Queens of Themiscyra, page 29
“What if they come back?”
“They cannot return. I have killed them, remember?”
“But there may be others.”
Her voice was panicked and high, the composure that she had shown while training had deserted her.
“And you know how to defend yourselves now. Trust me. You showed skill. And you have a determination to ensure that no man takes advantage of you again. Besides, your father will return in just a few days.”
“Please …” Her voice trembled, and tears that she had kept in check now welled in her eyes. “Please.”
“You have my answer. You will fight for yourself and live, or you will not.”
The harshness of her own tone took even Penthesilea by surprise. Aikaterini recoiled, her lower lip trembling. Dropping her egg on the plate, she fixed her gaze on the Queen, then got up from the table and joined her sister on the damp, urine-soaked bed.
That night, her own words echoed in Penthesilea’s head, together with Aikaterini’s look of betrayal. She could not face that again. So, once the pair had fallen into a fitful sleep, she gathered her things, slipped outside, mounted her horse and rode away—for good this time. A mantle of stars spanned the sky, illuminating it with the power of a thousand lamps. It was time she moved on. She had already stayed too long.
She sought out first one battle, then another. Any size and with any clan, tribe or king, it did not matter. The larger the fight, the better. She arrived fresh from one skirmish, the sweat still slick on her horse’s coat, and joined the next, always choosing to fight with the weaker side. Her only condition was that she be outnumbered, and the greater the disadvantage, the better. It never stayed like that for long, though. It was just as it had always been, her arrows unstoppable, her axe unforgiving.
Death had to come on the battlefield. And yet it evaded her at every turn. It had to happen with her being honestly outmanoeuvred in the art of warfare, but how was that ever going to happen to a daughter of Ares? Even in Athens it had not been Theseus or any of his men who had managed to best Hippolyte. And who was left to rival her? Melanippe? She had her strengths, but her own superiority with axe and bow meant she would defeat her in any genuine duel. Besides, she knew her last remaining sister would never fight her. And so, she continued on.
With the changing of the seasons and the rise and fall of the tides, months and then years passed. She had changed horses and restitched her tunic and boots several times and had ridden further north than she had ever ventured before. She travelled to lands where the snow buried her mount to its knees, and the air was so cold it formed a cloud with every breath from horse and rider. She travelled to towns and cities beside lakes, with walls that looked impenetrable. To citadels defended by deep moats. And each time she fought she came away unscathed.
At some point, she realised she no longer cared which direction she was heading. She returned to her old habit of following clear skies, turning south or west, or whichever direction allowed her to evade the rain. She traversed mountain ridges, waded through rapids and tasted fruits both sweeter and sharper than she had ever eaten before.
To those who asked, she said she was from Thrace and had been a nomad all her life. Yes, she told them, she knew of the Amazons. They were legendary, but no, she was not one of them. Once someone suspected her true identity and addressed her as “Queen Penthesilea,” but she had just laughed and changed the subject, before thanking him for his hospitality and continuing on her way. Year after year passed in such a manner but, no matter where she went, death avoided her.
It was another spring morning and the air was fresh as a familiarity washed over her. The grasses she passed had been growing steadily more verdant, rippling like waves across the sea. By contrast, the sea itself was calm and as flat as a plain, and seabirds sat on the water unmoving, as if frozen.
Deep down, she had always known it was coming. She had been travelling east for several weeks, watching as the sky expanded and the hills softened to a gentle roll. The horse she was riding was a dapple grey, given to her in payment for a battle fought and won on the borders of Macedonia. The king there had stood with his queen at his side, although Penthesilea had looked only at the man. The looseness of the woman’s robes, and the flowers that garnished her hair, reminded her too much of that first time she had seen Hippolyte in Athens. He had offered various rewards for her efforts, including gold and gems and even men or women for her use, if she so wanted. But the metals and stones would have only weighed down her saddle bags, and she had no desire for any of the slaves, so she took only the horse.
He was larger than those she usually rode, his legs thick, almost cumbersome, but what he lacked in agility he made up for in strength and fearlessness. Not once, in the battles that she had fought upon him, did he rear or shy away, or even flinch at an oncoming spear. His pace, whether a canter or gallop, was steady and rhythmic, allowing her to twist and shoot arrows, knowing he would remain sure of foot. They had built a relationship that should have taken years to form but had somehow been there from the start, and he rode into battle just as she did: as if it were his very purpose in life. But she could not bring herself to name him. Not when she knew that one day, he too would leave her.
As the wind teased stray hairs from her cap, she gazed out from the steppes at the citadel beneath her. It was smaller than many she had visited on her travels, and even from this distance she could see the simplicity of the place. But it was her home. It was Themiscyra.
The quietness struck her from where she sat. Where was the clang of metal? The angry shouts of the women training? Where were the shrieks of children and the whinnies of the horses, so large in number that their aroma should hang thick in the air? Where were the Amazons?
Had they been attacked? she wondered, as she stared at the walls before turning her attention out to sea. There were no ships. No invading army, not now at least. And none of the kingdoms through which she had ridden had spoken of war in Pontus.
She dismounted and led her horse along the twisted stone path to Themiscyra, rubbing a hand against his neck as they went.
CHAPTER 47
They sat opposite each other in the dim light of three small lamps. Shadows seemed to gather in the corners of the room, which had once been lit by a dozen torches.
Melanippe was seated, her hair loose around her shoulders. Her face was lined with wrinkles, deep creases across her skin. She had been the youngest of the four sisters. The one who had possessed endless energy that, at the time, had seemed to portend eternal youth. If this was what she looked like, Penthesilea dreaded to imagine her own reflection. She had not seen it in a very long time. Perhaps it would be best if she avoided mirrors.
“You look tired,” Melanippe said. “But strong. You have been fighting.”
This was no question. The words hung between them in the musty air. Had Themiscyra always been so humid, Penthesilea wondered, feeling her back beginning to grow clammy. Perhaps it was the time spent in the north that was making her more susceptible to heat.
“I have fought a little,” she responded.
Melanippe only nodded. Where was the young girl who spoke constantly? Penthesilea wanted to ask. The one who could fill any silence with her words. She had gone, she realised. In her place, a woman. A Queen. And an ageing one at that. The pauses in their conversation expanded.
“And what now?” Melanippe asked. “Are you planning on staying here? Planning on ruling again?”
Penthesilea swallowed. The heat that had drawn moisture from her skin now dried her thoughts, and her tongue along with them. She had known the question would come yet still felt unprepared. So instead, she did as she had grown accustomed to doing over the years and changed the subject.
“Have you visited the Gargareans recently?” she asked. “I could not hear the sound of any children when I approached.”
A hard light shone in Melanippe’s eyes; she knew exactly what game Penthesilea was playing. And yet she answered her question all the same
“I decided we should stay in Pontus. There would be too many risks on such a journey. Should we be attacked, our numbers are not great enough to defend ourselves. Besides, the Gargareans …”
She allowed the sentence to fade out, and for a moment, Penthesilea wondered how it might have ended. Then, with sickening shame she realised. They did not want to meet with the Amazons anymore. Not after they had lost so many of their women, not to mention their queen and one of their princesses. Not after they had proven themselves weak.
“They think we have lost favour with Ares,” Melanippe said, suddenly. “Do you think it is true? Because I have tried to make amends. I promise. I have tried.”
In that moment the mask fell. The old woman in front of her was still that same younger sibling, in need of Penthesilea’s assurance. But she had none to give her. No way to ease the burden she shouldered.
“We are still alive,” Penthesilea said, although bitterness laced her words more than she had intended. “Have you been sacrificing to him?”
“Of course. Have you not?”
Penthesilea turned her eyes towards one of the lamps. A draught was causing the flame to flicker.
“No,” she said, looking back at her sister. “I have not. Not for some time.”
She expected this confession to elicit a gasp of incomprehension and censure, but all she received was a simple nod of the head.
“Cletes is still here. She has a room in the north tower, facing the sea. I am certain she would like to see you … before you leave again.”
This was the first hint of animosity since her arrival, although now it had been set free, it could no longer be contained.
“We know what you have been doing, Sister. We know that you have been fighting on your own. And we know why. You believe you have a better chance of victory without us by your side.”
Penthesilea’s jaw dropped.
“That is not the reason!”
“Is it not? Why, then? You have good women here. Strong women, who fought by your side in Athens and left with their lives.”
“I know that.”
“Then why did you not call upon us. Upon me?”
There was a hardness to her sister’s voice, when most people would have expressed sadness, grief even. But she did not cry. She had nothing left to cry for.
“I … I needed to be alone.”
“For seven years?”
Melanippe rose, and her shadow loomed large on the wall behind her.
“I did not realise it had been so long,” Penthesilea lied, with a feebleness she knew her sister would see straight through.
Of course she knew how long it had been. She had watched the seasons change, seen first the mountaintops turn white and then gradually the rest of the slopes until the ground beneath her feet had frozen, before it all retreated again, replaced with the kaleidoscope of spring colours. Yes, she knew that she had suffered from more than one frozen winter and scorching summer. But was it really that long since Hippolyte had died in her arms? How was it possible that so much time had passed, when she could still remember the light leaving her sister’s eyes?
She straightened her back, preparing to stand.
“It is best that I go. I can see I have no place here.”
But before she could rise, Melanippe had crossed the room and was towering over her.
“You have no place here because you chose not to have one,” she spat. “Because you chose to leave your people when they needed you the most. You are the one who decided to do this, Penthesilea. No one else. Now, if you are going to leave, please do so. I have crops to think about and grain to store and more than just your ego to attend to.”
Penthesilea left the citadel and headed north, to gaze upon the beach where Theseus had first arrived with Heracles. She found herself thinking the same thought she had turned over in her mind a thousand times before: how much death and suffering might have been saved if she had ended his life here, all that time ago?
The moon was a thin crescent and reflected perfectly on the surface of the sea. She could wade out into the water, she considered. Offer herself to Poseidon. But why? He would not want her, any more than her father or any of the other gods did. And so, she simply stood there.
The sea had begun to move a little, flurries of white foam distorting the image of the moon, when a voice cut through the darkness behind her.
“You have been out here for quite some time. Anyone might think you were waiting for someone.”
Penthesilea closed her eyes and squeezed them tight, as if in doing so she might hold that moment in her mind forever. She had heard that voice in her sleep, calling to her across battlefields, only to find no one there the second she drew near. She had seen her, too, in those same fields, a flash of black hair between raised spears.
“Cletes,” she said, softly.
“So, do you care to tell me who or what it is you are waiting for? For if it is a boat, you may find yourself out of luck. I believe they only stop here once every ten years or so.”
She could not turn. Could not face looking at her. She could picture the small smile curving her lips as she waited for Penthesilea to reply to her joke. And in spite of herself, a single, gruff laugh forced its way from her throat.
“No. No boats for me,” she said.
“Good, I am glad that at least some things have not changed.”
In years past, they had shared so many silences. Lying together in their bivouacs, or outside, staring up at the night sky, watching the stars and moon slowly moving across the heavens. Cletes was someone Penthesilea could always speak to. Someone she knew would never judge her. And yet at that moment, she did feel judged.
She wished she could think of something to say, words to fill the void that yawned between them, but no sound came, bar the soft lapping of the waves as they rolled up onto the shore, then the gentle whisper as they receded back to lose themselves again.
“I know what you have been doing,” Cletes said, stepping forward and taking her hand. “I know what you have been hoping to achieve. We have heard of the battles you have taken upon yourself.”
“I have been fighting. That is what we do. That is what I was born to do.”
“No, you have been trying to get yourself killed. You know, I heard one rumour that you went into battle without a breastplate. Is that true?”
Penthesilea kept her eyes fixed on the moon. She had thought little of the rumours that reached Themiscyra when she had lived there. But now, the tales shared in whispers behind the citadel walls were about her.
“The breast plate was damaged. I did not have time to fix it,” she said, offering an answer as close to the truth as she could. Cletes would not believe her, though. She knew that.
“You would never have allowed one of us to ride into battle in such a state. You have been reckless.”
Penthesilea wished that she could refute this. Defend herself. Find her sharp tongue and insist that she did not know of what she was speaking. But she could not. Not with Cletes. She could find no other words, except the truth.
“I deserve to die, Cletes. I deserve to die for what I have done. I cannot endure living like this, and yet death will not greet me. What do I do?”
The strength in her knees vanished, and she dropped to the ground. Cletes pressed her hand on her shoulder. All this time, and her scent had not changed. That sweet pomegranate, that deep muskiness of the earth. She would recognise it anywhere, she thought, as she drew in the deepest breath her lungs could hold. Perhaps this would be it. Perhaps the gods were granting her one last night with Cletes before they took her.
Cletes took her chin and lifted it, so that their eyes met. There was so much kindness there. Melanippe’s gaze might have hardened during the years of her absence, but the light in Cletes burnt as bright as it always had.
“I think there is somewhere we can go,” she said. “Someone we can see who could help you.”
CHAPTER 48
So many years had passed since Heracles had arrived on their shores that the details had faded in Penthesilea’s mind. She remembered the most important facts, however. He had come into their home, he had taken Hippolyte’s zoster, and he brought with him Theseus, the man who had destroyed them all. That was enough. But Cletes remembered the smaller, finer details of those days. Not only what Heracles had done, but what he had said. The reason for his arrival on their shores had been as part of his quest to seek purification and absolution for killing his wife and child. And it had been a king who had granted him this.
“It is a gift the gods bestow on the kings, to grant absolution for such acts. This could be your way out. Ask a king for purification. He will set you tasks, and once they are completed, you will be cleansed.”
There was that smile again, which could so easily draw Penthesilea in, hungry to place her lips against it. But now, her thoughts were stirring. Was it truly possible that she could be absolved like this?
They sat on the beach, watching the dark silhouette of an eagle cross the moon, before Penthesilea’s impatience got the better of her.
“I should go and talk this through with Melanippe. If what you say is possible, then I must leave as soon as I can.”
Cletes rose slowly. She was barefoot, Penthesilea now noticed, and a new tattoo coiled up over the arch of her foot and towards her ankle.
“I understand your wish for answers,” she said, softly, “but even if you do not need sleep, Melanippe does. Come, spend the night beside me. You can go to her at first light.”
Seven years, and no one had laid so much as a finger on her body. Any softness Penthesilea had once possessed had disappeared and her skin had been ravaged by the elements. But Cletes looked upon her as she always had. As if she were a gift from the gods.
“You have been missed, my Queen.”
“Don’t—” Penthesilea began, but Cletes put a finger to her lips.
