As the pain coursed through her body, threatening to split her apart, Jocasta clawed at the bedclothes beneath her. If she could just get some air into her chest, she told herself, everything would be alright. Her lungs felt like an empty wineskin, trampled beneath a drunken soldier’s boot. Yet she couldn’t stop screaming for long enough to breathe. She felt Teresa’s hand grabbing her own hard enough to squash the bones together. The secondary pain was so unexpected, she turned to look stupidly at her crushed hand.
‘Breathe in,’ said Teresa and counted her to four. ‘And now out again.’ The two of them counted the breaths, together but apart, because although Jocasta needed the older woman’s help, she also knew it was all Teresa’s fault that she was probably about to die, and she found that hard to forgive.
It had been Teresa’s idea for the old king to marry. The city had gone too long without knowing its future. People were worried. If the king died without a son (even a daughter would be better than nothing), what would happen to the citizens of Thebes? They needed stability. Everyone agreed, the city had endured enough since the Reckoning had devastated them years before.
And it was strange, people said as they went about their business, that the king lived in a huge palace with courtiers, housekeepers, guards and cooks, but no family. He was past forty, past fifty almost: his habit of riding out into the mountains for weeks on end with his men – hunting deer or wild boar with their nets and short spears – was no longer as forgivable as it had once been.
Jocasta wasn’t told how she was chosen. The whole thing must have happened so quickly: a group of men in a room lit by smoky candles, drawing lots to decide whose daughter would be elevated to royalty. One day, she had been at home – her parents’ home, as she would soon learn to rename it – sitting in the women’s quarters, thinking about very little. Five days later, she was standing in the public courtyard of Thebes’s palace before an altar hastily dedicated to Ox-eyed Hera, pledged by her father to a man she had never met, before the eyes of a goddess who had ignored her prayers. She had no idea her father was considering marriage for her so soon, having expected to be at home for another year or two, at least. She was a dutiful daughter, careful at weaving and the other household skills her parents encouraged her to acquire. She would make a good wife. But surely not yet.
Her parents had acted with extraordinary haste. Jocasta felt foolish: she should have known what they were like. How else had they survived the Reckoning? Her father had a unique gift for profiting from situations that would fell lesser men. He had always been conscious of his standing: he was rich but he had earned his wealth, rather than inheriting it. Still he had earned plenty, and bought slaves enough to build a large house on the northern side of the city. It was not the most fashionable street (too far from the palace for that), but it was airy and the house was a grand stone affair, with the women’s quarters tucked away behind the building’s forbidding gates. His wife had slave women to do her weaving for her, though she still prided herself on the fineness of the cloth she used to make.
The particular pain of his behaviour this time came from the realization that he must have considered Jocasta – his only daughter, his first-born child – as nothing more than another problem waiting to be solved. It was one thing to be disliked by her mother – who had never tried to disguise the irritation she felt for her daughter – but another thing altogether to be rejected by her father, when he had always made her his pet, as if consoling her for her mother’s indifference. After Jocasta’s wedding – when she tried to defend him in her mind, so she could look back on some parts of her childhood fondly – she gave him credit for the fact that any father would be proud to marry his daughter to the king. Though she knew he had not thought about her, or what she might want, at all. Still, what man wouldn’t seize a marriage connection to the king? And what father would jeopardize such a connection on the whim of his daughter? None. But he should have known she would have done whatever he had asked, if he had only asked. Instead of which, he organized the whole thing without telling her. The only possible explanation for such secrecy was that he knew how she would feel when she found out, and it saddened her that he had known but not cared.
He was a little drunk when he came home that night: the men had been drinking their wine too strong. Whoever had been master of the grape – pouring it into the krater and mixing it with insufficient water – had intended them all to get drunk before the flute-girls arrived. Jocasta preferred the euphemism to the word she heard her mother hiss: whores. But now she could hear her father whispering to her mother, who let out a sudden squawk of delight before the two of them began to laugh. Like children, she thought, in annoyance. She heard her brother murmur in his dream, and wondered if he would wake up. But as she stared across the room in the dim light, willing him back to sleep, he rolled over to face the wall and his breathing levelled out once again. She moved her head slightly, trying to hear what her father was saying. But she couldn’t quite make out the words.
Would it have made any difference if she had? Would she have argued with him? She did that anyway, when she found out the next day, but it had no effect. Everything was already arranged, and there was nothing she could do. Would she have run away in the night, if she’d known sooner? Where could she have gone? Thebes wasn’t a large city, and her father knew everyone in it. Would she have tried to escape from the city altogether? But how would she have made it through any of its seven gates, all of which were guarded? She had never thought of herself as a prisoner behind the city walls. But that was only because she had never wanted to leave before.
Still, when she asked them the next day what all the fuss had been about, she wished she had known sooner. Her father smiled luxuriantly, his pleasure slowly revealing his yellowing teeth, greying now at the gums.
‘I have done the best deal of my life,’ he told her. ‘And you are to marry the king.’
The second sentence was so incongruous following the first. She had been waiting for him to say that he had discovered a new trading partner in the Outlying, Theban slang for Boeotia, the territory outside their beloved city, or to produce some rhyton that he had bought from a shipping merchant: her father loved the most ornate drinking cups. His favourite was a pointed vessel made from rock crystal, with smaller polished green crystal beads, wrapped in twists of gold, for a handle. She felt her face rearrange itself, from congratulatory to perplexed.
‘What do you mean?’ she said.
‘King Laius needs a wife,’ her mother explained, condemning herself forever in her daughter’s eyes. ‘You’re very lucky.’ Her father nodded.
‘The king is an old man,’ Jocasta said. ‘He must be more than fifty years old.’
‘Half-dead, then,’ said her father, his eyebrows raised in a parody of amusement. ‘He’s only ten years or so older than me, you little brat.’
‘So why would I want to marry him?’ she continued. ‘Instead of someone who isn’t older than my father?’
‘Sometimes,’ her mother sighed, ‘I think you take pleasure in being wilfully obtuse. I really do. So let me explain to you in words that even your little brother would understand: Thebes needs a powerful king. Laius is getting older, and people are growing nervous. What if something happens to him when he’s away from the city? What then? The Elders will fight to succeed him. The city could fall into chaos.’ She reached over to Jocasta and grabbed her shoulder, next to the fabric knots which formed the top of her daughter’s tunic. She allowed her nails to rest on Jocasta’s skin. ‘That can’t happen,’ she said. ‘The king needs a son. And, before that, he needs a wife, a young one, who could act as regent until the child comes of age, if something happened to him.’ She shook Jocasta’s shoulder with each alternate word. ‘And that is going to be you, because your father is clever and lucky, which is exactly why I married him. Do you understand?’
Jocasta nodded, and her mother let go of her arm. ‘It’s an honour, you ungrateful little bitch. You’ll be queen of the city. So run along to the temple of Artemis and dedicate your doll. And do it nicely, so she doesn’t curse you, as you deserve.’
The ritual should have been only a part of Jocasta’s proaulia: the time between betrothal and marriage when a bride prepared herself for her new life, but there was little time (and, on Jocasta’s part, no enthusiasm) for more. When Jocasta was born she had been given a small clay figure of an Amazon girl, wearing brightly patterned leggings and a tunic top. She had played with it so much that the paint had rubbed away, only the odd fleck of red or green remaining from what had once been a parade of colour. The doll’s left eye was still black, but the paint on the other had cracked, allowing the faded orange terracotta to show through. But married women could not have toys: she must take her doll to the temple and dedicate it to Artemis, praying for her to give Jocasta strength, like the warrior woman. After the dedication, the next temple she would enter would be sacred to Hera. Artemis would have no time for her once she was married.
Traditionally, a girl’s family and friends accompanied her when she offered her doll to the Virgin Goddess. It should have been a party, a feast, an occasion for joy. But Jocasta’s parents were too angry with her – and she with them – so she went alone, save for the slave girl who followed two paces behind her, to the temple only a few streets away.
She placed the doll in a small brown leather bag, and walked quickly along the dusty road, her feet reddening from the dirt that clung to the bottom of her shift. The rain would not come again for another month at least, and the sharp-pointed acanthus leaves at the side of the road were beginning to droop in the heat. She hitched her skirt up a little into her belt, but the disapproving stare of an old woman sweeping the steps outside a nearby house made her blush and drop it back to graze the dust once again. The temple would be cool inside, and she climbed the steps grateful to escape the glaring afternoon heat beneath the grand columns that ran along the front. She turned to her mother’s slave and told her to wait in the shade beneath the temple portico.
Jocasta stepped inside and blinked into the darkness, but no one else was present. She took the doll from her bag and walked up to the large statue of Artemis – her serene face expressing mild pleasure in holding her bow and arrows – feeling oddly self-conscious. She knew she should issue a formal prayer as she left her toy for the goddess, but with no priestess to help her, she couldn’t find the words. So she placed her doll carefully at the divine foot, propping it up against the cold stone. She murmured, ‘Keep me safe’, and turned to go. As she walked through a shaft of sunlight, her eye was caught by an angry red weal on her shoulder. Her mother’s thumbnail had broken the skin, and when she raised her arm she saw four more gashes – the skin around them pink and inflamed – on the back of her shoulder.
She stopped and knelt on the ground, not wanting to go home again while her mother sat in the women’s quarters, emanating spite. Her brother would be at lessons with his tutor, and her father would be in the market square, clutching the hands of florid men as he accepted their congratulations. She could see the gold rings which pinned back the flesh of her father’s fingers, so they spilled fatly above the metal. He would consider this a very good day.
As she sat on her heels, she tried to imagine what it would be like to live in the palace, the citadel of Thebes. She had been there a handful of times when she was younger, always for festivals. She tried to separate the building from the occasions, but it was difficult. She could remember the overpowering smell of charred meat, tinged with cloying incense and the vinegary tang of wine. She heard the clamour of a crowd, all eating and drinking their fill. The priests in their finery, leading Thebes in their sacrifices and prayers. She had a sense of a big open courtyard, but she couldn’t fill in any details of the rest of the building: the colour, the scale, nothing. Were there trees? She had half a memory of reaching up to touch silver-grey bark with her fingers. Above all, she could not place the king in his palace. She tried to remember whether he was clean-shaven or bearded, whether his eyes were light or dark, whether his hair was black, like most Thebans, or fair, as some were. Whether he was stocky or thin, tall or beginning to bend forward at the neck, like a tortoise. She bit her lip when she realized that whatever colour the hair had once been, it was probably grey now, or white. Or perhaps he was bald. She tried to suppress the sudden sourness she felt rising at the back of her throat.
She looked up at the statue of Artemis. The goddess sat placidly on her throne, her hair neatly plaited behind her head, a bow in her hand and a quiver at her side. The latter was decorated with deer, running between trees in bright green leaf. ‘Please,’ Jocasta said, looking up at the figure and reaching out to hold the cold stone hem of her robe. ‘Don’t let him touch me. Please.’
She stared at the painted eyes but received no reply. Zeus nods, Thebans said. If he assents to your request, he nods. But did Artemis nod too? Perhaps if she stared straight into the goddess’s eyes and didn’t blink at all, Artemis would understand how important this was. She held her gaze for as long as she could but eventually tears formed and she could no longer force her eyes to remain open. Did she imagine the head moving? She wiped the tears away with her small, pale hand. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, just in case.
The dressmaker came the next day, her grey hair combed back so the bright sunlight picked out every wrinkle in her creased brown face. She had brought two bolts of fabric with her, in two contrasting shades of red. Jocasta wondered if her mother had chosen the cloth, which would make a thick, heavy chiton to wear on a warm summer day. Certainly no one had asked her. But she didn’t question the dressmaker, in case it was all the woman had. Perhaps there hadn’t been time for the dyers to begin work on new fabric. Besides, it was an unspoken rule of living in Thebes that no one complained about shortages. Everyone knew that the king and his Elders were doing their best to ensure supplies came into the city. But with the Sphinx in the mountains – right outside the city walls people sometimes said – no one could be surprised if there were interruptions and delays. She tried not to imagine herself in the shade of saffron she would have preferred, tried not to think how hot she would be dressed in fabric the colour of blood.
And at least the dressmaker’s second bolt of cloth – for the cloak and the veil – was thinner and lighter, so she would not struggle to catch her breath. She said nothing, and stood obediently on a small wooden stool, while the old woman held the material around her waist and pinned the edges together. She kept the pins between her thin lips, her mouth puckering to keep them in place. She reached for each one without looking, but never scratched herself.
It was the first dress that had been made especially for Jocasta. Her other clothes had all been worn by a different girl before they came to her. She thought about how much she would be enjoying this process if the circumstances were different and she were not so afraid of what was to come. The dressmaker tapped her leg. ‘Stand up straight,’ she said. ‘Or the hem will be uneven.’ Jocasta pulled her ribcage towards her spine, and looked at the wall opposite. Their house was large by Thebes standards, built around a small courtyard with herbs and flowers growing feebly in the burning sun. But it felt cramped to her now, as though the building were readying itself to be rid of her.
The following day, the old woman came back with the finished dress. Had she been up all night, sewing? Jocasta shrugged it on, and the dressmaker’s frown eased slightly.
‘You’ll do,’ she said. ‘Think of me when you’re buying new clothes in future, won’t you?’ Jocasta felt suddenly awkward. It was the first time anyone had treated her as though she had something they might want.
‘How did you make it so quickly?’ she asked.
The old woman shrugged. ‘I had to,’ she replied. ‘You need it tomorrow.’
*
When Jocasta awoke on the morning of her wedding day, she wasn’t sure if the sun had risen or not. Weak light filtered through the thick curtain which covered her window. She peered round it to see if she could tell how early it was without waking her little brother. The sky was pale grey and there was only a faint trace of light, hinting that the clouds had built over the lake in the night, and the sun might not burn through until later. She could smell the fruit on the sweet almond trees outside, almost ready to be picked.
She lay back down for a moment, testing how she felt. At least she would make her journey across the city in the relative cool. But she would be too queasy to eat before she left. She could hear muffled sounds coming from her mother’s rooms. They needed to set off early today, to travel up to the palace. She lay completely still for five more breaths, feeling the cool sheet wrapped round her calves and ankles, the warm, squashy pillow beneath her head. Then she sat up, placing her feet quietly on the floor in the hope of being alone a little longer. But she crept out and almost walked into her mother who had been preparing herself for the day ahead since well before it was light. Her hair was tightly plaited, then twisted into a once-fashionable style, and her eyes were lined with thick black paint. Her mother had perfected a way of talking to Jocasta without looking at her at all, so Jocasta had learned to do the same in return. She fixed her gaze instead on her mother’s white dress, edged in bright blue stitching. The dress folds were too wide, puffing out from the thin leather cord that bit at her mother’s waist and broadened her across the hips, but she knew there was no value in offering to rearrange it. The cord had been dyed specially to match the new embroidery on the dress, and Jocasta could see that it was already leaving a faint trace of colour on the sun-bleached white cloth. Her mother would be furious when she noticed. Perhaps she would have to have the whole dress dyed blue to hide the marks.
‘We’ll need to leave shortly,’ said her mother. ‘The slaves will help make you presentable.’
Jocasta nodded, but did not reply. Her mother’s maidservants had never offered to help her, taking their cue from her mother. So the morning of her wedding was the first time anyone had assisted her with her clothes since she had been old enough to dress herself. Jocasta disliked the women’s hard, dry hands on her skin. She tried to banish from her mind any thoughts about the hands of the king – which would also be old and dry – touching any part of her.
A short while later, she was wearing her new dress – a simple red tunic with a plaited brown cord to draw it in – and her dark hair was loose. The red made her pale skin look paler still, but the dressmaker had made the stitches small and even. If she had worked the cloth by candlelight, she had not allowed it to affect her stitching. And even Jocasta’s mother had once said her daughter had beautiful skin, never disfigured with blemishes or browned by the sun. The maid pulled Jocasta’s hair into a knot at the back of her head, twisted it three times and bound it into the bright ribbons which held the style in place. She stuck a silver-and-ivory-tipped ebony pin into the back of Jocasta’s knotted hair, jabbing it into her scalp as she did so. Jocasta winced, but she could see the woman knew her job: her hair would now remain fixed in place. For one terrible moment, she thought the woman would try to paint her eyes like her mother’s, but the maid preferred to save herself the trouble, so Jocasta dipped her fingers in the rose-scented olive oil her father had recently given to her mother, in a lovely aryballos in the shape of a ram, his horns curling around his ears like ringlets. She fixed the stopper into the ram’s patient head, and was about to return it to her mother’s dressing-room. Then she reconsidered, adding the bottle to her own bag of clothes and other belongings.
She hurried to the front of the house where the rest of her family were waiting. Her mother looked her up and down, and said she supposed that would do. She gestured irritably at the doorway, hurrying her daughter along. Jocasta walked through the warped wooden door, noticing for one last time the tiny cracks between the panels where the wood had shifted apart. She had expected to feel wretched as she left her home for the last time, but instead she felt nothing at all except a faint pleasure at the thought of the little terracotta ram nestled among her things.
Across the city, she could see its outer walls glowering down over the rest of them. The palace sat atop the highest hill in Thebes, like a watchtower. The grandeur was undeniable, but it resembled a temple or a treasury, both of which it had within its walls; it was difficult to imagine anyone living there, impossible to imagine herself among them. Her little brother was hopping from one foot to the other. He was torn between the excitement of the trip across town, and the promise of a ceremony – a feast and dancing delighted his five-year-old self beyond measure – and a growing uneasiness at the incomprehensible idea that his sister would no longer be living with him.
‘I’ll come and visit every day,’ he had said, throwing his arms around her neck, when she had explained to him that the marriage meant she would be moving away. She had nodded, pretending it was true. Jocasta was surprised to see a small carriage waiting outside the house, attached to a pair of truculent horses. Her brother was eyeing them with the wariness born of having already attempted to pet one.
‘This is a fitting mark of the king’s respect,’ said her father.
‘It isn’t the best he has,’ her mother replied, eyeing the carriage balefully. The king’s household had, it seemed, forgotten that four of them would be travelling, and it would be a tight squeeze to fit them all behind the dark curtains which swung down from the wooden roof. Jocasta’s father spoke briefly with the driver, and together they tied a strong-box to the carriage roof next to the bag containing her possessions: her dowry. She wondered how much of the weight was the thick wooden box and how much was the precious metals within. Would she be permitted to wear the jewellery, or would it go straight into her husband’s treasure-house?
She climbed into the carriage, and sat herself down on the far side of the seat. Her brother ran around to sit opposite her. Jocasta felt a sharp stab of relief when her father pressed in beside her: at least she wouldn’t have to look at his treacherous face all the way there. Her mother was much easier to ignore. She lifted herself up for a moment and rearranged her dress, trying to make sure the back wouldn’t crease too much as she sat on it. But the driver was in a hurry, and he clipped the horses to a trot. As the carriage swayed into reluctant motion, Jocasta sat heavily back down. Her brother fell forward into her lap, and giggled.
The road made her teeth judder with every one of its many holes as they meandered down the long hill. Her stomach turned over and she found herself glad that she had eaten nothing. Even her brother – who had been so excited when he saw the carriage – realized it was barely quicker than walking when they reached the lowest point and began to go uphill again. Thebans usually reserved wheeled vehicles for transporting heavy goods around the city, and Jocasta hoped she wouldn’t be expected to travel by carriage from now on. At least with her feet on the ground, however dusty it was, she could avoid the deepest troughs in the road. The carriage cracked over another one so aggressively that she wondered if the axle beneath her seat would survive the journey. She half-hoped it would not, that one of its wheels would crack and roll back down the hill behind them, so she would have an excuse to get out and walk. It was stiflingly hot, even with the curtains tied back, something her mother had finally agreed to after her brother had appealed to her twice.
They had crossed through the lowest part of the city, which was always busy unless the winter rains had caused flooding. Today, it seemed unusually quiet, though Jocasta knew the floodwater was long gone. When they finally reached the bottom of the palace hill, she thought she might recognize some of the buildings. But things looked different through the window of a swaying carriage than they did when you were on foot. It too appeared deserted, though it was surely now late enough for people to be bustling around the city. Many of the shop-fronts were shuttered, though their painted signs suggested that the food stalls and taverns would be opening later. As they climbed the hill, the buildings grew larger, and people finally appeared on the streets, though there was something strange about them which Jocasta couldn’t place. It was her brother who noticed. ‘Look,’ he said, tugging at her wrist and pointing. ‘Everyone is walking in the same direction. Isn’t that odd?’ And she realized that he was right: everyone she could see was walking up the hill. The further they went, the more the street began to surge with people. Men and women bustled through the crowds, giving a purposeful air to the city.
By the time the driver brought his horses to an exhausted halt, the sun was blazing high above them. It had burned through the clouds, just as she had known it would. Her brother pushed his fingers past the curtains and touched the roof, before drawing them back in exaggerated pain. Jocasta was desperate to get out and walk however far was left to travel, but her mother jabbed at her with one carefully filed nail. ‘Wait here, and don’t let your brother get out,’ she said. She clambered down with Jocasta’s father who never saw a crowd without wanting to stand in front of it. What could he possibly sell them today?
But the crowd wasn’t looking at her father. They were staring behind him, at the dark carriage window, trying to see through the curtain which had swung free when her parents climbed out. It took her a moment to notice they had something else in common: everyone was wearing their best clothes. Torn cloaks had been patched and repaired, white tunics had been bleached to a brightness they didn’t usually possess. She imagined them all stretched over rocks, their colour gradually eaten away by the harsh noon light. Leather shoe-straps had been tied symmetrically, and red dust had been brushed from feet and ankles. Those who wore jewellery had polished it: dark stones glinted in bright metal. These weren’t simply passers-by, gawping at a carriage. They were, they must be, wedding guests.
‘Come on,’ she said to her brother, covering her face with her veil so no one could accuse her of impropriety. ‘Let’s get out.’ His eyes glittered as she opened the curtain and let him step down. Her parents were deep in conversation with a small cluster of men. Jocasta blinked in the bright sun, and looked around.
She was standing right outside the palace, she now saw, at the top of the citadel. She wanted to stretch her arms and her neck, which were knotted up from bouncing over every uneven stone, but she was too self-conscious with so many people watching her. She looked back at the way they had come. A bumpy path curved up off the main street and formed a loop around a big square – Thebes’s marketplace – outside the palace gates, where they now stood. There were more people than she had ever seen in one place before, even at festivals. Her brother, usually desperate to see and hear everything at once, was suddenly shy.
The palace was less imposing now she stood next to it. Its bright perfection was not so perfect up close: just like her doll, its paint was cracked and fading, and the ground beneath her feet was broken open. It was even bigger than she had remembered, though. She could not see all the way round it: only along the front wall, until the angle shifted and it disappeared from view. The palace must sit with its back on the hillside, in front of the olive groves and the vines which grew on the sloping rocky soil. Twisted old apple trees lined the walls, and while they must provide welcome shade for those inside the palace – and those waiting outside today – their roots had forced their way through the paths, leaving the stones cracked and distorted. The dark mountains which covered the miles south of Thebes rose high behind the palace, dwarfing it. Jocasta had never been close enough to see the individual pine trees on their higher slopes: they had only ever been a blanket of blackish green before.
She heard an odd sound, a rippling noise. She looked over to the palace, and saw it came from the crowd. They were clapping, more and more of them. Her mother turned sharply to find out what was happening, and began looking around to see what had prompted the sudden applause. Her eyes followed the eyes of the crowd, and saw that her daughter had disobeyed her instruction to stay inside the carriage. Jocasta felt a brief surge of alarm that she was about to be shouted at, humiliated in front of all these people. And then she realized that none of the wedding guests cared what her mother thought, or did. They were interested only in her, and there was nothing her mother could do while they were watching. She looked up and gazed intently at her mother for a moment – jolting her into eye contact at last – before turning to smile and wave at the strangers who applauded her. She could not change what her parents had done. But she would not be afraid of them again.
*
Jocasta would have almost no recollection of her gamos. The wedding faded from her mind almost as it was happening. She remembered the things which didn’t matter: the dark berries which had fallen from trees and stained the ground with their purple juice. An ornate hair decoration made of spiralling gold and studded with blood-red stones worn by a wizened elderly woman which she longed to have in her own hair, where it would shine against her darkness instead of sparkling feebly against the old woman’s thin white strands. The procession of unmarried girls – bright crocus-yellow ribbons tied into their hair – dancing around her in celebration of her arrival, and the dark, watchful eyes of boys the same age, admiring every step the girls took. Her father’s tangible aura of self-congratulation. The smell of charred meat as the priest made his devotional offerings. Her mother’s silver and gold bangles clanking together as she ostentatiously wiped away a non-existent tear.
But the gamos itself, the moment where she was sworn to Laius – a vulpine man with sparse white hair and ill-tamed brows – and presented with a slender gold diadem as a mark of her newfound status? The crowds of Thebans cheering their new queen as the priests mixed wine and water in a huge ceremonial krater? The taste of the wine she and her husband drank from a large kylix to seal their vows to and before the gods? She recalled none of it. In the years that followed, she would try to remember if they had stood on the north side of the courtyard or the south. If they had poured wine to the gods at the main altar, or one of the smaller ones. If the afternoon sun had streamed over the portico as the day dragged out, or if evening rain had fallen on the assembled crowd. She never came close to being certain of anything that happened between leaving the carriage and walking in through the front gates and the moment when she found herself alone again, many hours later, in what was now her bedroom.
Jocasta spent the day dreading the night. She knew something of what her husband would expect from her: she was not a fool, and nor was she completely naïve, even though she had been brought up in seclusion from boys, except her own brother. Girls talked, nonetheless. She was not wholly averse to this aspect of marriage. But she had always assumed that any man whose bed she shared would be one who was not so old that thick wiry hairs emanated from his nose and ears without warning. One whose skin glowed gold as the late afternoon sun caught him, and who could move without a percussive chorus of cracking joints and exhalations. Instead, she found herself able to think of little else but how his body repulsed her. An old man, one among many old men at the wedding party who winked and elbowed one another with delight at her evident discomfort. She hated them all.
The afternoon turned into evening, and the party continued. The old men – including the king – were drinking a great deal of wine, poured by slave boys all wearing matching charcoal-grey tunics. Jocasta was torn between wanting to ask questions of these boys – the only people her own age who treated the palace as familiar – and not wanting to look stupid in front of what were now her own slaves. She wondered if she would feel more confident if she too drank some wine. But the thought of tasting something sour and acidic made bile rise in her throat.
It had been dark for many hours when people finally began to leave: the torches had been lit for so long they were beginning to sputter. Jocasta had her arms and cheeks squeezed and prodded so many times that bruises were starting to form on her edges. No one, it seemed, could leave without touching the bride: they believed she would bring them luck. People believed all kinds of stupid things. Across the courtyard, she saw her mother teetering towards her father, and realized they, too, were leaving. Jocasta hurried towards the colonnade which ran around the outside of the square, stopping behind one of the broad columns so she could watch unseen as her family began to look for her. Her throat thickened at the sight of her little brother, crying when he understood that they really were leaving without her. But she stayed where she was, nonetheless. He was too young to understand anything she could say to him. It was kinder to leave him to her parents now, and hope he still remembered her in a year or two.
One of the boys dressed in grey caught sight of her, and walked towards her, carrying two silver rhytons. She had never seen such ornate cups: raised dolphins jumped around the base of each one, beneath painted azure waves which curled all the way up to the rims. She wanted to hold one and run her fingers over the design.
‘Can I help you, Basileia?’
Jocasta looked around to see who he was talking to, this boy who might have kicked a pebble across her path a week ago, hoping it would bounce off her sandal and force her to look up. She would have blushed when she saw it had come from a boy she did not know, and looked back at the ground as she scurried away, so he did not see her smile.
‘Basileia?’ he repeated.
‘Why are you calling me that?’ she hissed. She might be the wife of the king, but she felt a long way short of being a queen. The word sounded ludicrous on his tongue. The boy frowned, and looked down at the cups he was holding.
‘Would you like something to drink, Anassa?’ he asked carefully. Perhaps the less formal title would please her. ‘I can get you anything you like.’
‘I don’t want anything,’ she snapped. ‘Thank you.’
‘Yes, Anassa,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you.’ He began to turn away.
‘Wait – do you work for my—?’ She couldn’t frame the thought. ‘For the king?’ she asked.
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Will everyone dressed like you call me Anassa?’ she said. The boy nodded. His face remained solemn, but she saw a trace of amusement in his eyes. ‘Once I tell them it is your preferred title,’ he said.
‘I should get used to it, then. That’s what you’re thinking?’ she asked.
‘I wouldn’t presume . . .’
‘Don’t be stupid. Stop talking to me like I’m my mother. Or your mother.’
He looked at her steadily. ‘I’m talking to you as though you were my queen.’
‘I’m so tired,’ she said, pressing one hand against her ear as if trying to expel the sound of revellers and musicians. ‘Do you think they will leave soon?’
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Parties are usually all-night affairs at the palace. I mean, I think they are. We haven’t had a wedding before. Obviously.’ He blushed. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What for? I’m sure it all seems obvious to you. But it isn’t to me. I lived on the other side of Thebes until this morning. I don’t know anything about the king, or the palace or the way you do things. I don’t even know what you’ll do if I ask you something.’
‘I will do whatever you wish. Everyone will,’ the boy said.
‘Find me tomorrow. I want to know more about . . . well, about the palace and the citadel. The customs of the household. And whatever I ask, you have to promise now to tell me the truth.’
‘Yes, Anassa.’
‘You’re not to laugh at me behind my back with the other slaves for not knowing. Swear it.’
‘I would never laugh at you,’ the boy said.
‘Do you feel sorry for me?’ she asked.
‘Sorry?’ His eyes bulged. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Good. Tell me where I’ll be sleeping,’ she said. ‘I’m too tired to stay awake any longer. Can I go to bed, do you think? Before everyone leaves, I mean.’
‘You’re the queen,’ the boy said. ‘You can do whatever you want.’
Jocasta slept badly, and woke many times. She felt as if she were falling, although she was sleeping in the middle of the largest bed she had ever seen. When she finally came to the next morning, groggy from the interrupted night, she looked around the room in surprise. The flickering torches the night before had given her the idea that the room was dingy and oppressive. But now the light streamed in through lofty windows, she saw that she had been mistaken. The walls were a pale yellow colour, with a blood-red pattern of interlocking squares painted along the highest part. She had been tricked last night by the height of the lamps which were hung low, so the torches could be lit and extinguished without a ladder. A large, ornately carved wardrobe stood on the far wall, its doors a labyrinth of twisting inlaid lines.
Jocasta had not removed the bag from the roof of the carriage yesterday, where the driver had lashed it before they set off from her parents’ house. But here were her dresses anyway, hung up carefully by someone else. There was no sign of her dowry, but she was not surprised by that. At least she had her diadem, which shone even without the torchlight to reflect back at her. She stopped for a moment as she reached out to pick it up: was she so vain that all she cared about was her jewellery? Jewellery which, for the most part, she had never worn, had not even seen before yesterday. She gripped the diadem until its sharp edges drove into her soft fingers. The gold was thick, not pliable. Jocasta might be new to the palace, but she was not so foolish as to think gold was a trivial matter. It was beautiful, certainly. But if things were ever so terrible that she needed to run away, jewellery would be the only thing she could bargain with. The delicate little crown represented more than her regal status.
There was no sign that the room had belonged to another person before she arrived last night. Had it been empty for years? A wooden dressing-table stood beneath the windows, a cracked, blackening glass offering her a view of herself: slightly puffy-eyed from sleep. Her hair was tangled, and she tugged it straight, before noticing a fine-toothed ivory comb in front of her. She picked it up, and tidied herself a little.
The room was large and well-appointed compared with the one she’d slept in at home. Although she had to stop thinking of it as that. This was her home now. She had always imagined that a room of her own would be wonderful, an impossible luxury not to hear the breathing of her brother – who whimpered through his nightmares and woke her – all night long. And now she seemed to have just that. Because one thing her bedroom was missing was the man who was now her husband. Not only was he not present himself, there was no sign a man had ever been in here. There were no men’s clothes anywhere, not even a single robe. She had expected her husband to sleep in a room of his own, of course, just as her father did. But surely not on his wedding night?
There were three doors on three walls. The one behind her she had come through last night. It led to an open-sided corridor along the edge of a small courtyard which must once have contained a formal garden. Even by torchlight she had been able to see that the plants had run wild, sprouting up between the paving stones and forcing their way through the miniature walls designed to contain them. She had caught her sandal on the edge of a broken stone, and turned her left ankle over. She had said nothing, though, not wanting the boy in grey to know that she had tripped. She tested the ankle again now and felt only a small twinge. No harm was done. The door in the far corner of the right-hand wall was locked. She turned the handle quietly, but nothing happened. The door on the left-hand side of the windows led, she discovered, to a room containing a pump and several large bronze basins. Was it possible this was all hers? There was another door into it, from the corridor, but it too appeared to be locked. She tried the pump, and the water flowed freely. She washed her face and hands, before noticing a battered bronze cup on a narrow wooden shelf. She filled the cup, and drank. The water was cool and fresh, as though it came from somewhere deep underground.
She was nervous at the thought of leaving her room: the palace was quiet and she could hear no one outside, not even servants talking to one another. She was beginning to think of this corner of the huge building as hers, she realized: her table, her wardrobe, her bed. But she couldn’t stay in there for the rest of her life, and the longer she waited, the more anxious she felt. She should go now, before it became unmanageable. She dressed quickly in a plain fawn-coloured linen dress. It hung shapelessly to her knees, and she belted it with a twisted length of undyed leather she found on the floor of the wardrobe. Combing her hair back behind her ears, she pinned it in place with the ebony pin she had worn yesterday. Jocasta took one last look in the dressing-table mirror and reminded herself that even today, away from everything she knew, she was the same person who had worn the pin before. She should not be afraid. She opened the door into the main corridor.
It was deserted. Was it really possible that all last night’s guests had disappeared so completely? Or did the noise simply not carry this far through the palace? She still could not imagine its scale and layout. She stood for a moment, listening. She could hear nothing but the twin chirrups of birds and cicadas. She looked around one more time, making sure she knew which door led to her room – she paid close attention to the precise shape of the cracks in the shattered stones beneath her feet – so she could find her way back to this one familiar place without embarrassment. She turned to her left, wishing she knew where she was going. She soon found herself in a second, larger, equally empty courtyard, which she couldn’t be sure she recognized from last night. Was this the way the boy in grey had brought her? There were frescos on the colonnade walls: horses riding towards centaurs who rode towards satyrs who ran towards wood nymphs who hid behind trees. They might not have been illuminated in the torchlight last night. Or perhaps she had come a different way entirely.
She decided to retrace her steps, and went back to the first square. This too had frescos, now she began to pay proper attention, but they were faded older paintings, this time of once-bright blue dolphins and fish. Was there another way out from this square? She could see a small doorway in the far corner: perhaps that led somewhere. But wasn’t that the opposite direction from the main courtyard from last night? The disorientation vexed her. Where was everyone? Could a whole palace have lost its inhabitants overnight? Were they playing a cruel trick on her? Finally, she heard a brushing sound behind her. Someone was sweeping a floor somewhere in one of the courtyards, or in the corridors around it. She walked back to the colonnade between the two squares and stood still, trying to hear exactly which direction the sound came from.
Was it further away now? It seemed to come from the opposite side of this second courtyard, so she crossed it, and found herself looking onto the main square through decorative metal gates. This was where the party had been in full swing when she escaped to bed last night. There were several women at the near end of the courtyard, cleaning tables with wooden brushes and water. One of them looked across and saw her, then called out. The boy from last night appeared from a corridor on her right. The smart grey uniform was gone, and he was dressed today in a plain tunic, just like her.
‘Forgive me, madam,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realize you were awake.’
‘Why should you?’ she asked. ‘Where is everyone?’
The boy looked at her face, but not her eyes, as he chose his words. ‘Everyone is gone, ma’am. The guests all left around daybreak. The king and his escort have gone hunting.’
‘Hunting what? Where?’ She knew no one who hunted.
‘In the lower reaches of the mountains,’ he explained. ‘They will be gone for around a week, I believe.’
‘They go outside the city?’ Like many Thebans, Jocasta had never left the city gates.
‘Yes. They’re out to catch a wild boar. The king has been trying to capture this particular one for some time,’ he said.
‘The king does this often?’ she asked.
‘Whenever the weather allows it,’ he said. ‘His retinue go with him, and most of the Elders go too. Those whose families can spare them.’
‘He travels with a large party, then?’
‘Yes, ma’am. The king is quite safe.’
She nodded, as though the king’s safety was of any interest to her. He had made no effort to speak to her once the ceremony was out of the way. He had not said goodbye before he left. It seemed he had left no message for her.
‘And you are part of the king’s retinue,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ the boy nodded.
‘So why didn’t you go with him?’
He smiled. ‘You ordered me to stay, ma’am. Last night.’
And though she was affronted that the king had behaved so rudely, Jocasta thought she might hate her husband marginally less the morning after her wedding than she did the night before.
