I catch him, he'll wish he'd never been born!'
'You can't hope to outstrip him with the Medea.'
'Who bloody can't? Leo turned to his head slave and glowered. 'You just make sure that ship's ready to sail in ten minutes or you'll find yourself turned into cash come the next auction.'
Ten
In the field behind her simple cottage in the hills, the woman called Clio unhooked her robe and slipped naked into the freshwater pond. Sensuously, she splashed her face, her neck, her arms, paying particular attention to her magnificent breasts. She drizzled the soft, clear springwater over her thighs, her buttocks, the soft curve of her belly then lay back in the water, eyes closed against the sun, her dark hair streaming on the surface like a veil, her breasts bobbing.
There was no food in the cottage. She had eaten the last of the bread with her breakfast. The fish and the fruit had run out two days before. Even the cheese was gone now: it had comprised her meagre dinner last night. At least after her bath, she'd be able to go into town to stock up.
If you could call that hole a town!
Anywhere else in the Empire and the place would be awash with marble temples and airy basilicas, with triumphal arches and statues covered with gold. Day and night it would be thronging with spice sellers, money changers, perfumers, astrologers, the air ringing with the whine of self-blinded beggars, the crack of the wagoner's whip. All cities these days seemed to be a league of nations, with one group wearing gaudy turbans, others in fringed pantaloons and, everywhere, strange, exotic animals.
Clio sighed, and made circles with her wrists in the water, sending out a series of seductive ripples.
Alas, no giraffes here. No fast chariots. Nor pavements for them to rattle over, had there been any to start with! Cressian philosophy, like its inhabitants, was quite simple. Dump a few flagstones, call it a wharf. Erect a poky little building, call it a shrine. (Erect a bigger one and you get to call it a temple!)
Clio rolled over on to her stomach, butterfly-crawled a few strokes. Where were the hotels, the fountains, the landscaped parks and gardens? Where were the public latrines? Croesus, there weren't even shops on this primitive island! Not even a single shoemaker.
She changed her swimming to the breaststroke. Merchandise, such as it was, was bought and sold in the open air around the harbour, everything traded and bartered and haggled for. You want a barber? The price is three candles or a cheese or half a flagon of beer. You need dry goods? A bolt of cotton, maybe? Lead? Timber? Pitch? No problem. The trade ship's due in a month - or two, depending. Never get sick. A bow-legged, one-eyed caulker doubled as Cressia's dentist, there wasn't a surgeon, and if you need the island's one and only physician, you'll find him passed out on the floor stinking of booze.
Fine. Clio could work round that. She wasn't planning to be here for long. Just however long it took. But she so missed the life. The vitality. Some small indication that Cressia wasn't populated by living corpses. Croesus, all you ever saw were human statues! Fishermen sitting round mending their nets. Basket makers weaving the willows. Slowly. Very, very slowly. So slowly they never seemed to move. Zombies.
What she wouldn't give to see fire-eaters capering over the quayside! She swam to the edge of the pond and perched herself on a rock, like a mermaid. Jugglers would do. Or gaily dressed acrobats, accompanied by musicians cheered on by the masses. She let out a short laugh. Masses? What bloody masses! Dabbling her toes in the water, Clio reckoned you could round up every man, woman and child on this island and still never fill a barrel.
Mind you. If anybody ever got round to it, Clio would be the first to roll the barrel off a cliff. Good riddance. She despised these filthy islanders. They were impoverished, ill-educated, stank of stale fish
'You can't hope to outstrip him with the Medea.'
'Who bloody can't? Leo turned to his head slave and glowered. 'You just make sure that ship's ready to sail in ten minutes or you'll find yourself turned into cash come the next auction.'
Ten
In the field behind her simple cottage in the hills, the woman called Clio unhooked her robe and slipped naked into the freshwater pond. Sensuously, she splashed her face, her neck, her arms, paying particular attention to her magnificent breasts. She drizzled the soft, clear springwater over her thighs, her buttocks, the soft curve of her belly then lay back in the water, eyes closed against the sun, her dark hair streaming on the surface like a veil, her breasts bobbing.
There was no food in the cottage. She had eaten the last of the bread with her breakfast. The fish and the fruit had run out two days before. Even the cheese was gone now: it had comprised her meagre dinner last night. At least after her bath, she'd be able to go into town to stock up.
If you could call that hole a town!
Anywhere else in the Empire and the place would be awash with marble temples and airy basilicas, with triumphal arches and statues covered with gold. Day and night it would be thronging with spice sellers, money changers, perfumers, astrologers, the air ringing with the whine of self-blinded beggars, the crack of the wagoner's whip. All cities these days seemed to be a league of nations, with one group wearing gaudy turbans, others in fringed pantaloons and, everywhere, strange, exotic animals.
Clio sighed, and made circles with her wrists in the water, sending out a series of seductive ripples.
Alas, no giraffes here. No fast chariots. Nor pavements for them to rattle over, had there been any to start with! Cressian philosophy, like its inhabitants, was quite simple. Dump a few flagstones, call it a wharf. Erect a poky little building, call it a shrine. (Erect a bigger one and you get to call it a temple!)
Clio rolled over on to her stomach, butterfly-crawled a few strokes. Where were the hotels, the fountains, the landscaped parks and gardens? Where were the public latrines? Croesus, there weren't even shops on this primitive island! Not even a single shoemaker.
She changed her swimming to the breaststroke. Merchandise, such as it was, was bought and sold in the open air around the harbour, everything traded and bartered and haggled for. You want a barber? The price is three candles or a cheese or half a flagon of beer. You need dry goods? A bolt of cotton, maybe? Lead? Timber? Pitch? No problem. The trade ship's due in a month - or two, depending. Never get sick. A bow-legged, one-eyed caulker doubled as Cressia's dentist, there wasn't a surgeon, and if you need the island's one and only physician, you'll find him passed out on the floor stinking of booze.
Fine. Clio could work round that. She wasn't planning to be here for long. Just however long it took. But she so missed the life. The vitality. Some small indication that Cressia wasn't populated by living corpses. Croesus, all you ever saw were human statues! Fishermen sitting round mending their nets. Basket makers weaving the willows. Slowly. Very, very slowly. So slowly they never seemed to move. Zombies.
What she wouldn't give to see fire-eaters capering over the quayside! She swam to the edge of the pond and perched herself on a rock, like a mermaid. Jugglers would do. Or gaily dressed acrobats, accompanied by musicians cheered on by the masses. She let out a short laugh. Masses? What bloody masses! Dabbling her toes in the water, Clio reckoned you could round up every man, woman and child on this island and still never fill a barrel.
Mind you. If anybody ever got round to it, Clio would be the first to roll the barrel off a cliff. Good riddance. She despised these filthy islanders. They were impoverished, ill-educated, stank of stale fish
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