The Lost Sisterhood

by Anne Fortier

  IT TOOK ME A while to work up the mettle to call James. Half-expecting him to be at some charity luncheon with his phone turned off and a tiaraed dowager leaning on his arm, I was somewhat startled when he picked up right away. I heard a splash of water, then, “Morg! It’s about time.” His voice sounded deeper than usual.

  “Maybe this is not a good time,” I began, losing my nerve.

  There was another splashing sound. “Don’t hang up! Let me just turn this off.” I listened with astonishment as James interrupted what could only be a shower in order to talk with me. “Are you still there?” He sounded genuinely concerned. “What’s going on, Morg?”

  I quickly drew up the situation, leaving out every detail that might alarm him. The result was a short account, concluding with a promise to return to Oxford in the next day or so. “The thing is,” I concluded, finally getting around to the reason for my call, “I have a class tomorrow afternoon—introduction to Sanskrit—and I was wondering if I could persuade you to step in and give your Assyrian Empire lecture instead?”

  There was a brief, rather unpleasant silence. Then James cleared his throat and said, “Anything for you. Just promise me one thing. Whatever happens, please don’t let these people get into your head.”

  I was so surprised, I started laughing. “You’re worried about my head?”

  There were no sounds to suggest James shared my amusement. “You’re an intelligent girl, Morg. If they can get into your head, they can get in anywhere. Watch out for Kamal … he’s a bad egg.”

  “Who?”

  “Kamal … or Karim, or whatever you said his name was.”

  “You mean Nick?”

  “Yes. The bloke who does al-Aqrab’s dirty work. Don’t give him an inch.”

  I was briefly back in the collapsing temple, feeling Nick straining to pull me up into safety. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’m practically on my way home.”

  “That’s what you said in Algeria,” James pointed out. “You’d better have a bloody good explanation ready for the old hellcat.”

  My spine froze in place, like an icicle. “I see.”

  After the call had ended, I remained seated on Rebecca’s bed for a while. I simply couldn’t move. Something was wrong. Never mind the fact that I was getting increasingly unpopular at home. I was absolutely positive I had never revealed to James—or Katherine Kent, for that matter—that my mystery destination had been Algeria.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ISLAND OF CRETE

  MYRINA PULLED BACK IN TERROR AT THE GRISLY SCENE. SHE KNEW religion could take many forms, but had never before seen worship in the form of human slaughter. Nor had it even occurred to her that the temple sister she sought had already met such a gruesome end.

  “Out,” croaked Paris, holding up his arms to prevent the others from proceeding any further. “I never saw such a cursed place on earth.”

  But their retreat was blocked by the advent of a priestess—at least Myrina guessed she was a priestess from her naked breasts and rich jewelry. Her face contorted with incredulous rage, the woman picked up an ax from one of the slaughter tables and began swinging it at random, narrowly missing Aeneas.

  “Filthy, disgusting demon!” sneered Paris, reaching for his dagger. In one smooth, effortless movement the weapon was out of his belt and lodged in the chest of the priestess, who fell against the wall and onto the floor with a piercing wail, her wide-open eyes as ghoulish in death as they had been when she was still alive.

  “Quickly!” Paris waved them all toward the stairs. “Others may come.”

  And they did. Alarmed by the commotion, two other priestesses emerged from a door in the wall—a door Myrina had not even noticed. As soon as they saw the priestess’s dead body they fell to the floor, pleading for their lives.

  So shrill were their entreaties the Trojans did not even apprehend the bustle behind them. Only Myrina, still immovable with shock, saw the approach of the monster that seemed to have been conjured out of nowhere—from some dark niche behind the main altar. Too tall and wide for normal, human proportions, and made even more beastly by his horned headpiece, this ogre of a man rushed forward with a long spear aimed at Paris’s back.

  Roused from her petrifaction, Myrina acted instinctively. Deprived of any weapons of her own, she swooped down to claim the double ax that had slipped from the hands of the dead priestess, flinging it with all her strength at the monster.

  Thrown with power and precision, the deadly blade lodged itself in his throat, cutting short his round-eyed surprise at having been struck down so easily. Only when his giant corpse dropped to the floor with a heavy thud, throwing up a cloud of dust, did the Trojans spin around to see what had happened behind them.

  Myrina was too busy wresting the ax from the neck of her foe to see the expression on Paris’s face as he realized she had saved his life. But once she looked up and met his eyes, it occurred to her as well.

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Aeneas, his voice thick with revulsion. “What about those two?” He nodded at the priestesses cowering on the floor, their prayers even more shrill than before.

  “Kill them,” said Paris, holding out a hand to Myrina and starting toward the stairs. “Kill them as they deserve: like animals.”

  THE RIDE BACK TO the harbor was a blur to Myrina.

  Much to Paris’s relief, they returned to the Minos’s palace courtyard just as another delegation was arriving, and the royal heralds were too preoccupied to notice the Trojans’ emergence from the sanctuary.

  Dismissing the litter that had transported her earlier, Paris lifted Myrina up onto his own horse and enfolded her in his cape, even as, all the while, she held firmly to her ax. Moments later, they were safely away from the courtyard and riding apace through the city streets—downhill this time, toward the sea. It did not even occur to Myrina that this was what she had resisted before: riding on Paris’s horse. All she felt was a choking grief at the wickedness of what she had just seen, and a nauseating fury at the Minos, who could receive visitors with the utmost eloquence upstairs while sanctioning heinous acts of cannibalism in the basement.

  At the Eastern Harbor, Myrina dismounted the horse with Paris’s help and took a few steps toward the gangplank … but could not continue. “How can I possibly tell my sisters what I have witnessed?” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “The evil of it all—”

  “Come.” Paris pried the double ax from her hands and pulled her away from the pier and down to the beach where they had first met. “Let us wash the blood from your face first or you will most certainly make them swoon.” Without stopping to disrobe, he pulled her into the surf by the hand, wading out until the skirts rose up around Myrina’s waist like petals of a flower. “There,” he said, wiping her face with one of them. “It will not do to have a queen carry the bloody mark of a hunter.”

  Myrina met his eyes. “But that is what I am: a hunter.”

  Paris took her by the chin and looked her sternly in the eye. “You saved my life. By human calculations, that makes you a noblewoman. And the gods, I am sure, have long ago appointed you a queen.” He paused, his eyes dropping briefly to her lips. “As have I.”

  She pulled away from him. “You would be wise to return me to the gutter where you found me. I may have saved your life, but do not forget that it was also I who put us in peril. And now the Minos will surely be your enemy.” She sighed and shook her head. “You are too kind, and I am unused to it. For your own sake, do not stroke my misery. It knows not how to respond, but with a vicious bite.”

  “Wait.” He gripped her wrist. “I have been meaning to ask you.” Drawing her closer to him in the water, he spun her around and pulled the dress from her shoulders.

  Gasping with indignation, Myrina clutched the garment against her chest. “What are you—” she began, but was silenced by his fingers, touching the old wound on her back.

  “This worries me.” Paris pressed the skin here and there to assess t
he damage. “Why did you not tell me?”

  Myrina freed herself, pulling awkwardly at the dress to drape it over her shoulders once more. “Because it is nothing. And it is healing—”

  “I’m afraid it isn’t.” Paris began wading ashore. “As soon as we are at sea, I will take a better look.”

  “At sea?”

  He stopped and turned, a crooked smile on his face. “Unless you would prefer to spend the night with the Minos? I expect his invitation shortly.”

  NONE OF THE WOMEN protested when they saw the Trojans preparing the ships for departure and learned that they had no choice but to stay on board. Even if their futures were still uncertain, Myrina knew her sisters were secretly relieved to leave the hardships of the old fishing boat behind.

  Once they were away from land, the large sails filling with a rising wind, she gathered them all around her on deck and explained in greater detail the reason for their hasty departure. As suspected, the account of her terrible discovery at the palace of the Minos put them all in such a state of grief and despair they could barely tolerate hearing the words.

  “Could you see … who it was?” asked Animone at last, her hands still pressed to her mouth with shock.

  “I think it was Neeta,” whispered Myrina, her eyes closed against the vision of the numerous severed heads. “But I am not sure.”

  Neeta had been a quiet girl, had rarely drawn attention; never had her sisters bestowed as much love and attention on her as they did tonight, sitting on the deck underneath an indifferent moon, remembering her sweetness.

  “She attended to her duties without complaint,” whispered Pitana, staring away into her own memories. “Never broke the rules.”

  Being as she was the oldest, Kyme tried to remain calm throughout these remembrances. “Above all,” she said, shaking her head sadly, “Neeta showed us there can be as much virtue in the things we do not do as in those we do.”

  The women were silent for a while, wiping away tears that wouldn’t stop coming. Then Egee, who unlike Neeta could find a point of contention in any situation, said to Myrina, “I still don’t understand why we could not stop to give her a proper funeral. You may take delight in breaking the rules, but I say there are still rules worth observing. And now we are going to Troy”—her voice turned more bitter still—”that is, I am assuming we are going to Troy?”

  “Here is a new rule for you,” said Myrina, getting up before she lost her temper. “Assume nothing. As for our destination, I am as ignorant as you and not the conniving tyrant you want me to be. You are here, as are we all, because we have no better place to be.”

  Later that night, Myrina found Paris alone in the bow of the ship, looking out over the wine-dark sea and the stars above. “Is the map of heaven different where you come from?” he asked.

  Myrina looked up at the sky she knew well. “No. I suppose our stars follow us wherever we go.”

  “That one”—Paris pointed out a constellation—”is named after you. We call it ‘the Hunter.’ “ He looked at her teasingly. “What is your name for it?”

  Myrina leaned forward to rest her elbows on the ship’s railing. “My mother called it ‘the Three Sisters.’ She said they were three sisters in love with the same man, and who asked him to judge which one of them was the most beautiful. The result was war and destruction.” She glanced at Paris. “My mother was convinced the stars were remnants of a previous world, left in the sky as a warning.”

  Paris’s arm came to rest right next to hers. “A warning against what?”

  Myrina straightened, pulling back her shoulders to stop the pain still throbbing in her back. “Stay away from sisters.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Especially the holy ones.”

  Paris turned around, leaning against the railing to see her better. “How holy are you exactly? Clearly not too holy to handle a weapon like a warrior. Tell me, what else do you handle?”

  Myrina tried to end the conversation with a glare, but the darkness swallowed her intention.

  “Come.” Paris took her firmly by the hand. “I want to look at your wound.”

  “Wait!” Myrina tried to slow her steps, but found herself dragged below deck, through a narrow space filled with men asleep in gently swinging hammocks. Not until they reached a storage space at the stern of the hull did she dare protest in more than a whisper. “Surely,” she said, watching him as he lit a lamp, “tending wounds is not the job of a prince.”

  Paris turned toward her, his face perfectly sincere. “Do you really think I will let anyone else touch my queen? Now, take that off.” He motioned at her snakeskin tunic.

  When she did not move, he shook his head and came forward. “Must I really do it for you?”

  “No!” Myrina backed up, but got no further than to a wall of wooden barrels. “You call me a queen, but treat me like a whore. Is that why you are taking me to Troy? To work your lust on me?”

  Even in the poor light, she saw the mortification on Paris’s face. “Please,” he said, his voice thick with defeat, “rest your ax, woman. I did not mean to insult you. I—” he ran both hands through his hair, as if trying to rouse himself from a hallucination. “I only seek to care for you.”

  Myrina pressed a hand against her forehead, regretting her outcry. “I beg your forgiveness. You have been noble in every way. Recent events have convinced me that foreign men cause nothing but pain and grief”—she looked his way, grateful for the shadows obscuring his face—”but you are already teaching me otherwise. If all Trojans are as good as you, Troy must be a blessed place for men and women alike. I cannot wait to see it.”

  Paris smiled at last. “Then it is my unpleasant duty to disappoint you, for we are not going to Troy. How could we? We are going to Mycenae to see if we can rescue your sisters. Now turn and let me see what is to be done with the wound. Fear not that my aim is pleasure; this will sting soon enough.”

  • • •

  SEEN FROM THE SEA, the land of the Greeks was not unlike the island of Crete; alluring to the eye, but deadly to the careless sailor. The knowledge that this coastline—these proud and verdant hills, these soft and happy coves—had borne a race of brutes bent on destruction was enough to make Myrina and her sisters recoil from its beauty, muttering to one another that their green marsh at home, for all its slithering snakes, was superior in every way.

  “Behind those hills,” said Aeneas, pointing as they sailed by, “lies Sparta, the most ruthless city of them all. The men there are bred for strife and know no greater pleasure than to run their spears into the flesh of living things. Their king is the blood brother of the man we are to visit; they have an unbreakable alliance and are feared throughout these regions and beyond.”

  Myrina’s sisters looked at the coast in silence, imagining what they could not see. Then Animone, who had never ceased to apologize for their presence, or to thank the Trojans for their kindness, said to Aeneas, “Would you even come this way, up this hostile coast, if not for us?”

  He shrugged. “The Greeks won’t bother us. They cannot afford to make an enemy of our King Priam.”

  Animone glanced at Myrina but said no more. When it had become clear to the women there was a continuous, pulsing flow of admiration between their leader and Prince Paris, Animone had wasted no opportunity to remind Myrina of her vows and responsibilities. “You may feel kindness toward this man,” she said, after seeing a long look exchanged between the two, “and I cannot blame you, for he is as able a fellow as I ever saw. But remember the pact you made with the Moon Goddess. Wherever she is, you may be sure she is still watching you. So, if you truly like Paris, leave him be.” Animone touched Myrina’s bracelet. “Remember, the jackal is a jealous mistress.”

  But Animone needn’t remind Myrina of the danger; she was all too aware. Due to unfavorable winds, the journey, which should have taken three days, had taken thrice that long. Trapped in this timeless whirl, Myrina found herself sucked into Paris’s charms further and further, to a point w
here she had almost no strength left to kick against the current. Every night, under pretext of tending to her healing wound, his hand would linger on her back a little longer, his breath would come a little closer…. Were it not for Animone, thanking him profusely before whisking Myrina away, some touch or sound would surely have passed between them that no words could undo.

  As she lay among her sisters on the floor of the dining space at night, rolling and tossing on the waves of her own thoughts, Myrina felt the jackal’s jealous fury very keenly. And because she was determined not to pass any of its demonic bile to the man who had been so kind to her, she spent all day avoiding him, bravely suffering on her own.

  But Paris, always on deck, always alert, looked as if the poison had found him all the same. His gaze sought Myrina wherever she was, drinking in the sight of her, and his thirst grew worse for every day he kept mistaking the contagion for a cure.

  When the three Trojan ships arrived at the Bay of Argos at last, Myrina almost felt there was greater danger lurking on board than could possibly be awaiting them ashore. First to volunteer, she was outraged when Paris would not let her leave the ship, and stood glumly at the railing while he and his most trusted men rowed off to gather information about the harbor.

  “But don’t you see it would be disastrous if anyone recognized us?” said Animone, standing next to her.

  “Maybe.” Myrina followed the rowboat with her eyes as far as she could. “Maybe not. I still do not know what Paris’s plan is.”

  As a matter of fact, she was not even sure Paris had a plan for their visit to Mycenae. Nor had he made her any promises. “First of all, we must determine if your sisters really are here at the palace,” he had said to her before leaving.