Silia

By Philip J. Lees

The vase was moleskin black, and were it not for the glass case that protected it, I would have reached out my hand to stroke it and feel the glossy warmth it exuded, the complacency of great age.

It stood on a narrow base, precarious in balance. Above, its gravid body arced out and up and then, abruptly, changed its mind and retreated inwards to join the narrow neck, only to curve outwards again like a flower; on one side a delicately formed lip for pouring, on the other a slender handle that led the eye back to the base, asking an ineluctable question.

Around the vase at knee and shoulder height ran bands filled with the square-spiral maze pattern from which the word ‘meander’ is derived. Between them, a charioteer stood poised for the kill, painted in pastel shades of pink and blue, cream and terracotta. His spear was raised high, his beard jutted savagely ahead and his eyes were wild.

I had not yet seen Silia, but when I followed the chariot’s horses and walked around to the other side there she was, peeking out from behind the trunk of a fig tree, her eyes wide with terror, hand to her mouth, despairing the inadequacy of her hiding place. Her hair was coiled in an elaborate coiffure atop her head, but in her rush to flee some strands must have come loose, for they dangled in ringlets by her smooth, pale cheek.

Who was she? I wondered. Was she just some slave girl, hoping to escape the massacre that had consumed her master’s household? Surely not: her profile was too noble, her gown too fine. The mistress of the house, then, or a daughter, who knew that no member of the family would be spared if found.

I watched her, frozen in that ancient frieze, I stared her in the eye and my heart ached with helplessness. When I could bear it no longer, I turned and left the museum, blind to all its other offerings.

That same night Silia came to me in a dream. “Help me,” she cried, but her voice came from far away, echoing across time. She was there and not there. I could see her face clearly, but as though through a magnifying lens that carried her image over the aeons that separated us. “Help me,” like a lost and frightened child. How could I not try?

I decided I must find out who she was and who was the enemy that pursued her so ruthlessly. The next day, I went back to the museum. I bought the guide book and scanned through the meagre information it contained. Annoyed by how little I had learned, I took myself to the library to bury my nose in its vast tomes.

I stayed there all day, not pausing to eat or rest, poring through book after book to no avail. That night I tossed and turned, impatient at the need for sleep, counting the hours until I could return to my studies. Each time I slept, she entreated me anew, “Save me, please.” What would you have done?

It took four days, but when at last I saw her name, I recognised it immediately. It was one of the echoes I had heard in my dreams. Vasilia, great-granddaughter of Agamemnon, king of Mycenae. Agamemnon, proudest of the Achaeans, the brightest light in the ill-fated house of Atreus, murdered after his victorious return from Troy.

I knew I had found my answer. Feverishly, I read about the time known as the Return of the Heraclides, the Dorian invaders who conquered the kingdom and drove out the last members of the civilisation that had endured for centuries. Surely it was they who sought my Silia, bent on making certain no member of the royal family survived. Their cruelty enraged me and it was all I could do to stop myself ripping the page from the book and tearing it to fragments in my fury.

I forced myself to be calm. There was still time, I thought. Let the charioteer urge his horses all he might, let him brandish his spear in the madness of battle; if I was cunning enough and stealthy enough I could overcome him. I swore an oath: for my Silia, I, too, would become a warrior.

And that, Superintendent, is why I did what I did. That is why I hid in the museum until it closed, still and silent as a marble statue, waiting for the cloak of night. That is why I took the axe from the wall, smashed the glass case and cleft the vase in two with one deft blow. I crushed the charioteer to shards beneath my heel, then ground his remains to dust with the butt of the axe. Silia I placed back on her pedestal, safe at last, her vicious hunter vanquished.

And if you look, now, you will see how Silia thanks me. Her face glows with gratitude; the hand at her mouth no longer hides a gasp of fear, but blows a kiss. And she is smiling.

Silia

By Philip J. Lees

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