‘A joke?’
He drew himself up against the wall, less than an arm’s length away to her left.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They want you to suffer. And as for me, well, I am the joke.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t even like women. Not in that way. Not in any way, I suppose.’
‘Are you one of their slaves?’ she asked.
‘Slaves, sons, lovers, brothers, we’re all the same to them.’
‘Then it’s understandable. That you don’t like women, I mean.’
He laughed. It was a pleasant sound, after so long alone.
‘I can do it, though, if you want me to,’ he said. ‘I’m used to standing up when I’m told to, if you understand. And I suppose you must have your needs.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘But there must be something I can do for you. That way, the joke’s on them.’
She looked at the shape in the darkness and sensed he was telling the truth. If the Amazons had meant for him to torment her, then it seemed he wanted no part in their games. Indeed, he was as much their victim as she was.
‘Just talk to me,’ she said. ‘I’ve wanted to hear another human voice – a male voice – for days, and now you’re here. Perhaps the gods haven’t forgotten me altogether.’
‘Perhaps not.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Calus.’
‘Tell me, Calus – why do they hate me so much?’
‘Because you’re a woman who can’t fight. For them, to fight is to survive – any woman who can’t shoot a bow or wield a spear is a threat to the Amazon way of life, a weakness through which the rule of men will return. Worse than that, you’re foreign, and foreign women openly acknowledge men as their masters.’
Now it was Megara’s turn to laugh, an emotion she thought she might never know again.
‘You make us sound like slaves – the very thing they’ve turned their own men into. But we are far from slaves! Where I come from, the women are strong. We may not carry spears and shields like parodies of men, but we fight battles that are just as hard and just as important: we give birth, we raise children, we defend our society from the inside.’
‘You are as strange as they say,’ Calus said. ‘But you’re stubborn, too, and that angers them. They can’t break your body – not if they want to be paid for guarding you – but they’ve tried hard to break your spirit. And they know they haven’t succeeded yet, or they might stop tormenting you.’
She did not reply, but looked at his profile in the faint light from beneath the door. He had a hooked nose and a weak chin – not a handsome man. And she felt certain he was naked beneath his short cloak. Yet she was thankful of his company.
‘What else would you like to talk about?’ he asked. ‘They might return at any moment.’
‘Then perhaps you will hold me. It’s cold in this cell, and I haven’t enjoyed the touch of another human for a long time.’
Since long before she had arrived in Themiscyra, she thought, as she reached out to take his hand. Much too long.
Chapter Two
THEMISCYRA
The galley’s crew pulled at the oars, their muscles gleaming in the midday sun. The smell of pine trees came to them on the breeze, masking the aromas of the sea and their own sweat, which they barely noticed any more. Heracles glanced over his shoulder, willing the measured rhythm of the oars to speed up and hurry him to the waiting shoreline. The snow-capped peaks of the Amazonian Mountains stared back at him: immovable, indomitable, implacable, mocking the urgent mission that had brought him to their land.
Their forested skirts were hemmed with green meadows and golden beaches. A handful of shepherds had left their flocks to stand at the edge of the sand, their hands levelled across their foreheads as they watched the approaching ship.
‘They’re men,’ Iolaus said. ‘I thought this was a land of female warriors.’
‘It is,’ Heracles replied. ‘But warriors don’t look after sheep and goats. And look at them – grown men, naked but for their cloaks. Why aren’t they clothed?’
Iolaus’s eyes narrowed as he noticed their nudity, and he shook his head.
‘Maybe it’s the custom here. Do you think the women do the same?’
He grinned and Heracles smiled back, cuffing his nephew playfully. Then a shout from the helm caught their attention.
‘Riders! Riders emerging from the trees.’
‘How many?’ Heracles called.
‘Twenty. Thirty. Maybe forty,’ the helmsman answered, craning his neck as he counted the stream of cavalry.
Heracles could hear the thunder of hooves and the cry of voices. He glanced around at the wide harbour they had rowed into. Long, rocky spurs curved around them to east and west, like the horns of a bull, while the sandy beach was split in half by the mouth of a river – the Thermodon, if the helmsman’s navigation had been true. Two large rocks stood in the centre of the bay like sentinels, but there were no ships anywhere, and only a short jetty to accommodate visiting galleys.
‘Tell the crew to ship oars and throw out the anchors,’ Heracles ordered the helmsman. ‘We’re still beyond bowshot, so you’ll be safe here. Two of your men can row Iolaus and me to that jetty.’
The helmsman nodded and gave the necessary commands. As the anchor stones splashed into the water, Heracles and Iolaus drew in the oar they had shared all through the voyage, gathered their weapons and went to the prow. The shepherds had fled, and now a company of riders sat on thickset ponies along the top of the beach. They were women, but not of any kind Heracles had ever seen before.
If there was anything womanly about them, it was their long, black hair, drawn and plaited at the napes of their necks. Everything else was austere and warlike. They wore conical leather helmets with horsehair plumes and fur neck-flaps that reached down to their shoulder blades, providing protection from the sun and from the blades of their enemies. Their shins were wrapped about with goatskin greaves, tied in place with leather thongs, and though they wore no armour, their bodies were well protected by short tunics of thick fur. Each carried a light shield on her back and a sword in her belt. Short bows and sheaves of arrows were stowed in leather cases that hung from the hindquarters of their ponies. Their skin was deeply tanned and their faces were stern, with long, aquiline noses and dark brown eyes that resented the presence of the newly arrived foreigners.
‘Are you certain you want to come?’ Heracles asked, glancing down at Iolaus.
‘I’m here to rescue Megara, not sit on a galley. Let’s go.’
They clambered into the waiting boat and were rowed to the jetty by two anxious-looking crewmembers. The small pier was old and in poor repair, creaking under their weight as the two men walked along it to the beach.
‘Another step and we will shoot you down!’ warned one of the women.
She was young – perhaps twenty – and though many of the women in the company were older than her, there was an authority in her tone that suggested she was their captain. Her expression was arrogant, too – a quality reflected in her high cheekbones and smooth-skinned, angular features. She had not moved to pull her bow from its leather carrier, and none of the riders around her had yet laid a hand on any of their weapons, but Heracles fancied they could draw them quickly enough should he or Iolaus ignore the warning.
‘Get back in your boat and return to your galley. Your kind isn’t welcome here,’ she said.
‘Our kind?’
‘Men.’
‘But I see men in the fields behind you, shepherding their flocks.’
‘Then give us your weapons and remove your tunics, and maybe we’ll let you join them.’
Several of the riders laughed and their captain smiled, pleased with her own wit. Heracles smiled back.
‘Remove your tunic, my lady, and perhaps we can talk about it.’
The laughter stopped and the front rank of riders drew their bows. In an instant, twent
y bronze-tipped arrows were pointing at Heracles’s broad chest. Sensing that any of the archers might take it upon herself to repay him for his disrespect, he gripped the edge of his cloak and prepared to cover himself and Iolaus with it. But the captain raised her hand and the Amazons relaxed their bowstrings. There was a different light in her dark eyes now as she regarded Heracles, her gaze roaming over his hard muscles like a farmer considering the purchase of an ox.
‘What is your name, foreigner?’ she asked, raising her chin dismissively and looking down her nose at him. ‘What do you want here?’
‘My name is Heracles, son of Zeus. This is my squire, Iolaus, son of Iphicles. We have come to speak with your queen.’
Voices were raised among the other Amazons, whose mounts sensed their tension and began to stir restlessly.
‘Who does this man think he is?’ demanded one of them.
‘I say kill him,’ said a grey-haired rider on the captain’s right. ‘Kill them both and be done with them.’
But her leader was not listening.
‘I have heard of you, Heracles,’ she said. ‘A powerful warrior, they say, who kills monsters with his bare hands. And were you really sired by the King of the Gods, or did your weak foreign mother make up a lie after she had lain with a slave?’
Heracles merely smiled at her baiting.
‘Look me over and tell me what you think, my lady. Am I from the stock of slaves?’
Her eyes roamed across his torso again, though her expression retained its natural arrogance as she indulged herself. Then she leaned in towards her grey-haired companion and spoke in a low voice. The older woman glanced at Heracles and then at Iolaus, pursing her lips doubtfully, until finally conceding with a nod.
‘Our queen was fathered by Ares,’ the captain said, ‘so it might please her to converse with another child of the gods. We will grant you your wish, Heracles, son of Zeus. But beware – men are not the masters in Themiscyra. Touch a woman who does not touch you first and you will pay with your lives; refuse a woman who chooses you, and she has the right to kill you. Be on your guard in all things.’
She turned her pony’s head around and jabbed her heels into its flanks, sending it trotting along the line of horsewomen, back the way they had came. The others followed, leaving two behind to lead the men to the city. Heracles nodded to the sailors in the boat, who seemed relieved to have survived the encounter.
They followed their escorts along a dirt track that led through a stony meadow and into a wood. On the other side was a shallow valley, bisected by the Thermodon and with the Amazonian Mountains behind. The cultivated plains either side of the river were worked by men dressed only in rough cloaks and wide-brimmed hats, though they seemed not to feel any shame over their nakedness as they stood and watched the two foreigners walk past. Their expressions were strangely vacant, devoid of hope and similarly unaffected by fear, though they were quick to return to their labours if one of the Amazon guards looked at them. Strangely, Heracles noted that every man was left-handed, barely using their right arm as they worked the soil or tended to the orchards and vineyards. They walked with pronounced limps, too, and several leaned on sticks. The sight disquieted him.
The track crossed a narrow bridge and wound its way towards a city on a hill. Themiscyra was a sprawl of low buildings, protected by a wall with towers and a defensive ditch. Slanting pillars of smoke twisted up from the flat roofs, while fur-clad guards kept watch from the battlements. A row of spears – perhaps thirty in all – were planted at intervals along the outer rim of the ditch, each boasting a severed head. Three were from women, the rest from men. Their eyes had been pecked out and the skin was peeling and blackened from long exposure to the sun.
They halted before a square-sided tower, from which three guards stared down at the men and their mounted escorts. There was a brief exchange, and the gates were pulled open from within.
They entered a small square, enclosed by single-storey buildings. There were no merchants’ stalls on the square or the streets that led from it, which seemed oddly quiet. A few men hurried about their chores with their heads bowed, but mostly the square was populated by women. The majority were unarmed and wore sleeveless woollen tunics and short cloaks as they sat outside the frugal dwellings or stood on the rooftops, watching the spectacle of clothed men bearing arms. Their missing right breasts – cauterized in childhood to prevent them hindering the use of weapons – were more obvious without their heavy furs.
Heracles and Iolaus followed their escorts through twisting streets to a large open space, at the centre of which was a sprawling palace. It had no beauty or symmetry about it, and its rough stone walls were adorned with rows of helmets, weapons and half-moon shields that hung from iron spikes. A closer look revealed to Heracles that the helmets were not empty, but still contained the decomposing heads of their former owners, held in place by their leather chinstraps. All had belonged to women.
The company of Amazons who had met the galley had already dismounted and were waiting in the space before the palace, while male slaves led their ponies to a large stable on the left side of the square. On its right was a circle of standing stones, the least of which was twice as tall as Heracles. They were much older than Themiscyra, and must once have been a place of worship of the ancient gods. The Amazons had rededicated the temple to Ares, whose effigy now stood before the tallest of the stones. He clutched a spear in one hand and a shield in the other, while his crude, humourless features were crowned by a leather helmet similar to those worn by the Amazons.
As Heracles and Iolaus arrived, one of the warriors raised a ram’s horn to her lips and blew. The others moved towards the temple, taking their places on the benches inside. The riders who had escorted Heracles and Iolaus to the square pointed at the stone circle and ordered them inside.
As Iolaus went to sit on the nearest bench, an Amazon leaped to her feet and barred his way with her spear. Her nose was flat and curved to one side – the result of an old break that had never been properly reset – and her dark eyes were filled with contempt.
‘Men don’t sit,’ she said.
Heracles pulled his nephew back by the elbow, leading him to the centre of the circle. More Amazons were pouring into the temple, coming from the palace and the streets around in answer to the horn’s summons. Many had not seen the men’s entrance into the city and stared at them with a mixture of resentment and hostile curiosity. They were grim-faced and fierce, and all had bodies that had been hardened by years of training; several bore the scars of battle on their limbs and faces. Soon, the benches were full and the latecomers had to stand around the outside of the stone circle, where they formed a noisy throng. Only one space remained, directly in front of the statues of Ares.
‘It feels like a trial,’ Iolaus commented under his breath.
‘It is,’ Heracles answered. ‘Though I don’t know what we’re on trial for yet.’
‘Is that for our judge?’ Iolaus asked, indicating the space on the bench.
‘Queen Hippolyte,’ Heracles answered, with a nod.
‘Shouldn’t she have a throne?’
‘No,’ said a voice behind them. ‘All Amazons are equal.’
They turned to see the captain who had met them at the beach. She had removed her furs and weapons and now wore a plain blue tunic, which made the absence of her right breast more obvious. She was tall and well muscled, and there was a powerful beauty in her arrogant features. She looked Heracles in the eye, holding his fearsome gaze with ease.
‘In the world of men, kings are fawned over and worshipped like gods. Here, the role of queen is a duty, not a position of privilege. Hippolyte wears no crown and has no throne to sit on; she eats and drinks at the same table as her warriors, and she is in the front rank with them when they ride into battle.’
‘In Greece, a king is more than just a warrior,’ Heracles countered. ‘One of his obligations is to offer hospitality to strangers. If he carries it out well, there is
less call on him to become a warrior.’
‘But in the world of men, they do not care to offer hospitality to women,’ she said. ‘Not as equals, at least. And when women declare themselves equal to men, they must become warriors or die. Queen Hippolyte and her people chose to become warriors.’
‘Did they become warriors, or did they just become men?’ Heracles asked. ‘Men with one breast and a heart of stone. Indeed, the worst kind of men – tyrants, for whom equality counts only for the few, and whose power thrives on oppression.’
There were angry murmurs from the crowd, forcing the captain to raise her hand for silence.
‘Equality is something to be taken, not received,’ she said. ‘The queen believes some people should never gain equality, lest they take it only for themselves! Now, Heracles, son of Zeus, tell us why you have come to Themiscyra, where few other men dare to venture.’
‘I will state the purpose of my visit when I am face to face with Queen Hippolyte.’
‘I am the queen,’ she replied, sitting in the space on the bench. ‘Now, speak quickly; my patience is not endless.’
Heracles was not surprised by the revelation. She had the bearing and attitude of a woman used to being obeyed, though as he glanced again at the simple tunic she was wearing there was no sign of the golden belt he had been sent to find.
He paused to consider his response. He had nothing to give in exchange for a belt that made the wearer invincible in battle. Though he had contemplated offering his strength for some task or conflict she might want resolving – and he had never known a ruler who did not need help with some problem or other – now that he faced the proud queen, the idea she might accept assistance from a man seemed ridiculous.
The alternative was deceit. On the voyage, Iolaus had suggested spinning the Amazons a lie that would buy them time to find Megara and steal the belt – going in the guise of merchants, or simple travellers seeking shelter. But they had been unable to think of a convincing pretence that could gain the confidence of such a fierce tribe, who regarded all men with a distrust that was absolute. Besides, Heracles had never sunk so low as to hide his name from men, and he would not do so from women. The only solution that remained, then, was brash honesty. He would tell Hippolyte that he had come for her golden belt, and trust in his own great strength and skill at arms if she refused to yield it to him. If there was a better way, surely Zeus would have shown it to him?
Hero of Olympus Page 3