Medusa, A Love Story (Loves of Olympus 1)

Her skirts blew about her ankles in her haste. She slipped often, the shale disturbed beneath her flying feet. But she did not fall or slow. Her excitement carried her.

She did not pause to admire the orchids that bloomed, fragrant and purple, along the hillside. She did not linger over the shepherd’s dog that ran along with her, barking in greeting. Even the stars, glistening like dewy pearls in the fading velvet sky of night, held no fascination for her.

She ran, with her lungs bursting and her heart racing.

She skirted the city, following the trails Ektor had told Elpis to follow. She had no desire to be waylaid there. Time was a precious gift she would not take for granted.

She ran on, her side aching and her breathing labored.

As she crested the last hill, her destination was in sight. Athens’ ships, a hundred or more, rested their bows on the bone-colored sand of the beach. Tents clustered together, the makeshift homes to this legion of Athens’ brave hoplites.

All too soon their tents would be traded for the ships. They would depart, to protect their city from invasion. Hours, days – even Ektor was uncertain.

Her heart leapt into her throat, fear clawing at the sweet bliss she’d felt since leaving the temple. She placed her hand upon her chest, steadying herself with care.

She would not burden him with her fear. There had been enough of that between them. Whatever time they had now would be about joy and love. She would wave and watch him sail from Athens’ shores, holding herself straight and proud for him, until he could be seen no more. She gasped for breath.

She would not think on that now.

Now she was here. And she must find him.

The council convened in a large tent, Ektor had told Elpis. It was larger than the others, red, with a tall flag pole, hailing all who could bear arms, all who were Greek, or her allies, to come and fight. The tent would have to be large enough to accommodate the commanders of the Athenian hoplites, the trained Ekdromoi, and even the less skilled psiloi and peltast soldiers – all gathered together against one great enemy.

Medusa scanned the beach with narrowed eyes. Ektor was right. This tent, larger than the others, sat on the edge of the shore, removed from the rest of the camp. This was a place for strategy and discussion, to plan for war.

She ran along the steep hill peaks, climbing up onto the flat face of a rock. She sat, breathing hard, and leaned forward to search for him. The tent was open, allowing the cool night air entrance, and the flaps lifted and fell in the sea breeze.

More than a hundred men were gathered inside, she was sure. While most stood back, pressed against the tent sides to form a human wall, a handful stood around a table.

Ariston was not one of them.

The men were gesturing, pointing and slapping a chart spread before them. Though she could not make out their words, their agitation was visible.

One man, with a thick thatch of long black hair, gestured wildly. He stopped, scowling, and straightened. He stepped back so that the other, a bald and weary looking giant, spoke. The giant’s finger jabbed at another spot of the map with fervor, ending his speech by slapping the table with one large open hand.

Medusa wondered what they argued over. Where the enemy waited or the best route to intercept, perhaps? Ektor had said the Persians were coming, but they must stop them from a land invasion if Athens was to survive.

Tonight she would not think of war, but these men could think of nothing else.

Her gaze searched eagerly amongst the men, knowing she’d find him.

And then, she did.

Ariston stood, with his head tilted forward, listening, it seemed, to the two men. His helmet rested under one arm, his fingers drumming impatiently on the metal dome. His other hand came up to rub the back of his neck.

She shifted, pulling her knees up and drawing the heavy brown cloak around her peplos as she watched him. Everything about him pleased her so. It was no burden to rest her chin on her knees and watch him.

He shifted from one foot to the other, revealing his restlessness to her. His face was hard. His eyes moved, she noticed, glancing through the tent opening. He was distracted. Worrying over the coming battle?

A shout went up from the bald man, startling her. The bald man’s arm flew up and his cloak billowed about him. He stood, towering over the other man, who yelled back without flinching.

Medusa looked at Ariston, concern mounting. His eyebrow rose, his frustration plain to see. She knew how tiresome it was, to be at the mercy of others’ dictates. While it was an honor to be trusted by those of great import, there were times when that honor meant enduring a vast exercise in patience. She suspected this was one of those times for Ariston.

If only he could see her.

Thea appeared then, cooing. Medusa held her arm out to the owl, but Thea flew toward the tent. The owl flitted past the opening once, then twice, the night filled with her endearing call.

She watched as Ariston’s eyes traveled to the tent’s opening, piercing the dark with their silver-grey warmth.