Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons Page 2

  “The queen will know” came the answer from a weaver, her hands full of cloth. “She will do what is right.”

  “What is right? Or what is best?” That was the merchant.

  “I trust the queen,” the weaver said again.

  Hippolyta pushed them aside. “Let us through.”

  But when the merchant cried to her, “What says Queen Otrere, princess? What says your mother?” Hippolyta glared at her.

  “We know nothing,” she answered. “Nor can we find out if you don’t let us go to her.”

  Silently the women made a path for the two girls, and about fifty feet farther in, they reached the courtyard of the royal palace.

  Like the other buildings, it was built of wood but reinforced with slate and sandstone. Normally Hippolyta’s heart lifted whenever she came home. But this time it was as if a heavy gray mist hung over the turreted roof.

  Hippolyta gratefully handed a servant girl the pony’s reins, and her weapons as well. Then she and Antiope went over to Aella. “What is it?” Hippolyta asked. “What’s happened?”

  “Hush,” Aella said. “We can’t speak of it here. Inside, quickly. But don’t run. Walk like princesses. Like Amazons. Heads high. Show no fear. You are daughters of Otrere.”

  Hippolyta squared her shoulders and saw out of the corner of her eye that her little sister did the same. Then, following Aella, they went into the palace, into a danger they did not yet understand.

  The mood inside the palace was subdued, as if everyone was afraid to speak openly. Aella led them straight to the queen’s bedchamber. A pair of armed guards, black hair bound up in warrior’s knots, flanked the closed door.

  “Asteria? Philippis?” Antiope said, but they didn’t answer, and that was odd because she was a great favorite with the guards.

  “Come,” Hippolyta said, taking her by the hand.

  Silently the guards opened the doors, and they went in.

  Queen Otrere was propped up in her bed. The old priestess Demonassa, who also acted as a midwife, was standing at the bedside in long gray robes that were now stained with birth blood. Seated at the bed foot was Hippolyta’s younger sister Melanippe, who was just two years older than little Antiope.

  Melanippe looked up and sighed. “Thank the goddess you’re here, sisters.” She stood and came over to them. “When I sent for Orithya, she refused to come.”

  “Orithya.” Hippolyta spoke her older sister’s name as if it burned her mouth. These days Orithya spent more time with the warrior queen Valasca, who commanded the army in times of war, than she did with her own mother. Hippolyta was furious with Orithya. Family should come first.

  “That Orithya would not answer your call is no surprise.” Hippolyta added, “I no longer consider her a sister. The blood runs thin in her. She belongs to Valasca just as if she came shooting out between that old hawk’s legs fully armored.”

  Antiope spotted her mother and saw what she was holding in her arms—unbound and naked. Rushing forward with a great grin, Antiope cried out, “The baby! She’s here at last.”

  “The baby,” Hippolyta said, looking over at the bed. Suddenly she realized what all the people outside had been talking about. The child hadn’t been swaddled yet, and even from this far away, she could see it was a boy, the second such her mother had borne. The first had been nine years earlier, right after Melanippe, a year before Antiope.

  Hippolyta remembered that day well. She’d been four years old, which was old enough to love the infant and old enough to understand that it could never remain in Themiscyra. Boys were not welcome in Amazon society, and they were given away to passing strangers. Except for the firstborn boy born to a queen: He was always returned to his father.

  But not the second.

  Hippolyta knew Amazon history. Every girl her age was well versed in it: Long ago in the city of Arimaspa, the Amazon women had been part of the Scythian race. They’d lived with men and cared for their sons. But a pair of arrogant princes had brought ruin to the people by stealing gold belonging to the gods. In turn the gods rained destruction down on Arimaspa.

  The goddess Artemis had saved them, leading the women away from that cursed place one moonless night. They spent years looking for the right place to establish a community of women, free of all kings, princes, and husbands, a community dedicated to the goddess.

  Artemis decreed that all sons born to the women from then on were to be sent away before their first birthdays. However, there was a special rule for the Amazon queens. They would be allowed only one live son, for it had been foretold by Artemis’ brother, the god Apollo, that if a second son born to a queen were allowed to grow to manhood, he would be the cause of the death of the Amazon race. It was why the priestesses and midwives supplied the queens with special herbs and potions that almost always guaranteed a girl child.

  Almost.

  But not always.

  Antiope was playing with the baby’s little fingers and singing softly to him, oblivious.

  “You know what this means?” Melanippe whispered, twisting a finger through her brown curls.

  Hippolyta nodded. Then she went over to the bed and took her mother’s weakly offered hand. “I’m so sorry, Mother,” she said, her voice tearing as if on a splinter of wood. “I know how hard this will be on you.”

  There was a spark of determination in Otrere’s eyes, a spark that lent strength to her pale face. Her voice was amazingly firm. “I can’t do what is expected, Hippolyta,” she said. “Not having carried this child below my heart. You must be prepared for the worst.”

  Confused, Hippolyta let her mother’s hand drop. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, you can’t do it? Artemis requires it. A second son must be sacrificed upon Artemis’ altar. It’s the price we pay for the goddess’s protection. It’s our pact with her. In this life an Amazon does what she must. How often have you told me so?”

  For a moment Otrere’s face went pale. Old Demonassa started forward, but the queen sat up, color rushing back into her cheeks. She waved Demonassa away.

  “I can’t sacrifice the child, daughter. I have felt him like a hammer beneath my breast,” Otrere said. “He kicked with such life. I cannot believe the goddess would have me snuff out such a fighter.”

  “But—” Hippolyta took a deep breath and tried to frame her response carefully. She might not get another chance. “If you don’t do this thing, there will be awful consequences. To you. To the child. To all your children.” She waved her hand around the room, taking in her sisters as well as the guards and the priestess.

  For a moment Otrere glanced down at the little boy in her arms, and her brown eyes filled with tears. Then she looked up again. “I don’t know how to answer you, my dearest daughter. That is why I wanted you here as soon as possible. Before word spreads.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have sent me away yesterday to teach your littlest daughter to hunt,” Hippolyta answered her bitterly. “It’s already too late to stop this news from reaching your people.”

  Just then the door to the bedchamber flew open, and a dozen warriors filed in, led by the hawk-faced Valasca. They were in full armor, shields, and helmets, and the noise they made marching into the chamber was deafening.

  Valasca’s bronze helmet cast deep shadows over her face, emphasizing the sharpness of her cheekbones and nose. A Gorgon’s head decorated her shield. She looked as fierce as any goddess.

  The infant started crying, a thin, high-pitched wail.

  Hippolyta felt something cold settle in her stomach. But when she saw her sister Orithya in the second row of the troop of warriors, as well as a smirking Molpadia standing in the back of the group, her cheeks got hot with anger.

  Halting at the bed foot, the battle queen slowly removed her helmet. Her black hair was caught up in a warrior’s knot. She stared down at the naked infant. “A boy,” she said, making it sound like a sentence of death. Which it was.

  Looking accusingly at Demonassa, Valasca let her right hand
rest lightly on the double-headed ax that hung from her belt. It was a threat, and it worked. Old Demonassa stepped back but did not lower her eyes.

  “Did the omens give no warnings?” Valasca said in a cool voice.

  The old woman shrugged. “The omens were obscure.”

  As usual, thought Hippolyta.

  “I thought you had more magic than that,” Valasca said.

  “I saved my magic to ease the birth and deliver the child safely,” the old woman answered.

  “You needn’t have bothered,” Valasca said.

  On the bed Otrere drew the baby closer to her breast. “What the Fates decide cannot be undone.”

  “No, Otrere, you mistake it. This is quite easily undone,” Valasca answered in her cold voice. “A cloth over the child’s face. A knife across its throat. You know the laws, Otrere, and they bind our queens even more than they bind the rest of our race.”

  Otrere bent her head, but whether in obeisance to her fellow queen or to look at the child again, Hippolyta couldn’t have said.

  “A queen,” Valasca continued, her voice filling the room, “may bear only one live son. If the second grows up, he will bring about the destruction of our race. I know it, you know it. By the goddess, we all know it. Let this child live, and we break the pact made with Artemis by all the mothers before us. The goddess has not protected us all these years so we can be destroyed by one boy child!”

  Otrere didn’t answer, but a single tear escaped her right eye. Hippolyta longed to wipe it away before it shamed them all.

  “You and the priestess did not take the easier way, so now you must sacrifice this child with your own knife upon the altar of Artemis,” Valasca said. “Such is our law. The goddess has willed it.”

  “I cannot.” Otrere’s voice was low but adamant.

  “Then you must give up your throne, and another will perform the sacrifice,” Valasca said. “Either way, Otrere, the boy dies.”

  Otrere looked up, her eyes now clear of tears. “We all must die, Valasca. But this child is innocent of any wrongdoing. Only I, who desired one last child before I could have no more, am to blame.” She sat up straighter and looked slowly around the room as if addressing every woman there. “The child can be returned to his father. Like his brother before him. If anyone is to be sacrificed, let it be me.”

  “Mother, no!” Melanippe and Antiope cried out together.

  Hippolyta found she couldn’t speak. It was as if a spell of silence had been placed upon her tongue.

  Valasca shook her head. “You know that can’t be, Otrere. The pact says that the babe is to be sacrificed, not the mother. Killing you—much as I might enjoy it—will not save us from the goddess’s will.” She signaled two of her older warriors. “Take the boy.”

  Otrere enveloped the baby in her arms and turned away.

  Suddenly, without thinking, Hippolyta found herself moving forward and blocking the two warriors before they could reach the bed. She held her hunting knife chest high, ready to strike.

  “Otrere is still your queen,” she told them sharply. “Not Valasca, who rules only in times of war. You will not lay hands on Otrere.”

  “Step aside, Hippolyta,” warned a familiar voice.

  Hippolyta looked toward the speaker and saw that Molpadia had drawn her bow and it was aimed right at her heart. At this distance Molpadia could not possibly miss.

  All at once the baby started to cry again, a thin, mewling sound.

  Hippolyta could see her older sister, Orithya, behind Molpadia, looking helplessly from one queen to the other, torn between the oath that bound her to Valasca and the blood that bound her to Otrere. Shaking her head, Orithya suddenly strode forward and shoved the point of Molpadia’s arrow aside.

  “Do you plan to defile the royal bedchamber with blood?” she demanded, voice shaking. “How is that the will of the gods?”

  “The will of the gods is that we obey our own laws.” Valasca gave the answer in her stone voice, never taking her eyes from Otrere. “And we will spill blood, even here, to obey them.”

  “There’ll be no killing in this place,” Demonassa declared, stepping forward to stand by Hippolyta’s side. “That would surely anger Artemis more than anything.” At her voice, everyone but Queen Otrere looked at her. “But the child’s sacrifice can only be accomplished when the moon is half in shadow, half in light, poised between life and death. And that will not be for ten days yet. Surely you know that, Valasca, who knows the rules so well.”

  Valasca’s face grew even sharper, if that were possible. She looked, Hippolyta thought, quite a bit like her own ax.

  “I will take the child and keep him quiet,” Demonassa said, adding, “You will want him alive on the altar, or the sacrifice will be worth nothing.”

  Otrere gave up the child readily enough to the old priestess.

  Valasca said softly, “By your own wish you are queen no longer. Another will perform the sacrifice. You will remain here for the ten days with only a single attendant to care for you. After that, you shall be brought for judgment before the court of the Nines.”

  Demonassa wrapped the child lightly in soft deerskin and walked out of the room, accompanied by Valasca and her guards.

  Hippolyta and her sisters followed reluctantly behind, but Hippolyta was thinking: That gives us ten days, thanks to Demonassa.

  But then she quickly wondered: Ten days to do what?

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE PRISONER

  BECAUSE HER MOTHER was no longer queen, Hippolyta had to leave the palace where she’d lived all her life and move into the warriors’ communal barracks. It was more a jolt to her heart than her body. After all, none of the Amazons led pampered lives. Even the queens were trained as hunters and farmers.

  Hippolyta had looked forward to joining the ranks of the warriors in two years, when she entered her fifteenth year and had gone on her Long Mission, trekking into the wilderness for a month on her own. Now she was there sooner than anyone had planned.

  Being escorted by armed guards to the barracks like a prisoner, being forcibly separated from her younger sisters, made Hippolyta furious. After all, even if their mother had broken a law, they had done nothing wrong. But Valasca had insisted that they be guarded in case they tried to do something foolish. Like help their mother escape.

  “At least,” Hippolyta pleaded with two of the warriors set over her as guards, “let me see how Antiope and Melanippe are doing.”

  “They are Amazons,” said one frostily.

  “They will be fine,” the other added, though she at least smiled down at Hippolyta.

  “They are little girls,” Hippolyta answered angrily. “And if they have to be apart from their mother, at least—”

  “Antiope and Melanippe are in the Halls of Athena,” the frosty guard replied, “dwelling along with other girls whose mothers have died, in sickness or in battle.”

  “Our mother hasn’t died,” Hippolyta said through gritted teeth.

  “Not yet” came the icy reply.

  Hippolyta drew in a sharp breath.

  The other guard put her hand on Hippolyta’s and said softly, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  It took five days before Hippolyta was allowed a short visit with her sisters, accompanied by two guards.

  The Halls of Athena was really one large lodge with two wings sitting atop a rise. The girls lived in the smaller wing, in separate rooms.

  Hippolyta visited with Melanippe first and found that she’d adjusted well to her new surroundings.

  “Antiope does nothing but cry,” Melanippe said. “I can’t seem to help her. The other girls are mean to us, of course. But they take their lead from the matrons here, who say that Mother intended the Amazon race to die.” She looked grim. “It’s not true, is it?”

  “Of course it’s not true. Mother doesn’t want anyone to die. Not even the baby.”

  “I knew it!” Melanippe said. Relief suffused her face.

  “Be stron
g.” Hippolyta gave her sister a quick hug, stood, and went across the hallway to Antiope’s room.

  Antiope was sitting all alone on a narrow bed, staring out the window and across the top of the palisade to where the black waters of the Euxine Sea lay along the horizon.

  “Antiope?” Hippolyta called, but the little girl didn’t seem to hear. “Antiope.”

  This time Antiope turned and stared at Hippolyta, tears coursing down her cheeks.

  In two long steps Hippolyta was across the room and onto the bed, wrapping her arms around her little sister. “There, there,” she said, sounding exactly like their mother.

  “What—” Antiope gulped, started again. “What’s the baby done that’s so wrong?” She swiped at her brimming eyes with the backs of her hands.

  “It’s not that he’s done anything wrong,” Hippolyta whispered into her sister’s hair. “It’s just that he’s a male, and it’s our law.”

  “I hate our law then,” Antiope cried. “I wish somebody would take it away and burn it!”

  Trying not to smile, Hippolyta sat back and looked into Antiope’s dark eyes. “Without laws, sister, there would be no Themiscyra. No Long Mission. No—”

  “Then I guess I don’t hate all of it,” Antiope said. She bit her lower lip. “Just the dead baby part.”

  Hippolyta nodded. “I hate that part too. But it is the law.” Then she embraced her sister again, stood, and was gone.

  The next day Hippolyta heard that Otrere had been moved from the palace into the prison by the palisade where criminals were commonly kept. The rumor was that Valasca was trying to starve her into submission.

  Or just starve her, Hippolyta thought. Then Valasca could proclaim herself queen of both war and peace. She wondered which lawbreaking was worse, her mother’s or the warrior queen’s.

  For several days Hippolyta attempted to visit her mother. She argued with the two guards at the barracks about it until she wore them down. But the prison guards were of sterner stuff. They turned her back roughly, as if they’d no idea who she was.

  “Orders are that no one gets in to see the old queen,” they said.