Part 1 : A Caged Dove
Cyntherea Anastas leaned against the ivy covered window ledge of a window in her room. The city was deathly quiet at this early morning hour, she took a deep breath. Warm wax smelling air from the candle beside her filled her lungs, and wisps of smoke drifted outside and became the morning fog. Other candles flickered from the rooftops of each house. She could smell the olives from their own courtyard below her, ripened from the blessing of continuous sun. An orange hue lingered over city buildings as Athens shadows were chased by the light.
Cyntherea walked over to the phiale in the corner of her small room and picked up the dulled blade tucked underneath, hesitating slightly before using it. Locks of caramel hair fell in the phiale, wincing, she took some wine and olive oil and submerged the offering. She struck it up in a blaze, the smell was awful. Cyntherea longed for the smell of yesterday’s feast: fresh bread, fruit, and cheese. The laughter from the festivities and familiar smell of fresh figs from the courtyard, now accompanied her bittersweet memory of the day. She found herself staring at her blazing offering, she took the wine and drank, muttering prayers to her protectors. Her mother had told her about these particular prayers to Artemis. This morning would be the last time she spoke these words, her final transition to womanhood. This was a big occasion for a young lady such as herself, this sacrifice would be one of many throughout the day. Most would compare her feeling to the flutter of butterflies, she had a more accurate comparison: nausea, and an ache in her temple and heart.
The early morning hours came and went, Cyntherea returned to the window ledge. She could hear the distant sound of voices from behind the gate as she climbed to the roof, and watched young boys run through the streets, men going about their mornings. Curiosity was one of her worst habits, closely followed by slouching, speaking out of turn to her men superiors, her truly terrible needlework, impatience, and bold tongue. If her father saw her outside at this hour there would be a lecture on dishonour and pandora’s jar, but he wasn’t home at the moment. She had seen him leave, their chariot leading a couple goats, and laden with some grain, olives, and a few chickens. She knew undoubtedly he carried a talent also. A dowry was an unavoidable event of marriage, one that was supposed to be desirable and honorable. It meant something quite different to her; a sale.
She heard a voice at her door, and half fell down the ladder in her haste to get down. Quickly closing the shutters on the window she sat down as gently as possible, took a few long breaths, and began combing her hair. Her mother walked in and inspected her, noting the slight bags under her eyes. She called her daughter over and embraced her tightly. Cyntherea worked to keep her eyes dry, her last night in her home, the last with her parents. Her throat hitched as she tried to speak, so she tried mirroring her mothers beaming smile. Cyntherea couldn’t not look at her mothers eyes, brimming with overflowing pride. Reflecting the amount of joy in her own was difficult, but her mother needed to see her like this, happy and hopeful.
Cyntherea’s mother walked with her to the bathing chamber, her pace very much reflected Cyntherea’s idea of a funeral procession. From inside she heard the sound of the main-house door opening. Brief laughter of a young boy passing by cheered her slightly, her thoughts jarred as a heavy vase clunked down behind the door. Fetching the colorful clay vase her mother poured its contents of warm water into the bath and motioned for Cyntherea to get in. She tried not to think about the meaning of a bridal bath. In her own ideas she was quite certain a fifteen year old girl such as herself should have no place in a marriage focused on the idea of fertility and childbirth, but such was tradition. She disrobed and climbed into the bath uncomfortably, sinking into the haze of the day.
Bright spirits, music, feasting, and offerings, could sum up the rest of her gamos. In fact half the morning she felt like the world was a blur around her, moving at a different pace. Her mother, who had been sitting at one of the women’s tables during the feast, was a blazing reminder of who she did this for.
Cyntherea’s view of the ceremonies was muddled by the cursed veil obstructing her view of anything not directly in front of her face. She wasn’t exactly sure if taking the veil off would benefit her seemingly calm deposition, but for all means it was better than being led half-blind through a Labyrinth of well-wishers by a stranger. The only difference in the chiton that she was wearing today was that it draped more and gathered at her waist. It still fell to her toes like the chiton she had worn all her life, but the unfamiliar smooth and slippery fabric felt cold and unnatural against her skin, making her shiver.
Loud singing, laughter, and talking, still echoed in her ears as the lively party died down. Cyntherea could hear everything, but could make out nothing, like she was underwater. She felt herself being led outside. Someone lifted her restraining milky veil, she stared into the eyes of a complete stranger. One could only assume this was her fiancé, Acacius Andino, a well respected man nearing twenty five years. Cyntherea’s father had told her his name when he had spoken of the engagement. He did not look like a cruel man, nor a gentle one. Acacius had slightly grown out brown hair and a pasted smile that was possibly meant to be reassuring, but the figure was ruined by his dark and piercing hazel gaze. Cyntherea picked out as much kindness she could find in his eyes and took comfort in that. Her father took her arm in a reassuring gesture, releasing as Acacius took her wrist in a slow movement and pulled her to stand beside him. Cyntherea looked back at her father waiting for the words she knew would come, the words she had heard at her sister's gamos.
His voice was slightly raspy as he spoke, “In front of witnesses, I give this girl to you for the creation of children.”
Cyntherea went numb, and the crowd immediately grew somber. Her father pressed something into her palm and kissed her forehead as a last gesture of love. The rounded item was cold in her hand, its weight in her palm was like an anchor.
A young boy accompanied her to the donkey driven chariot, he wore a crown of thorns, carried a basket, and handed out fresh bread as they walked through a crown of her acquaintances. Cyntherea's sister stood next to their mother at the end of the walk, and after a tight embrace she handed her a beautiful bouquet of flowers: varying shades of purple mixed in with a starch variation. As expected her mother handed her a basket of food, clothes, and other items. Among the items was a delicate thin metal chain that she inspected closely. Pulling Cyntherea close her mother kissed her forehead before letting her go. Acacius pulled her into the cart-like chariot and with a jolt the axels started moving.
A crowd followed them for a good while, carrying torches and playing music. As they drew away Cyntherea opened her palm and stared at a charm the size of her fingertip: a beautiful gold and blue disc. She slid it onto the chain and fastened it around her neck with an audible snap. Her new husband didn’t so much as glance at her or the noise. It felt amazing to have something of her very own, Cyntherea knew she would never part with it.
The ride was long, the company was very quiet. She didn’t dare speak, she fascinated herself watching the lights of the city move slowly by, a sight she couldn’t remember ever seeing. Throughout the entire drive Cyntherea kept her honey hair curtained in front of her face, she had untied it. She found it better to avoid Acacius reading her thoughts through the window of her soul, her very expressive green eyes.
There was a sudden stop, the gravel stopped crunching below them. Acacius carried her down from the cart easily and she walked a few steps only to realize he had stopped. Opening her mouth to speak she closed it again, biting her tongue she turned around sheepishly. She saw he had his hand out offering a green apple, a tradition that showed all her needs would now come from him alone.
Cyntherea wasn’t foolish enough to think that she had a choice, to slap it out of his hand and make an escape back home. The sale had been made. What choice did she have but to eat? Receiving his apple with a gracious façade, she took a bite. The taste was sweet and bitter at the same time.
He led her through the threshold door and the sound of the door closing was a loudening echo in her head. Inside the air was thick with the smell of the burning wood. She knew they would burning chariot’s axel in a matter of time, this was a tradition that symbolized her new home. There would be no more journeys tonight. Cyntherea wondered idly what it would have been like to grow up a Spartan woman, to have been as strong and free as a wild horse. To be able to burst from her newfound prison and run forever.
Later in the night she was led to the bridal chamber. Cyntherea heard the singing outside the door, something that might have been reassuring to anyone else, but to her it was only eerie. Acacius stepped toward her, something indescribable in his eyes, and the night took on a horrific turn. If Cyntherea had had any boldness left she might have wept, but this was one of her duties to her husband.
