The Amazon and the Warrior Page 6

  Derinoe headed for the children’s garden, hurrying down a narrow flagstone path and through the shoulder-high hedge that separated the children’s area from the entry. Yellow, red, and blue flowers lined the perimeter. A black and white marble dolphin, big enough for children to ride on hot summer days, leapt from a fountain in the garden’s center. Such a cheerful place, so unlike Derinoe’s troubled spirit.

  Seven laughing youngsters vied to catch and throw a red ball at each other, the point of the familiar game to be the one hit by the ball the least number of times. Seeing Derinoe, Alcmene, the lady-in-waiting, smiled but, having a crying one-year-old in her arms, did not rise.

  Derinoe’s son, Leonides, and her daughter, Myrina, ran to Derinoe. Leonides, almost eight this year, hugged her around the waist while two-year-old Myrina hugged her leg. The feeling of their eager young bodies passionately clutching her own made her forget her worry for a happy moment.

  After receiving a pat on the head and a smile, Myrina ran back to her playmates. But Leonides held one of Derinoe’s hands and stared at the ground.

  “What is it, love?” she said.

  He already looked so much like his own father. The same wavy chestnut hair and dark eyes. And although Leonides was a year younger than Alcmene’s oldest boy, Leonides was already the taller of the two.

  “Who is my father?”

  Derinoe sucked in a surprised breath.

  “And who is Myrina’s father?”

  “Leonides. What … what makes you ask?”

  “You’ve never told me.”

  She really should go to Cassandra, but Derinoe tilted his chin up. The look in his eyes told her she must make some answer to his question, now. She led him to a bench well away from the others. She sat and he stood in front of her, looking her straight in the eyes.

  “I understand that you want to know. Even that you feel very deep in your heart that you must know. But my sweet, I cannot tell you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Can you not just trust me? Can you just believe that if I could, and if it would be a good thing to do, I would tell you?”

  He stared at her, and the look was not one of trust.

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Today Lady Andromache visited Lady Cassandra. And she did something very strange. She came here to the children’s garden.”

  Andromache! Derinoe felt her heart thud and then begin to race. While her greatest safety in Troy lay with Hektor, her greatest danger in Troy lay with Hektor’s wife, the famously jealous Andromache.

  She said, “It is a bit strange for such a grand lady. But maybe she likes to watch children playing.”

  “She didn’t pay attention to anyone but Myrina.”

  A faint rush of nausea struck. “What did she do?”

  “She walked right up to Myrina and said, ‘You’re the daughter of the dancer Derinoe, aren’t you?’ She touched Myrina’s hair and then said, ‘What a pretty child. Tell me, who is your father?’ But she didn’t ask me.”

  Derinoe forced a laugh, pathetic even to her own ears. “What a strange thing to do, indeed. Myrina can barely talk let alone answer such a question.” But Myrina also had her father’s hair—in her case, that hair that was black and curly. She also had Hektor’s eyes.

  Derinoe’s mind raced forward. I should not panic.

  “So you won’t tell me who my father is. Or who Myrina’s is.”

  She hugged him, to reassure him, and from his warmth to reassure herself. When she pulled away she said, “I love you. And I promise you that when you are older, when you are a man, I will tell you. But I simply cannot tell you now.”

  He studied her, hesitation in his eyes.

  “I give you my solemn promise.”

  He gave her a stern look.

  She stood, her heart a tight fist in her chest. “I am late. I must go.”

  He turned and walked back to the children. How beautiful he was. And ultimately, how trusting.

  12

  DERINOE SPED FROM THE CHILDREN’S GARDEN to Cassandra’s dressing chamber. “Andromache went to see Myrina today,” she said at once.

  Cassandra posed before a polished cedar wardrobe inlaid with sprays of olive branches in ivory. The fragrance of dried cherry blossoms hung heavily, ominously, in the air. She wore a rusty-red gown that matched her auburn curls. A golden girdle caught the gown at the waist, and her sandals were of gold inlaid leather.

  Of only moderate stature, Cassandra stood several fingers shorter than Derinoe. She’d piled her waist-length hair onto her head, much as Derinoe had done with her own dark curls. A garland of white hyacinth wound through and bound the tresses.

  Cassandra smiled, and her light brown eyes, as always, flashed with vitality. “Deri, worry lines are creasing your forehead. They will dig tracts there. And I saw just this morning, in my washbasin water, that today will be a day of good news. We needn’t worry.”

  “Cassandra, dear. Didn’t you hear? Andromache went to see Myrina today.”

  “Myrina? Andromache came to me with a message from Hektor.”

  She picked out a gauzy shawl of light brown wool and, throwing it over her shoulders, studied the effect in a polished copper mirror next to be wardrobe.

  “But,” Derinoe persisted, “she stopped in the garden. And she asked Myrina who her father is.”

  “Then, perhaps she suspects. It’s very hard to keep a secret in our small world.”

  “You know what she did to the other woman.”

  Cassandra replaced the brown shawl and took a dark-red one. “Which woman?” she said, draping the shawl over her shoulders.

  “I will always believe Andromache had the woman and her two children killed.”

  Cassandra turned and stared at her, then stepped to her and took her by the hand. “The woman disappeared years ago. There is no way to know that Andromache was responsible. Perhaps the woman simply decided to leave Troy.”

  “I don’t believe that. And I doubt you do either. Andromache is fiercely jealous of Hektor. She wants to live in the fantasy that he is steadfastly devoted only to her.”

  Cassandra drew them to a couch so they could sit. She said, “I won’t lie to you. Hektor does love Andromache. Never doubt it. And he adores his children. But he also loves you. Andromache would not dare to make a move against you while Hektor lives.”

  “Things can be done—in secret.”

  “As I just said, it’s very difficult to keep any secrets in Troy.” She hugged Derinoe. “Besides, I have seen your future. You will live happily into great old age, Deri. Don’t worry”

  “What of my children? What of Myrina?”

  “I’ve not seen their futures.”

  “If anything happens to either of my children, I can assure you that I will not live into old age, happily or otherwise.”

  “Then you should be at peace. I have foreseen that you will be happy.” Cassandra stood. “So, I’m ready. Let’s us go and honor Athena and pray for my brother’s victory.”

  As they linked arms, Derinoe said, “I would love to have peace.”

  But she would worry. Her life from the moment of her mother’s death had never been free from worry.

  She thought of Achilles and what she had had to do to escape him. And the degrading things she’d done in order to survive when she reached Troy without family or resources. Years of terror and worry had passed before the fates crossed her path with Cassandra’s and some small light touched her life.

  But that small light had not brought peace.

  13

  DAMON STRODE TO THE CABIN’S OPEN WINDOW. His gaze turned, as it did many times a day, to the green arrowhead Pentha had fashioned and tossed to him casually, but with that questioning, perhaps even suggestive, look in her eyes. It still hung by a leather thong in the window’s center where he placed it the day she left. It had dangled there for nearly two moon cycles.

  He took the arrowhead in hand, ambled into his front yard, and sat on a stump by
the door. Little Wolf followed, flopped down and laid his short muzzle on Damon’s sandaled toe.

  Damon rubbed the arrowhead’s surface with his thumb while inhaling a deep, reflective breath. Ash smoke from his hearth, friendly and familiar, filled him briefly with a sense of belonging and calm. But then the empty feeling of longing settled in his chest again like a stone.

  “I suppose I should have sufficient will to put her out of my mind.”

  He thought a moment, than looped the thong over his head and let the arrowhead rest on his chest.

  He glanced at Little Wolf and grinned. “What? Don’t look at me like that! It’s good luck to carry something strong. You can’t blame a man for wanting good luck.”

  Damon stood. The pup scrambled to its feet. Growing fast, Little Wolf easily kept up now when they went out together.

  “Time to check traps. Let’s see what we’ve caught for dinner.”

  As they walked through the gate of the thornbush barrier he said, “Maybe another Amazon?”

  14

  ACHILLES POURED ANOTHER HALF A GOBLET OF wine, sipped it, paced to and glanced over a tapestry on his tent wall showing the sack of Thebes, then paced back to the table. He was quite certain he had found the perfect source for the information he needed, and anxious for that source to arrive.

  A male slave entered, and behind him a man wearing odd, brown leggings, black boots, and an elaborately embroidered, multi-colored tunic. “The merchant, Muttalusha, Lord Achilles,” said the slave, who then backed out of the tent, leaving Achilles alone with the Hittite.

  Achilles took a chair and gestured for the nervous-looking merchant to take one as well. A man with small, dark, eyes, Muttalusha’s greeting smile had been thin-lipped, the cue that made him appear so on edge.

  “I understand you have traveled often through the Hellespont and to the lands to the east along the coast of the Euxine. How long before your next trip?”

  “Yes, Lord Achilles. I make the journey regularly. I leave again within the week.”

  The merchant spoke Achean, as did the Trojans and many of the people of this region, but Muttalusha’s accent had a peculiar Hittite lilt to it. “You and I are going to become partners.”

  “I do feel honored, sire, but I take no partners.”

  “Partners is, actually, the wrong word. You are going to work for me.”

  The merchant’s face paled.

  “I am not proposing to take a portion of your profits. Set your mind to rest on that account.”

  Muttalusha twisted a ring on the small finger of his left hand.

  “I am going to pay you for information. And I expect you to keep our agreement secret.”

  “I am most happy to supply you with information, Lord Achilles. You need not pay me.”

  “I am going to pay you. Because I am going to ask you to get information for me that will be—sensitive. It’s only right, since sharing such information with me may entail some risk on your part, that you be paid. I will pay you in gold and amber three times what you make on one of your circuits to the east. I will send you a down payment tomorrow, after we have agreed.”

  Muttalusha continued to twist the ring, which appeared to be a ruby. Apparently this Hittite did quite well for himself.

  “What kind of information?”

  “I want to know, first of all, the numbers and names of all the members of the Thracian Grammeron family who know the secret of piloting through the Hellespont.”

  The merchant nodded. Good!

  Achilles explained further that he wanted to know the details of the layout of Themiskyra. How far it lay from its harbor, the nature of its defenses, where the Amazons were barracked. He asked for a detailed description of the merchant’s last trip up the Hellespont, and midway through the description he poured himself more wine. He made no offer of drink to the merchant.

  When the telling was over, Muttalusha said, “My lord, may I be so bold to ask, exactly why you would want this information?”

  “I should think that would be obvious, even to a peddler.”

  At the word “peddler,” he sensed that Muttalusha stiffened, pride offended. The man was not the total rabbit he appeared to be.

  “I want Amazon horses. And I want Amazon slaves.”

  “I certainly can understand your interest in their horses. They are wonderfully bred. But as for taking Amazons for slaves. All such women are good for is to look at. They are ready mankillers. They would never accept the harness of a slave.”

  “I had one once. She was surpassingly beautiful.” In his mind he saw Derinoe’s raven-dark waves of hair, fair skin, fine features, and deep blue eyes. And those long, firm but slender, legs. “Full of fire.”

  “Were you able to sell her at a good price?”

  “Sadly, no. I don’t know her fate. The clever little thing escaped.”

  “Not at all surprised, my lord.”

  “They will sell, and at a great price, for men who want fire and novelty.”

  “I defer to your judgment.”

  “One more thing. Possibly the most important. I have heard rumors that it is not the Hittites who know the secret of making iron but the Amazons. Do you think that’s true?”

  “My lord, I have not heard this. It seems unlikely.”

  “I want you to find out”

  “This would be … I can’t imagine … I cannot promise.”

  “You are to try, and if the rumor is true, I will double what I’ve said I would pay.”

  “I understand. I will do what I can.”

  “You are dismissed, Mutallusha.”

  The Hittite stood, bowed low. He turned and started for the tent opening. Achilles rose and strode quickly to him and spun him around. Holding him by his tunic, pulling him onto his toes, and fixing his gaze with a fierce look he said, “You agree that what I have said I will pay for this information is generous.”

  Mutallusha nodded quickly.

  “Then remember this. If you reveal to anyone else the nature of the information I have asked you to gather, if you reveal you are gathering any information for me, I will personally cut off your balls and feed them to my dogs, along with your heart.” He paused. “Understood?”

  Again Mutallusha nodded.

  Achilles released his hold and watched the little man scurry out. Tomorrow he would send the down payment. He did not expect it to be returned. All men loved one thing above all others, and for Muttalusha, that loved thing was wealth.

  15

  HOLDING A DEAD QUAIL AND TWO DEAD HARES, Damon stomped into his cabin, followed by Little Wolf. He flung his catch onto the table, then strode to the washbasin and filled it with water.

  He scooped some over his face and the back of his neck. The water smacked him with a late September chill. He untied the leather thong holding his hair, ran his fingers through the strands. He dried his face, tossed the towel next to the basin, then retied the leather.

  He should be happy. He’d caught all he needed. His days were filled with activities—checking and setting his traps, caring for Dia and his other animals, working with leather, keeping the cabin in good repair. By the gods, though, he was bored.

  Maybe worse than bored.

  He had created a life that had no reminders of war or killing, his own or those by others. He didn’t have to deal with people or the nausea of the morbid colors their speech thrust on him. But all that had been upset one late afternoon when the cursed Amazon blundered into a trap.

  This longing for her was hugely impractical. Wildly unrealistic.

  He stretched out the leg of a dead hare, and with the chopping knife, lopped the leg off at the joint with more than necessary force. Hare fur made particularly good roughage for Dia. He took it to her. She clamped the cut leg to her perch by stepping onto it with the talons of one foot. With razor sharp beak, she broke the skin and started feasting.

  Damon stared at her foot, watched her ripping fur and flesh.

  With one hand, he grabbed th
e green arrowhead still hanging by the leather thong around his neck. One great tug and he ripped it from its resting place. He stared at it, elegant and deadly, then walked out the door into the courtyard. Holding the thong, he spun the arrowhead once over his head and then let go.

  The arrowhead sailed up and almost, but not quite, over the whitethorn hedge.

  Despite his intention never to lay eyes on it again, he noted where within the hedge that it fell.

  Feeling unburdened, but also strangely disappointed, he returned to the cabin. Once more he stood in front of Dia, watching her reduce the hare’s leg to bloody shreds. She had finished her molt and he was flying her again. That, at least, pleased him

  He touched the place on his chest where the arrowhead had lain but quickly pulled his hand away. He returned to the table, picked up his catch, and walked outside, intending to clean them and feed Little Wolf. The quail and the hares hung heavy in his hand, like the weight pressing on his heart.

  Little Wolf sat watching him, head cocked to one side. Damon dropped his catch and turned to where the arrowhead struck the hedge.

  “Damn the woman!”

  After finding a good long stick, he approached the hedge at the place closest to where the arrowhead had disappeared. The barrier—its span four feet and its height six feet—was still quite leafy. He squatted, hoping to glimpse the arrowhead on the ground at the base of the scrub where he could fish it out with the stick. Nothing.

  Walking backward to the place where he’d stood when he threw it, he checked once more where he was certain it had disappeared. Sure that he had the right spot, he returned, dropped onto his hands and knees, and using his elbows and arms to keep thorns from his face, trusting that his long-sleeved tunic and trousers would give his skin protection, forced his way in a foot or so.

  He shoved, wriggled, and searched the bush and ground and finally caught sight of it dangling arm’s length above the dirt. Using the stick, he stabbed at the thong until the arrowhead dropped. He dragged it closer, clutched it, then slowly backed out of the hedge.