Mood Riders

by Theresa Tomlinson

  Daris stared at Myrina and Yildiz again, still having little idea who they were, but somehow Myrina’s strength of purpose cut through his confusion and he imperiously waved the waiting women out.

  “You, too,” Myrina told him.

  But he objected to that and sat down quietly at the end of his wife’s bed, shaking his head like a determined but disobedient child. “I stay!”

  “Oh well . . .” Myrina had no more time to waste. “You must help us then.”

  He looked up, surprised at that, but then nodded.

  “Two pots of water!” she demanded. “Some boiling water and some as cold as you can make it, then I must have cotton cloths torn into strips! Quickly! Do you understand? Water: hot and cold! And some rose water!”

  King Daris strode to the doorway and shouted orders. Meanwhile Myrina felt Ira’s brow again, then delicately touched her cheeks and breasts. “Can you brew a strong sage potion?” she asked Yildiz, opening her bundle of sage and tearing up some of the leaves.

  The girl nodded. A waiting woman appeared nervously at the chamber doorway; she carried a small brazier with glowing charcoal, all set in a tripod. Yildiz took over at once and set about steeping the herbs in a pot. Another waiting woman appeared with a small beaker of cold water and a jeweled jar of rose water.

  “What is this?” Myrina demanded, pointing to the beaker.

  “Cold water!” the woman whimpered.

  “No, no, no!” Myrina shook her head with impatience. “I need buckets of cold water, buckets of it.”

  At that the young king rushed out of the room, returning almost at once with a huge ornamental golden ewer filled with cold water.

  “That’s more like it,” Myrina encouraged.

  The waiting women fled once more, but hovered in the doorway. They were shocked to see Myrina remove the fleecy bedcovers, then look swiftly about the room and reach up to rip down the queen’s fine bed-hangings. She poured the whole jar of rose water into the ewer, then stooped to soak the torn drapes in it. The whole room was at once filled with a fresh, gentle scent that reminded them all of childhood days in a garden.

  Myrina squeezed out the cold, dripping drapes and began wrapping them about Ira’s fevered limbs. Then she took the knife from her belt, making the women gasp with fear. King Daris hushed them. He’d never seen a woman work so fast and efficiently and by now he was willing to put his faith in this strange intruder. Myrina used her knife to fish out a soggy wad of boiling sage from Yildiz’ brew.

  “This is fine medicine,” she announced.

  She carried it to the ewer and cooled it, then squeezed it out and bound the damp compress of herbs gently about Ira’s swollen breasts with another torn drape. Almost at once the young queen was soothed, and she responded by ceasing her continuous tossing and turning.

  Understanding better now, Daris took a jeweled knife from his own belt and began to split and tear up the linen coverlet, then, rolling up his fine embroidered sleeves, he soaked the strips in the golden ewer, passing them over to Myrina as soon as they were ready.

  “Yes, yes,” she encouraged. “Well done!”

  At last the young woman’s body was covered with cooling cloths and damp herbs. Myrina looked up to call Yildiz, but saw that the girl was already approaching the bed with a golden goblet of warm, aromatic sage tea and a gilded spoon.

  “Honey!” Myrina commanded, sending the waiting women scattering again, to return quickly with a simple stone pot of honey. “Now you’re getting the idea,” she approved.

  Myrina carefully fed Queen Ira with small spoonfuls of honeyed sage tea. Now the bedchamber was pungent with the sharp, clean smell of the herb as well as roses. At last she stood back. “Well . . . now we must just wait and be patient,” she told the king.

  He still refused to leave and throughout the night he dozed, exhausted, on a couch while Myrina and Yildiz worked together to feed the queen more sage and honey tea, regularly changing the cooling cloths.

  As morning light came in through the palace windows, Daris awoke and saw that both his mysterious helpers had fallen asleep on cushions beside the bed. Ira lay quite still, but the bandages had been removed, and she was covered with a light, dry linen sheet. He stood shakily and went to bend over her. Her skin was pale and clear again and her face had lost all the red swellings, though her lips were still dry and flaky. He saw that she breathed easily, and as he bent over her she opened her eyes and smiled with recognition. He snatched up her hand in his, lowering his lips to kiss it, then began to cry with relief, howling freely like a baby. “Ira . . . my Ira . . . safe. She is safe!”

  Both Myrina and Yildiz woke with a jolt at the sound of his sobbing. But when they saw that Ira’s fever had gone, and that it was joy that made him cry so loudly, they hugged each other.

  “We make a good team, you and I,” Myrina praised, and for the first time since the massacre Yildiz really smiled and looked happy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  To Feed an Army

  DARIS’S CRYING BROUGHT back the waiting women; they ventured nervously into the royal chamber, but when they saw how well Ira looked, their faces broke out into quiet smiles and sighs of relief.

  Myrina gave a few more orders, suggesting that honey-stewed apples and some fresh eggs would make a good meal and nourish the newly recovering queen. A troubling thought had come into her mind at brief moments during the night, but she’d been too busy to stop her work and ask about it. Now, once again, it came to her. She looked around the bedchamber in a puzzled way, frowning and still seeing no sign of a cot or cradle. She spoke gently, fearing that perhaps it had not survived: “Where is the baby?”

  The waiting women said nothing and hung their heads.

  Daris shrugged. “Gone to a wet nurse,” he told her, surprised that she should ask.

  Myrina shook her head and folded her arms across her chest in determination. “That will not help this new mother,” she insisted. “Bring the child here at once. The child needs its mother’s milk, and the feeding will help keep the fever away and make the queen get better.”

  “But all the palace children are fed by nurses; it is too lowly a job for the queen.”

  Myrina sighed, wondering how to explain, but Ira, who was now sitting up propped on pillows, came to her aid. “I do not consider it too lowly a job for me,” she whispered, her voice still faint.

  The young king scratched his head and bent low to kiss his wife’s hand again. Then he called to the women, “Well, what are you waiting for? You’d better fetch the child at once.”

  Ira put the tiny boy to her breast, and though she was still weak and sore, she smiled happily as he began to suck strongly. King Daris watched them both with a foolish smile of deep contentment on his face as they snuggled together beneath the ravaged bed-hangings.

  At last he turned to Myrina. “I will do all you say,” he told her. “Everything. Stay here and be our royal healing woman. I will give you gold and jewels, a fine carved litter and slaves to carry you about.”

  “No, no.” Myrina shook her head. She yawned again, for she was now truly exhausted and her mind a little confused. Then the real purpose of her visit came back to her with a wave of clarity and she remembered that there was little time to spare. “No,” she said firmly. “I cannot stay, but . . . if you think I have given you good service this night, then you have it in your power to repay me well, for you have something that I want very much.”

  Daris looked a little anxious as he wondered what this might be, but Myrina went on. “I want carts of grain, as much as you can spare, and olives and raisins, casks of salt fish and wine and . . . and honey, pots of it.”

  Daris stared at her, amazed. “You sound as though you wish to feed an army!”

  “That’s not so very far from the truth,” Myrina agreed. “I wish to feed the struggling city of Troy.”

  He stared at her again, wondering if he were having a crazy dream, but then he glanced back at Ira and the baby. “Ha!�
� He laughed. “You are a madwoman, a crazy Moon Rider! But if that is really what you want, it shall be done—at once.”

  “Thank you!” Now it was Myrina’s turn to smile with relief.

  “Well, well!” Daris was suddenly thoughtful and practical. “You will need armed guards to protect your carts from the Achaeans. You shall have armed guards as well.”

  But Myrina was uncertain about that. “No, no,” she said. “If you have strong warriors whom you can spare, send them to the Place of Flowing Waters, where the tribes and Trojan allies are gathering. Just a small number will suffice to help us into Troy. I have my own plans.”

  “Whatever you want shall be done,” he said. “Now you and your assistant must rest and when you wake, I swear I shall have all that you have asked for ready to leave.”

  They were led to a sleeping chamber and served with rich food, but they were both too tired to appreciate it, or the splendor of their surroundings, and soon fell into a heavy sleep.

  Daris did as he had promised, and when Myrina and Yildiz woke up and returned to the waiting gang of Moon Riders, they found them giving orders to hordes of servants, who were loading a magnificent collection of supplies and carts onto a line of cargo boats. There were huge stone pots filled with grain, barrels of well-salted fish—sardines, mackerel, and whiting—casks of olives preserved in olive oil, two cartloads of raisins, stone jars of dried apples, honey, and wine. Mules were led aboard each boat, with drivers and guards to protect them. Daris came down to oversee the loading and to say good-bye.

  Myrina saw that Coronilla had planted sage all around the spring, just as she had asked her to. “Keep these plants well watered and cared for,” she told Daris. “Then use the leaves as I did whenever any should suffer from fevers.”

  He bowed low and kissed her hand. “It shall be called the Spring of the Moon Rider in your honor,” he said. “If ever I can help you again in any way, you have only to ask.”

  Myrina went aboard her boat with a sense of bursting joy; she had somehow managed to gather together supplies beyond any hope or expectation. All her gang was excited and eager to get on and carry the goods to Troy. The wind was blowing in their favor as they sailed away from the Isle of Marble and they arrived on the southern shore of the Sea of Marmara just as light was fading. They reclaimed their horses from the stables and wearily made camp for the night.

  Next morning they were up at dawn, anxious to be on their way, leading the great wagon train south across the hilly scrubland toward Troy. It was only as evening came that Myrina’s spirits began to fall. She had told the young king confidently that she could manage without many guards and that she had her own plan for their arrival at Troy. Now, as she gave orders for setting up camp, misgivings began to creep in. She had been so cheered and excited by her healing success that nothing seemed beyond her, but as they traveled on through the wasteland, getting closer and closer to the besieged city, she had to admit to herself that she had no real plan and no idea how they would get their goods safely within the city walls.

  They trundled on southward all the next day, the Moon Riders chatting happily with King Daris’s men. The well-armed guards seemed to feel that it was all a great adventure; they were interested to see for themselves the struggling city of Troy, whose fight for survival had recently been the focus of all the news. Meanwhile Myrina racked her brain as to how they would get into Troy without the Achaeans stealing all the excellent provisions that they had collected together.

  Yildiz seemed to pick up on her growing anxiety and spoke her thoughts out loud. “Can we get into Troy without the Achaeans seeing all this food?” she asked.

  “I shall think of something!” Myrina answered sharply.

  Coronilla overheard them and laughed. “Atisha told us to sneak into the citadel like a snake. Not much chance of that, with all this lot behind us! Perhaps you are too successful, Snake Woman.”

  Myrina’s unease grew. It was all very well for Atisha to tell her to be resourceful, but now her mind had gone blank. Maybe she had overdone the food-gathering and had just brought another problem with it.

  “We could get in by the hidden gate,” Coronilla went on cheerfully, “so long as Agamemnon hasn’t posted guards about it.”

  Myrina bit her lip. “Let’s hope for that,” she told Coronilla sharply, refusing to join in the laughter. There was no way that the Achaeans were going to get this precious food—on that she was adamant.

  “What if there are guards?” Yildiz insisted.

  Myrina shrugged. “We work it out when we get there.”

  At last the landscape became familiar and Myrina called a halt. “We make camp here,” she cried. “Once we cross the brow of the next hill we will be within sight of Troy and that means within sight of Achaean lookouts.”

  As her gang set up their tents and built cooking fires, working together with King Daris’s men, Myrina tethered Isatis and marched ahead up the steep hillside by herself, determined to have a look at what lay ahead.

  I should have listened to Atisha, she argued with herself. Small amounts would have been best—but then, small amounts would not feed so very many starving people.

  She reached the summit of the hill and stood there, looking down. Though a wagon train might be spotted from that distance, one young woman could not be seen.

  The golden limestone walls of Troy stood beneath her; then, beyond them, the main spread of Achaean tents and huts made a dark gray smudgy shape all along the far shoreline to the south of Troy. The northwestern citadel walls were built above a precipitous drop, which provided good natural protection on that side; nobody could scale that steep height. The once busy lower town outside the walls of Troy seemed to have become a no-man’s-land, almost deserted and half destroyed. The eastern side, with its cleverly built hidden entrance, was closest to where she stood; it was protected by a curtain wall and it would almost have been possible to get the carts down there, had it not been for a camp of Achaean guards settled just above the Southern Gate with their flags and standards. Her hopes were dashed; it seemed that Agamemnon had set a watch on who came into and went from Troy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Mazagardi Horses

  MYRINA SAT DOWN and took her silver snake-carved mirror from the pouch that hung from her belt. She let her shoulders relax a little and thought of her friend Cassandra, not far away at all, but hidden within the strongly built citadel that lay before her. At last the tension that she saw in her face began to ease and she looked deeply into her own eyes, seeing there, in the golden brown depths of her iris, a small figure that grew and grew until at last there was the slim shape of the Trojan princess, with her strange eyes, one green, one blue, turning to her with a smile.

  “Almost as though she knows that I watch her,” Myrina whispered.

  Cassandra slowly raised her hand to touch her temple in the priestess’s salute.

  “She does know.” Myrina smiled and raised her own hand in response. Cassandra had not forgotten their friendship, and though getting inside the city might be difficult, a warm welcome was waiting there.

  A small sound behind made Myrina turn away, so that the mirror-vision vanished. Yildiz had followed her, creeping from bush to bush like a shadow. Myrina clicked her tongue with impatience and put her mirror away. “You can come out from behind that cistus, my little flower,” she called.

  But then, seeing that the girl looked crestfallen as she emerged, she made a space where they could both sit and not be seen. “Come and see if your young eyes can spy out more than mine,” she ordered.

  Yildiz moved forward eagerly and her eyes swept across the landscape below them. “No gates on this side,” she said as she stared in awe at the citadel walls. “We can’t get in at all, can we?”

  “Ah.” Myrina smiled. “These Trojans have built cleverly,” she said. “The Eastern Gate is concealed. See there! Look carefully!” She pointed to where two small towers flanked the hidden entrance. “That is where we m
ust take the wagons in. The doors are big enough for horses and carts, and those above can shut them quickly and defend the narrow space below. It’s all protected by the curtain wall.”

  Yildiz nodded, impressed, her eyes wide. “Very clever,” she said. “But how can we get our carts down to the gate without their coming up here from that camp to kill us?”

  Myrina shook her head and sighed; she had no answer to that question. A panicky feeling of desperation was growing inside her. How could they come so far, then fail at the gates?

  They sat there in silence for a while, gazing down over the rocky hillside and the plain beyond Troy. Myrina’s thoughts swung about, but still she couldn’t think how they could possibly sneak quietly into the city. Suddenly Yildiz stiffened and a little cry came from her lips.

  “What is it?”

  Yildiz grabbed Myrina’s hand, her small strong fingers trembling and pressing angrily into her Snake Mother’s palm. “Horses,” she whispered. “Mazagardi horses. Our horses.”

  Myrina followed the direction that her sharp young eyes had taken and saw what she meant. Beyond the Southern Gate, where once golden crops of barley had grown, a great corral of horses stood. That was another reason why there was an Achaean camp nearby: Agamemnon’s men watched over the whole herd of stolen Mazagardi steeds.

  Suddenly the small seed of an idea began to grow in Myrina’s mind. “Mazagardi horses,” she whispered. “Mazagardi-trained! You have made me think, Little Star!”

  “What? What do you think?” Yildiz begged.

  Myrina got up, her cheeks flushed with excitement, then she started to laugh with a sudden fierce joy; at last she knew what must be done.

  “Those blundering Achaeans will have no idea what to do with Mazagardi horses,” she said. “How can Achaean warriors control our steeds?”

  Aben had always given generous instruction to those who bought their horses honorably, but those who stole could do little with their prizes.