by Susie Mander
I push through the rows of tables and before anyone realises who I am, squeeze in beside them. Hydra’s is the self-assured voice of one who has served long enough to know how far she can push authority. “Well, look who it is,” she booms. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’d had an argument with your mother and had come to find comfort in our stories.”
“Not this time, Hydra.”
The chiliarch slaps her thigh. “Well I’ll be damned. Don’t tell me you’d rather celebrate with us? I’m sure the food is better in the ballroom.”
“I have information for you.”
Hydra snorts. “Is that so?” Unlike Petra, who maintains her composure, the chiliarch’s eyes are bloodshot, her speech slurred. “And what could you possibly have to say at this hour that warrants leaving the party? I heard they had truffles.”
“Will you just listen?” I say. I have always liked Hydra’s brash, no-nonsense approach but there is no time for it now.
“Well excuse me,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning so far back she almost falls off her stool. Not caring if anyone can overhear me, I tell them of my mother’s plan to import soldiers from Whyte. “She means to conduct a cleansing. And by the time she has finished there won’t be a single rebel standing. I thought you should know. You especially, Petra. Soon hundreds of Tibutans will be the victim of my mother’s incompetence.”
Petra counters with eloquent silence. I am tempted to speak, to fill the silence as we all feel we must, but I hold my tongue. Hydra has fallen quiet. She nurses her drink.
“One boat,” Petra finally says and I frown.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t think I am ignorant of what is going on. I’ve been in counsel with your mother and she assures me only one boat will enter Tibuta. A mere two hundred men will join my army. I have no objections. We need all the help we can get.”
“But—”
Her dark eyes bore into me. “It is one boat.” Petra lowers her voice so only Hydra and I can hear. “With all due respect your highness, I have tolerated your hints of treason for far too long. You asked me where my loyalties lie. I am loyal to the queen. Though I have my reservations about killing our compatriots, it is my duty to put sentiment aside and do what has to be done.”
Hydra will not look up from her bowl.
“You don’t honestly believe that bringing Whyte soldiers in to do our dirty work is the honourable way to solve our problems? The queen is more concerned with conquering the mainland than she is with civil stability or the Tempest.”
“Your highness, I have endured your barrage because I appreciate that your intentions are good. But enough is enough. You must stop. Your plots are futile. No one can stop the queen.”
“What has she said?”
Petra shakes her head.
“She said something, didn’t she?”
“It matters little.”
“I know my mother and if she—”
Petra brings her fist down hard on the table. “Please,” she says, the word dripping with desperation. “Stop or I will have no choice but to tell the queen everything you have said.” She stands. “If you will excuse me, the prince is expected sometime tomorrow. I must get a good night’s sleep and report to her majesty at dawn.” The strategos steps out from the bench.
I watch her departing back, shaking my head in disbelief. Around me, soldiers have stopped their chatter to watch us.
“She threatened you, hasn’t she?” I call, making Petra pause. She does not turn around so I speak loud enough for her—and those around her—to hear. “A good leader has no need for threats. She is a servant to the people. You told me that. You also told me that a leader must win the people’s trust. She must fight for them, not against them. Has my mother fought for you, Petra? Has she fought for any of us?”
Petra is very still. I can see the rise and fall of each breath. She shakes her head and continues towards the exit. Conscious of the muttering and upturned faces as my outburst spreads across the room, I quickly depart.
At the door a helot grabs my arm. She is short, far shorter than me, and her front teeth are black. She looks no older than thirteen. Her eyes are aglow with disillusionment and drink. “Highness, there are some who would rather drink blood than see Tibuta bastardised by the Dual Kingdom. Say the word and we will follow you,” she says and I squeeze her shoulder.
“Thank you, soldier. In time, Tibuta will need all of us.” I release my grip. I turn with purpose, knowing that this brief encounter has the potential to start a revolution.
“Back so soon,” Cook says as I re-enter the kitchen, which is now piled with dirty dishes. His skin is thin, like wax paper. There are yellow stains beneath his armpits.
“Remember this day,” I say, slapping him on the fleshy part of the arm. I push past him to look along a line of men who have their hands submerged in barrels of greasy water. “Where is Ried?”
Cook nods towards the corner of the room. The red priestess is scraping scraps into a trough.
“Ried, come with me.”
The red priestess looks up and passes the dirty plates to one of the boys. She wipes her hands on her apron. “What is it, your highness?” she says as I lead her out the kitchen and down a corridor to a tiny cloister where three date palms sprout into the sky. We stop overlooking a fountain with a snake’s head that spews water and green moss into a basin of silver. We stand in the moonlight that peeps out from behind the retreating clouds, hidden by a column.
“I must speak to Maud.”
“One moment.” The red priestess closes her eyes. Her breathing is heavy, controlled. A long, painful silence is interrupted by a cacophony of screeching and rustling leaves as a bat lands between the spiny fronds of one of the date palms. But Ried does not stir. Finally, she opens her eyes. “I am sorry, highness, she is asleep and I cannot wake her despite my best attempts to yell in her dreams.”
I run my hand through my hair as I think. “Keep trying. The moment you get through to her warn her that my mother is planning a cleansing. A trireme of soldiers is arriving from Whyte tomorrow. She intends to kill every traitor in Tibuta. The Shark’s Teeth must go underground. And Ried, tell her it is no longer safe for me to stay here. I need you to smuggle me out of the palace.”
I am greeted by a bathrobe and two bare feet. Harryet knuckles the sleep from her eyes and yawns, “Verne, what is going on? Why are you up so late?”
I enter my solar, cross to a side table and light a whale-oil lantern. With a warm glow flickering against the walls, I pace up and down my solar. “The high priestess told me that the First Mother was born of the coupling of an angel and a demon, the former providing all that is good, the latter all that is evil, and from the violence was born something pure.” I stop to look at her, then continue marching. “And so, all humans born of the First Mother have conflicting parts. And there is no greater conflict. Good and evil pull at each other like a tug of war. At one end stands the First Mother and at the other the Fire, who threatens to pull her over the edge.”
“Yes,” my friend says patiently. “But what of it?”
“Harry, I struggle with my two sides: she who would be craven and she who must be brave for the people.” I continue to march up and down. “I hold two conflicting truths in my mind: it is a sin to kill my mother and I must accept my fate the way everyone must accept that she is a certain person and not another, born to one woman rather than another. I must accept it because I am a woman of Tibuta. This life was chosen for me long before I came into the world.”
She nods without speaking.
“But to do this will be like taking a knife and plunging it into my own heart.”
“Then do not do it.”
I shake my head dismissively. “I must.”
She steps tentatively forwards and places her hands on my shoulders. Her hair is a tangle. I can smell the warmth of sleep on her breath. “Then have courage.”
“Yes…yes yo
u are right,” I say. I break free from her grasp and continue my patrol of the vast marble room. “Will you summon Drayk? Tell him it is urgent and to meet me in my bathhouse.”
After my carelessness with the letters, I have no intention of being overheard again and the bathhouse is one of the only truly private rooms in the palace. Steam rises from the gap beneath the door in ghostly tendrils and fills the marble dome. I sit on the alabaster plinth in the centre with the damp clogging my clothes. On five of the walls there are fountains, and the sound of running water should be soothing but it is not. I am too distracted by what I am about to do to appreciate the tinkle of diamonds down the drain. I am a general sending my troops to war.
Water drips down my nose. I clench and unclench my fists. The door squeaks open and Harryet and Drayk enter. Harryet stands just inside. The chiliarch’s face is flushed; his hair is swept back so wet curls gather at his neck. He sits beside me and takes my hand.
“Drayk, my mother found one of the letters.”
“No. I was so careful.”
“She doesn’t know the full extent of our betrayal otherwise she would have had me killed and you tortured, but she is suspicious. Do you remember the emissary from Whyte?”
He nods.
“My mother wants to unify Tibuta and the Dual Kingdom.”
“It makes sense.”
“We will be unified by blood. Prince Slay Satah will pick me or Adelpha to secure troops and food, to guarantee our allegiance.”
Drayk nods very slowly, digesting this information. “No doubt in time your mother hopes to invade the mainland. Space on the islands is limited.” This is typical of the immortal, a man who has learnt to think strategically and not emotionally.
“My mother will betray the prince and keep the throne for herself. I’m almost certain of it. She has no intention of naming anyone her successor. Why else would she have humiliated Adelpha and suppressed her gift in front of all those people? And Petra will not join us. She has threatened to turn me in. I must leave the palace.”
“No,” Harryet says, holding her hand to her mouth.
I tell them in detail of all that has transpired. “The time has come where words will not suffice. With or without Petra, I must make a stand.”
“I will come with you,” Harryet says. Drayk nods in agreement.
“I am sorry, Harry. I have something else I must ask of you.” I take a deep breath. “I must preface it by saying that should you feel strongly opposed to it then you can—in fact you must—speak up. I promise there will be no consequences.” This, of course, is a lie. And she knows it. There are always consequences, even for our inaction.
My friend is a tight ball of string, aware that she is about to be unravelled. “Tell me. The gods know I will do my best.”
It is as if I float above, watching the words spill from someone else’s mouth. “Harry, I am asking you to leave Tibuta without me.”
“No.”
“Of course I will not send you against your will but I need you and Bolt to travel to Alaira, the capital of Caspius, to warn my uncle of my mother’s betrayal. Please understand that I love you. You are my dearest friend and I would not ask this of you if I thought there was another way. You are the only person I trust completely other than Drayk.” I nod at the chiliarch. “I would go myself but my path is a more violent one. I hope to save you from that.” I wipe away the condensation that has gathered on my brow.
Harryet picks at her hem. Her expression is blank. “You are sending me all that way? I have never been further than Lizard Island.” Her big eyes implore me to understand.
“I am asking you to go of your own accord. I will not force you. If it is repugnant to you then I will abandon my plan: this I swear.”
“And what will happen to me once I have delivered this message? Will I be able to return to the palace or will the queen know of my betrayal?” She is quick; I have always admired this about her.
“It will not be safe for any of us here. Not for some time.”
“But this is my home.”
“Please, Harry, working for me is like imprisonment. I realised that the other night when you spoke to me of your desire for a family. Serving me means you cannot have the things you want, but I want to give you those things. Life would be…lovely…on the mainland. I will give you gold enough to buy a house of your own. I will make sure you have servants and people calling you ‘madam’. On your arrival they will bow down and call, ‘All hail the honourable Harryet Nathos.’ You will have ewerers and attendants, men to make your bed, fleets to carry you wherever you want to go, consorts and—”
“I do not need all those things. I do not need to be called ‘madam’. It is my responsibility to call others ‘madam’. It is my responsibility to ensure you are comfortable. I…This is…Please, Verne, the gods did not intend for me to live as you do.”
I often wonder what it might be like to have no expectation of grandeur, to be like Harryet: innocent and unassuming, a humble mollusc with a strong outer shell and soft inner flesh. To be so pure of heart; to be unsullied by the need for knowledge. This would be an accomplishment. “Yes, but you could be the master. You would be free to give orders and summon any companion of your choice.”
“But I couldn’t return? I could not undo this decision?”
“Not until I have killed my mother. I will send for you when it safe to return but Harry, I want you to have the life you deserve and I don’t think it is possible here.”
“Whether you go or not, your association with Verne will make you guilty,” Drayk says.
Harryet thinks for a long time. By now her thin gown is damp and stars of condensation have formed in her long wavy hair. “I won’t know what to do without you.”
“Nor I you.”
A silence stretches out between us and for a moment I think she or I, or both of us, might cry. “I will let you think on it but please make your decision by the morning,” I say, standing. Drayk stands and his presence beside me is a comfort.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Though it breaks my heart I will do it. Loyalty is loyalty. Gnosis guide me, I will go. I have always wanted to see the mainland.” She laughs humourlessly, fighting back tears. “I have heard that Caspius has the most beautiful seaside villages,” she says as we head for the door.
“People are kind there, especially to foreigners, and land is cheap. They will sell it to freeman or slave, as long as he has the gold,” Drayk says.
“I have no doubt,” she says, gradually convincing herself. After all it is her belief that, like the gods, there is good in everything I do.
“Caspius will be a place of great opportunity,” I say, wanting to believe it as much as she does. And yet it feels false to speak of a place I have never visited. For all I know Caspius is a vile cesspit of cutthroats and criminals. Still, I will ensure she has the gold she needs. This is something, is it not? Not enough, though, to temper the foreboding seeping through my skin.
Harryet—beautiful and consistent Harryet—looks at me with teary eyes. “I will do whatever I can to help. It has been an honour serving you.”
“Thank you.” My voice catches. “You have been a true friend.”
But have I been a true friend? I wonder as we leave the bathhouse. I ignore this question and others like it. It is easy to ignore your conscience when your intentions are good.
Harryet is asleep. From my spot in her doorway I can see the gentle rise and fall of her body. She does not stir. I turn away and join Drayk in my solar. With guilt as my silent companion, I take his hand and lead him out of the apartment. “We will be back in a moment,” I say to Bolt as we pass. I ignore Nike and Adamon who stand at the bottom of the stairs. They, in turn, ignore us.
Neither Drayk nor I speak as we proceed along the Walk. We climb to the top of the Throne Room and I stand for a moment beside the bonsai garden, listening to the fountain. I cannot see the koi swimming beneath the water’s black surface but it is reassuring
to know they are there. “I used to come here a lot with my father. While we waited for my mother.” I turn to the immortal. “But then she was suddenly so busy, you know? The pressure of running the nation got the better of her. And my father and I were spending so much time together. She was jealous…” I trail off, unwilling to remember my mother as she once was.
“A lot has changed since then.”
We hear footsteps on the stairs. I reach for his hand and pull him into a dark crevice between two buildings. Two hoplites reach the top of the stairs, look around, see nothing and descend.
“Verne, this is destroying me,” Drayk says. “I need…I want—”
I silence him by standing on tiptoe to kiss him. I can smell the warmth of him, the desire. He puts his arms around my waist and passionately consumes me, his complaint forgotten.
Every part of me is screaming out for him to touch me, to let me be him. I want to crawl inside him, for our bodies to merge and become one. He pushes me against the cold marble wall of the Chamber of Petitions and pins me there, my shoulder blades and skull against solid reality, the rest of me rising out of my body to hover above us and watch. As he explores my face with his lips, I imagine him pushing right through me, sinking into me. My senses call out to him: Let me in, let me in.
He pulls away. “God, Verne. What are we doing?”
I say nothing but smile and try to imagine what it is like for him. He is a gift in himself, somewhat of a miracle. He is the water and the seed, giving and receiving life, regenerating over and over again without the need for a daughter to project him into the future. And yet he is just a man. His vision is limited. He can work with probability and deduce the likelihood of certain outcomes but he must still account for human inconsistency.
I hold his head between my hands and look deep into his eyes, trying to read him. To have a conversation with his atrama, to be given insight into his internal workings, his very being—now that would be magic. What would I learn of the indentured soldier, my sage? I would learn that he is an old man, so young, so wise and yet so naïve.
