Free For the Most Beautiful by Emily Hauser Page B

heads and we ran, slipping, sliding and laughing, down the steps, the smell of water heady in the air, our clothes damp and clinging to our wet skin.
    â€˜This way!’ Mynes shouted, over the hiss and splash of the rain, jumping the last few steps and lifting me down on to the beach. He pointed to an old tree a few feet away, its silvery leaves dripping water, like strings of white agate. I held my arms over my head and ran, following Mynes’ shadowy figure through the slanting rain that splashed in my eyes and ears, slipping on the slimy-wet sand.
    Mynes ducked under the leaves of the tree and pulled me, half sliding in my wet slippers, with him.
    We were inside the hollowed-out trunk of a gigantic ancient olive tree. I settled down on the floor and looked around. It was warm and dry in there, and dark like the inside of an old chest. The withes of the living wood twisted around us, winding up into the sky, like a knotted sailor’s rope. Outside, beyond the canopy of leaves waving and dripping in the wind, the rain slanted down from stormy grey clouds, and the sea was stirred up into great waves.
    Mynes put his arm around my shoulders. ‘What do you think?’ he asked softly, resting his head on mine and looking out into the storm. ‘Was this worth missing the feast for?’
    â€˜Almost,’ I conceded, smiling. ‘But you are forgetting, husband – we had other things in mind than the feast.’
    He laughed at that and took me in his arms, then pulled me gently down to the ground so that we were lying side by side on the warm earth. He gazed deep into my eyes, and I found myself silenced in the warmth of our love. There was a long pause as we looked at each other, and the rain dripped against the roof of wood.
    â€˜What are you thinking?’ I asked, smiling as I remembered how he had asked me the same question on the first night of our marriage.
    Mynes did not answer, but picked up a small sharp stone that was lying on the ground and weighed it in his palm. ‘Hold my hand.’
    I cupped mine around his. He started scraping into the wall of bark, small movements at first, nothing legible.
    â€˜What is it?’ I asked, as he guided my hand back and forth over the bark.
    â€˜Wait …’
    Shapes seemed to be materializing even as I watched: a series of lines coming together into a triangle crossed by another line …
    â€˜B … M,’ I read, as he finished, scraping away the last few grains of bark with the edge of the stone. Then I saw it. ‘Briseis and Mynes.’
    He turned to nod and, before he could do anything else, I had caught him in my arms and was kissing him, fully, passionately, my hands on his neck and in his hair.
    His fingers uncurled instinctively and he dropped the stone to the ground as he responded, his hands and fingers exploring the skin of my body, pulling the brooches and pins from my wet dress and soaking hair. As one, we rolled together, the basket tipping to one side as Mynes pushed it away, all thoughts of food forgotten.
    And there, in the warmth of the olive tree that night, with the rain pouring down over our heads, we made love for the last time.

Rise of the Greeks

    Â 
Χρυσηíς
Krisayis
,
Troy
The Hour of the Rising Sun
The Ninth Day of the Month of Threshing Wheat, 1250 BC
    The day after the Greeks arrived I went to see Cassandra. My friend had taken to her rooms ever since she had collapsed on the walls when Paris and Hector had come home. I had visited her and sat by her bed every day since, telling her what was happening in the city, and wondering what the Fates would send upon us next.
    Cassandra was lying on her delicately ornamented maple-wood bed as I opened the door and looked in. Lysianassa was busying herself by one of the chests, folding blankets.
    â€˜Are you awake?’
    Cassandra nodded and I came across the room towards her, my feet sinking into the soft pile of the woollen rugs