by Anne Fortier
“Why was that so terrible?” I asked, brimming with the child’s need for happy endings. “If you really loved him.”
“You must understand.” Granny rose and walked over to the small gable window where she stood so often, gazing—I imagined—into her own broken memories. “I grew up as an Amazon. It was the only life I knew.”
Because she so rarely spoke coherently about her Amazon self, I jumped to my feet with nervous excitement, desperate to extract as much information as I could before the door between her childhood and mine slammed shut again, perhaps forever. “Where was that, Granny? Do you remember?”
She hesitated. “It is not safe for you to know. Not yet.”
“But when? When will it be safe for me?”
She looked down at me at last, love and admonishment doing battle in her eyes. “When you have proven yourself. When I can trust you.”
That was it. She never told me any more than that.
Pushing the detective report aside at last, I dug into Nick’s envelope once more. Slipped into a plastic sleeve was an article that had appeared in a medical journal some ten years earlier, and it took me a few seconds to realize the author was my father’s old chum Dr. Trelawny. Comparing five different cases of schizophrenic paranoia, his point seemed to be that they all shared the same core elements: parallel personalities and an imagined language.
Even though the perfidious Dr. Trelawny had changed the names of the patients mentioned, it was obvious that one of the cases cited was that of my grandmother. Not only did the article describe her Amazon personality in great detail, it also mentioned her jackal bracelet—which Dr. Trelawny referred to as a “worthless trinket invested with emotional value”—and spoke, I was sorry to see, at length about the handwritten “Amazon dictionary” she had left for her granddaughter.
Here it was at last, the link I had been missing since Mr. Ludwig first approached me in Oxford and baited me with an undeciphered Amazon alphabet. Clearly, someone at the Aqrab Foundation had known of this article all along and had specifically set out to get me on board, guessing—correctly—that I would bring Granny’s notebook along to the party.
I was so upset I had to get a second cup of coffee simply to warm my hands and stop shivering. How devilish of Mr. al-Aqrab to use me like this—to set me upon my own kind and turn me into an unwitting Amazon hunter.
There were other documents in the envelope, but I had seen enough to know I had done the right thing in getting the Historia Amazonum—and myself—out of Nick’s clutches. At this point, my most pressing question was what I should do next. Was it not naïve of me to think I could return to Oxford and never hear from Mr. al-Aqrab again?
Slipping the envelope back in my new, ridiculously expensive handbag, I walked over to the nearest pay phone kiosk and called Rebecca. I had been meaning to contact her for the past twelve hours, and had almost dialed her from my guest room at the Çira?an Palace Hotel … but something had held me back. Wasn’t it enough that everyone had been tracking me through my phone? I didn’t need them to start teaching Rebecca, too.
“Hello?” muttered a timid voice that didn’t sound familiar at all.
“Bex?” I said, half-thinking I had punched in the wrong number.
An explosion of relief at the other end set me straight. “Dee? Where are you? What happened?”
I was so happy to hear her voice my knees nearly gave in. “I’m fine. Actually, I’m not. But never mind. Where are you? Are you with James?”
Rebecca whimpered. “It’s so terrible—”
I felt all the little hairs on my neck rise with foreboding. “What is?”
“James.” She could hardly speak for agitation. “He’s with Reznik.”
It took me a while to sort out what had actually happened to Rebecca. To my tremendous relief she had managed to take an overnight bus back to Çanakkale and had spent the morning on the boat with Mr. Telemakhos, staring at her cellphone, desperate to hear from me.
The hour preceding her flight to the bus station, however, had been nothing short of horrendous. She and James had waited for me in front of Reznik’s bathroom for a good ten minutes before realizing I wasn’t coming. Eventually, James had concluded I must have eloped with Nick, and it had turned into quite an argument.
Seeing they were the last guests left in the house, they had decided to walk out to the car to see if perhaps I had been waiting there all along. Rebecca had walked ahead, still too irritated with James to say a single word to him—so she told me between sobs of guilt and regret—and just as she walked through the gate, someone started yelling behind her. Turning around, she saw Reznik’s guards walking up to James, preventing him from leaving. Having no idea what it was all about, Rebecca had instinctively felt they were in trouble and had started running … leaving James to fend for himself.
“I feel so terrible,” she muttered, reliving the moment. “I should have stayed with him, but … I just freaked out. I ran to the car to see if you were waiting for us, but the police were there with a tow truck. They said something I didn’t understand—something about needing a resident sticker to park there, I think. But I feel so bad about James.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I said. “It’s understandable that Reznik wanted to talk with him. You saw them—they’re old friends. And James is Lord Moselane’s son. Reznik would never dare—”
“I’ve been calling and calling, but his phone is off—”
“Well, stop calling!” I said, getting a little impatient. “That’s how Reznik tracks people. There’s no question he’ll come looking for the Historia Amazonum soon, so you and I should lie low for a while and not communicate with each other. The best thing you can do is to sail away with Mr. Telemakhos.”
“What about you?” Rebecca wanted to know. “Where are you?”
I looked around at the busy airport, wondering how much to tell her. It was only a matter of time before someone would be hot on my heels … the only question was, who would get to me first? Nick had my scent; Reznik had James. I could make a point of returning the Historia Amazonum, of course, but to whom? And how? No, it was too late for grand gestures, I decided; all I would accomplish was to draw more attention to myself.
It was a strange feeling, to stand there at the pay phone kiosk, surrounded by confident travelers who knew precisely where they were going … and realize I was on the run.
“I can’t tell you,” I said at length. “But I’ll find a way of ending this, I promise.”
After hanging up with Rebecca, I deliberated for a moment, then called Katherine Kent. We had not spoken since the night before my departure; I had left her a message from Algeria; that was all. And yet this all-seeing mentor of mine had known enough about my movements to send James to Troy precisely the day I arrived. How was that possible? I had a feeling the answer to this question might help guide my further movements.
I called her number thrice with the same result: a shrill signal telling me the line had been disconnected. This, more than anything, made my growing fear ripen into panic. Since the invention of the telephone no Oxford numbers had ever changed; the fact that Katherine Kent had been rendered unreachable was a sure sign my world was coming apart.
Retreating into a bathroom stall, I sat down to clear my head. Trouble was coming my way, no doubt about it. Where could I possibly hide until things calmed down a bit? So exasperated I felt like banging my forehead against the door, I started riffling through my satin evening bag to see how much money I had left. As I did so, I came across the note from Mr. Telemakhos with the name of the German museum where—according to him—the last remaining jackal bracelet was kept.
Staring at the unfamiliar name now, overwrought as I was, I almost felt my own jackal responding to its distant call. And within a few short breaths—the sort of breaths one takes before plunging into a cold lake—I decided the answer to my present squeeze was right there in front of me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
TRO
Y
EARTH WAS IN MOURNING.
The sun had set forever, and the moon reigned supreme. Nothing would ever sprout, grow, or bloom. There were only the tides of the ocean, coming in, going out, pounding, never-ending. Earth no longer cared.
Curled up on the temple floor, Myrina felt the tremor but assumed it was her own. A deep rumble in the core of her being, a silent, splintering scream of sorrow—it seemed only natural her grief should reverberate through the cavernous structure around her.
Lying with her head on Paris’s unstirring chest, she had long since decided never to rise again. She wished someone would light a pyre right there, that it might consume them both at once and free her from the burden of ever having to open her eyes.
A hand on her shoulder demanded otherwise.
“Myrina,” said a voice. King Priam. “We must be strong now.”
She pretended not to hear him.
“Myrina. I cannot delay any longer. His mother must be told.”
“Please.” She could barely speak the words. “Let me go with him.”
There was another tremor, this time followed by distant screaming.
“My dear,” said King Priam, his voice wavering, “I need you to be strong for my son. Do you hear me?”
Myrina opened her eyes and nodded.
“Good.” King Priam clasped his head as if bracing against unspeakable pain. “The time has come. Troy must die with Paris—it was always so. Our walls will crumble. There will be chaos.”
“Why am I still alive?” whispered Myrina. “I who caused all this—”
King Priam shook his head in pity. “You think you are stronger than Fate? We are all cups, and our destiny is poured according to measures we cannot understand, cannot influence. Even the Earth Shaker must rise against his will and destroy his home.” Priam sighed deeply. “This I must believe. How else can a father look upon his dead child and have the will to breathe?”
The king fell silent, battling tears of his own. Then he said with brusque efficiency, “Come with me, daughter. The Earth Shaker has granted us precious time. We must use it. You and your sisters will leave Troy before the final hour. And you must take with you something precious.”
“Why me?”
King Priam knelt down by her side. Only then did she see his eyes, swollen with grief. “Because he chose you. He chose you to carry the future of Troy. And I know you will guard it better than anyone.”
KING PRIAM TOOK MYRINA deep into the rocky caverns beneath the citadel, to show her the treasure chamber, gleaming and sparkling in the light of his torch. Never had Myrina seen such splendor, such golden magnificence, and she looked around with reverence while Priam unlocked the door to the innermost vault.
“This is what I want you to take away,” he said stepping into the darkness ahead of her. “The soul of Troy. It must not fall into the hands of the Greeks.”
After only the slightest hesitation, Myrina followed him into the vault.
And then she understood.
EMERGING FROM UNDERGROUND, MYRINA saw that the chaos had already begun. Wailing women had descended on the Temple of the Earth Shaker, to mourn the dead prince and beseech the deity to spare his city.
Hurrying into the palace, she found Pitana and Kara in the kitchen, tending to poor Kyme, who had suffered a blow to the head and who now lay pale and moaning in front of the fireplace, her gray hair smudged with blood.
“It was a large pot,” explained Kara, as soon as she saw Myrina. “It fell from a shelf when the earth shook, and struck her as you see—”
“I am so sorry to be trouble,” gasped Kyme. “Please do not worry about me. I will be up and about in a moment.”
“Where are the others?” asked Myrina. “We must leave.”
“We know,” said Pitana, nodding firmly. “We are ready.”
“Please,” whispered Kyme to Myrina, “this time, I would like to stay.”
“No.” Myrina took her hand. “You are coming with us.”
Kyme smiled. “I am asking to be excused. Just this once. I am weary of traveling. I like it here.”
Myrina shook her head. “Come morning, Troy may no longer exist.”
“Nonsense!” Kyme tried to laugh. “The earthquake is over, the Greeks are leaving…. By sunrise, all will be well.”
Myrina bent her head, unable to hold back her tears any longer. “All will not be well. We must be away now, while there is still time. Please come with us. Without you … we might lose the art of writing.”
Kyme sighed. “Only kings are put in writing, you know. Kings and heroes. The rest of us are but fading echoes in the valley of eternity.” She closed her eyes as if drifting off to sleep. “Now leave me, children. All I ask is that you remember my name and speak of me fondly from time to time. Will you do that?”
AS SOON AS AENEAS arrived at the citadel, King Priam walked up to seize his foaming horse by the bridle, saying, “Dismount. I have a task for you.”
“I beg to be excused, Master,” gasped Aeneas, dripping with sweat from his ride through town, his arms crisscrossed by bloody scrapes. “I must bring reinforcements to our men. There is much violence on the Scamandrian Plain. We rode out, as perhaps you know, to take our vengeance on the bastards, but all of a sudden, at the height of the battle, the horses panicked.” He reached down to accept a drink of water. “The Greeks tried to launch their ships to return home, but they are all trapped in the violent surf. They, too, have felt the tremors and fear it is the Earth Shaker coming to punish them.” Aeneas grimaced and spat on the ground. “They’ve slit the throat of every horse they could get their hands on—hundreds of them—and have left the sorry beasts to bleed to death, presumably as a gift to the Earth Shaker.”
“The Greeks and their gifts!” growled King Priam. “Hateful race. All they know is blood and burning. But come”—he patted Aeneas on the thigh—”you need a fresh steed. I have a special task for you.”
“Where is Paris?” asked Aeneas, looking around. Only then did he notice Myrina. One glance at her face told him what had happened, and he brought both hands to his eyes in wordless anguish.
ON THE KING’S ORDERS, Aeneas was to guide Myrina and her sisters out of town. They left just before midnight, in a tempest of activity. Priam had given them extra packhorses to carry the treasure he wanted the women to safeguard, and by the time of their departure, the group was composed of fourteen women and twenty horses. In one last tribute to Paris, Myrina let Lilli ride the mare he had given her, and which he had so diligently trained her to master.
Leading them through the Scaean Gate to avoid the fighting on the Scamandrian Plain, Aeneas rode with the women all the way to the Simoeis River. Here, he took leave of them, and said to Myrina, “A dark day this has been for both of us. You have lost your husband, and I my friend. Your consolation must be that his funerary pyre will be lit by heaven itself, and that he will have ample company on his last journey. My consolation”—he reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder—” is that, in one short month, you gave Paris more love than most people find in a lifetime. He was as happy as a man could be, he told me so himself. No grumpy old age for him, wondering why the pleasures of the world had passed him by. Although young, he had his fill, and he knew it.”
Unable to say more, Aeneas turned his horse around and started back toward Troy. And the women, no longer sure who should be the leader after Penthesilea’s death, continued up the river in silence, respecting Myrina’s grief by leaving her alone.
They reached Lady Otrera’s camp at daybreak, to find everyone already up, trying in vain to calm the horses.
It came just as they ran forward to embrace their sisters: the wrath of the gods of heaven, clashing with Earth. It felt as if a giant hand pulled the very ground from beneath their feet and shook them all—women as well as horses—into the air like grains on a threshing mat. There was a demonic roar as the trees of the old forest pitched and yawed … and then the terrible thudding of massive tr
unks and dismembered branches falling everywhere.
Screaming with fear, the women huddled together, waiting for the sky to collapse and fall. For surely, this was the end of everything—the moment much-enduring Earth finally shook off the wickedness of mankind.
MYRINA WOKE WITH A gasp of hope … only to fall back down with a sob of disappointment. For she was in the forest, surrounded by damp darkness and sleeping women, and the person whose nearness she had sensed was Lilli, snuggled up beside her as close as she could get.
“Here.” Animone put an arm behind Myrina and held a cup of water to her lips. “You have been senseless all day. Are you in pain?”
“Paris,” muttered Myrina. “Is he still—?”
Animone stroked her cheek. “There was another earthquake. A terrible one. Pitana and Hippolyta rode back to—” She hesitated. “Troy is no more. There is not a house still standing. And the raiders are everywhere.”
Myrina lay back down. “I am so tired. Forgive me.”
She slept again until morning, when Lady Otrera came to wake her in person, saying, “We must break camp, Myrina. We have been here for too many days and the horses are restless. Come.” Otrera took her by the hand and walked her down to the river. “Wash your eyes and clear your head. Remember that you are Myrina. Your sisters depend on you to be brave.”
Myrina fell to her knees at the water’s edge, burying her face in her hands. “How can I be brave when my courage leads to nothing but destruction?”
Lady Otrera knelt down beside her. “Without your courage, your sisters would still be enslaved in Mycenae.”
“Without my damned courage”—Myrina doubled over, sick with sorrow—”Paris would be alive.”
“It was not your courage that made King Priam tax the Greek ships,” Lady Otrera pointed out, “or that made those ships raid our coasts. Nor did your courage make the north wind blow or cause the earthquake. Do not flatter yourself you have such power over life and death. Without you … who is to say Paris would not have died in his bed under a collapsing roof?” She leaned closer, a conspiratorial look in her eyes. “Do you not think your husband will look more dashing in the halls of Eternity, coming straight from the battleground, drenched with victory?”
