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Part I | Part II | Part III

In the Kingdom of Horses

by Mary Morgan

Part II

Hesiod is exercising his prerogative as Chronicler of the Kingdom. Actually, he thinks he may simply be exercising his prerogative as grumpy old man; few care to try stopping him do what he wants, which is one of the compensations for his age. His reputation helps too, and he does not scruple to take advantage of it. No one wants to spend eternity recorded in his chronicle as a fool, or worse. Which, he has hinted, will be the fate of anyone who crosses him. In any case, he finds himself curious. He wants to see what Xena will make of the horses, and of the curse which besets them.

And, he admits to himself, he wants to see Gabrielle again. He has had her voice in his head all night, and without making the least effort can recall every shade of expression as it crossed her face while she told her story.

The younger bard is standing a little to one side, in the shade of the stables' east wing. She is watching her friend, who stands square in the middle of the great, granite-floored quadrangle. Both are ablaze with the mid- morning sun. Gabrielle however, Hesiod thinks, has something on her mind. Her face is pale, and there is a crease in the smooth skin between her dark eyebrows. Her gaze never leaves Xena, who is listening to Xanthippe's Master of Horse. The warrior has spread her feet and bent her head, but she still towers over him.

Ikarios is a very short man, stocky and bearded. He is deeply upset. Although his movements are few and controlled, his voice calm, Hesiod reads the set of his shoulders with ease. They have both been displaced by these strangers, these alien women. He feels for Ikarios, and wonders what this quiet, powerful man, who loves only his horses, will do.

Xena is nodding gravely. Ikarios has told her what everyone knows. The stallions are sterile. The youngest horse in the stables, their gift to Poseidon, is seven years old. He is the last to be born to the Kingdom's famed stud, and even before that, the numbers were falling. Things haven't been right since Pelagos was born. Each year of his life has seen fewer foals born. They have tried, Ikarios says, every potion, each healing technique, but nothing has worked.

Of course not, Hesiod thinks. All of the Kingdom knows what is wrong. It is Xanthippe, a woman who stands in the place of a man. Let Pelagos ascend to the throne and all will be well. He thrusts out his jaw, but a small voice nags at him quietly. Pelagos? He tries to ignore it. He's just young. The crown will sober him up. He seeks for more reassurance. It runs in his blood. He's Polybos' son, after all. But he does not believe this. He wishes he did. He wishes he did not suspect that the Prince is really the problem. He wishes the facts of Pelagos' birth had been...He seeks for a word; had been different.

"Xanthippe's faith in me is an honour," Xena says to Ikarios. Hesiod smiles, and makes no attempt to conceal it. She does not sound honoured. In the tail of his eye, he sees Gabrielle wander up closer. "But I'm afraid she's wasting your time; there's probably nothing I can tell you." Your time, Xena. That's what you mean. Hesiod's smile broadens.

"The Queen has insisted." Ikarios' tone is just short of surly. "Said you were a healer as well. The best that she's seen." As far as it can, his growl hints that he does not believe it.

Gabrielle is standing beside Hesiod now. She is watchful. One hand swipes at her face, a sign, he suspects, of uneasiness. He wonders why. Xena has herself well under control. Though now the Master of Horse has caught her attention. It was elsewhere before, the Chronicler guesses, but this is a challenge. The warrior's pride has been roused. He knows he is right when Gabrielle tenses. Though all Xena has done has been quirk one black eyebrow, let a smile twitch her lips.

Then she asks, "You've been letting them graze, not just feeding them in their stables?"

Ikarios makes a sound Hesiod will record as "harrumphing". Then he says, "Of course. Our pastures are famous throughout the known world. Why wouldn't we let the horses graze openly?"

"And you've checked what's been growing out there? No herbs or plants you haven't seen before?" Xena smiles again, sweetly.

"Every year, the peasants give three days to check the pastures, and uproot everything which shouldn't be there. Only then do we let the stock out." Ikarios' temper is rising.

Xena nods approvingly. "But suppose the pasture is sick?"

"We drench the stock regularly, and examine their droppings. There's nothing wrong there." He almost spits the words out.

"Perhaps you let them eat too well?" Xena sounds casual, not really much interested.

"My horses are not fat!" Ikarios is just short of anger.

"And what about their - equipment?" As Ikarios simmers, Xena grows calmer.

Ikarios restrains himself with great effort. "We wash them before every breeding, naturally. And check them constantly."

Xena nods again. "Suppose you let me see these wonderful beasts."

Hesiod glances at Gabrielle. He can see that she is amused, not anxious. Something has reassured her. Just that Ikarios is still alive and standing? She glances up and grins at him. "A draw, I think," he says to her, and her grin widens.

"You think so?" she replies.

Together they watch as Ikarios' hands ball into fists, then abruptly relax. "Very well," the Master of Horse says, and spins on his heels. He raises a hand, palm flat, fingers stiff, swipes it down. One by one the stable doors are flung open. One by one, the Royal Bloodstock, each beast with its groom, steps out into the courtyard. Sparks fly from the flagstones, their hooves beat their own drum roll. Hesiod hears Gabrielle's gasp. He is not surprised. Not one horse in this stud can be faulted. These steeds are perfect, and their beauty stabs to the heart. In the mid morning sunshine they glow as if being made at this moment from hot, supple metal. Light ebbs and flows like the sea as it blesses their hides. "Oh wow," the bard breathes. Her face is wet with tears. She clutches at the sleeve closest to her and holds on tight. His sleeve; he can feel the warmth of her palm through the cloth, feel its touch on his skin, Something lurches inside him. He feels as though he has been punched, as though there is not a breath in his body. Terrified, for this is emotion, and he has denied himself emotion for a very long time, he drags his attention away, redirects it to the centre of the square. Xena has not moved, but he thinks her colour is higher, her breathing more swift.

"They look," the warrior says, "in good health." She moves now, towards the first of the horses to her left. Ikarios tenses, seems about to block her way, then stops himself. He watches as Xena calms the horse with practised ease, stoops, examines its genitals carefully, then rises and pats its flank before moving to the next and then the next, working her way steadily along the line of horses, spending longer on some, asking a groom a question sometimes. Horse after horse submits to her touch, seems eager to please her, blows at her ebony hair or rubs its long, bony face gently against her.

Ikarios is her shadow each step of the way. But something has changed in his stance by the time she has finished. "Well," she says to him now, "they're in perfect health. Not a nick, not a graze. I can't see any sign of fever, nor of old injuries. You do your work very well, Master of Horse."

Ikarios bows his head. "I see you know horseflesh, Xena of Amphipolis. I thank you for your compliment." Hesiod, who has rarely seen this man smile at another human being, and never at a woman, is amazed to see him do so now. He is still more amazed when Ikarios holds out an arm, warrior fashion, for Xena to take. She does so, returning the smile.

"I think that's a win for your side," Hesiod says. With Gabrielle, he has followed behind them, stopping to chat with some of the grooms now and then.

"Oh, I think we can call it a draw. She likes him too, you know." The little bard is smiling, her eyes gently amused as she watches her partner. Hesiod stares down at her, trying to think of something to say. Then something catches her eye and she turns to look at the groom standing beside them.

"Hi," Gabrielle says guilelessly. "Who are you?"

The groom is very young, just a boy. Perhaps this is what has attracted her attention. Though when he looks closer, he sees the boy's face is flushed, and that he is crying. He wonders why Gabrielle is not sparing him the embarrassment of being noticed. Surely that would be better, to let him master his feeling and suppress it? It is what he would do. Emotions are better repressed.

"They call me Thalassos," the boy says.

Hesiod vaguely remembers why. "Sea...sea..." he mumbles, to himself, really. The details evade him. Is this a sign of something sinister? Is my memory deserting me? He buries the fear with the ease of long practice, and turns his attention back to the stable yard, to the horse and the boy who tends it. To Gabrielle.

"Do you help look after all these horses, or just this one?" She is not much taller than Thalassos, Hesiod sees.

"This is my horse," the boy replies. He has stopped crying. His chest has puffed itself out a little and his hand is on the beast's neck, possessively.

Hesiod cannot tolerate such presumption. "You mean this belongs to the Kingdom. That they all do. Don't you?"

Thalassos' eyes skitter to one side. He does not look at Hesiod. "The horses belong to the Kingdom," he repeats. There is mutiny in his voice, however, and this irritates Hesiod still further.

"Does the horse have a name?" Gabrielle breaks in. She moves slightly, so that her back is towards Hesiod and she stands between him and the boy. Hesiod understands that he is being rebuked, and is surprised to find himself slightly abashed. He is also amused.

"I call him Pegasos." The boy lays a hand on the horse's neck. The animal is storm grey with a black mane and tail. He is perhaps 17 hands high, but looks huge beside the young bard and the boy.

"Can he fly then?" Gabrielle's tone invites the boy to smile with her. He does.

"When I take him out at night," he begins to confide. Then he recalls that Gabrielle is not alone and falls silent, looking alarmed as well as rebellious now.

"Oh, ignore me," Hesiod huffs, actually more and more intrigued. He is also remembering more and more about the boy. An idea is taking shape at the back of his mind, but he cannot quite grasp it. And Gabrielle's curiosity and interest remind him of the days when he herded sheep in Boeotia and talked hungrily with everyone who passed by.

"When you take him out at night?" Gabrielle prompts.

"I ride him wherever I want at night. We go down to the sea. It's good for him to gallop through the surf. It strengthens his legs. Ikarios says so." Thalassos' voice betrays that he worships the Master of Horse. Encouraged by Gabrielle's silence, he goes on, "We do it during the day too, when all the horses do. But at night, you can't see the land, or anything except the moon and the stars. And it's like flying." Thalassos looks older now, almost as mature as the horse, which is fully grown.

Yes, Hesiod thinks. Unbidden, the image has come alive in his mind. Black and silver. The night and the sea. The stars and their reflections. Nothing at all in between. It must be like flying.

"That sounds wonderful." Gabrielle's eyes are not focussed on anything at this moment. Hesiod can guess why.

"So what does the Kingdom call him?" he asks the boy, giving the younger bard a chance to enjoy the picture in her mind's eye.

"Nothing." Thalassos' voice is surly again.

"Don't you name your horses?" Gabrielle's voice is amazed.

"Yes." Hesiod's eyes narrow. Oh. Now I see.

"It's a great honour," he says to the boy. "To be given to the god." These horses are left for the Sea God to name.

Thalassos says nothing. His brows drop and his lip pouts, however. Now he looks young again, just a petulant child.

"Hey, remember me? The visitor who doesn't know what..." Gabrielle begins, looking from one to the other.

"Pegasos is the stallion which will be given to the god tonight." Hesiod cuts her off before she can finish her question.

"How..."

He anticipates her again. "We give our finest stallion to Poseidon once every seven years, just as you said in your story last night. The King takes the horse down to the sea-shore and tethers it there. In the morning, the horse is always gone. No tracks, of any kind. Just the tether lying on the sand.

"Believe me," he insists, interrupting her objection before she can voice it. "I've seen it myself. It happens."

"I'm very sorry, Thalassos." Gabrielle has turned back to the boy. She rests a hand on his shoulder. "I can see why you're so upset." She looks upset herself.

"I won't let it happen," the boy confides to her, his voice low and intense. "Pegasos is mine. I know it."

Gabrielle sighs. "Sometimes, Thalassos, you have to let things happen. And afterwards you see why, and understand that that's just how it has to be."

"You're just like the rest of them." Thalassos sounds disgusted. He scowls more deeply, but he doesn't pull away. "I know Pegasos is mine, don't you understand?"

"Wait and see, Thalassos. Okay?" Gabrielle looks steadily at the boy. He is dark haired and fine featured. She rubs his arm with one hand. "Remember. A good swimmer uses the currents, he doesn't fight them."

"I can't swim," the boy says sulkily. But he doesn't pull himself away. Nor can he stop himself returning her smile. "Okay," he concedes.

The horse swings his head slightly and nudges his boy. Thalassos grins and punches its neck lightly. Then he excuses himself. "Sorry, Pegasos is hungry. He wants me to see to him now." He reaches up, takes the beast's halter and leads him away.

Gabrielle sighs again. "Oh, Hades," she says. "I'm glad I'm not young any more". She runs a hand through her hair.

"Okay," and now she is looking at Hesiod. "What's his story?"

Hesiod can't stop himself smiling. Oh yes, she's a bard. "He was found. Two days after the last time we gave a horse to the sea. He was swept up on the beach, a child of about two, wrapped in rags, lashed to a plank. He's lucky we didn't call him Flotsam."

"Oh my. The poor boy." Gabrielle has swung round to see where the horse and the boy have got to, but now she turns once again. "Xena," she says, and Hesiod becomes aware of a large, cool presence behind him.

The warrior says, "I've done here. Let's go down to the sea."

"You? You want to go for a stroll on the beach?" Gabrielle's eyebrows have risen in mock amazement.

"I want to get out of this place." Xena's tone is both grim and impatient. Gabrielle sobers at once. The slightly distracted, slightly anxious air which Hesiod remembers from earlier has returned.

"Then we'll go down to the sea." Gabrielle has found a jaunty tone somewhere. "At once." She waggles her eyebrows, a manoeuvre intended to amuse the warrior, Hesiod deduces. And indeed Xena's face does soften, a little.

Hesiod watches the two women leave the stable yard. What makes them friends? He cannot imagine two people more different than the warrior and the bard. What's their story?

When he can see Gabrielle no longer, he goes back into the palace. There is a great deal to be done before this evening's ceremony.

---

Xena looks out at the sea. It is a little cooler here, thank the gods. They have been walking along the beach for quite a long time now. The tide is on the ebb; they are following the surf as it inches farther and farther away from the land, their feet leaving two trails of neat boot prints behind them in the wet, black sand as they go. Gabrielle has not said a word. Other than the soft sough of the sea and the occasional cry of a gull, they walk in silence. Xena sneaks a glance at her friend. The bard is looking out at the sea. She is holding a shell in her hand, a long, narrow one, with sharp edges. She is turning it over again and again. Say something. Xena wonders what is going on behind those familiar, thoughtful features. Say anything.

"It's the oracle." She has broken the silence herself. Gabrielle is the only person who can make her do this. Now, to make matters worse, she cannot think how to go on, and curses her own awkwardness.

"Yeah. Everyone is being very careful not to talk about it. What was it about?" Gabrielle's tone is neutral. Very unlike her usual one. Xena sneaks another look. The smaller woman is still looking at the shell.

"Um. The Kingdom. That's what Xanthippe says."

Gabrielle looks at her. She raises an eyebrow in a way which Xena recognises, but at the moment cannot tease her about. Why not? What's wrong with me?

"Twenty years ago. That's when it was made."

"Before you first met." Gabrielle has switched her gaze back to the sea. Her fingers continue to play with the long, dagger-edged shell.

"Shortly before. When Xanthippe got married. They ask for an oracle as part of the service. This one was a knock-out. It said that the Kingdom would be reclaimed by the sea." Xena stoops suddenly and picks up another shell, a small, fan shaped one, almost white in colour. "Here," she adds, and takes the other from Gabrielle's hand before the bard can respond. "What about this one?" Safer. Why not say it? But the concern she has been feeling lest Gabrielle cut herself has triggered that suffocating sensation again, the sense that she is being crushed by something she cannot control and does not understand.

Oh, Hades! Xena rolls her shoulders, gathers her strength, hurls the shell out after the retreating sea. A passing puff of wind diverts it, and tosses it to the ground not far away. The feeling strengthens.

Gabrielle is studying her face. Xena makes herself return the bard's gentle gaze. What is she thinking? Her partner's eyes really are like the sea; thoughts and feelings move through them constantly. Sometimes she can read them like a scroll. Today she cannot read them at all. There's an unusual distance, a caution, a reserve. It extends to Gabrielle's gestures. No quick pats of reassurance on her arm, no physical contact at all. Xena knows it's her own fault. She's pushing the bard away from her, hurting them both, but she can't help it. She doesn't know why she does it. She hopes she will stop.

Gabrielle says, "It could mean some sort of storm. A really big one."

"There's always that chance." Xena is having to work hard to keep her tone even. She battles with contradictory impulses. She hates feeling this way. She takes a deeper breath, imposing some order inside. This won't do. "But they're used to storms, and they've always survived them.

"Eighteen years ago," she continues, "they thought it meant me."

"You?" Gabrielle has come to a halt. She crouches down and studies a pattern which stretches to either side of them. It's made from what look like small cones formed from coils of wet sand.

"It's a little wormy-type creature which lives under the sand and waits for the tide to come back," Xena tells her, distractedly. Then she answers the question. "Well, I came from the sea, with my raiders, ready to take whatever I could." Gabrielle nods her head thoughtfully. Xena is not sure which statement she is acknowledging. Perhaps both of them. "Fishermen use them for bait," she adds helpfully. "Lug worms," she finishes.

As she does so, she remembers who told her this first. Gabrielle, long ago, the first time she took the bard down to the sea. How young she was then, and how filled with wonder by all that she saw. How she pestered that pretty-faced boy that they met for all that he knew. How closely she watched the young bard, surprised by all that she felt as she did so. Amusement, affection, then, out of the blue, a jolt of pure jealousy. Which withered away when the girl turned from the boy and came back to her, eager to share what she'd learned. This hasn't changed, this joy of discovery. She still loves her partner's delight. Oh, Gabrielle. Don't ever stop wanting to know.

Gabrielle gives a splutter of laughter. "Don't try so hard, Xena. It'll come right." She strands and says firmly, "Now tell me. Just say it. What does Xanthippe want?"

Xena sucks in a breath. There's so much she must say to answer this question. Some of it, she is sure, the bard has already guessed. She did herself. But what Xanthippe told her this morning has shocked even her, and she has sworn to tell no one. Skirting this thing, though it's the key to it all, Xena says, "She thinks this is the oracle's time to come true. That it will happen tonight. She wants me to stop it."

"Yes?" Gabrielle waits for a beat. "Why tonight?" she asks helpfully.

"It's all come together. The time to give Poseidon his gift, Pelagos will coming of age and taking the throne. And the curse. It's complete now. It's taken years to get to this point. All the herd is affected. Not one stallion is fertile, and nor are the mares."

"Xanthippe thinks that's no coincidence?" Gabrielle is watching her face, discovering, Xena is sure, as much there as she learns from the warrior's spoken words.

Xena nods. "Xanthippe thinks Poseidon will not take the stallion, that he will take the Kingdom back instead."

The bard nods too, showing no surprise. When the silence extends itself once again, Gabrielle adds, "Why this curse? Why does she think the horses are barren?" Her gaze has not wavered. Xena allows herself to return it a little longer, lets it steady her.

"Xanthippe thinks, and her advisers think so too, that this is a sign of Poseidon's displeasure."

"So the real question is, why is Poseidon displeased." Gabrielle's tone is thoughtful. "Does the Queen have any idea?"

Xena wishes she could lie and say no, but she can't. Not to the bard. How much can I tell her? She begins to walk along the beach again, paralleling the surf, her head down. No words spring to her mind. Gabrielle keeps pace beside her. She too says nothing.

Xena remembers Xanthippe. How beautiful she was, when they first met. It was after the battle. She was still high on the killing she'd done. Her guards, knowing her mood, were keeping their distance. Her soldiers were looting the town. The Queen's army was broken, its remnants besieged in the palace. Xanthippe had spent most of the day tending her husband, stitching his wounds. In spite of all that she strode into the tent like a victor, trailing dazed sentries. She wore dark blue and silver, and Polybos' blood on her hands. It had dried in dark clots, but her sapphires were larger. Did she know? Xena asks herself. How that smell aroused me as no perfume could?

"She was remarkable, back then," Xena begins. Her voice is quiet. Gabrielle moves a little closer so she can hear, accepting the change of subject. "I had won the battle. It was just a matter of time before I won the war, I knew that. I was impatient as well, so it wouldn't have been much time. I was going to knock on her palace gates and demand she surrender. Instead she came to me. All on her own, not even a slave. I think," Xena's eyes slide sideways, and she steals a look at Gabrielle's profile, "I fell in love with her then. As much as I could in those days. She was a powerful thing. I loved powerful things. Well, I loved power."

When Gabrielle does not ask her anything, does not react in any way, just keeps on walking close by her side, their arms almost touching, she goes on. "I meant to take her as well as the Kingdom, I suppose. It seemed the obvious thing for a victorious conqueror to do. I could see she was trying to distract me, to seduce me, and that was a challenge as well. I looked forward to turning the tables. But then all of a sudden, she changed her mind. She presented me with a different proposition. With a bargain. She promised that she would supply me with all the horses I wanted, and ships to transport them, and that no one else would get any."

"But Xena, you could have just taken them." Gabrielle sounds puzzled, nothing more.

"I was young and impatient, remember? So I was going to seize everything of value in the Kingdom and sell it. That was my grand plan. Then I'd use the money to raise an army. I hadn't even thought of the horses. I'd probably have driven them off. Or killed them. Transporting them would have been too much trouble." Xena shakes her head slightly, curling her lip. She can't believe what a fool she was then. "What Xanthippe showed me was a way to make a better, an invincible army. She was promising me an advantage. With it, my forces would be the most powerful in Greece."

"The horses?"

"You've seen them, how tall they are. Think of the horses we breed in Greece, Gabrielle. What are they like?"

"Pretty small and scrawny, I suppose. Even the best of them, compared with these."

"Yes. Greece is too dry and rocky. We're better at goats than horses. All our best ones are imported, like Argo. But look around you, Gabrielle." Xena stops, turns landwards. "Lush prairie. And those bushes with orange berries? See them, on those dunes? Sea buckthorn. It grows wild here, and the oil works wonders on horses."

"A perfect place to raise horses," Gabrielle says softly. Xena recognises a line from her story. She nods in response.

By mutual agreement, the two women turn their backs on the sea. They begin to walk in the direction of the dunes. These are a surprisingly long distance away. At low tide, this beach stretches out into the bay for miles. Xena continues. "These horses are stronger and swifter than anything your average Greek warlord can put in the field. Mount a wing or two of cavalry on them, and you've got a weapon which can turn any battle in your favour."

"And that's what Xanthippe offered you?"

"That among other things." Xena fixes her eyes on the crest of the dunes. The bard will know what she means. "In the end, I spent almost a month there. Choosing horses. Training my men. Building the core of my army." Learning from her, she continues silently. Learning how to rule, how to use my body to get what I wanted, how to hide who I was behind the mask of my own face. She glances at Gabrielle. I've taught you that too, she thinks with regret, then makes herself go on. "I left about the time that Polybos got well enough to leave his bed for a few minutes." She flushes with unexpected shame. "I was already impatient . Tired of her and wanting to be gone."

Gabrielle still says nothing for a time. Then she tilts her head a little and smiles as she says, "Xanthippe must be wondering what has happened to you, Xena."

Xena shrugs. Inside, however, something unknots itself in relief. Thank you, Gabrielle. She always seems to be thinking this, even if she rarely says it.

They walk on. Gabrielle prompts, after a while, "And the curse? What's got Poseidon so angry?"

Xena sighs. No way will Gabrielle let this subject drop. She will just have to be careful. "I wounded Polybos pretty low in the groin. Xanthippe told me that today. There was no way he could father a child. Not in the normal run of things."

"But Pelagos is only sixteen..." Gabrielle's voice tails off. "Oh," she says. She thinks some more. "No, that can't be right," she says again, "Isn't Pelagos the spitting image of Polybos?"

"So Xanthippe says."

"Does that mean he isn't her child? Xanthippe blames you because the heir to the Kingdom isn't her son? Is that it?"

"Not really. Well, in a way. My wounding Polybos is the cause of it all. She's right about that." Xena searches for words, picks each one carefully. "The main thing is that she's the descendant of Hippios. Polybos was only her consort. The heir has to be her child."

"And there's no question that Xanthippe is Pelagos' mother?" Gabrielle sounds doubtful.

"It was the birth of the heir, Gabrielle. It was witnessed." The bard says nothing. Xena sighs, tells half a lie, though she hates herself for it. "And I believe her. If she says he's her son, he's her son."

The two women stop. Standing midway on a beach as big as desert but crossed here and there by splayed fans of water, they exchange a long look.

"Well, there are ways, I suppose," Gabrielle says finally. "She's a strong minded woman. I doubt she'd let anything stand in her way." She thinks for some moments, her thumb absently rubbing her jaw. Then she continues, "Poseidon's angry about the way Pelagos was born? Is that why he's cursed them?" Gabrielle is frowning as she turns the problem this way and that.

"Perhaps," Xena says again. "But there's more. Something to do with Pelagos himself. Something to do with his nature." Xena stops. She is afraid of saying too much, of Gabrielle guessing. She may already have gone too far.

"So? Pelagos is her son and the heir, however she worked it." Gabrielle's tone has sharpened. "It's her problem. Nothing to do with you."

"I started it all," Xena reminds her. She would smile if she could. The bard is always looking out for her. And this seems also to have distracted her partner. Feeling guilty, Xena encourages the trend. "She loved Polybos. She wanted his son. I made that, well, difficult."

"So?" Gabrielle says again. The tone of her voice is cold and her frown has deepened.

"So, I owe her." Xena tries to say more, but feels the words clog in her throat. This? I owe her this? The thought of what Xanthippe actually wants her to do still appals her.

"She's asking you to do what, Xena? What don't you want to tell me?" Xena can tell Gabrielle is working hard to sound calm as she asks this.

"She wants me there tonight." It's an evasion, but as much as she dares say.

"She wants you to face down Poseidon?" Gabrielle has jumped to a conclusion. The wrong one, Xena fervently hopes. The bard's voice is incredulous, angry. That quick temper of hers has been thoroughly roused. Xena expected it would, but by what she did in the past. By what lay between her and Xanthippe. Not by this. I'll never understand her, never.

"No way, Xena. It's her mess. Let her deal with it," Gabrielle insists.

"I can't." Xena spreads her hands. "I am involved. I did something and this is one of its consequences. Like I told you, I owe her."

"This is a matter of honour, then? Warrior's honour?" Gabrielle watches her narrowly.

"Yes. It is. And no, she's not asking me to face down Poseidon. It won't come to that. If she's right, Poseidon will be satisfied by what we do tonight."

Xena hopes this is true. But you know that it's not. She starts walking again. I don't want to do this, she thinks. I can feel that it's wrong. She picks up her pace. Xanthippe's voice rings in her ears, logical, calm, saying what she must do and why she must do it. That she started this thing, and merely must finish the job. An impossible task, described in the cold light of dawn.

Now she is walking so fast that it is almost a run. The bard has to jog to keep up. What will Gabrielle think of this thing I must do? Xena despairs at the answer. She'll hate it. She looks at her partner. Gabrielle is panting and her face is covered with sweat, but her expression is dogged. Feeling ashamed, Xena slows down.

"Okay. Okay," Gabrielle says when she has recovered her breath. "But not without me. You got that?"

I got it. Xena smiles to herself, sadly. She does not reply.

"Xena." Gabrielle's voice is insistent. She grasps her partner's arm firmly and brings her to a stop. "You have to trust me. I know who you were. I know who you are. Nothing I've found out, or seen, or been told, has changed the way I feel about you. Nothing will. So stop looking as though the world is about to come to an end. Please."

The bard shakes her head and starts off once again. This time Xena has to jog to catch up. They come to the edge of the beach. The dunes loom over their heads, mounds of grey sand which are crested with brush. Marram grass grows there in clumps, and gleams in the sun. The friends pick up a track which leads over the dunes and into the palace. Just before they start the short but steep climb, Xena sees Gabrielle tuck something carefully into her belt. She knows it's the shell.

As they get higher, the walls of the Palace and stables, of the town which clusters around them, rise up before them. They pause at the top and turn to look out to the sea once again. The water is now a long way away. Much of the sand in between is still damp. Slick and gleaming, it catches a tint from the sky, flushes lilac. The slice of sea closest to land shines like a bar of bright silver. Farther out it is dull, more like lead. While they were walking, clouds have gathered out there. Now these have piled high into the sky. It has happened so quickly. Both women shiver and press closer together. They can tell when a storm's in the offing.

---

Hesiod shifts a little. It must be his age, he supposes. Sitting on a hard surface never used to bother him this much. He is wearing his best tunic and cloak, in honour of the occasion, but they are heavy and itch against his sweaty skin in this dreadful humidity. The promised storm hangs on the horizon. It hasn't come closer. With the evening, a wind has sprung up. It blows from the land, has crossed stagnant marshes. The clouds have drawn back before it. Between Scylla and Charybdis. We can be drowned or stifled, it appears.

"Or both." The voice comes from his right hand side and Hesiod realises that he has spoken aloud. He looks round and down to meet Gabrielle's tired grin. She is wearing a much lighter and simpler tunic than he is, but looks equally hot. Strands of her short, red-gold hair have stuck to her forehead. "Phew!" she says, comically, and blows a puff of air upwards. The hair flutters limply, then flops down again.

"Why do you travel with that woman?" He has surprised himself with that question. He had no intention of asking it. But the heat and the tension are getting to him, he supposes, and this is why he has blurted it out.

"Huh?"

Gabrielle swivels round on the bench which they share, here in the shade of the Palace's east wall. She stares at him. He has made her angry, he can see that. But he feels committed now. He gropes for an explanation. In the end he says lamely, "You're like the songbird," and winces. Dictating how life should be lived was easier when I was just writing it down, he reflects, not talking to someone who was actually there.

"The one carried away in the talons of the hawk? In your scroll? Is that how you see me?"

Gabrielle sounds either amused or outraged. He isn't sure which. Cautiously, he nods. "She might eat you up or she might let you go, but she'll never understand you. You're too different. She's a creature of violence, a warlord." He believes this. He feels bound to explain it to her.

"You don't know her." Now he is certain; Gabrielle is furious. It makes her voice quiet, and very intense.

"Yes, I do. I've seen many people like her. People who steal what others have toiled to make, and left their prey to starve." He is aware he's becoming poetic, but can't help himself. "Greedy, arrogant people. Greece was over-run by people like that when I was there, when I was slaving to make a living off the godsawful land."

"Well, things are different there now, and it's thanks to Xena. She's been fighting against people like that ever since I knew her. Believe me." Gabrielle's voice is firm, decisive. Full of faith in her friend. He can hear that she believes it.

"But I bet she still thinks people like us, or at least like our fathers, farmers I mean, are lesser beings. I bet she still thinks people like her, who don't work but who can swing a sword and don't mind spilling blood, are superior merely by nature." Hesiod finds he is desperate to convince her of this. Shut up, a voice commands him. You're making it worse. But he can't. He has gone too far.

Gabrielle's certainty seems only to grow. "Xena thinks she is like us. Her mother ran a tavern. She doesn't think herself better than anyone."

Hesiod takes one final chance. "Are you sure? Yes, she's a hero when she has a sword in her hand, when she's looking down on everyone from the top of a horse." He is, he decides, pleased with his passion. I can still find some fire to put in my words, after all. "But can she be a real, everyday hero? Someone who fights the land and the weather? Someone measures victory in the amount of food she has put on her children's plates?" He looks at Gabrielle, trying to gauge the effect he is having on her. All he can see, however, is her profile and that doesn't tell him much. You've said enough, he tells himself, and makes his last point. "Can you see her settling down? Seeing how she measures up to that kind of challenge?"

Gabrielle only laughs, though there's an edge to her laughter. She says, "No. Not Xena. She wasn't born to live in one place. But that doesn't mean she thinks that she's special, or a hero. I wish she did."

Gabrielle has stood up, a little abruptly. He thinks she is about to walk off, but she turns to face him. "Was there a Perses?" she asks now.

Hesiod feels himself blush. "Perses?" It must be the heat. He runs a hand over the bald top of his head in confusion.

"Perses," the small woman repeats. Her eyes have narrowed. "The brother you wrote Work and Days for. My father made me learn that by heart, you know. All that splendid advice. 'The world's a dangerous place. Home's best.' Remember writing that? Oh, and what about, 'Trusting a woman is like trusting a thief.' He said if I didn't pay heed, I'd turn out as worthless as your little brother. The one you thought you were so much better than."

Gabrielle's skin is flushed. The lines between her brows and round her mouth have deepened. She's getting her own back. For Xena. Perhaps for herself as well. For the nights she had to spend learning his poetry by rote. And really, he cannot blame her. He drove her to this display of temper.

So, perhaps he owes her the truth. He nods. "Yes, there was a Perses. And yes, he cheated me of the better part of our father's estate. But that was the last I saw of him. He never came back, rich or poor. I never got a chance to show him how wise I had become, how much of a success. That was nothing but wishful thinking, Gabrielle."

He has surprised and disarmed her. He can see that. She stares a moment, then a small smile curves her lips. She takes a steadying breath. He watches her shoulders rise, then relax. "Ah," she says, "I see. Well, I can relate to that." She sits down beside him again and laughs a little. "Sorry. I just hate it when people criticise Xena, you see. It's not as though you know what she is really like, after all."

"So that's why you travel with her? To explain her to people like me?" Hesiod cannot resist returning to his argument.

"Perhaps." At first Gabrielle seems willing to leave it at that. But it seems he has set her thinking. "I suppose I used to tell myself that," she goes on after a time. Her voice is very low. He has to strain to hear her. "But that isn't why, not really."

When she falls silent again, Hesiod asks, though he knows he won't like the answer, "Why?"

"Because I have to." Gabrielle's reply is immediate. Then she stops once more. She has clasped her hands together and is staring down at them. "Because if I don't, Xena will just go on seeing herself as a monster who can never make good. I told you she doesn't see herself as a hero. I do that for her, I hope." Gabrielle draws a deep breath, then lets it out. Very softly she adds, "And because I can't live without her. No more than I could live without the marrow in my bones." She pauses after saying this. Then she nods.

Hesiod feels as though he has been punched, just under his heart. He realises this is the feeling he used to thank the gods he had been spared. He was right to do so. He cannot imagine anything worse. Because he is feeling it now. As though a cold wind is whistling through his bones. Hades, he curses. At my age!

"Ah, sorry," Gabrielle is saying. "That was very melodramatic of me. Must be the occasion. All this doom and gloom in the air." She grins a lop-sided, rather shame-faced grin. "I didn't mean to say that stuff to you. Really."

She thrusts her hand out, and when he takes it, gives his hand a shake. "Forgive me?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." Hesiod looks at their hands. Hers is small and fair skinned, smooth and strong. Not like his own, which is huge, knotted with veins and spotted with freckles. He feels awkward, depressed, and gently pulls his hand free. Then he says, to forestall a silence, "So, you didn't like it."

"Um." Gabrielle has been caught off balance. "Oh, your poem. No. No," she repeats. Then she chuckles, in embarrassment. "I mean yes. There's a lot of truth in it."

"But?"

"But I was hardly old enough to appreciate that. Or in the right state of mind." She is still smiling.

Hesiod nods. "And?"

"And?" Gabrielle pushes the hair on her forehead back with an impatient hand. The thought depresses him. "Well, I always felt there was something missing. It was a fine portrait of that kind of life and how to live it well, of course. I don't mean it wasn't. But..."

She hesitates again. He waits. Then she says, "Well, what about passion? There's no passion in it. You think that life is heroic, but you don't make the people who live it sound like heroes. Well, you didn't to me." She pauses. "Perhaps father saw it that way." Now she looks thoughtful again. Then she resumes, "And there's no love in it. Not of the land. Not of the sea. Not of a person."

Hesiod grins wryly, mostly at himself. He decides not to point out that there are friends and fathers, wives and brothers, husbands and children in his scroll. He knows that isn't what she means. All too well, as it turns out. Instead he says, and this is a new thought for him, "Perhaps, it's because my scroll is about what I think real heroes do. Keeping to Zeus' laws, with no hope of reward. Surviving their life as well as they can. Perhaps, for people trapped in that kind of life, love is too much of a risk."

"Ah." Gabrielle nods. She considers this. Finally, she says, "Well. Let's just say, I wouldn't want to survive my life at that price. Okay?"

Hesiod looks at her. Then he looks south, to the storm, to the sea. Okay. When he speaks, it is to say, "It's nearly time."

Something changes in Gabrielle's face. For the first time he sees that she's not simply tired out by the heat . She's worried as well. No. Worried is not enough. She's terrified. "Don't worry," he says. "Nothing is going to happen."

"You think so?" Gabrielle's eyes widen. She stands up again, counts off her fingers. "There's a curse on this Kingdom. There's an oracle just itching to be fulfilled. There's a storm out in the bay just waiting to rain - what? Fire and brimstone down on us, or something. There's a coronation due, and an offering to a god who, we can assume, is pretty fed up. And Xena is here."

She has run out of fingers. She repeats, louder, "And Xena is here. And that always means that something will happen. It means that she's going to be needed, that she'll get involved, maybe get hurt. Maybe get worse than hurt. You understand? Just to make sure that, whatever happens, the innocent don't suffer. That good has a chance to be done."

Gabrielle is almost shouting. Tears sparkle in her eyes. Hesiod can see panic is mounting behind them. Love. What a blessing. To have been spared it for all of these years. He tries to calm her down, saying, "Whatever trouble is coming, it's coming for Xanthippe. She's the one who tried to defy the oracle. She's the one who conceived life on a deathbed"

Gabrielle's attention is caught. She closes her eyes, then recites, "'Don't beget life after a funeral. Wait till a feast day first.'" She is quoting from his poem again. She opens her eyes, looks at him. "Is that why she's cursed? It's that what's wrong with Pelagos?" She does not sound entirely convinced.

"What else can it be? Pelagos was born nine months to the day after Polybos died." It makes sense to him. He goes on, "So you see, there's nothing Xena can do. It's between the Queen and the gods."

"Oh, that won't stop her. Not Xena. It's what she does." Gabrielle drags an arm over her eyes, sweeping the tears from them.

Hesiod sighs and stands up. It is almost dark. He sets his hands on her shoulders. "Right. I see. So, we'd better be there when whatever happens, happens." He keeps his voice as calm as he can and makes Gabrielle meet his eyes. "Come on. You don't want to be late." He swings her around, slips a hand through her arm. Together they walk down to the shore.

» Concluded in Part III