Najara left early the next morning, rising to deliver her morning sermon to the men in chains, then leaving to escort ten men and a shipment of medical supplies to a nearby village. Gabrielle wasted no time in tracking down Jett.
She came up to him as he was commanding the disposition of several wagonloads of grain that had arrived from Najara's main army stores. "Jett! Jett!" she called.
He turned and looked at her, surprised. "Gabrielle? I thought you were with Tara—"
"I need to talk to you," she said. "Can you meet me outside the hospital tent?"
"Sure," he agreed readily. "Hang on." Jett turned and spoke briefly to one of the wagon drivers. "All right, let's go," he said.
Gabrielle led him to the flat rock outside the hospital tent's door, underneath the spreading branches of the old beech tree. "Jett, I need your help," she said. "You know what I said earlier, about my friend Stallonus? The one whom Najara has captured?" At Jett's nod, she continued. "Stallonus won't convert to the Light, because he's afraid to. His family has always worshiped Isis, and there's apparently a curse on them that if they abandon Isis, they'll die. So, what does Najara do in this case? What do I need to do to get him released?"
Jett listened to her politely for a moment or so, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, Gabrielle," he told her, "but there's nothing you can do. Najara is very insistent on her rules. Stallonus will have to convert."
"But—but he won't convert."
"Then he can't be released and he will be executed. I'm sorry, Gabrielle."
"He'll be—" Gabrielle stared at him. Jett faced her calmly, with little expression; his eyes on hers were kind, patient, sympathetic…and unmoved. He's not going to help me, Gabrielle realized. A sinking feeling crept into her gut. I thought he was my friend…. She hadn't realized how much she had been counting on Jett to help her.
She said that out loud. "You—you—Jett, I thought you were my friend!"
"I'm sorry, Gabrielle," he said quietly.
"You're sorry?" Gabrielle thought of Stallonus, whom she had promised to help. "Jett, I gave my word that I would help him! Do you know what that means for a bard?"
"Then I suggest you help him find a way to convert," Jett told her. "I realize that this might be hard for you to understand, Gabrielle," he added with more sympathy. "but—"
"It doesn't make any sense!" Gabrielle insisted.
"I know it doesn't seem as if it makes sense to you," Jett agreed. "But you have to understand, Gabrielle—Najara does things for a reason, even if that reason is not always clear. Her djinn do not guide her in error. I don't know what they are, but I do know they are real; I've seen it. I've seen Najara make decisions based on their advice that I thought at the time were wrong, misguided, or profoundly foolish, but again and again, these same decisions have turned out, in the long run, to be the best if not the only choice she could possibly have made—even when she had absolutely no way of knowing. What she does with the people she captures—that's another djinn thing; she does this on their advice and their orders. I know enough about the djinn to know that I don't understand them, and because I don't, I won't interfere in anything they do."
Jett delivered this all in an even, steady voice; his eyes were calm, fixed on hers, and utterly rational. Gabrielle looked in vain for the light of the fanatic that she was sure must be there, but saw nothing. Only Jett, waiting patiently for her to speak, ready to help her answer whatever questions she might have.
"How can you do it?" she burst out angrily, not thinking that this man was the King of Assassins and could easily kill her in a heartbeat. "How can you just—just blindly follow her orders like that? I thought you were my friend, Jett!" she flung at him. "I thought you were my friend—"
Jett listened to her tirade tolerantly until she stopped, having run out of breath. "Gabrielle, this may surprise you," he told her, "but I'm not blind to what she is. I've stood at Najara's right hand for years, I know her in all her moods, better than almost anyone else—"
"If you really know what she is, then why don't you do anything about it?" Gabrielle almost stammered, she was so upset. She hadn't intended to go on, but she found herself continuing almost without even knowing what she was going to say. "If you really—Can't you see what she could be? Why don't you try to stop some of this stuff? Why don't you—"
Jett looked at her for a long period of time. "Gabrielle, are you all right?" he asked gently.
"Yes, I'm all right! Don't tell me I'm not all right! My friend is going to be executed and you're asking me if I'm all right?" She could hear her voice rising shrilly and cut herself off. Jett said nothing, but watched and waited patiently.
Gabrielle drew a long breath, calming herself, thinking about his question—both about the answer, and about what she could say that might convince Jett to help her. She found it was the same in both cases. "I killed, Jett," she said at last, quietly. Her voice was still a trifle unsteady. Jett was silent, listening, but gentle sympathy showed in his eyes. "I took someone's life. No, the lives of two people," she said, suddenly remembering with a shock. "Licinus I remember, but I keep forgetting the second man. Isn't that wrong, Jett?" she asked him, honestly disturbed. "Shouldn't it be harder than that to forget a death?"
"Maybe," the King of Assassins said just as quietly.
"In both cases," she continued, "I killed because I absolutely had to—because there was nothing else I could do, and because there was a real danger to my life—and—and Caesar's life, too," she said, her mouth twisting a bit at those words. "I killed to protect, I had to—but still, Jett, it bothers me. I wish I hadn't had to. I know what blood costs. I know what it's like to take a life now, Jett, and it seems to me that it's something we should only do when there's no other choice. Shouldn't we try to avoid all unnecessary bloodshed?" she asked, letting some of her real pain show through. "If—If Najara could say with certainty that all those she killed for not converting to the Light were guilty, then I could at least understand—but she can't. She knows she can't—she even said she's sure she's killed innocents. I know she can't. I know Stallonus. I know him. He would never hurt anyone. The only reason he won't convert to the Light is because he's afraid to. And Najara will kill him anyway, because she's so sure she's right that she won't even consider the possibility—" Gabrielle broke off, clasping her hands together. The overwhelming memory of Najara, of her tremendous power coupled with such confidence—arrogance, even, she realized, thinking again of Caesar—filled her mind.
Jett waited patiently to be sure she had finished, then replied. "It sounds like this is really bothering you," he said quietly.
"Yes. Yes it is," she said unhappily. "Jett, please help me."
"Gabrielle, try to understand," he continued. His words were gentle, his voice soft, persuasive. There was nothing of the cultist's zeal in his speech. "It is as she told you at dinner last night. Najara is dealing with events that have worldwide consequences, and as she said, set against such a scale, it's very easy for one person to get lost. That's not the way it should be, Gabrielle, and and it's a measure of your compassionate soul that it affects you, but it's the way it is. Najara is doing this because she's the only one who can. As I said, I know what she is, better than almost anyone else—"
"What is she, then?" Gabrielle asked, not without a trace of bitterness.
Jett smiled. "How much time have you got?" he asked with a glance at the sun; he continued more seriously. "What is she? Rigid, inflexible, authoritarian, demanding. Semi-delusional in some respects, and humble to a degree that approximates the arrogance of your friend—did you think I didn't know that?" he asked at Gabrielle's look of surprise. "It's true. But in addition, she is by far, the last, best hope for the world, and so, I serve by her side, doing all I can to help her. Who else but she could have the power to stand against Xena and Callisto?" he asked her. Gabrielle couldn't think of a one. "Who else is able and willing to take up arms to defend peasants and villagers from warlords and bandits? Who else cares enough to feed the hungry, clothe the poor and tend the sick, and has the resources to do it on the scale she does? Najara does all these things, because it is her nature, and because she believes the Light commands it and has given her her power for exactly that purpose. Caesar, from what I understand, wanted no part of defending this village from Zagreas until you forced him into it—and even then, he failed. Najara defended this village and succeeded. Xena could have done it, but she would not have. Neither would Callisto. Najara, on the other hand did, because the Light told her to—and because she cares."
Gabrielle bit her lip. Stallonus was in her thoughts. "She did," Gabrielle acknowledged. "But six months down the line, if another warlord comes by, conscripts all the villagers to fight for him, and then Najara captures them, she'll kill them unless they agree to follow her Light. Won't she?"
Jett nodded. "Probably—although she will be scrupulous about ensuring that all understand the choice offered to them, and once they convert she will not harm them under any circumstances unless they take up the sword again. This is what the Light has commanded her, she says."
"Then how can you say she's any better than they are?"
Jett drew a deep breath. He paused, but Gabrielle did not get a sense that he didn't know what to reply; it was more as if he were trying to order his thoughts in a coherent fashion. His gaze wandered left, and Gabrielle followed it. He was looking at Caesar, she saw; Caesar had emerged from the command tent, moving slowly and painfully, and took a seat on a tree stump, rubbing his legs. He didn't seem to be aware of their presence.
"Your companion there," Jett said, gesturing to the former emperor. Gabrielle frowned, not sure where he was going. "Has it ever occurred to you, Gabrielle, that he would have made a much better ruler of the world than either Xena or Callisto?"
Gabrielle stared at him in disbelief; the idea of Caesar as emperor of the world was something she shrank from contemplating.
Jett laughed a little at her expression. "Oh, but it's true. Because Xena and Callisto take no thought for the future or anything beyond their own immediate wants and needs. Xena destroyed capriciously, on the spur of her immediate whims; she lashed out at whatever caught her temper like a spoiled child, from what I've heard of her." Gabrielle half-consciously raised her hand to rub the side of her face; she knew it for truth. "Callisto is even worse; for instead of destroying merely as the whims of the moment move her, Callisto actively goes out of her way to demolish everything she encounters. Your companion there, whatever his flaws as a ruler—and they are undoubtedly many—wanted to build. From everything I've ever heard of him, he was profoundly concerned with his legacy, and wished to be remembered forever as a great ruler. You can't be remembered if there is no one left to remember you. He would destroy as he needed to but not for the sake of destroying, and he planned for the things he destroyed to be replaced by monuments to his glory. And given Hades's choice between the man who wishes to destroy the world and the one who wishes to rule it, you have no choice but to pick the latter."
"And you're saying that's Najara," Gabrielle concluded. "You're saying that you support her because she is the best of a bad lot—"
"Oh, she's more than that," Jett said with quiet conviction. "She's much more. I support Najara not only because the other choices are so much worse, but because she deserves my loyalty. She's earned it by her actions—actions that stems directly out of her belief in the Light. I've seen her sit for hours in the lonely corner of a dark and dirty hospice, by the bedside of a child horribly burned by one of Callisto's fires, telling the child stories, making her laugh, easing her pain, and assuring her that she is still a beautiful girl who is worthy of love. I've seen her walk into a house where the spotted death reigned, with no thought for her own personal safety, to give medicine and minister to the sick—even though the village was empty and there was no one but I to see her and know if she left those people to die. I've ridden hundreds of miles at great peril with her across icy steppes to bring grain to villages cut off from the outside world and starving, though doing so took us a week out of our way and almost cost us a battle. I've seen her throw herself into battle, again and again, even when she was outnumbered ten to one, because there were those who could not defend themselves that needed defending—and come out victorious, time after time after time. You should ask Tara about Najara, and see what she tells you. She of the Djinn isn't perfect, Gabrielle," he said quietly. "She's not a hero. There are no heroes in this world. She is a deeply flawed person, as you've heard her say yourself," he said, smiling. "And yes, her unswerving belief in the Light fuels some of those flaws—that arrogance, that rigidity, that superconfident sense that she is always right. But it is that same belief that leads—forces—her to do that which no other will do, or even dare to attempt. She is worthy of my loyalty, Gabrielle," he repeated, "my faith, my trust, and yes, my obedience. She is also worthy of yours, if you could only see it."
He paused there. Gabrielle stared at him. Jett had spoken with quiet but not fanatical conviction, with passion but not with zeal, with a firm confidence that did not slip over the line into blind fervor. Gabrielle found the cool reason in his voice a hundred times more disturbing than if he had raved—because it was that much harder to dismiss.
"You're wrong," she said at last, and hoped Jett wouldn't say anything else, because she couldn't back it up.
Jett shrugged. "Believe as you wish, Gabrielle," he replied. "My knowledge of Najara comes from years of experience at her side. You don't have that, and I can't make you see her as I do."
"You're wrong," she repeated only. Jett didn't answer this time, but only watched her. Shaken, Gabrielle backed up a pace—two—then turned abruptly and left, retreating to the safety of the medical tent.
As she spent the rest of the day making her rounds, Gabrielle's mind was running in circles. What Jett had told her about Najara—and Stallonus—what to do about Stallonus? He wouldn't convert, she was sure of that now after speaking to him and hearing about his family curse—but she couldn't just leave him to be killed by Najara. Najara. How could such an arresting woman, such a compassionate woman, such a kind woman, do that to her friend? What could she do? What could she—
She was so lost in thought that she didn't hear Tara come up to her until the dark-eyed healer touched her on the shoulder. "Gabrielle," she said, "I heard that you went to talk to Jett about one of the prisoners?"
Gabrielle glanced up for a moment, startled. "Yes, Tara, my friend Stallonus—I know him from our time together at the Academy of Performing Bards in Athens." At Tara's questioning look, Gabrielle thought, Maybe she can help me, and continued, "He was captured with Zagreas's army and Najara has him in chains. He won't convert—he says his family has a curse on them that they'll die that same day if they leave the worship of Isis. Tara, I don't know what to do. He's my friend. How can I save him? Can you help me?"
She held Tara's dark eyes, pleading. Tara watched her for a long time, her face oddly shadowed. At last the young healer said, frowning, "You should leave him alone."
"Oh, Tara, not you too—" Gabrielle began, heartbroken.
"Najara gives everyone a chance, as long as they convert," Tara said, her scowl deepening. "If he won't take the chance, that's his problem. Don't you worry about it, Gabrielle," she added with a smile that seemed as if it was meant to be reassuring. "If he won't convert, then he wasn't worth it anyway."
Gabrielle stared at Tara, profoundly disturbed by what she was hearing. It seemed suddenly as if a chasm divided the two of them. It was one more shock on top of everything else—on top of Jett's cool rationality, on top of Najara's calm confidence. "Tara, I can't believe what I'm hearing!" Gabrielle burst out at her friend. "Aren't you supposed to try to do no harm? You're—you're a healer!"
Tara's face fell suddenly into lines of deep bitterness. She looked old beyond her years. "I am now," she said.
Peripherally, Gabrielle observed just how much Tara looked like Caesar in that moment—it was mostly a matter of those dark eyes and that harsh expression, so out of place on such young features. "Tara, you have to help me," Gabrielle said again. "Please. You're my friend, Tara—"
"I'm sorry, Gabrielle, but no."
"Why not?" Gabrielle demanded, gearing up for battle.
Tara gave a long sigh. That harsh expression had not left her face. "Gabrielle, you don't understand about the people Najara captures—"
"I know Stallonus. He didn't want to be with Zagreas's men—he's innocent, he says that he—"
"All of the people Najara captures are innocent," Tara said bitterly. "At least, if you listen to them." Her eyes shone wetly. "And they all go on their way swearing they'll never hurt anyone again, not ever. That's what they all say if you listen to them."
"Tara, listen—"
"No, Gabrielle, you listen!" Tara cried, turning on Gabrielle tearfully. Gabrielle fell silent, struck by the pain in Tara's face. "I know more about this than you!
Gabrielle stared at her friend. "Tara—"
"He's innocent. Sure he is," Tara said, smiling sardonically. The expression looked far too old for her. "The warlord who owned me was innocent too, he swore he was. He swore he hadn't abandoned the Light, and that he had just been buying us slaves in order to free us, he just somehow hadn't gotten around to it yet—he swore it, right up until the moment Najara's blade went through his neck."
"Well…well….maybe he was telling the truth," Gabrielle faltered. "Maybe he had been planning to—" She stopped at the look on Tara's face. "Tara…" she whispered.
"You don't know, Gabrielle," Tara repeated, her eyes cold. "I do."
"Oh, Tara…."
Tara sank down onto a crate of upturned medical supplies. That bitter smile did not leave her face. "I was the best dancer in my village," she said quietly. "Did I tell you that, Gabrielle? I was the best. I always got to dance the lead in all the festivals because I was so good. Everyone in my village said so."
Gabrielle didn't know what to say. "Tara, you don't have to—"
"It was a couple of years ago when the slavers hit my village. Have you heard of Salmoneous?" She glanced at Gabrielle. "The Slaver Lord," she clarified, mistaking Gabrielle's look of horror for one of incomprehension. "He's one of the biggest slave traders there is….his operation goes all the way up to Brittania, from what I hear. Raiders looking for slaves to sell to him had been attacking villages throughout the area for a while, carrying off people—youth, mostly. Young men and women who would be strong workers and would fetch good prices at auction. They raided our village one night, and there was nothing we could do to stop them. They grabbed me and about a dozen other villagers and just carried us off into the night."
"Tara, that's awful," Gabrielle said, feeling tears sting her eyes. Tara's black eyes were wet.
"The men offered my village a chance to buy us back. They sent messages to the village elders naming a price and saying if they could meet it we would be returned unharmed. What do you think happened, Gabrielle?" she asked. "What do you think our own mothers and fathers did?" Her words were bitter, but her face was that of a small child's, lost and betrayed.
Gabrielle was silent.
"They said no." Tara's voice shook. "They said that they weren't going to buy us back because that would only encourage the slavers to take more people. They wouldn't fight to keep us and they wouldn't buy us back. My own mother and father." She swallowed. "They just let me go for dead." Tears were running down her face now.
"Tara, I'm so sorry," Gabrielle whispered, feeling how utterly inadequate her words were. "I'm so sorry that happened…."
"The man in charge of the raiders was named Mezentius," Tara went on. "I guess he had been a warlord pushed out of his territory by Xena or Callisto and had taken up slaving. Most of the youth from our village were sold right away at auction, but somehow Mezentius found out about me being a dancer. He had a partner, Istafan, who ran a dance troupe that he rented out, so I got sold to his partner to be trained as a dancer. I hated it," she said, her voice breaking. "I hated it so much, Gabrielle—"
"Tara, stop," Gabrielle pleaded. She could feel Tara's pain as if it were her own. "Please, Tara—you don't have to tell me—"
"They made me dance," Tara said, scrubbing at her face with a sleeve. "Can you imagine it, Gabrielle? You said you're a bard, can you think about what it would be like to have to perform?" she asked desperately. "To be forced to perform even when you didn't want to for people you hated? Not to be able to perform what you wanted or how you wanted, but how someone else ordered you to? We got beaten every day, whenever we made mistakes or did anything else the owner of the troupe didn't like. I hated it," she said again, almost sobbing. Her black eyes were wet with tears. "I hated it. It was the worst thing in the world. Being a slave is the worst thing in the world. It kills you from the inside. There isn't anything in the world worse than being a slave," she insisted. "If I had a choice between being a slave again and dying, I would rather die than go back to that."
Gabrielle was silent. What she did as a bard came from the deepest, most inward part of her. What Tara had said, about being forced to perform—the very idea made her shudder. It would be a violation of every fiber of her being.
"I was in that troupe for over a year. The owner of the troupe was trying to get us ready to take us to Ch'in, to sell us to the Empress, I think her name is Lao Ma. I didn't want to go, but it didn't matter what I wanted. And then…." She paused. "Najara came."
Tara stopped there. Her lips were still trembling, and tears were drying on her cheeks, but her entire face lit up just at the thought of the Crusader. Gabrielle was deeply struck by the look on her face.
"I didn't know it when they took me prisoner," Tara said, "but Najara had caught them both before—Mezentius and Istafan, the owner of the troupe. She had given them the choice, and they had both converted and been initiated into the Light and sworn to renounce their former evil ways. But they were just trying to save their own skins," she said bitterly. "As soon as Najara left they went right back to slaving just like they had been doing before. They thought she wouldn't bother to check up on them and that they could get away with it. So when Najara caught them this time, she just cut their heads off. I wish she had done that to start with," Tara said, her voice trembling again. "I wish she had." She stopped and closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath and regaining control.
"She apologized," Tara continued. "That really meant a lot to me," she added with a shaky smile. "She apologized to all of us that we had had to suffer because she had failed, and asked us to forgive her."
"Did you?" Gabrielle asked quietly.
Tara gave that same soft, almost worshipful smile. "Forgiving Najara wasn't hard at all," she said. "The ones I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive are Mezentius and Istafan. And my parents." Her voice was thick with anger. "I'll never forgive them. Any of them. Not ever. They don't deserve it."
She looked up at Gabrielle. "Najara offered to give us an escort back to our villages, so that we could get there safely, but I didn't want to go back. I don't ever want to go back. I don't ever want to see my parents again. They did nothing," she said angrily. "Not my parents, not the village elders, nothing. Najara was the only one who ever helped us. The only one. She was there for us when there was nobody else. When my own mother and father had given me up for dead. Well if that's the way they feel about it—if I'm dead to them, then they're dead to me too." Her face set into grim lines. Then her expression softened.
"Najara even got me to dance again," she said with a trembling smile. "After I was freed I didn't want to dance ever again. I thought I would just work in Najara's army as a healer and that this way I could maybe pay her back a little bit for what she did for me. Then one day I tried out a step or two—just to see if I remembered how to do it—and it turned out Najara was watching. She told me—" Tara's eyes filled again with tears "—she told me she thought I was a beautiful dancer and it would be a shame if I never danced again. It would be letting the slavers win. The first time I performed at circle, I almost couldn't do it, but Najara was there watching and she told me, 'You don't have to if you don't want to. Nobody's going to make you perform, but we all would love to see you.' When she said that, it was easy.
"Najara's right, Gabrielle," Tara concluded. The tears were drying on her cheeks, and her voice was still unsteady, but serious. "She's right. She knows what she's doing. If it weren't for her I'd still be a slave and those animals who captured me would still be alive hurting more people. She set me free and even gave me back my dancing. The people she captures are bad people, Gabrielle," Tara said passionately. "Najara gives them a chance which is more than they even deserve. Your friend says he's innocent. Sure he is. Sure he is. If he won't take the chance Najara's giving him, then that's his problem. He doesn't deserve to have someone like you wasting your time thinking about him."
Her delicate jawline had set, resolute. Her dark eyes were hard. Staring at her, Gabrielle was struck by a wave of terrible sorrow. She won't help me, Gabrielle thought, and couldn't even find it in her heart to be angry at her friend. Oh, Tara.
Tara wouldn't help her. Jett wouldn't help her. Gabrielle knew what she had to do.