The Goddess of Blessed Death

Eating Together

Incense assaults Macaria, tickling her nose. She rubs it to keep from sneezing. Mors is muttering under his breath to the great statue of Athena that stands in the middle of the temple. Offerings of food and herbs and flowers rest at the goddess's feet. Draped in bronze and gold robes and armor, Athena's hair is golden, and she wears her golden breastplates and helmet-crown. Her spear rests against the crook of her ivory arm and held up by one of the serpents around her waist, and she carries with her the shield she wore in combat against the Amazons. The two serpents wrapped around her waist cinch her peplos. Their eyes follow visitors and worshipers as though ready to strike. In her right-hand palm stands the Goddess of Victory, Nike, for winged victory follows where Athena leads.

Mors pauses, then turns around. "Macaria," he greets.

"I don't mean to intrude," she says and walks to stand before the goddess. "Please continue." Without an offering, she feels ignorant and offensive. Silently, she prays to Athena to be merciful and understanding. She begs for wisdom.

Mors takes a few steps backwards, and Macaria stops praying, too.

"If you are not busy right now, I am famished and would like to know if you're willing to join me," she says.

Mors gawks. "Uh, together?" he asks.

Men and women don't eat together. Macaria's face flushes. She was too focused on getting to the bottom of the mystery to fully realize how she would sound. Of course, she knew how it sounded, and yet she did not know how she sounded until she said it.

"Well?" she asks, doing her best to keep up the façade despite the burning in her cheeks and ears, the blood rushing to her skin down her neck and chest. "It's not as though I am inviting myself for dinner." I am not a prostitute for some symposium.

"You're very blunt," Mors says and once again, Macaria cannot tell if he is mocking her or not. It irks her. "I would like the company."

"Good," she says though gritted teeth and walks up to him so they stand inches apart. "Where to?"

His eyes, darkened, take on a shade of bronze. "I have been eating out publicly," he says.

Macaria hesitates. Mors frowns. She purses her lips. Is he really saying he doesn't have anywhere to stay here? She supposes eating in her rooms would be better for her in that she would feel somewhat less intimidated. Her mind is racing to come up with something when what he says next catches her off guard. 

"You're not betrothed," he says.

"He died," she replies honestly. "He was a friend of my father's, that's all I knew."

"There's no other?" His head tilts to the side.

"No," she says and gulps. "As you must know, my father is in Olympus. The man I was going to marry died shortly before. . . everything happened. He was helping my father on one of his many quests."

Mors steps back solemnly. "Yes." He talks as though he knows, as though it is a vague memory of his own, and it only makes Macaria all the more suspicious—and desperate.

"I didn't know him as a person," Macaria forces the words out as though they are stuck like peanut butter to the top of her mouth, "or as a man."

"Yes," Mors says, a strain in his voice.

Doe-eyed, Macaria steps up to him, and he drinks her in. As he drinks, she follows. The barley will be sweet, she's sure of it.

"Shall we eat?" she asks.

"Yes," he breathes.

Macaria leads the way out of the Parthenon. Mors walking so close to her their arms brush and send tingles down to her fingertips. They go around the temple to the open space behind it, where a view of Athens and the gulf stretch before them. Homes and bustling markets look like toys that shrink in size the closer they get to the water.