Though the evening had seemed a disaster to Nerissa, Tragus regarded it as a great triumph. He’d proved himself the head of a thriving household. He’d routed his tyrant of a father. He’d forced Tyrus to slink away and cross the island in total darkness. Best of all, as he’d enjoyed Nerissa in his comfortable bedchamber, a driving rain began again.
“If my father comes back knocking,” he’d said with a delighted grin, “we’ll knock the headboard even louder and pretend that we don’t hear him. He can sleep out in the ewe shed. That old bastard made me do it often enough when I was young. Or he can try squeezing in with Hesper. Now wouldn’t that make an interesting wager? Which one do you guess would climb upon the other’s sagging bones?”
Tragus remained in an elated mood all month. He rarely went out to the tavern. He bought new clothes and had a barber cut his hair. He got his bad teeth pulled. He took an interest in the farm. He painted the house and dredged the well. With his profit from the wool and lemons, he replaced the dilapidated equipment in the cheese shed. At Nerissa’s suggestion, he also bought a loom. Now each evening, she wove woolen fabric from thread she’d spun that day. Until Tragus finished carving another figurine in a set of hoplites he was making for Euredon. Then he’d extend a hand and lead Nerissa into the bedchamber.
In short, Nerissa was performing all the duties of a wife. She cooked his food, and wove his cloth, and warmed his bed at night. She no longer found Tragus so revolting that she needed to put herself into a trance and think of Tenes. She didn’t have to invent noises. She simply let her body do as it liked. Yes, Tragus was still a pig, but her lot wasn’t much different than most women, whether free or slave.
How many were as lucky as Mother, after all? How many marriages were love matches? Most were more like Theoton and Phyllis. Or Aunt Melissa, who’d tolerated Uncle Clemon’s many faults because that’s what the Fates decreed.
After three months, Tragus bought another slave to tend the sheep. He made a point of asking Nerissa to train and supervise the pais, as they called slave boys in Ionian. He wanted her to appreciate that he hadn’t bought a girl. The implication was clear, since Tragus had never shown a sexual interest in boys. It proved that he desired no other bed mate. But he merely said the new slave Miklos would free Nerissa to concentrate on running his household.
It felt strange to have a slave put in her charge. Back home, though there was a steady supply of captives from the Lydian wars, no one in her village was prosperous enough to own one. The first thing that she did was ask Tragus to remove the boy’s chains. She believed that if Miklos were well treated, he wouldn’t run away. She fed him amply and prepared a soft pallet where he could sleep in comfort. She made him understand that the shed would be a much nicer place for both him and the sheep if he shoveled out the manure each day. She had Miklos spread it in her garden, and rewarded him with fresh vegetables.
Nerissa taught him patiently how to milk and tend the sheep. When he made mistakes, she certainly didn’t chastise him with hand or stick. She phrased her instructions as polite requests. There seemed something almost… wrong about owning another human. But it also felt wrong to question an arrangement that the Gods had allowed since the beginning. Just as some people were poor and others rich, some wise and others stupid, people had always been fated to be free or bondsmen. She decided that the best she could do about Miklos was to treat him as a member of the family. He soon became more like a nephew than a slave.
Tragus never questioned this arrangement. In fact, he never yelled about anything at all. Nerissa realized that what she’d dreaded on that first day after Theoton’s betrayal had turned out to be true. Athena in her wisdom had decided that she and Tragus were an ideal match. Not because they both were ugly. Because they needed one another. Tragus longed for a woman who’d be nice to him. In his mind, voluntary courtesy meant that she admired him. And Nerissa needed a father for her child. Say what you wanted about Tragus -- despite his long list of failings, he’d created a fine boy in Euredon.
And he doted on Eury, as he’d begun to call their son. He often took Eury into town on errands, eager for people to see his heir. At home, he’d play games with the boy, rolling a trochos back and forth for instance, or even a complicated contest that larger boys played with this hoop. Another favorite game was Chytrinda, in which the “pot” sat in the middle, while the other players ran around tapping at him until he caught one to replace him. In this, Tragus would enlist Nerissa as the pot, because she couldn’t run. Of course, they didn’t pinch or strike her as boys do in the real game, and they never made her wear a real pot over her head. Tragus was very sweet, in fact, never kicking loose when she managed to get her hands around his ankle.
In addition to the soldiers that he’d carved, he also made Eury a leather chariot, a wooden horse, and a frog made from a pomegranate rind. He now was working on carving a set of sheep.
He never accused Nerissa of sleeping with the hermit anymore. Or Homer or Theoton or Berenice’s master Architalos, either. He’d all but acknowledged Euredon as his son and heir. He praised the boy at every opportunity.
Tragus still feared water, so he wouldn’t let Nerissa bathe their son. But he allowed a compromise when Nerissa suggested wiping Eury with a cloth soaked in cheap wine. It was an old Smyrnan tradition, mostly out of favor in this modern era, but back home the old grandmothers claimed it kept children free of sickness.
It didn’t seem to harm Eury, at any rate. In fact, Nerissa noticed that his scrapes and cuts healed very fast. The boy was crawling now, getting into everything. Still fascinated with the workings of the world. Many times, Nerissa had to scurry to take away a warm coal from Eury. He’d lift them from the hearth and try to break them apart. From the curious look on his face, it was clear he wanted to know how the glowing ember got inside them. Outside, he’d pick up any bug he found and put it in his mouth. He never chewed them, only wanted to know how their wriggling legs felt on his tongue before he set them down.
Once the weather cooled, Tragus allowed Nerissa to dress the boy in warm clothes. Eury no longer had to sleep in the cheese shed with Hesper, either. Tragus made him a cradle from expensive cypress wood and kept it in their bedchamber. He bought a coverlet woven from the best Milesian wool. Every night, he rubbed fresh figs over Eury’s eyes, to prevent future problems. He also bought boots for Nerissa, and remembered to select two very different sizes. She felt touched at his thoughtfulness. Yes, she never forgot that he’d been the one to force her choice, leaving her with only half a right foot, but she could see that he felt sorry for it.
Domestic life continued well all winter. Tragus remained in a fine mood, showing particular pleasure each time he persuaded Eury to repeat a new word. Though a month of cold rains kept them at close quarters, he didn’t once grow angry with Nerissa. If she broke a dish, he didn’t berate her. When she accidentally scorched some clothes drying over the hearth, he didn’t beat her. When she bled each month, he didn’t insist on coupling. He took her and little Eury into Polis for the festival of Anestherion. He hoisted Eury on his shoulders to watch the procession of amphorai full of wine from last fall’s harvest. He didn’t participate in the drinking contests, but bought Eury sweets from a confectioner’s stall in the agora.
Early that spring, Tragus bought a new ram. It worried Nerissa at first. She still had nightmares about old Trumpet. But then she realized that Tragus was so enamored of her body, he’d never share her with an animal again. There was no danger that he’d exhibit her at festivals. She no longer feared he’d rent her out to wine shop patrons, either. She had a safe place in his household. She even found herself disappointed each time her monthly flow occurred. She wanted to build a large family, not so much to replace the one she’d lost but to honor the happiness she’d known with them.
Nerissa felt secure that Tragus would never sell her. He might some day grow bored with their arrangement, he might want a younger woman as she aged, but he’d keep her anyway. Tragus was far too jealous to bear the thought of another man bedding her.
When Nerissa quickened again that summer, Tragus was delighted. He took her to the Temple of Demeter and paid a priest to bless her belly. He had her drink white wine, which he said would fill her breasts with milk. He insisted that she eat only foods that don’t cause farting. He often brought home rabbit brains, which he insisted were the best food for pregnant mothers. He bought a lyre for her, so she could play songs to their growing child. It wasn’t that Tragus didn’t approve of poetry. He said that he’d enjoyed listening to the recitations during her pregnancy with Eury. Which Nerissa realized meant that he’d prowled outside the shed to listen in. She found this both disturbing and endearing.
“But the new one won’t bloom well on rhymes,” he said. “My dreams have told me this will be a girl. She should learn the womanly arts instead of verse.”
That’s why Nerissa played Smyrnan airs between her weaving and the bedchamber. She’d had no lessons as a girl, but watched Father often enough to learn the basics. It turned out that Tragus had a handsome voice. He taught her Ionian melodies, then sang along.
With the profits from another bountiful lemon crop and many bales of wool, Tragus bought two more slaves. They were grown men this time, muscular specimens with pale blond hair from somewhere in the far northlands. Tragus set them to clearing his overgrown fields, then planting a crop of flax. He even bought an iron plowshare for the donkey to pull. It was so much more efficient than the old wooden aratrum. Having seen Nerissa’s success with the garden, he not only directed the slaves to plow all of the donkey’s droppings into the land, but he persuaded neighbors to let his slaves shovel out their byres, too. They thought him even madder than before, but were only too happy to let Tragus’s slaves remove this dung for nothing.
While Tragus supervised the farm, Nerissa had much time alone with Eury. The boy was walking now, following Nerissa everywhere. With her limp, they had nearly the same pace. Eury was becoming voluble, as well, often piping in his loud, pure voice the dozen or so words he’d mastered.
His favorite was bubu, which to him meant “bug.” Outside, he’d pick up ants and grubs and any other crawling insects he could catch. He’d let them travel across his palm or hold them close to study them, but no longer tried to put them in his mouth. Nerissa had made it clear this scared the bugs. It was the last thing Eury wanted. He liked them better than any other creature, though he was also very fond of sheep.
Nerissa continued to value the ewes’ company, so she did most of the shearing. She had Miklos bring her any that needed salving. She also bathed them on the eve of feast days, and let Eury “help.” This meant, of course, he’d always get a good soaking. It was her way around Tragus’s ban on bathing.
Whenever they did chores together, whether it was sheep tending or house cleaning or gardening, Nerissa always entertained Eury with verse. He continued to like Hesiod, but he enjoyed it best when she told episodes from her own story. Though Eury was only eighteen months, Nerissa could tell from his big eyes that he understood the tales.
“Let’s see,” she said that day as Eury helped her at the wash line. He loved to hand her wooden pegs that Tragus had carved. “I’ve never told you of Aeolus, have I, that bug-eyed, bigcheeked blowhard?”
“Bubu?” he said.
“No, not a bug. Aeolus is one of the immortals. He is the God of wind.” She made a whooshing sound, puffing out her cheeks so Eury would understand. “He once helped your grandfather Asclemelion, but refused to do it twice.”
Eury looked up expectantly while handing Nerissa another peg, so she plunged into the tale:
After we escaped from Polyphemus and before we reached the isle of the Brigand Choir, all your great-uncles were still alive. Though of course Clemon had stayed behind with Circe. We had five boats remaining in our fleet. A year had passed since we’d left Smyrna. My father thought it time that we return. We’d do it carefully, he said, and see which way the ground lay. As he knew well, a lot could happen in a year. Maybe Baron Iadros had died in the Lydian wars. If not, maybe our clan’s losses would satisfy the punishment decreed upon our house.
We were far from home, however. A storm had pushed us south into a sea of many islands. Father thought these were the Cyclades, though he’d never sailed these waters. But he’d heard many descriptions from merchant captains. Alone, he went ashore on an island that turned out to be Siros.
That night, Father returned with a long wooden box. It looked like it might contain a sword. To get it, Father said he’d traded a silver arm band that Kestides had taken from the elder’s son on Imros. Father promised that its contents would bring us safely home.
That night, I heard him praying to Aeolus. He asked the God to fill our sails toward Smyrna. He promised four rams in sacrifice when we arrived, one for each of the chief winds. His prayer was answered favorably, for the next morning a strong wind rose from the southeast. Though Father didn’t know this sea, its currents or its shoals, he was able to navigate unerringly past hundreds of islands. Some were large, some small, some had towns that we could see, some had ruins of long departed civilizations studding their hillsides.
Father read the water like a well-loved scroll, and never faltered once. If we were out of sight of land, he’d steer by the color of the waves, or maybe the direction of the birds above. Sometimes, I’d see him lean over the rail and dip his hand into a swell. From the water’s taste alone, he was able to adjust our course. At night, he never lacked for stars. Aeolus continued to sweep the sky clear of all clouds.
Three days later, we passed the last of the Cyclades, the fabled land of Mikonos. Leading my uncles’ boats, Father headed across the wider sea toward Chios. Past this stalwart island of the Ionic League, he knew that we’d reach Smyrna. Now, as the wind continued strong from the southwest, Father lay down for a rest. He hadn’t slept in all this time as we’d maneuvered through the archipelago. It was a straight run through deep water now. He trusted Andrastus to man the helm.
For once, I wish Andrastus had paid more attention to Chloe. As Father slept, she crept into the cabin. Chloe had no self control and couldn’t contain her urges… Oh, that sounds awful, doesn’t it? I didn’t mean it that way. Chloe didn’t want to sleep with Father. That’s not a story I would tell you, honey. Besides, her heart was set on Andrastus. What I meant was Chloe couldn’t contain her curiosity about the box.
We all wondered, naturally. Some still thought that Father had traded for a sword on Siros. But Andrastus thought it was an ancient staff possessed of wondrous magic. Young Aristides said it was a folded sounding rod, which means a long, marked stick that can divine the ocean’s depth. When I asked if he’d ever seen Father use it, Aristides admitted that he hadn’t.
My uncles talked about this, too. We heard them when we’d lash our boats together in the darkness.
“Why should it be a sword?” said Xolon. “Asclemelion already has a perfectly good axe for fighting.”
“That’s true,” agreed Demetrios. “Besides, he has no reason to expect another battle.”
Father never said a word about the box. He never opened it while anyone was present. I knew its contents must be very precious. Father was taking no chances with it. As he said, we needed it to steer us safely home. Aeolus clearly approved, because He’d sent the winds right after Father traded for it. And Aeolus approved about the secrecy, as well. After all, it was very rare for a steady and favorable wind to continue for so long.
But that bitch Chloe-No, I shouldn’t say that. Forget you heard that word. I meant to say, my beautiful cousin Chloe, she had to open Father’s box. Aristides told me that he saw her do it. Maybe my uncles put her up to it. Maybe they resented Father’s secrecy. Maybe they thought he should share whatever precious thing he’d acquired on Siros.
Chloe didn’t dare light a lantern in the cabin, so she carried the box on deck to see its contents in the moonlight. She waited for the wind to gust, so no one would hear the box creak when she opened it. Many of our family would be alive today, had she been able to resist the mysterious box’s lure. The moment Chloe held up Father’s treasure, the strong wind blew it overboard.
No, of course a sword or staff or sounding rod is too heavy for anything less than a great tempest to lift. But this was no heavy object. Aristides saw a thin sheet flutter in the wind. Many marks were inked on it, he said. He couldn’t see the writing before it sank beneath a wave. He’d seen Chloe unroll it like a scroll, so he told me that it must have been a poem.
We all knew how Father loved collecting verse. He’d been forced to sell all of his scrolls during the starving times in Smyrna. When Xolon heard of this, he groused that Father must have been offered some ancient epic on Siros.
“To all our peril,” claimed my uncle, “Asclemelion couldn’t bring himself to refuse.”
I knew Father would never do this. A poem couldn’t get us home. Father never told us what it was, and I certainly wasn’t such a thankless daughter to demand an explanation. Still, to this day, I think it was a map. A much used sheet of parchment, worn thin by time.
What I do know is that Aeolus grew furious at us. The winds reversed that night and grew into a gale. In sight of flickering lights at the southern tip of Chios, we were blown due west.
Father begged Aeolus to reconsider. But the raging God wouldn’t relent. We’d given in to temptation. We’d wasted His gift, and by doing so, we’d scorned it. Or as my one time friend Homer would say, we’d loosed the foul winds on the world. We’d proven ourselves too unlucky and unworthy to be loved by Gods…
“That’s right, Eury, we’re out of pegs. It’s fine, I don’t need any more. I’ve hung up all the clothes. Now run along and find yourself some bubus.”
The flax crop flourished as the summer turned. After harvest, it would be spun into fine thread. Tragus was well on his way to prosperity. He became yet more generous with Nerissa. He bought her clothes, both fine and practical, new crockery, a silver fibula to bind her gown. Though he couldn’t read, himself, he surprised her with a scroll on the occasion of her birthday. He stayed in each night for a month as she read verses of it to him and Eury.
Tragus replaced the donkey with a horse. He was very proud of it, because only rich men owned horses on Ithaca. He felt that it reclaimed his family’s old connection to the aristocracy. He also bought a cart that Nerissa could ride to town when it wasn’t being used for farm work. He hired carpenters to build an extension on the house, so that their growing family would have ample room.
He bought a young slave called Eugenia, for Hesper to train in the cheese shed. She was from Phrygia, but had been captured five years ago and spoke passable Ionian. The name Eugenia seemed an odd choice for a slave, since it meant well-born. Tragus said that Eugenia’s first master had chosen it. Since the girl responded well to orders, he saw no reason to change her name. The idea was that once Eugenia was able to take over the cheese making, Hesper could have an easier old age as a sort of nursemaid to the children.
Tragus had become a happy man, even a pleasant one. He trusted Nerissa now, allowing her to travel into Polis unescorted. She enjoyed taking Eury along when she went to pray at the Temple of Athena or purchased foodstuffs in the market. Now that she was well dressed, the priests and shopkeepers treated her politely. Some remembered her from Evander’s trial. Because Tragus’s reputation had improved, townsfolk even acknowledged her with civil nods. The shipyard owner Anapater winked at her in the agora. Nerissa remembered he was the one who’d pulled her onto his lap in Theoton’s banquet hall. Anapater was with his wife, so he didn’t say hello, but he smiled very pleasantly.
One time at the spice merchant’s shop, a customer surprised her by holding the door open while she entered. After studying her face for several seconds, he broke into a broad smile. He greeted her with an exaggerated flourish of his colorful sleeve.
“It’s Nerissa, isn’t it?” he asked. “I must say, time has done you wonders. And who’s this fine lad?”
“His name is Euredon… But I’m sorry, you have the advantage.”
“Ah, you don’t recognize me. I’m afraid the years haven’t been as kind to my appearance. I wasn’t bald when we shared a voyage on the Thallia. I’m the navigator Psatos.”
“Now I remember,” said Nerissa. “I don’t think I ever knew your name. But now that I look back, I can picture you thanking Poseidon for your safe return. You must be native born to Ithaca.”
This wasn’t the only thing she recalled about Psatos. He’d been the only member of the crew who hadn’t raped her. Then again, the fussy slave Aphion used to be called above to assist in the chart room. He’d passed the voyage noticeably well fed. Likely, Psatos had been his patron.
“Did you retire here?” she asked.
“No, I still work the trade routes, but I’m a captain now.”
“Then we’ve both risen in the world.” There was little enthusiasm in Nerissa’s voice. “Allow me to extend my congratulations.”
“I rarely accept slave cargoes,” Psatos added. He seemed embarrassed about it. “In fact, only once in the last three years. After I became established, it hasn’t been necessary.”
“What’s your ship called?” Nerissa quickly changed the subject.
“I don’t have one yet. Maybe someday, if golden Tyche smiles on me, but for now I’m just a hireling.”
“I’m sure the Goddess will. After all, She’s seen you safe and prosperous through all your travels.”
“True enough. My present ship Euphremia is newly arrived from Tyre. I took a portion of my share in cloves, which I’m told came all the way from India. I’ve just sold them to the spice merchant for a tidy sum.”
“How nice. Cloves are wonderful. I tasted ham baked with orange peel and cloves one time on the Feast Day of Minerva.”
“Orange peel, you say? I suppose that would be dried? They have wonderful oranges in Tyre, you know, not bitter like ours. What a shame the voyage is too long to bring them here before they rot. But now that you mention it, dried peel might be a good investment. In two days, we sail again for the Levant.”
“I think you’d do well with orange peel. It compliments many foods, especially when combined with cloves. Except that cloves are very expensive, so most people rarely buy them.”
“Here, allow me. I’ve kept one bag for my own use. Let me give you some. Back on the Thallia, I admired you, you know. I felt bad for what they did to you. But the way you bore up, I’ve never forgotten that through all my voyages. Especially when you climbed up on the rail. I watched you as you perched there. I saw the Goddess glowing in your eyes. It seemed a sacrilege when Chymides Eight-fingers snatched you from your leap… Say, did you hear what happened to him?”
“No.”
“I had it from Hematheus. Ran into him in Crete. Remember him, the talkative sailor who could play a kithara?”
“Yes, I remember.”
Nerissa didn’t mention that Hematheus had been one of the most frequent visitors to her berth. Unlike Psatos, she harbored no pleasant memories of the voyage. She only wanted to conclude this conversation as rapidly as possible.
“Hematheus was a funny sort. One minute he’d be playing a jolly tune, grinning while he plucked his kithara. The next minute he’d be in a rage over some imagined insult. I once treaded on his foot by accident, and he threatened to cut out my liver. But there you are. They’re all pirates at heart, those Cretans… Anyway, he told me Chymides had all of his extremities hacked off in Sicily, including his nose and ears. Since he’d cheated the executioner by two fingers, they took his lips as well.”
“Why, what was his crime?” Nerissa asked, despite herself. Fortunately, Eury was fascinated with the scales, as the spice merchant weighed out grains of pepper.
“Murder. Death by dismemberment is how they punish the condemned on Sicily. Hematheus says our old friend stayed alive for hours, more or less a woman after they also took his--”
“Who’d he kill?” Nerissa interrupted. She was never sure how much Eury could understand, but she certainly didn’t want him hearing of any man’s castration.
“Ah, the boy. Well, I’ll forgive you cutting me off. That is to say, my words. As for the other, better Chymides than me. You’ll never guess his victim. You knew him, too.”
Nerissa only wanted to leave, but Psatos had treated her with rare respect. It would be rude to simply turn and go.
“Who?” she asked reluctantly.
“Captain Hycron. Chymides stuck a boat hook down his throat and out the back. Hycron sold off a girl who’d besotted Chymides en route to Crete. Goes to show, the Fates will weave their circlets.”
As quickly as possible, Nerissa thanked Psatos for the news and wished him well on his next voyage. Before he could start in on another story, she made an excuse about needing to get home soon to prepare a meal for guests. She accepted the cloves that Psatos pressed on her, purchased the fenugreek seeds for which she’d come, collected her little boy, and left.
While she completed her other errands, Nerissa tried not to think about Chymides or Hycron. Still, she couldn’t help picturing their deaths. In a way, it did feel like a small measure of justice that these two vermin had met brutal ends. Mostly, though, it saddened Nerissa to be reminded of the voyage.
She could only remain glum for a short while. Eury’s fascination with ducklings in the market saw to that. By afternoon, she’d lost all trace of melancholy. Her days were so filled with satisfaction now, it would be a discredit to all of those who’d died to claim she wasn’t exceptionally fortunate.
When she returned home, the two field slaves were cutting this season’s crop of flax. If things continued well for another year or two, she intended to propose a small workshop to Tragus. Then instead of selling the flax, they could earn much more by producing linen. With a small part of the profits, she’d build the shrine that she’d long promised her family. Nerissa had no doubt that Tragus would allow her this.
He was so grateful that his life had turned around, he agreed to nearly everything she asked. He’d entered Eury on the town roll as his freeborn son. He’d promised to do the same for their daughter after she was born. And he allowed Nerissa the great pleasure of entertaining guests. Though what she’d told Psatos wasn’t strictly true -- no one was expected today. But the wool merchant Leptos and his wife Theodora had come last month. They’d offered many compliments about the house, the decorations, and the food. They’d readily reciprocated, never once showing any trace of bigotry despite Nerissa’s continued status as a slave.
Tragus even allowed her to see Berenice. Though not, of course, when Architalos was present. Tragus waited until he knew Berenice’s randy master was inspecting his barley fields on Kefallinia. Nerissa was so pleased when Tragus suggested tomorrow would be a fine day to visit, she threw her arms around him. She surprised both of them with this unusual display, especially since Hesper happened to be present. Tragus colored deeply, like he used to during one of his rages. But then he smiled and sent Miklos with a message, so Berenice would expect Nerissa’s visit. He patted her round belly, and walked off with a jaunty step.
After cooking most of the next morning, Nerissa took the cart. She allowed Euredon to hold the reins while sitting on her lap. Their horse Arion was very well behaved. She’d never known him to bolt, even one time when a viper crossed the road. Euredon beamed the whole way, delighted to be allowed this big-boy duty.
Halfway there, Nerissa even let go of the reins’ back loop, because she spotted a doe rabbit browsing in a roadside field. She brought out the sling and stone she still carried everywhere, stopped Arion, set Eury on the bench beside her, then stood up and took aim. Tragus liked a good rabbit stew. She could make him one for supper.
Just as quickly, Nerissa changed her mind. Eury loved animals so much, he’d cry for hours if he saw the rabbit killed. Nerissa had learned that it was best to slaughter lambs or chickens only when he was asleep. When Eury was older, she’d train him with the sling, but for now, there was no harm in letting the little boy enjoy his innocence.
She could easily give Tragus something else for supper. She’d brought twice as much food as she and Berenice could possibly eat, even considering the copious appetite that pregnancy produced. In terra cotta bowls covered with tied cloths, she’d brought lentil soup, a tomato, lamb, and basil pie, chicken stewed with onions, eggplant, and a pinch of the fenugreek seeds, fresh garden greens with kalamatas, feta cheese, wine vinegar and olive oil, batter-fried salt cod with a sauce of pureed walnuts