by Marilyn Todd
Had Sandor been one of Dierdra’s admirers?
Gossip’s the lifeblood of this posting station, she said.
Iliona didn’t doubt it. But with gossip comes rumour, dripping malice into the ears of the gullible under the pretext of friendship…
Her gaze turned to Ballio, hovering tight-lipped at the fringe with not so much as a cup in his hand. She watched his eyes narrow to slits as the masseuse pushed through the crowd to greet Cadur, planting a kiss on each of the groom’s chiselled cheekbones. Somehow Iliona didn’t see Ballio showering Dierdra with jewels. More one of those noses poking where they don’t belong that would eventually grind you down and make you want to move on, like Dierdra for instance. Or else wear your nerves to a frazzle, inciting tempers—and worse—to explode.
At the blast of a horn, the dancers returned, dressed this time in long white tunics overlaid with panels of smoky-green gauze. In their hair they wore chaplets of sow thistle and cranesbill, and their faces had been painted with white lead. Linking hands in a circle, they began to sway round the Tree of Life to the haunting sounds of a flute.
‘Their costumes represent the leaves of the poplar,’ a cultured female explained in her ear. ‘White on the underside, but you can see that the green on the top is closer to grey, where the leaves were scorched by Hades’ smoke.’ She smiled. ‘If you believe in such tales.’
Anthea. Hector’s wife, where up close the wrinkles were even more pronounced. And those weren’t laughter lines round her eyes and mouth, either, despite the lightness of her tone.
‘I believe in telling such tales to the children who come to my temple,’ Iliona replied. ‘You should see their little faces light up, when I mimic Hercules snatching three-headed Cerberus from the Underworld, wearing his crown of poplar for protection.’
‘Children. Yes.’ The tone became wistful. ‘They love stories.’
A woman who had never had any herself, she realized. The lines came from sadness, and regret.
Anthea sighed. ‘Little ones rarely pass through the station.’
‘You seem to have a plentiful supply locally.’
Playing hopscotch, tag, blind man’s bluff or leapfrog in the clearing.
‘We do, but even that’s difficult to juggle. One has to be so careful, with the two neighbouring states constantly tearing each other’s throats out.’
‘Uh…?’
‘You didn’t know?’
Anthea explained. For centuries, the mountain and lowland peoples had been in conflict. The highlanders, the Enkani, known as the Eagles, were hardy huntsmen, while the people of Phaos were primarily herdsmen, potters, boat-builders and fishermen. The contrast could not have been greater.
‘In theory, the two should enjoy good trade agreements,’ she insisted. ‘Instead, each believes their own skills and lifestyles to be superior, and that the other tribe is lower than scum.’
War had been a routine part of their culture until the establishment of the trade routes and subsequent founding of the posting station, where a permanent military presence in the town of Phaos put paid to most of the skirmishes.
‘But not, sadly, to any ill feeling,’ she added. ‘The Bulls, that’s the lowlanders, claimed victory, because this complex was sited next to the lake, but that was purely a practical decision based on grazing for the horses, access to water, and a flat site for building. The trade routes obviously cross the mountains as well, so we, at the station, take great pains to remain impartial.’
Eagles and Bulls tearing each other’s throats out. A detail Lysander had conveniently forgotten to mention.
‘Sandor,’ Iliona said. ‘Which side is he on?’
‘Theoretically, he remains neutral, since both tribes revere the Blue Goddess.’ Anthea applauded the dancers. ‘But he resents the impact of trade in his jurisdiction, claiming the increase in traffic is an insult to Zabrina, who relies on quiet and calm. It’s no secret that Sandor would like to see this enterprise fail.’
Not superstition, then. Politics.
And if he could scupper this flagship of the newly united Greek nation, it would put pressure on the system as a whole. Iliona watched the flautist tapping his wooden clogs to keep time, and thought, it would only take half a dozen key posting stations to go out of business for this newfangled communications network to collapse. After all, the whole point of experiments was that they could easily be abandoned. A trial stage is just that.
‘How are you enjoying the Dance of the Virgins, my lady?’ Hector’s smile was broad and contented. He brought with him a pronounced smell of oil of bay. ‘These days we pay homage to the dolls that hang in the branches, but it’s not so far back that maidens like those were sacrificed in their place.’
‘It’s a lot further back still since those girls were virgins,’ his wife snapped. ‘Half of them will lift their skirts for three copper chalkoi, the rest lift them for free.’
‘It’s a posting station,’ Hector said patiently. ‘Wherever men need to unwind, there will be girls willing to help them.’
‘On which subject, either you have a word with Yvorna or I will.’ She gave the pleats of her robe a vigorous shake, and Iliona noticed the green linen matched exactly the hue of her eyes. ‘We can’t have her back-chatting the customers, Hector. She plays practical jokes on them, and all sorts.’
‘Have they complained?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘I beg to differ,’ he said. ‘She’s vivacious and people appreciate that.’
‘You mean men do.’
‘Ninety-nine per cent of our trade comes from men, now let’s not bicker over a servant girl, Anthea.’ He applauded as the dancers wrapped up their performance. ‘The sun’s setting, it’ll soon be time for the feast. You will join us, my lady?’
‘I’d love to, but I think I will freshen up first.’
‘If there’s anything you need, let me know,’ Hector said, bowing, and as they walked away, Iliona could hear Anthea asking him where on earth he had been, the Illyrian envoy was looking all over for him, the porter needed a word in his lodge, the horse doctor had a query over one of the mules, it was extremely irresponsible of the station master to abandon his duties without telling anyone where he was going. Her voice wasn’t a whine, but the question had a passive, pleading air to it. Then Iliona remembered the contented smile on Hector’s face when he’d joined them, and the pungent smell of oil of bay. Put the three together, and you have the suspicions of a woman who fears her husband is having an affair, using unguent to mask the scent of her rival.
Gossip’s the lifeblood of this posting station.
Wasn’t it just. Already, in the space of just a few hours, Iliona found herself sucked into this incestuous whirlpool of suspicion and doubt—and the trouble with blood is that it is so easily spilled.
One man had already paid for stolen gold with his life, while another plunged head first over a precipice.
In the branches, the woollen dolls swayed.
Seven
The gold mines lay in eastern Macedonia, in mountains shaped like a hand on its edge. The peaks were serrated, bare, unforgiving and grey, often covered by snow until early summer. But the lower slopes were swathed in chestnut trees and planes, a haven for roe deer and rabbits, with clearings peppered by spikes of furry verbascum, where birdsong rang clear and rivers ran clean.
But bears and wolves also prowled through the forest.
And not every predator walked on four legs.
Lysander stood at the mouth of one of the mines that riddled the hills, watching, without blinking, the poor wretches who split the rock. The lucky ones were those assigned to the opencast trenches that ran diagonally up the hill. Not so lucky were those forced to scramble along badly lit tunnels that disappeared hundreds of cubits into the rock face, tracking the rich veins of ore. Either prisoners of war or kidnapped by pirates then sold on at auction, the slaves came from as far afield as Caria, Syria, Colchis and Lydia. Friendless, fright
ened—but strong.
Lysander followed the progress of the gold, watching as Gregos must have watched. Once the rock had been hacked out and brought to the surface, teams wielding iron hammers pounded the stone until the pieces were reduced to a size suitable for the hundreds of crushing mills. He watched the slaves pushing, three to the spoke, as the chips were ground between a pair of flat, circular stones. Eventually, the rock became dust, at which point it was ready to have the gold filtered out, and this was done in the river. Using first fingers and then sponges, it was effectively panned, the gold remaining behind because of its weight.
Such a grindingly slow, labour-intensive business, involving four, four and a half thousand men, required close supervision and eyes like a hawk. The guards were hard, the slaves were shackled. Life expectancy was short.
The head of the secret police chewed his lip.
Talking of figures…
Each of the four caravans was tasked with transporting twenty-five thousand drachmas’ worth of gold in special double-lined sacks. A hundred thousand drachmas in total. Stealing ten per cent was bold and audacious, especially considering a skilled artisan would only expect to earn five hundred a year.
The thieves certainly made sure it was worth their while.
Lysander wondered how quickly their values would change after spending a little time in his company.
*
Access to the women’s quarters was via a staircase of polished oak, with staterooms at the end of a corridor lined with gaily painted doors and lit by sconces burning scented oils. Hector clearly believed that relaxation after an arduous journey should begin with the first step.
‘My name’s Melisanne, ma’am.’
The girl was tall and slender, with silver-blonde hair and a serious face. Her hands, in fact all of her, were spotlessly clean, her saffron tunic was impeccably draped, the border round the hem set at exactly the same parallel level all the way round. The word conscientious was all but tattooed on her forehead.
‘I’m Madam Anthea’s personal maid, but she’s assigned me to you during your stay, as a mark of esteem and respect.’
Respect?
Or to spy on the Spartan priestess?
‘That is most generous of Madam Anthea, Melisanne. Please tell her I’m very grateful.’
In the morning, once the pack animals had been discharged, Iliona would be able to show her appreciation with the gifts she had brought. Whether a posting station demanded the same contributions one would normally take to another person’s house was moot, but it didn’t seem right to arrive empty-handed. Hospitality was hospitality, no matter the terms.
Also, a donation to Zabrina of the Translucent Wave might not go amiss, either.
‘The master hopes you find your quarters pleasing, milady. He said to tell you that if Eurotas can cope with a chamber that’s well clear of the kitchens, that overlooks the gardens on one side, the lake on the other, and with the bath house just a short hop away, then he might be in business.’
Iliona laughed. ‘Tell Hector that Eurotas has a feeling he will always be in business.’ She remembered the cleanliness of the water in the horse troughs, and the neatly swept yard.
‘The master very much wants this new venture to turn a good profit.’
‘I didn’t realize there was such a thing as a bad one.’
Melisanne didn’t smile. ‘But you do find the room pleasing, milady?’ she asked, Iliona’s response obviously not clear enough.
Ditto Hector’s rhetorical joke.
‘I shall be very comfortable here, Melisanne.’
With no experience of posting stations, Iliona had been prepared for a clean, but nonetheless small chamber furnished with cheap, but nonetheless cheerful sticks of furniture. Not tables and footstools of fine polished chestnut. Not thickly upholstered chairs and deep wicker chests. And especially not couches spread with damasked linen that had been fragranced with gentian.
‘I hope you like the way I laid your things out, milady. I’ve put your robes in one chest, your shawls in another, and lined your sandals under the couch. Your perfumes and cosmetics are on the table behind you, along with your mirrors and combs. The water in the bowl’s fresh, the room has been aired, and there’s a feather fan on the pillow in case you get hot in the night.’ She bobbed. ‘Can I help you undress and wash, ma’am?’
‘I can manage, thanks.’
‘Really? I mean—’ She turned pink with embarrassment. ‘Should I re-pin your hair now, milady?’
‘Spartan women are bred to be independent, Melisanne. I would no more ask you to wash and dress me than you would ask me, but I appreciate the offer. Thank you.’
The girl’s eyes bulged at the idea of the rich, pampered women who usually passed through being left to tint their own cheeks with mulberry juice, apply hot curling irons to their own hair or, horror of horrors, pluck their eyebrows themselves. ‘So…what can I do?’
‘Go and enjoy the festivities,’ Iliona said firmly. ‘If Anthea asks, tell her I sent you, but I’m sure you’ll be better employed there than hanging around here, waiting on me.’ She cocked her head on one side. ‘Pretty girl like you, I’m sure you have a young man you want to meet up with.’
The blush spread down her neck to her chest. ‘I do have a man, ma’am, but I am unable to join him at the feast.’
‘Ah. He’s an Eagle, is he?’
‘That’s my sister’s fiancé. Morin.’ He was a highlander, she explained. ‘Works in the stables, always pestering Lisyl to give up her virginity, but she won’t. She’s a good girl, is Lisyl. Honours the true Phaos principle, to remain pure until the night of her wedding. Not like my other sister.’ Her lip twisted. ‘Yvorna just doesn’t care, that’s the trouble.’
‘Carefree is not a bad trait when you’re young.’ Iliona was only twelve or thirteen years older than Melisanne, but suddenly she felt old enough to be the girl’s mother. ‘Anyway, she’s in love, isn’t she? That’ll soon calm her down.’
‘In love? Yvorna? Well, I must say that’s news to me.’ Melisanne didn’t seem to notice that the priestess had only been here a few hours, yet was already aware of events. ‘Mind you, that girl would rather drink vinegar than tell me her secrets, and I’m her sister, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Perhaps that’s why.’
She sighed. ‘When our parents died, we promised to look out for one another. Needless to say, Lisyl and I kept our end of the bargain, but Yvorna? She always pleases herself, no matter what, and I tell you, milady, she’d rather confide in that weird stable… Oh no! Don’t tell me she’s fallen for Cadur?’
‘He is an exceptionally good-looking young man.’
Melisanne gave a toss of her silver-blonde mane. ‘I don’t trust him. He creeps down to Dierdra’s cottage at night, I’ve seen him. Hard worker, but doesn’t speak, doesn’t mix. Even Hector has no idea where he’s from—’ She stopped short. ‘I meant the master, of course.’
Iliona thought, the man who keeps himself to himself usually has something to hide.
‘Of course.’
With the heat of the day past, she flung open the shutters, admitting sunshine, birdsong and a stunning view of the lake, where storks and ibis dotted the trees and swallows dipped low over the water. The view on the other side was no less enchanting, overlooking a paved garden where neatly clipped laurels rubbed shoulders with giant cardoons, fountains splashed, and statues stood watch over flower tubs brimming with heliotrope and lilies. Heavy, perfumed and full. A woman’s touch, she decided. Small and compact, the garden oozed the same grace and discretion as Anthea herself, with its rows of herbs lining the paths and roses scrambling up the pillars along the portico, their hips bright scarlet and shining. Against one of the columns, a girl of fifteen stood frowning and chewing her nails.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Daphne.’ The maid neatly rearranged the combs on the table and lined up the pots of cosmetics. ‘Nobilor’s daughter.’
Oh dea
r. Another factor in the wrestler’s difficult equation, and Iliona wondered where she fitted in.
‘Thank you, Melisanne, I’ve taken up enough of your time.’
The girl didn’t move. Clearly, she needed things spelled out.
‘Off you go.’
Still nothing.
‘Is something the matter?’
‘No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am.’
Shifting her weight from foot to foot, with her eyes fixed on a knot in the flooring, this was a completely different Melisanne to the earlier competent, confident servant.
‘This curse of yours, milady.’ She swallowed. ‘Does it affect everyone?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I mean, is it a general curse on the trade and the future of the new courier system?’ She was twisting her hands like she was wringing out linen. ‘Or something that applies to everybody who works here?’
Iliona looked at the incense vases balanced on their stone pedestals, the bronze candelabrum glinting in the sun, the animal-skin rugs spread over the polished oak floor. ‘There is no curse, Melisanne. Not on the posting station, the traffic, the trade or the people.’
‘The priest says—’
