Ichor and Ambrosia

Before Acacius turned ten, summer set in with the calm of Demeter’s joy. Heron was to leave for the port at Kamares in the morning, to sail to Crete and meet with a king. Acacius dutifully prepared his master’s sword and shield for the expedition, and in the morning found him gone. Months passed like stones thrown on still water; the boy turned ten, nearly the age of a man, and Myrrhine waited, working industriously, for her husband’s return, as she always had. But more months came, and Heron was nowhere to be found.

In late November, she woke early in the morning, when the sun’s chariot still hid behind the eastern sea, and took Acacius to accompany her to Kamares. “Do you think he is alright?” she asked the boy over and over again on the long trek through the high hills. “Do you think the king at Crete is kind to him?”

“Just busy,” was all Acacius could think to say without speaking out of turn. “Just busy, just busy, just busy.”

The port at Kamares was bustling, even in the young hours of the day. The air was humid and thick, stuck with the smell of sea salt. Between the calls of sailors and merchants, the ringing of bells, and the raising and falling of jibs and sails, the sea sloshed in incessant waves against the rocky shore. “Have you seen my husband?” Myrrhine would question any man in leathers she met walking across the docks. They ignored her at every turn; “Excuse me, have you seen…. Are you a soldier? Have you seen my husband?... Do you know a man named Heron?... Do you know Commander Alexandros?”

No one stopped, not even to talk, and why would they? Myrrhine wasn’t an old woman, but she wasn’t young; her hair was becoming the color of the salt in the air, and her old clothes had worn to rags, rich with stains of mud and blood alike. She was tanned and disheveled from the farm-work, her hands calloused and ugly. This isn’t to mention the young boy with her, who looked worse off than she, with his long black curls and dark, dirty skin. A ship pulled in the port, down the docks, with sails of blue and gold. “Wait here,” Myrrhine told Acacius with her eyes fixed on the ship. She then made her way down the docks to meet the mooring ship.

A great bear of a man approached Acacius then, with golden-brown skin the western sailors seemed to share; his belly bounced as he walked, bulging out of the jeweled hide vest he wore; the belt that held his bellowing pants danced and rang with the sound of the bobbles and bits he kept there; his hair was long and brown, tied back in a long braid with golden bells that rang as he stepped, with a beard to match. On his arm was a beautiful woman who shared his sun-kissed skin; she had amber eyes and was decorated like a statue in more jewels than Acacius could count--not that he could.

“Aye, boy,” the great man said, looking down on Acacius. He was like a giant statue, except with a jolly smile and bouncing jowls. “Where is your mother?”

Acacius questioned if he should answer or not. “I have no mother,” he said after a long silence not even the sea could seem to break.

“Your father, then?”

“No, sir.” Acacius had learned from an early age what became of his parents; his mother, first, and then a few years later he learned of his father.

“Then what brings you here, to these docks, boy?”

“My master.” Acacius cast his eyes down, sad to admit his slave status.

“Aye, that explains the marking,” the woman said to her man. She pointed at the scar on his head, and then the man took Acacius’ chin in his great hand and turned the boy’s head upward to see his face. Acacius was still young and lithe, wiry strong and muscular for his small weight. His sharp cheekbones caught the sunlight well, and his muddy, glassy eyes even better. “One. You work alone, boy?” the man asked.

Before Acacius could answer, Myrrhine swept him away from the man, nearly pushing the boy off the docks. “I’m so sorry, sir. I hope he hasn’t disturbed you,” she said to the man. Then she said to Acacius, “You know better than to address strangers. You’ll be lucky if I don’t--”

“It’s been no problem, my lady,” the man said, then he offered his hand for Myrrhine to shake. Timidly, the farm woman took it. “I am Baltsaros, the prince of splendor. And this beautiful lady is my nameless muse.” He playfully tugged at the amber-eyed woman’s waist, and she planted an affectionate kiss on his plump, hairy cheek.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I am no lady. I am just a farmer from the hills.” Myrrhine tried her hardest to smile at the man despite herself; Acacius wondered of her success with the mooring ship.

“And I’m no prince, I am just a merchant. Titles are no matter here. Now tell me, what brings you and the boy here to these docks?”

Myrrhine’s dull smile faded when she answered, “It’s my husband, sir. He left not half a year ago with other soldiers to Crete and he has yet to return. I came in search of word of him.”

“Ah, I see,” Baltsaros nodded. “Soldiering is hard work. Dangerous, too.” He took a single step closer, away from his nameless muse, and planted a firm hand on Myrrhine’s shoulder. “I have come from Crete, my lady. Many rumors have fallen upon my ears, but none speak of any ill-will nor omen. I can’t assure you of anything, but I can say that your husband is likely just fine.” Myrrhine took a deep breath, almost smiling, with her eyes closed for a moment. Acacius imagined she was thanking the gods and all their siblings and children for even a guess of good news. Baltsaros smiled along with her, and stepped back away. “I’ll tell you what, my lady,” he said. “I am having a gala at my manse on Kitriani tonight. Why don’t you join me? There will e plenty of food and people alike.”

She hook her head. “I’m sorry, but I cannot. I have never been to a party before, and I must say I don’t have the proper garments for it.”

“Nonsense!” the great man roared. “My seamstresses will weave the most beautiful of robes for you and your boy. I insist on your presence, if only to ease your sorrow for your husband.”

“Do you really think he will return?” Myrrhine looked at him for another glimpse, glimmer, or glint of hope.

“My Sir Baltsaros is never wrong,” the nameless woman said. “Your husband will return to you.”

It took a moment of listening to the waves lap lazily against the shore, but finally Myrrhine answered, “You have been so kind to us, sir, and we’re mere strangers. I cannot turn down an invitation so kind.”

“It’s my pleasure, my lady. My pleasure craft sits at the end of the docks; it is decorated with the awesome likeness of Poseidon. I beg you to go there, tell them who sent you, and I will be there to set sail down the coast shortly. I have some errands I must tend to here.”

Myrrhine took Baltsaros’ hand and shook it gratefully. “Thank you, sir. Thank you for all your kindness,” she said before she began to walk down the wooded docks. Acacius began to follow her, but he stopped to look at the great man and his muse. He didn’t know why, maybe for approval, maybe for some words of wisdom. When Baltsaros nodded him on, Acacius nodded back as if they were sharing some unspoken secret, and then he ran to catch up with his master.