When I returned to my prison-chamber red-eyed but resolute, Anthousa swore without a moment’s hesitation she would journey with me. “There is nothing for me here,” she’d said, already packing the cedar chest with needful things. “What shall I do—content myself with a servant’s life forever? If I accompany you, my lady, at least I shall see new sights.” The other servant-girls, friendly with Anthousa, were just as quick to pledge their companionship. Demetria, Eumelia, and Chrysomallo were quickly joined by Agathe and Galene, whose lives in the kitchen were little better than the lives of slaves.
To my surprise and pleasure, the hard-working maid of my husband’s house, young Ligeia, arrived with a great basket stuffed with my collection of herbs, roots, and scrolls. “I know you are no witch, my lady,” she’d said, handing the heavy basket to me. “Where you go, I shall go, too, if you will have me.” I was touched by her loyalty—more deeply moved still by her thoughtfulness in secreting my most prized possessions from Lycus’s home.
My father and my silent, shame-faced brothers saw me to the river bank the next morning, with the sun’s first blush. Like a prisoner condemned to die, I stood subdued between Ae?tes and Perses while Heliodoros squared my passage with the ship’s captain and gave him stern instructions on how I was to be handled. Then I was bundled aboard, shut up in a small, airless cabin as black as the sky between stars, and left alone, without a word of farewell. But as soon as I could be certain my family had returned to the shore, I smiled. For I heard Anthousa there on the river bank, negotiating passage for herself and the other six young women. They had disguised themselves as priestesses of Hestia—fitting, I’d thought wryly when Anthousa had informed me of her plan—and thus had slipped away from Heliodoros’s household unnoticed. Within minutes, they had ascended the boat’s narrow ramp and secured all our goods on the deck.
When dawn came and the boat left the shore behind, I was permitted to exit my cabin. I stood among the priestesses of Hestia, watching Colchis vanish in the wake of our ship.
The journey to Aeaea was long and exceedingly trying. Even now, years later, I cringe at the memory. We sailed for a full turn of the moon, and several days more, crossing the vast Black Sea, passing through the narrow straits of the Dardanelles. Beyond, we faced more hostile waters. The Mesogeios Sea was restless, beaten to froth by the hundreds of islands that broke its gray-green surface. Day and night, our ship bucked and rocked upon its waves, and all of us fell ill, even all-enduring Anthousa. Our food was poor—hard bread, flavorless cheese, and a handful of dried fruit, allotted to each of us every third day. The captain stopped at many islands, trading and calling upon his business associates. At each port, I wondered whether this was to be my place of exile. But the journey dragged on, and the captain, well paid by Heliodoros, refused to let me go ashore until we had reached my far destination.
I shall never forget my first sight of Aeaea. Days before, we had rounded a great, rocky peninsula and tracked steadily up its western coast. The islands that had filled the Mesogeios were sparse here; between the green-black shoulders of land, the sea stretched unbroken toward the western horizon, lost in a pale, distant mist. Wrapped in a thick woolen cloak against the salt-tinged chill, I had watched the sun set on that very horizon, and now I marveled at the strange, malignant beauty of the twilight waves. Their crests were touched by purple light, their troughs dark as the blood that had pooled between Lycus’s fingers. Now and then—far from our ship, thank the gods—a great plume of spray erupted from the surface of the sea, and hung like a banner of mist above the waves before it dissipated in the gathering darkness. With a shiver, I realized the plumes were the breaths of impossibly large creatures, churning and roiling in the water. In the last fading flush of sunset, I could just make out the dark, serpent-like coils of their bodies curving among the tossing waves.
Frightened of what the huge serpents might do to our ship, I turned away—and a lone island caught my attention. It seemed to stand out from the sea with forceful clarity, limned in the light of a rising moon. It was small, and stood well apart from the other islands, which were clustered somewhat nearer to the stony peninsula. A high, pointed promontory rose from its eastern side. I forgot the great, black creatures arcing through the waves, forgot the ceaseless heaving of the ship and my own illness, weak and shivering from a month of sailing. I knew, with a thick, sinking certainty, that my travels were over. My exile had begun.
The captain beached his ship on the rocky strand; a grating roar rattled through my bones as the boat’s hull dug into the shoreline. In short order, he had lowered a slim ladder made of ropes and dowels over the ship’s rail. “Climb ashore,” he said to me, never looking at my face, “and I’ll be glad to see the back of you. It’s dangerous to sail with a witch aboard, ten times worse than sailing with an ordinary woman. Gods know how we made it this far without any ill luck.”
Anthousa stepped forward. “We’re going ashore here, too.”
The captain stared at her. “What on earth for? There’s nothing on this island—certainly no shrine to Hestia.”
“We’ll make our own shrine to Hestia, wherever we find ourselves,” Anthousa said. A few of the other women laughed quietly to themselves. “We go with Lady Circe.”
He shrugged and turned away. “Suit yourselves. Mad bitches, the lot of you.”
One by one, we climbed down the ladder to the strand. We stood in the shallow waves—colder than the grave, as they lapped around our feet and soaked the hems of our simple chitons—while the ship’s crew lowered our chests and baskets in a net made of sturdy ropes. The captain shouted at us to hurry; freed from the curse of women aboard his vessel, he was eager to be off as soon as possible. We carried our possessions far up the beach, out of reach of the waves, then stood huddled together in the darkness. Long oars ran out from the ship’s sides, pushing and levering against the shore until the ship backed off into the waves. It turned, the great, black bulk of its side blotting out all sight of the moon, and slid around the curve of the island. We were left stranded and alone.