 
Forewarnings and Three Grapes

Jon Jacks

Other New Adult and Children's books by Jon Jacks

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

Memesis – April Queen, May Fool – Sick Teen – Thrice Born – Self-Assembled Girl – Love Poison No. 13

Whatever happened to Cinderella's Slipper? – AmeriChristmas – The Vitch's Kat in Hollywoodland

Blood of Angels, Wings of Men – Patchwork Quest – The World Turns on A Card – Palace of Lace

The Wailing Ships – The Bad Samaritan – The 13th Month – The Silvered Mare – SpinDell

Swan Moon – The Unicorndoll – Lesser Nefertiti – My Shrieking Skin – Stone in Love

Font of All Lies – The Bared Heart – An Angelic Alphabet – The Fairy Paintbox

Text copyright© 2020 Jon Jacks

All rights reserved

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Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

Thank you for your support.

# Chapter 1

'I warn you right now,' Martis's mother snapped, 'there's no _good_ fortune that will come of that horse!'

'She's _already_ brought us good fortune, Mother!' Martis responded as brightly as she could manage. 'You _know_ that!'

'Has she? And what did your father do as soon as he returned? He freed all our slaves! He insisted this lump should be looked after, and given no work! Better for us, Martis, if your father had _remained_ enslaved by the Romans, you ask me.'

'Mother! What a _dreadful_ thing to say!'

Despite her promises to her father that she would follow his death bed instructions to the letter, Martis had decided that an exception could be made for Caesia when it came to drawing the funeral cart.

Surely, it was truly fitting that the mare who had carried him to freedom should now bear him on his way to the otherworld?

Besides, Caesia was the only animal left on their whole farm who was capable of the task.

*

'Your father Venthi was a fine warrior, like his father before him; he returned a hero from the wars. So we should forgive him his strange decisions once he was back amongst the peace of the farm.'

Many stopped by Martis and her mother Scarpia to offer their condolences. But Nerie, the young son of the couple running the neighbouring farm, lingered longer than most. He held Martis's hand, and her eyes, far far longer than anyone else too.

He had patiently waited until he was the last to pay his respects too.

'He knew what it was like to be worked as a slave,' Martis adamantly insisted. 'He couldn't impose that on any other man, woman or child.'

Unlike Martis, Nerie saw Scarpia roll her eyes in exasperation as her daughter defended Venthi's ludicrously ruinous actions.

'As I say,' Nerie persisted, 'he was a man regretfully broken by his experiences.'

'He acted through _compassion_ , Nerie!' Martis sighed resignedly. 'He wasn't a _broken_ man!'

'He certainly broke our _farm_ ,' Scarpia scorned. 'Bringing impoverishment to us all!'

'A farm that size can only survive if it's worked by slaves,' Nerie agreed, smiling as he added, 'Now poor Venthi has gone, you're freed of his ridiculous promises to–'

'No! Father wanted _no_ one to suffer slavery; least of all so that he might laze and be rich!'

Naturally, Martis didn't wish to make herself look such a fool in front of Nerie.

She was fully aware, naturally, that the farm was now losing so much money that it would have to be sold – and it wouldn't fetch as good a price as it would have only a while ago, for now previously farmed and well irrigated fields had returned to scrubland. She and her mother lived now on nothing but the proceeds from a small flock of geese and litters of rabbits, the more valuable herds having been sold as they were sickening and starving.

Her father had meant well, of course; but it was all so highly impractical, this insistence that the farm had to be managed without recourse to using slaves.

Still, she had promised him that she would uphold his wishes. He had always called her britos-Martis, for he said it meant 'sweet maiden'. And consequentially, he had scandalously left the farm to her rather than Scarpia, which had caused even greater rancour between mother and daughter.

Of course, when the pronouncements of her father's will had first become known to everyone, Martis had insisted that the farm was more rightfully her mother's, that she would sign any necessary agreements to make it legally Scarpia's rather than hers.

'So, you _are_ prepared to go against your father's will on this matter?' Scarpia had pointed out cynically. 'So why not, too, on this far more ridiculous stipulation on not using slaves? We _can't_ run the farm without them, Martis!'

'No, Mother!' Martis had sadly shook her head. 'Don't you see? That would be like accepting that _Father_ was _rightfully_ enslaved!'

'Then...you _are_ saying that this _is_ your farm,' her mother had declared resignedly.

'It was _Father's_ farm; it was _his_ will that we should abhor _all_ forms of slavery!' Martis had resolutely reminded her mother.

'He's dead, Martis!' her mother snapped back at her now, reflecting Nerie's own thoughts on the matter. 'It's easy for _him_ to continue demanding the impossible! We can't be held to promises made to a man who wasn't whole of mind!'

'We couldn't even afford new slaves now anyway!' Martis retorted in exasperation. 'So...a slave-free farm it _must_ remain!'

'Then you'll be glad to know that _I_ can't slave anymore on that farm either,' Scarpia abruptly declared on hearing Martis's assertion that she would continue to adhere to her father's will. 'It's _your_ farm now, Martis: I'll take what's mine, and leave you to make the best of it!'

*

# Chapter 2

Martis recognised that her mother had every right to be angry with her father.

Even before he had returned, it had been hard enough keeping the farm going in a time of war, when taxes were higher, when brigands ran more freely everywhere about the countryside.

Worse still were the rumours of victories and defeats, none of which seemed entirely believable, so extreme were the forecasts of land being won or lost, of vast numbers of the dead.

Of most concern to them, of course, was news of how close the enemy were drawing towards their own land, or the likelihood of Venthi being amongst the dead.

It was an anxious time for everyone. But those with husbands or sons in the armies facing the fiercest fighting were naturally more afraid than anyone.

Worst of all for Martis and her mother was that Venthi had to live up to the reputation of his father, and the bravery in battle he had become famous for. He would take chances, involve himself in actions that wiser, warier soldiers would seek to avoid, despite the opportunity for draping themselves in glory.

Nothing had been heard of Venthi for well over half a year, though it had been whispered for a while now that he had been caught up in a supposedly indecisive battle in which both sides had suffered heavy losses.

At least, however, it was time when they had more than enough slaves to comfortably look after the farm. At least, that was the case until he returned, initially to ecstatic celebrations, riding into the villa's courtyard on a proud war horse.

Before the sun had set, he had ordered and signed off the release of every slave.

But as anyone wiser could have foreseen, those who had risen to positions of power over the others didn't enjoy their freedom for long.

*

Now that her mother had left to live with relatives in the city, taking with her the money and remaining jewellery she claimed as her own, Martis's position was obviously worse than ever.

'You should see sense; you should marry,' had been her mother's final, harshly spoken words. 'Nerie, perhaps, if you're lucky and he's fool enough to take on a farm without slaves; that's as high as you can aim for now, I'm afraid.'

There could be no clearer sign to Martis that her mother believed they had suffered a precipitous fall in their social standing if she was seriously suggesting marriage to Nerie.

'It's one thing to be friends as children; another thing completely to remain close as you leave childhood behind,' her mother had warned her only a year ago, having noted Nerie's continued and growing interest in her rapidly blossoming daughter.

It wasn't that Scarpia was unaware of Nerie's many attributes: his strength, particularly when controlling a plough: his charm, his way with sweetly flattering words that enthralled many women of all ages; his jaunty confidence, aided by a beaming smile, a sculpted face, sparkling eyes, and a framing of curling dark hair.

No one could remain oblivious to such obvious features, least of all the innately perceptive Scarpia, who read people's expressions, their slightest moves, as if they were unwittingly setting out their innermost thoughts on scrolls.

She _feared_ these otherwise admirable characteristics of Nerie's.

For young girls were given to foolishness as they went through the inevitable changes, as if their reason was somehow sent chaotically tumbling by their physical transformation. Just as there was no consideration of how short-lived their beauty would be, they failed to see how time would wear away the very qualities they sought in their suitors.

Children and grandchildren could only rise smoothly through the ranks if you married a man of wealth and prestige. And it was the future prosperity of the family that must always come first.

What kind of future now awaited Martis's offspring?

A poor one, her mother appeared to be predicting.

*

The pig – now the farm's one and only pig – Martis was attempting to feed didn't seem to like the incredibly poor-quality food he was being offered.

Weren't pigs supposed to be happy to eat anything?

With a snort of disgust, the pig suddenly and threateningly rushed towards Martis.

In a panic, fearing being trampled by its great weight, Martis tried to duck to one side; but the floor was slippery with swill and waste, slowing her moves, rendering her unsteady on her feet. She avoided being directly crushed by the pig – who was thankfully far more focused on making his way towards the sty's open gate – but suffered a glancing blow that brutally forced the wind from her lungs and seemed to cause her very bones to shriek in agony.

She was sent flying back, landing amongst the evil smelling filth with a disgusting squelch as it curled in everywhere about her in slow waves.

In its eagerness to flee its confines, the pig shattered the wooden gate, bending even the iron hinges as they were torn loose from the posts.

Martis was close to weeping in weary frustration.

Just how much worse could things get?

*

# Chapter 3

Even the birds, flying high above the farm – for there were no seeds, no fresh seedling or fruit crops, to attract them down onto the land itself – could be heard laughing at her predicament.

The flight of birds could predict your future, she'd heard.

You divided up the sky in your mind, first into quarters, then once again quartered each section.

How it all worked other than that she couldn't be quite sure.

Above her, though, she could quite clearly saw that three of the birds were flying free of the flock.

Was that her, her mother and her father, all leaving the farm?

What else could it be?

But...she wasn't quite ready to give up on the farm just yet.

For yes, things could be worse, couldn't they?

If the pig had directly struck her rather than the gate, why, wouldn't it now be her lying smashed and broken amongst this filth?

As she tried to rise up out of the stench of the swill, using her hands as well as an attempted spreading and steadying of her feet, she slipped a number of times, almost falling completely back into the squelching mess. It was only by half clambering up the wall that she at last managed to gain her feet.

'Martis...is that _you_?'

The tone of the question was uncertain, shocked even.

As Martis whirled around to see who'd spoken, she almost slipped back into the cloying quagmire.

It was Nerie; gawping at her as he might stare at a loathsome demon.

*

It was only a few hours ago that Scarpia had fled the impoverished and disintegrating farm. But Nerie must have already heard, Martis realised, for he'd called on her dressed in his very best clothes, and with his hair almost comically tamed for the occasion.

'I heard your mother has left.'

He said it as if he were sorry, as if he believed this was the most terrible news.

Scarpia, had she been there, noting the small creases at each corners of his mouth, would have immediately discerned his real thoughts on the matter.

Nerie had never liked Scarpia. So how could he regret her leaving?

'Old women are the bane of my life,' he'd often complained to Martis, usually after some mother had chased him away from their daughter. And Scarpia was always warning him that he must never flatter himself that he would ever be considered worthy of marriage to Martis.

'I couldn't fail to notice the poor state of your farm,' he bluntly declared now, as if the one thing he had failed to note was the poor state of Martis herself. 'It must be impossible for a woman _alone_ to manage...'

His eyes took her in fully, drawing attention to her dishevelled appearance as a means of highlighting the truth behind his bold statement.

The phrasing of his words could be taken as a cautious marriage proposal. If that were the case, it was also being hinted, she'd be a fool to refuse.

Martis began to steadily make her way towards the sty's broken gate.

'Maybe I should clean myself up a bit before we–'

'If you sold it now, you wouldn't receive anywhere near its true worth,' Nerie uncharacteristically nervously babbled on, perhaps realising there were undoubted advantages in discovering Martis in such an unflattering position.

'It's true,' Martis admitted resignedly, 'but what alternative do I have?'

Was she saying this to urge Nerie into making a more unambiguous proposal?

Martis wasn't even sure herself.

She couldn't be sure of anything anymore.

'My workers could transform it within the year, I'm sure,' Nerie said assuredly.

'Your _slaves_ , you mean?' Martis sardonically corrected him

'But they _would_ be _my_ slaves; not _yours_ ,' Nerie slyly pointed out. 'Any promise made to your father wouldn't be _broken_ ...'

Martis recognised that Nerie was merely manipulating words and their representations rather than delving into real-world practicalities.

Still...

She was desperate.

Still...

'They'd be working on _my_ farm...'

Martis almost unwillingly raised this flaw in Nerie's argument.

Nerie grinned wryly.

'Unless, of course, we were _married_ ....'

*

# Chapter 4

Was it this, then, that the birds had been telling Martis?

That she must leave the crowd, marry, have a child?

Is _that_ what the flight of the three birds meant she should do?

Martis was sure there had been a message behind the strange behaviour of the birds.

But how did you go about interpreting it accurately?

It certainly made the most perfect sense to marry Nerie.

The farm of his parents was presently flourishing, not least because they'd hired the paid labours and administrators who'd fled her father's farm as soon as they'd realised the impossibility of running it without slaves.

Marrying Nerie would bring them back, along with all the knowledge they possessed for the smooth working of the farm.

Surely, the merging of the farms augured well.

Nerie obviously believed so, for – to ease any reservations Martis might still hold regarding the fruitfulness of any marriage – he invited a respected Haruspex to the farm, an expert in reading the entrails of dissected animals.

'The charge will be ten eggs,' the young girl declared on Nerie asking her the price of her prediction, holding up her fingers before her so that there could be no doubting her demand.

'Nine it is then,' Nerie sternly yet gleefully declared, taking advantage of the girl's missing little finger.

Beneath the heavy shadows of her tall, conical hat, the girl gave a disgruntled frown yet made no attempt to argue. She pulled free from her waist a tied canvas bag that squirmed and jumped as if it were alive. With a deft undoing of its knotted tie, she reached in and dragged out an anxiously twitching rabbit, holding it firmly by the back of its neck.

It was wild-eyed, fearful.

It was also, Martis noted, incredibly emaciated, its fur ragged and dull; not at all like the rabbits she and her mother had raised, with their almost silken coats, their bodies so fat and enlarged they could only hop around lazily from one dish of food or water to another.

With a swift swipe of a precisely sharpened blade, the young girl cut the poor rabbit's throat, holding the poor creature now by its long ears as it twitched and shrugged as it died. She let the blood stream into a bowl filled with dark earth she had placed upon the strip of wood serving as a make-shift table, taking pains to make sure not one bright, scarlet drop accidentally spilled into a second bowl she had filled with clear water.

With yet more swift and precise strokes, the rabbit was dissected, opened up, and spread out cruciform-like upon the table top.

Despite her young age, the girl handled her knife with the assurance of many years of practise.

Had she lost her finger, Martis wondered, when she hadn't been quite so accomplished in its use?

The spilling out of the rabbit's warm innards set them quivering, as if they still contained the last residues of life.

The girl once again moved remarkably quickly, her hands and fingers once more awhirl as, this time, she separated and washed the spilling entrails, sometimes using little more than the flick of an extended little finger. Her eyes moved with a similarly well-practised rapidity, comparing the positions and state of the liver in particular with an inscribed copy carved from stone.

'This...is _strange_ ,' she eventually said uncertainly, unconsciously grimacing in her perplexation. 'What I'm seeing is something more akin to a _story_ ...'

'A _story_?' Nerie snorted dismissively. 'What use is a _story_ to anybody? You're being paid to foretell our _future_ together, girl!'

'I can only read what I'm being reliably told!' the girl protested. 'Would you really wish it any other way?'

'Of course not!' Martis said. 'Please tell us _only_ what you see–'

'Though if an _interpretation_ eludes you, you can be assured your fee also remains open to discussion,' Nerie warned.

'It's...it's, well; nothing more than this poor creature's life I'm seeing here, I must confess!' the girl stammered hesitantly. 'A life of struggle, of barely surviving; on the point of starvation almost consistently–'

'I could've told you that just from looking at its shrivelled body!' Nerie protested angrily. 'It's not even a rabbit you'd be prepared to put in your pot!'

'Yet many times, this rabbit saw how well fed the farm's rabbits were; and yet he never felt the inclination to–'

'He was _wild_ , not _tamed_!' Nerie pointed out, angered once again by this so-called seer's stating of the obvious. 'Let _me_ make a prediction', he added scornfully, 'you shall leave here with _three_ eggs – and be _grateful_ for them!'

*

The failure of the seer to grant Nerie and Martis a prediction of a secure future had soured the boy's mood.

'Why is it,' he demanded of Martis, 'that your horse is so well fed, so underworked, while your farm falls apart everywhere else about you?'

Martis was embarrassed by his hard questioning for, yes, it often irritated her too that Caesia now lived a life she could only envy. Worse, she was the slave, and Caesia the pampered mistress.

'I promised...father insisted she–'

'Your father _again_? Why should I be surprised? Did the man accept _no_ responsibility for his foolish actions? When you free a slave, it's accepted you become their patron–'

_'He'd_ still be a slave if it wasn't for Caesia!' Martis retorted defensively. 'She'd served as his warhorse right up until he was captured, while she was gifted to a Roman officer. Father was slaving by the roadside when she passed carrying the Roman, who was now a fat, privileged merchant. She threw the Roman, and Father rode to freedom on her.'

Nerie looked over towards the horse with renewed respect.

'Still,' he said, 'she _must_ earn her keep in the _present_. I'll think of _some_ way she can be put to use that won't break your promise to your father.'

*

It was well known that the army now lacked reliable, well-trained horses. Small bands of soldiers who'd recovered from relatively minor wounds were spared taking part in further battles provided they successfully returned from tours of the land with either fresh mounts for the cavalry or heavier steeds capable of drawing supply wagons.

Naturally, they drove a hard bargain, such that there were few farmers who were willing to enter negotiations with them, preferring to hide away any animal that could be considered even remotely suitable.

Nerie, however, believed he was a match for any man when it came to working out terms of trade.

Besides, anyone could see that Caesia was a prize commanding a significant price.

She'd already been trained as a warhorse.

She'd already been successfully tested in battle.

Moreover, she'd proved her worth as an officer's charger.

'It's such a waste for such a magnificent beast; to be lazing around here!' Nerie said to Martis after raising these very facts. 'She could be our _contribution_ to the defence of our lands! Obviously, _I_ can't fight, as I have to manage the farm; but Caesia could serve in my stead, and I'd ensure we got a fair price for her too!'

'But my promise to my father–'

'She wouldn't be put to work! She'd simply be doing what she's been born and bred for! Would you deny her her appointed role in life?'

'Well, no...but that _can't_ be right–'

'Just listen to yourself, Martis! You're full of doubt; because you _know_ you're in the _wrong_ on this!'

'She could be injured; killed even!'

'And your father; and his? Didn't _they_ face that prospect too? Yet they fought as they knew that to die fighting for your people grants your life its deepest meaning and purpose!'

'Nerie, I _can't_ go against my father's wishes yet _again_!'

'Again?' Nerie replied scornfully. 'Haven't we already agreed that it's _my_ slaves working your fields? Besides, do you really think of your father as being so cruelly unthinking that he would hold you to promises made long before he could predict things would turn out so badly? Would he put the wellbeing of a horse against that of his daughter?'

'Well yes, but...'

'But...look, I'm a reasonable man, Martis. We're still lacking a reliable foretelling of what awaits us; we can raise this question of Caesia then – and so the matter is _settled_ , for now!'

*

# Chapter 5

'The fee will be ten oranges,' the Auspex declared as she prepared her implements for the reading.

A disgruntled Nerie disagreeably agreed the price, for this time the seer had her full set of fingers and thumbs.

With a number of incantations, and the drawing of invisible parallel lines, measuring six by five, upon the ground, she had prepared the _templum_ , pitching her tent, or _tabernaculum_ , here. Here she had patiently waited until a suitable storm appeared to be brewing on the horizon.

As instructed earlier, Nerie and Martis made their way out towards the tent, despite it being so late that the now heavily rainswept land was entirely dark save the light of the lamp they carried and those lighting up the templum's interior.

The woman was standing outside her tent, using the wand once more but this time to divide the sky up into its sixteen parts.

'We'll shelter in her tent!' Nerie pronounced grumpily, breaking into a trot as the rain pummelled hard at his face.

'She told us we had to stand clear–'

But Nerie wasn't listening. His head was down to protect his face from the sharp pangs of the heavy raindrops, while the whirl of the wind, the moaning of troubled thunder, drowned out Martis's words.

Nerie never raised the matter of Caesia with the seer, despite his promise to do so. And so, as she drew up behind the woman, Martis shouted out above the noise of the now all enveloping storm:

'Can you tell us what glory's to be had in this war if Nerie enrols–'

No matter how hard she had cried out, however, she couldn't be sure that she would have been heard.

The rest of her question was completely lost in the loud, heavens-splitting crack of a huge lightning bolt that abruptly branched through and lit up the dark skies.

There was another crack, followed by a series of lesser ones, the streak of light striking home at a lone tree surmounting a nearby hill, entirely splintering the wood of the trunk and branches.

With a terrified cawing, birds that had nested there for the night rose up as one, as if the tree had suddenly shed its entire covering of leaves, every one magically taking flight and soaring upwards rather than falling to the ground.

The enveloping darkness instantly returned, though now there was a scent of burnt wood on the air, while the cries of the birds shrieked out now and again from amidst the violently wailing wind.

'What did it mean; the message?' Nerie excitedly yelled, amazed by the power of a blast that could tear apart an ancient tree.

'I...I _missed_ it!' the Auspex shamefacedly admitted.

*

'How could you miss _that_!' Nerie raged. ' _We_ saw it clearly enough!'

'I missed where it _came_ from,' the woman sternly replied, adding defensively, 'You were supposed to stay on the _edges_ of the field: to ensure I'm not _distracted_!'

'But you must have seen how it destroyed an _entire_ tree! Surely there's _some_ message to be read into _that_!' Nerie angrily persisted.

'Not if I don't know _which_ god's responsible; any _one_ of _nine_ gods could have sent it!' the woman adamantly declared. 'And there are _eleven_ kinds of bolt! I'd allotted portions of the sky to each of them; I needed to see which area gave birth to it! Did _you_ see it; _either_ of you?'

She observed them both with a mingling of hope and accusation.

Martis shook her head miserably. Nerie, on the other hand, was more furious than ever, seeing the woman's demand as nothing more than an attempt to blame them for her own incompetence.

'It destroyed a _tree_ , for heaven's sake!' he stormed yet again. 'And you're saying you can't even _guess_ which god might be responsible?'

'What use is a message involving a gues–'

The woman's exasperated reply was cut short by another ground-rumbling crack of over-heated air. The lightning snaked angularly down from the heavens, apparently briefly splitting the night itself apart. And once again, it struck hard and unforgivingly by the base of the already sorely charred tree.

This time, there were no birds to send fluttering skywards in a massed panic.

But there _was_ an ear-piercing squeal.

Martis's eyes widened in horror.

'My poor _pig_!' she shrieked.

*

# Chapter 6

Martis ran through the pouring rain, heading up towards the still smouldering tree.

The sweet fragrance of roasted pork now hung in the air.

Taken by surprise by Martis's abrupt dash up the hill across the cloying, muddy field, Nerie was struggling to catch up with her. Behind him came the Auspex, her once elegant hat already soggy and drooping under the pummelling onslaught of the heavy downpour.

_'Twice_ in the _same_ spot,' she mumbled worriedly to herself as she ran.

The pig had been fully flipped on his back by the force of the strike, his four legs splayed out crosswise, his belly split down the middle, spewing out the steaming dishes of his innards.

Martis fell to her knees by the smouldering corpse, weeping; though even she couldn't be wholly sure if her tears were for the poor pig's horrifying demise or for herself, as it was just one more dreadful setback.

'Which god; which god would send us such a powerful omen?' Nerie excitedly asked the trembling woman. He stared hard at her, uncaring as to whether she was quivering in fear or through the effects of the cold, drenching rain. ' _Twice_ , I heard you say: that's unheard of, isn't it?'

The woman shook her head.

'It's _unusual_ ; but not _impossible_ ...'

'This time...you _must_ know the meaning behind the message! The god has spoken to us _again_!'

'I don't know _which_ god–'

Her wailing protest was cut short by a furious Nerie.

'You missed it _again_? Just how useless can you be, when I'm–'

'You were _talking_ to me, rememb–'

'Look out!'

Suddenly, Martis was rising up from the ground, launching herself at the arguing pair. She bundled hard into them, throwing out her arms to make sure she caught both of them in her embrace, carrying them with her through the force and momentum of her leap.

As they all chaotically tumbled together, rolling off to one side of the hill, a third bolt struck the ground, seeming to them all to strike the very spot where they had been standing.

This time the lightning took its brutal vengeance out on the earth itself, blasting out a briefly volcanically hot crater and sending up a soaring fountain of soil and rock that covered everything close by in its painful and filthy rain.

As the last of the falling rocks fell about him, a mud-sheened Nerie fearfully rose up from his cowering crouch.

By the crater's edge, the pig had now been almost completely incinerated, most of the flesh charred to a useless charcoal.

'Was...was that meant to _kill_ us?' an aghast Nerie wondered out loud.

*

As each of them warily rose up from beneath the covering of streaming mud, they unconsciously made mostly vain attempts to shake off the worst of it, to straighten drenched and crumpled clothes.

'If a god had sought to kill you,' the seer murmured irritably as she glared back at Nerie, 'do you really think he would have let your wif– your _intended_ – spare us?'

The dark hole was still warm, still hissing with steam rising up from where pooling rain bubbled ferociously. These pools dimly reflected what little starlight there was, but amongst them there were brighter shards of a refracted and magnified glow, for the rock itself had melted and melded, forming spheres of a mercurial glass.

_'God_?' Nerie repeated accusingly. 'Not Aplu, not Tinia, not Menrva; but just simply 'god'? You didn't see, once again, _who_ cast this bolt, did you?'

Before the woman had a chance to answer, Nerie looked towards Nerie, his tone no less accusatory as he spoke.

_'You_ must have seen it coming, yes?'

Martis shook her head regretfully.

'It all happened _so_ quickly; I just simply saw that there was about to be a third strike.'

'It's Tinia; of _course_!' the seer said, her voice full of desperation. ' _He_ has _three_ bolts.'

She glanced towards the charred tree.

'His first is benevolent, a warning and dispenser of wisdom.'

With a confident wave of a hand, she next indicated the blackened pig.

'The second one gives and causes destruction in equal measure, and can only be thrown with the consent of the _Dii Consenti_ – the other gods, in effect.'

She looked down into the dark pit of the gaping crater, where they had originally been standing.

'The third thunderbolt is malevolent, capable of destroying en masse. It's thrown only with the permission of the _Dii Involuti_ : the Shrouded Gods.'

The woman's summation of the reasoning behind the three forks of lightning all striking so incredibly close together seemed persuasive enough.

'Then... _all_ the gods are _against_ us?' Martis said, startled by the revelation. 'Even the _hidden_ gods? What could we have _possibly_ done to have brought down their anger on us?'

'This "prophecy" makes _no_ sense at all!' Nerie growled, scowling at the woman even as he placed a consoling arm about a drenched and miserable Martis, and adding with an extra emphasis of fury, 'You were engaged to tell us of our _good_ fortune!'

'My task is to reliably inform you of whatever message the gods wish to convey!' the woman sternly insisted.

_'Reliably_?' Nerie scoffed angrily. ' _Three_ times you've _missed_ where the bolt arose from! You've admitted this means you've no idea who sent the ligtni–'

'But _three_ bolts–'

'Which could be the _same_ message delivered _three_ time because you've missed _every_ one!' Nerie raged.

'But for _three_ to be born in the _same_ place?' the woman wailed in a frustrated persistence.

'Three _births_?' Martis said hopefully. 'It might mean we're to be blessed with three sons...'

'And the death of a tree, a pig – even the destruction of the soil and rocks?' the woman sneered.

'Warriors all, then,' Nerie proudly declared.

'Like my father and his father...' Martis said with an equivalent touch of pride.

'Then...'

Nerie paused, thinking this through.

'Perhaps we've been too quick to add our _own_ interpretation to this, Martis,' he said thoughtfully.

'But the _question_ I'd asked,' Martis said quite desperately, not wishing to have such a wonderful prediction reinterpreted. '"What glory's to be had in this war?" You were _right_ , Nerie, that these messages foretold the birth of _warriors_.'

'Laran, the god of war, _also_ had three sons!' the Auspex assuredly declared. Abruptly recalling that predicting a poor fortune never paid well, she appeared relieved that, at last, a more pleasing message could be read into the three strikes of lighting. ' _All_ called the _same_ name, Maris: and _all_ born from a flaming _crater_.'

She stared into the crater now as if expecting to see Laran's children reborn before her very eyes.

'I don't question _these_ points at all,' Nerie replied as sagely as he could manage. 'But of course, Martis, by the time even the _first_ of our children is born, this war with these upstart Romans will undoubtedly be _over_.'

'Then...what do you think it _does_ mean?' the woman asked uncertainly, hoping his interpretation would be reasonable enough for her to give it her professional backing.

'It...it makes _perfect_ sense, Nerie,' Martis persevered. 'Three warriors rising up from the very same piece of soil! My grandfather, my father–'

_'Yes_ ,' Nerie assuredly interjected in agreement. 'But think _back_ , Martis; what was the question you _really_ and _exactly_ managed to ask our Auspex?'

Martis thought back, trying hard to accurately recall her _exact_ words.

And then, in flash, she had them:

'What glory's to be had in this war if _Nerie_ enrols–'

*

# Chapter 7

Nerie spent little time overseeing the necessary nurturing of the growing crops, let alone putting a shoulder to the plough.

He now rode Caesia regularly, however, getting used to the way she moved, the remarkable way she lithely took the extra weight when he wore Venthi's armour and shield.

The armour and sword handed down through his own family was of inferior quality, and rusted to a point beyond even reasonable use. Naturally, then, Nerie lacked practice in the thrusting of either sword or spear, or the hacking of the axe and pick-like sagaris. Nevertheless, he remained convinced that his abilities with them all must be innate; for why, otherwise, would the Laran himself proclaim that he would be the third great warrior to arise from these fields?

Anything said by Martis that went against his now firmly held belief was always airily dismissed by Nerie.

'We'd planned to send our legions a tested warhorse, Martis; and now she'll be accompanied by a born warrior, sent by Laran himself!'

There was no convincing him that he was being foolish, Martis realised miserably.

If only that woman had seen where the lightning bolts had _really_ originated from, this problem would _never_ have arisen!

'Despite our engaging both a Haruspex and an Auspex,' Martis finally said one day, having carefully weighed up her words beforehand, 'we _still_ haven't learnt anything of our _farm's_ prospects!'

_'My_ future is quite obviously tied up in that of the farm,' Nerie replied a touch imperiously. 'When I return entirely garbed in glory, the glow will naturally reflect on our farm.'

That, at least, was an unarguable point, Martis forlornly recognised. Yet Nerie's argument, thankfully, wasn't entirely faultless.

'But...if the lightning strikes _have_ been misinterpreted...'

'What _else_ could they mean, Martis?' Nerie exhaustedly sighed: how many times must they go over this _very_ same point?

'To be _sure_ , to ensure you're _entirely_ safe...' Martis persisted, 'well, it's worth the expense, I believe, of referring to a _higher_ authority. The Oracle–'

Nerie brought Martis's otherwise firmly delivered assertion to an abrupt halt with a raucous burst of laughter.

'So, the Books of Fate aren't good enough for you?' he clucked scornfully. 'What could the Oracle add, but some dreadfully wailing lines that can be interpreted in all manner of ways?'

'Then...'

Martis thought quickly, needing some way to persuade Nerie that they should clarify the predictions of glory he'd taken from the Auspex's confused ramblings.

'I must know if...I _should_ lie with you before we're married, before you leave for the war; for you've made it clear to me that you believe this is your right.'

Nerie's interest was at last piqued.

'And...if I don't return?' he said mischievously, recalling her protestations that it would neither be wise nor becoming of her to risk ending up with child.

'If the Oracle pronounces that glory is assured,' Martis declared, 'I have no cause to refuse your demands, have I?'

Nerie smiled; and nodded his agreement.

*

# Chapter 8

Nerie was imperiously mounted upon Caesia, the sword he'd acquired from Martis proudly slung about his waist.

The rest of the armour, the shield, helmet and weapons, were packed away, carried in the panniers shared between Caesia and the mule from his parent's farm that Martis rode upon.

As soon as the Oracle had confirmed the Auspex's prophecy of a glorious war, Nerie intended to set straight off to present himself for service before the army commanders.

Their journey was thankfully mostly uneventful until, as they were passing along the meandering paths running through the higher hills, they came across an old woman ungainly stooped by a well. It was only as they drew closer that the reason for her tortured position became clearer for, lacking a rope, she was having to utilise her incredibly long tresses to drop her pail into the spring water running deep beneath the surface.

'We should help her; you packed rope amongst the essentials for war you brought with us,' a horrified Martis whispered to Nerie.

'Once a rope is wetted, it's already on its way to rotting!' Nerie hissed back. 'Besides, she's accustomed to drawing up her water this way. Hags are the bane of my life without me tryin–'

A swarm of bees rushing past on their own undisclosed task suddenly startled him.

Fearing he might be stung, Nerie swung about nervously on Caesia's back, pulling on her reins, causing her in turn to wildly rear up. Unbalanced by Nerie's ludicrous thrashing, the mare stumbled on the rocky, dusty ground, the hooves of her hind legs seeking a firmer purchase and violently striking the larger stones in her way.

Rocks were torn loose from the ground before Caesia at last gained a stabler footing.

The old woman stooped by the well abruptly straightened up in excitement, dragging her long tresses from out of the deeply cavernous well and deftly slipping the pail free of the knotted locks she'd used to suspend it.

'Thank you, thank you!' she exclaimed joyously, her blissful gaze elatedly flitting from Nerie to the rocks dislodge by the battering of Caesia's hooves.

Naturally, Nerie was confused.

Then Martis joined in with the old woman's thrilled cries.

'Look, Nerie!' she said, pointing towards a silvery clear pool swirling about the mare's hooves. 'Water! Caesia's uncovered a blocked spring!'

*

The old woman's eyes shone as brightly as the pool of continually refreshing water.

She regarded it as a gift of the gods, a sacred spring, bestowed on her at last after a lifetime of suffering and toil 'drawing water from a well as deep as the caves of Corycia'.

'Please, take these as a gift for all you have done for me!' the woman trilled happily as she approached Nerie and placed a huge, roughly tied bundle of long twigs across Caesia's back. 'I'm sure they'll be as useful for you as they would have been for me!'

Nerie, of course, frowned in a mingling of bemusement and fury.

'What use would–'

'Thank you, thank you!' Martis hurriedly interrupted Nerie. 'It's a _precious_ gift you give us; and in return, too, for what was no more than an accidental uncovering of a long forgotten spring!'

The old woman grinned, pleased that her offering had been so graciously received.

'I swear you'll wonder what you would ever have done without them, my dear!' she beamed.

*

# Chapter 9

_'Precious_ gift?'

Nerie's repetition of Martis's words were full of scorn.

'A bundle of _twigs_?'

'It's the heat of her home she's given us,' Martis pointed out. 'How long has she spent scavenging for and collecting these twigs do you think? Two, maybe three whole days, I would easily believe!'

Nerie shrugged, glaring back at the twigs that shifted uncomfortably against his back with every step Caesia took.

'We grant her the waters of a sacred spring and, as recompense, the old crone endlessly scratches my back!'

Twisting farther around in his saddle, he tried to push the bundle clear of Caesia's back now they were out of sight of the old woman. They refused to budge however, as if the rough rope binding them had snagged on the harness. Undeterred, Nerie grabbed hold of the sword at his waist by its hilt, withdrawing it in readiness to cut the bundle free.

Martis was scandalised.

'You will _not_ use father's sword to rid yourself of the scratching of a bundle of twigs!'

Pulling her mule closer towards Caesia, she quickly reached out with a hand, placing it between the blade and the bound twigs.

'But they're just extra baggage, Martis! Of no use to us whatsoever!' Nerie said reproachfully. 'Why couldn't she have offered us food? There's little of it to be had in these barren hills, and I'd've been glad of a bite to eat.'

'Well there's your own answer to _that_ question!' Martis snapped back. 'She'd have little to spare!'

'But twigs; well, they're in short supply too, I've noticed – but she seemed eager enough to rid herself of _them_!' Nerie replied sarcastically.

'All the more reason to be grateful for her gift, I think!'

Martis had noticed that Nerie had slightly lowered his blade, dropping it beneath her protectively outstretched hand; but she'd failed to note, as she'd chided his ungratefulness, that he'd brought the sword tip closer to the dark rope tightly binding the bundled twigs.

Now, with an abrupt jerk of his arm, he sharply brought the blade down to sever the binding.

The binding held fast, with not even a single thread giving way.

'How useless is you father's sword if it can't cut the mangiest rope?' Nerie stormed, withdrawing the sword to more closely inspect its edges. 'Didn't he ever bother sharpening it?'

'It's sharp enough to cut through a branch it only lightly touched!' Martis said, indicating a neatly spliced twig amongst the bundle. 'The rope's odd; like it's made of hair,' she added, curiously leaning forward to feel the binding.

'That old crone's hair, I'll bet!' Nerie assuredly sneered. 'She had no rope for the well; and her hair's probably as strong as can be after using it all these years to draw up heavy pails of water!'

Raising his sword higher, he ordered Martis to move aside, so that he could hack at the bundled twigs themselves.

'No, no!' Martis exclaimed worriedly. 'That will _definitely_ blunt father's sword! Besides, you're bound to injure poor Caesia too!'

With a peeved grimace, Nerie lowered the sword.

'Once we've found shade from the sun's heat, I'll untie it,' he said.

*

Shade wasn't easy to find on a hill top barren of all bushes, let alone trees.

The sun cooked the ground into a hard cake that only grudgingly gave shelter to the small creatures who bury themselves beneath the earth's surface.

Even so, someone had found meat to cook amongst this bare landscape, for soon both Nerie and Martis caught the first hints of the unmistakeable aroma of a meal being prepared. Soon this was accompanied by the excitable sizzling of fatty juices, promising the most moist, succulent mouthfuls of cooked meat.

Naturally, Martis had ensured they'd brought enough food with them to see them safely traverse the mostly empty hills; but it was of necessity made up of dried, easily preserved foodstuffs that could be unappetisingly nibbled at, there purely for sustenance rather than pleasure.

By comparison, the thought of dining on a dish of juicy meat was an irresistible temptation.

'Surely they'd freely offer some to supplicants travelling towards the Oracle?' Nerie said wistfully.

'Food is scarce out here, I'm sure,' Martis replied doubtfully.

The track had been slowly rising before them for a while now, but at blast it briefly peaked, revealing a shallow dip in the track as it crossed a depression in which a small hovel had lain hidden. It was from here that the fragrances of roasting meat emanated, for the tantalising scents clustered about the crude structure like bees around a honey pot.

'Ho, is anyone there?' Nerie cried out as cheerfully as he could manage as he and Martis neared the hovel. 'We're on our way to the Oracle, and would appreciate any support offered us.'

There was only the slightest of pauses before a haggard old woman appeared at the hovel's doorway, her face almost entirely blackened with either filth or smoke from a fire or oven. She was wiping her hands on a dirty rag, yet the mouth-watering scents of cooking meat wafting past her towards Nerie completely overrode any sense of distaste he suffered.

'Then as you're already seeking good fortune,' the woman declared as she spat into the ground, 'you obviously won't be requiring anything from me!'

She observed Nerie with a wry, broken-toothed grin, as if she were fully aware that he'd been drawn here by the allure of succulently cooking meat.

She obviously wasn't going to give it away for free, her knowing expression determinedly declared.

'We can _pay_ you.'

'What use are coins around here?' the old woman gruffly interrupted, glancing everywhere about her as if to draw his attention to the bare surroundings.

As she looked about herself, her eyes alighted on the bundled twigs tied to Caesia's back.

At last, she smiled warmly.

'Now twigs – _they_ can be used for fires, for brooms,' she said, throwing the blackened rag over her shoulder as she displayed hands so leathery and worn that she was short of a little finger. 'It's not easy cleaning everything with nothing but bare hands!'

'Truly, old women and the hard bargains they make are the bane of my life!' Nerie wailed wearily, as if he'd been the one cheated in the deal.

Slipping down off Caesia's back, he nodded towards the bundle, saying, 'They're yours, if you can untie them from my horse; but I must insist on being given the food first.'

The old woman appeared to ignore Nerie's demand as she stepped towards the twigs strapped across Caesia's back.

'It's all set out for you inside,' she said casually over her shoulder, 'with meat for you, and honied cakes for the lady.'

*

# Chapter 10

As promised by the old woman, tender pieces of meat and honied cakes awaited Nerie and Martis as they stepped inside the darkly shadowed interior of the hovel.

Old husks of corn lay everywhere beneath their feet, as if they'd mistakenly walked onto a threshing floor, yet the table and plates appeared surprisingly clean.

Nerie and Martis exchanged puzzled glances.

Had the old woman espied them earlier as they'd made their way up the hillside? Did travellers always succumb to the offer of cooked food, willingly paying whatever the old woman demanded of them?

The thin sliver of meat Nerie helped himself to came easily off its tiny bones. It tasted as sweet as the meat of a prized kid, or well-fed piglet. Before he could devour anything more, however, the old woman rushed into the room, sweeping up the floor's accumulated filth before her with a broom she'd obviously already constructed using twigs from the bundle.

Dust and grime rose up and spilled everywhere, creating a swirling cloud, fog-like in its opaqueness. Even so, Nerie could plainly see that a great deal of dirt was landing directly across the dishes laid out for his enjoyment.

He jumped up from the table in disgust.

'I can't eat this _now_!' he growled furiously. 'You've ruined it, you stupid woman!'

Grabbing hold of Martis's hand, uncaring that she'd hardly started on a honey cake sweetened with the juice of a squashed grape, he strode angrily towards the door.

'Still, you must take the kid you've purchased!' the woman sternly insisted, suddenly appearing out of the veiling cloud of dust to block their exit.

She held up an old sack, thrusting it towards Nerie.

Nerie recoiled in disgust.

'It's filthy–'

'Right enough it is; now _you've_ touched it!'

'I didn't touch–'

'Thank you,' Martis said kindly, taking the bag, at once surprised by its heaviness and size.

At last, with a satisfied grin, the old woman let them leave.

*

'Maybe we should throw the meat away: the smell of it might attract wild dogs, or even wolves.'

Martis anxiously looked at the sack she'd tied to Caesia's back in place of the bundled twigs.

It seemed lager than ever. Even as she'd strapped it to Caesia, having walked no more than a few steps from the hovel's doorway, she could have sworn it had grown heavier.

'No way!' Nerie scoffed. 'It will serve as an offering when we get to the temple.'

'You have to offer a live kid to be sacrificed, I've heard,' Martis said.

'Who'd waste such a valuable creature in return for nothing but the dazed meanderings of an old woman?'

'An old woman who speaks with the gods, Nerie!'

'They all end up crazed, these Oracles,' Nerie chuckled maliciously. 'Who knows; maybe that old woman back there "speaks with the gods"!'

*

# Chapter 11

Lots were drawn to determine the order of admission to the Oracle.

Yet those who knew it was wise to give offerings in excess, like city states, secured a higher place in the line. There were interviews, too, by the attendant priests, and rituals advising on the framing of the question.

Yet Nerie and Martis found themselves barred from joining the procession along the Sacred Way when their 'gift' was found to be nothing but a sack of cooked yet incredibly dusty meat.

Indeed, their presentation was deemed so unsatisfactory that they were forced to take the sack of meat with them as they were unceremoniously turned away.

Martis fumed, yet controlled her simmering anger, as she felt it would be unwise to enter into an argument with Nerie while they were both still within these sacred confines.

Behind them, as they walked silently away, a kid was being sprinkled with water before the fire to Hestia. It trembled, a good omen for the Oracle, but not for the goat, as it was immediately sacrificed.

Once its organs were examined to ensure the signs were favourable, they were burned outside on the altar of Chios.

The rising smoke was a signal that the Oracle was open.

*

'Please; please wait!'

Martis stopped and turned, somehow sensing that the cry coming from behind them was addressed to either herself or Nerie.

A young girl was running towards them, smiling gratefully when she realised Martis had seen her.

'There's been a _mistake_ ...' the girl yelled excitedly. 'Your sacrifice _has_ been accepted by the Pythia!'

*

# Chapter 12

As they walked along the Sacred Way, a symbolic representation of the journey they had already made to arrive here, Nerie and Martis carried laurel leaves.

The 'sacrifice' they'd made still hadn't been explained to them.

Naturally, Martis had begun to ask the girl what she meant by 'sacrifice', but Nerie had quietened her, saying it was unfair to question a girl who'd obviously been given the sole task of calling them back.

'Know thyself.'

The inscription was carved into the wooden pediment above the temple entrance, along with 'Nothing in excess'.

Lying between them was the one-time symbol of the _labrys_ , now unfortunately nothing but an 'E' since it had been re-rendered in brass.

Inside, Nerie and Martis were directed towards one side of the temple, were stairs led down into a small chamber lying deep beneath the floor. There was a sickly-sweet fragrance, both pleasant and distasteful, that recalled to Martis the scent of the early stages of purification when some mouse lay dead in her farm's loft.

The room was filled with the swirling of closely confined vapours, effectively veiling at first the presence of the Pythia, seated upon what could have been a cauldron set upon three high legs. Her dress was short, and all of white, and she held before her a dish of water, gazing into it through a purple veil.

The hidden Kassotis spring that had provided the water ran somewhere far beneath her, but could be heard through the cleft in the rocks from which the vapours streamed. The Pythia drank regularly from this sacred spring, to receive inspiration from the nymph of its waters.

The Pythia lifted her veil; and her hair stood on end, her bosom swelled, her whole figure suddenly seeming to enlarge as even her complexion changed to one of a ghostly white.

When she spoke, her voice was hardly human.

*

# Chapter 13

_'That's_ it?'

Once they were completely clear of the temple and its outer buildings, Nerie at last vented his growing frustration.

'We didn't even ask her the question we'd been made to practise asking!'

'She must have known what we needed to know,' Martis replied defensively, for she was still anxiously perplexed by the Pythia's declaration that they'd made a 'sacrifice'.

'"The warrior of the horse that throws a merchant, seeds a daughter of foretellings!"'

As he repeated the Pythia's prediction, Nerie attempted to grant it the strangled tones it had been delivered in, but only to make a mockery of it.

'She tells us it's foretold that we'll have a daughter? It's not like she's promised us anything remotely unlikely, is it?'

'She could mean _my_ father...'

'How would that be a _prediction_?' Nerie retorted, sighing resignedly as he added, 'Well, at least you've got _your_ wish; the confirmation that I _will_ be successful warrior. But I can't say I'm happy we've put ourselves through all this trouble only to hear what we already knew!'

'But surely, Nerie, she has told us _far_ more than that?' Martis replied. 'For to have a daughter, you _must_ return safely from the wars; but only, of course, if we ensure we don't lie together _before_ you leave!'

Nerie grimaced unhappily, yet he couldn't fault the wisdom inherent in Martis's interpretation of the prophecy.

Besides, such an interpretation could be used to his own advantage, for he believed he'd already wasted time that would have been better utilised making his way towards the Etruscan army's encampment.

'Indeed, then we can safely part,' he said slyly, 'for this foretelling surely means you can also be reassured that you'll return home even if you're travelling on your own.'

*

# Chapter 14

Martis didn't miss Nerie's company.

She was glad to see him go, heading off to seek glory in the war. Not that she wished that he wouldn't return.

The Pythia's prophecy had seemed clear that he would give birth to a daughter.

But, she'd realised, even as he'd twisted its meaning to imply she could travel safely on her own, it hadn't said that _she'd_ be the girl's mother.

So, seeing as how she was not only entirely alone but also riding on an old mule, she might not be assured of a safe return home after all.

She could have pointed this out to Nerie, of course.

But...well, yes – she was _glad_ to see him head off on his own.

*

Nerie was disconcerted by the carrion circling overhead as he journeyed across the hills.

Could they already smell the death awaiting him?

By tracking the course of birds, by taking note of their kind, their nature, it was possible to foresee futures.

If only he had someone with him who could interpret the signs.

He hadn't, as yet, mastered the use of Venthi's sword.

It felt ungainly, far too heavy, in his hands.

Was that really such a surprise?

Weren't the very best weapons specially forged to suit the wielder's preferences, his style of fighting?

The armour, too, could hardly be claimed to be tailor made for him.

The helmet especially sat far too loosely upon his head, slipping at the most importune moments.

The breastplate was every bit as ill fitting, causing sores to form about the undersides of his arms. The leggings similarly rubbed hard against the top of his feet.

As for the shield, it had taken damage in the past, and had been ill repaired.

Yes, _ill_ was the right word, once again.

Weren't all these faults in his equipment, taken in combination with the watching ravens, all ill omens?

*

# Chapter 15

The aroma of fresh baking wafting Martis's way was irresistible.

Honied cakes; sweet and filling.

Even the old mule Martis was riding abruptly conjured up something close to a hurried spurt in comparison to its otherwise languid pace.

As they both rose over a peak of the slightly rolling track they were following, they found themselves looking down into a shallow depression in which a small hovel lay almost hidden, its structure of ragged stone blending seamlessly into its surroundings.

Naturally, Martis recognised the humble abode, although today the delicious fragrances of cooking food arising from it were accompanied with a merry, contented humming of an ancient tune she barely recalled.

Unfortunately, Martis sadly realised, she had nothing to offer the old woman that would be worthy of even the slightest taste of the honey cakes.

'Ho, there,' came a cheery greeting from inside the rickety building. 'You're on your way back from the Oracle, I see!'

Even though Martis hadn't made any effort to call out to her, the old woman appeared at the doorway to her home. Not that she really looked quite so old any longer.

'I'm sure you'd appreciate an offering of my honey cakes!' the woman added with a bright smile.

*

Nerie's growing sense of an ill-omened journey was only exacerbated when he began to catch every now and again that sickly-sweet smell that had entirely permeated the cavern occupied by the Pythia.

Just as then, Nerie now thought there were undertones to the fragrance that were actually stench-like, hints of a purification that he wished he could avoid.

The _meat_!

He'd forgotten all about the sack of meat that had been disdainfully returned to them by the temple priests. It was stacked somewhere amongst all the other baggage he'd had to strap to Caesia's back when he'd parted from Martis and her previously overburdened mule.

Nerie couldn't help but chuckle, even though he rarely laughed at himself.

The encircling carrion were nothing to do with dire forewarnings!

They'd simply sensed the scents of the slowly rotting meat long before he had!

Drawing Caesia to a halt, he slipped down off her back.

Unlike when he'd planned on ridding himself of the bundled twigs, he couldn't wait until he found somewhere shady before he divested himself of this carrion-attracting sack of meat!

Caesia's rear and flanks were piled up with arms and armour, as well as the necessary supplies he'd brought to sustain him on his long journey. In his search for the meat sack, which appeared to be well hidden deep beneath everything else, he began to unstrap these items, carelessly dropping them to the floor or even contemptuously casting the armoured pieces aside, believing them to be easily robust enough to survive his casually brutal treatment.

At last, he found his bundle of meat, immediately wondering why it had taken him so long to come across such a surprisingly large sack, a sack that was apparently far, far bigger than the one he recalled receiving from the belligerent crone.

Worse still, he could hear someone _weeping_!

He jumped back, startled, from the stinking sack.

Then he realised, with a sigh of grateful relief, that the sounds of crying weren't coming from the sack after all.

Whoever was weeping, they were hidden behind a small outcrop of rock.

*

# Chapter 16

Martis certainly appreciated the old woman's honied cakes; they really were quite delicious, like nothing she'd ever tasted before.

For yes, they tasted even better now than they had when Martis had had her first brief nibble of them.

Everything about the woman's old hovel had changed for the better.

It was now sparkling clean for a start, the broom made from twigs taken from the bundle standing proudly in a corner.

'It still has its uses,' the woman chuckled, catching Martis observing the broom, 'and when its time is finally up, I can feed it into my fires to keep me warm or cook my dishes.'

She took a bite of her honied cake.

'And who'd wish to be deprived of the gods' sweet food?' she asked with a blissful grin.

Quite remarkably, her smile was no longer spoilt by the unseemly sight of jagged, broken teeth. Her skin was no longer dark with filth either, despite her insistence that Martis should call her Melaina, a word which many claim means black.

'The Pythia's foretellings were all good, I hope,' the woman said brightly. 'She's one to be believed, believe me; the equal of the Oracle at the navel of the world, where Labryaden priests still revere Omphale, Queen of Lydia and bearer of the _labrys_.'

'The Pythia said we'd already made our sacrifice,' Martis replied curiously. 'Was the meat you gave us that of a freshly killed kid?'

'It was _three_ kids, I must confess,' the woman said truthfully as she savoured the sweet honey. 'It seems cruel, I know; but the serpent sheds one skin to take on another, living endlessly it seems to many – just as the Pythia herself must succumb to the rapidly ageing strains of her forewarnings, and once again take on her virginal garb.'

'She said my... said _Nerie_ ,' Martis corrected herself, realising she had almost unfortunately said 'husband', 'would produce a daughter...'

'Did she now?' the woman said with a wry smile.

*

Nerie tentatively peered around the outcrop of rock, hoping he might see who was weeping without being noticed himself.

An old woman was seated, cross-legged, upon the hard ground. She wept uncontrollably as, leaning forward every now and again, she withdrew brightly coloured pebbles from an urn set before her.

She would lay down three at a time across a knee, only to wail all the more as she morosely tossed them back into the urn.

Then she would withdraw a further three, going through the very same motions all over again.

As Nerie watched, however, she at last pulled out three stones that appeared bee-like in their colouring of two darker bands sandwiching one of yellow; and the woman's weeping abruptly ceased, replaced by a cry of surprised exaltation.

She suddenly glanced up, catching the half hidden Nerie observing her, perhaps alerted by Caesia's clacking hooves as the mare drew up alongside him.

'You're here to help me,' the old woman assuredly declared, rising to her feet as she scooped up the three pebbles. 'It's foretold that you'll find my three children for me!'

*

# Chapter 17

Reinvigorated by the honied cakes, Martis travelled swiftly over the hills, slowing only when both she and her mule began to feel parched, the now thoroughly warmed water she'd brought with her being unsatisfyingly unrefreshing.

At last, however, they came across a sparkling stream, one that poured down in a meandering, slivery course, its waters so cool and clear that they would have slaked the very worst kind of thirst.

Martis couldn't recall passing by this stream when they had first travelled through these hills. She was sure it had been every bit as bare of water around here as the rest of the rocky landscape.

The rough track Martis was traveling along more or less followed the stream's own course, until she began to hear the bright chuckling of a bountiful spring accompanying the most angelically entrancing singing.

The spring spilled into a glistening pool, by which a young woman was washing hair of a glittering honied gold.

The girl turned as she heard Martis's approach.

She gaily rose to her feet, scooping up her flowing locks.

'Hello,' she called out in greeting, 'I trust it wasn't my bundled twigs that caused your young man to desert you!'

*

She must be crazed, Nerie assuredly told himself as the old woman drew closer: any children of hers must now be old themselves!

She was easily far older than any of the other crones he and Martis had come across on their way out here.

She held out her hand towards him, the three pebbles glistening brightly in her shallowly cupped palm.

Seeing them up close like this, Nerie realised their colours were far more subtle than he'd at first presumed; one was of dark purple, another of a deep red, while the third was yellowy green.

'The pebbles tell me; you'll bring my children back!'

Yes, she's _completely_ crazed, Nerie thought as the woman persisted with this nonsense that he'd somehow been elected her saviour; and on the supposed say so of a handful of pebbles at that!

'I don't _have_ your children, old woman!' he snapped, reaching around his back for Caesia's reins and pulling her out from behind the veiling rocks.

The woman just about shrieked for joy.

'My children! You _did_ find them!'

*

Nerie _hadn't_ deserted her; Martis felt the words ready to drip off her tongue, yet she was far too startled to give them life.

Was this young woman _really_ claiming to be the old hag they'd come across as they'd first travelled through here?

The one with an oily dark hair of phenomenal length?

Martis had been surprised, naturally, by how much younger the woman of the honied cakes had looked when she'd come across her a second time; yet this transformation was truly more magical than ever!

The young girl laughed, either simply sensing or determining by Martis's expression that she was shocked.

'When you're freed of unnecessary toil, you're no longer stooped, left haggard, crippled, or rubbed raw,' she gleefully explained with a deft shake of her rapidly drying golden hair. 'The strain of tending to my hair alone used to wear me out and weigh me down; there was just so, so much for me to manage. And the more it grew, the more difficult it was to stop it all chaotically knotting! It's enough to make anyone's life an endless chore!'

The old well still stood, apparently untouched, to one side of the musically rippling pool.

'I only wish there were something else, something _entirely_ worthy, that I could give you for uncovering this spring!' the girl merrily continued.

'It's Caesia whom you should be thanking!' Martis laughed modestly

'I'm Daphnis; though some call me Laurel,' the girl said with a beaming smile, offering her hand for Martis to take hold off. 'Please, let me show you how much life's improved!'

*

Nerie frowned.

Truly, this old woman of old women was _entirely_ crazed.

Nevertheless, following her ecstatic gaze, he looked back over his shoulder to where Caesia was patiently standing.

Three children, all girls, were happily mounted upon the mare's back.

In an instant, in a chaotically brief entangling of legs and arms, all three were joyously clambering down off Caesia's back, slipping to the floor and elatedly skipping towards the beaming woman.

She hugged each of them, hugged them all at once, as if she had believed she would never, ever see them again.

'You're such a brave warrior, my boy,' the old woman declared gratefully to Nerie, 'to have rescued my youngsters from whatever had taken them away from me!'

She tenderly kissed the partially clenched hand of the girl who was neither the tallest nor the smallest, neither the eldest nor the youngest.

'All entirely safe and sound, too,' the woman continued, 'apart from my middling one here, who seems to have lost a little something of herself on her adventures!'

Indeed, Nerie saw, the girl's little finger was missing, as if previously devoured by some ravenous beast who'd been rudely interrupted before completely finishing her off.

Reluctantly dragging herself free of her children's loving embraces, the old woman approached Nerie, holding out a clenched hand as if preparing to drop some coins as an offering of thanks into his already eagerly outstretched palm.

'However can I acknowledge my gratitude to you, but with the most precious prize of all!' the old woman said, gently transferring her gift from her hand into Nerie's.

It was the three coloured pebbles.

*

# Chapter 18

The innumerable tapestries the young girl had created were the most beautiful creations Martis had ever seen.

They were all fantastically complicated in their use of bright colouring, the scenes they illuminated, the precise detailing. It all made them appear so ridiculously realistic, as if the people portrayed were ready at any moment to step forth, bearing their artisans' implements or weapons of war with a readiness to begin work, to commence advancing upon an enemy horde.

Where flowers were rendered in the most iridescent tones, swarms of actual bees clustered everywhere about them, hoping to harvest the pollen seemingly awaiting to be transformed into the most delicious honey.

Cities could be seen from afar, towns a touch closer, while harbours and farms thronged with a hive of closely observed activity. Fields were ploughed, fish netted, rabbits hunted. There were marriages, births and deaths

All human life was here.

All animal life was here.

_Everything_ was here.

The warp and weft of the finely interlacing weave spilled out from the sides of the majority of the renderings as if they had yet to be wholly completed, while others had been more sternly executed. Many tapestries were themselves interconnected, the strands spooling out from them being hungrily collected up by scores of others. An uncountable number of threads were being drawn up from numerous pails of bright dye, inside which balls of what could be wool or silk vigorously bobbed.

No; it was neither wool nor silk, Martis realised.

The girl had shorn her hair. And these locks had become her work material.

'Is there any you would like?' the girl asked eagerly. 'You can take your time; to make sure your choice is the right one!'

'I...I can't take any _one_ of these!' a startled Martis protested. 'They're quite obviously _far_ too precious for you to part with!'

'Then...let me choose one for you!' the girl gleefully insisted, suddenly rushing everywhere about her tapestries as she sought out the most suitable one for Martis to take away with her.

_'This_ one! _Yes_! This is the one for _you_!' the girl abruptly breezily declared, excitedly rushing back with a particularly bright illumination.

It was an interpretation of birds, of every kind, and every type imaginable.

*

Nerie had to hold himself back from screaming at the foolishness of this entirely crazed old woman. Three _pebbles_!

This was her idea of a ' _precious_ prize'?

And for rescuing her three lost children at that?

He looked once more at the sadly arrayed pebbles in his hand.

No; they weren't pebbles after all.

They were soft, warm, rather than hard and cold.

They were also partially transparent.

They were grapes.

Three grapes.

Actually, wasn't that even _worse_ than three pebbles?

Just how _badly_ crazed was this woman?

'It's a poor bargain, I must say!' Nerie grumbled.

The woman gasped, quite clearly shocked by his complaint.

'But I'm _Kleodora_ ,' she protested, 'Or "Famed for her Gift", as others call me!'

'Then all I can say it that these others are either admirably polite, or cruelly sarcastic!'

'Of course,' the woman said, as if either unaware or uncaring of Nerie's continuing rudeness, 'the grapes must never, _ever_ be swallowed unless there's ample food nearby!'

'Don't eat them; unless food is nearby?' Nerie repeated unsurely, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

The woman grinned as she nodded.

Oh yes, this old woman was truly, truly crazed beyond all hope!

*

# Chapter 19

The tapestry Daphnis had insisted on draping about Martis wasn't anywhere near as hard and unyielding as might be expected.

Rather, it flowed lightly and gracefully about Martis, as if expertly tailored to fit her.

What must she look like to anyone passing nearby? she wondered.

A piece of the sky, detached from the heavens, traveling along a rocky road!

Her new found appearance seemed to have fooled the birds at least into believing that she had been transformed into some kind of travelling aviary. The skies above were now full of birds of every colour and type, either following her as proud individuals or in gracefully wheeling flocks. Trees and bushes, too, had their own attendant groupings of the most amazingly brightly toned birds.

At any other time in her life Martis might have been scared, or at least disconcerted, to see such a huge gathering of birds. Yet she sensed they meant her no harm. On the contrary, they were there to watch over her.

To guide her on quicker, better routes through the hills, or even her life, if needs be.

Maybe, she chastised herself, she was imagining all this.

Maybe there had always been such a preponderance of birds about her, yet she had simply failed to notice them.

Whatever the truth of the matter, the rest of Martis's journey passed far quicker than she might have ever hoped for.

It seemed to be only a matter of hours before she saw the welcoming sight of fields of her own farmstead stretching out before her.

*

Mounting up on Caesia, Nerie urged the mare into a rapid gallop, wishing to leave the mad woman and her children – how _had_ they just magically appeared like that? Had witchcraft been involved? – as far behind as he could in the shortest time possible.

He'd unfortunately ridden hard for a substantial distance before it abruptly dawned on him that he'd also left Venthi's prized armour far behind him too.

He'd thrown it all aside in his search for the sack of meat and, distracted by the wailing of the old woman, had failed to pack it all back into place on Caesia's back once more.

_Prized_ armour!

_Hah_!

_Ancient_ armour, more like!

The chances were, now he came to think more reasonably about it, that the old amour and weapons would let him down at the very worst moment in any vicious melee he was taking part in.

Hadn't Venthi come back from the wars with his brain every bit as addled as the old woman's?

Taking care of his armour, ensuring it remained fit for purpose, would have been the very last thing on his mind.

No wonder Nerie had found it so hard to wear, the weapons so ungainly to wield!

Quite obviously, there were a whole host of good reasons why he'd been forced to leave it behind him!

This, of course, was how the gods gave their good counsel on what actions should be taken.

There was a purpose to everything that happened to you, if you were only wise enough to not just realise it but also recognise it too, interpreting the heaven-sent messages and accurately divulging whatever it was the gods were trying to tell you!

Hadn't he also been delayed numerous times in his attempts to the join the army?

All those old women, the bane of his life, wasting his time at every turn.

Why, even Martis had insisted on the entirely unnecessary journey to visit the Oracle.

And all for what? All that journeying, and simply to be told the quite obvious prediction that he would have a child!

Unless...

The Pythia wouldn't waste _her_ time making a perfectly unnecessary statement.

Which meant, naturally, that there had to be a _purpose_ to it...

A purpose to her prediction.

A purpose to him _seeding_ this daughter!

Why hadn't he seen it before?

His real purpose in life wasn't to join the army!

Those upstart Romans were undoubtedly all but defeated by now anyway.

Whereas he'd already proved himself a warrior, as the old woman had declared, by his rescuing of the three lost children.

Why, and here was his reward for _that_ brave deed – three _grapes_!

He glanced with a smirk at the three small fruits he still held in his hand, surprised that he'd unconsciously retained his clasp upon them despite his mounting and riding of Caesia.

How had they managed to survive without being in anyway squashed, or even bruised?

He chuckled; amazed, once again, at the woman's stupidity.

Amazed, too, at his ridiculously complacent readiness to accept them as a just reward for returning her children!

With a twisting of his palm, the flick of a thumb, he deftly tossed a grape towards his gaping mouth.

The grape felt soft, warm, moist – yet also much larger than he might have expected.

He tried to bite into its fragile flesh; but couldn't, because it was now suddenly even larger, pushing down upon his tongue, up against the roof of his mouth.

It was far too large, in fact, for him to even spit out!

Rapidly swelling up within his mouth, it was causing him to gag, to retch, as he vainly attempted to free it from his painfully expanding mouth, his swiftly bulging cheeks.

He could have been like this for nine minutes, nine months, or nine years; he really, really couldn't be sure any more.

And then, just when he thought it was all over for him, that he would die either fighting for his breath or, worse, as his torturously protruding eyes finally exploded, he at last managed to violently vomit up the blockage from his throat.

Even through his tear-filled vision, he could see it was no longer a grape.

It was a baby girl, wailing to be fed.

*

# Chapter 20

Even as Martis worked in the fields, the birds still flocked close by.

Yet not one seed was taken, not one freshly sprouting seedling was devoured.

Rather, the birds fed on the insects that would normally cause havoc amongst the growing crops.

Gradually, too, Martis began to recognise from the way the birds came and went that a storm was imminent, or even that a freezing night was about to kill off any budding sprays unless they were adequately protected.

The farm prospered and, little by little, Martis began to treat those working the fields alongside her as paid hands, ignoring the many protests and threats to resign coming from the gang masters.

They weren't _her_ slaves, they reminded her on a daily basis.

When Nerie returned from the wars, he would be scandalised by her behaviour, she was warned almost constantly.

And Martis knew, of course, that Nerie _would_ return.

For the Pythia herself had more or less foretold that Nerie would survive any battle he took part in, if for no other reason than that he must bring a daughter into this world.

*

Naturally, Nerie had no milk to give the baby he found himself holding.

He wondered if he should simply desert her for, or course, no one had asked him to take on the responsibility of caring for her.

Already, the child's constantly wailing complaints, her frenzied flailing of arms and legs, were grating on him and driving him to distraction.

But...what if she were the child of the Pythia's prediction?

The daughter he would 'seed'?

A _grape_ seed – _hah_!

Truly, the gods were a mischievous throng of–

Well, _that_ was best left unsaid.

What _had_ he done to deserve this torture?

If only the Pythia hadn't accepted their sack of meat as a sacrifice!

_The meat_!

Could he feed the baby, somehow, the meat in the sack given to him by the old woman?

Caesia had loyally stayed by him throughout his anguished pangs of bringing the baby girl into being. On her back, she still carried panniers of food, for it was mainly the armour and weapons that Nerie had earlier discarded in his eagerness to uncover the sack of meat.

Yet the meat sack was no longer there, Nerie realised with dismay when he tried to find it once more.

It must have slipped off Caesia's back, then, perhaps when the children had so ungainly and chaotically dismounted.

Still cupped within the crook of his arm, the baby girl began to wail more than ever.

Using his free hand to carefully take the two remaining grapes from the grip of his other hand, Nerie stored them in a small yet sturdily box-like pocket attached to one of the panniers, recognising at last that they might be far more precious than he'd first supposed.

Then, one handed, he began to withdraw the food from the packs, mixing it with water into a mush he believed the baby would be capable of eating.

Fortunately, he was right; the baby eagerly swallowed everything that he fed her.

Unfortunately, as soon as he stopped feeding her, she immediately began wailing for more food once more.

And so he began to feed her food straight from the packs, without bothering to transform it into an easily edible paste.

And she ate it, greedily. She devoured it remarkably and unbelievably quickly too, such that no matter how fast Nerie brought food to her lips, the faster she swallowed it.

Soon, all his food had gone.

And the baby wailed once more, demanding to be fed!

*

# Chapter 21

The birds were acting strangely today, Martis realised.

What on earth could it mean, the way they flew excitedly about the skies, the flocks gaily weaving in and out between each other.

She'd never seen behaviour like this before.

They were signs...signs of a _birth_.

A _child_ would be born...a _daughter_.

This much the Pythia had told them, of course.

It would all come to be, as foretold, the birds were now saying.

There would be a baby girl, a daughter for Martis to raise.

Martis tentatively felt the curve of her belly, as if expecting the first signs to be showing there.

But _how_ could she be with child?

That's just _not_ possible!

What nonsense _is_ this?

The birds swooped, they soared, they spun their tales in the air.

Her child was already seeded, they insisted.

It was for Martis to unearth the proof.

*

The baby wouldn't stop wailing.

Despite everything Nerie had fed her, she was still hungry.

Worse still, she was visibly weakening, even wasting away.

_Just how much did babies eat_?

Nerie just didn't know what to do anymore.

Should he feed her the grapes?

What good would they be, though?

_Two_ grapes; when she had effortlessly worked her way through whole sacks of supplies.

Cleary, the grapes were magical however – but in what _way_ were they magical?

Did each result in the birth of another child?

Probably.

That was the _last_ thing he needed – two _more_ hungry mouths to feed!

Besides, Nerie realised, that crazed old woman had actually given him something of value after all.

How many childless couples were there? How much would they be willing to give for the promise of bearing a child?

Yes, no matter _how_ unorthodox that birth might be.

In fact, now he came to think of it; couldn't he sell this wailing child?

He gets this bawling burden off his hands, and makes money into the bargain!

Actually, she wasn't wailing any longer, he suddenly realised, snapping out of his train of thought.

She wasn't moving, either.

She was perfectly still.

Perfectly cold.

He buried her as soon as he could, a shallow grave being all he could manage in the rocky ground, covering it all with a large, flattened stone.

She wouldn't have had much of a life anyway, he reassured himself.

Not with an appetite that not even the Cornucopia could adequately satisfy.

*

# Chapter 22

The birds told her that, today, it was _this_ field Martis must plough.

She couldn't see why.

It was being left fallow this year, allowing it to recover the all-important nourishment it would need when a fresh crop was eventually planted there.

Still, if that's what the gods, talking to her through the flight and movement of the birds, wished...

Who was she to protest that they must be wrong?

The gods, however, were cruel in the detailing of the task they'd set her.

She was to effectively work the field on her own, with only the old mule as her partner.

And it was a blistering hot day...

The plough bit deep into the ground, the furrows neat, gradually granting the earth the weft that awaits the warp of the sower. Yet there would be no seeding here, Martis sadly realised, despite the ardour of her toil.

She stopped every now and again to slake her thirst, to eat, to ensure too that the old mule was bearing its own appointed task without suffering unnecessarily. As the sun slipped lower in the sky, she despaired that she would finish the field before it became too dark to continue. Even so, she took a lantern, and fixed it high on her plough, as she and the mule laboured alone in the darkness.

With just one more row to go, she put the plough into a sharp turn at the field's edge, forgetting in her exhaustion to withdraw the blade clear of the ground; and everything came to a painfully juddering halt, the dull clang of metal ringing out as it struck an obviously large and immovable stone.

Caught unawares while bending into the movement of the plough, Martis fell and crashed hard into it as it abruptly stilled. She slipped over to one side with it, too, as it toppled from its guiding furrows. Each knock she sustained was doubly agonising, her overworked muscles already painfully aching.

Worse than all this, though, was the effect that the unearthing of the stone had had upon the plough, its blade tip completely shorn in the collision.

Martis wept in frustration.

How could such an immense stone have been left in a field ploughed for generations?

She stilled her sobs.

There was no use in crying.

She wouldn't let this beat her.

There was just one more row to do.

She would do it, forcing the broken plough through the earth and any other obstructing stones if needs be.

Quickly, she righted the plough – and chastised herself for, she realised, she was still weeping after all, even if she was no longer conscious of it.

But...wasn't the sobbing coming from somewhere just in front of the plough?

She strode towards where the plough's dulled blade was prepared to once again cut through the soil.

The wailing was louder here, if still muted, as if it was arising from the earth itself.

Dropping to her knees, Martis began to scoop away the loosened soil, sure some poor creature must be stuck in its warren weaving deep underground, perhaps injured by the striking of the blade.

The wailing became louder with every scoop of earth she cast aside.

Yes, yes, she saw, catching a flailing movement, noticing a flash of freshly revealed raw flesh; there _was_ some poor animal entrapped here.

Reaching into the dark earth, she grasped the creature tight, and pulled it clear of the cloying soil.

But it wasn't an injured creature after all.

It was a naked, new born baby girl.

Bawling to be urgently fed.

*

# Chapter 23

Perhaps he should have shed a tear for the baby girl he'd just buried.

But Nerie wasn't the kind of man to let weeping get in the way of his purpose.

It was time he headed on home.

If he hadn't come up with enough reasons for returning to his darling Martis, here was yet another; the Pythia's prophecy that he would 'seed' the birth of a girl had been fulfilled, and so there was no longer any guarantee that he would return safely from the wars.

Besides, the two magical grapes he had in his possession, used wisely, would ensure he'd return home with far more riches than he'd accumulate through the spoils of war.

A childless couple; he simply needed a childless couple.

The richer the better, naturally.

*

The freshly uncovered baby girl was wailing for milk yet, Martis realised miserably, she had absolutely nothing to offer her.

In the morning she could set about hiring a nursemaid. And goat's milk would have to suffice until then.

But the girl was bawling for something to eat _now_ , and the farm buildings, where most of the goat's milk was stored, lay a long trip back across the fields.

Martis had little left of the food she'd packed to sustain her while she worked, not that any of it would really have been ideal for a baby anyway. She did have, however, a few leftover drops of goat's milk, a few globs of honey.

Maybe mixing these would create a milk substitute.

Thoroughly cleaning her hands on the only spotless part of her dress, Martis worked quickly, surprisingly deftly, creating a sticky amber gel that glistened a sun-like gold in the glow from the lamp's flickering flame.

Coating a little finger in a thick cocoon of this mixture, she brought it towards the hungrily screaming mouth, wiped it tenderly across the lips; then smiled with relief as the girl began to suck remarkably hard upon a finger Martis briefly worried might be wholly devoured by the ravenous babe.

At last, the child was silent.

Wide eyed, too, with gratefulness and curiosity.

Martis chuckled, her pains and exhaustion abruptly forgotten.

What _was_ this poor child doing here?

Had some other poor girl, far older of course, fearing disgrace, or the increased poverty of feeding an extra mouth, been driven to the edge of craziness, believing the only way out was to rid herself of this unwanted, unplanned for burden?

As one fingerful of honied gel was sucked wholly clean, Martis had to quickly recoat her finger, rapidly reinserting it back between the engorging lips before the starving girl had a chance to start howling again. Yet, thankfully, with every taste of the honied elixir, the babe seemed increasingly less insatiable, appeared evermore content.

Now the child was devouring her surroundings with her eyes.

*

# Chapter 24

'You must take us for fools!' the farmer laughed uproariously as Nerie tried to explain how the grape he was holding would bring into the world the child the farmer's wife had been longing for.

'I _swear_ it's true!' Nerie protested, aggrieved that he should be thought so untrustworthy, that his reward for offering assistance was to be made fun of. 'Indeed, I should warn you that when you swallow the grape, you already have a nursemaid to hand who can _immediately_ begin to feed the new babe!'

The woman cringed, unsure whose side she should take in this argument; she so wanted to believe that the grape being offered to them was indeed magical, yet she could fully understand her husband's suspicions that it could only be a malicious trick.

'Maybe if I swallowed the grape; if we paid you when the child is at last born!' the woman offered hopefully.

Now it was Nerie who laughed sceptically.

'Your child will be born at _once_!' Nerie explained once more, wondering why the couple found this idea so hard to grasp. 'So I have no problem at all in agreeing to these terms; yet I say again that you must be prepared to sustain the child as soon as she – or he, it could well be a boy of course! – is born!'

The woman glanced towards her husband, her eyes pleadingly insistent that this was a fair deal, the best that could be struck between them and this arrogant young man.

'We have a woman, Capra,' she said half to her husband, half to Nerie. 'She could be persuaded to serve as a nursemaid...'

'But how _close_ is she? _When_ could she be here to feed the child?' Nerie anxiously persisted, fearing that the child born to the woman would once again be insatiably hungry.

The farmer couldn't fail to note the urgency in Nerie's eyes, misinterpreting it as a sign that the young man increasingly feared being revealed as a charlatan.

Well, the farmer thought; I'll call him out – I'll put my money on the table!

'Capra's only an urgent shout away,' he declared assuredly, slapping down a bag of coins upon the table serving as their forum of discussion, yet keeping a firm grip on it. 'So here's your fee; yours as soon as this child is born!'

To the farmer's complete surprise, Nerie nodded in agreement.

He placed his part of the deal, a grape, alongside the bag of money.

If this Capra was close enough to be called, she would come running, surely, once she heard the hungry child start bawling.

The woman stared hard at the grape, instinctively recognising the profound importance it had abruptly taken on: it promised a lifetime of joy; it threatened complete disappointment.

The two men stared at her, wondering what she would do, for still she hesitated.

'Oh tender goddess, please help me make the right choice...' she murmured fearfully.

Suddenly she reached forward, picked up the grape; and gingerly placed it between her lips.

*

# Chapter 25

Martis called her baby girl Dictynna.

It meant 'Lady of the Nets' she was reliably informed.

As if discovering the naked babe amongst the earth of her fields hadn't been amazing enough, Martis had also found something warm to wrap the now contentedly sleeping child in as she was carried back to the farmhouse.

The large, flattened stone that had arrested and shattered Martis's plough had been bizarrely cloaked in the most beautiful of tapestries, one worthy of being called a sister to her own of finely rendered birds of the air and water.

Dictynna's garment, however, portrayed every creature that had ever roamed the earth, it seemed to those who admired it. All of life was here, its many admirers exclaimed in awe.

The weave of the cloak had effectively 'netted' the creatures of creation.

Naturally, Martis had thought Dictynna would require a nursemaid. Yet the child not only appeared content to continue taking her melange of milk and honey, but also thrived on it.

Instead, as a toddling infant – for yes, she was now already an infant, her overnight spurts of rapid growth quite startling – she seemed to draw her nourishment from the close and excitable observation of the many beasts of the fields portrayed upon her garb.

As a young girl – yes, she was already a young girl, although fortunately her growth had now steadied and become as regular as any other child's – she found she could see a future life even in those creatures who had lately passed away; for, as she aided the poor creatures on their journey into another world, they returned the favour, with predictions of events awaiting the girl as she made her own way through life.

Martis loved her as if she were her own child, they also told her.

Whenever they told her this, Dictynna smiled, thanking them gratefully.

But the truth was, naturally, that Dictynna didn't need anyone to tell her of Martis's great and rapidly growing love for her.

*

The poor woman looked as if she had foolishly attempted to swallow a whole chicken.

A whole piglet!

A whole calf!

Her eyes bulged in fear as much as from the intolerable strain of keeping her whole head from suddenly exploding.

Aghast, her husband held on to her, crying out to Nerie to offer some help, to take the money only please let his poor wife come out of all this alive!

Nerie merely smiled knowingly; isn't this _exactly_ what had happened to him? And yet he was fine.

Although, he had to admit, he was quite surprised at just how extended the poor woman's face had become.

It had seemed to him at the time, of course, that he would die, that his whole being was close to exploding as he gave birth to the child; but the farmer's wife appeared to be suffering from all this far more than even he had.

At last, just when even Nerie was beginning to panic, the woman began to violently retch, to pitch forward, grabbing her stomach hard; and suddenly, she was spewing forth a wholly naked child.

Only this wasn't a babe.

It was a young girl.

*

# Chapter 26

Across a large farm, there are patches of the best, wholly nurturing soil, and sections that will forever remain barren.

Dicte, as she had become known to everyone, knew the quality of the soil from the creatures who had buried their way through it, who had made it their home. She knew, too, of the underground rivulets that naturally irrigated some parts, while leaving others parched, or flooded whole areas. These streams, as long as care was taken, as long as one knew what they were doing and what unwanted side effects might be unwittingly set in motion, could be split and redirected, sharing out the thirst-quenching waters more uniformly and fairly.

The fresh shoots of crops that could once have entirely disappeared overnight were now left alone, while even hens, geese and sheep no longer feared the attentions of foxes, wolves and bear.

The farm flourished.

The flowering of its fields, erupting in a tapestry of gleaming, vibrant colours, became the envy of its neighbours. It couldn't fail to escape the notice of Nerie's parents.

They paid a visit to Martis, reminding her that she was effectively betrothed to their son.

'He's put his life at risk for all of us, remember,' they sullenly declared. 'If it weren't for Nerie's brave endeavours, all this glorious land of yours would now rightfully be Roman.'

*

The farmer's wife lay between life and death, it seemed to everyone present, gasping for air, sweating profusely, weeping, exhausted, and tortured.

While her husband and the servants who had scampered into the kitchen on hearing the wailing tended to her as best they could, Nerie took this opportunity to scoop up the purse of money he believed he richly deserved.

As promised, he had delivered a child to them.

A child who was of far less trouble than the baby he'd ended up with too, he thought, watching the naked girl rush around the kitchen greedily gorging on any food she found in the cupboards, or the pantry, or set out for the dogs.

He turned to leave, only to find his way out towards the yard barred by panicked servants rushing in from other areas of the farm. The girl however, having had her fill of everything to be eaten in the kitchen, deftly weaved between them all, dashing outside to seek out more food.

'Stop him!' the farmer cried out to his men, seeing at last that Nerie had taken the money.

'What? What's this?' Nerie protested self-righteously as the nearest farmhands apprehended him. 'You have your child, as agreed!'

'A babe; we expected a _babe_!' the farmer stormed rising to his feet, recognising that there was little he could do for his wife other than hoping she would soon recover.

'I _warned_ you it was magic!'

'You didn't warn us my wife would give birth to a full frown gi–'

'The girl, the girl!' a woman shrieked as she also rushed in from the yard. 'There's a naked girl out there eating _all_ the eggs, raw as can be!'

*

# Chapter 27

Martis had done her best to forget that Nerie would return one day.

How would she explain Dicte, a girl she now regarded as her daughter?

The Pythia had decreed that Nerie would seed a daughter; was there room for two daughters, of different parentage, on the farm?

Martis couldn't see that Nerie would ever accept such a potentially fraught situation.

Yet Martis also recognised that she could never be persuaded to give up Dicte. She, she reassured herself, would be able to love both her daughters equally.

In fact, if she were being honest with herself, she hoped the Pythia's prophesy had meaning yet hidden to them; for couldn't it mean just as well that Nerie would take another wife, and have his daughter by her? Men away at war were known to take on mistresses, or even to find themselves falling in love with noble ladies they rescue from certain death.

The birds refused to tell her anything they knew, if they knew anything at all on this matter. If only they'd spoken to her earlier, at least offered hints that she'd have no need of Nerie; but how were even the most prophetic of birds supposed to predict that she would find a daughter buried beneath the earth of her farm?

She didn't need Nerie anymore – if, indeed, she'd had any real need of him.

The love she had for and received from Dicte alone made her feel whole, entirely complete.

She had need of nothing more, no one else.

She sighed resignedly.

If the birds had an answer to her dilemma, they weren't divulging it.

*

Nerie felt wholly aggrieved that he'd been put in such an unfortunate position.

He'd fulfilled his part of the bargain.

It was thoroughly outrageous that the farmer had demanded his payment back.

Of course, the girl herself was hardly a problem at all, because she could be easily dealt with.

Like the babe before her, she would gradually waste away once all food was denied her.

And then, like the babe, he would bury her.

She already lay still and unmoving, strapped in a thick cloth across Caesia's back. They'd left the farm far behind them, and although Nerie had stopped a number of times now to nibble at the food he'd stolen from the wagon of toiling farmhands, he'd determinedly refused to feed the girl.

The farmer, damn his miserable hide, had insisted that the girl was Nerie's, that he should take her off his farm before she ate everything in her path.

Even as the servants had eventually corralled her, she'd fought back, biting at their hands, arms and legs as if prepared to engorge herself on their flesh if needs be. Her frenzied defence had only been completely stilled when they'd finally managed to wrap a bright piece of cloth entirely about her, tying her up for good measure and strapping her to Nerie's mount.

Tightly encased within her colourful cocoon, the girl had thankfully presented no more trouble for Nerie, other than that he realised he'd have to prepare a shallow grave for her at some point.

Still, he thought, the cloth the fools had wrapped her in would probably make it all worth his while after all. It was of the brightest threads, a tapestry that would command a good price.

It pictured, from what he could tell, as he was naturally seeing so little of it, scenes of farms and cities beset by every kind of weather the gods could inflict upon them, be it the fiercest storm to the harshest sun.

The bundle seemed larger to him than he'd first taken it to be when it had been thrown across Caesia's hind quarters. As he unstrapped it from the mare's harness, he struggled to drag it across Caesia's back, it being far heavier than anticipated.

He let it simply fall to the ground, the bindings snapping as the heavy bundle threw up clouds of veiling, choking dust. Coughing, his eyes weeping in the stinging dust, Nerie briefly attempted to waft away the swirling cloud with a flailing of his arms; then brought them to a halt as he wondered if his tear-filled eyes were playing tricks on him.

The most beautiful maiden he'd ever seen was standing by Caesia's side, draped in the sparkling cloth as if it had been specially designed as the most flattering dress for her.

'Hello,' she said calmly, 'I'm...'

She paused, if only briefly, as if she were considering whom she should take her name after, or, perhaps, if she had the right to call herself the 'tender goddess' invoked by the farmer's wife.

'I'm Amalthea,' the girl said proudly.

*

# Chapter 28

It was the brightest of days, yet the birds wheeling above Martis were behaving oddly, she realised.

There was an urgency to their combined motions, a rush wholly at odds with the peacefulness of the pleasant weather the farm was luxuriating in.

They told of a coming storm, one hurtling down upon them, and about to strike the farm at any moment now. Yet there were none of the more usual signs of an oncoming squall, for the skies remained clear no matter which way Martis looked, the horizon in every direction free of any trace of a foreboding darkening.

Martis had learned to trust the forewarnings offered by her birds, however, just as they'd all come to trust Dicte's interpretations of the way a rabbit or sheep's innards spilt out across the ground.

Turning about, Martis ran back across the fields, crying out to everyone she passed that they must prepare the farm for the very worst the weather could throw at it; cover and tie down any hay or harvested crops, bring in the herds, the flocks, the free ranging hens, firmly lock all the doors and window shutters so they don't widely swing and break in the wind.

It seemed strange to everyone to be making these preparations on such a beautiful day: but the birds of Martis never lied.

*

This older version of the girl, Nerie was gratified to notice, was nowhere near as insatiably hungry as her younger self.

In fact, if anything, she was remarkably decorous as she ate, as if she had been raised as a daughter of one of the finest families.

Yes, this, together with her undoubted beauty, would ensure she fetched a fabulous price in the slave market.

Perhaps he could even marry her off to some wealthy family, claiming that she was of noble birth, but had lost everything in the wars.

In fact, she too would be dead, had it not been for his own unbelievable bravery.

Yes, yes; he liked the run of that idea, very, very much indeed.

For, now he came to think on it, how could he return to the farm and his parents without tales of his success in the battles undertaken by the heavily outnumbered yet ultimately triumphant Etruscans against the brutal Romans?

This girl literally owed her life to him, if not exactly in the way that he hoped to spin his story. She would back up his recollections of valiantly fought battles, for how else was her presence to be explained otherwise?

She wouldn't want the truth to be known any more than he did.

'Can you recall how you came about – I mean, how it was that you were born?' he asked curiously as she expertly prepared some of the food taken from the stolen bags.

Like her modestly correct manner, she seemed to have acquired these homely skills quite naturally.

Amalthea nodded.

'I'm born of the coming together of the silvery streams of life as they returned to the primal waters.'

Nerie nodded, as if sagely contemplating what he thought was an outrageously immodest claim.

No matter; her conceit had no bearing on how he proposed to milk her existence for every drop of advantage.

'When I return home with a girl of no obvious history,' he said, 'there'll be many unanswerable questions asked of you; do you understand that?'

She nodded.

'The truth would only frighten them,' she said.

Nerie replied with a satisfied nod.

'Good, good; I'm so glad you recognise this. However, I'm willing – but only if _you_ wish it, naturally! – to say I came across you while I was fighting against Rome; that your family villa was under attack and aflame, and I had to rescue you.'

It occurred to him that he also needed to excuse his lack of arms and armour.

'Of course, my mare was overburdened with us both on her back as we tried to flee the pursuing Roman cavalry; so once I'd discharged my weapons, I resorted to flinging back at them my shield, helmet...and so on...'

He let the last part of his tale drift off a little, checking Amalthea's expression, hoping to see within it a willingness to go ahead with this subterfuge.

She looked up towards darkening skies.

'I'll give you my answer,' she said nonchalantly. 'Once the storm has passed...'

*

# Chapter 29

The storm raged in across the formerly peaceful landscape of orchards, pastures, and delicately patterned fields, throwing down its dark cloak of sweeping rain and viciously howling winds.

The pounding thunder rolled along with it, shaking the trees with its fearful sound alone.

Anyone who saw the storm that day would agree that the focus of its onslaught was the farm of Martis, as if someone jealous of its recent flowering had called down a curse upon it. The winds coldly shrieked through the trees, about the barns, through every crack they found in the farm house itself. Meanwhile, wraithlike squalls of icy rain tore at shutters and beat in a frenzied frustration at the battened doors.

It would be unreasonable, Martis recognised, to hope they might come out the other side of all this entirely unscathed. There would be uprooted trees, flattened crops, herds put out of their regular milking patterns by fear alone as they heard the ravenous demons striving to wrench them from their sheds.

Weaker storms than this had wreaked the most atrocious damage across the farm in earlier years. This time, thankfully, they'd prepared in good time for it however. Was it too much to ask that any inflicted wounds could easily be addressed once the storm had passed?

Such an attack was never, ever _relentless_ no matter how unforgiving it might seem at the time; it would wear itself out, it would eventually die away to a whimpering nothingness.

As if hearing Martis's hopeful observation, the storm furiously responded with a thunderous boom, a crack of lightning sizzling through the air directly above the farm, briefly throwing everything outside into an angularly sharp relief of pure black on the starkest white.

*

As the storm wildly thrashed out at the land, Nerie sheltered underneath the overhang of a huge, jutting rock.

When the pummelling of the rain and its attendant gusts was at its worst, however, Amalthea calmly strode out into the darkened air, excited, electrified even, as if she felt she were in her element.

In the frequent and flickering light of far off lightning strikes, her patterned gown glowed as if brought to life, given movement, such that she could be a more universal from of the all-enveloping storm.

The drenching rain appeared not to bother her in the slightest, Nerie thought, bemused by her actions until he recalled she was, in her way, the crazed offspring of the old woman who'd given him the grapes.

Trees cracked and shed huge branches, the wind furiously whipping them until they must surely be beaten and tamed. Streams overflowed, casting aside their banks as the soil broke and crumbled, tumbling into the rapidly swirling waters.

At last, Amalthea turned about, unhurriedly making her way back to the shelter of the rock.

She beamed blissfully, said nothing.

'Well?' said Nerie, hoping for some response, some explanation at the very least, perhaps.

The girl fell asleep almost instantly, a contented smile across her stilled lips.

*

# Chapter 30

Every hen, along with every goose – for, ironically, they'd been brought into the henhouse to be given shelter from the storm – had cried out to Martis as they'd been torturously cooked in the blazing building.

She'd felt their pain, her anguish made worse because she knew she was helpless, and she couldn't come to their aid.

Even the drenching rain couldn't put out the flames started by the strike of lightning. The fire raged all night, long after the storm had passed away to die somewhere else with nothing more than a whimper.

It was her conceit, Martis realised, that had brought this down upon them.

Hadn't she declared herself whole, entirely complete?

Hadn't the Pythia declared, conversely, that Nerie would return a hero from the wars, and impregnate her with his daughter?

It was a forewarning.

A forewarning that she could not hope to simply throw aside her fate.

*

'Well?' Nerie repeated once more when Amalthea at last awoke.

'The storm's long passed,' he added, indicating the clear morning skies with a sour nod of his head. 'You said you'd _honour_ me with your decision.'

He pronounced honour with as much scorn as he could muster, resentful that the relationship seemed to have somehow changed overnight. He couldn't see why that should be the case. He couldn't see why he seemed to be going along with it so uncharacteristically calmly.

'Is there any need to lie?' Amalthea asked, as if already knowing the answer. 'Eventually, I'll be accepted for who I am.'

Nerie had held back his growing anger for long enough.

'Are you forgetting who you are?' he raged. 'I _own_ you! You wouldn't even be alive if it weren't for me! You have no say in the matter, understand? You do _only_ as _I_ say! Or I'll sell you to the most impoverished farm into a life of drudgery.'

'No, you won't.'

Amalthea confidently rose to her feet, looking down at the still seated Nerie with a gaze close to complete contempt.

'For now,' she continued coolly, 'I know what happened to my sister...'

Nerie's eyes bulged, he grimaced sourly; he didn't know how to respond to Amalthea's accusation.

_Sister_?

She could only mean the babe, a child of the grape, just as she was.

But how would she know...?

He wished he'd kept Venthi's sword: he'd run her through right now!

'All the more reason to sell you and not return with you!' he hissed venomously. 'Who'd believe the wild tales of a crazed farm drudge?'

'I've no need to inform anyone of what happened to my sister,' she reassured him, while remaining in all other ways aloof. 'Whereas if you fail to return with me, my sister will know; and you'll most surely pay for my disappearance.'

Nerie's already bewildered mind once again fumbled for facts that would make sense of Amalthea's curious statement.

Her sister – her _dead_ sister – will 'know'?

And how, anyway, can a _buried_ sister – a dead _babe_ at that! – make him pay?

Amalthea had just admitted she knew what had happened to her sister, so she was fully aware that the babe lay dead somewhere. So how could she claim that–

_Wait_!

Amalthea had communicated with the gods themselves when she'd so calmly stood amongst the rain of lightning.

How else could she know of her sister's fate?

Was her sister...he almost choked as this possibility dawned on him, fearing the consequences if it were even partly true...was her sister now amongst the gods? Or, if not now one of the gods, had she become a demon of the underworld?

Is _that_ what Amalthea meant by her otherwise outrageous claim?

These sisters were no _natural_ girls, that was for sure.

They were the spawn of an old hag, and her magical grapes.

Hadn't they both been born out of mouths, rather than via more natural means?

Hadn't they both possessed an unbelievable appetite for any food around them?

Hadn't Amalthea reached maturity in the blink of an eye?

_'My_ tale of the wars will ensure a good marriage for you,' he told her, abruptly more conciliatory. ' _That's_ all I'm saying – that it will be best for _you_!'

'I've no need of marriage,' Amalthea nonchalantly informed him.

'I can't be expected to take care of you for the rest of your life!' Nerie exclaimed. 'How would I explain it to Mar– to the girl who'll be my wife?'

'There'll be no wedding,' Amalthea imperiously declared.

'What?' an astounded Nerie laughed, glimpsing at last a weakness in her arguments. 'You think you know _everything_ – but you don't! The Pythia herself foretold that I would return from the wars as a brave warrior and gave birth to a daughter!'

Amalthea lightly chuckled as she shook her head.

'Oh Nerie, you...'

She briefly paused, as if stopping herself from blurting out that he was nothing but a spoilt child.

'The warrior is _Venthi_ , naturally: while the daughter of foretellings – why, that's _Martis_ , of course!'

*

# Chapter 31

The news of Martis's uncharacteristic misfortune soon spread.

It could only be the work of the gods, everyone agreed; taking her down for her pride in her recent successes, with no signs anyone had seen that she'd thanked even one of the deities responsible for her good fortune.

Well, in truth, that should be _almost_ everyone believed it was a just punishment for her _hubris_.

Nerie's parents had their own ideas why it had been finally decided that Martis was the least deserving of all for her favourable treatment by fate.

She'd had a child, a while ago too, obviously. And while her husband to be was at war, defending the land from attack. Worse still, Martis had scandalously brought the girl into her home, pretending she was just one more overly-favoured farmhand.

This might have been more reasonably believable had Martis not tried to hide her shame with this ridiculously unbelievable tale that the girl had been uncovered from a field's soil as it had been tilled.

Sour faced, Nerie's parents came to Martis's farm, not to offer condolences for the loss of every one of her birds but, rather, to condemn her for her undoubted responsibility in bringing down this wholly deserved misfortune upon a farmstead destined to be their son's.

Naturally, they tempered their words as they admonished Martis, fearing that voicing their indignation more accurately would only give further substance to the scandal. If they openly admitted to what they were accusing her off, wouldn't her subsequent actions of atonement only declare its undoubted truth?

Indeed, they were so adept at hiding behind their ambiguities that Martis couldn't really be sure what she was being accused of.

'Signs of past shames and childishly foolish encounters can be _banished_ ,' the mother resolutely declared, as if somehow an expert on the matter. 'We return what would otherwise be dead and useless seed to the ground, knowing we will be rewarded with a new, more vibrant crop!'

'No matter,' the father finished with a stern, commanding smile, 'as long as the farm's prosperity is assured, Martis, we see no need for Nerie to hear of anything of this through us at least, as long as–'

He was rudely interrupted as an excited Dicte ran into the room, ignoring everyone but Martis as if the farm's neighbours were of no concern to her in even the slightest way.

'My _sister_ is on her way!' she exclaimed with brightly wide eyes.

_'Sister_?' Nerie's parents exploded.

*

# Chapter 32

After all they had done to ensure their son's marriage to the increasingly wealthy Martis, Nerie's parents were aggrievedly astounded when he returned with an incredibly beautiful girl in tow.

Naturally, Martis had insisted that she had absolutely no idea what Dicte could be talking about. She'd also apologised profusely for the girl's 'uncharacteristic' rudeness.

And so they'd 'forgiven' her.

'Where did _she_ come from?' they now demanded of Nerie, their fury rising as the girl simply appeared amused by their distress, making absolutely no attempt to introduce herself or explain her presence. 'Why can't you tell us _anything_ about her?'

Nerie shrugged, pleadingly glancing Amalthea's way in the vain hope that she might help him out by recalling the tale of heroics he'd created. He wondered if she might allow him, at least, to give some _hint_ that this was how she'd arrived in his company; but, seeing the mischievous glint in her eyes, he thought better of it.

'She was...in a war, you come across all manner of _abandoned_ girls,' he began, praying that the ambiguity of his claim wouldn't arouse a scornful laugh from Amalthea. 'You...well, they can't just be left to fend for themselves now, can they?'

His mother looked over Amalthea with quite obvious loathing and suspicion.

'These mysterious girls with no background just appear out of nowhere, it seems!' she contemptuously declared. 'I suppose you'll be telling us next that you simply found her as a babe lying in the ground–'

_'Who's_ said this?' Amalthea coolly demanded, without any attempt at politeness, despite this being the very first time she'd spoken in the presence of Nerie's parents.

'That's no concern of yours!' Nerie's mother irately spat back, goaded into further spasms of fury by Amalthea's lack of respect.

'Nerie is to be married, and soon too!' the father added triumphantly. 'To a noble girl, of flawless...of _faultless_ background...'

Amalthea smiled as she caught the stumbled correction, glancing Nerie's way with a wry smile, drawing his attention to his father's curious nervousness.

'Who _did_ say they'd found a child in the ground?' Nerie asked suspiciously. 'Martis?'

'Well...that's what _some_ say...' his mother said with an anxious defensiveness. ' _We_ don't believe it, naturally!'

'How _old_ is this child?' Nerie asked worriedly.

'Ten, maybe; perhaps nine, or eleven.'

_'Ten_?' Nerie gasped incredulously. 'She had no child when I left for the wars...'

'Of _course_ she didn't!' his father hurriedly and gratefully agreed. 'That's why we say it's nonsense to claim–'

'She's my sister.'

Amalthea spoke calmly, yet her statement gave rise to howls of anguish.

_'Sister_?' Nerie's parents once again found themselves exclaiming in complete astonishment.

Nerie blanched fearfully.

Hadn't Amalthea more or less claimed earlier that her 'sister' was still alive?

He'd buried her, he was sure of that; and yet here was a tale of Martis uncovering a young girl from the soil.

There _had_ to be a connection, despite the innumerable miles separating burial and uncovering.

'I must go see her,' Amalthea confidently declared, striding out of the house into the yard where Caesia was feeding.

The girl's sense of independence infuriated Nerie's parents all the more.

'She doesn't _belong_ here!' Nerie's mother hissed at him.

'She must go, _immediately_ ,' her husband firmly agreed.

But Nerie wasn't listening.

He anxiously ran out after Amalthea.

Who knew what this sister of hers – born from a grape, and now freshly arisen from the dead – was capable of?

*

# Chapter 33

Naturally, Martis had no reason to doubt that Dicte, as claimed, had a sister.

She wished only that Dicte hadn't made this declaration in the presence of Nerie's parents.

At least, however, it had finally clarified the demands they were making of her.

It was Dicte whom they wished to have banished from the farm. If needs be, she must be even 'returned to the soil' that gave birth to her.

Clearly, they believed Dicte was _her_ child. A child standing in the way of marriage to their son.

But she couldn't rid herself of Dicte, no matter what.

She loved her far too much.

Far more than she could ever hope to love the foolishly childish Nerie.

And yet the gods were obviously insistent that she _must_ marry Nerie.

They'd sent her warning that they didn't consider her complete without him.

How could she ever hope to reconcile her love for Dicte with the wishes of the gods?

The birds had remained perfectly silent over the last few days, at least regarding this particular, all-consuming dilemma that she faced, suggesting no answers, no way out. Today, however, the huge flocks of birds had returned in force, excitedly wheeling everywhere about the sky.

At last, they had an answer for her, they screamed in their soaring joy.

A rider was approaching the farm at a gallop.

He was bizarrely garbed, the armour of her father at some point discarded, such that Martis wouldn't have recognised Nerie if it wasn't for the obvious, smoothly flowing magnificence of Caesia

So, that was it; marriage to Nerie was the only answer to her problem.

*

# Chapter 34

Amalthea would pay dearly for his humiliation!

Nerie fumed as he chased after her on an old mule he'd taken from his parent's yard.

At one time, of course, mules had been his only source of transport, but he had recently become accustomed to the smoother, less-painful flow of Caesia's far lither movements.

The mule violently jogged him incessantly as she rushed as fast as she could over the rocky hill separating one farm from the other.

He had no hope of keeping up with Amalthea, but he would catch up with her at Martis's – at _his_ farm – and then he'd finally whip all this arrogant behaviour out of her.

Then, ahead of him, he saw that she was at last slowing anyway. Bringing Caesia to a halt, she even slipped down off his back.

Fine; he would get to punish her far earlier than he'd hoped, taming her with a scourging far worse than he was giving this stupid mule!

Above her, immense clouds of birds were curiously flowing in an out of each other, briefly entwining as they whirled about the sky, a scene he'd never seen before. It was quite, quite beautiful, and yet, in its unusualness, somehow profoundly disconcerting too.

When he looked back towards Amalthea, he saw the reason for her dismounting, the reason too for his sense of discomfort.

A young girl was rushing up the hill from _his_ farm.

The girl his parents had spoken off, surely.

The girl Martis had bizarrely unearthed from the soil itself.

The girl Amalthea proclaimed as her sister.

The girl who could accuse him from beyond the grave of murdering her.

*

# Chapter 35

Martis was more confused than ever.

The birds, in their gorgeous, entrancing weaving of the heavens, were quite obviously in a celebratory mood.

And yet here was Dicte, running out to greet and even lovingly hug Nerie.

What on earth was going on?

Surely, Dicte didn't even _know_ of Nerie, let alone have any kind of feeling for him?

As she watched this bewildering coming together of a girl she loved, a man she now admittedly loathed, she saw another rider rising up over the hill; a far less graceful rider than the Caesia-mounted figure Nerie had cut against the sky.

This rider was mounted on a mule whose frightfully angular gallop must be jarring him painfully with every rushed stride, Martis thought. And yet, seeking to avoid the embracing couple, ensuring in fact that he gave them the widest possible of berths, he swung his mount out into an exaggerated curve considerably extending his already highly agonising journey. Worse still for him, he urged the mule into an even faster pace, as if he wished only to leave Dicte and Nerie far behind him.

It was only as this humorously battered rider drew closer that he at last became recognisable to Martis.

_This_ rider was Nerie.

So who was Dicte with?

Why, her _sister_ , naturally.

Hadn't Dicte herself proclaimed that her sister was on her way?

*

'You have to rid yourself of this girl, Martis!'

Nerie thundered out his commands to Martis even as he continued to ride towards her.

So, Nerie knew of Dicte already. From his parents, no doubt.

Yet why had he taken such obvious pains to avoid her? And, besides, now Martis came to think of it, why was Dicte's sister riding Caesia?

She must have arrived with Nerie.

That was hardly Nerie's style though, was it? Reuniting two sisters? Not, at least, unless there was something in it for him.

And here he was anyway, insisting Dicte must be got rid of.

'I can't,' Martis shot back at Nerie. 'She's like a _daughter_ to me...'

'You don't get _daughters_ from the soil!' Nerie raged, now close enough to bring his mule to a halt and swing down off her back. 'You dig up only _demons_! If she'd been buried in a field, then she was supposed to die!'

At least, Martis thought gratefully, he's accepted that Dicte came from the ground far easier than I could have hoped for.

Behind him, Dicte and her sister had been gradually, more languidly, drawing closer too, such that Martis could now clearly that the young woman was quite remarkably beautiful.

Ah, yes; now _that_ might explain why Nerie had accompanied her on her journey here!

'She's no more a demon that that beautiful woman – her _sister_ – whom you've been travelling with!'

'Hah! You _think_ so?' Nerie spat back triumphantly. 'They're the spawn of one of those old hags we came across. I helped this old woman–'

Martis laugh.

'This sounds an unbelievable story already, Nerie! Aren't old women the bane of your life?'

'Indeed they are! For despite me helping her rescue her lost children, she gave me three magical grapes–'

He stopped, seeing the growing disbelief in Martis's glaring eyes, her distrustful expression.

'I can _prove_ it!' he confidently declared, striding over to Caesia's side as she drew close and quickly rummaging around in the small pocket of the pannier where he'd placed the last of the grapes.

His fingers at last alighted on something smaller, far drier, and harder, than he'd imagined.

It was a raisin.

The grape had been entirely squashed, its juices running free, and it had dried and shrivelled up in the close heat of the pannier's leather pocket.

'A wizened raisin?' Martis laughed once again. ' _This_ is your magical grape?

*

'It's true.'

Nerie whirled about on his heels, surprised that his story had been confirmed, and by Amalthea at that.

'I'm Amalthea,' the young woman said with a smile to Martis as, holding Dicte by the hand, she followed on behind Caesia.

'Martis.'

Amalthea nodded in response to Martis's pleasant greeting, as if she were already well aware of her name.

'We're seeded from the grapes,' she said, fleetingly glancing Dicte's way, to ensure Martis knew whom the 'we' was referring to. 'And I'm the youngest of us both, though you couldn't tell, for I was born more fully formed.'

'Then you have no history, no childhood to recall?' Martis asked, concerned.

'I have a future, as we all have; and that is the most important thing for now.'

_'My_ past, sister, is the one we need to address,' Dicte bluntly stated, balefully glaring at Nerie. ' _He_ was the one who buried me; despite originally giving me life!'

'I'm not your _father_!' Nerie spluttered in a mix of indignation and fear. 'You just said yourselves; you were _seeded_ from _grapes_! The grapes of an old hag!'

'Yet you took _her_ seed in...' Amalthea calmly pointed out, leaving the sentence unfinished, letting Nerie work out for himself the implications of her deceleration.

He instantly paled.

He looked as if he were about to be fiercely sick once more.

He fearfully shied away from Dicte all the more.

'Then...then...I can't bear to be in the presence of you witches any longer!' he shrieked as he sickened at the thought of everything that had happened to him recently. 'You must leave my land–'

_'My_ land!' Martis sternly interrupted. 'They can stay on _my_ land, Nerie. It's _you_ who must leave!'

'Good; then I'll be rid of you all!'

He made to stride over towards Caesia, but Martis blocked his way.

_'She_ stays as well, Nerie! That poor _mule_ is yours; though I wish I could spare _her_ too!'

Nerie was close to exploding with anger, yet held back, controlling it for now, if only because he remained unsure of the power these witches had inherited.

He strode purposely towards his mule, already flicking his scourge, his intent to take his fury out on the beast obvious to all; and so Dicte nimbly leapt forward, slipping the whip from his sweaty hand.

He briefly looked as if he would strike out at her at last despite his fears; but then, instead, he smiled knowingly, holding up his other hand.

'You forget, "sisters"!' he cried exultantly. 'I will _always_ have you in the _palm_ of my hand!'

And, opening up his hand, he revealed the raisin.

The seed of another sister yet to be born.

*

# Chapter 36

'Don't worry,' Martis sighed miserably as Nerie triumphantly, if somewhat comically, rode away on the painfully jogging mule, 'in my brief joy at seeing him brought down, I'd forgotten that the gods have decreed I _have_ to marry him.'

She looked back towards Amalthea and Dicte.

'I'll have to beg his forgiveness,' she continued, 'and, while I'm humbling myself, I'll insist only that he returns your sister as part of the contract.'

Exchanging amused glances, Amalthea and Dicte chuckled good naturedly.

_'Sister_?' Dicte said curiously.

'He's got nothing but a _raisin_!' Amalthea giggled.

'What?'

Martis was perplexed. Then she allowed herself a smile of hope as it dawned on her that Nerie might have been fooled after all.

'You _swapped_ it?' she asked, brightening. 'You exchanged the _grape_ for the _raisin_?'

As if one, both Amalthea and Dicte shook their heads.

'Of course not!'

'We don't have to resort to such things!'

'Then...I _don't_ understand...' Martis confessed.

_'We_ are the _three_ , Martis,' Dicte said kindly, approaching her, taking her hand.

'No, no; that _can't_ be, I'm afraid!' Martis softly, sadly wailed, looking over to where the charred ruins of the hen house still smouldered in parts. 'I flattered myself I was complete with you, Dicte: but I was punished for my arrogance!'

'Of _course_ you weren't _entirely_ complete with me _alone_ ,' Dicte said.

Amalthea took Martis's other hand, such that now they formed a complete circle.

'It's only your enslaved birds the gods claimed as theirs; they left you the ones you can freely read as they soar through the heavens.'

'While creatures are _mine_ to listen to,' Dicte added, 'and for our sister, it's energy itself, such that she could give life to any crop we wish to grow – if, naturally, that's _all_ that had been ordained for us...'

'The Roman's will come soon...' Amalthea said assuredly.

'Then the farm...'

Martis looked out over the lush farmland wistfully, realising all her hard work would come to nothing.

And then she saw her birds, swooping, trilling angelically in the sun.

The Roman's had already heard, they told her, of the Pythia's 'daughter of foretellings'.

Great things are predicted for the Romans; and the more predictions like this they hear, the more they desire them!

*

# Chapter 37

Who could have ever foreseen things would turn out so badly for him?

Consumed by bitterness, Nerie had wasted away to nothing but a shrivelled husk of the formally handsome young man.

The Romans had taken everything, particularly of his, when they'd heard from the neighbours how he'd fought in the wars against them.

Martis and the two girls of the grapes appeared to have left on the eve of the invasion, as if forewarned, though no one had seen them go, or, indeed, heard anything more of them.

It was as if they'd vanished into a crack in the earth or, as some claimed, somehow been whisked away in substance at least, becoming wholly invisible. Perhaps there had only ever been one of them, not two (and never three, as that fool Nerie claimed); and hadn't she been called Aphaea, or the 'invisible'?

Nerie's crazed babblings remained an amusement for almost everyone, particularly when he'd stand up to produce his proof, holding high nothing but a wizened raisin, claiming it substantiated his every wild imagining.

They could laugh, he would belligerently scream back at them – but he would give them their proof, the day he swallowed it in front of them; and then he would _conjure_ up, out of _nothing_ , the most _beautiful_ girl they'd _ever_ seen!

And so eventually, unable to endure the ridicule of the crowds any longer, he swallowed it whole before them – and conjured up, out of nothing, nothing at all.

He shuffled off to his dishevelled hovel, weeping in disgrace, gagging on his phlegm, retching at the thought of how he'd entirely humiliated himself before them all.

His eyes bulged, his cheeks swelled agonisingly, his mouth gaped impossibly and painfully wide – and suddenly, like a serpent regurgitating the remains of a victim far bigger than itself, he was disgorging a full grown woman in a fountaining of darkly crumpled rags.

Through his overstretched, tear-filled eyes, Nerie gawped; yes, _yes_!

She _was_ beautiful!

Despite her ragged clothes, raisin-like in their many creases, their dulled, formerly bright colours, there was no doubting that he had indeed brought into being a woman who gloried in her gorgeousness.

Nerie chuckled happily.

_Now_ who was the fool?

The beautiful maiden drew closer towards him.

'Hello,' she said calmly, 'I'm...Adrestia. The "inescapable".'

Then, like her garb – a forewarning, if ever one were ever needed, that time erodes all – her smoothly glowing skin rapidly dulled, swiftly creased.

She became in an instant, too, partially stooped, and wholly wizened.

'A fine pair we make, eh?' she cackled gleefully, pointing out their similarities with the very scourge that had once graced his own palm. 'Making each other entirely _complete_!'

'I'll bury you first,' Nerie retorted. 'For there'll be _nothing_ for you to eat–'

'Hah, but I can instantly whip up the most _delicious_ slivers of _meat_!' she happily cried.

And, instantly, she began beating him mercilessly with her scourge, sending him fearfully scurrying as he vainly tried to stop her flaying his flesh.

'Please, please,' he begged, shielding his head as best as he could from her repeated blows. 'I'll let you go! You're _free_ to go!'

'Ah, but I don't _want_ to go,' the crone shrieked joyfully, whipping him again and again and again. 'For _I'm_ the bane of your life; and I'll stay with you until I've counted ten full years on my fingers!'

And, opening up her free hand, she revealed she was missing her little finger.

End

If you enjoyed reading this book, you might also enjoy (or you may know someone else who might enjoy) these other books by Jon Jacks.

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

Memesis – April Queen, May Fool – Sick Teen – Thrice Born – Self-Assembled Girl – Love Poison No. 13

Whatever happened to Cinderella's Slipper? – AmeriChristmas – The Vitch's Kat in Hollywoodland

Blood of Angels, Wings of Men – Patchwork Quest – The World Turns on A Card – Palace of Lace

The Wailing Ships – The Bad Samaritan – The 13th Month – The Silvered Mare – SpinDell

Swan Moon – The Unicorndoll – Lesser Nefertiti – My Shrieking Skin – Stone in Love

Font of All Lies – The Bared Heart – An Angelic Alphabet – The Fairy Paintbox

