Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons

CHAPTER THREE

THE PRISONER

BECAUSE HER MOTHER was no longer queen, Hippolyta had to leave the palace where she’d lived all her life and move into the warriors’ communal barracks. It was more a jolt to her heart than her body. After all, none of the Amazons led pampered lives. Even the queens were trained as hunters and farmers.

Hippolyta had looked forward to joining the ranks of the warriors in two years, when she entered her fifteenth year and had gone on her Long Mission, trekking into the wilderness for a month on her own. Now she was there sooner than anyone had planned.

Being escorted by armed guards to the barracks like a prisoner, being forcibly separated from her younger sisters, made Hippolyta furious. After all, even if their mother had broken a law, they had done nothing wrong. But Valasca had insisted that they be guarded in case they tried to do something foolish. Like help their mother escape.

“At least,” Hippolyta pleaded with two of the warriors set over her as guards, “let me see how Antiope and Melanippe are doing.”

“They are Amazons,” said one frostily.

“They will be fine,” the other added, though she at least smiled down at Hippolyta.

“They are little girls,” Hippolyta answered angrily. “And if they have to be apart from their mother, at least—”

“Antiope and Melanippe are in the Halls of Athena,” the frosty guard replied, “dwelling along with other girls whose mothers have died, in sickness or in battle.”

“Our mother hasn’t died,” Hippolyta said through gritted teeth.

“Not yet” came the icy reply.

Hippolyta drew in a sharp breath.

The other guard put her hand on Hippolyta’s and said softly, “I’ll see what I can do.”

It took five days before Hippolyta was allowed a short visit with her sisters, accompanied by two guards.

The Halls of Athena was really one large lodge with two wings sitting atop a rise. The girls lived in the smaller wing, in separate rooms.

Hippolyta visited with Melanippe first and found that she’d adjusted well to her new surroundings.

“Antiope does nothing but cry,” Melanippe said. “I can’t seem to help her. The other girls are mean to us, of course. But they take their lead from the matrons here, who say that Mother intended the Amazon race to die.” She looked grim. “It’s not true, is it?”

“Of course it’s not true. Mother doesn’t want anyone to die. Not even the baby.”

“I knew it!” Melanippe said. Relief suffused her face.

“Be strong.” Hippolyta gave her sister a quick hug, stood, and went across the hallway to Antiope’s room.

Antiope was sitting all alone on a narrow bed, staring out the window and across the top of the palisade to where the black waters of the Euxine Sea lay along the horizon.

“Antiope?” Hippolyta called, but the little girl didn’t seem to hear. “Antiope.”

This time Antiope turned and stared at Hippolyta, tears coursing down her cheeks.

In two long steps Hippolyta was across the room and onto the bed, wrapping her arms around her little sister. “There, there,” she said, sounding exactly like their mother.

“What—” Antiope gulped, started again. “What’s the baby done that’s so wrong?” She swiped at her brimming eyes with the backs of her hands.

“It’s not that he’s done anything wrong,” Hippolyta whispered into her sister’s hair. “It’s just that he’s a male, and it’s our law.”

“I hate our law then,” Antiope cried. “I wish somebody would take it away and burn it!”

Trying not to smile, Hippolyta sat back and looked into Antiope’s dark eyes. “Without laws, sister, there would be no Themiscyra. No Long Mission. No—”

“Then I guess I don’t hate all of it,” Antiope said. She bit her lower lip. “Just the dead baby part.”

Hippolyta nodded. “I hate that part too. But it is the law.” Then she embraced her sister again, stood, and was gone.

The next day Hippolyta heard that Otrere had been moved from the palace into the prison by the palisade where criminals were commonly kept. The rumor was that Valasca was trying to starve her into submission.

Or just starve her, Hippolyta thought. Then Valasca could proclaim herself queen of both war and peace. She wondered which lawbreaking was worse, her mother’s or the warrior queen’s.

For several days Hippolyta attempted to visit her mother. She argued with the two guards at the barracks about it until she wore them down. But the prison guards were of sterner stuff. They turned her back roughly, as if they’d no idea who she was.

“Orders are that no one gets in to see the old queen,” they said.

“You can’t treat me this way,” Hippolyta yelled at them. “I’m her daughter!”

They laughed.

“She prefers sons,” said one.

It was the laughter, not the rough handling, that hurt. Hippolyta stormed off toward the drill field, her two barracks guards in tow. They watched as she crossed the field to face her older sister, who was working out with her sword.

“Have you heard what’s happening to Mother?” Hippolyta demanded, grabbing Orithya by the sword arm. “She’s locked up as a prisoner.”

Orithya shook Hippolyta off and wiped her sweaty face with the back of her arm. Her copper hair was braided tightly behind her, but there were little sweaty wisps around her temples. “Otrere brought it on herself by her own stubbornness.”

“How can you be so hard-hearted? She’s our mother!” Hippolyta hated the whine she could hear rising in her voice, like a child wangling for something sweet.

“My heart is no harder than yours,” Orithya answered, lifting the sword and once again starting the ritual passes. “But at least I’m realistic. Think, Hippolyta, think. Even if we could change her mind, we wouldn’t be allowed in to talk with her. No one is. Especially not the women who agree with her.”

“There are some who agree?”

“Of course,” Orithya said, punctuating her statements with the sword. “Women who have borne sons themselves. Women with new infants. Women who are merchants and have spent time beyond our walls trading with other tribes. They understand at least, even if they do not agree entirely. But we warriors are upholding the law. No one gets in to see Otrere. No one.”

“And whose ruling is that?” Hippolyta asked, though she already guessed.

“Valasca’s.”

“Of course.”

Orithya had gone through the first set of passes—“The Guardian”—and was starting on the second—“The Death Watch.” She turned a quarter, then a half, her back to Hippolyta.

“And once the child is dead,” Hippolyta said, “what’s to happen to Mother then?”

Orithya shrugged but didn’t slow her movements. “I don’t think there’s any provision in the laws to execute a queen. I expect she’ll be exiled into the world of men.”

“No!” Hippolyta cried just as Orithya turned and faced her, bringing the sword straight down and stopping it abruptly at Hippolyta’s shoulder. “How could she survive?”

“She could become one of their slaves,” Orithya said. “Or one of their wives, which is just as bad.” Her voice was as sharp as her sword, but there was a hint of pain in it nonetheless. She lowered the weapon so that it was tip down.

“What are you two princesses talking about?” intruded a voice.

Hippolyta turned. The speaker was Molpadia, her bow held loosely in her left hand. She was too far away to have heard any of their conversation.

“We’re discussing tactics,” Hippolyta answered sharply. “How to set an ambush for a she-cat.”

Orithya could not repress a wry grin. “So you’d better be careful, Molpadia.”

Molpadia reddened. “You’d both do well to be less haughty now that you’re only common clay like the rest of us.” Then she glared at Hippolyta, adding, “And you’d better plan how to slay your first man instead of mourning our ex-queen.”

She turned and sauntered off.

Hippolyta made a face at her back.

“She’s right, you know,” Orithya said, sheathing her sword.

“She’s a sow,” Hippolyta answered.

“Perhaps, but she’s a brave fighter nonetheless, and we’re going to need her when Valasca marches against the Phrygians.” Orithya rolled her shoulders and stretched her arms out.

“The Phrygians! I thought Mother made peace with them,” Hippolyta said. She suddenly wondered if the baby’s being a boy had given Valasca an excuse to do what she’d been planning all along. As war queen, Valasca always preferred fighting to peace.

Orithya’s mouth thinned down, and for a moment she was silent. Then, as if repeating something she’d heard, she said stolidly, “We can never be at peace with the rulers of men.”

It was to be the last word of their conversation, for Hippolyta’s two keepers strode across the grass and gathered her up for the march back to the barracks.