Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons (11 page)

She bit her lip. She had not acquitted herself well. The monster hadn’t been slain. Her prisoner had escaped. Well, at least he hadn’t gone far.

She hurried down the rocky slope, calling his name.

This time he heard her and looked up with a faint smile.

“What are you doing out here?”

He shrugged. “Looking for food.” Then he paused. “I haven’t found anything. And I was … afraid to go too far. In case … you know.”

She
did
know but didn’t want to comfort him. “Well, you won’t find loaves of bread and joints of mutton lying around on the ground.”

“I’d settle for an apple,” Tithonus said. “Even the peel would be something.”

“Well, there’s a bramble bush over there,” Hippolyta said. “We can pick some berries.”
And
, she thought, looking around at the scrub and brush,
there’s always nettle soup.

The bush was small, and the berries were mostly unripe. Neither of them felt any less hungry after their meager breakfast. The waterskin had been lost back where Hippolyta had been staked out. She didn’t suggest they return to look for it.

“I’d be having milk and freshly baked bread for breakfast if I were in Troy,” Tithonus whimpered.

“I’d
be
breakfast if you were in Troy,” Hippolyta said. Not that she was thanking him. He hadn’t meant to help her escape.

“I’m starving!” said Tithonus, paying no attention to her reply.

“Well, why don’t you run off home?” she said, adding quickly, “Of course I wouldn’t risk it in your place.”

That got his attention. He looked at her with wide-open eyes. “You wouldn’t?”

“Surely your father knows by now that you set me free with the monster stomping about the countryside.”

His lower lip turned down. “That was an accident.”

“I know that. You know that. Who else would believe it?”

He looked at his feet, the sandals scuffed and filthy. “My father wouldn’t.” The stuck-out lower lip now began to tremble.

“I mean,” Hippolyta went on, hoping she wasn’t slathering it on too thickly, “
I
only ruffled his tunic, and he had me trussed up for monster food.”

“But I’m the heir to the throne,” Tithonus whispered.

“Don’t forget he has another heir now,” Hippolyta said. “Little Podarces. The baby I delivered to him. That makes you as expendable as I am.”

He looked so stunned and lost that for a moment Hippolyta felt sorry for him. Then she reminded herself what a spoiled brat he was and how she meant to make him suffer. And his father.

“So you have no choice, really,” she added.

“What do you mean?”

She smiled and held out her hand. “You have to come with me. To my home. To Themiscyra.”

His lower lip snapped back, thinned out. His mouth was like a sharp, hard line. He looked just like his father. “I thought Amazons didn’t let men into their country.”

“You’d have to come as my slave, of course,” Hippolyta said, furrowing her brow as if in thought. “That way you’d be safe.”

“I’m nobody’s slave,” Tithonus said. “I’m a Trojan prince.”

She shook her head. “Not in your father’s eyes. In his eyes you’re a traitor. And”—she raised her hand, palm out—“I saved your life.” Her voice was as stern as any Amazonian teacher. “By the laws of the gods, your life now belongs to me.”

He groaned. “Is that true?”

“Absolutely,” Hippolyta said. “Why should I lie to you?”

He couldn’t think of an answer. She let him try.

At last Tithonus whimpered. “But my mother will set me free, won’t she?”

“I expect so,” Hippolyta agreed, thinking that with any luck their mother would never set eyes on him.
A dagger will set you free on Artemis’ altar,
she thought,
and I will save the Amazon nation with your Trojan blood.

They trekked northward, away from Troy, and around midday came to a stream, where they drank the clear water gratefully

Hunger was a hard knot in Hippolyta’s belly. But she’d been hungrier. Amazons trained for such long, foodless treks.

Tithonus had been complaining about thirst for hours. But suddenly he grabbed on to Hippolyta’s arm, spilling the water from her cupped hands, and pointed.

About thirty yards upstream an old man had emerged from the trees to water his horse. Apart from a few scraggly gray hairs near the nape of his neck, he was completely bald. His beard was cut so close to his face it was just a dark stubble. He wore a crude smock of ragged sacking tied at the waist with a length of rope.

“Do you think it’s one of my father’s men searching for me?” Tithonus whispered.

“Do you think your father cares enough to look for you?” Hippolyta answered, annoyed not to have seen the old man first. “Besides, that old man doesn’t look like a Trojan soldier.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and strode off in the stranger’s direction.

Tithonus trailed slightly behind.

The old man was leaning on a wooden staff and chewing on a length of dried meat. When he saw them approach, he didn’t seem alarmed in the least. Up close he seemed an ancient version of a warrior. Old battle scars ran down both his bony arms, and on the left arm he wore a bronze armlet decorated with the image of a dragon. It hung loosely, as if it belonged to a brawnier arm than his.

Hippolyta halted a few feet from the old man and raised a hand in greeting. “Goddess’s blessings, old one.”

“Blessings to you, strangers,” he replied in a creaking voice.

“Old man, we salute your age,” she added. “Sage you must be to have attained so many years.” Indeed he was the
oldest
person she’d ever seen. “Have you something you could share with two hungry travelers in the name of hospitality?”

The old man tipped his head in the direction of the stream. “Help yourself to the water, children. It’s provided by the gods.”

Hippolyta glanced quickly back at the stream, where the horse was lapping placidly. She noticed what she should have seen before. The horse carried a bulging pack on its back. There was a spear and ax tied there as well.

She looked back at the old man and said with as much humility as she could muster, “It’s food we have need of … sir.”

“What has that to do with me?”

“I think you have enough for yourself and more besides,” Hippolyta said. Her hand went automatically to her belt, before she remembered she had no weapon.

“That depends upon the length of my journey, eh?” he countered, with a crooked grin.

Tithonus tugged on the back of Hippolyta’s tunic. She shrugged him off.

“And how far is that, old man?” Hippolyta asked.

Tithonus tugged again.

“As far as Troy, though it’s no business of yours, little girl.”

She took a step toward him, and Tithonus tugged so hard, she turned on him and hissed like a serpent.

“Let him be,” Tithonus whispered. “There’s something funny about him.”

“He’s just a little crazy,” Hippolyta whispered back. “Comes from being that old.”

Tithonus shook his head. “No, Hippolyta. It’s more than that. Look at his eyes. They aren’t an old man’s eyes.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” she said, and turned back.

But now she saw what Tithonus had seen. The old man’s eyes had the kind of fiery intensity to them that suddenly reminded her of the bonfires on Amazon hilltops, lit to warn of an approaching enemy.
Maybe,
she thought,
I should go more slowly here.

The old man smiled at her. There was a gap between his teeth, as big, she thought, as the entrance to the Underworld.

“Why do you carry weapons, sir?” she asked.

“I have fought many battles in my day,” he answered. “Battle has been my food and drink.” He smacked his lips loudly. “But as I have no further use for this equipment, I’m taking the tools of my former trade to sell at the market in Troy.”

“Will you sell them to me?” Hippolyta asked quickly.

He laughed, a harsh, dry sound, like the cawing of a crow. “Of course not. You’re only a girl.”

She drew herself up. “I’m an Amazon,” she said. “A match for any warrior you’ve ever encountered.”

The old man stroked his chin. “I’ve met quite a few warriors, my dear. Cadmus. Pelops. Erechtheus. Heroes, all.”

Tiring of the game, Hippolyta said, “And you were what—their cup bearer?”

Tithonus gasped aloud.

“You’ve got a sharp tongue, young Amazon.” The old man’s eyes narrowed. “A sharp tongue but no sharp sword. Who took it from you, I wonder.”

Hippolyta bristled and took an angry step forward.

The old man twirled his staff end over end so quickly it would have cracked her across the face had she moved another inch. Hippolyta was shocked at his speed.

“If,” the old man said, sounding remarkably like one of her teachers, “if you were the warrior you think you are, you’d never let your anger lead you into an ambush. Or your hunger into a situation you couldn’t control.”

It was Tithonus who broke the stalemate. He bowed to the old warrior. “Please, sir, might we purchase some food from you?”

The old man laughed and placed the staff end down on the ground. “This one at least has manners.”

Hippolyta let out a long breath, astonished that she’d been holding it.

“But what have you to offer in payment?” the old man asked Tithonus.

The boy slipped a cord from his neck. Tied to it was an amulet with a red jewel in the center. “My father gave this to me to celebrate my birthday.” He offered it to the old man.

Holding the jewel up to the light, the old warrior smiled. “Wealthy man, is he?”

“He’s—”

Hippolyta elbowed Tithonus before he could reveal his parentage. “His father isn’t here now. We are. That’s a truly valuable jewel. We want food—and the weapons.”

“The weapons too!” the old man exclaimed in amusement. “Next you’ll be asking for the horse as well.” He handed the jewel back to Tithonus.

“Why not?” Hippolyta said. “You won’t need him if he’s got nothing to carry.”

The old man chuckled. “He’s more use to me than some ornament.”

“Will you trade or won’t you?” Hippolyta said impatiently, her voice rising.

“And if I don’t? Will you try to take them from me?”

The scorn in his voice goaded Hippolyta beyond endurance. “Do you think I can’t?” she cried, lunging at him.

The old man jabbed the end of his staff into her stomach, stopping her in her tracks. “If you’re going to challenge me, child, you’ll need something to fight with,” he said, nodding toward the trees, where Hippolyta saw another staff was lying.

“Where did that come from?” Tithonus asked wonderingly.

For a second the old man glanced his way. “Perhaps from the gods, boy.”

“More likely you dropped it along the way from sheer carelessness,” Hippolyta said.

The old man shrugged. “How it got there doesn’t matter. Either way, will you try your skill against an ancient warrior or not?”

“If I win, you’ll give us the horse and all it carries?” Hippolyta asked.

The old man squeezed his lower lip between two fingers. “You drive a hard bargain, young Amazon. Well, so do I. If you lose, you must carry my baggage all the way to Troy for me.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m no beast of burden,” she cried.

“Nevertheless, those are my terms,” he said. “Are you afraid to accept them?”

“Afraid? Never! An Amazon is not afraid of anything. Not even death. Especially not death.” As she spoke, she remembered her fear of the evening before. Of the serpent’s awful head, of the panicked run into the farmyard, the jump into the well. Then, awash in battle fire, she forgot all fear, strode to where the second staff lay on the ground, and snatched it up.

“B
E CAREFUL,” TITHONUS WHISPERED BEHIND
her.

The concern in his voice irked Hippolyta so much she pushed him aside rudely. Then she walked back to where the old warrior stood and planted herself firmly in front of him.

“Now, old man,” she said, “that we’re both armed, perhaps you will treat me with respect.”

He chuckled, a sound like rushing water over stone. Little water. Large stone. “All you need to do is knock me down to win, Amazon.” The way he said the last word was not a compliment. “Then you will have proved yourself worthy of me.”

“Worthy of
you
?” Hippolyta felt her cheeks flushing. Yet she willed herself to be calm, counting silently as she’d been taught. Taunting one’s opponent was always the opening gambit of any fight. If the old man really had been a warrior, he would know that well. “You think a lot of yourself.”

“With good reason,” the old man said softly.

Then, with a sudden movement, he twisted his arm, and his staff lashed out at Hippolyta’s face.

She jumped back and felt the wood just brush her nose. “You’re slow, old man.” Holding her own staff horizontally, she fell into a crouch, ready to ward off another blow.

He stepped back and leaned casually on his staff, then picked at his yellow teeth with a casual finger. “That dried venison is so sticky,” he remarked.

The hunger knot in Hippolyta’s stomach tightened at the mention of food, and she launched a swift counterattack with the point of her staff. The old man effortlessly beat her attack aside with his own staff, then whacked her across the back as she fell forward. She landed flat on her face.

“Beaten already, eh?” he cried.

Hippolyta leaped to her feet and spat dirt from her mouth.

“I may be an old dog,” he said, “but I still have plenty of tricks.”

Some trick,
Hippolyta thought, but she filed it away in her head for another fight. She let her head hang down as if she were indeed beaten, then charged again without looking.

Once more the old man sidestepped her attack, smacking her across her rear as she went by him. But this time he almost missed.

Hippolyta turned and stood glaring at him, panting, flushed partly with rage and partly with hope.

“You’re like an angry dog snapping at chariot wheels,” the old man said, this time less like a teacher and more like a smug young fighter. “You don’t expect me to stand here and let you hit me?”