by Emily Hauser
‘The men are becoming restless,’ Alcides said, in a low voice, still looking away.
‘And this is your sport? Stealing from unarmed tribespeople who have done nothing to provoke you?’
Perses had drawn his sword and was cutting and thrusting through the air. ‘It is not stealing if you win the prize.’
‘And you should not speak to the son of Zeus so,’ Telemus said. ‘It is not your place.’
‘My place?’ I exclaimed, heat rising in me at the sneer, at the hatred and scorn of these men that had borne down upon me these past weeks. ‘I am the daughter of Eurystheus! It is at my command, and the command of my father the king, that this expedition occurs!’ I turned to Alcides, glad to see Telemus’ face fall, and leant across to place my hand on his rein. ‘I know you can see this is unjust,’ I said. ‘I know you.’ I covered his hand with my own. ‘You do not have to do this, Alcides.’
‘Hercules,’ he muttered, his mouth turning down. ‘They call me Hercules.’
‘But you said—’
‘Yes,’ he said, withdrawing his hand from mine and flicking the reins so that his horse side-stepped past me, ‘but I am nearly done with my labours, and it is as you said. There can be no room for doubt.’ His eyes were glinting, hard. ‘I will be enough, I have to be, and that begins with making sure you call me by my name.’
Confusion and irritation rose within me. ‘I never said you should not doubt,’ I said, ‘only that you should trust yourself. Those are very different things.’
A dull red was creeping over Alcides’ cheeks, and I knew that he, like me, was aware of the stares of the other Greeks upon us. ‘Enough!’ he said loudly, for the others to hear. Perses laughed and Telemus nodded at the snap in his voice. ‘I will not allow you to speak to me so.’ He raised his chin. ‘Stay here and keep your opinions to yourself, as befits a woman. I will not have you contradict me.’
He kicked his steed towards the tribe, throwing up clods of earth and sitting stiff, the others bringing their mounts around to follow, leaving me open-mouthed and fuming behind them.
Storm
Scythia
As Hercules gathers his troops, Hera, too, is travelling north. A cloak flung over her shoulder and still in her Amazon guise, she is galloping through the forests of Scythia, her eyes fixed ahead, searching through the trees for a pale ankle or the flash of a robe – any sign of that damned-to-Hades Muse Calliope. She knows – she can sense it – that she is getting closer, and it is her anger at Calliope’s theft that drives her on through the pitch-dark nights and the driving rain, across sodden marshes and through these interminable forests. For Hera has surmised that a Muse, who knows what it is to look upon the earth from a god’s-eye view, will have chosen a hiding-place that cannot be seen from above.
And then, downstream, along the river she has just crossed, Hera catches sight of a few figures who – her eyes widen, and she halts her horse – look remarkably like … Greeks.
Her breathing comes short and rapid as she tries to make them out. Yes – there at the head, that must be Hercules, and behind him, seated on her mount and dressed as an Amazon, shouting imprecations that are whipped to her on the wind, that must be Admete.
She curses aloud, and a wood-pigeon nearby flutters, startled, from its nest.
‘Zeus be damned!’ she says, and kicks her horse forwards, whipping at it with the reins. How by Styx did they survive her attack on the Amazon camp? How did the Amazons – some of the most famed warriors in the world of mortals – fail to dispose of them? It is enough to make her spit with rage.
Trees fall away into frail skeletons of ash either side of her as she purses her lips and blows. Just as it had at the banks of the Tanais, a cloud forms, mist-like, around her. She raises one hand to the skies as she rides, tossing the fog up till it swirls around on itself and becomes a dark, rumbling stormcloud. She whips it up further, till it is a tumbling mass, spreading, like a curse, over the land of the Sarmatians. Winds slash across the forest, howling and tearing, bending the spruces and sending pine needles flying arrow-sharp through the air, and birds are hurled against tree-trunks, tossed like fish in a sea-storm. As she hawks and spits, the rains start to fall – not soft summer rains but a torrent of plunging water, falling hard as darts – enough to prevent any mortal travelling on. Enough to keep them far from the apples – until she has dealt with the Muse and can unleash her anger on the son of Zeus.
Hera squints and sees the Greek horses stumble, some rearing in fright, others slipping on the wet carpet of moss and needles, and the Greeks are staring skywards, their panicked shouts ringing in her ears as they recall the dread mist of the Amazon camp, and know the wrath of the gods.
She smiles to herself and urges her horse on.
Not a hundred miles away, Calliope looks up into the storm, clutching the cedarwood chest to her soaking robes, and knows that Hera has almost found her.
Becoming Greek
Hippolyta
Athens, Greece
The Fourteenth Day before the Day of Fire in the Season of Tabiti, 1265 BC
‘Hold the mirror for me,’ I ordered Theia, my fingers trembling as I brushed threads from my skirts. This was the first time since Skyros that I had dressed as a Greek – Greek gold hanging at my ears and neck, Greek cosmetics painted on my lips and cheeks, and the full skirts that Greek women wore cascading from my hips, my breasts pushing uncomfortably against my bodice. How will it be to see myself like this again?
Theia picked up the bronze hand-mirror and held it back so I could see my reflection.
My skin paled visibly in the shimmering likeness before me, what colour I had left draining from my cheeks. The transformation was well done – Theia had done her job with skill – but, as I gazed into my dark, frightened eyes, I saw a wild horse that had been broken and dressed, its mane knotted with ribbons, till it looked like a performing animal, not a proud creature of the plains. My face had been powdered, disguising the nut-brown colour of my skin; my lips were tinted red, my cheeks pinched till they blushed, my eyes seductive with their dark lampblack rims. My hair had been oiled till it was glossy and shining, then piled on my head, a few curls escaping down my back; heavy earrings shimmered at my lobes, and a golden necklace with a pendant of a lily hung between my breasts.
‘You would not even know I was an Amazon,’ I said to Theia, trying to keep my voice steady, and as I did so I saw the reflection before me falter, the forehead crease. I tried to pull my lips up into a smile.
I shook myself to banish the remorse I felt at the thought of what Melanippe would say if she saw me as I was now.
Yet I am a Greek so that there may still be Amazons. What small sacrifice is that?
I stood straighter as Theia put the finishing touches to my dress, tying a girdle tight round my waist, dabbing a little more perfume at my wrists and behind my ears.
‘There,’ she said, stepping back, her eyes skimming over me. ‘Theseus will find you a vision well worth returning from Sparta for, my lady.’
I heard him before I saw him: the deep boom of his laughter echoed down the corridors as I stepped out of my quarters and made my way towards his. I quickened my step past the guards, my sandals slapping against the flagstones, brushed a curl away from my face, wetted my lips with the tip of my tongue; then took a deep breath as I rounded the corner into the court before his quarters—
And halted at once.
Theseus was bent over, laughing, twirling a wooden hoop around the grey-leafed olive tree that stood at the courtyard’s centre. Behind him ran a girl, her blonde hair in disarray and her teeth showing as she let out a peal of laughter. She could be no more than ten years of age, with clear skin and eyes that sparkled in the sunlight; her hair was tossed in ringlets over her head that still showed the softness of childhood, and she wore a simple tunic belted at the waist. I drew in a breath. She was perfect, delicate as a carved marble statue. No, that was too rigid: like a downy swan’s wing. I had always lon
ged for a daughter. When I had been in the land of the Saka, I had wanted to teach her to ride, to be a queen like me, and to pass the sacred war-belt of the queens of old to her. The war-belt I have lost, I thought with another pang.
‘Theseus,’ I said, making my way to him. He stood up, shielding his eyes against the sunlight, the hoop caught in one hand. The girl ran to him and started to leap for it, trying to snatch it from him. He laughed and tossed it across the court, his eyes trailing her as she ran after it.
‘Theseus?’
His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, and then, at last, he looked at me. ‘Antiope. What is it?’ he asked, irritation in his voice.
At the name, a spasm of anger darted through me, but I collected myself almost at once. ‘I merely wished to welcome you from Sparta.’
I swallowed as the silence lengthened, broken only by the thrumming of the cicadas in the olive branches, the girl’s laughter and the clatter of the hoop and stick. Still he made no remark.
‘You did not tell me you had a daughter,’ I said, following his gaze, which was back again on the figure playing at the court’s other end, the sun shining on her hair and turning it into a cloud of gold. ‘I shall be glad to be a mother to her.’
He snorted, and a flash of annoyance crossed his features. ‘She is not my daughter,’ he said.
I frowned. ‘But then,’ I said, ‘who is she?’
His eyes darkened, and I saw a muscle in his cheek begin to pulse. ‘Her name is Helen,’ he said, not looking at me, ‘Helen of Sparta, and she is my guest here for as long as I choose. You would do well not to question me again, woman.’
He walked away. I watched his retreating back, his cloak stretched tight across his shoulders, and longed to shout after him, to demand that he return and explain himself, but knew better than to do so.
Instead, with as much dignity as I could, I left the court, not caring that my hair was falling from its style, or that my curls were losing their shape in the heat. I paced the corridors towards my quarters, steps quickening, crossed the courtyard and the great hall, then threw open the doors to my chamber, not waiting for the guards to do so for me.
‘Theia!’
She straightened from the chest, a pile of folded clothes in her arms. She took in my expression at once – I must have looked half wild, torn between anger and the deepest shame, my cheeks flaming hot – and laid the clothes on a chair. ‘Yes, my lady Antiope?’
Her eyes were all too knowing for my liking.
‘Theia,’ I repeated, trying to calm my voice, though it was leaping with emotion. ‘Do you know who that girl is? Did you know that she was come?’
She bowed her head, her eyelashes sweeping her cheeks. ‘Yes, my lady.’
‘And why is she here?’
Silence.
‘Why is she here?’ I repeated, slamming my hand on the dressing-table so that the pot of lampblack tottered and spilt, spreading dark dust, like ashes, over the wood. ‘Never mind that,’ I said, as she moved to clear it. ‘You will answer my question, Theia. You are in my service as well as his.’
She nodded. ‘It will bring you no happiness,’ she said.
‘I have little of that in any case,’ I said. I balled my hands into fists, digging the nails into my palms, trying with all my might to maintain what little dignity I had left. I raised my chin and met her stare. ‘I wish to know.’
For a moment I thought I saw my own despair mirrored in her face – the sagging of the skin beneath the eyes, the downturn of the lips, and realized I had been harsh to think she bore no cost in all of this. ‘Her name is Helen,’ she said, plucking the pot of lampblack to set it right, her finger smudging through the dust. ‘My cousin tells me he stole her from Sparta while she ran, alone, by the banks of the Eurotas river. It seems he has become so accustomed to having what he wants that he thinks nothing of it now to seize a girl – not even a woman yet – and take her for his own.’
My fists were at my sides, my stomach clenched. ‘And his purpose with her?’ I asked, through gritted teeth.
The look of pity and scorn she threw me was enough to tell me everything.
I felt my knees weaken as if a sword had sliced through the tendons, and at once Theia’s hand was at my elbow. She guided me to a chair and set me down in it. ‘It is an offence against the gods,’ I said. My teeth were chattering and my palms clammy with sweat, though the room was warm and filled with sunlight. ‘He will bring the stain and the curse of his offence upon this city – upon us all. Upon me.’
She said nothing.
‘What am I to do, Theia?’ The words escaped through dry lips, and I looked up at her, trembling. ‘What am I to do?’
She shook her head, her mouth set in a thin line. ‘There is nothing you can do,’ she said, ‘but wait. He will tire of her soon enough, as he has done with the others.’
‘But,’ I whispered, ‘what if he tires of me? What then?’
She glanced back at the guards standing at the door, immovable, their hands on the hilts of their long-swords, and began placing the clothes in the chest, layering them with lavender posies, avoiding my eye. And in the silence of that moment, I knew, as perhaps I had done for many days, without acknowledging it.
He had tired of me already.
I was trapped like a falconer’s hawk tied by a leather jess to the glove, unable to escape, bound by my oath to the gods and my fierce love of my people.
And the worst of it was that he knew it.
Ἀδμήτη
Admete
Sarmatia
The Twenty-fourth Day of the Month of Threshing Wheat, 1265 BC
And then, after six days more of hard riding through rain and sleet, with thunder crashing over our heads and an endless sky of rolling grey, we came upon the Sarmatians. I held my breath as we rode up to them, peering through the thick veil of rain that had settled over the land ever since we had left the land of the Melanchlaeni. Here the trees seemed to have thinned to reveal a plain, and a brown river moved slowly to my right hand, its surface pitted with water-drops. Gathered across the fog-ridden meadow were scores of wagons, some four-wheeled, some six, covered with felt and with steps to the doors. People in green and blue trousers and tunics trudged through the mud, holding their cloaks over their heads against the storm. Others peered from the shelter of wagons, while sheep and oxen snorted, damp mist pouring from their nostrils.
My fingers tightened on my reins, and my horse – a new steed stolen from the Black Cloaks, which I had tried and failed to refuse – tossed its head, feeling the pull at the bit.
Not far now. It cannot be far now.
The Sarmatians welcomed us, leading us to a steam-tent to bathe and wagons in which to sleep. When I climbed inside one, I found it was heated by an iron brazier, the walls lined with colourful patterned cloths, and the beds, with carved wooden frames, were heaped with patchwork rugs. That night we ate together, huddled in blankets, before a fire, sheltered by a canopy held on birch branches, the moon hidden by rolling clouds, and the howls of wolves echoing behind the patter of rain. The sheep, oxen and horses had been gathered into a pen and were guarded by men who sat before it, drinking koumiss from a leather pouch and sharpening their sword-blades, seemingly oblivious to the storm. The boiled horse’s hock, lifted from the cauldron and served with bread, was tough and without flavour, but I ate without complaint. After roots, berries and mushrooms, it was as welcome as a feast of ox-chine and sweet wine.
As we ate and warmed our hands, I talked with our Sarmatian hosts, glad to break the silence of the past days – for I had refused to speak with Alcides, and none of the Greeks had seen fit to converse with me in the wake of my rebuke of Telemus. Having passed so many weeks without hearing a word of Scythian, I found that the Sarmatians’ language was similar to the dialect spoken by the Amazons; indeed, the tribesmen with whom I spoke told me that the Sarmatians claimed descent from a union of Amazon women and the men of a Scythian tribe, who had moved north
to found a clan of their own. Alcides was still irritable and did not take notice of me, applying himself to gnawing the meat from the bone. When he finished it and tossed it onto the grass, his eyes wandered towards one of the younger Sarmatian girls, smooth-skinned with youth, who sat on the other side of the fire. I had just turned from watching him to engage the Sarmatian tribesman again, when I caught sight of a woman standing behind him. She was tall, conversing and laughing with someone I could not see, her hair edged with grey, face drenched in light by the flames of the fire, shoulders thrown back, sharp nose and cheekbones silhouetted in the light against the silver rain behind.
I felt a wave of dizziness engulf me as the world shook and tilted. I groped blindly to steady myself, fingers clutching at the blades of grass.
It is impossible. It cannot be. And yet—
It was her.
It was my mother.
Hippolyta
Athens, Greece
The Eighth Day before the Day of Fire in the Season of Tabiti, 1265 BC
Darkness had fallen over the rock of Athens, sweeping across the sky in a swathe of deepening blue above the Great Hall from the east. The evening meal was done, the pine-torches in their brackets on the walls were lit. Theia was watching over the slaves in clearing the hall, the nobles had departed for their dwellings below the palace, and Theseus had left for the store-rooms with his chief steward to review the accounts of the estate. Helen was lying belly-down on a pair of cushions, absent-mindedly rolling a toy horse of wood back and forth, its wheels creaking over the tiles, her eyelids drooping.
‘Come,’ I said, clapping my hands, and she glanced up at me. My heart twisted at her pale face, the faint pleading in her eyes that said quite plainly: Will you take me home now? All thoughts of my own plight faded, and I picked her up, relishing the warm weight of her body and the way she wound her hands around my neck.