And so, Medusa had become accustomed to the way these events would play out, and every one caused the rock in her chest to harden further. But, for Cornelia, the tears refused to be abated.
‘You take this one too hard, child,’ Athena said as Medusa wept into her wine. She had left her duties at the polis and laid herself to bed in the chambers beneath the temple. It had taken some hours before the tears had given way to sleep and, even when it came, it was shallow and short. When she awoke, there was a shimmer to the air, and the Goddess was by her side.
‘She chose to return to this man,’ Athena said, caressing her hair like she was a child. ‘That is on her head. You cannot blame yourself.’
‘I do not,’ Medusa said. ‘I blame him. For every last drop of her blood.’
‘Good.’
‘But he will not pay for it.’
‘He will. The gods will see that he does.’
Medusa snorted.
‘You do not believe me?’ Athena’s hand stopped.
‘The gods are the ones that cause this,’ Medusa answered. ‘Their power, their strength. Their stubborn anger and terror. They show man everything they cannot have control over and, as such, force men to claim dominion over the one thing that they can.’
‘So, you blame me? You think I have a role in this?’
Medusa shifted up from where she lay.
‘You, my goddess, no. Never.’ She sighed deeply. ‘Why is it that women are viewed as unstable? Women hold knives more often in the day than men ever do, yet it is not women who stab their husbands to death when they fear adultery. Women gather in clusters with friendships stronger than steel, yet it is not women who beat their husbands to the ground in gangs when a hint of wrong-doing echoes in the air. It is not women who require lover after lover, then make promises of love which they recant when darker hair and deeper eyes are cast in our direction. Time and time again, we are called out as the emotional ones, the irrational ones. Women don’t get drunk like men and hurl insults at strangers or throw rocks in protests. Women use words and reason where men use fists and force. So why are we always second? Why is that my goddess? Why are we always second?’
Medusa waited, a longing in her heart to hear the wise words of her idol, but for once, the Goddess of Wisdom had little she could respond with. ‘Sometimes, the lines are blurred, Medusa.’ Athena rose up to standing. ‘Sometimes, it is difficult to see where your feet are planted when you are focusing so far out to the horizon. But we will not talk of this in here, in my place of peace. I will come to you again soon.’ She bowed and kissed Medusa on her head, and Medusa’s skin prickled as if ice and sunlight had been poured there.
Taking leave from her duties, Medusa stood at the side and watched as Cornelia’s husband took a torch and brought it to his wife’s pyre. The day was cold. A chilled breeze whipped up from the sea, spraying the air with crystals of salt and causing the flames to spit and sizzle as they licked around the corpse. He had little need of robes for warmth, Medusa thought, watching as crocodile tears slid down his cheeks. Bowing his head, he accepted embraces from every lady who offered. As the sun slipped below the horizon, Medusa stayed, hovering in the distance, listening to the condolences which he drank with as much ease as the wine that filled his goblet. Wine served by girls whose flesh he pinched, more like a farmer inspecting the quality of his cattle than a husband mourning his wife. It was not uncommon, of course; he would hardly be the first person to numb his grief through drink. Only, from what she had seen, there was no grief, not real grief. As the day passed into night, Medusa continued to watch. She herself abstained from the wine; the sweetness would be soured by the bile of her wrath, which grew with every passing moment. She watched as his hand slid effortlessly into that of another woman, and then from her hand to her thigh and higher still. She watched as laughter rocked his belly and he raised toasts, not to his wife but to his good fortune in life.
When she could watch no longer, Medusa grasped the closest goblet to her, poured the wine down her throat, and marched to meet him.
‘Your wife has only just left this world,’ she spat. ‘You think this shows decency?’
‘Priestess?’ he slurred, a sneer corkscrewing his features. ‘Come, join us.’ He patted the embroidered throw, which draped the seat beside him. ‘There is plenty more room here.’
Medusa spat on the ground.
‘You are nothing more than a murderer,’ she said.
The man scoffed.
‘I am plenty more and, I believe, I can show you such. Come, take another wine.’
Medusa hesitated then took the goblet from his hand. A moment later, a wave of red sprayed into the air.
Mortal guests at the funeral were not the only ones who saw the wine fly through the air that evening. Dressed in the garb of a lord, Poseidon watched with glee as the Priestess threw her words and wine without inhibition.
He turned to the man next to him and asked, ‘This woman, who is she?’
‘She is the priestess, Medusa, from the temple of Athena.’
Poseidon smiled to himself. ‘She has fire.’
Chapter 5
The first time he came to see her, he waited on the steps of the temple. For two weeks, he had watched her, studied her, his mind on nothing else. Out on the islands, he let storms rage and ships be dashed against the rocks, for they did not matter now. Poseidon had other thoughts at play. Beautiful, devious thoughts. The first
