Still Waters

by Marilyn Todd

  ‘I’m training really hard,’ the boy told him eagerly. ‘I lift weights and punch sacks every day, so I can be just like you when I grow up!’

  ‘You want to look like me?’ Nobilor asked, and everyone laughed. Never handsome to start with, these days he looked like he’d come second with a meteor shower.

  ‘All the men want to look like you,’ Yvorna shouted, with a flighty toss of her curls. ‘Your face is an institution, my lovely!’

  Lisyl cringed, and beside her Melisanne blushed. Three sisters. Couldn’t be more different if they tried. There was pale, blonde Melisanne, the oldest, the most ladylike, who held the family together. Plump, dark, sensible Lisyl. And buxom, red-headed, uninhibited Yvorna, bouncy, flouncy, swishing and swaying, the butterfly of the trio.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to live in an institution, sweetheart,’ Nobilor flirted back. ‘Anyway, I got married again, didn’t you hear? The family will be along in a minute.’

  Cheering wildly, the crowd rushed forward, clapping his shoulder and wishing him well. The only one who didn’t, Lisyl noticed, was Cadur. Tall, lean, and with cheekbones you could slice bread on, he stood in the doorway of the stables, arms folded, his shoulder against the frame. When he saw her watching him, he held her eye for two seconds, no more, then turned inside.

  ‘Come on, everyone.’ A man with a neatly clipped beard that was rapidly greying clapped his hands. ‘Back to work now.’

  His olive skin betrayed origins east of the Aegean. Ephesus, Melisanne said. But Hector was living in Corinth when he met Anthea, where his family had been running taverns for three generations.

  With a few groans and the odd grumble under the breath, the crowd returned to the drudgery of kneading bread, stoking boilers, brushing horses, scrubbing floors. Still. At least they’d seen their hero up close. There would be tons to talk about for the rest of the day. Especially with his mother, new bride and teenage daughter arriving shortly.

  ‘How can you afford a new tunic on a serving girl’s pay?’ Melisanne demanded, dragging Yvorna behind a pillar.

  ‘Not what you think, you dirty-minded cow!’ Yvorna pulled loose of her grip. ‘Dierdra gave it to me, if you must know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Her admirers are always buying her gifts.’ Yvorna twirled, letting the linen billow out. ‘She can’t possibly use everything she’s given and says that’s what friends are for. Sharing. Not that you’d know anything about that.’

  ‘So you and she plotted together for you to throw your cap at Nobilor?’ Melisanne snorted. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

  ‘I like the tunic,’ Lisyl said sternly. ‘Peach complements your auburn hair, Yvorna.’ She gave it a playful tousle. ‘Too bad he got married again, eh?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake! He was never going to fall for a serving wench,’ Melisanne said. ‘Those days are behind him.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll put these behind him,’ Yvorna said, sticking her chest out. ‘See if that changes his mind.’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting,’ Melisanne snapped. ‘You spend too much time hanging round that lump of mutton dressed up as lamb—’

  ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong. It’s her who’s—’

  ‘—and masseuse, my eye. She’s no more a qualified doctor than I am.’

  ‘It’s a post station, Mel! Her job’s to rub the stiffness out of the riders, not heal the bloody sick.’

  ‘And we all know where they get stiff.’ Melisanne snorted. ‘How many men did you say asked her to marry them?’

  ‘More than asked you,’ Yvorna retorted. ‘So I suggest you stop telling me what to do with my life, until you’ve got your own “affairs” in order.’

  ‘Don’t make me throw a bucket of water over you two,’ Lisyl warned. They were always sniping at one another, Mel and Yvorna. ‘We should get back.’

  Even so, she made no effort to return to her mountain of laundry, but headed for the stables. According to Hector, there were eight native strains of horses, but three times that number imported for breeding. Until today, though, she’d only ever seen three. The small messenger ponies, fine-boned and sure-footed, which they’d need to be for these rough, rutted tracks. And the Thessalian and Pineians, which were cavalry horses—and they didn’t come this way very often. Now, suddenly, the yard was full of beautiful, elegant chariot horses! One a dark bay, the other a gold palomino, they must have cost Nobilor a fortune. Maybe tomorrow she’d pluck up enough courage to stroke one.

  ‘Haven’t seen Morin, have you?’ she asked.

  Other than Cadur, the stables were deserted, the ponies grazing out in the paddocks, the grooms off goodness knows where. Exercising them, combing them, rubbing them down, she supposed. The cycle of work never stopped.

  ‘Nope.’ He barely looked up from forking the hay. ‘Can I give him a message?’

  ‘I was just curious why an Olympic wrestler should bring a chariot, that was all.’

  Though the thick, shiny fringe, his eyes were as dark as an adulterous liaison. ‘Doesn’t want to expose his family to the scrum of gawpers, I guess.’

  The hay smelled fresh, there was the scent of leather in the air, while particles of grass and dust danced in the sunlight that streamed through the wide open doors.

  ‘Yes, I see that.’ If the rest of his party were only a few minutes behind, they must all have been travelling together until the last knockings. ‘I meant, why bring a chariot in the first place?’

  Bloody thing must have taken up a whole cart by itself.

  ‘Racing’s his hobby.’ One shoulder shrugged. ‘Pressure release, presumably.’

  In theory, the Games were open to any freeborn Greek male, but competing took money, so most champions came from wealthy or aristocratic backgrounds. Nobilor came from the slums. He’d set off to Olympia with no money and even fewer expectations, yet came home sporting the champion’s crown. Nineteen years after his glorious win, still no one had taken his title.

  ‘Can’t be easy,’ Lisyl agreed. ‘Every contest, he’ll be that little bit slower, while the young bloods will be that little bit faster.’

  ‘And hungry.’ His mouth twisted. ‘There’s always someone looking to take down a legend.’

  Morin insisted Cadur was surly, sly, and not to be trusted. Lisyl watched the speed and intensity with which he worked, and supposed her boyfriend knew best. Cadur was certainly different. No one knew where he came from, he didn’t mix with the men, and wouldn’t use one word when none would do. Strange, then, that he and Yvorna rubbed along. Not in the same way as her and Morin, of course! No kissing, no cuddling, nothing like that. But for all Yvorna’s banter and backchat, she didn’t have many friends apart from her sisters. That’s because women misunderstood her and men only wanted one thing, but with Cadur it was different. They’d walk the lakeside together, her talking, him listening, and Lisyl couldn’t really say why she wished that they didn’t. She just…well, wished they didn’t!

  ‘Did Yvorna tell you that Nobilor would be coming?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Dammit, why didn’t she tell me? I wouldn’t have told anyone!’

  He stopped. Leaned on his pitchfork. ‘You’d have told Morin.’

  ‘That’s different.’ She tossed her head. ‘We’re getting married, and you don’t keep secrets—’

  ‘Cad, luv—oh, sorry.’ The woman’s voice was rough from too much wine and too little sleep, and the heavily plastered kohl round her eyes only emphasized that her age was closer to fifty than forty. ‘Not interrupting, am I?’

  The woman was looking at Cadur, not Lisyl.

  ‘It’s all right, Dierdra, I need to get back,’ Lisyl said, and that was another funny thing. Cadur hadn’t even looked Dierdra’s way, his eyes stayed on her, and for no good reason she shivered. ‘Tell Morin I was looking for him, eh?’

  He nodded, and she could feel his eyes burning into her back as she picked her way past the stalls. Behind her, she heard the masseuse’s throaty
laugh.

  ‘That Yvorna’s a girl, isn’t she? Did you hear what she said to Nobilor back there? All the men want to look like you. Your face is an institution, my lovely. Lord, she has a way with her, that one.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Cadur asked, but Lisyl was out of earshot and didn’t catch her reply.

  Scurrying back across the yard, milling with scribes and servants, water-bearers, heralds, merchants and barbers, the acid stench of horseflesh mingled with the smell of bread from the bakehouse and wood smoke from the blacksmith’s forge. Late summer was traditionally a busy time on the roads. Students returning home from military school. Merchants wrapping up a late deal before snow closed the passes. Travellers in a hurry to catch the last ships. The usual bustle. Nothing out of the ordinary. And yet…

  And yet…

  Lisyl tutted. Don’t be daft, what could possibly have changed in one stupid morning!

  She gathered up the station master’s tunics, and his wife’s. The lake was clear and blue, so calm that the mountains reflected double and the clouds looked like candy on the surface. It was a known fact that anyone who fell in didn’t drown, but was carried down to the palace of the Blue Goddess on the backs of sea eagles. Once inside, their youth was restored and they lived to a thousand, enjoying a life of unparalleled bliss.

  For Lisyl, looking to get married next spring, life was already unparalleled bliss. So why then, for all the warmth of the late-summer sunshine, were goose pimples running over her arms? She looked at the flowers that swamped the lush meadows, the butterflies feasting greedily on the thistles, the horses swishing their tails as they chomped, the islands shimmering in the heat, and the poppies, brighter than blood, that dotted the shoreline. She couldn’t put her finger on it, and she wasn’t easily influenced. But as she plunged the linens into the water, Lisyl had the strangest feeling she was still being watched.

  Three

  No secret can ever be safe. Someone, somewhere, always knows the truth. Or will eventually find out.

  If you have a secret, keep it so.

  Let not your friend your secret know.

  The childhood rhyme played in Iliona’s head.

  For if that friend becomes your foe,

  Shall all the world your secret know.

  Drifting in and out of consciousness, faces floated before her. Young, old, familiar, strange. Some smelled of scented oils from the palace, others of temple incense, while the physician reeked of the yarrow used to staunch the blood. But it seemed one face glided in and out more than the rest. Blue-eyed and with blond, shoulder-length hair, he wore a warrior’s kilt, but she could not understand. That nightmare was over. Closed, sealed, buried and forgotten. All right, then, maybe not forgotten—

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  A hand pushed her back on the bed. The hand smelled of yarrow.

  ‘This temple doesn’t run itself, Jocasta.’ Iliona tried to ignore the wave of pain that seemed determined to slice her in half. ‘What happened?’

  ‘You tell me. The temple guards found you unconscious on the river bank, close to a small stand of willows.’

  ‘Then I’ve wasted too much time already.’ She swung her legs out of bed, wondering who had filled them with lead. ‘There’s a horrendous backlog of votive offerings. I’ve got groves to sanctify, purifications to carry out—’

  ‘You’re staying put.’

  ‘Excuse me, but I give the orders here.’

  ‘Not in my infirmary, you don’t.’

  ‘Jocasta, this is my private bedchamber.’

  ‘As long as I have a patient in that bed, it’s an infirmary, and do you mind telling me just what the bloody hell you were doing, to burst those goddamn stitches?’

  She thought of the rapturous look on the little boy’s face, watching his letter float up to the heavens. ‘Can’t remember.’

  ‘The hell you can’t.’ Jocasta hefted a wooden box on to the bedside table and lifted the lid. Inside, bronze forceps, probes and spatulas gleamed in neat, almost military lines, along with scissors, needles, saws and clamps. ‘Now, lie still. I’ve re-stitched the wound, but I need to change the poultice.’

  Iliona slumped back in defeat. ‘The king came to see me, then?’ That accounted for the scented oils from the palace.

  ‘How he heard about this little episode I’ll never know, but he was livid.’ The physician cut away the bandage. ‘Said it would never have happened, had you been treated at the palace like he wanted. You are his cousin, after all.’

  ‘Second cousin,’ she corrected, ‘and I hope you repeated what I told him after I was stabbed. That the High Priestess of Eurotas wouldn’t dream of asking others to put their lives in the hands of the temple physician if she herself did not.’

  Jocasta peered through her raven-black fringe. ‘Nothing to do with the little secret we share, then?’ From the box she drew out an assortment of instruments, ranging from the fine and flexible to sharp-hooked retractors and tiny gold needles. ‘That if there was to be any blabbing in your delirium, better to do it with me around, and not some total stranger?’

  ‘You really think I was safeguarding my own interests?’ Dammit, why did she always pick a fight? ‘If what we did came out, it would mean exile and humiliation for me, that’s true. But for you, it’s public execution.’

  Physician or not, Jocasta was a helot. Serfs, slaves, call them what you like, they were the lowest of the low, and the same rules of justice did not apply to them as freeborn citizens. In fact, justice didn’t apply to the helot class, full stop.

  ‘Drink this.’ Jocasta held a phial to Iliona’s lips. ‘It’ll numb you against what I’m about to do.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’ Rebellion was the only dignity she had left.

  Jocasta shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ With methodical precision, she proceeded to remove the poultice and probe the edges of the wound.

  With methodical precision, Iliona fainted.

  *

  Jocasta must have slipped her a potion after all, because when Iliona opened her eyes, the sun was high and eagles rode the thermals above the bare spurs of Mount Parnon. The pain in her side had subsided to a throbbing ache, but the pain in her heart refused to budge.

  Sounds drifted through the open window. The temple doves, cooing on the roof. Bronze wind chimes, clanking softly in the plane grove. A distant tramp-tramp-tramp of hobnail boots. She watched a lizard sunning itself on the window sill, lifting one foot then another on the baking stonework. The boots tramped closer, her door opened and a familiar scarlet tunic swung into view. Not blue eyes, she realized now, but grey. Grey as the sea in midwinter. His long hair wasn’t blond, either, and was streaked with silver around the temples. Every day, she thought, he was turning that little bit closer into a wolf.

  The visitor sniffed the air. ‘Mouldy bread and garlic. My favourite.’

  When he closed the door, the room seemed half the size.

  ‘Lysander.’

  ‘That’s progress.’ His voice was deep and full of gravel. ‘You called me by another name earlier.’

  Was it a hallucination, brought on by the drugs that killed the pain and dulled the senses, that made her mistake him for the son she gave away at birth, and who’d crashed into her life eighteen long years later?

  Or her conscience making manifest her deepest, darkest secret?

  ‘Sorry.’ For calling him by another name? Or because her son was gone, and was never coming back…? ‘Apparently mouldy bread and garlic juice keeps wounds free of infection.’

  He’d know that. She just couldn’t think of anything else to say, and he seemed in no great hurry to start a conversation, ambling round her bedroom, examining the frescoes, fingering her perfume jars, running his hand over the curves of her alabaster water bowl as though it was a lover.

  ‘I presume this is about my attacker?’ she said, when the silence became too much. ‘That you need me to give evidence in court?’

  A statem
ent sworn under oath sufficed in lesser charges. Not in cases of attempted murder, though.

  One lazy eyebrow rose. ‘What made you think this would go to trial?’

  ‘Then perhaps you’d care to share with me the story that you’ve put around? Considering I’m at the centre of it.’

  ‘Centre of what?’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘As far as Sparta is concerned, this was merely a minor incident, blown out of all proportion by a hysterical crowd.’

  ‘Minor?’ She struggled to a sitting position. ‘That maniac tried to kill me.’

  ‘I think you’ll find the official version reads that a disgruntled worshipper ran up and punched you on the temple steps—’

  ‘I was stabbed!’

  ‘Fist, knife, let’s not split hairs. You fell. Hit your head on the flagstones, which accounted for the blood—’

  ‘You bastard.’

  Lysander bowed. ‘At your service, ma’am. Though I think you’ll agree it worked out for the best.’ He ticked the points off on his fingers. ‘The high priestess remains inviolable. The shrine retains its reputation as a refuge for sanctuary and safety. While a worthless piece of shit just—’ he snapped his fingers—‘disappears.’

  She hadn’t considered the attack in a political light. But then, she didn’t deal in death and deception for a living. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You don’t believe the Krypteia make social calls?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you’d be right.’ He poured a cup of wine without watering it. ‘Your physician insists this will help rebuild your strength,’ he said, swirling the dark red liquid around in the beaker. ‘I personally feel that a nice relaxing break on a lakeside in the mountains would be far more beneficial.’

  ‘What I need, Lysander, is to pronounce a few auspices, bless a couple of altars and then set some oracular riddles. Preferably in private.’

  He held the cup to her lips, and even through the medicaments and poultice, she caught a hint of leather mixed with wood smoke.

  ‘Privacy is a luxury reserved for the very rich and the very poor. You and I, my lady, are neither.’