to the kingdom of Parthia.
“A total failure of a war,” he said.
She had a strong sense that he had not needed the reports and that he knew, but wanted time. Then he said that an advance troop led by Leonidas had been wiped out in an ambush. The Romans had counted their dead, but the centurion was not among them. There was a possibility that he had been taken prisoner, but…”
“But?”
“The Parthians don't usually take prisoners.”
Euphrosyne took a long detour through the new settlers’ part of the town, streets where it was difficult to make your way among the building sites and heaps of bricks. She was miserable, weighed down with her responsibility for Mary.
What should she do?
She stopped to watch four workmen fitting a beautifully carved door into one of the new houses and by the time the heavy door was in place, she had made up her mind. She would look on the girl as her daughter. Mary would be Greek. Euphrosyne would wind down her activities. Then she would return to Corinth with her daughter. And a handsome fortune in good Roman coins. But now it was a matter of telling Mary. No lying, and yet being considerate. It turned out to be simpler than she had feared. Mary had only to meet Euphrosyne's eyes and in both of them was certainty and despair.
“He's dead?”
“They don't know. His body wasn't among the dead.”
“Prisoner?”
“The tribune said the Parthians don't usually take prisoners.”
Mary was dry eyed and rigid.
And it stayed that way, unapproachable with either consolation or friendliness. All words came up against a wall she had raised between herself and others.
“If only she would at least cry,” the girls in the house kept saying. “If only she…”
She must be kept busy before she turns in on herself completely, thought Euphrosyne. She set Mary to sewing, but the girl's fingers were too impatient for the needle and the work of mending tunics and darning mantles was not productive. Not even embroidery pleased her, despite the bright colors and beautiful flowers.
Then one day Mary took to her bed. “I've a pain in my stomach,” she whispered.
Euphrosyne left her there, but returned an hour or two later and just sat at her bedside.
“Dear child,” she kept saying. “Dear child.”
It was so unusual for Euphrosyne to be emotional that her words got through the wall.
“Why does everyone forsake me?” Mary cried out.
“Not everyone,” said Euphrosyne, and Mary could hear she was angry. “I am here, and I am doing what I can.”
Then she left the room.
Mary stayed there, thinking how difficult it all was, for there was no reason why Euphrosyne should give her food and houseroom, friendship, and care. No money was coming from Leonidas any longer and she was of no use in the house. Why not throw her out on the streets with the other beggar children?
She was ashamed.
Then it struck her that Euphrosyne was counting on her, as a whore.
They said she was pretty.
Dear Lord, help me.
She thought about Miriam and now she understood.
She leaped out of bed, pulled on her tunic and ran downstairs straight into Euphrosyne's office, where as usual she was sitting over her accounts.
“I won't be a whore,” she cried.
“Nor is that included in my plans,” Euphrosyne said, coldly, but then suddenly her voice broke. To her immense surprise, Mary saw that she was crying. It was so terrible and unbelievable that it broke down the wall around her and she gave way to her grief, a wail rising in her throat and the tears overflowing.
But nothing could allay Euphrosyne's bitterness.
“You're an ungrateful creature,” she said. “Go to your room and be ashamed. Think about Leonidas and his loyalty. And mine. You clearly don't even know what love is.”
The next day, Euphrosyne said that Mary was to put things right by going and helping in the kitchen. Learning to cook was an art a woman would always have use for.
Things went better for Mary there, partly because
“A total failure of a war,” he said.
She had a strong sense that he had not needed the reports and that he knew, but wanted time. Then he said that an advance troop led by Leonidas had been wiped out in an ambush. The Romans had counted their dead, but the centurion was not among them. There was a possibility that he had been taken prisoner, but…”
“But?”
“The Parthians don't usually take prisoners.”
Euphrosyne took a long detour through the new settlers’ part of the town, streets where it was difficult to make your way among the building sites and heaps of bricks. She was miserable, weighed down with her responsibility for Mary.
What should she do?
She stopped to watch four workmen fitting a beautifully carved door into one of the new houses and by the time the heavy door was in place, she had made up her mind. She would look on the girl as her daughter. Mary would be Greek. Euphrosyne would wind down her activities. Then she would return to Corinth with her daughter. And a handsome fortune in good Roman coins. But now it was a matter of telling Mary. No lying, and yet being considerate. It turned out to be simpler than she had feared. Mary had only to meet Euphrosyne's eyes and in both of them was certainty and despair.
“He's dead?”
“They don't know. His body wasn't among the dead.”
“Prisoner?”
“The tribune said the Parthians don't usually take prisoners.”
Mary was dry eyed and rigid.
And it stayed that way, unapproachable with either consolation or friendliness. All words came up against a wall she had raised between herself and others.
“If only she would at least cry,” the girls in the house kept saying. “If only she…”
She must be kept busy before she turns in on herself completely, thought Euphrosyne. She set Mary to sewing, but the girl's fingers were too impatient for the needle and the work of mending tunics and darning mantles was not productive. Not even embroidery pleased her, despite the bright colors and beautiful flowers.
Then one day Mary took to her bed. “I've a pain in my stomach,” she whispered.
Euphrosyne left her there, but returned an hour or two later and just sat at her bedside.
“Dear child,” she kept saying. “Dear child.”
It was so unusual for Euphrosyne to be emotional that her words got through the wall.
“Why does everyone forsake me?” Mary cried out.
“Not everyone,” said Euphrosyne, and Mary could hear she was angry. “I am here, and I am doing what I can.”
Then she left the room.
Mary stayed there, thinking how difficult it all was, for there was no reason why Euphrosyne should give her food and houseroom, friendship, and care. No money was coming from Leonidas any longer and she was of no use in the house. Why not throw her out on the streets with the other beggar children?
She was ashamed.
Then it struck her that Euphrosyne was counting on her, as a whore.
They said she was pretty.
Dear Lord, help me.
She thought about Miriam and now she understood.
She leaped out of bed, pulled on her tunic and ran downstairs straight into Euphrosyne's office, where as usual she was sitting over her accounts.
“I won't be a whore,” she cried.
“Nor is that included in my plans,” Euphrosyne said, coldly, but then suddenly her voice broke. To her immense surprise, Mary saw that she was crying. It was so terrible and unbelievable that it broke down the wall around her and she gave way to her grief, a wail rising in her throat and the tears overflowing.
But nothing could allay Euphrosyne's bitterness.
“You're an ungrateful creature,” she said. “Go to your room and be ashamed. Think about Leonidas and his loyalty. And mine. You clearly don't even know what love is.”
The next day, Euphrosyne said that Mary was to put things right by going and helping in the kitchen. Learning to cook was an art a woman would always have use for.
Things went better for Mary there, partly because
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