by Emily Hauser
‘But—’
‘Three days,’ he said, overruling me. ‘And now I must leave. But in three days,’ he placed his hands around my waist, lifting me up into the air so that I gasped, his eyes gleaming and all trace of irritation gone, ‘we will speak again.’
He let me to the ground and strode away, waving a hand and grinning broadly. I dropped my hands to my sides and let out a breath. My eyes roved over the herb-garden before me, the thyme and the sage, the borage and valerian – the garden she and I had planted together, all those years before, when I had skipped beside her as she worked, and measured my height by the growth of the rosemary bush.
I turned aside and hugged my arms to my chest, allowing myself, for the first time in many years, to hope.
Perhaps I would see my mother again after all.
Hippolyta
Amazons, Land of the Saka
The Sixteenth Day before the Day of Earth in the Season of Apia, 1265 BC
The months passed, and as the first green tips of grass poked through the snow and the breeze blew warmer from the south, melting the Silis into floating ice-floes, the raids from the Budini lessened – though whether they were satisfied for the winter or merely biding their time I did not know. Cayster’s wound had healed, the scar knotting neatly in the skin, and for many days Agar could be found on the plain training the boy to ride his colt with the other young Amazons, while I oversaw the preparations for the festival of the earth-goddess Apia. It was fulfilling work – there was much to do, and I was eager it should be done well. We built the temple to the goddess ourselves, as tradition demanded, a pile of brushwood to which we added each day, foraging among the trees by the Silis river as soon as the ferns and leaves of the undergrowth were visible again. I oversaw the blacksmiths, who forged the swords that would be planted in the temple – a symbol of the iron the earth-goddess gave forth for our use – and left them, my face flushed with the heat of their fires and the ringing of hammer on anvil in my ears. I spoke with the horse-master, who assured me that the steeds to be sacrificed to the goddess were healthy and fattening well on the spring flowers.
As the day ended, and the sun flared pink-tinged on the horizon, I met with Agar leading Cayster, Teres and Ainippe into the camp, each mounted on a young colt.
‘You sit well,’ I said to them, nodding my approval. Cayster’s mount shifted and he raised his arms to balance, letting the reins splay out to the side.
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Keep your hands down, like this.’ I guided them to his hips. ‘Feel the horse,’ I said, putting my hands on either side of his belly and letting him sway with the animal’s movement; I felt his sturdy legs gripping hard, and a wave of affection for him overtook me. A little Amazon already. ‘There, that’s it. Softer, softer now.’
Ahead of us, Melanippe emerged from her tent, holding a lamp and smiling. ‘Cayster, you are a true horseman!’
‘See, mother!’ he called. ‘I am riding alone, without Agar to guide me!’
‘Indeed, I see you,’ she laughed, ‘but your father,’ I turned aside, my hand slipping to the reins, ‘is famished and eager for his dinner, so you had better come in, with your horse or without him.’
Agar hooked his hands beneath the boy’s shoulders and lifted him to the ground.
I moved to turn away. And then I felt the trembling of the earth beneath my feet – so slight that the grass tips barely quivered. So faint, that none but an Amazon born onto the soil of the plains would feel it, and among them only their queen.
I stared up at the sky. The grass stretched gold-green to the pink smudge of the sun. And then there, to the north, pinpricks of black, like an inked tattoo—
‘Budini!’
My heart hammered in time with the thundering of their hoofs beneath my feet. Agar was staring at me, Melanippe had whirled around to look out to the horizon.
‘Budini?’ Agar called. ‘After so long?’
I did not reply. The fear and rage of war flared to life within me as I turned, my mind sharp, like the edge of a sword. I almost threw Cayster back onto his colt and took the reins of his mount with Teres and Ainippe’s. ‘Melanippe,’ I called. ‘I want you to lead the charge. Sound the war-cry, and get the tent-holders out to fight, too – anyone you can spare. I wager the Budini have come in force. We should do the same.’
Her eyes narrowed as Agar ran past, shouting orders to those nearby and checking his bow-case upon his belt. ‘And what will you do?’
‘Stay here,’ I said. ‘Guard the camp. They came too close last time.’
‘Alone? Your sword-arm is the strongest we have, sister, but to fight them off alone—’
I forestalled her. ‘There is no time, Melanippe! I need to do this. Go!’
The Budini were racing towards us over the plain, shrieks piercing the air, like the cries of eagles. As I strode through the camp with the reins of the children’s horses in one hand, calling out the war-cry, my troops were readying themselves, arming with swords, shields and battle-axes, throwing blankets on their horses’ backs, leaping to mount. As soon as we reached my tent I lifted down Teres, Ainippe and Cayster, who darted within, eyes wide and whimpering at the sword I was drawing, with a soft singing sound, from the gold-studded sheath on my war-belt.
‘Orithyia!’ I caught her arm as she passed. She turned towards me, her hands already on her horse’s back. ‘Protect our people.’
She nodded, then swung herself up to mount. I felt all the sinews of my body tense with apprehension, but I knew what I had to do. I could not risk leaving the young Amazons to Teuspa’s care. Not after what had happened when I had last left the camp in the charge of the rearguard. What almost happened, I corrected myself.
‘Oiorpata!’ I yelled, stretching my sword-point up to the sky, and the Amazons on their snorting, stamping horses throughout the camp bellowed back the cry. Melanippe galloped towards us, her hair streaming behind her. Then, turning her horse so she could see every one of the Amazons, she shook the shaft of her spear. The blade whirled and flashed. ‘Oiorpata!’
‘Oiorpata!’ the troops responded.
Melanippe squeezed her thighs into her horse’s sides and pulled on the reins so that he reared, tossing his black mane.
‘Now – go!’
I slapped Ippa’s hindquarters, Orithyia yelled the war-cry once more and, with a clatter of shields and stamping of hoofs, the Amazons were gone.
I took up my shield from within my tent, slotted my left arm through the strap and ran across the deserted camp. Here and there the dark eyes of a child peered out at me through the tent-flaps. I held my sword out before me, whirling this way and that so that my footprints in the grass looked like those of a dancer at the festivals of the gods. The sounds of bronze crashing on bronze drifted towards me from the open plain, battle-cries, screams, the whinnying of horses. Coming to rest at the edge of the camp nearest the Budini, not far from my own felt-covered tent, I planted my feet on the ground and held up my sword before me, ready for any sign of an outrider.
It happened in a swirl of hoofs and a swish of sagaris above my head: two Budini had broken free and were charging my left side. Heart pounding, I ducked to the ground out of range of the sagaris and sliced at the legs of the front rider’s horse with my sword, then whirled around, still crouching low, and did the same to the second. The warriors tumbled to the ground, as their horses shrieked and fell, writhing and kicking. The two men stumbled to their feet, their rust-red beards crusted with mud, hands slippery with sweat on their sagaris.
‘Leave now,’ I said, my voice low with threat, my sword held steady in my hand, ‘and I will allow you to go unharmed. Attempt to attack, and you will wish that your mother had never borne you to die such an inglorious death.’
One warrior snarled, lips pulled back over his teeth, and raised his sagaris to his shoulder. The other started forwards, swinging his own. I watched him, eyes narrowed, blood rushing in my ears, knowing that my safety lay in waiting for the attack,
waiting, though every nerve screamed at me to rush him, to drive him off.
And then he darted forwards from my left side, raising his axe and bringing the point down in a skull-splitting blow. I blocked it with my shield, then whirled around to parry the second warrior, who sliced at me from the right. He drew his sword with a shriek of metal and we began to duel, the throbbing echoes of blade against blade making the muscles of my forearm shake with the force, and all the time I was beating off the attacks of the first assailant with my shield as he panted and spat with effort. I was as focused as a falcon hovering above its prey, my gaze as narrow as the edge of my blade. Parry, block, attack, my feet whirling over the grass, my whole body tensed as I thrust—
One of my boots slipped in a track of mud left by one of the horses’ hoofs, and I lost my balance. My sword veered off course and my opponent’s blade slid across my right forearm, the iron gashing through my tunic and ripping open the skin. I gasped as the pain shimmered up my arm. At once, not allowing myself to cease, not even for a moment, I dropped my shield and took my sword into my left hand. Then, with a grunt, I raised it to block the sagaris’ blow. I could feel the battle-rage mounting within me, gritted my teeth and allowed the searing pain to turn to anger, to fill my body with fire.
I leapt forwards, screaming, sword swirling and flashing like a flame. Blades shrieked and hissed. The Budini were beginning to give ground – I could sense them weakening as I pushed them further and further from my tent towards where their wounded horses were still screaming and kicking, trying to stand. Summoning all my anger and the shreds of my strength, as one warrior attacked I lunged forwards, brought my blade to his and, quick as a flickering flame, circled it around and down, knocking it from his hand. I picked it up as the other attacker started towards me, then turned and parried his blow with both blades, my wounded arm lacerated with pain. Then, turning the hilt of the sword towards him, I thrust it into his face as hard as I could. It made contact with his jaw. I felt the bones splinter and heard his howl as he dropped to his knees, clutching his face.
‘Do you wish for another warning?’ I roared, holding my sword high above his head.
The first warrior was already running for the plain, his tunic clinging to his knees in the winds blowing from the sea. My victim staggered to his feet, eyes reeling with pain, then ran too, staunching the blood from his chin with one hand and leaving a trail of scarlet ribboning behind him.
That night, after the battle was done, I was lying alone in my tent, my arm bathed and wrapped in linen, the embers of the fire glowing with the last of their warmth. The Amazons had driven off the Budini without any losses to our side. I had protected our tribe. I had done what I intended to do. I should have been at ease but, as always after battle, I was heartsore and agitated, and it had little to do with my wound.
I tried to turn upon my bed, feeling the wolf-pelts shift beneath my naked skin, but there was no relief. I lay there, longing for sleep, with nothing to distract me from the wind over the plain and the whirling of my thoughts.
When at last I fell asleep, I dreamt again of the Greek.
Ἀδμήτη
Admete
Tiryns, Greece
The Fifteenth Day of the Month of Sweet Wine, 1265 BC
The days passed with no improvement in Alexander but, determined to try everything, I essayed every cure I could imagine. Infusions of yarrow. Tinctures of wormwood and gentian, imported from Thrace. Thyme, lemon balm, elderflower heated in water. Onion, baked over the fire, and the juice drunk with honey.
Yet the sun had risen and fallen over the walls of Tiryns twice, and saw me standing now with Alcides before my father’s throne in the Great Hall, exhausted, hopeful, ashamed – wrung with emotion like a dried-out cloth. It was late in the day and pine torches crackled in the brackets, their flames dancing up the walls and casting long blue and gold shadows. A single ray of evening sunlight poured through the opening in the hall’s roof, turning the flames of the round central hearth pale by comparison, and bathing the lapis-blue walls in colour so that the figures painted over them – the dogs chasing the boar at the hunt; the dancer leaping over the bull’s horns – seemed truly to move.
‘Daughter?’
I felt colour rise to my cheeks as I realized I had allowed my attention to wander – with the little rest I had taken these past months, it was becoming more and more common. I turned to my father, seated on the stone-carved throne with its serpentine base, his cloak swept over the side: the throne of Tiryns, on which Alexander was destined to sit. I saw at once, looking into my father’s face in the half-light, that Alexander’s illness did not weigh heavily on me alone. His beard was thin, skin showing through on the jaw, and untrimmed; his eyes were creased and reddened, suggesting that he, too, had not slept much, and he was twisting the rings on his fingers.
‘You have come with news of Alexander?’
Alcides shifted by my side, eager to speak; but I was determined to have my say first. I needed my father to know how desperate I was, how miserable that I could not cure Alexander, how intent on finding the herb that would heal him.
‘He is no better, father,’ I said, hating the words as I spoke them. ‘I have exhausted all my cures. I wish I could do more.’
He stopped circling his rings and shook his head. ‘No, no, Admete. You have done more for your brothers than I could ever have hoped. You have been mother and sister to them. There is no more I can ask of you.’
He reached forwards and tilted my face up to his, fingers beneath my chin, and let out a sigh. ‘Your looks are so like hers.’ He plucked at the dark plait and swung it over my shoulder. ‘So very like hers. Of all my children …’
I bit my lip and slid a sideways glance at Alcides.
My father sat back in his throne and leant his head on his hands, fingers massaging the temples.
‘Indeed, it is of that,’ I ventured into the silence, ‘which we have come to speak to you.’
He said nothing, and Alcides gave me a vigorous nod, then gestured to me that I should go on. ‘I was uneasy at first,’ I said, ‘when the thought first came to me, so I beg you not to judge it too hastily. But I have no cures left in my store that I have not tried, and without a different herb – different knowledge – Alexander will not heal. I believe,’ I swallowed and plunged on, my throat dry, for I had not spoken of them to him in many years, ‘that the Amazons, versed in healing as they are, with plants and herbs from across the eastern world such as we do not have in Greece, may have the cure.’
Blue smoke from the hearth swirled around the hall and spiralled up towards the sky. Slowly, my father looked up, frowning, his eyes barely open, hooded with tiredness. ‘You wish to journey to the Amazons?’
‘I believe I am the only one in Tiryns with the knowledge of herbs to recognize which may aid him,’ I said carefully, ‘and the only one to speak Scythian.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘no, no – it is too dangerous.’ His gaze was searching back and forth now, his mouth drawn. It was the same lost look he had worn for many years, after the day that he and I had woken to find my mother had slipped away from the palace and out onto the goat-trodden hills of the Argolid, vanishing as swiftly as the morning mists. ‘You cannot leave – I cannot lose you, too.’
I moved forwards and laid my hand over his, stilling the trembling of his fingers. ‘I would never leave you, father, as you know,’ I said, the memory of the pain and grief we had suffered aching within me, fresh as it had been fifteen years before. ‘But we know, both of us, that Iphimedon will not be the heir to Tiryns that Alexander is. We must find a cure. And you said yourself, that my mother was a healer without compare. I have thought of this often these past days, and I believe it is the only way.’
‘But how would we fare without you?’ he asked. ‘Who would care for Alexander? Your brothers?’
‘Mentor and Perimedes are sixteen years of age,’ I said. ‘They are not the infants I raised but men grown, and I will hav
e Elais take on the care of Alexander. With a little understanding, the treatment of willow-bark is easy to apply. There is nothing I can do for him at present that she cannot.’
There was a moment as my father took me in. Then he waved his hand. ‘But the kingdom! If the other kings – Atreus in Mycenae, Laertes in Ithaca, Peleus in Phthia – if they hear that I am sending my only daughter across the world for fear of my son’s demise, they will deem Tiryns weak, without an heir, trusting in Alexander’s death. You know nothing of diplomacy, daughter, but a king must seem strong, always, to his enemies and his allies, or both may besiege him. Then we would be ruined indeed.’
Alcides moved beside me, and I saw he was red-faced with the desire to speak, his eyes gleaming. ‘But, my lord, do you not see? That is why I am here!’ It seemed he could hold himself back no longer. ‘If you will only send me to the Amazons as my next task then I may accompany her. To the kings of Greece it will seem merely another labour to perform, yet I may ensure she encounters no danger, and at the same time fulfil my obligation to you and the queen of the gods.’
‘Our concern is with Alexander, Alcides, not your immortality,’ I said, throwing him a look, though inside I felt a twinge of guilt. And what of your concerns, Admete? a voice asked within my head. Are you so disinterested? Do you not also seek the Amazons for yourself, as well as Alexander? But I forced myself to press back the doubts, as I had done many times since Alcides and I had spoken in the garden. I have tried all my skills, I reasoned, weighing the arguments against myself, like a healer at the scales balancing herbs. And I heard my mother speak of herbs with great powers traded with the Amazons from the east. Though I am not disinterested, yet still I know it is our only hope. ‘My suggestion, father,’ I said aloud, ‘is that we send Alcides on a quest to the Amazons that the gods will consider worthy. To wrest the war-belt from Hippolyta, the famed Amazon queen, perhaps. That would be a fine labour, and more than an adequate front for the true cause of our expedition.’