The Lost Sisterhood (35 page)

Mr. Telemakhos nodded. “You saw how narrow the strait is. This is where all the ships would come by on their way to the Black Sea. Sometimes they would be stuck here for weeks, waiting for the north wind to die down. A perfect place to run a business: Your customers can’t get away.” He picked his way through the weeds and jumped up on a grassy knoll ringed with rubble. “No wonder they were popular, these Trojans. Proud, stallion-breaking Trojans, lords of the eastern sea. Just think of the royal treasury”—he held out his arms at the imagined splendor—”the riches it must have held. No wonder the king of Troy needed his tall walls.”

I turned to Nick and caught him staring at my jackal bracelet. On the boat I had felt his eyes on me many times, to the point where the sensation made me as breathless as if he had actually touched me. But now we were once again on solid ground, walking through yet another grass-covered legacy of human endeavor, and his face bore signs of nothing beyond detachment. Did it even occur to him, I wondered, that the shell game he was playing with his enemies might have vast real-life consequences for all of us—not just for Rebecca and me, but potentially also for Mr. Telemakhos and Dr. Özlem, whose sincerity and dedication cast Mr. al-Aqrab’s guile into brazen relief?

“You should know,” I said to Nick, “that this was the birthplace of the Amazon Hoard. The treasure was believed to consist of gold from the Trojan treasury.”

“Not just any old gold,” interjected Mr. Telemakhos, who had overheard my remark, “but the centerpieces of Trojan civilization. Salvaged by the Amazons before the city fell.” He smiled whimsically, as if even he, believer that he was, had never fully bought the idea of such a treasure.

“But my point,” I said, turning once again to Nick and lowering my voice, “is that anyone out there mad enough to think the Amazon Hoard ever existed—and still exists—just may come knocking on Dr. Özlem’s door very soon. And they may not be so nice about it. Not if they’re the same people who like to mug women in dark labyrinths.”

Nick looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Why don’t you tell that to the Oxford scholar who started writing letters to Reznik in the first place?”

Still not quite ready to acknowledge my own guilt in the matter, I walked briskly up to the others, saying, “So, do we all agree that the beautiful-Helen story was pure fiction? That to Achilles and all those Greek heroes who gave their lives, the Trojan War was all about gold?”

Dr. Özlem shrugged. “Who knows what their leaders told them. Men always like to blame women for everything that goes wrong. Look at Adam and Eve.” He sighed. “If only we had some historical records … but we don’t. We do have a few ancient treaties made with other countries, but they don’t tell us much, and the names are confusing. Could the Alaksandu that is mentioned be the historical Paris? Is the ‘Great King’ of Ahhiyawa possibly Homer’s Agamemnon? But where is Hector? Where is Achilles? Were they actually ever here, or were they part of a different story, which later became fused with the legend of Troy?”

“I certainly wouldn’t miss Achilles,” Rebecca chimed in, as we all continued down a muddy path toward the older ruins. “I mean, what kind of hero rapes the body of a dead opponent in the middle of the battlefield?” Seeing Nick’s grimace, she laughed and added, “I am referring to the Amazon queen at the time, Penthesilea. According to tradition, the Amazons sided with the Trojans in the war, to fight against the Greeks. In Homer’s
Iliad,
the Amazons are called
antianeirai,
which means ‘those who fight like men.’ The story goes that Achilles didn’t
even realize he had been dueling with a woman until she was dead and he peeked underneath her body armor.”

Nick turned to me with a frown. “Could Penthesilea be another name for Myrina? Or did the Amazons have two queens at the time?”

It was an excellent question, but his hypocrisy made me cringe. Whatever his reason for being there, and putting us all at risk by his presence, I was convinced he cared little for the actual history of the Amazons. As with the invading Greeks, it was all about the gold. Nick kept joking about the Amazon Hoard as if it was merely a fiction, but I was no longer fooled. He had been after it all along. His recent offer of an additional ten grand to help him beat Reznik to the treasure certainly suggested as much.

“Diana!” boomed Mr. Telemakhos. “Here we are, faced with the question of questions: Did our Algerian Amazons make it all the way to Troy, and was their queen, indeed, called Myrina? To which Homer replies …” He gestured for me to complete the thought, but I was too distraught to understand what he wanted from me.

Mr. Telemakhos held up a pedagogical finger. “Never forget your Homer. He is the one who comes to our rescue. He specifically mentions our queen when he describes a small hill on the Scamandrian Plain.” Walking up an overgrown staircase ahead of us, arms wide, Mr. Telemakhos recited the passage with panache: “Men call it Batieia, but the gods call it the mound of Myrina, light of step.”

I was so taken aback, I felt riveted to the spot. “You believe that verse refers to
our
Myrina?”

Mr. Telemakhos looked out over the old battlefield with a squint, as though he were a surviving officer returning to the scene of a devastating defeat to figure out what he had done wrong. “What do I believe? I believe Homer’s
Iliad
is a code, encrypted for the worthy—”

“And the Trojan War?” asked Nick. “Did it really happen?”

“Something certainly happened here.” Dr. Özlem zipped up his waxed jacket against the chill of late afternoon. “We’re just not sure what it was. But I highly doubt it was caused by a woman.” He looked at his wristwatch. “It’s getting late. My wife has made dinner. Would you like to join us?”

As we all headed back toward the parking lot and the large wooden horse marking the entrance to the site, the silhouette of a man emerged from the setting sun, walking toward us in a determined manner. Tall and athletic, hands in his pockets, he looked like a reluctant Apollo or some other ill-disguised divinity, dispatched from Mount Olympus to do one last round of duty sorting out yet another errant human.

“Uh-oh,” said Rebecca, all her extremities—head included—receding into her flight jacket. “Now we have trouble.”

“What?” I began, but then I recognized him, too.

It was James.

EPHESUS

M
YRINA WAS SO SHOCKED AT THE SIGHT OF PARIS SHE FORGOT TO
hold on to the chicken she had finally managed to catch, and it fluttered from her grip with a few indignant clucks.

“Here—” He threw her a toy dagger made of wood, but she did not have the wherewithal to catch it before it fell to the floor at her feet, throwing up a little puff of dust. “I am not going to teach you how to fight like a man because you are not a man. You are a woman, whether you like it or not, and as such you have some natural limitations. Never forget that.”

Still too stunned to speak, Myrina watched Paris as he held up a wooden toy sword of his own—twice as long as the dagger he had given her—and a long pole with a ball of cloth stuck onto one end. His expression was perfectly serious, perfectly serene; it was as if their long separation had successfully cured every weakness he had once felt for her.

And yet, as soon as Myrina reached up to gather her hair with a string, she saw him struggling to keep his eyes off her body … and losing the fight with a grimace. “Never do that,” he said, his voice gruff, “in front of a man. One way or another, he will run you through.”

Leaving her hair as it was, Myrina picked up the toy dagger and held it in front of her. “And this is how you will have me defend myself? A kitchen knife against
that
”—she nodded at his own two weapons—”and
that
?”

“If this were real,” said Paris, showing her the wooden sword, “it would likely be as dangerous for its owner as for the victim. Many a man, in his desire to appear invincible, will carry a sword too long for his strength and meet an untimely death in the backswing. Let not woman, clever woman, repeat his mistake. And this”—he held up the mock spear—”is another weapon your enemy will kindly carry for you. A throwing spear, of course, will fly once and be gone; a thrusting spear, more often than not, will share its fate. For believe me: To withdraw its head from a dead body wearing a leather harness in the middle of a battle, in time to fend off the next assault, is no pleasant exercise.”

“And yet,” said Myrina, “you would go to battle thus.”

Paris nodded. “As a man, I must do what is honorable, even if I know it will be my doom. As a woman, you may freely run away, and no one will ever scoff and say you should have done otherwise. But Queen Myrina is not content with that. So come”—he smiled at last, opening his arms—”and strike me dead.”

They circled each other a few times, Paris smiling, Myrina still not sure what to make of his presence. Then she stopped, lowering the knife. “You are sporting with me. I know that smile of yours. As soon as I approach with my little wooden claw, you will slap me with those sticks and laugh.”

Paris nodded. “Remember what you are doing right now, the way you look. That is how you should always open your fights—by looking as if you have already surrendered. One of the most important rules for a woman is this: Always make sure they underestimate you. They will be naturally inclined to think you a weakling, and that is your greatest advantage.”

“A weakling?” Myrina stormed forward, charging at last. But as soon as she did, the wooden sword came between them, right across her throat.

“That was rule number two,” said Paris, still smiling. “Here comes rule number one: Never underestimate
them.
” With that he pushed her away, and Myrina stumbled backward, nearly tripping over a hayfork.

Just then, as she was contemplating her next move, a third person appeared in the door. It was Lady Otrera, looking far too elegant for
the barn and clearly mystified by the sounds of panting and rushing feet. “Nephew?” she called, peering into the dusty shadows. “I heard you had arrived. What a pleasant surprise.”

“I was just—” Paris cleared his throat in an uncharacteristic fit of timidity. “I just thought—”

“Yes.” Lady Otrera held out a hand to him. “I see that.”

For the remainder of the day, Myrina was kept busy with endless tasks, all of which were performed comfortably within hearing range of Lady Otrera. By the time Paris finally left the farm to return to his ship, Myrina was ready to pull out her hair for not having exchanged another word with him.

But as he walked across the dimly lit courtyard of Otrera’s private house, heading for the door, Paris made a point of stopping to check his sandal right next to a pillar overgrown with jasmine. Somehow he knew Myrina was right there, hiding from the eyes of everyone, hoping to catch one last glimpse of him before he left.

“Meet me on the beach at sunrise,” he said under his breath, not even looking toward her. “And be armed.”

M
YRINA COULD NOT FIND
rest that night. All she accomplished with her writhing and sighing was to have Penthesilea sneer at her to be quiet and Lilli wake up crying, muttering broken phrases to do with ships and fires on the beach.

“It is her!” Lilli hissed, when Myrina tried to soothe her back to sleep. “They are coming for
her.
”

“Who, dearest?” whispered Myrina, holding Lilli tightly against her chest, hoping the noise would not wake anyone else.

“Her!”
replied Lilli, as always upset that Myrina did not understand. “The princess. She is dark now, but she is here.”

After a long night of no sleep at all, Myrina finally left the dormitory to creep out behind the barn and saddle her horse. She knew it was still well before daybreak, but she was too anxious to wait any longer. Suppose her scheme was discovered—suppose Lady Otrera tried to
stop her? The danger lay not so much in the embarrassment as in the risk of not being able to meet Paris as planned.

The horse, a silver gelding, snorted happily when he saw her, but Myrina hushed him up with anxious entreaties. And instead of riding off with a happy howl as she normally would, she led him past the house by the bridle, hoping to be seen and heard by no one. Not that there was anything sinful about her excursion, but … the way Lady Otrera had looked at her the night before suggested that the others might think differently. Paris was, after all, a man.

Riding across the fields toward the ocean, breathing in the soothing coolness of the air, Myrina saw the morning mists lifting off the land with reluctant grace. Although it was already summer, Earth was in no hurry to unveil her splendors before the approach of the Sun; not until he reached out with golden fingers, reminding her of the heat of his touch, did she shed the final layer and welcome him back with a burst of birdsong.

It was the Sun, too, that pushed Myrina forward, urging her on with a warm hand against her back and spreading glorious morning light before her as she rode down from the dunes onto the sand. Within a few loving breaths the bleak expanse of the beach was roused from sleep, changing color from purplish gray to sage honey.

And there, in the middle of it all, she saw Paris riding toward her, holding the mock spear in one hand. But he did not stop when he reached her; he merely grinned and continued down the beach as if he intended to ride all the way to the rocky promontory at its far end.

Riding after him, Myrina did her best to overtake him, and by the time they finally reached a small, protected cove she had never known was there, they both tumbled from the horses, laughing.

“Look at you!” exclaimed Paris, with false disappointment. “I had looked forward to teaching you to ride … but I see Otrera’s daughters beat me to it.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Myrina, taking off her sandals, “you see numerous faults with my style. Hippolyta is always after me about my knees—”

Paris smiled. “I would not dare to even notice your knees. All I see is the face of a woman in control and enjoying the ride. That”—he checked himself and turned to unsaddle his horse—”is more than enough.”

“Tell me,” said Myrina, eager to delay their weapon games until she had received answers to her most pressing question, “have my imprudent actions caused you trouble at home?”

Paris glanced at her over his shoulder. “If they had, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Then you have … forgiven me?”

“I am not sure”—he lifted the saddle from the horse and put it down on a boulder—”what that word means. My feelings in this case are so tangled I have long since given up unraveling them. I tried to cut them off”—he shrugged, taking out his mock sword—”but they grew right back. Are you ready?”

Myrina hesitated, aching to know what he meant, but aware further inquiry would likely yield nothing but more riddles. And so she found her own two wooden knives and crossed her arms before her, in a posture of fear. “There, is that hopeless enough for you?”

Paris nodded. “Not bad. But I know you too well to be fooled. There is something in your eyes—we have to work on your eyes. But first, let us talk about your strengths, because they are your true weapons.” He nodded at her legs. “Above all, your litheness. Fast and nimble feet. You could easily outrun a man; in fact”—he smiled—”you have outrun me many times.”

Myrina frowned. “I asked you to teach me how to fight. No one needs instruction for how to run away.”

Paris held up a warning hand. “You are too impatient. That is a weakness of yours. Strike first … and you might as well plunge the blade into your own chest. Wait, wait, wait … and then wait again; that is the key.”

“Wait”—Myrina grimaced—”while my opponent cuts me into stew meat?”

Paris nodded. “He will try. But you will know how to avoid the blows. And then, just as
he
gets impatient and careless and tired, that is
when you strike. But first”—Paris batted the wooden blade against the palm of his hand—”I will teach you how to predict and avoid the sword.”

By the time he finally let her rest, Myrina was sore all over with bumps and scrapes. She had become better at blocking and avoiding his lunges, yes, but only after being poked and stabbed again and again, mostly on her arms and legs, but also occasionally in the ribs. Even when she would stumble and fall, he gave her no quarter but slapped her backside with the wooden blade until she was back on her feet.

When at long last he relented, Myrina collapsed in the sand with a groan, not sure she would ever find the strength to get up again.

“Here.” Paris offered her water, but she was too exhausted to take it.

“And I thought you were so noble,” she mumbled, clutching her elbow. “But you are cruel. When can I have a shield?”

“Did I miss a spot?” He knelt down beside her, taking her arm. “Hmm—” He felt the bruise with his fingers. “How about this?” He leaned forward to press his lips against the spot. “Better?”

She stared at him, words of yes and no at war in her throat.

“Yes? Well, then—” Paris got back on his feet, brushing off his knees. “Up with you, lithe Myrina. We have only just begun.”

A
ND INDEED, FOR SEVERAL
weeks Paris met Myrina on the beach to continue her training—sometimes early, sometimes late, in order that no one at the farm saw a pattern in her absence.

True to his word, he taught her how to master the weapons she had—above all her speed, flexibility, and balance—and before long she was able to duck and jump to avoid most of his blows, much to her own amusement and his growing consternation.

“I have taught you too well!” he exclaimed one day, just as the sun was setting on a long, hot afternoon. “Now
you
are the one dealing the blows … to my dignity. Wait. What are you doing?” Tossing aside the spear and sword, he lunged at her just as she sat down to rest, mashing her thoroughly into the sand. “What did I tell you? Never think it’s over
until they are all dead. Even without weapons, even on his knees, your enemy will still try for your throat.” He pinned down her arms and legs, putting all his weight upon her. “Now push me off.”

Gritting her teeth, Myrina tried to shove him away with all her might, but he was too heavy. “Come on,” he urged her. “There is always a weak spot. A careless moment. Find it and use it.”

She tried again, and again, but there was no weakness to be found. Groaning with the effort, she looked him in the eye, trying to guess his thoughts. It was not difficult, for they were acutely entwined with her own.

Still breathing hard, she ceased her struggle.

And then he finally kissed her: the kiss they had both craved for so long, a breathless, feverish indulgence that might have gone on forever … had not Myrina’s heel happened upon a perfect little mound of purchase in the soft sand, enabling her to flip them both over and throw Paris down on his back, one of her mock daggers pressed to his throat.

“And you call
me
cruel?” he croaked, his features torn with humiliation. “You are surely the queen of eternal torment.”

Myrina pressed the dagger into his throat a little further. “I haven’t killed you yet. Have I?”

Paris frowned. “Why not?”

Instead of answering, she bent down to kiss him again, eager to reclaim the pleasure she had just felt. And when—a few breaths later—he was once again on top, she did not mind, for it no longer felt like defeat.

Once unleashed, their passion was like two wrestling lion cubs—at once playful and relentless. Paris did not tire of her lips … the lips that had so often teased him and told him no, and Myrina could barely contain her delight in feeling him at last … the powerful body she had so often admired, so often longed to feel against her own.