Half A Life
by Maya Tawipart one
"Holding on for something
Have you ever held on?
Holding on for someone
Feels like holding on too long
Have you ever held on?"
-Cat Power
It was a beautiful day.
The morning air was warm but not stifling, and the sky overhead was a clear, cloudless blue. A gentle breeze blew across the square, carrying with it the scent of new flowers and ripening fruit and freshly scythed grass, and all the other things springtime was supposed to smell like. It was the kind of day when people cheerfully ignored the less attractive smells of butchered cattle and day-old fish cakes out of a general contentment to be alive.
It was, Autolycus thought with a sigh, a rotten day to die.
"Come on," he grumbled under his breath. "Would a few clouds be too much to ask for? Some rain, maybe, just this is--"
A hand clipped him on the back of his head, cutting off the flow of words and causing him to stumble forward. "Shut up, thief," the guard behind him snarled.
Autolycus straightened, wincing as the guard's spear point jabbed him in the small of his back. Beneath the shaft of the spear he rotated his wrists in their bonds, surreptitiously testing the hold. Still as tight as the last time he'd checked. "Oh, don't mind me," he said. "I'm just a bit upset about the lack of proper atmosphere. You think you can get your Conqueror there to have a word with the gods about it for me? You know, order up a thunderstorm or something? Don't worry, I'll wait."
Another blow snapped his neck forward. Autolycus rolled his eyes Olympus-ward, then carefully schooled his features into an impassive mask and raised his head.
"Was that a no?"
He expected it this time, and when the heel of the guard's hand hit he went with it, absorbing the impact. The guard growled, "The Conqueror's coming. Shut up or I'll gag you."
"You already do, my friend," Autolycus muttered, turning his head.
"What was that?"
"Sorry?"
The guard's face darkened. "Don't play dumb with me."
"You're right. Shouldn't try to fool the real thing, after all--"
Blow number four. Autolycus winced; that spot on the back of his head was definitely starting to get a little tender. "You just watch your mouth," the guard warned.
"And miss the gift of your witty repartee? Where's the fun in that?" Autolycus was growing unpleasantly muzzy around the head area. Maybe provoking the armed guard wasn't such a good idea after all.
"Shut your mouth," said armed guard snapped, showing a marked lack of inclination to play along. Autolycus rolled his eyes again but finally fell silent. He had to think, and fast. Stealing from the Conqueror's treasury had seemed like such a good idea at the time; he'd been near Corinth anyway, and after all, his self-given title of King of Thieves required constant upkeep, and pulling that off would have kept him undisputedly at the top for at least another few months. Not to mention earning him a much-needed vacation. And he'd have pulled it off, too, if only....
Well, no time for that now. The ultimate problem facing him at the moment was that the Conqueror had heard of him, and unfortunately she was a lot smarter than the average petty tyrant had been back in the day. Upon capture, after a brief but very efficient roughing up that had probably cracked a couple ribs, Autolycus had been subjected to a thorough and extremely embarrassing strip search that had served to uncover the most hidden of his secret hidden tools. He'd then been given only a pair of loose black cotton pants to wear, with no drawstring or pin to be put to any use. They didn't even give him any shoes, and his feet were, incidentally, killing him at the moment-- though, he supposed, better his feet than the Conqueror. Ha ha.
For Zeus's sake, they'd even cut his fingernails, all the way down to the nubs. He supposed he should be grateful they hadn't shaved his head. No telling what dangerous things one could do with a single strand of hair. Honestly, some people just didn't give a fellow a fair chance.
His bonds now weren't chains-- no locks to pick, even if he had something to pick locks with-- or even normal ropes, but ropes that had been caked onto his wrists with something that felt like tar; he couldn't manage to separate the different coils, much less undo the knot. And, strangely enough, there were no pieces of broken glass lying around for him to use to free himself.
Sometimes it really didn't pay to have a reputation.
Of course, he could always just make a break for it, but what with all the armed soldiers around, it would be an abortive, ultimately ill-advised run.
No ready solution presented itself. Autolycus sighed and turned his attention back to the ropes, just as a hush descended over the crowd. A gong sounded and the procession began.
Soldiers started to march down the stone steps above the square, led by a slim, Eastern-looking man dressed in yellow silk. The soldiers themselves wore armor with brightly colored plumes, and two shirtless men held large, identical spade-shaped purple fans crossed in front of each other.
As Autolycus watched through narrowed eyes, the soldiers took up their positions lining the steps that led down from the high stone platform. The shirtless guys stayed at the top.
Then they parted their fans.
The seated Conqueror gazed out onto her world.
Autolycus swallowed hard. So that was her.
For a moment he just stared. He'd seen portraits, of course, and her profile was on all the coins, but it wasn't like he'd ever actually met the woman, or even caught a glimpse of her in real life; as a thief, after all, he did his best to avoid authority figures. As did any good thief, if he hoped to continue being a thief in the future. And she was the ultimate authority figure.
Seeing her, now, in person, the real thing-- well, it was like the difference between a real, flawlessly cut emerald and a cheaply made paste gem; the fake barely hinted at the possibilities of the genuine article.
Her face looked sculpted, with shadows and flat planes in all the right places, giving her a dark, exotic look. Her full, painted lips were set in a knowing smirk; a thick fringe of black hair framed her face. She wore a winged gold headdress and a black and gold patterned robe, and even from his spot in the crowd Autolycus could see that her eyes were the palest, iciest blue. As hard and cold as steel, yet with a certain unholy light, they swept over the crowd, seeming to settling on him for a brief moment. He shivered.
I think I'm in love, he thought. No, wait, I think I'm fucking terrified.
Xena the Conqueror was beautiful, and alluring, and frightening as Tartarus.
He snuck a sideways glance at his personal escort. For all the reaction he displayed, the guard could have been made of stone.
Autolycus started working at his bonds in earnest, only now starting to truly panic. Before, he'd been sure that he'd get out of this particular mess one way or another; now, under the cold regard of the Conqueror, that possibility was seeming more and more remote with every passing second.
Don't think that, he chided himself. You're the King of Thieves, after all, you can do this--
"Bring out the prisoner!" one of the soldiers bellowed.
Autolycus jumped, and might have whimpered a little, except of course that would have been utterly undignified. Then again, he was a little too preoccupied at the moment with the prospect of impending execution to worry too much about silly things like dignity.
Beside him, the guard chuckled. "Don't worry, they don't mean you." He paused. "Yet."
"So glad my predicament amuses you," Autolycus muttered, thinking, Great. Just my luck, I get the guy who really likes his job.
Then someone was pushed out of a tunnel in the opposite wall, and he felt his stomach drop through his bare feet.
Look out for numeral one, and let the rest of the world do the same; it was Autolycus's philosophy of life, always had been, ever since the day over twenty years ago when he'd walked into his house in Scyros and found his brother lying dead on the floor. Ever since he'd learned, all in one numbingly terrifying instant, that no one else was looking out for him, and if he were to leave things to the gods, he may as well throw himself off a cliff and save them the trouble. He'd have better luck investing in the Athens Lottery. The world was too indifferent to waste time with responsibility for anyone but himself.
So he wasn't sure why, when he got a good look at the peasant girl in the middle of the square and realized that he recognized her, it affected him the way it did. She wasn't exactly an innocent, after all. He did have more pressing issues to deal with at the moment. It wasn't as though the Conqueror hadn't already killed a thousand girls like her, and would undoubtedly kill a thousand more.
If the kid couldn't manage to save herself, that was just survival of the fittest, wasn't it? It wasn't his problem.
And he told himself that like he had so many times before, every time some unsuspecting stranger got caught up in whatever his latest plot may have been. And he couldn't bring himself to believe it. Not the same way he had before.
For some reason, that fact was even more frightening than the drama unfolding in front of him.
He watched with distant, growing horror as the prisoner was thrown to the ground in front of the steps. She landed on her hands and knees with a grunt. She was dressed in dull, faded peasant clothes; her long hair straggled over her face.
The Conqueror spoke, and a chill ripped down Autolycus's spine. "What is her crime?"
The girl glared up through her hair. Her upper lip curled. "I spoke," she said, her voice low with contempt.
"She incited the people against you," one of the soldiers offered. "Encouraged them to revolt."
Oh, she did a bit more than that, Autolycus thought. He wasn't surprised. World domination was, after all, just a very bloody game of public relations. The Conqueror would spin the truth whichever way would serve her purpose.
A small, enigmatic smile curved the Xena's dark lips as she glanced at the soldier. Then she turned back to the prisoner, who was struggling to stand. The Conqueror rose and started down the steps; she wore a long, cape-like thing that trailed after her, and Autolycus lowered his eyebrows, thinking for a moment that the thing was going to get damned dirty if someone didn't hold it up behind her.
Focus, he told himself. This wasn't the time to ponder the Conqueror's fashion choices.
The prisoner managed to rise to her feet just as the Conqueror reached the bottom of the steps. She had a small cut on her face, by her left eyebrow, and Autolycus gritted his teeth. She couldn't have been much more than eighteen. Still a kid.
Like the Fates gave a flying hydra about shit like that.
The Conqueror grabbed the girl's hair, yanking her head up. Her hand drifted down the kid's face, brushing roughly at the corner of her mouth; when she spoke, it was with that faint smile still on her face.
"Are you guilty?" she purred.
Come on, kid, Autolycus thought, tell 'em what you really did. Go out with one last up yours, 'cause either way, this is the end of the chariot ride.
The prisoner yanked her head away. "I gave voice to the people," she said angrily, as the Conqueror listened with an expression of mock pity. "The fearful, starving-- the ones who disappeared in the night, never to be seen again!"
Damn.
The kid doesn't deserve this, Autolycus thought. She wasn't even in it for profit. She was just trying to be a hero, that's all. Just trying to save the world.
Which was a stupid idea. That was what got you into trouble, the hero business. Thinking you could change the world and somehow make things right. Thinking you could look out for everyone else if you just tried hard enough. In the end, it would never pay.
The girl turned to face the assembled crowd, and for a brief, nauseating moment Autolycus thought she was staring at him. But her eyes swept right over where he was standing; she seemed not to see him, or at least not to recognize him.
"Have you no dignity?" she yelled instead at the crowd in general, her voice breaking a little. "No rights? A right to live, to be free from harm!"
Nobody answered.
Behind her, the Conqueror said softly, "I guess they don't hear your voice."
The prisoner turned back to her. "I'm not the only one," she said, shaking her head with a grim smile. "You can't break our spirit."
The crowd, Autolycus thought, would beg to differ. Probably with their last choking breath. He shook his head, thinking about when people actually about what happened to them. Now they were like whipped sheep, all of them.
It occurred to him then that the sheep were the ones standing free in the crowd and he was the captive slated for execution, and he realized that maybe the citizens of Corinth had the right idea after all.
The Conqueror's voice was almost compassionate. Almost. "The cure for spirit is fear. You'll serve as an example."
Then she glanced to the side, and her expression became one of unholy glee behind the ice queen mask she wore like armor. "Put her on the cross."
Two soldiers grabbed the girl, who kicked as they lifted her off the ground. She didn't cry out. The soldiers carried her backwards, to where a large wooden cross waited, lying almost horizontal. As her hands were strapped to the crossbars, she looked around wildly, looking for some sort of salvation, but she did it without making a sound. She refused to beg.
Autolycus felt sick. He couldn't look away.
The Conqueror turned. She paused, glancing over her shoulder, with her eyebrows raised and her lips slightly pursed.
"Break her legs," she said.
She walked back up the steps. The prisoner stared wordlessly after her, looking almost like she'd seen a ghost.
Then a large, towering soldier stepped up to the kid's side and, in a movement almost too quick to follow, raised an oversized hammer in the air and brought it down on her shins.
The girl threw back her head and screamed, and it sounded like the death shriek of the first human being to ever die-- tortured, disbelieving, and beneath it all, the cry of a young girl begging the gods for salvation.
Autolycus stared, frozen in place, practically numb. His insides felt like a knot of twisted, tangled guts. I'm going to puke, he thought dazedly, right here, right now, oh they'll just love that--
A finger jabbed into his side. The King of Thieves, his nerves completely destroyed, jumped in alarm and yelped.
"No need to gape, thief," the guard sneered, obviously enjoying himself. "Your turn's coming up."
"Can't wait," Autolycus murmured.
He turned away and thought, with a deadening finality, That's it, then. I'm a murderer.
The idea disturbed him on a level that he could never have even imagined. Not until that very moment.
He swallowed, choking down the bile, and then swallowed again, trying to concentrate. A snide voice in the back of his head reminded him that whatever else he was, he'd be a dead one before long if he didn't think fast.
For the time being he put it out of his mind. Composed himself and turned his attention to the matter at hand. There wasn't anything that could be done for the girl now, even if he had the means to do it, and if he did, he'd already be long gone and the point would be moot. Time to focus on himself.
Something he was particularly good at.
Autolycus glanced around, reassessing his options. The guard's spear still poked him lightly in the back, like a maddening itch he just couldn't reach; if he could get his wrists up far enough, reach the spearhead, maybe it would cut through the ropes--
"Don't even think about it," the guard growled. "You move a muscle, you're gonna wish your daddy pulled out early."
Autolycus rolled his eyes again. Observant, and maybe not so stupid after all-- that didn't really give him a lot to work with. At least the fellow had a way with words.
This was going to be a lot harder than he'd thought.
Autolycus sighed and shifted uncomfortably from one leg to the other, feeling the sharp bite of the rocks beneath his bare feet. "Hey, buddy," he said, "can I sit down somewhere? I mean, how long is this gonna take?"
Without looking at him, the guard said, "I'd enjoy it, if I were you. Soon you won't be feeling a thing."
"Point taken."
He sighed again. After the crucifixion the Conqueror had apparently decided to unwind a little with a nice, friendly round of fatal combat before getting on with the rest of the day's business. Two gladiators were going at it with swords in the bare arena at the bottom of the steps. Xena lounged on her throne, watching them with the faint smirk that seemed to be her permanent expression. She looked a little bored.
Autolycus couldn't help thinking that a bored Conqueror did not bode well. Especially not for a certain highly skilled thief currently awaiting execution.
They'd taken down the cross, with the now-unconscious girl still strapped to it, and carried it out of the central square and into the fields beyond. She would line the streets along with all the other crucified. She'd serve as an example.
Dying very slowly, minute by excruciating minute.
Curing spirit through fear.
At least she was out of Autolycus's line of sight now. With her gone he could do the best to put the whole thing out of his mind. At least until he could get out of this, until he could afford to dwell on it. Like maybe the fifth of never.
A sudden motion up at the top of the steps, behind the Conqueror's throne, made him look up sharply. He could have sworn he'd seen something....
One of the gladiators got the other one to the ground, and the Conqueror smiled and leaned forward, starting to take an interest in the proceedings. The apparent victor poised his sword over his fallen opponent and bellowed, "For Xena!"
The soldiers all turned to look at their Conqueror, waiting for her reaction, including Autolycus's own personal guard. He noted this phenomenon with calculating interest, his mind racing. This could be useful.
Xena grinned and stood, raising her scepter with a loud, harsh cry of victory. The green stone at the end glinted in the sunlight, and Autolycus eyed it more than a little wistfully. If the goodies in her treasury were half as good as that one chunk of rock, he would have been set for at least a year-- or a fortnight, realistically, considering how he'd probably spend the dinars. Easy come, easy go. Or, in this case, just easy go.
He spared a brief moment for mourning what might have been, then turned his gaze back at the gladiators. The "winner" was starting to thrust his sword down into his opponent's heart when the fallen man jolted into action, sweeping his attacker's feet out from under him. The "winner" hit the dirt, and the Conqueror lowered her scepter, looking annoyed.
Both gladiators rose and went for each other once again. Autolycus's attention wandered; armed combat to the death wasn't really his thing. Instead he watched the faces of the guards lining the steps. The next time the soldiers got distracted by the fight, he'd just have to make a run for it then. Admittedly not the best of plans, but he was getting desperate.
Then his eyes widened. "All right," he said under his breath, "this time I know I saw something."
The guard behind him didn't seem to hear, or to care if he did.
Autolycus stared hard at the platform, trying to catch another glimpse of that wayward flash of purple he'd seen. It had looked almost like... a person? Wasn't there one less guard up there than had been before the fight started?
The Conqueror's previously expressionless face took on a look of irritation, and Autolycus glanced back towards the fight. One of the gladiators-- he couldn't tell which-- was on his knees, and the other crouched behind him, holding a knife to his throat.
Autolycus tensed. Any minute now, he'd have his chance....
And then some short blond guy in a purple vest ran out from behind a guard, snatched the Conqueror's scepter, punched out a few guards, grabbed the bright green stone from the end, and leaped down the right side of the stone steps.
He disappeared in midair.
"Holy fucking Zeus," Autolycus breathed, staring. "The Chronos Stone."
Everything happened so fast that it took him a moment to realize what exactly was going on. Then his well-developed survival instinct kicked in, and he took a quick glance around. Things were finally looking up. All of the soldiers that had been guarding the crowd had run forward as soon as the little guy had started knocking people out, leaving the thief's path to freedom more or less unimpeded. His own personal guard wasn't paying attention to him, and as Autolycus started to edge away, the guard stepped forward, torn between his duty to the Conqueror and to... well, the Conqueror.
It was all Autolycus needed. He turned and ran.
He shouldered his way through he bewildered crowd, hearing Xena's furious cry of "Get him!" behind him and wondering whether she meant him or the purple guy. He kept his head down, moving as quickly as he could, ignoring the pain in his bare feet and the fire in his ribs.
The Chronos Stone. Famed manipulator of time and space. He ought to have recognized it right away. Any good thief should have. And now some little guy had just taken it, right out from under the Conqueror's nose-- and gotten away with it.
Life really wasn't fair at all.
On the other hand, it did have its little compensations. Like the fact that the completely unfair snatching of the Chronos Stone had just saved his neck for one more day.
"Thanks, blondie," he gasped aloud to the mysterious disappearing man. "I owe you one."
Autolycus made his way out of the square and onto the streets of Corinth, intent on his goal-- anywhere that wasn't within the Conqueror's grasp. He couldn't keep running for long, not like this, not with bare feet and his hands tied and barely any clothes to speak of and possibly cracked ribs. He needed to lose the guards and fast, and then find some safe place where he could get clothes and shoes, and maybe some bandages, before he left for parts very, very far away. Some place where anyone who might see him wouldn't be inclined to tell tales if soldiers came a-knocking.
There was only one such place within the limits of Corinth. With this in mind, Autolycus ran.
"Stealing from the Conqueror. It's official, then. You do have a death wish."
"Actually, I'm just in it for the glory-- hey!" Autolycus winced as the wine-soaked rag scrubbed ruthlessly at his wound. "What, are you trying to kill me now too?"
"Wouldn't I like to. Save me some worry." His tormentor was an old man, thin and wiry with whipcord muscles and silver hair cropped close to his skull. The bones of his face stood out beneath his skin in high relief, and his dark eyes were lethally sharp. He was, at the moment, doing his best impression of Asclepius-- without, in Autolycus' opinion, notable success.
"Oh, Tiro, you mean you worry about me? I'm flattered." Autolycus grimaced and shifted position on the cold stone altar as the old man started to wrap up his right shoulder.
"I worry what Agamede would do if I let anything happen to you," Tiro retorted. "How did you get this particular beauty mark?"
"Archers. Really good ones. Caught me on my way out of the city." Autolycus raised his eyebrows. "And Agamede would probably throw a party if I got myself killed. That's a nice girl you've got there."
Tiro had always had a rather exaggerated opinion of Autolycus's relationship with his only daughter, probably due to the fact that the first time they had met Autolycus had taken Agamede's side during an argument with her father. He didn't think he'd do it again. Getting involved in one of Tiro's and his daughter's many disagreements was one surefire route to a broken nose, as he knew from bitter personal experience.
"Huh." The old man sounded unconvinced now. "If you say so."
"What, that she's a nice girl? Sure she is. Except, you know, for that one minor character flaw where she doesn't seem to like me at all."
"That's just good taste." Tiro scowled, crouching down to peer at the soles of Autolycus's feet. "I didn't teach her that, she deserves all the credit. I didn't teach her nearly enough. If I'd raised her like her mother would've wanted, she wouldn't be running around with that... girl of hers now. What in Tartarus did you do to yourself?"
"Lost my boots to a really cranky guard, that's what," Autolycus said. "I don't think the Conqueror pays her employees enough. Or possibly she pays them too much. And I really don't think that had anything to do with Agamede and her... girl."
"And that's supposed to mean something? What you think?" The old man brandished a sterilized dagger-- at least Autolycus hoped it was sterilized-- and started attacking the rocks and dirt ground into his bloody feet. Autolycus whimpered and clutched at the edge of the altar, his knuckles turning white.
"Not if... it'll make you stop," he managed. "Ow! I thought priests were supposed to be all-- all peace-loving and non-violent and not sadistic bastards!"
Tiro very nearly snarled. "Not when you're a priest of Hermes. Then you can be whatever you like, except maybe law-abiding. Now stop being such a baby," he growled, "would you rather your feet fall off?"
"Well, when you-- ow-- put it that way," Autolycus said. "Touchy subject, is it?"
"You're walking a fine line, friend," the priest warned. "Don't antagonize the man with a knife to your extremities."
"You know, that sounds so much worse than it is."
"But not as bad as it could be." Tiro put down the knife and picking up the rag. Autolycus yelped as the alcohol touched his lacerated soles.
"Besides, it's not like you'll ever get her in bed," Tiro said under his breath.
"Hey! Doesn't mean I can't like the kid, in a completely grudging way. Besides, I always knew there had to be one."
"More than one, friend. Or would you like a shot at seducing the Conqueror?"
"She's not so bad, you know. I'm sure she's a very lovely person when you get to know her. Certainly easy on the eyes, in a tie-me-down-and-torture-me-to-death kind of way...." He paused. "You know what? That's just frightening. Don't say things like that."
"Well, there you go then."
"Which is not to say I couldn't if I wanted to."
"I'm sure you could." Tiro yanked the bandages tight, eliciting another yelp. "You're lucky you could never get Agamede in bed, or I wouldn't let you anywhere near here, thief or no. Your reputation is quite well-known."
"It better be. I've put long hours of hard work into maintaining that rep. And I'm not just any thief, I'm--"
"The King, yes, so you say."
"Gee, try to sound a little less convinced, would you?" Autolycus shifted uncomfortably. "Can I go now? I mean, not that I don't really appreciate this or anything, but temples make me nervous. When I'm not stealing from them, I mean."
"You're not walking on those feet any time soon," Tiro said. "Besides, I'm not done. I think you have some broken ribs."
"Once again," Autolycus said, "the cranky guard. Listen--"
"How did you run so far with broken ribs, pray tell?"
"You'd be surprised what you'd do when properly motivated. Listen," he said hurriedly, "I can't stay here, the Conqueror and friends are bound to figure out I'd come here. You know that." To the general population of Corinth, and the lands beyond, the Temple of Hermes on the eastern outskirts of the city was just a place of worship; only a select few knew that Tiro, the High Priest and more or less general manager, occasionally offered asylum to some of the better class of thieves. Anybody who did know knew better than to tell tales, but that was beside the point. The Conqueror would find out, if she didn't know already. That much Autolycus was sure of.
"Doesn't matter. As long as you're here you're under Hermes' protection," Tiro said, running his hands over Autolycus' bare chest.
Autolycus bit his lip, distracted for a moment by the pain. Then he demanded, "You think Xena the Conqueror is gonna care about that, once she gets going? Call me naïve, but I don't think you get to be Destroyer of Nations by worrying about what's off-limits."
Tiro finished wrapping up his ribs and tied off the bandage. "Take it easy for a while and that should do it. You want to try to walk? Fine. Be my guest. Lots of luck. I have business to attend to."
Autolycus raised an eyebrow as he watched the priest storm out of the room. "Well, somebody sure hasn't been getting any lately," he said to himself, hopping off the altar and landing smoothly on the stone floor of the temple.
A moment later he was sprawled out on the floor, red-hot bolts of pain shooting up from his feet, his ribs throbbing in loud protest. He groaned aloud.
Two sandalled feet appeared in front of his nose, and Tiro's voice remarked, "Well, that went well."
"I wasn't ready," Autolycus grunted. "Just let me-- I got it--"
He started to push himself up. A burst of fire from his injured shoulder made him reconsider.
"Yes?" the priest said coolly.
Autolycus sighed. "Or maybe I'll just lie here for a few days."
He could almost hear Tiro rolling his eyes. Then the old man leaned over and grasped his good arm, hauling him to his feet. Autolycus tiptoed gingerly back to the alter and sat down again, scowling.
"There," Tiro said, like the harassed father he was. "Now don't move. I'll be back to deal with you later."
Autolycus narrowed his eyes. "I'm not staying here," he insisted. "No one's gonna get killed for me. I wouldn't do it for anyone else."
Tiro pursed his lips. "You didn't used to be noble, Autolycus. I'm ashamed of you."
He didn't know how to answer that. "Not until this morning" was one response guaranteed to give away far more than he wanted anyone to know.
They'd talked, or rather traded insults, and it was just like old times, just like it had been ever since Tiro was the old master and Autolycus the cocky young thief who'd pegged him for an easy mark and tried to pick his pocket. Autolycus wasn't sure if he'd actually count the priest as a friend-- friends were liabilities, and getting involved with others only led to unnecessary trouble-- but Tiro was one person who had, over the years, consistently not tried to kill him (except for that one time with Agamede, which he had chosen to overlook once it became apparent that his nose was going to heal up as good as new), and that certainly meant something in the grand scheme of things.
But Autolycus's heart wasn't in it this time. He was faking it, and not doing a very good job of it. He was distracted; he was reeling under the sudden, unwelcome feeling of responsibility for someone other than himself. If Tiro had noticed anything different, he hadn't commented so far, and Autolycus wanted to keep it that way. He didn't want to talk to Tiro about it. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He just wanted to get far, far away before he could put anyone else in danger.
He just wanted to put it out of his mind and get on with his life. The way it had been before.
"It's not nobility," he said finally, weakly. "I just don't want to be indebted, that's all. I've got my own problems, you know."
He didn't expect the priest to buy it, but it seemed he was a better actor than he'd thought. "Okay! Fine," Tiro growled, throwing up his hands. "There's a place nearby where you can stay until you're fit to travel. You can't see it unless you know where to look, and only those blessed by Hermes even know it exists."
"Um...." Autolycus hesitated. "Well, doesn't that count me out?"
Tiro sighed. "You're blessed from the moment you come to Hermes for asylum until the moment you leave. When the blessing is lifted, you forget where the place is. It's a nifty little system, and I'm afraid even you can't find a fault in it, so if I were you I wouldn't waste my time."
Autolycus narrowed his eyes. "I don't suppose I have to--"
"You don't have to do anything. Hermes knows better than to expect eternal devotion from you, friend."
Autolycus felt his mouth curl up in a mixture of relief and amusement. "I think I've been insulted."
"No, just pegged." The old man grinned. "I know you, Autolycus. You don't like to be tied to anything-- not a woman, not a place, and certainly not a god."
"Yeah, you and Hermes just keep that in mind." Autolycus slid off the altar again, much more carefully this time than before. "So let's get going, then, time's a-wasting."
"No," Tiro said, suddenly brusque. "I do have things to do. I'll take you tonight."
He started to leave. Autolycus called after him, "Can I at least find some other place to sit? I feel like a human sacrifice up here!"
Without turning around, Tiro shot back, "Oh, haven't you heard? Hermes only accepts virgin sacrifices."
For a long moment Autolycus stared after his retreating back in disbelief. Then he shrugged and hopped back up on the altar, swinging his feet over the sides, and started to whistle.
Xena the Conqueror sat up on her throne, still as a statue, watching the activity below her with hooded eyes. Soldiers moved about the main room of the castle, murmuring to each other and occasionally sending her nervous looks. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Satisfying though it was, this was no time to dwell on the effect she had on her troops.
She glanced down at the man kneeling in front of the throne. He was peering up at her; as her eyes met his, he lowered his gaze.
"Yes?" she said coldly.
"Your... your highness...." the man stammered. "The other prisoner, the thief... he, he...."
She raised one eyebrow and waited.
"He escaped," the helpless messenger blurted out.
Her eyes narrowed. "Is that all? I'm not stupid, Passalus. I was already aware of that particular bit of information."
"Oh, no! Of course not, your-- your exaltedness!" The man was trembling now. He looked, she decided, like a cross between a rabbit and a cow-- big, dumb, and nervous. "I mean-- of course you did. I mean--"
"I'm disappointed in you. And very, very bored." Her lip curled up in the faintest echo of a sneer. "The man is wounded. Send soldiers after him. I'm sure my troops can manage to catch a wounded thief."
"Yes, your excellency," the messenger squeaked, backing away from the throne.
"Passalus," she said quietly.
He froze, with an almost comical look of dread. "Yes, your worship?"
Her smile was entirely without humor. "The little man who stole my stone?"
"But--"
"His name is Iolaus. He's a thief from Thebes, and he knows how to handle himself in a fight. Find him as well."
"But, your exaltedness--"
"You already used that one."
Passalus's face screwed up like a miserable child's. He pressed on, "The man, he-- he vanished into thin air! How can we possibly find him?"
"He is not a god, Passalus, he is a man. Mortal men can certainly create illusions and seem to vanish, but without help from the gods, they cannot simply disappear. Find him."
"Yes, your highness," Passalus mumbled, and scurried out.
She stared after him and commented, with quiet amusement, "You used that one too."
Silently she swore at this new turn of events. She'd meant to leave Corinth in the morning and get on with business elsewhere; there were some upstarts in Egypt wanting to declare themselves an independent nation, and rumors of an insurrection in northern Gaul. Now it looked like she'd have to stick around a little while longer.
Damn the thieves.
"Oh, well done," came a voice from behind the throne, accompanied by slow clapping. "Nothing like putting a little fear of the gods into them. Or should that be fear of Xena, the Destroyer of Nations?"
Xena leaned her head back against the throne, staring straight ahead. "What do you want, Ares?"
"Just checking in on my favorite warrior princess. Is that so wrong?"
"Favorite? I do hope there aren't that many of us."
"You could say you're a fairly elite bunch." Ares, God of War, sauntered around to the front of the throne, trailing his fingers along the back. "I hear you had a minor event today."
She still didn't turn to look at him. "Just a small theft. The culprit will be... properly punished."
"Now that I can't wait to see. The fact is--" Ares rested his elbow on the back of the throne, leaning in close until she felt his lips and the fine black hairs of his beard against her left ear. "I feel it only fair to warn you that the man is completely insane."
"Really."
"Oh, definitely. He barged into my temple today like he knew me and started babbling on about, and I quote, 'stopping Xena'. Serious mental case."
Her lips compressed into a tight, thin line. "Maybe you do want to stop me. Maybe you're bored with me."
After a beat, Ares threw back his head and laughed, that sudden, manic laugh she knew so well. "Xena, Xena, how could I ever be bored with you? You make life worth taking, and I'll have you know, I don't say that to just anyone. No, you should know better than that."
Xena's mouth curved into a faint smirk. "I do know."
The doors opened and two soldiers entered the throne room, carrying between them the semi-conscious peasant girl with the broken legs. "Took 'er down at sunset, like you said," one of them called. "Don't think she'll be missed among the rest."
She nodded, satisfied. "Good. You know what to do with her."
As the soldiers started to haul the girl out of the room, Xena's gaze lingered thoughtfully on the back of her bright gold head. There was something about the way her hair hung over her shoulders, the way her body fell forward, like she knew how the girl looked when she stood straight and proud, bright light blazing from her face....
But I do know, Xena thought, I saw that this morning. She dragged herself back to reality; by the time she looked for the girl again, the soldiers had already gone.
She made a mental note to find out a little bit about her latest victim's past, then sat back in her throne again and sighed. "Two petty thieves. Hardly a real challenge."
"If you want me to find them for you-- " the god behind her began.
"Now where would be the fun in that? No, no. Let me." Xena stood. "I'm going to my bedchambers. If you're not busy...." She trailed off suggestively, sauntering from the room.
Ares watched her go, then shook his head with a low, appreciative whistle. "Now that is some woman."
"I can't see a damned thing."
"I did tell you," Tiro said, with no small satisfaction in his voice. "You shouldn't be walking in the first place, especially if you can't see where you're going."
"Yeah? Well, would ya rather carry me? I didn't think so." Autolycus limped around a fallen branch. "Ow! What in Tartarus was that?"
"...can't see what you're stepping in...."
"Shut up. I didn't need that. Shut up."
Autolycus edged forward, clutching at a nearby tree for support. "Okay, Tiro. First of all, thank you very much for the clothes, but listen, if you could possibly get me a spare set of my own outfit, I'd really appreciate it, because frankly I don't think we're anywhere near the same size and priest's robes aren't really my style, if you get my drift. Is that all right with you?" Tiro's old robe didn't even go past mid-thigh on him; he was wearing it over the loose black pants the Conqueror had so generously donated to the Cause of Executing the King of Thieves, and he felt, to put it simply, like an idiot.
The old priest just shrugged. His short hair gleamed in the moonlight. "If you'd like."
"Oh, I would. And second of all--" Autolycus pitched forward suddenly with a yell, his arms flailing, the ground rushing up to meet him at an alarming rate. He closed his eyes, resigned, and thought of Greece-- specifically, the small part of it about to smash his nose back into his brain-- and then strong arms grabbed him around the waist and hauled him upright again, propping him up against a tree.
He opened his eyes. Nothing seemed to be broken that hadn't already been.
"Yes?" Tiro said pleasantly.
Autolycus scowled down at him. "Second of all, how in Zeus's name do you get around in these sandals?" he demanded, sticking one leg out. "I feel like I'm wearing roofing on my feet!"
"You get used to it." Tiro raised his eyebrows at the Autolycus' belligerent expression. "Never mind, we're here."
Autolycus stared at him. Then he very pointedly took in his surroundings-- trees, trees, and more trees-- and turned to stare at the priest again.
Tiro just smiled.
"Tiro," he said ominously, "I am not staying in a tree with one of your wood nymph friends."
The priest shook his head. "You are such a realist," he sighed.
"That's a bad thing?"
"Certainly a frequent handicap." Tiro waved one hand towards a nearby clearing. "There."
Autolycus rubbed his eyes, wincing as his shoulder protested. A minute ago he would have sworn the clearing was just open land; now, against all odds, a small house stood there.
"Um," he said, after a moment. "What exactly did you put in that tea?"
The priest actually laughed out loud. It was a startling sound, rusty with disuse. "I told you. You can't see it unless you're looking for it and you know exactly where it is."
"I thought you were just being figurative!"
"Now when have I ever been figurative? This place has been blessed by Hermes as well. Hence the hiddenness."
"Man, that guy sure gets around with the blessings, doesn't he?" Autolycus muttered.
He was not having a good day. Well, to be honest, he was really having a fairly sucky week. A few days ago there'd been rumors of some guy in Nemea claiming to be the real King of Thieves, which had led in part to Autolycus's attempted theft from the Conqueror-- it was the best way he could think of to secure his title, touching the untouchable woman. Figuratively speaking. Then, of course, he'd been captured and briefly beaten up the night before, stripped and thrown into a dungeon cell, then dragged out in the morning (early in the morning, just to add insult to the injury) and almost executed, and then while escaping he'd been shot in the shoulder and had his feet cut to ribbons. And then, after all that, he'd had to sit around the Temple of Hermes, bored out of his skull and in a makeshift disguise in case anyone might recognize him, while worshippers wandered in and out, talking and going about their business and completely ignoring him.
But that wasn't the really annoying part. No, that was what everyone had been talking about-- not the latest exploits of Autolycus, the King of Thieves, but the strange blond man who had stolen the Chronos Stone from the Conqueror's staff.
Autolycus's mantle, it seemed, was in serious danger of slipping. And nobody even knew the guy's name.
Some people said he looked familiar, but couldn't place a name to the face. A couple of girls who showed up later in the day had exchanged knowing looks and secret smiles, which didn't improve Autolycus's mood any. He'd pointed out more than once that it wasn't even a real theft-- no finesse whatsoever, just punch and grab, a glorified purse-snatching really-- but no one else, it seemed, shared his particular point of view. And in a profession where you're only as good as your reputation, public perception was everything. If word got out that this guy had succeeded where Autolycus had failed....
Well. He knew, with a sick certainty, exactly where this was heading. If people didn't start to forget about this mystery man soon-- which was starting to look more and more unlikely, the way everyone was talking about him like he was the biggest celebrity in Greece, and why not, the guy had stolen, well, snatched from the Conqueror, after all-- he'd have to take drastic steps to maintain his title.
Assuming he could take steps at all.
Autolycus limped slowly towards the house, and Tiro very tactfully, or possibly very bloody-mindedly, did not give him a hand.
"There's only one other person here now," the priest was saying. "The two of you... well, either you'll get along famously or you'll end up killing each other, and then I won't have to worry anymore."
"Very funny."
"You think I'm joking?" Tiro said darkly.
Autolycus tried the door. It was locked.
Of course.
He knelt down in front of the door, pulling out a set of lockpicks-- appropriated from a visitor to the temple who'd been particularly admiring of the mystery blond's exploits-- and started to work. Within a few moments the lock clicked open, and he sat back in satisfaction. "There, now what?"
"Now," a new voice said, "the boredom sets in."
Autolycus looked up from his crouched position in the dirt and blinked at the man looming over him: black leather pants, mismatched patchwork vest, uncombed shoulder-length blond hair.... Then he saw the guy's face, and his jaw dropped open.
Behind him, Tiro said, "Hello, Iolaus."
Prologue | Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten | Epilogue Email: mayatawi@populli.net