IV.
At a lavish table in the Athenian castle, spread out with the royal fixings of a feast-pomegranates, tapas, smoked ostrich and a curious paté from the organs of jellyfish-sat the inner counsel men of the King, Leonidas himself, Ocnus Nilos, the Warrior Princess and next to her, the bard. War-talk flowed like wine, at once intoxicating and feverish, leaving a bitter taste on the tongue. Xena and Gabrielle spoke plenty to the others, while avoiding each other entirely, their argument from the afternoon still a fresh wound.
When a platter of baklava made its way around the table, Xena took one of the flaky pastries and passed the tray on to the bard, their fingers brushing in the exchange. The sharpness of blue eyes lost its edge as they met green, then softened into a wordless apology. Gabrielle turned away abruptly to pass the baklava on, pained by that look in Xena's eyes. She felt a tentative touch under the table on her thigh, and looked down to see Xena's fingers smoothing the wrinkles of her skirt; she felt the warrior's wine-scented breath near her ear.
"I'm sorry," Xena whispered, so only Gabrielle could hear.
The bard shivered involuntarily, mentally berating herself for her inability to stay angry at Xena, even when it was justified. There had been times when Gabrielle was alone-when she lay in the darkness of a wood or in some town where Xena had abandoned her-when she ruminated on the distinct blind affection she had for the warrior. All her life, Gabrielle had prided herself on her sense of justice, her belief in goodness and her tireless effort to do good. With Xena, she could easily be coaxed into the altruism of heroics- but, really, when she thought about it, she would forgive the warrior anything, would love her enduringly. She was not sure if that made her a wise lover, or a misguided lovesick fool. And yet, at those soft words whispered under the dim torchlight of the Athenian monarchy, Gabrielle surrendered her weakness, thinking that perhaps she might be both wise and foolish.
Dinner ended with plans to reconvene before dawn the next day; they believed the first Persian offence would be within the early hours of the morn. Once outside the hall, Xena gave Gabrielle pause by the foot of the stairwell that led to their quarters.
"I'll be gone for a while," said Xena.
"Where are you going?"
"With the contingency."
"To Salamis?" asked Gabrielle.
"Yes."
"I'm coming."
"Gabrielle," Xena ground out, "you're injured."
"I'll make the decisions for myself, thank you."
"I'm the bloody Commanding Officer," argued Xena.
Gabrielle merely gave her a look.
"We have to take a boat. Salamis is an island," said Xena, knowing that this would deter the bard. But Gabrielle was still a little angry, and very determined and when the two combined, they made for a very volatile reaction. Sensing that this might be the case, the warrior shook her head. "All right, let's go".
On the three-oar trieme, Xena stood leaning on the mainmast, watching her contingent group of ten sailors work to get them out of the harbour. Gabrielle sat on deck, her back against the mast, one hand bracing herself against the halliard rope; she had already begun to feel a little seasick. Xena cast her friend a sympathetic look, wondering perhaps for the thousandth time why she had let the bard persuade her into coming along. Presently, however, Xena had other things to consider.
Climbing the mast-ladder up a few rungs, the warrior closed her eyes for a moment, letting her keen senses judge the direction of the wind. "Come about!" she called to her men, "Let's bear away, turn steerboard into weather-side!".
From her position on the deck, Gabrielle looked up at Xena perched on the ropes, peering out into the darkness of the sea as if she saw something others did not. Beyond the mainsail, stars bloomed in the night sky, illumining their southwestern course. It would be a short sail, half a candlemark at most in the strong wind that propelled them. Xena hopped down from the mast and landed next to Gabrielle, stooping down to her haunches.
"How're you doing?" asked the warrior.
"I swear, Xena, if you ask me that question one more time…" threatened Gabrielle.
Xena stood once again. "Sorry," she muttered.
Gabrielle looked up and a sense of regret came over her; she reached up and tugged on an errant leather strap from Xena's battledress. "I'm sorry, Xe. Just feeling ill."
Once again, Xena lowered herself to her friend's level. "It's all right. I know." She grabbed Gabrielle's wrist into her hand and with the other, pressed two fingers to the pressure point there to quell the bard's nausea. She felt Gabrielle relax a little at the sensation, and felt her own anxiety lessen as well. Passing a hand over Gabrielle's cheek, Xena tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Are we okay?" she asked.
Gabrielle looked up at that, surprised; she gazed into Xena's eyes and wondered at the echo of the night sky and the sea. "Of course we are," she replied, feeling an ache expressly in her chest.
Xena smiled, sitting down on an overturned bucket. "Figured I'd continue the saga, if you want. We've got some time to kill."
"It would take my mind off my stomach," agreed Gabrielle.
Nodding, Xena pursed her lips and struggled to remember where she had left off in her tale.
The hills of the Byzantium port glittered with the lantern-lights of sandstone huts, looking like primordial fireflies in the strange light of dawn. Rasmus lay propped in the bow-point of the smaller frigate they had hopped earlier, snoring away in the hazy summer heat. Xena, on the other hand, stood with her hands planted on the weather-pocked railing of the boat, unable to sleep. Seeing the port grow larger before her eyes, Xena kneed Rasmus awake.
"Get up, Ras," said Xena, her voice hushed, "we're here."
As Xena and Rasmus made their way through the city streets, they noticed with a little suspicion how vacant those streets seemed. No vendors were setting up their caravans in the market square; no drunken men lounged in alley corners with their cloaks pulled over their eyes; only a stray cat or two passed them by. Finally, Rasmus stepped inside a blacksmith's shop when he saw the glow of a forge through the window.
Xena stood outside, shuffling her feet with restless energy; beneath her own peasant's cloak, she fingered the hilt of her sword at her hip. After another moment, Rasmus exited the shop.
"Everyone is at the palace gates," he reported, "to catch glimpse of Xerxes".
"Perfect," is all Xena replied.
And so, through Byzantium they stole, keeping close to the latticework shadows thrown from the sun which continued to climb higher in the sky. The closer they drew to the palace, the more people they saw gathered in the narrow streets. At the gates, the townspeople stood clamouring for the best vantage to see the Shah greet his advisors with their multitudes of camel caravans, and gilded litters carried by strapping dark-skinned men in velvet robes and strange fur karakul hats made from the stuff of foetus lambs. Xena squinted through the crowds and tried to spot a woman being escorted from her litter to the decadent waiting attendants—but she could see nothing.
"Come on," she gestured, and Rasmus followed her through an alley. The alley wound along the back of the palace, formed largely from a massive wall that blocked the squalid conditions of the slums from the garden vistas of the palace. At one point, Xena paused by a barrel and gave Rasmus a telling look—like a child about to break her mother's rule. In two fluid leaps, Xena made it over the wall, dropping down into the branch of a waiting lime tree and then down into the gardens. She waited a moment until Rasmus made it over the wall as well, however more clumsily.
Following Xena's lithe movements, Rasmus stole through the decorative sandstone archways painted with brown mandala designs and squared, red poppy blooms. When they rounded a bend, they came upon a man and woman, sneaking kisses in the shadowed corner. Xena put a hand on Rasmus' chest to stop him; she put one long index finger to her own lips in a gesture of silence.
"For a thousand moons, dearest Aara," said the man in Persian tongue, "would I wait for you."
The woman fell into his embrace. "And a thousand wives would I kill," she answered, pressing her painted lips to his.
Xena threw a vulgar look at her compatriot, raising her eyebrows in a suggestive manner. But before Rasmus could identify her motive, Xena made herself visible to the trysting lovers.
"Shaloum. Your name, Agha?" asked Xena, in her rudimentary Farsi. The man broke away from his embrace and the woman looked startlingly around at the intruder.
"What is the meaning of this?" demanded the man, for to him, Xena looked only like a foreign peasant who had somehow found her way over the wall.
Not understanding, nor caring to understand, Xena asked again: "Your name?"
"Prince Kara-Indash of Elam," said the man, with a terrible pompous affectation.
A feral smile found its way onto Xena's face as she advanced on the two; in a smooth motion, she ran the Prince through with her sword. And before Aara could scream, Rasmus' dirk found its way across her neck.
Turning to the Persian warrior, Xena laughed cruelly. "Ever fancy us lovers, Prince Kara-Indash?" she asked to Rasmus, who now would assume the prince's identity.
"I did dream," replied Rasmus, cleaning his blade on the fallen woman's skirts.
"Let's get rid of the bodies," said Xena, "and quick. We've got a banquet to attend."
As it turned out, Prince Kara-Indash's quarters were lavish and plenty satisfying to Xena and Rasmus' needs. There, Rasmus found clothing for both himself and for Xena. The woman, Aara, seemed to be an attendant to the Prince as well as his mistress and so her things were as neatly preserved in the palace quarters. At dusk, a knock sounded upon their chamber door.
Rasmus strode to the door, but before opening it, turned back to Xena: "What shall I do if the guard recognizes the difference?"
"Kill him," answered the Warrior Princess, simply.
Rasmus nodded, then moved to open the door. "What is it?" he rasped.
"Dinner, your excellence," replied in the guard, already sunk into a deep bow. Lucky for custom, the guardsman's etiquette disallowed eye contact with royalty. With an even deeper bow, he stood to the side to allow the two to pass through the threshold. He then led whom he believed to be Prince Kara-Indash and his attendant through a maze of corridors, all as intricately painted and engraved as the next, until they found themselves at the Great Hall.
What seemed to be hundreds of exquisitely dressed Persian diplomats with their consorts and wives and servants milled about the hall, conversing with one another in great streams of flowery greetings. This did not look like a nation at war, nor a conference of warmakers.
At Rasmus' side, Xena watched as he bowed to many men and attempted to speak as little as possible to any of them. The warlord kept her eyes peeled for women that may be Artemisia, but so far, each woman was covered from head to toe in vibrant jeweled shrouds, their eyes demurred and dark. It was no wonder why she received so many startled and strange glances; her face sat uncovered, and her eyes such a contrasting blue.
"Why didn't you tell me about the dress code?" Xena seethed, whispering into Rasmus' ear.
"I have not been to Persia since I was a child; the custom has changed," replied Rasmus, not caring to lower his voice.
"What strange words you utter to your servant," sounded a very deep, yet entirely feminine Persian voice. Rasmus turned at this and greeted the woman with a bow.
"I do beg your pardon, Isha," replied Rasmus, politely, "I purchased her for mere bags of sand in the Greek isle of Lesbos."
The woman rested her attention on Xena and studied her features in the brightly torch-lit and cacophonous hall; and Xena in turn met eyes so dark beneath their shroud, it seemed a Ch'inese scribe could dip the nib of quill and ink eternal lengths of histories. "And where is your cover?" asked the woman. It took only a moment for Xena to realize that the woman had spoken in perfect Greek.
"It's… it's ah…" she was at a loss for words.
"No matter," the woman continued in a voice like a breeze, "for a face as beautiful as yours should not be hidden."
"Gratitude, Isha," answered Xena, for once not at all perturbed at having to exercise courtesy.
"May I introduce my servant, Aada," interrupted Rasmus, "and myself: Prince Kara-Indash of Elam." Rasmus sunk into another bow.
An odd look passed quickly over the woman's brow, and for a moment Xena believed them to be found out. "Have you trimmed your beard, my Prince?" she asked, instead.
Rasmus chuckled nervously, "You do not like it?"
"No, it suits you," she answered, smiling humbly.
Yet, just as Rasmus was about to ask the woman her name, a bell sounded in the hall, calling those gathered to attention. Everyone's conversations came to an abrupt halt as they turned to the head of the hall. A man of high rank stepped onto a platform, and announced in a rough, loud voice: "Tremble before the Imperial Ruler of the Empire, He who seeks to increase his benevolent sovereignty and put down the Greek Dogs! Make way for Xerxes, High Shah of Persia!"
Instead of cheering, the hall remained silent and all but Xena bent at the waist and averted their eyes. Horrified, Rasmus yanked Xena down alongside him; it was an easy death for treason in these parts of the world. Entering from an anti-chamber at the head of the room, Xerxes himself strode onto the platform and raised his hands above his head.
"Thank you Mardonius," said the Shah to his advisor, "Shaloum! Welcome to all my trusted friends and fellow leaders of this Great Empire!"
Xena did not listen to Xerxes' address, but chose instead to look back to where they had abandoned the conversation with that woman who knew her language. But when she looked, the woman was gone, disappeared into the crowds. Xena subtly shook her head, feeling like an incantation had been cast on her by a very gentle, very silent witch.
Candlemarks went by, full of lavish eating and barbaric conversation; large carafes of port and wine were toted by muscled servant men whose sole occupation it was to make sure no guest's goblet sat empty for the barest of moments. During dessert, entertainment in the form of dancers filed into the hall: Akhlakandu and Bendir drums began a steady, deep beat and a tar strummed in rhythm; finally the piercing, haunted sound of the Santoor filled the hall and Xena found the noise more intoxicating than the wine. Drunkenly, she scanned the faces of those sitting cross-legged or lounging at the various tables, trying once more to locate the woman from earlier. And there, beyond the gauze of a dancer's ethereal skirt, sat the woman with the dark eyes which seemed never to have left Xena's at all.
And yet, instead of glancing away, Xena held that dark stare level with one equally as intense of her own. As the exotic music wafted through the room, and the sweet-smelling opium smoke from ornate glass hookahs billowed and changed the dancers into specters, Xena studied this strange woman.
And then the spell was broken. The Shah stood from his silk cushion and once more raised his palms in the air. The music quelled, the conversation died.
"A thousand apologies for interrupting such festivities," said Xerxes, in a voice that did not sound sorry at all, "but we must remember that we are in trying times. Our war with Greece is coming close to a victorious end-"
Xena smirked at this, when Rasmus translated roughly in her ear.
"-but we must engage the Greek navy in attempt to secure this victory," Xerxes continued, "We contested at Thermoplyae and won! Our next move is to contest in the waters at Salamis. Now, I must acknowledge that the Greek fleets are famed and our resources are drawling thin. To emerge victorious will require great strength and courage. And, as it is not in my design to use my people and resources without the consent of their nation-state leaders, I ask the opinion of my fellow advisors. This is why I ask you now, your thoughts on the matter. Shall we contest the Greek navy and thus secure half the known world and rule it under the Great Persian Empire? Or shall we conserve our energies and risk prolonging this war another fifty seasons? I open up the floor to discussion." At that Xerxes re-seated himself on his cushion and sat poised to listen.
"This is a jest," whispered Rasmus to Xena, "He does not want proper council. He wants his conscience eased and his cock stroked."
Xena nearly choked on her fourth cup of wine with laughter.
The king of Sidon was first to stand and address the Shah, "I say, for the glory of the Empire, crush the Athenian fleet!" He raised his goblet and drank in Xerxes' honour, dribbling the wine down his chin into his whiskers. The king of Tyre stood and said of variation of his countryman's sentiments; the rest of the empire's advisors stood and offered opinions of much the same sort. Rasmus shook his head, laughing along with Xena at this sham of a council meeting.
And then finally, a different tone reached the ears of those gathered; not a baritone of pride, but an alto of levity: "Tell the king from me, Mardonius, as I am a woman and cannot allow myself the honour of address, that this is his reply from one who showed herself neither the most cowardly nor the weakest in the naval encounters at Euboea:"
Indeed, Xena was shocked to see that it was the black-eyed woman who stood and spoke above the din. This then, must be the elusive and infamous Queen Artemisia of Caria, for no woman outside of her rank would dare do as she did. For some reason, Xena felt like this should not have surprised her.
"Master, it is right for me to tell you my opinion, as I am considering what is to your best advantage," continued Artemisia, "This is my advice to you: spare your ships and do not fight a battle at sea. For their men are as superior to yours at sea as men are to women. Why need you run the risk of naval actions at all? Do you not hold Athens, the particular objective of your campaign, and do you not control the rest of Greece? No one stands in your way. Those who resisted you have ended as they deserve. I shall explain how I think the enemy will fare. If you do not rush into an engagement at sea, but hold the fleet here waiting on shore, or if you attack the Peloponnese, master, you will attain your objectives without trouble. For the Greeks cannot put up resistance against you for long, but they will scatter their forces and run away, city by city. They have no supplies on this island, according to my information, nor do they consider it their home. If you send your army agains the Peloponnese, it is not likely that any Peloponnesians in the Greek forces will be prepared to stay quiet or fight a naval battle in defense of Athens. If you bring on a naval battle right now, I am afraid that the fleet will be destroyed and involved the army as well in defeat. Reflect on this too, my king. Good men usually have bad slaves and bad men good ones. You, as the best of all men, have bad slaves. None of these Silonians, Tyreans, Cypriotes, Cilicians or Pamphilians-who are called your allies-are of any use."
The hall was bathed in silence at the close of Artemisia's plea.
Rasmus finished his translation, then reached over to his 'servant' and fingered her jaw closed. Xena sent him a menacing scowl, then returned her attention to Artemisia as she took her seat once more.
"Noble Queen," Xerxes addressed, choosing not to stand, "your wise sentiments do not fall on deaf ears and I thank you for your enduring honesty. It would seem, however, that you are vastly outnumbered in the opinion of the opposition. As is my own mind set. In a moon's sequence, we will invade Salamis!"
"So rash and such hubris," muttered Gabrielle, lulled by the low rhythm of Xena's voice.
Xena smiled, "Indeed."
"But Artemisia," Gabrielle's eyes brightened, "she sounds amazing, and so wise."
"Yes," Xena's voice barely raised above the sound of the hull cutting through the waves, "yes, she was."
"So then what happened?" asked Gabrielle. But Xena stood quickly to her feet, snapping to attention. She narrowed her eyes in the darkness and looked to the portside at a growing dark shape in the near distance.
"No time," she said, "Get ready, Gabrielle. We're going to infiltrate the Persian camps".