VIV.
Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
[…] Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
-"Sunday Morning", Wallace Stevens
They had been marching through the dawn, one of the most beautiful Gabrielle had ever seen—and seen through a swollen eye no less. Perhaps, she was just happy at having survived the enduring darkness of the night and of the undulating howls of men on the hunt.
Tetram had passed her off to a foot soldier, who now held her chain loosely in his calloused hand as they puffed up the steep incline of the mountain. The Shah had insisted on moving further up, so that they may be able to see the Athenian fleet in the harbor. Each step the bard took became more labored than the next, her body ached as it never had before. When she placed her leaden foot on a loose stone, Gabrielle lost her footing and fell on all fours. Ahead, the foot soldier halted his trek, his compatriots filing around him in a current of ascent. Instead of yanking violently on her chain, however, the warrior-a young man, Gabrielle now realized-walked the few paces back and stooped onto his haunches.
Her head hung low; her breath came in wracks and her head burned and throbbed like the heart of a volcano. Suddenly, she felt that broad, rough hand on the side of her cheek. Looking up, she found the young solider gazing at her.
"Isha, a'alan. Asman—"he said gently. She decided his eyes were kind.
Gabrielle shook her head, signaling either her incomprehension or her inability to go on any longer. He said a few more unintelligible words in that intoxicating language.
"I don't understand," said Gabrielle.
The warrior pressed his hands together as if in prayer, then drove them forth up into the air as if they were a bird taking to flight. Tears nearly drove her utter frustration.
"I can't!" she said, "I can't go on anymore."
The warrior's brow knit together and eventually he abandoned his efforts to communicate in words. Bending further, he proceeded to scoop up the smaller woman in his arms and, as gently as possible given their treacherous circumstance, threw her over his shoulder. He then began to carry her up the mountain.
Gabrielle could feel the warrior's heavy breaths, his muscles turning on the axle of his bones and in that moment, she felt with a greater depth the commonality of being human. She found that it was as easy to give up hatred as letting water sieve through one's fingers. These people were not evil, did not necessitate annihilation by a greater race. Like the Greeks and like the Romans and like the Ch'inese and like the Palmyra, the Persian race consisted of singular people, those who are bad and good or some combination of the two. Tetram had let his own inbred beast consume him; but, here, her enemy had shown her kindness in the most bizarre of moments. And in doing, her enemy redeemed Gabrielle's faith in humanity.
When they reached the top of the cliff, the warrior set her down on the volcanic terrain. Gabrielle looked up at her keeper, betraying her weakness in a few wracking shivers. The soldier proceeded to unfasten his shoulder cape from his armor and shook it out in the gust of wind that swept over the peak of the cliff. He drew it, not gracefully, around Gabrielle's shoulders and attempted a black-toothed smile.
"Asman," he said again, handing her his own skin of water.
Gabrielle smiled and took the offered flask.
"Angel," called an elder soldier sitting on a nearby rock. He spits a rose-colored liquid, sporting a gash across his face and a bruise developing under his eye. "Zami says to you, Asman, god of the sky," he points up to the sun-washed clouds, "he thinks you are an angel."
Gabrielle looks at the young soldier, Zami she now knows he is called, and takes his hand. This stills him and he sinks onto his haunches to better look at this woman fallen from the heavens. He gives her a questioning look.
She can think of only one word in his language that she knows. "Shalom," she says. For what is a better greeting between people than to wish them peace? Between her smaller palms, she presses his hand and tries to impart her thanks in the gesture. Zami smiles and pats her on the head as he says something in an admonishing manner to the other soldier who had translated.
The other soldier gets up and smacks Zami on the arm, laughing heartily. Gabrielle wished she could understand the joke, desperate for the soothing balm of laughter.
"So, you are Xena's?" asks the other soldier.
Gabrielle looks up, "Yes." She had never thought of herself as belonging to anyone. But if she were ever to belong to someone, it would be to Xena. They belonged to each other. She feels a longing pull through her body like a tenuous rope. She looks out to sea and finally spots the three Athenian warships anchored in harbor. Somewhere out there is her warrior.
"She is a goddess?" asked the soldier.
"A goddess?" repeats Gabrielle.
"The Warrior Princess. I fought her spirit in the night. She would make herself disappear, turn herself into trees and kill us unseen. My people have a name for such a daimon: Daeva. She is madness. She is lust and wrath and vengeance. A lover of war. Her eternal partner is death- together they chase the souls of fallen warriors as they rise to the heavens."
For some reason, this brings a fresh wave of tears to the eyes of the poet. She places her hand on the soldier's arm, "Xena is no demon. She is not a goddess. She's flesh and blood, like you and me. And like humans, she makes mistakes. Long ago, in the land of your people, she made a mistake. But, you must understand," Gabrielle's words take on the heat of her fever, searching out the dark eyes of this soldier, "she has changed. Xena does not want to conquer your people. I know for a fact, her past torments her. But your Shah, Tetram, he is attacking her people. And all Xena knows is war. If she feels threatened, she will fight back. Can't you see: this war is senseless?"
The soldier squinted at her in the brightening sunlight, "You lie."
"I may be a bard, but I do not lie," says Gabrielle gently, "not in something as important as this."
The soldier nods, "Many here believe that the Shah has gone mad with lust for Xena's blood. It has been many years since her Great Wrong, and many soldiers are too young to remember."
"Do you? Remember, I mean," asks Gabrielle.
"Yes. I am older than these pups," he laughs, rubbing his balding head, "I was in Halicarnassus when our Queen and her Foreign Witch-for that is what she was called after-travelled the streets in the grandest of processionals. My mother was a servant for the Queen, her name was Yazmin. She would tell my father, who was a footsoldier under Artemisia, many tales from the inner palace walls. It was very odd: my mother hated the Warrior Princess, while my Father had only words of praise."
"Tell me," said Gabrielle.
News travelled far and wide to those in the Turkish port of Halicarnassus of the Queen's eminent arrival. Many wished for a confirmation of Xerxes' naval war with the Greeks, but many more hungered for a sight of their beloved Queen and a glimpse of the rumored warrior she was bringing back from Byzantium. It was said that Artemisia had chosen a champion for her Royal Guard and that it was not only a woman, but a Greek at that. The gossip had run rampant through the Halicarnassian taverns, over fisherman's wharfs, over family dinner tables, among the washerwomen, and among the palace advisors. Needless to say, the gathering at the port for Artemisia's return was an outpour.
From the edges of the dock, a young boy sat on his father's shoulders, a small hand cupped over his brow at the approaching fleet.
"Baba! Look!" he yelled, "is Maamaan on that ship?"
He could feel his father's laughter, "Yes, Ahmet, as I have told you a thousand times."
They were jostled by the throngs around them, clamoring to get a good vantage. They watched as the leading ship in the fleet drew alongside the dock, as dozens of sailors threw ropes down to those who stood on the docks and looped them around heavy iron rivets. A long flat plank of wood was thrown up onto the side of the ship, fashioning a bridge to the dock.
It seemed the gathered crowd was one indrawn breath as they waited for their Queen's appearance. And then, an enormous cheer erupted all around, as she climbed over the lip of the ship. She stood above her people, dressed in a flowing crimson naval cape and the most ornate of gilded headdresses. At her side, as they had expected, was a tall woman, more impressive in stature than her royal counterpart and most definitely a warrior. Artemisia had her shrouded in black garb, her chest adorned in silver armor bearing the Halicarnassian crest, and a thin silver piece fit around her head from which hung a sheer black veil. They walked arm-in-arm down the plank to the awaiting caravan of camels.
"Maamaan!" shouted Ahmet, scrambling down from his father's shoulders. Yazmin glanced from the caravan, where she was gathering the trailing hem of Artemisia's cape and settling it in the saddle. The servant woman bestowed a brilliant smile on her son.
"Go, Yazmin," said the Queen, "I shall see you at dinner."
"Thank you, Isha," said Yazmin, barely looking back as she ran into the waiting arms of her husband.
"You allow your body servant a husband?" asked the black-shrouded woman, fingering the tulwar sword at her hip.
"Of course," replied Artemisia, watching the small family embrace with a wistful look, "even the lowliest of slaves deserves happiness, Xena." The Queen seemed to forget the thousands who looked upon her as she reached out and cupped the warrior's cheek, trying to peer through the veil she had insisted upon. "Someday you too will know happiness, love. I intend to teach you."
"If you call what we do love," said Xena, leaning in from her own saddle, "then consider me the most ardent of students." She attempted to brush aside her veil in order to prove her point, but the Queen's hand on her own impeded the action.
"Not here, Xena," she said, "there is plenty of time for that later. But it must be at the palace."
"Some lessons are harder than others," the warrior teased, settling back into her saddle, "I've never ridden a camel before."
Artemisia laughed aloud at that. "They're like horses but more stubborn and less loyal."
Xena made a face.
"Just let the camel lead you, it knows where it's headed."
They began to bumble along the cobbled roads, trying to maneuver around the people who flowed like a river around their caravan. They threw flowers and yelled praise up to their Queen. Some even bowed their heads in acknowledgment of her consort.
"Your people love you," said Xena once they were almost to the gates.
Artemisia looked out amongst the throngs, the smile on her face born of utmost content. It was the smile of one who had achieved it all, found it all: power, prestige, respect, wealth, and love.
"I love them," she replied.
Yazmin took up the clay jug of honeyed wine and poured two cups in the dim lantern light. Balancing a tray with all three items placed just so, she walked out onto the terrace to where her Queen and consort stood beneath the trellis. The two stood, leaning into one another in the moonlight, the fragrant hydrangea flowers dripping upon them like raindrops.
"My Queen," said Yazmin, softly.
"Ah, here you are," said Artemisia, turning from her lover's arms and taking the cups of wine. She offers one to Xena. "You see, Yazmin here is the most perfect of servants. Quiet when she must, but enough of brute to wrestle the good wine from the merchants in market."
Xena takes a sip from her chalice, then spits it out, turning to Artemisia with an incredulous look. "You call that good?" she sputters. Yazmin bites her lip in stifled laughter.
"It's cured with honey comb," said Artemisia, narrowing her eyes.
"Too sweet," said Xena, "got any port?"
"You could do with a little sweetening, my pretty barbarian." The Queen waved Yazmin away to fetch the port. "Come, let us lounge."
"I'm not really the lounging type."
"Then forgive me if I am," replied the Queen, moving to the chez and draping herself upon it with the grace of sultry tiger.
Xena walked a few feet away and leaned on the stone wall that led to an outcropping above the white rocky steppes. Below them, she could see the whole city spread out to view, the twinkling lights of candles like stars in the distant houses. Towering above all structures, however, is a half-finished squared building, its architecture quite Greek in form.
"What's that you're commissioning?" asked Xena, gesturing to the building.
Artemisia looked to where the warrior was pointing, "The Mausoleum of Mausollos."
Xena quirked an eyebrow.
"My husband's tomb. Where I too shall someday be laid to rest."
The sullenness in her tone led Xena to abandon the view. "Artemisia, What am I doing here?" She barely noticed when Yazmin handed her a mug of port.
The Queen looked on at her with a new weariness, "What we discussed. You train my soldiers and I fund your campaign back in Greece."
"I know that's what you said," began Xena, pausing, "but, that's not what you really intend, is it?"
The dark irises of Artemisia's eyes caught a glint of candlelight, "You are too smart to be fooled. Don't get me wrong, Xena, I do intend to make the exchange if that is what you truly want. However, I was hoping that once here in my household, you might reconsider." The Queen rises from the chez and glides with such effortless grace to Xena's side. She puts two hands to either side of the young warlord's face. "What is a dirty band of rebel warriors to the grandeur of leading a Royal Guard for the Queen of Halicarnassus?" she posed, looking into the depths of those exotic crystalline eyes.
Xena smiled, her lips curled lushly around her feline white teeth. "Tempting," she whispered, pulling the shorter woman close, "very tempting. But I like getting dirty."
"I promise you, there is no shortage of muck in our barracks."
"You would offer me such a position?"
"If you want it."
"Why? You barely know me. I'm a Greek. I'm a warlord! I could slit your throat at any moment."
Artemisia nipped at Xena's bottom lip, ran her hands over her shoulders, "All Persians are not as Greek-hating as Xerxes believes."
"What are you saying?" asked Xena.
"I'm saying I would not be so saddened if we were to lose at Salamis, even if we were to lose the war. My city is strong, fruitful, thriving. We have a fortuitous trade route with Athens, one that has been harmed by the war. Besides, I have respect for the Grecian people, for their art and poetry. Why do you think I taught myself your language beyond the scope of politics and business, that I hired Satyros and Pythius-two Greek architects-to design my husband's tomb?"
"Okay, you're not too keen on the war effort. Why donate so much of your resources to Xerxes' cause, then?" asked Xena.
"For many reasons, many among them that I cannot name. I am under much pressure from the Shah," Artemisia looked down.
Xena put a finger under the Queen's chin and tilted it upward, "What kind of pressure?"
"I will tell you, just not yet. I need to assure myself of your loyalty."
Xena laughed, "You contradict yourself, my Queen. You trust me with your soul, your body, with your army, but not your secrets?"
"Everyone must have some secrets," replied Artemisia.
Xena considered this, a dark look betraying her thoughts. "True."
Artemisia didn't seem to notice. "Come now, let us put aside such serious talk." Her fingers trailed down the warrior's muscled arms, making an aroused glimmer appear in blue eyes.
"Yeah, lets," said Xena, her tone low and seductive. She takes a sip of her port, but instead of swallowing, she lets it dribble onto Artemisia's bottom lip and watches as it drips over her chin, down her neck, into the crevice of her bosom. The warrior follows the potent path with her tongue.
"Form up!" Ahmet's tale is interrupted by Tetram calling ranks. Gabrielle looks wildly around, trying to place the Athenian fleet and figure out what Xena's tactic will be. She feels herself growing ever more weary, the more stories she collects about this fateful venture of her friend. She wishes Xena were here herself to tell it… chances are, she would spare the bard the more sensual parts. She turns to Ahmet.
"Listen to me," she says, hurriedly, "Remember what I told you. This war is not worth your lives. This is not your war. Tell your brothers, I beg you. Don't let your Shah lead you into hell."
Ahmet looked at this beaten blonde woman, and even through the blood and dirt smeared over her face, she still looks like the angel that Zami had seen. Perhaps she is not lying.
"I will try to convince them," he says.
"Oh, thank you!" exclaims Gabrielle, hugging the elder man out of sheer fatigue and relief. Now she just had to get back to Xena and make sure she doesn't launch an aggressive attack. She had to make sure her friend didn't repeat the sins of her past.