Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 11/01/12

by Dell Magazines

  Below the majestic peaks of Mount Parnon, Night sloughed off her dark veil and handed the baton of responsibility to her close friend, the Dawn. Daughter of Chaos, mother of Pain, Strife, Death, and Deception, Night continued her journey. Gliding on silent, star-studded feet towards her mansion beyond the Ocean that encircled the world. Here she would sleep, until Twilight nudged her awake and her labours would begin all over again.

  At the foot of the temple steps, Iliona rinsed her fingers in the lustral basin, carved from the finest Parian marble, and lifted her face to the sun. In the branches of the plane trees, the bronze wind chimes tinkled in the breeze. White doves pecked at the crumbs of caraway bread that was baked daily especially for them. Whether the seeds were addictive, or the pigeons were simply content with their lot, the High Priestess had no idea. But the doves rarely strayed from the precinct, and it wasn't because their wings had been clipped.

  Another few minutes and the first of the workers would start to arrive. Scribes, libation pourers, musicians, and heralds. Basket bearers, janitors, and the choirs. Every day was the same. They would barely have time to change into their robes before the sacred grounds were swamped with merchants, wanting to know if today was the day they'd grow rich. Wives, desperate to know if last night's efforts had left them with child. The poor, fearful of what lay ahead. Cripples would flock to the shrine, seeking miracles. The sick would come seeking cures. Wisely or not, Iliona had taken it upon herself to interpret their dreams, sometimes the behaviour of birds, even the shapes of the clouds, to give them the peace that they needed.

  But for now—for these precious few minutes—that peace was hers, and she basked in its solitude. The soft bleating of goats floated down from the hills. Close at hand came the repetitive call of a hoopoe. Letting the sun warm her face, she breathed in the scent of a thousand wildflowers carried down from the mountains and over the wide, fertile meadows. Narcissus, crown daisies, crocus, and muscari . . . along with, unless she missed her guess, a faint hint of leather and wood smoke.

  "I'm beginning to think the rumours are true," she said without turning round. "That the Krypteia never sleeps."

  "You should know better than to listen to gossip," chided the leather and wood smoke through a mouth full of gravel. "I sleep." He paused. "Upside down in a cave, admittedly. Cocooned in my soft velvet wings."

  The hair at the back of her scalp prickled. If the chief of Sparta's secret police was making jokes, it must be serious.

  "What can I do for you, Lysander?"

  Had he discovered that she was still aiding deserters? A crime punishable by being blinded by pitch and thrown, bound and gagged, in the Torrent of Torment. Or that she was rescuing deformed babies that were thrown over the cliff . . . ? Slipping food to prisoners in the dungeons . . . ?

  "Me? My lady, I wouldn't dare to presume." His voice was slow and measured, but the teasing note was unconcealed "Your country, on the other hand, would be immensely grateful for your input and wisdom." He cleared his throat, instantly changing the mood. "Three women have been found hanged."

  Now she turned.

  "Three?" But for all the shock, what was uppermost in Iliona's mind was that he looked older than the last time they'd met. The lines round his eyes were as deep as plough furrows, and there were more silver strands framing his temples. On the other hand, his short warrior kilt showed no weakness of thigh muscle, and his chest still put a strain on the seams of his tunic. "On the same night?"

  "Same night, same house," he said, explaining how they were three generations of the same family. "Girl of fourteen, her mother, and grandmother. And as much as I would like to dismiss this as some eccentric death pact, or even double murder followed by suicide, there were no stools that could have been kicked away. No chairs, no tables, no blocks of wood. Nothing."

  Small wonder he looked weary. However feared and hated the secret police, when it comes to women being strung up like hams, even the toughest among them are affected.

  "It's no mean feat to creep into a household, overpower three women, and hang them," she pointed out. There would be servants. Dogs. Any number of obstacles.

  "The alarm horn wasn't blown," he said. "In fact, there were no signs of a struggle in or outside the house."

  Which might, she mused, be because the killer was cunning enough to cover his tracks. Or maybe obsessively tidy—

  Now that acolytes had begun milling round the precinct, lighting the incense in the burners and sweeping the steps with purifying hyssop, Iliona suggested a stroll down to the river. Here, shaded by willows and poplars, they would be able to speak without being overheard. Gathering up her white pleated robes, she found a perch on a rock and watched a heron stalk the lush grasses on the far bank for frogs, while moorhens dabbled in and out of the rushes and butterflies fed off the thistles. The river was at its fullest, thanks to the snowmelts, but the Eurotas was one of the few rivers in Greece that didn't dry up in high summer. That's why the river god was so revered by the people, and why so many flocked to his temple.

  Why peace was so hard to come by.

  "This is a monstrous crime, truly it is. But I don't understand why the Krypteia is involved."

  Unless the victim was royalty or a member of the Council, murder was hardly the preserve of the secret police. Much less its ruthless commander.

  "Two reasons." Lysander picked up a pebble, dropped to one kilted knee, and skimmed the stone over the water. Flip-flip-flip, eight times it jumped. But then everyone jumped for the Krypteia. "Primarily, this triple murder will send shock waves round Sparta, and I need to neutralize the situation before it undermines morale."

  To remain the strongest land power in Greece, Sparta had turned itself into a nation of warriors, with boys joining the army at the age of seven. In the barracks, they would learn the values of endurance through discipline, hardship, deprivation, and pain, pushing their bodies to limits that most men couldn't stand. Not for nothing was the mighty Spartan army feared wherever it went. But with the men away, protecting smaller and weaker city-states from being gobbled up by their neighbours, they had every right to expect their womenfolk to be safe. Murder had suddenly become a political issue.

  "Also." Flip-flip-flip, another eight times. "This was the family of one of my generals."

  "And naturally you owe it to him to bring the culprit to justice?"

  "Not exactly." His smile was as cold as a prostitute's heart. "This man is after my job, and I don't intend to give him a reason to get it."

  Iliona watched the swallows dip over the river for flies. Smelled the wild mountain thyme on the breeze. "What has this to do with me?"

  Something twitched in his cheek. "Who else sees through the eyes of the blind, and hears the voice of the voiceless? You count the grains of sand in the desert and measure the drops in the ocean."

  She jumped to her feet.

  "How dare you mock my work! You know damn well that the poor, the weak, the dispossessed, and the lonely come to this temple because they need something to lean on. Well, the support I give them is solid and sound, and it matters this—" she snapped her fingers "—that my oracular powers are fake. I set riddles, Lysander, in order that these people can find the solutions to their problems themselves, and don't get me wrong. These murders are tragic." Desperately so. "But since I don't know the women, I have nothing useful to contribute. On this occasion, I am unable to help you."

  Without pausing for breath, she rattled off a long list of tasks that could not be abandoned. Oracles aside, who would preside over the endless rituals and sacrifices? Dispense oaths in the name of the river god? Log donations and offerings in the various treasuries?

  "The altars would not be properly purified, there are mountains of letters to dictate, and let's not forget the accounts that need overseeing, the various marriages and funerals that needed officiating, and not least, the preparations for the forthcoming spring carnival."

  "Hm."

  For a long time he said nothin
g. Just kept flipping pebbles over the water. She waited. Baiting him might be argued as the height of stupidity, but if he had come to arrest her, he would have done it by now. A girl had her pride, after all! At the same time, High Priestesses aren't exactly naive. She knew it was only a matter of time before he resorted to blackmailing or bullying her into cooperating, as he had so many times in the past. Even so, she had no intention of making it easy for him, and job security wasn't her problem. In fact, many more deserters would be helped, babies rescued, prisoners comforted, with a new man at the helm of the Krypteia. One who did not know her past.

  So it came as a surprise when Lysander rose to his feet and said quietly, "That is your answer?"

  She squared her shoulders. Wondered what pitch smelled like, when it was close to the eyes. "It is."

  "Then I bid you a very good day, Iliona." He placed his fist on his breast in salute. "May Zeus bring you all that you wish for."

  A chill ran from her tiara to her white sandalled toes. He was a fighter, a warrior, a leader of men, who used every weapon in the book to win and get what he wanted. The head of the secret police did not back down. He was up to something, the bastard.

  "Wait," she called, but he'd already gone.

  Fear crawled in the pit of her stomach.

  Night rose, slinking through the Gate of Dreams, to work again her dark powers over the earth. The days passed, the nail on the wall calendar marking their journey, highlighting those days which were propitious for planting, those which were auspicious for building, as well as those which cursed folk for telling lies. Not once did Iliona stop looking over her shoulder, but as time passed, she began to relax.

  Sacrifices were presided over with ritualist precision, oaths were dispensed in the name of the river god, donations and offerings were logged in the various treasuries. The altars were purified. Properly, of course. Those mountains of letters were duly dictated, the accounts managed with customary efficiency, and, thanks to the High Priestess's efforts, the spring festival went off without a hitch. Even the procession of children carrying cakes stuck with burning torches managed to reach the sacred pine tree without anyone tripping up. Usually at least one child would set fire to the carpet of needles, and last year the beekeeper's daughter exceeded all records, setting the harp player's tunic alight as she stumbled, then singeing his hair when the poor man tried to stamp out the flames.

  "You're working too hard," said the Keeper of the Sacred Flame, one of the few true friends Iliona had.

  "It's the season," she lied. "Everything comes at once in the spring."

  And to prove it, she went off to burn incense.

  "You're not sleeping," observed the temple physician.

  "It's the season," she shot back. "The nights are too hot."

  And to prove it, she walked round wafting a fan.

  As for the triple murders, the entire state was indeed sickened by the slaughter of three defenceless women. What kind of monster would do this? And yet, thought Iliona, in a country of full-time professional soldiers who virtually lived at the barracks, Spartan women were strong. How was it possible to overpower three at the same time?

  As well as horrific, she found the crime deeply unsettling.

  Being a second cousin to the king, she had many contacts at the palace and, through them, kept abreast of events. She learned, for instance, that, with typical Krypteia thoroughness, Lysander's agents had explored every avenue in their attempt to bring the killer to justice. Could this have been a grudge killing, to punish the husband? Goodness knows, an uncompromising general collects enemies like a small boy collects caterpillars. Except there was nothing in his military history to point to a need for such dire retribution, nor in his personal life. Was the wife having an affair which had soured, inspiring the lover to take revenge? Apparently, running the farm in the general's absence left no time for romance; had the mother-in-law upset someone? Again, this was ruled out—but the daughter? Wasn't she engaged to be married next year? What about the family of the future in-laws? Was there someone who didn't approve of the political union? At the time of the killing, the general was heading an assault in the Thessalian hinterland, making his alibi more solid than iron. Which was not to say he couldn't have paid an assassin to wipe out his womenfolk. But why would he???

  Through those same contacts, Iliona read the reports of every interview and interrogation that had been conducted and monitored the leads on the literally dozens of suspects. Consequently, she grew as frustrated as the investigators, since everyone and yet no one was in the frame for these murders. Was one woman the target, she asked herself? Forcing the killer to silence the others after his crime was discovered? But why hanging? Why in a line . . . ?

  Meanwhile, life at the Temple of Eurotas continued on its daily course of setting riddles, interpreting dreams, and committing enough treasonable offences to tempt Iliona to blind herself with pitch and save the authorities the trouble. Out across the valley, the buds on the vines uncoiled into leaf. Willows were cut to be woven into baskets, the olive trees were pruned back, oxen were gelded, and thousands of baby birds hatched. But as the spring progressed and the nestlings left home, the killings continued to dance at the back of her mind.

  As did the shadow of the Krypteia.

  A month to the day after Lysander's visit, Iliona was at the house of her cousin, Lydia. Now in most city-states, the decision to expose weak or deformed babies was the preserve of the father, thus leaving a certain amount of room for manoeuvre. In Sparta, however, where virtually every male citizen was a warrior of one kind or another, this decision was down to the state. And the state liked to decide very early on whether his little limbs looked like they would grow straight enough to grow up and march thousands of miles in full battle dress. Or whether he had a good, loud bawl, indicating that he would eventually be strong enough to throw spears and go hand-to-hand with the enemy. Those who failed the test were taken to the Valley of Rejection up in the mountains and thrown into the abyss.

  Little room for manoeuvre in that.

  Unless, of course, someone happened to have a fishing net rigged up and ready to catch them. Someone who, when the little mite was hurled into space, was also on hand to heave a blanket-covered stone into the gorge. One that made the right kind of thud when it landed.

  The state called it treason. Iliona called it giving childless artisans the family they craved.

  Aware that, one of these days, her luck would run out.

  But for now, the sun shone on the jagged peaks of Taygetus, still capped in snow, and the Hoeing Song drifted on the breeze from the men working the fields. Lydia's husband, like the rest of the army, was off fighting someone else's battles, an annual exodus which, with spectacular regularity, sparked a glut of babies nine months after their return. Another reason why the fathers did not make that all-important decision. They weren't here.

  "Who's a bonny boy, then?"

  Iliona cradled the infant in her arms, while Lydia sat in the corner, grey-faced and shaking with fear. Her son was not deformed, but, arriving eighteen days before his due date, he was certainly a weak little baby. Now, five days after the birth and in accordance with the law, the elders had gathered at the family shrine in the courtyard to pass judgment on the strength of his bawl.

  "They're going to take him." Lydia had no doubts. "My baby, my only child, and they're going to reject him." Tears trickled down her face. "Suppose I'm unable to bear more children? Suppose—"

  "Dry your tears," Iliona said softly. "I have cast the runes, read the portents, and heard the voice of the river god dancing over the pebbles. Eurotas does not lie, Lydia. You will watch your son grow into a man."

  Runes and pebbles be damned. What didn't lie was the vial of willow-bark infusion secreted in the folds of her robes.

  "Gentlemen."

  Making ritualistic gestures to disguise the bitter liquid that she dripped on his tongue, Iliona handed the baby over for inspection.

  "By Hera
," gasped the astonished elders. "They will hear this little man in Athens!"

  Consequently, the celebrations were especially fierce, with flutes and trumpets, singing and laughter, and wine flowing freer than midwinter rain.

  Which made the herald's announcement all the more shocking.

  "On the road to Messenia, just beyond the fork," he said, "the bodies of three women have been found, hanging from the beams of their farmhouse."

  Daughter, mother, grandmother. Exactly as before.

  Surrounded by olive groves on one side and paddocks on the other, the farm's main output was barley, where field after field of feathered stalks rippled in the warm, sticky breeze. Another week, two at the most, thought Iliona, spurring her stallion up the dusty track, and the crop would be ready for harvesting. Making it all the more poignant that the women would not see it.

  Reining her horse as she approached the buildings, she glanced along this green and fertile valley. Enjoying a better climate than most of Greece, and with a constant flow of water, Sparta was not only self-sufficient, but in a position to export large quantities of grain and livestock. Add on a lively trade in iron, porphyry, racehorses, and timber, and it was easy to see why the state had grown so rich. Of course, like everywhere else, land ownership was only available to citizens, and tax was deemed too degrading for men who put their lives on the line every day. Instead, the state taxed the artisans who made their armour and weaponry. And did so without ever seeing the irony of that decision.

  "I'm surprised the temple can spare you," Lysander drawled, coming out of the house to meet her.

  Iliona tethered her stallion beside the water trough, shook the red dust off her robes, and thought that if he expected her to apologize, he was in for a long wait. "May I see the murder scene?"

  She expected him to make another sarcastic comment, possibly along the lines of surely she, who could see through the eyes of the blind, had seen it in the sacred bowl? Instead, he ushered her past the porter's lodge and through the atrium in silence. Country villas were all pretty much the same in design, being built around a central courtyard with a colonnade running round the sides. What differentiated them was the lavishness of the frescoes, the quality of the stone, the lushness of the couches, and the richness of the tapestries on the walls. There was little of that here. A hoplite's family, not a lofty general's. A family who were scraping to get by.