Mood Riders (16 page)

“What is it?” Centaurea asked.

They were all concerned at the way she looked. Nothing frightened Penthesilea, but for once she was clearly shaken. “We must find somewhere to talk in secret,” she told them. “I cannot speak the words out loud here in this bustling place.”

So in silence they hurried back the way they’d come and out of the city. They found a quiet spot beside a stream and only then did Penthesilea manage to tell them what she’d learned.

“Sit down close together,” she insisted. “Take the princess by the hand and pour her some of the shepherds’ wine.”

They followed her instructions fearfully. Myrina had a terrible sense of foreboding growing deep inside her stomach.

Penthesilea began, choosing her words carefully. “Iphigenia is here in the palace,” she told them. “I pretended to the olive woman that we wished to sell one of our best horses to pull the wedding cart. Well, she looked at me as though I must be mad or stupid. ‘You don’t still believe that, do you?’ she said. ‘I thought everyone in Aulis knew by now. The old priest of Chalcis has had a message from Artemis: he swears the wind will not change direction and allow the ships to sail unless a sacrifice is made.’”

Myrina and Centaurea were still puzzled. It wasn’t unusual to sacrifice a lamb or a deer or a goat when a fleet was setting off, but Cassandra began to shudder.

“Look to the princess,” Penthesilea cried. “Give her a sip of wine.”

“No.” Cassandra pushed the cup away. “I do not need wine. I have known this horror deep in my heart ever since that dream. I have known this foulness but I couldn’t look it in the face.”

“What horror?” Myrina took her friend’s hand and then she remembered the terrible words that Cassandra had used to describe her dream. “I saw a knife held above Iphigenia’s throat.”

The growing sense of sickness inside Myrina’s stomach threatened to make her vomit. She clapped her hand over her mouth. “This is it!” she cried. “This is why the king looks away from his daughter with shame. They are going to sacrifice Iphigenia!”

Penthesilea nodded, her face gray and grim. They all sat there for a moment clinging together as they began to understand. The wedding plan had only been a ruse to get the princess to Aulis.

Then Penthesilea spoke again with determination. “But we are here to stop this foul thing and we will. How, I don’t know, but we have come here to carry Iphigenia away and now we cannot allow ourselves to fail.”

“We must think.” Centaurea was trying to be calm and practical. “We must find out where and when this sacrifice takes place. We must find out every last scrap of information. Who will be there? Does the princess know? Does her mother know?”

Cassandra shook her head. “I think Iphigenia lives in innocence. I cannot believe her mother knows, for she does love her child though she treats her like a doll.”

“We must set out and spend the afternoon listening,” Centaurea insisted. “Though we need one another at this moment, we will find out much more if we split up and wander about separately. We’ll meet here again, at sundown.”

“Will you be all right alone?” Myrina was concerned about Cassandra.

But the princess nodded, swallowing hard. “I feel better now,” she said. “The wickedness is shared; it’s not mine to bear alone. I can be strong for Iphigenia and I will be.”

Penthesilea bent and rubbed Cassandra’s shoulders. “Well done,” she cried. “We are Moon Riders, we are Amazons; we will find a way through this!”

“I know when the sacrifice is planned,” Cassandra told them. “It is on the evening of the full moon; tomorrow at sundown.”

They should have known. Cassandra had continually told them that the full moon was the moment of greatest danger.

They met again that evening by the little stream to share the knowledge that they’d gained. It hadn’t been too difficult, for the whole of Aulis was buzzing with the news and, though some were sorry for the young princess, many had little love for Agamemnon and his family.

“This priest Chalcis is a wicked man.” Centaurea spat on the ground. “It seems that the fleet has been restless here for months and unable to sail for Troy against the cold wind that blows down from the north. He has told the generals that the wind will change only if this sacrifice is made.”

“But the wind always blows from the north at this time of year,” Myrina said. “It blows down from the Black Sea, right through the Hellespont until the full of the moon and the Month of Flowers, then it dies away and a warm steady wind begins to blow from the south.”

“We know that, and the priest knows that,” Centaurea said. “And I swear Agamemnon must know that the winds will change soon, whatever Artemis wishes.”

“Achilles must know that, too,” Penthesilea insisted. “He’s done enough sailing; I hear he lives in splendor at the palace, along with the rest.”

“Is he a party to the plan?” Myrina asked.

Penthesilea shook her head. “He is in a great rage, having just discovered it. Though I hate the man bitterly, it seems this sacrifice is even too horrible for him to stomach.”

“Then why in the name of the Mother and Artemis are they doing it?” Myrina was almost despairing.

“It’s their generals,” Centaurea insisted. “And that priest. Many are men who’ve never been away from their homes before. They understand little of winds and sailing and they are desperate to get to Troy and fight if they must so that they may return home again as quickly as they can. They are full of ignorance and fear.”

“Yes,” Penthesilea agreed. “There is real danger of rebellion if this evil priest is disobeyed. The great mass of warriors are with him and demand the sacrifice.”

Cassandra suddenly lurched forward, her lips twisted as though in pain. Myrina grabbed her and held her tight. “What is it?”

“She knows,” Cassandra whispered. “Iphigenia knows what they plan; her mind has gone dark with fear.”

They looked at one another for a moment, frozen as ice, trying to understand what the young princess must be feeling. It was too much—too bitter, too terrible to bear.

Then Penthesilea shook herself back into being practical again. “We need to find out where this is to take place.”

“I know that,” Cassandra told them. “An altar is being prepared in front of the temple in the grove of Artemis, on the hill above the palace.”

“Well done.” Penthesilea would have no sorrow, only action. “Now we have all the information that we need and I know what we will do.”

They spent a restless night, but on the following afternoon they stood together in a tiny circle, heads bent in prayer to Maa; beside them tethered and steadily cropping the grass was a small and perfect white deer. “If all moon goddesses are one,” Penthesilea whispered, “may the Lady Artemis and our own Moon Mother join together and help us this night!”

Then slowly, very slowly they raised their arms to the sky, dancing to the right and then to the left, tiny shimmering movements flowing from their hands and feet. They performed the most magical dance known to them, an ancient dance of power. Somewhere far away to the north an Old Woman sat beside her camp watching them in her mirror, while the whole great company of Moon Riders performed the same sacred dance, sending to Aulis all the magical strength they possessed.

A
S SOON AS
the sun began to slip toward the horizon, the four women ceased their dancing. Penthesilea took hold of the young deer firmly. “Forgive me, little one,” she murmured. Then she brought the hard muscular heel of her hand down sharply on the back of its neck, dealing instant death.

The others helped her to strap the carcass, still warm, onto her belly. They covered it carefully with her cloak, so that Penthesilea bore the unmistakable shape of a pregnant woman near to her time.

They set off, leading their horses toward the public entrance to the place of sacrifice. Many people walked beside them, young and old, thronging the streets and heading up toward the hill to see the sacrifice performed. Some of their faces were blank, but some were lined with sorrow; a few of them wept.

They passed by the palace and found a small group of bystanders gathered about the walls, pointing and distracted. They heard loud bangs and thumps coming from one of the high windows, and then the sound of splintering wood. The guards who stood by the gates ran back inside, leaving their posts unattended.

“It’s Clytemnestra,” the whisper spread from person to person.

Myrina stopped by the gates, hesitating. “No.” Penthesilea shook her head. “We must ignore it. Iphigenia must be our only concern if we are to succeed.”

Myrina nodded; Penthesilea was right. They turned away and moved on toward the temple of Artemis.

Centaurea stopped at the gates. She carefully gathered all the horses together, then wishing the other three well she turned away, leading the mares to a patch of fresh grass at the bottom of the sacred grove.

Penthesilea led the way, followed by Myrina and Cassandra, who clung together, hand in hand. With steady determination, Penthesilea pushed to the front, the other two following in her wake.

Whispers flew around the crowd. “Does the princess come willingly?”

“Clytemnestra is locked up in her room, guards at her door. You can hear her screams of rage from outside the palace.”

“Where’s Agamemnon?”

“He will not come, but sends his brother in his place, while he calls for a pitcher of the strongest wine.”

“His wife swears that she will bring the foulest revenge. Her curses are enough to frighten the strongest warrior.”

A young woman with a baby in her arms shuddered. “I’m glad it’s not my child who must die.”

Penthesilea could not contain herself. “Many a mother’s child shall die,” she told the woman fiercely, “before these kings are done with their war on Troy.”

There was silence all about them for a moment and Myrina caught her breath. Those about them looked with suspicion on the two strange women with decorated cheeks. But then the woman who’d been speaking looked with pity on Penthesilea’s swollen stomach. “What you say is true,” she answered.

“Aye . . . true.” Agreement came from all around.

At last they stood before the stone altar and Cassandra saw with a gasp that the glittering gold knife of her dream lay upon it. Flames rose from a gilded fire-basin. Behind the altar stood the sacred grove with the statue of the goddess, forbidden to all but the high priest and priestess.

“It is death to anyone who goes in there,” Myrina whispered.

“It is death to anyone who does what we plan,” Penthesilea answered. Then she added with bitter humor, “If they are caught!”

Myrina almost smiled, though her stomach churned fiercely.

The crowd began to chant, swaying from side to side.

“Where is he?” Penthesilea hissed. “Where is this bloody man that calls himself a priest?”

Three notes were heard on a flute followed by the light tinkling of cymbals, then from down the steps of the temple a procession slowly came into view. “There he is.” Myrina nodded. “Ah—how can they?”

Ten young girls led the procession. They were dressed in long tunics dyed in a rainbow of colors, the fine material swirling as they danced. Two clicked cymbals while the others began strewing flowers onto the ground. If the purpose of it all had not been so terrible, it would have been beautiful.

Then at last they saw Iphigenia, a small figure dressed in a long white tunic that fell to the ground; about her neck was a single silver crescent moon. Her face was bloodless and blank; almost, Myrina thought, as though she were already dead. She walked forward as though in a dream, stumbling a little, but then somehow moving on.

Staying calm for that moment was the hardest thing that Myrina had ever done; Penthesilea, too, had great difficulty holding back. For two pins she’d have leaped up, dagger at the ready, and killed the priest where he stood. Cassandra went very still and white, never taking her eyes from Iphigenia’s face.

“You must make her see you,” Penthesilea whispered.

It seemed that Iphigenia saw nobody: not the dancing girls or the crowd. The priest arrived at the altar and picked up the knife, turning to urge his victim forward. At that moment Cassandra let her veil slip from her face. It slid down her back and onto the floor; her blue and green eyes burning into the face of Iphigenia, slowly she touched her hand to her brow, in the priestess’s salute.