The Feather of Ma’at drew in alongside the limestone quay at a village on the border of the Nome. Horem, master of the ship, watched his crew affix the ropes to the iron rings set in the limestone. Along the banks of the river papyrus and flax moved in the evening breeze.
Horem breathed in deeply, expanding his chest in pleasure. He looked up and out, toward Nut, the night sky and felt the familiar thrill of pleasure at the myriad of stars. His eye drifted down to the shadows of the hills and the sweep of the desert sand. Even in the cool of evening it was a glimpse of the relentless waste that surrounded the thin ribbon of his nation. Egypt was a miracle, a gift from the gods, the slender knife blade of green paradise in the heart of the sea of sand. This was surely the finest land in the known world, a place the gods themselves could not forsake to walk the wasteland.
The Nile gave life to Egypt, and Egypt in turn praised the gods for their wisdom in creating a perfect balance. When life has achieved the perfection as it had in Egypt, there was no need for change. Egypt had been resisting change for thousands of years, even with the invasions of the savage foreigners, from the Hyksos to the Hittites, to the hated Persians, and finally, the accepted overlordship of the Macedonians under Alexander. Ptolemy had founded a dynasty of Macedonian Pharaohs who ruled well, restoring power to the native priesthood, and ancient rights to the Egyptian classes.
Horem was a riverman to the bone. He had seen Alexandria, had sailed the Mediterranean, up to the coast of Lydia. He had been from Thebes to Karnak, had seen Siwah in the desert. His life was the Nile, and he had the air of a man convinced that he had found the best of all possible lives, and was now living it with gratitude. How could any man look out at the wasteland of sand, peopled only by brigands and barbarians, and imagine a life there? The cool song of the Nile called him, enveloped his soul. At dawn he rose with Re, reborn, nourished in all things by the sacred river.
So these passengers of his were a mystery to him. The Nubian was closest to understandable. He was, after all, an Egyptian by training. He spoke as a gentleman does, knew the proper names for the gods and had the Egyptian respect for the Pharaoh and the court. He had lived out in the wasteland, Horem heard from his crew, as a chieftain of raiders. This Nubian, a Bedouin chief? Horem did not credit it, until he caught the ambassador leaning on the rail, looking past the lush banks and canals watering the fields, out into the yellow waste. There had been..nostaligia? Longing? In the Nubian’s eyes, looking on the harshest land ever revealed under the sun. The Nubian ran deeper than his surface told.
The Amazons of Dahomey were a gorgeous strangeness, barbaric in their splendor, handsome and tall as statues at the Great Pyramid. And their Captain was most splendid of all. Surely she towered like a colossus over her fierce warriors, her mahogany eyes remote and cold. She never smiled, Horem thought. A pity, for so handsome a woman.
The Greeks were the oddest of all. Horem, having traveled to Alexandria, had seen Greeks before, and knew something of their ways. True, most Greeks he knew were men, scholars and philosophers who came to study at the Library, and who occasionally hired a ship to take them sightseeing, from the Pharos lighthouse to the marshes near the sea. Greeks liked Alexandria, it was a Greek city at heart. A few sought to travel into Egypt proper, to see the tombs of the kings. Once, a Greek historian, a young fellow writing travel books had hired him to go as far as Karnak. He was forever writing, this Greek, his observations of the people and things he saw. He had pointed to a statue of Thoth once, and said- Hermes. As the Greek spoke no Egyptian, it was the only exchange Horem had had with him. What had been his name? Herodotus.
But these Greeks…the small one, the blond, was like the scholars and philosophers he knew. She had a calm presence to her, a deepness like a pool of pure sky reflecting water in a temple of Isis. But her companion…Geb had explained their bond, and Horem was a man of the world. He knew that Greeks were famous for such relationships, though it was usually a man and a youth, as he’d seen. All their philosophers were mad for such love, calling it the noblest love on earth.
Well, and perhaps for Greeks it was, though he’d heard that in Greece a man could not wed his beloved, nor a woman her lover, as sometimes happened in Egypt. That had made him smile, just a bit. Egypt was still more civilized in her laws than these western barbarians. The pattern was familiar to him, and the Greek words. The younger one, the blond woman, was the eromenos, the beloved. The taller, brooding blue-eyed devil was the lover, the erastes. Every great warrior hero had a beloved, so naturally this Greek woman would. But.. a female hero? And there was something wrong with the brooding Greek. He could tell, as unused to heroes as he was. The way she had thrown his crewman in the water disturbed him. Everyone knew that Greeks were prone to fits of divine madness, brought on by their gods. Was this hero about to go mad, and slay everything she saw?
These thoughts were with him all day, and when they docked for the night, he was stunned to see the Amazon Captain and the Greek warrior depart together, in the opposite direction of the town. He went to call after them, thinking them lost, but the ambassador halted him and shook his head.
"It’s an Amazon rite. They need to be out of the eyes of men. Leave them."
"They go to worship?" Horem asked, part of him curious. Amazon rituals under the moon?
"Well. Something like that. So, this village, it has a tavern, I hope? A way house?" Geb asked.
Horem allowed that it did.
"Good. I have to entertain the griot-Queen, who is not pleased to be left behind. Fortune preserve me from all lovers."
Musu and Xena paced along the canal path together, a sight to make men faint in terror. The Amazon was half a head taller than the Greek warrior, but the air of violence that breathed forth from the Greek’s every restrained gesture was more chilling. A weaver, returning home from a night of drinking beer in the village had paused to relieve himself in the reeds. He heard a sound, perhaps a night bird passing, and looked up- to see the two women striding by. Had anyone been near, they would have heard him whimper "Sekhmet," before he fainted dead away. As it was, the morning sun would find him in the reeds with an aching hangover, convinced that he had seen immortals in the darkness of the night.
The canals threaded the boundaries of the fields, beyond was the wasteland. There were red granite quarries a mile out into the sand, stone that this village was famous for, but neither Musu nor Xena cared for that. They picked a spot of smooth sand, cool to the touch of Musu’s naked feet, free of stone chips, and faced off. Xena was not much of one for conversation and Musu was more taciturn, having no bard to draw her out. Musu set her spear aside with exaggerated care, showing Xena that it would be out of her reach for the bout. Xena shook her head, and moved it closer. It the fight went the way she feared, Musu would need her spear. The Amazon wore her doeskin kilt and halter, her anklets and armbands. The Greek wore her leathers, having shucked armor and weapons on the boat.
Xena stood neutrally, hands at her sides. Musu went into the crouch that signaled the beginning of a bout, extended her brawny arms, and waited. The Greek didn’t look ready to grapple.
"Go on, Musu. Fight me." Xena said, her voice soft as the coming dawn.
Musu was a soldier, and a leader among the most feared soldiers in Africa. She did as the Greek asked. The onslaught of her rush was like the charge of a lion, set to break the neck of an antelope. Sometimes Musu won her bouts with only her approach, frightening her opponents into the realization of who they faced. The rush of iron muscle, barely sheathed under her skin, frightened them into immobility.
Musu anticipated that the Greek would not be such a one. She was ready to turn on her heels, to grab for a hip throw, for surely the Greek hero would not stand still like a frightened girl. Musu was so ready for the hero’s quickness that when her opponent did not move, she was stunned. She had to check her motion into the hip throw, and meet the Greek head on.
Xena simply opened her arms and met the Amazon’s bull like rush, her bent knees absorbing the shock of the charge. The sand groaned under her feet, she was pushed backward, but her stance held. She and Musu met like lovers, breast to breast, matching brute strength to brute strength.
It took Musu a moment to realize that the Greek would use no craft on her. She wasn’t grappling, she was simply exerting her force. While that force was tremendous, it took Musu a move of a few inches to unsettle her balance, and toss her into the sand.
As the Greek’s feet shifted, as Musu completed her throw, she had the distinct feeling that Xena could have avoided the move with ease. There was something about the limpness of her body, the way she had relaxed into the throw before Musu had committed to it. The Greek was thinking three moves ahead of her.
It was enlightening, and it burned through Musu like good wine. Here was a true challenge, for the first time since she’d begun wrestling. An opponent who could endure the full range of her strength, who’s grasp of strategy might outstrip her own. In that split second Musu’s goal transformed from aiding a friend, to drawing out the finest fight of her life.
The Greek landed on her back, Musu assumed the mount. It was of no consequence, Xena would not resist her when she went for the leg lock, or the shift to the capture. Musu went for the lock, then abandoned it. She was determined to get a response from the Greek, to have Xena spark into life, to meet her challenge with a challenge of her own. No more of this waiting, no more holding back.
The Greek hero was the first fighter Musu had ever faced who scared her, and that fear was a delicious thrill to the massive Captain. She lived by challenge, and here was the finest challenge of her combat career. But how to draw the Greek out?
Xena fought like she was sleepwalking. She knew the mechanics, but waited until Musu moved, then simply acquiesced, or countered. She seemed to be testing her strength against the Amazon’s holds, but never more than a fraction. Perhaps that was the way.
Musu used Xena’s restraint against her, maneuvering for a headlock. When Xena saw it, and acquiesced, she threw her leg around the Greek’s body and twisted her arm into a vicious hold. It was a move that would only fool a raw girl, any warrior could get out of it with a minimal shift of her hips, and a remount. The pain would subdue an amateur, not one trained to think through it.
Xena threw herself against the hold, increasing the pressure on her joint. The pain was a red wash across her senses, she welcomed it gladly. Compared to what demons now held court in the corners of her mind, this physical pain was as sweet as a summer’s day. Musu was even stronger than she looked, and she looked able to strangle a bull with her bare hands. Good. Some minute testing had assured Xena that Musu could withstand her resistance, and match her fighting prowess. The hero’s respect for the Amazon increased with every throw.
She knew that Musu was trying to draw her out, to make a real bout of it. It took a kind of courage Xena could only admire, to bait her into a fighting rage. It was exactly what she wanted from Musu, the warrior’s heart she counted on. And if the experiment went awry, she hoped she could count on Musu to reach for her spear.
The Amazon seemed surprised that she hadn’t thrown off the lock yet. Musu’s grip was iron, but Xena could feel the pressure start to ease off. She felt a kernel of anger start, a seed of fire at the base of her spine. She took a chance, and gave in to it.
The first thing Musu felt was the hard packed sand slamming into her back. She grunted from the impact, rolling to minimize it. She hadn’t even seen the Greek move. Xena was back on her feet, dancing lightly, a smile of feral joy lighting her face. She was giving up some of her distance, and had joined the fight. Musu pushed herself off the sand, breathed a quick prayer to the orishas to do honor to her nation and her Queen, and closed with the Greek.
The fight began in earnest, a combination of Amazon grappling and Greek pankration. The two women met like titans, crashing into one another, trading blows that might fell a man. Musu tried for a hip throw, but the Greek was now using her speed, and darted right under the sweep of Musu’s massive arm. The Amazon Captain found herself grasping for empty air, and turned to find her foe- only to meet the blow the Greek threw at her full on. Musu felt her head ring from blow, even open handed as it had been.
Xena was taunting her, evading her holds, striking stinging open handed blows. Musu had never seen anyone fight unarmed as the Greek fought. Musu had to strain to meet her, to shake off the effects of the strikes, to think ahead of the dancing Greek.
There is a legend in Dahomey of a warrior who loved one of the orishas who served Oya the Warrior. The mortal woman and the immortal would meet in secret, between the earth, where the Amazons might know of their affair, and the sky, where the orishas would know of it. As long as they never met in the places of heaven, or on the good soil of the earth, they might continue loving one another.
One morning they grew careless, as lovers fully sated sometimes do, and when the mortal was returning to her nation, the orisha called her back for one last kiss. But the mortal woman had already set one foot on the earth, and so when her immortal lover kissed her, the shock ran through her body, down to the dust. There, under the earth, the vibrations stirred the bones of the dead, and the bones whispered to one another, chattering. Oya, mistress of the gates to the cemetery, heard this dry whispering, the talking bones. She listened, to the tale of a mortal daring to love one of her handmaidens. Now, in these days, time was young, the earth was young, and Oya was terrible in her jealousy and her rage. She flung open the gates to the cemetery and raged across the plains like the thunder heralding a season of storms.
The orisha heard the sound first, and trembled. Her mistress sprang up with the clangor of steel and the splash of lightning, striking down the mortal woman. The orisha begged Oya’s forgiveness, and pled for the life of her mortal lover. This handmaiden was well loved by jealous Oya, and her tears moved the Warrior.
"I will relent, and spare this mortal, as your tears have softened my heart, but only if she is strong enough to withstand the love of an immortal." Said Oya. "If she may hold up the sky for the space of three days, dawn to dusk to dawn, I will allow that she is strong enough for one of my own."
The orisha wept, because she knew that her mortal lover was strong, no woman could hope to hold up the sky. But Oya had spoken, and so it must be.
The mortal woman was set on a high mountain, where the sky joined the edges of the earth. She exerted all her strength and set the sky on her shoulders, lifting it from the top of the mountain.
For three full days the orisha stood beside her mortal lover, watching as the weight of the sky began to crush her body down. After the first day, the warrior was down on one knee, the sky slipping on her broad shoulders. The orisha brought her cool water in a gourd and held it to her lips, but the warrior refused with a shake of her head. It would do dishonor to her love and her nation to break under the challenge.
After the second day, the warrior was on both knees, unable to raise her head or speak. Her eyes were open, but the fire in them had died. Still she held on, stubborn in her pride, committed to the love she had given. Her flesh was torn and scarred by the rough kiss of the rocks on the mountaintop; her back was breaking under the strain of the heavens. Still she held on.
By the dawn of the third day, she no longer recognized her own name being spoken, even by her lover. Her eyes had closed; the weight of the sky had bowed her down nearly double, pressing her toward the rock as a captive might be pressed to kneel before a Queen. Her mortal muscles were shredded and torn, her arms all but useless, her hands nerveless and still. Her bones had turned brittle as grass after a drought. She would never again heft a spear on the hunt or in war, never hold the face of her beloved tenderly, never have her first daughter presented to her by the griots. Her body had given way, under the relentless weight of the sky.
In the end her lungs could no longer drawn breath, her blood ran down to pool on the unforgiving stone of the mountaintop. Her lover waited, kneeling next to her, as she died.
Oya opened the gates to the cemetery and welcomed the mortal. With her broken body behind her on the ground, the warrior stood tall and faced the goddess. Oya allowed her handmaiden to embrace her mortal lover, beyond the gates to the cemetery. There was a look of frank respect on the hard face of Oya, a recognition of the spirit of the Amazon.
“You held up under an impossible task, not letting even Death defeat you. From this moment on, your very name will mean a strength stubborn unto death. The griots will sing of you for all time, the daughters of the nation will yearn for a task so impossible, they might gain the name of Musu.”
Captain Musu met the stinging blows with the same stubborn pride that earned her that name. When the Greek danced in like a leopard taunting a maddened bull, Musu opened her great crushing hands to snare her. But Xena was made of air, or fire, and couldn’t be held, could only be lunged after in vain, as she spun out of reach. In her years of grappling, Musu had never faced the like.
The only experience that came close was the hunt in her fifteenth year, when a lioness had charged her unexpectedly. Her spear was not to hand, her hunt mates were out of reach. There had been nothing to do but grab the cat, and match her thews against a snarling wall of death. In a move to defy belief, Musu had seized the lioness from behind, and wrapped her iron arms around the cat’s tawny throat. No girl, even an Amazon, can out wrestle a lion. Yet Musu held on while the cat flailed and screamed her rage, slowly tightening her grip, until the yowls came more faintly.
In a fit of near death madness, brought on by the strangling arm about her throat, the lioness twisted back on herself and lashed to the right, hurling the Amazon girl into the air. Musu landed fifteen feet away, striking the grass like a felled tree. The lioness, green eyes dimmed, regarded her for a moment as something other than prey, then was gone.
Strange how the fight with the Greek brought this memory back to her. Xena was quick enough to evoke the comparison, but Musu’s staggering brain seized on the move she had used to get behind the cat. It was ridiculous, to use the fear induced darting of a girl as the basis for strategy. Yet, it had worked, against the lioness.
While these thoughts crowed one upon another in Musu’s skull, the knife edge of the Greek’s hand brushed against the Amazon’s corded neck. It was not a strike, there had been no impact, but after the subtle brush of the Greek’s fingers, Musu went blind. The panic was immediate, red and clamoring for her attention. Musu set it aside with an inhuman force of will. The Greek wanted her scared, off balance. She would not comply.
She could hear the shuffle of the Greek’s feet in the sand, there- she was to the left. If Musu had learned anything of Xena’s fighting style, it was that the Greek could fly. Faced with a standing attack, Xena often launched into the air, sometimes striking wild blows that never seemed to miss. It might be enough.
Musu ran toward the sound, then threw herself into the most graceless shoulder roll Xena had ever seen. The blindness must be affecting her, Xena thought. The Amazon’s attack was easy to evade, all it took was a simple leap, straight up into the air. When the Greek warrior landed, the Amazon was behind her.
It was a move of madness. Truly, even now, when she was at the height of her prowess, when the strength of her thews was unmatched among the ten thousand spears, when no woman could best her on the grappling ground, Musu would never have tried such a move. Not if she could see. The blindness brought on by the Greek’s touch was meant to unnerve her. Instead, it dragged forth the root of Musu’s strength, the very base of her being- a stubbornness unto Death. So Musu grabbed the most feared woman in the known world, in the hold that she’d used on the lioness.
Musu’s arm was around Xena’s throat, pressing against the traffic of blood and air. A hold such as this is meant to disable the foe quickly, for who can fight when they cannot breathe?
Xena recognized the trap, even as the brawny arm closed it’s grip. She would have only seconds to break Musu’s hold, before the Amazon exerted her strength, and strangled her.
Musu clamped down into the grip as swiftly as she could, expecting to be shaken off at any moment. Perhaps it was this anticipation of failure that lent her desperate strength. It was inconceivable that the unmatched Greek would suffer a hold for long, so Musu exerted all her force. It was something she never did in a grappling match with one of her own soldiers, something she did only on the field of battle. It was a killing move.
The Greek did not shake her off as the lioness had. Instead, Musu felt a sharp blow to her ribs, an unexpected strike. She grunted in pain, but drew her deadly grip tighter. Why was the Greek wasting her time with offense, instead of trying to break the hold?
Again, a strike, and pain seared across the Amazon’s ribs. Had they not been sheathed in muscle, surely they would have broken. The pain was like trails of fire across the blackness of her blunted vision, it robbed her of thought. The fighting rage rose in her, the battle honed reflexes of a warrior. Her natural reaction was to exert her strength, and strangle the source of that pain.
In her fifteenth year, Musu had wrestled a lioness barehanded. In her twentieth, she had broken the neck of a wild bull. Now she strangled the fight, and the life, out of the unresisting Greek.
It was only when the Greek woman went limp as a child’s doll in her arms that Musu was shocked back to herself. She released her arm, catching the body as it sagged toward the sand. Panic hammered at her temples.
In her blindness Musu knelt, cradling the Greek’s unresponsive form. What madness was this? Musu felt for the Greek’s face, held her hand over the warrior’s mouth to feel her breath. There was none. Musu let forth a stream of curses in her own language, beginning with the name of Oya, and ending with insults to the Greek woman’s fighting skills.
What in Shango’s name was she to do, blind, with the body of the hero? The Greek Queen would never forgive her. Musu pictured swallowing her own spear blade as a preferable option to explaining to Gabrielle what had happened. She thrust her hand over the Greek’s mouth, barely restraining the urge to shake her like a rat in a camp dog’s jaws.
Musu felt the Greek’s breath a heartbeat before the teeth closed on her hand. The pain was welcome, for it meant that the Greek lived, and Musu’s delight was untempered as she threw the Greek woman’s body from her. She heard a soft impact in the sand, the evidence of a calculated landing. Xena was alive, and conscious.
“I don’t know if I should kill you or embrace you, Thracian jackal.” Musu said, turning her face toward Xena.
“As you Amazons are so fond of saying, I will take your hand instead.” The voice was soft, perhaps a reflection of the strain of being throttled. It took Musu a moment to realize that Xena had understood her, and answered in the language of Dahomey.
“You speak the mother language now, as well as I do?” Musu asked.
There was a shuffling of boots in the sand, the Greek warrior approached her. “Guess so.” Xena said.
Musu felt the fingers strike against the side of her neck with the speed of a cobra.
“Give it a moment, your sight will return.”
Musu rolled her head on her neck, massaging the back with one hand. “Am I to understand that the fight is now done?”
The Amazon blinked a few times, shades of gray were filtering into the blackness. She could just make out the form of the Greek, crouched beside her.
“Yes. I learned what I needed to know.” Xena said, in perfect Dahomey.
“That you could frighten me to death, with the thought of bringing your body back to the Queen?” Musu asked. It was strange, being able to talk directly to Xena, without the aid of Geb. She’d gotten used to the wry tone the dwarf managed to layer into everything.
“That you had the ability to take me out. And that I wouldn’t go mad, and bath the sand in blood if I allowed myself to fight.” Xena exhaled heavily.
“It is not the fighting that triggers your anger. On the docks, it was the Egyptian who spoke ill of the Queen who set you off.” Musu said. She felt the weight of the Greek warrior’s eyes on her.
“True. So now that I know you are strong enough, and skilled enough, to take me down, I need a favor.”
“You want me to insult the Queen.” Musu said.
The Greek nodded. “I have to know if I can…control my response.”
The look on her face was bleak, it spoke to Musu’s warrior’s pride. What a terrible thing, to be in possession of your strength and fighting rage, but unable to unleash them.
Musu stood and stretched out her arms. “As you will. Shall we begin?”
Xena stood up, a half a dozen paces from the Amazon. “Thank you, Musu.”
The Amazon drew herself up to her full height, her face hardened and grew cold. A sneer crossed her lips.
“Queen? A title wasted on an out-tribe imposter, a lover of men and a slave to them, a weak, water blooded foreign wench without strength or skill. It is an insult to all Amazons to call that half sized rag a woman.”
Xena felt the flush of anger, and ruthlessly clamped down on it. Her muscles creaked under the strain, the desire to backhand Musu was great. The Amazon saw her shaking like a horse eager to run, and raised an eyebrow. Xena nodded at her to continue.
“ No proper warrior would bother to take her to the mats. I have never seen a foreign girl as ugly allowed to live, don’t you Greeks expose such babies on the hillsides? She couldn’t make a living whoring in the streets of Babylon. For two pieces of copper I will take her off your hands. With enough beating, I might be able to have her tend my goats, or service them-”
The roar of rage was as chilling as the roar of a lion. Musu saw the Greek charge her, without any of the craft she had used earlier. Musu met the charge solidly, and was stunned when the Greek didn’t grapple with her. Xena simply grabbed Musu by the thigh and shoulder, and lifted her above her head.
The sky looked different from this position, Musu thought, dazed, as she hung between earth and sky. The Greek hero was growling like a beast, mixing words of unknown human speech in like scattered coins. She knew the movement- heave your opponent up, and bring them down across your knee, cracking their spine like a rotten branch. It was a killing move. No one had ever lifted her, as a child might lift a doll. For the first time, Musu doubted her own immense strength. Death was coming for her, wasn’t that the noise she heard, the gates of the cemetery swinging wide? She felt the Greek start to bring her down, and breathed a quick prayer for a warrior’s death. “Oya!” She shouted, as her war cry. Nzinga won’t know where I am buried- she thought, as the Greek finished the move.
Musu landed on her back in the sand, dumped unceremoniously from six feet in the air. No knee met her spine, no killing move finished her off- the Greek had simply dropped her. Musu lay there, blinking like a sacrificial goat who’d been spared the edge of the knife. What had happened? She pushed herself up to a sitting position when no further attack came, looking cautiously to the right. “Xena?” Musu said, looking at the hero.
The Greek was kneeling on the sand, her head clutched between her hands, black hair spilling between clawed fingers. Her mouth was open in a rictus of agony, her lips writhed into a snarl as soon as Musu addressed her. A voice came from the Greek, similar to her own, but not in any language Musu recognized. Xena shook her head, as a woman might shake off the hand of a ghost. She was speaking a dialect Musu recognized, a language that only the griots spoke, so old now that they used it only for ritual, having long forgotten the meaning of the words. Even Agassou the Panther did not know what the words meant, they were older than the glyph writing of the Egyptians. Another voice, a slurring sound, fighting for control, Musu knew the words- Assyrian. No, Phrygian- no, Egyptian. Xena’s head rolled back on her neck, the tendons straining out like cords on a sail catching the wind.
Musu made the sign against evil with her left hand. The Greek was being Ridden, but no orishas had been summoned, and the dead fighting to speak through her were not eggun- were not the beloved ancestors of the Amazons. Or rather, only some of them might be, for some of the words falling from the Greek’s straining lips were true Dahomey, recognizable to Musu.
“Xena!” Musu called out, spinning into a crouch as if to fight again. She made another warding sign, the supernatural shiver pricking the flesh between her broad shoulders. There was nothing alive that Captain Musu feared to face down with her spear or her bare hands. But this was a foe she could not touch, a thing no warrior could smite, a thing not of the flesh. She was no griot- how could she help the stricken Greek? Summoning all her courage, Musu inched forward, and lay her massive hand on the Greek’s shoulder.
The blue eyes were glassy, but they fixed on her. Words spilled out, in Hittite, then Persian. Musu did the only thing she could think of doing. She drew back her left hand, and dealt the Greek a buffet across the face.
The blow would have broken the neck of an antelope. It rocked Xena back on her heels, her head snapped to the side. When the blue eyes fixed on her with the fires of rage, Musu nearly cheered. The anger brought a measure of focus back to the Greek. It was a look few lived after seeing. Xena’s lips curled, in her fighting smile.
“Musu. Get me Gabrielle, before I rip out your throat."