The Gate to Women's Country (20 page)

“I don't know,” she said. “I'm not sure. I'm not sure the war should make any difference. There are always wars.”

T
HE GHOST OF
P
OLYXENA APPEARS ON THE BATTLE
ment,” called the director. “Slowly, she descends the stairs.”

Councilwoman Stavia, in her character as Iphigenia, with the doll representing Astyanax cuddled in her arms, turned and looked up the stepladder that was doing duty as a battlement. The woman playing Polyxena was crouched at the top. For a moment Stavia couldn't remember the line, then just as the prompter began, she recalled it.

I
PHIGENIA
So, you have come at last, Polyxena. Please take this child from me.

P
OLYXENA
I am not fond of children. Girls perhaps, who have some hope of life, but not of boys. Boys play with death as though it were a game, cutting their teeth on daggers. No. I am not fond of children.

I
PHIGENIA
Be fond of this one. It is your brother's child.

P
OLYXENA
Hector's son? Well, and so they killed him, too.

Stavia tried the next speech, but something caught her just below the ribs, as though a knife had been inserted. “Well, so, they killed him, too,” she said, repeating Polyxena's line. She heard her voice with dismay, a rising, unconscious keening.

The director gave her a look, then called the rehearsal to a halt, waiting until the others got out of earshot before asking, “What is it, Stavia?”

“It's just… just that line
is
the same thing my sister said a long time ago. Lately I've been all muddled up. Too many memories.” She tried to laugh, unsuccessfully.

The director sighed. “You're tired, that's all. I'm making you all do it over too many times. My fault. I don't know what I want until I see it, and you all do it over and over until I see it. We've been at it long enough for today. Get some rest. Tomorrow we'll try again.”

S
TAVIA HAD JUST TURNED THIRTEEN WHEN HERALDS
had come from the battlefield to bring word that the armies of Marthatown and Susantown were arranging themselves for honorable battle. The herald had entered Women's Country through the Battlefield Gate after much blatting of trumpets and thunder of drums, and a deputation of the Council had gone down to the plaza to near the word.

From a space on the second level of the colonnade, Stavia had seen Morgot come into the plaza from the east, where the Council Chambers were, her hastily donned ceremonial robe swaying around her and the dark blue matron's veil blowing in the light wind. Even at that distance, Stavia could see the whiteness of Morgot's eyes, so pale that they appeared to look blindly at the world. How strange, to appear so blind and see so much.

“But, I look like that, too,” Stavia told herself. “I have eyes just like that.”

Chernon told her he liked her eyes, but Stavia wasn't sure she liked them herself. “Cassandra eyes,” her drama teacher had called them when she asked if Stavia wanted to play the part of the luckless prophetess.

“It's a small part, but it would give you some performance experience. Then next year, perhaps you'll be ready for the part of Iphigenia.”

“Just because of my eyes?” Stavia objected.

“No. Not just because of your eyes. Because you seem to understand what the play is about.”

That had come as a surprise to Stavia, though she
hadn't said anything to contradict it. There was no question what the play was about. It was about… well, it was about what it was about. Troy. The women.

“I'll do Cassandra, if you want me to.”

“Suit yourself, Stavia.” Her teacher had seemed somewhat disappointed, as though she had expected some other response. “There are never enough parts to go around.”

Morgot had said performance experience was important.

“When you are grown, you may be asked to serve on the Council,” she told Stavia. “Half of what we do is performance. Ritual. Observances. If we are seen to be in control, the people are calm and life moves smoothly. Nothing upsets the citizenry more than to believe its administrators are uncertain or faltering. Doing nothing with an appearance of calm may be more important than doing the right thing in a frantic manner. Learn to perform, Stavia. I have.”

So now in the plaza, Morgot moved calmly. She seemed to feel Stavia's eyes upon her, for she turned, searching the colonnades, lifting her hand in a gesture of recognition. Stavia lifted her own in response, then dropped it again as the trumpet blatted once more and the herald stood forward to deliver his message. The armies had met one another halfway between the two cities. The garrisons were arrayed so, facing one another. Challenges had been uttered. Single combat had taken place. This one of Marthatown was wounded. That one of Susantown was dead. Single combat did not satisfy the garrison of Susantown. The rituals of combat were proceeding.

Soon the general battle would commence. The safety of the Marthatown women was assured. Susantown garrison would have no opportunity to attack Marthatown.

The head of the Council replied, an old voice, but strong, tolling among the plaza walls. “Honor of the city… protection of the women… protection of the children… glory awaiting…” Morgot stepped forward to present the honor ribbons which the women of the city had prepared. Oh, they glowed, those honors. Ribbons of purple for single combat. Ribbons of crimson for wounds suffered. Ribbons of gold for meritorious conduct
in the face of the enemy. The herald bowed. The Councilwomen bowed. The Battle Gate opened wide and the herald departed, honor bearers behind him, musicians behind them, blametty blam, ta-ra ta-ra.

Morgot turned and looked up once more, finding Stavia among the watchers, beckoning. Meet me. Stavia went down the steps among the cluck and mutter of the crowd. Women, girls, little boys, no serving men. Serving men were never present when garrison matters were under review. Never when warriors were present, in order to show the warriors proper respect. Though the herald was not, strictly speaking, a warrior. There were a number of men beyond the wall who were not, strictly speaking, warriors.

“Morgot, what about the musicians? And the cooks?”

Morgot turned a tired face on her, the lines around her eyes seeming deeper than usual, and the pale, slightly protuberant orbs touched with a pinkness, an irritation, as though she had not been sleeping well or had been weeping. “What musicians, daughter?”

“The ones with the trumpets and drums. They aren't warriors, are they?”

“They are in one sense, in that they chose to remain outside the wall. They aren't in that they've made themselves useful in some noncombatant way, and are thus likely to have a long and unthreatened life. Why do you ask?”

Stavia hesitated.

Morgot sighed. “You're thinking about Chernon. What has he told you?”

“That he will stay. That he can't let his fellows down now, because of the war.”

Morgot looked stricken. “Because of… Oh, Lady! Poor Sylvia. Oh, Stavia, he really said that? But there are always wars.”

“He says perhaps later. He still has time.”

“But if Chernon… Habby is fifteen, you know, next month. He's the same age as Chernon, almost exactly. Sylvia and I got pregnant at the same time. My second, her first. Lady, if Chernon is influenced in that way, perhaps Habby could be, too.”

“Why did there have to be a war just now?”

Morgot shook her head, swallowed, then did it again, as
though something were stuck in her throat. “I don't know, Stavia. Things happen. Populations get edgy. Particularly when food gets short. Ever so often, they just happen. I suppose it was time.”

“What if Chernon… or Habby… what if they made themselves useful in some noncombatant role? Like… doctors, for instance?”

“Doctors? Warriors don't have doctors.”

“I know they don't. But….”

“No buts, Stavia. It's part of the ordinances. Warriors can't have doctors. And they must fight at close range, not at a distance. And they must see their own blood and the blood of their fellows, and they must care for their own dying and see their pain. It's part of the choice they have to make. You know all that.”

“Chernon…,” she started to say, then turned away, choking.

“I know. You see him in your mind, suffering, maimed. You see him dying. You feel his pain as though it were your own. I know, Stavia, for the sake of the Lady, you think I don't
know
! Every mother of sons knows! Every lover knows!”

“Why!”

“So that they know what they choose and know what they risk when they choose. It's their choice. They can return through the Gate to Women's Country or they can stay there, but they have to know what staying there means! They can't be asked to choose without knowing what they're doing! It can't be covered up or gilded or glossed over! Stavia, you know why!”

“And no medically trained people.” It was stupid. The ordinances were simply wrong, that's all. She didn't say this, but her tone conveyed her thought.

“No doctors for the warriors, Stavia.”

“You treat them when they catch diseases from the Gypsies!”

“We treat them if they have diseases we might get, yes. But they choose battle. They have to live with the consequences of battle.”

“You give them water from the well,” she argued. “That's not living with the consequences….”

“The ordinances
give
mercy, Stavia. That's all. They're hard, but they're merciful.”

They walked on, in silence. Tears were running down Morgot's face. Inside Stavia was merely a vacancy, a place too deep and empty for pain. She had given Chernon books. It was not merely a bit of rule breaking. She had broken the ordinances as well, and more than that, she disagreed with them. Maybe this was an ordinance that deserved to be broken.

She couldn't talk to Morgot, but she needed to talk to someone.