“Oh, let’s not. Let’s have a song first.” Then Alcinous turns to his companion, the man with the wild beard and the blanket wrapped around him. “This is my other guest, a stranger who washed up shipwrecked on our shores.”
“What happened to men bringing destruction?”
“Destruction or not, I cannot in good faith turn away somebody who supplicated my queen and is in dire need of help. What would you like to hear, my friend?”
The man smiles, scratching his beard, then turns to the singer. “Anything you know of the exploits of the Achaeans.”
Andromache’s blood runs cold. She pushes her hands under the table, managing to keep herself calm by digging her fingernails into her knee as the blind singer begins to pick out a song on his lyre. It’s a song about Odysseus and—who else?—Achilles. Achilles. Curse his name.
It’s like the doors, once locked, are being thrown open from the inside.
The most horrifying part is looking up and seeing the nostalgic tears forming in the strange man’s eyes. I know you, comes the unbidden thought. I know you, and not for good reasons.
The sense fades as the blind singer continues onto a different song, this one about Ares and Aphrodite. This time, Andromache can relax and attempt to eat, although her stomach is unsettled and tight.
I know you, comes the feeling again.
“Sing more about the Trojan War,” bids the familiar voice again as the blind poet comes to an end, and Andromache’s spine chills so cold she thinks it might break.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” she says quietly, but it’s too late. The singer has started, and with a horrified, silent scream, she realizes he’s singing—with pride—about the hollow horse that her countrymen had taken as a gift of surrender. The Trojan Horse, it’s called now. A trick. A trap.
A victory, for the Achaeans - and for the man in front of her, so beaten, so worn down, but tearing up more and more with each word, almost glowing with mixed pride and sorrow, with skin and nose and hair she would never have seen in Troy.
“Why, my friend, what troubles you so?” Alcinous asks him. And with a dramatic flourish, the man opens his mouth, wiping his tears.
“I cannot hide my identity any longer. My name is—”
“Odysseus,” she spits. The name is like a knife through the air. And nobody, nobody there, has reason to hate it but her.
But he knows. It takes him some time searching her face, but she can pinpoint the exact moment. His face blanches slightly, but he’s at least a little heroic. He nods in understanding. He isn’t going to pretend that she doesn’t have every reason to want him dead.
“Andromache. The same of Troy, then.”
“The very same.” She gets to her feet, pulling the sword from her belt, and ignores Alcinous’s gasp of horror. Everything is like it was yesterday, now—the sack of Troy, the smell of burning flesh, the bets placed on which of the women would crack first under pressure, the way Hecuba’s eyes had rolled back in her head when she had lost her mind—
“You’re far from home, Ithacan.”
“And without a weapon, too. Unless you’d like to do me the honour?”
“You were happy to use your weapons on the women of Troy without allowing us to arm ourselves,” Andromache scoffs. “Odysseus the Ithacan, suddenly so concerned with a fair fight. You murdered us in our beds. You raped us in front of our children. You pulled us from our altars and killed us in sight of all of the gods.” She rounds the table, Scherians fleeing to the sides of the room and Odysseus backing away from the teeth and sword she’s baring.
“War is war, Andromache—it was always going to end—”
“And how do you think it would have ended if we’d won, Odysseus?” She swings the sword at him, barely missing his torso and watching him flinch with a bitter enjoyment. “All we wanted was for you to leave. Paris was long dead by the time you rammed down our doors.”
Odysseus takes another step back, and a look of panic flashes over his face as he realizes his back is against the wall. “We took a vow—”
“And isn’t it convenient how much gold that vow made you?” Then she chuckles. “Well, how much gold it made everybody else. It doesn’t seem to have done you much good.” She leans in, the blade of her sword whispering over his throat. “Have you ever been helpless before, Odysseus? Have you ever been without the gods to help you? Have you ever been this close to a blade and not had anything between it and your skin?”
Odysseus doesn’t respond, swallowing a lungful of nervous air.
“This is what you did to a whole city, you yellow-bellied, deceitful, pompous coward,” Andromache spits. “To woman after woman. Child after child. And I want you to thank the gods and the stars, for the rest of your sorry life, that I am a better person than you will ever be.”
And she steps back, sheaths her sword, and turns her back to leave. She waits for the footsteps to come after her - she wouldn’t have doubted it of him. But when she casts a look over her shoulder, he’s collapsed on his knees, rubbing the small cut on his throat, eyes fixed on her as she strides away.
~10~
She makes it back to the sea before she finally breaks down. Tears are a luxury as a pirate—any form of weakness is. But for a little while, she isn’t a pirate anymore. She’s a young woman losing everything all over again.
Andromache. It means “war of men,” and she’s been a victim of men’s wars for too long.
She dips her hand into the water, and whispers, “You let me kill your grandson. Why?”
Perhaps it’s her imagination that a hand slides into hers, and she certainly doesn’t hear any voice in response. But she gives herself an answer anyway - that she’s not the only one who doesn’t care for violence and brutality as the only way to be, that hers is not the only family torn apart by war. That sometimes letting human action unfold is preferable to saving the life of somebody who will kill tens, dozens, hundreds more. That sometimes there is no right choice.
She boards her ship, watching her men lingering still on the shore, uncertain of what transpired inside. But there’s no rush, not yet. She drags her fingers over the carved wood of each oar, over the strong pole of the mast, over the salt-soaked sides of her penteconter. Astyanax.
Time to sail—maybe back to Hypoplakia, finally, or back to Troy, or to everywhere and nowhere at all.
Rib of Man
By Geonn Cannon
* * *
The noose hung next to the door of her quarters, the rope stiff and hardened by the years since it was first tied. Henriette Talmadge often lay in bed and watched it sway with the movement of the ship. She still remembered very clearly the way it felt when the executioner slipped it over her head. The loop of hemp had an odd weight where it rested on her shoulders. She had been one of five scheduled to be executed that day, alongside a captain named MacManus. Henriette was barely sixteen, had only spent two months aboard a ship, and she accepted that her short life had reached its end with no gold, no glory, no name made for herself.
She was saved when MacManus’ crew staged a rescue by disrupting the spectacle. Her freedom was an unintended consequence. She took full advantage of it when the constables paid more attention to MacManus and his crewmen than to her. She ran, hands still bound behind her back and noose—the rope broken a few inches above its bowknot by a man whose face she’d never even seen. Behind her was gunfire, shouting, the clatter of suddenly terrified people who had exulted at seeing animals so long as they remained in a cage.
Twelve years had gone by since that ancient day. Henriette truly believed she’d died on that morning, her life over and her soul reborn as this new creature. She kept the noose as a reminder of how far she’d come. These were captain’s quarters, this was her vessel. The men and women she could hear shouting at each other on the deck were her crew. It was a far cry from the life she’d been told to expect when she was a child.
Henriette would have been content to remain in bed all morning,
but her reverie was broken by a shout from the crow’s nest. She swung her legs over the edge of her bed and pushed her hair out of her face, tying it back as she stepped outside. The sea air pushed against her like a solid wave as soon as she was on the deck. She took a moment to savor it and listen to the ship breathe. The rigging groaned, the sails moaned, and the entire ship seemed to vibrate with life.
Felicitas Caraveo, her quartermaster, had already investigated the lookout’s cry. She crossed the deck with the gliding step of a dancer. She once claimed to have spent more of her life at sea than on land, saying, “I was born on the waves, and fates willing, I’ll die there, too.” Her skin was dark brown, her normally wild hair currently tamed against her skull in a series of intricate braids. She was barefoot and wearing a lightweight tan shirt and trousers rolled up above her slender ankles.
“Ship ripe for the taking, just this side of the horizon. We could change course and intercept. See if it has anything we might be interested in.”
Henriette swept her hand across the lower part of her face as she considered the possibilities. The crew had gone some weeks without enriching themselves. Their morale seemed fine, but a victory would keep those spirits high until they were back in port. On the other hand, if they went to the effort of sacking a ship with an empty hold, she risked creating the very malaise she hoped to avoid. She didn’t like attacking blind. Stumbling across a potential payday in the middle of the wide ocean could be Lady Luck grinning on them or it could be the Devil tempting their greedy souls.
She held out her hand. Caraveo filled it with the brass telescope she kept on her belt at all times. Henriette extended its length and brought the glass to her eye, squinting as she focused on the distant vessel. It would be prudent to continue on their way. But there was something about this other ship that made her feel as if it was worth the risk. The feeling was just a spark in her gut, a twinge she had trusted in the past, to great benefit.
“Riding very low,” she noted.
“Heavy,” Caraveo confirmed. Her hands were on her hips, chin up and shoulders squared.
It was clear what response she was hoping for, but Henriette knew she would abide by whatever choice the captain made. She was utterly loyal even when she disagreed. Henriette lowered the telescope and patted it against her palm as she weighed the risks and benefits. Finally, she handed it back and granted Caraveo a smile.
“Change course, Fel. We’ll have some excitement today.”
Caraveo showed her teeth with a feral smile. “Aye, Captain. I’ll pass word.”
As she hurried off, Henriette moved closer to the railing to get a look at their target with her naked eye. They weren’t near any of the established shipping routes, which meant it wasn’t likely to be carrying supplies. It could just be a merchant vessel, blown off course.
Or, as a ship traveling east from the Caribbean, it could have a hold full of human beings they intended to sell into slavery. Liberating those prisoners wouldn’t do anything to help Henriette’s crew or their coffers, but it would nevertheless be a prize worth the risks they were taking.
Beneath her feet she could feel the ship changing direction. She rested her hands on the railing and stared hard at their prey for a moment. Once they were underway, she turned and moved toward the quarterdeck with a confident stride. The crew had taken note of the new course and gave her their attention. She motioned for their silence and smiled down at them, the men and women who had chosen to follow her, their greedy eyes wide as they looked back at her.
“I hope you enjoyed your rest, crew, because we’ve got a prize ripe for the picking on the edge of the world. What do you say we go see what we can pluck from its vine?”
Their cheers rose as a single animalistic shout, loud enough that she feared it would carry across the water to alert the other ship they were coming. But it didn’t matter. Let them know, let them fear what was to come. Henriette smiled and returned to her quarters.
Attacking another ship was by far the worst part of being a captain. There was the excitement, certainly. The firing of cannons made the entire ship quake underneath her feet, and the air quickly filled with the scent of burnt powder. Battles were quick and dirty affairs and never failed to make her blood churn. Unfortunately, she was less skilled with a blade than Caraveo, and they had an agreement that it would be best if Henriette left the close-quarter fighting to those better suited to it. Caraveo planned the assaults and led the charge onto the other vessel. Henriette made the call when to show their colors—too early gave their prey time to flee or retaliate—then remained behind until the all clear had been sounded.
She had changed into her favorite silk shirt and striped trousers. She smeared paint around her eyes, the white clashing against her dark skin, and added a fiery red eyeliner to ensure she looked monstrous. When she heard the horn sound from the other ship, she placed a tricorn hat over her dark curls and left the safety of her quarters.
A plank was set out between the decks. Caraveo awaited her on the other side, hand resting on the hilt of her cutlass. It was always a good sign to see a sheathed cutlass with no bloodstains. Henriette crossed the short distance and paused after stepping off onto the captured ship, pretending to examine one cuff of her shirt as Caraveo leaned in close.
“Just a bit of scrapple,” she muttered. “Fists and shouts, mostly. Been through worse at a tavern on payday.”
Henriette nodded and walked on. Caraveo followed her to the main deck. The crew had been separated into three rows of ten each, kneeling and facing starboard so they could see the ship responsible for taking them. Henriette slowed so she could examine their faces as she passed. They were haggard but not starving. Some were unshaven and sunburnt, some scarred but others fresh as schoolboys. Their clothes were well mended. She reached the end of the row and spun on the ball of her foot.
“I am Captain Henriette Talmadge. That,” she pointed, “is the Rib of Man. It’s my vessel. I took it from the man who had it before me because he used it as a chariot for the selling and purchasing of human beings. I thought it deserved a more righteous destiny.” She took slow steps forward as if marking distance. “I changed its name to Rib of Man because that, according to a certain book, is the origin of the female species.
“I don’t know about you gentlemen, but I’ve always thought that story sounded rather savage. A man caught unaware. A bone ripped from his body. And not the bone of his arm, nor his leg, but a rib, curved and sharp, like a sword. A man’s rib is a weapon, crafted while he lay naked and exposed.” She smiled at Caraveo. “The women standing before you are descendants of that brutal moment. We are weapons who have been taught we are weak, fragile, helpless. The weaker sex.”
“A bare fact,” a man muttered.
Henriette couldn’t tell who had spoken. “You believe it to be so? You call women weak because we are not as physically powerful as a man? Then it must also be true that a gorilla is mightier than a man or that men will bow down before a rhinoceros. You are simply a different sort of animal. You are aggressive and loud. You bellow and pound your chests to show you are unafraid while women plot, scheme or show mercy when it benefits us.”
She stopped walking and looked at the kneeling men.
“I will show mercy today. My crew will take what we desire from this ship and then we will leave. We will leave it intact, and not one man aboard will be harmed. In the following weeks, one of two things will happen. Either every man aboard agrees to remain silent about what transpired, or they decide to talk. When you talk, you spread word that you were boarded by Captain Talmadge and the crew from the Rib of Man. Those stories shall include the fact we showed mercy in exchange for taking what we wanted. If you say nothing, this encounter remains between us, and our ships go their separate ways. Either way, it works well for me and mine.”
A man in the middle row had lifted his head during her speech. She could see the defiance in his eye and knew exactly what he planned. He said, “Or perhaps you haven’t
the stomach to just take what you want. Lot of big talk just to—”
His head rocked back, his right eye replaced by a blackened bloom of blood and gore. He collapsed on the man next to him, who cringed and let the corpse tumble to the deck.
Caraveo holstered her gun and returned her attention to the water, no more bothered than if she had swatted a fly.
“I had a response,” Henriette said.
“Was it as concise as mine?”
“Hm. No, not really.” Henriette faced the crew again. “You want to live just a little bit more than I want to kill you. A ghost ship floating through these waters might be good for my reputation, but not if there are no survivors to tell the tale. Be smart, gentlemen. In a few hours, we will be miles away and considerably richer while you will be in Port Royal drowning your sorrows and ready to face another day.”
She turned her back and walked toward the captain’s quarters.
“Get these men off their knees,” she called back to Caraveo. “Get them below decks, out of the sun. No reason for them to fry on deck.”
“Aye, Captain,” Caraveo said. “All right, you heard her! On your feet!”
The captain’s cabin was more cluttered than her own. It clearly served as both living quarters and a center of operations, with an unmade bed against the far wall and a desk next to it. The windows were stained a dark yellow from years of pipe smoke, so the light filtering through gave the feeling of being submerged in murky water.
The desk was covered with a mountain of papers, books, maps, charts, and other detritus of commanding a ship. Seated behind it was Elias, a slender man with hunched shoulders and a pair of spectacles resting on the bump of his crooked nose. If he wore his hair down, it would have reached to his sharp cheekbones, but he shoved it up in wild tangles, only barely restrained by a bit of cord. He was currently skimming through a leather-bound book. He had not told her his last name, when he joined her crew five years ago, nor since.
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