For the Winner

by Emily Hauser

  ‘Why? Who are you?’ I could not stop staring at her: there was something about her expression – guarded. I saw self-possession in the set of her mouth, and yet a hint of vulnerability in her eyes.

  ‘My name is Myrtessa,’ she said. ‘Come. Quickly.’

  She hurried away through the crowds, the hem of her tunic swaying around her sandalled feet. I hesitated, wondering whether to trust her – who knew what she might be planning, or whom she worked for? Perhaps she was trying to rob me of my purse – or worse …

  But as she glanced over her shoulder and beckoned, smiling – as if she knew what I was thinking – I made up my mind and followed her, unable to resist my curiosity, though I kept my hands at my sides, ready to draw my dagger. She moved before me, ankles flashing beneath her robes, tracing the main street up the hill towards the crowned battlements of the upper city. As I followed her I took in the small mud-brick dwellings with shops opening onto the road, their rickety wooden tables laden with olives, fruit, fish and large clay jars. Shopkeepers cried their wares, and lines of buyers eager to quench their thirst huddled around the stalls. We pushed through the crowds on the main road for several hundred paces until we were directly beneath the walls of the upper city. I was still wondering whether this had not been a trick to rob me of my coins when I saw her dart aside and turn into a narrow side street. I hesitated, then went after her, and found myself in a quiet road before the facade of a square yellow-stone house, the dwelling of a wealthy lord, constructed of hewn blocks and built on two floors against the upper city’s battlements. It had narrow windows set between the stones and was roofed with wooden timbers that stuck out over the eaves. I glimpsed a colonnaded garden to one side, covered with trellised vines and circled by fruit trees, and from the windows on the upper storey, gauzy curtains billowed in the breeze. She turned, gestured to me, slipped down a narrow alley to its side, then through a door into the darkness.

  I followed, mystified and wary, my right hand on the hilt of my dagger. An overwhelming scent of fish and fresh-pressed cheese assailed me as I pushed through the door and blinked, adjusting to the darkness. To my surprise, we had entered what appeared to be a kitchen – a large hall that seemed to run the length of the house, its walls unplastered, the air thick with smoke, filled with sweaty-faced slaves. Some were carrying bundles of wood for the fires, others bringing buckets of water from the well outside, scouring dirty cups, scooping fish bowels for paste or peeling barley husks into bowls. Three long trestle tables ran the length of the room, laden with lemon-stuffed fish, jars of pickled black olives, large round cheeses and bread – and slaves were tipping more loaves, warm from the oven, onto the table with wooden bread-peels. Two young women and a man by the ovens looked up as we entered, their tunics ash-smeared and hands blackened with soot, expressions alight with interest. As I walked, rushes strewn over the floor crackled beneath my feet, sending up their clean, sweet scent, mixing with the heady smoke from the fire.

  ‘Sit,’ Myrtessa said, guiding me to a stool, which was placed near the ovens. ‘Mead?’

  ‘Who is she, Myrtessa?’ a redhead asked. Her tunic slipped off one shoulder as she bent to slide a loaf into the oven and she pulled it up. ‘A new slave for Lord Corythus? Does he not have enough as it is?’

  Myrtessa shook her head as she picked up a jug, poured some mead into a clay cup and handed it to me.

  ‘What am I doing here?’ I asked, taking it from her and setting it upon a nearby table.

  Myrtessa settled herself next to me, the two of us squeezed onto the single stool. ‘I saw you outside the gates. I was walking on the walls.’ She leant over and tapped my quiver, which I had slung off my shoulders and set down beside me. ‘Where did you learn to use a bow like that?’

  She was grinning at me, her head cocked to one side. In spite of my qualms I sensed, in the frankness of her gaze, that I could trust her.

  ‘A bow?’ the man said, looking up from the dough he was kneading and raising one eyebrow. ‘This girl can aim an arrow?’

  I slid the bow one-handed from its compartment within the quiver, my fingers wrapped around the ash handle, and they all stared. ‘I learnt it as a young girl. I grew up in Kaladrosos, on the other side of the mountain,’ I told them. ‘My mother always said it was not proper for a woman, but …’

  ‘Your mother had it right,’ an older matron remarked as she passed, a linen scarf tied around her head. She was carrying a basket of mint leaves. ‘Besides, weapons ain’t supposed to be in the kitchens. This is woman’s work ’ere, not a hunt.’

  The redhead shrugged. ‘Never mind Hora – she’ll be able to find fault in anyone, even if the gods can’t.’

  A loud blast of what sounded like hunting horns halted the conversation, and I heard the clip-clopping of several horses’ hoofs outside. Myrtessa darted to the window and stood on tiptoe to look out. She turned back to me, her face alight with excitement. ‘Come here,’ she called, pointing. ‘Over there …’

  I peered through the small, square window. It looked down over the main street and, as my eyes adjusted to the brightness of the light reflected from the stones outside, I saw a short procession of several men on horseback. The corpse of a lion was slung over two long wooden poles, held upon their shoulders, a retinue of slaves and wine-bearers trailing behind. A tall, slender young man, with red-gold hair that hung to his shoulders, caught my eye. He sat upon a bay mount, and as he passed I saw he had the clearest hazel eyes and the merest hint of a beard. His skin was olive-brown, and the sweat on his arms made him shine like a god in the sun. He flashed me a smile, tilted his head and bowed to me. I felt my heart thud a little faster in my chest.

  ‘Who is he?’ I asked, pointing through the window.

  Myrtessa laughed, one cheek dimpling. ‘Taken by the lord Meleager, are you? You would be one of many, believe me. Neda likes to watch him as he passes sometimes, don’t you, Neda?’

  Neda tossed her auburn hair and pointed a loaf at Myrtessa, like a sword, though she flashed a smile. ‘I enjoy what little I can.’

  ‘Meleager is son of Oeneus,’ Myrtessa continued to me, her voice low, confiding, ‘lord of Calydon in Aetolia, one of the most eligible young men in the land and a libertine if ever there was one. They say he takes his pleasures where he likes – pretty boys on the verge of manhood, handsome courtesans, slender young girls like you.’ She shrugged. ‘They say he has had them all, and left them besotted. And they say worse, too.’ She lowered her voice. ‘That he is vicious in his very heart – that he has men and women when he wants them, that he relishes the violence, that though he may seem lordly on the surface he is hot-blooded and savage in his desires. I’d advise you to keep well away from him.’

  I grinned at her. ‘I’m not one to lose my wits over a man, though I thank you for the warning. In any case, I doubt a girl of no family would be the lord of Calydon’s first choice, however hot-blooded he may be.’

  Neda nodded with a half-shrug and the male slave pummelled a fistful of dough, saying, ‘True enough.’

  ‘So,’ I turned back to the window, ‘the procession – for the festival, is it?’

  Myrtessa shook her head. ‘A hunt, to welcome Prince Jason – the king’s nephew,’ she added, seeing my blank look. ‘He is taking refuge in the city, since Pelias drove him from the throne of Iolcos. Though I’ve heard it said that the people of Iolcos are glad to be rid of him.’

  She indicated a man, smaller than the others, with grey eyes, a straight nose set in a narrow face and slim, sloping shoulders. He wore a cloak embroidered in blue and green, secured with a golden clasp. He had pulled his horse aside and was crooking his finger at one of the slaves to bring him wine. The boy ran to his side, untied the thong around the pouch and lifted it to Jason. As he did so, a drop of wine spilt upon Jason’s cloak. His roar of rage echoed down the street, followed by a sharp thwack as the back of his hand hit the slave’s head with such force that the boy reeled, tripped and smashed upon the stones of the
street, sending the wine pouch flying. The wine pooled upon the flagstones with the blood from his jaw, where several teeth were broken. I gasped and started, as if to run to his aid, but Myrtessa laid a hand on my arm.

  ‘Leave him be.’

  ‘But – but how can he do such a thing? I would not treat a wild animal with such cruelty – and for such a slight offence!’ My pulse was racing in indignation. ‘Can one of the nobles not inform the king of his nephew’s misconduct?’

  Myrtessa did not reply, but pointed at a figure near the head of the party, just past Meleager, a tall man with a stubbled grey beard who sat astride a chestnut horse. He was watching the slave, upon all fours on the street now and gasping with pain, a curious, twisted expression upon his face. ‘That’s the king,’ she said. ‘You can see he has the report of Jason’s deed, and thinks nothing of it. And the prince’s treatment of his slave is nothing to what the king will do to you if the guards tell him you entered the city without cleansing. He’ll have you imprisoned, I should wager.’

  ‘Thrown to the dogs, more likely,’ the old woman Hora muttered, as she stuffed mint leaves into the fish carcasses.

  Myrtessa nodded. ‘Neither Jason nor his uncle is well known for a sense of justice.’

  I took a sip of mead, wondering at how commonly the vices of these nobles were known within the city, and thinking how little I knew of kings and princes from my sheltered life upon Mount Pelion. ‘And you do not mind,’ I asked, raising my eyebrows and looking at the four of them, ‘that I have not been cleansed, according to the laws of the gods?’

  The sandy-haired man snorted. ‘The gods care only for our deeds,’ he said, pounding at the stiff dough. He gave me a wink. ‘To believe they take offence if we do not bathe ourselves – well, Neda for one would be in trouble.’ He elbowed the red-haired girl, who laughed and slapped him playfully on the shoulder.

  ‘Oh, and you wouldn’t, Philoetius? You haven’t bathed since the winter solstice, at least.’ She pretended to sniff his hair and wrinkled her nose. ‘Or before, by the smell of it.’

  As Philoetius pushed her away, grinning, I turned to Myrtessa, who was laughing along with her fellow slaves. ‘So is that why you brought me here?’ I asked. ‘To keep me safe from the vengeance of the king?’

  She smiled. ‘I thought a girl who can use a bow as well as you was worth talking to.’

  I bowed my head, gratitude for her act of kindness sweeping through me. ‘Then I hope to live up to your expectations.’ I hesitated. ‘Perhaps you can tell me … The lions,’ I said, pointing again out of the window. ‘Were they part of a royal hunt? A hunt led by the king?’

  Myrtessa frowned. ‘Lions? There was only one.’

  ‘Yes, but were there more?’

  Myrtessa looked me up and down. ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘Three, in fact, captured from the wilds of Thrace and released on the mountain in honour of the prince. I heard Lord Corythus telling one of his companions last night, at the evening meal. How did you know that?’

  I shrugged again. ‘A guess.’

  She stepped back. ‘By Hermes, god of tricks and thieves, don’t tell me …’

  I tried to look modest, but I couldn’t help grinning. ‘Would you believe me if I said I killed two myself?’

  Neda gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, Philoetius dropped the bowl of flour he was holding upon the floor, and even Hora had stopped stuffing fish with herbs to listen. The other slaves, who were near enough to hear, were laughing, half in horror, half in disbelief, and I heard snatches of their whispers to each other – ‘Not possible …’ and ‘A woman cannot!’

  Myrtessa chuckled. ‘You were well worth the effort of your rescue, hunter-girl.’

  ‘Atalanta,’ I said, and held out my hand to grasp hers in a gesture of friendship.

  ‘Atalanta,’ she said, taking it. ‘The equal of all others – isn’t that what it means?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I think I’m going to like you, Atalanta. Now, I reckon you haven’t spent much time in a city?’

  I set my cup down. ‘What would make you think that?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said, her eyes gleaming. ‘Why don’t you change into this,’ she reached down to rummage in a chest beneath the window and pulled out an old slave’s tunic, ‘and I can show you our city properly. I’ll wager you’ll get a warmer welcome than you did at the gates, if you’ll only make sure to leave that bow of yours behind.’

  We wound our way back down the street from Corythus’ house towards the gates, Myrtessa talking all the while and pointing things out.

  ‘That’s Actor’s bar,’ she said, indicating a house with an open front and a dark-red awning stretched across it for shade. Large clay jars with ladles hanging over the edges stood beneath it. ‘Neda, Philoetius, Opis and I sometimes go there in the evenings, when the master allows it. And that’s the marketplace, over there.’ She pointed to a small open square at the junction between two streets, where makeshift wooden stalls – barely more than planks propped on legs – covered with cloths were scattered about, laden with everything from cherries, peaches, purple vetch and red meat to close-woven sacking, painted pots, barrels and even slaves. The cries of merchants filled my ears as we approached, along with the clanging sounds of the blacksmiths’ hammers on anvils, children laughing, bells ringing on carts, horses whinnying. I felt a shiver of excitement. I wanted to run everywhere at once, to see everything, to taste all the delicacies that were on offer, to drink in all the sights and smells of this new, colourful, bustling town. There was more danger and adventure here than I would encounter in a year in Kaladrosos, and I was thrilling to the newness of it all.

  ‘Wait here,’ Myrtessa said, leaving me beside a stand selling painted bead necklaces, and she moved ahead through the crowds. When she returned, she held a basket of apricots covered with honey. ‘I know the stallholder,’ she said, pointing to a large man with black hair and beard. ‘His son is a carpenter and occasionally comes to the slaves’ quarters at Lord Corythus’ house. I give him bread from the ovens in exchange for such small jobs as he can help us with – mending broken stools, fixing shelves and such. Sagaris there always gives me something to eat, when I come by.’ She popped an apricot into her mouth and sucked her fingers with relish.

  At the south-western end of the city, when we reached the walls, Myrtessa led me up a stone staircase onto the ramparts, yellow-painted crenellations fencing us in on either side. The view was towards the harbour, not five hundred paces distant, pale sea rippling around a rocky shore lined by olive trees, then over the bay to Mount Pelion opposite, with its sloping green flanks, small villages and towns dotting its foot along the wide, sweeping crescent of the shore. I looked away quickly: Kaladrosos was behind the ridges of the mountain, and with it my father, my mother, Maia, Leon and Corycia. I would not allow myself to think of them, not yet. There would be time enough to return, and I did not want, just now, to lose the delicious sense I felt in the city that anything might happen – that, at any moment, something unexpected might spring upon me, like an antlered stag charging from the trees in the hunt.

  ‘Where now?’ I asked Myrtessa, turning to look down over the city, its streets filled with crowds and carts and flat-roofed houses.

  She pointed. ‘The upper city,’ she said, directing my gaze to the hill at the other end, ringed with a lower wall, where I could see a red-columned palace fringed by pine trees and what seemed to be a temple to the gods, though it was larger than any I had ever seen. She began to walk, passing a group of female slaves approaching us from the opposite direction, along the flat rampart of the wall towards the gates.

  I caught her arm. ‘The gates!’ I hissed, moving aside to let a woman pass. ‘If the guards see me …’

  Myrtessa gave me an appraising look. ‘Come here,’ she said. Deftly, she untied one of the long white bands from her hair, wrapped it three times around my forehead, then pulled up my hair and tucked it in. She pulled a few
stray curls out at either side of my face. ‘There,’ she said, cocking her head to look at me. ‘Though it hardly matters. They will never think to connect the girl who outwitted them with a woman dressed in a slave’s tunic.’

  I patted my head, a strange urge to grin almost overwhelming me. It was odd to feel the cool breeze on the back of my neck.

  ‘Come,’ she said, and pulled me along the wall. Other slaves who were using the ramparts to circumvent the crowded main road pushed past us as we went, bustling along the narrow stone walkway holding stacks of clay tablets or jars of water that spilt as they walked, and snagging the hem of my tunic in their hurry. I kept my eyes down, but none seemed to notice me.

  As we approached the tower I saw the two guards who had tried to prevent me entering the city leaning on their bows and talking to each other, gazing out over the bay. They turned to us as we came nearer, and I felt a little shiver of apprehension as one leered at me, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue. Myrtessa gave them a smile and walked on, hips swaying. I hurried after her, feeling their eyes following us.

  What if they recognize me?

  ‘Do you think they noticed?’ I asked, as we walked away, my voice a whisper.

  ‘The only thing they noticed was our backsides, I assure you,’ Myrtessa said. She exchanged a glance with me, and I smiled at the pure mischief dancing in her eyes; then the two of us were laughing together. As Myrtessa walked on, she tossed me an apricot over her shoulder and I caught it. As I bit into it, I thought the gods had truly blessed me to send me such a friend upon my arrival to Pagasae. The fruit was juicy and sweet, the honey sticky on my lips and fingers.

  There was a silence, as we walked along the wall, looking out to our right over the white-plastered houses, then to the left over the boats bobbing in the bay and the distant outline of the mountain.