Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons

CHAPTER SEVEN

CAPTURE

HIPPOLYTA HAD BEEN TRAINED in the arts of hunting and war. She’d been taught how to live on berries and nuts, on wild onions and nettles. She’d spent whole nights on forced marches with her instructors and had to endure their frequent blows. But she was not prepared for the journey to Troy. The problem wasn’t the endless hours of riding. Or the heat of the noonday sun. Or the cold nights on the hard ground.

The problem wasn’t the fording of swift rivers or leading the horse through rock-strewn mountain passes or battling the armies of insects that seemed to attack both day and night.

The problem was the baby.

She wouldn’t call him by his name.

Oh, she had expected to rear a child of her own someday, taking a temporary husband from one of the neighboring tribes so that she might give more life to the Amazon race.

Someday.

But she hadn’t expected to have to care for a baby so soon.

She hadn’t known that a baby would cry so much.

It cried when it was tired.

It cried when its breechcloth needed changing.

It cried when it was hungry.

It cried when it wanted attention.

It cried when it wanted to cry.

When the goat’s milk ran out, Hippolyta had to hunt down birds and rabbits and trade them at lonely farmsteads for fresh milk for the baby. What was left over after the trade was scarcely enough to feed herself.

Finally, after two weeks of riding, she saved a wild she-goat in the hills of Phrygia from a pack of menacing wolves. Since the animal seemed to live on thistles and ferns—and air—it made an easy companion. The milk it produced was enough to feed the child.

But not enough to keep him from crying.

I could cheerfully kill him myself, she thought as he once more sent up that thin, fierce wail that seemed to pierce her straight through to the bone.

She pulled the little mare to a halt, slowing the goat as well, for it trailed behind them, pulled by a long rope. Groping for the skinful of milk the goat had produced just hours before, Hippolyta shoved the makeshift teat into the baby’s mouth.

At least when he is suckling, he’s quiet, she thought. And cradling both the baby and the bottle in her left arm, holding the reins in her right, she kicked the mare on.

Bleating, the goat followed after.

Never, Hippolyta thought, touching her sister’s bracelet with her forefinger, never has there been a Long Mission like this. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry about it. In the end she did neither.

By the time they reached the plain of Mysia, a journey of four weeks more—with yet another two weeks at least till Troy—Hippolyta was feeding and changing the baby by reflex. When he was cranky, she found he could be soothed with the lullabies her mother used to sing to her little sisters. If he tired of those, she sang the rousing hero ballads instead. He seemed especially to like the one about the great warrior queen Andromache, who won so many famous victories.

He began to cry less and learned to smile. He played with her hair, entangling his little fist in her long, straight black locks. When he got too big to carry easily in one arm, she made a sling out of her cloak and tied him to her back. He seemed to enjoy riding that way and spent hours alternately napping and contentedly watching the roadside.

Hippolyta began to think that perhaps he was not so bad after all—for a boy.

But she never gave him his name.

One night, when the boy was nearly sixty days old and they were well into the Lydian lands, Hippolyta fell asleep exhausted before even finishing her evening meal.

The fire had burned low, and the baby was asleep in his little hammock, slung between two trees, where he would be safe from any wolves or other scavengers.

Hippolyta was dreaming deeply. In her dream she saw the Hill of Artemis on the outskirts of Themiscyra. Moving closer, she noticed that something lay, bound hand and foot, on the altar.

When she got closer still, she realized that the one on the altar was herself and that she was gagged as well as bound so that she couldn’t cry out.

Suddenly she was no longer looking down but looking up, terrified, waiting for death.

Around the altar were hundreds of Amazons, including her own mother and sisters, crying for her blood. Orithya was calling the loudest.

At that moment the priestess Demonassa appeared, a large, jagged dagger clasped in her bony fingers.

“A sacrifice must be made,” the old priestess intoned, raising the dagger. As she leaned over, her withered features seemed to melt and change till what stared down was the fierce and beautiful face of the goddess Artemis. The moon crowned her head, and winking stars glinted like jewels in her wild dark hair.

“You must atone for lost Arimaspa,” Artemis cried, her voice like a fierce north wind.

The Amazons answered her in a single voice: “Arimaspa.”

Then the dagger sliced downward, and Hippolyta felt a searing pain in her side.

She woke, and the pain only increased as a second boot struck her in the ribs.

Groaning, she pulled away. Traces of the dream still held her in their grip: the sea of feverish faces, the savage beauty of the goddess, the dagger …

Then she was wholly awake, blinking blearily into the dawn. Her ribs hurt, and somewhere to one side her horse was whinnying unhappily.

There were voices all around her, deep, coarse, hoarse.

The voices of men.

She sat up.

A pair of strong hands grabbed her tunic and pulled her roughly to her feet. “Why, it’s just a girl in man’s garb!” a man exclaimed.

Hippolyta aimed a kick between his knees and connected. He let her go, screaming. Someone else grabbed her, this time from behind.

“Let go of me!” she cried.

At the sound of her voice the baby began to wail.

For a moment the men looked confused. There were—she saw quickly—six of them, including the man behind her. They were dressed in plain tunics and sandals. Each was equipped with a helmet and bronze sword, and each had a shield hanging under his arm. Behind them, well away from the copse of trees, she could see the outlines of horses.

She aimed a second kick, backward, but this man was too quick for her. He tightened his grip, saying, “Mind yourself, girl.”

“She’s a wild thing, isn’t she?” joked a broad-shouldered man with a broken nose and bad teeth. “But maybe there’s a pretty face under all that dirt.” He moved closer to peer at her.

All that dirt! Hippolyta was furious at the insult. She’d bathed three days earlier, in a lovely mountain pool, taking the baby in with her. They’d floated around for almost an hour, and he had gurgled and giggled and splashed until his lips had turned blue.

She spat at the speaker. He smelled like a horse himself.

A tall, hawk-nosed man yanked the other away. “We’re not here for your entertainment, Lyksos,” he said.

Then, nodding at the man behind Hippolyta, he added, “Let her go, Phraxos.”

“But, Dares, what if she runs?” came a voice behind her.

“She won’t go far without the child,” the hawk-nosed Dares said. He stood squarely in front of Hippolyta, regarding her curiously.

She stared back at him. He had coarse dark hair covering his cheeks and chin, and his eyes were as hard as a shield. She’d seen men before, of course. Traders and merchants were sometimes allowed to enter the Amazon settlements, and she’d encountered a few others on her journey at the farmhouses where she traded for milk. But never had she met a man who looked so powerful.

And never before had any man laid a hand on her.

She shivered, then willed herself to stand tall. An Amazon does not tremble before men, she reminded herself.

“Escaped slave girl, do you think?” asked Lyksos. “That brat fathered on her by her master?”

“The child is not mine,” she said quickly, “and I am no slave.” There was anger in her voice, not fear. But her anger was not directed at the men. She was furious with herself for being taken so easily. What sort of Amazon was she to be caught asleep by these big, clumsy creatures? How could she have failed to waken at the first sound of their horses’ hooves?

Then she put her anger elsewhere. It’s the baby’s fault, she thought. He’d woken in the night, and she’d spent hours soothing him. No wonder when she’d finally fallen asleep, it was into troubled dreams.

The one called Dares walked over to where a chubby-faced man was holding the baby, carrying him as if he were a rabbit trussed for the spit. Taking the child, Dares held him up and stared into his little face. Then, surprisingly, he clucked with his tongue, and the baby, who’d been just about to start caterwauling again, opened his mouth and smiled.

“Check to see if it’s a boy or a girl,” Dares said, handing the baby back to the chubby man.

“It’s a boy,” Hippolyta said quickly. “His name is Podarces.”

“Swift-footed.” Dares laughed. “Unlike his … companion.”

Hippolyta felt her cheeks redden.

“Where do you suppose she got these weapons?” Phraxos said, turning over her pallet and holding up the ax and the bow. “Stole them?”

“They’re mine,” Hippolyta said, willing her voice to remain even.

A fourth man, with a ruddy complexion and a ring in his ear, started to laugh. “Your weapons?”

“Give them to me, and you shall see how well I use them,” Hippolyta said. “On you.”

“Impudent—” He raised his hand to strike her.

Dares seized him by the wrist. “Nyctos, put your hand down. She’s speaking the truth. Look at that ax, the double-headed blade. Look what she’s wearing—the pleated cloak, the fur cap. Look at the serpentine armlet. That signifies she’s already made her journey into womanhood. She’s an Amazon.”

Nyctos shook his head. “Why would an Amazon be here alone?”

“Good question,” Dares said, turning to look at her quizzically.

“I answer to neither you nor any man,” Hippolyta said, but at the same time she felt some bit of pride at being identified.

“Maybe she’s a scout for an attacking army,” Lyksos suggested.

“With a baby boy for company?” Dares laughed. “Use your head, man.”

“I hear they murder baby boys,” said Nyctos.

“That’s not true,” Hippolyta said hotly. “I’m saving him.”

Fast as a striking adder, Dares said, “Saving him from what?”

She closed her lips tightly together. The truth would not serve her here.

All at once the baby squealed, and half the soldiers were distracted. Hippolyta dived at Phraxos, pushing him off-balance. Grabbing her ax, she did a quick forward roll on the ground and came up on the far side of the men, holding the ax in both hands.

“You fool, Phraxos,” Dares said. He motioned to his men, who, without a word, widely flanked her on both sides till she was inside a large circle with the baby on the outside.

Hippolyta’s mouth went dry as a sunbaked rock. She could feel the blood pounding at her temples. Molpadia had taunted her about slaying her first man. How Molpadia would laugh now.

“Give me the child,” she heard her own voice say, as if it were coming from somewhere far away. “And let me be on my way.”

“Amazon or not, girl, you’re no match for six Trojan warriors. Put down your weapon before we have to hurt you,” Dares said. He held out his left hand to her, but the right hand held his sword at the ready.

“Trojans!” Hippolyta exclaimed. “But that’s where I’m headed. I’m going to Troy to see King Laomedon.”

The men began to laugh, a sound like growing thunder, but Dares silenced them with a raised hand. “And why must you see the king?” he asked.

“I have a message for him from Otrere, queen of the Amazons,” Hippolyta said. “I’m her daughter, Hippolyta, Amazon princess.”

At that the laughter became a cloudburst, and the sound of it made the baby cry.

“Surrender your weapon,” Dares said, “and I promise to speak to the king for you.”

“What proof do I have that you’ll do what you promise?” Hippolyta asked.

“Only my word as a Trojan.” He smiled, holding out his hand once again.

“Only your word as a man,” she said, her voice full of scorn.

“That will have to do,” Dares answered.

Hippolyta thought quickly. “Swear by your gods.”

“Captain,” said Phraxos, “let’s just take her.”

Nyctos grunted his agreement.

Dares held up his hand. “I swear by my gods that I’ll speak to the king for you. You’ll be our guest in Troy. Now give me the ax.”

Knowing that she had gotten as much out of the man as she could, Hippolyta said, “And I swear by Artemis that if you’re false, I will kill you.”

The men began their thunderous laughs again. But again Dares stopped them. “Done, young Amazon princess. The ax?”

She gave him the ax, handle first, and the bow. They let her keep the arrows, which they considered useless by themselves. She smiled to herself. They hadn’t seen how she’d used one on Molpadia.

Dares handed back the baby, and Hippolyta fed him the last of the milk. They let her milk the goat, then set it free. The horrid creature caprioled over the nearest hill and was gone, not even looking back once.

As she tied little Podarces on her back once again, she thought: Stupid goat. I saved you from the wolves, and you run right back to them.

Then Nyctos boosted her up onto the little mare, but Dares held the reins so that she couldn’t even think about escaping.

And so, led by the Trojans, Hippolyta rode out of the small rounded hills and down into the city itself.