Killer of Men - Christian Cameron [77]
She screamed and her right fist shot out, as fast as mine, and she clipped his head with her blow.
Yet, for all that, they loved each other, and suddenly they were laughing – he naked, and she with the purple dye leaking off a garment that had cost more than I imagined my father made in his best year. Now ruined.
How rich they were.
She stripped the two garments over her head – Ionians don’t worry about the nudity of women the way westerners do – and took a simple linen shift from Penelope, who blushed when she took it off and gave it to her mistress and ran for something to wear herself.
No one in the garden was looking at me, so I drank in the beauty of Briseis’s body – her high, pointed breasts and the lush growth of black hair between her legs. I tore my eyes away and glanced around – Hipponax was spluttering wine at his daughter’s behaviour, and Archi was staring after Penelope with the same lust with which I was watching his sister.
And Euthalia was watching me, her face set in cool appraisal. I flinched and dropped my eyes. There were rumours in the slave quarters that Euthalia was anything but a loyal wife – and that Hipponax cared little. But no one had suggested that her games extended to slaves. I was old enough, however, to know what that cool appraisal meant in an older woman – Cook looked at me just the same way, whether she meant to slap my hand for stealing bread or to get me in her bed.
My theory is that women who have borne a child learn the same lesson men learn when they face the enemy on the battlefield, and that after that, they look at you with the same look. That’s my theory.
Learn what, you ask?
I’m old, and my cup is empty. Don’t read into that, honey – just pour some wine. Learn the lesson yourself.
Penelope came back, decently covered, and Briseis stayed, enjoying the trouble she had caused. ‘When is Diomedes coming?’ she asked for the fourth time. Their betrothal having been signed, they would shortly have a ceremony at her hearth and then a party. She was an old woman of fifteen and wanted to get on with life.
Hipponax made a face. ‘Girl, we have enough on our plates without you going womb-mad to your betrothal party!’
Euthalia slapped her husband lightly. ‘We have a small problem, Briseis,’ she said. ‘Artaphernes has chosen to honour us with a visit. In fact, he has summoned many of the leaders of Ionia – great men, and famous names – to meet here in our city and have a synod.’
She didn’t mention that Diomedes’ father was a member of the other faction – the independence faction. And thus not a man to be delighted to find Artaphernes at his son’s betrothal party. Only their mercantile links kept them friends. The betrothal had been planned since Briseis was born.
All this went by in the beat of a heart. Briseis shrugged. ‘My betrothal is more important than the bickering of old men,’ she said with a toss of her head.
Her mother shook her head. ‘No, my dear. Your betrothal can happen whenever we ordain it. These men gather to prevent a war. You have no idea what war is, dear. None of you do.’
She seldom spoke seriously, but when she did, we listened. But inside, I thought, I have seen war.
‘I am from Lesbos, and throughout my youth, the men of Mytilene made war on my city. Farms burned and women raped and families sold as slaves – good families. If Athens storms this city, Briseis, you will be sold in the market to a soldier. Do you understand?’
Briseis couldn’t have been more shocked if her mother had hit her. ‘Athens is a town of barbarians,’ she spat. ‘You and Pater both say so!’
‘Barbarians with a fleet and an army,’ Hipponax said. ‘Listen, dear. Let us have the conference and then we’ll have the party. You will only have to wait a month.’
Briseis flicked her eyes around the garden and she found me, and blushed. Then she sat in the chair that Dorcus, one of the house slaves, brought for her, and she leaned out over the table to take her father’s wine cup, exposing