Quiver (6 page)

EIGHTEEN

Entella brought up the race while she arranged my hair before dinner. I was not surprised. Entella knew everything that went on in the palace, from who dented the king’s goblet (Pistos, who had dared to blame it on her daughter Agnos) to what Nephele took for her monthly headaches (feverfew).

“Your first suitor!” she exclaimed, as her hands braided tirelessly. “Well! Who is he?”

“I was going to ask you that,” I said.

“Me!” She feigned surprise.

“You might have heard something,” I replied blandly, “from Pistos, or Nephele.”

“Pistos never tells me anything,” she said. “He stopped when your mother died. I said some things about the king. . . . Pistos is very loyal to him.”

“And Nephele?”

“The Lady Nephele knows only what the king tells her.” From the way she said it, I guessed it was very little. Poor Nephele, I thought.

“Did my father love my mother?” I had wanted to ask this from the time Entella had told me about my mother’s death.

“What a question!” she exclaimed, this time with genuine surprise.

I shrugged. “You must know,” I said. If the answer did not come from Entella, it would not come at all, for I would never ask my father.

“He did love her,” she said slowly, and with great conviction. “He loved her dearly.” Her hands slowed. “One day when they were newly married, I saw him do something— I was just a girl, but I have never forgotten it.”

I bowed my head, waiting.

“Your mother was at the gates, on her horse. They were saying goodbye. Just before she rode away, your father leaned over and kissed her leg.”

I tried to picture it and could not.

“The look they exchanged made me blush,” she said, “all the way down to my toes.”

“So they were happy?” The words cost me effort.

“At first.”

She would not say it, so I did. “Until I was born.”

Her hands stopped, settling on my shoulders. She had a warm, kindly touch, and I was grateful for it. I let my head fall back so that it rested on her bosom. I had no memories of my infancy, only Castor’s account of finding me, alone and naked, in a she-bear’s den. “You looked like a fat, filthy grub,” he liked to say, “with cheeks pink from howling.” He would always add, “thanks to the goddess,” but it was years before I knew why.

At length Entella said, “She could not forgive him. And he would not let her leave.”

But she found a way, I thought. I closed my eyes against the hot sting of tears and saw my mother’s horse picking its way back to the palace. What had my father felt, I wondered, when it appeared without her? Grief? Remorse? Rage? Fear? Whatever it was, I thought, it had not changed him. He was a tyrant then, and he was a tyrant now.

A defiant voice inside me said, do not let him crush you.

I took a deep breath. “Entella,” I said, “I need poison. Can you find some for me?”

“Oh!” This was almost a shriek, and Aura, who lay at my feet, started in alarm. “How can you ask me such a thing?” cried Entella. “I will not help you take your own life!”

“No, no,” I protested, “you misunderstand. The poison is not for me—it is for my opponent.”

“Your opponent? What opponent?” She was so agitated that beads of sweat appeared on her upper lip.

“Please, calm yourself,” I said, forcing her to sit. “I will explain why I need it, if you will only listen.”

She dried her face on her hem. When her bosom stopped heaving, I said, “I do not wish to marry. My father insists on it. So I have set conditions. That is why I am racing.”

“And the poison—?”

“You have not heard?” I asked. She shook her head. So Pistos has been quiet, I thought, surprised. “My suitors must race me,” I told her. “Those who lose must die.”

“Die?” She was incredulous.

I nodded unhappily. “No man can outrun me,” I said. “I have proved it many times. Some have even called me”—I lowered my voice, lest the gods take offense—“the swiftest mortal alive.

“I thought my reputation would keep suitors away. I was wrong. It seems the threat of death is alluring.” I grimaced. “And now I must honor the conditions I set.” I thought of Castor, who had taught me that honor was keeping one’s word. What would he make of these happenings? I wondered. I would give a great deal to know.

“You are so determined not to marry?” asked Entella.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I have my reasons.” After a moment I said, “I was always told that the goddess Artemis saved my life. I took a vow of chastity in her honor years ago. Before I came here she sent me a sign, a warning against marriage. I cannot ignore it.” Entella’s solemn expression told me she understood, and I was grateful.

“I thought offering poison would be . . . kinder.” As soon as I said this, it sounded foolish and stupid to me. Death was death.

“Will you help me?” I pleaded, taking her hand. “You are the only one I can ask.”

When she hesitated, I said, “I do not want to cause anyone’s death. But if the first dies, the others may stay away. That is my hope.”

She squeezed my hand and told me she would do what she could. Her words so reassured me that I felt easier about hearing my father’s announcement, which came promptly after his third glass of wine.

NINETEEN

I took the news calmly. “Tomorrow?” I echoed, wiping my hands daintily on my chiton. We were eating goat. “Good. A run will be welcome.” As far as I knew, my father was ignorant of my predawn excursions.

“Mataios tells me you have been riding,” he said.

“Have you?” Nephele looked at me wide-eyed. She was the kind of soft, fluttery woman who feared all four-legged creatures but kittens.

“I hope you don’t mind,” I replied. “It is very diverting.”

“Not at all.” I watched him drink, wondering if he thought of my mother when he heard of my affection for horses. I hoped so. For a moment I seethed with dark, vengeful thoughts.

“I am sure the race tomorrow will be diverting also,” he said. “Particularly as you know your suitor. Or so he claims.”

“Oh? Who is he?”

“Cepheus. He says he was on the Hunt with you.”

“Cepheus!” I nearly spat out my food.

“You do know him, then.”

Well enough, I thought with dislike, seeing his close-set eyes and perpetual sneer. “Why has he come forward?” I demanded.

“He says he loves you,” said my father, smiling at my loss of composure. “Can he be lying?”

“Why would he lie?” asked Nephele.

“He hates me!” I said. “When his friend Ancaeus was killed on the Hunt, Cepheus held me responsible.”

“Then why would he want to marry you?” inquired my father.

“Perhaps he is deranged,” I said. “Ancaeus’ death may have pushed him into madness. Grief drives people to extremes,” I added pointedly, “as you know.”

My father blinked. Otherwise ignoring the reference to my mother, he said, “He seems rational enough. Most definitely in his right mind. Healthy, too.” He cocked his head. “He looks as strong as a bull.”

You are disgusting, I thought. “Crazed or sane, it makes no difference,” I said, rising. “The man is slow on his feet.”

I went back to my chamber and wept.

TWENTY

I ran the next morning. When I was deep in the forest, at my rough shrine, I made an offering and prayed. I asked Artemis to watch over me. I dedicated the race to her. I requested a merciful death for Cepheus. Then I ended my prayer as I always did, with the words “I am yours.”

Apollo:
A small wager, sister?

Artemis:
We both know she’ll win.

Apollo:
True. Too bad victory comes at such a price.

Artemis:
Her decision.

Apollo:
She made it because of you.

Artemis:
You sent her the dreams.

Apollo:
Have you no mercy? She’s in a terrible predicament!

Artemis:
She can handle it. If she couldn’t, I’d still have my ivory quiver, wouldn’t I?

The course was short, about sixteen acres. It began far below the walls, at the point where the ground leveled, and followed the narrow footpath that encircled the palace. My father had taken the trouble to have the path widened, smoothed, and spread with sand, niceties that surprised me. Perhaps he imagined many such races.

May the gods forbid it, I thought.

I wore a short chiton, and now I tucked the small horn vial of poison inside my belt. Entella had told me the stuff was deadly and swift. “The faster the better,” I had said, wishing the morning were over.

A small crowd waited near the course—guards, servants, and a few others I had come to know, like Mataios, Perifanos, and Pistos. Entella was there with little Agnos and Galini, the daughters who helped her in the kitchen. My father and Nephele had not yet arrived, though chairs had been set out for them.

I remembered Cepheus’ characteristic expression as somewhere between a glower and a sneer, but when he saw me, he simply stared, and kept on staring as I came down the hill. He left his companions, four well-oiled, muscular young men, to join me near the track.

“Greetings, Atalanta,” he said loudly, fixing me with his dark, close-set eyes. He looked unusually clean, I thought, but then the last time I had seen him he had been drenched in boar’s blood.

“Greetings, Cepheus,” I replied. “I am surprised to find you here.”

He swallowed several times before replying, and a flush crept up his thick neck. “I am surprised also,” he confessed. Then he made an abrupt, harsh, braying sound that could only be laughter. “And I will be surprised if I win this race,” he went on, “but I—I could not stay away.”

Here was a Cepheus I did not know—awkward, bewildered, almost humble. Great gods on the mountain, I thought, looking away, what is he trying to tell me? At this moment my father appeared. He was as pale as a specter, and so weak that Nephele and Mataios had to help him into his high-backed chair.

“I see that you two are renewing your friendship,” he said approvingly.

Friendship! I thought. That is not what I would call it.

He settled himself and looked out at the crowd, which quickly fell silent. “You are witnesses to this race,” he announced in his deep voice, “between my daughter Atalanta, and Prince Cepheus of Arcadia. If the prince wins, he and Atalanta will marry. If Atalanta wins, the prince will die.”

There was an audible intake of breath. Some spectators, it seemed, were hearing the terms of the contest for the first time.

My father looked over at us. He raised a skeletal hand. “At my signal,” he said.

We crouched. I could feel Cepheus staring but kept my eyes resolutely on my father’s hand until it fell. Then I began to run at a very moderate pace. Cepheus charged forward, pumping his arms and scrambling into the lead, a feat that drew loud acclamation from his friends. I let him stay ahead as we took the first turn at the southwest corner of the palace. I had no desire to humiliate him.

As we ran north, there were cries from above. The stable boys were atop the walls screaming encouragement, their voices as high and piercing as the whistles they used to summon the horses from the fields.

“Faster, Princess, faster!” called Koris. “Don’t trot, gallop!” I waved to him. A few of the guards stationed on the wall called out to Cepheus, who was able to maintain his speed as we started uphill.

I caught up to him just past the northwest corner. It was the point at which the track fell behind the palace, and where we would be visible only to those on the wall. Even they, however, could not hear what we said.

“Cepheus,” I called, loping beside him. He turned, and there was such naked hope on his face that my gut clenched with pity. He actually thought I might let him win.

I held out the vial. “Take it,” I said. “Quickly!” When it was in his hand, I told him what it was. He was too breathless to speak, but he shook his head once, violently, and threw down the vial without breaking stride.

I retrieved it and caught up to him. “Please take it!” I begged. “There isn’t much time.” We would soon round the third, northeast corner, where the final stretch began. I lay my hand on his broad forearm, and for a moment he slowed. I could feel the blood pumping beneath his skin.

“It is best this way,” I told him, hating the empty words. In truth, the poison was just as much for me as for him; I could not bear to see him strangled, or beheaded. I was overcome with such self-loathing that I shuddered.

There was fear in his eyes now, and he was panting too heavily to reply. The sound he made was awful, like tree limbs groaning in winter wind.

I pressed the vial into his hand. “I am sorry,” I said.

Then I ran to my victory.

TWENTY-ONE

Aphrodite:
You shot the wrong person, you naughty boy!

Eros:
I did?

Aphrodite:
Stop giggling. You know Atalanta was meant to be your target.

Eros:
Sorry.

Aphrodite:
You’re not, but never mind. You’ll have another chance very soon.

My next suitor—a Cretan prince in ringlets and gold earrings—arrived two days later. Many silk-clad young men came with him, chattering amongst themselves as if they were attending a court celebration rather than a contest with a truly terrible second prize.

The prince could neither speak nor understand our dialect, but one of his friends knew a little Achaean. Whispering and gesticulating, he attempted to translate my father’s words to the crowd. I do not think he succeeded, for when the speech ended, the prince and his party looked entertained rather than apprehensive.

I offered the poison midrace, but my efforts to tell the prince what it was and why he should take it failed. When at last I simply pressed the vial into his hand, he smiled as if I had given him a love token. I ran the final lap wishing that I were far, far away from my father and his noxious demands.

Three others came after the Cretan prince. I won against them all. I began to feel like an executioner, and thought often of my childhood fascination with tales of human sacrifice in Arcadia. Whispered talk of men hunted like stags, throats cut, and strange prayers uttered had once thrilled and horrified me, in the way that cruelty excites the young.

But my own experience of human sacrifice, for that is how I came to view the races, did not thrill me in any way. Rather, I felt a constant dull nausea. The knowledge that in keeping my word I was pleasing no one—not the gods, not my father, and least of all my suitors—was truly sickening.

My daily prayers to the goddess had once given me comfort; now they were dreary. I wanted the races to end. I wanted the suitors to stay away, as I had always meant them to. I wanted the goddess to intervene on my behalf. My desperation and self-pity were unworthy of her, yet I expressed them time and again. I had never known such dismal confusion.

Then Entella told me she was running out of poison.

Aphrodite:
I heard the prayers of the nicest young man today. He’s called Hippomenes, and he’s madly in love with Atalanta.

Eros:
Ha! He’s doomed.

Aphrodite:
He was so sweet. He did a full prostration.

Eros:
Facedown on the ground?

Aphrodite:
Yes! I haven’t seen one in ages, have you?

Eros:
No.

Aphrodite:
It quite won me over. So few mortals show the proper humility when they supplicate, have you noticed?

Eros:
I’ve never been supplicated, Mother. It’s you they implore and beseech, not me.

Aphrodite:
Nonsense. At any rate, Hippomenes nearly wept with gratitude when I gave him the three golden apples.

Eros:
Apples? What for?

Aphrodite:
To throw ahead of Atalanta when they race. She’ll stop to pick them up, and he’ll run ahead of her. Clever, no?

Eros:
What if she doesn’t stop?

Aphrodite:
That’s where you come in, my precious.