Sequel: Born a Slave ›
Status: don't expect many updates until May
Ichor and Ambrosia
I.ii
It was a dry winter in December when Heron and his wife were blessed with the seed of a child, fostered in Myrrhine’s belly. She took leave from fieldwork, he took leave from soldiering; for a long while, it was Acacius, nine at the time, taking care of the homestead. He scoured the dishes, scrubbed the floors, sheared and slaughtered the sheep, cooked the meals, ground the slop, and even tended to the lady’s every whim and call. Heron came and went, to Kamares and Artemonas, to Apollonia and Faros, to Vathi and Platys Gialos, returning with wise words from old men along with teas, herbs, and remedies to help along the growth of their child.
“Drink, my love,” he would whisper to her with a decorative cup of clay or stone that Acacius imagined an old, decrepit hag had sold him on the roadside. And Myrrhine would drink.
She spent her days lying around, attempting to keep the baby healthy. She would only eat fresh meat, and because of that Acacius had to slaughter a new sheep every few days. They lost more livestock than ever, and Heron found himself running back and forth to nearby villages and towns to buy grains and imported fruits to supplement their diets. Every now and again, Myrrhine would try to roast her own meat, or chop her own greens, but her bulbous stomach would pain her and she would need to return to the bed.
In early February, Heron trekked to Vathi bay and returned with a strange robed man. The robed man carried a leather satchel filled with various instruments; sharp knives, tongs, seeing glasses and bottles of various liquids. Acacias was steeping stew over the fire at the time, chopping vegetables into the soup, but when the Heron entered with the robed man in his wake the boy just stood and stared.
The man meticulously removed his examination tools and arranged them on a table. He had a long, scraggly beard the color of snow, and his eyes sagged so much that Acacius was surprised he could see what he was doing. He took Myrrhine’s sleeping hand in his, and touched his index and middle fingers to her wrist for a few moments. Then he opened her rag blouse and felt her stomach, sliding his hand back and forth, up, down, and around her belly. He felt, pressed, and poked. Then he slid his hand up her skirt, and left it there a while, before removing it and toweling his hands off. He returned his utensils to the satchel, and then turned to Heron, who waited patiently behind him.
“This is something better discussed in private,” the robed man said.
Heron looked at the boy. “Acacius, go chop wood for the fire.”
Acacius thought there already was plenty of wood over the fire, but he went anyway, not daring to defy his master. Out into the cold air he walked, down a beaten dirt path to pretend to chop wood. He didn't even take the axe with him from the house, but Heron didn't seem to notice.
After what felt like a very long time, Acacius returned home empty-handed. He didn’t think Heron would have cared though. Before going to his quarters for bed, he cracked open the door to his master’s longhouse. Inside, all was silent; the robed man had gone, Myrrhine lay on a cot before the fire, sweating with heat, her belly bulging more and more every day. In the back, the bedroom door hung ajar, and through it Acacius could see Heron sleeping soundly in the big straw bed. Acacius stoked the fire and added wood to keep it hot, and poured a cup of water for Myrrhine that he set beside her should she ever wake up thirsty.
Acacius quietly returned to his quarters--the small hut in which he was born. He climbed in his bed of straw and leaves, curled up with a scratchy burlap blanket, and lay there wonder just who the robed man may have been.
A day after February gave in to March, Myrrhine and Heron buried their unborn child with the seed of an olive tree in order to give him wisdom in the afterlife. From that moment on, both Heron and Myrrhine seemed to treat Acacius with almost a touch of kindness; never again would they strike him, starve him, and they even tore down the old stone hut and moved him in their home, to sleep on the floor by the fire. They even eased his duties. Sometimes, when Myrrhine would look at Acacius, he felt love, as if he were a member of their small and humble family.
“Drink, my love,” he would whisper to her with a decorative cup of clay or stone that Acacius imagined an old, decrepit hag had sold him on the roadside. And Myrrhine would drink.
She spent her days lying around, attempting to keep the baby healthy. She would only eat fresh meat, and because of that Acacius had to slaughter a new sheep every few days. They lost more livestock than ever, and Heron found himself running back and forth to nearby villages and towns to buy grains and imported fruits to supplement their diets. Every now and again, Myrrhine would try to roast her own meat, or chop her own greens, but her bulbous stomach would pain her and she would need to return to the bed.
In early February, Heron trekked to Vathi bay and returned with a strange robed man. The robed man carried a leather satchel filled with various instruments; sharp knives, tongs, seeing glasses and bottles of various liquids. Acacias was steeping stew over the fire at the time, chopping vegetables into the soup, but when the Heron entered with the robed man in his wake the boy just stood and stared.
The man meticulously removed his examination tools and arranged them on a table. He had a long, scraggly beard the color of snow, and his eyes sagged so much that Acacius was surprised he could see what he was doing. He took Myrrhine’s sleeping hand in his, and touched his index and middle fingers to her wrist for a few moments. Then he opened her rag blouse and felt her stomach, sliding his hand back and forth, up, down, and around her belly. He felt, pressed, and poked. Then he slid his hand up her skirt, and left it there a while, before removing it and toweling his hands off. He returned his utensils to the satchel, and then turned to Heron, who waited patiently behind him.
“This is something better discussed in private,” the robed man said.
Heron looked at the boy. “Acacius, go chop wood for the fire.”
Acacius thought there already was plenty of wood over the fire, but he went anyway, not daring to defy his master. Out into the cold air he walked, down a beaten dirt path to pretend to chop wood. He didn't even take the axe with him from the house, but Heron didn't seem to notice.
After what felt like a very long time, Acacius returned home empty-handed. He didn’t think Heron would have cared though. Before going to his quarters for bed, he cracked open the door to his master’s longhouse. Inside, all was silent; the robed man had gone, Myrrhine lay on a cot before the fire, sweating with heat, her belly bulging more and more every day. In the back, the bedroom door hung ajar, and through it Acacius could see Heron sleeping soundly in the big straw bed. Acacius stoked the fire and added wood to keep it hot, and poured a cup of water for Myrrhine that he set beside her should she ever wake up thirsty.
Acacius quietly returned to his quarters--the small hut in which he was born. He climbed in his bed of straw and leaves, curled up with a scratchy burlap blanket, and lay there wonder just who the robed man may have been.
A day after February gave in to March, Myrrhine and Heron buried their unborn child with the seed of an olive tree in order to give him wisdom in the afterlife. From that moment on, both Heron and Myrrhine seemed to treat Acacius with almost a touch of kindness; never again would they strike him, starve him, and they even tore down the old stone hut and moved him in their home, to sleep on the floor by the fire. They even eased his duties. Sometimes, when Myrrhine would look at Acacius, he felt love, as if he were a member of their small and humble family.