Blind eye, p.1
Blind Eye, page 1
Table of Contents
Copyright
Critical Acclaim for the Iliona series includes:
Blind Eye
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
For the Upcoming Blood Moon
Blind Eye
By Marilyn Todd
Copyright 2015 by Marilyn Todd
Cover Copyright 2015 by Untreed Reads Publishing
Cover Design by Ginny Glass
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
Previously published in print, 2007.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Also by Marilyn Todd and Untreed Reads Publishing
I, Claudia
Virgin Territory
Man Eater
Wolf Whistle
Jail Bait
Black Salamander
Dream Boat
Dark Horse
Second Act
Widow’s Pique
Stone Cold
Sour Grapes
Scorpion Rising
www.untreedreads.com
Critical Acclaim for the Iliona series includes:
“Painting antiquity with a particularly suspenseful brush.” Booklist
“Usual feast of historical detail.” Kirkus Reviews
“Sequels equally entertaining.” Booklist
“Abundance of historical tidbits and robust prose.” Kirkus Reviews
“Skillfully tangled plot.” Booklist
Blind Eye
Marilyn Todd
One
The young stallion tottered to his feet and stretched the long night from his legs. The rest of the herd was still asleep, but the yearling sensed a new beginning in this warm Sicilian spring. And as the first of Apollo’s rays burst over the cave-riddled hills that formed a backdrop to the pastures, he snickered.
Until yesterday, each day in his short life had been the same. He rose, he ate, he frolicked, and from time to time he slaked his thirst in the waters of the River Kedos from which the great plain took its name. But yesterday was different. Yesterday, he’d glimpsed the future—
He baulked, of course, when they first put the bridle to his mouth. This was an outrage! Monstrous! And for as long as it took for the shadow of the umbrella pine to pass across the bank of yellow spurge, he’d kicked and bucked and raged. Then he noticed how the older horses had also had blankets thrown across their backs, and that they carried men upon them. Curious, he watched horse and rider trot, then canter, then finally gallop over the wide open grasslands, and these riders weren’t like the herdsmen he was used to. They were covered head to foot in metal, the same colour as the sea shimmering behind him in the breaking dawn. Silver. Shining. Polished. And as hooves and breastplates echoed like thunderclaps, the yearling found their thrill contagious.
Today, the sense of new beginnings was even stronger. It didn’t come through the dew that glistened on the pasture, or the crackle of the sleeping herdsmen’s fire. There was no rustle in the junipers, no change in the soft breeze, but it was there. Pulsing. Throbbing. Pushing through the soil and surging through the clouds. And, as the soft mist that hung over the plain began to clear, his young keen ears picked up a sound.
A soft hiss, with a strangely musical twang, ending in a thwack.
Another new experience. Something else that excited him. Then one of the mares began to scream. Rolling, writhing, she shrieked and kicked, and suddenly the whole field was thrashing in a sea of red. Panicked and confused, he raced to his mother, but his mother didn’t move. The yearling nudged her with his nose. Inhaled the same scent that he recalled from his birth. Blood, which ought to have been comforting, but now brought only terror, and as he fought to nuzzle her awake, a burning pain slammed into him. He saw a feathered stick embedded in his neck. Felt something sticky trickle down his throat.
Huddled tight against his mother’s flank, the stallion watched his bright new future seep into the meadow.
Two
Four hundred miles away, on the other side of the ocean, a very different day was dawning. Thrusting her feet into a pair of pale blue kidskin sandals, the High Priestess of the river god Eurotas marched across the courtyard, oblivious to the fig trees that scrambled against its whitewashed walls and the pomegranates that provided welcome shade.
‘You can put this morning’s ritual log back on the pile,’ she told the Guardian of the Sacred Flame. ‘I’m consigning this instead.’
She tossed a roll of crumpled vellum to the tripod, but not before the Guardian’s eagle eye had glimpsed the royal seal.
‘An offering which not only burns faster than our sacred oak,’ he observed dryly, ‘but one which I suspect will burn rather hot.’
‘Then we must pray that royal wax cools quickly, Perses.’ Iliona gave the scroll a good, hard prod with the fire iron. ‘And if you could collect the ash at your earliest convenience, I’d be grateful. The King specifically requested a prompt reply.’
‘I don’t suppose I could talk you into laying on a ceremonial olive branch instead?’
‘No, my dear friend, you cannot.’ It was not for the King to tell the High Priestess how to spend her temple’s income, much less dictate what manner of worshippers Eurotas should be attracting. ‘I won’t have my shrine turned into a political arena,’ she added crisply.
Peace had opened up the world. A thousand city states were forced to put aside their differences to fight the Persian armies, and in doing so discovered strength in unification. As a result, giant strides in science and technology were being made, trade was booming, and a fresh new style of thinking had been inspired.
Only philosophy was proving a double-edged sword…
For those who’d grown fat on this rising tide of progress, worship had become a platform for power, their lavish donations giving them free rein to impose policies that suited their own interests. But for every triumph, there were a thousand losers. Inevitably, they were the poor and the enslaved.
‘The King might not value barley cakes in the same light as silver or gold,’ Iliona said. ‘But it’s not right to oust these people, simply because he fancies a new showcase for his treasures or needs rich men’s backing for his plans. They have nowhere else to turn.’ Someone needed to make them feel there was at least some purpose in their lives.
Perses watched the edges of the scroll blacken and curl. ‘You do realize that the King wants to appoint his sister as High Priestess?’
‘Then he should have given her the job three years ago, instead of offering it to me.’
‘Unfortunately, he has the backing of the Council of Elders, and gestures such as these are being perceived as inflammatory.’ One hand tapped the smoking tripod while the other indicated the pillars, posts and lintels that had been garlanded with gorse.
‘It’s the spring equinox, Perses. A triumph of equality, a celebration of balance. We must honour the gods with our rejoicing.’ Iliona spread her arms in a theatrical gesture. ‘Eurotas is one of the few rivers in Greece to flow all the year round. The people of Sparta are truly blessed.’
One eyebrow lifted mournfully. ‘Save your eulogizing for the crowds tonight. As far as the King’s concerned, your feasting the rabble in a shrine turned yellow with furze is extravagant to the point of recklessness.’
‘Bending to pressure can only weaken Eurotas’s standing,’ she tossed back. ‘The King knows my views about demonstrating strength through belief in my convictions.’
‘If he didn’t before, I’m sure burning royal reprimands and sending back the ashes will make it clear,’ Perses murmured.
Iliona watched basket bearers glide over marble floors on silent feet while handmaidens fluttered back and forth, singing paeans to the dawn. On the far side of the courtyard, the waters in the bowl of divination were being purified by white-robed acolyte s. Cats too fat to catch the temple mice suckled kittens in the shade.
‘You just concentrate on keeping the Eternal Flame from going out and consigning Sparta to oblivion,’ Iliona said. ‘Leave me to worry about the King,’
‘With a wife who nags, a mother-in-law who shares my roof, six small children and a dog who shares my bed, oblivion cannot come too quickly, I assure you.’
‘Liar! You love them all. But there’s one more favour, I’m afraid.’ She pulled at her earlobe. ‘The thing is, Perses, I need a scapegoat.’
A worried look crept into his face. ‘For the King?’
Iliona laughed. ‘To dress up in goatskins and have me drive you out of the precinct, you idiot.’
The goat represented winter, and his banishment on the night of the equinox put a symbolic end to the ills he had inflicted.
‘Again?’ The Guardian groaned. ‘Couldn’t you find someone else to be the butt of public humiliation this year, my lady?’
‘Easily. But who else would give the children piggy-back rides, then roar like a lion, snarl like a wolf and play pin-the-tail-on-the-scapegoat as well?’
‘Madam.’ He inclined his head gravely. ‘You give me no choice but to accept.’
Since they both knew this to be true, Iliona said nothing, while out along the river, herons stalked the first fish of the morning and the low of oxen played bass to the skylark’s soprano. Across in the Great Hall, the first of the petitioners had already arrived, and she sighed as the cloak-maker knelt in obeisance. Poor sod. So preoccupied with the future that the present completely passed him by. Yet it was not to the Hall of Prophecy that the High Priestess’s pale blue kidskin sandals took her. Casting a watchful glance over her shoulder, she slipped out of the courtyard and tapped one-two, one-two-three on the door of the temple physician. After a moment, the bar on the inside lifted softly.
Checking again that nobody saw her, the High Priestess slipped inside.
Three
‘Is it true?’
The boy struggled up from the treatment couch. His head was pushed back down by a young woman with hair blacker than a raven’s wing, who continued to bathe his lash wounds without looking up.
‘Is it true?’ the boy persisted through a mouthful of blanket. ‘That soldiers are already searching the temple for me?’
Iliona thought, news travels fast. She’d only just seen the cloak-maker herself. ‘There’s only one visitor,’ she assured him, ‘and he’s after salvation, not you. You’re quite safe.’
‘For now,’ the girl muttered, blotting his back with a clean strip of linen.
‘The doctor’s right.’ Twelve years old and he didn’t even wince when she drizzled vinegar into the wheals. ‘Sooner or later, the Krypteia will catch up with me.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ Iliona told him. She’d cheated the bastards before, she would do it again. With luck, it would give them insomnia into the bargain. ‘Jocasta?’
‘The cuts aren’t deep, but his skin’s shredded like flax and he’s lost a lot of blood.’ Expert hands applied a poultice of vervain and hyssop. ‘Nothing a fortnight’s rest won’t put right, though.’
‘Two weeks?’ The boy’s voice rose several octaves. ‘Two hours is bad enough!’
Iliona watched the poultice bound in place with a bandage and thought, according to the season, she’d watch barley being scythed or beans being sown, and sometimes the Reaping Hymn would carry on the breeze, other times it might be the bleating of goats, or simply the croaking of frogs in the night. Never once, though, in all her thirty-four years, had she heard the tread of Sparta’s secret police—but they were here. The Krypteia was everywhere. Unseen, yet all-seeing. Unmoving, while observing every movement. Her hands clenched into fists. What depths of inhumanity did these men plumb, to allow a child to be whipped to ribbons?
‘I’m grateful for the physicking, but you shouldn’t have brought me here,’ the boy said.
‘Then you shouldn’t have passed out under my window,’ Iliona smiled back. Above the river, a ragged vee of migrating cranes trumpeted and honked against the backdrop of a cloudless azure sky. ‘What’s your name?’
‘It don’t matter. I’ll be out of here in a minute.’
‘True,’ Jocasta said. ‘But you’ll need to build your strength up first.’
He let her spoon soup down a throat that had no idea that henbane had been added, and as it drugged him into sleepy obedience, the flight of the cranes became mirrored in the deep, dark, swirling pool over which the temple stood sentinel. In the old days, when a king died, his corpse used to be sacrificed to the demon who was supposed to live in the lake. Today, of course, only traitors were thrown in. The trouble was, Iliona thought, they were thrown in alive.
‘I’ll drop by later,’ she whispered. ‘In the meantime, keep the door locked and open it only on our agreed signal.’
Risking her own life was one thing. Risking Jocasta’s was a different matter entirely.
Across in the Great Hall, the swathes of gorse reflected double in the marble, bringing sunshine to even the darkest corner. Musicians added to the gaiety with reed pipes, drums and lyres, while fountains babbled and scented incense wafted up in spirals from copper braziers on the walls. At the sound of the High Priestess’s footsteps, the cloak-maker jumped up, purified his fingers in the lustral bowl, then delved into his satchel to bring out so many coloured ribbons that the almond trees around the precinct would probably bow with the weight where he’d hung them.
‘Great Lady of the Lake who counts the grains of sand on the shore and measures the seas in the ocean, I beseech your help.’
What was it this time, she wondered. His bunions? Had his chickens stopped laying? Or was it another dream about owls that he wanted interpreting?
‘You hear the voice of the voiceless and see through the eyes of the blind.’ Shaking hands unwrapped a shoulder of mutton with which he hoped to appease the bloodlust of the demon. ‘You walk the wind and look down on the actions of mortals.’
Did she indeed.
‘My wife ails badly, my lady. I fear she is dying.’
‘Tell me the symptoms.’
Not that she needed to hear them. The last of the wine that had been fermenting for the past six months in vats had just been strained into amphorae for ageing, an annual process which culminated in the Pitcher Festival. Strangely enough, the cloak-maker’s wife fell unaccountably ill the day afterwards, complaining of pain behind the eyes, a furred tongue, a stomach that refused food and…
‘…a head that pounds louder than the blacksmith’s anvil.’
Iliona swallowed her smile. ‘Then we must call upon the gods to manifest a miracle. Come.’
Along the fields that bordered the river, a platoon of labourers armed with mattocks and hoes waged war on their enemy, the caterpillars determined to decimate vegetables that had been cosseted through autumn gales and winter rains and destroy the tender shoots of the new season’s grain. None of these workers suffered from hangovers, she noticed, but then they were helots. Serfs, slaves, call them what you will, they still were barred from Spartan festivities.
‘Take a seat in the plane grove,’ she instructed the cloak-maker. ‘Close your eyes, and when I tell you to open them, I want you to recount to me all the sounds you have heard.’
It didn’t make a scrap of difference that his problems could be solved here and now, on the spot. Supplicants needed to feel they were under divine protection, but the trouble was, they also believed the Olympians were too busy with heroes and kings to bother with ordinary folk. A river god, now, that was different. Eurotas wouldn’t have the same calls on his time as Zeus or Poseidon, just as he’d be more sympathetic to the marshy swamps that congested their lungs and understand about the wolves that snaffled their lambs. But at the end of the day, a god was still a god and even though his temple towered ten times above their heads and the approach to it was almost regal in its splendour, they wouldn’t come if Eurotas was accessible. Iliona’s solution was her claim to prophecy.
Never underestimate the power of illusion.
So she left the cloak-maker in the sacred grove, where white doves cooed and bronze chimes pealed, and after a suitable interval in which she’d checked that the sacrificial altar had been decked properly with turf and that the beacon fires would burn long into the night, she went through the motion of interpreting the sounds.
