The Good Counselor Ch 01

The water was calm, clear and infused with the scent of ash. He knelt down and washed his arms, his legs and torso. It was cold and purifying. He rubbed olive oil across his skin, banishing all

miasma

from his person.

Orpheus scraped the excess oil off with a metal

strigil

and dried himself in the sunlight, tussling his short brown hair to shake out the water. He donned his tunic and himation, both unadorned and undyed.

He closed his eyes, trying to escape the distraction of his surroundings, listening. A songbird in the oak tree warbled its tune and he hummed along with it. A song to the Seasons had overtaken his thoughts for the last several days, but still the tune for the heart of the hymn eluded him. He had no instrument to produce a harmony— none, at least, that could do the immortals justice. He borrowed the bird's notes, slowing them to match the words. "At play you are companions," he sang softly.

"At play you are companions," he muttered, repeating the line a few more times, smoothing out the melody while he paced. Orpheus stopped and sang it once again, a little more boldly, then raised the songbird's tune by five tonic notes, "of holy Persephone, when the Fates—"

He stopped, a shiver rushing over his skin. Had he called upon Karpophoros disrespectfully?

No

, he thought. Ancient Eumolpus had told him that she was not offended by that name. And the priest knew her: he had

walked

beside her in his youth and founded the Lower Mysteries with her.

Persephone's

rites. Orpheus shrugged off his fears. He wouldn't be bound by superstition.

He wondered after the old man, whether he was well. It had been years.

"And the Graces in circling dances, come forth to the light," he sang, then stopped. He felt it again. He was being watched. Orpheus turned to where he felt the presence of...

something

... a wild aurochs, a man? He sensed somehow that it was more than mortal, but satyrs and nymphs were a rare sight on Samothrace, and wouldn't willingly approach a man.

Cold seeped into his skin again and a weight gathered in his chest. For all that he was attuned to his surroundings, it was unlike anything he'd experienced before. He wasn't just being watched, but looked through, body and soul. The woods were silent, as though every creature knew to be still, and Orpheus wondered... He'd rid himself of

miasma

. He'd called upon a goddess with his song. She was here; she must be. The lump in his throat, the cold, a sense of dread and the fleeting thought of asphodel flowers... He quickly dropped to one knee and bowed his head. "Lady of the Flowers and Spring, Mistress of the Lands Beneath the Earth... If it is you... I am your humble servant."

"It is not she."

He raised his head, his breath shallow. The voice was male— calm and measured, and its owner invisible to him. "I beg your pardon."

"No need. I know her well."

He swallowed. "You do..."

"Is she the one you serve, hymnist?"

He drew in a breath. "I serve all the gods, my lord."

"That's quite a task... To curry favor with

all

the gods."

"It isn't

favor

I seek. I honor them, from the least to the greatest, since they are the highest expression of

phanes

, the light of life that dwells in all things. My only wish in this life is to displease none of them. For I might find myself parted from Elysion."

"Ah," said the voice. "You have gone through the Greater and Lesser Rites, no?"

"I have."

"Who instructed you?"

"The great priest, Eumolpus."

"I knew him," said the voice, the tone changing.

"Knew?"

"Yes. He passed from this earth just before winter came. I was there when his family prepared him for the afterlife and took him to his mausoleum."

"If I may be so bold to ask," he said, fearing the answer, "who are you, my lord?"

"One who would not be known to you yet, hymnist."

Orpheus bowed his head. "F-forgive my presumption."

"Don't fear me so. Stand, Orpheus."

Orpheus cautiously rose, his knee damp from the mossy earth. "What shall I call you, my lord?"

The voice remained silent. But Orpheus could still feel his presence. He was thinking. He heard sandals pacing the ground, and if he listened closely enough, the rhythmic tap of a staff hitting the earth with every third step. "The God of Nysa."

"Nysa..."

"You know of that place?"

"Only in legend. The fields and groves of the gods. The place where the Receiver of Many took Demeter's Daughter from the sunlit world to be his Queen beneath the earth."

"Indeed."

He suspected enough from that, but wasn't foolish enough to utter a name. This visitor had made his identity clear enough. Orpheus kept his eyes to the ground. "Then, God of Nysa, why, if I may I ask, did you seek

me

out?"

"I've heard stories of a ceremony that takes place here, on Samothrace. One that invokes a god that is not yet born. One that you are familiar with."

He nodded. "It... It hasn't been performed in years."

"A rare thing, then. When in the year?"

"When the first seeds sprout from the earth, midway between Spring and the Solstice. There are few who are truly prepared to give what it requires."

"And what is that?"

"Something that represents what you are and will be."

"I understand. Would anything I could offer aide you now?"

"Not for the rite."

"But you yearn for something nonetheless. Something only one of my kind can procure for you."

"I live by

ananke

. My life is in the hands of the Moirai alone, so my desires are irrelevant."

"You are the son of Apollo."

"So my mother said..."

"She was right. You are not immortal yourself then,

hemitheoi

. Yet you abide by the laws which govern the deathless ones?"

"Aren't we, all the manifestations of

phanes

, from the eldest Protogenoi to the lowliest mortal, bound by the will of the Fates?" He swore that he could sense the god smiling. He held his breath, unsure of what to make of the long pause.

"Perhaps."

Orpheus stood still, and felt himself being gazed upon, a pull at his chest and behind his eyes, as though his thoughts and his heart were being weighed and measured and that nothing could be hidden. He heard footfalls.

"You sing. You honor the immortals with song."

"Yes."

"But all of them? Surely your work cannot be completed in your lifetime. There are too many of us."

"I can try."

"There is one thing that would help..."

"Gifts like that... come with a heavy price."

"They do," the voice said. Orpheus felt the same heavy pull, his very thoughts sifted and gleaned. "But you need a lyre, crafted by the gods, if all your works are to be finished in your lifetime. You desire to bring forth the songs from your heart, and it frustrates you to no end— because for now, they are trapped there. You wish to finish your earthly task, do you not?"

"I cannot ask for such a thing from... one I do not know."

"Would you rather your life's work go unfinished? Or that someone else completes it?"

"No."

"I am willing to consider it your price."

"For what?"

"For not revealing to your fellow priests or anyone involved in this... rite... that the ones who wish to participate in it are deathless."

Orpheus said nothing.

"I know you despise lying, Orpheus. I can see it in your heart. I know what I ask for. But it is of great importance that this be only known to you. I would not ask you to betray your own

ethos

if it were not so very important."

"Why seek me out? Is what I have to offer so extraordinary?"

"The god you call upon— the one not yet born..." Orpheus could feel the full weight of the god's gaze upon him. "Name him."

His heart beat out of his chest. "The Unborn One's name is only uttered in absolute secrecy and sanctity. My order does not sully it with human speech."

"

Name him

," came the voice in a hoarse whisper.

Orpheus spoke just as low. "Zagreus."

The god paused again and Orpheus wondered if he had angered him. But he could feel the enveloping coldness grow warmer, could feel a brief flicker of relief and... hope. Happiness, even. Through the wash of emotion, the voice remained staid. "What if I told you that your Zagreus could be conceived by these very rites? That is, if she and I were allowed to attend... unfettered by human fears and superstitions."

"I would have no choice but to believe you, my lord."

"Then you understand the reason for my surreptitiousness."

He shuddered and nodded in acknowledgement. Now he was certain he knew who spoke to him. "My lord, can I think on it?"

"Of course. You have until the first moon of winter. I will return then."

"When you return, how will I know it is you if I don't even know your true name?"

"Because at that time, I will reveal

how

I know you, how

you

came to my attention, and when I do so, you will know precisely who I am."

The presence lifted. As Orpheus looked up and puzzled over the god's words, the birds started to sing again, the beetles hummed in the humid air. Everywhere he turned, narcissus bloomed in the shade of the trees.

***

Thesprotia was warm, even in the early evening. But that warmth didn't penetrate the caves near the river. Here the chill of winter still clung to the rocks like moss .

In the palm of one hand, Persephone held an herb rooted in loose soil; her other hand trailed along the cool stones and damp roots of the cave walls. She followed the bend of the cave, the echo of a single drum's steady tattoo joined by a lone piper's melody . A light flickered from the entrance of a great hall, and the smells of burning pitch and roasted venison wafted from within. Neither scent masked the stink of sex and sour wine. The tittering of dryads and naiads mixed with the braying laughter of satyrs, the pervasive chattering punctuated now and again by loud moans. The court was smaller than it once had been, so many years ago when mortal men and women had made the mistake of trusting its king— when Minthe had made the mistake of trusting her own father.

She reached the door, and the drum stopped, the pipes faltering a moment later, their last notes shrill. Whispers, then silence. Then the shifting and uncoupling of half clothed bodies, and knees dropping to the floor. Persephone didn't look at the heads bowed to her, her gaze fixed on the dais at the rear of the hall. Her bare feet padded against the tile as she approached. "Kokytos."

The king descended the dais and bowed low to her before resuming his place on his throne. "Well! An unexpected pleasure, Queen Persephone. When I heard you had been seen about Thesprotia I'd hoped that our paths might cross. Delightful to finally—"

"Leave us." Persephone said.

With the barest murmur, Kokytos's court, his musicians, and his servants gathered their instruments, their clothes, and cups. Most shuffled out of the hall; some disappeared in flashes of green— high order nymphs vanishing into the ether— until only the river god and the Queen of the Underworld remained.

Kokytos spied the bright green sprig in her hand. "So it's true then? What Minthe did?"

"It is. Though not all of what they say."

"Well, you can't believe everything that gods and humans say. Gossips, to the last. Everyone worth knowing knows that Aidoneus is faithful to fault. And my sympathies for what befell you and your lord husband at her hand."

"I was expecting something more akin to an apology. Not sympathy."

Kokytos scoffed. "I had no part in what Minthe did. She brought her schemes with her, whispered in her ear by your illustrious mother, obviously."

"Did she?"

"I took her in. That was all."

"You let the men of your court violate her. They warped her, twisted her mind."

He held up his hands. "Nothing she didn't agree to. She knew the price of staying."

"Your own daughter..."

Kokytos rolled his eyes. "One of many. If she

was

mine at—"

"She was," said Persephone. "I know all souls, living and dead, just as my husband does."

He shifted in his chair.

"You have much to answer for."

Kokytos threw up his hands. "So I whored my daughter! What of it? Are you going to condemn the father of every

hetera

in Hellas along with me? Who's next?"

"No." Persephone said, with a soft smile. "She is the means by which you and I are unfortunately acquainted, but Minthe is not the reason I am here."

"Then

what

?"

"There were human guests in your hall nearly fourscore winters ago..."

Kokytos paled.

"During the Great Famine. Do you remember them?"

"Humans— once, per-perhaps, long ago? H-how could I possibly recall? Decades have passed. And so have they, most likely."

"Indeed they have. To the last soul." She took a step forward. "You murdered them. You dined on their flesh. Your servants and guests feasted on them at your behest."

His voice cracked dry as he choked out a laugh. "What nonsense... who in the world would tell you such a story?"

"The men and women you killed, Kokytos."

His face fell.

"It took years for me to find them all in Asphodel. Decades, even. At first, there were rumors, nymphs who whispered to other nymphs, until those rumors reached my ears. I, too, doubted their awful tales. But the dead cannot lie."

"My Queen, please... you know better than anyone that food was dwindling. Those mortals would have died anyway. I would have faced revolt from my men once my stores ran out... My court—" Kokytos coughed, and pulled at his mouth. He withdrew a mint leaf.

"Kokytos, son of Okeanos..."

"I am one of the ageless! Mortals are livestock. Flecks of dust! Only

they

need live by your father's petty laws. I am your husband's vassal! You cannot cond—" He spat out another mint leaf.

Kokytos choked around a sprig of mint clawing at his throat. He yanked it free, then stared at his hands, mint blooming from under his fingernails, the roots twisting through his veins. He stood with a shriek, his throne tipping backwards. Kokytos beat at his arms as though they were aflame, tearing leaves and buds from his skin, but the more he raked from his flesh the more grew in its place.

"Abandon all hope, Kokytos." He fell and tumbled down the stairs of his dais, his cries choked and muffled, and crashed to the floor of the cavern. Kokytos writhed, flailing as fresh clumps of mint sprung from his mouth, his nostrils, his eyes. "For your part in the murders of your guests and the consumption of mortal flesh you are condemned— not to Tartarus, but to oblivion." The screams were buried under a wellspring of green along with his twisted features. Mint burst through the fabric of his robes, the still limbs beneath a tangle of roots and soil. Roots wound about his fallen crown. "So say I, Persephone Praxidike Chthonios, Queen of the Underworld, Carrier of Curses cast on those who live, by the dead whom they harmed in life."

Kokytos's outline was indistinguishable. Only a sprawling patch of mint remained, pungent leaves overpowering the lingering headiness of the orgy that had raged in the hall only minutes before. Mint crept between the mosaic tiles as Persephone left the chamber, the single sprout still resting in her left hand. Persephone curled the fingers of her right hand into a fist as she walked out the tunnel. Rocks tumbled from the ceiling and dust billowed behind her.

She didn't travel through the ether. She owed Minthe the walk to the poplar grove where her mother's tree stood. Mud caked her bare heels. Her green peplos swished in the breeze and she sheltered the mint plant in her hand. The soil in her palm was warm.

"I forgive you," she whispered to the sprig as she walked. "I hope that you can forgive me, wherever you are."

The grove loomed ahead, and she slowed her pace, listening to the songbirds and crows. She reached a tree at its center, with great branches towering overhead. This tree had been here far longer than the others, and it didn't sway in the wind the way the rest did..

"Leuce?" She stared up at the branches. "I come to return your daughter, and to atone."

Persephone knelt and scooped aside some of the loam near a broad root, and dug into the earth. She gently planted the cupped handful of soil and mint next to the outstretched base of the poplar. The tiny sprig leaned against the tree in a spot of sunlight. As she stood again, she spoke to the outstretched branches above. "Please forgive me. Forgive my husband. Forgive my mother, and Hecate. That's all I ask."

***

Hera sprawled inelegantly on Hestia's divan, her fingers plaited under her chin. She drew in a long breath, then sighed dramatically. "Why must I entertain that sea witch

again

?"

Hestia tittered and shook her head, then ladled a boiling cup of water from the cast iron pot sitting on the hearth, carefully weighing and swishing it until it stopped bubbling. "Oh, come now. She isn't all bad."

"Isn't she though? All she talks about is the strumpets that she drags to her marriage bed. If I have to hear her extol their

bedsharing

one more time

—

" Hera's face had grown flushed. "Fates preserve me. She's worse than that eastern

whore

who wormed her way into my son's heart."

"Than Aphrodite? Surely not," Hestia laughed. She shook her head, then emptied the ladle over a mix of ambrosia, sideritis, sage, and a bit of hemp flower. "Here. Calm yourself."

Hera held the clay cup to her face and inhaled deeply. She closed her malachite dusted eyelids and every thought of Amphitrite evaporated. There were only the licking flames of Hestia's hearth, the shadows dancing on the multitude of carefully arranged alabastron jars on the shelves, and her white-veiled sister tending to the flames. She took a sip of the tisane, and gone was the fury that still brewed over Zeus's latest conquest, a dark-eyed Theban princess. Here, that harlot didn't exist. Olympus itself could crumble to its foundations, and she wouldn't care a whit. "How do you always know the best remedy for my mood?"

"Aeons of practice, dear sister." Hestia smiled warmly.

Hera sipped. "It doesn't get dull? Tending to the fire day after day?"

"I prefer it," Hestia said, pouring herself a cup. "The quiet of the hearth suits me. The mortals offer me the first and last herb and drink of every meal, and I am free to peruse and take what I like. And roam further afield without a man's permission." She sipped from her cup, her gaze resting on a jar containing her latest acquisition— a sweet spice from the islands beyond the Valley of the Indus that curled up like a scroll and didn't resemble any leaf or seed known.

"You could have been a queen, Hestia."

"I could have. But the intrigue and theatrics of court are not for me. And wedding Poseidon... living at the bottom of the sea would be intolerable. Better he has that

sea witch

, as you call her, by his side."

Hera nodded. Her sister had always been drawn to warmth. The ocean would have chilled and rotted everything that made Hestia content. She wondered what life might have been like had she too had decided to take the path of a perpetual virgin. A visit from Zeus, disguised as an injured bird, had ended that possibility...

"Why is Zeus summoning Poseidon to meet in private?" Hestia asked idly.

"He demands another needless report on Ilion's wall; what else? Fates have mercy, it's been millennia—

aeons

— and

still

my lord husband cannot let bygones be bygones with that man."

"You know how he loves to stay on top," Hestia replied. Hera looked over her cup and cocked an eyebrow. Hestia continued without noticing. "Surely he worries that letting them be bygones might precipitate another rebellion."