by Judith Hand
“For me, it is too late. They should have come before Achilles killed Hektor.”
Nausicaa took Derinoe’s hand and squeezed it gently. She had the good sense not to offer empty words of comfort for a love lost. Her own suffering for Glaukos was still fresh and crushing. Instead she said, “Andromache is deep in grief. When she comes out of it, she will have forgotten you and the children. Don’t worry.”
But Derinoe did worry. She hadn’t been invited to dance tonight in Priam’s court for the Amazons, something she was certain would have been the case had Hektor been alive. And the first day she left her children with Alcmene at Cassandra’s home, doubt nearly paralyzed her. Should she act as if nothing had changed or should she never let the children out of her sight? But the children begged to go. So she worried during the day and could not sleep at night.
The last of the infantry passed, their bronzed cuirasses, shields, greaves, and helmets gleaming from the touch of a mid-afternoon sun slanting to the ground from behind tall, gray-lined clouds. Four lines of pennants, of all the colors of the most magnificent double rainbow, passed by, snapping sharply in the breeze.
The children blew on their whistles. The crowd yelled, clapped, or pounded on whatever object they had at hand as the first line of mounted Amazons, preceded by more drummers, trotted into view, their horse’s hoofs beating on the street like clattering hail.
The sight snatched Derinoe’s breath. She put her hand over her chest and felt her heart’s quickened pulse. Line after line of tanned and lean women rode past, backs straight, eyes vibrant, throwing smiles of confidence to the throngs.
They wore the short battle tunic of Amazons, bare over one shoulder, and all were fully battle dressed: sword, ax, quiver and bow, javaline and shield. And behind each Amazon rode a younger women, her second, carrying spare weapons.
Derinoe suddenly discovered tears flooding down her cheeks. She brushed them away, but the crying didn’t stop.
“What is it?” Nausicaa said, her forehead creased with concern.
“I have paid a terrible price.”
“For what, Deri dear?”
She shook her head. “For peace. For security. For what I thought was security.”
The two of them continued to stare at the passing women and horses.
Derinoe envisioned her mother astride such a mount. She remembered her mother’s pride. “We Amazons are free,” she had told Pentha and Derinoe so many times.
Something inside snapped. She brushed away the tears. With each passing moment, Derinoe felt a stiffening inside. She said, “Look at them! Fierce. Unafraid. My mother was Amazon.”
Nausicaa turned wide eyes to her.
“Yes. I was born to be Amazon, but the Fates played with me. But they have played with me long enough. I’m going to take my children away from Troy.”
“How can you possibly do that? Without means. Without a destination.”
“I don’t know. But I’ve escaped before from much worse. I will make a way.”
She paused as the impact of her intent settled in. “And I have a destination.”
“Oh, mommy, look at the beautiful horse!” Myrina said, tugging on Derinoe’s gown. She pointed toward a woman beneath a scarlet and gold pennant who rode a magnificent gray stallion.
Nausicaa said, “By Zeus, the horse is a beauty. But so is the woman. That must be the Amazon Queen. They say she is beautiful. And she comes last, a place of honor.”
Stunned, Derinoe could barely whisper. “I thought the name of the Amazon Queen was Harmonia.”
“Perhaps Harmonia is their Hearth Queen. This woman is surely the Warrior Queen. And Deri, except for her hair, she looks remarkably like you.”
The world tilted, then spun. She grabbed Nausicaa’s arm. The afternoon lurched into something entirely unreal, as if she must be falling into a dream.
She said, her voice infused with her own amazement, “The woman. Unless I have gone mad, she is my sister.”
51
DAMON COULD NOT TAKE HIS GAZE OFF PENTHA AS she rode up, wrapped in the exuberant cheers of Trojans in desperate need of salvation. He waited, as did the other Themiskyran commanders, to enter the citadel with her.
Chariots gaily decorated with cloth streamers of red, blue, gold, and green waited at the tall gate to carry the Amazon Warrior Queen and her commanders into the citadel’s heart and up to Priam’s door. Atop their bridles, the chariot horses sported festive blue and gold feather plumes.
Also waiting for Pentha was the man Priam had appointed as Trojan supreme military command in place of Hektor, a stocky man a head shorter than Damon, with auburn hair, an eloquent voice, and courteous manner. He introduced himself as Aeneas. His black eyes twinkled as if he were perpetually amused.
Pentha dismounted. Aeneas ambled to her and gave her the Trojan salute of a fist placed over the heart. She returned with the Amazon salute, fist to brow.
“In the name of Priam, King of Troy, I welcome the great Amazon Queen,” Aeneas said. “I am Aeneas, newly appointed supreme commander of the forces of Troy.” He gestured to waiting chariots. “These are double chariots, honorable Penthesilea. I have assigned one for every two of your commanders. They will bear us all to the great King. Your commanders first, and then you and I will share this one.” He gestured to the biggest and finest of the lot, one pulled by not two but four horses.
Damon chuckled and noticed that most of the other Themiskyran commanders were also smiling. Clearly, Aeneas did not know Pentha.
There was the briefest pause as she studied the Trojan. She then gave the commander one of her warmest smiles—a a smile Damon knew sped like fermented mare.’s milk straight to the head of any man within its range—and then she said, “I am honored by your welcome, Aeneas. And by your offer to share a chariot with me. You may proceed me, or follow me, as you feel best. But I ride alone.”
With the rest of the Themiskyran commanders, Damon waited for the man’s response. Hostile or accepting? What would it be?
Aeneas returned her smile and with slow dignity, saluted her again. “As you choose. The King’s chariot is yours. It will be my pleasure to follow you.”
Damon quickly assigned the various infantry and cavalry commanders to cars, putting himself and Trusis just in front of Pentha. With drummers still leading, they entered the Trojan citadel, Damon’s first glimpse inside.
What he saw left him momentarily stunned. Never had he seen streets this wide. Nor buildings, except for palaces, with entrances so tall. Or possessed of so many windows. All the stucco here still blazed white and perfect. Flowers of red and yellow, orange and gold, brightened windows and doorways.
Where he would have expected displays of expensive statues of marble or lintel decorations in bronze or gold, he found none. But obvious marks indicated where such objects once rested. Presumably the objects themselves were hidden away against the dire possibility that the citadel might fall.
The street led uphill. They passed Athena’s temple. Within, he glimpsed the image of the Goddess. Lamps burned brightly in the dark interior. The image gleamed as if entirely made in, or at the very least covered with, gold.
They passed a Temple to Apollo, of equal size. He couldn’t see inside.
And then beyond Apollo’s Temple, the palace of Priam, dominating the citadel’s highest point. In several places the structure rose to four stories.
A series of broad steps led up to a long portico, which Damon guessed was ten times the distance from his door to his thornhedge. On it stood thirty or so people, the welcoming party.
The chariots stopped. The passengers dismounted. When Pentha stepped out of the King’s chariot, Aeneas gestured for her to ascend the steps. Damon and Bremusa followed a good ten paces behind her and Aeneas. At the top stood an elderly man with dark complexion wearing a scarlet, ankle-length robe, a gold crown, and draped in a purple robe richly embroidered in gold designs.
Priam’s hair and beard, neatly trimmed, were white. The rule
r of Troy stooped notably. To his left stood a woman, stout of figure but with a beautiful face of dark complexion, presumably Hekuba. She had equally white hair but straight back. A purple cloak also covered her white robe.
Damon had little idea who most of the others were. Priam was said to have many sons, recognized and unrecognized. An extraordinarily handsome man, the youngest present, stood to Priam’s right. He seemed to actually glow from good health. Tall, fair hair, sky-blue eyes, and a strong jaw and curved mouth that Narcissus might envy, he wore full battle gear of short tunic with greaves. An eye-catching leopard skin draped over his broad shoulders. This, Damon thought, must be the notorious Paris.
Damon’s brief euphoria had already evaporated in the face of thoughts of the reality of killing that lay ahead. And he thought sadly about Hektor. He would have liked to have met the man so many loved.
“We are here, at last,” Bremusa said. “Pentha is close to the vision that drives her so hard.”
Yes. At last in Troy.
He endured the greeting ceremonies—muddy brown talk-talk.
At last the pleasantries ceased. The Trojan royals departed and servants scurried to show the Themiskyran guests to quarters where they might freshen themselves for the evening’s festivities.
As soon as he could, he would join Pentha. He needed, desperately needed, to be embraced by the sound and color of her voice.
52
HIS SWORD FLASHING, THE SOUND OF CLASHING metal creating a blood-stirring ringing in his ears, Achilles thrust and struck at first one and then another of his four practice opponents. All their moves were many times rehearsed. No blood would be drawn. But the power of his blows sent a thrilling shock up his arm and into his shoulder.
The only thing terribly wrong was that Patroklos was not one of those opponents. After this practice, Patroklos would not share a rubdown with him. Patroklos was dead. And killing Hektor, though a triumph in the eyes of all Acheans, was pitiful compensation.
The two men opposite him looked away, over his shoulder.
He turned. Between two armed guards, the merchant, Muttalusha, shuffled toward him. Achilles gestured that his men should resume without him, and then turned to the business of the Amazons.
“Lord Achilles—” the merchant began quickly.
Achilles took him by the arm and pulled him roughly away from the soldiers. “I shouldn’t have to send men to find someone I have paid well.”
“I assure you, I was only momentarily delayed. I was coming—”
“Don’t offer excuses!”
“But really, I—”
“I expect you to come when I say you should come, not when you find it convenient. But for the moment set that aside.” He jabbed his sword tip into the ground, let go of it, spread his legs and crossed his arms. “Do you have the information or not?”
“Now, please let me explain.”
“Yes, do. Apart from your very helpful information on the Thracian Grammerons, I have thus far found you to be a dry well.”
“I tried. I really tried. But since my first trip to Themiskyra, since we first, uh, made our agreement, the people there have treated me differently. I mean to say, I, uh, I sense that perhaps—”
Achilles snapped out his arms, grabbed Muttalusha’s tunic, pressed his face close to the merchant’s so that his breath, not only his words, would strike him. “I tell you, I sense an excuse coming on. And what I got from you last time was no better than an excuse. For the impressive sum I have paid, I need information.” He thrust the man backward a handful of steps.
“I am truly sorry. But I think Harmonia knows or suspects, or well, I simply think she no longer trusts me, and my movements while in Themiskyra have become very limited.”
Achilles looked to the senior man of the two guards that had brought the merchant to him. “Take him away and kill him. Make him useful. Feed him to the hunting dogs.”
“No, no!” Muttalusha whined. He rushed to Achilles and would have fallen to his knees had the guards not caught him between them.
They dragged him backward. “Please. I do have something you can use. Not in Themiskyra. But here.”
“Stop,” Achilles said to the guards.
Muttalusha hurried on. “The Amazons have come to Troy, with infantry.”
“Do you think I don’t know that?”
“If you could capture the Warrior Queen, you could certainly find out from her everything you want to know about the defenses of Themiskyra. You could kill her, even, and perhaps totally undermine the Themiskyran morale.”
“And how do you propose I do that?”
“Well, first you need to know that she is vulnerable. She has a lover.”
“All Amazons have lovers.”
“Not ones that they care about enough to affect their fighting. They do not live with men. And they don’t take husbands until they are thirty-two.”
“Is the Warrior Queen any different.”
“Yes. Oh, yes, she is. Her lover is the head of their infantry, Damonides. They apparently do not sleep together now, while in the field. But they were lovers before. She is said to care deeply for him.”
“I fail to see how I can use this peculiarity in Penthesilea’s character.”
“Well, I am not sure myself. But there is more. I believe you could, ah, come to an arrangement with one of their commanders.”
“An arrangement?” He signaled the guards to release Muttalusha’s arms.
The merchant shrugged, and with shaking fingers, resettled his fancy tunic. “I know that their second in command of the infantry, a man named Trusis, detests Damonides. And it is said that Trusis is quite ambitious. I don’t presume to tell you how to do it, but Trusis is a weakness you can also exploit.”
“In what way is he ambitious?”
“My source says he has been heard to speak ill of Damonides and believes that he, not Damonides, should have been head of the infantry.”
“Why?”
“This Damonides, although born in Themiskyra, has lived many years in the outside world. He is, in fact, Achean trained. And Trusis believes their infantry commander should not have been an outsider.”
Achilles put up his hand to halt the merchant’s rush of words as his mind grappled with their implications. “Achean trained,” he said aloud. “And you say his name is Damonides? Now that is useful information.”
Unsettling information. A famous Damonides had fought some years back at Chios and Samos and elsewhere for the king of Iolkos. If this was the same renowned man, it would give the Amazons an enormous advantage he hadn’t counted on. He must let Agamemnon and the other royals know at once. “Go on.”
“Also, Trusis is besotted with the Warrior Queen. He would do anything to get rid of Damonides. Trusis could be induced to betray Damonides, of this my source is certain.”
“Just who is your source?”
The merchant grinned, tight lipped and sly and nervous. “She is a nobody who cooks for the soldiers. She owes me a great deal of money.”
“Debt is a great inducer.”
“Yes, sire.”
“Perhaps I will let you live. If this information proves true.”
“I assure you, sire, you will find it’s true. But I must warn you, or remind you. This Trusis is deeply taken with the Warrior Queen. He would not do anything to harm her. Should he think you mean to harm her person, he will not help you.”
“Escort our guest Muttalusha out of the camp,” Achilles said to the senior guard.
And then to Muttalusha, “If what you say proves false, I will find you.”
53
THE GREAT HALL IN KING PRIAM’S COURT WAS twice the size of the Great Hall in Themiskyra. Seated at Priam’s head table and surveying the scene, Damon couldn’t remember having ever been in a bigger room.
He wouldn’t have been able to say what struck him as most overwhelming. The exotic birds and beasts? Something called a mandrill, a huge, monkey-like creature, had an enormous face of
the wildest purple and pink. The food? He had been offered every delicacy he could think of, from squid to pheasant to whale to sweetened snow from the top of Mount Ida.
His dominant thought, though, was how to escape as soon as possible. He rubbed the back of his neck. The day grew long, and the press of people and the hum and dirty aura had finally shoved him to the brink of illness. He feared the least thing might tip him over.
Paris lounged beside him. The streak of ashes on Paris’ forehead, like those on the foreheads of all Trojans in the room, indicated mourning, but still Damon sensed a genuinely festive air in the room.
Paris’s exquisite wife, Helen, had gone to fetch her husband a second course of delicacies. Because the custom here was for wives to sit away from the table, slightly behind the men, and for unmarried men to be served by pretty girls, Penthesilea and her commanders had posed an interesting etiquette problem. It amused Damon that while the Amazons sat at the table with the men, their food servants were not handsome young men, but young girls. Trojan men were like almost all men, who weren’t slaves, that he’d met outside Themiskyra—jealous guardians of their dominance. They did not serve a woman, not even an Amazon. It would set a bad precedent.
Paris said, “Since my brother’s death, the people have suffered great sadness. I was on the wall just before coming here to our banquet. I saw many celebrations in the city. Singing. Dancing. Penthesilea has brought great hope with her.”
“Without hope, Lord Paris, no battle can be won. I will convey your thoughts to Penthesilea.”
“Your Warrior Queen is remarkably beautiful.”
“I assure you, she is also quite deadly.”
A contortionist, a long thin man wearing bright yellow baggy pants and matching turban, folded himself into one unbelievable position after another. Helen walked up and placed before Paris a plate heaped with fresh sea bass covered in white cream sauce that smelled of dill, “My dear Helen,” Paris said to her. The glowing smile he gave her spoke of affection that oddly reminded Damon of the way Wolf sometimes looked at him.
Helen’s skin was like fresh milk with a natural rose to her cheeks so that she used no rouge. Her lips formed a sweet bow. At the corner of one of her sparkling deep-blue eyes lay a beauty mark that lent distinction to a face so perfect she might otherwise have seemed bland. And when she rose to get Paris’s food and her gown clung close to her body, Damon particularly noticed that curved buttocks flowed into long, shapely legs.