For the Immortal Read online

  About the Book

  Thousands of years ago, two remarkable women found themselves swept up in one of the greatest legends of all … and discovered the price that must be paid for immortality.

  Desperate to save her dying brother, Admete persuades her father, the king of Tiryns, to let her go in search of a cure and accompany Hercules on one of his legendary twelve labours. Their travels take them to the land of the Amazons, where Admete learns that neither Hercules nor the infamous female warriors are quite as she had been led to believe.

  The Amazons greet the arrival of the Greeks with mixed feelings – and none more so than Hippolyta, the revered queen of the tribe. For Hercules and his band of fighters pose a threat to her way of life – but also stir up painful memories that threaten to expose her deepest secret.

  As battle lines are drawn between the Greeks and the Amazons, both women soon learn the inevitable truth – that in war, sacrifices must be made; especially if they are to protect the ones they love most …

  With For the Immortal, Emily Hauser brings her vital and thrilling reimagining of an ancient world – the Golden Apple trilogy – to a triumphant and fitting close.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Prologue

  Amazon

  Fatal Wounds

  The Last Labours

  King and Queen of the Gods

  On Land and Sea

  The War-Belt of Hippolyta

  Garden of the Hesperides

  Antimache’s Tale

  Battle for the War-Belt

  Leaving the Land of the Saka

  Greek

  To the Ends of the Earth

  Storm

  Becoming Greek

  The Amazons Attack

  The Battle for Athens

  Final Encounter

  The Voyage Home

  On Fate

  Immortal

  To Troy

  The Epic Begins

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Suggestions for Further Reading

  Bronze Age Calendar

  Glossary of Characters

  Glossary of Places

  Glossary of Scythian Terms

  About the Author

  Also by Emily Hauser

  Copyright

  For the Immortal

  Emily Hauser

  For Athina, Natalia and Arabella, who started it all and for Oliver, always

  ὣς οἵ γ’ ἀμφίεπον τάφον Ἑκτορος· ἦλθε δ’ Ἀμαζών,

  Ἄρηος θυγάτηρ μεγαλήτορος ἀνδροφόνοιο …

  And so they buried Hector; and then came the Amazon, the daughter of Ares, the great-hearted man-slayer …

  Iliad 24, lines 804f.

  According to an early manuscript of Homer’s Iliad

  Acknowledgements

  At the close of the Golden Apple trilogy, I want to start by thanking my brilliant editor, Simon Taylor, and all the wonderful team at Transworld, who made all this possible in the first place. I will always be so grateful to you, Simon, not only for the chance you gave me to write and your conviction in the trilogy, but for your unfailing enthusiasm and your expert help and advice in making the books what they are. The same goes to the wonderful Tash Barsby: For the Immortal owes so much to your insight and comments – Hippolyta wouldn’t be the same without you. A huge debt of thanks is also due to my fantastic agent, Roger Field, master of the re-shelve, whose firm belief in the trilogy, expertise in Mycenaean weaponry, and advice and support over the years have been indispensable. And I’m so grateful to all the team at Transworld who have brought my books alive so beautifully: my publicist, Hannah Bright, for her amazing ability to organize across multiple time zones; Becky Glibbery, Sarah Whittaker and the rest of the art department, who did such a fantastic job in designing the covers for the trilogy; my wonderful copy-editor, Hazel Orme; as well as Viv Thompson, Phil Lord and Candy Ikwuwunna. You are all a part of the Golden Apple trilogy, and I’m so grateful for everything you do and have done to help bring the ancient world to vivid life.

  This book required perhaps more research than any other I have written, given the sheer quantity (and time span) of ancient sources traversed, the historical research required to get to grips with the Amazons, and the fact that – as a classicist – I have rarely ventured beyond the confines of Greco-Roman culture and language. I am therefore hugely indebted to several scholars for their generous time and expertise: Professors Prods Oktor Skjaervo and Jeremy Rau at Harvard University for their assistance with Scythian; as well as Sam Blankenship for her help with Old Persian and Avestan. I would also like to give particular mention to Adrienne Mayor’s The Amazons: Lives and Legends of Warrior Women across the Ancient World (2014): Mayor’s detailed and incisive history was what enabled me to move past stereotyped Amazon images to envision a living culture, and I am indebted to her. I am also grateful to Stratis and Elena who welcomed us so hospitably on our visit to Skyros, and to Caleb Dean and Emily Kanter at Cambridge Naturals for sharing their expertise in herbs and being tolerant enough to answer my questions about lemon balm.

  As always, it has been my colleagues, friends and family who have supported me and given me the time, space and encouragement to enable the books to flourish. I am particularly grateful both to Yale University and to Harvard University for the supportive environments and outstanding resources from which I was lucky enough to benefit during the writing of the books, as well as the continuing advice and support of my inspirational mentors, Emily Greenwood, Greg Nagy, Laura Slatkin, Diana Kleiner and many others. And, as before, I owe a great deal to the wonderful people of The Biscuit in Somerville, who always cheered me on from the sidelines, brightened my day with their conversation and laughter, and witnessed both the start and the finish of this book: Hannah, Ilona, Dava, the two Emilys, Ryan, Bryan, Andrew, Choo, Greta and all the others. And my family have been an incredible source of support, as always, helping me get the symptoms of malaria right, as well as listening with endless patience as I read passages aloud (always with voices).

  My wonderful friends – Farzana, Alice, Zoe and Iyad, and everyone else – have been the backbone of these books from their very inception. This last of the Golden Apple trilogy is therefore dedicated to three dear friends in particular, Athina, Natalia and Arabella, who I met in Greece on our very own Greek Odyssey ten years ago this summer. I’m so very grateful to have the three of you in my life, and can’t wait for more years of aubergines (and Classics) ahead. Finally, this book is dedicated, as always, to my incredible husband Oliver, whose support, love, encouragement and unfailing belief in me from the very first has made these past eight years both an adventure and a joy every day.

  Prologue

  The sky above Delphi is dark. All is quiet. The birds do not yet sing in this sacred place. The only movement is a torch bobbing, like a firefly, through the darkened underbrush, as a man walks along the winding path to the slopes of Mount Parnassus, where the oracle of the gods has her home. Here, in the fissure of rock where the gods’ prophet dwells, is where boundaries blur, where the division between mortal and immortal is broken, rent in two, like a cut veil, and the words of the gods blow through the rift to men. Here all is slanted, strange. A mortal woman speaks the divine tongue. Steam, rancorous and bitter, billows up from the Underworld, breaking through cracks in the earth. And a cave, where a lone priestess crouches muttering over the holy smoke, will become the greatest sanctuary of all, summoning pilgrims from across the world, commanding gifts of gold and marble monuments to the p
rophet. In years to come, kings will crawl on their knees to hear the gods’ commands, build their fate on the words of a mad priestess, while empires rise and fall to the will of the divine.

  Here, in the crucible of the gods, destiny itself will be forged.

  And the first prophecy is about to be made.

  The figure emerges from the wooded path, his torch’s light sweeping the cavern into a gash of darkness, his boots trampling the sage-sprigs scattered on the ground. He crouches to enter the darkness of the cave, his eyes smarting and nostrils burning at the sulphurous smoke that fills it. As his vision adjusts he sees her: a woman hunched over the embers of a fire, her hair loose over her shoulders, her eyes wide, unblinking as she stares at him.

  ‘You have come, then,’ is all she says, and her voice is thick, as if it is a long time since she has spoken.

  ‘You are Pythia?’ he asks.

  ‘And you are Alcides.’ It is not a question.

  He hesitates, thrown by her confidence, then masters himself. ‘I am Alcides, son of Zeus and Alcmene, descendant of Alcaeus.’

  ‘And,’ she says, leaning towards him over the embers, ‘you have something to ask of me.’

  He does not answer, but props his torch against the rock where it turns the smoke drifting through the cavern into streams of orange-gold, and kneels before her. ‘Yes.’

  She pauses, apparently waiting, then says, ‘You had better ask it.’ She pokes at the ash with a stick. ‘You have travelled far from Thebes to do so.’

  He swallows, and uncertainty crosses his face, making him seem much younger all of a sudden: a boy, asking where he belongs, why he is here. Why his father did not want him.

  ‘I want to know,’ he says, his voice louder than usual, ‘how I may join the gods.’

  The priestess takes a deep, shuddering breath, a gasp that rattles through the cavern, extinguishing the torch so that the only light is the red glow of the embers. Smoke begins to swirl thick around her, and her eyes roll back in her head, white veined with scarlet.

  ‘Pythia?’ The man starts forward, as if to reach for her, but her voice snaps him back, low, harsh, resounding through the darkness, as if the spirits of the Underworld are grating an echo to her words in the caverns of Tartarus beneath:

  ‘Destined by Zeus to rule the race of the heroes of Greece,

  son of a god and leader of men, yet the anger of Hera

  stands in your way – and she, unappeased, shall cause you to fail.

  Zeus betrayed her, his wife, years before when he lay with Alcmene

  and begot you, a falseness and grief to the queen of the gods.

  Hera rages at you and all that you are, the proof and the object

  of her envy.’

  She takes a rasping breath, ribs shuddering, her head lolling, as if the force of the gods that ploughs through her is too much for her mortal frame.

  ‘If to appease her still is your wish and

  you seek to dwell on Olympus, hear my warning and heed it

  well. Twelve labours must you perform, twelve perilous tasks as

  no man before or after shall do, with fierce beasts to slay and

  lions to tame, then birds of bronze beaks and fire-breathing bulls,

  such as befit the first and greatest hero of Greece.

  For Eurystheus, king of Tiryns, shall you perform them

  and with his sons and daughter for ten years shall live till the tasks are

  done.

  ‘Two fates therefore stand before you; two paths towards the

  end of death which you alone can choose. If you leave and

  take on the labours, never again shall you see your home, Thebes, but

  Zeus has sworn by his decree you shall become a god, and

  mortals across the earth for eternity shall worship you,

  son of a god with glory undying; and Hera has ruled that,

  if you complete them, she shall accept you, and you shall be known as

  Hercules.

  ‘But if you fail, or the labours reject, then

  she will ensure you nameless shall vanish, unsung and obscure, un-

  known and unspoken, immortal no more.’

  She falls silent, slumped forwards, her chin on her chest. The eerie light ebbs, the echoes of Tartarus are still, and the cavern is dark once more. The man who will be known as Hercules watches her, waiting for more.

  ‘I have a choice?’ he says at once, when she raises her head, her eyes blurred in the blackness and smoke. A scowl darkens his features. ‘I came to you, priestess, for answers. I came to know my destiny, to learn the dictates of the Fates, to know what I should do.’

  ‘That depends on what you want.’

  He leans towards her, the answer coming quick as a breath of wind skimming over water. ‘Immortality.’

  She considers him for a moment, and the sulphur smoke drifts between them: the priestess weak, her breathing slurred, her gaze fixed on the man, eager, desperate, fervent.

  ‘Then it seems, son of Zeus, you have made your choice already.’

  On Mount Olympus, one of the Muses stirs from her seat within the Hall of the Fates. Concealed behind a pillar at the colonnade’s edge, so she may see and not be seen, she has been keeping vigil through the night, gazing through the open portico, which affords a view of the peoples on earth. The rosy fingertips of dawn are creeping over the horizon, bathing the land below in soft light and shading the birds flying across the shore into ink-like blots. To the mortals in their dwellings in the valleys, as they wake and prepare to cut their meadows with the scythe or pluck the grapes from the vines, it is simply another new day; but in the shadows of the night, an age has passed. A new era has begun. The Muse gets to her feet, draws her cloak around her and pulls her hood to shield her face.

  At last, it is time.

  She walks, her footsteps hushed and her figure shadowed in the near-darkness, towards an alcove hidden in the far corner where, when she slides back the screen painted to resemble the marble that surrounds it, a cedar chest is revealed, dark-stained with age and fitted with a bronze lock. The hall is lit only by a few oil-lamps, which are guttering to the very ends of their wicks, but Calliope, eldest of the Muses, does not need light to find her way. She looks around her, eyes darting between each of the scroll-laden shelves and the desks littered with papyrus and ink-stands, searching for intruders, for spies. The hall is empty, and there are no shadows or whispers to warn her she is being watched. She draws a key from the folds of her cloak and fits it with ease into the lock. There is a moment’s silence, and then a click. The lid swings open.

  And there they are: the three golden apples she and Hermes stole, all those years ago, when Hera and Zeus were newly wed and the earth-goddess herself fashioned an apple tree of molten gold to bless the marriage. For a moment, as the scent of cedar, mixed with centuries of dust, washes over her, she allows herself to be transported in memory. She remembers how, at Zeus and Hera’s wedding-feast, when the gods were deep in their cups, she had whispered to Hermes, god of thieving, what she wanted to do; how, together, as night drew its dark veil over the banqueting hall, they had crept to the golden-apple tree and, as Hermes kept watch, she had plucked its fruit. She smiles to think how the earth beneath them had quivered and shaken at their perfidy, and they had run over the heaving ground, three apples clutched to her chest; how next day, climbing from her marriage-bed and setting the oak-crown on her head for the first time, Hera had discovered the apples were missing and raged at her loss, though she knew not who had stolen them. How she had set the three daughters of Atlas to guard the tree, one for each of the apples lost, and placed it in a garden at the world’s end, so that none could steal again from the queen of the gods.

  Calliope traces the curves of the apples with the tip of her forefinger, one by one, as a mother would caress the cheek of her newborn child. Three spheres, smooth and round and gleaming in the low light of the lamps, their stalks like golden filaments, their surf
aces polished. Each side by side within the box, encircled with engraved patterns of gold carved into the wood.

  Three, she thinks.

  One for each of them.

  She glances over her shoulder, bright-eyed, knowing, as her gaze falls on the shelves and writing implements, that after what she is about to do she may never see Olympus again.

  Knowing that she is risking everything on the greatest gamble she will ever take.

  She snaps the coffer shut and tucks it under one arm. Turning to walk across the hall, her pace quickening now, her cape flying out behind her, she thinks only of where she will hide herself and her three prizes. She needs to be at hand, among the mortals, to wait to spring at the correct moment. It will be a delicate balance, to remain hidden from Hera, and yet to hold back until she is absolutely sure – and her choice of hiding-place will be of utmost importance. There are many places for concealment within the mortal world, but she has planned this day for thousands of years, purposeful and resolute as the Muse of Epic should be, and she has already made her decision. She will go to the vast forests at the world’s edge, where the eagles soar, alone, brushing the tree-tops with their wings.

  A moment later, she reaches the colonnade again at the edge of Olympus, and the expanse of sky that stretches from the mountain’s brink to the horizon. She closes her eyes, standing between two lofty columns, the rock falling steeply away beneath her, to feel the warmth of the sun upon her face: the first light of a new age.

  The last time she may ever see the sun from Olympus’ peak.

  She clutches the casket more tightly to her chest.

  And then she sweeps her cloak around her and leaps, graceful as a swallow, into the emptiness of the morning air.

  The age of heroes has begun.

  AMAZON

  Fifteen years before the Trojan War

  Hippolyta had a war-belt, a symbol of her prowess above all the other Amazons; and Hercules was sent to fetch it, because Admete, daughter of Eurystheus, desired it.