All the Daughters

Chapter One

After crossing the sea from Kattai, Xueru walked up from Onassa harbour with bearers carrying her luggage. Onassa was a steep city, with flat-roofed buildings ascending a hill on the south coast like the receding tiers of a theatre. At the top was a stone fort. Xueru climbed many steps connecting the narrow, cobbled streets, passing houses uniformly white with mere accents of red, green, brown and blue on windows, doors, roofs and gates.

She reached a long, narrow marketplace. Men and a few women walked by her, turning to gaze at her foreign clothes and the train of her luggage. In the marketplace and shops, people gathered to buy linen and wool, clothing and shoes, pottery and foodstuffs, oil, spices and wine. The smells of leather, spices, smoke and street foods mingled.

Xueru crossed the marketplace and continued to climb. Higher up the air was clear. At the door of her destination she paused and breathed. Then she lifted her hand to the iron knocker.

A servant opened the door almost immediately, glanced at her and bowed. “My lady. You are expected. Please come in from the cold.”

The vestibule inside was indeed warmer. As in Kattai, heat rose from under the tiled floor.

The servant took her cloak. The bearers set her boxes down, took payment from her and departed. The door closed just as a woman with a child entered from the courtyard beyond the hall.

The woman’s chiton was purple silk, shimmering down her body. Her hair was black, dressed high and banded with purple ribbon, with curls arranged to fall on her shoulders. She could not be young, but her beauty was the sort that obscured age, and her eyes, very dark, were sage.

She smiled. “Welcome, my lady. I am glad you have arrived safely.” She curtsied. “I am Leida. I keep Marios’s house for him. And this,” she looked down at the child and drew her forward, “is Marios’s daughter, Vasiliki.”

Xueru knew Marios. They had met ten years ago when Marios came with his father to Kattai on ambassadorial duties. They had met twice since, when Marios had come by himself, merely on holiday. Marios was one of only a handful of Aktians who spoke Kattan. Most did not bother with the languages of foreigners, believing anyone who mattered or cared enough would learn Aktian.

The girl beside Leida was Marios in miniature, with waves of dark brown hair, olive skin, and two round, brown eyes like treacle toffee in an oval face. Xueru knelt before her. “They call you Vasia, do they not? I am Lady Xueru, second daughter of the Empress in Kattai. I know your father.”

The girl smiled with Marios’s smile, wide and charming, her baby teeth perfectly straight. “Not a princess?”

Above her, Leida’s brows lifted. “Vasia, is that polite?”

Xueru shrugged lightly. “A child’s logic may be impeccable.” She looked at the girl. “Not a princess. They call me Lady.”

Vasia’s small nose wrinkled, although not at Xueru. Her thoughts had moved on. “We have princes here, but Papa says they aren’t real. But he wants to be one, anyway.” She frowned. “He should become a real one. Then I would be his princess.”

Xueru said, “What about Leida?”

Vasia leaned forward, whispering with a hint of triumph, “She and Papa aren’t married!”

“Ah,” Xueru said. “But you love her, I can see.”

The girl grinned and grabbed Leida’s hand with both her own, swinging it, the skirt of her little chiton flapping as she moved.

Xueru stood. She was about to speak when they heard shouting outside.

At the first words, Leida’s eyes widened. With a swift apology she swept past Xueru and pulled open the door.

“Paris Tatoulis is a traitor! Bounty for Paris Tatoulis! Guard yourselves. Keep watch. Catch the traitor, Paris Tatoulis!”

“The General!” Leida murmured. She turned, calling across the hall, and a female servant ran in and forward. “Take Vasia. Take her to the kitchen. Keep her with you until I come. If anyone else comes, say she is anyone’s child but Mister Rondou’s, do you understand?” The woman nodded, fearful but alert. To Vasia, Leida said softly, “Go with Thekla, yes? She will take you to the kitchen for honey cake. I will come soon.” And she kissed her. “Good girl. Off you go.”

As the woman left with the child Xueru asked, “What is the fear?”

Leida glanced at her, shutting the door. Her voice was a little hurried but as level as her black brows. “You heard the name? Paris Tatoulis? It is General Tatoulis. They are naming him a traitor and hunting him. Why, I can’t imagine. But he was Marios’s General when he was in the army until recently, his mentor, teaching and promoting him, and still a good friend—even an advisor. And since Marios entered politics he has been … polarising. If the General is convicted of treason, Marios could be implicated.”

Xueru gazed at her, beautiful even in her suppressed fear. She stepped forward and took her arm gently, leading her from the door where she leaned. “You need not fear. No one will harm me. And so long as I am with you, no one will harm you or Vasia. You may be sure of it.”

It should have sounded pompous, but from Xueru it was a bland statement of fact. Leida paused and gazed at her, and her smile returned to her lips, if not her eyes. “Let me take you to your room.”

* * *

“None of us will see an end to war until we are dead.” Marios looked up and out, sending his voice clearly to all the members of the Assembly sitting on the first few tiered stone benches of the amphitheatre. The January wind gusted under his mantle and chiton, chilling him, but he showed no outward sign of discomfort.

He continued, “In one lifetime, our nation of Aktios has fought two wars with Sorra and one with Rossellon. Sooner than we like, we will face it again. I will not be a member of our government who says we should not be prepared. Those saying we should do nothing perhaps think they are reasonable and humble. They aren’t. They are arrogant and reckless. Only by our preparedness can we discourage others from thinking they may thrash us. And only by our own preparation can we show to our people a diligent love for our country.”

Marios finished his speech and the questions began. Someone called, “What of the Sorrans? Surely they will be suspicious of us if we rearm ourselves?”

Under a canopy in the centre, the two Princes watched and listened. Senators to either side shuffled papers and took notes. But many of the Assembly members looked anxious.

Marios faced the man who had called out the question and shrugged under his mantle. “What if they are? Now, they want peace, as we do. Both sides wanted this armistice because in five years of war both sides have fought to exhaustion. Our forts are damaged and our supplies of munitions are depleted. But do you think the Sorrans will disarm themselves merely to please us? They will say they fear the Virazzans or the Tranians, but the effect against us will be the same. Of course we all hope the present armistice will result in peace. And if it does, that the peace will last. But to be unprepared for war even with the hope of peace—that would be foolishness.”

One of the Senators called, “What of the expense? Many of our households are hungry.”

Against the afternoon sun, Marios squinted at the voice. It belonged to the Lord of Trade. He allowed himself a smile. “They will be hungrier still if Sorra or Rossellon overruns our best land in the north as both wish to do. For now, our people cannot eat money. We have plenty of crystal to mine and sell and Kattai has just announced it is in the market for larger quantities of crystal than ever before. So long as we use funds to rebuild our defences, our people will feel confident enough to return to their work, to grow the food they need, in peace and safety.”

One seat away from the Lord of Trade, Prince Yorgos opened his mouth. Yorgos would leave office in five months, at the end his six-year term as Prince. Marios intended to run for election in his place and everyone in the Assembly knew it. Yorgos almost sneered, “You take a hard line, it seems, for a champion of peasants and women.”

Marios had no chance to answer. From the amphitheatre’s entrance on his left a voice shouted, “Hold all! Hold all! Word for the Princes!”

Marios couldn’t argue and he could not speak. It was the official call that shut down all standard proceedings in the face of urgent news.

The Master of the Assembly, a large man, walked over and spoke with the newcomer and received some papers from him. Then he plodded back across the stage as far as the Princes’ awning.

The newcomer ran to stand in front of Marios in the centre of the dirt ground of the stage. The fellow was dressed in a livery Marios recognised. The livery of the house of Paris Tatoulis, a General of the Aktian Army. Marios cleared his throat pointedly but the fellow ignored him without moving, his head tilted towards the Princes. Marios nearly spoke to him, but stopped as he noticed, below short, dark, curling hair, the man’s neck was sweating despite the January chill.

Prince Iason looked up at the servant and held out the paper pages. “The Master has given me this. I have glanced at it. In your own words, what is it?”

“Evidence, my lord,” the servant said breathlessly. “Evidence of treason. If you read it you will see, it is a letter from the Duke of Sorra bearing his own signature and seal. The recipient was to be my master, General Paris Tatoulis.

“In the letter, the Duke accepts a proposition put to him by General Tatoulis a month ago. I have read this letter, and I read the General’s a month ago too. The General said he was willing to continue obtaining Aktian military information for the Duke if he were to be given in return a rich home, a pension and protection in Sorra, as well as marriage to the Duke’s eldest daughter. He said the secrets he had already given to the Sorrans proved his offer was genuine.

“I have just returned from Sorra with the Duke’s reply to the General, which you hold in your hand. The Duke agrees and¾”

Anything more the servant had to say disappeared under a torrent of shouted anger. Understandably. This leak of significant secrets had existed for nearly two years without the source being found. If it should be, after all, one of their own generals!

Amid the shouting and waving fists, a different movement caught Marios’s eye. Far to the right, three men he knew broke up an urgent discussion among themselves and hastened towards the steps leading up and out of the theatre. Two captains and a lieutenant of Paris’s. To Marios’s shame, he hesitated. Then he raised his practised voice and yelled through the din, in the way one had to on a battlefield. “Stop those men!”

The three heard him before men on either side of them understood. One of the three managed to leap up all the stairs, his mantle flying, and disappear from the edge of the theatre. By the time the Princes ordered guards to follow he had a good start.

The other two were grasped. They broke free, grabbing and uncoiling their whips, and struck out. Other men battled them and, faced with so many, the two were forced down the stairs to the stage rather than up to freedom. If the Members had been angry before, they were livid now. Blood spattered and flew as whips lashed, until the two men were beaten too badly to hold their own.

The servant of Paris had backed away in horror, looking as though he had a mind to run himself. Marios gripped him and shouted to the Princes. Only then did Prince Yorgos, stern-faced, send guards to break up what was left of the fight. Paris’s two captains were forced to their knees, badly bleeding, the younger one shaking and nursing a wrist that looked broken.

The Princes walked onto the stage. Then the questions and answers were swift. The men had condemned themselves already, trying to run, to escape and warn Paris even.

“Do you know this man?” Prince Iason asked, indicating the servant.

The elder captain had shut down as though hibernating. A guard forced his head up but he kept his eyes closed. The younger man nodded, his head drooping, his wrist held fast. Perhaps he feared torture of an improvised sort against that wrist. “He’s a servant of the General’s. We sent him to Sorra a month ago with the General’s letters. He has betrayed the General.”

Before Prince Iason could speak the servant stepped forward from Marios’s grasp and shouted. “I betrayed him? He’s betrayed me! You know what the Duke’s letter says? The Duke says I should be killed in case I know too much! Know too much? I’ll kill the Duke, I will!”

“Silence!” Prince Iason said. He drew a breath. “The General is a General no more. He has betrayed his country, as have you two. You will pay¾”

Now the Prince was interrupted by a commotion from above. Soldiers tramped down the stairs dragging two men and calling, “We have them, my lords! The General and his lieutenant!”

“Bring them!” Prince Yorgos said.

The lieutenant was in a state little better than the two captains and his eyes were wide with fear. Paris Tatoulis was unconscious.

“What happened?” asked Prince Yorgos.

The half dozen soldiers lowered Paris’s unconscious form to the ground. He rolled onto his front and a gaping gash showed in the back of his head, the brown hair around it stained and stuck together with blood. After a glance at the others, the sergeant of the little troop said, “He … fell while running, my lord. Bashed his head … on a rock in the road.”

Both Princes stared, but they probed no further. “Very well,” Yorgos said. “Hang them all,” and he indicated one of the collonades at the back of the theatre, where executions for the worst crimes took place.

“But we haven’t tried him!” Marios said.

The two Princes and many others looked at him. “Do you doubt his guilt?” Prince Iason asked.

Marios took one moment too long to answer, and saw it noted. “No, but¾”

“But now you would waste resources on this?” Prince Yorgos’s voice drawled a little. “Is it perhaps because Paris is your friend?”

Marios closed his eyes. He made himself smile. Then he opened his eyes. “He was my friend. No traitor is a friend of mine. My lords, I merely thought to suggest we should follow due process. To be seen to do justice, as well as to do it.”

In a little silence, Iason glanced at Yorgos and sighed. “Your point is taken. But we may say the confession of these three henchmen of Paris’s renders a trial unnecessary, and their testimony against Paris, along with this servant’s and the evidence he has provided, is conclusive.” To the soldiers he repeated. “String them up. But slit their throats first. As a gesture of … leniency.”

Marios said no more. There was nothing more to be said.

Blood flew again in spurts from the arteries in the condemned men’s necks. Paris never knew of his own destruction. Of the others, only the lieutenant wept as he died. Then ropes were brought and the broken bodies were left to dangle, for the crows and the stares of the populace.

* * *

Marios climbed from the theatre towards his house. The sun shone but was not warm even in the middle of the afternoon. In January, the wind blew off the sea and the light seemed grey despite a blue sky.

Paris was dead.

Paris had been Marios’s mentor when he first joined the army a decade ago.

Paris was a traitor.

They had had dinner together three days ago, to talk over Marios’s thoughts about the peace for today’s meeting of the Assembly. Nothing had shown on Paris’s face, in his manner. He had agreed with all Marios thought and said.

Now he was dead. Because he was a traitor.

Marios climbed the steps and the cobbled streets upwards. His house was high up, looking out far over the bay. Even through his boots, the ground and the wind chilled his feet.

Leida opened the door for him. She must have been waiting, watching. Her face said he had no need to speak. His wife, gone now, had been … not very bright. Leida was one of the cleverest people Marios knew. She did not speak either, merely took his arm gently and drew him in, closing the door. Wonderful warmth seeped into him, rising from the heating flues under the floor.

Vasia ran into the vestibule. “Papa!” Leida scooped her up before she careered into him, allowing the girl only to lean from her arms and kiss his face.

“There is blood on you,” Leida murmured. “I’ll take her and see to clean clothes.”

It was true. He hadn’t noticed. The blood of men spattering his white chiton and yellow mantle. Blood wasn’t new to him, even the blood of friends.

A friend as a traitor. The traitor’s blood in the Assembly. That was new.

He shook his head at Leida, his hand on Vasia’s hair. “I can manage. You heard the news?”

She nodded while Vasia wriggled. “Guards shouted in the streets when Paris tried to run, and again when they caught him. I am sorry.”

He looked at her stupidly, full of dull gratitude. She had asked no questions. He said, “He is dead. Already. There was no doubt, but he shouldn’t have tried to run. The Princes were impatient, the members angry. So¾”

He stopped. Vasia was four. She wouldn’t understand the words. But she understood something in his voice and face, and buried her own in Leida’s neck under the draped curls of black hair.

Leida’s face looked at him, only faintly tense, beautiful as always, her skin light brown, her eyes nearly as dark as her hair. “Tell me later. Bathe. I will send Spyro with wine and clothes.”

He touched her cheek, and smiled at them both before walking on.

As he stepped away she spoke once more. “Marios?”

“Mm?” He turned back.

There was a deeper concern in her expression. “Lady Xueru from Kattai arrived while you were out. I put her in the east wing. Will it be … awkward now?”

“Hum …” Marios considered, his gaze drifting about the hall. “Probably. It may bring … a conflagration. Well.” He smiled again, putting more vigour into it. “At least it will be warm.”