Riddles of the Sphinx

Riddles of the Sphinx

Meagan Cleveland

First published 2023 by Meagan Cleveland

Copyright © Meagan Cleveland 2023

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

ISBN: 9781738145515

Cover, typesetting and illustrations by Holly Dunn.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. The work may not be used in any manner for purposes of training artificial intelligence technologies to generate text, including, without limitation, technologies that are capable of generating works in the same style or genre as the work, without the author’s specific and express permission to do so.

I will not ask the Muse to sing my story, for it is my story alone to tell.

1

The Path of Lights

All my life, I knew one thing to be true: outside was dangerous.

Outside, the plague ravaged the city, taking the lives of hundreds of Thebans. No one was safe, not even the King and Queen—my parents. Or so Pyrrha, my nurse, told me.

I had never been outside the palace. For sixteen years, I had been kept within the walls of the women’s quarters with only my sister Antigone and Pyrrha for company. There, in those small rooms, the plague did not bother us. And as princesses, we never wanted for anything.

But there was one thing we did long for—excitement. Pyrrha remedied this by feeding us a steady diet of stories.

Pyrrha sat in her usual corner atop a small stool, carding wool to prepare for spinning. Her hands worked the white tufts, her eyes fixed on us.

Antigone sat at Pyrrha’s side, watching her as she worked, committing her movements to memory so she could take on the task herself.

I hovered behind them, always on the outskirts, waiting to find my place among them. Antigone caught my eye and gestured for me to come sit. I sank beside her, casting a smile her way. She smiled in return.

Pyrrha’s hands stilled and we looked at her expectantly.

She set her work down and leaned forward in her seat. The flames dancing in the braziers behind her cast flickering shadows around her face.

So what will the story be tonight?

A story about the gods, Antigone demanded.

Have you ever heard the story about how Delphi was founded? Pyrrha asked.

My sister and I shook our heads.

In the days after the Great Flood, Python the serpent was born from the slime, Pyrrha began. "Hera, queen of the gods, learned that her husband Zeus had impregnated a young woman named Leto. Furious, Hera sent Python after Leto, chasing her across the earth to prevent her from giving birth.

When Leto found a place to rest she gave birth to twins, Artemis and Apollo. Once he was grown, Apollo went in search of the serpent who was said to have made its home at Delphi. Apollo slew the serpent with a hundred arrows and it died in a pool of its own poison. The god named the spot Pytho because of the smell of its rotting corpse. In honour of his victory, the god established the Pythian Games.

Every four years, men from all across Hellas went to Delphi to attend the Pythian Games. There, they would compete in footraces, chariot races, boxing and more."

Has anyone from Thebes been to Delphi to compete in the games? I asked.

Pyrrha smiled sadly. In the past, yes. But Thebes hasn’t participated in the games since the plague befell the city.

At that, she turned back to her work, humming as she dropped her spindle and began to spin wool for us to weave the next day.

We should go, I whispered to Antigone.

What? she said, startled.

I knew she heard me.

We should go, I repeated, leaning closer to her.

Ismene, you know as well as I do that we can’t leave.

She was right, of course. Who knew what horrors awaited us outside the safety of the palace walls?

And yet, that night as we settled down to sleep, my mind raced with thoughts of the sacred mountain, the shining god and the monstrous serpent he had slain. As I drifted off to sleep, I could swear I heard a voice whisper in my mind.

Ismene.

I did not weave the next morning. The voice in my head wouldn’t let me.

Usually, my fingers itched to touch the brightly-dyed threads, an image floating in my mind’s eye to trap in cloth. When my fingers brushed the crimson thread, the voice called my name.

Ismene.

The sensation was like an internal itch I could not scratch. An irritation that would not go away. I tried to ignore it. I’d been hearing the voice all morning at the back of my mind. A soft whisper drowned out by the rhythm of my hands at my loom. Now, the voice was insistent.

Ismene.

My fingers caught in the thread.

The more I tried to ignore it, the louder the voice grew inside my head until I became pale and trembling from resisting its call. The itch began to feel more like pain.

Ismene!

Leave me alone, I mumbled through gritted teeth.

Are you alright? Pyrrha asked. She rose to her feet from her stool and rushed to me, leaving the ball of wool in her kalathos. You are as pale as a ghost, child, she said, her palm on my brow. Come lie down.

Pyrrha led me away from the standing loom, a large wooden frame that sat in our quarters so we could spin and weave like fine aristocratic young women.

Antigone did not look up as we passed where she sat with a small handloom, the size allowing her to do more delicate work on smaller bands of cloth. An epinetron, a ceramic covering to protect her leg, balanced on her knee. Though she did not turn her head, I could feel her eyes following me across the room.

I let Pyrrha tuck me into my bed. Even though as a girl of sixteen I was old enough to be married with children of my own, my nurse still coddled me as if I was a child.

There now, love. Pyrrha leaned down and kissed my temple. You’ll feel better after a rest.

If anything, I felt more restless. The voice rose to a crescendo in my head, my name a steady rhythm beating in my mind like the beat of the shuttle of the loom.

Ismene. Ismene. Ismene.

Later that night, when I thought I had found some peace at last, the voice took up its plea in earnest, an unseen force drawing my limbs towards the doors to the women’s quarters.  

Time to go, Ismene.

I was too tired to resist.

I found myself at the threshold to the women’s quarters. My whole world. In the innermost part of the Cadmeia, there were no windows to let in light or air. The rooms were dark, the air was close and thick with smoke and the other bodies that spent their time in there. But it was familiar, it was safe.

Go on, the voice coaxed, invisible hands pushing at my shoulders. It will be alright.

I looked behind me, past the looms, to where the sleeping forms of Antigone and Pyrrha lay. Safe in their beds, rooted to reality without bodiless voices luring them into the unknown.

I’m not luring you anywhere. The voice was amused. I want to show you something.

Then, will you leave me alone? I whispered, trying not to wake the others.

For now.

I took a shuddering breath and slipped out of the women’s quarters.

It was late and the palace was still. The light of the braziers in the hallway left long and flickering shadows on the walls, a crowd of trembling ghosts watching my nervous progress. There was no sound but the slap of my leather sandals across the well-worn stone.

Those invisible hands rested softly on my shoulders, steering me to the megaron—the large hearth surrounded by four pillars, the epicentre of the palace where the King and his advisors met and held ceremonies and feasts.

I had only been to this room a handful of times, on sacrifice days and my brother’s coronation. On these occasions, the clamour of the crowds was always overwhelming after so long with only two other souls for company. In the dark of the night, it was eerily silent save for the crack and hiss of the fire. The embers of the megaron gleamed crimson, a steady pulse flickering in the golden light at their centre like a heartbeat.

What now? I asked the voice in my head.

It did not reply but I felt an insistent tug that led me around the four pillars and the brightly-painted frescoes on the walls behind them. As I passed the hearth, I glanced towards the walls and thought I saw the shadow of a young man walking beside me. I looked ahead and realised I was heading towards the entrance to the palace.

My heart began pounding, thoughts of the plague racing in my mind.

Wait, I said, forgetting to lower my voice.

Still, the hands tugged at me.

I couldn’t go outside. What about the plague?

It is safe. The plague has not infected these streets for years.

Why should I trust you? I demanded, holding onto the post of the doorway with white-knuckled hands. You could be a monster, for all I know. Some fury coming to torment me.

I’m not.

That’s what a fury would say, I muttered.

I assure you I am not a fury.

I scoffed. And I should take your word on that?

Yes.

The hands lifted from my shoulders.

I just want to show you.

Show me what?

Come see.

Slowly, I pried my fingers from the door. I let out a shuddering breath and crossed the threshold.

Inside, the air was thick and heavy. Outside, the air was light and cool.

I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

An invisible hand took one of my own in its grasp and led me across the acropolis. I could see nothing in the darkness and I reluctantly relied on the voice to show me the way. It kept a commentary in my head noting places as we passed.

Over there is the birthplace of Herakles.

There, Cadmus sowed a dragon’s teeth into the earth to become men.

Even though I couldn’t see the places it spoke of, I drank in the stories it told, the stories my nurse had raised me on. It was one thing to hear the great hero Herakles was born in my city, another entirely to walk by his birthplace.

And here is my father’s house.

I stumbled.

My foot was caught in the uneven cobbled path. My sandal flew off and I knelt clumsily, scrambling for it. Soon, my fingers found the leather sole and I slipped it back onto my foot.

We had stopped beneath some great building, a towering black mass, its braziers glowing dimly in the night. I couldn’t get a good look at the building.

Who is your father? I demanded. Who are you?

The voice did not answer. Instead, phantom hands helped me up and led me away. I desperately wished I could see beyond the flickering shadows of the braziers at the doors to the building. If I was brave enough to go out in the daylight, maybe I could go to the house and learn to whom the mysterious voice belonged.

We continued on our way in silence.

Finally, the darkness receded, lit by the rows of lamps at the base of a great wall. Understanding dawned on me. I was walking along the defensive wall that surrounded our city.

We had stopped at the base of one of the seven gates of Thebes.

Which gate is this? I asked the darkness around me.

The Neis Gate, the voice replied. Now, up you go.

I climbed the stairs until I stood atop the ramparts. I noticed the wind first. It tugged playfully at my unbound hair, tendrils of dark curls tickling my cheeks and my nose. The cool night air was like a gentle caress on my skin. A startled laugh bubbled from my lips at the sensation.

Then, I noticed the lights. In the darkness of the night, the lights glowed as steadily as the stars in the sky. They dotted the landscape, a golden current flowing northwest.

A river of stars. 

I breathed. It’s beautiful. The phantom hand around mine squeezed. Is this what you wanted to show me?

Yes.

It’s beautiful, I repeated, but why do I need to see it?

It is the path to me. Follow the path of light and you will find me.

Phantom lips whispered and I could almost feel their touch upon my cheek.

I did not immediately return to the women’s quarters. I left the famed seven gates and headed into the city itself. As the sun began to rise, the city roused itself. The streets, which had been empty and eerie during the night, bustled with people by morning.

As I wandered, my pace was slow and unsteady and angered those around me. Shoulders clipped mine and people snapped at me to hurry up or get out of the way. I tried to quicken my pace.

I let the crowds direct my path, following the throngs of people heading toward the agora.

The agora was so much more than just a marketplace. It was an open space where people assembled to talk politics, to sell their wares, to meet old friends and new. The space was surrounded by public buildings, shops and stoas to protect the crowds from the sun or rain.

I had never seen anything like it.

So many people, so many faces and voices laughing and arguing, smiling and grimacing. The air was thick with the smells of roasting meat that street vendors proffered from their stalls. Other stalls held glistening sweets and figs, drenched in honey, that made my belly rumble. There were vintners, cloth merchants, jewellers, shoemakers and dressmakers and shops selling knives and spears. I had never seen so many colours and textures, soft wool, glimmering gems, lustrous pearls and cold bronze. Craftsmen glowered from under the shade of the porticoes while kapeloi, traders, waved customers over to admire their wares.

I looked back towards the Cadmeia, worrying whether Antigone would miss me, but no one else took heed of my concern as they went about their daily business. They had no idea that while I stood there watching them, I felt my entire world shifting. Changing.

The agora was alive in ways that the palace was not. I saw the same faces of my sister and nurse every day in the women’s quarters. Here, there were so many faces I had never seen, each one a possibility I wanted to explore. For all I knew, the owner of the voice could be among the crowd.

I circled through the marketplace, my eyes fixed on the figs glistening with honey. I stepped forward and grabbed one of the figs I had been eyeing. I took a bite. Warm honey flooded my mouth.

I strolled throughout the agora, browsing the wares. I noticed a group of people surging all in one direction. I began to follow them until we came to an open space near a hillside, rings of seats arranged to nestle among the hills around them. It was a theatre.

Scores of people were already sitting on the wooden seats, all eyes were on the stage.

An actor in a painted mask emerged from behind the skene, the tented backdrop behind the stage. He spoke the prologue, the mythological background for the play we were about to see. He spoke about the hero Perseus, slayer of the gorgon Medusa and saviour of the princess Andromeda.

At one point, the prologue spoke of the birth of Perseus. His mother Danae, of the beautiful hair, was the daughter of king Acrisius of Argos. When the oracle declared his daughter would bear a son that would defeat him, Acrisius imprisoned his daughter and left her to wither away. But Zeus was enamoured with her beauty and came to her in a shower of gold. Later, she bore him a son.

The prologue ended and the chorus emerged and began to sing the parodos.

I did not pay much attention after that. I could not stop thinking about Danae and how the men in her life locked her way without a thought. Until that morning, I had never even ventured outside of the prison my quarters had become. Did Danae even realise she was being imprisoned? Or did they say they were protecting her, too?

The crowd around me cheered as Perseus emerged on stage, triumphant. He had just vanquished the monstrous Cetus and received Andromeda as his prize. Andromeda began to speak and I was struck by the sound of her voice. She wasn’t a woman at all, but a boy, his voice cracking and booming with the first signs of youth. He was dressed as a girl and no one batted an eye. If only I could dress as a boy and go out in plain sight and do all the things I wanted.

But why couldn’t I?

After the play finished with tremendous applause I made my way back to the Cadmeia. I was silent most of the way, a plan unfurling in my mind. I imagined myself dressed as a boy, finally doing all the things I never could do before. All I had to do was find the right clothes—

I stumbled.

The cobbles beneath me were uneven and I had lost a shoe. With a start, I remembered earlier that night. I had lost a shoe then as well, before the house the voice claimed was his father’s. In the black night, I could not see what lay before me but now, in the light of the afternoon, I could.

I looked up.

The sun blazed white in my eyes and I lifted a hand to shield them.

In front of me was the temple of Zeus.

The voice belonged to a god.

2

The Feast

Zeus is your father? I gasped aloud, staring up at the temple from the dusty road.

Yes.

Who are you? I whispered.

Think about it. Again, amused.

I thought of the river of lights. The voice said the lights would lead me to him.

Of course. Apollo, I murmured.

The sun blazed brighter in the sky, its rays trailing across my skin like idle fingertips.

Apollo, the son of Zeus, was one of the twelve Olympian gods. He was also the vengeful god from Pyrrha’s stories—the serpent slayer.

What do you want from me?

Follow the path of lights and you will find out.

My thoughts turned to the night before. The current of golden lights swam behind my eyes. But I did not head back to the Neis Gate to follow the path of lights. It was time for me to head back to the Cadmeia.

My decision was made and the voice was gone. His absence felt like stepping into a shadow—all at once, I felt dark and cold. I had to find my own way back to the palace. Alone.

Sunset painted the sky in reds and golds and I took one last lingering look at the lower city, watching as lights flickered from the windows in the dim early evening. Ducking into the palace, I noticed the labyrinth of workrooms where women spun dyed wool and wove tapestries and fine cloth, where Cretan craftsmen painted clay pots, and smiths worked bronze into beautiful ornaments and sturdy weapons. I passed the storerooms where large pithoi held olive oil and wine, wheat and barley, olives and figs and other necessities. The scribes did not look up from their clay tablets as I passed, too immersed in recording our stores. I marveled at all I had seen, realising what I had missed over the years as I was kept hidden in my quarters like a treasure in a box.

Finally, I stood before the door to the women’s quarters.

I crept inside. The rooms seemed smaller now. I felt as if I had grown too large to be contained within them, bursting with the knowledge that there was more outside these walls.

I nestled into my bed beside my sister, savouring her warmth.

As the bodies stirred around me my only thought was of when I would go outside again.

When we began our work at the loom the next morning, the voice was silent. I had not done what he wanted. I had not followed the path of lights. Perhaps only then would I hear the god’s voice again.

Pyrrha rose from her place in the corner.

Is it time? Antigone asked.

Time for what? I watched Pyrrha bustle to our sleeping quarters and come back out again with bundles of clothes.

Time to get ready for the feast, she replied.

I looked at her blankly.

The feast being held for your brother. Haven’t you been listening to me at all?

I hadn’t paid much attention to Pyrrha or Antigone that morning, especially after the revelation that outside the palace was safe after all. After the revelation that a god had some plan for me.

But what?

Pyrrha gestured for me to stand up and come over to her. Antigone left her place at the loom and stood beside me as Pyrrha dressed us.

In the stories she told us, Pyrrha always described how the hero would be armed for battle by some goddess or other—usually Athena—each piece of armour delicately placed to protect him from the dangers he would face in battle.

As Pyrrha dressed us, I felt as if she were arming us in her own way. As if the love with which she dressed us could protect us from the dangers of the world. She moved like the goddess. The peplos, the squares of cloth she wound around our bodies and fastened at our shoulders with golden pins, was our armour.

Instead of arming us with weapons, Pyrrha strung strands of Egyptian glass beads around our necks, and slipped slim