by Emily Hauser
‘But she looks like an Amazon!’
‘She looks like Antimache!’
Thoughts chased themselves through my head – presentiments as to why Ioxeia had refused to speak to me of Antimache, why whispers of her name followed me. Perhaps she was disgraced. Perhaps she is dead. Perhaps she betrayed them for the Greeks …
I pulled the hood of my cloak over my head and walked quickly, squinting against the rain. When I looked up, I had reached Alcides’ tent.
And so I went to Alcides instead. ‘I need to speak with you.’
I hung at the doorpost of the tent, taking in the felt walls covered with woven rugs, the fire sputtering in a brazier at the centre as drops of rain slid through the opening above. Alcides was sitting on a stool rubbing his hair with a cloth, and I realized that, though he had on a fresh tunic, his hair was drenched, and many of the others – the brothers Euneos, Solois and Thoas among them, Perses and Sthenelus, and Timiades of Argos – were warming themselves by the fire in sodden clothes. Theseus was there too, and his appearance, nose mangled, the bone at an odd angle, his face streaked with blood, shocked me – perhaps he had fallen from his horse, or come to blows with another of the Greeks. His face was as dark as the stormclouds overhead and a vein pulsed on his forehead as he allowed a slave to mop the blood from his skin. His eyes narrowed as he watched me pass.
I approached Alcides, moving past Timiades, who stood nearest, and knelt by him. ‘The hunt?’ I asked.
Alcides shook his head, spraying me with raindrops. ‘We were forced to return,’ he said, patting his jaw and neck with the cloth.
‘Oh. I am sorry,’ I said, reaching to brush his knee, wondering if they had come back because of the rain or Theseus’ injury. ‘But I am glad you are here. I would speak with you.’
Perhaps he heard the concern in my voice, or perhaps it showed in my eyes, for he ceased drying himself and leant forwards, elbows on his thighs, frowning at me – just as he had always done in years gone by when I had come to him with some worry or slight. My heart swelled at this sign of our old friendship.
‘What is the matter?’
I bit my lip, glancing at Theseus, whose head was tilted back as the slave tended him, then at Timiades a few paces distant, warming his hands at the fire, but the rain was still hammering against the tent, and there was nowhere else to go.
‘Did you find the cure?’ His voice was low and eager as he leant closer to me, so quiet beneath the spitting of the flames that no one but I could hear him. ‘Did you find the cure for Alexander?’
I shook my head, and his face fell. ‘But I have a lead,’ I added, and his expression lifted. ‘I do not know if it amounts to anything but,’ I swallowed my disbelief, for now was not the time to quell Alcides’ enthusiasm, ‘the healer told me of a garden of apples, belonging to the gods, which might cure my brother. She told me to ask the queen if she had heard tell … and also, of my mother …’
‘Apples of gold?’ he asked, frowning, and his voice rose over the licking flames.
Timiades turned towards us, his interest caught, and asked, ‘Surely not the apples of the Hesperides?’
‘You know of them?’ I asked, taken aback. ‘I had never heard …’
He shrugged. ‘An old story,’ he said, ‘and not much repeated.’
‘Well?’
He rubbed his forehead. ‘There is said to be a garden, at the end of the earth, watched over by the Hesperides, the guardians of evening, daughters of Atlas. The apples of gold – or so they say – were a gift from the earth to Zeus and Hera on their wedding day.’
‘And – and these apples have healing properties?’ Perhaps there is more to Ioxeia’s story than hearsay. If it has been told in Greece too, then perhaps it is more than a mere tale.
He shrugged again, stretching his hands towards the fire. ‘I heard it from my father’s mother when I was a boy, so I do not remember it well. But I seem to recall – I may be wrong, mind – that they were said to bring immortality.’
I felt Alcides tense at the word. His eyes met mine, alight with exhilaration, his face burning, and I knew that he was remembering my father’s words: If the Amazons do not have the herbs you seek, then I pray Alcides seeks them out as the final labour of the twelve – whatever he has to do. You may say, Alcides, I gave the task to you before you left.
And behind it, blazing in his mind, like a brand: Immortality.
‘Gods, Admete,’ Alcides said, and he placed his hands either side of my face, planting a kiss on my forehead and laughing, ‘you should have been a man! How did Athena and Hephaestus fit so much cleverness within the narrow compass of a woman?’
Theseus, sitting the other side of the hearth, looked up at Alcides’ cry, scowling. ‘Cleverness in a woman?’ he called, his expression twisted with scorn as he pushed aside the slave, his skin clean though his nose remained distorted. ‘You might sooner persuade me that the river Achelous flows up to the peaks of the Pindus mountains.’
Alcides hesitated, a smile lingering. He caught my eye, and the merriment at Theseus’ jest faded. Theseus snorted, then winced, bringing a hand to his face and his smarting eyes. ‘But then,’ Alcides said, ‘we may press on with the battle for the war-belt at once! There is no longer any need for delay.’
Again, I heard impatience in his voice, and felt a twist of discomfort in the pit of my stomach. I had not considered what would happen when we found the cure we sought. The queen would not give up her war-belt without a struggle, and I had not thought that Alcides would quest for it in battle – that we would violate the laws of hospitality and rise up against those who had welcomed us. And now that I had come to know the Amazons – my own people – how could we turn against them?
‘Alcides,’ I began, ‘you should hear me. Perhaps we should not fight—’
‘Oh, for Zeus’ sake, Hercules, that is enough!’ Theseus had got to his feet and caught the corner of the table from which the slave was working, bearing a bowl filled with water and bandages, as he did so. The bowl fell, the water spilling over the ground, making the fire hiss. The slave dropped to his knees to clear it. Theseus’ face was reddening across the fire and his voice was raised as he rounded on Alcides. I stared at him, unable to move from my position at Alcides’ feet, sensing that something more had goaded the prince of Athens than my presence alone, though what I could not tell. ‘How much longer will you continue to listen to the counsels of a woman?’ he spat, over the slave’s crouched back. ‘We should have stripped the queen of her damned-to-Styx war-belt the moment we came ashore, as I advised you! First we are to delay so she,’ he glared at me, ‘may find herbs for the cooking-pot – and now she will dissuade you from your quest altogether, as if she knows anything of the ways of war! Gods!’ He kicked at the overturned table beside him, and his slave cowered. ‘Women are all the same – cowards one and all! How can you bring yourself to heed her, Hercules?’
I flinched, but anger was coming to my defence. ‘Son of Aegeus,’ I stood up and stared him full in the face in the dim half-light of the fire, ‘I am the daughter of a king of Greece. You may not speak to me so! Alcides will not permit it!’
But Theseus went on, the words pouring from his mouth as if they had been pent up for weeks, and Alcides did nothing to stop him, though he shifted a little on his seat. Colour was creeping up his neck, beads of sweat visible on his skin in the firelight. ‘You wished to know why he did not list you among the heroes at the court of Lycus?’ Theseus pointed a finger at Alcides, spit flying from his mouth. ‘It is because you are not one of us! He said it himself – ask, and he will tell you! You are not as strong or as courageous as a man, and you should not think otherwise – as if you and the son of Zeus are companions, blood-brothers who are the same.’
I turned to look at Alcides, and he glanced aside, avoiding my eye. ‘You did not say that.’ My voice was quiet, and the tent was hushed but for the beating of the rain against the felts, and the rustling of Theseus’ slave on the floo
r. ‘Tell me you did not say that.’
‘I …’ He hesitated. The red flush had reached his ears now. He glanced towards Theseus, then took a breath. ‘You are a woman, Admete,’ he said, and his eyes slid to mine, half defiant, half ashamed. ‘It is as he said. You do not know the ways of war. War is the business of men.’
I thought I heard an exhalation of triumph from Theseus.
‘The business of men?’ I exclaimed, almost laughing as incredulity at what he had said swept through me. ‘Do you not know where you stand? Have you not seen the Amazon warriors?’
But Alcides did not reply, looking past me. ‘We take the war-belt, by force if need be, then journey to seek the golden apples. It is decided.’
A flutter of panic shivered through me, cold as the rain slanting through the opening above – Gods, no, not a battle, not before I have found my mother – and I dropped to my knees again beside him. ‘At least one day, then,’ I said, changing tack, like a ship with the wind, my words coming quickly in my fear. ‘Grant me at least one day. I must speak with the queen!’ I grasped his hand, and he wrenched his gaze towards me. ‘She will tell us of the golden apples,’ I said, holding him. ‘Think of my brother, Alcides, and if not him, then think of your immortality. The apples of immortality.’ I touched his chin, my fingers shaking. ‘You must trust me – we need this. We are still friends, are we not?’
He did not answer, but neither did he shake me off. The air in the tent was thick with tension, and behind me I could sense Theseus watching Alcides, the eyes of Timiades and the others upon us. I could almost sense the quarrel within Alcides’ heart: his burning ambition and desire to fight, his longing to be respected among men, princes above all; but, like a stone anchor thrown into the sea, the knotted cord of our friendship pulled at him still.
‘Very well,’ he said at last, not meeting my eyes as he stood and strode towards the tent entrance. ‘But one day only, Admete.’
‘Alcides!’ I shouted after him, wounded into rage now as he pulled aside the tent-flap. ‘Alcides!’ I struggled to my feet. ‘Look at me! Come back!’
But the hides swung into place behind him and he did not return. When I ran after him, I could no longer make him out through the silver curtain of rain that splashed on my hair and ran down my cheeks.
Garden of the Hesperides
Scythia
An Amazon is creeping through the camp on the banks of the Tanais river, shrouded in darkness as the clouds swirl and gather overhead and the rain pours over her. From the way she keeps close to the tents scattered over the plain, her eyes darting this way and that, it is clear that she does not want to be seen. She wears woollen trousers covered with a soaking tunic, felt boots and cap, and a belt from which hangs a sword and battle-axe: everything a typical Amazon might wear, and nothing that could reveal her identity.
Yet she is no Amazon.
She is, in fact, the queen of the gods.
Hera ducks around a corner as a figure passes, running after two dim shapes retreating into the rain – a man she recognizes at once as the Greek Theseus, son of Aegeus and prince of Athens. He looks somewhat the worse for wear, she thinks, his nose twisted out of shape and a blue-black bruise blooming over one eye, his wet hair sticking to his forehead, yet he is still handsome, in that fearless, challenging way …
Her eyes linger on him as he disappears into the rain. Then she recalls herself, slips out of the shadows and moves towards the camp’s edge. She has decided to search for Calliope in a mortal disguise, for there are only so many places that can be seen from Olympus’ heights, and a Muse might hide anywhere: beneath the fibrous branches of a forest, or within a tent at the edge of the Amazon wilderness. And she heard rumours from the wood-nymphs, as she climbed the slopes of the Carpathian Mountains, that Calliope had passed that way, heading east, so east she came, searching, searching always …
And then she stops short.
She has heard something from within a tent nearby, something that, if she were truly a mortal and not a god who lives for ever, would have made the blood within her veins freeze.
The voice continues – a woman’s, hoarse with age, floating towards her from the tent ahead.
‘… and I told her – the Greek girl, I mean, the one who looks like an Amazon – I told her that man, Hercules, as he calls himself, should ask Queen Hippolyta about the golden apples, for perhaps they may provide what she seeks.’
‘Is it likely?’ asks another voice.
But Hera does not hear the response. She stands there, and it is as if time has stopped its relentless march and the rain has ceased to fall as horror fills her. She has been so focused on Calliope that she forgot entirely about Hercules.
She almost stamps her foot in frustration and outrage. Hercules! Again! Always! Only he among mortals could be so arrogant as to try to take the apples from her. The bastard son of Zeus!
She snorts with fury. It is impossible – unthinkable!
And now she has two pretenders to the golden apples to deal with.
It takes all the self-control she possesses to prevent herself pursing her lips and blowing the Amazon camp into oblivion. For a moment she amuses herself by imagining the storm she would conjure: the howling winds plucking the tents from the earth, like frail-petalled flowers, the whirling vortex hurling them into the depths of the sea …
But then she scowls, remembering how irritatingly stern Zeus can be about the dictates of the Fates.
And it is not time for the Amazons to disappear from history. Not yet, anyway.
But there is another recourse left to her. She has a plan that will put a stop to Hercules once and for all, which she can – and will – implement on her return. For now, though, the apples – the symbol of her marriage, her queenship – must be safeguarded.
She closes her eyes and feels herself melt into the air, becoming one with the wind licking her skin until she is nothing but vapour, riding on the warm south wind, bringer of the storms of summer. She allows herself to be lifted up, up, until Hercules and the camp of the Amazons are dots on the grassy river-shore beside the delta, streaked with the slanting silver mist of the rain.
It is time for her to visit the Garden of the Hesperides.
She always enjoys the journey to the Garden, and, in spite of her fury at Hercules, Hera cannot help exulting in the feeling of flying light as a dandelion seed on the high winds. She passes over the wide flat plains of Scythia and Sarmatia, an undifferentiated expanse of green spotted with trees along the line of the Tanais. She heads further north and west over the tributary of the Borysthenes, its waters reflecting gold in the setting sun, and the land turns marsh-like in variegated colours of moss and emerald. Further north still, the winds are icy, snow crystals flying around her, and the earth is carpeted with white, punctuated with the bulging shapes of snow-covered firs. This is the land of Pterophoros, desolate and cursed with eternal winter. Ahead of her, as she coasts higher and higher, are the steep peaks of the bitter and impassable Rhipaean Mountains, home of the north wind. She rests, letting the wind carry her over the highest ridge, marvelling at the sparkling snow and ice-furrowed glaciers beneath her.
And now she is approaching the land of the Hyperboreans, the people who live beyond the north wind, where spring reigns all year and the Eridanus river threads through a wild, blossoming land. On towards the northern coast and the very edge of the world, where the unending Ocean begins. Here are the hinges on which the firmament turns and the constellations revolve; here mighty Atlas bears on his shoulders the sphere of the sky, inset with gleaming stars. The Garden lies ahead on an island covered with forest, pale beaches sliding into the sea, and even from here the tree with the golden apples – set at the island’s very heart – shines blinding gold, mirroring the glow of the setting sun.
Hera lets herself sink, riding the current of air that is swirling towards the murky cloud-wrapped home of Night on the horizon ahead. The island draws nearer. Now she sees the marsh-grass at its
coast and the tufted pines. Closer still, and a clearing in the forest becomes visible, jewel-bright with clover, crocus and saffron. She can see the three Hesperides, daughters of Atlas and the goddess Evening, wandering the field scattering droplets of water from bronze vessels, and in its centre, the tree – her tree – with its branches bowing beneath the apples of gold.
She lands beside Aigle, the eldest of the three sisters, and lets the wind slide off her back, like air from the feathers of a bird, and clothe her in her own white robes. Aigle looks up. Her eyes are the colour of honey, her hair tinted with red and gold, like all three of the daughters of Evening. She blinks at Hera, then gestures to the tree with a bow of her head.
‘It is as you left it, my queen.’
Hera nods, lips pursed, and strides through the grass, the dew wetting her robes. Nothing can distract her from the tree spreading before her.
It fills her sight, with its copper-bronze bark, curling leaves and those apples dropping from the branches, like beads of amber, each in its place – except the three, of course, the three that were stolen so long ago. It is as if, for that moment, she is a young goddess again on her wedding day, standing hand-clasped with Zeus, as they watch the gift of Earth springing from the rock. She almost laughs – a bitter laugh – to think of what she had hoped then. How foolish the young are! How trusting! How full of hope!
But as she stretches her fingertips forwards to brush the bark of the tree’s trunk, she realizes she is not done yet with hoping.
She turns away, commanding Aigle to double her guard, to bar anyone from approaching the island, whether god or man.
‘He is just a mortal bastard,’ Hera says to herself, and she feels a flicker of reassurance as she walks across the meadow, her eyes on the deathless nymphs who watch over it. ‘He will never find them.’
Zeus peers down from the gathering-place of the gods on Mount Olympus where he stands with Hermes, holding a torch against the onset of night, looking through the gap in the clouds for his wife. He spots her at last – he would recognize her anywhere – and lets out a chuckle. ‘Garden of the Hesperides,’ he says. ‘Oh, Hera.’