Tamer of Horses

by Amalia Carosella

  “King Theseus, my lord, there must be something—he cannot die, not after all this. He cannot die!”

  “What Zeus gives he can take just as easily, even from his son.” Theseus grunted, lifting him up. Pirithous’s head lolled, his arm hanging limp. She folded it back neatly over his waist, her eyes blurring, her throat too thick for words.

  “Your horse, my lady,” Theseus said. “The sooner he is back in his bed, the better, though I can promise you nothing. If he has spilled too much blood…”

  “No,” she said. “He must live, Theseus. And if Zeus will not save him, Poseidon will. If I must sacrifice every horse I have been given, I will see it done for Pirithous’s sake.”

  “Here,” Antiope said, having returned atop Aithon with Podarkes not far behind, both horses and rider breathing hard. “Give him to me. I will return him to the palace. Mia can follow on Podarkes.”

  “Quickly,” Hippodamia urged, though she knew it was needless. If there were any two people who loved Pirithous more than she did, it was Antiope and Theseus. She watched Antiope take Pirithous in her arms, cradling him like a child across her legs, and mounted Podarkes, who snapped and pawed with frustration and impatience when she did not give him his head at once to race Aithon to the walls. She liked it even less than he did, but she could not see to her husband until she had done what she could for the rest of his men. “Theseus—I fear I must beg a favor more, though you have done so much already.”

  “Anything, my lady.”

  “Help Melanthos and the others. I would not have Peleus turn back at some rumor of Pirithous’s collapse.”

  Theseus gave her a grim nod. “Go, my lady. I will do what must be done here. And happily, for Pirithous’s sake and yours. He will need your strength now more than these men.”

  She did not need him to tell her twice. With the barest touch of her heel against Podarkes’s flank, they took flight.

  Old Machaon had the rest of the palace horses well in hand when they rode through the gate, though he grumbled about the cuts and scrapes and sweat stains on their hides. Hippodamia ignored his complaints, leaving Podarkes in the horsemaster’s hands, and shouting for men to help Antiope carry Pirithous up the stairs to his rooms.

  “Good man, Glaukos,” Antiope said, when the scarred and tow-headed raider lent his aid. How she knew so many of Pirithous’s men, Hippodamia did not know. Particularly when she thought them so beneath her. But she was grateful for the Amazon’s memory for names and faces, for she could see nothing beyond Pirithous’s pale, waxy skin.

  Lord Poseidon, protect him. Guard him. Only tell me what I must do to see him saved.

  “To his bed, I beg of you. And send for the physician,” Hippodamia called out, not even glancing up from his face to be sure her orders were followed.

  She went ahead of them through the hall, clearing the way, and then ran up the stairs to push open his bedroom door and roll the excess bedding out of the way. Antiope and Glaukos half-carried and half-dragged him between them, one of his arms draped over each of their shoulders, and she helped them to ease him down on the bed, pulling first one leg, then the other over the side.

  She searched him over, carefully then, counting the cuts and bruises, every nick and scrape. There were so many. But she must know where he needed the physician’s attention most, and Theseus had said Pirithous needed her strength. Perhaps if she stayed near to him, kept her hands upon him, somehow, some way, he might borrow what he needed for his own ends, the way he had lent her so much of his love, his desire, his sympathy.

  “You must come back to me,” she said, smoothing the hair from his brow. “You must live, do you hear me? Whatever you need from me, whatever I can offer—I am yours, Pirithous. I am yours, and you are mine, and you cannot leave me behind.”

  She rested her forehead against his, breathing him in, all blood and dust and sweat and scorched earth. Dia had born such a fine son. Maybe that was how she had survived, how she had found the strength to continue on, after Ixion. Because she had not truly been alone so long as Pirithous lived.

  Zeus, Lord of All, I beg of you, do not let this be the end of your son! Send Paeon to heal his wounds.

  “The physician, Mia,” Antiope said, startling her from her thoughts with a touch upon her shoulder. “You must give him room.”

  Hippodamia nodded, slipping from the bedside, but keeping her hand upon his head, her fingers knotted in his damp hair. “The worst is between his ribs,” she told the man. Nikostratos was old and gray, but his hands were steady as they hovered over Pirithous’s wounds, just as they had been steady and strong in setting the bones Pirithous had likely displaced again with his foolishness. “And the slice across his chest next, from what I can tell.”

  Niko grunted, packing the wound at Pirithous’s ribs with poppy-milk soaked wool. He muttered to himself with the rhythm of an incantation, applying perfumed oils to the other cuts and scrapes as he went. Hippodamia bit her tongue to quiet her own impatience with his slow, careful movements, and turned her attention back to Pirithous’s face. The stillness of his expression wrenched her—even his eyelids did not so much as twitch.

  “He’ll need stitching,” Niko said after a moment. “And I will have to reset some of his bones, and splint them properly this time to keep him in his bed. I fear my lord will not like it, if he wakes.”

  If. The word cut through her, sharper than a Myrmidon blade, and she lifted her gaze to the old physician, her eyes hard. “You will do everything you can to be sure that he will wake. Do you understand me?”

  “I helped Dia bring him into this world, my lady. I don’t intend to outlive him, now. But it is in the hands of the gods more than mine. May Paeon have mercy upon him, and Lord Apollo grant his blessings as well.”

  She let out a breath, closing her eyes against the despair which threatened to overtake her. Pirithous would not die. She would not let him. If she had to remain at his side in vigil, fasting, while the gods feasted upon her very blood, she would suffer it to keep him alive.

  “Send for the priests, Antiope. If it is in the hands of the gods, I would know what they demand of us, and see their needs fulfilled.”

  “Of course,” Antiope said, squeezing her shoulder gently in farewell before she left.

  Mia only wished Theseus had returned with the rest of the men as well. She might have begged him to appeal to his father or to his uncle, Zeus. And it would mean Peleus had gone, and they need not fear. Not for a time, at least. It would be decades before Peleus ever dared to turn his greedy eyes back to the lands of the Lapiths and their horses. Because she and Pirithous had shamed him. Together.

  Together, as they would go on.

  “My queen,” Nikostratos said, forcing her from her thoughts, “there is much for me to do. Perhaps you would rather retire to your own bed? Or attend to your other business while I work?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I do not intend to abandon my husband and my king when he has the greatest need of me. Do what you must. I am not afraid of blood.”

  “As you wish, my lady,” the physician said.

  She paid him no mind after that, keeping her eyes upon Pirithous’s face, her hand wrapped around his.

  My strength is yours, Pirithous, if you will only take it.

  But he did not so much as twitch beneath the physician’s ministrations. He barely breathed.

  Lord Poseidon, please. If you grant me no other favor ever again, give me this. Give me Pirithous, strong and whole and living. I will give you anything of mine, if you will only save him.

  Hold his hand and pray. It was all she could do.

  And she had no intention of stopping.

  She gave Aithon to the gods, sending him up the mountain to the shrine of Zeus and the priest who had begged Pirithous to delay their wedding—the only one she trusted to see the truth in the blood. She would have sent Podarkes, but Antiope and Machaon had refused to let her.

  “Let the priest read the signs, and if a larger sacrif
ice is needed, you will have Podarkes still to give,” Antiope had said. “Aithon is brave and strong. A fit offering for any god.”

  Antiope was not wrong. If Zeus refused to grant his son any favors, at least she would still have Podarkes to offer to Poseidon. The finest stallion for the Lord of Horses. And she had to believe that Poseidon would be swayed, even if Zeus could not be. She had to believe that the Horse Lord would hear her. And if not her, then his own son.

  She studied Pirithous’s face, still a pale mask of the man she had married. The physician had done all he could, closing the worst of his wounds, and smearing honey over the rest. Hippodamia had trickled broth and water between his lips, but there was little else for her to do. Little else to be done at all, if the gods would not help him.

  Mia laced her fingers through his and held tighter.

  “My lady?”

  She did not have to turn to know it was Theseus. The compassion in his voice would have been telling enough, even if she had not grown so used to his presence in the palace. It would feel so much emptier when Antiope and Theseus left. And how much longer could they truly stay, when Theseus had his own lands to rule? Pirithous would not have a quick recovery, if he recovered at all.

  “Peleus and his men are gone. Melanthos follows them down the river with a handful of the blooded raiders, to be sure they do not turn back before they reach the sea, but I do not think we need worry. Peleus is well beaten, and his Myrmidons are not likely to risk the wrath of the gods by returning armed to your banks.”

  “I wish Peleus would try, that I might see his blood spilled by my own hand,” she said softly. “To have secured our safety at the cost of our king—it seems too great a sacrifice.”

  “If a king is not willing to sacrifice himself for his people, he is not worthy of the throne. Pirithous has proven himself, as you have, and when he wakes there will be no question of his rights. You will both be safer for it, and I do not believe Pirithous will think his sacrifice too great if it means you are protected.”

  She turned then, searching his face. Dusty and blood-smeared still from battle, but sincere. “When.”

  Theseus’s jaw tightened. “If he survived being trampled, he will survive this. He must survive this.”

  His words echoed her thoughts so closely. As if he knew her mind. As if his happiness, too, depended upon Pirithous’s survival.

  “He has been a brother to me, if not in body and blood, certainly in spirit. He has been more than a brother to me,” Theseus said. “Until he stops breathing, I will not give up hope. I will never give up.”

  “Might you appeal to your father?” she asked. “For his sake? For mine?”

  Theseus shook his head. “I dare not without offending Zeus. Not yet. Perhaps not at all. But Antiope says you have offered a generous sacrifice, and I do not believe for a moment that Zeus will abandon his son now. Not wholly. Not while Pirithous has no heir.”

  She touched her stomach, flat as ever. But it was far too soon to know if his seed had caught. Too soon for anyone but the gods to know.

  “Let us hope your bleeding comes as it ought,” Theseus said.

  She swallowed, unsure. Because if Theseus was wrong, and Pirithous died, still—

  Dia hadn’t been alone. And if Hippodamia was meant to take her place, to rule as queen after Pirithous was gone, she did not want to be alone, either.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Hippodamia

  Antiope and Theseus stayed.

  “As long as you have need of me,” Antiope said. “I will send Theseus back to Athens alone if necessary, but I do not think he will go until he knows Pirithous’s fate. And even then, he would not abandon you.”

  Hippodamia was still at Pirithous’s bedside. She’d slept beside him, careful not to touch his body beyond her hand upon his, that he might take what strength he needed from her, should he wake at all. The physician had come again at sunrise, smearing more honey over his wounds and checking his sutured side before leaving, and then she had been alone. She sat upon a stool, near his head, and watched him breathe.

  “Thank you, Antiope.” It was all she could think to say. All she had in her. Everything else was focused wholly upon Pirithous.

  “I’m certain you will hear from the priest today,” Antiope said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Theseus believes Pirithous will live, Mia. He says he is too strong to be killed so easily as that.”

  She wanted to laugh. So easily. Trampled by centaurs first, and then stabbed by Peleus, after he had tried to fight with a broken leg, broken ribs, to say nothing of all the lesser injuries he’d sustained before that. There was nothing easy about the wounds Pirithous had suffered. Nothing small.

  “Theseus believes Zeus will spare his son because he has no heir yet,” Mia said. “Am I to wish now, when he lies dying, that he has given me no child? That nothing of his body will survive him? I cannot hope to lose him so completely as that. But am I then praying for his death, if I hope for his son?”

  Antiope sighed. “No, of course not, Mia. And Theseus, wise as he is, does not understand all. He has never known anything but confidence. In himself. In his friend. He has never allowed the thought of failure to enter his mind, be it by death or otherwise. Everything he has ever set out to accomplish, he has succeeded in. To him, this is no different. Pirithous will live because he cannot fail. Because they are both too strong, too young, too blessed by the gods to be brought so low.”

  “It is hubris,” Mia said, the realization sinking like so much stone inside her, weighting down all her hopes. “And all the more reason that Pirithous could be left to die, heir or no heir. That he might be punished for his pride.”

  “Theseus’s hubris, perhaps. But I am not so certain Pirithous is so afflicted. He has had a different life—a harder life. And in his youth, he failed more often than he succeeded. For all that Pirithous lives fearlessly, I think it is because he does not forget how quickly his fortunes might change.”

  “They have certainly changed now. Ever since we were wed, it has been nothing but disaster. I have been the source of his suffering at every turn, and still he has clung to me, protected me, desired me…”

  “Because he loves you, Mia. And if there is anything in this world that will serve him now, it is that. No matter how still he lies, I am certain he fights for life. For you. And Hades himself will have to drag him from your side.”

  Mia smiled, brushing his hair from his forehead. Antiope was not wrong about him. From the moment she’d told him she could not love him, he had pursued her with a single-minded intensity. She could not imagine he would let even death stand in his way now that he had won her.

  “He is a fool,” she said softly, but she could not keep the affection from her voice.

  “All men are,” Antiope agreed. “But Theseus and Pirithous are the better sort, thanks to their mothers. Certainly Aethra is the finest of women. She would have been a queen had she been born Amazon. And Dia—Dia would have survived the world falling down around her. She had the strength and the stubbornness of Atlas.”

  “Let us hope she passed that same stubbornness on to her son, along with the rest,” Hippodamia said. “And in the meantime, I hope you will not let Theseus tempt the gods with his speech.”

  She could not bear it, otherwise. Much as she appreciated his confidence, she had only to look at the last sevenday to see what punishments the gods might see fit to inflict. And she could not lose Pirithous, too.

  “You needn’t fear, Mia. Theseus would never knowingly risk his friend. And if the worst comes to pass, I will stay with you for as long as you require it. Or perhaps Aethra will come to support you instead, if it serves the Lapiths better.”

  She said nothing. It would do her no good to tell Antiope she did not care what served the Lapiths. She did not care for anything beyond Pirithous’s next breath. Not right now. Even though she recognized her duty as queen, had chosen to be bound by it, she was still Centaur enough not to desire life beyon
d the loss of her mate. And perhaps that was barbaric of her. Perhaps it did not match this strange notion of honor that the Lapiths and the Athenians prized so much, but it honored Pirithous, all the same.

  She could not be what she was not. And while Pirithous had been raised by Dia, had been granted her strength along with Zeus’s, Mia had only what Centaurus had given her. What kind of queen would she be if she was not true to herself above all? What kind of woman, for that matter?

  As long as Pirithous lived, she would fight for him, for his people, for everything they dreamed of building together. But beyond that?

  Beyond that she was not certain she had the strength. Not if she must face it all alone.

  Even Dia had not had to do that.

  “Zeus remains silent,” the priest said, not meeting her gaze. He had arrived as the sun set, shoulders bowed and back hunched beneath a cloak.

  Mia narrowed her eyes, wishing Pirithous were awake to give her his counsel. He knew this man, knew his motivations, what he desired. He would know if the priest lied, hoping for more horseflesh, more gold, more offerings for himself rather than the gods.

  “Aithon would not betray me so,” she said. “His shade would not rest until he had charged through the gates of Olympus and appealed to Zeus himself. If the sign of the god is not clear, perhaps it is your eyes which fail you.”

  “My queen, I swear to you, the fault is not mine,” he said, wringing his hands. “My lord Pirithous would tell you, I am loyal to my king and my gods, above all.”

  “A shame then that King Pirithous does not wake. But the physician tells me it is in the hands of the gods now, and as such, his life depends upon you.” She had not moved from Pirithous’s side when the priest had entered, nor even risen from her stool, and now she grasped her husband’s hand all the more tightly. “Do not tell me you have wasted my horse. That the sacrifice was for naught!”

  “Perhaps it is only that Lord Zeus has not made up his mind as to his son’s fate,” the priest said, his eyes darting about the room, not daring to rest for even a moment upon his king. She resented that even more than she hated how he refused to meet her eyes. “Until he is decided, there is nothing to be seen. But of course the sacrifice is not wasted. Lord Zeus can only be pleased by the honor you’ve shown him with such a fine animal! Perhaps… perhaps another sacrifice would help persuade him to our cause?”