The Amazon and the Warrior Page 3

  “Deri!” Pentha screams.

  Now she runs beside a chariot, thrusting the knife at the huge warrior in his gilded bronze armor. He knocks the knife away as if it is a feather. Through Pentha’s tears, the world is a wavery sheet of running colors.

  “Deri!” she screams again as she uselessly pummels the man’s enormous, outstretched arm.

  For a moment that seems timeless and as electrified as if Zeus has shot her with lightening, her gaze connects with his, and then the movement of the chariot pulls him from her and something shakes her.

  “Wake up Pentha!”

  This was an entirely different male voice. Gentle. Soothing.

  She forced her eyes open. Next to her knelt the man, Damon. And she was striking him and crying.

  Hippolyta took her hand. Damon let go of her shoulders.

  Hippolyta had fetched a cloth. She wiped sweat from Pentha’s forehead and said, “You’re back.”

  Pentha took the cloth and wiped at her tears. She looked at their host. “How dreadful,” she said. The look on his face seemed a mixture of wonder and concern. She added, “I’m sorry. I’ve wakened both of you.”

  He sat back on his heels. “You were thrashing your covers. Can I get you something? Water perhaps?”

  “It’s nothing.” She hugged her stomach, her insides still shaking.

  Hippolyta kissed her on the check, then stood. “Pentha’s dreams often don’t bring her peace.” She moved back to her own bedding and wriggled under the skins.

  Damon, too, returned to his furs.

  Pentha closed her eyes but now she recalled the actual moment when the infamous Achean royal barged into their house. Large chest, fine mouth, powerfully formed arms and legs, head with long, wavy, chestnut-colored hair. A shaft of morning light struck his elaborate bronze-inlaid breast-piece and a reflected beam pierced the room and momentarily dazzled her.

  Then Cleite attacked him, knife in hand. When Pentha’s mother lunged at him, he backed against the door which slammed shut. He grabbed her mother’s wrist and twisted it. And either the man thrust the knife into her mother or perhaps her mother’s forward rush forced her onto the blade.

  Pentha hadn’t been able to see which. But her mother sagged against him, and Pentha remembered the sharp taste of tears and blood mingled because she had bitten herself so hard to keep from screaming. She had watched in horror as a bright spot of red spread across the chest of her mother’s sleeping gown.

  And she had noted, even in her distress, that the warrior appeared surprised, truly amazed that her mother attacked him. He lowered her to the floor, so gently, and his eyes looked full of regret. Surely, surely he had not thought that an Amazon daughter of Artemis would be taken captive? Would go docilely into slavery, to be taken across the Great Sea to harvest flax, work clay, and weave her life away for men’s pleasure and profit.

  And then he and Deri were … . Tears welled, slid down Pentha’s cheeks. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to cover any sound. The dream never came exactly the same. She could be hiding in different places. The Achean might take Deri away by some other means. But the dream always carried the essence of the horrible truth. Pentha had not: … had not … . Tears threatened again and she bit the back of her hand to block thoughts of her shame.

  It took a long time, but eventually her thoughts lost focus. She did not dream again, or if she did, she didn’t remember.

  4

  DAMON AWAKENED EARLY. FOR A LONG TIME, HE studied the face of the sleeping woman opposite him. Warrior Queen of the Amazons of Themiskyra. Had there ever been another woman, let alone Warrior Queen, so beautiful? The world told tales of Amazon strength and beauty, but this woman’s beauty outshone any he’d ever seen.

  Finally he rose and fetched water. He woke the women, and while they washed their faces and went outside, he laid down a simple breakfast of pears, figs, and goat’s milk cheese sprinkled with white barley meal.

  When they finished, he led them into the yard. “Your hip?” he asked Penthesilea. She seemed to be walking fine.

  “No worse for the experience.”

  He nodded. He doubted she would complain even if in excruciating pain.

  “I’ll walk you to your camp, lest some new calamity befall you.”

  Her green eyes flashed. “I—we—are perfectly able to make our camp.”

  He laughed, and quickly realizing the tease, she laughed too.

  She described the location of their horses and gear. He knew the place, and since this was his territory, he led the way. But not for one heartbeat did he forget Penthesilea’s presence at his back.

  The rain ceased sometime during the night, leaving the morning air gauzy with thick fog and rich with the odor of wet earth and leaves. Where the trail widened, they walked three abreast. Watching her he said, “You have the most uncommon voice.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  He wanted to tell her the truth. Something inside him ached to tell this woman that her voice was the clear, bright yellow of a mountain daisy. Not since his wife’s death, twelve years ago, had he felt so strong a pull to a woman. But like all others to whom he had tried to explain, Pentha would think him mad or cursed. After his first mention of it to his wife, and her shocked, uncomprehending response, he had never again spoken even to her of the colors.

  Suddenly regretting he’d said anything at all, he managed only, “It’s quite beautiful.”

  That won him a lovely smile. “Well, that’s never been said about me before:”

  When they reached a rise overlooking their camp, he felt he’d come as far as necessary. Time to part. Dia and Little Wolf and his other companions needed feeding.

  They exchanged farewells. He watched them stride down the hill. Hippolyta turned and waved. From a pocket on the inside of his trousers, he fetched out the green arrowhead, felt his body warmth on it, thought how perfectly its color matched Pentha’s eyes. He held it a moment, then slid it back into the pocket.

  5

  ACHILLES CAUGHT SIGHT OF THE CAMP OF Agamemnon, ahead and to his left, firmly entrenched at the wide mouth of the bay southwest of Troy.

  “Finally,” he said to Automedon, his squire and driver, loudly enough to be heard over the sounds of the horses’ hooves and dirt-churning chariot wheels. Although the spring day itself was pleasant, it had been a long, dusty ride.

  Automedon, a taciturn man—a trait Achilles admired—simply nodded.

  A flock of sheep, taken as war prize, grazed nearby. To Achilles’ right, between the Achean encampment and the Trojan city with its mighty elevated citadel, lay the Trojan plain and the river Scamander. The citadel wall, with its dressed white limestone towers, jutted out of the plain. Achilles could just see in the long distance the tops of the two southernmost of the five towers.

  Below that citadel wall lay a once graceful, busy city, now much the worse for eight years of blockade and intermittent battles but still secure. And inside those as yet unbreached walls, a treasure vast enough, along with the booty and slaves he had already acquired from other conquests in these parts, to justify the years of effort. And, of course, the chance to vindicate the honor of Menelaus for the loss of Helen.

  Close by on his left stretched an Aegean beach of light brown sand, and beyond the beach, deep blue water. Boiling whitecaps gave witness to the seemingly eternal, infernal northern wind. He would not want to be a man at sea on this day.

  Achean forces controlled all coastal land north and south of Troy, all the way to his own present southern encampment, but it would be foolish to discount the possibility that his party might encounter a Trojan patrol from inland. Only two days earlier, though, in the first battle of this war season, Agamemnon’s forces had suffered a stinging defeat, so it was more likely the Trojans would be tending their own wounded and dead. Still, he and Patroklos had fifty of his armored Myrmedon men on foot at their back, just in case.

  The two-hour ride had surely been even dustier for Patroklos, whose
chariot followed Achilles’. The Trojan roads didn’t match the quality of those of Pylos or Mycenae at home. And the war naturally made it difficult to keep them, such as they were in good repair.

  It was shortly after the recent defeat that a messenger from Agamemnon arrived with notice of a High Council. Achilles had been in the middle of planning an important raid, and this bumpy trip only added to his vexation at Agamemnon’s summons, an irritation that would surely worsen unless the High King presented something truly weighty. The old man was so often indecisive.

  They passed two sentry posts before arriving at the long, low wall that protected Achean forces from inland Trojan attacks. Each Achean contingent occupied a strip of the bay’s long shoreline, a beach so extensive it took over an hour to walk from one end to the other. Each royal contingent had their own guarded gate. At Agamemnon’s gate, the guards recognized Achilles, saluted, and let his party enter.

  The place was a bee’s hive of workers and warriors, horses and wagons, slaves and artisans. Several hundred shouting men surrounded a boxing match. The boxers’ naked bodies glistened with oil, only their hands being covered by leather gloves.

  Agamemnon’s tent sprawled across the most elevated ground, a residence grown after so many years to be more cabin than tent. Automedon pulled Achilles’ team to a halt. Patroklos’ chariot pulled up alongside. A slave bowed to Achilles and then led him, with Patroklos, to nearby quarters.

  Their guest tent’s sumptuous interior belied the fact that this was a war compound. Thick wool rugs covered the soil. Cushioned chairs welcomed a man to sit and relax. He noted two tables and several wardrobes. Tapestries with scenes of battle even hid the stark walls. From openings on both sides, a short covered path led to separate sleeping tents.

  Two male slaves stood ready to serve them. “Other royals are already here,” said the first slave. “After you have bathed, a noon meal awaits you in the High King’s tent.”

  “Who else is here?” Achilles asked.

  “Nearly everyone. Lord Odysseus, Lord Diomedes, Lord Menelaus, Lord Nestor. Only Lord Ajax, who must come a distance equal to yours, has not yet arrived.

  Two more slaves entered, carrying his and Patroklos’ travel chests. From outside came the sounds of at least two more chariots. “Perhaps that is Lord Ajax now,” said the first slave. He bowed low and hurriedly backed out.

  Heated water stood ready.

  “So good to clean up,” Patroklos said, loosening the belt to his tunic.

  Patroklos drew the tunic over his head, revealing his beautiful body. Strong and powerfully built, although not so massive as Achilles’; since leaving childhood, Achilles had never met a man with a body bigger than his. This was no surprise as he was, by his mother Thetis, the grandson of Zeus.

  They were cousins, he and Patroklos. Friends since childhood. This man of fair hair was closer to him than any other living being. A man with a fine disposition. Modest. Dependable. Wise. Achilles could not imagine life without sharing its joys and pains with Patroklos.

  He washed his face and upper body, then ran his hands through shoulder-length hair.

  Patroklos, having dried his face, turned gray eyes to Achilles. He snapped the edge of his towel against Achilles waist and, grinning, said, “The great Achilles is putting on fat.”

  “Ha! Worry about yourself.”

  Dressed in fresh clothing, they strolled to Agamemnon’s reception room. Music by five of the High King’s drummers, sistrum masters, and a cymbalist greeted them. The smell of wine laced with honey scented the air. He needed a good drink.

  The royals had been seated on couches so that they formed a circle. Agamemnon’s place remained empty. “Achilles! Patroklos!” several men called out in warm tones.

  Odysseus said in his usual reflective style, “Our party is now nearly complete.” Black-bearded Odysseus, the brilliant, and devious. Achilles nodded a genuine acknowledgment of admiration to him.

  Ajax, next to Achilles the largest man present, had indeed arrived. More than once they had fought side-by-side. The warrior with dark, curly hair was unrelenting, entirely single-minded. A terror in battle. And boring. Ajax settled for granting the two newcomers a greeting nod.

  Stocky, and usually dignified Diomedes shakily pointed a beef shank at Achilles and said, “Now that you are here, perhaps our host will appear.” Clearly Diomedes had already enjoyed several cups of wine.

  After extending his arm in a greeting clasp to Nestor—the hook-nosed, wise king of Pylos who always sat for these councils at Agamemnon’s right—Achilles took the place to Agamemnon’s left. Patroklos sat on his other side. Slaves quickly served wine and with it, sweet onion as a relish.

  Directly opposite lounged Menelaus of Sparta, Agamemnon’s brother and the betrayed husband of Helen. She had taken off with her lover, Paris, and a good deal of Menelaus’ treasury, supposedly the principal reason why they had come across the sea to Troy. They would win back honor for Agamemnon’s betrayed brother.

  Paris was famed for extraordinary good looks, while some god had given auburn-haired Menelaus only modest looks and stature. Helen’s treachery was despicable, but Achilles had always understood how Paris might have seduced the woman.

  Diomedes leaned to Achilles and asked softly, “What do you think? Where is he?”

  Achilles could only shrug.

  After finishing his first cup of wine, he signaled and slaves brought food. He took generous portions of beef and partridge, some fresh clams, a taste of sea urchin—the missing Agamemnon’s favorite—and olives.

  He half listened to the sounds of music, laughter, food consumption, and male banter about horses and women, his mind back on the raid he was planning. Renon was a large town and should yield not only substantial gold, but perhaps amber as well. And he estimated a take of at least three hundred women slaves to send back home to Achea.

  By the time he was finishing cut figs and pears, Agamemnon had still failed to appear.

  Ajax said, loud and with angry emphasis, “What are we here for?”

  Exactly Achilles’ own question.

  Diomedes stood. “Call me when he arrives.”

  At that moment, Agamemnon stepped from his private quarters into the room.

  The aging, fair-haired king of Mycenae looked surprisingly tired, the lines in his face more deeply entrenched than the last time Achilles saw him. Perhaps not surprising, given his recent defeat. But then, this long siege had already inflicted many victories and defeats on both sides.

  Diomedes, with slow, dignified grace, sat again.

  Agamemnon, shoulders slumped, took his place of honor in the circle but remained standing. Close up, his eyes were red, as if he’d been weeping. Disgusted, Achilles sucked in a deep breath.

  “I have called you all here because …”

  They waited. Even if Achilles did not always agree with him, he conceded that when Agamemnon spoke, he spoke with eloquence. The High King continued. “ … because I believe we must go with what we have already won and take our men home.”

  Ajax and Diomedes shouted on top of each other so Achilles couldn’t make out what either said. He felt Patroklos place a cautioning hand on his arm.

  Nestor turned to mutter something to Odysseus.

  Menelaus simply sat open-mouthed.

  6

  RAISING HIS VOICE ABOVE THE BABBLE, STRUGGLING to keep control, Achilles said, “You have called us here to tell us we are to pack up and go home?”

  Agamemnon lifted both hands in an attempt to win quiet. When the babble finally sputtered into silence, he said, “It is clear that the Trojans will not give up Helen. Surely it must also be clear that we cannot breach their defenses.”

  “That’s not clear to me,” Achilles shot back.

  Agamemnon looked at him, his voice rising in anger. “But you are in the south. You do not sit here day in and day out, manning this blockade, suffering the Trojan raids. Suffering the losses.”

  Achilles bolted to his feet.
They stood facing each other but he towered over Agamemnon. “That’s not my responsibility,” he thundered, his voice vibrating with disgust and anger. “It’s yours. Save Ajax and me, you have all the others to help you. And more than once, Ajax and I have also fought here.”

  He turned to the others. “What of honor? Are we to go home with honor not yet restored? Whipped dogs.”

  Every man studied him. All remained silent.

  “What about you, Odysseus? Nestor? Diomedes? With plenty of booty and slaves yet to win, are we to turn tail and go home? Well, others may choose to leave. I will not.” He looked at Helen’s husband. “Surely Menelaus, you can’t agree.”

  He collected himself, forced himself down onto his seat One by one, the other royals spoke their minds.

  In the end, they voted, and Agamemnon agreed that they would remain. He conceded that the blockade held fast, that he must simply devise a more ingenious plan to take Troy. Later, in their tent, Achilles, with Patroklos, was stretched out a table to enjoy a good massage and oiling. Achilles said, “I should be the one in charge of taking Troy.”

  “That would please me well enough, but it’s not going to happen. Agamemnon is High King and will keep his place.”

  “The Trojans can be taken.”

  Patroklos said nothing. When the massage reached its end, the attendants left, giving him time to relax with Patroklos before dressing for the night.

  They enjoyed the quiet, then Patroklos said, “Sometimes I would very much like this all to be over. I’d like to go home. See my family. See familiar places and eat my mother’s food. Sometimes I weary of the battles, the raids, the killing.”

  For Achilles, the sadness in those words summoned a tragic, bitter memory of killing—the woman on Tenedos, nearly eight years ago, at the very beginning. The fiery Amazon who had attacked him so foolishly. The woman with the stunning, exciting daughter. Whenever he thought of Derinoe, which he still did surprisingly often, he would frequently relive the feeling of his knife slicing into her mother.

  He spoke the words he said to himself so many times, his tone matching Patroklos’ sadness. “There are things that happen in war. Things that even a man of honor doesn’t intend. But they can’t be helped.”