The Lost Sisterhood (47 page)

There was a mumble of agreement in the group. Breaking from their journey to water the horses and rest awhile, they had gathered on the banks of a large river, and Myrina and Lady Otrera had taken turns stepping up onto a large boulder to address the women seated on rocks around them.

“Let us not be fooled into thinking there
is
such a thing as salvation,” said Myrina, forcing herself to speak loudly although grief lay like a noose around her neck. “I am making no claims about the safety of the northern lands, but I would not have you run for the Kaskians only to be slaughtered like beasts. Even if you have no faith in my sister’s visions, at least consider the warnings of King Priam—”

“Listen to her!” exclaimed Egee, jumping to her feet in anger. “First she abandons us for a man … now she pretends to care for our safety. And look at her.” Egee pointed her hunting knife directly at Myrina—the hunting knife she had once sworn never to carry but which was now her dearest possession. “Does she inspire confidence? She is sick and beside herself; she hardly knows what she says or does. Clearly, the Goddess is taking her vengeance now. Suppose she dies? What would we do then? No.” Egee folded her arms, knife and all. “I say, she may go her own unlucky way, and we shall go ours.”

A loud discussion followed Egee’s unforgiving speech, but everyone—even the dissenters—fell silent when Kara stood up. Showing
them all the scars on her wrists, as if they were an argument in themselves, she looked to Egee and said, “You speak of luck and vengeance as if you know what you are talking about. But you have no idea. You were never violated or taken away on the black ships. You never endured the slime of Mycenae.” Her face torn with fury, Kara pointed at Myrina. “
She
was the one who came for us.
She
put our happiness before her own. You think the Goddess hates her? Wrong! The Goddess loves her. Admires her. That is why she has made her an example to us all. That is why she has given her back to us. You think she walks an unlucky path? Perhaps. But I saw a princess of Troy with a crown on her head, and
I
was the one who—in my madness—threw her to the lions.” Kara clasped her own face, struggling once more against the demons within. “And therefore I must walk that unlucky path with her, wherever it leads. We may meet flying witches and half humans, but it cannot be worse than what we have already seen. And we are survivors, are we not?” She looked around at them all, hands raised in appeal. “Myrina could have died many times, and so could I, and so could you. But we didn’t. We are still alive because we have each other, and we have an obligation to fulfill.” She pointed at the packhorses King Priam had given them. “A man who ruled over one of the greatest cities on earth has asked us, with his last breath, to be the guardians of a treasure. I would choose that challenge over any comfort the world could offer. I, for one, have a great deal of shame to wash away, and can think of no better place to do so than in the wild rivers of the north, where I will never again hear Greek spoken.”

After Kara, no one else had dared to stand up, and the group had continued toward the coast in a hum of anger and indecision. Even as they approached the harbor, studying all the ships pulling up, Myrina still did not know if she would be crossing the strait with three or thirty.

King Priam’s treasure, however, would remain under her control. There had been some murmuring about the unjustness of her keeping it all to herself, but the jealousy had ceased as soon as Myrina disclosed the nature of the treasure and let women see for themselves.

“In truth we do not envy you this burden,” Lady Otrera had said,
speaking on behalf of everyone. “We only pray that your labors will be rewarded.”

T
HEY STOPPED AT A
beached ship that looked promisingly empty. A bulky bear of a man lay in the shade of the hull, chewing on a root. His only weapon appeared to be a wooden club, but Myrina did not doubt he could wield it to great effect. When he noticed the women, the man sat up with a wary nod.

“How much can your ship carry?” Lady Otrera asked him, using the language of Ephesus. “I assume you are for hire?”

The big man grinned, the root bobbing at the corner of his mouth. “All yours, luv, if the price is right. Where are you going?”

Lady Otrera frowned. The man was obviously a brute, dressed in a mangy lion skin and not much else, and yet he looked robust and willing, spoke their language, and his ship was clearly available. “Some of us are merely looking to cross to the other side,” she said, “while the rest will want to sail east until we reach the mouth of the Thermodon River. It is my understanding that there are few passable roads between here and there, and that sea passage is infinitely faster and more secure than land travel. Is that correct?”

“You’ve got it, luv.” Standing up at last, the man took a good look at the group. “That’s a lot of horses. I’m not a great horse lover. Produce a lot of dung. I’ve shoveled a lot of dung in my time.” He spat out the root and brushed off his hands. “But I have a couple buddies, and I’ve got Theseus and his rowers working for me now, so that makes four ships in total.” He smiled again, baring his teeth in an accommodating smile. “Let’s start with the easy trip. How many, altogether, are going across?”

It was the moment they had all dreaded—the moment they had postponed until it could be pushed out no further. “Well.” Lady Otrera turned to the group. “Speak up, girls. How many will go north with Myrina?”

Lilli and Kara put up their hands right away. Then came Klito, and Pitana, and half a dozen more. But that was it. Animone was not among
them. Sitting on her horse with her head bent, she could not look at Myrina; had she been brave enough to do so, she would have seen forgiveness in her friend’s eyes.

“Right.” The man picked his nose, inspected his findings, and wiped the finger on his lion-skin tunic. “If that’s all, I can take the first group across right now, and then we’ll figure out the rest when my buddies come back.”

“How about payment?” said Lady Otrera.

“Well.” The man scratched his burly neck. “Why don’t we see what kind of rowers I can get and how long it takes us to get you ladies where you want to go?” He ran his eyes over Hippolyta, taking in her embroidered girdle and shapely thighs. “I’m sure you’ll turn out to have something I like.”

And then came the time for parting. Embracing everyone in turn, Myrina ended up in Lady Otrera’s arms, unable to put words on her emotions.

“There is no need to cry,” said Lady Otrera, half-laughing. “For I am sure we will see each other again soon. You will realize the northern lands are no place to be, and you will rejoin us well before the baby comes.”

Myrina stiffened, taken aback. “I do not understand—”

Lady Otrera smiled and kissed her on the forehead. “I may not know men, but I know women. You are carrying something far more precious than King Priam’s treasure. You are carrying his grandchild.”

S
TANDING IN THE STERN,
Myrina saw her world, and most of the people she knew, shrink with every oar stroke until there was nothing left but the knowledge that her sisters were still there, waiting for the ships to return.

And yet her sadness was dulled by confusion after Lady Otrera’s parting words. Could it really be? Had a small, immortal part of Paris survived inside her? She barely dared hope it was so, lest she should discover it was not true and lose him once again.

Pushing aside the thought, Myrina looked at her wrist where the jackal used to be. When she gave it to Helena—poor, star-crossed Helena—she had never imagined wanting it back, but now she missed its reassuring presence. After everything that had happened, she craved forgiveness—forgiveness for loving Paris, for leaving the sisterhood, for bringing grief wherever she went. She just wasn’t sure whom to turn to. The Moon Goddess? Hardly. Even the jackals, surely, had long since lost all loyalty for their former mistress.

No, thought Myrina, she would have to find forgiveness in herself and in her ten faithful companions. They would have to reconfirm their sisterhood under new terms. Once they were safely settled somewhere, they would sit down and talk it all through, and maybe, if she was lucky, they would come across a coppersmith who would be able to fashion a new bracelet.

A gruff command interrupted her speculations. The man whose ship they were on—the brute who had been so jovial when they spoke with him on the shore—was walking up and down the deck with his giant club, urging on his rowers and looking as if he would have no qualms about crushing the skull of a slouch. “I don’t trust him,” muttered Pitana, coming up beside Myrina. “There is a cruel and calculating look in his eyes just now. I wonder if we should ask him to turn around.”

Myrina thought for a moment. “Lady Otrera is not naïve. And I am confident her daughters can hold their own. If you had seen what I saw at the Scamander River that day, you would agree with me they have as much will to kill as men do.”

And yet, when they had safely crossed the strait and landed on the northern shore, Myrina found herself lingering on the beach, looking to exchange a final word with their club-wielding captain. Feigning admiration, she asked him, “How did a man such as yourself end up in this desolate region?”

He shrugged, no longer too concerned about stoking her regard for him. “I killed someone. Figured I’d better leave town before his friends found out.”

Myrina smiled, carefully concealing her alarm. “Who was it?”

The man looked out over the water with narrow eyes. “A man I worked for. Cleaned his stables. Lots of dung. He wouldn’t pay me. So, I knocked his teeth out. Unfortunately, they were attached to his brain. Or … they were when I was done with him.” The man snorted with laughter, looking around to make sure the rowers were laughing right along.

“That’s good,” said Myrina, adjusting the ax in her belt. “Make sure you tell that story to my friends on the other side. They’ll like it. Now, before we part”—she held out her hand—”tell me your name, and I’ll tell you mine.”

The man threw her a sarcastic look, as if he suspected her of making fun of him. “You want my name? Why? Are you going to squeal on me? Me and the others”—he made a general gesture toward shore—”we’re not looking for any trouble. We’re just … staying away for a while.” He finally took her hand. “Nothing wrong with that. Name’s Hercules.”

Myrina nodded. “You and I have a lot in common, Hercules. We are both killers, and yet we both want peace. Here is some advice for you: Don’t touch my sisters. We are the Amazons, killers of men. Only the feeble-headed try their luck with us.”

“Killers of men?” Hercules looked at her with a capsized smile. “Say it again, and we may put you to the test.”

Myrina was only too aware of the sudden burst of energy among the rowers. She saw them eyeing her with apparent greed and elbowing one another with nods of agreement. “You want to test me?” she asked them, raising her voice. “Do you see that bird?” She pointed at a seagull perched atop a ship’s mast a bit farther down the beach. Then, without another word, she liberated her bow and sent off an arrow with such speed and precision the bird didn’t even squawk as it fell from the mast and dropped to the sand, pierced right through.

“We are the Amazons,” said Myrina again, more firmly, while the men gaped incredulously at the dead bird. “We are the killers of beasts and men. Wild ourselves, we inhabit the wild places. Freedom courses
in our blood, and death whispers at the tip of our arrows. We fear nothing; fear runs from
us.
Try to stop us, and you will feel our rage.” With that she turned and walked away from the men, through the tall grasses, until all they could see was the tip of her bow.

And then, just as they remembered to breathe again, she was gone.

ECLIPSE

It is well known that none of the German tribes live in cities, that even individually they do not permit houses to touch each other: they live separated and scattered, according as spring-water, meadow, or grove appeals to each man.

—T
ACITUS,
Germania

OSNABRÜCK, GERMANY

T
HE DRIVE FROM THE MÜNSTER AIRPORT WAS BARELY THIRTY
minutes—just long enough for me to come down with a case of second thoughts. “I blame you,” I told the jackal as we went through a flat dark-green landscape saturated with moisture. “You were the one who wanted to hide up here. Now what?”

It was a drab, rainy afternoon of the sort northern Europe does so well in November. Even though I had never been to this part of Germany before I felt instinctively at home in the chilly misery of it all, and it fit my current mood perfectly. With my panic behind me, I was left with a nagging feeling it might have been wiser of me to fly back to Oxford and simply go to the police. And yet … what would be gained by that? A temporary sense of security? Although I still felt doubt clawing at my resolve, I told myself I was doing the right thing in following Mr. Telemakhos’s lead on the bracelet in Kalkriese. Both Reznik and al-Aqrab were hell-bent on finding the Amazons, and the only way I could escape them, it seemed, was to beat them to it.

I had spent the flight from Istanbul going through the rest of Nick’s
top-secret documents. What I found had done quite a bit to clear up my confusion, but absolutely nothing to still my worry. Digging into the envelope with some apprehension, I had discovered yet another Arabic detective report, even thicker than the first. But this time it was not about me and my family; it was about me and Katherine Kent.

There were several grainy photos showing the two of us in her Oxford office, looking incredibly suspicious although the subject of our conversation was almost certainly some Greek historian who had been dead for two thousand years. But there were other photos of Katherine, far less innocuous. One had her in front of a punching bag, sweating and grimacing, boxing gloves on, and another was of her in a taxi, wearing a hat and a pair of large sunglasses that had “covert operation” written all over them. But the series of photos that nearly knocked the in-flight pretzels out of me showed her and someone else exchanging a small package at a crowded train station.

That someone was, without a doubt, my blond nemesis.

I am not sure how long I sat there, leafing back and forth through the photos, trying to come to terms with the truth. Here, surely, was the explanation for Katherine’s interest in my movements: She was connected to the people responsible for the attack in the labyrinth and the heist on the harbor in Nafplio. Did this mean she was an Amazon? I had never noticed a jackal bracelet on her wrist, and none showed in the photos.

In a hideous flash of clarity, I saw our entire relationship unraveling before me, all the way to our first meeting five years earlier. Much to my flattered amazement, this celebrated Oxford professor had approached me at a student symposium in London and expressed interest in my future plans. “If you decide to pursue an academic career,” she had said, with the bluntness so characteristic to her, “I would be happy to be your thesis adviser. Here.” She had graciously scribbled a telephone number at the top of my lecture notes, and I had called her within a week.

It had been such a magical opening, such a welcome gift…. Even if Katherine’s gesture had been dictated by outside forces, I refused to think of it in a purely negative light. She had helped me, and we had
enjoyed some fine times together; I flattered myself that our relationship had been gratifying for her, too. But then something had happened. I flew away with Mr. Ludwig against Katherine’s will, left her a message from Algeria, and now her number—the very number she had given me that day in London—was disconnected.

Not until I embarked upon the final document in Nick’s envelope did I begin to grasp the complex wickedness of what was going on. The stapled papers were a compilation of newspaper articles, typewritten text, and grisly police photos showing molested corpses, confiscated weapons, and video equipment, as well as a smashed-up car at the bottom of a ravine. Only well into the first article did I come across a name I recognized: Alexander Reznik, known in snuff-film circles as “the Bone Saw.” Evidently, I was looking at the depraved death trail of Reznik’s beloved son, who had managed to squirm out of several murder trials thanks to his father’s political connections.

I scrutinized the pages for a while, nauseated by Alex Reznik’s suspected crimes, some of which involved mind-bogglingly bestial acts of cannibalism. In one memorable passage he was quoted as saying, “It’s not a crime when
they
come to
you
and agree to be eaten.”

Surfacing from the bottomless pit of real-life monsters at last, my eyes settled on a newspaper tidbit announcing that Grigor Reznik had put a million-dollar bounty on the “Amazon bitches” who had killed his son. He was quoted as saying, “I have it on tape, God help me. They should know I won’t rest until I have them impaled.”

The gruesome report—combined with the discovery that Reznik, too, was hunting Amazons with murder in mind—had made me so shivery with dread I had asked the flight attendant for a blanket. Neither Reznik nor al-Aqrab, it seemed, was looking for the Amazon gold after all; the pursuit in which I and the
Historia Amazonum
had become embroiled was much deadlier than a treasure hunt.

I
WAS STILL FREEZING
by the time I checked in to my modern but soothingly comfortable room at the Idingshof Hotel in Bramsche—the town closest to the Kalkriese Museum. Peeking through the drawn curtains,
I counted eleven cars in the parking lot below my window, and while I stood there, another pulled in. It didn’t park—just stopped and idled for a while before slowly backing out again. In the twilight I could vaguely make out a man behind the steering wheel, and the way he kept looking up and holding a hand to his ear suggested he was on the phone.

Pulling back, I felt my pulse quicken. Could it be one of al-Aqrab’s detectives? Or one of Reznik’s security guards? Surely, even those kinds of people could not have found me so quickly. Furthermore, as far as Reznik was concerned, could I not be fairly certain that James had worked hard to smooth out everything before returning to Oxford? Even if he was still upset with me, surely he would not allow Reznik to believe I was in cahoots with Nick. Or would he? I was still not sure.

Once the car drove away, I paced the hotel room back and forth a few times, trying to calm myself. Of course the car’s driver had not been looking for me. It was just my imagination turning every shadow into a fiend. In fact this, I thought with another shiver, must be what it was like having paranoia. All I needed now was to let the jackal convince me I was actually an Amazon in disguise, and I would truly have found Granny … by becoming her.

I looked at the time. My original plan had been to go to the Kalkriese Museum right away, but it was already five o’clock. Tomorrow, I decided, I would drive over there first thing and have the whole day to find and interrogate the woman Mr. Telemakhos wanted me to meet.

After making sure my door was securely locked, I ordered an early room service dinner and sat down, at last, with the
Historia Amazonum.
I told myself it was a big moment; three weeks ago I could have imagined no greater triumph than to hold this ancient manuscript in my hands. Under the circumstances, however, I just might have been tempted to exchange it for one of Nick’s handguns.

The washed-out writing on the brittle title page announced that the
Historia
was dedicated to a friend and fellow exile, the Roman poet Ovid, which suggested it had been written in or near Tomi on the Romanian Black Sea coast. The remoteness of its place of origin might
well explain why the text had never entered the official corpus of Latin literature, but had been passed down privately until it was transcribed into its present form sometime—I guessed—in the early eighteenth century.

The narrative—a festive cocktail of hearsay and pseudoscientific speculation—set out by relating an array of theories about the rise and fall of the Amazon nation. Most were familiar to me, but a few were not, and I was grateful to escape my anxiety-ridden present, if only for a time, on the southeastern shores of the Black Sea.

“The people of this region relate the following story,” I muttered to myself, translating a particularly interesting passage out loud, “which they all hold to be true. They claim that after the Amazons had suffered their devastating defeat at the hands of mighty Hercules, the band of humiliated women fell into a terrible disagreement, as women are wont to do.” I rolled my eyes and took another bite of my room service Wiener schnitzel before returning to the text. “Anyway … in my stuffy old Roman understanding, this was the time when the young Amazon nation first split apart. The most violent half, they say, fled into the Black Sea and founded the illustrious city of Themiscyra, while the rest, weary of destruction after their tragic losses in the Trojan War, ventured into the great woods of the north and fell into utter obscurity.”

I sat back in the armchair to digest this unexpected twist to the familiar legend. The part about the Amazons splitting into two groups was completely new to me, and I wondered why no other author had ever mentioned it before. It must, I concluded, be either because it was bollocks, or because no ancient writer but P. Exulatus had cared to record the oral tradition of the region.

Only later that night, after I had brushed my teeth and crawled into bed, did the
Historia
finally get around to the subject I had been keeping an eye out for from page one: the Amazon Hoard.

“As for the famous Amazon treasure,” I read, by now accustomed to the pompous rhetorical style of the text, “a few well-informed men hold the opinion that it was never taken to Themiscyra, and that only fools continue to look for it in this violent region. They claim the Amazon
queen with whom King Priam entrusted Troy’s most precious objects was among those who fled into the black woods of the north. For this reason it is generally believed the treasure was long since lost, because these Amazons, by removing themselves from the map of the world, removed themselves from existence altogether. Nor have any of our brave Roman legions garrisoned in Sarmatia or Germania Magna ever reported seeing treasures there other than those primitive”—I paused to ponder the appropriate translation—”
knickknacks
the barbarians hold so dear, and which no army commander with a sense of shame would ever carry back to Rome in triumph.”

The text continued with more sassy observations about the barbarians of the north, but the writing was so hard to make out in the light of my bedside lamp that I decided to put it aside for tomorrow.

As I lay down, my thoughts wandered off in search of Nick. I tried to imagine his fury upon discovering that I had run away with the
Historia
and his secret envelope … but couldn’t. Too agitated to sleep, I reached into the bedside drawer and took out the document that had shocked me so in his room that morning and scrutinized—yet again—the cover letter ordering the killing of Amazons. Was it possible I had been too rash in assuming it was a message from al-Aqrab to Nick? Now that I knew of Reznik’s million-dollar bounty it made more sense if
he,
and not al-Aqrab, was the author.

Reluctant to draw any conclusions I put away the letter and lay down once more. It was time, I decided, to question everything I thought I knew. P. Exulatus spoke of Amazons moving north … and why not? Was it not true that European folktales occasionally spoke of maidens devoted to the art of war? Hitherto I had scoffed at figures such as the medieval Amazons living along the Danube River and their female general, Sharka, who allegedly beheaded hundreds of men in a single battle and raped several dozen male prisoners after hours … before killing them, too.

Perhaps the Amazons really
had
lived on, in the wild woods of central and northern Europe, but with new appellations. Might the Valkyries and shield-maidens of Norse mythology be the proud descendants
of ancient Amazons? This enticing idea kept me awake for a while, and at least it got my mind off Nick.

T
HE KALKRIESE MUSEUM WAS
set in the middle of farmland and forest, with tall fir trees bearing down on it from all sides. As I pulled into the deserted gravel parking lot I had an uncanny feeling the trees were watching me, wondering who I was and why I had come so far to disturb their peace.

It had been raining all night, and although the sun was doing its best to find a crack in the clouds, the morning mists were still lying heavily over the landscape, filling up every dip in the dormant fields and clinging to every cluster of coniferous trees.

Half-fearing the museum and its historic park had closed down for the winter, I left the car in the parking lot and continued on foot up a slippery, muddy path to the welcome center. Only then, as I approached the building, did I see the bicycle leaning against the wall and notice there were lights on inside. Encouraged by this humble evidence of human life I opened the door and was rewarded with a warm waft of coffee.

Seeing I was the first visitor of the day—and possibly the only one—a young archaeologist by the name of Felix was kind enough to pour me a cup and tell me this and that about the place. I was tempted to ask him about Dr. Jäger right away, but felt it would be unwise to disclose the reason for my visit before I had gathered a little more information.

As I strolled outside through the soggy archaeological site, I was once again aware of the fir trees creaking overhead and whispering behind my back. Obviously, the terrain had changed considerably over the past two thousand years, but it was hard to shake a feeling that I was walking—as the Roman Army had done before me—on treacherous ground.