Out of the Waters (19 page)

Alphena forced herself to relax. “I guess if there's going to be trouble,” she said, “we'll get to it soon enough.”

She pursed her lips and added, “I didn't bring my sword.”

“I should think not!” Hedia said. She didn't sound angry, but she appeared to be genuinely shocked. She turned her head slightly—though she couldn't look forward from where she sat in the vehicle—and said, “I thought of suggesting that Lenatus go along with Saxa this afternoon. Just—”

She shrugged her shoulders. She looked like a cat stretching.

“—in case. But I understand that Master Corylus will be accompanying the consul, and I'm sure his man Pulto will be equipped to deal with unexpected problems.”

“Father?” said Alphena, taken aback. “He shouldn't—”

She stopped, unwilling to belittle Saxa by saying he had no business in anything that might involve swords. It was true, of course, but it wasn't something that her stepmother needed to be told.

“That is,” she said, “what's Father doing? I didn't know about it.”

She didn't know—she didn't bother to learn—very much about what other people were doing. If Hedia hadn't taken family obligations more seriously than her stepdaughter had, Alphena would either be wandering in fairyland or be in the belly of something wandering in fairyland. Or be in a worse place yet.

“Your brother wants to visit a senator's house,” Hedia said. “He thought the consul's authority might be necessary to gain entry. I don't know all the details. I don't expect Saxa to have difficulty, but—”

That shrug again.

“—I do worry about the poor man.”

The litter slowed again, then stopped. Manetho came to the side of the vehicle and said, “Your ladyships, we have arrived at the shop of the silk merchant Abinnaeus.”

Hedia grinned and said, “Come, dear. At the very least, we can outfit you with a set of silk syntheses to wear at formal dinners. Since we're coming here anyway.”

She slid her curtain open and dismounted, allowing the deputy steward to offer his arm in support. Alphena grimaced and got out on her own side.

Maximus, normally the night guard at the gate of the back garden, held out his arm. Alphena lifted her hand to slap him away. She stopped, thinking of Hedia; and of Corylus, who had mentioned Maximus' intelligence.

“Thank you, my good man,” Alphena said, touching the back of the fellow's wrist with her fingertips but pointedly not letting any weight rest there.

She turned, eyeing their surroundings. The Altar of Peace was to the left. Not far beyond it was the Sundial of Augustus—a granite obelisk brought from Egypt and set up to tell the hours. The metal ball on top of the obelisk blazed in the sunlight.

Alphena stared, transfixed. She felt but didn't really see her stepmother walk around the vehicle to join her.

“Is something wrong, my dear?” Hedia said.

“That ball,” Alphena said. Her mouth was dry. She didn't point, because she didn't want to mark herself that way. “On top of the pillar.”

“Yes, dear?” Hedia said. “It's gold, isn't it?”

“No,” said Alphena. “It's orichalc. Mother, I'd swear that's the ball that was on top of the temple we saw in the vision. The temple that w-was being torn apart!”

*   *   *

H
EDIA STARED AT THE SUNLIT GLOBE
in the middle distance, trying to empathize with what Alphena was feeling. With what
ever
Alphena was feeling, because despite real mental effort Hedia couldn't understand what was so obviously frightening about a big metal ball.

Did it come from a ruined city as the girl said? Well and good, but so did the obelisk it stood on top of; and the huge granite spike must have been much more difficult to move and re-erect here in Carce.

“Is there something we should do, dear?” Hedia said. “Ah, do you want to go closer?”

She didn't understand why Alphena was concerned, but she understood all
too
well what it was to feel terrified by something that didn't seem frightening to others. She hadn't particularly noticed the temple Alphena talked about, because her mind had been frozen by the sight of glass men like those of her nightmare, walking on the walls of the city.

“No!” Alphena said; then, contritely, clasping Hedia's hands, “I'm sorry, Mother. No, there's no reason to … well, I don't know what to do. And—”

She grinned ruefully.

“—I certainly don't want to go closer. Though I'm not afraid to.”

“We'll shop, then,” Hedia said, linking her arm with her daughter's. “But when we return, we'll discuss the matter with Pandareus. I think he'll be with Saxa and the boys, but otherwise we'll send a messenger to bring him to the house. He's a…”

She paused, wondering how to phrase what she felt.

“Pandareus is of course learned, but he also has an unusually clear vision of reality,” she said. “As best I can tell, all his choices are consciously made. I don't agree with many of them—”

She flicked the sleeve of her cloak. It was of silk lace, dyed lavender to contrast with the brilliantly white ankle-length tunic she wore beneath it. It was unlikely that Pandareus could have purchased its equivalent with a year of his teaching fees.

“—obviously. But I respect the way he lives by his principles.”

As I live by mine; albeit my principles are very different.

Syra waited with Alphena's maid behind the litter. They had followed on foot from the town house. Ordinarily Hedia would have had nearly as many female as male servants in her entourage, but for this trip the two maids were the only women present.

They didn't appear to feel there was anything to be concerned about. Syra was talking with a good-looking Gallic footman, though she faced about sharply when Hedia glanced toward her.

Alphena noticed the interchange, but she probably misinterpreted it. She said, “I've asked Agrippinus to assign Florina to me permanently. I'm not going to get angry with her.”

Hedia raised an eyebrow. “My goodness, dear,” she said. “I doubt the most committed philosophers could go through more than a few days without getting angry at the servant who forgot to mention the dinner invitation from a patron or who used an important manuscript to light the fire.”

“I don't mean that, exactly,” the girl said, flushing. “But I'm not going to hit her. And I'm going to try not to scream at her either.”

Alphena was upset, but Hedia wasn't sure who she was upset with. Perhaps she was upset—angry—at herself, though she might be directing it toward the stepmother who was forcing her to discuss something that she apparently hadn't fully thought out.

“I really can change, Mother!” she said. “I can be, well, nicer. To people.”

“Let's go in, dear,” Hedia said. As they started toward the shop between a double rank of servants, she added quietly, “In law, slaves are merely furniture with tongues, you know. But slapping your couch with a comb isn't going to lead to it informing the palace that you've been mocking the emperor. I applaud your new resolution.”

Abinnaeus had chosen an outward-facing section of the portico. The majority of his trade arrived in litters which could more easily be maneuvered in the street than in the enclosed courtyard. There was a gated counter across the front of the shop, but clients were inside where bolts of fabric were stacked atop one another. There was a room behind and a loft above.

Within, a pair of no-longer-young women were fingering the silk and speaking Greek with thick Galatian accents. Their maids were outside, watching the new arrivals with interest verging on resentment.

That pair came to Carce with their feet chalked for sale,
Hedia sneered mentally. They were the sort to have moved into the master's bedroom and made a good thing out of his will, but she doubted whether they were wealthy enough to do real business with Abinnaeus.

Only a single attendant, a doe-eyed youth, was visible when Hedia approached. A moment later the owner waddled out behind a second attendant—similar enough to the other to have been twins—who had gone to fetch him. Abinnaeus beamed at her, then directed his attention to the previous customers.

“Dear ladies,” he said. “I do
so
regret that a previous engagement requires that I close my poor shop to the general public immediately.”

“For them?” said one of the women, her voice rising shrilly. “I don't think so! Not till you've served me!”

She turned to the stack of silk and started to lift the top roll. It was colored something between peach and beige and would clash with every garment the woman was wearing now; but then, her hennaed hair, her orange tunic, and her vermillion leather shoes were a pretty ghastly combination already.

Abinnaeus put a hand on the roll, pinning it down, and reached for the woman's arm. She shrieked, “Don't you touch me, you capon!” but the threatened contact did cause her to jump aside—and toward the counter.

Hedia waited, her fingers on Alphena's wrist to keep the girl with her. The events of the past few days had put Hedia in a bad enough mood that she found the present business amusing. She didn't scorn people because they were former slaves—but she scorned former slaves who gave themselves the airs of noblewomen.

“I'm sure my colleague Cynthius in the courtyard will be delighted to serve you, ladies,” Abinnaeus said. He spoke with an oily solicitude; nothing in his tone or manner indicated that he was sneering. “I think you'll find his selection suitable. Indeed,
very
suitable for ladies as fine as yourselves.”

The youthful attendants were urging the women toward the opened gate. One went quickly, but the protesting woman tried to push the boy away.

Something happened that Hedia didn't quite see. Off-balance, the woman lurched toward the street and into it. The youth—who wasn't as young as he had first seemed; he was some sort of Oriental, childishly slight but not at all a child—walked alongside her without seeming to exert any force.

Hedia saw the woman's arm muscles bunch to pull away. She wasn't successful, though the youth's smile didn't slip.

“Well, you'll
never
see me again!” the woman cried. Her companion had been staring first at Hedia and Alphena, then—wide-eyed—at their escort. She tugged her louder friend toward the entrance into the courtyard; their maids followed, laughing openly.

“Ah,” Abinnaeus said in a lightly musing voice that wasn't obviously directed toward anyone. “If only I could be sure of that.”

He turned and bowed low to Hedia. “I'm
so
glad to see your ladyship again,” he said, sounding as though he meant it. “And your lovely companion! Please, honor my shop by entering.”

“Come dear,” Hedia said, but she swept the younger woman through the gate ahead of her. “Abinnaeus, this is my daughter, Lady Alphena. We're looking for dinner dresses for her.”

“You could not do better,” Abinnaeus agreed. He was a eunuch; his fat made him look softly cylindrical instead of swelling his belly. “Please, be seated while I find something worthy of yourselves.”

One of the attendants was closing the shutters: barred openings at the top continued to let in light and air, but street noise and the crowds were blocked by solid oak. The other attendant had carried out a couch with ivory legs and cushions of silk brocade; he was returning to the back room to find its couple.

Hedia gestured Alphena to the couch; she dipped her chin forcefully to refuse. Hedia sat instead of reclining and patted the cushion beside her. “Come, daughter,” she said. “Join me.”

Alphena hesitated only an instant, then sat where Hedia had indicated. The youth appeared with the second couch. He eyed them, then vanished back into storage with his burden.

Abinnaeus returned with six bolts of cloth over his left arm. “Sirimavo,” he said to the youth who had bolted the shutters, “bring wine and goblets, then go fetch some cakes from Codrius. Quickly now!”

“No cakes for me,” Hedia said. “Though if my daughter…?”

Alphena gestured a curt refusal, then consciously forced her lips into a smile. “Not at all, thank you,” she said.

The girl really is trying. Soon perhaps I can introduce her to some suitable men without worrying that she's going to tell them she'll cut their balls off if they dare to touch her again.

“It would be remiss of me not to offer your ladyship every courtesy,” the eunuch said. “What you choose to accept is your own affair, but I will say that my friend Codrius just down the portico has even better pastries than my beloved father at home in Gaza.”

“No one has ever been able to fault your hospitality to a customer, Abinnaeus,” Hedia said. The tramps he had just turfed out of his shop might have quarreled with her statement, but they weren't proper customers. “It's been too long since I've been here.”

“We have missed you, your ladyship,” Abinnaeus said, setting down five bolts. “Your custom is always welcome, of course, but even more I've missed your exquisite taste. So like mine, but more masculine.”

He and Hedia laughed. Alphena looked shocked, then went still-faced because she wasn't sure how she should react.

Abinnaeus stretched a swatch from the last bolt and held it close to Alphena's ear. “There, your ladyship. What do you think about this with your daughter's coloring?”

Hedia gave the fabric sharp attention. It was faintly tan—the natural color of the silk, she was sure, not a dye—but it seemed to have golden highlights.

“Is that woven with gold wire?” she said in puzzlement.
Surely no wire could be drawn
that
fine.

Abinnaeus chuckled. “To you and you alone, your ladyship,” he said, “I will tell my secret. No, not wire—but the blond hair from women of farthest Thule. They let it grow till they marry, then cut it for the first time. The strands are finer than spider silk, purer than the gold of the Tagus River.”