For the Immortal

Emily Hauser

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First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Doubleday

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Copyright © Emily Hauser 2018

Map copyright © Liane Payne

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Emily Hauser has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473525535

ISBN 9780857523198

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Acknowledgements

At the close of the Golden Apple trilogy, I want to start by thanking my brilliant editor, Simon Taylor, and all the wonderful team at Transworld, who made all this possible in the first place. I will always be so grateful to you, Simon, not only for the chance you gave me to write and your conviction in the trilogy, but for your unfailing enthusiasm and your expert help and advice in making the books what they are. The same goes to the wonderful Tash Barsby: For the Immortal owes so much to your insight and comments – Hippolyta wouldn’t be the same without you. A huge debt of thanks is also due to my fantastic agent, Roger Field, master of the re-shelve, whose firm belief in the trilogy, expertise in Mycenaean weaponry, and advice and support over the years have been indispensable. And I’m so grateful to all the team at Transworld who have brought my books alive so beautifully: my publicist, Hannah Bright, for her amazing ability to organize across multiple time zones; Becky Glibbery, Sarah Whittaker and the rest of the art department, who did such a fantastic job in designing the covers for the trilogy; my wonderful copy-editor, Hazel Orme; as well as Viv Thompson, Phil Lord and Candy Ikwuwunna. You are all a part of the Golden Apple trilogy, and I’m so grateful for everything you do and have done to help bring the ancient world to vivid life.

This book required perhaps more research than any other I have written, given the sheer quantity (and time span) of ancient sources traversed, the historical research required to get to grips with the Amazons, and the fact that – as a classicist – I have rarely ventured beyond the confines of Greco-Roman culture and language. I am therefore hugely indebted to several scholars for their generous time and expertise: Professors Prods Oktor Skjaervo and Jeremy Rau at Harvard University for their assistance with Scythian; as well as Sam Blankenship for her help with Old Persian and Avestan. I would also like to give particular mention to Adrienne Mayor’s The Amazons: Lives and Legends of Warrior Women across the Ancient World (2014): Mayor’s detailed and incisive history was what enabled me to move past stereotyped Amazon images to envision a living culture, and I am indebted to her. I am also grateful to Stratis and Elena who welcomed us so hospitably on our visit to Skyros, and to Caleb Dean and Emily Kanter at Cambridge Naturals for sharing their expertise in herbs and being tolerant enough to answer my questions about lemon balm.

As always, it has been my colleagues, friends and family who have supported me and given me the time, space and encouragement to enable the books to flourish. I am particularly grateful both to Yale University and to Harvard University for the supportive environments and outstanding resources from which I was lucky enough to benefit during the writing of the books, as well as the continuing advice and support of my inspirational mentors, Emily Greenwood, Greg Nagy, Laura Slatkin, Diana Kleiner and many others. And, as before, I owe a great deal to the wonderful people of The Biscuit in Somerville, who always cheered me on from the sidelines, brightened my day with their conversation and laughter, and witnessed both the start and the finish of this book: Hannah, Ilona, Dava, the two Emilys, Ryan, Bryan, Andrew, Choo, Greta and all the others. And my family have been an incredible source of support, as always, helping me get the symptoms of malaria right, as well as listening with endless patience as I read passages aloud (always with voices).

My wonderful friends – Farzana, Alice, Zoe and Iyad, and everyone else – have been the backbone of these books from their very inception. This last of the Golden Apple trilogy is therefore dedicated to three dear friends in particular, Athina, Natalia and Arabella, who I met in Greece on our very own Greek Odyssey ten years ago this summer. I’m so very grateful to have the three of you in my life, and can’t wait for more years of aubergines (and Classics) ahead. Finally, this book is dedicated, as always, to my incredible husband Oliver, whose support, love, encouragement and unfailing belief in me from the very first has made these past eight years both an adventure and a joy every day.

Prologue

The sky above Delphi is dark. All is quiet. The birds do not yet sing in this sacred place. The only movement is a torch bobbing, like a firefly, through the darkened underbrush, as a man walks along the winding path to the slopes of Mount Parnassus, where the oracle of the gods has her home. Here, in the fissure of rock where the gods’ prophet dwells, is where boundaries blur, where the division between mortal and immortal is broken, rent in two, like a cut veil, and the words of the gods blow through the rift to men. Here all is slanted, strange. A mortal woman speaks the divine tongue. Steam, rancorous and bitter, billows up from the Underworld, breaking through cracks in the earth. And a cave, where a lone priestess crouches muttering over the holy smoke, will become the greatest sanctuary of all, summoning pilgrims from across the world, commanding gifts of gold and marble monuments to the prophet. In years to come, kings will crawl on their knees to hear the gods’ commands, build their fate on the words of a mad priestess, while empires rise and fall to the will of the divine.

Here, in the crucible of the gods, destiny itself will be forged.

And the first prophecy is about to be made.

The figure emerges from the wooded path, his torch’s light sweeping the cavern into a gash of darkness, his boots trampling the sage-sprigs scattered on the ground. He crouches to enter the darkness of the cave, his eyes smarting and nostrils burning at the sulphurous smoke that fills it. As his vision adjusts he sees her: a woman hunched over the embers of a fire, her hair loose over her shoulders, her eyes wide, unblinking as she stares at him.

‘You have come, then,’ is all she says, and her voice is thick, as if it is a long time since she has spoken.

‘You are Pythia?’ he asks.

‘And you are Alcides.’ It is not a question.

He hesitates, thrown by her confidence, then masters himself. ‘I am Alcides, son of Zeus and Alcmene, descendant of Alcaeus.’

‘And,’ she says, leaning towards him over the embers, ‘you have something to ask of me.’

He does not answer, but props his torch against the rock where it turns the smoke drifting through the cavern into streams of orange-gold, and kneels before her. ‘Yes.’

She pauses, apparently waiting, then says, ‘You had better ask it.’ She pokes at the ash with a stick. ‘You have travelled far from Thebes to do so.’

He swallows, and uncertainty crosses his face, making him seem much younger all of a sudden: a boy, asking where he belongs, why he is here. Why his father did not want him.

‘I want to know,’ he says, his voice louder than usual, ‘how I may join the gods.’

The priestess takes a deep, shuddering breath, a gasp that rattles through the cavern, extinguishing the torch so that the only light is the red glow of the embers. Smoke begins to swirl thick around her, and her eyes roll back in her head, white veined with scarlet.

‘Pythia?’ The man starts forward, as if to reach for her, but her voice snaps him back, low, harsh, resounding through the darkness, as if the spirits of the Underworld are grating an echo to her words in the caverns of Tartarus beneath:

She takes a rasping breath, ribs shuddering, her head lolling, as if the force of the gods that ploughs through her is too much for her mortal frame.

She falls silent, slumped forwards, her chin on her chest. The eerie light ebbs, the echoes of Tartarus are still, and the cavern is dark once more. The man who will be known as Hercules watches her, waiting for more.

‘I have a choice?’ he says at once, when she raises her head, her eyes blurred in the blackness and smoke. A scowl darkens his features. ‘I came to you, priestess, for answers. I came to know my destiny, to learn the dictates of the Fates, to know what I should do.’

‘That depends on what you want.’

He leans towards her, the answer coming quick as a breath of wind skimming over water. ‘Immortality.’

She considers him for a moment, and the sulphur smoke drifts between them: the priestess weak, her breathing slurred, her gaze fixed on the man, eager, desperate, fervent.

‘Then it seems, son of Zeus, you have made your choice already.’

On Mount Olympus, one of the Muses stirs from her seat within the Hall of the Fates. Concealed behind a pillar at the colonnade’s edge, so she may see and not be seen, she has been keeping vigil through the night, gazing through the open portico, which affords a view of the peoples on earth. The rosy fingertips of dawn are creeping over the horizon, bathing the land below in soft light and shading the birds flying across the shore into ink-like blots. To the mortals in their dwellings in the valleys, as they wake and prepare to cut their meadows with the scythe or pluck the grapes from the vines, it is simply another new day; but in the shadows of the night, an age has passed. A new era has begun. The Muse gets to her feet, draws her cloak around her and pulls her hood to shield her face.

At last, it is time.

She walks, her footsteps hushed and her figure shadowed in the near-darkness, towards an alcove hidden in the far corner where, when she slides back the screen painted to resemble the marble that surrounds it, a cedar chest is revealed, dark-stained with age and fitted with a bronze lock. The hall is lit only by a few oil-lamps, which are guttering to the very ends of their wicks, but Calliope, eldest of the Muses, does not need light to find her way. She looks around her, eyes darting between each of the scroll-laden shelves and the desks littered with papyrus and ink-stands, searching for intruders, for spies. The hall is empty, and there are no shadows or whispers to warn her she is being watched. She draws a key from the folds of her cloak and fits it with ease into the lock. There is a moment’s silence, and then a click. The lid swings open.

And there they are: the three golden apples she and Hermes stole, all those years ago, when Hera and Zeus were newly wed and the earth-goddess herself fashioned an apple tree of molten gold to bless the marriage. For a moment, as the scent of cedar, mixed with centuries of dust, washes over her, she allows herself to be transported in memory. She remembers how, at Zeus and Hera’s wedding-feast, when the gods were deep in their cups, she had whispered to Hermes, god of thieving, what she wanted to do; how, together, as night drew its dark veil over the banqueting hall, they had crept to the golden-apple tree and, as Hermes kept watch, she had plucked its fruit. She smiles to think how the earth beneath them had quivered and shaken at their perfidy, and they had run over the heaving ground, three apples clutched to her chest; how next day, climbing from her marriage-bed and setting the oak-crown on her head for the first time, Hera had discovered the apples were missing and raged at her loss, though she knew not who had stolen them. How she had set the three daughters of Atlas to guard the tree, one for each of the apples lost, and placed it in a garden at the world’s end, so that none could steal again from the queen of the gods.

Calliope traces the curves of the apples with the tip of her forefinger, one by one, as a mother would caress the cheek of her newborn child. Three spheres, smooth and round and gleaming in the low light of the lamps, their stalks like golden filaments, their surfaces polished. Each side by side within the box, encircled with engraved patterns of gold carved into the wood.

Three, she thinks.

One for each of them.

She glances over her shoulder, bright-eyed, knowing, as her gaze falls on the shelves and writing implements, that after what she is about to do she may never see Olympus again.

Knowing that she is risking everything on the greatest gamble she will ever take.

She snaps the coffer shut and tucks it under one arm. Turning to walk across the hall, her pace quickening now, her cape flying out behind her, she thinks only of where she will hide herself and her three prizes. She needs to be at hand, among the mortals, to wait to spring at the correct moment. It will be a delicate balance, to remain hidden from Hera, and yet to hold back until she is absolutely sure – and her choice of hiding-place will be of utmost importance. There are many places for concealment within the mortal world, but she has planned this day for thousands of years, purposeful and resolute as the Muse of Epic should be, and she has already made her decision. She will go to the vast forests at the world’s edge, where the eagles soar, alone, brushing the tree-tops with their wings.

A moment later, she reaches the colonnade again at the edge of Olympus, and the expanse of sky that stretches from the mountain’s brink to the horizon. She closes her eyes, standing between two lofty columns, the rock falling steeply away beneath her, to feel the warmth of the sun upon her face: the first light of a new age.

The last time she may ever see the sun from Olympus’ peak.

She clutches the casket more tightly to her chest.

And then she sweeps her cloak around her and leaps, graceful as a swallow, into the emptiness of the morning air.

The age of heroes has begun.

Hippolyta

The frost bit at my lips and stung my eyes as I vaulted onto the back of my horse Kati, heart pounding hard with the mixed fear and blood-lust that was my inheritance, and my duty as queen.

‘Go, go!’ I shouted, kicking at her flanks and pulling at the reins. She reared, her breath pouring from her nostrils like smoke, her eyes white, as the first riders galloped towards our camp, ploughing up clouds of snow from their hoofs, screaming battle-cries.

‘Melanippe!’ I shouted, and I circled her tent, ice crystals forming on my eyelashes. ‘Melanippe!’

She emerged, tying her war-belt around her waist and carrying two spears. She tossed one to me, and I caught it left-handed, thrusting it into the straps of the baldric over my back. ‘Budini?’ she asked, glancing at the rust-red hair beneath the riders’ stiff caps.

I nodded. ‘They must know Orithyia has taken our troops to Hialea. They mean us to surrender without a battle, else they would not keep their distance.’

She snorted. ‘Without a battle? Then they do not know the Amazons.’ She vaulted onto the back of her horse, a high-necked black with a white mark upon his forehead. She was about to ride out when I reached forwards and placed my hand upon her arm, my gaze searching her face. ‘The children of the tribe – Teuspa remains to protect them, as before?’

Her eyes rested briefly upon mine. ‘Teuspa stays, along with his guard.’

I nodded my approval, and she galloped off towards the other tents. I pulled Kati around and circled back, eyes scanning the camp, picking out the figure of the councillor, Agar; Ioxeia, the aged and skilful priest of the tribe, wearing her wolf-pelt over her shoulders; Toxis, tightening her war-belt and fastening her daughter Polemusa’s baldric, readying herself for battle. Many of the Amazons were already throwing felt rugs over their horses’ backs and mounting, leather boots crusted with snow, iron daggers glinting in the low evening light, bows and quivers hanging from their belts, shields slung over their shoulders on straps.

Though the wind was howling across the plain, slicing at the exposed skin on my face and whistling in my ears, so that I could hardly hear the cries of the invaders, I rode out before all my warriors, determined to give them a sight of their queen before we joined battle. They brought their horses into line as I passed, the band of my twelve finest warrior-women first, then the young girls just ripening to womanhood, Polemusa among them, men with greying beards flecked with snow and boys with the slim limbs of youth. They bowed their heads to their horses’ necks, and my deer-hide cloak flew behind me as I rode, nodding to each in turn, my throat tight and my breathing sharp, as it always was before battle. I reached the end of the line and held my bow to the lowering skies, the general of this ice-hardened army.

‘Oiorpata!’ I cried.

‘Oiorpata!’ The Amazons returned the uran, the battle-cry.

Melanippe rode forwards, and I nodded to her, once. At my signal, my warrior-guard peeled off from the rest of the troops, their horses cantering behind Melanippe away through the camp, smooth as ripples on water, shields bouncing against their backs.

‘Oiorpata!’ I cried again, to the rest of the warriors, and I wheeled around, then galloped towards the camp’s edge where the Budini were still circling, whirling their pointed bronze sagaris-axes around their heads and yelling their cries of battle. I urged my horse on, head bent against the wind, and behind me I heard the beat of many hundred hoofs against the snow and the swish of arrows past my ears as the Amazons sent a deadly hail upon the invaders. I let go of the reins, guiding Kati with my knees as my mother had taught me when I was young, and Kati a spindle-legged foal. I drew four red-striped shafts from my quiver and set them to my bow, drew back the string with my thumb and fired the first, then the second, third and fourth in rapid succession as I galloped on, easeful as a sharp-keeled ship cutting through the waves. I saw each hit their target, three Budini warriors toppling from their mounts with a dull thud and a scream of pain, and gritted my teeth; the fourth clutched at his arm as blood poured through his tunic and spread upon the ground with a dark red stain.

Ahead, the Budini regrouped, falling back into a single mass of armoured warriors, pointed sagaris held weighted in their hands, horses stamping nervously at the ground. I smiled grimly and drew my spear to my shoulder, my other hand resting upon Kati’s neck, and hurled it, straight and graceful as a flying bird. There was a shriek of agony and a thump as a Budini slumped forwards, the spear shaft buried in his chest. His horse bucked and reared and he slid off into the snow, legs stuck out beneath him. The Budini howled, raised their battle-axes and hammered them upon their shields, then charged towards us, yelling and whirling their sagaris around and around their heads.

It was time – the hammering of my heart in my chest was telling me so. Melanippe and my guard would have reached the riverbank.

The Budini would see, now, why we were the most skilled warriors among the people of the Saka.

‘Retreat!’ I cried. ‘Retreat!’

I barely touched the reins for Kati to turn, and around me the masses of Amazon troops were wheeling back, stamping down the snow, manes flying out in the wind as we galloped faster than circling birds, racing away from the camp towards the frozen expanse of the Silis river and the hunched snow-covered trees. Behind us the Budini whooped and hissed and clattered their battle-axes upon their shields. I glanced over my shoulder, saw them following, shrieking, teeth white in the gathering dusk. Only a moment longer, I told myself as my hips thudded into my horse’s back and the glimmer of the campfires retreated into the darkness. It has to be a moment longer …

And then we were upon the snow-laden skeletons of the trees, and Melanippe and my warrior-guard were screeching out of the cover at the Budini’s left flank, bows raised, hailing arrows and glittering with iron.

‘Now!’

It was the fire of my anger that guided me as I turned upon my horse, drew my bow and, with the ferocity of a wolf-mother protecting her cubs, flung five arrows, one upon another, among the unsuspecting Budini. The twang of bowstrings around me and the darts slicing through the air told me that others of my warriors had done the same. Cries and screams of agony from the Budini, trapped between the frozen river-ice and the looming trees, flew towards us upon the wind, but I shut my ears to them and drew again, determined not to lose sight of the tents in the distance through the snow lashed up by our horses’ hoofs and the shrieking winds of the plains.

‘Again!’ My cry whipped past my warriors, and once more I sent my arrows hissing towards the enemy who had dared to attack my people, until the howls of injured Budini pierced the air, like the shrieks of eagles on the hunt.

‘Now – around!’ I called. I pulled on the reins to bring Kati to the right and lowered my head, urging her on. Around me the Amazons were wheeling back towards the camp, horses snorting, arrow after arrow slicing through the winter air in a cloud of bronze and iron. And then I felt a sudden stab of horror in my stomach as the blizzard parted for a moment to reveal, dimly through the snowstorm, a group of Budini who had separated from the main force, attacking the tents, looting them, and cutting free the horses we had left behind.

‘No!’

I leant forwards, my throat tight, my heart pounding against my ribs, and with all the training born of a lifetime spent on the plains, I urged Kati forward, her coat slippery with sweat beneath my hands. Behind me the Amazons were galloping so fast that the earth shuddered beneath us. Still I pushed Kati harder, the breath screaming in my lungs, her flanks heaving beneath me – my whole body focused on reaching my camp, my home, my people.

There were eight or ten Budini, fighting hand to hand with the guard I had left behind, though I could not make out Teuspa among them. One by one, as I came nearer, the intruders spotted us approaching, and I could see them vaulting back onto their horses, calling out to each other to flee. My arrows sliced at the air, rage and fury so powerful within me that I felt as if I were a beacon of fire blazing to the heavens. My heart was burning, and I longed for nothing but to keep them away for as long as I lived. But as Kati stormed into the camp, billowing steam into the air, the last were already galloping towards the frosted flat surface of the river to the north, following the retreating remainder of their army, five looted horses held by the reins and cantering beside them. I let out a yell of frustration and buried my hand in my quiver, drew four arrows and, one after another, sent them after the intruders with all the strength I had. The blurring clouds of snow and the growing darkness creeping over the horizon obscured my vision, and my arrows plunged to the ground.

I slapped my hand hard against my thigh, the corners of my eyes encrusted with ice.

Melanippe rode up beside me. ‘They are gone, sister. They’re gone.’

I ignored her, tugging at the reins to bring Kati around and leaping down into the snow, pushing my way to the nearest dwelling.

‘Teres?’ I cried, my voice shaking. ‘Ainippe?’

Two children, not yet ten years old, peered out through the tent’s flap, their heads shrouded with fur caps, their dark eyes round. I let out a breath that misted the air before me and ran on through the camp, determined to see all those who had stayed behind. I checked each of the tents where I knew a child dwelt, and clasped them tight to me as, one by one, I found them safe. I watched, my heart rent with pain and relief, as snow-sodden mothers embraced them, and ordered Ioxeia to tend those of the warriors who had been wounded. At last I reached Melanippe’s tent, a patchwork of felt and deer-hides.

‘Teuspa?’ I called.

There was a moment of silence. Then Melanippe’s husband emerged from the tent, one hand covered with blood.

My breath caught in my chest.

‘Cayster,’ was all he said.

Ἀδμήτη

Admete

I closed my eyes as I entered the herbary, as I always did, to fill my senses with it. Of course, it was the herbs I always smelt first: the nutty warmth of powdered cumin; the autumn must of chaste-berries; mint-sweet lemon balm; lily-of-the-valley, delicate as a spring morning. But then, after the scents and the rush of names, properties and preparations through my mind, something more. Safety. Certainty. I loved the way the plants followed the rhythm of the seasons: how you could always be sure that the poppies would bloom scarlet over the meadows in spring, the grapes darken at summer’s end. I loved the stoppered jars lining the shelves of the preparation-room, each painted by my hand with the name of the herb it contained, ordered, predictable. The satisfaction of identifying a complaint, finding the appropriate herbs, and applying them to heal the body – all with a quiet certainty of their efficacy – was beyond any I had ever known.

I smiled as I opened my eyes to take in the familiar scene. To my right, the longest of the trestle tables where I prepared my herbs, mottled where it was stained with their juices; to my left, the water-jars filled to the brim as I had directed and propped against the wall; and before me the hearth, flames bathing my skin with warmth and drying the bunches of herbs and garlic bulbs I had gathered that hung from the rafters. The room was dark, as herbs prefer it, lit only by the golden wash of the flames and the lamp I had set by the weighing-scales. I set down the jar of oil I had gone to the kitchens to retrieve, and drew my stool towards the table to begin my work again.

‘You will wear your eyes out if you labour late, with so little light to see by.’

One of the priest-healers, Laodamas, had entered from the store-room, his belly preceding him, his robes wafting the scent of firesmoke and incense towards me. I looked up from the dried thyme sprigs I was plucking. ‘It is hardly late, Laodamas. The owl does not yet sing.’

He rapped my knuckles with the wooden spoon I had used earlier to mix an infusion of camomile. ‘It is the aching of your temples you should observe, not the hooting of birds,’ he said, placing both hands on the table and frowning down at me. ‘No amount of eyebright will bring back your sight once it is lost.’

I sighed. ‘That is true.’ I bowed my head and picked a few more leaves. ‘But this thyme is quite dried out, and I would set it to store before it becomes too brittle.’

‘And then?’ he asked. ‘What else needs to be done, Admete? Will you not invent another task – the bandages to be cleaned, the tiles to be scrubbed and washed, the creams and ointments in the store-room to be checked to ascertain that they have not soured, though you checked them only yesterday?’ He laid a hand over mine, the skin slippery in the heat of the fire. ‘You work too hard, my dear. The running of the palace of Tiryns is not your concern alone, and it will continue quite as well without you labouring yourself into the grave. You should learn to accept help, to reconcile yourself to the fact that you are a mere mortal, who needs meat and good wine and sleep like the rest of us.’

‘I do not claim otherwise,’ I said, withdrawing my hand from his and patting his fingers briefly. I sighed. ‘I thank you for your care of me, Laodamas, truly I do. But I am afraid – I do not say it lightly – that Tiryns has grave need of help now that Alexander is gone. I am glad to do what little I can.’

‘But surely your younger brothers—’

‘My brothers know nothing of kingship except its title, as you yourself are well aware.’

‘My lord Alexander –’ he ventured.

‘– is away from home at present in Egypt and …’ I bit my lip, thinking of Iphimedon, my elder by two years and the next in line to the throne, how heavily his many lost bets at dice and drunken routs in the taverns of the city weighed on my father’s mind. ‘We are all the more in need of aid without him. I am quite happy to be here, and to help the healers as I can.’ I smiled at him as I took up the thyme again, though I knew that I spoke only part of the truth, and that if I met his gaze my eyes would be my undoing. ‘I beg you to go to the evening feast, and to let my father know that I shall be there presently.’

I sighed again as he left, raising a hand to rub my face. At least it was quiet now, with only the spitting logs for company.

It was dark as the deepest hours of night beyond the window that opened onto the court, and my fingers were sore from rubbing thyme stems, when the door opened again.

‘Alcides!’ I dropped the herb and pushed back my stool to welcome him, brushing my palms on my apron.

He chuckled as he strode towards me, boots still fresh with mud from the roads, and pulled me into his embrace. ‘You know I allow none other but you to call me that now,’ he said, ruffling my hair and standing back with a glint in his eye, a smirk at one corner of his mouth. ‘I am almost done with my labours. They all call me Hercules, these days.’

‘I know that,’ I said, grinning at him. I poked a finger at his chest. ‘I am your friend, and so you shall always be Alcides to me. And in any case,’ my eyes swivelled towards him, ‘as you said – you are not done with your labours. The prophecy is not yet fulfilled.’

The laugh he gave was less exuberant, not his usual deep belly-roar, and there was a slight crease between his brows, but I hardly cared. ‘And Iberia?’ I pressed him, sliding back to sit on the edge of the table and swinging my legs, filled with pleasure to have him returned. I took him in, smiling to see him unchanged: the gleaming eyes and firm, sensitive mouth; the curling brown hair falling to his beard, light at the jaw as it was dark on his head; the tightly bound torso, longer than his legs, which were thick and stout; his squat way of standing with feet planted wide and arms crossed over his chest. ‘Was it frightful? Did you subdue the cattle of Geryon?’

‘I not only subdued them,’ he said, ‘but the entire peninsula of Iberia, and drove them back through the lands of the Celts as an offering to your father.’

‘By the gods,’ I said, touching him lightly with the toe of my sandal, ‘that is a labour well done! And you have …?’

‘Two tasks remaining,’ he said.

He let out a breath and leant back against the doorpost, his eyes unfocused.

I stilled myself and placed my elbows on my thighs, inclining towards him. ‘What is it?’ I asked, not smiling now, watching the shadows of the flames on his face.

He shook his head.

‘Alcides.’ I pushed myself from the table and walked over to take his hand, feeling the rough skin beneath the fingers where he handled his sword. ‘You can confide in me.’

‘I know that,’ he said.

‘Then?’

He turned to me, though his eyes still flicked back and forth. ‘It is hard to admit.’

I waited, allowing him time to formulate his thoughts, listening to the dried stems rustling on the table as the draught from beneath the door blew them.

‘Eight years I have lived here,’ he said at last. ‘What happens if I do not succeed in completing the labours? How could I return to Thebes, to Amphitryon, more alone even than I was before, and a proven failure at that?’

‘You know the answer,’ I said, pressing his hand. ‘You can stay here. My father would welcome you and gladly.’

‘And then,’ he turned his eyes to me, doubt and uncertainty written on his face, ‘what if I complete them?’

‘Then you will receive everything you have wished for since you came to this court with the words of the oracle still echoing in your ears.’

‘Yes, but …’ He dropped my hand and began to pace, his shadow long over the opposite wall. His voice was anguished, barely a whisper, as he said, ‘What if my father – what if Zeus – what if he—’ He shook his head, his throat working. ‘I cannot even say it.’

I moved towards him and folded him in my arms, took his head on my shoulder, as I would an infant suffering from the whooping cough. ‘I know what it is you fear,’ I said, my voice low in his ear. ‘But trust me, Alcides. I have known you these eight years. I know the loyalty and the courage that lie within you. You will be enough for him.’

He raised his head at once. ‘I should not have mentioned it – your mother – I did not wish to pain you, Admete.’ He was talking quickly, and it was he, now, who took my hand. ‘I am sorry for it.’

‘For what?’ I tried to keep my voice carefree, pulling myself from his grip and walking over to the jar of thyme on the trestle table, as if I had just recalled it. ‘It was many years ago, and a wound that is long healed.’

He had opened his mouth to respond when the door from the court slammed against the wall, bringing with it a sharp blast of winter wind. I looked up, startled.

‘My lady Admete.’ A figure tumbled into the room, a torch in her hand and her breath coming short and fast.

‘Elais – what is it?’

She tried to catch her breath, her cheeks bright with cold. ‘It is your brother, my lady, the eldest and heir to the throne of Tiryns.’

‘Alexander?’ I asked, feeling the blood drain from my face. ‘Oh, gods, what of him?’

‘He is returned – from Egypt,’ she said.

‘What?’ I turned to Alcides, frowning, still taking in her words, as if asking him to correct her. ‘Can this be true? In the midst of these tempests, this season of winter sea-storms?’

‘I know as little of this as you,’ he said, spreading his hands, but Elais interrupted him.

‘It is even so, my lady,’ she said. Her eyes were wide with fright and red-rimmed as I turned to her. ‘He is sweating with a fever the like of which neither I nor any other of the priests has ever seen. None of the healers in Egypt could cure him. His men tell me they determined at last to bring him back to Tiryns, despite it not being the season for sailing, to see if you might aid him. Oh, I beg you, my lady, come quick, for he is near to fainting after the voyage, and raves all kinds of madness.’

My skin prickled with fear, but I felt my training as a healer overtake it as I had taught myself. With all the death and pain I had seen over many years of tending spotted plagues and infections, breech births and suppurating wounds, my spirit would have broken if I could not trust in my skill to the very last. ‘Very well,’ I said, running to the store-room and grasping a handful of feverfew from its jar. ‘This will do until I can bring him here and prepare more. Alcides,’ I strode back into the room, and he was at my side in a moment, ‘will you carry a jar of water for me?’ I pointed to them. ‘Elais, take these linens.’

I snatched up the lamp from the table, glowing dimly now but enough to see us to the harbour, and faced the door, bare-armed against the biting wind, my heart blazing like the hearth behind me. ‘Take me to him.’

Hippolyta

I pushed past Teuspa into the tent, a veil of darkness overtaking my vision. Through the dim light I saw Cayster lying inside on a bed of pelts, Melanippe stroking his hair and murmuring to him, pale-faced, as she held up a lamp, illuminating a gash running the length of his thigh that was oozing blood. He was whimpering, tears streaming down his cheeks, his dark eyes wide and frightened. I put a hand upon the tent-post.

‘Melanippe,’ I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking, ‘fetch Ioxeia.’

She bent to kiss the boy, lingering over him and pressing his hand in hers, then handed me the lamp, her fingers trembling, and swept from the tent.

I moved around the hearth and laid the back of my hand against his forehead. His skin was warmed by the fire but not flaming with fever. Thank the gods for that. I took his hand in mine and held it tight, feeling the fingers enclosed within my own and a burning pain within my chest.

‘It is natural for you to feel concern for him, my queen,’ a voice said. My hand slipped – I had thought I was alone. ‘But he will be well.’

I looked around. Teuspa had entered and was squatting by the fire, stoking it and sending sparks shooting up into the air. I dropped Cayster’s hand.

‘You were unharmed?’

‘Nothing of consequence. And I took one of the Budini for it. But there were too many for me to protect Cayster, and by then they were hot with blood-lust as well as looting.’

He lapsed into silence. I sat on Cayster’s bed and twisted my fingers in my lap, trying to trust that all would be well, to act as if the howling of the wind outside and the sound of the snow blowing in against the animal hides of the tent distracted me from his whimpers of pain.

At last the opening to the tent parted, with a freezing blast and a swirl of snow, and I leapt to my feet, heart hammering at my throat. ‘Ioxeia? Are you there?’

Melanippe entered, and after her the priest and healer of the Amazons, an elderly woman of more than sixty years, one eye blinded in battle, her wolf’s-pelt cloak glittering with snow and her white hair frosted. She was carrying a pitcher, several cloths, and pouches of herbs thrown over her arm. She poured a little water from the pitcher into the cauldron set over the fire before kneeling down by Cayster. Melanippe glanced at me, her face drawn, and I nodded my thanks, tight-lipped.

Ioxeia was now pressing Cayster’s wound gently with her fingers. I felt the gall rise in my belly, and longed to command her to cease, but she was inspecting the rest of his leg now, checking for other wounds, then feeling with her fingers along the bones.

‘It is but a surface wound,’ she said finally, turning to Melanippe and Teuspa. Melanippe let out a half-sob and closed her eyes, and Teuspa drew her to him, taking deep, steadying breaths, his gaze over-bright. The gods be thanked, I thought, bringing a hand to my forehead and turning away. ‘I have drawn as much of the illness from him as I can. Rest, plenty of koumiss, and the mercy of Tar the storm-god should heal him in time. For now,’ I heard the sound of a cloth being dipped into water and wrung out again, ‘keep this soaked with water and press it to the wound until the stars appear in the sky. I shall return then and bind his leg myself.’

I turned to Melanippe as Ioxeia left the tent. ‘I am so relieved for you, sister,’ I said, my hands on her forearms, gripping into the skin. ‘But I must see to the others of our tribe.’ She nodded, biting her lip to stop it trembling. ‘Will you and Teuspa manage alone?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then – I will leave you.’

As I pushed open the tent-flap I glanced back at Cayster, his eyes closed now, tears gathered on the lashes, as the warmed cloth soothed him. His father was singing to him, and I saw Cayster’s eyelids flutter; and I felt a hollow tug of sadness at their closeness. I bent my head and left, stepping out into the snow.

The sun was but a thin orange line upon the horizon. I started to unbuckle my war-belt, the symbol of the ruler of the tribe, given to us by the storm-god Tar and handed down from my mother, the queen before me. It was wide enough to cover me from hips to navel, leather plated with gold plaques and equipped with straps from which my battle-axe, bow-case and sword hung. My fingers brushed the eagle pendant on its thong by my quiver, the amulet and tamga of our clan. It was the most sacred and precious sign to the Amazons, and as I touched it, I thought of all the queens who had gone before me, whose thumbs had rubbed the eagle after victory: some small comfort in the aftermath of the battle, surrounded by the warriors I had led to risk their lives. Men and women busied around me, dragging the bodies of the dead Budini beyond the camp to bury in the snowdrifts, throwing blankets of felt over their horses’ backs to keep them warm. I stopped to let a pair of men pass me, their swords still gore-crusted from the battle. As I turned aside, for a moment, just a moment, it was as if a warm breeze blew over my face – a breeze scented with rosemary and thyme and bay leaves.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

Wind whips over the water, turning it white. The sea laps against the shore, and foam swirls over the pebbles, splashing around my ankles as I hold up my robes, trying not to wet them. He laughs at me, pulls me down, and I fall into the water, laughing too, my hair streaming down my back …

There was a clang of metal, and I opened my eyes. A group of Amazons were stripping one of the Budini of his armour and tossing it in a pile onto the blood-soaked snow, the shield clattering against the breastplate, the sword thrown on top, the broken spear shaft set aside for firewood. I looked back to Melanippe’s tent. She was standing before it, watching me, her arms crossed and her face creased in a frown.

She knows what I am thinking. I felt a flicker of shame creep up my neck and blaze upon my cheeks.

I turned, bowed my head against the freezing wind, and made my way through the snow across the Amazon camp.

Ἀδμήτη

Admete

We ran through the corridors that adjoined the inner court, down the steps and across the yard. Rain was slanting through the black air upon the paving slabs, and I had to hold a hand over my oil-lamp to prevent it going out. The guards at the tower nodded to me as I passed and swung the gates forwards so that we could clatter, slipping in our sandals, down the stone steps towards the postern gate. Elais’ torch sputtered ahead of me as I slid past her through the door and beyond the outer walls, my heart rattling in my chest, my eyes squinting against the rain, to the harbour where a cluster of torches bloomed in the darkness.

And then a light bobbed towards us: a slave, laden with clothes tied into bundles with twine, his face gleaming with rain. ‘My lady Admete!’

‘Rhoecus!’ I lost my footing as I tried to stop, and flung a hand to the wall to steady myself, scraping my skin on the stone. ‘Alexander – where is he?’

‘Taken to his chambers already, my lady,’ he said. ‘They wanted to lay him down. He’s in a bad way.’

Without hesitation I turned back, colliding with Alcides and almost causing Elais to drop her torch.

‘He’s in his chambers,’ I called, as I gathered my skirts in one hand and ran up the steps.

Back across the yard, up the staircase and into the lowering darkness of the palace, along the corridor that skirted the Great Hall, past the empty queen’s rooms and to the double doors that led to Alexander’s chambers. As they swung back, pushed open by the guards, I felt the heat of the room assail me, the air stifling – they had lit a fire, at least. A crowd of men and slaves thronged around Alexander’s bed: I saw at once my father, my brothers Iphimedon and Eurybius, and the twins Mentor and Perimedes, all of them fair as my father had been, though the king’s hair was streaked now with grey and coarse with age. They would have to go, of course. At once I set down my oil-lamp on a side-table and turned to Alcides, all activity and business.

‘Set a cauldron to boil on the fire,’ I threw at him. ‘Elais, the linens – over by the bed.’

My father heard my voice and turned. In two breaths he was across the room and by my side, his hand gripping my shoulder, his brow creased. ‘Can you heal him?’ He rubbed his forehead with his fingers as he spoke, chafing the skin, as if by doing so he could somehow avert the danger that threatened his eldest son.

‘I will have to see him before I can tell. But I will do all I can – I swear it.’

He stooped and pressed a swift kiss to my head. ‘Go, then.’

I pushed past Mentor and waved away the slave who was bent over Alexander, fussing at him with a cloth. At last I saw him. I recoiled, horrified to see how far the fever had gone. He lay twitching and convulsing on the sheets, the blankets tossed back and his under-tunic stained dark with sweat. There was a sickly pallor to his skin where the firelight gleamed over it, and his hair was slicked to his head; his eyes were closed, the whites just showing, rolling back and forth. I pressed my hand to his forehead. Oh, gods. Hot as a stone in the sun at the height of summer. I felt the first tremor of fear. Yet there were no blisters, no pockmarks on his skin, as far as I could see. No plague, then.

‘He needs rest,’ I said to the gathered crowd. ‘You have served him well,’ I told his slaves. ‘You too, father, brothers. You did well to bring him here.’ I bowed to them. ‘But now he needs my care. The ministration of herbs and the peace of sleep will be the best cure.’

The guards swung open the doors, and first the slaves, then Alcides and Elais left the chamber, treading over the tiles like shadows.

Eurybius reached out for my hand as he passed. ‘You – you will be able to cure him, sister, will you not?’

I pressed his fingers to my lips, then to my forehead, summoning my strength for the long night at Alexander’s bedside. ‘I will do my best, Eurybius.’

His gaze wavered. ‘Our mother would have—’

‘We have managed long enough without her.’ My father had approached, and waved Eurybius away; he melted into the darkness with my younger brothers and Iphimedon.

There was a moment’s silence in which the fire in the hearth spat and sparked, and Alexander moaned, muttering beneath his breath.