Ghost Queen in the House of Love

30. Onia

Before we leave, I ask the hoplites outside the hall if the stratigos is available. When he tells me she is, I tell him that she and her best must disguise themselves and follow Phelia and I at a distance. Though his brow lowers in bemusement, he nods and hurries to find the stratigos.

The afternoon light makes my eyes ache, though I welcome its warmth. When Phelia and I leave, we wear gray, wool shawls, thick enough to hide my runes and long enough to wrap around my head. I must be careful to not lift my arms. Our chitons are white and unadorned.

Around us in the bustling crowd, the tap of hooves, and the creak of cart wheels, chatter mingled with music, the pluck of a bouzouki above us. I look above at the sparse trees planted between houses. The tips of the leaves are starting to change from green to mustard seed-yellow. Beside me, Phelia draws her arms cloak, steeling herself.

"Why were you and your sister separated?" I ask her once a cart of figs has passed.

Phelia looks straight ahead when she says, "It is less likely for someone to run off and shirk their contract if they're alone."

As we tread on the worn cobblestones between square mudbrick buildings, she points me to one that stands out, particularly because of the lewd messages and images scrawled on the front. Undoubtedly, when looking for a brothel, one can let the phalluses lead them. There is no door on the establishment, only thick scarlet curtains to shield the entrance and windows.

Looking at me, Phelia ducks under the curtain, and it swallows her. I follow her inside. When I lift up the fabric, I can smell mildew.

Inside, the room is dim except for the roaring light of a brazier in the center of the room, where steps, carpeted with burgundy rugs, dip down and circle the fire.

Of the patrons at the tables, I see six men scattered around, most of them drinking or leering, one with a woman draped over his lap. The odors of barley, perfume, and sweat mingle with thyme, myrtle incense, and rose oil.

Phelia looks at the crowd and looks back at me with a shake of her head. She informed me her sister would likely have not been allowed to keep her true name. I don't know when they last saw one another, but she might look different, too.

As she fidgets with her shawl and moistens her lips, I observe, too. The stone here is old, masked with tapestries of nude nymphs, well-endowed satyrs, and Aphrodite's doves.

The women are all dressed the same; traditionally, prostitutes must either be naked or wear an identifying chiton. Because the patron goddess of prostitutes is Aphrodite, they wear seashell-pink rippling linen with a red rose pinned over the left breast; the bronze clasps of their clothes are bristled like myrtles, another flower of Mother's. The pornai, the classification of what we call these pleasure-maids, often work on the streets and brothels, poor widows, fallen women, and the captured daughters of barbarians. The poor, prisoners, and slaves. Of the women, and some men, who do choose their profession, they often have some sliver of wealth to make their own choices.

Phelia leaves my side to carefully make her way to a woman in the corner, balancing a tray of wine and setting it on a table. Like Phelia, her hair is red, but it is loose and curled over her shoulder. Her lips are painted red, and her eyes are a pale blue. She is shorter than Phelia, and whereas Phelia has a generous shape, she looks as if she doesn't eat well, her pink clothes too big for her. Even with the powder on her face, I can see distinct insomnia lines under her eyes where shadows must be.

"Eleni," Phelia breathes.

The woman startles, the tray clattering, one of the glasses spilling on its side, and meets my handmaiden's eyes. When she does, she freezes, expression pained but eyes softening with something. Disbelief, and then relief.