This Immortal Heart: A Novel of Aphrodite(99)
I hesitate. I’d planned to observe their camp unseen, to draw my own conclusions before I devised my strategy to help the tormented lovers. But maybe it’s better this way. With women so bold as this—women whose lives are like nothing I’ve seen before, who thrive out here with no men to rule them or hold them back—the invitation is just too alluring to turn down.
I nod, and she smiles. “Lead the way,” I say.
* * *
—
The women’s camp is set beside a trickling stream near a low hill—hardly more than a mound rising up from the grass, but enough to hide them from view. A few spindly trees are dotted here and there, under which their horses graze. A fire burns in the center, and all around it they are engaged in activity. Tending the fire, milking a mare, making shelters, swift and harmonious as they work together.
I notice some children in their number—a few so tall I don’t realize at first that they aren’t grown adults, though, when I look more closely, I can see the rounding of their cheeks and the sweetly determined jut of their chins. Not all the children are girls either, I see a couple of boys among them, hardly distinguishable from their sisters in dress or attitude.
Several of the women wear spotted skins draped across their shoulders, spoils of a kill, and all of them have weapons. I see bows and spears, bronze daggers tucked into their belts, arrows slung in quivers across backs. They aren’t just adorned with weaponry, though, I notice necklaces too—agate and amber, beads made of glass, bone and what might be animal teeth.
They’re not the hostile, exotic nightmares I took them for when I saw them storm the men’s camp. They’re horse riders, tough and experienced, capable of defending themselves. In some ways that makes them more unsettling, so real and undeniable.
They fall silent when we walk into their camp, turning one by one to look at me. I find the girl at once, her face just as watchful as the others. There’s no sign of the soft, lovestruck young woman I saw before. The way the women respond to our arrival—quiet and patient as they await an explanation for my uninvited presence—leads me to think my companion is their leader. Their queen, perhaps. Another woman, older and with an authoritative air about her, steps forward and the two share a meaningful glance. There’s a closeness between them, allowing them to communicate without words.
The queen nods toward me. “We have a guest,” she announces to the others. “A goddess, come to visit with the Amazons.”
“Amazons?” I ask. “I haven’t heard that name before.”
The queen smiles. “Sit with us,” she says, beckoning me to the fire. “And we’ll tell you who we are.”
29
We all sit on the ground, the fire burning before us, smoke rising into the darkening sky. As the sun sinks lower and the air cools, the women pull their cloaks more tightly around their bodies, the furs of lions and leopards keeping them warm. Someone hands me a cup, its handle also carved in the shape of a lion. I expect it to be brimming with wine, but this is creamy and fermented, sharper and more sour.
“Mare’s milk,” the queen tells me, nodding toward the grazing horses.
I take a sip. It fizzes slightly on my tongue, the flavor unexpected—rougher somehow, less refined than anything the gods enjoy but not unpleasant. It’s strong too. Intoxicating.
“Tell me your names,” I say.
Some of the words they use are unfamiliar, but I understand the meaning as they introduce themselves. Dagger-wielding. Worthy of armor. Protectress.
The girl’s voice is clear and strong when she speaks up. “Melo,” she says. Singer.
“Kydoime,” the queen says, her hand on her chest. Battle-cry. The woman at her side nods at me. “Dorymache,” she says of herself. Spear-fighter. They speak almost in concert, and always one keeps her hand on the other—resting on her thigh or linking their fingers together, loving and unmistakably intimate.
“We once lived across the sea from here,” Kydoime tells me. “It was always our homeland; the place where our ancestors had bred the horses we rode for generations.”
They were taken, they tell me—a part of the story where many of the others chime in. All the women, overpowered by a foreign force. By men who speak like I do, they say, captors from the lands I rule. Men who took their weapons and forced them onto three ships, setting sail toward home, where they’d be kept as slaves—captives of war for the victors’ enjoyment.
Nausea rises inside me as I look from face to face across the flames. I’ve seen these women as conquerors. Now I realize that was only a glimpse of their lives. It’s impressed me to see how they fight, how they work, how they survive together. Inspiring, even. I hate to think of them broken and ill-used, snatched away from their home and afraid.
“Don’t worry,” the queen says, her voice rich and thrilling. “We rose up. Took back our bows and arrows, our swords and spears and daggers, and we used them to kill every man on board.”
The smoke and the mare’s milk burn in the back of my throat. “All of them?” I ask, a rasp catching my words.
“Without mercy.” Her stare is defiant, daring me to condemn her.
I hold her gaze. “Men like that,” I say, “deserve no mercy.”
A ripple of satisfaction echoes around the circle; women nodding, their eyes intent on me. This is a fearsome band of warriors. Women united by determination and drive, ready to do whatever it takes to survive—and to win.