Without pausing for breath, she rattled off a long list of tasks that could not be abandoned. Oracles aside, who would preside over the endless rituals and sacrifices? Dispense oaths in the name of the river god? Log donations and offerings in the various treasuries?
“The altars would not be properly purified, there are mountains of letters to dictate, and let’s not forget the accounts that need overseeing, the various marriages and funerals that needed officiating, and not least, the preparations for the forthcoming spring carnival.”
“Hm.”
For a long time he said nothing. Just kept flipping pebbles over the water. She waited. Baiting him might be argued as the height of stupidity, but if he had come to arrest her, he would have done it by now. A girl had her pride, after all! At the same time, High Priestesses aren’t exactly naive. She knew it was only a matter of time before he resorted to blackmailing or bullying her into cooperating, as he had so many times in the past. Even so, she had no intention of making it easy for him, and job security wasn’t her problem. In fact, many more deserters would be helped, babies rescued, prisoners comforted, with a new man at the helm of the Krypteia. One who did not know her past.
So it came as a surprise when Lysander rose to his feet and said quietly, “That is your answer?”
She squared her shoulders. Wondered what pitch smelled like, when it was close to the eyes. “It is.”
“Then I bid you a very good day, Iliona.” He placed his fist on his breast in salute. “May Zeus bring you all that you wish for.”
A chill ran from her tiara to her white sandalled toes. He was a fighter, a warrior, a leader of men, who used every weapon in the book to win and get what he wanted. The head of the secret police did not back down. He was up to something, the bastard.
“Wait,” she called, but he’d already gone.
Fear crawled in the pit of her stomach.
Night rose, slinking through the Gate of Dreams, to work again her dark powers over the earth. The days passed, the nail on the wall calendar marking their journey, highlighting those days which were propitious for planting, those which were auspicious for building, as well as those which cursed folk for telling lies. Not once did Iliona stop looking over her shoulder, but as time passed, she began to relax.
Sacrifices were presided over with ritualist precision, oaths were dispensed in the name of the river god, donations and offerings were logged in the various treasuries. The altars were purified. Properly, of course. Those mountains of letters were duly dictated, the accounts managed with customary efficiency, and, thanks to the High Priestess’s efforts, the spring festival went off without a hitch. Even the procession of children carrying cakes stuck with burning torches managed to reach the sacred pine tree without anyone tripping up. Usually at least one child would set fire to the carpet of needles, and last year the beekeeper’s daughter exceeded all records, setting the harp player’s tunic alight as she stumbled, then singeing his hair when the poor man tried to stamp out the flames.
“You’re working too hard,” said the Keeper of the Sacred Flame, one of the few true friends Iliona had.
“It’s the season,” she lied. “Everything comes at once in the spring.”
And to prove it, she went off to burn incense.
“You’re not sleeping,” observed the temple physician.
“It’s the season,” she shot back. “The nights are too hot.”
And to prove it, she walked round wafting a fan.
As for the triple murders, the entire state was indeed sickened by the slaughter of three defenceless women. What kind of monster would do this? And yet, thought Iliona, in a country of full-time professional soldiers who virtually lived at the barracks, Spartan women were strong. How was it possible to overpower three at the same time?
As well as horrific, she found the crime deeply unsettling.
Being a second cousin to the king, she had many contacts at the palace and, through them, kept abreast of events. She learned, for instance, that, with typical Krypteia thoroughness, Lysander’s agents had explored every avenue in their attempt to bring the killer to justice. Could this have been a grudge killing, to punish the husband? Goodness knows, an uncompromising general collects enemies like a small boy collects caterpillars. Except there was nothing in his military history to point to a need for such dire retribution, nor in his personal life. Was the wife having an affair which had soured, inspiring the lover to take revenge? Apparently, running the farm in the general’s absence left no time for romance; had the mother-in-law upset someone? Again, this was ruled out — but the daughter? Wasn’t she engaged to be married next year? What about the family of the future in-laws? Was there someone who didn’t approve of the political union? At the time of the killing, the general was heading an assault in the Thessalian hinterland, making his alibi more solid than iron. Which was not to say he couldn’t have paid an assassin to wipe out his womenfolk. But why would he???
Through those same contacts, Iliona read the reports of every interview and interrogation that had been conducted and monitored the leads on the literally dozens of suspects. Consequently, she grew as frustrated as the investigators, since everyone and yet no one was in the frame for these murders. Was one woman the target, she asked herself? Forcing the killer to silence the others after his crime was discovered? But why hanging? Why in a line...?
Meanwhile, life at the Temple of Eurotas continued on its daily course of setting riddles, interpreting dreams, and committing enough treasonable offences to tempt Iliona to blind herself with pitch and save the authorities the trouble. Out across the valley, the buds on the vines uncoiled into leaf. Willows were cut to be woven into baskets, the olive trees were pruned back, oxen were gelded, and thousands of baby birds hatched. But as the spring progressed and the nestlings left home, the killings continued to dance at the back of her mind.
As did the shadow of the Krypteia.
A month to the day after Lysander’s visit, Iliona was at the house of her cousin, Lydia. Now in most city-states, the decision to expose weak or deformed babies was the preserve of the father, thus leaving a certain amount of room for manoeuvre. In Sparta, however, where virtually every male citizen was a warrior of one kind or another, this decision was down to the state. And the state liked to decide very early on whether his little limbs looked like they would grow straight enough to grow up and march thousands of miles in full battle dress. Or whether he had a good, loud bawl, indicating that he would eventually be strong enough to throw spears and go hand-to-hand with the enemy. Those who failed the test were taken to the Valley of Rejection up in the mountains and thrown into the abyss.
Little room for manoeuvre in that.
Unless, of course, someone happened to have a fishing net rigged up and ready to catch them. Someone who, when the little mite was hurled into space, was also on hand to heave a blanket-covered stone into the gorge. One that made the right kind of thud when it landed.
The state called it treason. Iliona called it giving childless artisans the family they craved.
Aware that, one of these days, her luck would run out.
But for now, the sun shone on the jagged peaks of Taygetus, still capped in snow, and the Hoeing Song drifted on the breeze from the men working the fields. Lydia’s husband, like the rest of the army, was off fighting someone else’s battles, an annual exodus which, with spectacular regularity, sparked a glut of babies nine months after their return. Another reason why the fathers did not make that all-important decision. They weren’t here.