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HEART, FAITH, AND STEEL
By Janeen Kelley Grohsmeyer
June 1999
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Glen Coe, Scotland
New Year's Day, 1997
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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.
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HEART
Cassia and Xanthos
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Lechaion, on the Isthmus of Corinth, Hellas
Festival of Demeter, 520 BCE
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"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 cobble-stoned 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?" he inquired.
"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.
~~~~~
