Liz got on well with doing things in the fashion of the locals, until it came to being anointed with olive oil. Well, that explained the smell from Odysseus’ crew. If you oiled, sweated, but didn’t bathe . . .
Her “I’m not rusty, thank you,” provoked more mirth. She did, however, accept clean clothing with gratitude. She looked despairingly at her skirt and top. “Hard scrubbing . . . ”
The others agreed. “I don’t know if that fine weave will take it. Is it sprite-woven?”
“Ah—in a way. Machine sprites, they’re called.” She smiled. “I don’t suppose you’ve got detergent?”
Both of the sorceresses looked doubtful. “No,” said Circe at last. “Not if it’s what I think it is . . . no. The animals don’t do well here. The young ones all died last winter.”
“It’s soap.” They looked equally blank. “What I gave the nymph to wash me with.”
“We use certain cleansers, but none like that,” said Circe.
Liz smiled. “We’ll have to brave the kitchen. My mother couldn’t teach me to cook, because she didn’t. But she did teach me to make herb-scented soaps, because she did that for fun. We will need wood ash and some oil or lard.”
* * *
Jerry had to admit that Lamont had been completely wasted as a maintenance man. Not only had he a gift for remembering things, but he also had a gift for presentation. A real gift. The combination of colors and shapes were pleasing to the eye. The platters were decorated with sprigs of fresh herbs. The food was all also carefully scented with “moly.” Just in case.
The salad—which was an ancient Greek version of tuna Niçoise, with a homemade mayonnaise—salt, crushed mustard seeds, two egg yolks, olive oil and a tablespoon of wine vinegar, with finely diced wild onion leaves. Set in a spiral of dandelion and young charlock leaves and olives, it looked almost too good to eat.
“How the hell did you know how to make mayo?” asked Jerry.
Lamont swatted away the tasting finger. “Didn’t. Cruz did.”
The burly sergeant looked a little uneasy. “My mother used to make it. It’s nicer with lemon juice.”
“Jerry. See if you can find some more of those golden goblets. We’ll have to use them for dessert. Mac, go and find us some mint. That should be within your capability. Nuts and honey for a base. I’ll beat this cream. What do you think it comes from? A goat?”
“Or a sheep,” chuckled Jerry, setting out goblets.
Lamont snorted. “Well, if you don’t tell Liz, I won’t.”
Cruz looked up from his crouton frying. “What in the hell are you doing now, Jerry?”
He grinned. “I got your goblets. Now I’m checking my roasting acorns.”
“Why are you doing that?” asked McKenna, posing with a sprig of mint.
“WW Two coffee substitute,” he said, hauling the smoldering acorns out of the fire.
McKenna shook his head. “Jeez. Caffeine-free too, I bet.”
Jerry grinned. “I won’t tell Liz if you don’t.”
“Me? If it improves ‘Sir’s’ temper, I’ll help you to roast the next lot,” said McKenna.
“She’s not so bad,” said Jerry defensively.
McKenna snorted. “Compared to what? A drill sergeant?”
* * *
Circe wore a distinctly bemused expression. Mayonnaise was a hit. Some of the other food had been too bizarre, but this . . .
She turned to Liz. “Are you sure they’re not under some kind of spell? If so, I would dearly love to learn it.”
Liz swallowed. The mouthful of truly vile coffee substitute, with goats’ milk and honey, at least stopped her from saying: You, me and several hundred million other women.
She fought down the impulse. “No,” she said. “And unfortunately they’re not all like this. But if you get them young enough they can be trained.”
* * *
The mention of spells brought something to Jerry’s mind. He felt rather guilty about it. It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t seen John Salinas.
“Circe, you haven’t seen any other people that wore clothes like us?”
“Barbarians, you mean? In leggings?”
“Uh. Yes.”
“Indeed I have.” Circe smiled. It was not a nice smile. “Two of them, in fact. They’re in the pigsty. You can have the one, but not the other. He insulted me most dreadfully. A pig he is and a pig he stays.”
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