Still Waters

by Marilyn Todd

  Persevere. The Oracle had been clear about that. You must persevere, she’d said, but there was no doubt they would be overcome. And children. The gods had seen children as clearly as night follows day! Wasn’t this just wonderful timing?

  She listened to Dierdra singing while she drew the water.

  Yvorna called Hector an old man, but he was mature, rather than old, and anyway, age counts for nothing when you’re in love. When he lay in her arms and she smoothed out his frown lines with the back of her finger, it was the most wonderful feeling in the world.

  I love you, he’d whisper over and over again. It’s as though a piece of me had been missing. Melisanne brought him a sense of perspective, companionship and a warmth he’d never known. For the first time in my life, I have a sense of belonging.

  Me, too, she would say, her eyes filling with tears, and for all Hector was married, being with him felt so natural. So right. Like they’d belonged together from the beginning of time. Two halves spinning through space that finally, amazingly, found one other. Two halves that made a whole which could not be parted. Maybe tonight… Maybe tomorrow…

  Compromises would have to be made. Melisanne understood that. But it’s not as though he and Anthea were happy. It had been a marriage of convenience for both parties. How many times had he told her the story? How Anthea’s first husband divorced her to be with another woman, and how, at the humiliating age of thirty-eight, she’d returned to being the property of her father. Stifled at the restrictions and fed up with being an object of pity and shame, marriage to Hector was her only chance to escape. He might have been born into the merchant classes, but he was competent, she was rich, and moreover her family had influence. Freedom came with a price for Anthea, though. Her father agreed to arrange that one last thing for her—Hector’s appointment—then after that he disowned her. She hadn’t cared, and Melisanne didn’t blame her. Independence and happiness went hand in hand, and now the posting station was established and successful in its own right, Anthea was more than capable of running it on her own. All right, there would be red tape to cut through. The authorities would never countenance a female station master! But wherever there was a law, there was a loophole, Hector said. Melisanne saw the future as clearly as the Oracle had seen it.

  Anthea taking over here. She and Hector running a small tavern wherever he wanted. Everyone would be happy and her heart filled with joy at the prospect of giving him all the things his wife never could—

  ‘Ready to go a second time?’ Dierdra called out with a chuckle. Hoisting the jug to her hip, she yanked her tunic back into place and tucked her hair back under its pins. ‘Then we’ll go off to the Eagles. That’s if you’ve got enough energy left for the walk.’

  Melisanne had seen, and heard, enough. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow indeed, but sooner or later she’d have to pluck up the courage and break the bad news to Yvorna. Apparently, Melisanne’s wasn’t the only road with a forked branch and bumps up ahead.

  Fifteen

  Drums echoed through the forest. Faint at first. A gentle pulse throbbing through the silence of the night. But with each beat of the stallion’s hoof, the drums grew louder. Primal. Mysterious. Enticing. As Iliona drew closer to the summit, the torches lining the road opened into a cavern of light that was a clearing. Now she could hear pipes playing, too, along with triangles and hollowed-out rattles. There was a sense among the seething, laughing, drinking crowd that this was just the beginning.

  A clansman wearing traditional dress of pantaloons and red leather headband took her reins. His eyes were already glassy from overindulging, and, like the rest of the men, a short, curved sword hung from his belt.

  ‘It’s called a “kopis”,’ Ballio said, noticing her staring. ‘Very similar to the weapons worn by the Bulls, except the blade of these big mountain men has a forward curve.’

  Held differently, used differently, Iliona realized. The kopis would be wound back over the shoulder to give a powerful downward swing. Definitely the sword of the hunter, who would also use it for cutting and sacrifice. Even though its principal design was for slaughter—

  She thought of Gregos. The bloodbath that Lysander described…

  ‘I didn’t think you were coming tonight.’

  ‘I didn’t say I wasn’t coming, ma’am. I said men from Phaos weren’t welcome.’ The warrant officer patted the insignia gleaming on his sash. ‘My responsibility extends further than merely checking the credentials of the couriers, you know.’

  A likely story. He was just being nosy, and whatever secrets were held in this posting station, Ballio would have sniffed half of them out, while Hector would probably be aware of the rest. Very few would slip through the net, she thought. Those that did would be precious indeed.

  On one side of the clearing, the biggest boar she’d ever clapped eyes on was roasting on a spit, the smell of cooking mingling with the apple wood over which the beast turned. The backs of the men who heaved on the handle glowed golden with sweat, and the fat from the meat hissed as it splashed into the flames. Nearby, beneath the trees, platters of figs and pomegranates almost obliterated the thick timber planks that acted as tables, alongside blood sausage, boiled eggs and wedges of yellow smoked cheese. Dried hams hung on ropes for people to cut their own slices, baskets of fresh bread were being constantly replenished, and clanswomen, also in traditional dress, dipped jugs into a huge krater of wine to replenish the drinking horns.

  ‘Avoid that if you can,’ Yvorna confided in her ear. ‘Rough stuff, this mountain wine, you’re better off sticking to beer.’

  Iliona wasn’t so sure about that. Her headache had only just gone. ‘Another one I didn’t expect to see here tonight,’ she said. ‘I thought lowlanders weren’t welcome.’

  The redhead laughed. ‘I tell you, this lot couldn’t have given me a wider berth if I’d been covered in spots. I told them I’m only here to support my sister, but between you and me, my lady, I really wanted to have a good look at the in-laws. See what Lisyl’s marrying into.’

  Iliona glanced across to where her pretty plump sister was being introduced to what she presumed was Morin’s family. ‘For a girl who is supposed to be looking forward to her wedding, she seems a little on edge.’

  ‘Morin’s been pressurizing her again, that’s the trouble, and I think this time she’s given in.’

  ‘Your sister thinks Lisyl should stick to her principles. What do you think?’

  ‘What I think is that Melisanne’s in no position to be calling kettles black.’ She tossed her thick auburn curls. ‘Look at her and you’d think butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and for the life of me I don’t know why she wanted her fortune told.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s because her lover is married.’

  Yvorna elbowed her playfully in the ribs. ‘Aren’t they the best ones?’

  Iliona couldn’t help smiling. ‘What about you? Aren’t you curious to know what’s ahead?’

  ‘Hell, no. I like a challenge—talking of which. You mind the bread, too. These highlanders let their flour and water ferment. Tastes heavenly, I tell you, but it don’t half make you fart.’

  She skipped off to chat to a bone-worker who had set up a stall under an oak tree, selling pins, beads and brooches in the shape of the new Hunter’s Moon. With this amount of light burning, it was the closest any of them were likely to get to seeing the new Hunter’s Moon tonight.

  A battle horn announced a change in the tempo, the cue for a burly reciter to launch into his spiel, keeping time by waving a baton instead of accompanying himself on the lyre. Although the language was Greek, the accent was strong enough to cut with a knife, a tactic Iliona suspected was deliberate. Certainly the theme seemed to be make war, not love, and from the way the crowd made horns on their foreheads, you didn’t have to look far to see who were the targets. Iliona bit into the bread, and to hell with the consequences. The aggression of these mountain tribes hadn’t lessened with peace, prosperity or the passage of time,
and however much they tried to pass off this festival as a case of one-upmanship, this was no light-hearted feud. The question was, was this show simply posturing and bravado, or was there a more serious motive behind it?

  One that a large shipment of gold would go a long way towards financing?

  ‘I don’t know what you told my maid,’ Anthea said, joining her, ‘but it’s certainly put a spring in her step.’

  Hadn’t it just. When Iliona saw Melisanne earlier—the sisters were obviously out in strength to support Lisyl—she was eagerly telling Hector all about it. Iliona could tell, because Melisanne kept pointing at her, grinning like a cat with the cream, while Hector nodded with polite enthusiasm. Maybe it was easier to talk to a man, to the boss. Or maybe it was just not easy to talk to her sisters. For all their closeness, or perhaps because of it, the girls found it difficult to confide their love lives to each other, and it would take a brave woman to start confiding in Anthea. Madam kept everything bottled in tightly. She would certainly expect no less from her staff.

  ‘Are you still planning on sacking Yvorna?’ Iliona wondered.

  Anthea glanced across to the wine krater, where Dierdra had her arm round her friend’s shoulders and was whispering in her ear.

  ‘That girl has the morals of a cat,’ she snapped. ‘Sees every man as a trophy, whether he wears a wedding band on his finger or not.’

  Iliona stared at the space on her fourth finger of her left hand, where her own wedding band used to be.

  ‘Not for all of us does the vein of love run straight to the heart,’ she pointed out. ‘Sometimes a vein is just a vessel carrying blood, the same way that a ring isn’t always an endless circle that symbolizes the eternal nature of the marital bond, but simply an adornment.’

  In other words, when marriage is merely a contract, what the hell do you expect.

  ‘Yvorna has no idea of the damage she wreaks,’ Anthea continued bitterly. ‘They might only be flings to her, but they undermine the man’s sense of stability. He starts to grow restless in his spirit.’

  So that was it. She suspected the red-headed firebrand was playing around with her husband.

  Aren’t they the best ones?

  Iliona tucked into a slab of succulent boar meat and thought, maybe so. Yvorna was quite blatant about enjoying a challenge, but equally she was young and carefree. Love ’em and leave ’em was more in her line, and in any case Anthea couldn’t be blind. She must have seen her and Cadur, walking down by the lake?

  ‘If the affection is strong, nothing can break it,’ she said gently. ‘Take Nobilor. The way Yvorna flirted with him.’

  ‘Yes, but who knows how he might have responded had his bride and mother not been two miles behind.’

  ‘Did he strike you as the flippant kind?’

  Anthea’s green eyes turned thoughtful. ‘Actually, no,’ she said at last. ‘He struck me as a very sincere and principled individual, and he was besotted with Calypso, so maybe you’re right.’ When she smiled, five years fell from her face. ‘You know, it’s strange. We have all manner of eminent personages passing through this station. Ambassadors, princes, lords and envoys, even the King of Arcadia once, though he didn’t stay. He spent the night at the palace in Phaos.’ She shook her pleats and adjusted her veil. ‘But none of them, my lady, attracted half as much attention, or was anywhere near as popular, as Nobilor.’

  ‘That’s because ordinary people identified with him.’

  Not simply because he was the best wrestler yet to don the victor’s crown, or the fact that they couldn’t believe their luck he’d come to this isolated outpost. More the fact that most youths from the ghettoes who set off with no money, just a burning ambition and a desire to win, don’t usually find a rich sponsor to put them through Wrestling School, and often come home poorer than ever. That is, if they come home at all…

  ‘His success was an inspiration to them,’ she added.

  And yet… They’d spike his drinks, spread vicious rumours, Calypso said. Spiteful, but petty, though, Iliona thought. Not in the league of sabotaging chariots. All the same, it was a point to bear in mind that the motive might not necessarily have been financial, at least not in a personal sense. Jealousy and resentment lie at the root of many murders, and if so, the killer wouldn’t have hung around afterwards. What was the point? He’d done what he set out to achieve. Which means the bastard would have got away with it, too.

  ‘Hector tells me you’re interested in taking a tour of the stables,’ Anthea was saying.

  Carried away by bitterness, spite and extra-marital affairs, she’d almost forgotten the gold, and it was a pleasure to be able to discuss horses with someone who knew and appreciated them. For the next half-hour, Iliona immersed herself in the joys of cross-breeding native horses with Persian and Babylonian breeds, prized for their courage and stamina, and also Iberian mounts, famed for manoeuvrability and speed.

  ‘When people think of Sparta, their first thought is of the massed phalanxes,’ she said. ‘What they forget is that all battles need scouts, and the advantages of an armed and mounted skirmishing and pursuit force cannot be stressed strongly enough.’

  ‘The cavalry is elite, so why shouldn’t their horses also be noble?’ Anthea laughed. ‘It’s not just the riders that need to be fine-boned, swift, and smooth on the gait.’

  Iliona confessed that her personal preference was for slender heads and thick crests, like her black stallion over there. ‘They’re so handsome.’

  ‘Nobilor’s pair were wonderful to watch, too,’ Anthea agreed wistfully. ‘I’d have expected a wrestler of his stature to have become hardened over the years, but Nobilor was as soft as dough with those mares. You could see it in the way he stroked them, watched where they were being pastured, made sure they were curried properly.’

  ‘A dark bay and a gold palomino, weren’t they?’

  ‘Such a loss, two magnificent creatures like that. You should have seen them when they were in the harness. So graceful.’

  How much of her old life did she miss, Iliona wondered. Watching chariots race was obviously one aspect, but if Anthea had been a victim of some hidebound divorce, maybe it balanced out. Not that her love of horses would fade. The nobility were quite literally born into them. In their world—Iliona’s world—they were a crucial part of society, intertwined with the exploits of gods and heroes alike, and no expense was spared on their upkeep. When it came to appointing the master of this flagship station, she suspected that Anthea’s background in horses would have counted almost as much as Hector’s experience in running a tavern. A unique and powerful combination, but as Iliona knew only too well from experience, running a stables was a costly exercise. Of course, the station would be awarded state funds to buy and equip its horses and maintain the stables, but, like the accommodation, Hector’s facilities went far beyond the basics.

  A labour of love that needed subsidizing, perhaps?

  In which case, who better placed to swap and hide gold than the station master and his irreproachable wife?

  ‘I hate to drag myself away from stimulating conversation, it’s too rare a treat.’ Anthea had to shout over the furious applause being given to the reciter as he finally wound up his incitement to war. ‘But I promised to distribute honeycombs to the children, do excuse me.’

  That would be another major adjustment, Iliona thought. From giving orders in her previous existence, to carrying them out herself in this.

  While the crowd continued to whistle and stomp, she tried to picture how it must feel to be stripped of one’s citizenship and disowned by the family. In the past, she’d imagined it as an emotional wilderness, in which the lovers clung to each other like barnacles in the hope that love would validate the sacrifices that had been made. What she hadn’t stopped to consider were the day-to-day consequences that came in the form of inferior quality clothing, cheap footwear, loss of servants, not to mention the sheer bloody hard work. Anthea was making a good fist of it. Her robes were
expensive, she’d retained much of her jewellery, and she used cosmetics with discernment and skill. All the same, a station master’s salary, whilst comfortable, would not run to the luxuries Iliona had been seeing…

  Flautists took over, but this time the tune was faster, picking up on the mood created by the reciter and whipping the crowd into a frenzy. The wine was flowing freely now, the conversation louder, and logic less balanced with each cup that was knocked back. Clearly the Eagles didn’t believe in restraint, and even this early into the celebrations, the Festival of the Axe God was beginning to look exceedingly tame.

  ‘So,’ sneered a voice from behind her left shoulder. ‘The charlatan has shown her true colours by telling fortunes.’

  She turned round. ‘Come on, Sandor, you can do better than that. Either I have the power to curse the posting station or I’m a fraud. I can’t be both, so which is it?’

  ‘Both presage danger.’ Overcooked gooseberries pressed close to her face. She smelled thyme, hyssop and, oh dear. Lightly boiled cabbage. ‘I can feel it in the air,’ he intoned. ‘Maybe tonight…maybe tomorrow…’

  ‘Were you eavesdropping?’

  ‘Zabrina of the Translucent Wave hears everything that goes on in her kingdom. I am only the instrument of the goddess.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Melisanne told you.’ It was a stab in the dark, but his narrowing eyes told her she’d just hit the bull’s eye.

  ‘You mock,’ he said. ‘You strut like a cockerel with your phoney pretend powers, but there is evil in the air, I can smell it.’

  ‘Can you? The only thing I can smell are the home-made remedies of a man who is desperately trying to heal the bruising around his genitals and kidneys.’

  ‘Go,’ he snarled. ‘Leave the kingdom of Zabrina and go back to Sparta, and take that black-haired witch with you.’

  ‘Jocasta is a healer, not a witch, and if you dare so much as spread that for a rumour, I will personally rip out your liver and feed it to you, a mouthful at a time.’

  She was hoping to anger him. Instead, he smiled smugly. ‘Your malice is to be expected, madam. I do not take offence. Defeat, I am sure, cannot be easy to swallow.’