by Emily Hauser
I slid past her. The air in the wagon was thick with sleep and scented with smoke from the brazier. I could make out several figures huddled on the beds beneath the piles of patchwork blankets. I crept to her bed and drew the blankets around us both, leaning my head on her shoulder. For a long time we sat together, her arms around me, as the logs in the brazier sputtered and the rain hissed overhead. I found I did not want to speak; the contentment I found in her presence, her embrace, was enough.
At last I looked up at her. ‘I have decided to stay,’ I said, my eyes searching hers.
Her hand dropped from my shoulder. ‘Admete …’
‘No, no, you misunderstand me – I return to Greece,’ I said, reading her hesitation. ‘For Alexander, before all else. Alcides is set to voyage on for the apples of gold in Hyperborea. I thought perhaps … I thought I might remain here, with you, till he returns. He hardly needs my help and, truth be told, I am weary of his company and that of his men. Perhaps,’ I twisted my fingers in my lap, ‘we might spend time together – you might show me your store of herbs. I might tell you more of Alexander’s disease, and – perhaps – we might work together to find a cure.’
She laid a hand on my fingers and prised them apart. I glanced up at her, feeling my cheeks redden. ‘Of course,’ I went on, stumbling, ‘of course, if you do not wish it …’
‘I could think of nothing I would wish for more,’ she said, her eyes burning into mine, and as she clasped me to her I closed my eyes and prayed that this moment would never end.
Hippolyta
Athens, Greece
The Thirty-seventh Day after the Day of Fire in the Season of Tabiti, 1265 BC
The moon had waxed and waned twice since I had arrived in Athens, and as I stumbled through the corridors towards Theseus’ court, my ankles and wrists jangling, I knew, in the way that a foal tied and bound for sacrifice knows, terror-struck and powerless, that I had reached my lowest ebb. On Theseus’ orders I had been stripped of my linen blouse so that my breasts were bare in my bodice, and Theia – her eyes averted – had knotted clanging cymbals of bronze on red ribbons to my wrists and bare ankles. Now she led me across the forecourt, an oil-lamp in one hand glowing on the columns, and gestured to the doors of the hall, through which the noise of raucous laughter and the scent of sizzling fat drifted, and where the guards stood dark-eyed and glinting with weapons.
‘I am sorry,’ she said in a whisper, her eyes downturned. ‘Truly I am. He would not do this if he were not deep in his cups – believe me.’
I shook my head. ‘It is not your doing,’ I said. ‘You are his captive as much as I am, though I thank the gods he treats you better than he does me.’
She took a sharp sip of breath, as if in pain, then, not looking at me, she fled, leaving only her retreating shadow.
As she left my stomach clenched as if I were withholding a silent scream. Is this what I am reduced to? I wanted to cry aloud. Breasts bared like a whore? Clattering with cymbals like a market performer? Are you laughing, Tabiti?
But as I had done so many times these past days, I bit back my pain. This was simply another battle, another enemy to be faced. Though I had no weapons and my war-belt was lost, I could still stand on the field and say I fought, my eyes level with my foe. I raised my chin higher and tugged the bodice across my chest. Then, jaw set, I stepped past the guards, through the doors and into the hall.
The stench of male sweat, wine and meat-grease assaulted me so that I almost reeled back. The room was thick with smoke and so close that I felt my temples break into a sweat. There was barely any light but from the fire that smouldered in the hearth. A few oil-lamps hung from stands around the men who lay on the floor, some on cushions and some sprawled on the tiles, playing a drinking-game and laughing so that my head ached with the echoing sound.
Theseus looked up as I drew nearer, his cheeks flushed. His dark eyes, dull and hooded in the shadows, met mine. I shook my head and tried to implore him across the hall, my arms pressed across my breasts, the air before me shimmering as if it would dissolve into mist. Please. Do not make me do this.
Theseus’ smile broadened, and I wondered, my breath catching in my throat, for one brief moment, whether he might grant me a reprieve. Please … I will do anything …
‘Friends, Athenians,’ he said, clearing his throat, swaying as he pushed himself to stand. His skin was covered with a sheen of sweat. ‘Behold my Amazon captive.’
All eyes turned to me across the smoke-filled hall. He lumbered towards me and kissed me, hard, his tongue exploring my mouth and filling me with the musty taste of wine.
‘Please,’ I whispered, as he broke apart from me, meeting his eyes. ‘Please, spare me this.’
He tilted his head and laughed. ‘The prisoner thinks to make terms of her own!’ he roared. He grabbed my hair in his hand – my eyes smarted – and drew me close to him. ‘You do not ask anything – anything – of me. Do you understand that?’
I stayed very still, trying not to move my head, as if he would tear the scalp from me.
‘Now,’ he said, thrusting me away so that I stumbled, tripped on my skirt, then fell forwards, breasts tumbling from my bodice and pressing against the floor. I pushed myself to stand, trying to close my ears to the howls of laughter and the jeering of the Greeks. ‘Now, Antiope – dance!’
I turned, about to fall to the floor and clasp him in supplication, but as I lowered myself he landed me a blow across the jaw, which sent a shock through my skull, my eyes rolling with the force of it. I stumbled sideways, clutching my face.
I fought against the darkness that was threatening to engulf me until the hall stopped spinning and came back into focus: the dim colours of the painted walls, the glow of the fire and the grinning dark-eyed faces, like a pack of wolves in the night.
‘Dance!’ Theseus bellowed again.
And so I danced. My breasts ached as I leapt and whirled, clicking my wrists together and lifting my skirts to stamp the floor with my feet as we had used to do on the plains, but the pain was almost welcome. It gave me something on which to focus other than the dark despair that hung over me and would consume me entirely if I stopped. One of the men launched himself to his feet, drawing his sword unsteadily from its sheath, and poked and prodded me with the tip, jeering as I swayed and darted away from it. Once, when I had had my war-belt and my sagaris, I would have knocked the sword from him, like a toy from a child. But I lacked my weapons and my strength, sapped like a young oak that withers wasted. Theseus slapped my breasts as I danced past him, and the others followed suit, pinching all over my body till my skin stung and my face was red with shame. And still I swayed and jingled, whirling round and around, and the clattering of the cymbals and the howls of the men dinned in my ears, sweat poured from my skin in the heat and my limbs ached, until I could move no more.
My legs collapsed beneath me, and I was enveloped in darkness before I hit the tiles.
Ἀδμήτη
Admete
Sarmatia
The Seventh Day of the Month of Ploughing, 1265 BC
It was by tacit agreement – hardly spoken, for it seemed it had come to that between us – that Alcides left with his band of warriors for Hyperborea, and I remained with the Sarmatians, with my mother. I had told her at once of Alexander’s fever, the curious nature of its rising and falling every few days, and we worked long into the nights in the wagon where she kept the herbs, while the oil-lamps flickered and our eyes ached, speaking of yarrow and elecampane, willow-bark and feverfew, sorting through herbs and testing tinctures and draughts. Though I basked in relaying to my mother all that had happened since she had left, and there was companionship in working together at the herbs, I felt a growing impatience and frustration as still we failed to find a cure. The days lengthened to weeks, and Alcides had not returned – with or without the golden apples, in which my trust was daily waning.
It was late in the day, the shadows already slipping into night, and we
sat together in the herb-store in near-silence, working through the pouches, bottles and sprigs hanging from the rafters. My mother, seated at a trestle table set by the brazier, brought a handful of leaves to her face, holding them close to her red-rimmed eyes so she could examine them in the dim light.
‘You might try sweet wormwood,’ she said, with a half-sigh, her voice carrying across the darkened wagon, hoarse from lack of use. ‘I use it against rashes, but as it counters heat, it might have the effect of reducing warmth somewhat if my son’s illness is indeed a disease of fire, as it seems.’
We had said this before, over and over again – a disease of fire requires a herb to counter heat; a herb whose properties are soothing, calming, a balance to his excess – but I recognized in her desperation my own desire, so I took the pouch of dried leaves she handed me without reproach, and sniffed them. There was less bitterness to the scent than I was used to. A different type of wormwood, then. Wormwood, as I knew it – a grey-green plant of feathery leaves – stimulated digestion, in which case it would be of no use at all. I took it from her, pressing her fingers lightly in thanks, though feeling dispirited. Alexander had no rash, no lesions on the skin. Pray the gods we find something more.
I added the sweet wormwood to my collection and continued to work through the stores in silence, handling the herbs and taking records on my tablets, noting those I had not seen before and marking where in the store-room I had found them. I came across a strange type of moss, which still clung to the bark from which it had been gathered, growing in yellow, leathery tufts. Sweet-smelling husked seeds and dried stems stood in sacks on the floor, and there were many pots holding collections of needle-like leaves gathered from the forests.
One by one I took down their properties – all the indications of a healing herb, from scent to size to the parts of the plant gathered – and let my thoughts wander as my hands worked. Even now, Alcides might have the golden apples. He might come soon from Hyperborea – and then, at last, I may return to Tiryns, tend Alexander again, and I will have my brother.
And yet … Doubt gnawed as I reached for my stylus. I had always held to my belief that diseases of the body could be healed by herbs and herbs alone. I had scorned the priest-healers in Tiryns when they made sacrifices to the gods, and whispered prayers, or attempted to withdraw the evil spirit with enchanting words. What if, after all this – even if Alcides was able to retrieve the golden apples – the cure I had been hoping for did not exist? What if Alcides succeeded in his task, and the cure was as we had hoped, but our quest had taken too long and Alexander had—
No, I thought, with a shiver, I cannot allow myself to think that. I turned aside and drew a vessel towards me, just as another troubling thought rose to the surface.
And if Alcides does indeed complete the task, he will be done with his labours.
I sat back on the stool before the table, contemplating it, watching the light of the lamps dance over the wood. Strange – I had expected to feel sadness. I had expected regret that Alcides would no longer peer into the herbary, that I would no longer look forward to his return, to walking together in the herb-garden. A few years ago I had dreaded his leaving the palace, loved the life and laughter he brought to us. He had been the only one to whom I could speak freely about my mother, the only one who truly understood what it was to feel abandoned, to feel alone. But now I felt – nothing much. Wistfulness, perhaps, for what was gone.
Yet is it so surprising? These past months since we had left Tiryns we had done nothing but quarrel. The voyage had made it clear, as it had not been in Tiryns, how different we were, how different the things we wanted. The ending of his labours would be simply the next step on the path he had chosen for himself – along which, for some part of the way, there had been our friendship. It is a friendship I am glad to have had, I thought, crossing my hands on my lap before me and gazing across the room at my mother. She looked up at me briefly, and gave me a swift smile, then returned to her work. And yet it had the feel of something that, like a child outgrowing its infant swaddling, I no longer needed.
‘I think I have done all I can for tonight,’ I said. I stood and took the lamp from the table, the light sliding up the wooden walls in orange and gold. The pleasant smell of chamomile wafted from my hands into the air as I walked over to my mother and pressed a kiss to her forehead. She reached up and patted my cheek. I closed the door behind me and, for a moment, leant against it, eyes closed, breathing in the clear night air.
I know where I am going.
Hippolyta
Athens, Greece
The Thirty-seventh Day after the Day of Fire in the Season of Tabiti, 1265 BC
I blinked. My eyes felt as if they were rimmed and weighted with lead. I blinked again. Slowly, the hall swam into view around me. The fire had gone out and it was dark but for a few low-glowing lamps. I was lying on the floor.
I tried to sit, and tasted blood on my lip. I turned my head, feeling the tender swelling of a bruise, and saw only cushions, some stained with wine, platters and goblets dropped here and there. The hall was deserted.
I winced and pushed myself to sit, beginning to remember. The dance … I glanced at my wrists and saw the cymbals still tied there, my breasts hanging bare and pricked with cold. I shuddered, a wave of nausea pulsing through me. The memories were crowding in on me now, faster and faster: whirling and spinning, wrists and ankles jangling.
The air seemed to close in around me, snatching the breath from my chest. I stumbled to my feet, trying to ignore the numbness in my legs, the swaying of the walls around me, unsteady.
And then I halted. I had heard something – something so familiar that it called to me, like the shriek of an eagle to its brood, nesting hidden in the long grass.
But it cannot be …
My breathing was sharp and fast. I must have knocked my head when I had hit the floor. How could it be? It was a dream, an echo from my fevered mind.
And then, clearly, so clearly that I could not doubt it, I heard the cry again: ‘Oiorpata! Oiorpata Amazones – oiorpata!’
It was as if I had awoken from a dream, as if I had been living these past months in a trance. For a moment I hesitated, taking in my cage: the pools of red wine staining the floor; the blue and red painted walls splashed with faint light from the oil-lamps. Was it my longing for my home that had made me hear their call?
I heard the cry again. I had to find out what was happening. I had to see for myself if it was true, or merely the whisper of my disordered mind. I gathered my skirts in one hand and ran to my chambers, heart clattering, mouth dry. Theia was standing by the shutters, which were thrown open. She was panting and pale in the moonlight, wearing only her under-tunic. Now that I was on this side of the palace I could hear war-trumpets, ripping through the night, and again, the shrieking cries of ‘Oiorpata! Oiorpata Amazones!’ But the courtyard beyond the window was still and silent, the sand undisturbed and milky-white.
‘Theia!’ I gasped, and she turned, her eyes wide. ‘What is it? What has happened?’
Her lips parted. ‘The Amazons have come,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse. ‘They are attacking the city.’ She gripped the windowsill, face taut with terror, and I realized – I almost laughed aloud at the strangeness of it – that she was afraid of me, though I stood there half undressed, with the discs she had tied clattering at my wrists.
‘You need not fear me,’ I said, striding towards her and gripping her by the shoulders. She flinched. ‘But you must tell me – now – what is happening.’
‘The Amazons have come, I tell you. My lord Theseus received a messenger from their camp demanding your return. He refused, so they are attacking.’ Her voice was rising in pitch, her fingers now kneading her tunic. ‘I saw them from the tower on the battlements, raging like the Furies, slaying our men with sharpened axes and—’ She swallowed, closing her eyes.
I swayed on the spot, darkness tugging at the edge of my consciousness. It was too much to take
in. And yet the cries I had heard – and Theia had seen our sagaris.
I felt a glimmer of warmth in my belly, like a single ember that burns through the night, though the fire has been banked down.
I am an Amazon still.
I pushed myself to stand, my whole body alive as it had not been for days, certainty flooding me. It was as if I had lived in darkness, not knowing who or where I was, wandering through the last weeks as in a labyrinth, blindfolded. Now I was awake, my vision cleared, and I knew, in every part of myself, what I wanted to do. What I had to do. What I should have done, from the very first moment Theseus had mistreated me, and I had felt myself less than an Amazon.
‘Theia,’ I said, turning to her, my voice sharp with determination. ‘You have to come with me.’
The group of outlying buildings by the gate that formed the palace stables were filled with commotion. The doors hung open, and slaves rushed out leading horses, their hoofs sounding over the paving-stones and clashing with the ringing of bronze on bronze, the shrieks and cries from the valley below. I slipped inside, my hood over my head. I had run at once to Helen’s rooms, wrapped her in a cape and told her we were going away. Now I led her by the hand over the straw that littered the stable floors, her eyes creased with tiredness. Theia hurried behind me. None of the slaves so much as glanced at us as they ran by, sweating and shouting for more horses, more weapons.
‘We have to act quickly,’ I said, and the joy of giving commands again, of having authority over what was done rather than being ordered this way and that, filled me like a bird stretching its wings in the open sky. ‘Theia – can you ride?’
She nodded, her eyes wide with fear. ‘But, my lady—’