“Ohhhhhh.” Gabrielle stuffed a knuckle between her teeth. Her throat was suddenly tight, and her eyes shone with tears as eleven women sprinted in close formation across the hard-packed sand, straight toward her. The twelfth, already several long strides ahead of her nearest competition, moved with a speed and effortless grace that explained why so many thought the woman to be goddess-gifted. Atalanta reached the turning mark, neatly snatched a stick from the official’s outstretched hand as she pivoted, dug the side of her left foot into the damp sand, and pushed off. The official transferred his colored sticks to the other hand and shook his smarting fingers; Atalanta was already through the rest of the pack on her way back to the finish line.
Gabrielle shook her head in disbelief. The huntress’s face had shown no sign of exertion, and she wasn’t even breathing hard.
The same couldn’t be said for several of those now well behind her. Just short of the turn, the pack had broken apart, and while several of the woman remained perhaps a dozen paces behind the leader, the rest trailed in a long, ragged line. The second at midpoint, the black-haired girl in the short red chiton, had a face to match her skirts and was visibly measuring her breathing: three paces, in; three paces, out. The young women half a dozen or more paces behind her looked even worse, and the last of them—a dark girl in a sweat-soaked blue tunic-gasped as she reached the official and sat in the sand as her legs gave out. The official shrugged, dropped the remaining stick at her feet, and gestured for the boys to bring the sledge back onto the course. The girl stared down at the bright blue stick; tears filled her eyes.
A half-grown boy slipped past Gabrielle to crouch next to the exhausted runner. “Amalthea? Are you all right?” The girl nodded; her face was a study in exhaustion and misery.
“I can’t—think—why I did this—to myself,” she panted.
He laughed shortly, without much humor. “Fortune and glory if you got lucky and passed her, remember? You won’t, though. You may run like a goat, sister, but you’ll never beat that.”
Oh, that’s so unkind! Gabrielle thought, and almost said so aloud. But he had a point. The girl might indeed have the tenacity and balance of a goat, but she was entirely outclassed in a race like this. She could break her heart trying to chase a dream like beating Atalanta. Better, maybe, to face that now, instead of letting it gnaw at her. Gabrielle shook her short, brown, dampish skirt away from her legs, then stepped back as the boys with the sledge began dragging it over the very end of the course, where turning feet had dug deep in the sand. Amalthea’s brother helped her to her feet, then wrapped a strong young arm around her waist to guide her off the course, where she staggered and sat once more.
“I’m sorry I dragged you all the way into Athens for this, Verien,” she mumbled.
“Don’t be,” he said. “You were there for me when I tried to bend the great bow of Hesperides, weren’t you? And I didn’t do any better than you did here, did I?” Gabrielle opened her mouth to say something, but the boy went on, one hand awkwardly patting his sister’s shoulder. “Remember what you told me then? That it wasn’t my kind of contest—just because I wanted it didn’t make it my kind of contest. And you were right, I know that now. Next time I try for gold and glory, I’ll pick something that involves swimming. Amalthea, you aren’t a sprinter, that’s all. You can run hilly courses and long ones—a short thing like this is for someone who hasn’t the strength to go the greater distance.”
Silence. The girl shoved sweat-damped hair from her face and gave him a hard hug. “Thanks, Verien. I can’t think what I ever did to deserve such a brother.”
He grinned; dimples bracketed a deeply bowed mouth. “You picked the right father and mother, of course. Do you want to watch the end of all this?”
She considered, shrugged, and let him help her up. “I guess not. I’ve already seen what she looks like from the back, running. That’s enough. Let’s go find something to eat, then go home.”
There, didn’t need to do anything at all, did you? Gabrielle asked herself. She sighed happily as the brother and sister vanished into the crowd along the seaward edge of the market. She sighed again, then turned back to eye the course. By the sounds of things up there, the race was over. No need to surmise who’d won. Her vision blurred; she ran a hand across her eyes and sniffed. I knew I’d be moved, watching Atalanta run, I didn’t realize it would move me that deeply, or that I’d feel so sorry for the others running against her. That boy’s right, you can’t compete with someone who’s so—so— Even Gabrielle couldn’t find words for the way Atalanta looked when she ran; not extempore, as Homer would say. Not with so much noise all around her, for certain.
Particularly behind her, she suddenly realized. There was a full-blown argument raging not far past her left ear, and the few people around her were edging away uneasily. She turned.
One of the city guards stood with his back to her, waving black-haired hands and shouting at—at a girl, Gabrielle realized indignantly. No—not really a girl, though she wasn’t any taller than Mitradia, and nearly as slender as Nausicaa—and probably no older than herself. The ends of a weblike silvery scarf that draped loosely across her dark hair trembled, and the young woman’s face was so pale that dust-colored freckles stood out on her nose and cheekbones. Her brown eyes were enormous and filled with fright. She clutched a green-wrapped bundle to her chest and tried to edge away from the man, who was easily half again her size, even without the crested helm, but he snatched at her shoulder with heavy, hairy fingers; the girl winced as they dug in. “I saw the work you put into that bit of weavin’, Arachne!” he shouted. “And you’re trying to tell me you’ll just give it to that brazen, yellow-haired, half-naked creature? Happen the queen would pay you a whole purse for cloth like that! Why, Athena herself couldn’t have woven it better!”
“Hush!” If anything, the girl went even whiter. “If Athena heard you say such a thing—!”
He spat, silencing her. “Ah, to Hades with her—and you! And the wretched cloth!”
The young woman’s chin came up, and her eyes were snapping as she stopped him with a thin, shrill voice that carried far across the crowd. Several women who’d stopped to purchase slivers of meat on skewers from a nearby stand glanced at the quarreling pair and decided to go elsewhere. Quickly. “How dare you speak of the goddess that way in my hearing, Anteros? I know you, you’re bullying me so you’ll have your way and force me to sell this at the price you set! And then you’ll ‘help’ me spend the coin, won’t you? If you don’t simply take it all! I’ve told you, Anteros, it’s my loom, my time for the work, my money when I earn it! I never want any part of you again: your filthy attentions, your greedy hands—or your opinions!”
Gabrielle looked around her. The sparse crowd had faded away entirely—except for herself and the two who were now snapping insults at each other. No one was even remotely interested in coming to a slight young woman’s aid, of course; not against a guardsman. It isn’t your business, she reminded herself firmly. He’s one of the king’s men, you don’t know her, you don’t owe her— That internal argument was working just fine until Anteros snarled and tightened his grasp on the young woman’s arm. She gasped, and tears of pain filled her eyes. Gabrielle closed the distance between them and cleared her throat.
“Hi!” she said brightly. “Arachne, isn’t it? I knew it was you—that head scarf, saw it from clear across the course. And I just had to come see what you’re up to these days! I simply can’t remember the last time we got together. I haven’t seen you in such a long time, but honestly, you haven’t changed one bit!” Her voice faded; Arachne stared at her blankly—so stunned or frightened she was unable to aid her would-be rescuer in her story. The guard had already turned to glower down at the outsider. A very long way down, Gabrielle realized with a nervous twinge. Oh, well, the bigger they come . . . She eased her right fingers down the long staff and shifted the grip of her left fingers to underhand. There! She was ready, though not visibly making a threat. Yet.
“Beat it, little girl,” he snarled. “This isn’t your business, and I’m sick of loud-mouthed females.” Gabrielle could feel anger flushing her cheeks; she held her ground and eyed him narrowly. He held up a large fist. “You want some of this after I’m done punishing her for giving me lip in public? I said beat it!”
“My pleasure,” Gabrielle replied sweetly, and brought the staff down across his knuckles, spun it and drove the other end into his midsection. He collapsed with a whoosh of expelled wind and a groan. Gabrielle took a wary step back, another, then reached out to draw the trembling Arachne with her. “It’s okay,” she said softly as she pulled the girl close. “You really don’t know me. I was just trying to get you away from him without making any more trouble for you.” She cast her eyes heavenward and pulled a humorous face. “So, it didn’t work. I guess if it had been me getting pinched and yelled at like that, though, I wouldn’t have been any more help to you. . . .”
“Trouble,” Arachne echoed gloomily. Her eyes remained fixed on the fallen guardsman. “He’s been nothing but trouble since I first met him.”
“How do you know him?” Gabrielle glanced at Arachne, then turned her attention back to the gasping soldier. “I mean, he’s not your brother or anything, is he?”
Arachne primmed her lips; her color was suddenly high, the freckles vanishing under a wave of red. “He’s nothing. Anteros, son of the widow Oriosa. He just got back from the eastern war—Troy, or maybe Ithaca, if you’ve heard of it—not that long ago. Got home the day I came in to sell Oriosa the shawl she’d commissioned, worse luck for me. She thinks he’s Hera’s gift to women, and he sees no reason why he should keep soldiering if he can find a wealthy wife to support him.” She sighed faintly. “I’m not wealthy, but I’ve got—well, I’ve got a talent that earns me my keep. Thank the gods for that, since I’ve no kin that I know of,” she added, even more gloomily. “Stupid Anteros thinks he can exploit my weaving by yelling at me in public,” she said, then shook out the green bundle and held a handful of weblike stuff before Gabrielle’s astonished eyes. The weave was even finer and more complex than the scarf on the young woman’s hair. Blues and greens interwoven with a silvery thread made a lacy pattern that shimmered like dragonfly wings.
“Oh—oh!” Gabrielle touched one end lightly but immediately snatched her fingers back, as if afraid to tear it.
Arachne smiled. “It’s all right, you can handle it. It’s much stronger than it looks. Warmer, too.”
“Oh—” Gabrielle glanced at her companion in disbelief, then gently stroked the material. It slid silk-like across her fingers, molding to the shape of her hand, and wherever it touched, she could no longer feel the afternoon breeze. “That’s wonderful, Arachne! I never saw anything like it.”
“You never will, unless it’s my own patterning,” Arachne said quietly. “Or a goddess’s work, of course. But—it’s a gift—Athena’s gift, honest and truly,” she added quickly and rather defensively.
“I believe you,” Gabrielle said. She stroked the silken stuff one last time, rather wistfully, then pressed the loose ends back into her companion’s hands. “You brought that for—”
“As a gift for Atalanta—since we’re both under Athena’s protection, she and I. Or—well, in my case, guidance, I suppose, since there seems to be little protection involved.” She glared down at the still-gasping huddle of guard. “And because if—well, if Atalanta would wear it, it would be good for my business. Though I don’t often claim aloud to be so—well, so practical. Mercenary is probably a better word for it.”
“If you haven’t any kin to take care of you, I wouldn’t call it mercenary,” Gabrielle said. “You’re taking care of yourself, and good for you.”
“Thanks,” Arachne said, and a little of the tension went from her shoulders. “He,” she added, scuffing a little sand in the fallen guard’s direction, “spends his free time hanging around me, ‘borrowing’ coin, and trying to bully me into accepting him as a husband.”
“Right,” Gabrielle said briskly. “And why am I not surprised? Because I’ve met too many men like that since I’ve started traveling around. Oh, look, he’s starting to pay attention. Pardon me while I speak to your—ah, what’s the word I want?—your sponge.” She drew her companion back a few more paces as Anteros swore under his breath and staggered to his feet. She waited as he flailed around and finally turned to glare hard into her eyes, then brought up her chin and lowered the staff to fighting stance. “Now, you listen to me,” she said flatly, with her best impersonation of Xena’s no-nonsense intonation. “Arachne’s my friend, and I don’t like my friends being pestered by the likes of you.”
“I’m guard, little girl,” he snarled. “You don’t order guard around. And I’m twice your size; you won’t get lucky a second time.” He swiped at the staff with a paw of a hand; she swung it easily out of his grasp, then back into position. He frowned, visibly confused.
“Maybe it’s not luck, Anteros. But it’s not an order, just a suggestion,” Gabrielle said sweetly, though her eyes were dark with anger. “I’m not the only one who wouldn’t like the way you’re treating my friend. I’m here with Xena. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of her?”
“Xena!” Arachne whispered and gave Gabrielle an astonished look.
“Xena!” Anteros spat. “I know who she is, all right. In fact . . .” His eyes narrowed and he folded massive arms across his chest, though Gabrielle noticed with some amusement that he kept well away from either end of her staff. “In fact, rumor has it she was at Troy when we were—but not on King Menelaus’ side, from what I’ve been told! I warrant King Menelaus and my own king would like to talk to her about that!” He clenched his fists but prudently stayed out of immediate reach of Gabrielle’s staff.
She smiled, in a would-be pleasant way. “Maybe. But since Xena and I just got back from Ithaca—just a little favor for King Menelaus, something he asked both of us to check on, you know—I suppose he’s not too worried about soldiers’ camp gossip. What d’you think? Of course,” she added cheerfully, “we all hear rumors, don’t we? Like some of the ones I’ve heard here in Athens,” she went on, her voice hardening once more. “About certain guardsmen terrorizing helpless women and trying to steal their livelihoods. I don’t suppose your King Theseus would like that much, would he?”
“Ah—you’re bluffing,” he snapped, but his eyes were suddenly wary, and no longer met hers. Gabrielle brought her chin up, and the smile was now smug in the extreme.
“Maybe. So, if I’m bluffing, I probably really don’t know Queen Antiope, either. The Amazon Queen Antiope,” she added pointedly, and casually buffed her nails against her short Amazon-brown tunic. Doubt now creased the guard’s brow. “Arachne doesn’t want your attentions,” Gabrielle said in a brisk, dismissive voice. “I don’t want them for her—now or any time from here on. She’s under Athena’s protection and mine both, all right?” Anteros looked convinced—but she had a feeling he’d be back to his old ways once Gabrielle wasn’t around to keep him in line. Impasse. She sighed faintly. He wasn’t going to fight her now—but she was going to have to find some way to get rid of him without costing him any more face than she already had. He was the sort who’d brood on such treatment—and take it out on Arachne later. And who knows if Antiope would even bother to put the poor thing under her protection? She might extend that kind of aid only to another Amazon. Some of them can be pretty prickly.
“Look,” Gabrielle said persuasively, “instead of bullying a coin or two out of this poor girl, if that’s the kind of life you want, why don’t you do it right? The war’s over, and a lot of men didn’t come home. Find yourself an older, wealthy widow who’d adore having a handsome young husband. Who’d shower coin and gems on him for just a few smiles?” Silence. “And by the way, you’d find it a lot easier to get that kind of soft life if you smiled and said sweet things to the lady with the money. Instead of shouting threats. Just a thought, you know.”
“Ah—” He seemed at a complete loss for words; he finally glowered at Arachne, leveled a finger at her, and mumbled sourly, “She’s right about one thing, weaver; you’re not worthy of me.” He spun on his heel and stomped off toward the market.
The two women watched him go in silence. Arachne finally drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Ohhhh. I don’t even know your name—but thank you.”
“It’s Gabrielle. And you’re welcome. Though, honestly, I didn’t do much.”
“You did enough. I—” Arachne shuddered. “Do you know, the last time I wouldn’t give him money, he found a nest of baby spiders and spread them over my loom? I’m simply terrified of spiders! And d’you have any idea how many baby spiders there are in a nest?”
“Not nice,” Gabrielle said briskly. “I don’t know too many people who do like spiders. Myself included.”
Arachne smiled, and tucked the stole back into its green cloth wrapper. “Well—thank you again.” She cast a worried glance after the man. “I hope he doesn’t take up your idea, though: a wealthy, older widow. If I thought I was responsible for . . .”
“You aren’t, and you wouldn’t be,” Gabrielle said promptly. “Most wealthy widows I know have pretty good control of their purses, and they know how to get what they want out of a man. And they usually have influence, or at least access to higher authority. For protection, I mean. Anteros doesn’t look completely stupid, either. If he sees anger will get him reported to his captain or kicked out on the street, I bet he’ll learn how to smile.”
“Well—he can be awfully sweet when he wants to,” Arachne said doubtfully. “He was with me, at first; before he discovered I’m not really that wealthy. And he’s sickeningly adoring with his mother.”
“There! You see? Mostly, that was to get rid of him without raising more fuss,” Gabrielle said.
“You certainly did that. Thanks.”
“Always glad to help. After all, I’ve been in that kind of position myself—well, not exactly that kind, but in tight places.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Arachne said. “I mean, you’re so—so strong and brave. I didn’t know anyone could do things like that with a walking stick.”
“Trust me, neither did I until recently,” Gabrielle assured her. She added warily, “I don’t suppose you have someplace other than your usual house where you could sleep for a few days? Just in case it—ah—takes Anteros a while to find himself a substitute?”
Arachne nodded, and sighed. “A friend of mine—a potter—has a studio; sometimes I use it because of the light. I know she’d let me sleep there, especially if I pulled her pottery from the kiln late at night so she didn’t have to walk halfway across Athens to do it.”
“Good. Great, in fact,” Gabrielle said. “Not to scare you or anything. Just—one of those sensible things, avoiding trouble. You know.”
“I can see it wouldn’t hurt to learn to do just that,” Arachne said. She sighed again and squared her shoulders. “I’d probably better go up that way, where the racers are, if I want to find Atalanta.” All at once, she looked a little nervous.
She probably should look nervous, Gabrielle remembered suddenly. Walking up to a person she didn’t know—a genuine celebrity—to hand her a gift that was both gift and free advertising for the craftsperson—that took nerve at any time. But Atalanta might still be snapping at everyone in sight; she might be one of those runners who didn’t uncoil until after the final race. And—as she herself had told Homer a while back—the woman might have cause to be worried until she was completely done and all the races were over. She touched her companion’s arm. “Listen, Arachne. There are three or four more races before the women’s finals, and I’d wager Atalanta won’t have anywhere to set a gift like yours while she’s running. I know you’d hate it if someone stole it, right? So, why don’t you just hang out here with me? We’ll watch her win that last race and then I’ll introduce you, okay?”
“You know her?” Arachne’s eyes were enormous. “You didn’t say—I mean, you really know her?”
“Well, sure! Well, that is, my friend does. And I talked to her earlier, before her first race today, so—” she shrugged casually. “So, sure, I know her.” Her eyes searched the racecourse; the near end had been smoothed for runners, the boys and their sledge gone—no sign of activity at the far end, and much of the crowd had dispersed. “Tell you what—looks like they’re done for the moment.” She gave Arachne a smile. “So, what can you tell me about this place over here—I mean, how’s the food? Because I’m absolutely starving.”
Arachne gazed at her in astonishment, then broke into a shy giggle. “You know,” she said finally, “you’re really such a nice person, Gabrielle. When I left my loom this morning to come here, I was nervous, upset, angry—I knew everything was going to go absolutely wrong. Just like it started to go wrong. And all at once, I’m not scared or mad at all. How’d you do that?”
“She’s a professional,” a dry voice behind them remarked. Arachne caught her breath in a squeaky gasp; Gabrielle closed her eyes and sighed.
“Xena, I really do wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said wearily. She turned to see the warrior at her shoulder. Argo was trailing behind his mistress, his long, golden head resting on her shoulder. “I mean, it’s unsettling, you know?”
“Better me than someone else you’d rather not have behind you, remember?” Xena sent her eyes to one side, then the other. “I thought I’d tell you I’m taking Argo for grain and water and a rubdown. There won’t be any more races for an hour or so. You want to eat and not miss anything, this is a good time.”
“Just what I had in mind,” Gabrielle said. “Where do you want to meet after you come back? Oh, Xena, this is Arachne, she’s a weaver.” She touched the near end of the woman’s head scarf. Xena’s eyebrows went up. “And she has a gift for Atalanta. I thought maybe if she waited until after the final race, maybe—ah—well, you know.”
Maybe if I’m with them, this poor timid girl with an incredible talent won’t wind up with her feelings crushed. Just the kind of thing Gabrielle would think about. Nice. Xena smiled. “I’ll meet you up there, where we were standing earlier.” The smile faded. “I saw Homer a short while ago with the two girls, arguing with the old woman about whether the girls could stay here for the finals.”
“Oh, I hope he convinced her,” Gabrielle said anxiously.
“He seemed to be winning the argument. I was distracted about then by what sounded like a serious fight down here.” Not quite a question was in her voice.
Gabrielle gently pressed her foot down on her companion’s toes when Arachne would have spoken; she laughed. To her own ears it sounded almost carefree enough. “And you thought—let me guess! You thought I was right in the middle of things, didn’t you?” She spread her arms wide and sighed heavily. “You know, I don’t always wind up in stupid situations like this morning, just because you aren’t around.”
“I know that,” Xena replied smoothly. “Just—checking.”
Her eyes were amused as she tugged at Argos’ rein. “See you later. Don’t forget to eat.”
“Right! Do I ever?” Gabrielle waited until warrior and horse were lost in the crowd, then sighed gustily as she began fishing in the neck of her bodice for her coin purse. She swore under her breath; it had slid most of the way down to the lower band. “Well—ouch!—well, she doesn’t believe me, but that’s all right.”
“She doesn’t?” Arachne’s eyes were all pupil. “And—that really was Xena, wasn’t it? I—I thought she’d be taller. Or—or something,” she finished doubtfully.
“Really, truly Xena, and she’s tall enough,” Gabrielle said. “And she knows I was right in the middle of whatever went on, even if she doesn’t know yet what it was. Since I’m on my feet and smiling, she probably figures I came out of it okay, and she’s not going to baby me, or ask me what it was all about.”
“It must be nice to know someone that well,” Arachne said wistfully.
Gabrielle laughed quietly. “Oh, it is. It surely is. Come on.” She squeaked as the purse pinched tender skin, then drew it out. “If the meat tastes as good as it smells, it has to be wonderful. My treat, okay?”
The afternoon wore on. Two more qualifying races for the women, two more for the younger girls. A final race for the youngest girls; mothers, and a father or two, were at the finish line, cheering wildly. Xena managed a warm smile for several of the smaller girls who were staring at her armor, wide-eyed; the smile turned chill as one of the mothers threw herself and her exhausted young runner into a chariot already laden with two herd dogs and a jittery small boy clad for toss ball. A baby pouch was strapped to her back, and the interior of the chariot was a welter of game balls and sticks. Two matched golden horses reared, then sped down the tide line for whatever activity was coming up—probably a hands’ worth of sun ago—for the boy (or maybe the dogs).
Right. You have your own young safe and confined. Who cares about anyone else’s young winding up under your wheels? Xena thought angrily. That particular class of Athenian matron was the most infuriating: comfortable wealth, ostentatiously displayed, but never enough time to accomplish all the pointless little tasks . . . Forget it, she told herself flatly. You can’t change people like that. Probably nothing short of death can. Probably someone like that would wind up arguing with Charon that she absolutely had to go back and haul one last load of beach sand for the small ones’ garden area. Arrange one last urn of flowers. Cook one last dinner to rival one of Lemnos’ creations. A grin tugged at the corner of her mouth as she glanced out to sea. The sun was notably lower. The final women’s race wouldn’t be that far off. Well up the beach to the north, she could make out a yellow-clad figure pacing anxiously back and forth, occasionally rising on her toes to peer toward the market.
Odd. Atalanta was normally arrogant and overbearing—but not the nervous type, and she’d already proven there was no one here who could beat her. Why would she care that much about one race, anyway?
The wind had begun to blow steadily from the south when Homer came looking for Gabrielle. “Remember Nausicaa’s young fans up near the finish line? They invited us to sit with them for her final race.” His eyes moved beyond her and he smiled at Arachne. “There’s room for three, if we’re friendly.”
“Sounds great,” Gabrielle said promptly. “My feet are tired. Homer, this is Arachne—she weaves. Homer’s a bard at the Academy,” she added. Arachne dimpled.
“I’ve heard of you,” Homer said; his voice was admiring, and so was the gaze fixed on either her face or the scarf framing it. He stepped aside to let the women precede him up the sand. “Another one for you, Gabrielle,” he added and went into declamatory mode. “I move and yet go nowhere; I wear down the mighty, and yet, a small, pale ball controls me.” He paused expectantly. Gabrielle’s brows drew together.
“Wait, I’ve got it—I . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Tide,” Arachne said immediately, then cast a sidelong glance at Gabrielle. She turned and walked backward a few paces as her gaze shifted to Homer’s face; her eyes went wide as she turned back to her female companion. “Oh, I’m sorry! I mean, if it’s a competition between you—”
“Nothing of the sort,” Gabrielle replied warmly. “You’re good!” she added. “Ah—and here we are.” She slipped between two tall, gossiping men and several women—mothers of the girls running, from the sound of things—in her quest for the course barrier. The girls moved to make room; one of them divided her red and white ribbons into two bunches and pressed half into Gabrielle’s hand. Gabrielle settled with a thump on hard-packed sand and separated the ribbons into a handful of streamers. “So, when’s the race start?” An excited—and unintelligible—babble answered her, but one of the girls pointed toward the starting area, where seven girls were stretching or pacing. No sign yet of Nausicaa, though Gabrielle could just make out the piercing voice of her servant. And then, in a startling moment of complete silence, Mitradia’s husky reply. The girl next to Gabrielle sighed in irritation.
“If that old idiot actually keeps them from running—!”
“She won’t,” another of the girls said firmly. “There—” she pointed excitedly. “See? Thank all the goddesses at once for Mitradia, she’s more than a match for the old crow! Nau-si-caa!” she shouted wildly, and waved her ribbons as Nausicaa and her companion stepped onto the track, Mitradia fussing with her end of the short rope.
Gabrielle suddenly felt a little old. Any of these girls could be a niece—or a much younger sister. She felt a sudden pang: Lila. Oh, little sister, where are you at this hour? Do you smile when you remember me? She blinked back tears. Keeping in mind I gave you our room, you should. Suddenly, it seemed wonderful, having such commonplace excitements as this upcoming race. She came up onto her knees, waved her ribbons, and joined the high-pitched cry: “Nau-si-caa!” Homer blinked, then smiled, and settled in between her and Arachne as the girls took their marks and the race began.
This time, however, victory wasn’t assured. A tall, angular girl in a damp green tunic dashed out much faster than Mitradia, who nearly stumbled as the green-clad runner caught her elbow on the way by. A groan from the girls around Gabrielle, then a relieved shout as Mitradia managed to right herself and go on, Nausicaa right on her heels. Once again Mitradia cast her companion loose a dozen or so paces from the end, but this time the girl who’d shoved her way to the lead held it and took the coin. Nausicaa’s fans were momentarily, glumly silent, then the one who’d shared her ribbons with Gabrielle sighed. “Well, that happens. And when it’s Orionis, you know they won’t call her for a foul.”
“As long as her uncle’s finish line judge, they won’t,” one of the other girls grumbled.
“Still,” the first girl said, “we can’t let Nausicaa know we’re disappointed, can we? It’s not her fault, after all.” She got to her feet, stared at the end of the course, and sighed once more. “Something’s up; no one’s presented the coin or ribbons yet, and I can hear old Stymphe from here.”
So could Gabrielle. The servant was berating her young charge. She handed her ribbons to one of the other girls, touched Homer’s wrist to get his attention, and murmured, “I think maybe they could use us up there.”
He rose, helped Arachne up, and led the way. There was a noticeable space around Nausicaa and her companions—other runners and their parents and the officials were giving Stymphe and her piercing voice a wide berth. “All this,” the old woman flung her arms wide, “a waste of a full day’s time and the travel—and now you want to stay for that vulgar creature’s race as well? And so she can hand you a nasty bit of ribbon? Why? You lost, girl!”
“My fault,” Mitradia mumbled tearfully, and blotted her eyes on the back of one hand. “I knew better than to take the mark next to Orionis. I knew she’d do something like that.”
“Stop, both of you,” Nausicaa commanded suddenly. “Mitts, it wasn’t your fault, and second isn’t so bad. Even if Orionis did swipe you on purpose, she was running as well as she ever has; we couldn’t have caught her. She deserved to win.” Mitradia gave her a sidelong, unhappy look. “Stymphe, you’re making Mitts cry,” she went on severely. “You always tell me it isn’t right to make people feel unworthy, and that’s just what you’re doing.”
Stymphe drew a deep breath and would have launched another spate of angry words, but Homer stepped into the breach, took her hand, and raised it to his lips. To Gabrielle’s surprise, the old woman turned pink and pressed her other hand to her mouth to suppress a thin little giggle. “I’m so glad to see you again.” He glanced back at Gabrielle, giving her a broad wink and a subtle gesture. Got it, she thought, took Arachne’s arm, and moved them both quietly away.
“He’s charming the old creature,” she said once they were back in the crowd. “He’ll do it better without us around.”
“He’s very nice,” Arachne said thoughtfully. “I—oh,” she added in a suddenly hushed voice. “Is—I—is that her?” Atalanta came striding up the sand through a crowd that parted to give her room, the end official at her heels, his hands filled with prizes for the girl racers. The huntress’s face was set, her eyes stormy, and her hands still picking at the edge of her chiton. A frown creased Gabrielle’s brow as she turned to watch Atalanta pass.
“That’s her.”
“Oh.” Arachne was visibly losing courage. “She’s—so tall. And so—so—” She swallowed, glancing at the sky and the sun, which was now quite low. “I—maybe I’d better just—”
“No, wait,” Gabrielle said earnestly, and took hold of her wrist. “I told you, didn’t I? Well, I meant to,” she added soothingly as the weaver gazed at her blankly. “She gets nervy before her races, that’s all.” Homer came through the crowd just then, looking for them.
“Well, I persuaded the old woman to let the girls watch the final race—I mean—”
“Good,” Gabrielle said. “Maybe we’d better find a place, too.” All at once, there were people everywhere. People who’d wandered off during the girls’ races were now coming back to see the renowned huntress, and others who’d come for this one race were just arriving. Gabrielle sighed. “I told Xena we’d meet her at the other end; guess we’d better go see if we can find something down there.”
They did—just as the race was about to begin. Xena joined them moments later; Argo, at her shoulder, now and again tugged at her hair. Gabrielle laughed at the picture they made; Xena shrugged. “He doesn’t usually get the chance to stand around like this.”
Gabrielle laughed again. “You mean he’s bored,” she said. “Tell him I’m sorry—or I would be if this hadn’t been such a great day for me.”
“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it,” Xena replied softly, and her eyes were momentarily warm. She indicated the course with her chin. “They’re ready up there.” Moments later, twelve women came sprinting down the track, Atalanta again well in the lead; just as she snatched her stick from the official’s hand and shoved off, however, several women at the other end of the course began to shout, and Gabrielle clearly heard Stymphe’s anguished shriek over everything. “Something’s wrong,” Xena said shortly. “I’ll be back.” She swung onto Argo’s back and rode out to hard sand, using her knees to urge him forward. Gabrielle was already as close behind them as she could manage on foot, Homer and Arachne strung out behind her. Dead silence now at the upper end of the course as people began to realize something was wrong, and in that silence, Gabrielle clearly heard Stymphe’s cry:
“They’ve stolen her—stolen Nausicca!”