by Jane Yolen
“Can I sit?” he asked, pointing to the tree. Without even waiting for her answer, he flopped down and sat with his back to the gnarled trunk. He didn’t speak a word after that but just stared up at the fog-shrouded mountains. His face was the color of the fog, and he was very quiet.
It rained that night, a heavy, cold gray downpour. They took what shelter they could under the olive tree, but it offered them little comfort, and they were soon soaked through.
In the morning Tithonus was feverish. Hippolyta had to lift him onto the horse, then jump up behind and hold him in her arms. When he leaned back against her, she could feel the heat of his fever through her tunic.
A mountain with a double peak was now clearly visible on the far horizon.
“Just like Polemos said.” Tithonus rubbed watery eyes. “He knows everything, Polemos.” Then he sneezed three times in rapid succession, each sneeze shaking his thin body.
“I don’t like it,” Hippolyta grumbled. “I don’t like him.”
“Polemos?”
Hippolyta didn’t answer. Instead she leaned to one side and looked back.
“What’s the matter?” Tithonus asked, sneezing twice more. “Do you think he’s following us?”
“I don’t know,” Hippolyta replied. “I just have a feeling there’s more to Polemos than he showed. He might be behind us. Or he might be …”
“Ahead of us?” Tithonus asked.
Hippolyta shrugged.
By the next day Tithonus’ cold had gone into his chest, and he was too ill to travel. He coughed now, deep and awful sounds that were almost animal-like. His face was ashen, and tremors ran through his thin body constantly.
Hippolyta built up a fire and wrapped him up as comfortably as she could in her own cloak.
This was a barren stretch of country. Hardly anything grew here, and game was scarce. Leaving the boy to sleep off his fever, Hippolyta went in search of food.
The pickings were small: some tough, bitter roots and a couple of tiny sparrows, which she cooked on the embers of the fire. She fed Tithonus as much as he could keep down and gave him all the water he wanted. She went short herself, knowing that his body needed the nourishment to overcome his illness.
During the night his fever broke, and in the morning he insisted on carrying on.
“Are you sure you’re well enough?” Hippolyta asked. She was displeased with herself for being so concerned. After all, how well does he need to be to be a sacrifice? she thought.
“I’ll manage,” Tithonus said, forcing a smile. “I only need to be strong enough to hang on to you.”
He stumbled blearily to the horse and waved to Hippolyta to mount up.
Hippolyta could see what the effort cost him and could not help admiring his courage. Perhaps, she thought, it might have been kinder for him if the fever had taken him quietly in the night.
By the next day Tithonus had shaken off his cold. But they were both hungry and weary of traveling. Since they hadn’t found a stream in days, their water was low, and they smelled appallingly.
A bleak northern wind sweeping down from the mountains blew into their faces, and as long as they were riding, they were both chilled to the bone.
Tithonus rubbed his cheeks, trying to warm them. “Why haven’t we seen a farm or village?”
“The Scythians who live here in the north are nomads,” said Hippolyta. “They’re always moving from place to place. So you wouldn’t see anything like an actual farm. Or—”
“But we haven’t even seen a camp,” Tithonus said.
Hippolyta had had that same thought hours ago but hadn’t wanted to scare the boy. “Well,” she said brightly, “who would want to camp here if they didn’t have to?”
“You don’t suppose there’s—there’s a monster living around here, do you?” Tithonus’ voice was tentative. “A monster scaring off the Scythians.”
“We’re too far from the coast for there to be another sea monster close by,” said Hippolyta. “And we know how to fight off monsters, don’t we?”
“But there could be a Cyclops, couldn’t there?” Tithonus seemed intent on frightening himself.
“If there is, it should have spotted us by now, even with only one eye,” Hippolyta assured him.
“Well, even with two eyes, I still can’t see any sign of this city of yours.”
Hippolyta had to agree. If there were a city below the mountain, they should have seen it by now. And it had to be below the mountain. There were too many steep crags guarding the mountain flanks for a city to stand anywhere but directly before them.
“Maybe Polemos lied to us,” she said.
“Why would he do that?” Tithonus demanded.
“Because he’s a Lycian,” Hippolyta answered bitterly. “All Lycians are liars.”
“That’s Cretans,” Tithonus corrected her. “All Cretans are liars. At least that’s what my father says.”
“Unless that’s a lie too.”
“My father doesn’t lie.”
“But he doesn’t tell you all the truth, or you would have known about your mother.”
Tithonus shut his mouth and didn’t answer.
The double peak reared high above them now. Other smaller mountains clustered around its slopes like children at their mother’s skirts.
“I hope we get there soon,” Tithonus said through chattering teeth. “Before I become a block of ice.”
“I doubt it’ll be any warmer at Arimaspa,” said Hippolyta gloomily. She rubbed her hands briskly together, but that generated no real warmth. In fact the only part of her that was even slightly warm was her bottom where it sat on the horse.
“At least Arimaspa will be the end of our journey,” he said. “We can lift that stupid curse and go home.”
“Why do you want to go home? Remember how much trouble you’re going to be in.”
He bit his lower lip. “I don’t care. I want to see my sisters again and my friends. And my new baby brother.”
The reminder of little Podarces stung Hippolyta. “Don’t talk about Podarces,” she said brusquely. “He’s the cause of all this trouble.”
“How can he be the cause?” Tithonus asked. “He’s only a baby.”
“Never mind. Everything will be put to rights soon.”
The horse was laboring up another steep rise in the ground, and Hippolyta was thinking that they should dismount and walk to ease the climb. But before she could do anything, they reached the top and met with a shock.
The horse suddenly reared up and staggered back, almost tossing both of them to the ground.
“By the goddess!” Hippolyta exclaimed, clinging desperately to the horse’s mane.
Tithonus held on tightly to her waist and let out a whoop of alarm.
The ground had suddenly disappeared before them. They were on the very edge of a cliff face that dropped far down to a sunken plain below. And in the center of that plain was a city.
“Arimaspa!” they both cried out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ARIMASPA
HIPPOLYTA FINALLY MANAGED TO bring the horse back under control and stared down at their discovery. Below them, long, empty streets rayed out beyond the crumbling walls. Nothing seemed to be alive down there; nothing was stirring. Not birds or animals or people.
“Is this it?” Tithonus asked. “Is this Arimaspa?”
“Unless there’s another lost city around here,” Hippolyta replied.
They got off the horse and cast around for a way down. Tithonus found a steep slope. “There!” he cried out, pointing.
“We’ll never make it down that in one piece,” Hippolyta said.
They walked the horse along the cliff’s edge, and farther on, Hippolyta saw an ancient track that descended at a more agreeable angle. But it was badly rutted and looked barely passable. She pointed.
“That?” Tithonus’ voice held pure astonishment.
“That,” she answered, and slowly headed the horse in the direction of t
he old road.
Now that Arimaspa lay before them, Hippolyta felt in no hurry to discover its secrets, for the darkest secret of all was her own: Tithonus was to be her sacrifice. His life was the price to be paid for the safety of her people. If he died, they lived.
If he died … That thought sat in her chest like a lump of undigested meat, threatening to come back up again anytime she opened her mouth.
So she kept her mouth firmly closed.
The closer they drew to the city, though, the more she was aware of what lay before her. She wanted to tell someone. But the only one with her was the one person she could not tell.
No one else can do what I have to do, she told herself. No one else can carry this burden for me.
Tithonus too had fallen silent, but for a different reason: The eerie quiet surrounding them had soaked into his soul.
When they finally got to the city walls, they saw how thoroughly the wooden gate had rotted away. Only the arch was left, yawning emptily before them.
Once, Hippolyta thought, this wall would have deterred any enemy. Now she could easily count the places where the stones had collapsed. The city of Arimaspa had no defenses left at all.
Soon they were riding slowly through the empty streets where dilapidated buildings leaned drunkenly against one another.
Hippolyta thought that there was something familiar in this unfamiliar place, but she couldn’t place it. No sound of voices or footsteps, no rumble of wagons or crackling of cooking fires. The only noise was the mournful moaning of the wind down the empty streets and the hoofbeats of the horse that had served them so well.
Hippolyta could tell the animal was bone-tired, so she dismounted and had Tithonus do the same. Then, leading the horse, they proceeded farther into the city.
Open doorways and empty windows gaped on every side. Shards of broken pottery and corroded bronze and copperware littered the streets.
Familiar and yet unfamiliar.
“Are there ghosts here?” Tithonus whispered.
Hippolyta startled at the sound of his voice.
“Ghosts …” she whispered, as if trying out her voice again. Then she shook her head. “If I were a ghost, I’d rather stay in Tartarus than haunt this dismal place.”
As they turned into another street, she suddenly realized why Arimaspa seemed so familiar. The streets of Themiscyra were laid out along the very same pattern. It was as though an echo of the Amazons’ ancient home had remained with them down through the centuries of wandering.
Hippolyta smiled wryly. That meant she knew exactly how to get to the very center of the city, to the Temple of Artemis. “Right here,” she said, pointing at one street corner. “Then left.”
Tithonus looked at her as if she held magic in her hand. “How do you know that?”
“I just do.”
He went silent again, then suddenly blurted out, “I’ve never lifted a curse before.”
“Neither have I,” said Hippolyta. “I’m not exactly sure what’s going to happen.”
Except for one thing, she thought. One awful thing.
“I’ve seen old women making charms,” Tithonus said. “Do you think it will be like that? They toss some bones and herbs in a pot and sing over them.”
“No,” Hippolyta told him. “Not like that.” There was a catch in her voice. She blinked three times to keep from crying.
“Don’t be afraid,” the boy said. “Whatever you have to do, I’ll help you.” He put his hand on her arm, and much as she wanted to, Hippolyta could not bring herself to pull away from him.
By now they’d reached the main square, and as she’d guessed, there before them stood the Temple of Artemis.
Twice as big as the temple in Themiscyra, it alone seemed to have withstood the siege of time. The edge of the flat roof was intricately carved with scenes of hunting and battle. Huge stone pillars set about with golden vines and gilded laurels framed the entrance.
“Why, it’s beautiful!” Tithonus said brightly. “Don’t you think so, Hippolyta? Isn’t it beautiful?”
Hippolyta put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard to shut him up, for suddenly she realized that they were no longer alone. Someone was standing next to one of the pillars and staring down at them.
At first she thought the person standing in the portico was Demonassa, but when Hippolyta looked again, she realized it was someone equally old but quite different from the priestess.
Tithonus saw her staring, followed her line of sight. “Who’s that?” he asked.
“Hush!” This time Hippolyta was quite rough with him.
They watched as the old woman walked down the steps toward them. As she got closer, she became younger and younger, the years falling away from her like a series of gossamer veils.
“Artemis,” Hippolyta whispered, but not loud enough for the boy to hear.
Artemis nodded approvingly. “The time has come, Amazon. The sacrifice must be made.”
Hippolyta swallowed hard and tried to find her voice. She managed to croak out, “We’ve faced dangers and hardships together to come here and pay homage to you.”
“And it was well done.”
“The boy risked his life for me,” Hippolyta said. “Isn’t that enough?”
There was a flash of annoyance in the goddess’s dark eyes. “Enough? There is no such thing as enough when you deal with the gods. We have a covenant between us, between the gods of Olympus and the race of Amazons, a covenant in which a queen may allow but one of her sons to grow to manhood. That covenant has been broken, so now it must be renewed.”
“What’s she talking about?” Tithonus interrupted. “Manhood and covenants broken and renewed?”
“Be quiet,” Hippolyta warned him. “You’re in the presence of the goddess.”
Tithonus squinted. “That old woman?”
Puzzled, Hippolyta looked again at Artemis, and again she saw only the magnificent young huntress, glowing with youth and power.
The goddess laughed disdainfully. “Did you think he’d know me? How could his childish male eyes be expected to behold my glory? Take up your knife.”
“I …” Hippolyta hesitated. She looked deep into the goddess’s eyes. “I can’t lift my dagger against him. We’re of the same blood, children of the same mother—”
“There’s no need to go on and on,” the goddess said coldly. “If you can’t finish what you’ve started, others will do it for you.” She thrust her arm up and pointed.
All at once there was a great rush of wind, so strong both Hippolyta and Tithonus staggered before it. The sound of huge wings beating the air stunned their ears. The sky above them grew heavy and dark.
Looking up, they saw overhead a large vee of winged beasts, much larger than any birds. As the flight came closer, it was clear that these were no ordinary creatures, for each had the golden body and tail of a lion and the proud head, wings, and forelegs of an eagle.
“Gryphons!” Tithonus cried.
Gryphons. Now Hippolyta remembered. They were the same as the beast whose image she’d seen beneath the altar at Themiscyra. And she remembered something else: their sharp talons, their terrible beaks.
“Run!” Tithonus cried. “Gryphons are man-eaters. They’ll rip us apart. They’ll lap our blood and crack our bones. Run!”
But there was nowhere to run.
Besides, it was too late. The gryphons, a hundred of them at least, had descended upon the city and were even now perching on the rooftops and broken walls on every side of the square, staring down at the children as if waiting, waiting for some kind of awful signal.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WINGED VENGEANCE
“THIS IS HOW IT WAS back then,” said Artemis, gazing around the square at the creatures and frowning at them. “The gryphons came while Eos, goddess of the dawn, was spreading her rosy mantle across the eastern sky. The air was filled with their warlike screeches and the beating of their awful wings.”
Tithonus shuddered,
and as if catching the movement from him, Hippolyta shuddered too.
The goddess smiled grimly. “They were sent by my brother, Apollo, sent to mete out his vengeance.”
“Vengeance?” Hippolyta asked, glancing over her shoulder at one particularly large gryphon, whose sharp lion ears on the eagle head were twitching back and forth, like a cat when it was ready to pounce. She drew Tithonus closer to her.
Artemis replied, “For the theft of his gold. The gold he uses to fashion his arrows.”
“Who—who stole the gold?” Tithonus asked in a voice suddenly made small by fear.
Hippolyta knew that part of the story. “The princes of Arimaspa,” she said.
“Amazons stole the sun-god’s gold?” Tithonus whispered.
The goddess shook her head. “They weren’t Amazons then, but the followers of exiled Scythian princes. The same avarice exists in the heart of every man.”
“I don’t want anybody’s gold,” Tithonus said more loudly.
It was a simple statement, but the goddess turned and glared at him.
Smoothly Hippolyta stepped between them. “How did they steal the gold?”
“The gryphons guarded my brother’s mines,” Artemis said. At her words the creatures around the square clapped their wings, and the sound was like a hundred swords in battle. “But an oracle informed the Arimaspans that one night in the year the gryphons abandoned their usual vigilance, the night the females laid eggs. So on that very night the princes led their men up the narrow, treacherous paths to Apollo’s treasury.”
“Ah,” Tithonus said. It was such a little sound. Hardly more than a breath. But it made the gryphons in the square clack their beaks. This sound was like the cracking of bones.
Artemis ignored them, continuing with her tale. “They made off with as much gold as they could carry and returned home to a great celebration. But when dawn rose, the gryphons came down from their mountain aerie, filling the sky like a dark storm.”
The gryphons in the square moved restlessly on their perches now, making a sound like far-off thunder.
Neither Hippolyta nor Tithonus dared move as Artemis continued. “The men of Arimaspa gathered the women and children into this very temple.” She gestured behind her. “The princes ordered them to bolt the door. Then the men drew their swords and prepared to fight. Inside, the women fell to their knees before my altar, praying for mercy and protection.”