They stopped at the quarantine gate to drop both Tally and Vonella. “Stavia, go in with her and get the names of all the warriors and Gypsies she had contact with, will you please?”
“Oh God, lady, don’t send your little girl in that pest-house just for that. There was only one, this whole week. That mad old white-headed one with just the one eye. He always comes to me.”
Stavia hesitated, waiting for the order to be rescinded. After a moment, Morgot nodded to her. “Unless you’d like to keep Tally company.”
It was one of those maternal “unlesses” which could be understood a dozen ways. Did it mean, “Unless you’re curious about the quarantine house and would like to see the inside?” or “Unless you think it would be womanly to help Tally regain her equanimity?” or “Unless it would be a good idea to rub Myra’s nose in this just a little more?”
“I’ll go in with Tally,” Stavia said. “I have to do a report for my community medicine course, anyhow, and I can do it on the quarantine center.”
Morgot nodded and drove the wagon away in such a manner as to suggest still another unless: “Unless you think it might be a good idea for Myra and me to have a private talk.”
AFTER ANOTHER SLEEPLESS NIGHT SPENT GRIEVing over Dawid, Stavia dragged herself to the hospital, to work. Morgot came out of her office, took one look at her, and told her to go home. “Stavvy, you usually look about twenty-five, but today you look fifty. I heard you tossing and turning, up all night, wandering around. Go home and get some sleep.”
Stavia, who was conscious of the imminence of her thirty-eighth birthday, was peculiarly annoyed by this repetition of Corrig’s comment concerning her appearance. “I was checking the windows.”
“Against what? Ghosts?”
“I thought it might rain in.”
“It quit raining yesterday about noon. Go on home, Stavvy. This place is almost empty. Everyone in Marthatown is disgustingly healthy, it seems. A lot healthier than you look. I’m not surprised, mind you. I don’t think there’s a woman in Marthatown who really believes her son will be lost to her until he reaches fifteen and repudiates her. You try to get ready for it, but you can’t. It’s like losing an arm or leg. Go ahead—take a little convalescent time.”
“Oh, Morgot, I did so hope….”
“I know, love. We all told you not to, but you wouldn’t be human if you hadn’t. Say the ordinances over to yourself; that’ll put you to sleep. If you can’t sleep, at least rest. There’s a Council meeting tonight.”
“I’d forgotten!” She bit her lip, annoyed with herself. What a thing to forget.
Stavia buttoned her padded coat and left the hospital, unbuttoning the collar again as soon as she got outside into the sun. The chill rains of early spring had passed for the moment and a mock summer had come, a transient warmth to stir false optimism. Cold would return inevitably before there could be true spring, no matter what the sun and sea conspired to suggest. It was too early for lunch. There was no one at home—the girls were at school and Corrig had gone to the servitors’ fraternity, where he was teaching a class in the mysteries. She would have the house to herself if she wanted to nap, but she didn’t want to do that, not just yet.
She wound her way through the market, not realizing until she came to the candle makers shops at the edge of the plaza that she had intended all along to come to the wall.
“Stupid, sentimental sop,” she told herself as she climbed the stairs. “What do you think you’re going to see down there?”
What Stavia saw was the empty parade ground with its tower and its monument to Telemachus, behind that the carved gables of the barracks buildings sweltering in the sun, and beyond them black specks racing about on the playing fields. The garrison was only half the size it had been when she was a child, and every member of it seemed to be either playing or watching, mostly from low bleachers along the field. Three or four men were looking on from the terrace of the officers’ residence. Shaking her head at herself, she found a sheltered corner hidden from the plaza and fished in a pocket for the book. It was warm here in the sun. She would spend an hour or two reviewing Iphigenia, then buy herself some lunch at a tea shop before going home to the promised nap. By then she’d be tired enough to sleep, she told herself, leafing through the pages to find the place where she and Corrig had left off that morning.
“THE GHOST OF ACHILLES appears upon the battlement,” she read, wondering how Joshua could bear to play Achilles. One would expect some servitor with a broad sense of humor and not much dignity, not someone like Joshua.
ACHILLES I seek my servant, Polyxena!
IPHIGENIA (Calling from ground level) Oh, mighty warrior, she is not here.
ACHILLES (Petulantly) She’s supposed to be here. They spilt her maiden blood upon my tomb so she would be here.
IPHIGENIA But they didn’t ask her if she would serve you, Achilles. Now that the warrants of warriors no longer run, she is her own ghost.
ACHILLES She is my slave! It’s all been arranged. Spill a maiden’s blood, heart’s blood, or maidenhead, and she’s yours. Everyone knows!
IPHIGENIA She is no one’s slave, Achilles. In the place of shades, we are all equal….
HECUBA Oh, maiden spirit, what is this mouthing? IPHIGENIA Achilles’ shade stands on the battlement, his member turgid with the fever of his passing, calling for Polyxena.
HECUBA Poor Polyxena.
IPHIGENIA She may do as she likes, Priam’s Queen. Nothing here constrains her.
ANDROMACHE What will Polyxena do if nothing constrains her? Mother, what will she do?
HECUBA I think she’ll sleep. Polyxena was
