Mood Riders

by Theresa Tomlinson

  Cassandra led the way and they followed her through the streets, staring about them as they went. To Yildiz all was new and interesting, but to Myrina, who remembered the elegant, wide walkways of the citadel, there was much that was shocking. Little huts and shacks had been built everywhere, crammed inside the old palatial dwellings. They sheltered ragged children and desperate-looking women, who bowed to them as they passed, crying out in the Luvvian language their gratitude for the food and drink.

  They followed Cassandra through winding alleyways and as they walked Myrina had time to look at her friend more closely. Cassandra was now dressed like a beggar, the hems of her once fine, layered skirt frayed and ragged. She remembered the beautiful saffron priestess’s gown that her friend had worn when they first met.

  As they strode on, women and children fell to kissing their feet, which troubled both Myrina and Yildiz. As Cassandra had warned, many who sheltered inside the walls had arms and legs like sticks, and their bloated bellies told of hunger sickness.

  “How are you giving out the food?” Myrina asked, suddenly understanding that it would not be an easy task.

  “Don’t worry.” Cassandra smiled. “Bremusa and Alcibie are taking charge of that and rationing it strictly so that all are fed, but none can gorge. They even rationed my father, and he accepted that they were right!”

  Myrina was amazed. She could not imagine the proud old King of Troy taking orders from a young Moon Rider, although Bremusa had always been a determined person to argue with. But when she met him, she understood.

  King Priam had grown thin; his shoulders were hunched and he stooped. His face was deeply lined with sorrow and his hands shook as he shuffled forward to welcome them. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he bent to kneel before Myrina, but she begged him not to. It touched her deeply to see this once proud and stubborn man so humble. Queen Hecuba also looked very different: her gown was worn and a stale smell seemed to hang about her. Her once bejeweled throat was grubby and bare. She smiled briefly at Myrina as though she recognised her vaguely, but her eyes quickly moved on, constantly searching each face as though her interest lay elsewhere.

  “It’s Hector’s death that has brought them to this,” Cassandra whispered. “While Hector lived and fought for us they had hope, but since his terrible death and dishonorable treatment my mother cannot seem to make sense of anything and she refuses to wash or put on fresh clothes.”

  Myrina stretched out her hand to comfort her friend. She had heard of troubles turning people’s minds like this. “It’s not that she has naught to wear?” she asked.

  Cassandra shook her head. “She refuses.” She smiled ruefully. “And I cannot seem to find time to dress as I should.”

  In a mist of perfume Helen arrived, followed by Prince Paris. “I remember you, my sweet Moon Rider,” she cried, kissing Myrina on both cheeks. Myrina saw that Helen had the sense to dress plainly in these difficult times, but she still smelled of roses and her hair was washed and carefully arranged in gleaming golden ringlets that bore just a touch of silver-gray.

  Though Myrina wanted to feel angry with this dangerous woman who had brought such trouble to Anatolia, she found herself smiling at her. Helen still had her beauty, but it was her warmth and charm that made it impossible to hate her. She had borne Paris two sons during the years they’d been besieged by the Achaeans, and her shape was just a little more matronly than before.

  Myrina saw that Yildiz gaped in open-mouthed admiration at the Queen of Sparta.

  “And who is this proud warrior-child?” Helen asked, stretching out her hand to stroke Yildiz’ cheek.

  “Yildiz, my sister’s child. Her mother was killed by the Ant Men and now she calls me Mother.”

  Helen’s eyes clouded over. “So much death,” she murmured. “And I fear that you will hold me to blame.”

  “No.” Yildiz spoke up at once. “The Ant Men are to blame.”

  Helen bent to kiss her. “Thank you for that, my darling.”

  Myrina sighed and shook her head. “You are just the excuse they use,” she acknowledged. “We Mazagardi knew well enough that they would come sooner or later; my father always warned of it. They want our lands—they want to control the passage through to the Black Sea.”

  Paris came to join them and bowed politely to Myrina. He was thinner and his hair was flecked with gray; a lot of his swagger seemed to have gone and his cheek bore a long scar. “I remember the bareback rider,” he said. “We are greatly indebted to you. My father begs that you will eat with us.”

  When Myrina entered the great feasting hall of the palace, she was again shaken by the changes that had taken place. The walls, once covered with gleaming brazen shields, were bare, the tables scrubbed clean, but worn and battered. Once gleaming with golden bowls and goblets, they were now laid with gray earthenware—though at least there were plenty of wholesome olives, bread, and cheese, which Myrina recognized as part of the supplies they had brought. She smiled with amusement as she saw that Bremusa had taken charge of the palace kitchen and was ordering servants back and forth.

  “Thank goodness you are here.” Bremusa came to clap her on the back, full of relief to see her. “We were worried that you’d get into trouble out there. Your charge of horses was a sight to see, Snake Lady. Like a rolling thunderstorm of dust and manes! We couldn’t stop to cheer when we saw you take off, but by Maa we cheered once we were safe inside.”

  Myrina and Yildiz were invited to sit at the high table and Myrina was surprised to see that now the men mingled together with the women in a much more equal manner than before. Ragged women and children crammed together next to Thracian warriors on the lower tables. The hall thrummed with the babble of voices, all talking and arguing in many different languages, some with voices raised in frustration, others waving their hands about, trying to make themselves understood by using signs: it seemed that many boundaries had been removed by the sharing of bitter hardship and suffering.

  Cassandra saw her taking it all in and smiled, and Myrina suddenly understood. “You have done this,” she approved. “You have got rid of the separate tables for men.”

  “There are so few men left, it wasn’t worth it,” her friend replied. “We women must now do much of the work the men once did, and the weaving slaves work all over the citadel. There’s no time for producing fine fabrics—that’s another reason why our clothes hang together by threads.”

  Myrina remembered the royal princes’ table, crowded about with Priam’s many offspring, Hector at their head. The warrior lord Aeneas, leader of the Dardanian allies, seemed to have taken charge of the defense of Troy; he sat at the head of the table in what had once been Hector’s place. There was Paris there beside him, and his younger brother Deiphobus, whom she had never liked—but where were the others and their serving men, grooms, and armor-bearers? The chilling answer came to her as she remembered the dreadful stinking pit of ashes that she’d skirted outside the citadel walls.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Misery of Troy

  MYRINA COULD EAT little as the meal progressed, her head so full of memories of musicians who strummed on lyres to accompany beautifully clad dancers. The diners were served now by slave women in worn smocks, rope anklets tied above their bare feet. Myrina could see that they had been brought in from the weaving sheds and dye tubs, for some of them had arms and feet tainted purple or blue.

  Even before the war started, Myrina had hated the sight of the long low sheds where these women were tied up at their work. They had spent their days fastened to a bench, while they dyed and spun and wove the beautiful fabrics that had once contributed to the riches of Troy. At least now they were able to move about the citadel, instead of being fastened up all day.

  She frowned at the sight. “Are the slave women still locked up at night?” she asked Cassandra.

  The princess looked shamefaced, but she nodded. “I cannot manage to get them real freedom,” she said. “My father insists that they are
still slaves. He sees them as the last of the booty that is left to him, for he gave his gold to Achilles when he begged him to return Hector’s body. You cannot know how terrible . . .”

  “Oh yes, I do know.” Myrina touched her friend’s shoulder in compassion. All of Anatolia had heard how Achilles had not been satisfied by killing Troy’s bravest warrior, but had abused Hector’s battered body by dragging it behind his chariot in the dust, while his parents and sisters, watching from the tower, wept helplessly; how Priam had taken all the gold and jewels left to him and humiliated himself before the Achaean warrior, before he had at last been given his son’s body.

  But then Myrina’s critical gaze went back to the slave women, who quietly served food with hands stained red and purple. Why should they suffer more than anyone else in this miserable place? Cassandra picked up on her thoughts. “It isn’t simple,” she said quietly. “I could go to the guards and order them to release the slaves, and even though it would be against my father’s wishes, I would do it. But then where would they go? If we let them out of the city, they’d walk straight into the path of Achaean raiding gangs and Ant Men. That would be worse than anything.”

  “Yes,” Myrina had to agree. “That would be worse than anything.”

  Cassandra looked more troubled than ever. “I know a little of that from my friend Chryseis,” she whispered.

  “Where is Chryseis?” Myrina asked, remembering with warmth the serene and gentle priestess of Apollo, who had always been a true friend to Cassandra.

  Cassandra’s mouth was grim. “I will take you to her after we have eaten,” she said.

  Yildiz could hardly eat for staring about her. For a child who until these last few weeks had known nothing but her home-tent, this palace and its wild mixture of people was astonishing. Still her admiring gaze kept going back to Helen. “Does Queen Helen have her mother with her?” she asked.

  Myrina shook her head uncertainly and asked Cassandra, “Who is the old woman who sits at Helen’s left side? She seems to help her as though she were her own mother, but I know it cannot be.”

  “No,” Cassandra agreed. “Her name is Aethra. Have you never heard of her?”

  Myrina frowned. “I’ve heard that name, yes . . . but I thought that Aethra was the mother of Theseus, the fierce warrior lord who stole away Antiope the Moon Rider?”

  Cassandra nodded. “This war brings together many strange people, and Theseus stole women wherever he went. Just like Antiope, he once stole Helen from her home, when she was naught but a child. Her brothers fought to get her back and they won. Part of the punishment they insisted on was that Theseus’s queenly mother, Aethra, should be forced to work as handmaid to Helen for the rest of her life.”

  “That’s not fair,” Yildiz butted in. “Why should his mother have to suffer the blame?”

  “Many things are not fair, Little Star,” Myrina told her. “So that fragile old woman is the mother of Theseus?”

  “Yes.” Cassandra nodded. “She came here as Helen’s servant, but . . .” She sighed. “You know Helen—she finds a way to get on with everyone—she truly has a gift for it—and over the years the two have become friends and Helen does indeed look after her as though she were her mother.”

  Myrina sighed. “It seems that you cannot be angry with Helen, no matter how hard you try.”

  “That’s not all,” Cassandra continued. “Aethra’s two grandsons camp outside the walls and fight with the Achaeans. The old woman has seen them from the walls and Helen and I have begged my father to let the old one go free. I understand the confusion that those young men must struggle with: one of them is the son of your Moon Rider Antiope, the child she refused to leave. Those two Achaean lords would sail away at once, were their grandmother freed, but my father can still be a very stubborn man.”

  Myrina shook her head, her own thoughts in confusion. Such a terrible muddle this war had brought.

  After the meal Cassandra took a bowl of bread and olive oil for Chryseis and asked Myrina to go with her. Yildiz followed them, as ever, but Cassandra shook her head in concern. “Leave the child with Bremusa,” she insisted. “This is not for her to see.”

  Myrina persuaded the girl to go with Bremusa to the stables to see that Isatis and Silene were well cared for, then followed her friend up to the sleeping chambers, feeling more troubled at every step. “What is it that Yildiz may not see?” she asked.

  Cassandra stopped. “Chryseis was captured—did you know?”

  Myrina shook her head. “In my mirror-visions I looked only for you.”

  “Well . . . she was taken from Apollo’s temple on the island of Tenedos by Agamemnon himself and used by him as a concubine.”

  “Oh! Poor priestess,” Myrina whispered. She remembered the quiet dignity that had always surrounded Chryseis.

  “Well,” Cassandra continued, “her father had taken refuge on the island of Sminthe, where he was building a new temple to Apollo. But he left the safety of that place and went bravely to the camp to demand her return—and surprisingly she was handed over. They say that the crazy priest Chalcis swore that all the Achaeans’ troubles and the sickness in their camps were due to the taking of Chryseis; her capture had offended the sun god. So she was escorted back here by Odysseus and her father was allowed to return safely to Sminthe.”

  Myrina was amazed. “So this time Chalcis was of some use to us?”

  Cassandra’s blue and green eyes glinted with scorn. “We know that the sickness in the Achaeans’ camp is due to the fact that their tents and huts are set up in the middle of a marsh, with mists and mosquitoes on every side. I cannot understand how that man thinks—but still, we got Chryseis, though she came back to us a different person. She was pregnant with Agamemnon’s child and now she has a son, but the bitter humiliation of her treatment has changed her beyond recognition. Her father left her in my care, for he could do nothing to comfort her.”

  Myrina frowned and shook her head. “But none of this is blame to her.”

  “No,” Cassandra agreed grimly, “but I cannot seem to make her see it that way. She will barely eat or drink and never leaves her room, seeing none but me. I hoped that maybe your presence might take her back to a happier time, before all this trouble came. She always used to ask after you and remembered with pleasure the girl who danced on horseback.”

  Myrina was apprehensive, but she nodded. “Let us see her,” she said.

  Chryseis was indeed a shocking sight. Though Cassandra had kept her bedding clean and decent, she lay staring blankly at the bottom of her bed, her once silky hair falling all over her face in a wild, rumpled mess. Her bedgown was askew and her bony fingers constantly picked at her arms, so that raw, scaly wounds covered her skin. She was very thin.

  Myrina was deeply shaken to see her in such a state, but went to sit on the bed beside her. “Priestess,” she murmured. “Lady Priestess, do you know me—Myrina the Moon Rider?”

  For a moment a look of recognition came, but then Chryseis turned her head away and would look only at the wall.

  “I must try to feed her,” Cassandra said.

  Myrina watched uncomfortably as Cassandra put the bowl down beside the bed. Then, talking gently all the time, she forced a small piece of oil-soaked bread between her friend’s lips; a few sips of wine followed. Myrina could think of nothing else to do but take Chryseis’s scabby hand in hers and stroke it.

  Cassandra nodded encouragement as the priestess’s fierce glare began to soften and her eyelids drooped. At last she fell asleep and they went quietly from her room.

  “It seems a small thing, but that was good,” Cassandra told Myrina. “She rarely sleeps and I think it does at least bring her a little relief.”

  “Where is the child?” Myrina asked.

  “One of the slave women is acting as wet nurse.” Cassandra dropped her voice to a whisper. “Chryseis will not feed the child; she will not even look at him.”

  Myrina sank for a moment into deep despair. S
eeing Chryseis brought so low was a terrible thing and she felt a heavy lump of pain dragging at her stomach. The joy at the success of the horse stampede had fled.

  But Cassandra hadn’t finished yet. “I have something else I wish to show you. Can you manage a short walk, or do you need to sleep? You must be exhausted.”

  “Is it more misery?” Myrina asked uncertainly.

  Cassandra looked thoughtful. “Yes and no,” she said, and for a moment Myrina remembered the irritation that she had once felt toward this strange princess who sometimes insisted on speaking in riddles.

  Cassandra saw it and smiled. “Yes, there is misery,” she explained. “But there is hope, too, and something that I am sure will interest you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Those Who Howl at the Moon

  CURIOSITY GOT THE better of exhaustion and Myrina followed Cassandra down through the citadel past once elegant palaces, now squatters’ camps. Smoking fires were everywhere, and the smell of cooked salt fish from the Sea of Marmara. Around every corner they met with greetings and thanks to the Snake Lady. They turned away from the main route and went down toward the Southern Gate through a narrow back alley. As they walked Myrina became aware of a repetitive, rhythmic sound—the beat of a drum and women’s voices rising in song. They came to the long, low weaving sheds, where once the women slaves had worked all day and which were still their sleeping quarters.

  Myrina stopped, listening with wonder, for there was something familiar about the sound, though the melody and words were quite unknown to her.