Everyone Should Eat His Own Turtle (A Greek Myth Novel) by H.C. Southwark (nonfiction book recommendations TXT) 📕

And in the back of her mind, her father’s voice whispered: If the gods punished everyone who claimed a great bloodline, then there would be no great houses left...

It doesn’t matter, she realized, watching the men stare at Kleto. Whether it’s true or not, these men believe it, or rather want to believe, so it has become true.

But one of the men in the group was less caught by her than the rest, yelling, “You’re just trying to save your own neck, woman! Don’t think we are not masters here!”

Kleto responded to the jibe with words smooth as water in a bowl. “Why would my performance stop anything you plan? You men doubtless catch women all the time—you can have a dozen women by next moon. But when have you all had a fine hetaera like myself? I know tricks that will haunt your waking hours.”

Isme frowned at the word, hetaera, uncertain what it meant; certainly, the word had never appeared in her father’s stories. But she smoothed out her face, trying not to draw attention to herself. Kleto had to convince the men to untie them.

The men in the room did know what the word meant, however, because there was a return to discussion, a low roar of murmuring all at once. Isme caught words like: valuable, worth too much, lies, playing a trick. They would debate and reach some conclusion that was out of Isme’s control—if only she could use her songs!

If only she knew how to sway the hearts of men like the father she had never known.

But Kleto did know how.

“I can show you a story that will rouse the blood of a dying man to love,” Kleto strode forward, each step a word announced outright, and the men fell quiet. “It can make an old man feel young again—surely strong men like yourselves will enjoy to the fullest!”

I doubt that, thought Isme, remembering the chosen tale. Her skin felt cold, even under the glow of the hearth and the press of so many bodies in the walls. Yet as she surveyed the assembled men, she reconsidered: No, perhaps they would enjoy this tale, a den of robbers, murderers, kidnappers... This was their sort of story.

“Come now,” said a man in the back. “Let’s hear them play. How else could we know what price they will fetch at market? We can have fun after.”

This seemed to settle the matter. There was a chorus of chortling, and then the men fell to silence and moved all together, a surge in anticipation. One of them leapt and cut Kleto’s bonds, turning to Isme next and then to Pelagia, who remained huddled. A lyre was fetched from somewhere Isme did not see. Still others moved tables out, dragging loudly across the dirty floor.

Kleto passed Pelagia, slapped her on the back of the head. “Up.”

Isme thought that Pelagia would remain in her bundle, but when Kleto did this, she jumped like a cat onto the table and snatched the lyre, settling into position with hands over the strings. Like she had been sitting there all along. The only clue she was worried was her eyes, which she kept lowered. If Isme had not seen her before, though, perhaps she would have only thought Pelagia modest.

Startled by this, Isme stepped back, and glanced at the men who had assembled on the other side of the tables, which had formed a stage. Standing there behind the tables themselves, Isme knew then that she had been drafted into the performance.

There was no choice in the matter.

EIGHT.

~

The men watched hungrily as Kleto undid her hair from its bonds, sweeping it over her shoulders like a shower of gold. She smoothed with her fingers, a rough combing, but that was the best she could do—and yet she did not look like she had trekked through the woods, more like she had prepared for hours. Perhaps the illusion was simply in how she carried herself: upright, like a lady in her own home.

Passing to the other end of the tables, Kleto leaned in to Isme’s shoulder.

“I’m Procne,” she hissed, low as a serpent in Isme’s ear. “You’re Philomel. If you don’t know the songs,” a pointed tone that implied she believed Isme did not sing, even as Kleto acknowledged she knew the story, “Then just say what comes to mind. Be overdramatic if you have to—these men will eat it up. Remember to scream at the tongue part—then you won’t have to worry about singing after that.”

Isme’s mouth opened, managed, “Songs? There’s a song of this?”

Never in all her life had she thought that a song could be made of such an evil tale. Who would write the words, memorize them, perform them? And even as Isme wondered this, she saw Kleto roll her eyes and realized the answers were obvious.

Kleto clucked, hissed, “Listen to what I say, and you will live through tonight.”

“Live?” whispered Isme back, “Why would they kill us? We’re valuable to sell—”

“These idiots?” Kleto responded with a sneer. “They’re the kind to thieve cattle and eat them. We won’t last the morning if they set on us—and if we lived through, they’d sell us to a butcher and we’ll be chained pornai in a closet at some backwater, dead before summer’s end because we’re not worth the money to feed.”

Horror stole over Isme’s face, that such a fate could be comprehended, but this seemed to satisfy Kleto, whose own features turned grim. “Don’t sing if you don’t know the lines,” she said, shoving Isme, reiterating: “Remember to scream.”

Isme stumbled up to the table side, stood at the edge awkwardly facing across the surface all the men in assembly, cautious at being under such attention. But she did not need to bother. They were not concerned with her. Even Pelagia was ignored.

Kleto swept atop the tables as if they were the floor, stood for a moment between the men and the hearth in complete silence, her long shadow stretching out before