In the lulls between times she asked, “Who do you love, Orion?”
I could not answer. I could not say her name, and her control of my body would not permit me to speak the name of Athena. Then we would begin anew and the passion would surge in us both as we thrashed and tumbled and sweated wildly. “Did she ever do this for you?” Olympias would ask. “Did she ever make you do this?”
How long we spent coupling was impossible for me to reckon. But at last we lay side by side, staring into the infinite sea of stars, panting like a pair of rutting animals.
“Speak the name of the woman you love, Orion,” she commanded me.
“You will not like what you hear,” I replied.
I had expected anger. Instead, she laughed. “Her hold on you is deeper than I had expected.”
“We love each other.”
“That was a dream, Orion. Nothing more than a dream of yours. Forget it. Accept this reality.”
“She loves me. Athena. Anya.”
For long moments she was silent in the darkness. Then, “A goddess may take on human form and make love to a mortal. That is not love, Orion.”
“Who am I?” I asked while her control over me was relaxed. “Why am I here?”
“Who are you? Why, Orion, you are nothing more than any other human creature—a plaything of the gods.” And her laughter turned cruel once more.
I closed my eyes and wondered how I could escape this evil woman’s grasp. She had to be the goddess Hera that I had seen in my dream. Or was she merely the witch Olympias, controlling me, bewitching me, with the power of her dark magic? Were my memories of Athena and the other gods and goddesses merely vivid dreams hatched by my own longing for a knowledge of my origins, my own yearning for someone to love, for someone who could love me? Was Olympias’ powerful magic truly witchcraft, or the superhuman abilities of an actual goddess? I fell asleep trying to fathom the mystery.
When I opened my eyes again early morning sunlight was filtering through the beaded curtain of a window. I was lying beside a naked woman in a rumpled bed. The makeup smeared across her face told me that she was one of the hetairai who had attended Philip’s dinner the night before.
I sat up slowly, not wanting to wake her. In the milky early light she looked older, tired.
Softly I rose from the bed and gathered my clothes, which had been neatly piled on a curved chair in the corner of the bedroom. Even my dagger was there, at the bottom of the pile. I dressed, ducked through the curtained doorway of the bedroom, and bumped right into Pausanias.
“You’ve had a busy night of it,” he growled.
I had no idea of how I had gotten here, so I said nothing.
“Damned Thais just picks out whoever she likes, like a man,” said Pausanias as he led me down the corridor toward a flight of stairs. We went down to the ground floor and out into the street. It was still early, quiet outside.
“How did you get there?” Pausanias asked grumpily, jerking a thumb back toward Thais’ house. It was a modest two-story building, but well kept, with flower boxes blooming brightly beneath every window.
With a shrug that I hoped was convincing, I replied, “I don’t really know.”
“If you can’t hold your wine you shouldn’t drink.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
We marched along the empty street, heading uphill toward the palace.
“Trouble is,” Pausanias said, “that young Ptolemaios has his eye on her. And she taps you on the shoulder instead.”
Ptolemaios was one of Alexandros’ Companions, I knew. Rumored to be a bastard son of Philip, as well.
“Perhaps she’s merely trying to make him jealous,” I half-joked, still wondering how I did get into Thais’ house. And bed.
“That kind of jealousy leads to murder, Orion. And blood feuds.”
I shrugged light-heartedly. “I have no family to carry on a blood feud after I’m gone.”
“Thank the gods for small favors,” he muttered.
As we neared the palace wall a question popped into my mind. “How did you know where I was?”