Ghost Queen in the House of Love

34. Onia

Cadmus' betrayal doesn't resolve itself, even when he's confined to the same tower where I stayed for centuries. There must be a trial.

Though I am the queen, when I ride to the courthouse, I am numb and small.

By punishing and dethroning him, once a mortal, I'm killing what little representation the mortals could claim, if such a thing can exist in a world of crowns. If a man who has lived thousands of years with gold and feasts beyond reckoning can relate to those who tend to the wheat.

The capitol court constructs a dikastai, a jury, of five-hundred citizens for minor cases, but in a capital case such as this, there are a thousand and five-hundred. After nine or ten hours of a trial, at least seven-hundred and fifty must vote guilty for a conviction; though it is difficult to count the votes past fifty, one can usually tell.

The courtroom, a circular space with stacked seats, feels more like an Olympic stadium with eyes upon eyes staring down. The togas and cloaks are a rainbow of colors. Some wear jewels and precious metals while others don't. Some have gray hair while others have unlined brows. But I notice one similarity: They are all men, who swear by Zeus, Apollo, and Demeter to vote without favor.

As I step into court, past the clamor on onlookers rolling over each other to peek inside, I wrap my thick wool shawl close, leaf-green in honor of Demeter's recent, constant loss, that conceals most of me; I doubt they would like to see their queen boldly displaying her sigils when it is indecent even for a prominent man to bear such markings. To win, I fear I must play into their ideas that I am docile, even when giving evidence of my power. I must be humble and docile, and they must think, oh, this poor woman who didn't know what she was getting into, we must protect her honor.

I should not feel doubt and dread, but I do. If this fails, the fine I might pay isn't the worst thing. Simply put, I don't know what I will do if I fail to convince these people. Not only these men, but their families. My people. Not even of a precarious lie. The truth. And still, I'm in another building made like the palace, a facade of gold, ivory, and marble. Olive branches outline the expanse of the ceiling. They remind me of a dream I had that I forgot about until now, where I grabbed an offering from an olive tree, and a sharp piece of bark slit my palm open.

I suck in a deep breath. I have Phelia. I have Stratigos Telesilla. I even have Dionysius, who made quite the display at a feast not about them, but of course, their talents are adjacent to Demeter's. If only she were at the feast, too, but in her grief, she has never attended the Thesmophoria once. And once Dionysius sided against the king, whispers of it spread swiftly. The king, once a mortal, conspiring against the daughter of two Olympians.

I look out at the seats again, and on the lowest row, to the right, I startle when I see one woman who must not be a part of the jury, as women aren't permitted to serve court: Circe. As soon as my eyes skim over hers, I look away, but I can't deny the heat that prickles my cheeks.

In the end, the conduit of my power here isn't her; it's me.

There are two simple chairs facing one another in the center of the room. I both feel too close and too far from the jurors as I sit alone below most of them.

I am not alone for long.

Stratigos Telesilla and the hoplites followed me to the entrance, their shields out, and she comes in to stand imperiously at my side.

Through an archway under the audience rows, men shuffle in with a glass and iron contraption that might come up to my hip, with a funnel that turns inward at the top. Phelia comes out with them, adorned in green, too, coming to my side.

One of the men, with a long gray beard, bows deeply. "Golden Queen, as you ordered."

I hide my distaste at the title; though it isn't the first time I've been called that, I'm reminded of Zeus when I think of all the gold around me.