Mood Riders

by Theresa Tomlinson

  She need not have worried for Myrina stared ahead at the tents, joy rising in her.

  “Mazagardi!” she cried. “Mazagardi tents and horses!”

  “Your tribe?” Penthesilea laughed with relief.

  “But what are they doing here?” Myrina puzzled. “They should be by the Black Sea at this time of year.”

  As they moved forward, a single warrior rode out to meet them. Myrina urged Isatis ahead. “Tomi, it’s Tomi!” she cried.

  The others followed her, smiling, as the two perfectly trained mounts slowed down, side by side, so that Myrina and Tomi could lean across to kiss each other, still on horseback.

  “Why are you here?” Myrina gasped.

  “Looking for you,” he told her, his face flushed pink with pleasure. “Atisha sent a message to Hati, telling us what you’d set out to do. I begged Aben to let me take an armed gang to see you safe back to the homelands.”

  “So—you have got your warrior band at last!”

  “Yes, I have, thanks to you! And now we will see you safe back to Elikmaa: all the country is alive with the story that the princess is rescued, though they do not say the Moon Riders had anything to do with it.”

  Myrina smiled at him a little sadly then. “If you wish to escort us, you must come first to Troy.”

  Penthesilea raised her eyebrows at the idea that she might need an escort but said nothing. They all rode on together down the narrow spit of land toward the Hellespont. Myrina and Tomi were happy to be together, but as the wind changed direction, blowing warm and steady up from the south, for once it made them shiver.

  They and their horses crossed the narrow sea in style when one of Priam’s ship-captains recognized Cassandra.

  “Your father will welcome you, Princess,” the man assured her. “Prince Paris has been adding new towers to Troy, like those on the strong Hittite forts that he’s seen. Nobody could breach the walls now, but still your father calls in provisions from near and far. Some say that they expect Menelaus and his brother any day, others laugh at all these preparations and say they’ll never come.”

  “Oh, they will come,” Cassandra told him.

  They made camp at Abydus on the Trojan shore and spent their last night together watching the fishermen haul in nets full of glinting silver mackerel. When they arrived in sight of Troy, they could see at once that strong new towers had been built to strengthen the sturdy walls.

  Myrina grew full of sadness. “Atisha bade me guard you,” she told Cassandra. “She told me that you needed a stalwart friend to keep you safe and now here I am, letting you return to a home that is preparing for attack.”

  Cassandra drew Arian up close to Isatis. “It is through your friendship that I’m strong enough to go home and face the hardships to come. I have a new charge for you.” She inclined her head toward Iphigenia, who rode with Penthesilea, now quite at home astride a horse. “Here’s another princess who needs your friendship,” Cassandra told her. “Will you see her safe into Atisha’s care?”

  “Of course I will,” Myrina promised.

  They approached the city from the high plateau, arriving at the Eastern Gate that Hati had admired so much. Now a strong new curtain wall had been built that curved in front, protecting the wooden doors.

  Penthesilea was impressed. “Clever—very clever,” she pointed out to Tomi. “Nobody could get a battering ram inside there. These Achaeans will not find Troy easy to sack.”

  Cassandra rode ahead of her friends. When she got to the gate, a guard from the tower above recognized her and called out in welcome. The stall keepers and horse boys heard his cry and turned to see her approach, then warm cries of welcome surrounded her.

  “The priestess returns,” they called. “Now we shall have the blessing of Maa as well as Trojan Apollo. We will be safe.”

  Cassandra dismounted and led Arian back to where the others followed. “This is my last gift to you,” she said, holding out the reins to Iphigenia. “I do not need Arian, now that I am back in Troy. She will carry you safely. Can you ride her?”

  Iphigenia didn’t wait for any change of mind, but slid down from Fleetwind and strode confidently to Arian’s side. She went to gently stroke the pale cream nose while Arian whickered friendly approval.

  “Well done,” Cassandra whispered. “She gives consent. You are her mistress now. Climb onto her back.”

  Cassandra held her clasped hands low to help Iphigenia mount. With a jump, Iphigenia was up, looking as though she’d been riding all her life. “I will take good care of her,” she promised.

  “Go now,” Cassandra ordered. “Ride fast away! There is no more time to say good-bye.”

  They took her at her word, reluctantly turning their horses’ heads toward the north, as Cassandra disappeared behind the protective wall, and in through the hidden Eastern Gate, to her home in the city of Troy.

  Penthesilea led them on over the high ground, but stopped after a while to look back. “What is it?” Myrina asked.

  Penthesilea frowned, shading her eyes from the bright sun. “I’m not sure—I thought I saw . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Myrina and Tomi turned to look. From that high place, they could see the Hellespont to the right of them and the southern spit of the Thracian Chersonese in the distance. Straight in front of them stood the high towers of Troy with the deep blue Aegean Sea beyond and the islands of Imbros and Tenedos in the distance.

  Then Tomi gasped. Penthesilea had not been mistaken in her concern, for from behind the Isle of Tenedos dark spots appeared, growing bigger and blacker as every moment passed. At last the shape of masts and sails could be seen.

  “They are here,” Myrina said. “I knew they would come and yet, I hoped . . .”

  As they watched, more and more sails appeared until at last the whole of the horizon was dotted with them; an unbroken line stretching as far as the eye could see. The towers of Troy seemed suddenly small.

  Iphigenia and Centaurea turned to see what they were looking at. They watched in silence for a moment, then Iphigenia spoke. “I do not want to look at that,” she said.

  “There’s no need for you to look,” Centaurea told her. “Come with me and we will lead the way to Elikmaa.”

  As Centaurea and Iphigenia rode on, Penthesilea seemed to snap back into life again. “We must be on our way,” she said.

  “What can we do?” Myrina felt a great desire to ride back again to Troy. “I hate to leave Cassandra and her city to face those warships.”

  “There is much that we can do,” Penthesilea insisted. “We get this child to safety, then we set about getting them help.”

  Tomi seemed to hesitate. “If you wish to return to Troy, I shall go with you,” he promised.

  Myrina hesitated, thinking hard. “The Thracian tribes would help,” she said.

  “Oh yes,” Penthesilea agreed. “The Thracians and the Mysians. The Lycians and Carians—but they must be roused.”

  “You are right,” Myrina said at last, turning her horse away from Troy. “There is much to do! Come, Isatis!”

  They turned and rode north.

  Part Two

  THE SNAKE LADY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Raid

  NINE YEARS PASSED after the dark shapes of the Achaean sails were seen heading toward Troy. Many warriors from the Anatolian tribes rode to defend the city, but endless battles followed and the plain of Troy was soaked with the blood of both attackers and defenders. Despite the bitter warfare, the sturdy walls remained unbreached.

  Atisha took Iphigenia and Centaurea and retired to the Moon Riders’ homelands on the banks of the River Thermodon, saying that she was too old for this new battle and leaving her trusted Penthesilea to lead the young women. The Moon Riders struggled to continue their travels, bringing the rites and dances of Maa to the tribes of Anatolia. They had to fight many skirmishes on their way, for Achaean raiding gangs constantly roamed the hills and islands, seeking to replenish their food stocks a
nd supplies.

  It was now early spring in the tenth year since the war began, and the Bitter Months were at last behind them. Myrina looked forward to the great meeting of the tribes at the Place of Flowing Waters. The Moon Riders cantered north from their winter quarters on the island of Lesbos.

  The Spring Celebrations would bring a brief time of joy, even though the countryside around Mount Ida was bleak and comfortless since the coming of the Achaeans. The nomadic tribes found desolation everywhere. The fertile plains and valleys that had welcomed them before were burnt and ravaged, so that it was difficult for the Moon Riders to stop and feel secure during the Birthing Months. The horses, goats, and sheep in their herds were always under threat of pillage, and as they traveled through countryside once safe and familiar, they had to keep a constant lookout.

  Myrina stared into her mirror, but the Moon Riders had ridden hard all day and she was tired, so that for once her powers of true seeing were slow to come. She propped herself up beneath the gentle shade of a tamarisk tree, Isatis quietly cropping grass beside her. The mirror showed her nothing but herself, a dark-haired young woman with high cheekbones and a challenging expression.

  “Where are you, Mother?” She sighed. “I just need to know that you are safe.”

  Then she tried again, breathing in deeply and lowering her shoulders gently. She tried to look into the mirror and see beyond her face, the ferny green branches of the tamarisk, and the distant mountainside behind her. Though sharp sunlight lit the water in front of her, dark clouds, gray laden with rain, bowled down from the mountaintops. She relaxed a little more and let her gaze wander into the rolling mist reflected in the polished silver, then at last the vision began to emerge. She caught a quick glimpse of Tomi, riding alone through a mountain pass. Myrina heaved a sigh of relief; he looked well and full of purpose but so alone. Since they had parted at the last spring gathering, she’d been concerned for him. He’d ridden to Thrace to act as a messenger, linking the tribes. A vague mist descended. As it quickly cleared, she saw the peaceful camping place of her own nomadic tribe, the Mazagardi, with the blue waters of the Lake of Storks beside the tents. They would be packing up tomorrow and heading south to the Place of Flowing Waters, where Myrina would soon meet up with them.

  Her mother, Gul, was kneading bread dough, with her granddaughters on either side of her. This would be Yildiz’ eleventh Spring Celebration; the girl had grown tall and she pounded her ball of dough skillfully, while three-year-old Phoebe poked inquisitive fingers into Gul’s creamy mound until she was given her own small piece to pat.

  Myrina smiled, remembering that she had done just the same at that age, but then she frowned, seeing Gul look up sharply from her work. Reseda came running toward them to snatch up Phoebe. Then, distantly, as though through water, she thought she could hear the faint sound of screams and sobbing, and even the light metallic clash of swords. She watched, transfixed with growing horror, the mirror shaking in her hands. Her mother and sister were shouting at each other, but their words weren’t clear; then Gul grabbed the fish-gutting knife from her belt and thrust Yildiz inside the home-tent, while Reseda vanished with Phoebe in her arms.

  Myrina’s hand stole involuntarily to the knife at her own belt as she saw her family and friends rushing to snatch up bows and quivers. Before they had a chance to strap on armor or draw bow to defend themselves, warriors were upon them, wielding swords and spears, blazing torches in their hands, the hated black symbol of ants upon their banners. The peaceful scene had swiftly turned to terrifying chaos and Gul’s mouth gaped with fear. Myrina struggled to hold the vision as she saw her mother trying to fight off some huge unseen foe. Suddenly one loud and terrible scream shattered the picture and Myrina lurched forward with a jolt.

  Isatis flattened her ears and rolled her eyes as Penthesilea leaped across the fresh grass to wrap her strong arms about Myrina. “What is it?” she demanded.

  “That scream! That terrible scream!” Myrina clapped her hands to her ears.

  Penthesilea whispered urgently in her ear, “It was you, Myrina. That scream came from you! What is it that you’ve seen? What was your vision?”

  It was hard to find the words. “The bloody-handed Ant Men—the ones we saw in Aulis!”

  “Where were they?” Penthesilea bellowed.

  “My mother . . . they have killed my mother!”

  Penthesilea swore and held her tightly.

  “They were killing them . . . all my tribe.”

  “We will ride at once,” said Penthesilea, pulling her to her feet.

  The Moon Riders did not spare their horses as they galloped through the night, around the foothills of Mount Ida, past the gathering place, over grasslands and hills toward the Lake of Kus. Penthesilea rode at their head on Fleetwind. Moonlight touched the cheeks and arms of the young priestesses as they traveled, revealing glimpses of their astonishing body pictures. Curling snakes, racing panthers, leaping deer gleamed in the gentle silver light, giving them a touching beauty that was at odds with the furious clenched jaws, gritted teeth, and rippling, rope-hard muscles of both horses and riders.

  Dawn was breaking as they came to the Lake of Kus, but they saw the devastation before they reached the shore. Where once there’d been huts, now patches of smoking rubble lay, with corpses piled everywhere. All that remained of the strong Mazagardi tents was shreds of stinking, blackened felt hanging from scorched sticks. A few stray animals with raw flanks wandered distressed among the rubble; the corrals were smashed open and the bulk of the fine Mazagardi herd of horses gone. Most of the sheep and goats, which provided milk and meat through the Bitter Months, had vanished, too.

  “So that’s the way it is,” Penthesilea hissed through gritted teeth. “All this murder, so that Achilles’ warriors may have fresh teams for their war chariots and meat to roast on their campfires.”

  Myrina had ridden Isatis wildly, whipping her on as never before. Now she sat white-faced and silent on her mare’s back; only her eyes moved frantically, sweeping to left and right, searching every dead face as Isatis picked her way delicately through the wreckage of the Mazagardi camp. Beno was there among the slain.

  At last Myrina saw what she dreaded most: her mother’s body on the ground, knife still gripped in her hand, her father, Aben, lying close by. She climbed down from Isatis’s back, her knees giving way as her feet touched the ground. She crouched in silence beside her mother, stretching out a trembling hand to stroke the fading pattern of roses that had been pricked into her cheeks. Gul meant “rose,” a true symbol for such a gentle, loving woman as Myrina’s mother had been. Myrina sat down between the bodies of her parents, her face still blank, her eyes and throat aching and dry. She reached out to hold her father’s cold, stiff hand on one side and her mother’s on the other.

  She turned to her father. “You told us this would happen,” she said, her voice level and emotionless. “You warned us! Priam’s greed . . . any excuse would bring the Achaeans swarming over our traveling routes. Not just Trojans—the whole of Anatolia must suffer. . . . Blood across our lands . . . You were right, Father, you were right!”

  Myrina did not know how long she sat there, talking on and on until she grew hoarse and the words made no sense. The other Moon Riders searched for survivors, their voices low and growling with anger.

  “The poisonous Ant Men!”

  “Let me get at them!”

  “They’ll get my arrow in their back!”

  “Death is too good for them!”

  “Poison-spewing creatures! Why this?”

  “Foul poison everywhere!”

  At last, under Penthesilea’s grim direction, they began to drag together the remains of the tents and corrals to build a pyre, laying out the charred and blood-soaked bodies close by.

  Friends stopped from time to time to touch Myrina’s shoulder in sympathy, but she shook them off and remained sitting between her parents’ bodies. At last she became aware that someone was standing still and
silent in front of her; someone waiting both patiently and fearfully for the moment when she looked up.

  Myrina was afraid to lift her head, afraid of what she might see. Then a young girl’s voice cut through the confusion, grabbing her attention. “Snake Lady?”

  When Myrina did at last look up, it was into the deeply lined face of her grandmother, Hati. The old woman’s cheeks were smudged with ash, her mouth a bitter line of sorrow; in her arms a small bruised child, Phoebe, lay still as death. Yildiz stood beside her, clutching tightly to Hati’s worn smock, her face red and blistering, part of her hair burnt so that it stuck out in short rough tufts.

  “Aunt Rina? Snake Lady?” Yildiz murmured again.

  Myrina struggled to her feet, where she rocked for a moment as though she might fall, but then she steadied herself beneath Hati’s flinty gaze. “Phoebe? Is she . . . ?”

  Hati shook her head. “She sleeps,” she said, her voice faint and breathless.

  “Reseda?”

  Hati spoke sharply. “Gone. They have all gone. I found Phoebe beneath her mother’s body, then pulled Yildiz out of the burning tent.”

  Myrina tried to make her mouth say something, but no sound came out.

  “Come.” Hati lifted her hand from where it rested on Yildiz’ shoulder and held it out.

  Myrina went to them like a child, wrapping one arm around Yildiz’ small shoulders and the other around her grandmother’s stick-thin body and the sleeping Phoebe. “So we are all that’s left?” she murmured.

  “Yes,” said Hati. “We are all that’s left.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Dancing for the Dead

  PENTHESILEA CAME UP and stood beside them quietly. When Myrina at last pulled away from her grandmother, she saw that the Mazagardi corpses had been carried to a freshly built funeral pyre—all except for those of her parents. “Now we must take them, too,” Penthesilea said firmly. “We have found Reseda. Shall we take your parents to lie beside her?”