Quiver

by Stephanie Spinner

  “Why?”

  “I have my reasons.” After a moment I said, “I was always told that the goddess Artemis saved my life. I took a vow of chastity in her honor years ago. Before I came here she sent me a sign, a warning against marriage. I cannot ignore it.” Entella’s solemn expression told me she understood, and I was grateful.

  “I thought offering poison would be . . . kinder.” As soon as I said this, it sounded foolish and stupid to me. Death was death.

  “Will you help me?” I pleaded, taking her hand. “You are the only one I can ask.”

  When she hesitated, I said, “I do not want to cause anyone’s death. But if the first dies, the others may stay away. That is my hope.”

  She squeezed my hand and told me she would do what she could. Her words so reassured me that I felt easier about hearing my father’s announcement, which came promptly after his third glass of wine.

  NINETEEN

  I took the news calmly. “Tomorrow?” I echoed, wiping my hands daintily on my chiton. We were eating goat. “Good. A run will be welcome.” As far as I knew, my father was ignorant of my predawn excursions.

  “Mataios tells me you have been riding,” he said.

  “Have you?” Nephele looked at me wide-eyed. She was the kind of soft, fluttery woman who feared all four-legged creatures but kittens.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” I replied. “It is very diverting.”

  “Not at all.” I watched him drink, wondering if he thought of my mother when he heard of my affection for horses. I hoped so. For a moment I seethed with dark, vengeful thoughts.

  “I am sure the race tomorrow will be diverting also,” he said. “Particularly as you know your suitor. Or so he claims.”

  “Oh? Who is he?”

  “Cepheus. He says he was on the Hunt with you.”

  “Cepheus!” I nearly spat out my food.

  “You do know him, then.”

  Well enough, I thought with dislike, seeing his close-set eyes and perpetual sneer. “Why has he come forward?” I demanded.

  “He says he loves you,” said my father, smiling at my loss of composure. “Can he be lying?”

  “Why would he lie?” asked Nephele.

  “He hates me!” I said. “When his friend Ancaeus was killed on the Hunt, Cepheus held me responsible.”

  “Then why would he want to marry you?” inquired my father.

  “Perhaps he is deranged,” I said. “Ancaeus’ death may have pushed him into madness. Grief drives people to extremes,” I added pointedly, “as you know.”

  My father blinked. Otherwise ignoring the reference to my mother, he said, “He seems rational enough. Most definitely in his right mind. Healthy, too.” He cocked his head. “He looks as strong as a bull.”

  You are disgusting, I thought. “Crazed or sane, it makes no difference,” I said, rising. “The man is slow on his feet.”

  I went back to my chamber and wept.

  TWENTY

  I ran the next morning. When I was deep in the forest, at my rough shrine, I made an offering and prayed. I asked Artemis to watch over me. I dedicated the race to her. I requested a merciful death for Cepheus. Then I ended my prayer as I always did, with the words “I am yours.”

  Apollo: A small wager, sister?

  Artemis: We both know she’ll win.

  Apollo: True. Too bad victory comes at such a price.

  Artemis: Her decision.

  Apollo: She made it because of you.

  Artemis: You sent her the dreams.

  Apollo: Have you no mercy? She’s in a terrible predicament!

  Artemis: She can handle it. If she couldn’t, I’d still have my ivory quiver, wouldn’t I?

  The course was short, about sixteen acres. It began far below the walls, at the point where the ground leveled, and followed the narrow footpath that encircled the palace. My father had taken the trouble to have the path widened, smoothed, and spread with sand, niceties that surprised me. Perhaps he imagined many such races.

  May the gods forbid it, I thought.

  I wore a short chiton, and now I tucked the small horn vial of poison inside my belt. Entella had told me the stuff was deadly and swift. “The faster the better,” I had said, wishing the morning were over.

  A small crowd waited near the course—guards, servants, and a few others I had come to know, like Mataios, Perifanos, and Pistos. Entella was there with little Agnos and Galini, the daughters who helped her in the kitchen. My father and Nephele had not yet arrived, though chairs had been set out for them.

  I remembered Cepheus’ characteristic expression as somewhere between a glower and a sneer, but when he saw me, he simply stared, and kept on staring as I came down the hill. He left his companions, four well-oiled, muscular young men, to join me near the track.

  “Greetings, Atalanta,” he said loudly, fixing me with his dark, close-set eyes. He looked unusually clean, I thought, but then the last time I had seen him he had been drenched in boar’s blood.

  “Greetings, Cepheus,” I replied. “I am surprised to find you here.”

  He swallowed several times before replying, and a flush crept up his thick neck. “I am surprised also,” he confessed. Then he made an abrupt, harsh, braying sound that could only be laughter. “And I will be surprised if I win this race,” he went on, “but I—I could not stay away.”

  Here was a Cepheus I did not know—awkward, bewildered, almost humble. Great gods on the mountain, I thought, looking away, what is he trying to tell me? At this moment my father appeared. He was as pale as a specter, and so weak that Nephele and Mataios had to help him into his high-backed chair.

  “I see that you two are renewing your friendship,” he said approvingly.

  Friendship! I thought. That is not what I would call it.

  He settled himself and looked out at the crowd, which quickly fell silent. “You are witnesses to this race,” he announced in his deep voice, “between my daughter Atalanta, and Prince Cepheus of Arcadia. If the prince wins, he and Atalanta will marry. If Atalanta wins, the prince will die.”

  There was an audible intake of breath. Some spectators, it seemed, were hearing the terms of the contest for the first time.

  My father looked over at us. He raised a skeletal hand. “At my signal,” he said.

  We crouched. I could feel Cepheus staring but kept my eyes resolutely on my father’s hand until it fell. Then I began to run at a very moderate pace. Cepheus charged forward, pumping his arms and scrambling into the lead, a feat that drew loud acclamation from his friends. I let him stay ahead as we took the first turn at the southwest corner of the palace. I had no desire to humiliate him.

  As we ran north, there were cries from above. The stable boys were atop the walls screaming encouragement, their voices as high and piercing as the whistles they used to summon the horses from the fields.

  “Faster, Princess, faster!” called Koris. “Don’t trot, gallop!” I waved to him. A few of the guards stationed on the wall called out to Cepheus, who was able to maintain his speed as we started uphill.

  I caught up to him just past the northwest corner. It was the point at which the track fell behind the palace, and where we would be visible only to those on the wall. Even they, however, could not hear what we said.

  “Cepheus,” I called, loping beside him. He turned, and there was such naked hope on his face that my gut clenched with pity. He actually thought I might let him win.

  I held out the vial. “Take it,” I said. “Quickly!” When it was in his hand, I told him what it was. He was too breathless to speak, but he shook his head once, violently, and threw down the vial without breaking stride.

  I retrieved it and caught up to him. “Please take it!” I begged. “There isn’t much time.” We would soon round the third, northeast corner, where the final stretch began. I lay my hand on his broad forearm, and for a moment he slowed. I could feel the blood pumping beneath his skin.

  “It is best this way,” I told him, ha
ting the empty words. In truth, the poison was just as much for me as for him; I could not bear to see him strangled, or beheaded. I was overcome with such self-loathing that I shuddered.

  There was fear in his eyes now, and he was panting too heavily to reply. The sound he made was awful, like tree limbs groaning in winter wind.

  I pressed the vial into his hand. “I am sorry,” I said.

  Then I ran to my victory.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Aphrodite: You shot the wrong person, you naughty boy!

  Eros: I did?

  Aphrodite: Stop giggling. You know Atalanta was meant to be your target.

  Eros: Sorry.

  Aphrodite: You’re not, but never mind. You’ll have another chance very soon.

  My next suitor—a Cretan prince in ringlets and gold earrings—arrived two days later. Many silk-clad young men came with him, chattering amongst themselves as if they were attending a court celebration rather than a contest with a truly terrible second prize.

  The prince could neither speak nor understand our dialect, but one of his friends knew a little Achaean. Whispering and gesticulating, he attempted to translate my father’s words to the crowd. I do not think he succeeded, for when the speech ended, the prince and his party looked entertained rather than apprehensive.

  I offered the poison midrace, but my efforts to tell the prince what it was and why he should take it failed. When at last I simply pressed the vial into his hand, he smiled as if I had given him a love token. I ran the final lap wishing that I were far, far away from my father and his noxious demands.

  Three others came after the Cretan prince. I won against them all. I began to feel like an executioner, and thought often of my childhood fascination with tales of human sacrifice in Arcadia. Whispered talk of men hunted like stags, throats cut, and strange prayers uttered had once thrilled and horrified me, in the way that cruelty excites the young.

  But my own experience of human sacrifice, for that is how I came to view the races, did not thrill me in any way. Rather, I felt a constant dull nausea. The knowledge that in keeping my word I was pleasing no one—not the gods, not my father, and least of all my suitors—was truly sickening.

  My daily prayers to the goddess had once given me comfort; now they were dreary. I wanted the races to end. I wanted the suitors to stay away, as I had always meant them to. I wanted the goddess to intervene on my behalf. My desperation and self-pity were unworthy of her, yet I expressed them time and again. I had never known such dismal confusion.

  Then Entella told me she was running out of poison.

  Aphrodite: I heard the prayers of the nicest young man today. He’s called Hippomenes, and he’s madly in love with Atalanta.

  Eros: Ha! He’s doomed.

  Aphrodite: He was so sweet. He did a full prostration.

  Eros: Facedown on the ground?

  Aphrodite: Yes! I haven’t seen one in ages, have you?

  Eros: No.

  Aphrodite: It quite won me over. So few mortals show the proper humility when they supplicate, have you noticed?

  Eros: I’ve never been supplicated, Mother. It’s you they implore and beseech, not me.

  Aphrodite: Nonsense. At any rate, Hippomenes nearly wept with gratitude when I gave him the three golden apples.

  Eros: Apples? What for?

  Aphrodite: To throw ahead of Atalanta when they race. She’ll stop to pick them up, and he’ll run ahead of her. Clever, no?

  Eros: What if she doesn’t stop?

  Aphrodite: That’s where you come in, my precious.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Two days, then three, went by without a single suitor. I rambled around the palace with Aura, rode Callisto, and entertained the wild hope that all young men rash enough to race me had already done so. Perhaps the rest had been frightened away.

  I began to think of returning to my people, that it might just be possible if there were no more races. In that event, how could my father object? He might even be glad to see his troublesome daughter go, and what a fine thing that would be, I thought, to bid him farewell victoriously.

  I wondered if he would let me keep Callisto.

  Then his health declined and he took to his bed. In his absence the meals I shared with Nephele were almost dreamily serene, punctuated by little grunts of satisfaction rather than conversation.

  This peaceful interlude ended on the fifth day, when Entella reported that my father was feeling better. “He left his bed this noon,” she said.

  “Ah.” I must have slumped, for her next words were, “Please raise your head, my lady, so I can finish your hair.”

  I sat up. “Will he dine with us tonight?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  Thus warned, I prepared myself for more of my father’s dinnertime despotism, the silky animosity, the fitful drunken outbursts. But I was not prepared for his appearance—he was pale to the point of transparency—nor his first words.

  “Another suitor comes tomorrow,” he told me, “and he will be your last.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I am sick to death of these delays! I am the king! You will obey me!”

  “And if I do not?”

  “There will be consequences!” He hit the table with all the force he could muster, and his heavy gold rings clinked against the wood.

  “My lord, please!” entreated Nephele.

  He ignored her. “Dire consequences,” he raged.

  I thought of my mother, hanging from a tree. “Dire consequences!” I repeated. “Would you drive me to suicide, as well?” His eyes grew wider and his mouth moved as if he would speak, but he did not.

  I got to my feet. “If there is a man who can outrun me, I will wed him. If no such man appears, I will remain chaste. That is my vow. I have made it to Artemis as well as you, and I will keep it. I must keep it,” I added, “for I owe her my life—the life she saved when you tried to kill me.”

  Nephele made a sound of distress. She was staring at my father in disbelief. He had managed, somehow, to avoid telling her the truth about me. Hearing it now, she stared at him open-mouthed, waiting for a denial or an explanation.

  Again he said nothing.

  “Artemis is the goddess of childbirth,” I said. “If she wishes you to have an heir, you will have one. If not, your line will end with me.”

  Apollo: I think I’m falling in love.

  Artemis: Oh, stop.

  Apollo: I pity her next suitor. Actually, I pity all her suitors.

  Artemis: What a sorry lot. And they keep coming! They try and try and try, when it’s perfectly clear that they’ll lose!

  Apollo: That’s what mortals do.

  Artemis: Remind me never to take divinity for granted.

  TWENTY-THREE

  There were few spectators the next day—two shepherds, some ragged children, Entella and her daughters, and the ever-faithful stable boys, who perched restlessly atop the palace walls like big, unruly birds.

  I was impatient for the race to start, only because I wanted it to be over, and saw with annoyance that my father and Nephele had not yet appeared. I looked around for my opponent. Almost always the suitors came with companions, court friends who dispensed urgently whispered advice and hearty slaps of encouragement before the race. But today there was no such ensemble. Instead, I saw a lone figure standing under a tree, a tall, broad-shouldered, fair-haired young man.

  He was watching me. His golden brown eyes did not waver as he approached, but held mine. Just as I was thinking that he was remarkably self-possessed for someone who was about to die, I felt a piercing blow to my heart. I had seen men shot by arrows, the way they staggered and doubled over with pain. I could see no arrow, yet I had felt one. I whimpered in fright, staggering a little. With the blow my dull nausea sharpened, overpowering me, and I retched.

  Undeterred, the young man offered his hand. “Princess,” he said.

  He was extremely handsome.

  I shook my downcast head, backing
away unsteadily. I could not reply; my throat was convulsing, and my mouth was filling with spittle. I am going to vomit! I thought frantically. What has happened to me?

  I spat; at this he jumped back.

  “Atalanta! What ails you?” This was my father, who had arrived in a chair borne by four attendants. He sounded both petulant and suspicious, as if he thought I was feigning illness to avoid the race.

  Suddenly I remembered Zoi’s words to me at Gortys. She had told me I would suffer a wound some time in the future. Had I just been wounded? I ran my hands up and down my arms. My skin was intact, but I could swear by the goddess that I had been shot.

  Nephele hurried to my side. “Are you ill?” she asked.

  “No,” I blurted, acutely aware of my bare-chested suitor. He stood close to me, giving off the scent of clove. It was very pleasant. I took a deep breath.

  “Are you certain?” she pressed.

  “I am,” I said, and I was. For my nausea was gone, taking with it every worry, care, vile preoccupation, and misgiving that had been crowding my mind. Suddenly I felt as bright and weightless as a glint of sunlight.

  I placed my hand on Nephele’s shoulder. “I am,” I repeated, willing her to return to my father. She did.

  Now I noticed that the young man’s watchful, amber eyes were slightly uptilted, that his generous, well-defined mouth had an upward curve of immense charm, and that his complexion was unusually tawny for someone with such fair hair.

  His skin looked very smooth. I yearned to touch it so badly that my fingers twitched.

  “I am Hippomenes,” he said.

  “Atalanta,” I replied.

  “I know that.” He smiled.

  I flushed. “Of course you do,” I managed.

  “It is good to see you again.”

  “Again?”

  “I—I have watched you, and thought about you,” he said, “ever since the boar hunt in Calydon.”

  “The Hunt? You were there?” I wondered how I had failed to notice him.

  He nodded. “I saw you hit the boar. It was an unforgettable sight. You looked so . . . invincible.”