Quiver (7 page)

TWENTY-TWO

Two days, then three, went by without a single suitor. I rambled around the palace with Aura, rode Callisto, and entertained the wild hope that all young men rash enough to race me had already done so. Perhaps the rest had been frightened away.

I began to think of returning to my people, that it might just be possible if there were no more races. In that event, how could my father object? He might even be glad to see his troublesome daughter go, and what a fine thing that would be, I thought, to bid him farewell victoriously.

I wondered if he would let me keep Callisto.

Then his health declined and he took to his bed. In his absence the meals I shared with Nephele were almost dreamily serene, punctuated by little grunts of satisfaction rather than conversation.

This peaceful interlude ended on the fifth day, when Entella reported that my father was feeling better. “He left his bed this noon,” she said.

“Ah.” I must have slumped, for her next words were, “Please raise your head, my lady, so I can finish your hair.”

I sat up. “Will he dine with us tonight?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Thus warned, I prepared myself for more of my father’s dinnertime despotism, the silky animosity, the fitful drunken outbursts. But I was not prepared for his appearance—he was pale to the point of transparency—nor his first words.

“Another suitor comes tomorrow,” he told me, “and he will be your last.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I am sick to death of these delays! I am the king! You will obey me!”

“And if I do not?”

“There will be consequences!” He hit the table with all the force he could muster, and his heavy gold rings clinked against the wood.

“My lord, please!” entreated Nephele.

He ignored her. “Dire consequences,” he raged.

I thought of my mother, hanging from a tree. “Dire consequences!” I repeated. “Would you drive
me
to suicide, as well?” His eyes grew wider and his mouth moved as if he would speak, but he did not.

I got to my feet. “If there is a man who can outrun me, I will wed him. If no such man appears, I will remain chaste. That is my vow. I have made it to Artemis as well as you, and I will keep it. I must keep it,” I added, “for I owe her my life—the life she saved when you tried to kill me.”

Nephele made a sound of distress. She was staring at my father in disbelief. He had managed, somehow, to avoid telling her the truth about me. Hearing it now, she stared at him open-mouthed, waiting for a denial or an explanation.

Again he said nothing.

“Artemis is the goddess of childbirth,” I said. “If she wishes you to have an heir, you will have one. If not, your line will end with me.”

Apollo:
I think I’m falling in love.

Artemis:
Oh, stop.

Apollo:
I pity her next suitor. Actually, I pity all her suitors.

Artemis:
What a sorry lot. And they keep coming! They try and try and try, when it’s perfectly clear that they’ll lose!

Apollo:
That’s what mortals do.

Artemis:
Remind me never to take divinity for granted.

TWENTY-THREE

There were few spectators the next day—two shepherds, some ragged children, Entella and her daughters, and the ever-faithful stable boys, who perched restlessly atop the palace walls like big, unruly birds.

I was impatient for the race to start, only because I wanted it to be over, and saw with annoyance that my father and Nephele had not yet appeared. I looked around for my opponent. Almost always the suitors came with companions, court friends who dispensed urgently whispered advice and hearty slaps of encouragement before the race. But today there was no such ensemble. Instead, I saw a lone figure standing under a tree, a tall, broad-shouldered, fair-haired young man.

He was watching me. His golden brown eyes did not waver as he approached, but held mine. Just as I was thinking that he was remarkably self-possessed for someone who was about to die, I felt a piercing blow to my heart. I had seen men shot by arrows, the way they staggered and doubled over with pain. I could see no arrow, yet I had felt one. I whimpered in fright, staggering a little. With the blow my dull nausea sharpened, overpowering me, and I retched.

Undeterred, the young man offered his hand. “Princess,” he said.

He was extremely handsome.

I shook my downcast head, backing away unsteadily. I could not reply; my throat was convulsing, and my mouth was filling with spittle. I am going to vomit! I thought frantically. What has happened to me?

I spat; at this he jumped back.

“Atalanta! What ails you?” This was my father, who had arrived in a chair borne by four attendants. He sounded both petulant and suspicious, as if he thought I was feigning illness to avoid the race.

Suddenly I remembered Zoi’s words to me at Gortys. She had told me I would suffer a wound some time in the future. Had I just been wounded? I ran my hands up and down my arms. My skin was intact, but I could swear by the goddess that I had been shot.

Nephele hurried to my side. “Are you ill?” she asked.

“No,” I blurted, acutely aware of my bare-chested suitor. He stood close to me, giving off the scent of clove. It was very pleasant. I took a deep breath.

“Are you certain?” she pressed.

“I am,” I said, and I was. For my nausea was gone, taking with it every worry, care, vile preoccupation, and misgiving that had been crowding my mind. Suddenly I felt as bright and weightless as a glint of sunlight.

I placed my hand on Nephele’s shoulder. “I am,” I repeated, willing her to return to my father. She did.

Now I noticed that the young man’s watchful, amber eyes were slightly uptilted, that his generous, well-defined mouth had an upward curve of immense charm, and that his complexion was unusually tawny for someone with such fair hair.

His skin looked very smooth. I yearned to touch it so badly that my fingers twitched.

“I am Hippomenes,” he said.

“Atalanta,” I replied.

“I know that.” He smiled.

I flushed. “Of course you do,” I managed.

“It is good to see you again.”

“Again?”

“I—I have watched you, and thought about you,” he said, “ever since the boar hunt in Calydon.”

“The Hunt? You were there?” I wondered how I had failed to notice him.

He nodded. “I saw you hit the boar. It was an unforgettable sight. You looked so . . . invincible.”

Remembering, I grimaced. “That is not how I felt,” I said.

Hippomenes regarded me gravely for a moment. Then he said, “Meleager’s uncles behaved very badly. They were the elders. They should have shown restraint.” No one had thought to say this to me before; I had hardly been able to think it. Hearing the words, I felt both relief and gratitude. Who are you? I yearned to ask Hippomenes. How do you know me so well?

It was at this moment that my father chose to begin his address. I had heard his speech often enough so that I could give it myself, but now, as he concluded with the familiar words, “If Atalanta wins, the prince must die,” I stopped breathing.

Die? I thought, appalled. I glanced over at Hippomenes. He crouched in readiness, muscles taut, eyes on the track.

“At my signal,” called my father.

Eros:
This should be good.

Apollo:
She’ll win. She always wins.

Eros:
Maybe not. I think she’s smitten. Did you see the way she was looking at him?

Apollo:
She looked the way she always looks—determined.

Eros:
How about a small wager? I say she loses.

Apollo:
You’re too young to gamble. Besides, you don’t have anything I want.

Eros:
I have forgetfulness powder, and elixir of convulsive lust.

Apollo:
Do you? Hmm. The powder sounds good.

Eros:
Zeus uses it on Hera all the time. One little sprinkle, and she forgets she’s a jealous wife.

Apollo:
Really! That sounds very useful.

Eros:
It never fails. Anyway, if I bet the powder, what will you bet? How about that quiver?

Apollo:
This? I don’t know . . . it’s such a handsome thing.

Eros:
So you
are
afraid she’ll lose.

Apollo:
All right, the quiver.

He had long legs and a stride to match, and made a good, fast start when my father’s hand came down. Not a bad runner, I thought, catching up to him without difficulty. I ran alongside him for the first stretch, which seemed shorter than I remembered.

No words passed between us, but we were close, and for the moment, alone. I stole a glance at him as we took the first turn. He was looking at me. When our eyes caught, I could not help but smile.

We began to run uphill and he fell back. I slowed a little, moving to the outside and shortening my stride. It would be tricky to regulate the distance between us so that it did not grow, I thought; speeding up was so much easier. I was not accustomed to reducing my pace. Until now, I had always run to win.

I put myself just far enough ahead of him so that I could hear his breathing.

Something shot past me, shimmering in the air like a bit of rainbow. It fell to the ground directly in my path and lay there, glowing. Its muzzy radiance lured me like a song. Even thinking, Go on! Keep running! I could not. I stopped and picked it up.

It was an apple made of gold.

Artemis:
What in holy Hades is that?

Apollo:
I don’t know. But she’s taking a long time to look at it. Blast! He’s running ahead, and she’s just standing there! She’ll lose the race if she doesn’t hurry!

Artemis:
Hmm. Odd.

Apollo:
Do something! Tell her to run!

Artemis:
Maybe I will. And maybe I won’t.

TWENTY-FOUR

I turned the apple slowly in my hand. It was an enchanting thing—heavy, warm to the touch, its greenish gold surface textured with all the dots and speckles and tiny bumps of a real apple. It even gave off a faint perfume. But when I sniffed it, I smelled not apple, but clove.

Clove, I thought. Hippomenes smelled of clove. Had he thrown it? I sniffed it again; my nose wrinkled in pleasure. I lifted the golden fruit to my mouth, intending to taste it, and heard the steady beat of footsteps.

Hippomenes ran past me, casting a quick glance my way. I stood there holding the apple, admiring his muscular back and his wide, elegant shoulder blades as he ran up the incline of the second stretch. It occurred to me that I had never before seen a man who looked as good from the back as from the front, and that this was—in its way—a most appealing quality.

“Run, Princess! Run!” Screeching like jays, the stable boys atop the palace wall startled me into motion. Tucking the apple into my belt—and feeling, with a shock, the vial of poison—I took the uphill stretch at speed, coming abreast of Hippomenes at the second turning.

There I slowed sharply, and for a moment or two we ran along the back wall in tandem. When his breathing grew labored, I came down to a walk, then stopped. Suddenly we were almost touching.

I looked up at him. “Thank you for the apple,” I said. “It is beautiful.”

He struggled to catch his breath. On his heaving chest, a trickle of sweat meandered down toward his navel, then disappeared into a fine line of golden hair.

“You are welcome,” he replied, and we stood there looking at each other. It was an oddly comforting moment, like the time I had first entered the cave at Gortys. I had felt then as if I were returning to a much-loved, long-forgotten place. Here, with Hippomenes, I felt the same.

Sparrows trilled. Aphrodite’s bird, I thought absently. It occurred to me that the Goddess of Love had never once appeared to me, in dreams or otherwise. The sparrows trilled again, until the air chimed with their sweet, liquid call.

Hippomenes took my hand. “Marry me,” he said.

The stable boys came skittering along the top of the wall, drowning out the birdsong with their shouts. They had seen me slow my pace on this stretch before, seen me exchange words with other suitors. I suspected that they might even know about the poison. But they had never seen me stop, much less permit a suitor to touch me, and there was a note of alarm in their cries.

They do not know what to make of this, I thought. Nor do I.

Then my skin prickled, the way it sometimes did before a storm, and a tremor shook the air. It shook me, too, so that I knew the goddess was near. She has come to speed me along, I thought, and for the first time in my life I was afraid of her.

I withdrew my hand from Hippomenes. “Only if you win the race,” I said, a little more loudly than was necessary.

Then I took flight.

TWENTY-FIVE

I had scarcely gone ten paces when I saw a streak of gold fly past me like an arrow. It was a second apple from Hippomenes. This one fell far from the track, rolling all the way to the forest’s edge. It would take much longer to retrieve than the first. I ran to it as if pulled.

It lay beaming in a clump of ferns, and seemed to brighten as I picked it up. Its yellow-gold surface was adorned with flecks and speckles and even a tiny wormhole, and when I sniffed it, I again smelled clove. I rubbed the apple dreamily against my cheek, turning it this way and that in my best imitation of wonder, and listened for Hippomenes.

At last I heard his footsteps.

Slow, too slow, I thought, as he passed me by. He was a strong runner by ordinary standards, but no match for me, and of all those watching the race, Artemis knew this best. She, who must believe I was trying to win, had seen me run at twice this speed for my own amusement. If she suspected the truth—that I was allowing Hippomenes to overtake me—she would never smile on me again.

I could live without her favor, I thought, but inciting her displeasure was something else entirely. I had seen enough of her cruel, implacable anger on the Hunt to last me for the rest of my life. I quailed at the thought of becoming its target.

Yet death was cruel and implacable also, I thought, tucking the second apple into my waist. If the goddess had her way, I would win this race just as I had won the others, and death would take Hippomenes, too. It was a heinous thought.

I reached the track just as he rounded the turn onto the final stretch. I could close the gap between us with little effort, but I did not; I held steady.

His pace increased. This was a surprise; I had not thought him capable of greater speed. Helped by the downhill slope, he ran even faster.

I fought my urge to lengthen my stride.

Then, perhaps spurred to greater effort by the sight of the finish post, he ran faster still, and the gap between us grew.

I could see my father in the distance, sternly upright in his chair, and wondered if he was steeling himself for yet another defeat. Probably. In every other race, I had run at a moderate pace until the midpoint of the final stretch, the one Hippomenes was about to pass. Then I would truly hurry, running so fast that my hair flew straight behind me like a stick, or so Entella said. Finishing this way, in a sudden, ferocious burst of speed, I would reach the post far ahead of my opponent. After I won, I liked to walk over to my father, stand before him, and look steadily into his eyes for a moment before I strode away.

He could not suspect that today would be different, I thought. How could he?

Then Hippomenes threw another golden apple.

Eros:
She’s slowing down! She’s going to follow the apple!

Aphrodite:
Those apples were such an inspiration, if I do say so myself. And you shot her, too, didn’t you, darling?

Eros:
Let’s keep that a secret.

Aphrodite:
Why?

Eros:
No special reason. Look! There goes Hippomenes!

Yet another one, I thought. He is persistent!

The third apple was red-gold, gaudy and beautiful against the blue of the sky. It came down slowly, as if choosing where to land, then hit the earth about a hundred paces away, and set off toward a dry stream bed. Hippomenes was nearly at the finish post. If I chased this apple, as I had chased the others, I would have to push very hard to overtake him.

I might actually lose the race.

That’s what you want, isn’t it? I asked myself, and the question stopped me like a wall. I had never lost a race; now that the possibility was upon me, I clutched my sides in panic. My right hand touched something small and unyielding through the folds of cloth at my waist. Puzzled, I ran my fingers over it.

Poison. The merciful death I provided for my suitors. No more of this, I thought, plucking the vial from my waistband and casting it away. No more!

I did not want to lose. Even less, however, did I want Hippomenes to die.

Apollo:
What did
she
just throw?

Artemis:
The poison.

Apollo:
Really? Then give her another push!

Artemis:
It won’t do any good.

Apollo:
What do you mean?

Artemis:
Girls of her age often behave this way. They’re chaste, they’re pure, they’re utterly devoted, and then, in a blink, they change. Suddenly I’m part of their childhood, like a discarded toy. . . . I could have sworn she’d be different, but why should she be?

Apollo:
I’m not sure I understand you.

Artemis:
Have you seen Eros around here recently?

Apollo:
Aphrodite’s son? Now that you mention it . . . yes, he’s been around.

Artemis:
He shot her.

Apollo:
Atalanta? You think so?

Artemis:
Why else would she let Hippomenes take the lead? She’s in love.

Apollo:
Eros shot her?

Artemis:
I’d swear to it. He looks sweet and harmless, but those golden arrows of his are surprisingly potent. Sometimes their effect lasts for years.

Apollo:
Blast that pudgy little toad! He tricked me!

Artemis:
Tricked you? How?

Apollo:
Never mind. Oh, look! There goes Atalanta!