Queens of Themiscyra, page 31
Smiling as graciously as she could, Penthesilea remained silent, her eyes moving across the frescos that covered the walls. Although they were somewhat lacking in detail, they more than made up for this with their warmth. The scenes were of men and women lounging together, eyes creased in smiles with food at their fingertips, as opposed to the usual images of battles or hunts.
The King had, so far, asked her no questions, seemingly content with the sound of his own voice, but as the courtyard appeared to be their final destination, Penthesilea knew she could not rely on his loquaciousness to hide the fact that she had questions of her own.
“I heard tell of the events in Athens,” Priam said, taking a seat on a couch and gesturing for her to do the same. “I can only offer you my most sincere condolences.”
Penthesilea nodded, her gaze involuntarily sliding to the floor. She did not know what to say, how much she should give away. Did purification warrant pure truth? she wondered. It seemed likely, but some facts were hers to reveal, and she did not want to sully Hippolyte’s name by mentioning others.
Priam let out a long heavy sigh and Penthesilea noted how his lips were pressed together tightly as if, for the first time since her arrival, he was contemplating what he should say next. Then he nodded, gently, and spoke again.
“You know, your father has always blessed us graciously here.”
“He always spoke fondly of Troy,” she replied, echoing the words that Melanippe had spoken, even though she herself could not recall him saying any such thing. Slowly taking another sip of water, she prepared to speak.
“King Priam, you should know that I have come to you for a specific reason. I am here for redemption and purification for Hippolyte’s death. For her murder. Committed by my own hand.”
The whole story spilled from her as if it could no longer be contained. As she finished she brought the cup back to her lips, only to find her hand trembling so badly, she feared it might not be strong enough to even hold a feather in its grasp.
“I thank you for your candour, Queen Penthes—"
Whatever else he might have said, it was cut short by a shout from the corridor.
“Father, Father!”
A young boy raced into the courtyard. His cheeks were flushed, and his face shone with sweat, as he came to a halt.
“Father,” he said once more, now with obvious relief that he had found him.
As his eyes shifted across to Penthesilea, his expression immediately changed.
“So it is true. She is here. Queen of the Amazons. Queen Penthesilea.”
Mouth agape, he dropped to his knees. Laughing, King Priam stood and crossed the courtyard to pull him up by his shoulders. He slapped him lightly on the back, a hearty chuckle escaping his throat.
“Queen Penthesilea, may I introduce to you my eldest son, Hector. As you may have already gathered, he is quite in awe of you.”
The boy was, in many ways, a miniature version of his father. They shared the same narrow-bridged nose and hazel eyes. But Hector was stockier than Priam. Despite only looking around ten years of age, he already stood only an inch shorter than the King. Beneath his thin robe, she could see from the width of his shoulders that he would grow to be a man to rival the Gargareans.
She rose from her seat, dipping her head slightly.
“Prince Hector,” she said. “My pleasure.”
Grinning in obvious disbelief, Hector appeared unable to tear his eyes from her, and it was only when Priam touched him lightly on the shoulder that he once more noticed his father’s presence and a new level of excitement overtook him.
“Will you ask her, Father?” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Will you ask her?”
“Patience, Hector. The Queen has only just arrived. We have barely sat down.”
“But you will ask her, won’t you?”
There was clearly something afoot that Penthesilea was not privy to. The boy’s enthusiasm was contagious and reminded her of Cletes.
“Is there something I should be made aware of?” she asked, realising that the sooner she attended to his request, the sooner King Priam would be able to attend her own. “Do you wish to ask me something, Prince Hector?”
His cheeks flooded a new shade of crimson, as deep as the embroidery on his father’s robes, and the confidence he had shown only moments earlier, ebbed away.
“We have something of a tradition when great warriors come to Troy,” Priam said.
His eyes met Penthesilea’s, twinkling in appreciation of her attention to the boy. She knew that all kings favoured their sons. They were an extension of themselves and were expected to preserve the legacy of their name. Yet this seemed to be something more. There was a special connection between them.
“And you are the greatest warrior to have ever visited,” Hector declared breathlessly.
“Hector wishes to be warrior, maybe even a great hero one day, and would consider it a great honour if you might spar with him a little, Queen Penthesilea,” Priam explained.
“You wish to be a fighter?” Penthesilea asked, standing as she spoke.
The boy nodded eagerly, his hair bobbing up and down.
“Maybe even as great as you.”
“That would be a fine thing, indeed,” she chuckled.
She watched as he swallowed, once and then again, and wondered what type of king or warrior such a boy would become. This positivity and energy were good but Penthesilea had always believed a child needed a strict, sometimes harsh, upbringing to grow strong. It needed to be tested. To face trials, like those her mother and father had set for her and her sisters when they trained. She struggled to see that Prince Hector would have faced anything remotely so challenging.
“I have an axe,” the boy said, suddenly. “And arrows and a sword, lots of swords, and you can choose whichever one you want me to use. I want you to teach me, I am a good listener and a fast learner. You can tell her, Father, can’t you?” he said, turning to the King. “You can tell her how good I am at listening. And learning. I promise you won’t be disappointed,” he continued, addressing Penthesilea again.
The boy looked at her expectantly, eyebrows raised. She saw again that light in his eyes that reminded her so much of Cletes.
CHAPTER 51
“I do not train people,” she said, trying to quash the memory of Aikaterini before it could rise to unsettle her. She had taught her and her sister barely enough to stay alive. Whether they had needed to use those skills and had been successful was not her concern.
“But in your citadel at Themiscyra, you must have trained with the women? You must have practised? Or else how did you get to be so good?”
“Being a good fighter does not mean I am a good teacher. Trust me. It is my sisters you need, not me.”
Sister. That was what she should have said. A pang of sadness swept through her.
“But you are Queen Penthesilea.”
He said this as if it was an explanation for everything, although his young shoulders slumped in disappointment and the flush of excitement was replaced with sallow regret. Tension was building in the courtyard. The gurgling of the water no longer sounded inviting, and the birdsong had turned shrill.
“King Priam, if you and I could finish our conversation?” Penthesilea said, unable to bear Hector’s look of despair any longer.
The boy was looking up at his father now. She could see in his eye the soft sheen of tears he refused to allow himself.
“Hector, let me talk to Queen Penthesilea. You have said your part, but now there are things we must discuss.”
The boy’s eyes returned to her and she quickly lowered her gaze. He glanced back at his father once more and then turned on his heel and ran off the way he had come.
Raising his eyebrows, Priam let out a short sigh.
“He is actually quite a fighter,” he said, with a smile. “He will be formidable when he has grown. It is hard to believe, but half the men in my army already run in fright from his sword.”
She did, indeed, find this difficult to believe. The men must know what was expected of them. All the same, she smiled politely.
“King Priam,” she began, “the reason I am here—”
“For purification. I understand. As I said before, I am sorry for what happened to your sister and for the part that you played.”
Condolences were kind, but they were not what she needed
“Will you do it? Will you grant me purification?” she asked, leaving no room for ambiguity. “I know I will be beholden to you. I understand that. Whatever tasks you ask of me, I will be at your disposal. And any gifts you wish me to offer to you, any enemies you wish me to dispose of, whatever you require, I will do it for you. However long that may take.”
And then, with no awkwardness at all, she dropped to her knees, head lowered, just as Hector had done before her. Yet rather than raising her up, as he had his son, the King roared a full-throated laugh.
“Dear Queen. Have you seen Troy? I am in need of nothing here, and I do not require you to kill anyone for me.”
It was as if the fateful arrow had struck again, this time piercing her own sternum. King Eurystheus had required fame, notoriety, power. That was why he had sent Heracles to endure his labours. They had given him a reflected glory that he alone would never have attained. If King Priam wanted for nothing, then she was not needed. And if she was not needed, then why would he purify her?
The chill of the cool floor was seeping into her knees as the King held out his hand to her. His fingers were adorned with gold rings, studded with precious stones, counterparts to the thick gold bangles around his forearms and biceps.
Still Penthesilea hung her head, the weight of disappointment feeling like shackles pinning her to the ground.
“I was wrong to come here,” she said, rising to her feet without his assistance. “I am sorry. I will leave.”
The temperature in the courtyard seemed to have dropped and the air soured. A sudden dizziness blurred her vision as she hastened to the doorway. Yet she had barely managed two steps when Priam spoke again.
“You misunderstand me, my Queen. I said I did not need anything from you. But that does not mean I will not perform the purification ritual for you.”
She stopped yet did not turn around.
“I do not understand. You want nothing from me? You will purify me of this deed for … for nothing?” she said, slowly moving to face him again.
Even as she spoke the words, she was struck by the absurdity of what she was saying. No king performed acts like that from the goodness of his heart. After all, a man did not become a king through philanthropy. There would always be an ulterior motive or a catch. A twisted web of nuance which, once the bargain had been struck, entrapped the petitioner forever, with no more hope of escape than the maidens and youths who had served as sacrifices in the labyrinth beneath Minos’ Palace.
She waited for King Priam to set out his conditions, as the blood pounded in her ears.
“There is nothing I need from you now. Nothing I require. Although, if the time ever came when Troy needed your help, if ever it seemed as though our walls were about to be breached, perhaps, then, you might come to our aid to fight against such a formidable foe.”
Penthesilea remained silent. If he knew of what had happened in Athens, then he must be aware of how few of her women remained. The pause stretched out between them until she could endure it no more.
“That is all? That is all you ask of me?”
“That is all,” he said, “except …” and he stopped abruptly, in a manner that caused her stomach to tighten again. Here it was. Here came the inevitable blow she had been waiting for. But what could he say that produced such reticence? A smile curled at the corner of his mouth.
“… perhaps you might take an hour out of your time and make a young boy very happy?”
It would take time to prepare for the ceremony, Priam told her. She could rest now, if she preferred, and see Hector the following day. But she shook her head. This absolution had come at so little a cost. To ride into battle and fight for Troy. That was all she had to do. As long as there was breath in her lungs and strength in her legs she would continue to fight, and to do so for a king who was favoured by her father, was more honour than burden.
As so Priam led her through the winding corridors of the Palace, where the sounds of laughter drifted from behind many doors. It was impossible not to feel small in such a place as this, not to see your insignificance amongst such glory.
“This way, my Queen,” he said. “The young Prince will be practising.”
He led her down a set of steps and out into a wide space which was less courtyard, more small arena. It was open-roofed and the sunlight poured in. The ground was tiled, like elsewhere, but with slabs made of sand and stone, and the hot dust filled her nostrils. Around the edge, a variety of weapons, including daggers, spears and bows, were arranged against a wall.
“A father’s indulgence, I’m afraid.” Priam smiled. “Hector wants to learn to be a hero. And who am I to stand in the way of such a noble calling?”
“You came?” Hector shouted, bounding up to them.
He had changed from the robe he was wearing earlier and was dressed in a short tunic, exposing his long tanned legs.
“Does this mean you will show me how to fight? You will teach me?”
“I’m not sure what I can teach you in an afternoon, but it would be an honour to test your skills, young prince.”
“I want to be the greatest warrior in all of Troy,” he continued. “I will command the army and protect the city. Keep my wife and children safe.”
“A wife, already,” Penthesilea said with a half-smile that she shared with the King. “Let us see what we have here,” she continued, moving past the Prince to examine the weapons. They were of excellent quality, the metals burnished and polished, the handles sanded smooth then inlaid with bone. What detail the frescos lacked, was more than made up for here. She ran her fingers along the flat of a sword, feeling the heat seep from her skin.
“You can use anything you want,” Hector said, appearing beside her once again. “Father bought them all for me. You can even keep what you choose. It would be my honour. My gift to you.”
Again, Penthesilea’s eyes found Priam’s.
“He has a good heart, your son.”
“Very much so. He must have gained it from his mother.”
She realised her exchanges with Hector had been the longest conversations she had ever had with a boy of his age. In fact, the only such one. This saddened her a little, as she thought of the nephew she had never met.
“Let me see how you attack, first,” she said, lifting a shield from the wall. “Once I know where your skills lie, then we will look at what I may be able to teach you.”
Unbridled joy poured from the young Prince as he chose his own sword, then shuffled back into the centre of the arena, keeping his eyes on Penthesilea the entire time.
“Now, your aim is to try and hit me.”
The sound of clashing metal rang out, echoing off the walls and resonating in the weapons that hung from the wall, patiently waiting their turn.
Hector moved his feet constantly, landing strike after strike on Penthesilea’s shield. There was no escaping the fact that the child was gifted. He moved instinctively, his feet dancing over the tiles, and used his sword as fluidly as if it were an extension of him. Time and again, his blade came down, striking with a force that reverberated along her shield arm. Each time his weapon ricocheted off, he quickly regained control, already prepared for the next strike.
By the time she called a halt, an audience of a dozen people had gathered. In the centre, beside Priam, was a young woman with flowing hair as black as a raven’s wing, a child on her hip, while two more stood at her side, one clinging to her robe.
With a brief nod to Hector, Penthesilea motioned for him to lower his sword and left the boy to approach the onlookers.
“Queen Hecuba,” she said, bowing.
Somehow it was easier to abase herself in this way before a woman.
“Queen Penthesilea. It is an honour to meet you. As you may be aware, there is a great deal of admiration for you within these walls.”
Now they had stopped sparring, Penthesilea saw just how hard she had worked the young Prince. His arms gleamed with sweat, and his breath, which had been so focused and controlled, was now fast and laboured.
“He is exceptional” she said, in all honesty. “There are few I have ever seen who could fight like that at such an age.”
The same sense of pride she had witnessed in Priam washed over Hecuba. The Queen of Troy reached out her hand and, obligingly, Hector came and took it.
“He is our pride. They are all our pride.”
A brief moment passed before Penthesilea spoke again.
“King Priam,” she said, with an intensity that conveyed the importance of what she was saying. “Is it possible? Have arrangements been made?”
He nodded.
“The temple has been prepared, but there is no rush if you require more time.”
But Penthesilea had already waited long enough.
“I am ready,” she said.
CHAPTER 52
She had changed her clothes and was dressed in a simple robe of pale blue that Hecuba had given her and, thankfully, had assisted her to put on. It was only the second time Penthesilea had worn such attire. She would not allow herself to think of the first.
She had stood awkwardly as Hecuba fastened the material at her shoulder with a silver clasp and folded the pleats, so that they gathered around her waist and fell gently to her ankles.
“Your hair is beautiful like this,” she said, having unplaited the braids, so it now held the same soft waves as her own. “You should wear it this way.”
The woman possessed the same endearing quality she had seen in both Priam and Hector. What would it be like to live in a city with these people as your king and queen? she wondered. She could not imagine Hector growing into a man who would chop and change his wives, as Theseus had done. But then, if she had learnt anything of people, it was that you rarely knew what they were capable of, until it was too late.
