Tragus chained Nerissa to the same post in his ewe shed as before. He took her blanket, told her that she’d have no clothes until she learned obedience. He beat her mercilessly until she felt like nothing more than a mound of pain. She was barely recognizable as human. He demanded a full accounting of her night with Homer. When she didn’t answer satisfactorily, he pulled her to her knees and violated her bloody orifices with the handle of his staff. When this still failed to produce details of Homer’s perversion, Tragus brought out his knife.
“I’ll blind you like him, then. You can see the same dark visions as your lover.” “We slept, that’s all we did,” Nerissa mumbled through her shredded lips. “You stinking liar of a harlot. I know that damned goat screwed you all night long. I’ll
bet you told him you were beautiful. That’s how you tempted him to help you.” “He didn’t help. He was trying to return me, but we got lost.”
“I’ll bet you sucked his xiphon, and told him it was sweet as honey. Or does he like it
“I have no idea. I swear it by the shield and helmet of Athena, who loves those who speak the truth. Homer showed no sign of interest in me.”
“That’s a stinking pile, and you know it. You’d better start telling me what really happened, or I’ll break all your bones.”
“I can only tell you what I know. Homer never touched me. He didn’t even strip to dry himself after we were drenched.”
“Liar!”
Tragus punched her in the face so hard, Nerissa heard her cheekbone crackle. When he brought his knife against the corner of her eye, Nerissa started to invent the most lascivious story her imagination could produce. Except for a single night she was unwilling to defile, her experience with sex was limited to rape. Still, she’d seen and heard much along her journey.
Nerissa was a lump of misery, but there was one good thing about this. Tragus had done her a strong service. He’d made her realize that she wanted to survive. A fierce desire to slay him took hold. Let this loathsome man represent the many villains who’d cost her so much heartache. By killing Tragus, she hoped in some small way to begin avenging her lost family.
But she couldn’t simply murder him. They’d execute her for his death, and she wanted to survive. She still intended to build that shrine, but more, she wanted her story told. That way, the names of all her loved ones would live on. Here on Ithaca, she’d met a poet who could do this. Already, he seemed compelled to turn her travels into verse.
Yes, Homer transmuted every facet to an epic scale. And he insisted on thrusting a warrior called Odysseus into Father’s place, but he was right. Audiences best loved heroes who transcended life. They’d remember stories peopled by the boldest men, the fiercest enemies, the strangest lands, and the most powerful Gods. Nerissa didn’t mind at all. In fact, as Tragus assaulted her again, she found the one image constantly returning to her thoughts was the halffilled sheet of parchment she’d left in the Grotto of the Nymphs. She hoped Homer had been able to retrieve it. And that some day, he might finish the tale.
He was a deeply flawed man, true -- jealous, vain, self-centered, ineffective. In many ways, he was infuriating. He hadn’t cared about her suffering. Again and again, he’d doubted her veracity. And he’d insulted her repeatedly. In the short time they were together, he’d belittled her as female, foreign, unread, common. He’d been adamant that she was nothing but a slave who lacked all rights. He’d couched his insistence on returning her as a matter of principle, but his major reason seemed to be avoiding trouble.
In the end, he’d tried to do the right thing, but was humiliated by a man as dissolute as Tragus. Nerissa couldn’t think of a single quality that spoke well for Homer, and yet, she’d like nothing better than to be with him right now.
Maybe it was the wine and food he’d shared. Now that the courtesies of Theoton had turned out to be false, Homer’s gesture seemed particularly sincere. Or maybe it was only that she pitied him. Homer struck her as a person even more alone than she.
No, that wasn’t it. The man wasn’t to be pitied -- he was brilliant. She’d heard it in his verse. This Iliad in which he took such pride, she wished she could hear Homer recite the poem in its entirety. As Nerissa drifted off in thought, she remembered Father’s stories of the Trojan War. She didn’t feel Tragus any more.
When her eyes came open, it was night. Moonlight entered through the shed’s doorway. The ewes were bleating loudly. There was the putrid smell of rotting meat. She turned her neck to see what caused the stench, but then remembered. Tragus had set Irene’s bloated carcass by the post. He’d refused to bury the dead ewe until Nerissa proved her disobedience was over. The smell was worse than anything she’d ever known, worse than the cave of Polyphemus, worse than the slops buckets in the Thallia’s hold on the hottest day. The ewes were frightened of it. That’s why they were bleating loud enough to wake her.
Nerissa didn’t know how long she’d slept. Was it through one afternoon and evening? Judging from the dead ewe’s stench, it might have been several days. Or had she been asleep at all? Her body hurt so much, she wouldn’t be surprised if Tragus had beaten her unconscious.
The next day, Tragus ordered her to take him inside her mouth. But first, he demanded a reenactment of the things she’d crooned to Homer. Fearful that another beating would kill her, Nerissa obliged. They were only words, and Tragus no more than a cockroach. What did it matter the nonsense that she spouted to an insect?
As Tragus shoved his phallus against her lips, it wasn’t a sense of degradation that sickened Nerissa. She felt far past any shame that he could cause. And it wasn’t the pain from her cracked cheekbone above her damaged jaw. But the nauseating reek that welled out of his pubic thatch seemed almost like a fist that grabbed her throat. Nerissa retched up the thin gruel that was her only food.
She didn’t bother to shrink back to the limits of her chain. Tragus would hit her all the harder for forcing him to move. In the dim light, she watched his angry scowl grow, now twisted with revulsion. He grabbed her by the hair, and used it to wipe the sticky mess out of his crotch. And still, Tragus wouldn’t bathe, she knew. From his grinding teeth, she could see that he was planning a harsh punishment.
Not death. Homer had been right. Tragus was far too miserly to waste the fifty drachmai that was her only value in his eyes. His retribution would be something far harder to endure than a knife across the throat.
Without a word, Tragus unchained her from the post. He jerked her at a rapid pace across his unkempt yard. When they passed Hesper coming from the cheese shed, the old woman recoiled sharply. Nerissa’s battered face must look even worse than she’d supposed. It didn’t make her feel one bit better that Hesper was heavily bruised, too.
Poor old thing. No doubt Tragus beat her harshly for failing to prevent my escape.
Tragus opened the ram pen’s gate. He shoved her in so hard, Nerissa sprawled face down in a pile of manure. As she wiped it from her eyes, he entered the pen and closed its gate, then hauled Nerissa to her feet. After marching her to the water trough, Tragus chained her over it face-down. Her wrists were connected to two of its legs and her ankles to the other pair. If she fell asleep, her head would loll into the water.
This isn’t so bad, she thought. The sun’s hot, but I won’t die of thirst. So maybe the ram butts me when it wants a drink, but there’s enough room for him to get his muzzle in. With any luck, he’ll get used to the inconvenience after a few times and leave me be. At least I’m outside in fresh air.
Or maybe Tragus means to leave me here for days. I’ll slowly go insane as the water level drops. I’ll stretch my tongue to wet its tip. I’ll pray for rain, knowing that it hardly ever comes this time of year. The storm that drove Homer and me into the cave was a freak thing some bored God dreamed up for amusement. But now, this hot sun will evaporate the water to a level where it’s just out of reach. Tragus will watch laughing as I die of thirst. He’ll cut out my shriveled tongue and pickle it for a keepsake.
None of this seemed to be the plan, however. Tragus soon returned, smeared something wet over Nerissa’s nether parts, then left. It reminded her that she was outside naked for anyone to see. It hadn’t occurred to her when Hesper passed. Nerissa found this didn’t bother her, either. If a visitor came and saw her like this, the shame would fall on Tragus, not on her.
But as the substance began sliding down her thighs, Nerissa couldn’t help fearing what it was. It didn’t sting, it just felt slimy, slightly warm. Maybe it was something that would cause Helios to burn her. Or a poison from the oleander bush behind the pen. She wished she’d been able to see the rag that she’d felt Tragus using. She tried to think what substance he might have collected during his brief absence. She knew it couldn’t be anything beneficial.
Now as the wind shifted, Nerissa smelled something. It had a sharp tang, but wasn’t vile. She sniffed a few times, trying to identify the odor. It was something strange, but in a way familiar. Nerissa knew she’d come across this smell before. It lurked in a close corner of her mind. She couldn’t reach it, but sensed it wasn’t far back in her memory. Something bloody, but something that told of life as well.
She heard the ram come trotting over. He was snuffling the air. So the scent had reached him, too. But he wasn’t making noises of distress. So it couldn’t be something like wolf’s urine. Which made sense -- instead of causing the ram to attack, that would have only driven him to the pen’s far side.
What if it was urine from another ram? He’d think she was a threat. She wouldn’t look like a rival to him, but sheep weren’t known for brains. After the ram convinced himself this intruder was after his ewes, he’d smash those great curled horns into her buttocks. He’d do it time and time again, until he damaged her internal organs. Or he might come around the trough and ram her head.
She’d had a close look at the ram one time when the lambing ewes were ready to be tupped. Tragus had made her lead them to the pen, where she’d had a good view of the brute. He was an ugly, heavily scarred beast almost the size of a cow. His horns were thick as battle helmets. When she didn’t run off like a defeated male was supposed to do, he’d batter her into pulp.
But the ram didn’t challenge her, either. He just kept snuffling the air. Finally, he came close, sniffing at her backside. His hooves shuffled in the muck with agitation. She felt his wooly shoulders brush against her. This was maddening. If the ram was going to attack, she wished he’d go ahead and get it over. There was nothing she could do but remain perfectly still.
Finally, the creature thrust his cold nose into her cleft. Nerissa gasped with shock, then recovered enough to feel deep unease. But sheep were herbivores -- they never ate flesh the way that swine will do. Surely it wasn’t going after her soft parts.
Then fear prodded at her memory. Suddenly, she knew just what the substance smelled like. It had the iron tang of blood, but with a musky background. Like when she bled each month. It must be the discharge of a ewe in season.
When the ram snuffled deeply again, then rubbed up against her, Nerissa knew that she was right. He was acting like he did around receptive ewes. Now he bleated in a deep rumble, pacing back and forth behind her. Soon, he started bumping her, hard enough to shake the trough. His hooves were never still; they skittered with excitement.
“See -- I told you Trumpet would go for it,” came Tragus’s voice from the fence.
Oh, sweet Athena, cried Nerissa in her heart. This is too much. You’d let him watch? Can’t you send a golden eagle to shred him with its talons?
“You’re always right, Master,” was the only answer. It was Hesper’s voice. He must have ordered her to help him enjoy the fun. “No one knows more about sheep than you.”
“Now just you watch when he gets his legs over her back. Trumpet has a pizzle the size of summer squash. He’ll make her squeal, all right.”
The ram bumped Nerissa a few more times, then groaned again. He probably was confused because he wasn’t getting the right signals in return. She should be bumping back against him, prancing in her eagerness for mating. Nerissa continued holding motionless, just like the games of statue she’d once played with Euredon and Nikos. Though what sculptor would waste marble on such a graceless pose, she couldn’t say.
Finally, Trumpet decided that hairless ewe or not, Nerissa smelled just fine. All at once, he reared up, and came down on her back. He was so heavy, it knocked the air out of her lungs. As she struggled to regain her breath, Trumpet hooked his front hooves over her shoulders. Nerissa tried to buck him off, but couldn’t. Determined, he scrabbled for a better hold, digging the sharp hooves in so firmly, they felt like a pair of knives.
Still unable to draw more than a shallow breath, Nerissa grunted softly with the pain. But it was nothing compared to the rending jolt she felt when Trumpet thrust his member into her. White heat seemed to radiate from her pelvis through her body, then she felt Trumpet disconnect. Craning back to see, she caught a glimpse of the thing. Unsheathed, it was bright red and very thick. He tried again, and penetrated further. She, of course, was dry with terror and revulsion. Though spread-eagled, she was nowhere near as wide to enter as a ewe. But the ram kept thrusting away until he was deep inside her. It wasn’t long before she heard him bellow, loud and ringing like the noise made by a great, curving war trumpet. It was the noise he’d make each time he successfully mated with the ewes. Now, she understood where he’d earned his name.
“I’ll be famous!” chortled Tragus. “Would you look at the old boy go. There’s many who’d pay good coin to see this.”
“You can’t,” said Hesper, to her credit.
“Who asked you? Do you want another beating?”
“The council will hear about it, Master. It’s a great idea, of course, but I’m only worried you might get in trouble. You know they’ve warned you not to be a public nuisance.”
“It needn’t be on Ithaca. I’ll make a tour of all the festivals this summer. I’ll give them something they thought was only fable, like Leda and the Swan. They’ll sing of me forever.”
“There’s law in other places, Master. Don’t get me wrong, it’s brilliant, it really is. But if one proper woman happens to see your spectacle, you’ll be lucky if you’re only jailed. You’ll probably be stoned to death.”
“Maybe so. It’s too much risk. Damned interfering prudes… But this is just too good. I’ve got to share it somehow. Look at Trumpet now -- he’s marvelous. Back for another go already. I’ve never known a ram with such endurance. Usually, they last a few seconds mounted on a ewe, then they’re spent. He’s really giving her the tupping of her life.”
Tragus was right. The ram’s assault went on for hours. Every few minutes, he’d take a rest, then jump on her back again. It hurt much worse than when the sailors or Tragus raped her. Nerissa felt so torn, she wondered if he’d shredded her to sausage meat down there. She feared that she’d lost so much blood, she’d die.
The shadows lengthened as Trumpet scrabbled for a hold again. This must be his twentieth time. His sharp hoof raked her drooping face. It must have cut her deep, because she saw blood splattering into the trough, but she couldn’t feel the new wound’s sting. Between her body’s torment, Trumpet’s noxious reek, and the natural urge to escape from misery, it was a great temptation to give in to exhaustion. But she couldn’t let herself black out, because she’d drown in the trough’s filthy, blood-streaked water.
The worst part was the running commentary from Tragus. He stayed through the whole ordeal, never at a loss for vulgar observations. He forced Hesper to remain, considering his triumph incomplete without someone to admire his lewd jokes. Again to her credit, Hesper asked three times if she could return to the cheese shed. She complained that the curds would sour if she didn’t stir them.
Finally, Tragus released the old woman when she said the new batch needed rennet or it wouldn’t set. A day’s supply of milk would go to waste. Somewhere in the swimming torment of her thoughts, Nerissa remembered rennet was a substance that came out of a dead calf’s stomach. Hesper had told her that it caused milk to curdle into clots. The best kind came from stillborn heifers, but Tragus got it cheap from the cattle butcher in Polis.
Tragus let the ram mount her twice more, but without an audience, he soon tired of the game. He unchained Nerissa from the trough, and since she couldn’t straighten, let alone walk, he dragged her back inside the ewe shed. As he refastened her chain around the post, he broke out in a laugh.
“Hah -- that was good,” he commented to himself. “Best fun I’ve had in years. Shame about the council, though. Shit-brained fools. Don’t have the sense to understand what’s good for commerce. A spectacle like this would make Ithaca famous all around. We could drape Trumpet in a mantle, like he’s a God come down to earth.”
Before Nerissa passed out, a fresh worry attacked her mind. What if she quickened from this? All right, she understood that ancient tales like Leda and the Swan, or Pasiphae who’d borne the Minotaur after mating with Poseidon’s bull, they never happened in the ordinary times of nowadays. They came from a different age, when the immortals freely mixed among the race of men. But oh, compassionate Athena, what if it really came to pass? What if Trumpet was no ordinary ram? After all, his endurance had been otherworldly.
What if some lusty god had taken on this ovine form? What if he’d impregnated her like Zeus did to Europa, in the guise of a white bull? Or when He’d ravished the Spartan Queen Leda after turning into a swan. Now, it was true that Europa’s mother Io was already a heifer at the time of her birth. And Leda had borne normal offspring, not some human/avian monstrosity. Though hatched from eggs, the demigods Castor and Pollux both were very manly in appearance. And the great beauty Helen was also Leda’s child. Which meant she’d suffered no lingering effects from the swan’s rape.
Maybe it won’t be so bad, Nerissa thought as haze settled over her bruised mind. If
Trumpet is a God, my child will be immortal. Nothing will hurt him, like humans have hurt me and all of those I’ve loved. And I needn’t worry about a mortal child. If Trumpet’s only a goat, he can’t make me quicken.
Or can he? Mother will know. Oh, that’s right -- she can’t tell me, she’s dead. Unless this kills me, too, I won’t get the chance to ask her…G
Hesper roused her early in the morning.
“I know you’re in a bad way,” Hesper said as she unlocked the chain, “but you must milk the ewes.”
She looked ashamed to pass along the rest of Tragus's commands. Though Nerissa had trouble even rising, she’d have to resume the same duties as before. Milk the ewes, take half a bucket to the house, lead the flock up the hillside, tend them all day, pluck old rope to fill the oakum barrels, bring back the flock, water them and clean their hooves, service Tragus, then sleep chained to the post for five hours at best, and start again at dawn. All while naked, because Tragus still wouldn’t allow her clothing. If anyone happened to come by and see her, that was just too bad. Who cared about a slave girl’s feelings or her dignity?
Looking even more ashamed, Hesper told Nerissa exactly what would happen to her if she tried to run again.
“Don’t look at me that way. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. He ordered me to say that. And I’m to keep an even closer watch on you. Now, I have to come outside every half an hour. If I don’t see you with the flock, I’m to get Tragus at once.” She handed Nerissa a wet cloth. “Here, I brought you this to wipe your face. That new cut on your cheek looks awful. Look, I feel bad about what he’s done to you, but you mustn’t try anything stupid. It’ll be more than my life’s worth if you escape this time.”
“Don’t worry. I can hardly walk. As my mother used to say, ‘Mê kinei Kamarinan.’”
“What?”
“It means, ‘Don’t stir up Kamarina.’ And I won’t.”
“What’s Kamarina?”
“A pestilential swamp on Sicily. How Mother knew of Sicily, I never could imagine. What she meant was, ‘Leave well alone.’ My life has hardly gone well here, but I intend to follow her advice. Just leading the sheep to pasture will take every drop of energy that I have left … Tragus wouldn’t really make me do that with Trumpet at festivals, would he?”
“He’ll forget it, just like all his other crack-brained schemes. Sheep-fucker’s on a massive drunk right now.”
But Nerissa couldn’t trust that either a wine soaked head or fear of the law would make Tragus forget his plan. He’d been so full of self-congratulation. She could recall the lust for drachmai in his laughter. Before she’d let him do that to her again, let alone in front of a crowd, she’d kill him. And before she’d let her lineage be stained with public execution for murder, she’d have to run. No matter the terrible punishment that Tragus had decreed.
For the next four weeks, Nerissa did her best to turn into a model slave. She was humble, obedient, obliging. She filled the oakum barrels well; she made small sounds of pleasure when Tragus judged she’d healed enough to rape her. She allowed them to escape as muffled noise, as if she didn’t want them heard. Oh, Tragus, she let them say, I just can’t help myself. What girl wouldn’t relish being mounted by such a skillful man?
It worked. He only beat her twice all month, and those times only on the buttocks. Once for letting a ewe step in a ground squirrel’s hole and lame itself. The other was at the height of sexual excitement. Afterward, Tragus allowed her to wear clothes again and began to feed her better. He finally let her bury Irene’s rotted carcass.
Between the improved food, and gentler treatment, Nerissa started to regain her strength. She gathered rocks and stashed them on the hillside. One day, she found an old sack at the back of the shed. It was when she fetched the tar bucket with which she salved the lame ewe’s ankle. Before Hesper noticed, she quickly tucked the sack down the threadbare chiton that Tragus had provided.
The next morning on the hillside, Nerissa fashioned it into a sling. All day, she stood by her cache of stones and practiced. If Hesper happened to see her, she could say she’d heard a howl. Tragus would learn of it, but he’d believe that she was teaching herself to use a sling in case wolves attacked the flock. He wouldn’t know that she was skilled already. His behavior outside the Grotto of the Nymphs proved he hadn’t heard about her prowess from Jeremos. Otherwise, he never would have come charging at them while she’d breakfasted with Homer.
That night, Nerissa scraped a hole beside the post. She hid the sling, along with six smooth rocks the size of eggs. She still had dozens more cached on the hillside. She didn’t want to be a murderess, but if Tragus showed any sign of returning her to Trumpet’s pen, she wouldn’t hesitate.
She ran at the first opportunity. The night before, Tragus had been one bowl short of collapse when he’d come into the shed. He didn’t rape her, but wanted her to share his last skin of wine. He’d rambled on about his dead wife Daphne, claiming how no man ever loved a woman better. Tears streaming down his face, he’d reeled a winding path out of the shed. He was so drunk, he’d stay asleep all day.
As soon as she got the sheep up the hillside, Nerissa waved to Hesper down below. She’d tucked some hoarded barley bread into her robe. She left the flock grazing behind her as she climbed to the forest on the upper slope. Along with the bread, she carried her sling with ten well-chosen stones inside it.
“Hey, you!” came the distant voice of Tragus. “Get your ugly hide down here at once or your punishment is double.”
Hesper must have poured a full bucket of milk over his head to rouse him. She must have suspected this would be the day. Something in Nerissa’s expression must have warned her when she’d unlocked the chain. She hadn’t waited half an hour, but checked again only a few minutes later.
Though Nerissa had already reached the ridgeline, she knew she couldn’t outdistance Tragus. He might be suffering from a severe hangover, but she still was hobbled by all the injuries she’d suffered. She turned and came out of the trees. Selecting her best stone, she set down the others. She whirled her sling, and let the first stone fly. It struck a lone sapling on the slope. A moment later, she struck the same sapling with a second stone. She hoped this demonstration would deter Tragus from the chase.
Instead, he brandished the mattock he was holding. He brought its rusty head down on the sapling’s base, severing its thin stalk in one stroke. There couldn’t have been a clearer demonstration of how he’d deal with further disobedience. When she didn’t come immediately, Tragus rushed up the hillside. Obviously, he didn’t believe she’d have the nerve to fell him.
Nerissa selected her largest stone and launched it. Tragus saw the missile coming just in time and ducked. He had good eyesight, she’d give him that. And good reflexes for a drunk. Too bad it was so early in the morning. He was facing east, but the sun hadn’t risen high enough to blind him. As he stood glowering at her, Nerissa rapidly loaded another stone. She fired it, and then another.
Tragus dodged the first, but the second struck his hip. It drove him to one knee. But he got up again, and lurched up the hill. He was either a lot braver than she thought, or such a fool to think that all these shots were flukes.
She fired two more, each slightly wide of murder. They passed the crown of his head at exactly the same height, so he’d know her first three shots hadn’t been beginner’s luck.
With a gaping look of astonishment, Tragus retreated. Nerissa hurried over the hill’s crest, then down into a stony vale like the first time. But now she couldn’t go to Polis. He’d look there first. Though he’d be too hobbled to chase her, Tragus would spread word through the town that an escaped slave was on the loose. An escaped slave who’d tried to kill him. She’d never get onto an outbound vessel now.
Nerissa loped back-country in the opposite direction. Hesper had once mentioned a small settlement at the southern end of Ithaca called Alalcomenae. It was where she’d served Tyrus as a bed slave. Hesper said it was a fishing village.
If I can reach it, some fishermen might help me, Nerissa thought. I’ll be a stranger to them, but maybe they won’t act like the fishermen on Imbrus.
All across the world, most people who depended on the sea learned compassion from its bitter lessons. When she told them about Father and her family’s troubles, some good man would help her leave this island.
Nerissa knew she’d have to hurry, before Tragus put out the alarm. But she could hardly move at more than an old woman’s pace. Soon there’d be slave hunters searching for her. Unless all of Ithaca thought Tragus lied about her attack, they’d be heavily armed. And though this was a small island, it might take all day to reach Alalcomenae at her shambling speed.
What I need’s a horse. But even if I come across one in a rich man’s field, even if there’s no one preventing me from theft, I’ll never be able to catch it. Not to mention that I’ve never ridden on a horse.
A ride in someone’s cart would be much better. But then she’d have to travel on the road. And even if she wasn’t stopped as a runaway, who’d give her a ride, looking like she did? She could unfold the sling to veil her face, but the chiton was moth-eaten, stained, and ill-fitting. It must have once belonged to another slave girl. Maybe that poor child mentioned by Hesper, the one who’d died in childbirth. Anyone who wore such a rag could only be a slave.
She’d need better clothes to reach Alalcomenae safely. But who’d give them to her? She couldn’t turn to Homer. As soon as Tragus finished searching the port, he’d go to Homer’s rented house.
There was Thea, maybe. The plump cook had always been very kind to her. But Praegon might see her, then he’d immediately tell Lady Phyllis. Besides, Dzunga worked there now.
She probably blames me that she’s sterilized. She’ll think it’s all because of me that Aetes sold her off.
Worst of all would be if she ran into Theoton. After his rejection on the street, she couldn’t bear him seeing her like this again.
No help for it. Nerissa decided she’d have to reach the main road and hope someone took pity. Along the way, maybe she’d pass a farm with an unattended wash line. Nerissa forced her legs into a trot, despite all the protests from her many injuri