ianessa

i.

    A week ago, Solon the orator and poet stood on the Areopagus, cleared his throat and recited a moving, original poem. The people of Athens crowded around him and listened — quietened in respect, and soundly awed, their eyes glazed with admiration. He spoke of the rich and the poor, the privileged and the impoverished, of equality and the quality of life. His audience nudged each other, memorized his lines. Even his opponents begrudgingly established that this man had the city's best interests at heart. When he finished, there was a burst of tremendous applause.

    For the rest of the day, the poetry hung in the air. The people, spirited, were enthusiastic about their business, many gossiped about the political tensions in the streets of the Acropolis — and the marketplace hummed with chatter. The other city states joked this about Athens: even in the most critical of times, Athenians knew how to keep themselves happy.

    That was a week ago. The Acropolis is now empty — at least in spirit. People still mill about, going about their business, a few stop to talk. But the optimistic spirit seems to have been sucked about; and painfully. The rumors have finally been disproven. The spell has broken.

    It would be plausible to say that the people of Athens could do with a poem or two. But Solon the poet is Solon the statesmen now; and in political terms, matters are heated. There is work to be done before there is poetry to be recited.

    When Ianessa wakes, she is bathed in a small square of sunlight issuing from the high window on the wall. The square is positioned directly on Ianessa's face, which means it must be somewhere near noon.

    She sits up immediately and blood rushes to head.

    Fighting the urge to lie back down, she gets out of bed. Iros' bed is deserted. Of course. Her mother, Iomene, is in hers, ill — perpetually — and asleep — almost perpetually. After crouching down to examine her pale face and touching her forehead for fever, she slips out of the room, gently closing the heavy wooden door behind her, and calls for one of the slavegirls.

    "Clymene!"

    Clymene emerges from the kitchen, her hands coated in floor. "Yes, Miss?"

    "It's almost noon. Why didn't you wake me up? Did I miss my lessons?"

    "Theresa caught a fever this morning," Clymene replies. "She says she'll take your lessons around the afternoon, Lady Nessa. I was going to wake you up anyway, but you looked so tired, I thought I'd let you sleep in a bit."

     Ianessa nods. She is secretly glad; the nightly vigils have been taking a toll on her sleep patterns.

     "But what if Father called for me?" she says.

     "How often does he call for you these days? And anyways, if he did, you know how to be up and ready pretty quick. Live a little, Nessa."

     Ianessa smiles. "Alright. There's flour all over your dress."

     Without looking down, Clymene laughs. "That's alright, Nessa." She turns to go back into the kitchen. Ianessa crosses the narrow hallway. A moment later, she hears Clymene's voice. "There's flour all over all my dresses."

     The day is hot. The sun greets Ianessa again as she emerges from the shadow of the stairs. Sunlight glints off the bronze and terracotta containers cluttered in a corner of the courtyard, and there is no sign of the breeze from the previous night.

     On the other side of the courtyard stands Ianessa's older brother, Leocedes, who is polishing a sword. He is bathed in perspiration — has evidently been training.