Shirin clasped her hand over Thyatis' and held it tight to her. Her thumb traced a puckered scar on the back of Thyatis' wrist. "That must have taken centuries," she said in a small voice.
"Yes," Thyatis said. "But the Sisters have been here for a long time."
"There are no men here? Not even slaves?"
"No," Thyatis said, smiling in the darkness, "not even a slave. So it was in old Themiscyra, so it is upon Thira-the-Daughter. The world has enough men in it as it stands. There need be none here."
"How did you come here? Did you run away from your family?"
Thyatis stiffened slightly, but then relaxed again, though she held Shirin tight. "No: I did not run away. My pater- my father- was a landowner in one of the farming districts south of Roma, but there were hard times, and he fell into debt. I- we- my sisters and I, he: we were sold, in the great market."
Shirin turned her head a little, peering up at her friend. Thyatis' face seemed that of a statue in the moonlight, as hard as stone. Thyatis pursed her lips and shook her head a little. Little bells wound through her hair and tinkled softly.
"A woman was in the marketplace, just: browsing, I suppose. She saw me, all gangly arms and legs and wild red hair, and took a fancy to me. She was a duchess- the wife of a regional governor in the Empireand money did not concern her much. I was taken to her house, though I do not believe that I ever saw her at all. I remember little of the day in the market- only a terrible thirst and the great noise, all around me, of thousands of people.
"They sent me to a house on the edge of the city, a temple where women could find refuge. The priestesses fed me and gave me clothes and a bath. I stayed there for a little while, then two women in masks came to fetch me and I was sent far away from Roma.
"I was sent here, to the School, to Mikele."
Even in the darkness, Shirin could feel a wry smile on Thyatis' face.
"I was here five years- oh, and they were dreadful! The School is unforgiving and brooks no disobedience. I must have scrubbed every step and tile in this whole warren. But I did learn- I learned to fight, and to see, and to react without conscious thought. I learned the open-hand Way, and the sword art, and all the other things they teach."
"Was Mikele your teacher the whole time?"
"No, she only teaches the open-hand Way. Another teacher- Atalantashowed me the way of the sword, and many others taught me to read and to write. There are dozens of teachers in the School- Mikele is only the most memorable."
Shirin felt cold again; the breeze was becoming stronger. She felt a little disgusted- when she had been young, she had run barefoot in snow and barely noticed it. The vast open steppes north of the Mare Caspium were not noted for balmy weather and a comfortable climate. I have become a soft and spoiled princess, she grumbled to herself. But this will change.
"Do you want to go in?"
Shirin looked up at Thyatis and nodded, smiling.
The moon watched them descend the thousand steps, tiny pale figures in the silver light.
Makkah, Arabia Felix
This seems impossible. How can such a thing happen?"
The Lady Hala knelt on a padded cotton mat in her sewing room. The room was light and airy, with a high ceiling of cedarwood beams and white stucco. Stone walls closed two sides of the room, painted with pale colors. The other two sides were lined with shutters set in a wooden frame, now open, showing the tops of the orange trees that grew in the garden below. Beyond the green crown of the trees were the roofs of the other buildings in the Bani Hashim compound, then the rest of the city spreading out below. Taiya poured bitter green tea into small white cups. Mohammed sat opposite her on a thick-woven Persian rug. He was staring out the window. Above the red tile roofs of the city, the sky was very blue.
"I wanted only to die," he said in a soft voice, "but this voice commanded me to live. The sound of it filled the air like the voice of a god. I could not refuse."
"Was it?" Hala sat the enameled pot of tea aside and then measured a spoonful of crystallized honey into each cup. The amber kernels swirled into the dark liquid. "Was it a god?"
Mohammed looked back at her from the window. She watched him carefully, for he had been very distant and strange-seeming since waking. A shepherd boy had found him on the mountaintop, very close to death, his body burned by the sun, his lips cracked with thirst. The shepherd had carried him down from the mountain on his back and brought him to this house, to Khadijah's house. Weeks had passed since then, and only now could he walk and stand without help. The gray in his beard and hair had deepened into narrow streaks of silver-white.
"A god? Can it be anything but a god who speaks from the air, unseen? The voice spoke of powers awake in the world. It said that I must strive against them. It commanded me to act."
Mohammed slowly picked up one of the cups and sipped from it. The tea was bitter on his tongue, but then the warm taste of the honey followed. He put the cup down and met his sister-in-law's eyes directly. "I must follow that command. I will go forth into the world, with those men who will follow me and stand against the powers that I have seen."
Hala frowned, her eyes glittering over the pale umber veil that she wore when in the presence of her brother-in-law. She had spent many hours sitting by the bed where Mohammed had lain in his convalescence, waiting for him to recover, listening to his mumbled words. She knew, perhaps better than he, what had been said to him on the mountain. "Is this wise?" she asked, picking up her sewing and smoothing the cloth over her knees. "There are things that must be done here, in your home, first. The speaking of a god is not to be ignored, surely, but if you are going away, then you must settle some matters."
Mohammed scowled. He had fled his wife's house on the day of his return and gone to the mountain. Since then he had seen no one save Hala and the house servants, and that had pleased him. In all the years he had been Khadijah's husband, he had kept clear of the fierce political and clan struggles that raged among the noble houses of Makkah. Many powerful families lived in the city, or had estates in the valley, and there was constant struggle for position and eminence. He detested them- he had been a poor orphan before he had married Khadijah- for their slights against him. He looked away from Hala, his heart sinking at the thought of plunging himself into that morass.
"You have not even seen your daughter," Hala continued as she began picking out a poorly sewn seam in the dress. "You should take dinner with Roxane at her house, at least, before you go."
Mohammed sighed, and his fists clenched. He hated this. The demands of family and clan dragged at him like lead weights on a pearl diver.
"She misses you. She came every day while you were unconscious and sat with me at your bedside. That blouse? She brought it for you, sewn by her own hand."
Mohammed sighed, and his fingers picked at the edge of the shirt. " So, what matters must I resolve before you will let me go?"
Hala raised an eyebrow at the bitterness in his voice. She had long wondered if the arrangement between her sister and the wayward husband had suffered from strain. She guessed that this- the matters of the sprawling Bani Hashim clan and the intricate system of alliances and arrangements that had so delighted the subtle Khadijah- put a great fear into the merchant's heart. He was not a man who dealt well with inner fear. Too, being raised an orphan, he had not gained any taste for the business of a great sprawling family.