Mood Riders (28 page)

Coronilla crouched beside her and stroked her arm. “Nothing could have stopped Yildiz. Not Cassandra, not you—none of us. She was secretly determined to get her revenge, carrying burning anger within her all the way from the flames of her home-tent to Troy.”

Wearily Myrina nodded, then stumbled to her feet. “But where is Cassandra? I must put things right with her.”

“Nobody has seen her all day,” Alcibie told her. “But there is a slave woman called Akasya who has been waiting in the passage, saying that Cassandra sent her to you.”

“Ah yes.” Myrina struggled to clear her mind. She went outside and sure enough there was a young woman, standing erect, rough rope links about her ankles.

“Akasya?”

“Yes . . . Snake Lady. I am your slave to do your bidding all through the day, but I must return to the huts at night, after the evening meal.”

Myrina nodded. It seemed a lifetime ago that she had stood there with Cassandra watching the dancing slaves. “Where is the princess now?”

Akasya shook her head. “I do not know for sure, but when the princess is troubled she often goes to the temple of the Trojan sun god and talks to Theano the priestess.”

“Can you take me there?”

“Yes, Snake Lady.”

Akasya led the way and Myrina hurried after her. She found the princess white and trembling, deep in conversation with an older woman who wore a ragged saffron priestess’s robe. Cassandra looked up and, when she saw that it was Myrina, turned her face away.

Myrina went to kneel before her. “Forgive me, my friend,” she whispered.

Cassandra turned around at once and hugged her. The priestess quietly left them and they wept together for what seemed a long time. When at last they raised their heads, Myrina remembered her maid. Akasya stood obediently in the shadows by the doorway, her own face wet with silent tears.

Aeneas greeted Myrina the next morning. “The King of Ithaca has arranged a truce, Snake Lady,” he said. “We may lead a funeral procession out to the Tomb of Dancing Myrina and there build a pyre. None of the Achaean warriors will attack until sunrise tomorrow.”

The Moon Riders thanked him and at noon a procession headed out through the lower town, carrying the small body toward the sacred mound.

What was left of the Trojan royal family came with them to the Southern Gate, but Priam declined to go farther, offering his apologies, uncertain that the Achaean truce would respect him and his own. Myrina was glad to leave them behind, for she felt that they had little knowledge of Yildiz. Cassandra insisted on accompanying them, and as the smaller party walked farther out into no-man’s-land Myrina saw that Akasya was there unbidden, moving determinedly behind her new mistress, keeping her distance but always there within call.

Myrina’s gang and Cassandra performed the slow dance for the dead about the burning pyre.

“I was the first to hold her in my arms when she was born,” Myrina whispered as the dance came to a quiet ending.

“And you were the last to hold her when she died,” Bremusa agreed. “That was right and good.”

A
S THE FUNERAL
pyre burned low, the sun began to set in the west. Myrina looked at the ragged fringe of dark shapes that were Agamemnon’s huts and tents all along the dark peaceful blue of the Aegean Sea. The smoke from their campfires rose into the sky and small movements of carts and wagons made them look almost domestic. Each war leader’s own small camp was set slightly separate from the others, as with any great meeting of the nomadic tribes. The thought came to Myrina that most of them were just ordinary men, who must wish desperately that they were at home. Why did they not pack up and go?

As she stood there, watching, two Trojan guards rode out from the Southern Gate and spoke to Coronilla. She came at once to Myrina. “We should go back within the city walls,” she said. “The guards have seen dust rising in the east.”

“They swore there would be no attack.” Bremusa’s hand went to her bow strap.

Cassandra turned her head toward Mount Ida. “This is no Achaean attack; the War God’s Daughter comes,” she said, pointing toward the distant peak, her blue and green eyes staring wildly. “She comes at the head of an army and they will fight for Troy.”

They all looked at her with concern.

“Who comes?” Myrina asked, her mind still cloudy with sadness. But though Cassandra gave no answer, she suddenly knew. “Ah . . . it’s Penthesilea. I should have known. She has looked in her mirror and seen Yildiz—she has seen it all.”

“Of course,” Bremusa agreed, suddenly animated. “She could not watch our firefly die and stand by. She’ll lead the Thracians and the Phrygians to avenge the child, and I say she does right!”

“But have the Ethiopians come?” Myrina asked. “Has she got the allies all together at her back? I should have looked in my mirror. I should have looked for Tomi.”

“I can see them,” Bremusa cried, pointing in the direction of Ida.

Everyone turned to look and it wasn’t long before they could all see the dust rising and the dark movement of riders.

“They are here!” Bremusa was shouting wildly and waving. On the far eastern horizon the shapes of warriors on horseback with banners aloft, riding fast in full body armor, emerged from the cloud of dust that rose before them. They looked magnificent.

Myrina’s gang leaped up and down, lifting their voices in the ululating Moon Riders’ joy-cry. Myrina could not help but feel a surge of fierce pride at the sight of them as they galloped over the higher land above the plain of Troy.

The Achaeans had got wind of what was happening and the warning sound of horns could be heard all along the camps by the sea. Penthesilea rode at the head of the army, leading the warrior priestesses in their battle caps and leather greaves, racing toward the Mound of Dancing Myrina. Thracians, Phrygians, and Pelagian warriors followed, fierce Paeonian bowmen, muscular Cicones, Mysians, and Carians, all armed to the teeth. They slowed their horses as they approached and dismounted, gathering about the smoking pyre, falling on their knees to pay their respects to the lost firefly.

Myrina was deeply moved to see so many battle- hardened warriors honoring Yildiz, but she looked about, anxiously longing for a glimpse of Tomi’s broad shoulders and square jaw. He was not to be seen and nowhere could she spy the dark skins of the Ethiopian warriors. “Where is King Memnon?” she cried.

Cassandra shook her head and her mouth was grim. “I fear our brave Penthesilea has come without the Ethiopians.”

Myrina strode through the crowd toward Penthesilea. She grabbed her by the shoulder and shouted at her, “Where are the Ethiopians? Where is King Memnon?”

“A fine welcome!” Penthesilea’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I swore that I would avenge your Little Star and so I shall. I will not wait for warriors from distant lands, who may never come!”

“You swore to wait for King Memnon,” Myrina spat back at her. “You have come at half strength!”

Penthesilea rose to her full height, snarling with fury. “Half strength? I will show you what half strength can do! I shall blow the war horns and ride at once to Achilles’ tents and challenge that foul murderer to fight. How dare you challenge my right?”

Myrina, half dazed, saw that Akasya had moved fast to her side, but then Cassandra stepped in front of them both.

“No, dear friend,” the princess said calmly to Penthesilea. “The Achaeans have sworn a truce today so that we may lay Yildiz properly to rest. It would bring shame to her memory if that truce were broken. Tomorrow when the sun rises—that is the time for you to fight.”

Cassandra’s words cooled Penthesilea’s anger, for the thought of acting dishonorably was terrible to the fierce Moon Rider.

Myrina’s anger and disappointment also slipped away. Penthesilea had spoken fairly. What right had she to decide what should or should not be done? Surely her own carelessness had been partly to blame for the loss of Yildiz? “Forgive me,” she said, catching Penthesilea by her shoulder in a more loving way. “My anger at Yildiz’s fate makes me turn on those most dear to me. I should have protected the child and kept her safe—it is I whom you should challenge, for I have neglected her.”

Penthesilea engulfed her at once in a fierce hug. “I saw her in my mirror,” she whispered. “I watched as every flaming arrow flew to its target. None of us could have prevented it. Cassandra is right! Tomorrow we will rid the shores of Anatolia of these murdering invaders. Come, Snake Lady, you and I must not fall out.”

“No—we will not,” Myrina agreed.

Then the army of Trojan allies led their horses steadily toward the city, while lanterns and lights along the shoreline bobbed in the distance as great numbers of Achaean warriors watched them with swords drawn and spears at the ready.

King Priam stood at the Southern Gate to greet them, along with Aeneas. Hecuba was there, dressed in her finest gown and looking cleaner, her face wreathed in smiles. “My son is coming home, my son is coming home,” she whispered to all who would listen.

The arrival of Penthesilea had been seen from the high towers of the citadel and at once a feast had been prepared. There were so many horses to accommodate that corrals had to be set up again outside the walls, but this time with Trojan guards. Myrina could not help but feel that it was unwise to hold such a feast, as the food they had brought from the Isle of Marble was half consumed already.

“We couldn’t persuade your father to hold back a little?” she asked Cassandra.

The princess looked as sad as ever. “My father is a stubborn man,” she whispered. “He will rarely listen to advice and I suppose he believes that tomorrow will bring us victory at last.”

“And what do you think?”

Cassandra shook her head. “I see a bloodred mist hanging over the Trojan plain,” she murmured. “Nothing can be stopped. Nothing can be changed.”

“We do not need this feast—it is foolishness,” Myrina insisted. “Our food should be saved. Everything is going wrong—I can see that so clearly—and yet I have no power to make things different.”

Cassandra looked at her sharply—a look of recognition, almost of joy.

Myrina understood. “This is how you feel, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the princess replied. “All the time, all the time! But it is not in our power to change these things and somehow we must accept them. There is good there as well as evil. We will have a feast and perhaps it is only right that our firefly should have her funeral supper.”

“Yes,” Myrina agreed at last. “That is the only way that I can face it. This is a feast for Yildiz.”

Akasya came forward with a clean gown for her to wear, one of Cassandra’s, worn and mended but still beautiful. Myrina challenged the slave woman: “You were not afraid of the Moon Riders’ fierce leader then?”

“No.” Akasya shook her head. “In the streets of Troy they call her the War God’s Daughter, but now I realize that she would not have hurt you, Snake Lady.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that!” Myrina smiled.

The feast was lavish by recent standards; wine was mixed and poured and all the Trojans raised their cups to Penthesilea. “To the War God’s Daughter!” they cried.

Helen and Paris made a grand entrance in their finery and jewels, rarely seen in war-torn Troy, their two small children, led by their nurses, behind them.

The War God’s Daughter eyed them both with suspicion, but Helen worked her charm even on such a one as Penthesilea, who was little impressed by jewels and fine clothes.

Later, flushed with wine and compliments, Penthesilea told Myrina that she could understand the prince’s desire for the woman. “She’s not as beautiful as I had heard,” Penthesilea judged. “But still the woman has a warmth and a vulnerability that makes me want to protect her, and . . . despite her look of helplessness, she’s no fool.”

“You are right,” Myrina agreed. Helen had pointed out to her that while Troy was rejoicing in the arrival of Penthesilea, on the shoreward side of the city three small boats had set sail from Agamemnon’s camp over to the island of Tenedos.

“What do you think that means?” Myrina had asked.

Helen smiled her charming smile and her mouth twitched a little wryly at the corners. “Reinforcements?” she replied, shrugging her shoulders.

Myrina said nothing. Whether there were Achaean reinforcements coming or not, there would be no stopping Penthesilea from fighting in the morning, of that she was very sure.