Mood Riders

by Theresa Tomlinson

  “Yes,” Myrina agreed. “And Atisha cannot have known that we would be fighting for the honor of Yildiz. She could not have meant me to stand by and see my Little Star slaughtered and take no revenge.”

  But Polymusa was troubled. “Atisha never speaks thoughtlessly.”

  “No,” Coronilla agreed. “She does not.”

  “But we cannot fight without Myrina to lead us.” Alcibie was distressed. “We are Myrina’s gang.”

  They all stood there, looking uncertain, until Bremusa moved decisively. She reached out and pulled loose the straps of Myrina’s helmet. “We are still Myrina’s gang, whether Myrina fights or not.”

  At once Akasya began to untie Myrina’s leg straps, a look of relief on her face.

  Polymusa nodded. “Bremusa is right! You must not ignore Atisha’s orders,” she said.

  Coronilla agreed. “The Old Woman has wisdom beyond our understanding.”

  Alcibie still looked lost, but then her courage flooded back. “We are Myrina’s gang, with or without Myrina at our side,” she said.

  Myrina tore off her helmet, her face flushed. “I will have to face Penthesilea and tell her,” she said. “Believe me, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

  Penthesilea was pacing impatiently back and forth on Fleetwind as the Thracians and the Phrygians assembled. She frowned and shook her head as Myrina shouted up at her that she wasn’t going to fight. Penthesilea dismounted at once, her face full of disbelief. “Not fight?” she growled.

  “I forgot; I was so angry about Yildiz that I could think of nothing else . . . and then last night I was so very sad for you. But I remembered as I was dressing: Atisha told me not to fight alongside you.” Myrina felt that she sounded like a spoiled child.

  Penthesilea’s eyes flashed flinty gray and her mouth curled in disdain. “What is this? I never took you to be a coward, Snake Lady! The Old Woman is going crazy in her head! A Moon Rider not fight?”

  Myrina gritted her teeth and stood her ground in silence, Akasya at her side, staring defiantly up at the War God’s Daughter.

  “Why? Did she say why? Tell me why!”

  Myrina hung her head. It would only take a second to change her mind and fetch Isatis from the stable. It would be easier by far to do so. But suddenly Cassandra was there, facing Penthesilea with her. “Tell her why!” the princess urged quietly.

  “Yes, tell me why!” Penthesilea looked from one to the other.

  At last Myrina thrust up her chin, but it still trembled. “Because—if you are lost, there must be someone here to clear up the mess and lead the Moon Riders!”

  Penthesilea’s eyes glistened for just a moment, then suddenly her shoulders dropped and she clasped Myrina tight in her arms. “Remember what I said last night, Snake Lady: though I growl at you, I still love you. The Old Woman is not so crazy after all. Good-bye! Ride well! Lead well!”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The Ride of the War God’s Daughter

  PENTHESILEA LEAPED ONTO Fleetwind’s back and urged the powerful mare forward. “We ride,” she yelled, raising her bow in salute to the gathered warriors. “We ride for the honor of Maa and the city of Troy.”

  A wild answering cheer went up from all the many gathered bands of allies.

  Myrina’s gang moved in behind Penthesilea. “For Maa and Myrina!” they yelled.

  Myrina was touched, but she and Cassandra had to step back quickly as they all surged forward, Aeneas at the head of the Dardanians, Peiroos leading the Thracian tribes and Paris at the head of the remaining Trojans. They rode out across the plain toward the Tomb of Dancing Myrina, where the armies would face each other.

  “Come to the Southern Tower,” Cassandra said. “My parents always watch from there.”

  Myrina caught the princess’s arm sharply. “Do you know?” she asked. “Do you know what will come of it?”

  Cassandra’s voice was faint and her eyes avoided Myrina’s. “No,” she said. “There will be glory and sorrow—that is all I know. I wished to put on armor and fight with the Moon Riders, too, but the Dardanian Aeneas begged me not to. He swore that the Trojans still see me as the priestess of Apollo and think that their god will desert them if I am lost.”

  “Yes.” Myrina felt sorry for her sharp words and she took hold of her friend’s arm. “Sometimes it is very hard, not to fight.”

  They could hear the cheers from the walls of Troy as Penthesilea led her army forward. The allies looked wonderful; their different styles of armor made them a wild and colorful sight and their weapons glinted in the sun. They galloped on, giving voice to their various war cries as they rode: a wild, conflicting babble of sounds, but united in their determination to fight against this invasion of their lands. The Achaeans in the distance seemed dull and dusty, their chariots and armor rusted with rain and seawater. Agamemnon and the warlords led the way, strong horses pulling their chariots, with the great mass of foot fighters following behind. They looked squat, an army of ants indeed, in contrast to the swirling cloaks and wavelike motion of the allied riders, but they came on and on, more and more of them, until the whole of the seaboard horizon was filled end to end with the advancing black shapes of Achaean warriors.

  Myrina saw with a sinking heart that as the valiant figure of Penthesilea rode into the distance, she looked smaller and smaller, while the sprawling Achaean advance grew wider. Priam and Hecuba could see it, too, and their pride in their allies faltered a little, so that a hush fell over the watchers up on the Southern Tower. Helen stood beside them, her face unreadable. The old lady who was Theseus’s mother was given a stool and she and Helen exchanged glances from time to time.

  Penthesilea did not hesitate, but led the Moon Riders at once in a great arc across the front of the closing Achaeans, giving the wild ululating cry that all the warrior women knew signified a bow charge. They rode across the face of the Achaean advance, sending a constant rain of arrows into the army, turning in the saddle as only they could, so that their backs were never exposed. Then they wheeled around in a great crescent, coming back at once, as the Achaeans turned tail in the face of this deadly rain and tried to retreat. Many had fallen, wounded, and were now trampled beneath the feet of Mazagardi horses.

  Cheers rose from the city walls. Though smaller in number, the new allies, it seemed, were not to be vanquished easily, so fierce and unexpected was their way of war.

  Once again Penthesilea wheeled Fleetwind about and charged, this time with all the allies at her back. They found the Achaeans in disarray, fleeing back toward the boats that were anchored all along the shoreline. At last, when there was nowhere else for them to go but the sea, Agamemnon’s warriors turned and made a stand. The Achaean war chariots closed in with their long spears and swords and the fighting began in deadly seriousness; horses reared and screamed in pain.

  Myrina turned her face away. “I cannot just stand here and watch,” she growled.

  Cassandra took her arm. “Come with me. We will go down to the gate where they bring back the wounded. I find it best to busy myself easing pain if I can, then my head will not thunder so with anger and sorrow.”

  Myrina followed her, wondering how she who was so sensitive could also be so calm. Akasya as ever marched three paces behind them. “I suppose you have got used to this,” Myrina whispered to her friend.

  Cassandra shook her head. “No. One can never get used to it. I have learned how to survive, that is all. We women of Troy have had to learn this.”

  The wounded were already being dragged away from the fighting by the slave women. Some of them would be wounded and slaughtered themselves as they carried out the work. The injured were laid on boards inside the protective walls, while other slaves brought water and binding cloths and set about patching them up if it was possible. The ground was awash with blood and vomit and there was a stink that came from those who were wounded in the bowels. The air was filled with the sounds of groans and chattering teeth, though screams were rare. The slave wom
en went calmly about their work and Myrina saw that they often made a small downward hand-sign that called Cassandra to their side. The princess went to a man whose stomach had been deeply pierced: he convulsed and whimpered with pain as his guts spilled out. Cassandra took a small vial from her belt and forced a few drops between his lips. She stroked his cheek and in a moment the convulsions ceased. He lay back, white and still.

  When she saw this, Myrina understood at once why the Trojans sometimes called Cassandra the Priestess of Sleep. She glanced down at her own collection of potions that swung from her belt; some of Atisha’s medicines could also bring merciful death. She must set about the same terrible job of work.

  All through the morning she worked to bring peace to those who could never recover, and there were many. The most dreadful, heartbreaking moment was when she bent to find that the wounded one was Bremusa, her chest pierced deeply with a spear, a sword slash across her head. The strong woman still breathed and her eyelids fluttered. She saw Myrina’s white face hovering above her and reached for the vial herself.

  “Sleep well, brave Bremusa,” Myrina choked out. She smoothed her hair and gently closed her eyes. Then she took a vial of the same poppy juice that hung from Bremusa’s belt. They would need every drop they could get.

  The priestess Theano came down from the temple of Apollo to help them and it was her sudden cry of concern that made Cassandra look up and see a gang of Trojan women marching down through the streets toward the Southern Gate, all dressed in leather armor. They had stuck knives into their belts and they carried their husbands’ spears.

  “Stop at once!” Theano shouted, leaving the sick and racing toward them.

  Cassandra and Myrina both followed.

  “What are you doing?” Theano asked.

  The women stopped. Some of them were very young, but most of them were middle-aged and they all wore the black veil that marked them out as widows.

  The younger girls at the front looked frightened at the challenge, but one of the older women pushed forward. “We are going to fight,” she said. “Penthesilea is fighting for us and she is a woman. All the Moon Riders are women, and they are so young and brave. It is shameful that we Trojan women hang back and let the warrior priestesses fight for us.”

  “No,” Theano cried. “This is madness.”

  Cassandra strode forward and bowed to them. “I honor you,” she said. “I honor your courage, but you are not battle-trained as Penthesilea and the Moon Riders are. You would be slaughtered like calves if you went out there.”

  The women hesitated, but then another older woman spoke. “What do we care if we die? Our husbands and fathers are dead and gone. What is there left for us if Troy should fall? We will be dragged away to act as slaves to the very men who’ve killed our menfolk. We’ll be forced into their beds and made to bear Achaean children. How can being slaughtered be worse than that?”

  There was silence for a moment—this reasoning was hard to counter. Then Cassandra drew herself up very tall and lifted her chin. “I am your princess,” she said. “I order you to stay.”

  The women looked at one another uncertainly, then Myrina spoke up. “Look at me,” she said. “You know me as the Snake Lady. I brought you food and drink. I am no coward, I hope you will not call me so, but I do not bear arms today. There are many ways of fighting and many ways of resisting the Achaeans. Put down your weapons and come with us to help the wounded. The sight of death is even harsher than the wielding of weapons and you will prove your bravery by looking it in the face.”

  After a moment one of the younger girls threw her spear aside and went to stand by Myrina. “I will tend the sick,” she agreed. “It’s true that the sight of death is worse than fighting, but I will do it.”

  Then slowly the others followed. Cassandra and Theano heaved a sigh of relief. “You did well,” Cassandra told Myrina. “I couldn’t see them killed like lambs, but there is some truth in what they say. They are all lost among the bloodred mist.”

  They returned to their dismal work with more helpers, unsure whether they’d done right to stop the women joining battle.

  As the sun rose high in the sky there seemed to be a small lull in the numbers of wounded arriving and Akasya rushed to shake Myrina’s shoulder. “The allies have returned to the lower town to regroup, and the Ant Man has followed them, shouting at the Panther Lady,” she said. “She leaps from her horse to fight him. You should come up to the tower again.”

  “Ah no!” Myrina left her terrible work and followed her at once.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Warrior of Warriors

  MYRINA STUMBLED UP the steps of the Southern Tower in her bloodstained smock and leggings to find a hushed silence and great tension among the royal watchers. “What has happened?” She panted.

  “Your brave leader has dismounted,” Helen told her, shaking her head. “She should not have done that.”

  “Why?” Myrina gasped.

  Helen frowned. “The Moon Riders have done well with their swift battle charges, proving that on horseback they are more than equal to these armored warriors. But Achilles followed her back to the gates, bellowing and taunting her that she would not be so brave on her feet.”

  Myrina’s stomach lurched. She knew only too well that Penthesilea would rise at once to such a challenge. She pushed through to the front and stood there between Priam and his wife, forgetting the normal courtesies.

  They did not take offense and Priam even made room for her, but the old man shook his head. “I do not understand. We have seen what that man can do. Why has the War God’s Daughter made herself so vulnerable to him?”

  Myrina explained, “You do not know our Penthesilea. She cannot bear to have her courage doubted. Why are the other warriors backing away from her?”

  “She has agreed to fight Achilles in single combat,” Priam said, his hands trembling. “Not good! Not good!”

  Andromache, Hector’s young widow, stood beside them looking troubled. “How can Penthesilea dream that she can win against that bear of a man, when my valiant husband couldn’t?”

  “No, dear. Hector will soon come to rescue us all.” Hecuba’s voice wavered, but she smiled happily at all who stood around her. “My son will soon be here, do not fear. You’ll soon have your husband back!”

  Andromache bit her lips and swallowed hard. Myrina felt bitterly sorry for the young widow, for she could see that living with Hecuba and constantly hearing such things must be painful.

  Then she turned back to watch Penthesilea and remembered how they had talked all through the night and how her friend had insisted that she must face up to this warrior of warriors. What Helen said was true: on Fleetwind’s back, with bow in hand and a quiverful of arrows, Penthesilea was unreachable, but on the ground she was just a tall young woman, facing up to a giant of a man whose greatest skill lay in spear-throwing.

  The combat was taking place inside a clear circle of space. Agamemnon, gloomy but resplendent in his magnificent gold armor, removed his helmet, confident that he was safe until this fight was over. His brother Menelaus, red-haired and stocky, did the same, but his eyes wandered from the fight at hand to search the faces that looked down from the Southern Tower. Myrina could not help but turn to where Helen stood, and saw that the Spartan queen looked down with cheerful curiosity at the man who was once her husband.

  There was a ripple of excitement as Penthesilea took a spear offered by Aeneas and advanced toward her opponent.

  Myrina bent her head and clapped her hands over her eyes as Penthesilea circled Achilles. But seeing nothing and hearing only silence was even worse, so she gritted her teeth to watch again. Even though she was so tall, Penthesilea looked like an elegant deer advancing on a lion. Achilles laughed and refused even to brace himself for the onslaught, but suddenly the War God’s Daughter set her spear twirling around and around above her head and then swishing down close to the Ant Man’s shoulder, so that he was forced to duck. There was a s
udden gasp from the watchers as Achilles stumbled heavily to the side, while Penthesilea leaped pantherlike toward him. Perhaps after all there was a chance for Penthesilea, who was lighter and more sure-footed. She did not wait for her opponent to retaliate but went forward bravely again and caught his armored shoulder, though the spear fell away, leaving him undamaged.

  Myrina stared down from the tower. The man was so heavily armored that no glimpse of flesh could be seen. How could Penthesilea, even with all her skill, find a chink in his protective shell?

  Achilles, annoyed at last, drew his sword and swung at her with all his might, his teasing humor suddenly changed. Penthesilea ducked easily beneath his clumsy lunges. Now she took a sword from her own belt and swung it with force, but it clashed heavily and swerved uselessly aside.

  The fight was bitter and determined and it went on and on, each dealing sword blow after sword blow that stunned and sliced, until blood seeped out from beneath the beaten horse-skin armor that Penthesilea wore. Achilles’ armor kept him safe, but the blows that he received must have battered and bruised.

  The sun moved across the sky and still Penthesilea swung her sword at Achilles. Once the huge man crashed down to the ground as she feinted to the side. It must have been a painful fall, and he rose up, growling with anger, and snatched up his spear again. It flew with the full force of his huge strength, right through Penthesilea’s throat.

  Cries of despair came from the Southern Tower of Troy. Myrina pushed through the crowd and went tearing down the steps, out through the Southern Gate toward her friend, who lay pinned to the ground.

  There was a terrible silence on the battlefield as Myrina ran, her heart pounding and her throat constricting so that she could hardly breathe. She slowed up as she came close to the circle where they had fought and saw that Penthesilea was dead. Death must have been instantaneous; at least there had been no pain for her.