Shelly Jones
OF SALT AND SPECTERS
In the first dream, Artemisia envisions Athena, the stately goddess erupting forth from her head with a roar of thunder. She spreads out a battle map before Artemisia’s furrowed face. But as the warrior studies the campaign, the ink turns red, pools on the page, the skirmish destroyed in blood. Artemisia awakens, sweat drenching her cot below deck, the men’s voices a monotonous lull as they row the ship back across the strait of Salamis.
*****
“How do you know that is him? His features…” the boatswain asks, gesturing to the corpse. Its face is beaten, bruised and swollen, its body bloating with decay on the sea-slickened wood of the ship.
“He is the brother of our leader. I know his face beyond its fractures.” Artemisia envisions Xerxes’s angular nose and broad brow, transposes them to the corpse at her feet.
The boatswain shakes his head. “A bad omen,” he tuts. “The gods will find us. We leave a trail of chum in our wake, the debris of our defeat. Why do we not burn it?”
Artemisia bucks at his callous words. “He is a warrior. Should he not be honored?” she asks sullenly. She knows this is not the custom of Xerxes. He would leave the body exposed, elevated up to the gods and carrion birds, an offering, an honor to the dead. “It is him,” she says finally, covering the body with a canvas tarp.
*****
In the second dream, Artemisia is running through a forest, chased by her men. They brandish knives and spears, slicing at branches in their path. She ducks beneath the undergrowth to escape, and emerges onto a sacred grove. In the middle, Artemis bathes in a shallow spring of primordial waters. The sun-kissed goddess of the hunt beckons the warrior closer. As Artemisia steps into the vernal pool, the chaste maiden kisses her, quenching parched lips. With ragged breath, Artemisia releases, only to discover the goddess has turned her back. The men, now transformed into snapping dogs, leap at Artemisia, rending her limbs with their jagged teeth.
*****
In the darkness of the ship’s hull, the body stirs. Its swollen chest seeps sea water as it rises. Artemisia awakens, her blanket drenched, water creeping up her legs like icy fingers.
“Who are you?” Artemisia sputters.
“Who am I?” rasps the corpse. “Who are you? You were named for the maiden hunter of Hellas, but you, Artemisia, only hunt your own Greek blood. Your heart burns for the Persian who sees beyond your sex. Xerxes stands in admiration of your military prowess, where others only gawk, baffled at a woman warrior. Or offer coin for your head, the woman who dares to attack the Hellespont. But you betray your heritage for your own personal gain.”
Artemisia bristles at the guttural words of the corpse. She grits her teeth, eyes narrowed, hand inching toward the knife at her belt beneath the blanket. “What did the Greeks ever do for me, but spat at my kind? Keep us shackled to the birthing stool until we grow too old to be useful. Xerxes honors me.”
“But what will he do once you return, this fool’s errand a bloodbath? Did he listen to you when you warned of its inevitable failure? Did he honor you then?”
Artemisia is silent, remembering Xerxes’ dismissal, his stubborn insistence on a battle she knew would end in defeat. “Who are you?”
“I am Amphitrite, goddess of the waters you dare sully with blood. When the winds blessed you, filling your sheets as the oarsmen bowed their heads with each row, what prayers wetted your lips, Artemisia? What wine did you pour, what ram did you slaughter, what god’s thirst did you slake?” Amphitrite gurgles through the corpse, its lungs still full of brine. Water pours from the goddess’s eyes, dark voids, empty. “Or, as the sea welcomed your ships, did you think of none other than your would-be god? His promises buoying your aspiration, your selfish greed? You are not one to supplicate to the gods, knees bent in humility. You worship no one but the great Xerxes and all that a mere mortal can give you. Even now, you sacrifice the lives of your kin, a ship lost in your wake so you may retrieve the discarded remains of Xerxes’ brother. When have you ever made such a grand gesture of devotion to me?”
Artemisia shivers, her stomach seizing in a familiar twisting sensation as though waiting for a volley of arrows to land at her feet. “What will be my fate?” Artemisa asks, the words bitter on her tongue like unripe olives.
“Yours is not a future full of glory, your mantle bedecked with war trophies. I see a quiet end to you, Artemisia, slipping beneath the waves, another man’s name in your throat.”
*****
In the third dream, Xerxes is drowning. Brackish water fills his lungs as he sinks further into the depths. From below, there is a bellow, as resonant as the minotaur’s low. A flash of gold cuts through the dark as Poseidon’s trident slashes Xerxes’ writhing body. Blood billows through the water, clouding Poseidon’s eyes as his jagged tines filet the once-proud king.
In the dream, Artemisia watches through twisting algae, safe in the shallows like a minnow hiding. But as Poseidon devours Xerxes, his inky eyes turn, sensing her. Removing his crown, he offers it, letting it float in the water towards her safe haven. As she reaches for the crown, metal glittering like fish scales, Poseidon’s trident pierces her breast.
*****
Artemisia awakens, spatting seawater to the floor. The corpse remains still, covered at her feet.
“Anassa, we have returned,” the boatswain calls out from above.
Artemisia shudders. She imagines diving from the prow of the ship, sinking beneath the murky waters, her body forever entombed in the seafloor.
Reluctantly, she rises, gathering the body in her arms as though it were her own child.
“To Xerxes,” she announces to the dark, her voice hoarse, salt stinging her tongue.
Shelly Jones (she/they) is a professor in upstate New York, where she teaches classes in mythology, folklore, and writing. Her speculative work has previously appeared in F&SF, Podcastle, The Future Fire, and elsewhere. Find them on Twitter @shellyjansen or https://shellyjonesphd.wordpress.com/.