‘He is stealing,’ the man said to her. ‘Again and again. Three times this week, stealing from me. This is my family’s food. Their money, their gold.’
‘He has stolen gold as well as food?’ Medusa asked.
‘What buys the food if not the gold?’
‘Your wife on her back, from what I hear,’ someone shouted from the crowd. The man’s face flashed with anger before turning back to the Priestess.
Medusa was sitting upon a wooden stool while a pool of men puddled around her, waiting to have their grievances heard. Rosemary and lemon balm burned on the ground, their heady aromas thickening the air surrounding her.
‘Have you offered him food?’ Medusa’s response travelled clearly to the man, although he shook his head as if her words did not make sense.
‘He is stealing from me. Why would I give him food?’
‘Because he is stealing from you. Offer him food. No man wants what can be given to him freely. Your fruits taste no sweeter than another’s. Offer your food to him. I would be surprised if he continued to steal.’
‘What if he refuses to take the food?’ the man questioned; his cheeks still pink with annoyance.
‘Then perhaps he will have realised the error in his actions through your compassion. If he accepts it and the stealing continues, perhaps a blind eye could be cast.’
The tightening of the man’s jaw indicated distinct disapproval.
‘So, I am just to let him steal?’ he said.
Medusa sat back on her stool and surveyed the man. His chin was dimpled, and his dark hair slick to his scalp. Around his arm weaved a gold band, wider than his wrist.
‘Sir, would you give your food to the gods if they so asked for it?’
The man shook his head in bemusement.
‘Of course. Any sane man would.’
‘And if a god were to steal?’
‘The gods can take and give as they please.’
Medusa smiled. ‘They can,’ she says. ‘So we are in agreement. But,’ she paused and shifted back a little. ‘What if this god is disguised? Such as Poseidon when he comes to the shore. How could you tell whether the man you are refusing food to is a mortal or a god?’
The quiver of the man’s chin continued. ‘This neighbour has lived beside me all my life.’
‘And yet you only ever see him when your eyes are open. Where, I pray, does he go when they are closed or your head is turned?’
The man blushed. His questioning had lasted longer than it needed to, and behind him came the grousing of those who still required the Priestess’ audience.
‘You asked for the wisdom of the Goddess, and that is what you have been bestowed,’ she said to the man. ‘Do you understand me?’
With a locked jaw, the man bowed his head and nodded in quick succession.
‘Thank you, My Lady,’ he said, shuffling back into the crowd.
Most of the queries that came her way that day were silly quibbles and reconcilable differences. Men stealing food, men stealing women, men stealing livestock, livestock which men often thought of more fondly than they did their women. Men didn’t need gods, Medusa mused, they just needed somebody, anybody, to guide them in their lives.
‘My daughter has been sent home in disgrace,’ a man said, stepping in front of the crowd and stealing Medusa’s attention. ‘This husband was her second. The dowry nearly cost me my livelihood. Why must she do this? Why must she burden herself, disgrace herself in this manner? Can she not see she will soon be too old to marry, and we will have no money for a suitable match?’
‘Is your daughter here?’ Medusa asked.
The man shook his head. ‘This is not a place for women,’ he replied. Medusa raised an eyebrow.
‘Tell me, how has your daughter disgraced you? What acts have burdened your soul so heavily?’
The man’s brow crinkled.
‘No man will marry her now,’ he said. ‘She will be forced to stay at home and tend crops until the day she dies.’
‘And does she know this?’
‘How could she not?’
Medusa’s hand rose to her forehead, where a thin curl had slipped from beneath her headband. The man reminded her of her father, with so many worries etched into his forehead. He could be the same age too, she thought, for it was over five years since she had bidden him farewell on the steps to Athena’s temple.
‘Sir, you are a good man,’ she said. ‘Better, possibly, than the hundred men who have spoken before you today. You have stood and told me only of your daughter’s disgrace, of the burden upon herself which she has caused.’
The man nodded solemnly.
‘But these are your daughter’s disgraces to choose. You speak of her burdens now, but did you ask of her burdens before?’ The man remained silent as he chewed on his thumbnail. ‘It is not a life you would have chosen for her; I understand that. One of toil and uncertainty. But what is a burden for some, is freedom for another. A snake charmer earns his living where others would find their demise. A sailor spends years at sea, when others may perish in a week. You have raised her well. Trust her.’
The evening in Athens was muggy and damp. Bodies bustled in the alleyways, shouting and laughing, fighting and embracing. The sky was coloured with an orange hue and the warm air above the buildings, blurring the birds as they flitted from rooftop to rooftop. When she reached the temple, Medusa bowed her head to the statue of her goddess before climbing the steps.
‘Medusa?’ The name came from a shadow, a dark corner by the edge of the steps. ‘Can you help me?’
A woman appeared, folded over and crumpled to half her height, holding her hands out to the Priestess. Her body was draped in a brown shawl, thick and harsh like the sack of a beggar. Her hair
