Heart, Faith, and Steel
by Parda, May 1999
Glen Coe, Scotland
New Year's Day, 1997
Cold winter wind whipped the hair across Cassandra's face as she followed the old track through the glen. Ice rimmed the pool at the base of the chattering waterfall, and more ice crunched under her boots. She stopped at the pile of jumbled stones at the top of the small hill.
Ramirez was buried here.
Cassandra crouched by one of the larger stones and took a candle from her coat pocket, then set it on the ground and lit it. "For you," she said, cupping her hands around the flame as she started on the litany of his names, "Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, Lucius Gartoni, Xanthos, Tak-Ne."
He had had many other names, but those were the ones she remembered him by. Of course, when she had first met him twenty-five centuries ago, she had not called him by any of those names.
She had called him Kyrios - Master.
Heart
Cassia and Xanthos
Lechaion, on the Isthmus of Corinth, Hellas
Festival of Demeter, 520 BCE
"I want my ship to sail tomorrow morning," Xanthos said to Zarex the harbor-master. "The pottery is expected in Syracuse soon."
"Business is good for you, eh?" Zarex asked.
"Very good," Xanthos said. "The best I've seen in years." Xanthos had seen a lot of years. He had been born in Egypt over four centuries ago.
"It's the new fashion that does it," Zarex commented. "The red figures on black, instead of black on red. Good for you, I know, but to me, a pot's a pot." He grinned, revealing a few brown teeth. "And it's only worth something if it has wine in it."
Xanthos laughed and nodded. "True enough."
Zarex waved to the slave-driver to begin, and the two men watched as the ship was readied for the trip.
"Hoya!" the slave-driver called, and with creaks from the ship and groans from the long lines of harnessed slaves, the ship moved slowly from the water and onto the log rollers on the stone-paved road. The slaves started walking, dragging the ship behind them on the four-hour journey across the isthmus to Corinth's second port of Kenchrea.
"It's too bad Periander's idea for a canal didn't work," Xanthos said. "It would be faster to just pull the boat through water." It was his turn to grin at the harbor-master. "And cheaper."
Zarex shook his head and waggled his finger. "Then business wouldn't be so good for me. You know you could have your ship sail around the Peloponnesian peninsula instead."
"And add a week to the trip?" Xanthos shook his head. "No, the fee is worth it. I'll make it up in profits in Syracuse. Good day to you!" he called, then walked through the narrow cobblestoned streets of the small port of Lechaion, heading for his home in the city of Corinth. The streets were nearly deserted now in the heat of the day; most people were inside eating their midday meal. Not a bad idea, he was hungry himself.
He slowed as he passed the Dancing Goat tavern at the edge of town, but not for food. He knew by the tightness in his gut that another Immortal was nearby. Today was the festival of Demeter, the goddess of grain, as well as a regular market-day. Several slave-merchants had set up their tents in the field in anticipation of the increased activity. Xanthos strolled over, and the sense of an Immortal grew stronger as he neared the second set of pens.
The slave-merchant hurried over and bowed low. "My name is Chremes, sir. I have a fine selection today. Two boys, young and biddable. Two strong men."
"Are the men potters?" Xanthos asked. He had thirty-two men in his workshops now, some his own slaves, some rented slaves, a few freedmen, but he could use more.
"No, I am sorry, sir, they are unskilled. Good for field work, or the quarries." Chremes hurried on, anxious not to lose a sale. "But the women are skilled. The tall one is a weaver, and the other three are musicians, suitable for an evening's entertainment at a symposium or party."
Xanthos nodded to him absently and continued to scrutinize the slaves. They all stood silently, naked and dusty, heads down, but one of them was an Immortal, and Xanthos was going to find out which one. "I will be in the tent," Xanthos told the merchant. "Bring the slaves to me there, one by one."
Chremes blinked. "One by one? All of them?"
"Yes," Xanthos said impatiently, wondering if the man were deaf.
"But... do you have no preference? I mean..." At Xanthos's glare, Chremes bowed again. "Of course, sir. Would you prefer one of the boys first? Or a woman?"
Xanthos's irritation turned to amusement, and he laughed and clapped Chremes on the back. "I'm not going to use them all, merchant! I'm just tired and hot, and I want to sit in the shade while I examine them."
Chremes laughed in nervous relief and bowed again, then escorted him to the tent and saw him seated comfortably on a folding stool. Xanthos laid his katana across his lap. His father-in-law Masamune-sama had given him the sword over seventy years ago, when he had lived in Ni-Hon, the island-nation far to the east, a land of shimmering rice paddies and towering mountains.
Chremes brought the boys and the men first, but Xanthos waved them all away. Then the tall woman came into the tent, and Xanthos sat up straighter on the stool, resting his hand near the hilt of his katana. He had found the Immortal.
Xanthos caught one flashing glance from her before she dropped her gaze and came to stand in front of him. Her skin was clean, probably scrubbed this morning to make her presentable for the customers, but he caught whiffs of sweat and onion from her, and the definite odor of sex. She had been in this tent earlier today, then, used by a prospective buyer and found wanting. She stood passively, her hands at her sides, staring at the floor, to all appearances well-trained and docile. Xanthos knew better.
"Leave," he ordered Chremes, and the slave-merchant backed away, then shut the tent flap behind him.
Xanthos took his time and looked her over, evaluating her as a possible opponent. Or as a possible bedpartner. Her auburn hair had been cropped close around her head, the tell-tale sign of a female slave, and her pubic area shaved. The woman was thin, but with a long leanness and strength to her that reminded him of a racing horse. She was too healthy and muscular to have been in the slave-pens very long. The curves of her haunches were well-defined, but padded in a pleasing, feminine way. Her breasts were definitely feminine, too, full and nicely rounded, large nipples. Her skin gleamed in the dim light of the tent. Xanthos didn't want to have to use his weapon on this one. Not his katana, that is.
"What is your name?" he asked.
"Cassia."
A Hellenistic name, but probably not her real one. She didn't look like a Hellene anyway; she was too tall. She looked more like a Thracian or a Kelta, but then all Immortals were foundlings. She could have been raised anywhere. Her voice was low and a little throaty, and Xanthos wanted to hear it again. "How long have you been a slave?"
"One month. Phoenicians captured the ship I was on."
He nodded; Phoenicians were known for that sort of thing. "You were traveling by yourself?" Women never traveled alone.
"I had no brother, or father, or husband, or son to protect me," she answered evenly. "As you know."
Of course he knew. Immortals could not have children, and they outlived their families. "No servants?"
Her gaze started at his gilded leather sandals, went to the embroidery on the hem of his tunic, flicked over the rings on his hands, and ended at his carefully arranged and pomaded hair. "Not all Immortals are rich."
Xanthos knew that, too. He had become wealthy again only recently; a war had destroyed his holdings in Babylon one hundred seventy-five years ago. He had been left with nothing, and he had been left alone. En-thalat, his second wife, had been killed in that war, after she had been captured and raped. Probably much like this woman.
"Look at me," he commanded, and she raised her head a trifle and glanced at him briefly. "Look at me," he said more softly, and this time she lifted her head and stared. Her green eyes were cool and assessing, watchful and mocking over high cheekbones. Xanthos stared back, reminded of his boyhood in Egypt, when a sacred cat at the Temple of Maat had stared at him in just this way. He blinked and laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. Her eyes went to the weapon, then back to his face.
"How much do you cost?" Xanthos asked.
"He's asking five minae, but he'll go down to four. Three and three-quarters if you push him. He paid two and a half for me."
Xanthos studied her again. She had obviously been a slave before, to be so calm about it. She looked to be about thirty, but that meant nothing. He had been forty-eight when a cart had run him down and killed him, and he would always look forty-eight. "Do you want me to buy you?" he asked.
Cassia shrugged.
"I could be buying you for your head," Xanthos said, probing for some reaction. "Or for your body."
She actually smiled at him. "If you wanted my head, you would have bought me by now. As for my body..." She tilted her head to one side and considered him. "You are a man who prefers willing and enthusiastic bedpartners."
She was right about that. He had never forced a woman. He did not need to. "And you would not be willing," he observed. "Or enthusiastic."
The mocking eyes went cold. "No."
Xanthos hid his smile from her. There were ways to entice a woman into bed, and he knew them all. And he had time. She would come to him eventually.
Cassia added, "Besides, you already have a willing and enthusiastic bedpartner in your home. Or two." She smiled again, a knowing smile. "Or even three."
His inner smile disappeared. He kept two slave-girls for that, and he had been thinking of buying a third. No, Cassia definitely wasn't a young one. She knew too much. "How old are you?" he demanded.
"Old enough not to answer that question."
A good answer, but he knew other ways to find out. "Chremes said you were a skilled weaver. What else are you skilled at?"
Another small shrug, and a small smile. "Many things."
"Spinning? Cooking?"
She nodded.
"Healing? Gardening?"
Another nod.
"Painting? Singing? Dancing?"
She nodded yes to them all.
Xanthos leaned back slightly on the stool. Almost all women could cook, garden, spin, and weave, to some extent. Many learned either painting, or music and dance, and quite a few women were healers. But to be skilled in all those areas, she must be at least two centuries old. If she were telling the truth, that is, and he could determine that easily enough. There was still one area he had not yet mentioned. "Fighting?"
Cassia glanced once at the katana, still on his lap, then looked him in the eyes. "I'm still alive," she said simply.
"But you are weaponless," he pointed out, then allowed his gaze to linger on her naked body. "And a slave."
She did not seem to care. "Have you never been a slave?"
"Once," Xanthos said. The army he had been in had been defeated, and Xanthos had spent ten years on a farm, chained to a log he had to drag or carry with him everywhere. He had not enjoyed the experience.
"Only once," she murmured, then looked him up and down in the same way he had just done to her. "You are either very young, or very lucky."
Xanthos increased his estimate of her age by another century and decided she wasn't a Hellene, even with a Hellenistic name and no accent. No Hellene woman would be so bold, except maybe a Spartan. He stood abruptly, his katana in his hand, and she backed away, not hastily or in fear, but in simple precaution.
"I ask you again, do you want me to buy you?" he said. He had met very few female Immortals, and he didn't want her killed by the next Immortal who happened on her when she was weaponless. That would be a waste. "You could work in my house."
"Doing what?" she asked.
"Why, all the things you are skilled at," Xanthos said, smiling. "Except fighting, of course."
"You're not worried that I'll take your head?"
This time, Xanthos tilted his head and considered her. "You are a woman who prefers not to take heads," he stated. He was almost positive that was true, and he wasn't afraid of her. The longest blade she would be able to get was the sheep-shearing knife, and nothing could withstand his katana. And she was only a woman.
Cassia had one more question. "Do you have a wife?"
"No." He would never marry again.
"Then yes, I want you to buy me." She bowed her head once more, becoming the perfect image of the submissive slave, then murmured, "Kyrios."
Xanthos suddenly realized she had never even asked him his name.
Cassandra kept her head down as she walked behind her new master up the hill to the city of Corinth. She was pleased with the arrangement. She could live and work in this man's household, hidden from other Immortals. If she were wounded somehow, she would not have to explain to her new master why she healed, and he would not force her to his bed. This man had too much pride in his own abilities to resort to that. But she knew he would eventually suggest she join him. They always did.
She would deal with that when it happened. She might even be able to use the Voice, the hypnotic power of persuasion she had learned when she had been a priestess at the Temple of Artemis seven centuries ago. Cassandra almost never used the Voice; it was too dangerous. She could not use it in public; people asked questions. It was not much use in escaping slavery, either, for too many people noticed missing slaves, and even if she did get away from her master, no one would help an escaped slave, and her cropped hair made her status obvious. If she were caught, the punishment for escape almost always involved beatings - or branding or crucifixion or worse - and healing in public was bound to bring charges of sorcery or demonic possession.
And if she were not a slave, what could she be? She was a woman with no money, a foreigner with no kin or tribe. She had lived among the Hellenes before; their women did not even go to the markets to buy food. A woman needed to have a male employee or relative to conduct business for her. Or a pimp. Cassandra did not want to do that. Not again. Thankfully, the whore-master who had tried her out earlier today at the slave-market had decided she was too expensive to be one of his pornai, the whores who walked the streets and catered to sailors.
At least this master was not physically repulsive. As they climbed the hill to the city of Corinth, she looked him over more carefully, seeing the broadness of shoulders, the outlines of strong muscles in his calves. He was strong and healthy, even though he looked to be nearly fifty, with gray streaks in his dark hair and clipped beard, and fine crinkling lines about his brown eyes. His frame was tall and solid, even with the extra flesh around his middle. She suspected he enjoyed the pleasures of the table as much as he enjoyed the pleasures of the bed. A lusty man, this one, who laughed easily and often, and probably angered easily, too. She would be careful.
Dust from the road floated about them, coating their legs and feet. At least she wasn't naked anymore. He had bought her sandals and a peplos, a simple brown tunic that came halfway down her thighs. Nudity was a casual thing among these people, and slaves often went naked in the homes, but men didn't like others to look at their property.
Finally, they reached his home, a two-story dwelling of white stone. The porter, an elderly man with a short gray beard, came out from a small cubicle when they reached the entrance. "Greetings, Lord Xanthos." The old man looked at her, but said nothing more.
Cassandra stared at the brightly colored tiles on the floor of the stoa, the outside porch of the house. Women did not look at men.
"Theron," Xanthos said in return. "Any business today?"
"The ship-builder Prolox came by this morning, to discuss your new ship, and the painters' Guild Master would like to see you tomorrow," Theron said, and at his master's nod, the old man returned to the cubicle.
In the central courtyard, three slaves waited for their master underneath the shade of a fig tree: a short older woman dressed in a long gray wool chiton, obviously the housekeeper, and a pair of younger dark-haired women in revealing gauze peplos, just as obviously the two willing bedpartners. All three slaves were staring at her - the housekeeper evaluating, the bedpartners suspicious.
"Kyrios," the older woman said, bowing low. "Welcome to your home."
"Doria," Xanthos acknowledged with a smile, then said, "This one is called Cassia. She is a weaver. See that she is cleaned and fed, then bring her to me in the hall."
"Yes, lord," Doria said, bowing again as Xanthos went through the columned porch and into the hall. Doria spoke briskly to the bedpartners. "Iola, Clesthes, the master is hungry and thirsty. Attend him."
Iola, the shorter plumper one, flashed a small smile of vindictive triumph at Cassandra, then picked up a jar of wine and sauntered after her master, her hips swinging. Clesthes followed more sedately, carrying a plate of figs, goatmilk cheese, and bread.
Cassandra kept her head down, already planning. She might have to get rid of Iola. For now, she followed Doria into the kitchen, eager to clean herself, and to eat.
One month later, she made her move. Xanthos called her into the hall after his evening meal, as he sometimes did when no guests were present, and he wished for conversation or music. He lay on his side on the dining couch, while Cassandra sat on a small stool and played for him on the seven-stringed lyre.
She was retuning the lyre when she casually remarked, "The women in the household are excited about the festival of Hera, but saddened, too."
"How so?" asked Xanthos, leaning on one elbow as he set his goblet of wine on the three-legged table in front of him.
"Hera is the goddess of marriage, and children." Cassandra plucked a string, then bent industriously to her task. "Doria was speaking of how quiet this household is, with no children in it. Iola has said she will make a special sacrifice to Hera, asking the goddess to make her fruitful." She strummed again, a discordant note among a minor chord, then looked at Xanthos. "She wishes to bear a child." Cassandra spoke with a completely clear conscience; this was all true.
Xanthos smiled slightly. "You do not like Iola." He did not sound surprised.
"She is not content here," Cassandra replied. Iola would probably not be content anywhere. "Her unhappiness disturbs the household." Iola flirted with Buphelis the kennel-keeper, tormented the three younger slave-girls, and constantly quarreled with Clesthes. Cassandra spoke the truth again. "Iola has often mentioned her longing to hold a baby in her arms."
Cassandra felt that longing, too, but she knew better than to care about a child when she was a slave. Or even when she was free. No woman - rich, poor, slave, free - had any right to her children. Children could be taken from you at any time: exposed as infants, left to starve or to provide food for the dogs; sold as five-year-old slaves and dragged screaming from your arms, while you could do nothing.
Cassandra strummed another chord on the lyre, a harsher sound this time. "Iola has been here nine years," she reminded Xanthos. "She is twenty-five."
He said nothing, merely sipped at his wine.
Arrogant selfish man! Even Iola deserved a chance to have a life of her own, and at least one child. Cassandra asked pointedly, "Will you keep her for your own pleasure until she is too old to have children?"
Xanthos's dark eyebrows drew together at that, and he frowned.
Cassandra immediately slipped off the stool and knelt on the floor, her head bowed. Masters had the power of life and death over slaves, and this master was an Immortal. She should never make him angry. "Your pardon, Kyrios," she said softly. "It is not my place to speak."
"No," he agreed coldly. "It is not."
Cassandra placed her hands on the floor and crouched there, submitting to him, the back of her bare neck tingling, cursing her lack of control. What was the matter with her? She knew she had no right to be angry.
"Leave," he commanded.
Cassandra bowed once more, touching her head to the floor, then hung the lyre from its hook on the wall and left the room.
Two weeks later Simon the cobbler paid Xanthos three minae for Iola, while Xanthos generously paid the fee due the State for her manumission. Simon made the customary gift of fifty drachmae to the temple for her freedom, and he and his new bride were married during the festival of Hera. It was an auspicious time for a wedding, and Iola was soon expecting her first child. A tanner bought Clesthes a few months later, and Xanthos also freed her.
He had forgotten how quickly the years went by.
He told Cassia to pick out his new slaves, and she found him two young woman: a fair one called Amesthestes, and a dark one from the south called Zidar. They were biddable and pretty, both enthusiastic bedpartners. They had no great intelligence, but they were good at spinning and weaving. The household ran more quietly and smoothly, and Xanthos was satisfied.
Cassia had not been lying about her skills. She nursed Doria back to health when the older woman took ill that winter, and took over the management of the household until the housekeeper was better. She wove excellent cloth, sewed and embroidered clothes, painted the vases he brought home for her, and knew how to cook his favorite Egyptian dishes. In the spring, Cassia asked for permission to teach music to girls, both slave and free. Xanthos consented, and graciously allowed her to keep a third of the tuition the girls' families or owners paid.
She was worth a great deal more than the four minae he had paid for her.
He decided to see if she were skilled at fighting as well. "Would you like to spar?" he asked her in the courtyard one morning, as he came back from the gymnasium, his practice sword at his side. He did not use his katana in practice; it shattered the other blades, and he did not like others to know of it.
She balanced the basket of bread against her hip and spoke quietly. "It is ... unseemly, Kyrios."
"We can practice here in the courtyard." Women were not permitted in the gymnasium, of course. "No one will see."
She glanced at the three girls spinning in the shade of the porch and at Theron in the cubicle near the entrance, then looked toward the kitchen, where muffled voices could be heard. "No one?"
He shrugged. "They are just slaves."
"As am I," she reminded him. But she didn't say it as a slave. She was looking straight at him with a challenge in her eyes, direct and unafraid.
Xanthos had always liked a challenge. "Do you want me to free you?"
"I would rather free myself," she answered, lowering her eyes once more. "I do not have the full price of manumission saved."
"Yet." He had no doubt she soon would; she had asked him to invest her money in various ventures and businesses. She heard the gossip in the kitchens of the other households, and with her information added to his own knowledge, the two of them made a good team. They were both making excellent profits.
She inclined her head gracefully. "Yet. If you will permit it, I would like to buy my freedom."
He bowed back to her in the same way. "I will permit it." Then he grinned at her. "Will you spar with me then?"
"It would still not be seemly, for a woman to use a sword. There would be talk."
"You should practice," he said, wondering if she even knew how to fight at all.
She stared at the paving stones of the courtyard. "I do not like to draw attention to myself; we are different enough."
"And just how long do you think you will survive that way?"
Her lips curved in a smile, but she did not look at him. "I am older than you, Kyrios." She looked up at him, that quick flashing glance he had seen in the slave-merchant's tent, cool and mocking as before. "And I am still alive."
"How old do you think I am?" he asked. He had not told her.
"Between four and five centuries." At his quick blink of surprise, she explained, "It is in your speaking, Kyrios. Your Hellene is flawless, but when you speak your birth-language Egyptian, you use old words, old phrases."
"I could be older," he pointed out, nettled that she had determined his age and origin, while he still had no idea of hers.
"But you are not." She gave him another cool smile, another flashing glance. "And I am." She bowed her head again and waited, seemingly submissive once again.
He nodded a dismissal and watched her walk to the kitchen, graceful and unhurried, back straight, head high, confident yet demure. What had she been, this woman, besides a slave?
When she had been in his house for a year, Xanthos decided to ask her to share his bed. He had been biding his time, building trust between them, encouraging friendship. It was a delicate business between a master and a slave, and an especially delicate business between Immortals. But he had succeeded, and he knew she would be worth the wait.
He could tell she was a passionate woman; he had seen the way her hand lingered in the softness of the finely woven cloth she made, and the pleasure she took in gardening, crumbling the earth between her fingers. Once, very early in the morning, he had watched her from his window as she had danced joyously in the rain in the courtyard, thinking herself unobserved. No woman could dance that way and not like sex.
Their friendship had laid the groundwork; now he could build on that. He started smiling at her more, listening, giving her his full attention, letting her know that he found her intriguing. And he did. She was usually reserved and solemn, but this morning he had seen her playing with one of the puppies from the latest litter. He had knelt down beside her to let the puppy chew on his fingers, and Cassia had laughed at the faces he had made. Then she had smiled at him, the first real smile he had ever seen from her.
Xanthos had been struck by that smile, the brilliance of her eyes, the open and eager happiness in her face. He wanted to see her smile that way again.
That night after dinner, Cassia played the lyre for him. When she rose to leave, he stood with her. "You do not need to go upstairs," he said, then added an obvious invitation to his bed. "You could stay with me."
She stood there, hesitating, and Xanthos deliberately deepened and softened his voice. "It would be most enjoyable," he said. "For both of us."
Cassia did not respond to him at all. Her hair had grown long enough to fall forward and hide her face from him, as she stood there with her head down.
Xanthos understood her reluctance. "It is an invitation, Cassia, not a command. You will be a freedwoman soon enough, and we are friends now." He looked her over in appreciation, his gaze traveling the long graceful lines of her, tantalizingly hinted at under the soft folds of her sea-green chiton. He ended at her face and waited until she looked at him. "We could be more than friends."
"Kyrios...," she began, standing more rigidly now, the grace gone to stiffness.
Xanthos waved his hand in impatience. "You do not need to call me that."
"Lord Xanthos," she amended, then dropped her gaze. "You do me honor, but it is not an honor to which I aspire." She looked at him again, straight-forward and earnest, then added, "With any man."
Xanthos nodded slowly and sat back down, remembering now the way she had laughed with the other women in the weaving room, the kindness she showed the young slave-girls. "Sit," he said gently, and she did so. Xanthos knew Cassia had been forced by men, probably many men, and women lovers were safer, less threatening. Perhaps, long ago, she had liked men, but no more. He shrugged at the waste of it, then poured them each a goblet of wine.
She murmured surprised thanks when he offered a goblet to her, then sipped at it carefully.
"You have my permission to find a partner among the household, if you wish," he said.
"They are more to your taste than to mine, Lord Xanthos."
Xanthos nodded again. The chattering young women who shared his bed were pleasant diversions, nothing more, and Cassia was a woman of deep passions. He had hoped to learn how deep, for he was lonely, too. A pity. Well, they could remain friends. "Perhaps you might find someone in the slave market," he suggested.
"Affection such as that is not something to be bought," she answered, her voice tight.
"No," he agreed quietly, then swirled the wine in his cup. "It is not." He leaned back on the couch and studied her. "It is just that you seem ... so alone. I thought you might want a companion."
Cassia met his eyes for an instant, and he was not surprised at the vulnerability and loneliness he saw in her, or by the gleam of tears she tried to hide by staring once more at the floor. Xanthos sighed and drained his cup, knowing that loneliness very well. "If you and one of your students form an attachment for each other, let me know. If she is in another household, I might be able to buy her from her master, and then you and she could be together." He decided to permit her to leave, even though he would miss her. "Or you could go to be with her."
"Thank you, Lord Xanthos," she said softly, then she stood and left the room. Her walk was not confident now.
Cassandra fled to her tiny bed-chamber at the top of the stairs, desperate to escape from his sympathetic and all-too-perceptive eyes. He had believed her lies for now, but she knew she could not have pretended much longer. Xanthos had always been kind, talking with her, allowing her to buy her freedom, permitting her to have this small private room, but the compassion and understanding he had shown tonight had almost undone her.
She needed the privacy of her room now, as she sat on her bed with her arms wrapped around her knees, for she could not escape from the memory of his voice. "It would be most enjoyable," he had said, the dark strands of his voice warm and inviting, compelling. His words had curled around her and in her, waves on the shore, urging her to go deeper, to plunge into the comfort and pleasure he offered. "Enjoyable for both of us."
Cassandra knew that. She had heard seen the satisfied smiles on the faces of the slave-women in the morning, listened to their happy chatter and giggled confidences as they discussed their master's prowess in bed. And she had known this was coming; Xanthos had been very attentive of late.
She had responded to that attention. Cassandra respected Xanthos and enjoyed his company, and she desired him. It had been decades since she had willingly given herself to a man, and she ached to feel his arms about her, to make love to him, and to have him make love to her. Xanthos was a man of strength and gentleness; she knew she could grow to love him. It would be wonderful.
It was unthinkable. Xanthos was an Immortal, and he was her master. Even when she had bought her freedom, he would still have power over her. He would be her patron instead of her master, and she would owe him obedience and a portion of her earnings. Besides, she was just another bedpartner to him, just another romp among the cushions. She meant nothing to him. No. She would never let a master have that kind of power over her. Never again.
Cassandra undressed and placed her chiton in the small chest against the wall, then lay down in her bed, staring out the small high window at the stars. It was best this way. She could not take such a risk.
A short time later, she could not help but hear the sounds of love-making coming from his room on the ground floor, soft laughter, whispered indistinguishable words, urgent and hurried and strong. Finally, there was silence, then some time later quiet footsteps as the slave-woman Zidar came up the stairs and went to the chamber she shared with the other women.
Cassandra rolled over and pulled her blanket close about her. There was no reason for her to be unhappy. She had a place to live and food to eat, and no one beat her or used her. She was teaching again and even making money. Xanthos permitted her to leave the house to teach, and to visit the temple or to attend the festivals. He was a kind master, and a good friend. Soon she would be free. She should expect nothing more. She should want nothing more.
Cassandra went to sleep alone, her face wet with tears.
Six years passed, and Cassandra and Xanthos remained friends. Xanthos left from time to time to visit his new pottery workshop in the young colony of Potidaea, and the slave-girls came and went, married off after a year or two. When Cassandra had been his slave for two years, she paid him back the four minae for her purchase price and the one mina for the taxes and licensing fees. She paid the manumission fee to the State and gave the expected gifts to the temples. Xanthos registered her freedom with the priests.
She stayed in his household, for her new status changed little in her life. Part of her income was paid in taxes to the State, while some still went to Xanthos. Even so, her investments and her weaving business were flourishing, and she had to turn away music students. In ten years she might have enough money to open her own school. For now, she was busy and satisfied. She did not look for a companion.
They were good years. She almost forgot about the Game, and about ancient enemies.
"Let us in!" a man's harsh voice called over the pounding on the gate. "The Watch of Corinth demands entrance!"
In the weaving room, Bithyra dropped her spindle. The thread trailed along behind on the floor as the spindle rolled, and the other four women stopped their work and stared at each other. "The Watch?" young Chraxes asked, her voice thin with worry. "They come for criminals, and escaped slaves."
"Stay here," Cassandra ordered, and she left her loom and headed for the courtyard. Before she got there, the latest bedpartner Zitra started keening, her high wail rising over the deeper voices of the men.
Cassandra reached the doorway, but in no great hurry now. She knew why they had come. The four guardsmen carried a burden between them, a dead body wrapped in a blood-stained cloak - Xanthos's favorite blue cloak. She had watched him put it on only a few hours before, for the air clung dank and chill on this winter day.
"He is dead!" Zitra wailed, falling to her knees and clutching at her veil. "Our master is dead!"
And, of course, the women in the weaving room came out when they heard that, and they started to wail, too. Chraxes and Bithyra were clinging to each other and weeping. Then Dion, Xanthos's favorite dog, started to bark. The porter Theron was just standing there, tears running down his cheeks, and the men of the Watch waited in the courtyard with the body between them.
"He's dead!" Zitra wailed again, and the other women took up the cry, their shrill voices echoing off the stones.
He was dead, but he wouldn't be for long. Cassandra had to get the body out of the courtyard and away from prying eyes. "Hush now!" she said to the women, using the Voice to keep them quiet for a minute, and they were mercifully silent. Dion was still barking. "Follow me," she told the guardsmen, and they carried the body through the portico into the hall, then laid him gently on the dining couch.
Theron followed close behind, with tall, gangly Buphelis at his side. The women started wailing again from their place on the porch, and Cassandra moved to the corner of the room, keeping an eye on the body. There was a lot of blood; with luck the wound had been severe, and Xanthos would stay dead for at least another hour.
"How did it happen?" Theron asked the Watch. He was pale, but composed enough to ask questions.
"We were patrolling the fields just outside the walls," said the captain of the guardsmen, a stocky man with a scar across his cheek. "Lord Xanthos was fighting a huge man, very tall, with swords. We called out to them to stop, but the other man ran him through."
"And the tall man?" Theron said.
"That one's dead!" piped up the youngest of the four, pushing brown hair back from his eyes, still excited by the novelty of the situation. "Lord Xanthos gutted the barbarian, he did, just as the other fellow stabbed, pulled out all his insides!"
The stocky man shot him a stern glance, and the young one subsided, shuffling his feet. The captain turned back to Theron. "The murderer was taken to the quarry pit and dumped there, buried under stones." He gestured to the body. "Unfortunately, Lord Xanthos died on the field." He reached inside his cloak and pulled out the katana. "This was in his hand."
Theron bowed and accepted his master's blade, then laid it next to the body. The women of the household started to enter the hall, their veils thrown over their faces, their sobs mercifully muffled. They stood about the walls of the chamber and watched while Theron unwrapped the cloak from Xanthos's face with trembling hands.
The women burst into renewed wailing at the sight, and Dion crept over to the body and started to howl. Cassandra considered Xanthos's death grimace. She had seen worse. At least his eyes were shut.
Cassandra and Doria exchanged glances. There was much to be done.
A short time later, the body had been dressed and properly laid out. Cassandra had volunteered to wash the body, not wanting anyone else to see the already-healing wounds. Theron took an obol from his pouch and placed the small coin on Xanthos's tongue, payment for the ferry ride across the River Styx. Doria set the honey cakes and flask of oil at his head, and told Bithyra to set the jar of spring water at the door so that guests might purify their hands. The guardsmen left, and some of the women began preparing food for the expected visitors. The rest kept up the steady weeping and wailing that was customary on such occasions. Buphelis had been sent to hire professional mourners to come to the house and keen.
Cassandra used the Voice to order everyone to leave the hall, saying she wanted a chance to mourn in private. She was just in time. Xanthos revived with a great shuddering gasp which immediately set him to gagging, for he had all but swallowed the coin. "I forgot about that," Cassandra said briskly, smacking him on the back to help him cough it up.
Xanthos spit the obol out into his palm. "Thank you," he said dryly. "I can breathe now." He swung his legs over the side of the couch and stood, then looked down at his new clean clothes in satisfaction and slapped himself on the belly with both hands. "Even with the coin, this is better than waking up stripped naked on a battlefield. Or buried underground."
"Yes," Cassandra agreed, her own voice dry, remembering much worse ways to revive. Much worse. "But you need to leave now." She handed him a heavy veil and a long chiton. "Put these on. We can get you up the stairs to my room if you're quick about it, and you can hide there until dark." Cassandra locked the doors to the hall, then they made their way to her room without incident. Dion followed, his tail wagging.
"Well, this life is over," he commented, taking off the veil, then pulling the chiton over his head.
"Dying in public does tend to have that effect," Cassandra agreed. Men's voices sounded in the courtyard, and Cassandra sighed. "I'll try to get rid of them. There's food under the bed for you." As she shut the door behind her, she caught a glimpse of Xanthos lying at his ease on her bed, tossing a grape in the air and catching it in his mouth, while his dog lay on the floor close by.
Cassandra pulled her veil over her face and went down the stairs. Five of Xanthos's business associates were standing in the courtyard, eating the food which two slave-women were offering on trays. Theron was anxiously waving his hands about, standing in front of the locked doors of the hall.
"But why can't we go into the hall?" Protox demanded. "We came to pay our respects." The other four men nodded and murmured in anxious agreement. "Why can't we go in?" he demanded again, his voice going strident.
Theron tried to answer, but his quavering voice did not persuade them. Cassandra stepped forward, pitching her Voice to soothe and convince. "Please, lords. This is a house of mourning."
The men were silent at that, and keening wails of the women in the kitchen echoed in the courtyard.
Cassandra spread her hands in a plea for help and understanding, then said softly and hesitantly, as befitted a woman in the company of strangers, "My Lord Xanthos was enamored of the ways of the Egyptians, as you know."
They were more nods. All of these men had come to some of the "Egyptian banquets" Xanthos had held from time to time, complete with pickled sparrow and haq, the Egyptian beer.
Cassandra continued with the excuses. "It is their custom not to display the body before the cremation."
"Seems an odd custom, if you ask me," grumbled an overweight man with gray hair. "How are you to know a man is dead if you haven't seen his body?"
"The Watch saw the murder done, and carried the body here," Cassandra replied, letting her voice grow strong with conviction, slipping into the cadences of prophecy. "His heart's blood stains the blade of the sword that lies in the hall." The wailing of the women grew louder, and Cassandra cried with them, "He is dead, he is dead! Our lord and master is dead!" She burst out weeping and covered her face with her hands.
The men shuffled uneasily at this display of unrestrained feminine emotion, then headed for the door. Cassandra sank to her knees, wailing and crying until the last of them were gone. She stopped her weeping when the door shut, then rose, wondering where she was going to find a body to cremate tomorrow.
Dying in public was really most exasperating.
Xanthos awoke from his nap late in the evening, then sighed and put his hands behind his head. He had been planning to leave Corinth this summer, but he hadn't been quite ready to go. Certainly not this way. Dying in public was annoying.
Cassia came upstairs a short time later, carrying a large bundle and looking very tired. He got up and went to sit on the clothes-chest, absently fondling Dion's ears. She nodded to him and sank onto her bed, laying the bundle on the floor beside her feet.
Xanthos decided a joke was in order. "Well, I finally got to sleep in your bed."
Her reply was sharp, yet amused. "Was it worth dying for?"
He pretended to consider it. "No." He could not resist adding, "Not without you there."
Cassia shook her head in exasperation, but a faint smile touched her lips as she slowly took off her veil.
"What did you tell them about the missing body?" he asked.
"I told your business associates that it is an Egyptian custom that the body not be displayed before cremation. Tomorrow ... well, tomorrow there will be great commotion when they discover the body and the sword have been stolen. And the shutters to your chamber broken, and your money and clothes taken." She glanced at Dion, who was panting happily, and said, "You should take the dog with you, so they won't wonder why he didn't wake the household."
Xanthos nodded. It was a good plan.
She gestured to the bundle on the floor. "Your sword is in there, and money and some of your clothes." She sighed and stretched her arms before asking, "Who were you fighting?"
"We have never introduced ourselves," Xanthos replied, "but he is a Kurgan."
Cassia nodded, and a flicker of distaste twisted her mouth.
Xanthos knew she needed no further explanation. Everyone had heard of the Kurgans, the bloodthirsty tribe that lived far to the north, beyond the Black Sea. The Kurgans were said to throw children and hungry dogs into pits and watch them fight over scraps of food.
"So you've met him before," she observed, bending to unlace the straps of her sandals.
"I killed his horse about two hundred years ago," he said.
"And he is still angry at you?"
Xanthos shrugged. "Perhaps. It was a very large horse, very rare."
She paused, one lace in her hand, and looked at him more closely. "You are angry at him."
He was not surprised that it showed. "He killed my wife," he said shortly. The Kurgan had raped her first, then left her to burn to death inside their house while Xanthos lay dead with the other defenders of Babylon. A servant had told him the tale when he had made his way home.
Cassia sighed, then said simply, "I'm sorry."
He nodded, then stood and walked over to the tiny space at the end of her bed. There were no stars out tonight; the sky was dark with clouds. The sky had been dark that day in Babylon, too, but with smoke, black billows that reeked of burning flesh. King Sennacherib's troops had left nothing alive, then they had diverted the river to flood into the city. The mud brick buildings had collapsed, and Babylon had drowned in water and blood, while the skins of its inhabitants adorned the broken walls.
Xanthos would look for the Kurgan tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day. And maybe the next. He wasn't going to spend his entire life hunting that slime, but as long as he knew the butcher was nearby, he would hunt.
"I should be going," he said to Cassia, turning from the window. "I've freed all my household slaves in my will, given them money." She nodded, for they had spoken of this, but he knew this next part would surprise her. "And I've given you both of my factories here, and the factory in Potidaea."
"Lord Xanthos...," she protested.
"Xanthos is dead," he answered. "And your master is dead." He sat down on the edge of the bed, close to her, but not touching. "I would like it if you called me by my birth name: Tak-Ne."
"Tak-Ne," she repeated, and she smiled at him, that brilliant smile he had seen only rarely on her face.
"And your name?" he asked, wondering how far he dared push her.
"Cassandra," she answered, with another smile.
"Are you a Trojan?" he asked, curious to know where she came from. Troy had fallen three centuries before he had been born, but everyone in Greece had heard the stories of the ill-fated prophetess named Cassandra who had lived there.
"No," she said. "I do not know the name of the place of my birth. I was raised in a desert, somewhere south of Babylon, I think. But Cassandra is my name, given to me by my first teacher, the Lady of the Temple of Artemis on Lesbos. She was of the Minoan culture, as was Troy."
Tak-Ne shook his head. "I know of no such temple there."
"It was burned," she answered shortly, "right before the Hellenes laid siege to Troy." Her gaze went inward, dark and haunted. "The Hellenes burned Troy, too. The streets ran with our blood; our screams echoed in the courtyards. And then, nothing. Only silence, save the flapping of birds' wings, and the wind."
The sounds of death. He knew them well. "Like Babylon."
She blinked, banishing the memories, and turned to him again. "Yes," she said, shrugging a little. "We've seen it before. We'll see it again."
Probably. "Did you know the other Cassandra?" he asked.
"Yes." Her eyes darkened again. "Her mother Hecuba and I were friends, and she named her daughter after me. An unlucky choice, I think."
Tak-Ne decided to change the subject. "So you are ... eight hundred?"
"Nine, I think," she answered.
He nodded in satisfaction, for he had guessed her age to be close to one thousand. "And you already know how old I am, and where I am from."
"Yes," she agreed, with a smile deep enough to give her dimples. "But Xanthos - Tak-Ne - I cannot take your factories."
"I'm giving them to you," he said, with an impatient wave of his hand. "We both knew it was time to leave Corinth, and I've already made arrangements for myself in the city of Sybaris. I have factories there, and investments in many places. Besides," he said enticingly, "now you can start your school."
"Yes," she murmured, then said again more strongly, "Yes."
"Good!" Now to say farewell. "I've enjoyed our time together, Cassandra. I'll miss you."
"And I will miss you." Her gaze wandered to the small flame of the oil lamp hanging on the wall, then back to him. "But we will see each other again."
"Will we?" he asked, wondering why she sounded so sure.
Her eyes were dark and wide in the flickering light, the shadows outlining the curve of her cheek. "Yes."
He took her hands in his, and gently kissed her lips. "I'll look for you, then."
She kissed him on the forehead, a light warm touch. "And I will look for you."
continued in Part 2: Faith