped over the feet of an aged slave. The slave, though stooped and gaunt, extended an arm to help her up. He grunted with the effort, then his much-creased face erupted in a spate of wheezing.
His master stared at Nerissa the whole time without blinking. If this behavior wasn’t odd enough, the solemn man showed no sign of distaste at her unsightliness. He was of middle years, perhaps as much as thirty. His chestnut curls were held back by a thin leather band. His beard was of a moderate length, and though it was a rich brown, too, early flecks of silver were laced like veins of precious ore. His clothing was of fine material, very clean but unadorned. His presence in this shabby quarter seemed out of place.
His broad brow reminded Nerissa of Father’s most prominent feature. Though he hadn’t spoken, there was something else about this stern, aristocratic face that suggested deep intelligence. It wasn’t his eyes, because they were the strangest that Nerissa had ever seen. They never blinked, but never focused on her, either.
“What’s happening?” the tall man asked his slave. “Who knocked you down?”
“No one, sir. It was the other way around. A girl ran into me and tripped. I’ve helped her up, but she looks hurt. Battered around the face, her chiton torn, her arms and legs all bruised.”
“That was from before,” explained Nerissa. “Tragus gave me those injuries.”
“What’s the matter with your voice?” asked the man. His strange, pale eyes engulfed her. They seemed a place to drown. “I understood ‘Tragus,’ but little else.”
“My lips are swollen, my tongue’s cut, and I have broken teeth.” Nerissa didn’t mention that she had to clench them to minimize the pain from her cracked jaw. Speaking only through the right side of her mouth, she enunciated carefully. “I was captured into slavery, though I’m a freeborn citizen of Smyrna. Lady Phyllis bought me, then about a month ago, I was sold to Tragus. He’s treated me with every cruelty you can imagine. If you’re the man of principle you appear, I appeal to you for justice.”
“You claim that you’re of civilized descent? What does she look like, Philemon?”
Now Nerissa understood why his eyes looked so unworldly. And why he didn’t bridle at her appearance, like so many others. This man was blind. The old slave was his guide.
“She’s a maiden of about twelve years.”
“I’m fifteen, sir,” Nerissa said.
“Twelve or fifteen -- it’s a negligible difference when you reach my years,” said Philemon. “At any rate, I’d judge her to be truthful about her stock. She has a fair complexion and her eyes are light, the kind of smoky blue that one sees in a summer sky. Though hardly well coiffed at the moment, her hair is fine, the color of a flaxen field. I’d say her people came from the north, Thessaly perhaps, before becoming colonists in Asia Minor. Her lips, though bruised, remind me of the marble image of Aphrodite I once saw in Korinthos. Her graceful neck and classic profile are also like the Goddess if one looks from the right. But on the left side of her face, her eye is nearly shut and her jaw looks like it might be broken.”
“That happened when Tragus struck me,” said Nerissa. “I think he finished cracking an injury I suffered on the slave ship. Its captain grew enraged when I wouldn’t agree to be his bedmate.”
“So now you’re sold to Tragus,” said the blind man. “It’s his bed where you must serve.”
“But can’t you help me, lord?”
“Your master’s foul, no one would dispute this, but I don’t see what sort of succor you expect from me. I’m a poet, not an arbiter.”
Now she recognized his voice. She’d thought it sounded familiar. This was the man she’d heard reciting in the courtyard after Lady Phyllis feasted with her friends. He was every bit as handsome as she’d imagined, but in a very different way. For one thing, he was a decade older than his ringing voice suggested, a man full in his prime.
“There’s no law governing what’s done to me? Tragus beats me daily without cause. He rapes me every night.”
“No, nothing can be done. Unless you have proof of your citizenship. It’s true we’ve never warred on Smyrna. And we don’t allow victims of piracy to be sold at our slave market. If you have documents attesting your free birth at Smyrna, the council might rescind your bondage. Provided you’ve committed no crime against our laws, that is.”
“I’m no criminal, I assure you. And I’m certain my birth status was recorded in our city annals. I remember my parents doing this on the day of both my little sister’s and baby brother’s birth feast. But proof would be impossible without returning to Smyrna. Who carries such a document with them?”
“In that case, I suggest you return to Tragus immediately. If I know that tosspot, he’ll still be in a drunken sleep. He won’t even realize you ran off.”
“I can’t go back. He beat a sheep nearly to death last night. I slit its throat to spare it further misery. In this heat, Tragus will soon discover where I hid the body. He’ll make me suffer for it. He’ll think of something even worse than what he’s done already.”
“Yes, I sympathize, but what would you have me do? Promise Tragus I’ll thrash him if he touches you again? Maybe in a different life, without this…” The blind man flapped his long-fingered hand in the direction of his eyes. “It would please me to stomp that lout into the ground, but I can’t even walk a straight lane unaided.”
“Then let me be your eyes.” Nerissa jumped on the opening immediately. “I imagine that good Philemon has given you many faithful years of service. My mother taught me never to speak out of place, but she’d also say he’s earned the rest.”
“Rest? That old reprobate takes far too much rest already. Most mornings, you wouldn’t believe what I go through to rouse him from his bed. In any other household, it’s the slaves who get up first. But then, it’s well known I’m a model of tolerance and generosity.”
“I’m sure you are. I can read it in your kindly face… I’m also sure that Philemon doesn’t like to worry you with his troubles, but you should know his feet look sore with gout. Let him stay in with domestic duties while I accompany you whenever you go out.”
“Are you suggesting that I buy you?”
“Yes, lord. I promise that I’ll please you well. I can do all of your errands. Though I’m injured now, I’ll recover fast. I have great energy, you’ll see. I’m resourceful and dependable.”
“That may be so, but it’s impossible. My companion not only serves as guide, but also as my scribe.”
Nerissa noticed that he used the term akalouthos, literally meaning “follower” in Ionian, rather than doulos that meant “slave.”
“I know about Philemon’s gout,” the blind man continued, feeling if not seeing Nerissa’s frown. “Don’t imagine he’s ever resisted an opportunity to complain. He tells me that he looks as bent as the gnarled oak that Philemon’s namesake became. He says I should provide him with a wife to twine against.”
“And it needn’t be some crone turned into a linden,” Philemon added with a raspy laugh.
“Yes, very amusing. You do know that you’ve made this jest a dozen times before?” Homer turned back to Nerissa. “Look, I realize that he’s old, but even if I were to relieve Philemon from outside duties, I need an educated person. I’m in the habit of composing new verse as I walk. I need someone who can write down my words. Just as often, I require Philemon to read back what he’s recorded earlier.”
“But lord,” Nerissa said. “I can read and write.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I may be blind, but I’m no fool.”
“I offer no deception. I know that literacy is unusual in a girl, but my father Asclemelion was a very educated man. He made sure all his children learned the classics.”
“Is that so?” The poet’s voice was full of skepticism. “Then recite something for me.”
“‘Sing now of the tribe of women, sweet-voiced Olympian Muses, daughters of aegisbearing Zeus: those women who were the noblest, and slept with Gods.’”
“Ah, so you know Hesiod? Do you mock me with this choice?”
“No, of course not, lord.”
“Don’t tell me you were unaware that lovers of epic verse consider us great rivals.”
“I didn’t know that, lord.” She didn’t even know this blind man’s name. “But The Catalogue of Women was one of my father’s most cherished scrolls. He went to extraordinary lengths to secure a copy. They say that Hesiod comes from Boeotia -- it’s where my ancestors came from, too.”
“No doubt fleeing the stupidity of Boetian life.”
“What a thing to say!”
“That is its widespread reputation, after all. Probably stemming from the dullness of Hesiod’s verse.”
“Father says our people left because the land was very poor. It was, ‘…a cursed place, cruel in winter, hard in summer, never pleasant,’ as my famed countryman has written.”
“All right, it’s only Hesiod, but I’ll grant you have a good memory for verse. But when I’m ready to take on a new scribe, I’ll purchase a scholar. I’ve never known a female who reads well enough to do it.”
“We could set her a test,” said Philemon. “What if I get out your new work, sir? You could ask her to read from the first page.”
“What purpose would that serve? You know very well that I’m-”
“Please, lord, I’d love to know your verse,” said Nerissa. She suspected that he was susceptible to flattery. “From the timbre of your voice alone, I sense a wondrous skill.”
“Very well,” the poet said. He waved his hand at Philemon. “This should be amusing.”
Philemon handed a sheet of parchment to Nerissa. She took a deep breath to compose herself, ran her swollen tongue over her cut lips, then carefully began to read: “The man for wisdom's various arts renowned,
Long exercised in woes, O Muse! resound;
Who, when his arms had wrought the destined fall
Of sacred Troy, and razed her heaven-guided wall,
Wandering from clime to clime, observant strayed,
Their manners noted, and their states surveyed,
On stormy seas countless travails he bore,
Safe with his friends to gain his natal shore:
Vain toils! their impious folly dared to prey
On herds devoted to the god of day;
The god vindictive doomed them never more
(Ah, men unblessed!) to touch that natal shore.
Oh, snatch some portion of these acts from fate,
Immortal Muse! and to our world relate.”
When she’d finished, Nerissa waited motionless. As much from awe at these resounding lines as worry for her fate. There was no need to flatter him, it seemed. Indeed, these words were touched with divine inspiration. She knew she’d read them well, because she felt as if their warm ambrosia now flowed through her veins.
After several seconds passed in silence, she looked up at the poet. She hoped that he could feel her homage. But he said nothing in return. He only gazed away, as if toward a distant line of sun-gilt hills. In actuality, he faced the broken wall of a hovel. Someone had filled the largest cleft in its mud bricks with shards of pottery. The upper half of a broken lamp wedged them in, its charred wick still present. But the poet only stared with reverence at some scene of majesty and power he’d projected from deep inside his mind.
Perhaps a word of praise was too much to expect, but he didn’t even let his brooding lips turn up. Was he insulted that she’d failed to find some hidden rhythm? Or had she misread a word? Philemon’s scrawl was none too steady. Nerissa glanced at his fingers. Yes -- as she’d suspected, their twisted shape spoke of painful rheumatism. But still, the way his master’s words sang out, how could any of them be wrong?
“A learned man must admit his errors,” said the poet finally. “I was wrong. An odd decision, but your father did teach you recitation.”
“He wanted me to know the beauty of great art. And I found your verse magnificent. I’m honored that you let me share it, lord. Did I read well enough that I might see more?”
“It was too slow.”
“Sir, she really has been beaten about the face most sorely,” said Philemon. “Considering the injuries to her mouth and jaw, shouldn’t we commend the meticulous way she read?”
“It isn’t just the pace that’s deficient. Or her accent.”
“I believe it’s the classic form of Ionian, once spoken by the colonists who founded Smyrna. Before their language became Ionic, that is. Which is odd, when you think about it. That the distant colony of Ionia should have such a similar name as our Ionian Sea. Of course, we spell it with an omicron, whereas Ionia in Asia Minor has an omega. Which means there is a different stress.”
“By the brimming gorge of Bacchus, what are you babbling about?”
“Sorry, sir. My point is that this bright young lady speaks Ionian better than most of those born here.”
“Don’t try my tolerance, old man. I make allowance for your age and long service, but you presume too much.”
“Yes, sir. I’m very sorry that my opinion was unwelcome.”
“It isn’t that at all! Everyone knows I’ve never refused to consider opposing argument. It’s that her reading lacked the dignity I need. This is why women can never become scholars.” He turned toward Nerissa. “I’m sorry, but you have no feeling for these affairs of men, for war and government and intrigue.”
“My mother would have agreed with you. She was always adamant that women mustn’t intrude themselves into a man’s concerns. Still, I’d give anything to know the rest of your poem. In Smyrna, they tell tales of ancient Troy, you know. The ruins aren’t far away. They’re at the northern tip of our gulf, while Smyrna anchors the southern end. My father once saw Troy when he was young. H