Defying Tomorrow: Chapter One
"Antiope!"
Antiope hisses. Sunlight floods her room. Someone yanks away her bedsheet.
"Antiope!"
Pushing herself into a seated position, Antiope rubs sleep from her eyes. At her side, her companion from the previous night remains stretched out in the large bed, though she stirs enough to show that she's woken as well.
Above the bed towers Penthesilea, wearing full armor. At a mere twenty-one years of age, she's far bigger and better at looming than she has any right to be. Her right hand rests on the hilt of her sword, though her sword is sheathed. "Antiope," she repeats. She gestures with her left hand, flicking her fingers towards the high ceiling. "Get up."
Antiope doesn't get up. Resting her elbows on her knees, she scowls at her half-sister. "What?" she demands. "What is it?" As she speaks, she suppresses a shiver. It is very early spring, Penthesilea has come in through her balcony door, and the outside air is cool against her bare skin. She would like to return to the warmth of her bed and the other woman in it.
"Slavers," Penthesilea says. "Athenians with women. Crossing our lands."
This draws a scowl from Antiope. She is far more awake now. "What? They know better."
Penthesilea's voice is dark. "They do not."
Antiope runs a hand through her hair. It's still in a braid from the previous night and the part that isn't braided is a mess. "Hippolyta?"
"Why do you think I'm here rousing you?" Penthesilea replies. There's an edge in her tone.
So she hasn't gone to the queen.
Hippolyta. Anger, hot and potent, sparks in Antiope's chest.
Antiope shoves herself from her bed. She dresses fast, donning her basilisk-hide armor with a practiced ease. She is a daughter of Ares. All the ways of war come naturally to her. Before she takes up her spear and bow, she grabs a gold coin from her purse. She presses it into the hand of the woman still in her bed and gives her a brief kiss on the cheek.
Armed, armored, she follows Penthesilea out.
They go by the balcony door and they skirt the palace grounds as they head to the stables. No one of the guards would impede them except by Hippolyta or Philippus' orders, but it's best that they not attract attention. They move as quickly as they can without seeming as though they are in a hurry.
The stables of Themyscira are grand, comparable almost to Hippolyta's great house. A magnificent complex of buildings all made of wood with great, vibrant murals painted across the walls, they sit between the palace and the rolling fields where the horses graze during good weather. The Amazons pride themselves on their horses and their horsemanship. The riders of the distant steppes north of the Axeinos might rival them, but among the Greeks they are peerless.
Penthesilea has rallied a squad of three warriors who stand waiting for them when they arrive. Everyone is armed. All have grim faces. They are the younger Amazons, the ones of Antiope's age and of Antiope's mind about the world. Antiope nods to them in greeting. One of them, Anaea, leads Antiope's favorite horse to her. The horse, a tall chestnut stallion that Antiope has raised since he was a newborn foal and named Aethon, has already been saddled and prepared to travel.
Antiope grips a handful of her horse's mane and swings herself up into the saddle. Following her, her sister Amazons do the same. One of them tosses Antiope a light bag of trail provisions, just enough for a day. "Where are they?" Antiope asks.
"North Road headed east," Penthesilea says. "Not far at all. We can catch them by noon, I think. Iris spotted them. She came to me first."
Antiope doesn't mean to, but she growls. She manages to rein her anger in enough to reply with words, "Let's go."
Her rage is a gift from her father.
But she controls it. It does not control her.
The North Road is close to the city. That slavers would travel by it infuriates Antiope. It infuriates Penthesilea as well no doubt. That these men should have so little respect for the dominion of the Amazons, that they should drag their vile trade across Themysciran land – it tastes like bile in the back of Antiope's mouth.
And still Hippolyta does nothing.
Antiope and her band set out at a trot. The guards posted at outskirts of the city neither stop nor question them. Riding in full armor, it's not hard to see what it is they intend, but the women who hold the authority to order them back are busy elsewhere. Antiope is sure that by now someone has gone running to her sister. This means nothing to her. Hippolyta can't stop them, not now.
Hippolyta will be furious when they return though, of course. The Amazons have a treaty of free passage with the Athenians. Hippolyta will be almost as furious as Antiope is that she has to ride out to fix this mess that's come oozing over their borders on account of Hippolyta's inaction. So Hippolyta can be furious. She and her lover and strategos Philippus are so concerned with keeping peace that they'll not defend Themyscira.
So the duty falls to Antiope and to Penthesilea and to their like-minded sisters.
And they'll execute it faithfully.
Themyscira is a city built by the Five Goddesses as a refuge for women cast out from the cities of men. It has been two generations now since the Five crafted the first Amazons to defend their sanctuary, which has grown now into a city of many thousands. Antiope's mother's mother was the first queen among their people. She fought and she killed and she was killed for Themyscira. Her daughter, fathered by Eurus, the east wind, was Antiope's mother Otrera. Otrera herself was such a great warrior, such a woman of myth that Ares gave her not one but two children.
But now, as war rages all around for the sake of Athenian ego, Hippolyta, queen, has chosen the narrowest view of the mission of the Amazons that can possibly be argued. She keeps their army back. She chooses not to intervene beyond their borders. And the result of her decisions? Men dragging captive women across land that should be free.
As angry as she is, Antiope does not push her band overly hard. The North Road is close, but not so close that they can reach it going at a full tilting gallop without laming their horses. Crossing Themysciran fields, they break briefly late in the morning to rest their mounts and eat. It's no good chasing slavers on an empty stomach.
They say little to one another. They don't linger for long. Soon, they're on their way again, crossing the scrubby plains of Theymscira, mountains looming in the distance.
They reach the North Road and then turn east towards Athens, progressing at a quick walk. They'll either catch up to their targets or their targets will come to them in time. Late winter rains have left the ground muddy, but it has been several days since the last deluge and so the road is not so bad.
Antiope readies her bow. It pays to be prepared, always.
"Will we let them surrender?" Penthesilea asks. Herself a daughter of Ares as well, she shares Antiope's disposition in most things. A year younger, she often looks to Antiope for guidance though. Now, there's sweat on her brow and the same fire in her eyes that sits in Antiope's chest.
Antiope flexes her fingers. She tests her bowstring. She knows what Hippolyta would say. She knows what Hippolyta would want. "No," she says. She is not her sister.
Near to what Penthesilea predicted, they come upon the Athenians shortly before noon. It's a group of nine men leading a string of—it's too many women for Antiope to count quickly and the time to act is now.
With a shout, Antiope kicks her horse Aethon into a gallop. Mud flies beneath his hooves. Behind her she hears her sister Amazons urging the same for their mounts. She draws an arrow, nocks, pulls, aims, releases. Her shot flies true. It buries in one of the head of her target. It hits with such force that it splits his brow with a crack and throws his body backwards. Three more of the men fall to arrows. Then, the Amazons are on them.
In the charge, with the momentum of her horse and the strength of her arm, Antiope runs a man through the chest with her spear. Her flashing bronze spear point goes clean through his sternum and for several beats she's got a dying man suspended in the air from her weapon, clawing at the death protruding from his chest.
The blood, the fury, the adrenaline, the blood – Antiope's grin is ferocious. She shakes the corpse free from her spear with a victorious scream.
Nothing in the world can compare to the bright ecstasy of violence.
After riding all morning, Antiope and her band finish the fight in seconds. Even if they hadn't had the element of surprise, they are trained warriors. The slavers were thugs. And now they are dead thugs. To call what occurred a fight is likely to oversell it. It wasn't enough to draw out her full fury, and that's almost disappointing.
Antiope brings her horse to a halt. Despite the lack of a true contest, she's sweating profusely. That it is early spring does not mean the days are not hot. Aethon is sweating too, but as she reads him, he's in good condition. She slips down from her saddle and gives him a quick pat. He's done well.
The quick brawl is over now and there's other work to be seen to.
Antiope's companions remain mounted. They're relaxed, but relaxed such that their hands linger near their weapons.
The muddy road sucks at Antiope's feet. She wouldn't want to march through this muck.
She approaches the string of women slowly, her hands raised. Their hands are bound, but she's not here to scare them. They're a sorry lot, gaunt but not overly starved, wearing what were probably once good clothes but that have now seen far too much of time and of the road. There's a tired terror in their eyes. War captives.
Of late, all Greece drowns in war captives and refugees and corpses.
Antiope can't tell from the look of them where they're from. Coming from the southwest and headed northeast… she tries Arcadian. It's close enough to every other tongue on the peninsula that she should be understood no matter where these women are from. She speaks slowly though. "We're not going to hurt you."
This gets no response. From horseback, Antiope's companions continue to keep a wary watch. They're not acting like they're not going to hurt anyone, but there's not much Antiope can do for that at this point. It can't be helped, either, that Antiope herself is splattered in the blood of the men she just butchered in front of the women.
"This is Themyscira," Antiope says. "We are Amazons."
This gets murmuring among the women, but it's quiet and Antiope can't make it out.
Antiope reaches for her knife and draws it slowly. "I'm going to cut you free," she says. Still moving with care, she steps towards the first woman in the string. The woman shrinks back but doesn't fight when Antiope catches hold of her hands. The rope is thick and soggy and it takes some effort to cut it without cutting anything else but Antiope manages.
When the bonds lie in the mud, she moves to the next woman. Then the next. Then the next. There are twenty-five in all.
And out of the twenty-five there is only one who meets her eyes.
The last one in the string, she's tall, as tall as an Amazon even, and just as beautiful. She is as dirty and haggard as the rest, but she is not afraid. Antiope finds it disconcerting. It sends a shiver down her spine. Themyscira has taken many women uprooted and cast into the worst of the world by the war in recent months. Antiope's become accustomed to being met with the precarious fear that sits between terror and resignation. This woman has none of that. She's just… curious. Her dark eyes sweep over Antiope and linger on Antiope's face as if she's studying it.
Antiope feels caught staring into the woman's dark eyes.
Something is not right.
Antiope trusts her gut. She's opening her mouth to demand this woman's name and, more importantly, who she is, when she hears her own name.
"Antiope."
Antiope recognizes the voice.
Hippolyta has decided not to wait.
Antiope turns away from the woman. Her sister sits astride a white horse, her queen's guard at her back. She wears robes of state instead of armor and Philippus is not with her. She doubtless set out as soon as she heard that Antiope and her band had left the city intending violence. She probably arrived at the stable faster than any messenger sent to ready a horse could have run there.
Antiope's band, including Penthesilea, have all dismounted and knelt. Antiope was so distracted by the stranger that she didn't notice the commotion of her queen's arrival.
Rarely has Antiope seen Hippolyta this incandescent with rage. Hippolyta's blue eyes flicker from dead slaver to dead slaver. Her face darkens with each.
"My queen," Antiope says. Her own anger has faded, bled out in battle. Her defiance, however, is part of her nature.
"Get on your horse. Come," Hippolyta commands. She looks to Penthesilea. "You," she says to her half-sister. "Bury the bodies. Walk these women to the city and see to them."
"My queen," Anaea says, out of turn entirely. "We don't have shovels."
Hippolyta's tone is frost when she replies. "Use your helmets," she says. "Or your hands. I don't care."
Anaea flinches. "Yes, my queen," she murmurs.
Antiope herself grimaces. She trudges through the muck of the road to her horse, mounts, goes to her sister. Growling deep in her throat, Hippolyta wheels her own steed about and leads the way back to the city, leaving Antiope's band go by foot with the women.
With a wave, Hippolyta orders her guard to give her and her sister space. They retreat out of easy earshot. When Hippolyta speaks, she does so quietly, though her tone is still dripping with anger. "When we return to the city," she says. "You do not leave it again without my leave. I will inform the guards."
"I did the right thing," Antiope growls back. She respects Hippolyta's desire for privacy and keeps her voice low. She doesn't have any particular desire to be berated so publicly anyway.
"The right thing was to come to me," Hippolyta snaps back. "The Athenians are the greatest power north of the Peloponnese, they are rampaging southwards, and we have a treaty with them."
"Does that treaty involve letting them haul slaves over our land?" Antiope asks.
Hippolyta's silence is telling.
"We are Amazons," Antiope argues. In her blood, she feels her returning rage simmer. "It is our duty to protect Themyscira."
Even if she does not often train and even if she does not often ride into battle, Hippolyta is every bit a daughter of Ares. Disregarding privacy and disregarding quiet, she raises her voice. "You think I enjoy these treaties, these deals, this game of politics? I am protecting Themyscira. You are barely twenty-two years. You are young and you understand nothing."
Antiope answers just as loudly. "I understand that you would allow anyone and everyone to traipse across our land with whatever evil they like."
Livid, Hippolyta's only response is to raise her hand and summon her guard once more. The conversation, by royal command, is over.
[] [] []
Riding back to the city through rolling fields, as the walls of bright Themyscira comes into sight, Antiope kicks Aethon into a gallop across the open field at the outskirts of the city. She leaves Hippolyta and Hippolyta's escort behind. For the time being she has no intention to disobey her sister. She'll go to the city and she'll stay. But she won't do it while being taken under guard like a prisoner.
When she reaches the stable, she unsaddles her horse and sees to him. He is a good horse and she's cared for him his entire life. She rubs him down and pats his face and gives him a treat. Antiope is aware that, as he is her horse, Aethon puts up with a great deal more than he would if he had a less temperamental mistress. She tries to do right by him.
Only when she is thoroughly satisfied that her horse's needs have been attended to does she kick her way back towards the palace.
Hippolyta's high house soars, grandiose, above all other buildings in the city. The gods built it. The gods built it when the Amazons were first created and the gods built it well. It is made of a shining white stone, flecked with gold, that gleams even in darkness beneath the faint light of moon and stars. The great hall of the palace was made broad enough to accommodate every one of the first Amazons and even now that Themysicra has swelled with so many refuge-seekers it still serves as the largest meeting place that they have, save for the fields outside the city. They have never built a city square that can match their hall.
Antiope does not return immediately to her quarters. If she did, she'd leave a trail of mud and dirt in her wake and, while it would antagonize Hippolyta further and that is always an acceptable end, someone who is not Hippolyta would have to clean up after her, which is unacceptable.
So, instead, Antiope goes to the palace baths. She leaves her weapons with an attendant. She does not like getting her bow wet if she can avoid it. Her armor, made from the hide of a basilisk that wandered too close to the city a year ago, goes in a heap on the floor of a steam-filled antechamber. The baths beyond, heated by some god-forged furnace beneath the ground, are the source of the steam. There are several women relaxing in the pools. Antiope finds a corner of water and keeps to herself.
The water feels good but the ride out to the road and the ride back were easy things and the fighting barely rated the word. Antiope is not sore and she is not tired. She's just discontent.
She dunks her head beneath the water, then comes back up dripping. Fueled by restlessness, she washes, dresses in a clean tunic, then takes her arms again and leaves.
She stalks through the palace and no one moves to intercept her. She's lived here all her life and those that frequent Hippolyta's house are accustomed to her moods.
Antiope's quarters in the palace are empty. She has three rooms to herself, an antechamber, a bedroom, and a room where she collects arms and armor in a hoard. Her antechamber and her bedroom are both large, far too large for her liking. With no one but her in them, it is hard not to feel that there is too much quiet, too much nothing.
Antiope puts away her gear and goes to sit on the edge of her bed. Someone has arranged it neatly in her absence.
She sets her elbows on her knees, her chin on her elbows, and she broods.
As she's grown older and come to understand how little of a place she has in Themyscira, she has become very good at brooding.
When the time comes for dinner, though her stomach rumbles with hunger, Antiope does not leave her room. She has no wish to see her sister again so soon. A night without food won't hurt her. There are so many in the world who suffer far worse.
A cool evening breeze comes through her open balcony. It quiets her anger but does not diminish it.
Penthesilea shows up long after night has fallen. Outside, the bright moon is already descending back towards the horizon. She's scrubbed clean and she's dressed as Antiope is in a simple chiton. In her hands is a hunk of cheese wrapped in a napkin. She hands the food to Antiope, then flops backwards into Antiope's bed. "We only just got back," she says. "Dealing with the bodies took forever. I hate walking."
Antiope bites into the cheese. It's soft and slightly tart. She chews, swallows, then, "The women?"
"They're cleaned up and sleeping in one of the workshops tonight," Penthesilea says. "Felt bad dragging them all the way back here in one go but trying to camp out with them partway didn't seem ideal either."
Antiope finishes the cheese and then drops backwards onto the bed as well, lying next to her half-sister and fellow basileia. She stares up at the high stone ceiling above.
"We don't have room for so many refugees," Antiope says. "If they keep coming to us, soon we won't have food for them either."
Penthesilea shrugs. "The villages to the south are gone. We can settle some of them there, expand our borders. The fields are still cleared. No one's using them. Holy Demeter will provide. She always has."
"Hippolyta doesn't want to expand our borders," Antiope growls. Her hands clench into fists. "She just wants to… to shrink them."
"That's not going to work," Penthesilea observes, unhelpful. "She's queen though."
Antiope raises her hands up and lays her palms against her forehead. "I don't like doing nothing. But I don't know what else to do."
Penthesilea groans. "And I know less than you," she says. She pauses, then scoffs. "I could find that hetaira from this morning for you," she says. "What was her name?"
"Neaira," Antiope answers. "But don't bother. She likes working at the loom house and only comes around when she feels like it." Antiope pauses, then, "Does it bother you?" she begins. "That we live here and we do so little and the whole of Themyscira revolves around this place and around us?"
"Not as much as it bothers you," Penthesilea answers. "And you do quite a lot," she adds. "You handle Hippolyta."
This gets draws a single forced laugh from Antiope. "I do a poor job of it."
"If we had Philippus with us, we'd prevail," Penthesilea says.
"We'll never have Philippus with us," Antiope replies. "She thinks her duty is to never disagree with Hippolyta."
"I think you should be strategos," Penthesilea says. "That would be far more fun."
To that, Antiope says nothing.
Her silence is her agreement.
[] [] []
Long after morning has broken, Antiope rises, dresses, arms herself, and goes down to the training fields. Sister of Hippolyta, she has only what duties her queen sees fit to give her. And, of late, her queen has given her none.
She's woken late and the grassy fields are already crowded when she arrives. She picks a corner and warms her muscles, preparing for a day of movement. With the divine blood of war in her, she was born strong. If she so chose she could live as Hippolyta, spending her days sitting and talking and planning, and still bring devastation in battle when battle came to her. She is, perhaps, more her father's daughter than her sister, however. In her thinking, there is no such thing as too much strength.
When she feels limber, Antiope steps out among the other warriors. She's a common sight here and no one pays her any more attention than any other comrade.
Most of the women today are sparring in small groups. Most of the women on most days are sparring. It's more exciting than drill work, even if drill work is just as important. If Antiope were in command, she would probably set more order to the training, but she is not in command and she doesn't mind benefiting from noisy chaos.
Antiope scans the pitch, looking for—her eyes light on Artemis, knocking some unprepared novice off her feet.
Antiope knows she should not be so harsh on the defeated woman. Artemis has knocked Antiope off her feet and onto her ass more times than she can count.
Weaving her way through the loud and disorganized melee of the field, Antiope makes her way to Artemis. One of biggest and strongest of the Amazons, comparing well to even Penthesilea in feats of raw power, the lochagos is always a popular partner for sparring and there's a small line of women waiting for her to trounce them.
Antiope joins the line. Immediately ahead of her is dark-skinned Alexa, Artemis' younger sister. Antiope likes Alexa quite a lot; she is one of Antiope's closest friends. She's about Antiope's age and she's one of the few Amazons who doesn't tower over Antiope in height. "Morning," Antiope greets.
Alexa arches an eyebrow. She inclines her head up towards the sky. "Antiope, it is almost noon."
Antiope shrugs. "Not noon yet. So. Morning."
"I heard what happened yesterday," Alexa says.
"All good things, I'm sure," Antiope drawls. She feels a bit prickly.
"Mixed," Alexa replies. She hesitates. Ahead of her, Artemis flips an opponent head over heels. "Look, Antiope, as your friend… division isn't going to help anything."
Antiope tries to smile politely but all she manages is a grimace. "Did some dead philosopher say that?" she asks.
"Next," Artemis calls.
The bout between Artemis and Alexa lasts heartbeats. Descended from the original Amazons, Alexa is a warrior by birth but she lacks her sister's talent for it. She prefers books and it's no secret among her comrades that she only comes out of the library to the training fields to please Artemis, or, rather, to forestall Artemis' sharp disapproval. Alexa does try though.
Artemis helps her sister up, then, "Next."
Antiope steps forward. Artemis gives her a nod. Alexa hands her a training staff.
Antiope spins the staff once, testing its weight and getting a sense for its personality. It has seen many, many blows struck by and against inexperienced hands. It is somewhat tired.
As weapons go, it's not perfect but it's good enough for training work.
They start out by circling. Antiope has respect for Artemis and she's earned respect from Artemis. Neither one of them is inclined to rush. Rushing is how warriors make mistake. Rushing is how soldiers die.
Antiope waits until Artemis is crossing her feet in a step. Moment chosen, she dashes forward to engage. Artemis blocks her first strike squarely, then brings the butt of her staff up to slam into Antiope's side. Antiope flits out of the way. She's younger, smaller, and ever so slightly faster than her opponent. She answer's Artemis' blow with one of her own.
The clack of wood on wood forms an irregular rhythm. Their battle is all strikes and blocks and the whisper of grass under foot. From time to time one of them will throw in a kick or an elbow, but never to any effect. Sweat drips into Antiope's eyes and stings. They're very evenly matched.
Antiope doesn't want to be evenly matched. She wants to be better.
When she finally sees an opening in Artemis' guard she doesn't hesitate. She doesn't wonder if this it may be a trap. She hits as hard and as fast as she can.
Her instinct was good and her blow to Artemis' ribcage connects.
Her staff breaks.
Artemis responds by ramming a fist into Antiope's shoulder. Antiope falls, hard. She only barely tucks her chin in time to stop the back of her head from slamming into the ground. The landing knocks the wind out of her.
Artemis offers her a hand up.
"Not fair," Antiope mutters, taking the hand.
Artemis chuckles. "Life is not fair," she says. She's breathing hard. "Good work, Antiope. Next."
Backing away from the next combat, Antiope finally wipes the thick layer of sweat from her brow with the back of her forearm. She didn't have a chance during the bout. From the corner of her eye, she notices something out of place on the field.
At the far edge, a group of women stand watching. Penthesilea is with them. They're the women from the day before, being shown about the city, no doubt. Someone has given them new clothes. Not quite recovered from her fall and unready to return to brawling, Antiope waves to Penthesilea and then picks her way towards them.
When Antiope has come close, Penthesilea steps forward to clap her on the back. "Almost," she says. "Maybe next time."
"Definitely next time," Antiope corrects.
Penthesilea turns her attention back to the women. "This is Antiope, daughter of Otrera. She is sister and basileia of Queen Hippolyta," Penthesilea says. Her voice is light even as she struggles to affect a Doric accent. She's working very hard to keep them all at ease. "You may recognize her. She was the handsome one with the bow."
Copying Penthesilea's manner of speech, Antiope says, "I am glad to see you all well. If you need any assistance, do not hesitate to find me." Quickly, she tries to look as many of the women in the eye as she can. But when she gets to the woman from the day before though, the woman who wasn't afraid, and she stops there. She doesn't look away. She finds that she can't.
"Hey," Penthesilea says, digging her elbow into Antiope's side. "I have dibs on being helpful. I found them first."
Dragging her eyes over to Penthesilea, Antiope grins. "But I'm the handsome one," she says.
This gets a soft laugh from a few of the women.
Antiope's grin widens.
Penthesilea's sigh is loud. "So that's Antiope," she says. "And these were the training fields. I think maybe the market next?"
Without clear plans for her day, it's easy for Antiope to decide to attach herself to the group. She has more than a little natural charisma and striking up a conversation is simple. In short order, she gathers that most of the women were Spartan helots captured in an Athenian raid just south of Themyscira. They hadn't been on the road for very long when the Amazons came and slaughtered the slavers. There are twenty-five of them and that's far too many names for Antiope to keep track of, but she remembers the one that matters.
Menalippe.
Menalippe is one of the women who hangs back and doesn't cluster around Antiope or Penthesilea as they chatter and walk through the city. She seems to be around Antiope's age or perhaps only a few years Antiope's senior, making her distance all the more strange. She is too young to be so old. Surrounded as she is by so many who would like her attention, however, Antiope cannot freely approach the women who remain slightly apart.
Penthesilea gives the group a tour of the Themysciran market. So early in spring there is scant activity. The farmers have little to sell and the itinerant traders are few and far between in these days of war. But they will come in time. As one of the few cities that has held back from all-out war, Themyscira has remained prosperous when so many of the great states have been rendered burnt-out husks.
Antiope isn't entirely blind. It's an uneasy path that Hippolyta has chosen for her people.
As they pass one of the meager stalls set out in the market square, a statuette of a black horse catches Antiope's eye. Moving quickly so as not to disrupt the movement of the group, she flips the traveling merchant a silver coin and plucks the horse from among his wares. He doesn't complain. The coin is overpayment by far.
Excusing herself smoothly from the conversation that she has built up around her, she slips over to the woman, to Menalippe. She holds out the black horse figure. "For you," she says. "It fits your name."
Menalippe looks confused for a moment. Then her face smooths into something a little bit distant and terribly unreadable. "My thanks," she says. Her voice is deep, confident. Her accent is thicker than those of her companions. It seems more southern, more foreign. When she takes the horse from Antiope, her fingers brush against Antiope's skin.
Antiope suppresses a shiver. She turns whatever else her body might do into a smile.
Well then.
She has a frame now, she supposes, for why she would like to know more about this Menalippe. It's not a terribly useful frame though. There's an unspoken understanding among the Amazons that they should be cautious in approaching anyone recently come to the city.
Antiope understands the reasoning, of course. But in this case, she rather wishes things were different.
"My pleasure," Antiope says, careful to keep her tone casual.
"Antiope," Penthesilea calls from somewhere ahead. "Come on!"
Antiope blinks. Despite her determination not to slow the movement of the group, she and Menalippe are standing now somewhat behind the rest. Quickly, she turns away and hurries up to the front with Penthesilea and the women more inclined to conversation.
Menalippe, she thinks, comes along as well but stays towards the back. Antiope resists the urge to check.
A/N: This is the first chapter of the NaNo that I wrote last month. The rest of the fic is under some pretty heavy edits, but hopefully with the holidays coming I'll be able to maintain a weekly or bi-weekly update schedule for this.
Basileus: This is, roughly, "king" or "chieftain." While it means "king," it contrasts with "anax," which in Homeric Greek means "high king" or "chief of kings." So Achilles was basileus but Agamemnon was anax. Antiope and Penthesiela are both called "basileia" to indicate their hereditary tribal rank/respect within the Amazons deriving from their relationship to Hippolyta.
Amazonian Matronymics: The Amazons use matronymics instead of patronymics here. Antiope is properly "Antiope, daughter of Otrera," but it gets a bit confused since she's also the daughter of an important male god and she tends to identify more with her father than her mother and this fic is from her POV.
Menalippe's Name: I've been over this in my notes for my fic Better Days to Come, but "Menalippe" is a name derived from "Melanippe," which means "black mare."
Neaira: Neaira was the name of a hetaera (either a particular class of very high end courtesan or just a general word for any kind of prostitute) who ran into some legal trouble in Athens in the 4th century BC. The resulting prosecution is a major source of what we know about sex work in ancient Greece. I'm not going to get into all that here. Her inclusion in this fic was in part to better connect this city culturally to the rest of ancient Greece, in part to characterize Antiope, and also to sort of raise the question of what would sex work look like if you had a "paradise island" society of women where everyone is being provided for by the grace of the gods (but you also still have a hierarchical power structure)? I don't have an answer to that question except that I've sort of set it up as a "doing it because it was my old job before I cam here and I feel like it" thing, which I think is... plausible, hopefully.