Built three miles from the coast, Athenion controlled an empire spanning dozens of islands and colonies. On a clear day, the port of Piraeus and the blue waters of the Minosian Sea beyond can be seen.
The best-known feature of Athenion, the Acropolis, loomed over the city with the columns of the sprawling Temple of Athena, goddess of wisdom, warriors, and craftsmen. Throughout the day, people ascended the two hundred and fifty worn steps to the massive man-made esplanade. Athletes pushed their limits, sprinting up and down the steps. Pilgrims, priests, and worshipers ascended the stairs to the temple complex. Buskers livened the area with song. Peddlers carried baskets full of goods or food to sell. Always full of people, it was the best-known meeting place in the city.
In the shadow of these grand works, a woman walked between the whitewashed rectangular box homes rising two or three stories high along winding streets without clear direction. Her long dark hair was modestly tucked beneath a headscarf draped over her shoulders.
By her side, a boy of about five with bright auburn hair punched the air as he engaged in a cataclysmic battle with invisible monsters. He let out short war cries every few strikes, startling both his mother and the passersby.
“Aree, settle down before you hit someone,” the woman gently instructed.
“I’m saving you from the monsters, Mom.” The boy continued his battle, heedless of her demand.
Entering the market, the Agora, they weaved through a sea of vibrant stalls, where the scent of roasting meat mixed with the sharp tang of fresh herbs and the rhythmic calls of vendors filled the air. Exotic-looking foreigners browsed and bought large quantities of goods alongside the locals. Money changed hands in large quantities under the watchful eye of the priests of Hermes, the god of commerce. She mingled with everyone, sharing news and gossip from places she had never seen before.
With her purchases completed, she lugged the leather satchel across her shoulder with growing effort. “Let’s go home.” She grabbed the boy’s left hand. Her command did not weaken his resolve to fight the foreign soldiers and monsters. He followed.
They crossed the Agora again and entered Scribe Alley. The tight street winded away from the market. Visitors came here to find anything dealing with books, lore, scrolls, and maps. Halfway down Scribe Alley stood a small boutique without any sign. The paint had long been scratched away, and it once read, “Ptolos. Scribe.” The shop remained shuttered, though a faint glow could always be seen from within, hinting at constant activity.
She entered the cramped shop where books, parchment, and scrolls covered every surface, hidden beneath a blanket of grey dust. She passed through the back store, which contained more of the same, and into the kitchen.
With a tired sigh, she dropped her bag on the table and sat on a chair as Aree ran around and giggled, continuing his battle with the invisible monsters. She pulled out the result of her trip to the market. A flat loaf of bread, a clove of garlic, a tiny bag of salt, a cabbage, a whole silverfish, some oil, and seven coin purses. She retrieved the largest piece: a foreign gold coin embossed with the image of a man and indecipherable script. “Aree, come here, dear.”
The boy hurried to his mother and stood at attention like the soldiers he liked to watch parade in the Agora.
She handed him the coin. “Do you remember what to do and what to say?”
“Yes. Go to the statue of Hermes, put the coin at his feet, and say. Thank you, Hermes, for your genosty.”
“Ge-ne-ro-si-ty.” She had him repeat it twice before letting him go. The boy ran out through the small shop, leaving his mother alone. She opened the stove, placed some kindling, and made a few quick hand gestures, invoking the Titans of flame to ignite the fire.
She placed the fish in a pan with oil and returned to the purses.
She counted the coins methodically, then slipped them into her jar with a quiet satisfaction. Today had been fruitful. A nice haul for today. She tossed the purses into the fire, letting them burn with the kindling. No need to keep evidence.
A knock at the door.
The neighbor’s daughter, Kore, stood quietly when Melita opened the door, twisting on her right leg. The short, charming girl of fifteen with a round face dominated by an enchanting and friendly smile kept her brown hair in a thick braid. Kore helped her out with domestic tasks, but they weren’t close. She looked at Melita somewhat tentatively, unsure of what to say. “Melita, I come because… Am I disturbing you?”
“No. How can I help you?”
“I spoke with my father about my future. And he wants me to work with him in his store. But he already has my brother…”
Melita gave a second look around, paying attention to the best hiding spots and the roofs. No one. She felt ill at ease discussing the girl’s future. For years now, she avoided attention. A family dispute would not be in her interest.
“I told him I wanted to learn magic and become a sorceress like you. A kind sorceress. To help people,” Kore said, her face regaining her bright expression.
“I'm tied up with a few important matters right now... It may not be the right time.” Melita wanted to let the girl down gently.
“No one ever comes to see you. You delve into your books all night. I have always wondered what you did with all those strange books, and I want to learn more. I could help, but no—I want to.” Wise father and observant daughter.
“I spend most of my time doing research.”
Kore gently grasped Melita’s hands. “Mister Ptolos was quite particular about his things. He screamed at us and never allowed anyone other than ruffians and sailors inside his shop. We used to joke he locked away children in this kitchen.” Followed by an imitation of the old wizard that was surprisingly on point.
“Magic is dangerous. There is nothing fun or frivolous about it. It's not just lighting fires—it's opening doors you can’t close again.” Melita wondered if she could expose Kore to the dangers of such power.
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“You deal with it. AND you raise Aree.” The girl squeezed Melita’s hand, bowing in supplication. “Please, Melita. I will cook for you and Aree if that frees up your time.”
Now, that got Melita’s attention. Something worth the time teaching the girl.
The smell of something burning got her attention next. “My fish!” Melita rushed back to the kitchen, with Kore a step behind. Smoke filled the kitchen, making both women cough. Using magic, Melita moved the fish to the window, where the smoke blew out. She used her headscarf to ventilate as Kore fanned the skirt of her chiton.
“You’d think I’d figure out how to cook by now.” Melita tried to laugh it off, but her complaint was real. She could boil rice or wheat, sometimes barley, into a paste with the taste of wet pater.
“Cooking is dangerous. There is nothing fun or frivolous about it.” Kore’s imitation of Melita made them both laugh. “Didn’t your mother teach you?”
Melita shook her head. “That’s a long story.”
Kore saved the meal by improvising a cabbage and garlic stew.
“Mom! Are we eating more bread? Hi, Kore. Thanks for cooking again. ‘Be in my room.” Aree passed through the kitchen without stopping.
“So… When can we start?” Kore asked Melita.
“Come back tomorrow evening, and we’ll start with something practical, like conjuring a globe of light. Nothing too fancy—yet.”
Another hug followed. “I’ll be back before sunset and prepare dinner!” Kore ran out the door with a radiant smile on her face.
* * *
Night had fallen long ago when Melita returned to the kitchen, spending most of the evening among the dusty books and scrolls. Aree slept upstairs, no doubt dreaming of battles and monsters. She stepped into her dimly lit kitchen, the soft glow of a floating magical candle illuminating the space. She headed straight to the cupboard for the amphora of wine. To her relief, she found the wine still drinkable, its taste unspoiled by time. She poured herself a cup, the rich aroma of the wine filling the air, but her thoughts were elsewhere.
Thinking of Ptolos brought back memories of Aree’s father. Of that day in the Black Chamber. Of the endless hunger of the Mists. It had been a long time since she thought of that day. Little Arakos occupied most of her time, all of it, in fact.
Leaving the full cup on the table, she pulled out a drawer filled with random utensils she could never do anything with. She retrieved something she hadn’t looked at in so long. Her hand trembled as she unearthed a hidden compartment in the drawer. The bloodstained leather pulsed with memories, too painful to recall yet impossible to forget.
The well-worn leather-bound book would seem unremarkable to most, but to Melita, it contained a chronicle of her adventure before she came to Athenion. It contained her thoughts and the events that led to Aree. It contained all her inner thoughts about the man whose house she lived in. She remembered stealing it and then gifting it to him. He returned it to her, telling her to hold it for him.
The blood was his. Melita unfolded a note scrawled in his own blood, the simple words stark against the page. “Don’t Follow. I won’t forget.” Tears welled in her eyes as she placed it on the table. She had not looked at it in years. Had she betrayed the man she loved within by forgetting him? Would he ever understand why she focused on their son instead of searching for him? Turning her focus and life to their son rather than the promise she made to herself to find a way to bring him back…
His face came to her as clear as day. She remembered meeting him on the road. A man from another land, someone who did not quite fit in but could mimic the habits of people. A man of action, a warrior. She remembered him as a kind man, though his rage sometimes led him to acts of great violence. She remembered him killing slavers without flinching, yet he granted mercy to a foolish princeling in over his head. Despite his often aloof demeanor, she recalled the comfort and safety his presence had given her. The arguments they had. His lack of interest in things he did not consider relevant, in things she cared about.
At least he listened to her as they traveled. He was a good listener. He spoke only in short sentences.
The night in Messili when they first made love. How, for the first time, she melted in his arms, and the world vanished. The tickling of his beard on her skin. His rough hands over her body.
And the day she told him they would have a child. How excited he was!
Melita scanned the content of this old manuscript, passing a finger on the square letters of the Olympian script. Why had he clung to his lost past instead of embracing the future they could have had together with Aree?
Her tears fell, unbidden, as the memory of his voice—calm and steady in the chaos of battle—faded like a whisper. How she remonstrated with him about using more than four-word sentences…
His fate was worse than death. Nothingness. He disappeared and was just… Gone. Not dead, but with no way to know if he lived either. Vanished into nothing.
For the first years of Aree’s life, she visited the Temple of Hera and begged her, as a fellow mother, to bring his father to them. She promised she would accept any punishment or fate without complaint. She climbed the steps to Athena’s temple atop the Acropolis to find a way to him. She begged Zeus for his help; he was king of all. She left offerings of coins and other precious goods at each temple.
The gods knew, but their silence was deafening. Her suffering amused them, so she stopped going. She focused on Aree and her own research. As a sorceress, she knew there were ways to accomplish what she wanted. She needed to learn more.
She did not want to do anything more than sit with her memories tonight. And wine. Each gulp of wine burned her throat, but the warmth couldn’t numb the cold ache in her chest. With every swallow, her world blurred until nothing was left but darkness. Until the sweet embrace of oblivion took over.
* * *
“Mom, wake up!” Aree poked Melita on the shoulder repeatedly, trying to pull her from her drunken stupor.
She blinked through the fog of her hangover, her words slurred and incoherent. “What is it, sweetheart?” She stood and reached for the water bucket to fight the hangover and refresh herself.
The metal ladle barely touched her lips when Aree replied. “What’s in this book? It says bad things about Dad.” The boy held up the leather notebook.
Melita spat her mouthful of water and dropped the ladle. “Give me that!” She fumbled to grab the notebook. Having secured it, she held it to her chest. “Don’t you EVER touch that book again! EVER! Do I make myself clear?”
Aree frowned. His jaw clenched, and his lower lip trembled. The look in his eyes. The same look his father had when he was about to explode. A copy of the man she loved to this day. She cursed herself for teaching him how to read at a young age.
“Why did you write bad things about him?” He repeated, trembling to contain his anger.
Melita softened her stance and returned the book to her satchel. She invited the boy to approach, which he did, his body still ready to explode. “Sometimes mommies and daddies fight with each other. They scream sometimes. Your father is gone, and I was really sad. That book is for mommy only. Instead of screaming at him, I wrote it down and screamed that way.”
The boy seemed to understand and took a deep breath. “Sorry, I screamed.” His small voice echoed the rare moments when his father had apologized.
She grabbed him in a suffocating embrace. She loved him so much. The only real sign his father ever came to Olympia.
“Who is Arakos? I saw my name in there,” Aree said, trying to escape his mother’s arms.
“He is a hero. Mommy met him at the same time as your father. He was a good man.” Melita did not lie to him. Arakos was Aree’s real father, but he did not need to know it. Not yet. Not until she brought him back to them. Her mind briefly flashed to that day in the Black Chamber, where everything had gone wrong. She hugged her son again, thinking of the man she loved but who was taken away from her.
She wondered what the boy had read in her notebook, where she had written everything that had happened on her last adventure. The one where she met his father, Arakos.
And Ptolos, that slimy old man. Her supposed husband. It did not escape her notice that no one challenged her when she claimed to be his wife. To this day, the other wives avoided her and rarely did more than give hypocritical nods and smiles. It suited Melita because it avoided pleasantries and gossip so she could focus on her magical research to bring back Arakos.
No doubt, the other housewives were disgusted at the thought of Ptolos touching them.