Nobody's Princess (12 page)

“
Exactly
like her mother,” my aunt’s voice trailed after me. “And you
know
what a beauty she grew up to be.”

         
10
         

THE BOAR COMES

The cloth I’d been given by my aunt turned out to be useless. I tried several ways of wearing it under my tunic, wrapped and tucked this way and that, but it kept slipping off or bunching up when I walked. I had enough trouble getting up on Aristos without a wad of wool snaring my legs and getting in the way. I wound up leaving it behind in my room before I ran out to meet Atalanta by the pines.

We rode into the hills before the early-morning mist was completely gone from between the trees. The silvery haze held secrets. Once I thought I saw the slim, swift shape of a dryad slipping back into the bark of her tree, but it might have been nothing more than an ordinary shadow. The sun burned the mist away by the time we reached the clearing.

My second morning of riding lessons went only a little better than the first. As soon as I mastered mounting Aristos with a boost from Atalanta, she decreed I was ready to try getting up on the horse without her helping hands.

“Like this,” she said, demonstrating the proper way to do it. It was much the same business as the assisted mount—reins in the left hand, a little jump, a little push upward with the right hand, the right leg swung over the horse’s back, and there she was.

There
she
was; not me.

The best thing you could say about my attempts was that at least I’d stopped dropping the reins. At first my jump up wasn’t high enough, and I slammed my chest into Aristos’s side. When I jumped harder, I still couldn’t manage to swing my leg over the horse and ended up hanging over his back on my stomach before sliding back down.

Atalanta let me have half a dozen tries before she stepped in and showed me how to use both hands to help me make the midair turn without losing my grip on the reins. That was the only reason I was finally able to mount Aristos, though not without a lot of squirming myself into a proper seat once I was on the stallion’s back.

Then the
real
lessons began.

By the time Atalanta had to return to the citadel, she seemed pleased with my progress. “Not bad, little squirrel; not bad at all,” she said as she watched me guide Aristos around the clearing at a walk. “You’re still sitting too far forward—that’s why you fell off both times today—but you have the right instinct for balancing control between your hands and your legs. Tomorrow we’ll see if you can stay on him when he picks up his pace. Here’s a taste.”

She gave the horse a light swat on the rump and he went into a lively trot. My teeth clattered together as I bounced along, but I pulled back firmly on the reins, and brought him to a stop before every bone in my back shook loose. I turned Aristos’s head toward Atalanta, touched his side with my heels, and walked him back to her.

“I think I’ll be ready,” I said, smiling feebly through the fresh pains of that day’s lesson.

I wasn’t smiling when she dropped me off at the little roadside pine grove. The insides of my legs were hurting too much. I was used to dealing with aches and bruises from all the time I’d spent learning weaponry with Glaucus and my brothers, but having my skin rubbed raw by a horse’s flanks was something new. My flesh stung as if I’d landed on my behind in a beehive. The simple act of putting one foot in front of the other to walk back to the citadel became a bizarre, agonizing dance.

I was lucky that Atalanta didn’t simply go galloping off as soon as she let me off Aristos. She saw my pain and she knew the reason.

“Didn’t I tell you to protect your thighs?” she asked.

“I tried,” I replied. “I tried, and I
really
wish I’d succeeded, believe me.” I went on to explain my failed attempts at turning that length of cloth from my aunt into a usable undergarment.

“Hmm. Where’s that cloth now?” Atalanta asked.

“I left it on my bed this morning.”

“Good; easy enough to find. If there’s enough material to make myself a new pair of Mykenaean riding breeches, I’ll swap it for my old ones. They won’t fit you perfectly, but they’ll do, and I could use a new pair.”

“You know how to sew?” I was unwilling to believe it.

Atalanta was amused by my incredulity. “Don’t gape at me like that, girl. It’s not as if I knew how to
fly.
” And with that, she rode off.

It took me a long, painful time to walk back to the citadel. As I limped through the gates, one of the guards jeered, “Next time work harder, boy, and your master won’t beat you so badly!” I gritted my teeth and ignored him as I made my way back to my room.

Pain or no pain, I had to move much more quickly once I was inside the palace, in order to avoid being seen and questioned. A scruffy, ragged “boy” could have a dozen excuses for passing through those parts of the Calydonian citadel where people did real labor, but next to none for being caught on the upper floor where the highborn had rooms.

I was climbing the stairs to the upper level when I ran into one of the hunters coming down. He took one look at me and his eyes widened. “By Zeus, boy, what happened to
you
?”

“I fell off a horse.” There was no harm in telling the truth, as far as I could tell. I tried to move past him before anyone else might happen to come along.

He stayed where he was, blocking the narrow stairway. “A horse?” he echoed. “Are you all right? Did you get hurt?”

I shrugged. “It’s nothing.” Again I tried to move past him, adding, “Please excuse me, sir; I have to see if my master needs me.”

I only wanted an excuse to get away from him, back to my own room. In my haste, I’d picked a poor one, because the next thing the man asked, quite reasonably, was, “Who is your master? I doubt you’ll find him in his room at this time of day. Why don’t you come along with me to the training ground? I’ll help you look for him.”

He sounded genuinely concerned, as if he really cared about helping a grubby, unimportant “boy” like me. He seemed to be only slightly older than my brothers, with nothing remarkable about his looks—he was shorter than most of the other hunters, had dull black hair, brown eyes, pockmarked skin, and a body as solid and ordinary as a bullock’s—yet it was clear he had a good heart. Even though his concern was bringing him dreadfully close to undoing my disguise, I found myself drawn to him.

“Thank you, sir, but I still have to go back to my master’s room,” I replied, evading his question. “I’m responsible for carrying his weapons. If he’s not still there, he’ll be waiting for me at the training ground, and he’s not a patient man.
Please
let me pass!”

“Ah, so you’re one of the weapons bearers?” (Under other circumstances I might have appreciated his friendliness, but not when it was delaying me, no matter
how
attractive I found him.) “It’s a thankless job, isn’t it? I remember my days serving my uncle on his adventures. Talk about a man with no patience! But a celebrated hero, then as now. The places he took me, the exploits we shared, the marvels I saw him perform, sometimes with his bare hands! It was an honor to serve—” He stopped, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m sorry, lad—you’re in a hurry and I’m keeping you from your duties.” He stepped to one side on the stairs.

But I made no move to go on my way. All at once I recognized the face I’d only glimpsed at my uncle’s table. “Sir, are you—are you Iolaus, great Herakles’s nephew?”

He gave an uncomfortable laugh and scratched his head. “I can’t deny it. How did you know me?”

“I saw you at dinner.” That was the truth, even if he’d believe I’d done so from a place at the servants’ table, not the king’s. “I’ve heard the poets sing of your exploits. It’s an honor to meet you.”

His mouth curved into a charming smile. “The real honor would be to meet Herakles. Surely you’ve heard what some of the other hunters say about me? That Lord Oeneus allowed me to join the hunt only because of my uncle’s deeds, not mine.”

“If you ask me, some of the men who scoff at you wouldn’t fare so well if anyone looked closely at
their
claims to fame,” I replied hotly. “Everyone knows that you were the one who helped Herakles slay the nine-headed Hydra!”

“Yes, well…” He took a deep breath. “Lad, did you ever
see
a nine-headed beast of any sort, mouse or monster?”

“No, but—”

“No one has, including me
and
my uncle. But the poets who sing for their living know they won’t earn a full belly from spinning tales about how Herakles and his nephew slew an ordinary swamp snake; a monstrously
big
swamp snake, as thick around the body as a pillar, but with just one head, after all.”

“Oh.” I was deeply disappointed.

“Now, now, cheer up.” Iolaus put on a jolly face. “No need to lose heart just because
my
adventures are such trivial things. All the more reason for you to grow up strong and brave and perform
truly
heroic deeds. Show the rest of us how it’s done, eh? Now run along. Your master’s waiting and I’ll feel awful if he punishes you because I kept you chatting here.” He turned and bounded down the stairs. I was sorry to see him go.

I made it to my chamber without further incident and saw that Atalanta had been there. The length of cloth was gone, replaced by an unfamiliar piece of clothing. My bedside water jug had been refilled to the brim, and there was a small, sealed clay pot next to it. I broke the seal, removed the lid, and dipped one finger into the thick yellow salve inside. It felt cool, smelled like honey, and brought me sweet relief as soon as I smoothed it over my suffering skin. I blessed Atalanta’s name.

My third day of riding lessons slipped by in a dance of walk, trot, and canter. My style when mounting and dismounting the horse still left a lot to be desired, but Atalanta was satisfied with how much better I sat once I was on the stallion. When Aristos moved, I straightened my spine without making it rigid and leaned back a bit, instead of bending forward to steady myself. The Mykenaean breeches helped, giving my legs a more secure grip on his sides.

Trotting still jounced me almost as much as an oxcart ride, but I didn’t fall off. The canter was a smoother gait—I loved it!—but what I really wanted to do was recapture the amazing sensation I’d experienced when Atalanta first swept me up onto horseback and gave Aristos his wings.

“Can I run him?” I asked. “
Really
run him?”

“Don’t let me stop you,” Atalanta replied. “If you think you can—”

I was off before she could finish her sentence. A kick of my heels to Aristos’s flanks and we were off. The first burst of speed stole my breath. I was ecstatic, feeling the wind, skimming across the ground—

—sliding too far forward to control the horse properly, sheepskin or no sheepskin beneath my seat, breeches or no breeches on my legs. I wasn’t ready to deal with how slippery a horse’s back could become once he worked up a sweat. As if horsehair needed something to make it even more slippery than it already was! The stallion wasn’t just running, he was running away with me, heading for the trees. If I hit a low branch head-on—

I panicked and pulled back on the reins, trying to turn him, but I used too heavy a hand and Aristos wouldn’t stand for it. He jerked his head up sharply, tearing the reins from my hand, then down, humping his back and flinging out his heels.

I’d wanted to fly
on
horseback, not
from
it. The gods were merciful and let me plunge well clear of the stallion’s flashing hooves and all of the larger rocks in the area.

I was still lying on my stomach, getting a close view of mud and grass roots, when I heard Atalanta’s shrill whistle and Aristos’s footsteps, deceptively dainty for such a powerful creature. The two of them walked over to where I lay so that I got a good look at the huntress’s bare feet and the horse’s mucky hooves before I pushed myself up to sit.

“Do you know what you did wrong?” Atalanta asked me.

“Everything?”

It wasn’t as bad as that, according to her, but bad enough. Aristos had to be sweet-talked for a while before he’d allow me to approach him again. I found myself apologizing to a horse for having acted heedlessly. At first I felt silly doing it, but the longer I spoke to him, quietly asking him for another chance, the more his attitude toward me seemed to soften. When I finished begging his pardon, I swear by Zeus himself that Aristos turned sideways as if to offer me his back once more!