Quiver (4 page)

ELEVEN

I gathered my few belongings and made my farewells.

“Remember us,” said Castor, and my mouth trembled. Feeling the press of his warm, sure hand on my head, I whispered that I would see him soon, for to say anything else would have made me cry.

Then we set off down the mountain. The men, who had introduced themselves curtly as Mataios and Perifanos, led their horses down the steep, rocky trails in silence. From time to time the horses slid, and the men exchanged uneasy glances. They might have done better fetching me on mountain goats, I thought spitefully.

Before long, Aura and I forgot ourselves and went too far ahead of them. The first time we were lost to their view, I heard Mataios—the elder—call out, “Princess!”

I stopped in my tracks.

Princess! I thought, jarred by the sound of it. As we waited there, I wondered if Meleager’s uncle Plexippus, who had called me a slut with dirt between her toes (and he was right about the dirt), might have curbed his rage if he had known I was royalty. Perhaps. Most certainly he would still be alive.

I scowled, disliking the memory and where it led. My visit to the oracle had eased my mind about the Hunt and its terrible consequences, and I could think of them now with some measure of calm. Still, I did not like to think of them at all.

Then, as I stood there, the first of my oracle dreams came back to me.

The skeletal man beckoned, and I knew that he was King Iasus, the father who had left me to die when I was born. I knew also that he was weak, nearly moribund, yet possessed of a strong malevolence. My fear of the bloody bowls at his feet gave him great satisfaction.

I wondered if the king intended to harm me, and if the entrails were indeed human. Everyone knew that human sacrifice was still practiced in some parts of Arcadia. Was the king inviting me to sacrifice myself?

I shivered. And where was the queen? Nowhere in the dream, I thought. Absent, just as she had been absent from my life.

With this thought the men reached us. They were panting, and their horses were blowing a little. Dark patches of sweat marked their coats.

“The paths up here are difficult,” I observed.

Mataios caught his breath. “You do not seem to find them so,” he said.

“I know them well,” I replied.

“Are we far from the field with the shepherd’s hut?” he asked.

“No, it is—” I was interrupted by a high-pitched, wavering call, like an eerie scream. It was not the call of any bird I knew.

The horses’ ears shot forward and a low, ruffling sound came from deep within their throats. Perifanos’ horse backed a little, tossing his head. Then he, too, cried out shrilly, and from a distance the call came back.

“There they are,” said Mataios with evident relief.

“More horses?” I asked.

“One more,” said Perifanos, and now he was smiling. “For you.”

Her name was Callisto. She was dainty and copper-colored, adorned with tassels, and when she saw us, she whinnied again, swishing her tail. Her eyes and lashes were dark, and her flaring nostrils were pink, like the inside of a shell. She was beautiful.

The boy at her side patted her neck soothingly.

“Is she named for the nymph?” I asked. Callisto, a lovely wood nymph, was pursued by Lord Zeus and bore him a son. Hoping to protect her from his wife Hera’s jealousy, Zeus changed the nymph into a bear. Hera promptly sent Artemis on a bear hunt, so Zeus vaulted Callisto into the heavens. Now a bear made of stars, she floats in the night sky.

Perifanos had jumped off his horse. As it munched the sparse greenery, he nodded. I was pleased. The appearance of a horse with a bear’s name seemed like a good omen. Any reminder that Artemis had sent a bear to save my life gladdened me, and now my spirits rose a little.

“Callisto,” I said, and her ear flicked back, then forward. To my delight, she licked my hand when I held it out to her.

Perifanos, who leaned against his horse, smiled.

“We should be going,” Mataios said. “We have a long ride. Koris, help the princess up,” he added brusquely.

As Koris came around to me, I watched to see how Perifanos mounted. He stood at his horse’s side with his hands placed lightly on its back, then jumped, swinging his right leg up and over. Then he was astride, reins in hand, as if the wind god Zephyrus had blown him there on the gentlest of breezes. The feat seemed effortless, but I knew it was not. Every muscle in Perifanos’ back had flexed when he rose.

Standing next to me at Callisto’s side, Koris pointed to my left foot, then cupped his big, rough hands and offered them to me encouragingly. I felt a stab of panic. I could shoot and I could run. But could I mount a horse without immodesty? Conscious that the men were watching, I arranged my chiton so that it would not open when I jumped. Then I stepped into Koris’ hands and hoisted myself up as if I were climbing a tree. I swung my leg as Perifanos had, and lowered myself gently onto Callisto’s back. My chiton remained closed through all of this, a small miracle.

Callisto’s warm sides felt good against my calves. I looked over at Perifanos to see how he was holding his reins and quickly arranged mine the same way.

“The princess is ready,” said Mataios. It was less a question than a gruff acknowledgment.

I sat up a little straighter. “I am,” I said, wishing it were true.

TWELVE

Many hours later, as we came within sight of the palace, the horses tossed their heads and began to jig. Then, as if at a signal, they took the long, uphill slope at a breakneck run. Callisto had been lagging behind. Now she bolted ahead as if stung by a gadfly, and I found myself slipping off her back. I grabbed desperately at her mane, but it did no good. Unless she slowed down, which was clearly not her intention, I would fall.

The ground was very stony.

All afternoon I had marveled at our horses’ speed, at the way their long legs devoured the roads and fields almost magically. In my admiration they had become noble beings, almost worthy of reverence.

Now, as they bolted, my infatuation ended. With my legs flopping and my arms flailing, I could think only one bitter thought: thanks to a horse, I was about to suffer grievous public humiliation.

“Lean forward,” called Perifanos. He was taking the hill in a kind of half-crouch, and when I somehow managed to imitate him, my balance improved at once.

“Thank you,” I gasped. Then, to shouted greetings from the walls, we slowed.

A pair of massive bronze doors opened, and we trotted into a spacious courtyard. A boy who might have been Koris’ brother helped me off Callisto, for which I was grateful—my legs were as limp as empty sacks—and led her away. After a moment Aura appeared, wagging her tail, none the worse for wear. An elderly pair of hounds sauntered over to sniff her. Ever mannerly, she bowed in greeting.

Mataios and Perifanos took their leave.

For a moment I was alone, standing unsteadily before a large stucco building with handsome wooden doors and many windows. I wondered how it could possibly be my father’s home, for it was nothing like the shadowy, gloom-ridden place of my dream, where malice hung in the air like torch smoke. Everything here bespoke prosperity and order.

A woman with pale speckled skin, small and round as a hen, bustled over to me. “Greetings, lady,” she said amiably, looking me up and down as if trying to decide which part of me to clean first. “I am Entella. I will show you your quarters.”

The floor inside, white stone streaked with gray, was wonderfully cool beneath my grimy feet. Aura’s nails clacked as she walked sedately at my side. I marveled at her perfect composure until I remembered that she had once belonged to a prince. She had spent far more time in palaces than I ever had.

“Where is the king?” I asked.

“He is resting,” said Entella, indicating a hallway to our left. “He will meet you at dusk.” I followed her past a large, high-ceilinged central chamber, where rows of benches squatted before a single throne. Only one throne, I thought, following Entella down another long hallway to the right. Why is that?

We came to the end and she opened a door.

“Here we are,” she said, leading me into a large, sunlit room. I looked around warily. Though it was well furnished, the room had an air of neglect about it, as if it had lain empty for years. The skin of a huge striped animal sprawled across the floor, its mouth frozen in a snarl, its glass eyes staring. Two heavy spears, crossed above the massive bull-hide shield on the wall, looked as if they had not been used since Zeus battled Cronus at the dawn of time. A low table with gold claw legs sat next to the carved bed; on the table were a silver water pitcher and cup. It was all very princely, and nothing like my deerskin shelter in the forest, which— along with Castor, and Bias—I suddenly missed very much.

I set down my bow and quiver, barely suppressing a groan, for now I ached fiercely from ribs to knees. My seat and the backs of my thighs burned as if they had been flayed, and I wondered with alarm if riding a horse always caused such misery. That would be dire. Despite my near-calamitous arrival, I very much wanted to ride again.

I will, I told myself, if I recover. When I recover.

“Will you bathe, my lady?” asked Entella. “Or would you prefer to rest?”

“I will bathe,” I said, which seemed to please her. On the way to the women’s bath, she told me she would be serving me, and laughed when I asked her what that meant.

“I will try to keep you clean and well fed,” she said.

“Will you feed Aura also?” I asked.

“If you keep her clean.”

“Done.”

“If you let me, I will arrange your hair and help you dress.”

“I will,” I said. I liked her forthrightness. She could have been one of my tribe.

“Then I will come to you later, to prepare you for the evening,” she said.

I expected blisters or worse when I undressed, but found only a few bruises and some chafed skin. Not so bad, I told myself, settling into the bath with a heartfelt groan of relief. Not so bad at all.

I sank, then rose to the surface so that only my face was above water. While I floated there, a startling, hopeful thought came to me: what if my dream of the king was not a portent, but a divine joke? What if the gods, for sport, had tricked me into fearing him?

“Perhaps he is a good, kind, loving man,” I murmured dreamily. “Anything is possible. Artemis herself told me so.”

Artemis:
Poor thing.

Apollo:
Save your pity. She doesn’t need it.

Artemis:
How do you know?

Apollo:
I’m oracular, remember?

Artemis:
That doesn’t mean you’re infallible.

Apollo:
I’ll wager she can handle him.

Artemis:
How much?

Apollo:
Two of my best arrows.

Artemis:
Three—the ivory ones, that Hephaestus made.

Apollo:
Agreed. If I win, I’ll take your ivory quiver.

Artemis:
That’s my favorite!

Apollo:
I know.

THIRTEEN

Entella came at sunset with a finely woven white chiton, which she fastened at my shoulder with a gold pin. Then she sat me down and combed and braided my hair, rolling my head this way and that as if it were a melon. Her plump, dexterous hands smelled of rosemary.

When I was groomed to her satisfaction, she escorted me into the courtyard. “Wait here,” she said. “He will be coming soon.”

I sat on a stone bench and watched the light seep out of the sky. The cicadas began their loud, tuneless song. At length I heard a door open and the murmur of voices. Someone called my name. I rose, my palms so wet they left dark imprints on the stone. Then, taking a deep breath, I crossed the courtyard.

He was very tall, handsome despite his gauntness, with dark, watchful eyes and a black beard streaked white. Thick black eyebrows crossed his forehead in an emphatic line, giving him the look of someone who was difficult to please.

There was no denying the resemblance between us. My eyes and hair were brown, not black, but our foreheads were the same, high and domed, and then there was my height. I was nearly as tall as he was.

He is your father, I told myself, like it or not.

He stepped forward with the help of a wooden staff, and the small, plump, fair-haired woman beside him gave me a quick, timorous smile. She could not be my mother, I thought—she was too young, and looked nothing like me at all. Her dress and jewels were of such richness that she could not be a servant, either.

“Welcome, daughter,” said my father. His voice was unexpectedly deep and soft, like a caress.

“Father.” I, too, stepped forward, revealing myself in the torchlight.

His mouth twisted in a spasm of pain, or strong emotion. Then he scrutinized me so slowly and carefully that I might have been goods for barter. I stood there until he beckoned me closer, the gold rings on his long fingers chiming.

There is something strangely familiar about this, I thought, walking into his awkward, one-armed embrace— he was all bones—and then my dream came back to me.

I pulled away.

He looked startled, but the fair-haired woman smiled again, as if everything about our meeting was just as it should be. She rose on tiptoe, whispering loudly into my father’s ear, “Iasus, will you introduce me?”

“This is Nephele,” he said flatly, without looking at her. “My wife.”

But where is my mother? I longed to ask, knowing I could not. Instead, I bowed my head.

“Welcome,” said Nephele, returning the gesture. “We have heard much of you.” Taking hold of my father’s elbow, she began to lead him into the palace.

“And many stirring accounts of the Hunt in Calydon,” added my father. He moved very slowly. “It is said that you were more agile than Theseus, more daring than Jason, and so much stronger than Hercules that he fled in shame.”

I laughed. “Hercules did not even attend,” I said.

“Really?” He seemed disappointed. “And the other great heroes—Theseus and Jason?”

I pictured Jason, reunited with his kin in distant Thessaly. For all he knew, I was at home also, much recovered after journeying to Gortys. I wondered what he would say if he could see me. No doubt he would be astonished. Then, being Jason, he would recover quickly, and make some nimble jest about my sudden elevation to nobility. I wished he were close by; he alone could make me laugh at this.

“Jason attended,” I said. “Theseus also.”

“Is it true that you wrestled the boar in a swamp and then strangled it with your bare hands?” asked Nephele.

“I wish I had,” I replied. “It would have prevented a great deal of suffering.” At this my father looked at me sharply. Had he been anticipating a breathless paean to the glories of the Hunt? If so, he was about to be disappointed.

We came to a small, square chamber, its pale yellow walls painted with leaping bucks and flying arrows. Nephele helped my father to sit. Once in his chair, he called for wine.

An old man scuttled in as if he had been poised for the summons, filling my father’s silver goblet to the brim. Nephele waved him away, as I did. Where I came from, we drank wine only when sacrificing; even then I was not overly fond of it.

My father drained his goblet hastily, as if taking a potion. Then, seemingly surprised to find the goblet empty, he motioned for more. The old man refilled it, and again my father drank.

Food was set before us—olives, bread, lentils, roast mutton. Nephele began to eat without delay, murmuring appreciatively. The food was rich in oil and spices. It tasted wonderful.

My father did not even look at it. “We heard that you wrestled the mighty Peleus and won.”

This was the most outlandish thing I had ever heard. Wrestlers competed naked; surely my father knew that.

“I did not,” I said. “Nor would I. Ever.”

The dark eyebrows went up.

“I am chaste, and a devotee of Artemis,” I informed him. “I would never appear unclothed in public.”

“Artemis?” he said, raising an eyebrow. The manner in which he said this one word made me feel as if I were an ignorant child.

Before I could reply, Nephele said hastily, “We—we have heard so much praise of you, so many glowing reports. It is hard to know what is true and what is not.”

“Be assured that I did not wrestle Peleus,” I said.

“You did attend the Hunt, did you not?” inquired my father. “Or is that yet another wild fable?”

“I was there.”

“So,” he said, as if the admission were a minor victory for him, “tell us what you did.”

“Please,” said Nephele. “We are so eager to hear of it— from you.”

“I was the only woman, and the only hunter with a bow.”

At this, my father’s mouth twitched downward in something like approbation.

“I drew first blood,” I added.

“Were you awarded?” he asked quickly.

“Meleager gave me the trophies,” I said, “but—”

“Oeneus’ son? Gave you the head and hide?”

I nodded. He motioned for more wine, exclaiming, “The head and hide of the great Calydonian Boar! Well done! I will hang them in the throne room!” His voice rang with delight.

When I said nothing, but only toyed with my food, he thought to ask, “Where are they? The trophies?”

“I do not have them,” I said.

He frowned. “Were they stolen?”

“I left them in Calydon.”

This drew a look of pure astonishment. “Why?”

I hesitated, knowing my answer would displease him. “They came at too great a price.”

“Too great a price,” he echoed softly. “Too great a price! I know men who would have died for those trophies.”

I glared at him. “I know men who did,” I said.

“Oh!” Nephele gasped. “How terrible!”

“It was,” I said, remembering Meleager’s death agony.

“Terrible or not,” said my father, waving his hand dismissively, “you achieved no small fame in Calydon.”

“I was not aware,” I retorted.

Bursts of pink appeared on his face, and his brows came together in a thick, dark line. “How could you be aware of anything,” he asked, his sonorous voice suddenly tinged with venom, “hiding in the mountains with those miserable bark-eaters?”

He is drunk, I thought, feeling both dread and anger.

He gave me a joyless smile. “Things will be different now,” he said. “You are a princess. You belong here, in the palace, not roaming the forests.” He drank. “And there is your duty to consider.”

“My duty?”

“I lack an heir.”

I did not understand what one had to do with the other. Nor did I understand how he and Nephele could be childless. She seemed healthy enough to bear an army of children.

I turned to her. Eyes downcast, face expressionless, she shook her head.

“One was stillborn,” said my father, as if he were talking about livestock. “Then she miscarried. The last one died young.”

“Two months.” It was a whispered lament.

My father was unmoved. “You are my only offspring,” he said to me, “and my health is failing.” He drained his goblet and set it down unsteadily. It wobbled and fell, surrendering a few brown dregs to the table.

“So I have decided to marry you off. Word has gone out to other royal houses of the region, those with eligible sons. Many have responded. It appears you will have a choice of consorts,” he added, as if delivering good tidings.

“You will select one quickly, and produce a son without delay. He—my grandson—will inherit the throne.”