see the cover by Ciegra
Disclaimer: The characters of Gabrielle, Xena, and Argo, are the property of Renaissance Pictures, and are being used here without the knowledge or permission of MCA/Universal. This is a work of fan fiction, devoted to increasing the Xenaverse and making scads more cash for them, and not a nickel for the author, so perhaps they'll let it go. All things come through love. All other characters, locations, and stuff is property of Susan M. Smith, 1998. Please do not use any of it, or alter this story without permission. Read it, pass it around, have a grand time, but include the disclaimer.
Subtext: This is an alt. fanfic story. Sex is an integral part of this story, and may be considered graphic, yet oddly restrained.
Violence: Scenes of battle, torture and wounding may be strong for some readers, scenes of grief and its aftermath are prevalent.
This is a sequel to The Charioteer, and may not make a lot of sense without reading that first.
All feedback welcomed at azarnes@yahoo.com, and will be responded to with grace and humor. If you take the time to write, I respect that, and will write back. And please, call me Smitty.
Part One
Graianus, leaning on the deep windowsill of his officer's rooms in the garrison at Palmyra, looked moodily at the outline of the city. It's silhouette was eastern, a collection of low buildings of varied hues, none of the height or blinding white marble of the city that haunted his dreams.
"Rome." He said in a sonorous voice, and in that one word was contained all the longing a military man could express for his distant home. His voice was blurred around the edges with red wine, an occurrence common enough lately that he'd begun to forget the mechanics of being sober.
"I look out on the sand and waste and horror of the East, when I deserve to look on the beauty of Rome. All roads lead to Rome, but mine." He said bitterly, his gesture taking in the room, the garrison, and the city on the horizon.
"This is what I, Traianus, Patrician and son of a Senator, have fallen to. I tell you, Sextus, were it not for love of my aged father I would fall on my sword."
Sextus, sitting at his commander's desk, said nothing. His square face, burned red by the outland sun, was a mask under his military haircut. He was a model Roman officer of middle rank, hard bitten, humorless, relentless, with an endless capacity for methodical warfare. It was said, by the legionnaires he commanded, that the last person to see Sextus smile was his mother, in the moment of his birth. He'd made a career of the army, serving in Africa and Libya, Judah and Syria.
He'd managed, through blind luck, to avoid all the circumstances that might have propelled him higher, and remained at a second in command position. He endured equally the vagaries of fortune, the middling rank, and the string of ineffectual commanders sent to his garrison by the politicians in Rome. It had been ten years since he'd seen the Eternal City, and would probably be another ten before he did. Men in his position were not mobile.
Sextus was used to Traianus' monologues, brought on every evening by the thin red wine. He knew enough not to interrupt, or remind his superior that his aged father had seen to it that he was banished from Rome. The matter of some weighty gambling debts, incurred while his father was away from the city, had all but ruined the family. The Senator had spoken with patrician friends, pulled a few strings, and gotten his son assigned to the farthest outpost of the Empire, a garrison in Palmyra. Though he was nominally in charge of the garrison, the dizzying drop in rank, wealth and prospects had left Traianus reeling. After six months in the East, he swilled red wine like water and raged every night to his silent second in command.
Sextus walked casually to the window and poured Traianus another goblet. He calculated the time it would take his commander to quaff the wine, estimating that he would begin his monologue again when the cup was half empty. In matters of strategy, Sextus was rarely wrong.
"Caesar. There is a man making the Senate shake in their sandals. I heard of his Triumph, after his victory in Gaul. The people loved him. Had he but held out his hand, they would have made him Emperor. And where was I? Here! Rotting in the degenerate East, never to see Rome again!"
"If you could impress a man like Caesar, I'm sure that he could rescind your exile." Sextus said, as if it had just occurred to him.
Traianus' attention snapped away from the window, to his normally taciturn second in command. Disbelief showed on his narrow face.
"How might I impress mighty Caesar? There are no wars, he cares nothing for this part of the world. He cares for Gaul, for Britannia. Pompey cares for Egypt, but he is alone in that. He won't be able to break it." Traianus said.
"Give Caesar Egypt as a Roman province." Sextus said, bluntly. He had Traianus' ear, it was time to play on his weakness.
Traianus blanched, and his winecup shook. "Egypt is very powerful, very rich. I have only this garrison, one legion."
"If Egypt were distracted by a border war, her resources drained, she would be an easy target. Then you need only alert Caesar, and he could have an army standing on the northern border, ready to ride from Alexandria to Thebes. Rome would get Egypt and her wealth, Caesar would show up Pompey, and the balance of the triumvirate might shift. Caesar is known as a man of gratitude." Sextus said, as he'd rehearsed. Traianus must be hit over the head with the idea, and not allowed to recover.
Traianus began to pace. "A border war. But who? Nubia loves Egypt too well, they share royal lines. Ethiopia? But how would Ethiopia be raised against Egypt?"
"The Amazons of Dahomey." Sextus said, interrupting Traianus' pacing.
Traianus waved him off. "The Amazons are allied with Egypt. As well seek to raise them against Har the Decadent."
"Har's Great King died recently. The new king is young, rumored to have grown up a recluse. Har will be occupied in internal affairs, and won't rise to Dahomey's aide. Now is the time to divide and conqueror." Sextus said.
Traianus started to pace again. "The Amazons would never attack Egypt. They care nothing for more land, they defend their borders and keep their allies as blindly as only barbarians would."
"Commander Traianus, what does an Amazon love enough to spill blood for?" Sextus asked, knowing that he would get a blank look from his superior.
Traianus paused, waiting for him to continue.
Sextus inhaled, as if preparing to draw his sword. "Another Amazon. I have a slave, a Syrian, who used to work the border of Dahomey as a tradesman. He knows a bit of their culture. Every girl, on her coming of age, is sent out into the grassland with only a small knife to survive on her wits and skills for two moons. She may return sooner, if she slays a lion, a boar, or a man."
Sextus refilled Traianus' winecup, and continued. "I happen to know that Nzinga, their Queen, has four daughters. Three are already warriors, the last is of an age to prove herself."
"What has that to do with me?" Traianus' asked, starting to sweat.
"Kidnap the girl when she's alone, away from the thicket of spears of Dahomey. Put it out that she'd been taken by slavers as a 'special order' from a wealthy Egyptian who has a taste for Amazons. When Nzinga hears of it, she will raise her army and march across Egypt like a plague of locusts."
Traianus swallowed convulsively. "What about the girl?" He asked.
"Kill her. Or keep her here, for yourself, it doesn't matter. The Amazons' frenzy will be visited upon Egypt, draining their resources and supplies. Alert Caesar, that he might be poised to attack. And you, my lord, may watch it all from your new villa in Rome."
When the moon had risen, Sextus slipped away to his own quarters. Traianus had taken to the idea at last, drinking himself into a stupor at the thought of regaining Rome.
He entered his quarters, waking the slim, dark man who slept on the stone floor. The man started to remove Sextus' cloak, but the soldier brushed him off.
"He went for it. You can provide the goods?"
The man folded himself in the parody of a bow, the courtesy not reaching his hooded eyes. "As my lord requires." His tone was soft as a cat's paw.
"I want the girl delivered to me, not to that idiot, until I'm certain of Traianus' nerve. I can't have him panicking and destroying my future. Can you get her unharmed?" Sextus asked.
The Syrian inclined his shaven head, touching a pouch at his waist. "There are certain powders derived from the lotus that render the victim somnambulant. It will be a little matter to drug one girl."
"She is still an Amazon, never forget it. I've fought them. Few men care to do so twice. Succeed in this, Shaitan, and you have your freedom. Fail, and do not imagine that death will be enough to hide you from me." Sextus said. The Syrian called Shaitan bowed again, and slipped away.
The moment he left the garrison, his whole manner changed. He straightened, the look of subservience falling away. Hatred, black as the apex of the night sky above him, black as the heart of the space between the stars burned in his eyes.
"Fool, like all your thick minded Imperial race, to place your hopes on the loyalty of a slave." He whispered at the shadow of the garrison. On his lean face was a look, had any seen it, that would be called monstrous, a twisted joy that made a rictus of his mouth. He'd been a slave to Rome for a little over a year. Now fate, or the gods, or blind chance had dropped opportunity right into his lap. He'd been sold to a Roman with ambition, who thought himself clever in their guileless western way. He was an easterner, schooled in such subtly that would maze the straightforward Romans. They rule the world solely by crushing it, he thought. It would be a joy to bring them down.
They'd been on the caravan road to Nubia, where it joined Dahomey, after leaving the City of Har. The generosity of Oromenes and Malache ensured that they didn't need to hire on to work the caravan, but instead could travel as honored guests. They had parted from the Great King and Queen reluctantly, after a week of celebration. Xena and Gabrielle had spent most of it alone, in Malache's house, emerging only when Xena had protested that she was turning Harrian.
"All this lovemaking, and feasting, and lovemaking will make us forget we are Greek."
"That would be bad why?" Gabrielle asked, won over by the Red City.
Oromenes, in white robes and sandals, had clasped her arm in parting. They'd been escorted to the Manticore Gate, where a caravan would take them eventually back to Krylos and the sea. Gabrielle had hugged Malache, both she and the former Harlot weeping. It was hard to part from two who had given them so much. Xena returned Oromenes' clasp in silence. The warrior had given the Great King her throne, Oromenes and Malache had given her Gabrielle. There were no words large enough to encompass Xena's emotion. Sapphire eyes looked down on jet, as a silent understanding passed between the warrior and the Great King.
Oromenes had offered them a litter, or a wagon, but Xena longed for the saddle, for the wind on her face, the rhythm of the road after weeks of playing Lord in a pleasure city.
"Can I ride behind you, like we do on Argo?" Gabrielle asked, the glint of a knowing mischief in her green eyes.
"The horse might live through it, but I won't." Xena said.
"I thought you were used to having my arms around you by now."
The warrior smiled, blue eyes burning as they traveled over the bard's body. "I hope I never do get used to that. I want to be surprised by it, constantly."
"Oromenes did call it an ambush. She was right."
In the end they accepted one horse from the caravan master, citing an obscure Greek custom. Xena kept one hand on the reins, one on Gabrielle's arm where it circled her waist. It was a pleasure she allowed herself, even with the stares it drew from the caravan master, his drover, and some of the other travelers. Greeks were considered barbarians this far south, as Xena well knew. Her reputation as the Lord Chabouk in Har was a garbled rumor to the caravaneers. They had heard, from friends in Har, that the Great King owed her throne to the savagery of the black haired Greek. She had slain two hundred men in a valley in Baluchis, and tortured the Persian satrap who had sought to become a regicide.
The habits of the two barbarians were watched with great interest by the caravaneers and the other travelers. It was confirmed, by the caravan master, that the Great King of Har had personally paid for their passage all the way back to the coast of North Africa. Yet they rode only one horse, the small Greek behind the tall, savage woman and they traveled without servants.
At night the small woman would build them a fire of their own, away from the main camp circle, and they would sit together. Their tent was ornate with bullion and scarlet tassels, a gift from the Great King, but they slept together on a pile of skins.
Xena, from the vantagepoint of her own campfire, knew of the curious stares, of the endless interest in her and Gabrielle, but found it harmless. The legend of their adventure in Har was already spreading, her reputation as the Lord Chabouk, a foreigner, and a woman lent her every action the aura of the supernatural. Her habits, she knew, were being observed with explicit curiosity, and discussed every night at the main campfire. She considered leaping into the circle around the main fire and giving her war cry.
The caravan master turned to his drover, who seemed to know more about the barbarians.
"They seem like simple savages. I know, we were paid a king's ransom to escort them to Kryllos, but the big one doesn't seem to need an escort. She was a Lord in Har, the small one her consort, or the tales go. But look, they dress like peasants, they travel without goods or servants. They didn't learn a thing in Har."
The drover heard laughter coming from the Greek's fire circle, the deep, rich laugh of the black haired woman, followed by the infectious lively laugh of her companion. "They are barbarians. But they seem cheerful enough. The small one is friendly. She gave me water from her own skin, when she saw me wiping sweat from my brow."
The caravan master shrugged. "What I don't understand is why they don't use two horses."
The drover explained about Greek heroes and their pair bonding, like Gilgamesh and Enkidu from Uruk.
"Two women?" The caravan master asked, unconvinced.
The other travelers were similarly puzzled. There were two Egyptian brothers on a pilgrimage, a Nubian soldier returning home, a Syrian who kept to himself, and didn't seem to take notice of the Greeks. He was a slaver, or had been at some time, and often spoke about his business. "You can't make a good slave of an Amazon. They don't have the slave mind. They are free, even in chains. Now, Greeks have been enslaving each other for hundreds of years. Athens runs on slaves. Every household has a slave or several if they can afford it. They are constantly fighting each other, taking war captives and enslaving them. Unlike the Persians, they don't make eunuchs of the beautiful boys, though their reputation as boy lovers is well earned. But Amazons, no market for them."
The Syrian leaned in to the fire, glancing at his fellow travelers. "Though, I have heard tell of a lord in Egypt who would pay a roomful of gold for an Amazon girl. A man might retire and live like a Harrian prince after a job like that." The laughter from the Greek's campfire halted him. There was something about the black haired Greek that infuriated him, aroused a blind anger, a loathing that made it hard to dissemble. Perhaps it was her arrogance, in wandering the world with only her female companion, perhaps it was the ease with which she wore steel. He couldn't stand the sight of her, her height, her carriage that said she was as good as any, and better than most. A woman simply did not do these things, barbarian or no. They were almost Amazons, with their obscene confidence. Even the little Greek had it, with her Harlot's costume and walking stick. He would relish ridding the world of them.
Night on the caravan road, with the snap and hiss of the small fire of the two Greek women counter-pointing their shared laughter. Gabrielle threw a stick into the fire and sat back down next to Xena, leaning companionably on her lover's shoulder.
"It's a shame we won't be going further into Nubia. I wanted to see the capital, while we're in this part of the world. We won't even get to see Egypt. I've always wanted to see the Nile."
"It's a flat, broad river with wide mud banks." Xena said, helpfully.
"Thanks. With that poetic description, I no longer need to see it. You know, someone should travel the length of the Nile, find it's source. It'd make a great story. " Gabrielle tilted her head back to look up at the bowl of the night sky.
"Anything you wrote would make a great story." Xena said, and was rewarded with a broad grin from her bard.
Later, when the camp had settled in to sleep, and the drover was checking the horses' picket line, a loud crash echoed from the barbarian's tent. He plucked a knife from his sash and crept closer, waiting for the sound to repeat before he opened the tent flap. He wondered if the Greek women were under attack, if the small blond needed any help. The sound of flesh striking earth, followed by a grunt of pain galvanized him. He threw the tent flap back, knife raised.
The blond woman was sitting on the back of the black haired one, holding her arm at a vicious angle. "That's got to hurt." Gabrielle said cheerfully.
"We have company." Xena said, halfway into the dirt floor.
The bard looked at the startled drover, his knife hanging loosely from nerveless fingers. "Oh, hi. We're fine. Just sparring." The bard explained, not loosening her hold on the black haired woman beneath her.
The drover nodded, unconvinced, and backed out of the tent. The caravan master would never believe this, he thought, scurrying away.
"I'm going to regret teaching you that hold. You keep using it on me." Xena grumbled. Muscles writhed under Xena's smooth skin. The desert sun had burnt her a deeper bronze, almost Harrian on her face and arms, contrasting with the pale skin normally hidden by her leathers.
"You're striped, like a cat." Gabrielle said, examining the warrior's back. She trailed her fingers over the skin, loving the feel, letting her grip loosen on the warrior's arm.
In a rush of movement she found herself flat on her back in the skins, a dark silhouette straddling her.
"Ouch. How do you do that?" Gabrielle asked.
Xena chuckled. "I have many-" She began, only to be cut off when Gabrielle hooked her knee and toppled her backward.
The warrior blinked up at the bard from her prone position.
"You were about to say it again." Gabrielle warned.
"You're getting better at the ground fighting." Xena said, and Gabrielle beamed at the compliment. "Of course, you are built for it. Stocky, low to the ground-"
"Stocky?" Gabrielle spat, furious.
"Thick legs, small hands, a good peasant build." Xena continued, as Gabrielle sat down on her stomach.
"We can't all be fifteen feet tall and cast in bronze. Peasant build, indeed. You're the one from the family of farmers!" Gabrielle said.
"My mother owns a tavern." Xena reminded the bard.
Gabrielle thought about this for a moment before answering. "In Amphipolis, a farming village."
Xena shook her head. "I can't win an argument with a bard. Come down here and tell me a story."
Gabrielle rolled off into the skins next to the warrior and draped an arm around her waist. "Alright. Once upon a time…"
Xena raised an eyebrow at her. "Once upon a time? What in the world is that?"
"A new way to begin stories that I'm working on. Like-In the days when our grandmothers were young, or when giants walked the earth, it gives a feel of timelessness." Gabrielle explained.
"Why not just say when it happened? In the year Troy fell, or the Persians were beaten at Marathon." Xena said, stretching her arms behind her head and momentarily distracting the bard with the play of muscle.
"People don't reckon time on the deeds of heroes and armies, Xena. Besides, you don't always want to pin a story down to a time; it limits it. You have to suspend your disbelief." Gabrielle said, patting Xena's stomach.
"I didn't know listening to a story was so complicated." Xena grumbled.
"Hush. Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who lived in a tower, and brushed her night black hair all day long." Gabrielle said, combing Xena's hair with her fingers.
"I don't like this story." The warrior said, and frowned.
"All right. Once there was a beautiful princess who rode at the head of a murdering, rapacious army. She kept her night black hair bound up under a helmet to help cushion against blows from blunt objects." Gabrielle said, exasperated.
Xena's satisfied grin irked her, but she continued.
"This beautiful, yet rapacious princess had no sense of humor and actually tortured captives for enjoyment."
"I never tortured captives." Xena growled.
"This isn't about you. One day this rapacious princess went off on a fishing trip by herself, a sort of vacation from all the murdering and plundering. How she managed to fish in armor was only one of the mysterious skills she kept blabbering about. She was fishing in a lovely little rill, near a prosperous, happy village of peasants. One of the villagers, a gorgeous, virginal young maiden was sitting on the riverbank, weaving flower garlands and writing poetry."
"So the rapacious princess grabbed the virgin and ravaged her." Xena added, hopefully.
"I'm telling this story. No, the princess saw the gorgeous, virginal young maiden and felt completely shy. She was suddenly aware of how tall and awkward she was, how much noise her breastplate made when she walked, the heavy tread of her warrior boots. She felt like a big, clumsy oaf next to the charm and grace of the virginal maiden." Gabrielle managed not to laugh at Xena's glowering look. "Fortunately, the village maiden was wise as well as gorgeous. She looked up at the rapacious princess and recognized the good in her soul. She invited the princess to sit on the bank, washed the blood from her hands, and set a garland of flowers on her black hair. She managed to get the rapacious princess to relax, even laugh bit."
Xena snorted in disgust. "So nobody fished anymore. They wove flower garlands and braided each other's hair, right? "
"No. Once the wise and gorgeous virginal maiden had gotten the glowering, rapacious princess to relax-" Gabrielle halted, watching Xena's face. The warrior's eyes were open with interest, bordering on impatience.
"Yeah?" She demanded.
"She pounced on the startled princess and had her way with her. The princess protested, at first, but couldn't resist the maiden's overpowering charms." Gabrielle finished, with a flourish, climbing on top of the warrior.
"I like that story." Xena said, grinning.
"You'll love the end." Gabrielle whispered, leaning in and kissing her.
In the cool of the night, after proving that their time in Har had been very educational, the lovers slept, Gabrielle coiled into Xena's possessive embrace. The bard dreamed. She saw a spider, the size of a desert cat, its back glossy and incandescent like a beetle's carapace. She followed it out of the tent, knowing that she dreamed, but compelled to follow. The spider danced in the sand, writing in an ancient language that the bard almost recognized. When she pulled near it scampered away, playfully, to the west, and her dream self followed. In the moonlight, rising from the sand was an irregular pile of stone, the ruins of some ancient shrine or tomb. The hand of time had long ago thrown it down, blurring the hard edges of cut blocks with generations of wind and sand.
The spider danced across the sand, headed for the tomb.
Gabrielle woke with start, finding Xena's arms encircling her. The warrior slept on, heedless of the bard. That was unlike her, Gabrielle thought. Usually Xena slept lightly as a wolf along the trail, ears keeping watch as her eyes slept. Perhaps whatever had sent her the spider dream also sent heavy sleep to the warrior, Gabrielle thought. She eased out of her lover's arms. Xena slept on, merely rolling over onto her back. Serves me right for exhausting her, Gabrielle thought wryly. She picked up her staff and slipped out.
The tents of the caravan were quiet, the horses dozed on their picket line, the camels shifted drowsily on their tethers. False dawn lit the east, the sky going from charcoal to pearl gray, to a thin line of pale blue. Gabrielle walked through the circle of tents, feeling the pull of compulsion, but not knowing why. It felt odd, as if she were still dreaming. A movement caught her eye, the scurrying of a small animal. Thinking of the spider in her dream, Gabrielle followed, out of the camp circle.
The scurrying form was far too big to be a spider, yet it moved like one, dancing across the sand like a madman's nightmare in the pre-dawn light. As in her dream, Gabrielle saw the bulk of a small temple, or tomb, built out of age worn stone. It crouched on the endless horizon of the desert. The spider ran right for it, waving her to follow. Tawny grass grew beyond the stone building, transforming the desert into a savanna. The abruptness of the change in ground gave the building the look of a supernatural demarcation between one environment and the next. Gabrielle raised her staff to a guard position. The spider danced with glee, then disappeared into the building.
Gabrielle walked around the outside of the stone pile, prodding it with her staff. It seemed sound, despite the appearance of great age. The stones, though rounded with age, were closely joined. The bard doubted that a knife blade could fit between them. The archway was clear, no debris, no dust. The doorway faced east, catching the first rays of the coming sun. The light began to reveal the interior, a single room with a bare floor. There was something hanging on the wall facing the doorway.
Gabrielle, curiosity getting the better of her wariness, crossed the threshold. The light caught the object, an oblong of black wood. When she moved closer, the bard could make out the features. It was a mask, carved from an extremely dense, dark wood, with exceptional skill. The face was supernatural, with elongated eyes like a cat's under heavy lids, mouth half open as if to whisper. Gabrielle automatically leaned closer to hear what the mask might say. She felt a chill run up her spine when a word was spoken in no language she recognized. It came from behind her, along with the pressure of hostile eyes.
Gabrielle spun, her staff at the ready. In the doorway, surrounded by the light of the risen sun was a girl, armed with a stone dagger. Her height made Gabrielle think her a grown woman, but her face was young. Muscles played along her limbs as she balanced on her toes, a natural fighter's stance. Instinct made Gabrielle lower her staff. This girl was not her enemy, she was certain of it, but not certain of how she knew it. Experimentally, she set the end of her staff on the floor and straightened up. The girl kept her fighting stance.
She wore a doeskin kilt and halter, and a necklace of cowry shells sewn to a leather collar. On her left arm a band of red gold, shaped into a running lioness, circled her biceps. Her feet were bare. The sun gilded her skin, adding red tones to the basalt black of her proud face. The girl narrowed her eyes when Gabrielle set her staff on the floor and spoke.
"I'm not an enemy." The bard said, and the girl's eyes widened. She replied in the tongue Gabrielle didn't know, her voice rising at the end. A question of some sort, Gabrielle guessed.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand." She said, apologetically.
Comprehension crossed the girl's face, and she nodded. "Greek. I remember. What...eyha! What you are to be doing with the guardian?" The girl pointed to the mask on the wall with her stone knife.
"Just looking at it. I'm with the caravan , over by the road. I had this dream, I woke up and followed a big spider to this building." Gabrielle blushed, sure that she sounded like a lunatic to this girl. Yet the girl lowered her knife and looked as if such an explanation were perfectly normal. Had she not understood, Gabrielle wondered?
"Anansi." The girl said, knowingly.
"Anansi? Is that your name?" Gabrielle asked.
The girl burst out laughing, doubling over at the thought. When she could draw a breath she said, "No, no."
"I'm Gabrielle." The bard said with a smile, glad that the girl seemed amused. The girl straightened up, her mirth gone as quickly as it had come.
"Tanit, daughter of Nzinga, Queen of Dahomey." She touched the hammered gold armlet proudly. Gabrielle's face lit up.
"You're an Amazon princess! I'm Gabrielle, Queen of Melossa's tribe, in Greece."
Disbelief was plain on the girl's face. She stood a full head taller than the bard at fourteen.
"I can read that look, you know. I am an Amazon. Terreis gave me her rite of caste. I became Queen after Melossa died. It's a long story." Gabrielle said.
Tanit shrugged in disbelief, but extended her arm. She clapped Gabrielle's forearm with her long fingered hand. "All Amazons are sisters, no matter the tribe. Welcome to Nzinga's lands."
Gabrielle returned the clasp. "You have to come back to camp with me. Xena, my companion, has to meet you."
Tanit shook her head, moving back. "No. I'm on my two month." She said, indicating the stone knife.
"You're what?" Gabrielle asked, as Tanit gave her another odd look.
"My coming of age. I cannot accept food, nor drink, nor hospitality from any. I should go back away from the border. I thought there might be a man here for me to kill. Anansi sent me a strange dream, full of fighting, near the guardian's place. Well met and well parted, sister."
Continued in Part 2.