The Lost Sisterhood (38 page)

“Apparently,” said James, brushing peacock glitter from the sleeves of his Aladdin costume, “Reznik believes minimalist architecture provides the optimal framework for art. And torture. Notice the samurai?” He nodded at two austere men in Japanese costumes standing on either side of the door, checking invitations. “Back in the day, Reznik had his own secret police, and these gentlemen—his top officers—followed him into retirement, so to speak.”

“Remind me again why we are visiting this creep?” muttered Rebecca, shivering in her satin shawl.

Just then, as James escorted us up the front steps of the house, it finally hit me that he had not come to Turkey to be my knight. He came because of Nick. As with the myth of the beautiful Helen of Troy, the myth of the irresistible Diana Morgan was merely a convenient illusion draped over prosaic facts. The Aqrab Foundation had declared war on the Moselanes by going after their antiques collection, and now, it seemed, they were going after human beings as well. It was all shamefully simple: Whatever his true feelings for me, James was too proud to let Nick carry away as much as a single one of his perceived assets without a fight.

TROY

T
HE FARMERS WERE BUSY IN THEIR FIELDS, WEEDING AND WATERING,
when Myrina and her little entourage finally emerged from the wilderness. Coming out of the woods rather abruptly, they found themselves on the edge of the Scamandrian Plain southwest of Troy, with a sweeping view across the river valley to the capital they had traveled so far to see.

Glowing in the afternoon sun, the city sat upon the landscape with the grace of a precious crown left in a meadow by a forgetful king. Although fortified with colossal walls and towers—or, perhaps, because of it—there was something bold and unafraid about the place, as if its inhabitants were so confident of their safety they barely even paused to rest their tools and look out over the river delta to the sea beyond.

“Well,” said Animone, who was one of the five Myrina had chosen to join her journey, “now let us find the man who isn’t here, and turn right around.”

It was only that same morning, after a long week of riding north from Ephesus, that Myrina had told her traveling companions about Paris’s parting words and the man who would supposedly be posted on the hill called Batieia. “If there is no one there,” she had explained, finally putting words to her worst fear, “then it means Paris is no longer waiting for me, in which case we return home. It would not surprise me. It has, after all, been a month.”

“What is a month,” said Kara who, for reasons of her own, had begged to come along on the trip, “to a couple united by destiny?” She spoke the words with sincerity and yet Myrina could not help wondering—as she often did—whether it could really be true her former rival was now her friend. Still laboring under the delusion of being pregnant, Kara had chosen to remain in her imaginary world a while longer. Perhaps in that world Myrina was the only one who understood her. At least that was what Kara had kept saying when Myrina had tried to dissuade her from joining them.

Besides Animone and Kara, Lilli was there, of course, still grudgingly sharing Myrina’s horse. Behind them rode Kyme and Hippolyta, both of whom evidently saw themselves as diplomats of a certain standing—Kyme because of her age and knowledge of writing, and Hippolyta by virtue of being the only one in the group who knew the Trojan language.

“Just leave it to me,” she had said when the trip was being planned. “I can speak with the locals, and I know the route … all the way into the royal throne room.” She had laughed at everyone’s gaping awe. “I have accompanied Mother Otrera often enough. The queen is her sister, you know, and used to be one of us. But then she was hit by the poisoned arrow, dipped in honey”—Hippolyta clutched her heart in jest—”and from being a doe flying freely across the fields, she cast off her vows to become a cow tied in a bullpen.”

But apart from Hippolyta’s teasing, and a few bitter comments from others, the news of Myrina’s departure drew far less attention than she had feared it would. Apart from Lady Otrera, the only one who knew what agony and confusion Myrina had suffered before finally deciding to leave was Lilli. No matter how carefully Myrina hid herself from the others in order to think in peace, Lilli always found her. Whether she was in the hayloft, the grain cellar, or the house sanctuary, Myrina could be sure that, sooner or later, she would feel Lilli’s soft hands on her arms and be pulled into a welcome embrace.

It was not that they spoke much about Myrina’s dilemma; Lilli clearly understood what her sister felt and knew that words would only
muddle a situation that, in itself, was relatively simple. Two paths lay before Myrina: one of temporary relief and lifelong regret, and another of temporary pain followed by great happiness. The fact that Lilli was content to merely share her silence told Myrina the girl already knew what the choice must be.

When she eventually announced her decision to leave Ephesus, Myrina found Lady Otrera oddly unmoved by the news. “The less we speak of it on earth, the less will reach the ears of heaven,” Otrera said sternly, putting down her basket. “But we
must
remove your bracelet. Let me see now—”

And so it came about that Myrina’s jackal bracelet was removed in the vegetable garden without ceremony. “Since we have no moon tonight,” continued Otrera, pulling so hard at the metal she nearly broke the wrist it sat on, “the Goddess may not even notice what has happened. There”—she held the bracelet out to Myrina, proud of having bent it to her will—”you are free to dispose of it, as long as you do it discreetly.”

But Myrina could not bring herself to throw out this burdensome adornment, nor did she dare keep it, for fear it would strike out at her yet. In the end she gave it to Helena, the Greek girl, to brighten their farewell. “I want you to have this,” she said, slipping the jackal around Helena’s wrist, “for you are the worthiest warrior the Goddess could ever have. And perhaps, by gaining you, she will think little of losing me.”

The girl touched the lustrous bronze with reverent fingers. “How often I hate myself for the things I say,” she muttered. “Of everyone here, you are the only one who never turned away from me. Since the night you let me come with you, you have been my steadfast sister. I pray that one day I may return your kindness.”

Then at last came the day of departure, with tearful embraces and belated words of gratitude. Myrina made solemn promises to visit often, but nothing changed the fact that she was abandoning the sisterhood. She, who had risked everything to bring them all back together, was going on to new, forbidden adventures, leaving them behind. Despite
her sisters’ tears and blessings, Myrina saw in their eyes they resented her for it.

T
HE SMALL HILL CALLED
Batieia rose conspicuously from the flatness of the Scamandrian Plain, as if deposited there by a giant mole. Riding toward it ahead of her sisters, across a field of ripening grain, Myrina peered at its contours with narrow eyes, anxious to be the first to pronounce that the man wasn’t there.

But he was.

Sitting cross-legged with a spear across his lap, the man first straightened, then stood up expectantly. And when he threw out an arm to wave a greeting, Myrina saw it was the long-limbed Aeneas, Paris’s most trusted companion.

Giddy with relief, she jumped from the horse and rushed forward … only to stop awkwardly at the foot of the hill. “Does your master still await me?” she asked, squinting against the sun, “or are you here to tell us to go home?”

Aeneas shook his head and bent down to pick up his satchel. “If I told him you had been here but had turned around because of me, this mound would have to be renamed yet again, after my dead bones.”

After descending the hill on the other side, Aeneas soon reappeared astride his horse. “Come,” he said, starting upriver and away from town, “we will go to my house in the hills. He will meet you there.”

The look passing between Kyme and Hippolyta did not escape Myrina. Nor did Animone’s scowl of disappointment. They had all, she knew, been hoping for a dignified welcome at the royal court in the manner to which Lady Otrera’s daughters were accustomed. To be whisked away instead to a hut in the countryside fell woefully short of their expectations.

The rustic charm of their destination did little to soften the disgrace. Perched on a densely forested slope, Aeneas’s home turned out to be little more than a cluster of modest wooden cabins … of which the stable was by far the most impressive.

“This is my son,” said Aeneas of the boy who came running out to greet them and help with the horses. “And that”—he pointed across the muddy yard at the smallest cabin of them all—”is where my master stays when he is here.”

Only then, as he looked around at the women, did Aeneas seem to grasp their apprehension. “I am aware,” he went on, a wounded frown passing across his forehead, “we are somewhat removed from town, but this is why he likes to come here. He always says”—Aeneas glanced at Myrina, clearly hoping to win her approval—”this is his true home.”

Somewhat softened to the idea of spending the night in the lonely hills, the women followed Aeneas into his own cabin and were rewarded by the delicious aroma of stew. “This is my wife, Creusa.” Aeneas smiled at the young woman tending to a copper cauldron by the fireplace. “She doesn’t speak your language, but she understands everything and knows what to do. I will leave you with her and return later.”

After exchanging a few words and a kiss with his wife, Aeneas left the cabin. Moments later, Myrina heard the sound of a horse galloping off down the forest path and felt a sudden thrill at the thought that Aeneas had left for Troy to let Paris know of her arrival.

Their hostess’s immediate concern was the food, but a quick trip by Creusa across the yard—possibly to a storage room—yielded a welcome addition of cheese, bread, and wine. And before long, Aeneas’s young wife was ready to sit everyone down at the table with food and drink, while she herself disappeared once more across the yard.

“This stew is not half bad,” admitted Animone, as soon as they were alone. “But then, anything would taste good to me tonight.”

“Just give me a soft nest,” said Kyme, yawning into her wine, “and this old hen shan’t utter another cluck of complaint.”

They ate a while in silence. Even Lilli was quieter than usual, behaving as if she knew something she dared not put into words.

Creusa later returned, her arms full of woolen blankets. Seeing they had finished eating, she beckoned her guests into another room and pointed at a large bed that could easily hold them all. But when Myrina began undoing her sandals, Creusa tapped her eagerly on the shoulder to make her stop.

“What is it?” asked Lilli, already burrowed into the center of the bed.

“I am not sure,” said Myrina. “I think she is asking me to help her.”

“Well.” Kyme yawned again as she loosened her girdle and let it fall to the floor. “Whatever it is, you are the woman to do it.”

Half-expecting Creusa to want help with the big cauldron, Myrina was surprised when the woman went outside yet again, motioning for her to follow. Stepping into the yard, Myrina saw that the summer sun had long since disappeared into the ocean, and yet there was a dewy freshness everywhere that reminded her this night had just begun.

Full of smiling encouragement, Creusa walked Myrina over to the cabin Aeneas had identified as belonging to Paris, and opened the door wide to let her enter. A bit chilled from the unexpected coolness of the mountain air, Myrina stepped into the small kitchen to find a cozy fire burning in the fireplace. The room was by no means luxurious—there was hardly even a mat to sit on—and yet in front of the fireplace stood a large, rather puzzling, water-filled tub made of wood.

Approaching with curiosity, Myrina leaned forward and saw her own shimmering reflection among the flower petals floating around in the water. There did not appear to be anything else submerged in the tub; only when she looked up and saw Creusa’s encouraging gestures did Myrina realize that
she
was to get in the water—an undeserved honor for one who was neither a High Priestess nor even a holy woman anymore.

Shaking her head, she backed away … but Creusa stopped her. Apparently used to handling reluctant creatures, the woman undressed Myrina with her own hands, nimbly untying this and that until there was nothing left to take off. Only then, urged on by modesty, did Myrina put a foot in the water … and found it so pleasantly warm she did not hesitate to step in and sit down.

The water rose around her as she did so, and Myrina was relieved to find herself almost completely covered, with flower petals washing gently upon the shore of her shoulders. Leaning back against the wooden side, however, she could not help wondering about the process of building such a magnificent contraption, and while Creusa was putting her
clothes aside—grimacing as she did so—Myrina felt around at the tub, inside and outside, to try to figure out its secrets.

But Creusa took her hands with a smile and put them right back in the water. Then, motioning for Myrina to put her head back, she took a brazen ladle and began running water through her hair until it was completely wet. And after that came the soap—a sticky, sweet-smelling substance that reminded Myrina of nothing she had ever smelled before.

Sitting still, her eyes closed against the suds, Myrina was embarrassed to discover how much she enjoyed the bath: the warm water, the wordless calm of the room, and the gentle fingers slowly working their way around her hair and neck. Perhaps it was because Creusa was a stranger … or perhaps it was her, Myrina, whose thoughts and feelings were no longer kept in check by the jackal. If that were the case, she should welcome the change. For had she not left Ephesus and come to Troy precisely for this? Had she not lived this past month in a state of raging impatience, feeling there was so much happiness still to be found in life, so much pleasure?

When the bath was finally over, and Myrina was wrapped in soft blankets, she felt so limp she could barely stand up. Putting a hand behind her back, Creusa walked her through the curtained doorway in the far wall and into the room beyond—a room that was larger than one would expect, but held merely two things: a fireplace stacked full with crackling, burning logs, and a low bed, covered in animal skins.