Disclaimer: Xena belongs to Renaissance Pictures/Universal Studios. No money is being made and no infringement is intended. This story briefly quotes "One Against an Army" by Gene O'Neill and Noreen Tobin, as well as the translation of Sappho in "Many Happy Returns" by Liz Friedman and Vanessa Place. In addition, I use Julia Dubnoff's translation to restore part of that poem.
Notes: Explicit f/f sex. Summary quote from The Next Time by Mark Strand. Began 01/26/09; finished 07/23/09; posted 07/23/09.
Warnings: Some violence; issues of consent.
Feedback: Rachel@fangirl.nu or comment on livejournal.
They found the Death Scroll in 1951.
Janice was fiddling with her lighter, tapping her foot, and generally failing to be inconspicuous while Mel attempted to translate. "'If we had stayed in Egypt,'" Mel read haltingly, "'Kenji may never have found us. Or accepting that he did find us, if I had said no, I won't go to...'" She frowned, pushed up her glasses, and declared, "Shut my mouth. They went to Japan."
"What?" Janice dropped the lighter and almost snatched away the scroll before she remembered herself. This scroll was among the first they had found since the war; Janice had almost been ready to admit that there was only one cache and they had already excavated it. "Japan? Well, we know from the Blue Scroll they made it to India." She dragged a hand over her face. "Egypt, India, Japan—I can already hear McCreedy telling me I'll say she settled the New World next."
"It's not in meter," Mel murmured. "It's"—she cast her eyes down scribbled lines—"like you'd write in a journal, almost." She gasped. "You don't think this is her diary? We should hardly..." But she didn't set the scroll down.
"The Blue Scroll was like that," Janice pointed out. "Maybe she got introspective when she traveled."
"Janice Covington," Mel began reprovingly, "you know as well as I do that the Blue Scroll—" She shook her head, evidently deciding that the lecture could wait. "'Of course I could have no more stopped Xena from going to Japa than I did Chin.'" Mel laughed. "I do believe she means China. Dr. McCreedy will pitch a fit now for sure." She continued, "'And this time I did not betray her. I followed her orders. I'"—Mel swallowed, tried again—"'I let her die.'"
"Would you do it?" Janice whispered. She and Mel were folded into the bottom bunk of a private room on a sleeper car; the train would arrive at Paris in the morning, and from there they would fly to New York. "If I told you it was for the greater good and ordered you to let me die?"
"Hon, that's like saying I 'let you' become a darn WASP."
"Ah." When Janice had shown up for dinner with signed enlistment papers, Mel had used words a bit stronger than 'darn.' "That was different."
"Mm," Mel agreed sleepily, pulling Janice even closer. "Course it was. You don't order me."
"But what if you ordered me? Do you think I'd do it?"
"What if I ordered you to hush? We got a big day ahead of us."
"I love you," Janice said, and felt her face heat. Christ, they had been together for ten years; shouldn't it have been easier to say? Gabrielle hadn't had a problem expressing her feelings to Xena—hell, she had even made them rhyme. That was a scroll McCreedy definitely needed to never see.
"And you ain't getting rid of me. So, hush."
Janice did. But she didn't sleep.
As it happened, when they presented their findings upon their return, McCreedy did not accuse Janice of being ready to claim that Xena had settled the New World: he accused her of being ready to claim that Xena had founded the university.
"I hate that son of a bitch," Janice growled, taking another swallow of whiskey. She drummed her fingers, wondering if she could convince Mel to let her smoke in the house.
"So do I," Mel admitted. "Well, I don't hate him, but he can be a...what you said."
"I said what?"
"Son of a gun," Mel replied primly.
"No, pretty sure that wasn't it."
The doorbell rang before Mel could respond. She opened the door to reveal a young man in a linen suit. "Why, Francis, how wonderful to see you," she exclaimed, but there was confusion in her tone. "Won't you please come in?"
"What's the matter with you?" Janice demanded, noticing that Francis Talbot's temples were glistening with sweat. "Somebody prove that Shakespeare didn't write his plays?" Francis was an assistant professor of English literature.
"Janice," Mel warned quietly. "Francis, can I fix you a drink?"
"Yes, please. Oh," he moaned, almost involuntarily, "oh!"
"Come on, sit down," Janice said, guiding him to a chair. "Now, what the hell is going on?"
"They're saying—they're saying that Mark and I are—are...homophiles."
Francis and Mark Saunders, who taught art history, were homophiles, and together at that, but Janice knew that was not the point. "Who said?" she asked as Mel handed Francis a glass of whiskey.
"I was in the faculty lounge cloakroom." He took a gulp and fought a gasp. "Some scientists, I think. Chemists? Janice, they were saying it about you and Mel, too!"
Well, shit. Janice looked down at her work shirt and dungarees. She had been prepared for the accusation, but that didn't mean it was good.
"Francis, you just calm down," Mel soothed. "We'll nip this in the bud: we'll double date."
"Wait." Janice held up a hand. "You really think people'll buy that?" She glanced at Francis. "No offense."
"None taken."
Mel gritted her teeth. "These chemists don't know you overheard them, right, Francis?"
"Right—I mean, I'm pretty sure."
"If someone had denounced you publicly, then, yes, it would be suspicious. But this? Completely spontaneous. And, Janice, you will start wearing a skirt when you go out."
She didn't protest.
Funding, Janice thought. She just had to keep this up until she got funding for another dig. More scrolls, that was what she needed. She tugged at her dress. Pants and more scrolls.
It was the university's annual Christmas ball; she and Mel had been dating Francis and Mark openly but not conspicuously for almost four months now. It helped that Janice actually liked Francis; while she still ribbed him about his discipline, they had become a book club of two. Mark, on the other hand, she often wanted to stab in the eye. Right now, for instance: he was kissing Mel underneath the mistletoe. To make the evening worse, Francis had gone to fetch more punch and McCreedy had managed to buttonhole her. He seemed to be challenging her to prove that she hated commies more than he did.
"Frank!" she called as Francis approached, her voice cracking with desperation. "There you are!" She took both cups from him and shoved them into McCreedy's hands. "Come on, I wanna dance."
Janice did not want to dance, or at least not with Francis, but he led excellently, and soon she was almost relaxed in his arms. She did not look over to where Mel and Mark also moved in time.
When they got home, Janice first kicked off her pumps, and then pulled off Mel's glasses. Mel blinked owlishly as Janice checked that the window shades were pulled completely down. Their privacy secured, she presented Mel with her back; her blond hair was gathered into her fist and lifted away from her neck. "You have five seconds to get this fucking dress off me."
Janice sighed with the zipper. "Much better." She stepped free of the dress. "Hose."
Obediently, Mel knelt and peeled the stockings from her legs. "Why, Janice," she observed, her nose hovering above Janice's panties, "I do believe you may be aroused."
"Poss—" Janice choked as Mel dragged one finger across her through the damp cotton. "Possibly."
"Well," Mel reasoned, "first we'll have to do something about that brassiere." She rose.
Janice groaned as Mel's hands enveloped her breasts, and wondered fleetingly how the situation had quit her control.
"Yes," Mel continued, sliding her hands forward to tease Janice's fabric-covered nipples with her thumbs, "have to do something about this. But, I don't want to get too far behind." And then Mel's hands were gone, reaching behind her neck to unzip her own dress.
Janice shook off her paralysis and reached around Mel to help with the zipper. Mel lowered her arms, hands landing firmly on Janice's ass. She pulled Janice closer, trapping the cool satin of her dress against Janice's overheated skin. Janice's hands left the opened zipper and slid up the exposed skin of Mel's back before pulling loose the pins that held her glossy black hair. Finally, they kissed.
"Too darn short," Mel complained at last, breaking off the kiss and straightening her neck.
"Too damn tall," Janice replied automatically as they shuffled toward the sofa. She seized Mel's hips, spun both women around, and sat Mel on the couch's armrest. "Better?" She unhooked Mel's bra and pulled it free; then her hands were inside Mel's dress, fingertips finding her already tight nipples. Impatiently, she pushed the dress down and bent to suck.
"Lord," Mel gasped, and Janice smiled smugly. It was going to sound like a Southern Baptist tent revival in a minute.
Janice slid one hand up Mel's thigh, under her dress and along her stockings. She began to stroke the hollow below the tendon at the top of her thigh, eliciting another Lord. Then she released Mel's nipple long enough say, "Stand up." Crouching, she pulled Mel's panties off, left the garter belt and stockings on, and pushed her dress up.
"Oh, Lord!"
Janice swept her tongue up the length of Mel, from the smooth skin below her opening to her clit. She followed Mel as she sank back onto the armrest, then settled onto her knees and grabbed Mel's thighs. With light, inquisitive licks, she pretended to explore the body she knew so well.
"Don't," she heard Mel pant, "tease."
She parted the folds of Mel's labia, then lapped inside her bitter heat. Mel had both hands on Janice's head and was trying to guide her just that little bit higher. Janice would have admonished her if her mouth hadn't been full. But, hell, she wasn't entirely unsympathetic: she touched Mel's clit with the tip of her tongue.
Without her hands to grip the couch, Mel began to slide. Her heels scrabbled against hardwood; quickly, Janice lay on the floor, pulling Mel with her. "Sit on my face," she urged. This drew the loudest Lord yet.
With Mel's knees on either side of her ears and folds of satin covering her eyes, Janice licked around and then across Mel's clit, tracing x's and o's. She clutched Mel's hips, trying to hold them steady, and sucked. Distantly, she heard Mel cry out to God, and to her, and then a wordless wail.
With a much quieter Lord, Mel rolled off her, and they lay on their backs, gasping up at the ceiling. Janice was convinced that she had narrowly avoided la grande mort while delivering that petite mort. "Jesus Christ."
"Third commandment, Janice," Mel chided, giggling. She turned onto her side and stroked Janice's arm. "Are you all right?"
"Yeah," Janice panted, "just a little...I think the possibility of me being aroused should be upgraded to a probability."
"Goodness," Mel realized, "you still got your bra and panties on! Let me—"
Janice leaned up far enough that Mel could unhook her bra. "And you've still got your dress on."
Mel looked down at the wrinkled mess of garnet fabric bunched around her waist. "I think you killed it. One thing for it, then." And she began to wipe Janice's face.
"Mel," Janice whined, "I'd love to keep chatting, but—"
Mel quieted her with a kiss, then quickly moved down Janice's jaw to her neck, sucking on a tendon corded there. She slid her hand into Janice's panties, two fingertips maddeningly circling the lips of and drawing aggrieved ah's from a bucking Janice.
"Fuck's sake—"
Finally, those long fingers entered Janice, only to continue their lax circles as Mel mouthed wetly down to her breast. Janice tried to collect enough breath to beg, but could only pant. Then, mercifully, Mel curled her fingers upwards, pressing swift short strokes where Janice needed. She felt her eyelids begin to flutter, and then Mel thumbed her clit and everything began to flutter, her muscles spasming as the orgasm radiated through her body.
After an age, or a moment, Janice felt Mel's fingers withdraw, and then the sweetest kiss was pressed above her left breast. "Merry Christmas, Janice."
Green met blue as Janice opened her eyes. "Merry Christmas, Mel."
That spring, Francis was denied tenure and, in an incident no one thought entirely unrelated, Mark was caught crying in the dark while his students looked at slides of the Old Masters. The wheels came off their little farce pretty quickly after that. Luckily, Mel had already leveraged her father's reputation at the university to secure tenure for Janice and perpetual lectureship for herself, but there were moral turpitude clauses in their contracts, and now their beaus were headed to Greenwich Village.
After dropping Francis and Mark off at the train station, Janice clomped into Emerson Hall, the stately stone building that housed her office. There would be no dig that summer, or at least none for anything she gave a damn about, and Janice had finished the semester in a ferocious mood, failing a fourth of her students, including seniors who now would not be able to graduate. She had a meeting with McCreedy about that later.
She unlocked her office and retrieved the small bottle hidden in her bottom desk drawer. Deciding that the drink would be better shared, she shoved it into her purse. Her purse! Heels, skirt, blouse, and purse all goddamn year long, and for what? No fucking dig.
Her hand was poised to knock on Mel's office door when she heard them:
"Please, Melinda, how long have we known each other? Call me Bill."
"All right then, Bill, I'll see you tomorrow."
Janice rapped on the door. McCreedy opened it. "Dr. Covington," he acknowledged her, then turned and smiled at Mel. "Eight o'clock." He refocused his attention on Janice. "Fix those seniors' grades," he ordered as he stepped past. "That's all."
Janice stared after him, not trusting herself to speak. She took the whiskey out of her purse.
"Janice!" Mel hissed, tugging her inside the office and closing the door. "What on Earth do you think you're—"
"What am I doing? What are you doing with McCreedy tomorrow night?"
"We're having supper at the college club. I know the concept is alien to you, but it is advantageous to be on friendly terms with the head of your department, especially now."
"What about now?"
Mel took the bottle from her. "Now that we preparing to publish the scrolls. He may doubt their authenticity as historical documents, but I showed him one of my drafts and he was very complimentary. And while I know you don't believe this, he did convince the trustees to underwrite your dig in Cusco."
"Cusco is not my dig," Janice objected. "The Incas are his interest, not mine. He should be on site, not me, but I guess he's been riding a desk too long to remember that real archaeology is done in the field."
"Then be happy that you are still a real archaeologist. Visit a beautiful country, investigate a fascinating people. I will be green with envy the whole summer."
Janice slouched against one of Mel's bookcases. "You're really not coming with me?"
"To do what? I don't speak a lick of Quechua, and my Spanish is worse than your French. I'll be much more useful here." Mel's eyes shone with anticipation. "Can you imagine, Janice, having Gabrielle's stories published as a book that average people will read rather than as little technical articles that go unnoticed by anyone without a Ph.D.?"
"But they're not just stories, and those 'little technical articles' prove it. Besides, it's not like you have a Ph.D."
"I know that," Mel said slowly. "Janice Covington, are you trying to pick a fight with me?"
"I'm not trying to—" Janice caught herself and sighed. "I don't know. I'm pissed at the world right now. Francis...I liked the kid. He said he'll send out his C.V., but God knows if another institution will take him."
"Have a little faith, Janice. At least they have each other."
"Yeah," Janice agreed, mostly mollified. She smiled at Mel. "It is nice to have each other."
Janice had missed her hat. She had it now, but didn't have Mel, and she missed her rather more. Still, she had been right: there was nothing so real as being in the field, and once she stopped sulking, she found that Mel had been right, too, for the Incas were almost as fascinating as the Xena scrolls. As the weeks passed and the dig stayed on schedule and under budget, Janice began to think that she had been childish to complain.
Then she began to shiver, then vomit, then sweat.
"I am not going to let you die. I can still get you to Thessaly and the antidote."
Shaking on her pallet.
"And then what? What happens to Athens? What's my life worth then?"
Hand cool on her forehead.
"First things first."
Retching at a bowl.
"The first thing is the greater good, you taught me that. You taught me that there are things in life worth dying for, things that hold a higher meaning than our own existence."
Quinine bitter in her mouth.
"Not your existence."
"I am so sorry," Mel said for the third time that afternoon.
Janice nestled farther into her arms. She had protested that she wouldn't have been allowed to fly if she had still been sick, but Mel had insisted that she recuperate in bed, and Janice had agreed on the condition that Mel join her. "So you admit to controlling the mosquito. You know, if you wanted me home early, all you had to do was ask."
"You think I'm being silly." Mel bussed the top of her head. "Maybe I am, but you are not going on another dig without me. And don't say I would've just caught it, too."
"Of course not. You were controlling the mosquito, remember?"
"Janice Covington—"
She turned to face Mel. "You know, my doctors have cleared me for strenuous activity."
The doorbell rang.
Mel kissed her before sliding out of bed. "Think you can hold that thought?"
"I've been known to."
When Mel returned, she had McCreedy in tow. "Dr. Covington," he said. "Wanted to make sure you're all right." He touched Mel's arm. "Melinda went white when she got the telegram."
"Did she?" Janice cut her eyes over to Mel. "I'm sorry to have given you a fright, Melinda."
"Well, as you can see, Bill, Dr. Covington is going to be just fine. I know you want to discuss the reports from the dig, but let's give her a day first." She hauled him bodily from the room.
"What was that?" Janice asked when the front door closed.
Mel spun around, hand to her throat.
"Sorry," Janice said. "Gave you another fright."
"Janice, you are supposed to be in bed." Mel shooed her back upstairs, and Janice went because bed with Mel was just what she had in mind. Only, she had a question first.
"You and McCreedy."
"Dr. McCreedy and I have been having supper together on Thursdays. I've been working on him, and I've gotten him to say that there was a historical Xena, regardless that the scrolls are a little fantastic."
"I had a dream about them," Janice remembered suddenly. "When I was sick."
Mel kissed her sweetly. "If I say sorry again, will you make fun again?"
"Probably."
Mel lay down and held out her arm. "Do you remember what your dream was about?"
Janice settled onto her shoulder. "It was like I was Gabrielle, and Xena wanted to save me, but I couldn't let her, because of Athens." Janice frowned, trying to marshal her impressions. "I think it might've been about the Battle of Tripolis, when Xena stopped the Persian advance."
"'Your chakram draws red lines across Persian throats,'" Mel murmured.
Janice placed the line at once. "Have you shown McCreedy her private poems?"
Mel laughed. "I think we'll stick to the epics for now. But"—her eyes turned sly—"I believe you were holding a thought."
"Aw, come on, gimmie a hint."
"Absolutely not," Mel said as she placed Janice's present under the tree.
"You know I don't like surprises." Janice tried to get close enough to give the present a shake, but Mel was a surprisingly agile blocker. "Is it a book? It looks like a book."
Mel pulled Janice away from the tree. "Janice, behave. You're gonna wrinkle your dress." They were waiting for McCreedy to arrive to escort them—Mel, technically—to the Christmas ball. It would be unseemly, Mel had said, for a lady to arrive unaccompanied, and while Janice could give a damn about what was seemly, she did give a damn about Mel.
McCreedy arrived in his new Packard, and Janice sat in the back while he and Mel laughed over some private joke in the front. She did not grind her teeth. She and McCreedy had co-authored an article about her finds in Cusco, and the process had not been entirely unpleasant.
At the ball, Janice allowed a few foolhardy junior faculty to give her a spin around dance floor before settling down to debate whether Middlemarch was really the greatest Victorian novel. She found herself repeating points that Francis had once made to her and had to excuse herself abruptly.
Janice pushed open the entrance to a service corridor. Her heels echoed in the deserted hallway. No, not deserted entirely, because:
McCreedy stepped back from Mel, pulling his hand away from her rear, and then Mel's hand was on Janice's wrist, restraining the fist she didn't remember making.
"It's all right."
Janice's gaze snapped to Mel's. How could anything be all right when this son of a bitch—
"Dr. McCreedy didn't touch me any way I didn't invite."
Janice looked into clear blue eyes and realized that it was true.
By the time Janice reached the house, heels in hand, her stockings were torn and one foot was bleeding. She limped over to the Christmas tree and stared at it uncomprehendingly. Then, with a sudden roar, she pushed it over, glass baubles shattering against the floorboards.
The front door banged open. It was Mel, similarly shoeless and red-faced from running. "Janice—"
"Get out."
"Janice—"
"I said get out!" She grabbed her present and hurled it at Mel: it caught her shoulder, then dropped to the ground.
Mel shut the door. "Janice, listen to me."
Janice lowered her shoulders and barreled into Mel, shoving her against the door. "You 'invited' him to touch you! When did that start?" It was meant to be caustic, but came out plaintive instead, and her face was hot and wet, and, Christ, she was crying, right in front of Mel.
Mel wrapped her arms around Janice, tightening them when she struggled. "While you were in Cusco."
"No." Why wouldn't Mel let her go?
"He always walked me home after supper, like a gentleman. One night, he kissed me. I didn't realize they had been dates. I wanted to correct him, but..."
"You didn't."
"Janice, Bill can protect us. He already protected you! Just this semester, one of the trustees proposed investigating you, but I vouched for you and he made it go away."
"And how did you pay Bill back?" Her chest felt like it was collapsing.
"Nothing...important."
"Nothing important?" Janice snarled. "Like this?" She kissed Mel bruisingly hard, biting her lip until blood, salty and coppery, filled their mouths. "Or this?" She grabbed Mel's breast, rolling the nipple as viciously as she could through the layers of fabric. "Did you invite him to touch you here?" She reached under Mel's dress and snapped the suspenders of her garter belt. "Did you let him fuck you?"
"No," Mel said immediately. "Never."
"Of course not," Janice agreed, her tone deceptively mild. In each hand was one of Mel's wrists, and the bones of her arm were hard between Janice's crushing fingers. Janice nipped down Mel's throat, leaving red welts that were sure to turn purple before sunrise. "Take off your dress," she mumbled into Mel's collarbone, then stepped back.
Janice watched impassively as Mel struggled with the zipper before finally shedding the gown. It was cold near the door and Janice could see her nipples jutting against her bra. She brushed her fingers against the lace of Mel's garter belt, then grabbed her hips, demanding, "What if I don't believe you?"
"Please, Janice."
"Convince me he didn't do this." She bit Mel's nipple through her bra. "Never did this." She cupped Mel through her panties, then pushed them aside, formed three fingers into a spear, and thrust into Mel.
Mel's head snapped back against the door. "Janice," she groaned, sounding like she was drowning. "Please."
Janice's other hand left Mel's hip to draw stinging lines down her side while her mouth ranged over Mel's chest, sucking and biting. "Please, what, Mel?" She pressed her thumb against Mel's clit. "What do you want?"
Her hips were clumsily meeting Janice's thrusts. "You."
"No." Janice stepped back, wiping her fingers on Mel's stockings. "I don't think so." She turned toward the stairs. "Don't follow me. Go to a motel."
"At least open your present."
Janice glanced over her shoulder: in Mel's hand was the package she had thrown at her. The bow had come off and the wrapping paper was ripped at one corner. "I don't want a fucking thing from you," she spat and continued upstairs.
Janice heard the paper being torn off, and then something hard nudged her back. "I said I don't want—" But when she turned around, there, embossed in blue ink on the cream-colored dust jacket, was The Xena Scrolls by Gabrielle of Potidaea, translated by Melinda Pappas, with an introduction by Dr. Janice Covington.
"Merry Christmas, Janice. We did it."
Janice looked up at Mel, and her bloodied lip, and the nail and tooth marks on her body, and felt flayed. "Don't leave," she blurted. "Please, don't leave me."
That spring, they promoted the book in brittle interviews. Reporters came to the house and Mel received them like the consummate hostess she was while Janice hid in the study unless her presence was specifically requested. When asked for comment, Bill McCreedy had nothing but laudatory things to say about the women, because Janice had agreed that Mel should continue their suppers.
Janice drank a lot during those suppers. She drank a lot in general; she was, in fact, drinking now. The hand that was not wrapped around her rocks glass was sheathed in a white cotton glove and holding the fragment of Sappho they had found with the second cache. Janice could not read Greek as easily as Mel, but she knew this scroll by heart.
That man to me seems equal to the gods,
the man who sits opposite you
and close by listens
to your sweet voice
and your enticing laughter—
that indeed has stirred up the heart in my breast.
There's a moment when I look at you
and no speech is left in me:
My tongue breaks,
then fire races under my skin and I tremble
and grow pale for I am dying of such love,
or so it seems to me.
"Knock, knock," Mel called from the door.
Janice smiled reflexively and set aside the scroll. "What have you got there?" she asked, noticing the envelope in Mel's hand.
"Another thank-you." At the university's instigation, many area high schools had integrated The Xena Scrolls into their spring curricula. The first thank-you note, sent to Mel care of the university, had come as a shock; now, they were a pleasant surprise. Only, this one made Janice gasp. The sentiment was familiar, and welcome—Xena was a woman, and a hero, and now this letter-writer could imagine herself as a hero, too—but on the note's reverse was an exquisite portrait of Xena and Gabrielle modeled after her and Mel.
"I want you to remember why we do this," Mel continued, handing Janice something else: a ring.
Janice finished the last of her whiskey before asking, "Is this an engagement ring?"
Mel nodded.
"I get the feeling you're not proposing to me."
"Bill asked me. I think he wants some assurance before our trip." She and Janice were set to depart on a twenty-city lecture tour at the semester's close. "Of course, I didn't say yes, but he insisted that I think about it, and keep the ring while I do, like I'm some kind of fish that'll be caught with a shiny lure—"
"Why didn't you say yes?"
Mel blinked at her. "Because—because I love you and I'm not leaving you and I can't believe you just asked me that!"
Janice shrugged. "It's nice to hear. So, what do we do now? You break it off with him? Find somebody else, preferably like us?" She shook her head.
"No?"
"No. This is killing us." She held up the empty glass. "Some more literally than others. I am not going to sit here and plot how to auction off another piece of your soul."
Mel seemed taken aback. "Janice," she insisted, "it's not like that."
"Then what is it like? What's it like, being with a man you don't love and don't want, just so that no one calls me a bulldagger and you tragically misguided."
"Or calls them."
Janice looked down at the portrait. Xena's eyes, so like Mel's, pierced her. "Or calls them."
"They would do whatever was needed," Mel argued, straightening her shoulders. "Janice, these scrolls are helping people and I am not going to risk—"
"Having a happy life?" Janice stood, stepping toe to toe with Mel and lifting her chin defiantly. "We are not them, and I am done bowdlerizing our lives." She kissed Mel swiftly but deeply, white-gloved fingers thoroughly mussing her bun. "And theirs."
"'Xena harrowed the soldiers that poured forth with fire breathed from her very lips. The silver arc of her sword separated heads from bodies, and when she swung the great mace, Persians fell like wheat before the scythe. As effortlessly as a god, she leapt onto the loft and poured burning pitch onto the soldiers below. They did not scream, for the pitch sealed shut their mouths. Xena burst through the thatched roof and continued slicing, sending Persian bodies to the earth like rain."
Demurely, Mel took a sip of water, then continued, "'Like a swooping hawk, Xena returned, dispatching Persians with single blows. For a moment, she disappeared beneath twenty men, and I knew fear. Then she trilled her battle cry and soared into the air, flipping end over end, kicking from soldier to soldier. When she landed, no Persian dared approach. "Go home," she said. "There are thousands more like me." And the Persians broke and ran, for there are none like Xena in all the world.'"
The crowd, small but enthusiastic, erupted into applause. Once they had quieted, Mel said, "Like Dr. Covington told you, oftentimes Gabrielle underplayed her role in Xena's heroics. Luckily, in addition to the longer stories, she also left us shorter poems that provide insight into her life with Xena. We are still in the process of translating them, so they're not in the book. Consider this a special treat for y'all for coming out to see us."
At her cue, Janice took Mel's place at the podium. She was going to read this, and the world was not going to end. When the lecture was over, she and Mel were going to retire to their single hotel room, and anybody who had a problem with that could take it up with her fist. Janice cleared her throat, then read:
"The ground quakes
with the hooves of the four hundred.
The shutters shudder,
the bolted doors roil until the crossbar shatters.
Your chakram draws red lines across Persian throats
until your own throat is slashed.
"I gasp awake:
You are safe before my eyes—
no sight would I rather behold.
I touch your hair, as black and soft as night.
With no other would I rather share
the sundown of my life."
There was silence in the lecture hall. She lifted her eyes and asked, "Any questions?"
"Would you do it?"
They were lying in their hotel bed, drowsy from lovemaking yet too excited by the evening's success to sleep.
"Do what?"
"If I told you it was for the greater good and ordered you to let me die?"
The headlights from a passing car swept over the room, illumination rising and falling like the tide.
"Not for long."