Mood Riders (25 page)

Penthesilea shrugged her shoulders and laughed. “Every army needs its secret agents,” she said. “It’s true enough that two crafty spies may achieve more than a whole gang of armed raiders.” A shadow of deep sadness crossed her face. “It is just that such a way is not for me. Take care of our brave young fire star—I swear she will spit flames at those Ant Men.”

T
HEY STAYED TOGETHER
that night, feasting around the campfire and performing dances to honor the horses, imitating their delicate stepping movements and their powerful warlike gallop to end the night. The slow, sleepy moon-dance sent them to their sleeping cushions, and in the morning Penthesilea and her gang set off for the Place of Flowing Waters, leading the Mazagardi herd, while Myrina and Yildiz turned their horses back to Troy, braids bound up in scarves like traveling tribeswomen, their bows and arrows hidden once again.

They kept to the high ground, well away from the Achaean camping sites, even though it was a much longer way around. Myrina was cautious, knowing that they’d be killed at once should they be recognized as the women who’d led the horses away. Twice they saw Achaean raiding gangs in the distance, and dismounted to hide among scrub and rocks until the men were well past.

Again they waited till dusk before they attempted to go down toward the hidden Eastern Gate, but they were cheered to see that an armed party of Thracian allies, with their distinctive topknots, were now camped outside the walls in the lower town. Good smells of cooking food and the sound of a blacksmith’s hammer were bringing the half-ruined shacks back to life. The hidden doors behind the curtain wall stood open once again and it seemed that the food and the sight of the Mazagardi horses’ breakout had truly put new strength and determination into the Trojan cause.

Cassandra was up there on the tower with the lookouts. She came running down to greet them as soon as she saw them leading their horses through the smoky pathways of the Thracian camp.

Myrina and Cassandra hugged each other tightly, while Yildiz hung back a little awkwardly. When at last they pulled away from each other, Cassandra turned to the young girl. “Welcome, Little Star,” she said, holding out both her hands to her. “You were a very little star when I last clapped eyes on you; now you shine as bright as the moon.”

Yildiz smiled, but could not help but stare at the princess. Though she was used to the body pictures of the Moon Riders that some found strange enough, she hadn’t remembered from her early childhood that Cassandra had one green eye and one deep blue, just like the Aegean Sea that edged the plain of Troy.

“You are too thin,” Myrina butted in, putting her hands out to circle Cassandra’s tiny waist. “You must start eating the food we brought. Remember what Atisha taught us: ‘Strength comes from a good appetite.’”

Cassandra laughed. “We’ve all done nothing but eat since your caravan of carts arrived,” she told her. “But before that we were close to starvation.” Her voice shook a little and the smile fled. “You will see others just as thin as me. Troy is a very different place from the city you remember. We managed quite well so long as we had allies camped outside and we could keep the top gates open for supplies, but after Hector died . . . Well, all our hopes died, too.”

“It must have been hard,” Myrina sympathized.

Cassandra nodded. “Particularly for my mother . . . you will see. Of late the Achaeans have set up a guard to stop food getting through to us. I think they meant to starve us out, but never mind that now—you have come to our rescue and my father wishes to see you. I cannot tell you how grateful we are. Come up to the palace and we’ll find somewhere for your horses; we have so few left—the stables are crammed with other beasts.”

Cassandra led the way and they followed her through the streets, staring about them as they went. To Yildiz all was new and interesting, but to Myrina, who remembered the elegant, wide walkways of the citadel, there was much that was shocking. Little huts and shacks had been built everywhere, crammed inside the old palatial dwellings. They sheltered ragged children and desperate-looking women, who bowed to them as they passed, crying out in the Luvvian language their gratitude for the food and drink.

They followed Cassandra through winding alleyways and as they walked Myrina had time to look at her friend more closely. Cassandra was now dressed like a beggar, the hems of her once fine, layered skirt frayed and ragged. She remembered the beautiful saffron priestess’s gown that her friend had worn when they first met.

As they strode on, women and children fell to kissing their feet, which troubled both Myrina and Yildiz. As Cassandra had warned, many who sheltered inside the walls had arms and legs like sticks, and their bloated bellies told of hunger sickness.

“How are you giving out the food?” Myrina asked, suddenly understanding that it would not be an easy task.

“Don’t worry.” Cassandra smiled. “Bremusa and Alcibie are taking charge of that and rationing it strictly so that all are fed, but none can gorge. They even rationed my father, and he accepted that they were right!”

Myrina was amazed. She could not imagine the proud old King of Troy taking orders from a young Moon Rider, although Bremusa had always been a determined person to argue with. But when she met him, she understood.

King Priam had grown thin; his shoulders were hunched and he stooped. His face was deeply lined with sorrow and his hands shook as he shuffled forward to welcome them. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he bent to kneel before Myrina, but she begged him not to. It touched her deeply to see this once proud and stubborn man so humble. Queen Hecuba also looked very different: her gown was worn and a stale smell seemed to hang about her. Her once bejeweled throat was grubby and bare. She smiled briefly at Myrina as though she recognised her vaguely, but her eyes quickly moved on, constantly searching each face as though her interest lay elsewhere.

“It’s Hector’s death that has brought them to this,” Cassandra whispered. “While Hector lived and fought for us they had hope, but since his terrible death and dishonorable treatment my mother cannot seem to make sense of anything and she refuses to wash or put on fresh clothes.”

Myrina stretched out her hand to comfort her friend. She had heard of troubles turning people’s minds like this. “It’s not that she has naught to wear?” she asked.

Cassandra shook her head. “She refuses.” She smiled ruefully. “And I cannot seem to find time to dress as I should.”

In a mist of perfume Helen arrived, followed by Prince Paris. “I remember you, my sweet Moon Rider,” she cried, kissing Myrina on both cheeks. Myrina saw that Helen had the sense to dress plainly in these difficult times, but she still smelled of roses and her hair was washed and carefully arranged in gleaming golden ringlets that bore just a touch of silver-gray.

Though Myrina wanted to feel angry with this dangerous woman who had brought such trouble to Anatolia, she found herself smiling at her. Helen still had her beauty, but it was her warmth and charm that made it impossible to hate her. She had borne Paris two sons during the years they’d been besieged by the Achaeans, and her shape was just a little more matronly than before.

Myrina saw that Yildiz gaped in open-mouthed admiration at the Queen of Sparta.

“And who is this proud warrior-child?” Helen asked, stretching out her hand to stroke Yildiz’ cheek.

“Yildiz, my sister’s child. Her mother was killed by the Ant Men and now she calls me Mother.”

Helen’s eyes clouded over. “So much death,” she murmured. “And I fear that you will hold me to blame.”

“No.” Yildiz spoke up at once. “The Ant Men are to blame.”

Helen bent to kiss her. “Thank you for that, my darling.”

Myrina sighed and shook her head. “You are just the excuse they use,” she acknowledged. “We Mazagardi knew well enough that they would come sooner or later; my father always warned of it. They want our lands—they want to control the passage through to the Black Sea.”

Paris came to join them and bowed politely to Myrina. He was thinner and his hair was flecked with gray; a lot of his swagger seemed to have gone and his cheek bore a long scar. “I remember the bareback rider,” he said. “We are greatly indebted to you. My father begs that you will eat with us.”

When Myrina entered the great feasting hall of the palace, she was again shaken by the changes that had taken place. The walls, once covered with gleaming brazen shields, were bare, the tables scrubbed clean, but worn and battered. Once gleaming with golden bowls and goblets, they were now laid with gray earthenware—though at least there were plenty of wholesome olives, bread, and cheese, which Myrina recognized as part of the supplies they had brought. She smiled with amusement as she saw that Bremusa had taken charge of the palace kitchen and was ordering servants back and forth.

“Thank goodness you are here.” Bremusa came to clap her on the back, full of relief to see her. “We were worried that you’d get into trouble out there. Your charge of horses was a sight to see, Snake Lady. Like a rolling thunderstorm of dust and manes! We couldn’t stop to cheer when we saw you take off, but by Maa we cheered once we were safe inside.”

Myrina and Yildiz were invited to sit at the high table and Myrina was surprised to see that now the men mingled together with the women in a much more equal manner than before. Ragged women and children crammed together next to Thracian warriors on the lower tables. The hall thrummed with the babble of voices, all talking and arguing in many different languages, some with voices raised in frustration, others waving their hands about, trying to make themselves understood by using signs: it seemed that many boundaries had been removed by the sharing of bitter hardship and suffering.

Cassandra saw her taking it all in and smiled, and Myrina suddenly understood. “You have done this,” she approved. “You have got rid of the separate tables for men.”

“There are so few men left, it wasn’t worth it,” her friend replied. “We women must now do much of the work the men once did, and the weaving slaves work all over the citadel. There’s no time for producing fine fabrics—that’s another reason why our clothes hang together by threads.”

Myrina remembered the royal princes’ table, crowded about with Priam’s many offspring, Hector at their head. The warrior lord Aeneas, leader of the Dardanian allies, seemed to have taken charge of the defense of Troy; he sat at the head of the table in what had once been Hector’s place. There was Paris there beside him, and his younger brother Deiphobus, whom she had never liked—but where were the others and their serving men, grooms, and armor-bearers? The chilling answer came to her as she remembered the dreadful stinking pit of ashes that she’d skirted outside the citadel walls.

M
YRINA COULD EAT
little as the meal progressed, her head so full of memories of musicians who strummed on lyres to accompany beautifully clad dancers. The diners were served now by slave women in worn smocks, rope anklets tied above their bare feet. Myrina could see that they had been brought in from the weaving sheds and dye tubs, for some of them had arms and feet tainted purple or blue.

Even before the war started, Myrina had hated the sight of the long low sheds where these women were tied up at their work. They had spent their days fastened to a bench, while they dyed and spun and wove the beautiful fabrics that had once contributed to the riches of Troy. At least now they were able to move about the citadel, instead of being fastened up all day.