TWENTY

Cycnus woke.

It was still dark, that weakening, silvered darkness that so often appeared just before dawn, an hour Phaeton’s young cousin had never liked.

He loved night well enough, especially in the rain, a storm whispering over the roof. He enjoyed early evening, family gathered to enjoy watered wine and sing songs of ancient heroes. But best of all he preferred daylight, Cycnus and Phaeton pretending they were battling giants under the wide blue, or putting on mock sea battles, a meadow transformed by their imagination into a rolling sea.

An owl broke off one of her sharp cries, and in the roof overhead Cycnus heard the soft, brief scrabble of talons as the flying hunter returned. Some people said that the owl was beloved of the goddess Minerva, and Cycnus believed it must be true.

“Wise goddess, keep my cousin safe,” prayed Cycnus.

Phaeton had always chuckled at Cycnus for believing that the eagle belonged to Jupiter, and the peacock to his consort Juno, but Cycnus took such matters seriously. When local villagers took the trouble to feed a leaf to a passing tortoise – believing that the slow-moving creatures brought good luck – Cycnus joined in, offering the lowly creature fresh slices of apple.

Phaeton’s cousin rose from his pallet bed and padded out into the hallway, shivering in his nightshirt. Someone in the courtyard was carrying an oil lamp, the flame trembling, one of the servants setting forth braziers of glowing coals against the predawn chill.

Lampetia and Phaethusa were whispering somewhere, already awake and dressed by the sound of it, and the sound of their voices made Cycnus fade back again to his bed chamber.

Cycnus pulled the blanket over his shoulders against the cool air.

How long can the dark continue? he wondered.

Surely it should be morning by now.

Clymene was awake just as dawn chased the stars from the sky.

The ascending light of day, on this particular morning, was somewhat slow to follow. Birds stirred, sang, and then settled once again, as shadows that had begun to lift deepened once more.

Clymene had been unable to sleep for hours, feeling the weight of Phaeton’s absence with every heartbeat. She had breathed a prayer to Juno, queen of the gods and wife to Jupiter – she was the goddess most likely to attend to the cares of a mother.

But hers was merely a spoken prayer. A prayer to Juno not accompanied by a gift of pthois – sweetened sacrificial cake – or a pitcher of wine for the temple attendants, was unlikely to win much notice from such a sovereign immortal.

Nonetheless Phaeton’s mother concluded her devotions, “Bring him back safe to me, my only son.”

And soon.

Do not let him complete his journey.