The same nickname applied again made Isme huff. Unable to endure the crawl of the flies, she shifted in her seat, new position giving her neck some relief as she continued to glare up at him. She said, “What do you intend to do with us?”
The robber snorted again. “What do you think, stupid woman? We are going to take you back to camp, have sport with you—” and here his face did not change at all, but somehow Isme caught what he was implying, and something cold splashed down her spine— “And then cart you off to sell. Though a wild, mouthy woman might not fetch too high a price, so we might just keep you.”
Isme worked her jaw, then said, “How can a man of such low honor like you endure one moment of his own company?”
She thought back to the island, to when she had done that great wrong, and how at the time she had not known what was going to happen. If she had known, she would never—and yet here was someone who was willing to live wickedly—intentionally—
The man did not seem any more upset by Isme’s insults than he was by the flies buzzing around them. He settled a little further back on his haunches, somehow perplexed and amused at the same time. He said, “I’ve heard of wild folk having weird ideas, but never anything like this. What do you think me dishonorable?”
Isme stared at him. “You kidnap people and sell them for money. You force yourself on women. These strike you as ordinary?”
And the man laughed. “They don’t seem so to you?”
When Isme did not respond, he leaned forward on his rock, and said, “A man’s only as good as his strength. Here now I have captured two women in a single day—what honor! And I stole you straight away. If you blame anyone, blame your men for not keeping you well. I have accomplished a great deed and my companions will laugh and sing about it in years to come when you are old and grey—there is honor in my strength, what I have taken is proof.”
And Isme found that she had no answer to any of that, because she thought to the stories of her father, and the many things that the heroes in them had done, and how some of them were not quite so honorable, either. And yet they were heroes.
If this man defined ‘honor’ by strength, what claim did she have against that? She did not even have her own definition of the word—just a vague idea that, until now, she had never questioned. She had never thought honor might mean bad things for herself.
Indeed, as she sat with her mind turning over the question, examining the many angles, she found that she could not say where her idea of ‘honor’ had come from, except that it was a wonderful thing that everyone in the stories wanted.
But that was also not quite true. When her father told those stories, he did so in ways that told her things without direct words. She recalled how he spoke about the centaur Nessus carrying off Deianeira, bride of Hercules, and how wicked Nessus was for this. And not just because Deianeira belonged to Hercules, hero of the story—but rather because carrying away women was wrong.
Epimetheus had never said something about strength and dishonor when it came to Isme hiding from men on ships. Epimetheus had never said ‘stay away from them because they might be stronger than me and I don’t want to lose you to a better man,’ he had always said, ‘hide when men approach because they might be dangerous and hurt you.’ And she had known when he spoke that his concern was for her, not himself—or his honor.
Isme thought, What my father said is true. I know very little of the world or how the minds of men work. I should listen more than talk—and decide for myself.
Pelagia stirred, but only to huddle in on herself, though her hands were tied behind her back. Isme glanced at her, concerned.
I will live through this, thought Isme, no matter what happens. Even if I am not in one piece. But Pelagia—she has no guarantees. Of course, she also got herself into this... She should have stayed under the wagons, she did not have to follow me.
Then, remembering her actions on the night with the turtles, Isme felt herself soften. She revised: Then again, we all hardly know what the real consequences of our actions will be at the time.
Rustling and footsteps from the woods. Perched atop his egg rock, the robber sat straighter, pulled a knife from a strap on his thigh. His chiton was unfortunately short, and Isme could see from her position that his undergarments needed a good wash. Yet while he was alert, he was not that worried—perhaps the reason the people in the woods were making noise was because they were his companions and were expected.
Emerging from the woods came three men surrounding a single figure. Isme’s throat tightened in anger, when she saw that Kleto was also bound: but more than that, Kleto had a bruise against the side of her face, stark among that ivory skin, and the veil had been torn off her hair, which hung lopsided in pulled ringlets. This made her head to look heavier on one side than the other. But she was still observant, and her eyes flashed with fire as they caught on Isme.
There were two men on either side of her, their fingers wound tight around her elbows, so that she was pulled back and forth with each step they took. This seemed like overmuch for one woman prisoner—yet they also regarded her cautiously.
And Isme realized: Kleto had fought.
The men on either side of her had scratches on their faces, as though they had been clawed around the eyes. The one bringing up the rear was the same, only he was bloody
