CHAPTER 13
Callisto had lain back exhausted. She hadn't had an orgasm like that since the first time she'd killed a man. She'd been served by many men throughout the years, and had even gotten to know her sword in new and creative ways, but she'd never felt the same intensity as she had with the Joker.
The bedroll was soaked. And for his part, the Joker had curled up, sleeping it off, twitching occasionally.
She rose, heedless of the fluids that ran down her leg. Washing herself off, she got dressed. Opening the tent flap, she left the Joker as he was.
Outside, she saw her growing legion of cutthroats going through their various early morning rituals.
Making her way to a cook fire, she'd already finished her breakfast before the Joker came up, bleary eyed and rumpled.
Mumbling something about it being an unnatural hour, he sat down to grab a bowl of gruel.
"And what's on today's agenda?" He asked around a mouthful of porridge.
"We keep going westward," Callisto took out her dagger, toying with it lightly, idly pointing out the direction. "Right until we hit the sea."
"Then what?" The Clown Prince of Crime queried.
"We go back the way we came." She grinned maliciously as the Joker began to laugh.
"I like the way you think!"
This was turning out to be a most profitable partnership, the Joker admitted to himself. And he simply must learn how she did that thing with her tongue…
***
Robin was well aware of the paradoxes that could result were people of this era privy to advanced information. And keeping that in mind, he had told Gabrielle that he came from a 'far off land out over the sea', which in fact was the truth, if not the whole truth.
As to what he was doing here; he fabricated a rather shaky cover story of his ship having been swept off course in a storm, and ending up shipwrecked on this 'strange land'. And while Gabrielle may have still harbored her doubts, by and large she accepted the tale.
But Robin was soon to learn the unbridled curiosity of a bard intrigued.
She peppered him with questions of how long he'd been roaming after the shipwreck, why he was dressed the way he was, if anyone knew where he'd been going… on and on she went, just brimming with eagerness.
Robin found himself hard pressed to give the vaguest answers possible, yet still satisfy the young woman.
How long had he been alone? Weeks. Why hadn't he contacted anyone before? He wasn't sure if the natives were friendly. Why was he dressed this way? It was the custom of his land. Did anyone know he was gone? Possibly.
By the time the sun began to set, Robin had learned two things. One, he was in ancient Greece. And two, where he was in Greece. More specifically, the particular town and region. From these two things he now had a bearing.
Belatedly, Gabrielle looked around to realize that night was coming upon them fast. Sheepishly, she lay off talking.
"So, where are you sleeping?"
"I… hadn't really thought about it," Robin replied truthfully.
"And being shipwrecked, you wouldn't have any money…" Gabrielle furrowed her brow as she thought.
"Well, only one thing to do," She brightened up cheerfully, "we'll camp out. Not as comfortable as an inn mind you, but it'll do."
Robin was amiable to the idea. Unless something changed, all he could do was wait about until someone came and got him. So, following his newfound friend's lead, he traipsed out of town just into the forest beyond.
Unpacking her things, Gabrielle pulled out a spare blanket for her new companion.
"We'll figure out what to do about you in the morning." She sounded much more enthusiastic about the idea than Robin felt.
Bundled up, and tucked in for the night, they had settled down to sleep when Gabrielle suddenly turned to Robin, embarrassment written all over her face.
"I almost forgot! What's your name?"
"Just call me Robin."
"Robin," she repeated. Just like the bird after all.
***
Batman had long since shucked his cape and cowl for peasant's garb. No one would question a lone traveler with a sack over his shoulder. A conveniently placed wash line had given him the items he needed.
It was while traveling under cover, as he had been for the past few days, that he had gained more information on the current whereabouts of the Joker.
It would seem that he had joined a roving warlord band, one led by a recently escaped criminal by the name of Callisto. This Callisto's reputation rivaled that of even the Joker's, a fact that deeply disturbed Batman.
From the sounds of things, this warlord gang was turning more into an army, with the constant addition of new recruits. What was worse, to Batman's mind, was that from what he could glean, the Joker had indeed insinuated himself into some kind of authority position. Reports had him riding at the head of the mob, a co-leader of some sort with this Callisto.
The Joker alone was enough to make seasoned men wet their pants. But teamed up with a female version of himself? That thought gave even the Batman a momentary chill.
It wouldn't be a simple snatch and grab like he'd hoped. The Joker would be surrounded by an army of thugs, not to mention in cohoots with an ally.
But the first item on the agenda was to catch up with him as soon as possible. And the best way to do that was on horseback. So it was that when an innkeeper entered his stables that next morning, he noticed a horse missing.
Now mobile, Batman set off at a gallop, tracking down the Joker's trail.
***
As Xena pressed on, she saw more and more of Callisto's handiwork. The atrocities brought back memories, not only of Callisto's former raids, but her own in years past.
It was that indelible link, the fact that had it not been for Xena there would be no Callisto, and thereby no massacre here, that haunted her still. Like a shadow that disappears when looked at straight on, it clung to the periphery of Xena's mind. Ever just out of reach, but still close enough to tease.
She mumbled consolations; listened stolidly to the accounts; pledged vengeance, just as she had done a dozen times before. Always the same. The people changed, but the faces… the faces always wore the same mask of sorrow. Of loneliness. Of pity.
Xena ran through the motions like one who has learned something by route. She mouthed the words and touched the heads, and then she was off again, off to another ravaged village, the same words, the same deeds. Always the same. Always late.
The more she rode, the deader she became. She just pressed on now. Pressed on to the inevitable meeting.
And yet, through the fog of self-hatred, through the curtain of despair, she retained some spark. Buried perhaps, drowned under the loathing she felt for herself, but still there nevertheless.
Whatever sins she may have committed, Callisto was now part of them. And for good or ill, Xena would see to it that it was rectified. One way or another, Xena would purge herself.