ianessa

prologue

     The night lies heavy and unstirring over the city of Athens. A pair of eyes looks out at it from behind a small window on the upper storey of a wealthy house just downhill from the Areopagus. The effort is tedious; the window is small and set high in the wall. Ianessa steps down from the rusty, old metal chest she is perched on and rub her toes against the floor. She looks around the room. It is lit by the yellow, flickering flames of oil lamps and in their glow she can just determine that her mother and her brother are fast asleep.

     Still barefoot, she crosses the room on her tiptoes and slips out, softly closing the door behind her as she makes her way down the staircase.

     The air is cool, if dry. There is a breeze going around but it bears mostly dust.

     The sky, though.

     The black is sprinkled with silver.

     The sky is positively lovely — wide, deep, and rich with stars. They form turns and spirals and in particularly dense ones, the velvet behind doesn't look black, but a slight shade of purple.

    In front of her the uneven terrain of the western part of Athens is laid out like a stage setting for a play. First the houses. A smattering of residential buildings spanning a couple of streets or so. The Agora — a busy, cheery marketplace — at least in the day. In the night it is deserted. Quite lifeless. Then a bushy thicket of trees and wild growth — and in the middle of it, perched atop the hilly earth — the temple of Hephaestus.

    Across this setting, from where Ianessa stands gazing up at the stars, another woman is looking at the same sky, her lips in formation of a prayer, kneeling in the Temple. 

    For poetry's sake, it would be nice to say that Ianessa and Scylla the prophetess are the only two people awake at this time of the night in the city of Pallas Athena, but of course that isn't true.

    A voice materializes in the dark behind Ianessa.

    "Nessa." Her father moves slowly, heavily, as he comes to stand beside her. He is leanly built, of average height, and his walk is stiff and stony. The words fall from his mouth like old acquaintances and each syllable is slow, heavy, and ridiculously articulate. "Come to look at the stars?"

    "Yes, Father," she replies, studying him. He looks weary but he does not look like he has been roused from sleep. He looks like he hasn't slept at all.

    "Ah, well, they are particularly beautiful today."

    "You couldn't sleep, Father?" she asks, surprised he isn't chastising her.

    The smile slips from his face. "No. Too much to do. Political matters," he adds, as if speaking to a small, ignorant child. "You should be in bed."

    Wisely, Ianessa takes her cue to leave.

    "Good night, Father." She is halfway up the stone stairs before she hears a reply.