Chapter 3: The workgroups

“I really doubt that none of you have a fleece ready that you haven’t sent off to the carders.”

“I’m sorry, Megara, all we have is what you see in our baths." The palace scribe managing the cleaners often put up such protests.

Megara was not deterred, as they play this game each moon. Though, the scribe was telling the truth. Megara noted the empty stretchers of mesh. If they had any clean fleeces, they’d already be spread thinly across the stretcher to dry. Some of the women were at work tables prepping the milk baths and grinding the madder, woad and weld.

“I’ll wait, then,” Megara said, picking at the dirt under her fingernails. The palace scribe sighed so his exasperation was heard, but went back to marking down the food allocated for this workgroup’s midday meal.

Megara inhaled the stench of the grime sludge at the surface of each woman’s bath. Megara was here to intercept the fleece before it could be dyed the usual hideous yellows or blues. She felt a certain comfort here. Amongst the smell of sheep, the dirt under her nails and the dirt caked to her knees seemed less out of place. Here, the sweltering sun couldn’t reach her. She could breathe here. “I had a thought!” she finally said to the scribe.

“I wait, with bated breath.”

“I’d like to try the lot number 123, but with one more part madder, and a pinch of murex!”

“And where on the Snake Goddess’s green earth shall I procure murex?”

“Ah not to worry, my dearest scribe,” she said gleefully, untying a pouch of the stuff from her belt, “I happen to have some!”

“Your resourcefulness is awe-inducing,” the scribe said in a deadpan, not at all awed. He held out his hand impatiently, not looking up from his notes as he wrote down the trade of goods. He would have to coordinate with the dye baths outside and the scribe who oversaw that workshop. He flicked his hand, shoeing her to the corner until her fleece was done.

The time allowed Megara to think more on her situation. She could feel her body swell under the pressure of her belt. It made her sick to tighten it too tightly. She’d taken to knotting it looser and letting her skirts out a bit. It alleviated her current symptoms but there was still the matter of keeping her food down. She put her hands to her hips, feeling the obvious knobs there. She then worked her fingers across each rib, each one clearly defined. Between the lack of food and all the nausea, she felt as if she was wasting away.

“Megara, your fleece,” the scribe handed her a sopping wet bale of wool, which splattered her clothes as it hit her arms.

“Your reluctant obedience is noted, scribe.” She gave him a nod, and was off to the other end of the palace wall. Megara should really take the direct route, after all on the southeast corner of the palace was a maze of rooms. Most of the indoor access to the rooms required foreigners to drag a hand along the wall until they found the room they desired. But Megara didn’t mind the maze. It allowed her to check on the saplings she’s tucked into each shadowy spot.

In one such spot she finds her sea flower, potted in water rather than soil. It’s ripe with life, smelling of the ocean, its blue blossoms swaying like the air around offers it a wind. There is no wind, of course, in this section of the palace. Megara dips her hand into the water and weaves her fingers through the root of the plant, muttering to the chthonic gods, the ones who domain over the earth.

She felt her energy come back to her a little as the sea flower wilted in her hands until it was a pile of ash. Death always seemed to make her feel better. It’s why she had taken to growing things, anything she could get her hands on, because in her hands, life generally decayed, and she thought it better be a life forgotten, left in the corners of the palace who’s only contribution was sometimes tripping people up, than a more serious life, one with purpose and a face.

She walked purposefully towards the the external workshops, one of which was comprised of a roofed workbench and a series of stone tubs sunk into the earth. Each tub was surrounded by women paddling fleece into milk baths of various colors. She slapped her damp fleece on the workbench and addressed her favorite scribe in this workflow. “Scribe! My what a dutiful group you’ve organized! There’s not a slacker amongst them!” She found her mood much improved by her pitstop and her progress.

He eyed Megara suspiciously. “Megara, how can I be of service? The garments are back inside the palace as you well know.”

“Ah and here I thought you wouldn’t be such a nark today! I’m in need of one of your baths!”

“Megara,” he eyed her fleece, a horrified expression reaching his eyes, however careful he tried to hide it from his face. “that,” he spat at the fleece, “will not meet any of my baths. You know very well a wet fleece won’t take any color.”

She sighed, “I know but this is all they had for me today. I was too late to snatch the dry stuff.”

“Well, isn’t it lucky I snatched a fleece of it this morning for you. It met the carders hours ago and only needs to be wound. I rather like your new recipe! It dried to the color of a rotting elderberry.”

“So you got my murex in time!” Megara, clasped her hands excitedly and ran to him, kissing him on the cheek. The scribe blushed and looked away, handing her the wool without much more eye contact.

“Run along now, Megara, before Boukris finds you skulking about.”

“It would be my pleasure to leave your fine establishment here, scribe. I promise you won’t see my face for another moon!” she rushed away from the bath farm. And not a moment too soon, as the fumes seemed to seep into her lungs.

The palace scribe poked his head around the first column at the palace entrance, and yelled after her “I gave you enough material for two moons and you know it!” Damnable woman, he muttered to himself, a slight smile gracing his face, before returning to his post.

She raced down the halls, making six and a half turns before slamming into her oldest brother, Megareus. She lost her balance and hit the floor. She probably could have saved herself if she bothered, but she’d been tired for days and her brother liked picking her up from spills anway.

“Meg,” he growled.

“Meg,” she growled back. He offered her his arm then, and pulled her back to standing. She playfully punched him in the arm.

“I guess this means I'll be reading about the extra work you're forcing on the textile groups?”

“Psh, as if you can read.”

He arched an unamused eyebrow the way only a grown man can do. “Well, the scribes notes won't include my work for a couple of days anyway. So you have plenty of time to look forward to being informed of what I'm up to.”

“You could inform me now, if you'd like.”

“I'd rather not. I must maintain my mysterious air, no?”

“Of course you must,” Megareus fought the smile surfacing. “When's the last time you ate something? You're wasting away. Taking father's musings on gluttony seriously, then?”

She unconsciously rested a hand on her abdomen, testing it's firmness there, and moved to pinch the skin at her hip.

“Really, Meg, I never thought I'd see the day you'd absorb a lesson.” Megareus said it in a singsong tone, but it cut deep. He said it as if he thought she'd never learn anything. How could a lifelong friend not know her at all, she mused?

“Ah, well we shouldn't start meeting expectations now!” She deflected and passed him, waving him off over a shoulder.

Megareus chucked and continued on his way. Megara started searching for another plant with a tear straining to escape the corner of her eye.

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