by Rane, April
Czarinaea had known she was going to be required to take off her Amazon girdle when it was announced that she had become his queen, but head held high, put it back on just before she and her husband left for their journey to the Scythian camp. Czarinaea did not look back as they rode away from her childhood home. The gloom of the cloudy sunless day echoed the depth of emptiness in her heart.
Husband and wife had little conversation on their journey. When they had ridden nearly a full day Marmareus told her that the capital city of the Scythians was called Tanais, and it was located on the mouth of the Sea of Azov. He then said, sounding cocky and sure of himself, that she reminded him of the Azov from the moment he had first seen her. Like the sea she was still and calm on the surface, but he knew that underneath was tumultuous and powerful, and he vowed that day to own her.
Czarinaea had not looked at him fully until that moment.
“No one can own a sea for it belongs to itself, just as no one can own me!” she declared, looking him straight in the eyes, waiting for him to rebuff her words.
A low rumble accompanied the predacious words she had expected.
“There is nothing that I have wanted that I have not come to own,” he told her, “and that includes you!”
There was a queenly tilt to Czarinaea’s head as she ignored her husband’s words and sat taller on the Arabian mount she rode. Seventeen hands tall, he had bragged as he insisted she ride it, hoping no doubt, to make her uncomfortable riding a steed that was unpredictable and hard to handle. However, the opposite had proved to be true, as she easily rose to the challenge of the head-strong animal.
Marmareus had attempted to get the upper hand by complaining about the fact that she insisted on continuing to wear the girdle that represented her status as an unmarried woman. Making it quite clear that she would not remain a virgin long, he began discussing children. When she stated that the child belongs to the woman as it has always been and that the royal blood passes from mother to child, he practically unseated her from her mount.
“You will honor me in all things!” He shouted loudly enough for his entourage of men to hear. “It is by my good graces that your village still stands. I could have sacked it a year ago, taken what I wanted and left ashes. I have instead given horses and left an open invitation to the Emetchi to come and take part in our war games.”
“You say the word!” she spat at him, “but you do not understand it!”
“What word do you speak of, my dear?” He mocked her, clearly delighted that this banter should enrage her.
“Emetchi! You are not worthy to utter this sacred word. Emetchi means honored horsewoman. It carries with it an understanding that a woman is strong, independent, and sacred! You think women are part of your rule and treat them like slaves!”
“That is untrue since, as you can plainly see, the slaves are walking, the warriors are riding. You, my lovely, are riding; therefore you are considered a warrior and my wife, not a slave. Twill be changes if you are not of the nature of minding your manners.”
“You see, that is just what I am speaking of. If I do not behave I am punished!”
His voice was thunderous as he cut her off. “I punish my warriors if they needs be, and any continuance of this insolence will bring the lash upon your back.”
He lunged, swinging his powerful arm at her back, nearly unseating her again, but only managing to hurt her pride as his unmerciful laughter caught the attention of his men. Leering at her they shouted praises for their leader.
When Czarinaea pulled on the reins, the Arabian balked. Leaning down to pet the animal she whisper in his ear, and was able to easily pull him out of line and with head held high went back to ride beside the slave guard. I will not be bullied! she thought. The next time he tries to unseat me I shall be ready for him!
Reaching for Myrina’s gift, which had been such a blessing during the chaos of these last few days, she rubbed her thumb over the small wooden horse hanging on a piece of hemp which she wore around her neck, reminding herself that it was made of ash, one of the sacred trees of the goddess. “Preserve me as you preserve all those who seek comfort in your limbs,” she prayed as she felt the wood heat under her fingers. It was three days journey to their destination and she thanked the goddess for the reprieve of her wifely duties.
The Scythian city was teeming with life. Small wooden carts and horses were everywhere and street vendors were hawking their wares. Fish mongers called out, “Buy fish, dry fish or have a harsh and hungry winter.”
There was time yet before winter, Czarinaea thought, glad of the reprieve from the cold. Taking a closer look at the large amount of food being stored, she spoke to the man riding beside her.
“Apparently there is a war brewing?”
“Yes, but then there is always a war brewing,” he said nodding towards the overflowing grain shack at the end of the lane.
Czarinaea intuitively began to pick up his discontent, his worry about his family and the love he had for his children. Then she felt his shame at taking orders from a man such as Marmareus. As she wondered why he would be a slave guard, the realization came to her that he was, no doubt, their only hope since he alone treated them as human beings. And he shared her contempt for her husband. She was certain of it.
Czarinaea reminded herself that the Scythians would not take lightly to her feelings and visions. She had thought that she had put that part of herself away. But the visions, though not as often, had continued, although thankfully her spirit guide had been absent. Seeing her was a painful reminder of just how little control she had over her own life.
When Marmareus rode up beside her, her companion, casting him a scornful look, took his leave, taking her brief insights with him, and leaving her to the grandiosity of the man whom she had married, a man who was interested only in pointing out the greatness of his holdings.
Loathing the fact that the trip had ended, she decided she would settle in this city and await her fate. Hesitantly she dismounted and noticed that their home was spacious compared to the huts and make-do shelter that many of the warriors called home. She was also surprised that some of the warriors had patches of grain growing alongside their small abodes. A few of the huts had millet and corn growing, as well as numerous grazing goats. She had heard that some grew it to sell and trade. The Scythians were known as a nomad tribe, but she could see that there was stability to this village. It seemed that many were putting down roots.
Her new home must have taken a great deal of time and men to build. Bones that came from the mammoths of ages past had been used to interlace the structure with strength. These bones displayed carvings depicting the Scythian warriors on horseback with their short bows defending themselves in battle. The shapely women in the etchings were adorned with golden jewelry, lounging on what seemed to be comfortable beds. Well that sums it up, Czarinaea mused. She had now joined the ranks of the amply endowed, well taken care of, healthily fed and completely bored Scythian women.
Marmareus gloated as he showed her around the five rooms that they would call home. Forcefully he pushed and shoved his servant-slaves out of his way, and proudly pointed out that there was a fire-pit in each room in worship of Tabiti, the goddess of the hearth. Czarinaea, stunned that the Scythians worshipped a goddess, was just about to ask about it when Marmareus pointed out that two of the rooms had ovens. All thoughts of his goddess worship left her head as she stood thinking, “I hope he doesn’t expect me to cook!”
Later that evening when Marmareus came to her bed, cooking was the least of her worries. He raped her repeatedly, reminding her when she struggled that the safety of her clan resided only in his good graces.
When he finally fell asleep, Czarinaea inched her way out from underneath the vast bulk of her husband, every part of her body aching from his abuse. Though she felt the marriage bed was something she would have to endure, even in her wildest dreams she could never have thought any man could be so cruel.
Her fingers e
dged to her throat, thinking by her touch she could relieve some of the pain. Continuing to move slowly toward the edge of the bed, she lifted his arm gingerly. Just as she thought she had achieved freedom, she heard a low and menacing growl, and a hand snaked its way to her throat.
“If I send you back for not being a wife to me, then you’ll go back stone cold,” he told her. “Your funeral pyre will ignite the night sky, and your family, friends and beloved horses will burn at the altar of your shame.”
Each word was accentuated by his lethal pressure on her neck. He moved, slowly controlling her with his weight and his legs on her thighs as he entered her swollen womanhood again, clearly relishing her discomfort. He took his time, telling her in detail what he did to the slave-women as he made their husbands watch. He also gloated about the wives of his men, and how they welcomed him to their homes and beds as he made his rounds.
More than two years had passed. Marmareus was gone much of the time. Czarinaea was able to achieve a small amount of happiness when he was absent and did not care that he populated the surrounding villages with children.
Their clan had fought in a few small skirmishes, and had won, which added to the size of their holdings and brought new warriors to their tribe or slaves for the menial tasks.
Their marriage was a battle ground in which Marmareus constantly fought to hold the upper hand. Czarinaea patiently waited, and watched him slowly lose the respect of his people through his callous treatment of her, his abusive nature with his slaves and his disgusting dishonor with his house servants.
Czarinaea spent her days training the warriors in the methods of battle taught to her by her mother. The Scythian warriors in turn taught her how to use the short bow that their tribe was famous for. Most of the warriors became her friends. They never talked to her about the scratches and bruises that she did not acquire in the mock battles they fought with her, but they spoke of it among themselves. They knew from their interactions with her that no man could get the better of her unless she allowed it, and spoke among themselves of her enormous love for her clan and great respect for her mother, though she refused to talk about her. Many had asked her to tell stories about the conquests of the tribe that most men called the Amazons. She regaled them with details of battles and amazing stunts on horseback but never referred to the leader as her mother, only Antilene. When asked if Antilene was her mother, a desolate quiet sadness tinged her solemn words, “I have no mother.”
Marmareus was on one of his excursions, and had been gone just long enough to allow Czarinaea time to relax into his absence, when he stormed through the door yelling at the top of his voice.
“You have made a fool out of me for the last time! Come, show yourself and be made aware you’ve gone too far!”
Czarinaea heard him but chose to ignore his shouts of anger since she was being fitted for a new breast-plate and helmet preparing for the battle that was sure to come.
Finding her in the sleeping quarters, half undressed, with a man tugging at her belt and talking under his breath, he realized that she was being fitted for armor. His anger was replaced with lust, which, Czarinaea knew, was also fueled by rage, because of the fact that she so often vexed him.
“You called for me?” asked Czarinaea, showing little interest. “As you can see I am not dressed to greet you.”
His anger rose again, for she never greeted him. It was always he who had to search her out.
“You have injured one of my men and you have made a fool out of me for the last time!”
“We were just sparring,” Czarinaea said, as if speaking to a child, “just having a bit of fun, when the others circled around us. He changed his approach and came at me with full strength. T`was only in protection of myself that I threw him and that he landed hard on his arm. He knows better than it, for he’s been trained by the best.”
Marmareus, no doubt thinking that she referred to him, preened and softened for the moment.
“I’ve schooled them all in how to fall.” Czarinaea continued. “It’s not like he does not know. It’s just that he’s not remembering. How can you put the blame upon me?”
Her words enraged him and he came at her. As the fitter ducked and flew out of the room, she dodged his outstretched arms, and moving behind him, kicked at the back of his knee. When he fell, hitting his head on the wooden frame of their pallet, she was on top of him before he could move, pinning his arms to the floor with her legs, in a vice-like grip. Taking her knife, she reached under his neck with one hand and placed the flat of her knife to his throat with the other. She could have easily slit his throat and she knew that although he was dazed he was very aware of this fact.
“There you see!” she cried, pushing herself off quickly and jumping away, “You see my talents. Why should I be punished for something that is such a benefit to you?” Moving towards the hallway, she shouted back over her shoulder. “I am a great asset to you in battle! I am fine proof of how your wife supports you and rides by your side.”
Leaving the house quickly, fully aware that this time she had gone too far, she thought to give him time to cool down.
“I will serve you if only you will tell me what needs doing,” gasped one of the house servants, running along behind her. “Is it a horse you need, Emetchi? I’ll be quick about it… but we are going the wrong way if I may say so.”
Czarinaea stopped and looked thoughtfully at the old man. He was stooped and somewhat slow; remnants of vigor were just a spark in his eye. She thought with longing about her mother and how servant-slaves were always chasing after her with remarkable reverence. She had, she realized, never acknowledged how like her mother she was. But did she have her capacity to love? And though she was still angry with her, she had to admit that she had come to miss her mother’s strong affectionate nature.
Noise and confusion roared through the roadway where they stood. She looked down the dirt street and saw a Gewgaw tradesman hacking his wares. All manner of items were displayed, many were on a blanket, but some special items were on a small roughly built table.
“Come,” she said to the old man as they approached one of the street stalls where tradesmen were hawking their wares. “I want to buy a talisman for good luck in the battle to come.”
Her thoughts were heavy. She fingered the wooden horse hanging around her neck with leather and thought how much she missed her sister, her family. Touching her belly and remembering the fear of being with child two moons past, made her shiver. Fortunately, she now had herbs that would avert any such problem in the future. She knew Marmareus would kill her if he knew, but she had no intention of having his child.
The hawker bowed low in deference to her station as the wife of the King.
“I am looking for a talisman that will bring me good luck with this conflict that is leading us to battle,” she said firmly.
“Yes, yes, this one would be just the thing. It will keep you safe.” The one that the tradesman pointed to did not entice her, so she looked over the selection that was being offered. A gold covered quiver appealed to her, and she picked it up to inspect it further, but decided against it. Gold jewelry was abundant but she had no thought to adorn herself with it, which would indicate she was the property of a Scythian man. A cold chill ran through her again, but she gave herself solace with the knowledge that she was not his pawn in the matter of children.
Czarinaea’s breath caught as she spotted an emerald that was shaped like a tear. It was set in a semicircle of gold; it was a perfect crescent moon.
“It is this!” she said picking it up. “I must have it.”
The tradesman was horrified. “No…No! This has a curse! Please,” he said reaching for it. “It is meant for a woman who would steal a man from another woman. It would not bring you happiness.”
But although he pointed to an array of mammoth bone bracelets and amulets with intricate woven designs which were indeed handsome, Czarinaea knew it was the crescent moon she had to have. Picking it up again a
nd placing it in the palm of her hand, she moved it to catch the last glint of fading sunlight. Mesmerized by its feel, she turned again to the hawker.
“Shush… do you really believe in such things?” she demanded, and seeing the tradesman’s face turn ashen, could see that to purchase the talisman would mean rumors flying to the ears of the King.
“You are quite right. It is the first one I need,” said Czarinaea, respectfully placing the amulet down on the table. “You are right, of course.” She looked toward the servant who was still trying to catch his breath. “Pay him please and we’ll be off, for the sun is setting and it is time to sup.”
As she and the servant slowly walked back to the house, she was hoping that Marmareus’ temper had cooled. Her thoughts went back to the grudging respect that the tradesman had shown her. But that thought made her realize that the slaves and servants that had come to know her and many of the warriors also now treated her with something close to admiration. There had been quite a change since she first came to the clan. She realized that she liked the challenge of earning the respect of these proud and arrogant men.
Czarinaea moved even slower as they began walking on the wide horse path that led to her door. The servant, who looked tired, no doubt anxious to return to his quarters and hoping to avoid the king’s anger, also slowed his walk and asked if there was anything else she needed.
Taking a deep breath as she entered the house, Czarinaea told herself that tomorrow she would send her faithful friend Lotzar to the hawker, and that the charm would soon be hers, and no one, not even her husband, would be the wiser. Oh, she could already see it in her mind’s eye. The crescent moon hanging from a piece of leather, lying in the soft hollow of her neck, sitting elegantly high above her armor, and glistening in the bright morning sun as she rode into battle.