Chapter Three
On that first day, we walked past dozens of people: tradesmen heading to the Hellespont, families on pilgrimages to Abydos and the temple of Zeus or farther still, to the temples of Athena in Sigeion. On the second day, it was mainly tradesmen, but on the third day, we passed only one family.
Rather than piling items on their mules the way we had done, their two animals pulled a cart.
The wooden bed was full of furniture, and the children rode in the back in relative comfort.
Their eyes lingered on me. Distrust flickered in their gaze, for who was I, of such poor standing that I had nothing but two mules, a few small satchels, and a husband covered in dried blood?
It is not my fault, I wanted to say. This is all my husband’s doing. But what good would that have done?
Morsimus’s wounds worsened throughout the journey, and the cut on his eyebrow became so greatly inflamed he could not see through that eye.
I thought—perhaps hoped—that when he lay down at night, he might not wake up again, but each morning, I was awoken by his angry grunts and whines.
Thankfully, the open space allowed for some distance between me and his pointless tirades, at least while we walked.
It was on that third day that I first saw Ninniya.
From this distance, the village did not even look inhabited.
There was no sign of farmland, no rows of wheat sprouting from the ground or dense vines budding with young grapes.
By contrast, the sky had never appeared so big.
It dissolved into the horizon, painted with the brushstrokes of fine, ephemeral clouds.
“It does not look too terrible from here.” Melitta sidled up beside me. “We may well find a good home. I am sure the house is plenty big enough for us.”
I did not allow myself a flicker of hope. Besides, a large house would be wasted on me.
It was on the next day, just as the sun had clipped its apex and we settled in the shade to avoid the greatest heat of the day, that an aroma caught in the back of my throat.
A slight acrid tingle tickled my nose, only to disappear again.
Both confused and curious, I glanced at Melitta and Morsimus to see if they had noticed.
They had.
“It is the tannery,” Morsimus said. He covered his mouth as he spoke, though the wind had already whipped the scent away.
“That place is the reason my father did not attempt to sell the house. It is the village’s sole source of income, but no one in their right mind would choose to work at such a place. ”
A tannery. There had been several on the outskirts of Prousa, but their stench had been masked by other scents of the city—the charring of meats, the roasting of nuts, the heavy incense that flowed from the temples in great clouds that spiraled upward to the gods. Perhaps it would be the same here.
Having crested the greatest of the rolling hills, I knew we were only a few short hours from our destination.
My body ached from the rough sleeping and the heavy weight of our bags, so even though it made the journey marginally longer, we walked on the flat land that followed the river as it wove through the valley.
We came upon them so suddenly that when I stopped, the mule I was leading very nearly knocked into my back.
Morsimus cleared his throat, no doubt ready to scold me, but he saw them as well and stopped moving.
They were standing in the river shallows where the water turned white as it tumbled over the rocks and hit their knees. At a guess, I would have said there were thirty of them, but several more were standing on the banks.
Drinking the water, their tails flicking in the air, was a herd of wild horses, all of them perfectly at ease. As incredible as they were, however, the horses were not the main source of my surprise. For there, in the middle of the herd, stood a woman and child.
Our mules tugged on their ropes, keen to enjoy the lush grass along the banks of the river, but I held firm. I did not want anything to disturb this moment.
By her size, I assumed the child to be eleven or twelve, the mother approaching thirty. The daughter, who possessed a great length of black hair, rested her palms against a dappled gray mare, while the mother rubbed the forehead of a chestnut foal.
“She must have been gifted by the goddess Cybele,” Melitta whispered. The old woman worshipped the Phrygian gods, though she rarely dared to mention their names in front of Morsimus.
Yet even my husband was too stunned to speak.
We had seen tame horses plenty of times; my father-in-law had once owned a few, though they had been quickly lost to my husband’s habits.
But those had been broken since they were foals, and even then, I would not have dared to be alone with them for fear they would kick and bite.
These two were surrounded yet seemed entirely at peace.
Never had I seen a sight more worthy of Olympus.
I wondered if perhaps they were nymphs or lesser gods, there to cast their blessings on the creatures.
But their dress suggested poverty, and I could not imagine a deity choosing such poor attire.
Had I had my way, I would have sat down on the grass and watched until the sun set. I would have listened to the young girl’s laughter as the foal nibbled on the mother’s robe and drunk in the sound as if it was Apollo’s own playing. But Morsimus coughed behind me.
“It is a village full of crazy people,” he said. “Let us hope they are sane enough to have a tavern.”