Cyrene
After four days Sabra emerged from the Temple, at midnight when the world was dead. Hanno waited for her again at the top of the steps, no torch in his hands but grief in his eyes. When she stumbled he caught her arm, but she pushed him away.
“Don’t touch me, Hanno,” she said. “I don’t deserve your concern.”
Hanno hesitated, then he shook his head and drew her arm around his neck. “You know, sometimes you say these things and—at risk of sounding defiant—I honestly just don’t care.”
Any other day those words would have made her laugh. That night, even the attempt at a smile brought the tears stinging to her eyes.
“Every single child,” she whispered. “Every single one of them was a far better person than I will ever be. Gods pity me.”
He said nothing, but walked slowly with her up the road to the palace.
It was always the same, she thought as she sat in the peristyle eating a handful of nuts. Every month passing exactly the same way. Was this the rest of her life? A cycle of death and half-life, and never an ounce of meaning?
The next day passed in a dull fog. She went down to the school and taught the children. Returned to the palace to pray and prepare for the winnowing. Ate a simple meal of grain and fruit and, at nightfall, went with her father to stand on the porch to start the cycle all over again.
Her vision blurred as she dropped her hand into the basket, sifting through the parchment scraps, praying for the god to guide her hand. She chose one and drew it out, numb as stone, and handed it to her father. He took it, and she watched him from the corner of her eye with little interest. His face seemed pale, she thought idly. His eyes so much older. When had that happened?
He swallowed, holding the paper tight, and finally lifted his gaze to hers. “Jezbel,” he said. “The name is Jezbel.”
What will her little sister say to that? Sabra wondered.
Her father said, “I can’t do this to my people anymore.”
Sabra closed her eyes. “I could end it all if you’d let me.”
They went down to the theater and called the girl forward. She was older, almost Sabra’s age, and a commotion followed her naming, but she came onto the stage without hesitation and accepted the wreath of flowers in calm silence. Sabra thought she heard a younger girl shouting in the crowd, but it didn’t matter. Even if Jezbel’s sister wanted to save her, she couldn’t. They couldn’t save anybody.
They waited for the crowds to clear the stands and then returned in silence to the palace. Sabra showed the girl her room and slipped back out before her new slave, an older woman named Acenith, could stop her. Coming to a sudden decision, she headed directly for her father’s tablinum. But just outside the door she stopped, because she could hear, all too clearly, Hanno’s voice coming from within.
“You have to tell her.”
“I can’t,” her father said. “You know what she will say.”
“Lord, you know it would kill her if she learned the truth.”
“Enough. I’ve made up my mind. See it done. And remember, no one can know.”
Sabra retreated back into the peristyle before Hanno could find her there. She sat a while on the pile of embroidered cushions, counting the passage of time. After a few minutes she would go and confront her father…not just about the sacrifices, as she’d planned, but this new conversation. What had Hanno meant, tell her? Tell who?
She groaned and buried her face in her hands. The palace was too small for secrets, and much too small for lies.
“I thought I would find you here,” someone said behind her—Hanno.
He knelt beside her and sat back on his heels, holding a dish and a cup of water.
“What’s this for?” she asked.
“You.”
She glared at him. The night’s proceedings had robbed her of her appetite, but she could feel her hands shaking and knew she couldn’t afford to wallow in her grief. She took the dish from him, but for a moment she just pushed the nuts and dates around on the plate.
“How did you know I would be here?” she asked. She wanted to ask him about her father, but was too ashamed to admit to eavesdropping. “I’m only here because I couldn’t sleep.”
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to,” Hanno said, shrugging.
Sabra studied him sidelong. He seemed uneasy, troubled, and that troubled her because he had always been so steady. So certain. A voice of reason when her own was far away. Maybe she could wheedle the information out of him without him realizing it…get him to volunteer it. She ate a few of the nuts, trying to come up with a strategy for tricking him, and reached for the cup of water.
“This is all wrong,” she whispered. She took a few long gulps of water to clear her thoughts and wash down the bits of almond that clung to her throat. “It should have been me. I can’t let this one die too, not after…”
Elissa. She closed her eyes but couldn’t drive away the vision of that girl’s eyes staring after her, calm and radiant…and sad. It was the sadness she remembered most. Not fear, not grief for her own death, but…for her. For Sabra. Elissa had watched Sabra backing away, and her eyes had shone with pity. It cut her to her core now just as it had then, and she clutched her stomach.
“Hanno,” she said, licking her lips. “It’s the water again. I can still taste it…what is that? Is it the god, cursing us at last?”
“I’m sorry,” Hanno murmured.
She blinked and tried to focus on him, but his figure swayed woozily in the firelight.
“For wh—” Her tongue wouldn’t move, wouldn’t speak.
“For this.”
As darkness crashed over her, she could have sworn she heard him whisper, “It was you.”
She was rocking.
For a moment she thought she had slipped back into her childhood, to the nights when Hanno’s mother used to rock her to sleep. Funny, that was the last time she could remember feeling safe. But she felt safe now, and warm, bundled in on all sides with the ground swaying gently beneath her. Blood flowed like sludge through her veins, and the fog in her thoughts reduced all the sounds around her to a muffled jumble.
Voices.
Quiet…incomprehensible…a low current of conversation and distant laughter…
“…Far enough by now…” a voice said with sudden loud clarity, pulling all the other sounds into focus with it and snapping her out of her haze.
She shifted, but she was so comfortable…and the ground kept moving and the voices kept murmuring… She couldn’t feel her arms or legs, only the heaviness of her body dragging her down…down into sleep…
“…Not these days…”
That sharp, clear voice cut through her grogginess again and this time she made a real effort to wake up. Gradually she became aware of herself. She was stretched out on her back, crammed into a narrow space between a few clay amphorae packed with straw and a pile of coarse rope. A thick wool blanket that stank of brine lay over her, blocking out most of the cold wind that she felt suddenly on her face. Cold…and wet. She winced as another gust sprayed a fine, stinging mist onto her cheeks.
Nearby she heard the heavy clomp of shoes on wood, and then Hanno’s face filled her vision as he crouched over her.
“Are you awake?”
“What does it look like?” she muttered. The ground rocked again, violently, and her stomach pitched. “Hanno! Where am I? What’ve you done?”
His face fell with genuine grief, and he clasped his hands at his forehead in supplication. “I’m so sorry, mistress. I only did as I was asked.”
“Where are we?” she repeated, attacking each word.
“See for yourself.”
He stood and pulled her to her feet. She nearly retched when she stood upright, dizzy and disoriented. There was nothing around her. Nothing but stars and…nothing but the sea.