Lalasa rolled her eyes. “Our husband likes it this way.”
Diona scowled at the cloud of Lalasa’s ebony hair as a maid wove gold strands through it. “You will not be called tonight anyway.”
“Were you not complaining an hour ago about how often you must go to him? Though how you expect to get with child again otherwise . . .” Lalasa lifted her chin and patted
the small bump of her stomach.
Diona folded her arms over her chest. “At least I have a son.”
“Ah yes, one screaming son. The king can barely tolerate him. I am amazed he can stand to be near you.”
Kasia sighed and lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. She pressed a kiss to the little girl’s head and placed her upon her feet, then stood.
The other concubines looked her way when she did. She gave them a tight-lipped smile. “I ought to prepare for the meal too. You both look beautiful.”
Lalasa’s expression shifted to regret. “Oh, Kasia, we did not mean to upset you. Stay, please. We will not speak of children—”
“It is not that.” But her eyes darted to the three little ones. Diona’s son had taken his first toddling steps yesterday. He would soon be chasing after Lalasa’s
daughters.
Diona shook her head. “Forgive us our bickering, Kasia. It is the only way we can express the frustration.”
“She is right.” Lalasa patted a dark hand to the pouf of her hair. “We could tell the king how difficult he has been to please since we left Sardis, but you are the only
one who can get away with such impudence.”
“And were we you, he would not be so difficult to please.” Diona let out a gusty exhale. “It has been two months, you are surely healed. Perhaps we should just send her
in our place one night, Lalasa, and force his hand. The whole world would thank us.”
Kasia forced a smile but turned toward the tent flap. “I will see you both at the meal.”
Her servants around her, she stepped out into the warm afternoon sunlight and let her gaze wander to the knoll nearby. The walls of the once-great Ilium protruded from the
ground in some places, but in others nature prevailed.
“Mistress? Where are you going?”
She ignored Theron and wandered up the hill. Only once she stood in the middle of a broken square did she halt. Directly before her stretched stone upon stone of a wall, but
it tumbled into oblivion a few feet in either direction.
Had this been a room in Priam’s palace? The hall where he ruled, perhaps, or the bed chamber where Paris had held Helen as his captive lover? Had the Spartan queen seen the
masses of Greek warriors swarming the shores and wished she could put a halt to the war that stretched from year into decade? Did she miss Menelaus, her lawful husband? Or
did she go willingly with the Trojan prince who had stolen her from her home?
Kasia drifted toward the tallest stretch of the wall, high as her shoulder. The Greeks had done an excellent job of razing the city—and where they stopped, time and weather
had taken over. So little remained to tell the tale of a nation. She lifted a hand and rested it on the warm top of the stone, rough and dry, then trailed it over the
shadow-cooled side.
Jehovah God, let me not crumble and slip silently into eternity. Let me not be destroyed and forgotten. Preserve me, Lord.
So often these past two months she had felt like an echo. She spent her days being lulled into a daze by the rocking of her wagon. The sounds of countless marching feet and
stomping hooves, of men shouting and laughing, became no more than meaningless rumbles. Her mind circled from observation to vain longing to prayer and back again.
A river, drunk nearly dry by the army.
Her baby, under the earth.
Esther. Dear Lord, be with her.
Xerxes, beside her in the wagon. A kiss, a smile . . . then his attention would shift to a commander.
Her baby, who should have been growing large and cumbersome inside her.
Abba and Ima. Dear Lord, bless them.
The rumble of thunder in the distance—or was it the wagon, hitting a rocky patch of terrain?
A vision of a newborn, hair dark and damp, mouth open and squalling for milk.
Zechariah. Dear Lord, draw him to you.
Night on the horizon, looming lonely and cold.
The feel of arms around her, lips upon her—a dream, only a dream.
The empty future. Dear Lord, go with me.
“Mistress, get down. Please.”
She glanced at Desma’s pleading face. The stone of the wall was warm under her legs, a stray twig from an ambitious vine pricked her hand. She did not recall climbing up,
but she dared not admit that. They would force her back to the unrelenting solitude of her tent. Instead she smiled. “It is sturdy enough.”
Theron shook his head. “I hear someone approaching. We must go.”