Bring Down the Sun (13 page)

They were bound in the Mother and the Mystery. Now they proclaimed the great marriage for the world to see.

The door was shut. The bed was laid for them, strewn with petals and fragrant herbs. A cluster of lamps burned with a steady light.

People were singing outside, dancing and playing on drums and cymbals. The sounds were faint through the heavy door, dim and far away.

Philip stood just inside the door, shifting from foot to foot. “You're afraid,” Myrtale said as the truth came to her. “This thing between us—it terrifies you.”

“Yes.” It was a lion's growl. “I've never run away from anything in my life.”

“I don't see you running now,” she said.

“There's half a hundred howling roisterers out there,” said Philip. “I'd be torn limb from limb.”

She knew better than to laugh. As little as she had been taught of men, this she knew: they were terribly tender when it came to their dignity.

She let fall her swathings of garments and stood dressed only in gold and her hair. “Come here,” she said.

He shuddered as he drew in a breath. She crossed the room in a long, smooth stride and took his hands. They were cold.

She warmed them against her breasts. They opened as if of their own accord. She smiled up at him.

She watched the fear leave him. A woman in his hands he understood—almost as well as war or kingship.

For her it was not so familiar a thing, but this man she knew. She had known him even before she saw him in the Mysteries, deep down in her heart. He was the one the Mother had made for her.

He swept her up just as she leaped into his arms. Then she felt safe to laugh. The sound vanished in his own roar of relief and sudden joy.

Sixteen

Myrtale's body ached in very pleasurable ways. Philip had fallen asleep as men did, sprawled across the tumbled bed. She pushed him over to make room for herself; he muttered and scowled but did not wake.

She propped herself on her elbow and rested her eyes on him. His body in the lamplight was black-furred and white-skinned and strong. She traced lines of scars: down along his side, deep-sunken in his thigh, and thin pale slashes along his arms and the backs of his hands.

Her own hands were childishly smooth beside his. Her calluses from labor in the temple were fading; his were set hard, marks of sword and spear and bow. His palms were broad but his fingers long; one had been broken and set crooked.

She laid words of guard and blessing on him, running her hands over his body, kissing each gate of the soul. There were maybe not so many of those as she chose to find.

When she reached the eyes, they were open. She had heard no change in his breathing and sensed no sign of waking, but he was awake and aware of her. She smiled and kissed his eyelids and said, “Good morning, husband.”

“It's morning already?”

His growl made her laugh. “Nearer dawn than sunset,” she said, “but a fair while till sunrise.”

“Were you casting spells on me?”

“Blessings,” she said.

He frowned. She stroked his brow smooth. “I am the Mother's child. All women are. She blesses me; I pass it on to you.”

He did not look as if he quite believed her, but he let go his tension. When she took him inside her, he was ready: startled at first, then eager.

*   *   *

“You aren't used to a woman who takes a man,” she said.

He was falling asleep again, but he shook himself awake. “You come on like an army,” he said, “storming the barricades.”

“And you don't?”

He lifted himself on his elbows. She lay on her side, watching him. He was dangerous as any animal is, simmering with barely controlled violence.

She could bring down the sun. What was a king of men to that?

He met her eyes and held, but she saw what it cost him. Deliberately she softened her stare. His hackles went down; his breath came less sharp.

He tossed his head. “Gods, woman! Make you a man and put you in armor and you'd be Achilles himself.”

“That sulky child?” She lay back, well aware of his eyes as they traveled down her body. “He died a fool's death. Odysseus, now—he had wits as well as brawn.
He
won Troy.”

“So he did,” Philip said. “Got his own epic, too. But when people dream of heroes, it's Achilles they want most to be.”

“I don't,” she said. “I don't think you do, either. You can fight—better than most, I'm told. But you're best at the council table, or moving men to do your will through words rather than blows. You'll make Macedon a power in the world, but you won't do that simply by throwing armies against it.”

“Armies have their place,” he said. “I'll make ours the best there is. But they're expensive. If I can get what I need by sitting at a table and talking, I'll do it. As long as the men across from me know I've got a few thousand spears to back me up, they'll listen.”

“You're a man after Odysseus' heart,” she said.

“Not Agamemnon?”

“A coward and a braggart, who bullied others into fighting his war for him. I don't see him in you.”

“You are a woman of decided opinions,” Philip said.

He was more amused than not. His fear had faded. He was beginning to look at her as a human creature instead of a dream or a nightmare.

“I know what I want,” she said. “I do my best to take it.”

“You should have been a man,” he said.

“Why would I want that?”

She had taken him aback. “A man is— A woman—”

“Ask yourself,” she said, “why a woman has to be weak to make a man feel strong. Are men so weak that women's strength is a threat to them?”

“So it is true,” he said. “You're one of the old kind. I thought they were gone from the world.”

“Not yet,” she said.

She had meant to protest that she was no such thing, but the words would not come out. She would not be what her aunt had raised her to be, but she could not be a submissive woman of this age, either. She was the child of her blood after all, for all her struggles against it.

She watched him to see what he would do. For a long while he simply watched her in return. She had shocked the sleep out of him: his eyes were clear.

She was nodding off herself when he reached for her. His hand closed around her throat.

That woke her, but she felt no fear. He was testing. He might kill her; he might die first. It was all in the Mother's hands.

Gently but firmly, she closed her own fingers around his testicles. She did not squeeze, any more than he squeezed her throat. She smiled.

She felt the gust of fury in him. Then suddenly he laughed. He fell backward, shaking with it, so long and hard he hiccoughed into silence.

Her grip turned from threat to caress. His phallus stiffened. He groaned, but he made no move to escape.

Never be predictable.
That had been Troas' advice. She had said it would catch a man's attention, and that did seem to be true.

It was a terribly easy thing to do. Having teased him until he begged for mercy, she left him lying and pretended to fall asleep.

He was no fool. He surged up over her and caught her in his arms and thrust so deep she cried out, half in pain and half in pleasure.

Her nails raked his back. He bucked and cursed. She bit his ear until she tasted blood, locked her legs around his middle and trapped him as he had trapped her.

Love was a sickness, the poets said. It possessed the spirit; it drove men mad.

Myrtale reveled in it. Her body ached and burned and sang. When they had fought this last battle to a roaring conclusion, she fell back panting, running with sweat, grinning at her glorious brute of a husband.

He grinned back. The sullenness was stripped from him. He had loosed the tight control he kept on himself; he let her see what he was inside, the wild boy whom she had always known was there.

That was the Philip she loved. She swore an oath to herself to keep that boy alive no matter how old or jaded the man grew. For her he would always be young and light of heart.

*   *   *

Morning took both of them by surprise. They had fallen asleep in one another's arms. When the door burst open and a cheering crowd poured in, Philip surged up with a roar.

Myrtale, less warlike, still was directly behind him, armed for battle. She met eyes both strange and familiar and stared them down. Men blushed; women drew back.

They looked so abashed that she could not help but laugh. “Come in!” she said. “Be welcome. Feast with us.”

They had come to sweep the bride and groom away; instead they found themselves borne off to the wedding feast. Then for a little while Myrtale and Philip were alone again, until the servants came to bathe and dress them.

There was too little time for anything but a kiss. Myrtale took full advantage of it. It might have led to more, if they had not been invaded by an army of faithful servitors.

Seventeen

For three days Philip celebrated his marriage to the princess from Epiros. On the fourth, he had to be king again. And Myrtale had to face the reality of the bargain she had made.

When he left her on that fourth morning, the servants who had attended her through the wedding were not in evidence. In their place came an elderly woman, thin and erect, who looked Myrtale up and down with an expression of barely concealed disdain. She performed the service of a maid, making it clear that this was not her wonted duty, nor did she intend to make a habit of it.

The clothes in which she dressed Myrtale were rich enough, and the ornaments that went with them were the king's gift, fit for a queen. In soft new wool and heavy gold and plates of amber, Myrtale followed the stiff-backed servant out of the wedding chamber into the depths of the women's quarters.

These were small rooms but richly painted, with floors of figured stone and furnishings of rare cedar and cypress inlaid with gold and ivory. The innermost was adorned with images of nymphs and satyrs dancing in a landscape of hills and streams and feathery-branched trees. “This is yours,” the servant said in an accent that Myrtale had learned to recognize as high-bred Macedonian.

Maybe the woman was not a servant. Maybe she was something more. Myrtale could hardly ask without giving insult.

She could ask the more immediate question. “Mine? My room?”

“Yours,” said the old woman.

Myrtale turned slowly. Amid the treasure of painted walls, she had almost failed to see the bed—barely wide enough for two—and the chest at its foot and the table beside it, and the cluster of lamps that lit the windowless space. Apart from its walls, it was nearly as ascetic as her cell in Dodona's temple.

“This is not where the king sleeps,” she said.

The old woman's eyes were hooded, her face unreadable. “The king sleeps where he pleases. This is your place.”

“Mine? Will my women share it?”

“You belong to the king now,” her guide said.

“And my maid belongs to me,” said Myrtale. She did her best to speak coolly, as if it did not matter. “Fetch her, if you please.”

The old woman bowed, a bare dip of the head, and left Myrtale standing among the painted dancers.

*   *   *

Myrtale was prepared to wait for as long as it took. She investigated the chest and found her belongings in it, with an armful of folded gowns and mantles that looked newly made, and a box of jewels into which her golden ornaments fit exactly.

Her snake in its basket was nowhere in the room. She had hardly spared it a thought through the wedding, but now she was alone, she missed it. If it had been cast away or lost, she would turn the palace on its head until she found it.

She had thought she was calm, but her body would not sit still. She kilted up her skirts and ventured out of the room.

There was no lock on the door and no barrier beyond. She was not a prisoner. She followed the currents of air past closed doors and silent rooms to blinding light.

As her eyes adapted to the glare, she saw that she was in a courtyard, and the courtyard was full of women. Those in the colonnade were doing familiar things: spinning, weaving, embroidery. Those in the open space brought Myrtale to a wide-eyed halt.

There were half a dozen of them, more or less. They were dressed in short chitons tight-bound across the breasts. Most practiced archery, shooting arrows at targets down the length of the courtyard. One or two vied with javelins.

Much about this palace was unexpected; after the rumors of a nation of shepherds and cattle-herders sharing the byres with their livestock, she had found order and beauty and luxury that outshone anything she had known in Epiros. But this startled her speechless.

Philip's women trained like men. She began to wonder if he had been mocking her when they lay together, wondering at her strength and seeming astonished that she would speak to him as an equal. His own palace was full of warrior women.

So much for her aunt's conviction that she had sold herself in slavery to a man. This was the Mother's country—she had felt it from the moment she passed its borders. Here were the Mother's daughters, skilled in war and the hunt.

As Myrtale stared, one of the javelin-throwers saluted an especially skillful cast with a whoop, a dance, and a swoop toward the colonnade, where a plump maid played with a toddling child. The child sprang into the woman's arms; she laughed and spun him about.

She was a slender woman, tall and reddish-fair. The child was stocky and sturdy, with a shock of black curls. There was no mistaking where he came from.

Myrtale's belly knotted. In the men's world, the queen was the heir's mother. If Philip had a son, healthy and strong and bright-eyed as this one seemed to be, then this lithe young woman must be queen of Macedon.

Myrtale had come to be queen. She had not allowed herself to think that there might be one in place already. It was meant that she hold that office.