by Marilyn Todd
Jocasta wasn’t so sure. Citizens at least have the law to protect them. As a helot, she’d be thrown to the wolves.
‘I’m not at the temple.’
‘You’re still under its protection, and mine, and in any case you haven’t cut off your hair and pretended to be a man in order to set up your own medical practice.’
‘In other words, the real crime is cross-dressing, and the fact that lives are saved counts for nothing?’
‘Athens is nothing if not conscientious when it comes to imposing her chauvinist principles.’
Wasn’t that a fact, Jocasta thought. The men exerted total control over their women, from the day they were born until their wedding, when they were passed, like chattels, to their husbands. Widowed mothers, spinster sisters, even aged grandmothers were under their thumb, confined to the house unless attending a religious festival.
‘The only time Athenian women take any real role is at funerals,’ Iliona said, ‘and even then, they’re not permitted to cry.’ She paused. ‘As if they’d want to.’
‘It’s the double standards I can’t cope with,’ Jocasta retorted. ‘Athens sets herself up as the role model for modern society, citing her architects, scientists, mathematicians and navy. Yet Athenians treat their hunting dogs better than they do their own wives, while brothels have sprung up like weeds.’
‘Well, you know what they say in the Parthenon. If children could be born without women, the world would be a far better place. ’
‘An Athenian courier was actually bragging yesterday about how there’s only one female virtue, and that’s silence. Then had the gall to come to my table in search of a cure for his piles.’ She agitated the contents of her terracotta bowl. ‘He wanted virtue. He got it. Dashing to the latrines eight times in the night must have felt terribly virtuous, just as he’d have been imbued with a sense of extreme righteousness, riding the next twenty-five miles with a burr under his saddle. Lie still, please. I can’t apply paste while you’re laughing.’
‘Discrimination is universal, Jocasta. It is only ever a question of who and how much.’
Too true, though it was invariably the poor who bore the brunt. She took a small phial from her box and removed the stopper, releasing a strong smell not unlike fresh turpentine. She poured half the contents into the mixture and thought this was a perfect example. The tree which it came from grew in the arid, mountainous deserts of Judah, and was unique in having two barks, through which a gummy grey juice seeped in the summer. Collected mainly for perfume, where the oil was separated from the resin in a process involving great secrecy, this rare aromatic was beneficial for coughs and sore throats when made into a syrup—at least for those who could afford it. But by boiling the sap in wine, and thus preventing it from solidifying, it also healed wounds and eased pain when applied externally. Jocasta had never seen any reason, when she submitted her budget, to explain why the cost of her medicines was so high. In her view, the poor deserved the same chance as anyone else, but at least with this wound the high priestess was reaping the benefits of that exorbitant bill.
‘This talk about marriage makes me think of Daphne,’ Iliona said. ‘How she must be feeling, now Nobilor is no longer around to choose her husband for her.’
‘Relieved, wouldn’t you think? Fifteen-year-old girls auctioned off to men in their thirties, forties, fifties and upwards? Barbaric,’ Jocasta spat. ‘Half the time the poor bitches haven’t even met these creeps until the dowry’s been settled, and once they’re married, that’s final. They’re stuck, even if the bastards knock seven bells out of them and are screwing around.’
‘Whereas it’s a man’s patriotic duty to divorce a barren or adulterous wife, yes I know. It’s why I’m glad I’m a Spartan, where we girls have a full say in our futures.’ Iliona leaned on her side so the rest of the fragrant, glutinous balm could be applied. ‘We’re the only ones in Greece who can walk out of a marriage without loss of status or assets.’
She was right, of course, it wasn’t just the Athenians, and Jocasta wasn’t born yesterday. Her people were no different from the rest when it came to chauvinism, and if helots reclaimed their homeland tomorrow, the irony of it was, the men would instantly reimpose the old laws in which they’d retain full sexual liberty—while women would be kept at home in a state of complete subjugation.
‘I’ll say one thing for this posting station,’ she said. ‘Bigotry isn’t tolerated. They even employed a female groom, can you believe that?’
‘Employed?’ Iliona asked. ‘As in past tense?’
‘If the other grooms didn’t maul her, Sandor probably made her life hell with his pontificating about women being the source of all misery, only ever any use serving as maids, cooks and nurses.’ She snorted. ‘It’s a bugger, isn’t it, being a strong, independent woman in a man’s world? Even you, for all your money and privileged background.’
‘I never expected helping deserters escape or rescuing rejected babies from execution to be a stroll in the park.’
Jocasta didn’t mean that. Iliona risked her life for what she believed in and, because the cause was justified, she was happy to put hers on the line alongside. But those were clandestine affairs. Secrets shared only between themselves. Jocasta was thinking more of the way the High Priestess was constantly battling for the rights of the poor who came to the temple, countermanding royal edicts in the process, defying the Elders, challenging political directives and standing up to the Krypteia. Now if this happened in a country where women were equal, what must it be like for the rest of Greece?
What would it be like if we helots went home…?
She bandaged the wound and thought, one step at a time. Freedom first. We can thrash out the inequalities later.
Zeus never promised the road of life would be smooth. Or that she’d have to pave it herself.
‘Was it Hector’s idea to hire a female groom?’ Iliona asked. ‘Or Anthea’s, do you know?’
In theory, the station master was in charge, but his wife had noble blood in her veins and from what little Jocasta had seen, Anthea didn’t appear to be a victim of masculine suppression. She tied off the bandage. ‘Perhaps she was simply the best man for the job? Now then. I want you to rest again this afternoon. Will you do that, or do I have to forego my trip to stand over you?’
‘I shall be telling Melisanne’s fortune,’ Iliona replied. ‘I hardly think I’m going to split my sides laughing over that.’
‘Facetiousness won’t make this heal faster, my girl. Just remember you were stabbed and that these things take time.’ She waved a bronze scalpel menacingly. ‘You’ve already pushed my patience and this wound to its limits.’
‘What trip?’
Fine. Change the subject. Just don’t come running to me when the bloody thing festers. ‘For one thing, I want to collect a sack of those big brown shiny nuts—you must have seen them. They’re like chestnuts, in that they split and scatter over the forest floor, except these fall out of prickly green capsules and are poisonous to everything except horses, squirrels and deer.’
‘Tell me when you’ve got your sackful, so I can stop eating anything I haven’t prepared myself.’
‘You won’t say that when your varicose veins are thicker than hawsers and you’re crying out for a compress made from the juice.’ She pushed her hair back from her face. ‘I thought I’d try my hand at growing a couple of these trees in our new temple garden. The flowers appear like candles in spring, very early as well, and I want to dig up some of the local lilies to take home. The ones with yellow turbans that peel backwards and have nice, bright orange stamens.’
‘What new temple garden?’
‘Didn’t I say?’ With everything else, it must have slipped her mind. ‘The area between the new gymnasium and the library is still rough ground at present. I thought we could brighten it up with a selection of exotic plants from our travels.’
‘Define we.’
Jocasta stashed her instruments back in the c
ase, stoppered the phials and stowed them away, too. ‘You don’t expect me to do it all by myself, do you?’ She snapped the lid shut and grinned. ‘After all, I’m only a poor feeble woman.’
She’d already drafted out a diagram on a roll of parchment.
‘In less than a year, the garden should start to take shape. In four or five, it’ll be the talk of Sparta, if not the whole of the Peloponnese.’
It was only later, when she was back in her own room, that she realized that rebels can’t afford to put down roots, whether botanical or any other kind. She took out the parchment, opened it out. Then held it against a flame until it was nothing but ash.
*
Fifty feet below the gold thief’s feet, water lilies glimmered like opals in a sea of mirror-calm turquoise. Ospreys skimmed the surface for fish. An easy job, when visibility was ten fathoms, sometimes more. Squirming prey was carried off in thick yellow deadly claws, while ravens cawed from the crags, bees droned in the furry verbascum and crickets pulsed in the long grass. A more peaceful and pleasant place to hole up could not be imagined. Or more apt.
Most scholars were of the opinion that Jason’s fabled Golden Fleece was just that. A cloak of pure gold, created from lining the river bed with fleeces to trap the alluvial gold that washed down from the Caucasus every spring. A practice that was still in operation today. Therefore, to these scholars, the Argonauts would have sailed through the Hellespont and hugged the southern shores of the Black Sea until they reached Colchis, where the sacred fleece was guarded by a monster that never slept.
But there was another school of thought circulating at the moment, which proposed that the name Colchis was in fact a corruption of Kolikis, a Baltic stronghold sited at the northernmost tip of the Amber Route, right on the edge of the Ocean that was the end of the world. If so, then the Golden Fleece would have represented the ultimate symbol of status and wealth. A sheepskin studded top to bottom with amber, so many beads that it would have looked, and weighed, like gold.
Was Jason a gold-digger, or a merchant? A raider, or a trader? Did it matter?
Either way, he’d had to overcome obstacles to reach his goal, from yoking fire-breathing oxen to a plough to sowing dragon’s teeth that sprang up as an army of warriors, even to slaying the many-headed monster that guarded the fleece. Gargantuan tasks which Jason could not possibly have achieved on his own, proof that even heroes need help. In his case, his accomplice was a beautiful enchantress, whose weapons were poison, soporifics and guile. But once his labours were won and he’d got what he came for, he no longer had need of her help, it was time to get rid of the accomplice. The glory was his, and his alone. It was Jason who went down in history. Not her…
The thief wasn’t looking for glory or fame. Just the money.
And the last gold train would be passing the Lake of Light very soon.
Thirteen
‘I’ve never had my fortune told before,’ Melisanne said, glancing at the smoking tripod in the middle of the floor. ‘They’re always passing through, these soothsayers, fortune-tellers and seers. I just never had the—the—’
‘Money?’
‘Courage,’ she said awkwardly.
Iliona closed the door and led her to a wicker chair awash with fat, feather-filled cushions. ‘Knowing the future can certainly be a double-edged sword, but you have my oath, there is absolutely nothing to worry about.’
Taking her cue from the Oracle at Delphi, her predictions were so vague and ambiguous they couldn’t frighten a mouse—and whatever her faults, Melisanne was no mouse. For all her deference as a servant, she was confident, capable, conscientious and loyal, and she’d had to grow up fast after the death of her parents. Equally, though, despite the whole gamut of human nature passing these crossroads, she’d never ventured beyond the mountain passes. This lake was her world and it remained closed, tight-knit and superstitious. Was it any surprise the poor girl was nervous?
‘Let me put your mind at rest by telling you what’s going to happen.’
If she was to undo this wretched curse, she needed Melisanne’s undivided support. In order to achieve it, she needed her trust.
‘I’m going to put myself in a trance,’ she said, throwing herbs into the tripod. Chamomile, bay and caraway seeds. ‘Then I shall call upon the gods to guide me into the Mysteries. Do not be afraid. Nothing can harm you. But when I speak, it will not be my voice you are hearing. It will be the gods speaking to you.’
Well, almost. Iliona wasn’t wearing long sleeves for nothing.
‘Make yourself comfortable. Breathe deeply. Relax.’
With a combination of fragrant herbs and comfy cushions, that wouldn’t be difficult. It was only ever a question of judging when the subject was sufficiently primed, and in this case Sandor had done the hard work for her. Thanks to his scaremongering, the whole workforce believed in the high priestess’s powers and she smiled. This tripod was nothing more than a bog-standard cauldron that lived under the couch and was filled with hot coals in winter to warm the room. But Melisanne would remember it as being a sacred vessel, covered with magical symbols. Suggestion is a powerful tool.
‘In the name of the four winds, plus heaven and earth, and the Ocean that girdles the world,’ Iliona chanted, ‘I call on sweet Hestia of the Hearth to speak to me.’
Generally, people consulted fortune-tellers for one of six reasons. They wanted to know the outcome on matters of love, money, profession, health, travel or war. Melisanne’s case was different. Iliona had offered to read her future, not the other way round, ruling out any possibility of invoking Dike to bequeath justice, Ananke to secure obligation or the Muses to bring musical and other artistic talents. Also, Hope was misleading, Fate too capricious and Aphrodite far too specific. Hestia, though, protected the very heart of the home. She stood for security, happiness and family values. A gentle goddess, just right for Melisanne.
‘Come to me, Hestia, sister of All-Knowing Zeus.’
She swayed, prayed and chanted some more. A trick that had fooled princes and paupers, nobles and merchants. Sceptics don’t seek answers from oracles.
‘Speak to this girl through the mouth of the High Priestess of Eurotas.’
Squeezing a small air cushion strapped under her arm, Iliona blew the smoke across the room without moving her hands. Melisanne gasped.
‘I answer your summons, Iliona of Sparta.’
Too busy watching the smoke, Melisanne didn’t notice the bronze tube that slid down the other sleeve to disguise her voice. In her mind, the priestess knelt slumped in a trance.
‘But know thee, that as I blow the breath of life into thee and offer thee guidance, cross me and my wrath will be felt the length and breadth of this lake.’
A little terror never went astray.
‘I will turn flowing rivers back to their source.’ Her voice resonated through the tube. ‘I will stop the stars in their tracks, tear up the forests by their roots and make the very earth groan beneath thy feet. But give to me an offering of almond cakes with honey, and I will calm the angry seas and quell the storms.’
Melisanne quickly threw the small cake on the fire. The fire sighed.
‘I am looking deep into your heart, mortal child. I see you are kind, thoughtful, compassionate and considerate, but when someone breaks your trust, you feel anger. I also see that you are honourable, honest and courteous in your manner, yet often you are critical of yourself, is that not so?’
The silver mane nodded in wonder.
‘And though you put on a public face of discipline and self-control, there are times when you are deeply, yes, yes, deeply troubled. Indeed, there have been occasions when you have had grave doubts as to whether you’ve made the right decision.’
Blue eyes widened. ‘You’re reading my soul,’ she whispered.
‘It is a good soul,’ the goddess assured her.
In fact, it was everybody’s soul, since Iliona rattled out the same phrases for every prediction. The usual pre
mise of having ‘considerable potential that has not been unleashed and which could, with the right help, be turned to advantage’. She would categorize them as ‘independent thinkers who didn’t take another’s word for something without satisfactory proof’. And of course her old friend, those ‘fine aspirations which, at times, can be slightly unrealistic’. Ambiguous enough to apply to everybody. One size fits all, that was the key, but it convinced gullible subjects that the deity she’d summoned knew everything about them and they could place their trust in her words.
‘Looking backwards, I see water,’ the tube droned, because having read Melisanne’s character, the goddess needed to establish that her past was as transparent as the Lake of Light on her doorstep.
‘Water and a small child. The water is troubled. There is an accident—’
‘Lisyl! When she was five, she nearly drowned while she was playing down in the reeds!’
Three children, a large lake, not a huge leap of faith.
‘I see a man in the past, too. A relative. He is clutching his chest, as he is consumed by the blackness within.’ No clues forthcoming. Iliona pressed on. ‘An uncle, a cousin—’ Oh, come on, Melisanne. Everyone’s family suffers a sudden heart stoppage or, if not, an agonizing tumour, ulcerated lungs, the list just went on and on… ‘A grandfather, perhaps?’
‘My father’s brother died of the apoplexy,’ Melisanne whispered, ‘and his father, my grandfather, suffered weeks of agony before his stomach ulcers finally killed him.’
Of course he did. And finally…
‘In the flames of the Oracle, I see your future. I see love, warm and spreading, like the sun in a hayfield. I see hard work that is not always rewarded. I see a child.’
Everyone’s life.
‘Boy or girl?’ Melisanne asked eagerly.
‘But the road you must travel is bumpy and steep. I see it strewn with obstacles, some large, some not so large. You must persevere to overcome them.’
