Arch-Conspirator(6)

Her eyes fixed on something in the distance, and the smile she gave was relieved. Kreon’s face surfaced from the crowd and I fought all my instincts to recoil. He was surrounded by space, as if he emitted a repulsive force. He walked up to Eurydice, taller than she was and broader, and kissed her cheek. Everyone around us watched.

Lingering a few feet behind him was my eldest brother, Eteocles. Our eyes met.

“Brother,” I said. “I trust you’re here to visit our parents.”

“Hello, Antigone,” he said with obvious unease.

Eteocles was Kreon’s shadow, these days. He hardly took a step without clearing it first.

“Antigone,” Kreon said in what might have sounded like warmth if his eyes were not so full of scrutiny. He didn’t bend toward me to kiss my cheek. He never touched any of us if he could help it, as if our profound emptiness could leech the life from his body if he did.

“Uncle,” I replied.

“You’re alone?” It was clear he didn’t approve. “Did you come to pay your respects to the dead?”

“I came to ask a question,” I said.

“Did you receive an answer?”

So many were listening to us. I smiled.

“I’m at peace,” I said. “That’s answer enough.”

Kreon’s eyes glittered as they met mine. Over his shoulder, Eteocles’ eyes darted from mine to Kreon and back again.

“I am glad to hear it,” Kreon said.

What came next was a script of courtesy. Kreon ensured that I would return home. Eurydice would remain a bit longer, waiting for him to finish his business, and Eteocles would accompany me back to the house. God forbid I be alone.

In silence I descended the steps behind the older of my two brothers. One, two, three …





4

Eurydice




My mother thought I was a prophet. I was never clear on why. She would just say she felt it in her bones, like that was enough. Only no child wants to be taken as seriously as my mother took me. Every word that fell out of my mouth had meaning, to her. So I stopped talking. I must have gotten used to it, because sometimes it was still hard for me to find the words.

My mother was always looking for something bigger, something more. She was always looking for an ending. Maybe that’s why she chose one for herself when reality failed to satisfy. When the prophet daughter had nothing to say. Silence, I suppose, is its own kind of message and its own kind of ending. Just not one that anyone wants to hear.

I visited her every week without fail. I liked the walk to the Archive, even with Nikias a few paces behind me as a silent protector. I liked to stand at the top of the hill and look at the city and recall its size. So often it felt too fragile, like the very foundation of it was about to crumble. But nothing so big, so sprawling, could be so easily felled.

I hadn’t expected to see Kreon here. He didn’t make a habit of coming to the Archive, because walking among the dead wasn’t useful, and he did like to be useful. He looked out at the Trireme, fixed in the launch position, and I looked at the corner of his jaw, rough with a beard.

“What brings you here?” I said to him. We were surrounded by guards, but that was always true. I felt like we were alone.

“Heli, who oversees the Seventh,” he said. “His daughter is here. She got into some trouble, and he asked me to handle it myself, as a personal favor to him.” He turned toward me and took my hands. “I’d like you to come with me. I’m sure your presence could only be helpful to her.”

He wasn’t asking, but I nodded. He moved my hand to the crease of his elbow, and together we walked alongside the Archive building to the back, where the laboratories were. As we walked, I looked up at the row of columns that framed the building, worn by the wind. I had lived forty years and still I marveled that something weak could wear away at something strong, given enough time. A raindrop tunneling through a mountain, a breeze smoothing the rough edges of stone.

“You shouldn’t be seen so often with our niece in public,” he said to me as we walked. “That’s twice in two weeks now.”

“It is seen as compassion,” I replied.

“Today it is,” he said. “Tomorrow they may remember too clearly what she is.”

His lip curled, and I recalled the day his brother and sister-in-law were killed in the street, how he asked about the children with hope in his voice. He would never dishonor his family by striking out at them, but he had thought perhaps the violence of the riot had solved his problems for him. I had never tasted such rage as I felt that day.

The back of the Archive was smooth, faultless stone with no windows. I released Kreon’s arm to let him precede me into the building. There, attendants sprang to their feet to greet him—and me—with respect. They offered us tea, and figs, and a place to sit, and Kreon refused all. He asked to see the girl, and one of the attendants rushed ahead to ready her.

“Remember to be soft,” I said to him, as we waited. “If she is in trouble—”

“I will be what I am,” he replied firmly. “For softness, I have you.”

Had I always been soft? It was difficult to say. I was a willful child. The scars on my knuckles—the punishments of frustrated teachers—testified to that. So, too, my refusal to speak to my mother, knowing she would weigh every word that came from my lips too heavily. But I was soft with Kreon. I saw in him what others didn’t.