former life in rather less refined tones, provoking pack laughter and the sailors’ increasingly devoted appreciation. No matter what her new title might be once they arrived in the Five Cities, she was certainly no lady, and they liked her all the better for it.
Theodora was definitely in lust, suspected she might even be in love – though she wasn’t sure she knew that state well enough to judge – and, once she allowed herself to relax into the lack of routine, she found it was possible to actually enjoy doing nothing other than waiting for another day to pass in the warmth of the growing sun. It was only when they were passing the southernmost Cycladic islands that she started to look behind as well as forward. At Sifnos they stopped to pick up silver for trade and various trinkets to adorn Theodora’s fine neck and arms, and at Milos Hecebolus went ashore with several sailors, ostensibly to catch a fresh goat for their supper – which they did – but more specifically to climb one steep hill after another to a hidden temple, there to sacrifice the one goat they did not bring back to eat, offering thanks to local gods, as well as the Christ, for a safe first half of the journey and obeisance for more of the same on the second leg. Slowly Theodora began to acknowledge how much she was leaving behind.
They rounded the long, flat face of Crete and she stood, late one night, on the prow of the ship, alone but for a watchman high above her, crying into the salt water below. Theodora didn’t understand these tears, they were not from physical exhaustion or hunger or anger at an uninterested crowd, this was a sadness that could not be quelled with wine or dancing, the kind of feeling she usually let seep into the church floor and away from her body, from her understanding. Theodora was missing the City. She shook her head, angry at giving in to such a pathetic emotion when so much lay ahead, angry and feeling it regardless. Far off on the Cretan hills she could just make out tiny sparks of light from farmers’ home fires, from herders grazing goats, keeping their night fire warm until the morning, drinking wine in the dark and wild sage tea with the dawn. She would not want their lives, she had never possessed the simpleacceptance all farmers must have in facing the elements, but she knew, too, that once away from Crete and out into the really open sea, she would be facing a new world in earnest.
At first she thought the sound came from the island, a slow plaintive flute, perhaps, the long-held note of a young farmer bored with the night and his sleeping animals. Then she heard the same note again, and again, and realised it came from far closer than the dark mass of land. She followed the call back, quietly making her way towards the stern, and there, small as her fist, perched on a pile of carefully folded and stacked sails, was the tiny Skops owl, the one the sailors called the invisible minstrel, heard often in the night and rarely seen. She sat ten steps from the bird and waited. She held her breath, willing it to stay. It let out three more long cries, then, in moonlight turned milky by the thin clouds, she watched it turn its fine head towards her, give out one more low call, and simply lift off from its perch, arcing slowly above the boat and away, back to land.
Many days later, on the last leg of their journey, Crete far behind them and only Africa ahead, Theodora – with Hecebolus’ permission, acknowledging he was her new troupe-master now – danced for the ship’s company while Chrysomallo sang. Neither woman was exhibiting her best skills, Theodora was fully dressed and, with her mouth open to let out the semi-pure notes, Chrysomallo could not offer the finest pose of her perfect face, but the sailors were entertained. Theodora and Chrysomallo were delighted with their applause. The captain led a toast to the women and Hecebolus was praised by all the men for his choice of lady as he grinned and
Theodora was definitely in lust, suspected she might even be in love – though she wasn’t sure she knew that state well enough to judge – and, once she allowed herself to relax into the lack of routine, she found it was possible to actually enjoy doing nothing other than waiting for another day to pass in the warmth of the growing sun. It was only when they were passing the southernmost Cycladic islands that she started to look behind as well as forward. At Sifnos they stopped to pick up silver for trade and various trinkets to adorn Theodora’s fine neck and arms, and at Milos Hecebolus went ashore with several sailors, ostensibly to catch a fresh goat for their supper – which they did – but more specifically to climb one steep hill after another to a hidden temple, there to sacrifice the one goat they did not bring back to eat, offering thanks to local gods, as well as the Christ, for a safe first half of the journey and obeisance for more of the same on the second leg. Slowly Theodora began to acknowledge how much she was leaving behind.
They rounded the long, flat face of Crete and she stood, late one night, on the prow of the ship, alone but for a watchman high above her, crying into the salt water below. Theodora didn’t understand these tears, they were not from physical exhaustion or hunger or anger at an uninterested crowd, this was a sadness that could not be quelled with wine or dancing, the kind of feeling she usually let seep into the church floor and away from her body, from her understanding. Theodora was missing the City. She shook her head, angry at giving in to such a pathetic emotion when so much lay ahead, angry and feeling it regardless. Far off on the Cretan hills she could just make out tiny sparks of light from farmers’ home fires, from herders grazing goats, keeping their night fire warm until the morning, drinking wine in the dark and wild sage tea with the dawn. She would not want their lives, she had never possessed the simpleacceptance all farmers must have in facing the elements, but she knew, too, that once away from Crete and out into the really open sea, she would be facing a new world in earnest.
At first she thought the sound came from the island, a slow plaintive flute, perhaps, the long-held note of a young farmer bored with the night and his sleeping animals. Then she heard the same note again, and again, and realised it came from far closer than the dark mass of land. She followed the call back, quietly making her way towards the stern, and there, small as her fist, perched on a pile of carefully folded and stacked sails, was the tiny Skops owl, the one the sailors called the invisible minstrel, heard often in the night and rarely seen. She sat ten steps from the bird and waited. She held her breath, willing it to stay. It let out three more long cries, then, in moonlight turned milky by the thin clouds, she watched it turn its fine head towards her, give out one more low call, and simply lift off from its perch, arcing slowly above the boat and away, back to land.
Many days later, on the last leg of their journey, Crete far behind them and only Africa ahead, Theodora – with Hecebolus’ permission, acknowledging he was her new troupe-master now – danced for the ship’s company while Chrysomallo sang. Neither woman was exhibiting her best skills, Theodora was fully dressed and, with her mouth open to let out the semi-pure notes, Chrysomallo could not offer the finest pose of her perfect face, but the sailors were entertained. Theodora and Chrysomallo were delighted with their applause. The captain led a toast to the women and Hecebolus was praised by all the men for his choice of lady as he grinned and
Similar Books
