Derae moved forward, standing over the beast. ‘Begone,’ she whispered. A wind blew up, sucking the demon back through the wall, which shimmered before becoming stone once more.
‘You . . . did. . . well,’ said Tamis, clutching the side of the bed and hauling herself to her feet.
‘What was the … thing?’
‘A night-hunter. Our enemies have breached the spell I placed over the temple. You must help me form another.’
‘Do you know who our enemies are?’
‘Of course. The leader of them is Aida.’
‘Can we not attack them?’
‘You do not listen, Derae. We cannot use their weapons.’
‘I am not convinced,’ said Derae. ‘How can we fight them when all the weapons are theirs?’
‘Trust me, child. I have no answers that would convince you. Just trust me.’
Lying back on the bed Tamis closed her eyes, unable to look at the young priestess. Twice today the Spartan had tasted the joys of power. . . .
And Tamis could almost hear the Dark God’s laughter as she fell into an exhausted sleep.
*
Thetis wandered through the narrow streets to her home in the south of the city, her season at the Temple of Aphrodite completed. Once home, she scrubbed away the paint and the ochre and threw the shimmering gown and bright, filmy chlamys to a corner. Pulling on a white cotton gown, she stretched herself out on a couch and stared at the soiled garments. Tomorrow she would burn them, and would never again visit the Temple of Aphrodite. Unlike many of the other girls Thetis had spent her earnings wisely, investing with three merchants engaged in the spice trade and one from Thespiae who bred and trained war horses.
Thetis was now financially secure. The house had cost nine hundred and eighty drachms, and she had also hired a maidservant, a Thessalian girl of fifteen who lived in a small alcove at the rear of the kitchen.
From now on life would be without care, without sweaty hands groping at her, without the grunts of the worshippers in her ear.
Without Damon, she found herself thinking. She closed her eyes and settled back, hugging an embroidered cushion to her belly.
Without Damon. . . .
How could someone so young and athletic have died in such a manner, collapsing on a training field after a race? The surgeon said he had a weakness in the heart. Yet he was so strong, his body carrying no fat, his muscles firm and as finely chiselled as those of Heracles. No, he had no weakness of the heart, Thetis knew. He had been struck down by the gods who were jealous of his beauty, and Thetis had been robbed of the only love she would ever know.
For a while she dozed on the couch, then rose and wandered to the kitchen where she ate some bread and cheese, washing it down with cool water. The servant girl, Cleo, was snoring softly in her bed, and Thetis moved silently about the room so as not to wake her.
Her hunger satisfied, she returned to her couch. The clothes on the floor caught her eye and she realized she could not wait to burn them. Taking the small, curved knife she carried for protection she slowly ripped the garments into tiny pieces, until the floor around her couch looked as if it were strewn with flower-petals.
Six years of her life had been spent wearing those garments – six long years filled with faceless, nameless men. Bearded or unbearded, fat or thin, young or old, all desired the same service.
She shook her head as if to dislodge the memories, and Parmenion’s face loomed in her mind. She had thought of him often in the months since she had brought him back from the dead. It was the contrast, she realized, between the silent rutting animal he was with her and the caring, considerate lover she had seen on that one night, as he dreamt of… what was her name? Derae?
So physically unlike the powerful Damon, yet possessing the same qualities of tenderness and understanding of her needs. No, not her needs, she reminded herself: Derae’s needs.