by Jane Yolen
One of the gryphons in the square cried out then, the sound of lightning after it strikes the ground and sizzles. Hippolyta felt a cold sweat break out on her back.
“The women in the temple could hear the battle raging outside,” Artemis said. “The din terrified them. But when silence finally came, it was even more ominous.”
Hippolyta nodded. The silence would have frightened her, too.
“At last Lysippe, wife of one of the princes, had the courage to unbolt the door. What a sight greeted their eyes! Everywhere lay the bodies of their men, stabbed and torn by the beaks and talons of the gryphons. The women of Arimaspa wept uncontrollably, tearing their hair and rending their garments. I watched until I could take no more of their weakness.”
“Weakness?” Hippolyta was appalled. “When is it weakness to cry for the heroic dead?”
“It’s weakness if a woman can do nothing but weep,” Artemis said dismissively. “So I found Lysippe and pulled her to her feet. I picked up her husband’s fallen sword and placed it in her hand. ‘Enough of this grief,’ I told her. ‘Enough of weakness and mourning. Rise up, woman, and take your terrible revenge.’”
“Yes,” whispered Hippolyta, her left fist clenching tight.
“Lysippe stared at the sword,” Artemis said. “There was blood on it from a gryphon her husband had killed. Green blood. I kindled in her heart the anger and the thirst for vengeance she would need.”
Artemis watched Hippolyta’s face change, grow excited, harden. She smiled, finishing the tale. “One by one, the women each took up a fallen weapon. Sending their children back into the temple, they marched behind their queen into the mountains to the cavern where the gryphons made their nests.” Artemis seemed to grow brighter as she spoke, and taller. Her hair rayed out like a great dark sun. “The women took the gryphons by surprise, stabbing and slashing with a ferocity that possessed them like madness.”
Hippolyta’s hand gripped the haft of her ax. “And did they kill all the beasts?” she cried.
Artemis smiled more broadly still. “Those who could not escape into the sky were slaughtered on their nests. When there were no more adults left to kill, the women turned to smashing the eggs.”
“Yes!” Hippolyta cried, and lifted her ax high in the air.
But Artemis’ voice was suddenly tempered, as if the fever of the story had left her and all that were needed was the story’s moral. “The women abandoned the city, of course. Lysippe promised her followers that they would never again allow themselves to suffer because of man’s folly. They sent their male children back to Scythia, then set off for the south to make a new nation of women. They would be all things: farmers, lawmakers, bakers, hunters, but—”
“But above all, warriors.” Hippolyta finished for her. This part of the story she knew well.
“Good girl,” the goddess said.
“I have heard only some of that tale,” Hippolyta said.
“Most of my Amazons have forgotten what happened here,” Artemis told her. “But my priestesses remember. Or at least they remember Apollo’s decree: If ever an Amazon queen bears a second male child and keeps it, that boy will become ruler of the Amazons and return them to the subjection of men. It may seem a harsh punishment, but my brother wanted vengeance for the slaughter of his gryphons, and I couldn’t deny him.”
Tithonus stared at the goddess and then at Hippolyta, the truth suddenly dawning on him. “Why did you bring me here, Hippolyta?” he asked.
Artemis answered for her. “To die, of course. To be the sacrifice that keeps the Amazons free.”
“But I’m not the second son,” he whispered.
“You are one of two sons, and that is enough,” Artemis told him. There was something close to pleasure in her eyes.
At that moment one of the gryphons leaped from its rooftop perch and glided down to the ground. It landed right in front of Tithonus, who fell back from it.
“Come, girl,” said Artemis, turning to the temple. “There’s sanctuary at my altar.” She gestured Hippolyta to follow her. “We’ll leave the boy to his fate.”
Hippolyta wrenched her eyes from the goddess with great difficulty and watched as the gryphon backed Tithonus toward a far wall with lazy confidence. Its sharp claws clicked on the cracked paving stones, its beak snapped playfully. There was a fluttering and a harsh murmur from above as the other gryphons anticipated the kill.
“Come into the temple,” Artemis insisted, mounting the first few steps. “You don’t have to watch this.”
“Don’t believe her,” Tithonus yelled, his voice loud enough to make the gryphon on the ground mantle its wings for a moment. “Don’t believe that story of hers. Who do you think told the people of Arimaspa they could steal from Apollo and get away with it?”
His words hit Hippolyta like darts.
He’s right, she thought suddenly. There’s some wrongness at the heart of Artemis’ story. But she couldn’t think what it could be.
Artemis lifted an arm, and as if that were some signal, the gryphon trailing the boy swept out one of its great wings and knocked him flat on his back. Then it pinned him to the ground with one massive paw.
The goddess smiled a serpent smile, all teeth and no lips, as she watched the creature prepare for the kill.
For an instant Hippolyta saw her again as the old woman, her eyes hardened with years of selfish cruelty.
“Tithonus is right,” Hippolyta gasped. “You—you said an oracle told them how to get past the gryphons. But an oracle only speaks for a god—or a goddess. It was you, wasn’t it, Artemis? It was you who sent the Scythians to rob your brother.”
“What of it?” snapped the goddess, coming back down the steps and seizing Hippolyta by the arm. “Hadn’t Apollo’s followers just dishonored one of my shrines in Arcadia? He started the war, and it was time for his pride to suffer.”
Hippolyta pulled away from the goddess’s icy grip. Raising her ax, she ran toward Tithonus.
The gryphon spotted her and reared up, baring its vicious claws. It screamed at her with its lightning-strike voice, and Tithonus used that moment to scramble away.
Then Hippolyta swung her double-headed ax and sliced clean through the beast’s feathered throat. It fell to the ground, green blood puddling beneath its body.
At once an earsplitting cry went up from the other gryphons, and they rose into the air as one. The beating of their wings sent a huge wind whipping around the square. Tithonus grabbed hold of Hippolyta’s tunic to keep from being blown over.
“I knew you wouldn’t leave me, Hippolyta,” he gasped.
She didn’t answer.
“Come, Hippolyta,” Artemis said sternly. “It’s not too late. I can still grant you sanctuary. Without my help, you’ll be torn to bits, just like the boy.” She beckoned toward the temple.
“Not unless Tithonus goes in there as well,” Hippolyta answered defiantly.
“Impossible!” The goddess’s voice was hard as stone. “Men are not allowed—”
“We live together or die together,” said Hippolyta.
“Why?” the goddess demanded.
“Because—because he’s my brother. Because there’s no reason he should die just for your hurt pride or Apollo’s. Either one of you could lift the curse on the Amazons without any such a sacrifice if you wanted to.”
A gryphon dived out of the sky at her, and she lashed out with her ax. She felt its beak crack under the impact before it wheeled away, shrieking in pain.
Tithonus squared his shoulders and called to the goddess, “If you’re so keen on sacrifices, why don’t you lie down under the dagger yourself?” It was the ultimate challenge. “Then you might not be so ready to watch humans die for your sake.”
“I will watch you die,” said Artemis grimly. “Both of you. And enjoy every last bloody moment.”
The beating of gryphon wings grew louder as the creatures massed above them for a full-scale attack.
“Together,” whispered Tith
onus to Hippolyta.
She looked at him and smiled lopsidedly. “Yes, together.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
JUDGMENT
HIPPOLYTA SHOVED TITHONUS BEHIND her and lashed out with her ax. The ax clipped the leg of the closest gryphon and sent it darting up into the sky with a howl of pain. A paw batted the cap from her head as another beast made its strike. Hippolyta ducked. Whirling her ax above her head, she sliced feathers from a passing wing, then cracked another beak.
Meanwhile Tithonus set himself back to back with Hippolyta. He pulled out the knife she’d given him days earlier, and then he too busied himself slashing at their attackers. The screeches, sizzles, and howls of the gryphons were almost deafening, and the breeze whipped up by their wings buffeted the two on every side.
The gryphons renewed their attack, and one managed to slip though the slashing blades, its beak tearing a red stripe down Hippolyta’s arm. Another, sensing an advantage, followed the first in and raked its sharp claws across the back of Hippolyta’s tunic. At the same time, its heavy wing gave Tithonus such a knock on the head, he saw bright stars.
Still, the two children wouldn’t stop fighting. Hippolyta’s ax drew blood time after time. And if Tithonus wounded fewer, it was because he was smaller, with a shorter blade, not because his heart was any less stout.
But they could feel themselves growing tired. Muscles ached, and sweat ran down their brows so quickly neither one could see very well.
Hippolyta guessed that death was now very close at hand. Perhaps, she thought, perhaps this is what I deserve. She’d been only too ready to sacrifice Tithonus a short time ago, and now she would die in a vain effort to save him.
A gryphon landed heavily on her shoulders, forcing her to her knees. Whom can I pray to now? Hippolyta thought wildly. Then she thought, Might the gods not accept me as sacrifice in place of the boy? She smiled under the weight of the creature atop her, thinking, Perhaps Tithonus could return to Troy, after all, and carry with him a fond memory of his dead sister.
From somewhere far away she heard Tithonus cry out, but whether it was in pain or anger or joy, she couldn’t tell. She pitched face downward onto the dirt, thinking that the screeching of the gryphons had changed, too. There was terror in it now as well as triumph and rage.
“Oh, Mother,” she whispered through lips as stiff as stone, “wait for me.” And she gave herself over to death.
But death did not seem to want her, and she pushed herself back onto her knees, dimly aware that someone was standing over her, fighting off the gryphons in her stead.
Looking up blearily, she saw a black-bearded warrior in bronze armor wielding a wide-bladed sword and fending off the claws of his attackers with a round shield.
“Polemos!”
Had she said his name aloud? She couldn’t tell. But for a moment he looked down at her and grinned. Then he focused all his energies on the attacking creatures.
Sunlight broke through the shadow of the circling flock as the gryphons drew back from the Lycian’s bloodstained blade. Ten or twelve of them lay dead on the ground by his feet.
Tithonus helped Hippolyta up. His face gleamed with pale horror, but his voice held pure joy. “Look, Hippolyta, it’s Polemos. He’s come out of nowhere to save us!”
“He always comes out of nowhere,” she said.
Breathing hard, she felt as if her chest were on fire, as if her whole body had been beaten with hammers.
“You can call off your pets now, Apollo!” Polemos yelled over the din of the gryphons.
Hippolyta gasped at his tone.
“If I don’t,” a smooth voice replied, “they’ll beat you eventually and eat your little pets. You know that, don’t you?”
“And how many do you think I’ll kill before that happens, Apollo?” Polemos retorted. “A hundred? Two hundred? More?”
Suddenly a tall, bronze-skinned youth, long black curls cascading over his shoulders, appeared from the shadow of a tall building and strode across the square toward them. He was so handsome, Hippolyta had to look away.
“Good question, cousin,” Apollo admitted. “Let’s not put it to the test today.”
He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, and at once the whole flock of gryphons wheeled into the sky, turned toward the mountains, and flew away. With their departure the sun blazed down on the city like the light of a fresh dawn.
“You always were a troublemaker, Ares,” the young man drawled to Polemos. “Always interfering in other people’s business.”
“Ares?” Tithonus wrinkled his nose. “The god of war?”
Polemos turned to him, grinning. “Not what you expected?”
So that’s how he can appear so suddenly, Hippolyta thought. And shoot so accurately, and—
Tithonus chewed his lip and fidgeted nervously. “I always thought you’d be, well, a bit of a bully,” he said abashedly.
“That’s what the other gods would like you to believe,” said Ares, casting a meaningful glance at Apollo.
“You used to bully me when I was young,” Apollo said.
“That was aeons ago,” Ares said. He smiled. “I was just trying to keep you in line.”
Hippolyta thought she might have found it amusing if she weren’t so tired. If blood and sweat weren’t running down her face.
Artemis stomped up to the war god, put her hands on her hips, and fixed him with a belligerent stare. “You’ve no business here, Ares. Why don’t you go back to that armory you call a home?”
“I have no business here?” Ares repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t the Amazons worship me as well as you, Artemis? Besides, you were trying to kill my daughter.”
He turned slightly and put a gentle hand on Hippolyta’s hair.
“Y-Your daughter?” she stammered.
“Your mother swore never to tell you,” said Ares. “She thought it might go to your head if you knew your father was a god.” He laughed. “But anyone seeing the three of us together would have guessed. You look nothing like Otrere.”
“You look like him!” Tithonus crowed. “I see it now. The dark hair, the crooked smile, the same color—”
“No, I don’t!” Hippolyta insisted. But she knew, with sudden conviction, that she did.
“Whether she’s your daughter or not, Ares, she’s still a mortal and must be bound by our laws,” Artemis insisted.
“Half mortal,” said Ares. “And this has nothing to do with laws. It’s all about your empty rivalry with your brother. The two of you have been quarreling for so many centuries, you believe the whole world revolves around your disputes.”
Brother and sister, Hippolyta thought. Then she looked over at Tithonus. We won’t quarrel that way, she promised herself.
But the gods were still arguing.
“Why shouldn’t mortals do as we say?” asked Apollo. “Aren’t we the gods?”
“Yes, we’re the gods, and we’ve the means to fight our own battles,” said Ares. “Let men fight for their own reasons: to defend their truths, to protect those they love—”
“To gain gold or ground or tell someone else how to worship,” sneered Apollo.
Artemis folded her arms and glared at Ares. “So you take their side against your fellow immortals.”
“I am the warrior’s god, after all,” said Ares firmly. “Many times mortals are at their worst when they fight, but often they are at their best then, too. Battle displays human courage, determination, willingness to sacrifice for something they value even more than their own lives. Just look at Hippolyta. She was ready to give up her own life in defense of her brother. That’s more than either of you two would ever do.”
“You’re a fool, Ares,” Artemis declared, stamping her foot. “Would you have us take lessons from mortals?”
“Who else is there for us to learn from?” said Ares. “Now end this foolishness, and lift your curse from the Amazons.”
Brother and sister stared at each other for a long moment, and Hippolyta
wondered what would happen. She could feel a bead of cold sweat running down her spine. When the gods decided to do something, humans could only wait and hope.
Then Apollo nodded slowly, and Artemis did likewise, though it was with a sullen look on her pretty face. Each raised a hand in the air, and a bolt of light shot from the space between their fingers, merging above the city. The light arced across the sky like a shooting star flying up to the heavens and then was gone.
“There,” said Artemis, scowling. “It’s done.”
“Now go,” Ares ordered them, “back to Delphi or Olympus, I don’t care where. See if you can settle your differences without bringing harm to anyone else.”
“We’ll go,” Apollo agreed with a curl of his lip. “But even without us, mortals will still find things to fight over.”
“Perhaps,” Ares said. “But at least those disputes will be their own. And they’ll learn to settle things themselves.”
“We’ll go for now,” Artemis said, leaning toward her cousin. “But we won’t promise to stay away.”
Apollo nodded and stood close to his sister. A nimbus of gold surrounded them both, as if they were twinned in a womb of light. As the nimbus tightened around them, they seemed to fade into the air until they were just motes of sunlight dancing in the sunlit town square.
Hippolyta and Tithonus both breathed huge sighs of relief, and the boy turned to Ares. “So you were Polemos,” said Tithonus.
“And before that,” Hippolyta added, rubbing a hand through her hair, “you were the old man by the river.”
“Yes.” Ares nodded. “I was both. We gods change shape as easily as you change your clothes.”
“But why did you keep your identity a secret?” asked Tithonus.
“I couldn’t interfere directly in your journey,” Ares explained. “Father Zeus doesn’t allow it.”
Hippolyta laughed. “That javelin was pretty direct. And fighting off the gryphons.”