Atalanta and the Arcadian Beast (13 page)

“A few miles up this road should be Tegea,” Orion said.

“How do you know?” Atalanta asked.

“Look at the way the tracks of carts and horses go forward. The city calls them,” he said.

Just then a cloud of dust came sweeping toward them out of the east. Atalanta could hear a great clattering of hooves.

“It sounds like a stampede of wild horses!” she cried.

Orion looked at her oddly. “Those are only chariots from the city.”

“She has probably never seen a chariot,” Evenor said. “I have only seen two in my life.”

In fact Atalanta wasn’t sure what a chariot was, but she’d never let Orion know that. Instead, she stepped to the side of the road and rested her hand lightly on her javelin.

As the dust settled, Atalanta could see that pairs of horses were pulling six small, open-sided, double-wheeled wagons, each carrying two riders made of bronze. The metal covered their chests and surrounded their heads, casting their faces into shadow.

Atalanta raised her javelin defensively. “What kind of monsters are these?” she whispered.

Orion laid a hand on her arm, forcing her spear tip down. “Not monsters. They’re warriors. From Tegea. King’s men.”

The chariots pulled to a halt in front of them and one of the warriors climbed down. His bronze breastplate was inlaid with elaborate silver swirls, his helmet ornamented with a great crest. Removing the helmet, he walked over to Orion.

Why,
Atalanta thought,
he looks quite normal.
The man seemed in his middle years, with curling black hair and a small dark beard. He gazed with steady gray eyes at Orion, at the double spears, at the lion skin draped over his shoulders.

“Stranger,” he said, “who are you?”

“I am Orion, son of Hyrieus,” Orion announced grandly, striking himself on the chest.

“Orion!” exclaimed the man. “The gods be praised that our messengers found you. I am Ancaeus of Tegea, brother of King Iasus.” He, too, struck his chest. “My men and I are patrolling the land to keep our people safe from the Beast of Arcadia. With you here, that will no longer be necessary.”

Atalanta turned to Evenor and whispered, “What makes him think that patrolling the main road will keep the mantiger from their farmyards or fields?”

“Hush,” Evenor replied.

“Take me to King Iasus,” said Orion, “that I may offer my services.”

“Gladly,” Ancaeus replied. Then, as if only now noticing Atalanta and Evenor, he asked, “Who are these rustics?”

“My companions,” Orion replied.

“What—even that savage-looking girl?”

Orion laughed. “Even her.”

Ancaeus shrugged and waved them forward. “Climb aboard the chariots then.”

Orion was to ride with Prince Ancaeus of course, while Atalanta and Evenor were to be with the soldiers in the following chariots. Atalanta didn’t like the feel of the armor pressing against her or the men who looked at her as though she were some sort of rodent who had sneaked up between their feet.

The chariot started with a lurch, wheeling about so sharply, she almost fell out. She had to cling to the light wicker frame as the leather straps that formed the floor swayed beneath her feet.

Down the wide road they sped, the horses kicking up dust. Atalanta bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her stomach felt as if it had fallen into her knees and was slowly trying to climb back to its proper place again. It was a long, uncomfortable ride, but the walk would have been longer. Atalanta wasn’t sure which she preferred.

At last Tegea came into view.

Atalanta had never seen a city before. When she bothered to imagine one at all, she’d always assumed a city would look just like the villages she was familiar with, only with more cottages.

The reality was quite different.

A ten-foot-high wall surrounded a mass of brick buildings, many of them two and three stories tall. As the chariots passed through a gateway, armored guards atop the wall saluted.

“Hail, Ancaeus!” they cried.

In the streets people looked down at them from high windows and balconies. Some even walked on the rooftops as though they were walking on the clouds.

Surely this is what Olympus must look like,
Atalanta thought,
the place where the gods live.

They passed grain stores, smithies, bakeries, wine stores, stables, carpentries, and scores of other buildings she couldn’t begin to identify. Wagons had to be wheeled out of the way as the chariots threaded through the crowded streets. Then the chariots turned onto an even wider street at the end of which rose an enormous building which had to be the royal palace.

Surely,
she thought,
it’s the biggest thing ever built by man.

The palace was surrounded by a great wall. It had high towers and ramparts patrolled by stern-looking men in polished bronze armor with huge shields and long spears. The closer the chariots came to the palace, the more impregnable the place seemed.

At last, they pulled through the gates and into the palace courtyard. When she climbed down from the chariot, Atalanta felt her legs wobble unsteadily.

“Why have they put a wall around the city?” she asked Evenor once the queasiness in her stomach had passed. “Is it to keep the people from wandering away and getting lost?”

“Of course not,” he answered with a laugh.

Atalanta was peeved at his response. “Well, that’s why they pen in the sheep and goats back in Eteos.”

“The wall isn’t to keep people in,” Evenor explained patiently. “It’s to keep Tegea’s enemies out.”

“What sort of enemies?”

“Soldiers from another kingdom.”

She gaped at him. “There are
other
kingdoms? Surely not as large as this.”

“Larger,” he assured her.

“Have you been there?”

He laughed. “I’ve never even been
here
.”

She wondered that he was so calm about everything—the ride, the armored men, the high wall. Then another thought struck her. “Why would other kingdoms want to come here?”

He smiled at her and said softly, “Rival cities are like great bulls. Each one wants to control all the territory. So every so often they attack one another. That’s why Tegea has walls.”

She nodded thoughtfully, then said, “If the kingdoms could agree not to attack one another, they could save themselves a lot of bother.”

Evenor put his head to one side, considering. “A queen couldn’t have said better, child.”

Just then Orion walked over, looking both proud and confident. “They’re giving us quarters right in the palace where we can wash up before being presented to the king.”

“Doesn’t he know that you get dirty traveling in a chariot?” Atalanta asked.

“Hush,” Evenor cautioned, but he was smiling.

Orion paid her no attention for he was already following Prince Ancaeus into the palace. Atalanta and Evenor had to move quickly so as not to be left behind.

The inside of the palace was even more astonishing than the outside. Atalanta found herself thinking how cold and unforgiving the white marble floors were for someone used to the softness of grass or the straw-strewn earth floor of a farmer’s cottage. The walls of the palace were also of smooth stone, but these were painted in bright colors. Every few feet oil lanterns set in alcoves gave out a weak, flickering light.

Suddenly the men were guided in one direction and Atalanta was taken in hand by two women—servants by the way they fluttered about—who insisted she go with them.

“Or trouble be on our heads, mistress,” confided the younger.

They brought her up two flights of stairs to a small chamber with a window that overlooked the courtyard, then left. Atalanta ran over to the window, glad of the open air. Glancing down, she saw the horses being led off to the stables, the chariots rolled off into storage. There was no way down from the window. It was too high to jump.

I am here, then, so make the best of it,
she told herself. It was certainly better than being chained to a pillar in the middle of a village. But somehow it felt even more imprisoning.

She turned and went over to the bed, a high mound of straw on a wooden platform. She set her weapons down on the linen coverlet where they sank into the thing as if into quicksand. She scowled.
Imagine sleeping on that!

Suddenly someone giggled behind her. She whirled around to see three new serving girls bustle into the room with bowls of water, towels, combs, and other implements she didn’t recognize. The girls put these items down on the wooden table and surrounded Atalanta, clucking disapprovingly.

“We’d better get these dirty animal skins off,” said one.

“And do something about this,” trilled another, plucking at Atalanta’s matted hair.

The third tutted. “It’s going to take more than that to make this one presentable. Where
does
the king find them?”

Atalanta pushed them away.

“Keep your hands off me!” she roared, whipping out her hunting knife. “Get out! Now!” She slashed the air with her blade.

The servant girls ran screaming from the room, calling for the guards. Closing the door behind them, Atalanta went back to the window.

In a few minutes Evenor came rushing in and looked at the knife in her hand. “What’s going on?” he asked. “I hear you tried to murder somebody.”

“They attacked me,” said Atalanta stubbornly. “They picked at my hair and poked me and…”

Evenor grinned. “I expect they were just trying to clean you up. Look, here’s a bowl and cloth. Pretend you’re by a stream and wash the dirt off your face and arms. Let the girls come back and help you get dressed.”

“Why should I?” Atalanta demanded sullenly.

“Because you want to go on the hunt,” Evenor answered.

“What does washing have to do with the hunt?” She felt hungry and angry and tired all in equal measure.

“It has to do with
royalty,
Atalanta” he answered with cold patience. “Kings appreciate washing and
this
king is putting together the hunt for the mantiger. Please him, and you can go as Orion’s protégée. Fight him—and you’re on your own.”

She glared.

Evenor continued. “Look at me—I’ve already washed. Am I less a hunter? What’s a little bit of water and a few fine clothes if it means we rid the world of that awful beast.”

She ground her teeth in frustration, but she knew he was right.

An hour later they were walking to the throne room behind Orion. He was in a white chiton, cinched with a leather belt, the lion skin cape over his shoulder looking freshly brushed. His dark hair gleamed with oil and his sandals were oiled and polished.

Evenor was dressed in a simpler chiton, girdled at the waist with a woven belt.

At least they look comfortable,
Atalanta thought. She’d been put into a short-sleeved gown that reached to her ankles. It kept catching between her legs, tripping her up. She could no longer stride as she was used to, but was forced to take shorter, mincing steps. She hated it. There were three gold pins in her hair.

As they walked down the hallway, flanked by a pair of richly-garbed courtiers, there were murmurs of admiration.

Gritting her teeth, Atalanta tried to keep up with the men and kept failing. A lock of her hair had come loose from one of the pins.

Evenor dropped back to walk with her.

“Remember, you have to bow before the king,” he reminded her in a whisper.

She spit out a reply. “Why? Does he need to see the top of my head before he can talk to me?”

Evenor sighed. “Really, Atalanta, you’re too stubborn for your own good. We have customs back in Eteos, too.”

“Yes, I know, and they’re just as stupid,” she said. “Like making sacrifices to the gods when they don’t really need anything we can give them.”

Evenor groaned. “By Hermes, don’t let the king hear you. They are big on sacrifices here.”

“I don’t much like gods or kings,” said Atalanta, her voice tight. “And I don’t mind if any of them know it.” She remembered Pan laughing at her. “Not that they care.

A set of double doors opened before them, and they were ushered into the presence of King Iasus. Armored soldiers lined up along the walls, their spears held out at arm’s length. A cluster of courtiers in colorful robes stood to one side of the king, whispering comments as the newcomers approached.

Orion fell to one knee in front of the throne where Iasus, his beard curled into tight dark rings, watched them.

“Welcome, Orion, son of Hyrieus,” said the king, holding out his hand.

Atalanta felt a dig in her back from Evenor, but she couldn’t move. Her eyes were fixed upon the great crimson banner hanging behind the throne. Emblazoned upon it in gold was the stylized image of a boar—exactly the same image as that on the ring that was hanging around her neck and hidden only by the flimsy bodice of her dress.

T
HE KING CLAPPED HIS
hands, the sound echoing in the great hall. “A banquet for my guests,” he called. “And send in the court poet.”

Atalanta was relieved to hear there would be food, for they hadn’t eaten a thing since arriving in Tegea. She sat where instructed, on a bench next to Evenor with a long table in front of them. To her right was a woman with a cascade of blond hair pinned up with a red flower who seemed to shrink away from her.

“I’m starving,” Atalanta whispered to Evenor. She could hear her stomach growling.
Perhaps that was why the woman moved away.
It didn’t matter. Once the food arrived, her belly would be quieted.

However, the court poet arrived first—a small weasel-faced man, his skin as pitted as a stone wall. The food was delayed while he sang a poem in honor of Orion. His recitation went on and on, listing every beast Orion presumably had ever slain.

Even the king began to look bored. Or hungry. Or both.

When the song finally ended and the servants came in bearing great platters of food, the hall erupted into unrestrained cheers.
Less for the singer and more for the food,
Atalanta guessed, refusing to join in the applause.

Instead, she gazed up again at the royal banner above King Iasus. Fingering the ring under her gown, she hardly dared to imagine what connection there was between herself and the royal house of Arcadia.
Would the king know?