“Gods!” Herodotos gasped, the bread falling from his mouth as he watched the Adrestia slip calmly under the surface, all but the rail submerged. The two with Reza took turns diving into the cove waters with ropes. Gradually, the galley sank entirely from view into the inky waters.
“They tie rocks to the hull, to take the galley firmly to the bed of the cove. Her timbers will be preserved down there. None will see her from above. And as long as we stay from sight, none will know we are here. When we need her again we can cut the ropes. Once we remove the weights, the ship will float to the surface, then we can bucket-bail and repair the hole.”
Herodotos already had his wax tablet out, stylus scurrying across the surface as he tried to capture this odd and intriguing practice. Reza and his two came back to the fire and settled down to towel themselves dry. Next, they opened a vase of wine and soon the crew were lost in ribald stories of past adventures, ruddy-cheeked and warm.
Kassandra sat with one arm around Myrrine, drinking in the sight of her ragtag band. When a chill lick of wind stole into the cove and touched her neck, she looked up at the dark circle of night sky and the scudding clouds, and thought of the days to come.
They bought a pair of sorrel-red geldings from a Messenian stable, paying double to buy the man’s silence when he started to ask questions. The sullen sky cleared and they traveled under a perfect winter blue, trotting across rocky hills, swaddled in woolen blankets against the crisp air and the dogged easterly wind.
After a time, the hills peeled away to reveal the colossal rift ahead: the Hollow Land—a long strip of flat country walled by the Parnon sierra in the east… and the Taygetos range in the west. Kassandra felt her emotions rise like a sickness as she stared at the looming heights of Taygetos, hearing the screams and the curses of that wretched night afresh. Ikaros, soaring high above, erupted in a diatribe of shrieking, all seemingly directed at the range. It was only Myrrine’s hand on her thigh that scattered the dreadful memories.
Kassandra let her gaze fall to the plain between the mountain ridges, veined with brooks and tributaries, all feeding the silvery artery that was the River Eurotas. Among the green-gold cloak of thick forest and swaying wheat, the minor villages lay—houses of timber and brick. The five largest villages were clustered near the heart of the plain, gleaming with the famous blue-veined marble of this land.
Sparta, she mouthed.
She and Myrrine kept good time as they rode, but each felt a tightening in her belly, each could not help but balk at the growing closeness of their old home, of the past. They entered the Eurotas Forest midafternoon, falling under its shady canopy of olive trees and gnarled oak. All around them, the golden branches rustled and whispered conspiratorially, the wind spreading gossip of their return. Drifts of fallen leaves crackled and swirled as the breeze followed them, and every pocket of shade ahead seemed to be in league and packed with spies. But on they went, and they saw nobody.
Until they heard the deep, menacing growl of a wolf.
Kassandra threw a hand across Myrrine’s chest, halting them both. Her eyes grew sharp as blades, seeing through the forest of shadows ahead. Movement. Boys. Three youngsters, heads shaved to the skin, naked bar grubby red cloaks. They leapt and rolled, narrowly avoiding the gnashing jaws of the most immense gray wolf. They were no match for the creature. Two of them were thrown back by the beast’s great swishing head, then it leapt upon the third, took him by the throat.
She felt herself slide from the saddle, heard Myrrine hiss for her to stop. “Kassandra, what are you doing? We are in Sparta and this is Agoge training territory.”
But on she went, until she was at the edge of the clearing. The wolf was shaking the boy like a toy. His face was turning gray; his eyes met Kassandra’s…
She stepped into the clearing, brandishing her spear, streaking it across the wolf’s flank. The wounded creature howled in fright, dropped the boy, then turned and ran. She sank to one knee and cradled the fallen lad. His neck was clearly broken.
“Mother?” the boy croaked, his pupils dilating.
“I’m not your mother,” Kassandra said quietly.
“Tell her that she… she should be proud of me. I faced the wolf. I was not afraid.”
Kassandra understood all too well.
“I am so cold,” the boy whimpered.
She lifted a fold of her cloak around him. Within a few final, rattling breaths, the light left his eyes. She set him down.
Just then, a new voice spoke. “What are you doing here, stranger?”
She swung to see an adult, red-cloaked Spartiate, bearded and wearing his hair in long black ropes. His glare was like copper rods. “I was passing through. I saw the boys in trouble and tried to help.”
“She lies!” one of the other two boys squealed gleefully. “She tried to slay the wolf and steal the glory for herself.”
“You interfered with Spartan training and then lied about it?” the adult Spartan hissed. “There is more honor in that dead boy’s heart.” He made a throaty noise to beckon the two surviving lads. One of them picked up the corpse, he and the other muttering in unison: “Never leave a comrade’s body unburied.”
The boys shuffled off past the adult, who then offered a parting threat. “You should return to wherever you came from, or you will soon find out just how unforgiving we Spartans are…”
She backed through the woods to where Myrrine was saddled. Myrrine glowered at her in a way that made her feel like a seven-year-old again. “You should not have interfered. These woods are used to harden the boys, make men of them, as well you know.”
“They are no good to Sparta if they end up in a wolf’s belly,” she snapped back.
“They are no use to Sparta if they are too weak to kill a wolf!” Myrrine rasped.
They rode on in awkward silence for another hour. At last, Myrrine spoke again. “It is this place,” she said with an apologetic sigh, “the air, the smell, the colors, all of it. I feel the oppression, the demands of what it was to be a Spartan when this was my home.”
“But you were right, I should not have tried to save that boy,” Kassandra countered.
“Why? What are you?” Myrrine asked with a tired sigh. “A Spartan? A Greek? A wanderer?”
“A child of nowhere,” Kassandra finished for her. She met Myrrine’s gaze. “Part of me is Spartan, and I can never change that. But the rest of me? Who am I to deny myself feelings of love, of compassion, of grief?”
Myrrine’s lips bent in a reluctant and sad smile. “You and I think in similar ways. We left our old home as Spartans,” she said after a time. “We return as very different creatures.”
The pair rode on.
Finally, the trees thinned and they came to Pitana, one of the five main villages. Kassandra’s birth town. Like all Spartan towns, it had no walls. One of Nikolaos’s old sayings came back to her: The men of Sparta are her walls, their spear tips her borders.
They emerged from the woods and stepped onto a broad, flagged way, edged with white-walled, red-tiled homes and workshops. Woodsmoke rose, the sweet scent mixed with the coppery stink of Spartan black broth, and the tink-tink of a smith’s hammer lent a rhythm to the low, priestly chant floating from a small temple at the heart of the village. Kassandra recognized it alclass="underline" the meat-smoking rack by the well where she used to play, the armory with the bronze-strapped door, the tavern with the winged-horse statuette above the entrance lintel. So little had changed.
They rode, staring straight ahead, hiding all expression, burying the welling memories and emotions inside. Helot slaves scampered to and fro, backs bent with burdens, wearing dogskin caps to denote their lowly status. Red-cloaked Spartiates sat around near the long, low barrack houses, whetting their spears. Not one of them went without his weapon.