The Amazon and the Warrior Page 12

She glided forward into the room’s center. Sliding around the blazing hearth, she headed straight for Priam. When she reached him, the music changed again, and she began undulated both upper and lower body, then twirled, one way and then the other, all the time varying the tambourine’s insistence. Now soft, now loud.

  She dared to glance at Hektor, only a glance. His intense gaze met hers, but the practiced skill of an heir to a throne kept his face unreadable.

  She did not have the courage to look at Andromache.

  She stepped close to the front of Priam’s table, undid the especially designed and lengthened end of the dark blue outermost garment, and handed the end to Priam.

  He tugged on the silk, and the garment pulled away from her body. Priam let it ripple to the floor. The white silk beneath it exposed not only her arms but was cut low across her breasts, and deep slits up both sides let her viewers see flashes of the light blue, sheer gown beneath. And flashes of her long legs.

  She danced alongside the front of one side table, and up the front of the other, all the time working the tambourine. When she once again reached Priam, her heart beat against her throat. The music possessed her now.

  Hot, her skin tingling, she gave Priam the specially lengthened end of the white silk. He pulled that garment from her body, leaving her draped only in a light blue that revealed the shadow of all beneath it. The fabric barely covered her breasts, completely exposed her waist, and hung seductively in front of her legs and directly behind.

  She undid the large pin that held up her black hair so that its waves fell to her waist. In a final twirl and with loud tambourine rattle, she sank to the floor, her back arched and one hand pointed toward the ceiling. She lost herself in a fantasy of Hektor’s gaze on her. Imagined herself soon in his arms, his lips on hers.

  The music stopped. Slowly the moment released her. She registered the loud sounds of thumped applause on the tables and voices of men and women calling out “Well done,” and “Beautiful,” and “Derinoe!”

  She rose and curtsied to Hekuba and bowed low to Priam. She dared not risk another glance at Hektor.

  Surrounded with applause, she ran from the room. It took only moments to change back into a light woolen green gown. Gradually her heart slowed. She cooled off.

  She tucked her dancing things into an embroidered satchel, a gift from Cassandra, and after wrapping a woolen shawl over her shoulders, strode toward one of many private passages. She had been Cassandra’s friend for over six years, and Hektor’s lover for four. She knew many, if not all, of the citadel’s private and secret passages.

  28

  WHEN DERINOE REACHED CASSANDRA’S HOME, Alcmene greeted her. “The Lady Cassandra went for a stroll on the wall. She asks you to meet her there.”

  Many shops in the citadel backed up against the thick, massive stone structure that ringed Troy’s inner heart. These buildings gave added protection to the fortification. In earlier times of quiet, the citadel’s elite walked along the top to enjoy the view, the activities in the city, or the sunset. Now, since the invasion, they could often watch battles on the plain below when the clashes surged close enough.

  Some homes within the wall’s embrace stood near it, but none were connected to it. A narrow wooden footbridge spanned a gap of ten steps between Cassandra’s top floor garden and the wall’s walkway. Derinoe crossed, and seeing Cassandra standing not far from the tower guarding the southern gate, she strolled to join her.

  She embraced Cassandra, who said, “So how did it go?”

  “If applause is a true gauge, it went well.”

  Cassandra linked their arms. “The signs today indicate we should not eat fowl, so I changed our dinner slightly.”

  She turned to look southwest again, past the lights of the oil lamps in the city windows, southwest toward the mouth of the bay where the Acheans squatted on Trojan land. For years, Achilles had encamped south and Ajax north of Troy; the lands surrounding the city could not possibly supply food and fuel for the entire Achean force for any lengthy period.

  Derinoe had arranged her escape from Achilles early in the siege, when he was still encamped at Troy. She often wondered where she might have ended up had she not been able to escape before he moved south.

  Cassandra sighed. “I used to come here to look at the stars. Now I find myself staring with sick fascination at their campfires.”

  To Derinoe, the enemy fires, strung in a long sweeping curve, seemed like a goddesses’ necklace laid out against a black cat’s fur. She spoke her thoughts. “In the night darkness, the fires seem beautiful. They make me think of the peace of home and hearth. But then I think, thousands of barbarians huddle around them. Savages who would like nothing better than to kill every man in Troy. Then they would cheerfully rape the women.”

  Cassandra said, “Let’s walk. Let’s put our minds on other things. Will you go to Hektor tonight after we dine?”

  “Yes. He must have sent his message almost the minute he returned from the fighting.”

  The eternal wind had quieted for the night, but the air still nipped her skin with a cold bite. Derinoe slipped the woolen shawl higher across her shoulders. To circle the citadel once made for good exercise.

  Cassandra said, “I am very upset with Paris.”

  “What has your little brother done now?”

  Any talk with Cassandra about Paris always distressed Derinoe. Despite his physical beauty and often entertaining ways, Derinoe despised him from the first time they met. He had rebuked her for interrupting something he was saying. Paris, like most Trojan men, thought women should be kept in their place. Her Amazon mother would have slapped his disrespectful face.

  “He and Hektor had an enormous fight. Not physical mind you. But Hektor is furious that Paris rarely joins in when the Trojans launch a battle. He told Paris so. I was there. So was Helen and Andromache. What a scene.”

  “Paris is an outstanding archer and would be a great asset in any battle. But it’s obvious he’s is a man interested only in the hunt and making love, not fighting.”

  “I hear the disgust, even in your voice.”

  “Do you want me to say sweet things about him even if I don’t believe them?”

  “People just don’t understand him.”

  “He seduced another man’s wife and managed to convince her to abscond to a foreign land with much of her husband’s wealth.”

  “Why don’t people blame Helen? Instead, Hektor supports her. So do Priam and Hekuba.”

  Derinoe felt a sharp stab of pity for Helen who, not unlike herself, lived essentially alone, cut off from her family and former life. With shocking vividness, the image of Derinoe’s mother, on the floor and with blood spreading across her white sleeping gown, sent a shiver down Derinoe’s arms. She clutched the shawl tighter.

  And Pentha? Pentha was doubtless dead as well, because she, too, would never have surrendered to the Acheans.

  “I suppose I do blame Helen in a way,” Derinoe replied.

  “She did, after all, leave Menelaus of her own will to come here. But mostly I feel sorry for her. Those beautiful blue eyes. It’s not hard to see why Paris was smitten. Her temperament is gentle and she is quite without guile.” All so unlike that venomous Andromache. “Really, when you know her you can hardly help but like her, and he took her away from her home.”

  “Still, to put all the blame on Paris—”

  Cassandra could not see that her brother was an essentially weak and debauched man. Derinoe continued. “Paris is physically beautiful. He has a charmed tongue. Everyone can easily imagine him casting a spell on so simple a woman. But what makes people angry with Paris is that although he has brought war to Troy, he’s not willing to fight to drive the enemy away.”

  What gloomy talk! Better to think of other things. “You must visit Priam,” she said, “and see the monkey he received today.”

  “A monkey?”

  Their chat turned to monkeys, Nubians, silk, and the next festival to Athena. By
the time they completed the circuit, Derinoe felt warm enough to let the shawl drape loosely over her shoulders.

  They crossed the bridge onto the roof garden, and before reentering her rooms, Cassandra led them to a niche holding the image of her patron goddess.

  They knelt. Derinoe joined Cassandra in a prayer of praise. But for some reason, perhaps her recent thought of her mother, the words came out stilted with guilt. How this sight would have shocked and saddened her mother. Her prayers should be to Artemis, protectress of Amazons.

  But then, could she really think of herself as Amazon now?

  Not for the first time she felt dissatisfied. Trapped. And riddled with fear for Myrina and Leonides.

  29

  WHEN DERINOE FINISHED PRAYING WITH CASSANDRA, she said, “I’ve not told you much about my former life.” They went inside and walked down one story. She continued. “My mother prayed to the huntress, Artemis.”

  Cassandra cast her a sharp look.

  Derinoe hurried on. “Of course, I honor Athena so I have no trouble following your example.”

  Cassandra put her hand on Derinoe’s arm. “Don’t let anyone in Troy hear you express any desire to follow that wild woman of the woods.”

  Derinoe waited, unsure what to say. But perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised at Cassandra’s advice. Shortly after meeting Cassandra, Derinoe had learned that to openly worship Artemis in Troy was considered not only rather low class, but a possible sign of disloyalty. Since the days when, in his youth, Priam sided with Bellerophon against the Amazons, Artemis worshippers had become suspect. Clearly, Cassandra’s thin lips and creased brow made evident her contempt for anyone attracted to the Huntress.

  Cassandra led into the sitting room, tossed off her shawl, and moved to a table that held wine. She poured, then handing Derinoe wine and shaking her head, she said, “I have recently seen things. Evil things. I have great fears for the people of Troy. Some days I grow quite frantic.”

  She sipped, and her mood seemed to shift. “I have never asked anything about your former life. When I was hurt and alone, you tended me even though you didn’t know who I was. And for that, I will always be grateful. We are friends. I don’t need to know anything else. I don’t even need to know who Leonides’ father is.”

  Derinoe’s heart skipped a beat. Was this actually a request? Did Cassandra in fact want to know?

  Mercifully, two servants interrupted the uncomfortable moment, bringing light dinner. Derinoe lingered over a whitefish, redolent with thyme, her thoughts far from Cassandra’s talk of how desperately Athena’s statue in the temple needed refurbishing.

  When fruit was served—golden apples and grapes—a man entered carrying a lyre. His cheery round face bore twinkling dark brown eyes and a wispy froth of white hair ringed a bald top.

  “We will have our own entertainment,” Cassandra said, with a glowing smile. To the man she said, “So, teller of tales and singer of songs, begin.”

  “Wise high priestess of our divine Athena, I am greatly honored to devise a pleasure for you and your friend.”

  He strummed the lyre and played a popular paean to Zeus. That completed, he recited a poem in which Athena, born straight from the head of her father, Zeus—a goddess untouched by any woman, not even in birth—granted a bit of her wisdom to mortals. “And now,” he said, “a story that teaches us some of that wisdom.

  “One day a young hunter named Actaeon finished his hunting. And he suddenly realized that he was lost.”

  Derinoe knew this story well. Her mother had told it to Derinoe and Pentha many times. A sharp edge of grief struck. She shoved her memories down into the deep places where she hid all her troubles, and settled back to enjoy a familiar tale.

  “Actaeon tried first one path, and then another. Then he heard women’s laughter. He made for it, and burst into a clearing. There, bathing nude in a spring was the huntress goddess, Artemis.”

  The storyteller’s voice turned ominous. “She was surrounded by her nymphs. Actaeon saw her beauty and forgot her vengeful nature and her hatred for men, and he lingered. Too long. Artemis saw him. She was certain he would boast that he had seen her naked.”

  Derinoe felt warm blood of protest rising under her skin.

  The teller of tales continued. “The very thought that Actaeon might boast enraged Artemis. Actaeon turned to flee, but too late. Her quiver was not at hand, so the goddess cast a spell on the water, scooped it up, and flung it onto him.

  “With the speed of lightning’s flash, he transformed into a great, beautiful stag.

  “He ran, and his hunting dogs gave chase. Terrified, Actaeon ran for his life, knowing what the dogs would do if they caught him. And they did. They brought him down and devoured him alive.

  “Artemis is a goddess who hates men, and to worship her is to be seduced by her and leads to destruction of the most violent, horrifying kind.”

  Her back rigid, Derinoe felt her heart beating a wild pulse in her throat. The man had changed the story to please the high priestess of Artemis’s rival in Troy, the high priestess of Athena. This was the kind of lie that led men to think they could rape women as Achilles had raped her. “Your story isn’t right!”

  White eyebrows lifted.

  “Artemis did not punish Actaeon because she hates men.” The heat in her heart showed in her voice. “Actaeon knew that the goddess was bathing, and did not respect her. He felt he had every right to enter the clearing and gaze upon her. If he could have, he might have raped her. Artemis does not hate men. What she hates is men who do not respect women. For that that she punished him. Why do you change the story?”

  He took a step back. Looking at Cassandra he bowed and said, “I am profoundly sorry if my telling has offended, My Lady.”

  Derinoe looked at Cassandra, who turned blazing eyes on Derinoe.

  Derinoe rushed to explain. “My mother told me the story many times, Cassandra. He tells it wrong.”

  Cassandra waved her hand in dismissal. The storyteller vanished on quick feet. With a voice as chilled as ice, Cassandra said, “Should I think your loyalty to Athena is in doubt?”

  A cold breath of fear prickled Derinoe’s skin—she must not offend Cassandra. Then a pang of guilt—she should, in fact, be honoring Artemis as her mother would have wanted. But then above all, a warming rush of gratitude—this woman had saved her life.

  She rose and knelt in front of Cassandra and took her hand. “I love you, my dear friend. You are the high priestess of the goddess Athena, and for you I honor Her. You have protected me and my son and my daughter. I am forever in your debt.”

  “And I love you,” Cassandra said, slipping her arms around Derinoe. “So let us not argue. Just, please, Derinoe. Let’s not speak, ever again, of Artemis. If you were to take up the worship of that disrespectful Artemis, our friendship would suffer. Quite seriously”

  Derinoe held Cassandra in an embrace a moment longer, her heart slowing from relief. They were still friends. Hektor was Derinoe’s first source of security, but Cassandra was her critical second source. Their friendship should not, must not, ever be damaged.

  Still, she seemed to have taken one more step from her past. To survive, she had lived in denial of so many things for so many years. Now it seemed she must finally, permanently, deny even her memories of Amazon pride and freedom.

  She forced a smile. “I should go to Hektor now.”

  She should take Hektor a happy heart, not this crushing sadness. He didn’t like to see her unhappy. But perhaps just seeing him would lift her spirit.

  They exchanged a kiss to the cheek. Cassandra said, “Give my brother my love.”

  30

  “THE PROPOSAL YOU HAVE JUST HEARD IS A PERFECT example of why Penthesilea is unsuited to the position of Warrior Queen.”

  Euryclea paused, obviously for effect as she scanned the Grand Council Chamber, attempting to capture the attention of every one of the fifty most important women and men of Themiskyra. The central hearth blazed
and torches on the walls added more light. It was night and their gloomy subject was war, but the room itself couldn’t have been more cheerful.

  Pentha clenched a fist in her lap. She forced her expression to remain impassive, but her mind had reeled during all of Euryclea’s diatribe. Pentha had expected some disagreement at this meeting, some questions, but not this vitriolic attack on her authority.

  Euryclea made an imposing figure, tall and dressed in a formal gown, as were all the women except Pentha and her Amazons. She and they would not wear gowns until they left service as Amazons, but for Grand Council they were formally dressed in silk, trousers and long-sleeved, high necked tunics. And Pentha wore the golden girdle that was the symbol of her authority, the golden girdle worn by all Warrior Queens for as long as there was memory in Themiskrya. In battle it held her sword’s sheath and her ax. When the time came, she would pass it to her successor. And Euryclea had just made clear she thought that time should be now.

  Harmonia sat at the head of the room on a dais. Pentha sat to her left. At Harmonia’s right side sat Trusis and four other men of the men’s council. To Pentha’s left sat Bremusa and three women from the women’s council.

  Euryclea, as currently recognized speaker, stood in the center of the semicircle. From there she could turn to address either the members on the dais or the remainder of Themiskyra’s elite.

  Pentha felt a sudden urge to leap up and wring Euryclea’s neck. The woman has basically declared war on me. Instead she looked to the front row of seated dignitaries, at Hippolyta. Hippolyta looked back and shook her head, her full lips pursed in disgust. Gryn, sitting beside Hippolyta, simply stared at Euryclea with a composed, unreadable expression.

  “In short,” Euryclea said, “we have defended our borders against Hittites and Kaska for years. Rather than stir ourselves to an ill advised preparation for war with an enemy that has not yet so much as threatened us, we need to reconsider who should be setting policy and leading our troops.”

  Euryclea bowed to Harmonia, then returned to her seat in the front row.