The lost scrolls between Potidaea and Amphipolis – English Translation

To Cyrene, tavernkeeper of Amphipolis

By trustworthy hands, from Hecuba of Potidaea

We don’t know each other and perhaps it is for the best. However, I can no longer remain silent. My daughter, Gabrielle, was a simple, dreamy young woman, with a heart set on stories, not swords. Ever since she met your daughter, it was as if a hurricane had swept her away.

I ask—no, I demand—that you convey this to your daughter: return Gabrielle to the safety of her village and her family.

It is not fair that a mother’s heart is ripped out in this way.

Hecuba.

To Hecuba of Potidaea

Answered on the same parchment, in another firm and controlled handwriting.

Hecuba,

For a brief moment, I wondered how you found me, but then it struck me that being Xena’s mother, for better or worse, makes me somewhat known.

Your words hurt, but I understand. Being Xena’s mother has never been an easy task. I, too, wanted to tear her away from the world, hide her from herself. But Xena takes no one. Gabrielle walks beside her by her own choice.

Still, I’ll send your message when I see her.

Cyrene

Cyrene,

Thank you for responding. I thought you’d ignore me, as I confess my frazzled nerves made me sound harsher than I should have, in the scroll I sent. I don’t know what hurts me more: the absence of Gabrielle or the echo of my empty home.

My youngest daughter, Lila, is like a silent little mouse compared to my chatty Gabrielle. My husband rarely speaks. When he does, it’s as if he’s addressing a wall. Gabrielle’s absence shows everything I pretend not to see.

Sometimes I envy your tavern. It must be noisy enough to hide any loneliness.

Hecuba

Hecuba,

The tavern is noisy, yes. But when it closes, and the fire goes out… silence remains. The silence of a lost son, the silence of two children who wandered far away. And the memory of a husband I killed with my own hands.

He tried to kill our daughter. I killed him first. I’m not proud of taking his life, but I don’t regret for a moment protecting my daughter; I survived, and so did Xena.

You’re not alone in your dismay.

Cyrene

PS: I haven’t heard from Xena yet, but I haven’t forgotten your message.

Cyrene,

How strange, finding comfort in your words, however tragic.

Yesterday I dreamed that Gabrielle was at home, sitting beside me, braiding my hair like she did when she was a child. I woke up with my braids undone and my pillow wet. But I had to hide my tears from Herodotus and Lila.

Forgive me for writing about such feelings, but only in this parchment I can say these things without being called weak.

Hecuba

Hecuba,

Mothers are not weak. They are made of iron bent by fire.

Isn’t it curious? As our daughters venture out into the world, we -so far away- find comfort in these little messages.

Cyrene

Cyrene,

Today I went to the well and a neighbor asked me about Gabrielle. I smiled and said she was “happy.” I couldn’t say anything else.

Sometimes I wonder: what is worse? Losing a daughter to death or watching her live a life where we can’t reach her?

Hecuba

Hecuba,

I lied today too. A traveler asked about Xena and if she was “still dangerous.” I replied that she protects the innocent now. But the fear in his eyes made me doubt.

Even after everything, she still bears the judgments of the world-and mine.

So, I appreciate your honesty. With you, I don’t need to pretend I’m at peace.

Cyrene

Cyrene,

I imagine the sorrow in your eyes hearing those words. I believe Xena has changed, because I don’t believe Gabrielle’s judgment is so poor that she would have ventured alongside someone with a bad heart. Still, I miss my daughter so much!

Your eyes… I’ve never seen them, but I can imagine them. Do they carry the same longing as mine, and all the memories of our daughters’ childhoods?

It’s strange, isn’t it? Imagining your eyes and thinking of you like that, almost as if I wish I were sitting beside you, watching you clean the tables in the tavern. It’d undoubtedly be much less monotonous than my daily chores and the constant complaints from my grumpy husband.

I like to imagine your routine.

Hecuba

Hecuba,

I imagine you rolling dried herbs, tending to what’s left.

Here, the men shout for wine, and the women whisper about me. They say I’m “the mother of the warrior who became an assassin and then a heroine.”

But you… you write as if you see me beyond that. I guess we can call that friendship, right?

You know, to Tartarus with people judging us. Working in a tavern for so many years, I know every dirty secret of most of these villagers and warriors. From the fiasco of Alcibiades, who gave a goat as a gift to his own wife, hoping to be forgiven for cheating, to Nikolos, who stole all the wine from the offering on the Altar of Bacchus.

Cyrene

Cyrene,

You’ve been making me laugh. It’s strange to remember what it feels like to laugh. Today, when I burned the bread, I remembered when Gabrielle tried to cook as a child. She used salt instead of sugar. We laughed so hard we almost forgot how hungry we were.

Memories like that hurt me, but with you, they become lighter.

You gave me back parts of myself I thought I’d never see again.

Hecuba

Hecuba,

When Xena she was little, she’d steal apples and pretend she was a heroine saving the trees from the “burden of fruit.” Other times, she’d lock all the goats in the pen and then run down the hill, wielding her wooden sword, pretending she was the warrior who would save the poor animals from prison. I think our daughters have always searched for something bigger than themselves.

Maybe we did too. But where can we search when so much time has passed?

Maybe… in the letters of another woman who understands.

Cyrene

Cyrene,

Sometimes I find myself re-reading your letters before bed. There’s something about them that warms me.

I feel your presence between the lines.

Tonight, I left a candle burning longer, imagining that you were also writing, under the same moon.

Hecuba

Hecuba,

Yes, I wrote under the same moon. Today, the tavern was so crowded that for a moment I forgot about you.

But when I closed the door and was alone, the memory came back stronger than never. And with it, a strange pain in my chest, a longing for something I never had…

Cyrene

Cyrene,

Today I let the bread burn just to have an excuse to write to you while the oven was cooling. Herodotus was furious when he arrived for dinner and had no fresh bread on the table. His words are harsh and hurtful, but strangely they don’t hurt me as much as before. You scare me, you know? With the gentleness with which you dismantle me.

I, who have been silent for years, now tell secrets to a distant woman I’ve never seen. How can it be so difficult to speak to my husband, but so easy to write to you?

Hecuba

Hecuba,

Because perhaps he never wanted to listen. And I… I even hear your silences.

When you write little, I read between the lines. When you write a lot, I absorb it like wine after a long day.

I don’t know where this leads us, but I know I want to continue.

Cyrene

Cyrene,

Forgive me for the time it took me to reply to your last scroll. Suddenly, words escaped me in the face of something I can’t describe at this very moment. But I have a confession to make: Sometimes I read your words and smile, and then I hate myself for smiling.

If only we had met in another life, another time. Perhaps I would have ordered a glass of wine at your tavern table, and we would have talked for hours, intoxicated by the alcohol itself or by the words we exchanged.

Hecuba

Hecuba,

I never imagined I would find tenderness in the words of a woman who wrote to me for the first time with anger in her heart.

But I did.

I wonder what our daughters would think of these exchanged messages.

Cyrene

Cyrene,

Today I picked flowers. Wild roses to decorate my kitchen table.

They had thorns hidden beneath perfect petals, showing that everything in this life is bittersweet. I thought of you.

Strong, beautiful, wounded.

I kept a petal rolled up in this parchment I sent. A foolish gesture, perhaps… but sincere.

Hecuba

Hecuba,

I received your petal. I kept it in my box of scented herbs, along with the brooch Xena made as a child, using pine cones and oak resin.

Two fragile things. Two memories that smell of something I can’t name.

If I could, I would walk to your door with a glass of wine and no words. Just to see if the silence between us would also be as full.

Cyrene

Cyrene,

Don’t walk to me.

Or rather… walk.

But know that if you come, there may be no turning back. Because I’ve discovered that I’m waiting for you. That every sound on the road makes me look up, even though I don’t even know what you look like.

You wrote to me about the silence in the tavern after the last customer. Here, the silence comes sooner. Herodotus falls asleep too soon. Or maybe he just closes his eyes to what he doesn’t want to see.

Sometimes I catch myself touching my own shoulder, imagining it’s your hand there.

How crazy. How comforting.

Hecuba.

Hecuba,

I also find myself thinking about your appearance. When I picture you, I see steady hands, eyes that have cried deeply, and a voice that defies time.

And then I long to hear you. I long to know what your laughter sounds like.

Cyrene

Cyrene,

Today I said your name out loud, with no one around.

It sounded different than I expected. Sweeter. Almost familiar.

I felt shame, then sadness… then longing for a face I’d never seen.

But if I close my eyes, I can picture it. And I don’t want to stop.

Hecuba

Hecuba,

I said your name as I closed the tavern door. I thought, “Good night, Hecuba.” And the sky seemed to respond with a breeze that smelled of dry wood and lavender.

Something in me belongs to you, even if the world never allows us to touch.

Cyrene

Cyrene,

Last night I dreamed of you.

We were in a field. You held my hands, and there was wine between us. No words were spoken.

I woke with tears in my eyes and heat in my chest.

Is it wrong to dream of another woman like that? Or is it wrong to have no one to dream of? May Hera have mercy on my soul.

Hecuba

Hecuba,

I dreamed too. But in mine, you didn’t touch me. You just looked at me, as if you knew everything.

And I, for the first time, didn’t need to hide. When I woke, I wished I wouldn’t wake up.

There is beauty in this love that cannot be named. And pain too. But it is living pain. And I prefer that to any apathy.

Cyrene

Cyrene,

Not a day goes by that I don’t miss Gabrielle, and for a long time I resented Xena for taking her away from me. But now I understand that my daughter lives the impossible with yours.

Today I wanted to go to you. Just to see you, even if it was from afar. But what if the spell were broken?

What if our real faces couldn’t bear what our words created?

What if…what if the opposite happened, and I fell even more in love?

Hecuba.

Cyrene,

I’ve felt your absence these days, like a fog covering everything.

I write without knowing if you’ll read me. I hope my last message hasn’t repelled you.

My body weighs more than before. My hands, once steady, tremble as I hold the quill.

But my heart…my heart still warms when I think of you.

Hecuba

Hecuba,

I was sick. A fever that took me to places where your name was the only thing I could remember.

When I got better, I asked for your scrolls to be brought to me. I re-read them all, with trembling fingers and teary eyes.

You were my companion even in my delirium.

You still are.

Cyrene

Cyrene,

Today I left a letter at the top of the hill where Gabrielle and Lila played when they were girls.

There was no wind. The parchment sat there, quiet, as if it knew no one would come. For a moment I feared someone would find it and discover our exchanges, but then I laughed internally, remembering that few villagers know how to read.

Sometimes we write to the void, but today I felt the heavens heard me.

And maybe… maybe you felt it too.

Hecuba

Hecuba,

Yes, I felt it.

At dusk, a breeze blew through the tavern window and brought me the scent of fresh grass and sweet memories.

I kept that feeling a secret. Like all the ones I’ve shared with you.

But there’s a difference: this secret comforts me.

Cyrene

Cyrene,

I know we probably won’t see each other again. I also know there’s beauty in knowing that someone, somewhere, thinks of me tenderly.

I don’t want our letters to end in sadness. I want them to end with gratitude.

You taught me that love can exist even without hands, without eyes, without promises.

Hecuba

Hecuba,

Whenever the wind gently touches your skin, remember: it’s my voice telling you that we were never alone.

Who knows, maybe one day, through the work of some playful god, or Aphrodite herself, we’ll find each other somewhere on this earth. If that doesn’t happen, I hope that in another life, we can experience a little of what our daughters had the courage to experience in this one.

With love.

Always.

Cyrene