Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

FARTHER ALONG THE ROAD

THEY THREADED THROUGH THE dark cave passages with a single torch made from a broken tree limb wrapped with the Lycian’s torn cloak. It gave a feeble light that flickered and flickered, ever threatening to go out.

Tithonus talked of nothing but Polemos. “Did you see how he appeared from nowhere to save us? Do you think I could learn to throw the javelin with such skill? How do you suppose he knew so much about this country? He must be a very famous warrior back in Lycia.” He went on and on without needing any encouragement from Hippolyta—or getting any.

At last she snapped at him, “I beat two of the Kethites by myself. I don’t hear you talking about what a great warrior I am.”

“You were very brave,” said Tithonus, abashed. “It’s just that, well—”

“That I’m a girl?” Hippolyta suggested. “A mere woman? You think I should be busy in the kitchen or weaving a tapestry or prettying myself with makeup and jewels?”

“I didn’t say that,” mumbled Tithonus, fidgeting behind her uncomfortably. “It’s just that men already do enough fighting. If all the women became warriors as well, there would be nothing but fighting all over the world. It would go on and on until everybody was dead.”

“Then let the men give up their weapons and leave the fighting to the women,” said Hippolyta. “Try that idea on your father.”

“If I ever see him again,” Tithonus said, sighing wearily. He put his head against her back.

Just as he spoke, the torch gave a final sputtering bit of light and went out. The cave was suddenly as black as a tomb.

“If I ever see anything again,” Tithonus whispered fearfully.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be at home with your family again,” Hippolyta said. Even as she spoke, she hated herself for the half lie.

“I hope so,” he whispered.

But Hippolyta suddenly understood. All of Tithonus’ talking had helped him keep his spirits up. But now that they were in the pitch black, he’d run out of both conversation and courage. Now he was only a little boy in the dark.

And he was afraid.

So am I, she admitted as she tried to see something—anything—in all that black.

She dismounted.

“What are you doing?” Tithonus cried. “Don’t leave me, Hippolyta.”

“I’m not leaving,” she said. “But I’m going to have to lead the horse so it doesn’t knock itself out walking into stone. I’ll keep a hand on the cave wall, and that way we’ll know which way we’re going.”

“All right.” Tithonus didn’t sound convinced. “But why can’t I walk with you?”

“Because you’ll be safer on the horse,” she said.

Her hand trailed along the wall, which surprised her by being both cold and damp. At the first real crossroads, the horse started naturally to the right.

“Left!” Tithonus cried. “Polemos said we have to go left.”

Hippolyta yanked the reins leftward, and the horse reluctantly obeyed. But as they passed by the passage on the right, Hippolyta saw hundreds of bright spots, like eyes, winking at her. She shuddered, hoping that Tithonus hadn’t seen them.

“Left it is,” she said. “Good thinking, Tithonus.”

“Thanks,” he answered. There was a bit of lift in his voice.

Lucky he can’t see how hard I’m hugging the left wall, Hippolyta thought, or he wouldn’t he so happy.

She was extra careful after that always to pull the horse to the left. If there were other bright, waiting eyes down the right-hand turns, she didn’t want to know.

After what seemed like days, but was probably only hours, they emerged out into a gray afternoon, and Hippolyta quickly remounted and looked around. A fog sat heavily on the shoulders of the mountains around them, like a shawl on an old woman, so she couldn’t tell which mountain had the double peak.

The horse brought them into some sort of meadow where the ground was cracked and the vegetation sparse and brown. It began to crop what grass remained.

“We’ll camp here,” Hippolyta said, gesturing around them. “We don’t dare go on in any case, not until we can see which mountain is the right one.”

She left Tithonus guarding the horse and circled the meadow slowly but could find only a single twisted tree, some sort of ancient olive. Circling back to the horse, she took the reins from the boy and led them both over to the tree, where she tied the horse.

“Can I sit?” he asked, pointing to the tree. Without even waiting for her answer, he flopped down and sat with his back to the gnarled trunk. He didn’t speak a word after that but just stared up at the fog-shrouded mountains. His face was the color of the fog, and he was very quiet.

It rained that night, a heavy, cold gray downpour. They took what shelter they could under the olive tree, but it offered them little comfort, and they were soon soaked through.

In the morning Tithonus was feverish. Hippolyta had to lift him onto the horse, then jump up behind and hold him in her arms. When he leaned back against her, she could feel the heat of his fever through her tunic.

A mountain with a double peak was now clearly visible on the far horizon.

“Just like Polemos said.” Tithonus rubbed watery eyes. “He knows everything, Polemos.” Then he sneezed three times in rapid succession, each sneeze shaking his thin body.

“I don’t like it,” Hippolyta grumbled. “I don’t like him.”

“Polemos?”

Hippolyta didn’t answer. Instead she leaned to one side and looked back.

“What’s the matter?” Tithonus asked, sneezing twice more. “Do you think he’s following us?”

“I don’t know,” Hippolyta replied. “I just have a feeling there’s more to Polemos than he showed. He might be behind us. Or he might be …”

“Ahead of us?” Tithonus asked.

Hippolyta shrugged.

By the next day Tithonus’ cold had gone into his chest, and he was too ill to travel. He coughed now, deep and awful sounds that were almost animal-like. His face was ashen, and tremors ran through his thin body constantly.

Hippolyta built up a fire and wrapped him up as comfortably as she could in her own cloak.

This was a barren stretch of country. Hardly anything grew here, and game was scarce. Leaving the boy to sleep off his fever, Hippolyta went in search of food.

The pickings were small: some tough, bitter roots and a couple of tiny sparrows, which she cooked on the embers of the fire. She fed Tithonus as much as he could keep down and gave him all the water he wanted. She went short herself, knowing that his body needed the nourishment to overcome his illness.

During the night his fever broke, and in the morning he insisted on carrying on.

“Are you sure you’re well enough?” Hippolyta asked. She was displeased with herself for being so concerned. After all, how well does he need to be to be a sacrifice? she thought.

“I’ll manage,” Tithonus said, forcing a smile. “I only need to be strong enough to hang on to you.”

He stumbled blearily to the horse and waved to Hippolyta to mount up.

Hippolyta could see what the effort cost him and could not help admiring his courage. Perhaps, she thought, it might have been kinder for him if the fever had taken him quietly in the night.

By the next day Tithonus had shaken off his cold. But they were both hungry and weary of traveling. Since they hadn’t found a stream in days, their water was low, and they smelled appallingly.

A bleak northern wind sweeping down from the mountains blew into their faces, and as long as they were riding, they were both chilled to the bone.

Tithonus rubbed his cheeks, trying to warm them. “Why haven’t we seen a farm or village?”

“The Scythians who live here in the north are nomads,” said Hippolyta. “They’re always moving from place to place. So you wouldn’t see anything like an actual farm. Or—”

“But we haven’t even seen a camp,” Tithonus said.

Hippolyta had had that same thought hours ago but hadn’t wanted to scare the boy. “Well,” she said brightly, “who would want to camp here if they didn’t have to?”

“You don’t suppose there’s—there’s a monster living around here, do you?” Tithonus’ voice was tentative. “A monster scaring off the Scythians.”

“We’re too far from the coast for there to be another sea monster close by,” said Hippolyta. “And we know how to fight off monsters, don’t we?”

“But there could be a Cyclops, couldn’t there?” Tithonus seemed intent on frightening himself.

“If there is, it should have spotted us by now, even with only one eye,” Hippolyta assured him.

“Well, even with two eyes, I still can’t see any sign of this city of yours.”

Hippolyta had to agree. If there were a city below the mountain, they should have seen it by now. And it had to be below the mountain. There were too many steep crags guarding the mountain flanks for a city to stand anywhere but directly before them.

“Maybe Polemos lied to us,” she said.

“Why would he do that?” Tithonus demanded.

“Because he’s a Lycian,” Hippolyta answered bitterly. “All Lycians are liars.”

“That’s Cretans,” Tithonus corrected her. “All Cretans are liars. At least that’s what my father says.”

“Unless that’s a lie too.”

“My father doesn’t lie.”

“But he doesn’t tell you all the truth, or you would have known about your mother.”

Tithonus shut his mouth and didn’t answer.

The double peak reared high above them now. Other smaller mountains clustered around its slopes like children at their mother’s skirts.

“I hope we get there soon,” Tithonus said through chattering teeth. “Before I become a block of ice.”

“I doubt it’ll be any warmer at Arimaspa,” said Hippolyta gloomily. She rubbed her hands briskly together, but that generated no real warmth. In fact the only part of her that was even slightly warm was her bottom where it sat on the horse.

“At least Arimaspa will be the end of our journey,” he said. “We can lift that stupid curse and go home.”

“Why do you want to go home? Remember how much trouble you’re going to be in.”

He bit his lower lip. “I don’t care. I want to see my sisters again and my friends. And my new baby brother.”

The reminder of little Podarces stung Hippolyta. “Don’t talk about Podarces,” she said brusquely. “He’s the cause of all this trouble.”

“How can he be the cause?” Tithonus asked. “He’s only a baby.”

“Never mind. Everything will be put to rights soon.”

The horse was laboring up another steep rise in the ground, and Hippolyta was thinking that they should dismount and walk to ease the climb. But before she could do anything, they reached the top and met with a shock.

The horse suddenly reared up and staggered back, almost tossing both of them to the ground.

“By the goddess!” Hippolyta exclaimed, clinging desperately to the horse’s mane.

Tithonus held on tightly to her waist and let out a whoop of alarm.

The ground had suddenly disappeared before them. They were on the very edge of a cliff face that dropped far down to a sunken plain below. And in the center of that plain was a city.

“Arimaspa!” they both cried out.