by Jane Yolen
“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.
CHAPTER FOUR
A VOICE IN THE NIGHT
ON THE EVE OF THE half-moon Hippolyta could scarcely fall asleep. She’d worn out her body with chores, with sword practice. She’d even gone hunting with the guards, coming back with two hares and a partridge for the barracks’ pots.
But now, exhausted, as she lay on her long cot trying to sleep, sleep would not come. Instead her mind turned again and again to her mother in prison.
All around her she could hear the easy breathing of the other girls. Hippolyta turned over onto her left side and forced herself not to think of her mother. But then her traitor mind left the prison and fled to the Temple of Artemis with its wooden statues and its stone altar. She’d often been there on the full of the moon when all the inhabitants of Themiscyra came together for the sacrifice.
A sheep.
A heifer.
A goat.
A hare.
These were the thanks given to the goddess from a grateful people: beasts without the capacity to speak or think or feel.
But never—at least not since Hippolyta could remember—had a human being been sacrificed there.
And certainly never, ever a baby.
Hippolyta’s thoughts seemed to spin out of control, drenched in red, blood red. She turned onto her right side, then again onto her left. No place in the bed seemed free of those visions.
But at last sheer exhaustion began to drag her down to a restless sleep. It was then, as she slipped into a dream, that she heard a voice calling her name.
“Hippolyta,” it said in her ear, “arise and come to me.”
She sat up and looked around suspiciously. There was no one in the room but the sleeping girls.
The voice came again. “Hippolyta, say not a word. Come to me.”
At first she thought the voice was simply part of her dream. But when she pinched her arm, right past the wrist, it hurt.
Quickly Hippolyta slipped into her leggings and tunic and grabbed up her cloak. She jammed her cap on her head, then followed the voice out of the dormitory and into the street outside. The guards were soundly asleep.
The way was in shadow, partly lit by the half-moon. A small breeze puzzled along the street.
Suddenly she felt foolish outside by herself in the middle of the night. She turned to go back in.
“Hippolyta.” Her name was called again, and this time a robed figure leaned out of the darkest shadows.
“Who’s there?” Hippolyta cried. Then she saw by the way the figure leaned that it was Demonassa. The old priestess chuckled, like a girl enjoying a prank.
“How could you call me from so far away?” Hippolyta asked. “How could you be sure I was the one who heard and not one of the other girls? Or one of the guards?”
For a moment Demonassa looked affronted. “Am I not a priestess? Is there not magic in my very fingertips?”
Hippolyta sucked in a long breath. She’d always thought the magic of the old woman consisted mostly of drugged smoke and misdirection. “Then what do you want of me, priestess?”
Instantly Demonassa became serious. “Don’t you want to see your mother?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I’ve come to take you there.”
“Ah.” Hippolyta let the breath out again. “Do you think I’ll be able to change her mind?”
Demonassa snorted. “You might as well try to turn the river away from the sea.”
“Then you approve of what she’s doing?”
The old woman smiled. “I approve of anything that galls Valasca.”
Hippolyta was astonished and glad of the night so that her face would not give her away.
Demonassa knew anyway and la
ughed. “I have shocked you, daughter of Otrere. Well, I am old, and I am a priestess and am allowed my little jokes. But that is not the entire reason I support Otrere’s decision. She is a good woman and a great queen. She did not make the decision to keep the child alive lightly. Besides, I have learned enough of the ways of the gods to know that their prophecies are not always to be trusted. They use prophecy to bully us poor mortals. They speak in riddles and not straight on. If they wanted us to be guided by truth, they would say clearly what they mean instead of wrapping their words in mist and smoke. And I cannot believe that the gods would want the death of an infant as a price for their support.”
She raised a finger. “But come. The night wears on, and we have but little time.” The finger went to her lips, and then she turned and scuttled down the street, like a dung beetle over a midden heap.
Hippolyta followed after her silently, and soon they came within sight of the square block of the prison. The old woman held up her hand, and Hippolyta stopped.
“How,” whispered Hippolyta, “can we possibly get in without being seen?”
“Philippis watches your mother’s cell tonight,” Demonassa said carefully. “I saved her daughter from the fever last year, so she owes me this favor—and her silence. Besides, she agrees with what your mother is doing.”
“Is she alone?”
“Her fellow guard had to retire with indigestion an hour ago,” Demonassa said.
“How … fortunate,” Hippolyta whispered.
“My fault, I’m afraid.” The old woman had that childish glee in her voice again.
They went silently on, two shadows in a night of shadows, and when they came to the door, it was opened from inside. Philippis passed a long metal key to the priestess and then, pointedly, averted her eyes.
Demonassa led Hippolyta by the hand along the hall and to one cell, which she unlocked. Pulling the door slightly open, she gestured to Hippolyta. “Go in,” she whispered.
Hippolyta slipped through the opening and entered the cell. The room was small and cramped, with a hard rush-covered floor. A small amount of moonlight filtered in through the grille in the wall, but it was barely enough to see by. Queen Otrere was sitting on a bench beneath the window.
The minute Hippolyta entered, Otrere rose to embrace her. Hippolyta was astonished at how thin her mother was. She could feel the small bones in Otrere’s back. Yet when Hippolyta looked carefully, her mother seemed remarkably composed.
As if, Hippolyta thought, stripping away the trappings of rank only revealed how much of a queen she truly is.
“How have you all been, daughter?” Otrere asked at last.
“Well enough, Mother,” Hippolyta answered. She did not mention Antiope’s grief. No need to worry her mother more than necessary. “A proper bed and decent meals. But you—you’re much too thin. We’ve heard stories that they’re starving you, and—”
“Don’t listen to gossip, child. I’m treated no worse than any other prisoner.” Otrere smiled wryly. “And when Philippis is on duty, much better.”
“But you aren’t just any other prisoner, Mother. You’re the queen!” Hippolyta’s voice, though low, was full of anger.
“Not anymore,” Otrere said. “But seeing what discord among the people my arrest has provoked, Valasca has asked that I give my blessing to the sacrifice. If I do that much, she promises I’ll be restored to the throne.”
“Then do it!” Hippolyta said. Her voice was louder than she meant, and she immediately clamped her hand over her mouth.
“Never!” Otrere whispered hoarsely. “I will forbid this awful act as long as I have the breath to resist.”
Hippolyta was silent for a moment, then said, “Mother, if you continue on this path, what will happen to all your good work? Even now Valasca is using your actions and your absence as an excuse to mount a campaign against the Phrygians.”
Otrere leaned forward. “Do you know this for certain, daughter, or is it more gossip?”
“Orithya told me.”
“Your sister is not in the councils of the Elders,” said Otrere. “She can’t know what they’re planning. But if she’s right …”
“If she’s right,” Hippolyta said quickly, “then you must take your throne back quickly. Give up the boy, Mother. What a small payment to save your people.”
“Small? You call the murder of an infant a small payment? How dark a fate will fall upon us if I approve the murder of my own babe!” her mother replied.
“But he’s only a male,” Hippolyta said. “He should mean less to you than your own race. The laws say so. Surely other queens have given up their sons on the altar.”
Queen Otrere smiled sadly. “No, Hippolyta, I am the first of the queens to give birth to two live sons.”
“Then indeed the prophecy has come true … and the laws.”
Otrere shook her head. “Oh, my dear daughter, our laws may determine how we must act, but they can’t dictate how we feel. Would you sacrifice one of your sisters if the laws demanded it?”
“That’s not the same.”
“Isn’t it?” her mother said quietly. “That baby is your brother.”
“Brother …” Hippolyta screwed up her face. It was a rare word in the Amazon language, and it sounded strange to her.
“Yes, your brother, blood of your blood.” Queen Otrere glanced out the grille at the moon, which was now low on the horizon. “Same mother, though different fathers. That’s why I’m counting on you to save him, to bring him to his father.”
“Me?” Hippolyta was horrified. Her hand went to her breast. “Why me?”
“Who else is there?” her mother said in a sensible voice. Hippolyta hated it when her mother was so sensible. “Antiope and Melanippe are much too young to undertake such a difficult journey alone. Orithya is too close to Valasca for me to trust her. It has to be you, my daughter.”
It has to be me. Hippolyta knew that much was true. She didn’t like knowing that.
“But there’s only one day left,” she objected. “The baby will be well guarded. I don’t know how to ride with an infant. What if I get hurt? What if I’m discovered? What if he gets sick along the way?” She ran out of breath and excuses at the same time. Then she added in a whispery wail, “He’s only a boy!”
Otrere sat down on the bench as if standing had wearied her. She folded her hands. Mouth firm, back straight, she sat as though a thousand pairs of eyes were on her, not just one. Hippolyta had seen her mother sit like that many times when passing judgment on a dispute between two of her subjects.
“As I am no longer queen, I can’t command you to do anything,” Otrere said. “But I can still ask it—as your mother.”
Hippolyta felt a chill run through her. “It will mean going up against Valasca and all of the others. And against the goddess’s law.” She waited, hoping to change her mother’s mind.
“If all are wrong, and only you are right, still you must do that right thing,” Otrere told her.
“But I don’t know what the right thing is,” Hippolyta wailed again. She knelt and put her head in her mother’s lap.
Otrere stroked her daughter’s hair, feeling its tough wiriness. “It’s not right under any circumstances to murder an innocent infant.”
“But the law—”
Her mother sighed. “That law was made many generations ago by superstitious women so afraid they might once again fall under the rule of men that they wandered ceaselessly upon the earth. They tried to outdo men in cruelty, as if that were the only way they could be strong. We have come far beyond those women, Hippolyta. We must honor them as our mothers, but we have outgrown their fears. Today we live in a community within walls. We hold commerce with our neighbors, whether they be women or men. And we have learned to temper justice with mercy. That is our strength now.”
“But what about the gods, Mother? Won’t they be angry if we break our part of the pact and keep the child alive?”
Otrere lifted her daughter up
so that they looked into each other’s eyes. “Sometimes we have to make the gods angry.” She laughed briefly. “It’s often the only way to get their attention.”
Hippolyta’s jaw dropped. “Mother!”
Otrere stood and took Hippolyta up with her. “The news you bring me about the Phrygians lets me know absolutely that you must go. I must stay here opposing Valasca for as long as I’m able. If she is rid of me, she’ll plunge our sisters into years of empty, bloody warfare. She is a throwback, daughter, to the old ways, the old fears. We must go forward, not fall behind. I am certain I can make our sisters understand this.”
Valasca’s hawk face suddenly filled Hippolyta’s mind. She sighed. “I’ll do it.”
“Of course you will,” Otrere said. “You’re my good, brave girl.”
“Do you have a plan?” Now that Hippolyta had said the words, had given her promise, she was eager to get started.
Otrere nodded. “Demonassa will bring Podarces to you tomorrow night.”
“Podarces?”
Otrere smiled. “That’s the baby’s name. Podarces—swift-footed.”
“Baby” seemed good enough to me, thought Hippolyta. But she didn’t say it aloud.
Otrere went on. “A trusted acolyte will carry an orphaned baby girl that Demonassa has been caring for to the ceremony in his place. Only when the child is actually on the altar and stripped of its clothing will the substitution be discovered. Since it will be a girl, no one will touch the child, and the acolyte will lay the blame on Demonassa, who can escape with the aid of her magic. That will buy you time to be on your way.”
“Where am I to go, Mother?” Hippolyta had been wondering this all along, even before she’d said she would take the boy.
“To Troy.”
Hippolyta started. Troy was a very long way away. Days and days and days. She knew no one who’d ever been there. “Why Troy?”
Otrere smiled wryly. “Because that’s where you’ll find Podarces’ father. Laomedon, king of Troy.”
“He’s a king’s son?” How many more surprises might Otrere unfold this night?
“He’s a queen’s son,” Otrere answered. “And should Valasca learn where he is, even she will think twice before assaulting the high stone walls of that city.”
