by Dan Simmons
Fuck it, thought the Amazon queen as her comrades began to fire arrows and hurl spears. Let the Fates have their way and Hades take the hind-most! Ares—Father!—be with me and protect me now!
She half-expected the god of war to appear at her side then, and perhaps Athena and Aphrodite as well since it was their will that Achilles should die this day, but no god or goddess showed up in the few seconds before horses impaled themselves on hastily raised spears and thrown lances thunked down onto hurriedly raised shields and the unstoppable Amazons collided with the immovable Achaeans.
At first, both luck and the gods seemed to be with the Amazons. Although several of their horses were impaled on spearpoint, the huge steeds crashed on through Argive lines. Some of the Greeks fell back; others simply fell. The Amazon warriors quickly encircled the fifty or so men around Achilles and began slashing downward with their swords and spears.
Clonia, Penthesilea’s favorite lieutenant and the finest archer of all the living Amazons, was firing arrows as quickly as she could notch and release. Her targets were all behind Achilles, forcing the mankiller to turn as each man was hit. The Achaean Menippus went down with a long shaft through his throat. Menippus’ friend, the mighty Podarces, son of Iphiclus and brother of the fallen Protesilaus, leaped forward in rage, trying to pierce the mounted Clonia through the hip with his lance, but the Amazon Bremusa slashed the lance in half and then cut off Podarces’ arm at the elbow with a mighty downward slash.
Penthesilea’s sisters-in-arms, Euandra and Thermodoa, had been dismounted—their warhorses crashing to the ground, pierced through the heart by Achaean long lances—but the two women were on their feet in an instant, armored back to armored back, their crescent shields flashing—as they held off a circle of screaming, attacking Greek men.
Penthesilea found herself crashing through Argive shields in the second wave of Amazon attack, her comrades Alcibia, Dermachia, and Derione by her side. Bearded faces snarled up at them and were slashed down. An arrow, fired from the Achaeans’ rear ranks, ricocheted off Penthesilea’s helmet, causing her vision to blur red for an instant.
Where is Achilles? The confusion of battle had disoriented her for a moment, but then the Amazon queen saw the mankiller twenty paces to her right, surrounded by the core of Achaean captains—the Ajaxes, Idomeneus, Odysseus, Diomedes, Sthenelus, Teucer. Penthesilea gave out a loud Amazon war cry and kicked her horse in the ribs, urging it toward the core of heroes.
At that second the mob seemed to part for an instant just as Achilles turned to watch one of his men, Euenor of Dulichium, fall with one of Clonia’s arrows in his eye. Penthesilea could easily see Achilles’ exposed calf under the greaves’ straps, his dusty ankles, his calloused heels.
Athena’s spear seemed to hum in her hand as she drew back and threw with all her might and strength. The lance flew true, striking the fleet-footed mankiller in his unprotected right heel…and glancing away.
Achilles’ head snapped around and came up until his blue-eyed gaze locked on Penthesilea. He grinned a horrible grin.
The Amazons were engaged with the core group of Achaean men now, and their luck began to turn.
Bremusa cast a spear at Idomeneus, but Deucalion’s son raised his round shield almost casually and the lance broke in two. When he cast his longer spear, it flew deadly true, piercing the red-haired Bremusa just below the left breast and coming out through her spine. She tumbled backward off her lathered horse and half a dozen lesser Argives raced to strip her of her armor.
Screaming rage at their sister’s fall, Alcibia and Dermachia drove their horses at Idomeneus, but the two Ajaxes grabbed the steeds’ reins and wrestled them to a stop with their awful strength. When the two Amazons leaped down to carry the battle on foot, Diomedes, son of Tydeus, decapitated both of them with one wide sweep of his sword. Penthesilea watched in horror as Alcibia’s head rolled, still blinking, to a dusty stop, only to be lifted up by the hair by a laughing Odysseus.
Penthesilea felt her leg raked by some grasping unnamed Argive and she plunged her second spear down through the man’s chest until it pierced his bowels. He fell away, mouth gaping, but took her spear with him. She freed her battle-axe and spurred her horse forward, riding with only her knees holding her on to her steed.
Derione, riding to the Amazon queen’s right, was pulled off her horse by Little Ajax, son of Oileus. On her back, her breath knocked out of her, Derione was just reaching for her sword when Little Ajax laughed and slammed his spear through her chest, twisting it until the Amazon stopped writhing.
Clonia fired an arrow at Little Ajax’s heart. His armor deflected it. That is when Teucer, bastard son of Telamon, master archer of all archers, shot three fast arrows into the grunting Clonia—one in her throat, one through her armor into her stomach, a last one so deep into her bared left breast that only the feathers and three inches of the end of the shaft stayed visible. Penthesilea’s dear friend fell lifeless from her bleeding horse.
Euandra and Thermodoa were still standing and fighting back to back—though wounded and bleeding and almost falling over from weariness—when the press of Achaeans around them fell away and Meriones, son of Molus, friend of Idomeneus and second in command of the Cretans, cast two spears at once—one from each hand. The heavy spears cut through all layers of the Amazon women’s light armor and Thermodoa and Euandra fell dead in the dust.
All the other Amazons were down now. Penthesilea was wounded with a hundred scratches and slashes, but none of them mortal. Her axe blades were covered with blood and Argive gore, but the weapon was too heavy for her to lift now, so she set it aside and pulled her short sword. The space between her and Achilles opened wider.
As if the goddess Athena had ordained it, the unbroken spear she’d cast at Achilles’ right heel was on the ground near her exhausted horse’s right hoof. Normally, the Amazon queen could have bent low from a galloping horse to swoop up the magical weapon, but she was too exhausted, her armor was too heavy on her, and her wounded steed had no strength left to move, so Penthesilea slipped sideways on her saddle and slid down, bending low to retrieve the spear just as two of Teucer’s arrows whizzed over her helmet top.
When she stood, there was no one left in her focused vision except Achilles. The rest of the surging throngs of screaming Achaeans were unimportant blurs.
“Throw again,” said Achilles, still grinning his horrible grin.
Penthesilea put every ounce of strength left to her in the spearcast, throwing low where Achilles’ bare, muscular thighs were visible below the circle of his beautiful shield.
Achilles crouched as quickly as any panther. Athena’s spear struck his shield and splintered.
Now Penthesilea could only stand there and grasp her axe again as Achilles, still grinning, lifted his own lance, the legendary spear that the centaur Chiron had made for his father, Peleus, the lance that never missed its mark.
Achilles threw. Penthesilea raised her crescent shield. The lance smashed through the shield without slowing, pierced her armor, tore through her right breast and out her back, and went through her horse standing behind her, piercing its heart as well.
Amazon queen and her war steed fell into the dust together, Penthesilea’s legs and feet flying high on the pendulum of the rising spear embedded in both their chests. As Achilles approached, sword in hand, Penthesilea strained to hold him in her sight as her vision dimmed. The axe fell from her nerveless fingers.
“Holy shit,” whispered Hockenberry.
“Amen,” said Mahnmut.
The ex-scholic and little moravec had been next to Achilles during the entire brawl. They walked forward now as Achilles stood next to Penthesilea’s twitching body.
“Tum saeva Amazon ultimus cecidit metus,” murmured Hockenberry. Then the savage Amazon fell, our greatest fear.
“Virgil again?” said Mahnmut.
“No, Pyrrhus in Seneca’s tragedy, Troades.”
Now a strange thing happened.
; As various Achaeans crowded around to strip the dead or dying Penthesilea of her armor, Achilles folded his arms and stood above her, his nostrils flaring as if taking in the stink of blood and horse sweat and death. Then the fleet-footed mankiller raised his huge hands to his face, covered his eyes, and began to weep.
Big Ajax, Diomedes, Odysseus, and several other captains who had pressed close to see the dead Amazon queen stepped back in amazement. Rat-faced Thersites and some lesser Achaeans ignored the weeping man-god and persisted in their stripping of Penthesilea’s armor, pulling her helmet from her lolling head, allowing the dead queen’s golden locks to tumble down.
Achilles threw his head back and moaned as he had on the morning of Patroclus’ murder and kidnapping by Hockenberry disguised as Athena. The captains stepped farther back from the dead woman and horse.
Thersites used his knife to cut away the straps on Penthesilea’s chest-plate armor and belt, slashing into the dead queen’s fair flesh in his hurry to gather his unearned spoils. The queen was all but naked now—only one dangling greave, her silver belt, and a single sandal remaining on her slashed and bruised but somehow still-perfect body. Peleus’ long lance still pinned her to the carcass of the horse and Peleus’ son made no move to retrieve the spear.
“Step away,” said Achilles. Most of the men obeyed at once.
Ugly Thersites—Penthesilea’s armor under one arm and the queen’s bloodied helmet under his other arm—laughed over his shoulder as he continued to strip her of her belt. “What a fool you are, son of Peleus, to weep so for this fallen bitch, standing there sobbing for her beauty. She’s a meal for worms now, worth no more than that.”
“Step away,” said Achilles in his terrible monotone. Tears continued to streak down his dusty face.
Emboldened by the mankiller’s show of womanly weakness, Thersites ignored the command and tugged the silver belt from around dead Penthesilea’s hips, raising her body slightly to free the priceless band and making the motion an obscenity by moving his own hips as if copulating with the corpse.
Achilles stepped forward and struck Thersites with his bare fist, smashing his jaw and cheekbone, knocking every one of the rat-man’s yellow teeth out of his mouth, and sending him flying over the horse and dead queen to lie in the dust, vomiting blood from both mouth and nose.
“No grave or barrow for you, you bastard,” said Achilles. “You once sneered at Odysseus, and Odysseus forgave you. You sneered at me just now, and I killed you. The son of Peleus will not be taunted without a reckoning. Go now, go on down to Hades and taunt the shadows there with your mocking wit.”
Thersites choked on his own blood and vomit and died.
Achilles pulled Peleus’ spear slowly—almost lovingly—from the dust, the horse’s corpse, and up and out through Penthesilea’s softly rocking corpse. All the Achaeans stepped farther back, not understanding the mankiller’s moans and weeping.
“Aurea cui postquam nudavit cassida frontem, vicit victorem candida forma virum,” whispered Hockenberry to himself. “After her gilded metal helmet was removed, her forehead exposed, her brilliant form conquered the man…Achilles…the victor.” He looked down at Mahnmut. “Propertius, Book Three poem Eleven of his Elegies.”
Mahnmut tugged at the scholic’s hand. “Someone’s going to be writing an elegy for us if we don’t get out of here. And I mean now.”
“Why?” said Hockenberry, blinking as he looked around.
Sirens were going off. The rockvec soldiers were moving among throngs of retreating Achaeans, urging them with alarms and amplified voices to get through the Hole at once. A huge retreat was under way, with chariots and running men pouring toward and through the Hole, but it wasn’t the moravec loudspeakers that were creating the retreat—Olympos was erupting.
The earth…well, the Mars earth…shook and vibrated. The air was filled with the stink of sulfur. Behind the retreating Achaean and Trojan armies, the distant summit of Olympos glowed red beneath its aegis and columns of flame were leaping miles into the air. Already, rivers of red lava could be seen on the upper reaches of Olympus Mons, the largest volcano in the solar system. The air was full of red dust and the stink of fear.
“What’s going on?” asked Hockenberry.
“The gods caused some sort of eruption up there and the Brane Hole is going to disappear any minute,” said Mahnmut, leading Hockenberry away from where Achilles had knelt next to the fallen Amazon queen. The other dead Amazons had also been stripped of all their armor, and except for the core of captain-heroes, most of the men were hurrying toward the Hole.
You need to get out of there, came Orphu of Io’s voice over the tight-beam to Mahnmut.
Yes, sent Mahnmut, we can see the eruption from here.
Worst than that, came Orphu’s voice on the tightbeam. The readings show the Calabi-Yau space there bending back toward a black hole and worm-hole. String vibrations are totally unstable. Olympus Mons may or may not blow that part of Mars to bits, but you have minutes, at most, before the Brane Hole disappears. Get Hockenberry and Odysseus back to the ship here.
Looking between the moving armor and dusty thighs, Mahnmut caught sight of Odysseus standing speaking to Diomedes thirty paces away. Odysseus? he sent. Hockenberry hasn’t had time to talk to Odysseus, much less convince him to come with us. Do we really need Odysseus?
The Prime Integrator analysis says we do, sent Orphu. And by the way, you had your video on during that entire fight. That was one hell of a thing to see.
Why do we need Odysseus? sent Mahnmut. The ground rumbled and quaked. The placid sea to their north was no longer placid; great breakers rolled in against red rocks.
How am I supposed to know? rumbled Orphu of Io. Do I look like a prime integrator to you?
Any suggestions on how I’m going to persuade Odysseus to leave his friends and comrades and the war with the Trojans to come join us? sent Mahnmut. It looks like he and the other captains—except for Achilles—are going to get into their chariots and head back through the Hole in about one minute. The smell from the volcano and all the noise are driving the horses crazy—and the people, too. How am I going to get Odysseus’ attention at a time like this?
Use some initiative, sent Orphu. Isn’t that what Europan sub-drivers are famous for? Initiative?
Mahnmut shook his head and walked over to Centurion Leader Mep Ahoo where the rockvec stood using his loudspeaker to urge the Achaeans to return through the Brane Hole at once. Even his amplified voice was lost under the volcano rumble and the pounding of hooves and sandaled feet as the humans ran like hell to get away from Olympos.
Centurion Leader? sent Mahnmut, connecting directly via tactical channels.
The two-meter-tall black rockvec turned and snapped to attention. Yes, sir.
Technically, Mahnmut had no command rank in the moravec army, but in practical terms, the rockvecs understood that Mahnmut and Orphu were on the level of commanders such as the legendary Asteague/Che.
Go over to my hornet there and await further orders.
Yes, sir. Mep Ahoo left the evacuation shouts to one of the other rock-vecs and jogged to the hornet.
“I have to get Odysseus over to the hornet,” Mahnmut shouted to Hockenberry. “Will you help?”
Hockenberry, who was looking from the convulsions high on the shoulder of Olympos back at the quivering Brane Hole, gave the little moravec a distracted look but nodded and walked with him toward the cluster of Achaean captains.
Mahnmut and Hockenberry strode briskly past the two Ajaxes, Idomeneus, Teucer, and Diomedes to where Odysseus stood frowning at Achilles. The tactician seemed lost in thought.
“Just get him to the hornet,” whispered Mahnmut.
“Son of Laertes,” said Hockenberry.
Odysseus’ head whipped around. “What is it, son of Duane?”
“We have word from your wife, sir.”
“What?” Odysseus scowled and put his hand on his sword hilt. “What are you talking about?”
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“I’m talking about your wife, Penelope, mother of Telemachus. She has sent a message to you through us, conveyed by moravec magic.”
“Fuck your moravec magic,” snarled Odysseus, scowling down at Mahnmut. “Go away, Hockenberry, and take that little abomination with you, before I open both of you from crotch to chin. Somehow…I don’t know how, but somehow…I’ve always sensed that these new misfortunes rode in with you and these cursed moravecs.”
“Penelope says to remember your bed,” said Hockenberry, improvising and hoping he remembered his Fitzgerald correctly. He had tended to teach the Iliad and let Professor Smith handle the Odyssey.
“My bed?” frowned Odysseus, stepping away from the other captains. “What are you prattling about?”
“She says to tell you that a description of your marriage bed will be our way of letting you know that this message is truly from her.”
Odysseus pulled his sword and set the side of the razored blade against Hockenberry’s shoulder. “I am not amused. Describe the bed to me. For every error in your description, I will lop off one of your limbs.”
Hockenberry resisted the urge to run or piss himself. “Penelope says to tell you that the frame was inlaid with gold, silver, and ivory, with thongs of oxhide stretched end to end to hold the many soft fleeces and coverlets.”
“Bah,” said Odysseus, “that could describe any great man’s couch. Go away.” Diomedes and Big Ajax had gone over to urge the still-kneeling Achilles to abandon the Amazon queen’s corpse and come with them. The Brane Hole was visibly vibrating now, its edges blurry. The roar from Olympos was so loud now that everyone had to shout to be heard.
“Odysseus!” cried Hockenberry. “This is important. Come with us to hear your message from fair Penelope.”
The short, bearded man turned back to glower at the scholic and moravec. His sword was still raised. “Tell me where I moved the bed after my bride and I moved in, and I may let you keep your arms.”
“You never moved it,” said Hockenberry, his raised voice steady despite his pounding heart. “Penelope says that when you built your palace, you left a strong, straight olive tree where the bedroom is today. She says that you cut away the branches, set the tree into a ceiling of wood, carved the trunk, and left it as one post of your marriage bed. These were words she said to tell you so that you would know that it was truly she who sent her message.”