The sun was setting behind the low hills of island as Keola and Oresta dismounted in the large courtyard of the stable just inside the city wall. The Amazon tried hard to hide her awe. The rectangular building was huge, the largest structure she had ever seen. The walls were whitewashed mudbrick ten feet high. The red slate shingles of the roof were supported by a superstructure of wooden beams hewn from trees taller than any the poor rocky soil of Greece could possibly grow. Looking through the broad doorless entrance she guessed there must be a hundred or more separate stalls inside. And most, if not all, appeared occupied. A bustle of boys and men moved about feeding, watering, brushing, raking, shoveling. Raucous shouts and laughter filled the air, the sounds of men working hard but with a good spirit. To the left a lean-to against the wall of the courtyard protected a half dozen horses as they stood patiently having their hooves scraped and filed.
A group of naked children, boys and girls, raced by chasing rolling wooden hoops. A hoop ran up against the back of Keola’s leg and fell spinning on the hard packed earth. A small, skinny, ebony haired child, dirty head to foot from a hard days play, stopped and looked up with uncertain black eyes. She made a slight reflexive bow, a slave’s bow.
"Sorry…uh…," she searched for the right form of submissive apology, "sorry, my lady."
The Amazon narrowed her eyes, face stern. Before the hoop could stop spinning she caught it on the toe of her boot. She flipped it up to her hand. In one fluid motion she snapped her wrist and sent the hoop rolling up her arm to the shoulder. She ducked and the circle fell over her head around her neck. She immediately removed it and flipped it behind her back high in the air. As it spun down she noticed the children and some of the stablemen too were all stopped, watching. She took a step back. Just before the hoop hit the earth her foot shot out and caught it again on the toe of her boot. She flipped it up end over end and ducked. It settled around her neck like a necklace. She took it off and snapped her wrist. The circle sailed out as if she were throwing it away. A frown of surprised dismay passed over the child’s face. The hoop bounded once, twice, then the backspin Keola had imparted bit into the hard packed ground. It backed up as if pulled by an invisible string until it rolled into the girl’s waiting hand. She looked up at the Amazon and giggled her delight. The other children laughed as well.
"Thank you, my lady," the child said through a wide grin.
Keola tosseled the girl’s hair affectionately.
"You’re welcome, little miss," she winked.
The child raced off followed by her playmates, all talking excitedly at once about what they had witnessed. The men smiled quietly at each other and resumed their work. The Amazon looked at Oresta. The blonde had a bemused smirk on her face.
"What?" Keola shrugged. "I liked playing with a hoop when I was a little girl."
"And now that you’re a bigger girl?" Oresta asked.
The Amazon smiled.
"I still like playing with hoops." Her eyes narrowed challengingly. "So, and what did you play when you were a child?"
The smirk stayed on Oresta’s face.
"I was never a child," she said.
A chill attacked Keola’s stomach. There was no humor in the inflection. The words sounded like a hard, cold statement of fact. The smile slid off her face.
"Oresta?" a high nasal voice called out in surprise.
An old man, tall, gray, thin faced with deep lines around the eyes and a prominent nose, small black mole on the bridge, approached. The toga wrapped around his bony body was plain but clean and white. Leather boots protected his feet from the muck of the stables.
"What are you doing here?" the man continued familiarly. "I thought you’d be under a table in some Corinth wine shop by now. Or in the Sacred Grove converting some poor acolyte of Apollo into a godless heathen like yourself." He stopped in front of Oresta and chuckled. "That old bastard Themistocles didn’t ban you from the city again did he?"
"You’re so funny," Oresta replied disdainfully. "I was never banned and you know it. He politely asked me to leave and I politely said I would. The word ‘banishment’ was never spoken."
"Cause you paid him half the money," the old man said.
"That’s just a stupid rumor and a lie," Oresta said indignantly. The corner of her mouth twitched up. "It was only a quarter of the money." Her mischievous smile appeared. "He thought it was half, but I had some side bets he didn’t know about."
The old man shook his head laughing.
"That’s some race you’re running. To see whether you’ll be rich or dead first. You’re the best handicapper I know, Oresta. I always bet the odds. Where should I put my money?"
Oresta shrugged.
"Rich is relative. Who’s to decide if I’m rich or not. Death is certain. Always bet on a sure thing."
"So be it," the man nodded. "I’ll bet a hundred dinars you’re in hell before you have an estate on the Acropolis. I’ll collect it from Charon himself before he ferries you across the Styx."
The old man and the tall woman smiled at each other. The man’s eyes shifted to the Amazon standing quietly by her mount listening. Oresta glanced at Keola.
"This is my…uh…" the blonde hesitated awkwardly. A moment of embarrassed tension arose. Oresta seemed unable, or unwilling, to use the word, though the thought hung in the air an instant, like a wisp of smoke, for all to see, before evaporating. "This is Keola of Kalvia," she began again with a nod of her head, "a warrior of the Amazon people." ‘Friend’ remained unspoken.
The man made a slight, dignified bow, hiding his surprise behind his thick gray beard and bushy eyebrows.
"I am Xenophon, owner of this stable," he said.
Keola smiled her easy, friendly smile and stuck out her arm. Xenophon looked at it skeptically, like he was being invited to participate in some strange barbarian ritual, though he easily clasped arms a hundred times a day with friends and customers. Finally he brought his hand up. The grip on his forearm was firm and confident. Like the brown eyes he gazed into.
"A pleasure, sir." Keola said respectfully.
"The pleasure is mine," he replied, "to meet a warrior from such a legendary people."
His eyes flicked unconsciously to Oresta, as a hundred questions about the tall blonde woman suddenly had an answer, and a hundred bemused speculations were laid to rest. He swallowed the laugh that threatened to erupt as some of the more fanciful explanations he had considered, or heard from others, flashed through his mind.
"The horses could use a good feed and rubdown," Oresta said. She gestured at the stable. "But it looks like you’re full with the festival about to start."
"Oh come on," Xenophon said as he rubbed Farsala’s white forehead affectionately, "you know there’s always a place for my good girl. And we’ll find one for…?"
"Artaxa," Keola answered.
The stable owner looked around.
"Stamos!" he barked.
A boy of fourteen raking loose straw inside the stable looked up. He ran to his master in response to a crooked finger.
"Take these horses around to my private stalls," he instructed. "See that Phineas gives them a good rub and cleans their hooves. Tell the lazy lout I’ll check them myself later and I better like what I find."
"Yes, sir," the boy bowed.
He gathered up the reins and led the animals away.
"So, are you staying in the city tonight?" Xenophon asked as he patted Farsala’s rump as she passed.
"I guess we haven’t really decided," Oresta replied. She glanced up at the dying light then looked at Keola. "It will be full night soon. I don’t think we should try finding the Ambassadors house in the dark. It’ll be like wandering in the minatours maze blindfolded. The streets are confusing enough even when you can see."
"Not to mention the gangs of cut purses you might run into if you blunder into the wrong part of the city," Xenophon added.
"I’ll take your word for it," the Amazon shrugged. "We could sleep with the horses," she suggested. "Straw makes a fine bed."
Xenophon snorted.
"I believe I can do better than that," he scoffed. "I have a room with a good pallet in my house. My useless nephew was using it but I finally got rid of him."
"Stephon?" Oresta asked, surprised. "How?"
Xenophon leaned forward conspiratorially. "That playwright fellow, Euripides, piled up a nice bill here, and he’s spent all the money Pericles granted him getting his new play ready for the Festival. He’s broke. Stephon’s always fancied himself an actor with that pretty face of his. Always hanging around the Amphitheater making a nuisance of himself instead of doing anything useful. I told Euripides I’d forgive his debt, instead of having him arrested and brought before the court as a deadbeat, if he took Stephon in as an apprentice for the Chorus. I think they’ll be very contented together. That Stephon, he’s lazy but he’s not stupid. He’ll be happy to hike up his toga and grab his ankles to get what he wants." The old man smiled and winked. "And Euripedes looks like the man to give it to him."
Oresta grinned. Keola only looked perplexed.
The home was behind the great stable. Rectangular, two storied, whitewashed mudbrick with an unroofed central courtyard reached through an unprepossessing entrance that could have belonged to any man, rich or poor. A small family shrine was placed in the center of the courtyard, the ground covered with a beautiful black and white tile mosaic of Hercules riding winged Pegasus. Doorways from the yard led to open airy rooms on the ground floor. A single narrow wooden stair led up to the second floor where only small square windows looked down on the courtyard, big enough to let in air and light but too small for anyone to enter through. As Keola examined the place she had the impression it was two separate buildings, a fortress laid on top of a fine, spacious family dwelling. She noted she would have to ask her host, when given the opportunity, if that was the intention, if the second floor was meant as some last desperate refuge against attack.
"Persema," Xenophon called loudly.
After a moment a short middle aged woman in a plain, shapeless light blue dress appeared at the top of the stairs.
"I’m here, sir" she answered in a whispery voice.
"Tell your mistress we have guests for dinner tonight, Oresta and a friend. She should come down and join us," he called.
The woman smiled a genuinely pleased smile. "Yes sir," she said disappearing.
"Darius!" the old man roared.
A man appeared at the doorway to the kitchen, cleaning cloth in hand. He was of average height, stocky and muscular with a thick black beard that reached to his chest, longer than the style among Greeks. He wore a red felt cap over his curly hair and his light gray shirt had finely stitched patterns of black thread through the sleeves.
"Here, my master, no need for such shouting," he answered in a thick accent strange to Keola’s ear.
"I’ll shout as I damn well please in my own house, you barbarian dog," Xenophon replied, but his voice was lower. "I have two guests for dinner and my wife will be joining us. I want a decent meal tonight. Good Greek food. Bread, fish, dates, figs, onions, lentils. Something I actually recognize. None of that bizarre Babylonian swill you made last time. I had the runs for three days."
The Babylonian cocked his nose in the air haughtily. "My master had the runs because he ate like a pig, instead of sampling only a few things at a time, and drinking lots of watered wine to dilute the spices, as I instructed him."
The old man’s eyes narrowed. "I don’t take instruction from my servants, you overstuffed peacock. Now go and do what I told you before I take a rod to you. And make the food edible damn it. We have a special guest and I don’t want her puking all night."
Darius smiled approvingly at Keola as he made a graceful bow.
"For such a beautiful young woman I will set the table with ambrosia. I can see she’s a person capable of appreciating the meal I will prepare."
The Amazon smiled back with a nod of her head.
"If only I could say that about the people who live here," the Babylonian sniffed. He turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen.
Xenophon waved his hand dismissively. "If cooks weren’t so damn hard to find I’d throw your fat ass in Salamis bay and be done with you," he grumbled. But the animosity of the words rang hollow in the sound. It was the banter of a relationship well defined, long established and comfortable.
Oresta glanced around.
"Where’s Pompia?" she asked. "You two aren’t fighting again?"
Xenophon twisted his face in an exaggerated grimace.
"Fight?" he said mockingly. "You know we never fight. A respectable husband, father and business man doesn’t fight with his mistress. She is grateful for the kindness, care and dinars that he showers on her unceasingly and rewards him with nothing but love, kisses and cheerful obedience in return." The words dripped sarcasm.
Oresta chuckled.
"Did she bounce any pottery off your head before she stormed out?" she asked.
Xenophon smiled.
"She missed with two plates, a cup and a vase." He did a small weave and bob of his head. "I trained as a boxer when I was a young man in the gymnasium. Old age hasn’t stolen everything. I still have the instincts. She only got me last time because I wasn’t ready. You’d think a man of my years would know better than to relax his guard around a crazy little metic woman."
"Are you going to crawl over to Piraeus again and beg her to come back?" the blonde laughed.
The old man’s face became serious.
No, not this time," he answered slowly with a slight shake of his head. "Don’t get me wrong. It was a great pleasure having that firm young body squirming and moaning beneath me. You feel for a moment as if some of the long years have melted away and vigor has returned to a wrinkled old soul. But unfortunately youth really does belong only to the young. She wanted adventures and excitement. These days I only crave peace and quiet." The old man cocked his head as a thought occurred. He looked at Oresta and smiled. "My youngest son Hemeter has always had a wild streak. I’m sure the newness of marriage must have worn off by now, it’s been over a year. I just may send him to Piraeus with a gift and an offer. He and Pompia would be a good match, don’t you think?"
Oresta smiled her mischievous smile.
"Depends, did he study boxing in the gym?" she asked.
Keola poured a palm full of olive oil in her hand and smeared it down Oresta’s back and over her butt. She took the curved strigil stick from the small stand beside her and scraped it in one long motion from the top of the blonde’s shoulder down her back and over a firm buttock. With a snap of her wrist she sent the excess liquid and the dirt and sweat it had removed flicking down to the hard packed earthen floor. She repeated the motion. Oresta had a strigil as well and was busy scraping oil from her breasts, belly and legs.
"I know it’s another opportunity to make fun of my ignorance," Keola said, "but I assume Xenophon’s wife knows about this Pompia? I mean, by the gods, it sounds like she was living here."
Oresta chuckled.
"Of course she was living here, and of course Philestra knows. I’m afraid you’re in a new world now, Amazon, a mans world, and they play by different rules." She stopped to get a dollop of oil and rub the inside of her legs before scraping them clean. "The proper daughters of Athenian citizens are raised on the second floor of their fathers home, never mixing with any males except fathers, brothers and cousins. They are rarely allowed to leave the house, and only then with an escort of male relatives. Their mothers teach them sewing and weaving and how to manage a household. They are excruciatingly dull people with nothing to say you’d ever have the slightest interest in hearing. Their fathers marry them off to proper young citizens at fifteen or sixteen. On the wedding day they transfer themselves to their new husbands second floor where they take over running the home and producing a half dozen legitimate children, some of whom had better be boys if they don’t want to be considered dismal failures in life. They are mostly unseen and unmissed. Athenian men never mention them except to complain about them, that they don’t work hard enough, or mismanage the household money or haven’t produced an heir that survived infancy."
Keola shook her head as she dragged the strigil again down Oresta’s back and flicked the oil to the ground.
"So wives are prisoners upstairs while husbands are downstairs fucking whoever they please," she said disdainfully.
"Pretty much," Oresta answered as she splashed water in her face from a pottery basin, a diorama of children playing with their mother fired in red and black into the smooth enamel of its rounded surface.
"And these women have no objection?" Keola demanded.
The blonde shrugged.
"Who knows, who cares. It’s the way things are," she answered.
She turned and motioned Keola to take her place in front of the tall wood and ivory washstand. She rubbed oil over the Amazon’s back.
"It’s been this way for who knows, a thousand years," she continued as she used her strigil on Keola, "it’ll be this way for the next thousand. Sheep eat grass and get eaten by wolves. Nobody asks them if they like grass or being eaten. They are what they are and live the lives they’re supposed to live. Athenian women are Athenian women. They live the lives they’re supposed to live. Philestra has lived her’s well enough. She’s been a good wife. Even Xenophon will tell you so. Where he wants to stick his cock isn’t any concern of her’s. All Athenian citizens who can afford the extra mouth to feed have a mistress." A knowing, bemused smirk crossed her face. "After all, the poor jerks have to have something to complain and commiserate about to each other at their all night drinking parties. If men didn’t have anything to whine about they’d be mute."
Keola paused in rubbing her belly and thighs with oil.
"So what you’re saying is," she said incredulously "these women, they have no control over their lives at all. They’re just animals, being what they were born to be, and there’s no hope they can ever change it?"
The blonde stopped in mid scrape.
"How would they change it?" she asked. "Why would they want to? They have a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. Life is better for them than a lot I’ve seen. They have their place in the world. Only fools make themselves miserable trying to change the unchangeable. We are what we’re fated to be, Amazon."
Keola turned.
"How can you say that?" she asked, gazing into Oresta’s blue eyes. "Your whole life is about controlling and changing your fate. Leaving the valley to chase the sun and see the world. You’re the only person I’ve ever known to do such a thing. You’ve freed yourself from any destiny but the one you’re creating for yourself. Your very existence makes a lie of everything you say you believe."
The blonde’s face hardened with anger. "Fuck you!" she snapped. "What would you know?! You don’t know anything about me and my destiny!"
She stalked several paces away, her back to Keola. She took a deep gulp of air to calm her temper. She bit her lip hard.
"You’ll just have to take my word for it," she said finally, the anger fading from her voice. "I’m living the life I was fated to live. You can’t free yourself from what you are. It’s better to accept the world, because the world doesn’t give a damn whether you accept it or not. It is what it is. It never changes." She rubbed her eyes then turned and looked at the Amazon. The corner of her mouth twitched up in a smile. "But if you stop smashing your head against it the headaches clear up."
Keola gazed at a face resigned, weary to the soul, overburdened. But in the tired eyes, the crooked smile, was still an amused, cynical spark of defiance, a refusal to be crushed by the weight she seemed to carry. The Amazon felt herself pulled forward. She wanted to touch that face. Her deepest instinct was to care for others but there was something in this woman that touched her more. What it could be she knew she could never articulate. A poet she was not. But she could feel it. Her hand came up, fingers ready to caress a warm cheek. But as they came close Oresta’s fingers curled around hers and gently pulled the hand away. The blonde let out a breath that could have been a sigh, or a plea, or was she raising her shield, putting up a bronze barrier between herself and an attacker.
"Oresta," Keola whispered, "I’m not…"
The blonde turned and walked to the pallet a few feet away. She picked up her tunic and slipped it over her head.
"We should get dressed," she said, back to the Amazon, voice flat and emotionless, "it’s rude to keep your host waiting."
Keola shook her head, mystified. Usually she had such a sure instinct about people. An innate ability to judge character. She trusted it completely. But this woman left her in total confusion. She was a shadow, there and not there. A ghost who disappeared the moment she appeared material and solid, touchable. The Amazon went back to the wash stand and finished her oil bath. As she dressed she found it difficult to look at Oresta as she waited patiently at the door for her. She had reached out and been turned away, again. Why was she pushing herself on someone not interested? She felt embarrassed at her apparent neediness. For a year she had left the thought of love out of her life. Now she was humiliating herself. She felt angry that her emotions were betraying her like this. That Sara’s memory was not as powerful as it once was. How could that be? Was she so shallow, to forget so much so soon? She felt a burning shame. She brushed past the blonde without a word into the courtyard. Oresta watched motionless, then suddenly she absently rubbed her cheek, where the Amazon’s hand would have touched her.
The dining room contained four short legged, backless, exquisitely carved couches, high curved armrest at one end, flat at the other. The hard brown polished oak was softened by down stuffed cushions and pillows piled by the armrest. The couches were placed close around a low square cherry wood table. The white plastered walls were covered with rather uninspired paintings of pastoral scenes. Deer leaping, stags battling horn to horn, a mountain lion perched on a boulder watching. True artists were expensive. The plasterer has a cousin who for a few dinars more would give the room a classier feel. Xenophon liked class, as long as it did not cost too much. A humble stable owner needed to know his limitations. Besides, a deer was a deer. He did not need the damn thing rendered so lifelike it was bounding off the wall, smashing his crockery. Keola and Oresta lay on couches opposite each other, Xenophon and Philestra the same. The food and drink was brought in courses by Darius, set out on the table in easy reach. A knife was the only utensil, finger bowls of fresh water sat beside the plates to clean greasy or sticky fingers. The meal was eaten in a semi-reclined position, one arm thrown over the arm rest. Only barbarians ate sitting up, cramping the stomach and promoting indigestion and constipation. Everyone knew it was why barbarians had such generally sour dispositions. Oresta watched the Amazon carefully, ready to help her with the fine points of civilized table manners. To her mild amazement Keola seemed as comfortable and relaxed as if she had been dining with the Athenian middle class her whole life. The blonde knew better. Amazons ate in communal food huts sitting cross-legged on the floor around long low tables, elbowing and reaching, slurping and laughing, greasy hands tearing and scooping. Oresta found herself admiring the sure, easy grace of Keola’s movements as she talked with Xenophon. There was an unmistakable maturity about her that belied her unlined face. Certainly watching the Amazon was more pleasant than listening to the conversation. Politics again. The woman seemed obsessed with talking politics with every new person she met.
"Yes," Xenophon pontificated, "Pericles has done an excellent job. He has the Spartan threat well in hand. As long as we dominate the Aegean they can never defeat us. The Spartan army may be invincible on land but it’s the sea that holds the balance of power."
"Why do the Spartans want to fight?" the Amazon asked, setting down the wide saucer of Attic wine she just sipped from.
"The basest reason possible," the old man huffed, "jealousy. We grow richer every day with our trading empire. The products of the whole world pass through our port of Piraeus. And as the only great democracy in the world we attract all the greatest artists and thinkers, who come to enjoy the freedom we offer. Our wealth and power is a shining example of what free men can do. We’re the future, Keola, and the Spartans hate us for it." He paused to take a sip of wine. "They sit like toads stuck in a mudbank, watching us grow in glory while they stagnate. Ruled by their two hide bound, tradition obsessed kings, never changing or improving, herding their goats, terrorizing their helot slaves, creating nothing anyone will ever remember. Seeing their importance shrink as ours grows they envy us the way a wretched, childless, bitter, spurned old widow envy’s the newly weds who’ve moved in next door, full of life and promise. They want to destroy us but they can’t. The First Citizen is right. Let them come. They can never breach our walls. And while their army sits outside useless and demoralized we can supply ourselves indefinitely as our navy raids their unprotected coast, stealing livestock and burning crops. When they finally collapse Athens will bring all of Greece under its protection."
He looked at Keola and raised his saucer in a salute.
"Perhaps one day we will be able to count the noble Amazons as one of our allies," he said grandly.
Keola raised her saucer.
"Perhaps," she said with a friendly smile.
Oresta’s eyebrows came together. There was something in the smile, the eyes, the sound of the word. The Amazon said it with an assurance, as if she were being coy about the people’s plans and intentions, not just a dispatch rider expressing her ignorance of the future.
Darius entered to gather empty plates in preparation for the next course, fresh oysters on the half shell, their ancestors imported from the coast of Gaul to be raised in artificial ponds, a staple of the diet, and caviar from the Black Sea. The Babylonian smiled at Keola as he picked up her empty plate.
"Did my lady enjoy the sea perch?" he asked.
"Yes," she answered. "I’ve never tasted anything quite like it. It was very sharp and hot. It was excellent."
"It was stewed with pepper, glove and garum with a dollop of Corinthian ale to bring out the flavor, an innovation of mine," the Babylonian said proudly.
"Mine wasn’t hot," Xenophon grumbled accusingly.
"The master gets the runs when he eats good food," Darius explained, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. "I left the garum and ale out of his perch to spare his delicate system."
"Delicate system my ass," the old man barked. "You probably sold half my supply of garum and pocketed the money, you thief. I’ll be checking that in the morning."
"As you wish," Darius said with a condescending roll of the eyes as he backed out of the room with the plates.
The Babylonian piled the dishes with the other dirty plates on a low table in the corner of the kitchen. He began arranging oysters in a circle on the edge of clean plates then putting a scoop of black fish eggs from an amphora into small enameled cups and placing them in the center of each plate.
"Have you seen the master’s guests tonight?" he asked.
Festus, Darius’s assistant in the kitchen, and family butler, maid and gopher rolled into one, looked up from the far side of the room where he was preparing dessert, fresh baked wheat bread smothered in butter and honey and sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg.
"I peeked when they first went in to eat," the short skinny youth, only nineteen, with knobby knees and elbows and a sparse half grown sandy beard that didn’t hide his cratered pox scars or yellow teeth from a malnourished childhood, answered.
"Was not the auburn haired one magnificent?" Darius enthused as he put sprigs of parsley around the caviar filled cups. "She moves like…like…" he paused to find the right description, then turned and smiled at Festus, "like a lioness. All power and grace and beauty."
"And what would you know about a lioness?" Festus snorted derisively. "The only lions you’ve ever seen are flea bitten toothless old hags in a traveling circus."
The smile disappeared from Darius’ face.
"You have an awful smart mouth for a gutter raised ex-slave," he spat.
"Yea, well, I paid for the right to this smart mouth with hard work till I saved enough to buy my freedom," the youth shot back. "Nobody gave me anything."
"The master gave me my freedom for loyal service," Darius answered, nose inching up. "Some things are purchased with something more valuable than mere coins out of a purse that any dog can collect."
Festus shook his head and shrugged dismisively while continuing his work. "Fuck you," he mumbled under his breath.
"Anyway," Darius ignored the insult, "I’ll have you know I’ve seen many lions, and lioness’s, and hunted them as well. I was raised in a village near the headwaters of the sacred Euphrates. There were still wild prides in those days, preying on our herds of sheep and cattle. I went often with my father and brothers and uncles and cousins as a boy to hunt them. What wondrous creatures they were. The males with their shaggy manes and menacing roars were grand to look on, but it was the females that were always the most dangerous. All you could see was their yellow focused eyes staring at you through the tall grass, hunched down ready to spring. Their patience and cunning and courage were terrifying. I lost a cousin when two of them ambushed him as we were trying to lay a trap for them. He was dead in an instant, his throat ripped out before any of us could help him."
"Well, if this girl is a lioness," Festus said, "perhaps you should be careful she doesn’t rip your throat out."
"She might," Darius replied thoughtfully. "She has the look of danger behind that smile of her’s. I wouldn’t be surprised if she has killed." He paused and cocked his head knowingly and smiled a private smile. "But the thrill of the chase comes in the knowledge that your quarry is not helpless. That she can strike back if you are clumsy or careless or stupid. If you don’t feel a tingle of fear in the pit of your stomach as you hunt then you’re not truly a hunter, but only a butcher out in the pen slaughtering a pig for dinner."
"Didn’t the master say she was an Amazon?" the youth asked as he sprinkled nutmeg from a cloth pouch.
"Yes," Darius nodded.
Festus chuckled. "I’d say your cock has sniffed out the wrong trail then you randy old goat. You’d be better off back in the Agora chasing after the boys that follow that crazy Socrates around. They might find you more attractive than she ever will. I hear a lot of them will bend over for the right price."
The Babylonian frowned. "What are you talking about?" he asked, irritated.
"She’s an Amazon you old fool," Festus smirked. "Everyone’s heard the stories about them."
He stuck out his tongue and flicked it rapidly up and down.
Darius waved a disgusted hand at the young man.
"She just hasn’t been properly introduced to the pleasures of her body," he said. "No tongue can replace a good hard cock and a man who knows how to use it."
Festus let out a mocking guffaw. "You may know how to use one, old man, but where are you going to get one? I’d let you use mine but it will be busy tonight poking that young maid that waits on lady Calpernia down the street. We have a meeting tonight in the back of the stable."
The Babylonian shook his head. "Now there’s a pretty picture. You’re pale skinny ass bouncing up and down on that blob of sweating flesh. She probably howls like a lovesick dog too. You’ll have the horses stampeding everywhere and get trampled in the rush. We’ll find the two of you lumped together as a greasy spot on the floor."
"There are worse ways to die, old man," Festus replied, an edge in his voice. "I could die like you, alone in my bed from some seizure after working myself into a lather trying to get a limp noodle to stand up."
Darius blew out a contemptuous, superior snort of air through his lips and finished arranging the oysters and caviar. He was gathering the plates to take into the dinning room when Festus looked up from his work.
"What do you think of that other one, Oresta?" he asked. "She’s pretty strange looking, the way she dresses and all, and that sword on her back like a warrior. The Master treats her like a man or something, inviting her to dinner all the time, staying up half the night drinking with her, talking."
Darius paused a moment, head cocked in his habitual pose, considering.
"She is pleasant to look at," he said finally. "That blonde hair and those high cheekbones and that tanned, unspoiled skin. And her teeth are all white and even when she smiles. That’s always attractive. But," he shook his head decisively, "she’s too damn tall. A man shouldn’t have to get a crick in his neck looking up at a woman. And those blue eyes, I don’t like them. They look at you so cold and disdainful, like she knows every thought you’ve had, or ever will have, and she’s already dismissed you as a useless turd. Mark my words, her heart’s been chilled by something. And a woman without a heart is a waste. That’s what women give to this hard world, the tenderness of their hearts, to make it a little softer."
"The philosopher cook speaks," Festus scoffed out of habit. But then he paused and stared pensively a moment. Suddenly he winced and snapped his head, like he was spitting a rancid seed of a thought from his brain.
"There’s nothing that makes this world any softer, you old fool," he said bitterly. "Your head bounces on the hard ground when your mother forces you out of her belly and it only gets worse after that. If women had any heart they would have left you where you were. I’m more interested in a woman’s pussy than her heart. I know that’s warm and inviting and my cock is always happy there. That’s the only softness women bring to this world."
Darius stacked the plates carefully on one another into a delicate tower and headed out of the kitchen.
"I see you and lady Oresta have a lot in common," he said. "Both your hearts are cold."
He stopped in the entranceway and looked back at the young man with a mocking sneer.
"You’d be a good match too. You come up to about crotch level on her. You could keep her very satisfied with that nimble tongue of yours. She could use you as a lap dog."
The Babylonian disappeared before Festus could answer.
"Fuck you," he mumbled at the empty space.
The cook set out the plates carefully and refilled each saucer from a pitcher of wine on the table. All except Philestra’s. Hers was filled with water and she had barely touched it. Proper Athenian women did not drink. It loosened their tongues and their hold on their virtue. The first was annoying, the second catastrophic. An Athenian husband could kill a violator of his wife, and her as well, without penalty of law. A man’s home was his castle. What happened inside its walls was no business of the state. The humblest Athenian citizen’s proudest boast was that he was a king in the sanctuary of his house.
Darius lingered awhile by the Amazon. He whispered in her ear as he poured for her. She looked up and smiled her friendly, pleasing smile and nodded, whispering in reply. Xenophon chuckled to himself as he took a sip of fresh wine, peering over the edge of the saucer at the exchange. He had seen his old servant work his smooth charm with women many times and secretly he rather admired it. He leaned toward Oresta to whisper a snide bit of wit. The words caught in his throat when he glanced at the blonde. Her blue eyes were riveted on Keola, a slight furrow in her brow. What’s this look?, he leaned back, concern, protectiveness, he arched an eyebrow, jealousy? His gaze returned to Keola as the Babylonian straightened and lightly touched her shoulder before withdrawing. The old man hid a laugh in his saucer as he took another sip. If it is jealousy I’ll be damned if I get between him and a woman scorned. He’ll just have to take his beating like a man. If Athena is kind I’ll be there to watch..
Philestra, small, slender, with deep lines around her mascara painted eyes and streaks of gray in the black hair piled high on her head, delicately slurped an oyster and threw the half shell on the ground.
"Keola?" she said in a soft, unobtrusive voice.
Keola looked over slightly startled. It was the first word she had heard the woman speak since she invited them to sit at the beginning of the meal. Now it was almost time for dessert.
"Yes ma’am?" she answered respectfully.
"My husband tells me you’re an Amazon warrior?"
"Yes ma’am," Keola nodded.
The woman let out a breath of genuine amazement. An almost girlish smile of wonderment flashed across her face.
"My old nurse when I was young used to tell my sisters and I the most incredible stories of Amazon warriors. The gods themselves trembled to hear your warcrys. Even great Hercules feared you. You were the terror of men everywhere, fierce and deadly and unconquerable, slaughtering without mercy all who opposed you." She sighed happily. "I loved those stories."
The Amazon shifted uncomfortably, a slight tinge of red embarrassment in her cheeks. She glanced at Oresta. The corner of the blondes’ mouth was curled up in her usual knowing, laughing smirk.
"Yes, well, uh…ma’am," Keola stammered, "those sound like interesting stories. We have many legends about ourselves too. But we don’t slaughter without mercy. That’s not what we believe in as worshippers of Artemis. And we fear the gods the way any sensible people do. I doubt they fear us. We’re just human, like everyone else."
"I know that," Philestra smiled," just human, but a very beautiful and impressive young human, someone who brings honor to her people. Don’t you think so, husband?"
Xenophon nodded.
"I think so," he agreed.
"You’ve never said I was beautiful and impressive, Philestra," Oresta complained, mock hurt in her voice.
"That’s because Philestra’s eyesight has not been affected by the years the way mine has," Xenophon interrupted. "She can still see you quite clearly."
Keola and Philestra laughed. Oresta shook her head and wrinkled her nose.
"I’m so curious," the old woman continued. "How did such a thing ever happen? A society only of women. It seems impossible."
"I guess maybe it does seem impossible to the outside world," Keola agreed. "But to me growing up in the Amazon valley I couldn’t imagine any other way of living. It’s this strange world I find myself in now that seems impossible." She smiled. "But I’m getting used to it."
"We’ve heard different legends about the founding of the Amazons," Xenophon said. "Tell us the real story. How did you come to be?"
"Well, every Amazon is taught the history of her people, from the great Cyan who is the mother of us all, to this day," Keola replied. She could not help glancing at Oresta as she spoke. "It’s taught us along with our letters and numbers. It’s a part of each of us, the glue that binds us together as a people."
"Please tell us child," Philestra urged eagerly.
The Amazon nodded she would. "The people started as a tribe like any other tribe," she began, "many, many generations ago, when the land was chaos and cities like Athens and Sparta and Thebes were only villages. Invaders, barbarians from the north, were moving through the valleys of Greece, conquering, pillaging, destroying. Our mother Cyan was the wife of the chief of a small tribe whose name has been lost to us in the mists. The invaders, Scythians they were called, demanded tribute in cattle and sheep and the most fertile women, to become concubines to their best warriors. The men of the tribe gathered together in council and decided to fight, for they loved their wives and daughters and could not bear to see them turned into slaves. They marched out, all who could walk and hold a weapon, in the cold and snow of winter, hoping to catch the barbarians by surprise in their winter camp. But a blizzard called forth by the barbarian’s powerful gods caught the men as they marched. They were trapped for days in its icy clutches and many died. When it was over the survivors were discovered by a Scythian hunting party. Too weak to fight they were slaughtered almost to a man. Only two, near death, were able to return to the women and children of the tribe to tell them what had happened. It seemed certain that in the spring the barbarians would come and enslave everyone. The women cried and wailed and tore their clothes in an agony of fear and sorrow, for their men and for themselves. But the great Cyan was not a woman to cry and wail. She was a woman who loved her people and would not see them brought so low as to become slaves and wretched concubines. She called the women and children together and told them they must leave their homes before spring. They must be gone when the barbarians arrived and find a new place to live."
Keola paused for a sip of wine. As she surveyed her audience she could see Xenophon and Philestra were hanging on every word, impatient for her to continue, and that even Oresta was listening intently, a faraway look on her face, as if lost in long forgotten memories.
"They trekked north and west," the Amazon continued, "through endless hills and narrow barren valleys as the last snows of winter melted under the spring sun. The women and children suffered greatly. People were washed away in sudden floods and others lay down and died of cold and hunger and hopelessness. Only the great Cyan’s will kept the people together and moving. Our mother was a great huntress, as skilled as any man could be, and she ranged ahead of the people scouting and hunting, bringing in the fresh meat that kept the people alive. But nowhere could she find a valley big enough and fertile enough to support and protect the people, and even her iron will was beginning to weaken with despair. Then one day in early summer she was tracking a great stag with many points. A stag that would feed dozens of desperate starving mouths. Mother Cyan stalked the stag for half a day, till finally she had a clear shot through the trees of the thick forest. Her arrow struck home behind the shoulder. The noble beast bolted, bellowing his outrage, into a thicket and disappeared. Mother Cyan ran after, ready to track the stag till its heart gave out. But on the other side of the bushes, to her surprise and joy, she found the animal already collapsed and dead, lying on its side, her arrow still lodged deep in its flesh. She knelt beside it and pulled her knife, ready to begin skinning and dressing."
"’What are you doing, mortal?!’ a voice boomed out of the trees on the other side of the stag."
"Mother Cyan knew no human had such a voice. That it could only be a god or demon. She lowered her head and averted her eyes, her heart quaking with fear. She did not move or reply."
"’I see what you are,’ the voice accused, ‘a scavenger and thief. A vulture in human form stealing my meat.’"
"’I am not a thief, Great Lord,’ Cyan answered. ‘I killed this stag to feed my hungry people. You see my arrow still sticks from his warm flesh.’"
"’You killed it?!!’ the voice thundered, so loud the leaves of the trees shook. ‘Your puny arrow was but a pinprick to this great beast. ‘Twas my arrow that brought it to earth as he came through the thicket. Behold and know the truth!’"
"The stag rolled over as if pushed by an unseen hand. Mother Cyan scrambled back so as not to be crushed under it. From its other side an arrow larger than any she had ever seen was sunk almost to the green feathering of its shaft. It was between two ribs, piercing the heart."
"’Now be gone, impertinent mortal,’ the voice said, ‘and annoy me no longer. This meat will adorn the tables of Olympus this night in a great feast, and Father Zeus will bless my name for the meal I have prepared him. Now be gone!!’"
"Mother Cyan trembled with fear, to be in the presence of the Goddess Artemis, for she knew the green arrow could only belong to the Goddess of the Hunt, but she did not move."
"’Great Goddess Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt and protector of the hunter,’ she said. ‘My women and children are crying with hunger. It was my arrow that struck first. The stag would have died soon enough. The meat belongs to my people.’"
"’Accursed woman, born in blood and filth!!’ the Goddess roared. ‘You would dispute with me like I am a peasant haggling over the price of shoes!! My next arrow will find your heart, and the crows will pluck your eyes and the wild dogs will feast on your flesh, as my brothers and sisters feast on this stag!’"
"Mother Cyan shook with fear, but even in her terror her quick clever mind still worked."
"’Kill me then!’ she shouted back. ‘And with me all my people! We are women cursed in this world where every hand is raised against us. Where only slavery and degradation await us. How fitting that the Goddess not only of the hunt but also chastity and purity should finish what heathen barbarians began.’"
"No arrow struck her. Mother Cyan gulped in relief. She continued with the plan that had leaped into her agile brain."
"’The Goddess is a woman unsoiled by the touch of man or God, pure in body and thought. Her love of virgin forest and chaste virtuous living is known to all. But in this corrupt world who worships Great Artemis? Who worships the virtues that make her great? Zeus, Athena, Apollo, Hestia, people gather at their temple’s to pray and sacrifice. To praise them and beg their protection. But who sacrifices to Artemis, that she may be remembered and honored?’"
Keola paused and smiled as she took a sip of wine.
"Mother Cyan well understood the rivalry and jealousy of the children of Zeus," she observed.
Xenophon and Philestra nodded knowingly. The Amazon glanced at Oresta. She still seemed far away, lost in a private world.
"’My women are hungry, thirsty, lost,’ Keola continued, speaking Cyan’s words, ‘they search for a place of refuge where they can live in peace and safety. They cry out for a patron and protector who can show them how to lead lives of chastity and purity. Will Great Artemis not feel compassion for such women?’"
"Great Artemis was moved by Mother Cyan’s pleas, and her courage. She led the people to the remote Amazon valley, with its easily defended passes and good land and water. And Mother Cyan, with her own hands, built the first Temple of Artemis in the center of the first Amazon village, Farsala, our capitol. The current Sacred Temple still stands on the same spot all these hundreds of years later. And in the Temple Great Artemis came to Mother Cyan and they made a pact together, that as long as we are true to the Amazon way of life our Goddess gave us we would always have her protection."
"The Amazon way?" Philestra asked.
"That the valley is only for women," Keola answered. "That every Amazon is brought up loving honor and virtue and chastity. That we are a proud people, slaves of no one, man or woman. That we cherish the purity of our minds and bodies. That we honor Artemis and the people in everything we do." She smiled a rueful smile. "Of course we’re just human. Like everyone I think, we fall short of our ideals. I know I do. But all you can do is try. So far Great Artemis has not abandoned us."
"You must be a source of tremendous comfort and refuge to the women in that part of Greece and Macedon," Xenophon said.
"No sir, we are not a refuge," Keola corrected. "One of our oldest sayings is ‘to be Amazon is to be raised Amazon’. The guard posts at the entrances to our valley always turn away older girls and women who try to enter. We are a people with our own history and traditions and beliefs. We’re not a sanctuary. We’re not a place for outsiders to hide from the world’s troubles."
Philestra leaned toward the Amazon, a slightly embarrassed, doubtful smile on her face.
"You’re all really chaste, all those women?" she asked in a semi-whisper.
Keola leaned forward.
"Yes ma’am," she nodded, her voice a near whisper as well. "In some places they call us the ‘virgin warriors’." A grin spread across her face. "It’s not very hard. There aren’t any men."
Xenophon guffawed loudly. Philestra let out a chirping little laugh. She leaned back.
"I envy you, Keola," she said. "As the bearer of three sons I can tell you the pleasure of conception is hardly worth the pain and fear of birth. I nearly died bringing my last one, Perseus, into this world."
"Yes, but it’s Perseus that you doted on the most, wife," Xenophon said. "Zeus created women to love their children and find their pleasure in them. Sex is a man’s pleasure, like drinking and gambling. Of course all a man’s pleasures are also called vices. While all a woman’s pleasures are called virtues. As far as I can tell, a man is condemned to hell by his very nature while it is a perverse woman indeed who does not find herself in the heaven of the Elysian Fields. They say it’s a man’s world. I say it’s our consolation prize for having the misfortune of being born male."
"And am I one of those perverse women who have lost their place in paradise?" the blonde asked with an arched eyebrow.
" Oresta," the old man answered, "as someone who can drink more and gamble better than anyone I know I would say your spot in the nether world is quite secure. But I find that very comforting."
"You do, huh," Oresta said. "How nice to know my everlasting torment gives you such a warm glow. My life won’t have been a waste after all."
"Well, it does," Xenophon raised his saucer and saluted the blonde with a slight nod of the head and a
smile. "It’s comforting to know I’ll have at least one friend whose conversation I can tolerate to spend eternity with."
Oresta smiled and nodded back.
"The things these two say to each other," Philestra said to Keola. "I worry sometimes that Athena will strike the house with lightning. They have no respect for anything. I’m so glad to know you are a woman who honors piety and reverence and the traditions of your people. Keep your virtue and chastity, Keola. It honors us all."
"I’m sure our young Amazon friend has lived up to the high ideals of her people much better than she lets on," Xenophon said. "But that brings up an interesting question. In a valley full of virgins, how do you…how should I say it, sustain yourselves?"
"The hardship of life sustains us, sir," Keola replied. "It’s why after all these years and many generations we don’t have to worry about extinction. There will always be plenty of Amazons as long as the earth keeps spinning as it does."
Xenophon eyebrows came together, perplexed at the strange reference to spinning. What might that be about? Some quaint unknown Amazon belief he decided. Keola exchanged a glance with Oresta. The blonde cocked her head slightly to one side and the corner of her mouth edged up. Her eyes smiled at the Amazon.
"Among the villages of southern Thrace," Keola continued, "we are known as ‘Artemis’ Orphans’. We all start life outside the valley but through tragedy or poverty we are gathered in by Artemis and given a new life as Amazons. It’s simple really. Around us to the north and west in the mountains of Macedon and the plains of Thrace are many villages where the cult of Artemis is strong. The hunters of Macedon sacrifice to her to gain her favor on the hunt. The farm wives of Thrace pray to her to keep their daughters unspoiled and virginal until the wedding night. I’m told it’s quite a scandal if the new husband finds his new wife has entertained others before him. All these villages have a small Temple of Artemis where sacrifices can be laid at the foot of her altar and prayers chanted and incense burned. And each Temple has a single Priestess who lives in a hut beside it. The Priestess is an Amazon, for everyone knows our connection to the Goddess is a special one. It’s the tradition in these villages that if a female infant or toddler is orphaned with no relative willing to take her that she be brought to the temple and left at the altar, a sacrifice to Artemis. Also mothers who give birth to a girl they can’t feed, through poverty or shame because she’s unmarried, bring them to Artemis. The Priestess takes charge of such girls and keeps them until the Gathering In. Each spring, after the season’s planting is done, a new Priestess is sent out to each Temple and the old one brings back to the valley any charges that have been put in her care during her year as a Temple Priestess. Also sometimes family’s will bring a newborn girl to our outposts guarding the entrances to our valley. Among some people it is considered a blessing to a family’s fortunes if they give their firstborn female to be raised as a Priestess, that Artemis will look on them with special favor."
"Incredible, ‘Artemis’s Orphans’," Xenophon marveled, shaking his head. "I’ve never heard that name before, but it certainly fits doesn’t it. You were an orphan then, Keola, or abandoned?"
"Yes," the Amazon nodded. "I don’t know which. No records are kept about such things. It’s not important. We all arrive in this world the same way. It’s what we do with life once we get here that matters."
"Yes, yes, well said," Xenophon enthused. "Exactly right." He looked at Oresta and smiled triumphantly. "See, so young and yet she already knows what you should have learned long ago. Life is what you make of it. You create it every day. If you can’t learn from an old friend then learn from a young one. This fatalism you have, that everything is determined by fate and destiny, that nothing can be changed, it’s hogwash. Athens has become the city on the hill, the light of the world, because we’ve put such nonsense behind us. We’re free men thinking and creating as we will. The fates have been banished from this place, and they will be from the whole world one day. That’s the only destiny I see at work." His gaze returned to Keola. "We spend all night arguing about such things. Someday she’ll come to understand how right I am." He grinned a little grin. "It’s a slow process with her though. Kind of like creating a statue of Athena using a wet reed as your chisel."
The Amazon snickered. The corner of Oresta’s mouth curled up. She looked at Philestra, who had either a bored or baffled look on her face, she was uncertain which, and briefly considered discussing the role of fate in shaping a life. But she thought better of it. Politeness overruled her competitive instinct. Besides, Keola would certainly have something to say if she were not polite. A strange, unexpected, disbelieving laugh echoed through her consciousness. What witchery was at work that she should censor herself to please the Amazon? It was…unsettling.
"You know what they say about opinions, Xenophon," she said finally. "They’re like assholes, everyone has one."
The old man hooted and waved a hand while Philestra and Keola laughed. He took a sip of wine and settled his attention again on the Amazon.
"So, if I’m not being too curious," he asked, "how are all these girls that arrive every year in the valley raised? How were you brought up?"
"All the children are parceled out to the different villages in the valley," Keola explained. "Some are adopted by couples, mates we call them, who wish to form a family. Others are raised by the village in communal huts, all the adults sharing the responsibility of caring for them. I myself was adopted by a couple, Aurora and Seneca. I’m the youngest of five daughters. My sisters are all much older than me. My mothers adopted me late in life. Mother Seneca always said they took one look at me and knew I’d be such a hellion they’d better take me home to keep me from infecting a whole hut full of innocent girls. Being the last child of older mothers I was doted on a lot. Which was very nice for me," she smiled at Oresta, "but I’m afraid some think it made me a little spoiled and headstrong."
"If you drop the word ‘little’ from that last sentence you’ll be closer to the truth," the blonde said dryly.
Keola leaned forward, a giggling sparkle in her eyes.
"Ha, ha," she said slowly, "You’re so witty and clever I’m speechless."
Oresta leaned forward.
"Ha, ha" she replied, looking into those shining brown eyes, "you flatter me too much. The person hasn’t been born who could leave you speechless. The sirens will stop their singing before you stop talking. Sisyphus will push that rock to the top of the mountain before you stop giving your opinion."
Keola leaned back. Oresta did as well.
"Uh, huh," the Amazon grunted.
The old couple shared a smile across the table.
"Keola," Philestra said, "You looked so impressive and dangerous to me with that sword on your back." She glanced at the blade where it rested under the Amazon’s couch. "It looked so natural and right on you, as if you were born with it there. Do all Amazons carry a weapon?"
"No, actually only a small number of us earn the privilege of wearing a sword," Keola answered. "All Amazons are taught to defend themselves. It’s a part of our schooling as children. But only those who show real ability and the proper temperament are selected to receive the advanced training that leads to being a warrior. We are a special class among the Amazon people, with a long and proud history. It’s a great honor and responsibility we are given. As protectors of the people we are expected to take our swords everywhere. It’s such a part of me now I feel naked if I don’t have it." She smiled slyly. "Some in the valley say we warriors make love to our swords at night. Well, I can’t speak for anyone else, but personally I can assure you, despite what you might hear, my blade and I are only good friends." She reached under the couch and patted her sheathed sword. "Isn’t that right, sweetheart?"
Everyone laughed, Keola loudest of all.
Chapter
Beatrice, Serif and Serena slumped together on the log. Serena quietly wept, big salty drops of water muddying her dirty cheeks. Serif did not comfort her twin as she usually did. She sat sullen, silent and motionless, staring straight ahead. Beatrice had her elbows on her knees, her head in her hands, her long dusty, unkempt yellow hair hiding her face like a curtain. Suddenly she straightened and stamped her dirty bare foot on the ground.
"I can’t walk anymore, Alexander!" she cried. "I can’t! I can’t! I can’t! I’m hungry. I’m so hungry!" Her expression went from angry to pleading in an instant. "When are we going to eat?"
Alexander laid his head back on the tree he was leaning against and searched the leaden sky despairingly.
"Soon, okay," he said unconvincingly, "we’ll eat soon. Just a little farther and we’ll eat. I promise."
"No!" Beatrice screamed. "Now! I want to eat now!"
She stamped her feet again furiously. Suddenly she dissolved into tears. Helpless, hopeless, defeated tears of complete exhaustion. Serena cried harder, her little body convulsing. Serif did nothing, numb to any feeling. Alexander looked down at his brother sitting on the ground next to him. Philip looked up. Water glistened in his eyes. His chin quivered slightly. An almost heartbroken sigh of air escaped Alexander. How long had it been since he had seen his little brother cry? He could not remember the last time. Had he given up hope too? Alexander closed his eyes. For a moment the urge to run, run and run and run until he collapsed from exhaustion far away was overwhelming. He felt trapped in a nightmare that never ended. A dark void he could never escape. He knew death was the only release. But he did not want to die. He wanted to live! He wanted to see everything and everywhere. He wanted to do things, great things. Things bards would sing songs about. He wanted to find out about women. To satisfy the craving that was growing inside him. He wanted life. He had seen enough death. The finality of it. The ugliness of it. The fear of it. It seemed like death had been trailing him like a bloodhound fixed on his scent since birth. What crime had he committed? His whole life he had tried his best to be what he should be. What people, his father, expected him to be. And all it had brought was this. This crushing, hopeless, directionless, endless black void that was swallowing him. It was time. Time to escape. Time to leave this all behind. Right now. No one would know. No one was left to care. Life was out there waiting. Right now!
Alexander looked at the crying little girls, filthy, limp, helpless and soon dead and forgotten.
"Get up!!" he suddenly barked.
He went to Serena and picked her up. She instinctively threw her arms around his neck.
"Stop crying," he demanded. "Serena, stop crying. It doesn’t help. We’re going to keep going and we’re going to eat soon. Now get up, all of you!"
He grabbed Serif’s skinny arm and yanked her to her feet.
"Now, damn it!!"
Beatrice wiped her eyes and stood up. Philip struggled to his feet.
"You two help Serif," he ordered. "Now let’s get going. The sooner we’re eating the sooner we’ll feel better. Come on."
"Chick, chick, chick," the old woman clucked.
She threw a handful of sesame seeds from the bowl she held in a sweeping motion in front of her. A dozen white and brown and red hens and an old rooster with scrawny legs and a drooping red comb fluttered and cackled and scratched around her feet, jostling each other to get at the best seeds. She kicked at some hens that were crowding the ancient male.
"Come on girls, have some respect," she admonished. "He can’t help it if he’s old. You’ll be old too someday." She smiled. "If I don’t decide a nice chicken stew would taste good today."
She threw out another handful of seeds.
Alexander knelt on one knee behind an apple tree in a small orchard fifty yards away carefully observing. Philip and the Princess’s lay still and silent a few yards back in the grass behind more trees, well hidden. He had already made one stealthy trip around the farmstead, scouting. It seemed a modest but prosperous farm. A well tended olive grove grew on the north side. East and south fields of new green barley and wheat bent gently under a steady breeze. The orchard, trees heavy with small green apples, was on the west side of the rectangular farm building that enclosed a central court. The old woman stood in the center of the hard packed barren court feeding her poultry. Alexander could see her through the broad open entrance, the wooden gates pulled back against the outside of the white washed mud brick walls. Guttering around the gray slated roof ended in a prominent spout on the northwest corner of the structure, creating a round wallow of mud and water. A fat gray sow lay on her side in the black goo, a dozen pink piglets scrambling over each other to get at an exposed tit. Several adults squatted in the muck beside her, cooling themselves against the midday heat, ears twitching as they fought off the swarming black flies that buzzed annoyingly around them. The youth slowly, quietly drew the sword from its sheath on his back. He had been watching for half the morning and there did not seem any doubt. The old woman was the only occupant. He looked back at his brother. Philip was watching his every move, wide eyed, expectant. Alexander turned back. The old woman threw out more seeds. She was short, slight, long gray hair tied in a simple ponytail that dangled down to her hips. The wrinkles around her eyes were deep and the flesh sagged a bit under her chin. But there was no slump to her shoulders and she moved with vigor and energy, no painful shuffling of arthritic bones or aching joints as he had seen in some old people. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He rubbed his face and gripped his weapon tight. He stood up, took a deep breath, hesitated, poised, ready. Suddenly he knelt down again. He looked back once more at Philip. He let the air out in a long sigh. He put the blade back in its sheath, took it off and laid it down by the tree. He pulled some grass and leaves together and covered it.
"Come here" he whispered at the children, "come on."
They got up obediently and gathered round him. He picked up Serena. She wrapped her arms around his neck, head on his shoulder.
"We’re going to go see that old lady," he said. "When we get there no one talks but me. None of you says a single word, even if she asks you a question. I do all the talking. Understand?"
The children nodded.