For the Immortal Read online

  Apollodorus, Library 2.5.9

  Fatal Wounds

  Hippolyta

  Amazons, Land of the Saka

  The Thirty-ninth Day after the Day of Storms in the Season of Tar, 1265 BC

  The frost bit at my lips and stung my eyes as I vaulted onto the back of my horse Kati, heart pounding hard with the mixed fear and blood-lust that was my inheritance, and my duty as queen.

  ‘Go, go!’ I shouted, kicking at her flanks and pulling at the reins. She reared, her breath pouring from her nostrils like smoke, her eyes white, as the first riders galloped towards our camp, ploughing up clouds of snow from their hoofs, screaming battle-cries.

  ‘Melanippe!’ I shouted, and I circled her tent, ice crystals forming on my eyelashes. ‘Melanippe!’

  She emerged, tying her war-belt around her waist and carrying two spears. She tossed one to me, and I caught it left-handed, thrusting it into the straps of the baldric over my back. ‘Budini?’ she asked, glancing at the rust-red hair beneath the riders’ stiff caps.

  I nodded. ‘They must know Orithyia has taken our troops to Hialea. They mean us to surrender without a battle, else they would not keep their distance.’

  She snorted. ‘Without a battle? Then they do not know the Amazons.’ She vaulted onto the back of her horse, a high-necked black with a white mark upon his forehead. She was about to ride out when I reached forwards and placed my hand upon her arm, my gaze searching her face. ‘The children of the tribe – Teuspa remains to protect them, as before?’

  Her eyes rested briefly upon mine. ‘Teuspa stays, along with his guard.’

  I nodded my approval, and she galloped off towards the other tents. I pulled Kati around and circled back, eyes scanning the camp, picking out the figure of the councillor, Agar; Ioxeia, the aged and skilful priest of the tribe, wearing her wolf-pelt over her shoulders; Toxis, tightening her war-belt and fastening her daughter Polemusa’s baldric, readying herself for battle. Many of the Amazons were already throwing felt rugs over their horses’ backs and mounting, leather boots crusted with snow, iron daggers glinting in the low evening light, bows and quivers hanging from their belts, shields slung over their shoulders on straps.

  Though the wind was howling across the plain, slicing at the exposed skin on my face and whistling in my ears, so that I could hardly hear the cries of the invaders, I rode out before all my warriors, determined to give them a sight of their queen before we joined battle. They brought their horses into line as I passed, the band of my twelve finest warrior-women first, then the young girls just ripening to womanhood, Polemusa among them, men with greying beards flecked with snow and boys with the slim limbs of youth. They bowed their heads to their horses’ necks, and my deer-hide cloak flew behind me as I rode, nodding to each in turn, my throat tight and my breathing sharp, as it always was before battle. I reached the end of the line and held my bow to the lowering skies, the general of this ice-hardened army.

  ‘Oiorpata!’ I cried.

  ‘Oiorpata!’ The Amazons returned the uran, the battle-cry.

  Melanippe rode forwards, and I nodded to her, once. At my signal, my warrior-guard peeled off from the rest of the troops, their horses cantering behind Melanippe away through the camp, smooth as ripples on water, shields bouncing against their backs.

  ‘Oiorpata!’ I cried again, to the rest of the warriors, and I wheeled around, then galloped towards the camp’s edge where the Budini were still circling, whirling their pointed bronze sagaris-axes around their heads and yelling their cries of battle. I urged my horse on, head bent against the wind, and behind me I heard the beat of many hundred hoofs against the snow and the swish of arrows past my ears as the Amazons sent a deadly hail upon the invaders. I let go of the reins, guiding Kati with my knees as my mother had taught me when I was young, and Kati a spindle-legged foal. I drew four red-striped shafts from my quiver and set them to my bow, drew back the string with my thumb and fired the first, then the second, third and fourth in rapid succession as I galloped on, easeful as a sharp-keeled ship cutting through the waves. I saw each hit their target, three Budini warriors toppling from their mounts with a dull thud and a scream of pain, and gritted my teeth; the fourth clutched at his arm as blood poured through his tunic and spread upon the ground with a dark red stain.

  Ahead, the Budini regrouped, falling back into a single mass of armoured warriors, pointed sagaris held weighted in their hands, horses stamping nervously at the ground. I smiled grimly and drew my spear to my shoulder, my other hand resting upon Kati’s neck, and hurled it, straight and graceful as a flying bird. There was a shriek of agony and a thump as a Budini slumped forwards, the spear shaft buried in his chest. His horse bucked and reared and he slid off into the snow, legs stuck out beneath him. The Budini howled, raised their battle-axes and hammered them upon their shields, then charged towards us, yelling and whirling their sagaris around and around their heads.

  It was time – the hammering of my heart in my chest was telling me so. Melanippe and my guard would have reached the riverbank.

  The Budini would see, now, why we were the most skilled warriors among the people of the Saka.

  ‘Retreat!’ I cried. ‘Retreat!’

  I barely touched the reins for Kati to turn, and around me the masses of Amazon troops were wheeling back, stamping down the snow, manes flying out in the wind as we galloped faster than circling birds, racing away from the camp towards the frozen expanse of the Silis river and the hunched snow-covered trees. Behind us the Budini whooped and hissed and clattered their battle-axes upon their shields. I glanced over my shoulder, saw them following, shrieking, teeth white in the gathering dusk. Only a moment longer, I told myself as my hips thudded into my horse’s back and the glimmer of the campfires retreated into the darkness. It has to be a moment longer …

  And then we were upon the snow-laden skeletons of the trees, and Melanippe and my warrior-guard were screeching out of the cover at the Budini’s left flank, bows raised, hailing arrows and glittering with iron.

  ‘Now!’

  It was the fire of my anger that guided me as I turned upon my horse, drew my bow and, with the ferocity of a wolf-mother protecting her cubs, flung five arrows, one upon another, among the unsuspecting Budini. The twang of bowstrings around me and the darts slicing through the air told me that others of my warriors had done the same. Cries and screams of agony from the Budini, trapped between the frozen river-ice and the looming trees, flew towards us upon the wind, but I shut my ears to them and drew again, determined not to lose sight of the tents in the distance through the snow lashed up by our horses’ hoofs and the shrieking winds of the plains.

  ‘Again!’ My cry whipped past my warriors, and once more I sent my arrows hissing towards the enemy who had dared to attack my people, until the howls of injured Budini pierced the air, like the shrieks of eagles on the hunt.

  ‘Now – around!’ I called. I pulled on the reins to bring Kati to the right and lowered my head, urging her on. Around me the Amazons were wheeling back towards the camp, horses snorting, arrow after arrow slicing through the winter air in a cloud of bronze and iron. And then I felt a sudden stab of horror in my stomach as the blizzard parted for a moment to reveal, dimly through the snowstorm, a group of Budini who had separated from the main force, attacking the tents, looting them, and cutting free the horses we had left behind.

  ‘No!’

  I leant forwards, my throat tight, my heart pounding against my ribs, and with all the training born of a lifetime spent on the plains, I urged Kati forward, her coat slippery with sweat beneath my hands. Behind me the Amazons were galloping so fast that the earth shuddered beneath us. Still I pushed Kati harder, the breath screaming in my lungs, her flanks heaving beneath me – my whole body focused on reaching my camp, my home, my people.

  There were eight or ten Budini, fighting hand to hand with the guard I had left behind, though I could not make out Teuspa among them. One by one, as I came nearer, the intruders spotted
us approaching, and I could see them vaulting back onto their horses, calling out to each other to flee. My arrows sliced at the air, rage and fury so powerful within me that I felt as if I were a beacon of fire blazing to the heavens. My heart was burning, and I longed for nothing but to keep them away for as long as I lived. But as Kati stormed into the camp, billowing steam into the air, the last were already galloping towards the frosted flat surface of the river to the north, following the retreating remainder of their army, five looted horses held by the reins and cantering beside them. I let out a yell of frustration and buried my hand in my quiver, drew four arrows and, one after another, sent them after the intruders with all the strength I had. The blurring clouds of snow and the growing darkness creeping over the horizon obscured my vision, and my arrows plunged to the ground.

  I slapped my hand hard against my thigh, the corners of my eyes encrusted with ice.

  Melanippe rode up beside me. ‘They are gone, sister. They’re gone.’

  I ignored her, tugging at the reins to bring Kati around and leaping down into the snow, pushing my way to the nearest dwelling.

  ‘Teres?’ I cried, my voice shaking. ‘Ainippe?’

  Two children, not yet ten years old, peered out through the tent’s flap, their heads shrouded with fur caps, their dark eyes round. I let out a breath that misted the air before me and ran on through the camp, determined to see all those who had stayed behind. I checked each of the tents where I knew a child dwelt, and clasped them tight to me as, one by one, I found them safe. I watched, my heart rent with pain and relief, as snow-sodden mothers embraced them, and ordered Ioxeia to tend those of the warriors who had been wounded. At last I reached Melanippe’s tent, a patchwork of felt and deer-hides.

  ‘Teuspa?’ I called.

  There was a moment of silence. Then Melanippe’s husband emerged from the tent, one hand covered with blood.

  My breath caught in my chest.

  ‘Cayster,’ was all he said.

  Ἀδμήτη

  Admete

  Tiryns, Greece

  The Eighth Day of the Month of Zeus, 1265 BC

  I closed my eyes as I entered the herbary, as I always did, to fill my senses with it. Of course, it was the herbs I always smelt first: the nutty warmth of powdered cumin; the autumn must of chaste-berries; mint-sweet lemon balm; lily-of-the-valley, delicate as a spring morning. But then, after the scents and the rush of names, properties and preparations through my mind, something more. Safety. Certainty. I loved the way the plants followed the rhythm of the seasons: how you could always be sure that the poppies would bloom scarlet over the meadows in spring, the grapes darken at summer’s end. I loved the stoppered jars lining the shelves of the preparation-room, each painted by my hand with the name of the herb it contained, ordered, predictable. The satisfaction of identifying a complaint, finding the appropriate herbs, and applying them to heal the body – all with a quiet certainty of their efficacy – was beyond any I had ever known.

  I smiled as I opened my eyes to take in the familiar scene. To my right, the longest of the trestle tables where I prepared my herbs, mottled where it was stained with their juices; to my left, the water-jars filled to the brim as I had directed and propped against the wall; and before me the hearth, flames bathing my skin with warmth and drying the bunches of herbs and garlic bulbs I had gathered that hung from the rafters. The room was dark, as herbs prefer it, lit only by the golden wash of the flames and the lamp I had set by the weighing-scales. I set down the jar of oil I had gone to the kitchens to retrieve, and drew my stool towards the table to begin my work again.

  ‘You will wear your eyes out if you labour late, with so little light to see by.’

  One of the priest-healers, Laodamas, had entered from the store-room, his belly preceding him, his robes wafting the scent of firesmoke and incense towards me. I looked up from the dried thyme sprigs I was plucking. ‘It is hardly late, Laodamas. The owl does not yet sing.’

  He rapped my knuckles with the wooden spoon I had used earlier to mix an infusion of camomile. ‘It is the aching of your temples you should observe, not the hooting of birds,’ he said, placing both hands on the table and frowning down at me. ‘No amount of eyebright will bring back your sight once it is lost.’

  I sighed. ‘That is true.’ I bowed my head and picked a few more leaves. ‘But this thyme is quite dried out, and I would set it to store before it becomes too brittle.’

  ‘And then?’ he asked. ‘What else needs to be done, Admete? Will you not invent another task – the bandages to be cleaned, the tiles to be scrubbed and washed, the creams and ointments in the store-room to be checked to ascertain that they have not soured, though you checked them only yesterday?’ He laid a hand over mine, the skin slippery in the heat of the fire. ‘You work too hard, my dear. The running of the palace of Tiryns is not your concern alone, and it will continue quite as well without you labouring yourself into the grave. You should learn to accept help, to reconcile yourself to the fact that you are a mere mortal, who needs meat and good wine and sleep like the rest of us.’

  ‘I do not claim otherwise,’ I said, withdrawing my hand from his and patting his fingers briefly. I sighed. ‘I thank you for your care of me, Laodamas, truly I do. But I am afraid – I do not say it lightly – that Tiryns has grave need of help now that Alexander is gone. I am glad to do what little I can.’

  ‘But surely your younger brothers—’

  ‘My brothers know nothing of kingship except its title, as you yourself are well aware.’

  ‘My lord Alexander –’ he ventured.

  ‘– is away from home at present in Egypt and …’ I bit my lip, thinking of Iphimedon, my elder by two years and the next in line to the throne, how heavily his many lost bets at dice and drunken routs in the taverns of the city weighed on my father’s mind. ‘We are all the more in need of aid without him. I am quite happy to be here, and to help the healers as I can.’ I smiled at him as I took up the thyme again, though I knew that I spoke only part of the truth, and that if I met his gaze my eyes would be my undoing. ‘I beg you to go to the evening feast, and to let my father know that I shall be there presently.’

  I sighed again as he left, raising a hand to rub my face. At least it was quiet now, with only the spitting logs for company.

  It was dark as the deepest hours of night beyond the window that opened onto the court, and my fingers were sore from rubbing thyme stems, when the door opened again.

  ‘Alcides!’ I dropped the herb and pushed back my stool to welcome him, brushing my palms on my apron.

  He chuckled as he strode towards me, boots still fresh with mud from the roads, and pulled me into his embrace. ‘You know I allow none other but you to call me that now,’ he said, ruffling my hair and standing back with a glint in his eye, a smirk at one corner of his mouth. ‘I am almost done with my labours. They all call me Hercules, these days.’

  ‘I know that,’ I said, grinning at him. I poked a finger at his chest. ‘I am your friend, and so you shall always be Alcides to me. And in any case,’ my eyes swivelled towards him, ‘as you said – you are not done with your labours. The prophecy is not yet fulfilled.’

  The laugh he gave was less exuberant, not his usual deep belly-roar, and there was a slight crease between his brows, but I hardly cared. ‘And Iberia?’ I pressed him, sliding back to sit on the edge of the table and swinging my legs, filled with pleasure to have him returned. I took him in, smiling to see him unchanged: the gleaming eyes and firm, sensitive mouth; the curling brown hair falling to his beard, light at the jaw as it was dark on his head; the tightly bound torso, longer than his legs, which were thick and stout; his squat way of standing with feet planted wide and arms crossed over his chest. ‘Was it frightful? Did you subdue the cattle of Geryon?’

  ‘I not only subdued them,’ he said, ‘but the entire peninsula of Iberia, and drove them back through the lands of the Celts as an offering to your father.’

  ‘By the
gods,’ I said, touching him lightly with the toe of my sandal, ‘that is a labour well done! And you have …?’

  ‘Two tasks remaining,’ he said.

  He let out a breath and leant back against the doorpost, his eyes unfocused.

  I stilled myself and placed my elbows on my thighs, inclining towards him. ‘What is it?’ I asked, not smiling now, watching the shadows of the flames on his face.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Alcides.’ I pushed myself from the table and walked over to take his hand, feeling the rough skin beneath the fingers where he handled his sword. ‘You can confide in me.’

  ‘I know that,’ he said.

  ‘Then?’

  He turned to me, though his eyes still flicked back and forth. ‘It is hard to admit.’

  I waited, allowing him time to formulate his thoughts, listening to the dried stems rustling on the table as the draught from beneath the door blew them.

  ‘Eight years I have lived here,’ he said at last. ‘What happens if I do not succeed in completing the labours? How could I return to Thebes, to Amphitryon, more alone even than I was before, and a proven failure at that?’

  ‘You know the answer,’ I said, pressing his hand. ‘You can stay here. My father would welcome you and gladly.’

  ‘And then,’ he turned his eyes to me, doubt and uncertainty written on his face, ‘what if I complete them?’

  ‘Then you will receive everything you have wished for since you came to this court with the words of the oracle still echoing in your ears.’

  ‘Yes, but …’ He dropped my hand and began to pace, his shadow long over the opposite wall. His voice was anguished, barely a whisper, as he said, ‘What if my father – what if Zeus – what if he—’ He shook his head, his throat working. ‘I cannot even say it.’

  I moved towards him and folded him in my arms, took his head on my shoulder, as I would an infant suffering from the whooping cough. ‘I know what it is you fear,’ I said, my voice low in his ear. ‘But trust me, Alcides. I have known you these eight years. I know the loyalty and the courage that lie within you. You will be enough for him.’