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“She is here,” a voice says, and a murmur spreads.

So many faces. I can’t tell by their expressions what they’re thinking, or hoping for. Do they want me to run? Do they want me to die? They are here early.

Perhaps they just wanted a front-row seat.

Some are faces that I know—the Demous; little Hector’s mother; our neighbor, old Lydia; some of the girls I used to play with in the Agora when we were young. And many faces I don’t know, who’ve come to stare, too. It feels familiar, that narrow-eyed stare that so many of them turn on me. I learned it well enough back when I was considered a beauty. Now that I’m a freak, the stare is not so different after all. I tell myself to keep my back straight, my head high. I think if my mother were here that’s what she’d do.

And there’s the king, in his red silk litter, with guards around him. Guards! As ifIcould harmhim. They must really believe I am an unnatural creature.

They are afraid, I realize.

Of course they are afraid. They’re caught between the gods and their own conscience.

“Psycheandra, daughter of Andreos.” It’s the head councilman who speaks. His voice is full of self-importance, trying to disguise any fear or doubt.

“You have come here to fulfill the will of the gods. Aphrodite has summoned you, and you have obeyed.”

It’s Yiannis and Vasilis who obeyed, I’d like to point out.Iwanted to run.

I think of Prometheus, the Titan who was punished by the gods. He was chained to a rock where he was doomed to die daily, making his immortality a punishment. At least if I die today, it will only be once.

There is a metal stake driven hard into the rock—the strongest of the men must have done it—and a long chain fastened to the stake. The chain is for me.

I shiver. There will be no king’s executioner today. Instead they will shackle me, and leave me here to the gods’ will. But what that means in practice is that I will most likely starve to death. A king’s man will be stationed here to stand guard.

The crowd leaves a great space around the stake so that the spot where I am to stand looks almost like a stage.

A stage where I am to perform—because what is all this if not a performance? A performance of power. Of strength. Of cruelty.

Theauskalospiper has arrived. It’s considered an honor to have the king’s own mourning-piper, but all this theatre of grief feels like a mockery. The way all the onlookers have donned their darkest robes—it doesn’t fool me. Some are here to grieve, yes, but mostly they’re here for their own satisfaction. To thank their lucky stars that they’re not in my shoes, I suppose; or to congratulate each other for being more virtuous than me. It must be comforting to think that all those who are punisheddeserve it. I suppose they may even think Aphrodite will thank them for their offering.

“Shame on you,” Dimitra mutters. “Shame on all of you.”

I don’t tell her to forgive them. Some among this crowd suffer with us; some do not.

“It is time, Psycheandra,” says the councilman. I look toward him and at the king, who has descended from the palanquin to stand behind him, but the king doesn’t look me in the eyes today.

“Be well, Dimitra,” I say, and squeeze her hand briefly. “We may yet meet again. Do not assume the worst.”

Dimitra’s face closes over. She doesn’t believe it, and I don’t blame her. I don’t exactly believe it myself.

I turn to my father next. He shakes his head, looking at my hands as he clasps them.

“Forgive me,kori mou.Tell your mother to forgive me.”

I see the red rims of his eyes, and the shame written there. In that moment I realize he never really expected his escape plan to work. He knew we’d end up here all along. All his packing and preparing was just something to do; a way to keep the truth from sinking in. A way to distract us all.

“Look after Dimitra,” I say.

“It’s time, girl,” the councilman says again, growing impatient. I hear a faint hiss leave Dimitra’s lips. She loves me in her way, and she loves my father and her own dignity. I can feel the fury in her, the rage at seeing our family treated with contempt.

A thickset guard moves toward me. I stare him down, and turn to the king.

“I will go of my own accord. I have no need for your show of force.”

I walk across the large open space to where the stake and the shackle wait. As I go, a hand reaches out and briefly clasps mine. It’s little Hector’s mother. Her eyes are full of pain for me, and Ialmost lose my nerve. I can’t allow myself to feel her sorrow now, still less my own.

“Great King.” My father drops to one knee. “I beg you, show mercy to my daughter. She had no intent to offend. She is but young.”