by Jane Yolen
“I was simply rebalancing where Apollo and Artemis had already interfered,” he said. “The Fates had marked out a particular path for you, and that I couldn’t change. But I wanted to prepare you, Hippolyta, for what was to come. To teach you how to fight—when and why. Because what you are now, you will be later on. I must say, you’ve learned both lessons well.”
Tithonus shifted from one leg to another. “And me? Did you want to teach me, too?”
Ares shook his head. “You aren’t my son, Tithonus. You are your own father’s child. And he has taught you.”
The boy’s face fell. “I don’t like what I’ve learned from him.”
Ares patted him on the head. “That’s a kind of teaching as well.”
Hippolyta felt anger and something else rise like heat in her cheeks. “Why now? Why have you never come to me before?”
“I thought you didn’t care who your father was,” Tithonus reminded her.
Hippolyta ignored him and pressed Ares. “Did you care so little for me that you never once in thirteen years came to visit?”
“Your thirteen years are but a passing flicker of time to a god,” Ares said in a gentle voice. “And it won’t be long before you’re queen of the Amazons in your own right. Before that time comes, I wanted to know that you would lead them well, not in a spirit of savagery, as Valasca would have it, but with courage and nobility.” He undid a belt with a bronze buckle from around his waist.
“Wear this, and all will know you’ve found the god’s favor.”
She hefted the belt. “Me? Queen of the Amazons? But why me? My sister Orithya—she’s older. Or Melanippe—she’s smarter. Or Antiope—everyone loves her.” Hippolyta shook her head.
“Read in the remains of this city what happens when a selfish ruler goes head to head with a vengeful god.” Ares gestured at the abandoned ruins. “From now on, let the Amazons be free of such folly. You, my daughter, will know that lesson best. Put on the belt.”
She thought for a moment about refusing, then remembered how the Amazons could still fall into Valasca’s hands. Her mother’s voice came to her then, saying, “If Valasca is rid of me, she’ll plunge our sisters into years of empty, bloody warfare.” Resolutely she tied the belt around her waist. It was heavier than it looked.
Like queenship, she thought.
“I hope my father doesn’t bring doom to Troy the way the king of Arimaspa ruined this city,” said Tithonus glumly.
“You’ll know what to do if he does,” Hippolyta said. She slipped the serpent bracelet off her arm and handed it to him. “Let this remind you of your courage on this long journey and recall to you the love your sister bears you.”
“And let’s worry about one curse at a time,” said Ares, giving the boy a playful slap on the back. “I have a chariot close by that will carry us to Themiscyra faster than you can imagine.”
“I can imagine pretty fast,” Tithonus said.
“Not too fast,” Hippolyta cautioned. “After all, Father, we have a lot of catching up to do along the way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AND HOME
ARES’ CHARIOT SPED HOMEWARD with the swiftness of the wind. He could have gotten them to Themiscyra in a single night, but heeding Hippolyta’s plea, he went the long way around.
His horses never tired, but knowing his passengers to be mortal, he stopped frequently to let them eat and rest.
Tithonus suspected nothing, but Hippolyta understood that each stop cost them time the god could have easily dismissed. But he remained charming and effortlessly found game to provide them with food. At each meal he regaled them with tales of ancient heroes.
On the second evening, while Tithonus lay wrapped in a blanket sleeping peacefully, Hippolyta asked Ares about her mother and how they had met.
Sitting with his back against a tree, and scratching there like some great cat, Ares spoke. “I was traveling the mortal world and decided to visit the land of the Amazons in the guise of a messenger bringing gifts from King Sagellus of Scythia,” he said.
“Why not just travel as yourself?” asked Hippolyta, eagerly leaning into the tale.
He smiled at her. “And what’s the fun of that?” he asked. “After so many aeons, myself is a boring way to travel.”
“Is this”—she pointed at him—“really what you look like then?”
He smiled again and didn’t answer, electing instead to finish his story. “I found the young queen Otrere tending a girl who’d been injured during spear practice. After gently washing and binding the wound, she showed the girl how to protect herself, how to fight without lowering her guard.”
“Funny,” mused Hippolyta, “I can’t think of my mother as a fighter.”
Ares smiled as he remembered. “Never before had I come upon a woman who so perfectly combined both strength and tenderness in her actions and words. I loved her at once, and while I enjoyed the hospitality of her court, I wooed her with all my heart. Only when I had won her love did I reveal my true nature to her.”
“What did she say then?”
Ares grinned. “She laughed. She said she thought a god would be handsomer.”
Hippolyta laughed, too. Then she thought of Apollo, whose beauty outshone the sun. And the golden-haired Laomedon. “I’m glad you’re my father and not Apollo. Or Laomedon,” she said. “Beautiful on the outside, but—”
“Eventually Laomedon will try to cheat the gods once too often,” said Ares with a frown, “and that will be his downfall.”
She glanced over at the sleeping Tithonus, and faint lines appeared on her forehead.
“Don’t worry,” Ares assured her, putting his hand on her arm. “He will be safe and happy and far away from Troy when his father’s downfall happens.”
“And when he is king?”
Area shook his head. “He will never be king of Troy.”
Hippolyta smiled. “That’s all right. He doesn’t want to be king anyway.” She made a strange sound then, half laugh, half sigh. “It’s the fighting, you know. He hates it. Though when he had to, he watched my back and never gave up. And kings need to know how to fight. At least kings of Troy.”
“There will be no peace for Troy, that is certain,” said Ares. “But one day Trojans and Amazons will fight side by side as allies and friends, and that will be because of you.”
“I’m glad,” Hippolyta told him. “I should like to see Dares again, at least, to thank him for his kindness.”
“I have told you more than I should,” Ares said.
Hippolyta heard the caution in his voice. “Bedtime stories, really. Father to daughter.” She leaned over and kissed him on the brow. “Good night.”
Over the remaining three days of the journey Tithonus became his old talkative self once more. He plied Ares with questions about the other gods and told his own stories of life in Troy.
Hippolyta couldn’t help being amused at seeing her father strain to maintain his patience with the continual chatter, and she was sure that the more Tithonus talked, the more Ares urged his horses to greater speed.
When they entered the country of the Amazons at last, Hippolyta was relieved to see that things were back to normal: workers in the fields and armed riders upon the roads. When one of the patrols blocked their way, Ares addressed them imperiously. “I am Polemos, envoy of King Sagellus of Scythia,” he announced in a booming voice. “I am escorting the princess Hippolyta, daughter of Otrere, back to Themiscyra.”
At once the warriors drew aside and let them pass.
“Why didn’t you tell them who you really are?” asked Tithonus.
“When you tell people you’re a god,” Ares explained, “either they take you for a madman and try to lock you up, or they won’t let you pass without accepting gifts and sacrifices. Believe me, it’s a lot simpler just to lie in a loud voice.”
That’s not what he told me, Hippolyta thought, remembering how Ares had said that traveling simply as himself was boring. She wondered where the
real truth of it lay. Probably somewhere in between, she thought. Then she realized that was a good definition of a god’s truth.
As they drew closer to Themiscyra, most of the Amazons they passed recognized Hippolyta and called out to her. She pleaded with Ares to stop the chariot so she could speak to them, to ask them about her mother and her sisters.
“We’ll be there soon enough,” he answered.
And with a flick of the reins he redoubled the speed of his horses so that the countryside flew by like a river in torrent. When they finally pulled up before the walls of the city, Hippolyta had to gasp for breath.
Ares gestured for the two children to step down from the chariot.
“But aren’t you coming in with us?” Hippolyta asked.
Ares shook his head. “My business lies elsewhere.”
“But Mother … don’t you want to see her?”
A faraway look passed briefly across Ares’ rugged face. “I can see her as clearly now as the day when first I loved her. But that is in the past and must remain so. Never encourage a god to interfere in your life.” He laughed. “Actually, we don’t need much prompting.”
“Will I see you again?”
“You don’t need to. You don’t need any of the gods. You are free to follow your own path now.”
“What about me?” Tithonus piped up.
“That is for you to decide,” said Ares. “I can take you back to Troy or leave you here. The choice is yours.”
“Choice?” Hippolyta looked at Ares strangely, remembering what he’d said about Tithonus’ future. There was no choice built into that.
As if reading her mind, Ares leaned down across the chariot’s side and said, “There are many different paths to one’s destiny. Do not confuse journey’s end with the journey.”
“Demonassa always said that the gods speak in riddles and not straight on.”
“I am speaking straight on,” Ares told her. “You are not listening.” He stood up again, looking very stern.
And like a god, not like a father, thought Hippolyta, though for her the two were equally distant.
Ares held out his hand, and Hippolyta took it, one warrior to another.
As if he hadn’t heard their conversation, Tithonus looked at Hippolyta and bit his lip. “You promised me I would meet my mother. Last time didn’t count. She was—she was not herself.”
Even now that they were safe, Hippolyta felt a twinge of guilt over how she had deceived Tithonus. “If you come with me into the city now, the Amazons will give you an escort back to Troy later.”
He nodded shyly, and she took his hand.
Ares let out a sudden mighty yell. At once his horses wheeled around and bolted off across, the countryside, leaving a trail of dust hanging in the air to mark their passage.
Only after the sound of that yell had faded did Hippolyta turn and pull Tithonus through the city gates, smiling faintly. She didn’t look back again.
No sooner were they inside the city walls than an escort of Amazons formed around them to lead them to the square before the Temple of Artemis.
There, on a solid wooden throne, Otrere was dispensing justice, her daughters on one side, Demonassa and her acolytes on the other. Behind them a company of armed warriors stood, with hawk-faced Valasca scowling at their fore.
When they saw Hippolyta, Antiope and Melanippe rushed up to hug her. Orithya welcomed her too with a nod.
Then Queen Otrere opened her arms, and Hippolyta rushed into them, burying her face in her mother’s neck, that sweet place where the skin was soft and smelled of spring flowers.
Hippolyta felt overwhelmed, not by grief but by something else. Joy? Relief? She didn’t know. She wept.
“Don’t cry, daughter,” her mother said, pushing her gently away. “The time of weeping is over. The grief that overwhelmed us all has disappeared like a passing shower.” But as she said this, she too wept.
“There’s much work to do after all those days of weeping and wailing,” said Demonassa, stepping forward to add her welcome. “Crops and animals have been neglected, and the whole city is in shambles.”
“But you’re queen again?” Hippolyta asked her mother. “I was prepared to—”
Otrere nodded. “The goddess herself appeared in our midst. She told us that the curse was lifted forever and that there would be no more sacrifice of children, not now or in the future.”
Behind her, Hippolyta heard the sound of a heavy sigh. She knew that sound. It was Tithonus.
Tithonus. She had to introduce him!
But Demonassa was speaking, so Hippolyta held her tongue. Hadn’t her father said there were many paths to one’s destination? She would wait for the explanations to be over.
“Artemis—blessed be—told us that you had fulfilled the quest she had given you to seek out the lost city of Arimaspa,” the priestess was saying. “And that there you fought with the courage of a true Amazon.”
“And look what the goddess left behind,” Antiope added excitedly. She pointed her little finger at the lintel over the door of the temple. A carving had been placed there, wrought in exquisite detail. It was Hippolyta herself, standing over Tithonus and fighting off the gryphons with her ax.
“When I saw this, I knew I had been right to defy a cruel law,” said Otrere, “and I knew that you understood why I did it.”
“Yes, I do,” Hippolyta agreed. “And I’ve brought a surprise back with me: your oldest son, Tithonus.”
Tithonus stepped forward, a bit bashfully, intimidated by the crowd of Amazons who pressed in on every side. Otrere stood up, took a step toward him, then wrapped her arms around him.
A murmur of surprise passed through the square.
Otrere looked around, one arm still resting on her son’s shoulder. “This is something we all must learn,” she said. “It was not love for our sons that brought a curse upon us. It was the vengeful ways of the past, which we will follow no longer.”
She stared hard at Valasca, who slowly lowered her head. “It will be as you say, Otrere,” the warrior queen conceded, “but I shall not abandon my task of protecting our people.”
“Protect our people by all means,” said Otrere, “but not by making war upon our neighbors for no reason other than your desire for battle.”
It was clear from the way the crowd listened to her that Otrere’s authority over the Amazons had been fully restored. Valasca and her small band of followers turned away and left the square. Only Molpadia, her face screwed up in anger, looked back.
“Come, Tithonus,” said Otrere with a smile, “let’s go into the palace, where you and your sister can tell me all about your adventures.”
The boy’s face lit up. “Oh, yes, there’s lots to tell,” he said.
Hippolyta laughed. “I hope you don’t have much else to do today, Mother. This could take quite some time.”
WHAT IS TRUE ABOUT THIS STORY?
DID THE HEROIC AGE, the Age of Heroes, really exist?
Yes and no.
No, there was not a time when the gods took part in human battles, nor were there gryphons flying about deserted cities or sea monsters scouring the countryside because of a curse.
But yes, there was once a rich and powerful civilization in Greece that we call Mycenae, where each city was a separate state with its own king but where the people were united by a single language. There was a thriving culture too, many days’ ride to the east near the Black Sea (which was then called the Euxine Sea), though there is no evidence of the city we call Themiscyra or a nation of women.
However, in that same time period there was a real Troy. Legend has it that in a continuing attempt to get rid of the sea monster, King Laomedon tied his own daughter, Hermione, to the rock as a sacrifice. Hercules showed up in his travels and offered to kill the monster and save the girl. All he wanted in exchange was a set of fabulous horses that Laomedon owned. Laomedon agreed, but when Hercules did the deed, Laomedon refused to pay him. Hercules proceeded on with his j
ourney but returned a few years later and captured Troy. He killed Laomedon and all his sons except Tithonus, who had long ago disappeared into Ethiopia, some said as consort to the goddess of the dawn, and Podarces. Hermione ransomed her brother Podarces, who thereafter was known as Priam, which means “ransomed.” When the Trojan War began, a force of Amazons, led by Queen Penthesilea, came to the aid of the Trojans under King Priam. During the long war the Amazon queen and her followers were all slain, as was King Priam and his son, Hector. There was a real Troy and a real war, but the rest is probably legend.
Folk stories about a tribe of warrior women called Amazons living in the area of the Caucasus (then called the Rhipaean Mountains) were told and retold by the Greeks. The foundation of many towns—Smyrna, Ephesus, Paphos among them—is attributed to them. Legends said that two rebel Scythian princes had founded a town that became the birthplace of the Amazon race. A number of famous heroes—like Bellerophon, who tamed the flying horse Pegasus, and even the mighty Hercules—were said to have fought against the Amazons. In fact it is related that one of Hercules’ famous twelve labors was to bring back the girdle (belt) belonging to the Amazon queen Hippolyta, a belt reputedly given to her by her father, Ares, the god of war. We know from one version of these tales that Hippolyta and her sister Melanippe were killed in the fight. In other versions, only Melanippe dies. And in the stories about Theseus, the great hero who slew the Gorgon Medusa, there is one in which he carries off Antiope, the peacemaker, to be his bride. Hippolyta then tracks them down and lays siege to his city. Antiope and Molpadia both die in that battle, and Hippolyta supposedly retires to the city of Megara, where she dies some time later of grief.
Stories. Legends. Tales.
But a woman—even a mythic hero—must have a childhood and adolescence that foretell her future deeds. We know little about the Amazon queen called Hippolyta beside the stories of her battles with Bellerophon, Hercules, and Theseus. We know from these stories only that she was heroic, brave, headstrong, loyal to her family, and beloved as a great leader.
