For the Immortal

by Emily Hauser

  The prow shuddered before me as we made land, and I climbed after the ship’s captain down the rope-ladder that was thrown to shore.

  ‘We bring supplies and reinforcements from Alexander, king of Tiryns, son of Eurystheus,’ I said to the herald come to greet us. I gestured to the ship, which was being drawn onto its props, looking fresh-painted and sturdy beside the rest of the Greek fleet, some of which were blackened and charred as if from fire.

  ‘And you, my lady?’ His eyes swept my dress, which, though creased and stained from weeks on the sea, showed my status as a noble born and bred, then the gold pendants hanging at my ears, and my husband’s seal-ring on my finger. A group of warriors clattered past, carrying breastplates and spear-blades in sacks on their shoulders, and it was a while before the herald spoke. When he did so, his voice was curt above the crashing of the waves and the soldiers’ talk. ‘This is no place for a woman. The fighting has resumed after the truce for Hector’s funeral. We are at war, my lady. You would do best to return home at once with our thanks to your lord.’

  ‘I thank you for your concern,’ I said, ‘but I am here at the request of Nestor of Pylos, as a healer to the Greeks.’

  His expression faltered. I looked back at him, unwavering, as behind me the slaves unloaded the herbs from the ship.

  ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I will lead you to my lord Nestor, then, if it is he who has summoned you here.’

  The sand crunched beneath my sandals as I walked behind him, trying to avoid the broken arrow shafts that were scattered everywhere, vestiges of battles past, and holding my breath against the foul sweet stink of the rotting corpses of men and horses felled in the fight, then left out for the crows. I found I was searching for the faces of Proetus, Iphimedon and Eurybius among them, and shuddered at the thought, but when I started forwards to ask the herald of my husband and brothers, he told me – gods be thanked – that they were alive and well. I will see them soon, I thought, trudging after the herald. But first I must fulfil what I was summoned here to do.

  At last we came to a square hut, built from the trunks of pines stripped, thrust into the sand and roofed with reeds, slaves milling about it and a couple of warriors seated before it on upturned helmets playing at dice. The herald pushed the door and we were engulfed in darkness, my senses assailed at once by the close air laden with sweat and smoke.

  ‘My lord Nestor,’ the herald said, ‘and my lord Ajax. This woman claims she is here at your command.’

  As the smoke before me cleared I saw a grey-haired man with the sword-belt of a noble, standing by another, broad-shouldered and hunched forwards – though he would be tall when he straightened, taller than most – seated on a stool, a slave trying to apply a poultice to a deep wound slashed across his shoulder, ragged at the edges and oozing dark blood. Ajax – for it could only be Ajax, kin of Achilles and bulwark of the Achaeans – gritted his teeth and the slave’s hand slipped. The poultice fell to the earth, and Ajax cursed.

  ‘I will do that,’ I said, starting forwards. I picked up the fallen cloth and lifted it to my nose. I flinched. ‘Comfrey?’ The slave nodded. ‘But comfrey is injurious to an open wound … Herald,’ I twisted around to him from where I knelt, ‘have you a herbary?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Then bring me yarrow and fresh bandages,’ I said, tossing the comfrey poultice onto the hearth, where the flames licked at it. ‘Water?’

  The slave ran forwards with a pitcher, and I ripped a strip of linen from my skirt and dipped it in.

  ‘Who is this?’ Ajax asked, looking over my shoulder as I set about washing the wound.

  ‘I am the sister of Alexander, king of Tiryns,’ I said, answering for myself, ‘and wife of Proetus.’

  ‘You are well versed in the art of healing?’

  ‘Well enough to know that comfrey will surely poison that wound if it has not knitted first. Please, my lord, be still,’ I added, as Ajax shifted on his seat and the water I was wringing over the wound dripped down his arm.

  ‘And you are here …?’

  ‘At my summons,’ Nestor laid a hand on Ajax’s good shoulder, ‘and you, for one, shall not complain of it.’

  ‘I have come with supplies from my brother Alexander,’ I said, taking the yarrow leaves his slave handed me and applying them over the skin, ‘and to aid Machaon and Podalirius in healing.’

  I wound the clean bandage around his shoulder and knotted it twice, then brushed my hands on my skirt and got to my feet. ‘There,’ I said. I turned to Nestor, whose eyes were upon me. ‘Will you host me, my lord, while I am here? I bring a gift from my brother, with his thanks – a fine dagger with a hilt of gold, wrought by Daedalus of Sicily.’

  But he waved me away. ‘You have earned your keep,’ he said. ‘I am glad you are come, daughter of Eurystheus. The sons of Greece will thank you for your work, and the gods know there is much to be done. Talthybius here will find you a cloak and pelts to make up a bed of your own. Your husband resides in the tents with the soldiers. It would not do for you to sleep there.’

  I nodded my thanks, turning to leave. ‘Then I will return to partake of the evening meal with you, if I may.’

  As the brilliant white sky opened above me and the clear breeze blew in from the sea, I took a breath, gazing at the tents and huts studding the shore, the warriors milling here and there. The sound of bronze ringing against bronze drifted to me from the plain, and gulls screeched overhead.

  And so, I thought, clenching my fists at my side and readying myself for the struggles to come, to the Trojan War.

  Hippolyta

  The Ocean

  The Twenty-ninth Day after the Day of Fire in the Season of Tabiti, 1250 BC

  We left as soon as we could after the messenger arrived. I led our horses, stumbling and tossing their heads, up the gangplanks onto the ships, loaded sagaris and pelta-shields, swords and spears through the night, guided only by torchlight. I sacrificed a mare at the sanctuary of the gods before an iron blade stuck into the earth, letting blood and metal mix in the black soil. Derinoe, my fastest rider, had galloped to ask the many tribes of the Saka for their allegiance against the Greeks. They, too, had spent the days in preparation and, as the morning mist rose over the banks of the Silis, an army forded the shallows of the river, pennants flying, and came to march for Priam, sworn ally of the Saka.

  I leant against the ship’s side where I sat astride the thwart. The oars were banked and all but the captain at the steering-oar were sitting at their ease. The gods were blessing our voyage with a fair wind, and our fleet skimmed the waters, like a flock of dark-feathered birds. The wind brushed my face, and I thought how strange it was that this same wind, this same air, had shaped itself to the mould of my face three times now: once when I was young and fresh as a virgin maid, again as a mother and wife, and now as a queen going to war. I wondered, passing my fingertips over my face with a faint smile, whether the wind-god knew me still.

  ‘Sister.’ Melanippe stood before me, stray wisps of hair flying in the breeze, her figure silhouetted against the blazing sun, which was burning itself into the sea to the west, beyond the prow. ‘May I?’

  I gestured to her to sit, and she settled beside me, one booted foot drawn up onto the bench, her arms clasped around a knee. It was such a familiar gesture that I smiled to see her.

  ‘How does Cayster fare?’ I asked. I had been unable, for all my efforts, to force my son to remain behind, to protect him from the war. He possessed all my own spirit and fire – and, I added as an afterthought, that of the Greek, too.

  She tossed her head and smiled. ‘He enjoys every moment,’ she said. ‘He is eager to help the ship’s captain in any way he can, tightening the ropes, keeping watch from the mast. He is all strength and vigour. You remember,’ her eyes slid sideways to me, ‘what it was to be young.’

  ‘It is his second voyage on this sea,’ I mused, gazing out to the setting sun, blazing into pinks and purples on the horizon and turning t
he water a dusky, rippling rose.

  ‘Hippolyta,’ she said, and her voice was very low. I turned to her, my heartbeat quickening as our eyes met and I caught the seriousness of their expression. I knew what she was about to ask me.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you thought … Have you thought what might happen, if the Greek from Skyros fights in the battle around Troy?’

  I wetted my lips with the tip of my tongue. We had not spoken of it – none of us had – and made as if Cayster had always been accepted as my son, his care shared between Melanippe and myself.

  ‘I have,’ I said, my mouth barely moving.

  ‘And? If you meet him in battle? What will you do then?’

  ‘You are assuming I will recognize him at once.’

  Her look was enough to tell me she knew, as well as I, that I would.

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘But he may have died, Melanippe, far off in his own land. He may have been carried to the land of the dead by illness, or killed in battle. It was long ago – so very long ago.’

  ‘But if he is there?’ she pressed on. ‘If he is living, and fighting at Troy?’

  ‘Then I have determined I will spare him my sword.’

  She let out a long breath through her teeth. ‘After what he did to you? After the pain you bore for so many years?’

  I nodded. ‘Indeed, sister, believe me. It has taken me many years but I bear him no resentment. And it would be a great wrong to harm the father of my child.’

  ‘Then why embark on this voyage?’ she hissed, her eyes shadowed in the deepening night. ‘Why sail at all?’

  ‘I have sworn my allegiance to Priam and the Trojans,’ I say. ‘I am my mother’s daughter, the queen of my people. As a woman, as a mother, I will spare him and him alone. But to the rest of the Greeks I will show no mercy, in defence of my allies and my homeland.’

  Her expression softened somewhat. ‘Then I am satisfied,’ she said. ‘I care for you, sister, but I care for our people also. I would not have you risk them.’

  ‘Do not doubt me,’ I said, rising to my feet and turning aside. A group of Saka allies were moving towards the mastbox as the yardarm was lowered. At the stern, several young men lifted the anchor, a stone drilled with a hole and knotted to a rope, and with a splash dropped it into the sea. I placed my hands on Melanippe’s shoulders and leant down to look into her eyes, putting all my weight into my words. ‘I will not fail you.’

  The Epic Begins

  Hippolyta

  Troy, Anatolia

  The Thirty-fourth Day after the Day of Fire in the Season of Tabiti, 1250 BC

  The days of our journey to Troy passed in quick succession with a fair wind, and soon the Bosphorus was in sight. We pushed on, through the swirling currents and across the Propontis, until we reached a bay cut into the Hellespont just north of Troy where Idaeus had said we should disembark. Trojan envoys waited there, with a herd of horses in a holding pen, kicking up dust with their hoofs and sweating in the heat. We left the army there to pitch camp and prepare for tomorrow’s battle while the herald, Melanippe, Cayster, my twelve maiden warriors and I cantered south to enter the city alone.

  We followed Idaeus, circling to the east of Troy and keeping to the cover of the forests until the city was within sight, its walls rosy in the light of the setting sun, like a beacon shining out to sea. I felt my blood rise at the sight of its thick, fortified walls, the torches already flaming on the ramparts, and the thought of the war that would be waged beneath them tomorrow. I turned to Melanippe, and she nodded at me, her chest rising and falling. Beyond her, Cayster’s eyes were shining as he gazed over the city, the warden of its plain.

  Idaeus turned to me. ‘You are ready?’

  I bowed my head. ‘I am.’

  He dismounted and struck a flint, holding a taper to it till it flared. He took it to the torch he had brought with him, waiting for the resin to catch. After a while I caught the acrid smell of burning pitch, then the flame leapt into the air, dancing and shimmering pale in the sunset. He walked to the edge of the trees and held it high, waving the flame back and forth, trailing sparks, like a star shooting across the heavens.

  And soon we saw them: a mounted guard of Trojans, galloping over the plain, their hoofbeats muffled by the wind. Idaeus dropped to one knee as they approached, cloaks swirling behind them, and the others did the same. I alone remained standing, my hand on the hilt of my sword and my chin raised in greeting.

  ‘I am glad to see you, sons of Troy,’ I said, as they leapt from their mounts and came towards me.

  One, a prince to judge from his purple tunic threaded and edged with gold, stepped forwards and bowed low. ‘Queen Hippolyta,’ he said, and his voice was just on the verge of manhood, his face pale at the meeting. ‘I am Deiphobus, eldest son of King Priam.’ His bearing heightened as he said it, and I had the shrewd feeling that someone, at least, was not mourning the death of Hector. ‘I am come on my father’s orders to lead you and your retinue to Troy, so that you may partake of food and drink with us in our halls and rest before tomorrow’s battle.’

  ‘We would welcome your father’s hospitality,’ I said, gesturing to him to mount his horse once more. ‘We have travelled far and without rest along the voyage.’

  The prince knelt, hands held towards my boot, as if to help me mount. I suppressed a laugh and swung myself onto my horse as easily as a bird taking wing. Behind me my Amazons did the same. He rose from the ground, a red flush creeping up his neck, and climbed unsteadily onto his steed.

  ‘They must indeed be mourning the loss of Hector,’ Cayster whispered to me, from the corner of his mouth, as he urged his horse forwards, guiding the reins with a flick of his finger, ‘if they are left with such a prince.’

  I did not reply, not wishing to be disloyal to his father the king, but I could only exult in the practised swiftness of my Amazons as we galloped over the plain, and savour the thought of our troops riding out to battle tomorrow, shining like the goddess Tabiti, and smooth-sinewed as the horses we rode so well.

  The gates of Troy swung back as we approached, opening to Deiphobus’ call, and we cantered into the city up the stone-paved street, past plastered houses where Trojan women hung from their doors to watch us, through a market-place empty of stalls and towards the stables, where slaves were waiting to brush down our horses. Idaeus led us to the palace, and as the doors of the Great Hall swung open, I caught sight of the pillars around the hearth and smelt the mixed stench of firesmoke, sweat and roasting meat, torches flaming on the walls and patterned rugs covering the floor. As I took a breath, a shadow fell across me, and I turned to see the figure of the king.

  I reeled back in shock at the man before me. My mother had described King Priam of the Trojans to me from the days of the battle they had fought together. She had told me of a well-mannered ruler, with dark curling hair and an easy smile. But the man before me stank of death. It hung around his hair, grey and lank at his ears, and in the white, haunted expression of his eyes, as if he were watching the spirits of the dead process through his halls. I glanced at Melanippe and Cayster, my warriors Harmothoe, Derinoe and Thermodosa to see if they had noticed, but their faces registered only interest as they gazed around the arch-ceilinged hall. Perhaps, I thought, no one but another ruler who had felt the death blows of each and every one of their own people like a strike to their own soul, as I had, could have seen it. It was worse than the grief of a father for his son – if, I thought, there can be anything worse than that. It was the grief of every Trojan father for every Trojan son, burdened on the sagging shoulders of this one king, this one man.

  My heart went out to him as he held out his hand to me.

  ‘Hippolyta,’ he said, drawing me to him and pressing a kiss to my forehead with a tenderness that quite overwhelmed me, as if he was my own father, and I his daughter returned home from a far country. He took me by the shoulders, his hands gripping my tunic, and spoke in my ear. ‘You and your troops are mos
t timely. You find us here in Troy in dire need of your help. I would not admit it easily,’ his voice quavered, ‘but if you do not aid us, I do not dare think what will become of us.’ His hands slid to his sides and hung there.

  ‘My lord,’ I said, leaning close to him, ‘I will do anything – anything – to help you to the victory that is and shall be yours. My sword-arm and the arms of all my people, the finest warriors on all the black earth,’ his eyes darted towards the band of warriors behind me, ‘are yours to command. And with the Amazons fighting by your side you will win this war, my lord. I know it.’

  He nodded to me and clasped my hand. ‘May your words be an omen of good fortune to us, Queen Hippolyta.’

  Then he drew back and announced to the room at large, ‘Let us feast tonight, and toast to our victory tomorrow in battle over the Greeks!’

  My Amazons drew their swords and battle-axes and shook them to the ceiling, glinting like bronze lightning-bolts, and the Trojan nobles, gathered around the hearth on stools and cushions, raised their goblets and echoed the refrain. These were a people in need of hope. Perhaps, I thought, we have brought them some this night.