“Angelos, we ride!” Ratface called.
Angelos hesitated another moment and then mounted up with the liege men, and they rode out. The infant’s wails faded with the thunder of horses’ hooves into the jasmine-scented night.
I sank to the ground in tears, my arms limp at my sides.
Mama was gone, and so was my baby sister.
Gone before she even had a name.
1
I carried the full water pails away from the pond and through the dappled woodland. Two hours before daybreak, I had scoured the kitchen and commons floor with scalding water. Now, as the sun crested to the east, my back ached from scrubbing away the soot marks around the hearth on my hands and knees.
The nearby stream roared as snow-water torrents hurtled down the mountainside. In spring, the forest itself rested in a wintry haze, the hamadryads in each tree dozing until dawn dismounted her rosy throne and surrendered to daylight. In the almost seven years that we had lived in these hills, I had come to know the many craggy paths through leafy recesses. I navigated every dip in the ground and ducked from every bough, considerate of the yawning hamadryads. The water sloshed over the edges of the pails and onto my muddy feet. I should have slowed down so as not to waste more, but the handles cut into my palms, and my empty stomach grumbled. Replenishing the water supply was my last morning chore before I could eat.
Travelers headed my direction up the trail, a party of hoplites—poor citizen soldiers, farmers, and artisans who elected to take up weapons in defense of their homeland. The road was too narrow for them and me, so I stepped into the underbrush and bowed my head. My hair fell forward, hiding my unmasked face.
“Divine day,” one man said as they passed.
I flinched. His voice did not sound familiar. Still wary, I glanced from the corner of my eye. Once in a while, I met men from the nearby village for a brief romp down by the pond, but I didn’t recognize these men.
A very pretty unmasked girl, no older than thirteen, sat with her hands bound in front of their lead rider. An offering for the Almighty, I wagered. She could have been one of their daughters, or a girl sold to them by a poor family. It was hard to say what circumstances led her here, another girl who was worth just two hundred silver pieces.
Though I was supposed to return home already, I waited until the party disappeared up the winding road before hefting the water pails onward.
The temple compound was shrouded in springtime foliage, its outer walls a two-story dormitory that housed all the vestals, their oratory, and their workspaces. Within the courtyard of the U-shaped dormitory—in addition to the kitchen, stables, and outbuildings—stood the actual temple, a modest stone structure with columns on a base of stairs and an ornate precipice. The most recent addition to the courtyard, come five years ago, was a statue of the God of Gods posed naked with his arms at his sides and chin lifted defiantly. It, and the tattered First House flag hung at the front gates, displayed the minimal devotion required of any household in the territory of Thessaly.
My bad ankle throbbed by the time I arrived. After I broke it as a girl, the bone hadn’t healed right, often giving me pains when I stood too long or walked too far. A line of vestals exited the temple after offering morning prayers before the statue of Gaea. They had already laid their daily sacrifice of fruit or bread before the statue of the Almighty. He always came first. I mumbled, “Divine day,” and kept on for the open-air kitchen.
Acraea kneaded bread dough, with two slaves assisting her. My sisters worked alongside them, Bronte grinding grain and Cleora stoking the fire. They, too, had woken early. Cleora ran the kitchen and hearth, while Bronte swept the quiet halls and tended to the garden. A bundle of freshly picked greens was piled by the washbasin, waiting for Bronte to clean and chop. Our meager breakfast of stale bread, which they nibbled on as they worked, and wine was on the plate and in the chalice we shared. Fewer dishes to wash, Cleora would say. She always found ways to lessen our workload.
I set the pails by the fire, then poured them, one at a time, into the big pots for boiling. Finally, with a moment to be still, I stretched my back.
Cleora stared at the dancing flames. “You’re late.”
“Or dawn was early,” I replied.
Bronte snorted. I joined her at the worktable and reached across her to snag a piece of flatbread from our breakfast plate. She flicked me in the arm.
“Don’t forget to pray,” she said.
I mumbled a short prayer of thanks and shoved the bread into my mouth. “You’re filthy,” I said, rubbing a smudge of dirt off Bronte’s forehead. Her straight flaxen hair was tangled with bits of rosemary.
She wrinkled her nose at me. “You smell like a sow.”
“You smell like an herb.”
Acraea laughed at us from where she kneaded dough at the second worktable. She wasn’t like the other snobbish vestals who’d joined the Guild of Gaea in their childhood and kept their distance from us. Acraea had taken her vow of virginity later, after running away from an arranged marriage years ago. She brushed her hands on her apron and flung a gunnysack at me.
“Go to Othrys for figs and burgundy olives,” she said. “We need them for the bounty bread.”
“I said I would help with the mending, and I need to muck out the stalls. It’s also my turn to watch the flock.” I always had a long list of things to do. Whereas Bronte and Cleora had set chores, I did whatever needed to be done, which was usually what no one else would do. I had been anticipating a day by myself in the fields to practice with my spear and shield away from the matron’s disapproving scowls.
“The slaves will take over your household commitments, and Bronte will tend to the sheep,” Acraea replied.
“Why doesn’t she go to the market and I watch the sheep?” I asked.
“The wild dogs hunted down two lambs yesterday. She’s a better archer.”
I caught Bronte’s small smile. For her, tending to the sheep also meant time away from the overbearing matron.
“We need those ingredients,” Acraea added.
The bounty bread was baked for the First House Festival, the anniversary of the Almighty’s overthrow of his father, Uranus. The olives and figs, representing the blood that Uranus shed upon the earth, had to be soaked in wine for at least five days before the dough could be prepared. People across the world baked the bread in the God of Gods’ honor. The day of celebration wouldn’t be the same without it, but I didn’t like having my commitments handed off.
Besides, traveling to the city meant that I might run into Decimus. I was always on the watch for him. We all were. At times, I thought he had forgotten me, but the tag burned into the back of my neck wouldn’t let me forget him.
“Acraea, when do we leave?” I asked, tying back my deep-auburn hair with a piece of string.
“The matron said she’s needed here,” Cleora replied, meticulously tending the fire.
My eyebrows shot up. “I’m going without a companion?”
“You’re eighteen,” Acraea said. “That’s old enough for a day trip to the city alone.”
I often pointed out my age to justify my independence, but I was surprised Cleora would allow this. She didn’t like me going to the city at all, let alone by myself. The matron must have insisted. I grabbed the gunnysack. “All right.”