‘There is nothing to forgive.’ She offered a hand to Medusa. ‘Please, stand.’
Keeping her head bent, Medusa raised herself upwards, swallowing back the fear that threatened to consume her. Despite this fear that caused her knees to tremble, she was desperate to glimpse the power that stood before her. The presence of a goddess; it was every mortal’s dream.
As if knowing this desire, Athena cupped Medusa’s chin with her hand and tilted it up to the sky. Her touch was like water from the sea, a freshness against Medusa’s skin, yearned for yet capricious. A cold chill ran down the length of Medusa’s spine. The flesh that pressed against her was, she knew, no more similar to her own than dust was to fire. Athena’s grip was firm as she twisted the young girl’s head from left to right and back again. Through it all, Medusa remained passive and compliant. She had been through this routine countless times since she turned eight, and the frequency of such events had increased with every year. Some men brought bribes disguised as gifts before offering their hand in marriage. Some brought lies disguised as promises or an agreement that their brothers would marry Medusa’s sisters when they came of age, “despite their lesser looks”. Others would snort and scoff and try to make out that what they saw was nothing special, mundane even, but it was an act, for they all had eyes and what they saw may well have been carved by the hand of a god.
Medusa let the Goddess inspect her, her grey eyes focused and unmoving throughout the scrutiny. Always the same pressure against her skin, strong and firm. When Athena dropped her hand and stepped back, there was no look of satisfaction or dissatisfaction on her face. Only acceptance.
‘Tell me, child.’ Her right hand rested against her dagger. ‘What do you think of your father bringing you here to me? To a goddess. Does he think I am an orphanage? A place for children to scrounge and squeal and fill their bellies as they crawl over my floors?’ Her voice lilted with mockery. ‘Or does he think of me as a refuge, perhaps, for all the poor and lazy who fail to lift a scythe to feed their own family? Or I am simply here for all the women who fear the stirring of men? That is why you are here, is it not? Is this what I should expect, prudes and peasants and vermin desecrating my temple?’
Medusa made no movement as she spoke.
‘I am not here to desecrate anything, my Goddess.’
‘Then what? Why are you here? You want to offer yourself?’ She laughed. The heat of her immortality radiated only inches from Medusa’s face. The comparative ease of only moments ago had been replaced with a bitter, harsher timbre that hummed in the air like the static of thunder before a storm. ‘Offer yourself to the men of Athens, Medusa. They will pay a richer sum than I will. Your face, your youth, you could name your price.’ She combed her fingers through a ringlet of Medusa’s hair. ‘Does that not tempt you? Imagine the life you could buy. The life your sisters would have. Surely you would be a fool not to consider it.’ Athena’s gaze narrowed.
‘Why do you not defend yourself, child? Speak. Give me your reasoning. Perhaps that was not your father I saw outside the temple? Perhaps you are the bastard child that haunts his nightmares.’ Her lips twisted wryly. ‘Or perhaps you do not haunt his nightmares at all? Perhaps he needed you away, the temptation of those perfect curls and sprouting breasts too great. Perhaps the trip here was the chance he longed for. The chance to have you to himself. After all, you had money. You could have stayed in the best inns on your journey here, but instead, you chose the moon as your blanket. Why did your father wish to keep you to himself, child? Perhaps the suitors that came calling would be disappointed in the purity they received?’
Medusa’s pulse surged, although she locked her jaw, refusing to rise to the Goddess’ bait. She could not hold her tongue forever; she knew that. The Goddess was not known for her patience, and it would not take long before her silence was viewed as insolence. But she would not have words forced from her through invectives. The starkness of the silence was subdued by a single birdsong, one stray halcyon who seemed to not appreciate the weight of the moment.
‘Speak, child.’ Athena’s slender fingers had returned to combing Medusa’s hair. Her tone once more softened, her eyes welcoming. ‘I wish to hear your words. I have heard such things about that voice of yours. And you have travelled so far to get here. So very, very far.’
For the first time since entering the temple, Medusa felt the weight of her journey and the true gravity of the task ahead of her. The blisters and sores smarted on the soles of her feet.
‘We can sit if you wish.’ Athena noticed the wavering of her eyes. ‘You must be tired.’
‘You are a goddess,’ Medusa said, ignoring the Goddess’ suggestion. ‘You know there were no inns, so you know there were no misdoings. And you know the reason for me being here.’
Athena pressed the tips of her fingers together. The luminous glow of her skin glistened.
‘So, a refuge? That is right, is it not? Your father wished me to take on his burdens. Clothe you, feed you, and allow you to siphon off my prosperity. Why do you stay silent?’ The slant of her eyebrows rose up towards the crease in her skin where her helmet so often would lie. ‘You are right, I have watched you, child. I have seen that tongue of yours cut men twice your size to ribbons. I have seen you sell your father’s grapes for double their worth to men you knew could afford it, only to
