the sun was up.
I crept into Diotima’s tent, so as not to wake her, then realized how silly that was, since the entire point was to wake her. There she lay, curled up fast asleep, as innocent as a small child. In sleep she was lovely. Her red lips were slightly parted, her dark tresses fell across her face, and her chest rose and fell as she breathed softly.
I wondered how I’d been so lucky as to get her. An awful lot had gone wrong in my life, but Diotima was my one victory. At least, I hoped she was; there were still some parents to overcome.
I reached out an arm and shook her gently.
“Diotima, honey, wake up. It’s me—aaarrggh!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Nico!”
Diotima had turned and plunged a short, sharp knife straight into my arm: her priestess knife, which she used for sacrifices and always kept in a pouch about her. She’d only stopped her stab as the curved point sliced my skin. Blood trickled down my forearm.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again. “I thought you were a man creeping into my tent.” She paused. “Well, actually, come to think of it, you were.”
But it was the first part of her statement that grabbed my attention. “Diotima, have men been creeping into your tent?”
She grimaced. “There’ve been one or two incidents. The drunks who stagger into the women’s camp seem to think every tent has a
pornê
in it. They don’t bother to look for hanging sandals.”
Sandals hung up outside a tent mean the occupant is open for business. Sandals, because pornê means “walker,” as in a woman who walks the streets. At Olympia there are no streets towalk, so the women for hire hang their sandals beside their tent entrances. I could see how a drunk man in the dark could make a mistake, but that wasn’t going to save anyone who threatened Diotima.
Diotima read my thoughts. “It’s all right, Nico. I dealt with them.”
“Are they still alive?” I asked, wondering if we’d need to hide any bodies.
“Mostly,” she said.
I decided not to pursue that.
“I’m in no danger, Nico,” Diotima tried to reassure me.
“Keeping you safe is my job.” Merely saying it made me feel good. I liked the idea of protecting Diotima.
“Stop worrying about me, Nico. You didn’t used to behave like this.”
“We didn’t used to be married.”
“We aren’t married now either. We still have our fathers to convince.”
I sighed. “I know.”
“And even if they do let us marry, it doesn’t mean I’m suddenly helpless.”
I could see life with Diotima was destined to be unusual. “We have a problem,” I said, using the same words the Spartan Markos had said to me over the body.
I told her what had happened while she slept and/or knifed intruders. I only got a few words in before she sat up, excited, and wrapped the blanket around her for warmth.
I ended by saying, “We need the evidence of Klymene, the Priestess of the Games, as soon as possible. Once the Games begin, she’ll be locked into her box at the stadion, and she won’t be free to tell her story until tonight. A whole day’s delay for her evidence might be a killing problem.”
“Literally killing, for Timodemus,” Diotima added.
“A fellow priestess like you could give me an entrée.”
“Good, let’s go.” She hopped off her bed and tossed aside the blanket to reveal her outstanding body in all its glory.
“Diotima, you sexy woman, why don’t we stay here for a while and—”
“I have to decide what to wear for this priestess.” She began to rummage through the wooden trunk that she’d brought with her from Asia Minor. She pulled out clothing and tossed it on the camp bed.
On our last mission, before we’d left Magnesia, Diotima had been given a whole new wardrobe as a gift from the people we’d helped. A slave who specialized in Persian fashion had sniffed noisily when asked to make simple Hellene chitons, but after lavish flattery and some physical threats, the dressmaker had measured Diotima
I crept into Diotima’s tent, so as not to wake her, then realized how silly that was, since the entire point was to wake her. There she lay, curled up fast asleep, as innocent as a small child. In sleep she was lovely. Her red lips were slightly parted, her dark tresses fell across her face, and her chest rose and fell as she breathed softly.
I wondered how I’d been so lucky as to get her. An awful lot had gone wrong in my life, but Diotima was my one victory. At least, I hoped she was; there were still some parents to overcome.
I reached out an arm and shook her gently.
“Diotima, honey, wake up. It’s me—aaarrggh!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Nico!”
Diotima had turned and plunged a short, sharp knife straight into my arm: her priestess knife, which she used for sacrifices and always kept in a pouch about her. She’d only stopped her stab as the curved point sliced my skin. Blood trickled down my forearm.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again. “I thought you were a man creeping into my tent.” She paused. “Well, actually, come to think of it, you were.”
But it was the first part of her statement that grabbed my attention. “Diotima, have men been creeping into your tent?”
She grimaced. “There’ve been one or two incidents. The drunks who stagger into the women’s camp seem to think every tent has a
pornê
in it. They don’t bother to look for hanging sandals.”
Sandals hung up outside a tent mean the occupant is open for business. Sandals, because pornê means “walker,” as in a woman who walks the streets. At Olympia there are no streets towalk, so the women for hire hang their sandals beside their tent entrances. I could see how a drunk man in the dark could make a mistake, but that wasn’t going to save anyone who threatened Diotima.
Diotima read my thoughts. “It’s all right, Nico. I dealt with them.”
“Are they still alive?” I asked, wondering if we’d need to hide any bodies.
“Mostly,” she said.
I decided not to pursue that.
“I’m in no danger, Nico,” Diotima tried to reassure me.
“Keeping you safe is my job.” Merely saying it made me feel good. I liked the idea of protecting Diotima.
“Stop worrying about me, Nico. You didn’t used to behave like this.”
“We didn’t used to be married.”
“We aren’t married now either. We still have our fathers to convince.”
I sighed. “I know.”
“And even if they do let us marry, it doesn’t mean I’m suddenly helpless.”
I could see life with Diotima was destined to be unusual. “We have a problem,” I said, using the same words the Spartan Markos had said to me over the body.
I told her what had happened while she slept and/or knifed intruders. I only got a few words in before she sat up, excited, and wrapped the blanket around her for warmth.
I ended by saying, “We need the evidence of Klymene, the Priestess of the Games, as soon as possible. Once the Games begin, she’ll be locked into her box at the stadion, and she won’t be free to tell her story until tonight. A whole day’s delay for her evidence might be a killing problem.”
“Literally killing, for Timodemus,” Diotima added.
“A fellow priestess like you could give me an entrée.”
“Good, let’s go.” She hopped off her bed and tossed aside the blanket to reveal her outstanding body in all its glory.
“Diotima, you sexy woman, why don’t we stay here for a while and—”
“I have to decide what to wear for this priestess.” She began to rummage through the wooden trunk that she’d brought with her from Asia Minor. She pulled out clothing and tossed it on the camp bed.
On our last mission, before we’d left Magnesia, Diotima had been given a whole new wardrobe as a gift from the people we’d helped. A slave who specialized in Persian fashion had sniffed noisily when asked to make simple Hellene chitons, but after lavish flattery and some physical threats, the dressmaker had measured Diotima
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