“All across the island, but yes, mostly in Chora. I can speak Italian,” Selena explained. “I hear what they say about us, how they wish to defile us. To them, we are common peasants, though they underestimate us at their peril. The soldiers’ lips grow looser each day, and the wind blows secrets from these men as easily as it spreads seeds for harvest. Their bravado and arrogance will destroy them,” she added with malicious relish.
An hour later, when Katerina was about to leave, Atlas drew her to one side.
“If you see Selena in the town or by the port, you must not acknowledge her,” he said. “Do you understand, Kat? Not even if you think she’s in danger.”
“I will always help my friends,” she said, only to fall silent as an image of Chrysí appeared in her mind. She had buried the brave little goat in her garden, her neat hooves pointing east, where she would be greeted each morning by the sun. She looked back at Atlas and nodded.
“I understand.”
The way he had elicited that promise from her roused a suspicion in Katerina. She mulled it over as she crept down the hillside in the near darkness. Could it be that Atlas had developed feelings for Selena? She was certainly brave, and beautiful, too, with all that wavy hair the color of tamarisk bark and those piercingly blue eyes. The idea of anyone finding love amid the horror of war made her limbs feel lighter somehow, and as Katerina rounded the corner that would lead her home, she broke into a skip.
“Buonaséra, signorína.”
A dark shape emerged from the shadows, and Katerina staggered sideways, a scream escaping her lips. Lio removed his pipe from between his teeth and considered her. It was past curfew—long past it. Katerina did her best to dredge up a smile.
“Buonaséra, signóre,” she said, hoping her use of Italian would appease him.
Lio came slowly toward her. She saw the glint of something gold at his throat as he extended a languid finger into her basket.
“It is sage,” she told him, “for eating.”
When he didn’t immediately respond, Katerina lifted a bunch and made as if to eat them. The soldier cocked his head to the side, watching her, and then, with a ferocity that caused her to cry out, he knocked the basket from her hands and began to stomp on it, mashing the precious herbs into the ground beneath his boot. Katerina turned and fled, though she only got a few yards before he caught her, his arm snaking around her waist and pulling her roughly back against him. She became sharply aware of two things: the hard, unyielding shape of his pistol and—far worse—the vile pressure of his arousal.
“Please,” she begged, first in Greek and then again in his native tongue. “Per favore.”
Lio ignored her. He dragged her off the pathway and over to a low wall, one hand creeping up to her throat, the other burrowing lower. She threw her head back, trying to smash it against his nose, but he dodged away. With a grunt, he removed his hand from between her legs and slapped her hard across the face.
Katerina reeled, momentarily stunned by his violence, and then she erupted. She clawed and bit and screamed. She tried everything she could to wrench herself free. Lio grabbed her left breast, squeezing it so hard that Katerina thought she would throw up. He had torn open her shirt and was attempting to raise her skirt, all the while hissing “Shhh” into her ear. A light appearedin the window of a nearby house, and a woman’s voice shouted, “Who is there? What is happening?”
Lio loosened his grip only a fraction, though it was enough for Katerina to break away from him. She fell onto her back, her ripped shirt gaping open, skirt pulled up around her thighs.
“Bastárdo!”she yelled, aiming a kick at his ankle.
Lio stared down at her for a moment, then readied himself to retaliate. There was no time to run, to speak, even to think. It was pure instinct that wrapped her arms around her stomach. Nothing mattered more in that moment than the precious cargo growing inside her.
Lio’s boot struck her in the ribs. The next strike landed higher, smashing into her shoulder. The harder he kicked, the tighter she curled herself. On and on it went, blow after blow, until at last, panting with effort, he slid down against the wall.
Katerina watched through a haze of pain as he removed a pouch of tobacco from his pocket, the scent of it bringing with it an image of Stefanos.
The corners of her mouth lifted. She tasted blood.
Smoke clouded the air. The Italian sucked his pipe, regarding her with what? Disgust? Amusement? Katerina did not care. He had beaten yet not beat her. She said nothing as he continued to stare, nor did she move or look away. Eventually, with a bored-sounding sigh, Lio got to his feet and spat in the dirt where she lay.
“Puttána,” he said almost regretfully, as if by being pregnant, blessed in the purest and most natural of ways a woman could be, she had become a disappointment.
Katerina knew then what she must do. The truth struck her with such clarity that she whispered the words, sending them off into the wind as a promise.
“I will kill you.”
Forty-six
Skye stared down at the tarpaulin.
The wind had picked up, tugging at its corners, the plastic snapping softly against the rocks that held it in place.
The mood among those gathered around her was one of excitement as Theo and Dusty traded ideas about who was in the grave and how they’d ended up there.
“It could be an Ottoman pirate,” he suggested.
