Daughter of War
Achilles killed the Amazon Penthesileia on the battlefield outside Troy. Or did he?
Warrior's pledge
It was way after midnight on a dark and moonless night, where the dank humidity smelled foul and felt suffocating, like a thin, sticky coating against her skin and the mosquitos were active, buzzing around her ears like relentless daemons. They were out for her blood, they like so many others, still to Penthesileia, they were among the more harmless ones. Harmless but ever so annoying, she thought as she slapped her chin, where one of the little bastards had sat down to feed. No, that talkative Euphyrion's salve didn't help as he had promised it would. If she ever saw the little fraud again, she would cut off his ears. Or perhaps something else.
The Amazon Penthesileia felt her clothes clamming to her body as she shifted on the log where she was sitting and staring into the slowly dying camp fire. Those watches were boring, it never happened anything save for the mosquitoes, still they had to keep it up, or else they could all bet their asses upon something really attacking them in the middle of the night. Those darn Greeks or just some mundane bandits of the kind which were drawn like the flies to a war like this. This endlessly nerve-grating and stupid war which had dragged on for more than eight years now. A war, said to be about the kidnapped Queen Helen. Penthesileia snorted, stupid excuses for kids and for bards were that, of course this war was about money, just like every other war. Wars were always about the bucks, had always been and would always be, however cleverly masked as something else. In this case the war was about the richnesses generated by the trade routes through the Bosphorus. These trade routes were controlled by Priam' Troy, however that gluttonous and fat Greek Agamemnon and his greedy pack of porks wanted it as well.
However Penthesileia and her sisters in arms were here to make sure the Greeks were not going to get those bounties. Or at least do their best to try, however she had little faith that they might actually do any real difference. Simply because they were too few. But it hadn't really been their first hand choice to come here, in fact they would never had done so if it wasn't for that event with a now dead sister in arms. Dead by her, Penthesileia's hand.
Sighing she let the memories flood her once again, agonizing her mind with their tormenting rawness. The hunt, the thick woods, torn tearing at their clothes and bare skin, even more mosquitos than this place. The rugged terrain, the marshy ground with the many water-filled holes that seem to grab hold of their feet and hinder and triple them. Penthesileia had been annoyed that day, why did they keep pursuing this pack of games in this place instead of going out on the steppe instead, where the hunt was so much easier. But it was that darn Doretha who wanted to show off again, that stuck up idiot bitch who was all brawns and no brains and who was pissed with Penthesileia's best friend Klonie over some idiot thing, which Penthesileia couldn't care less about.
Just to make her stupid point that darn valkhyria had dragged them all off their intended target and into the woods to pursue beasts there. Just because she could. Penthesileia just wanted to scream at the insanity of it. However Doretha had been the highest in rank of the hunting party that day and Penthesileia knew just what it meant to question authority, then you had to have a lot more than a general frustration to lay out as evidence, or you were not going to acquire anything. So Penthesileia shut up and played along.
She played along all right, to the bitter end! Where she had seen something dark, reddish brown, thinking it being a deer, and in her mad desire to finish this insanity she had put an arrow to her bow and fired off – only to hear the piercing, shrill sound of a human yell. Slamming her hand to her forehead, dropping her bow, she had realized her mistake; she had hit a hunting comrade instead of a deer. For a second or two, she had been paralyzed by the consequences of her action. Then she had collected her emotions, put a lid on them and stormed forward on the double, like bolting horse had she crashed through the thick underbrush, not bothering with twigs slapping bleeding wounds across her forehead or needle-sharp torn tearing up deep gashes in her upper arms.
No, the Amazon had made it over there, only to realize it was too late. For once in her life she cursed her accuracy with the bow and arrow, the unfortunate shot had hit Hippolyte right in her throat, severing that main artery, which served the brain with blood. Thanks for small mercies, Hippolyte hadn't suffered, her death had been almost instant, and her gray eyes were now staring unseeingly into the air.
According to the Amazon law, life had to be soothed with life, and since Penthesileia was not considered solely at fault, because the whole group had been stumbling around within the woods, they all were found guilty of man-slaughter, and after the Oracle had listened with the gods, the sentence had come crystal clear. The only way for the group to remedy themselves was on the battlefield. And since Priam of Troy had asked his Amazon allies for help, what better then to travel west, to Troy to serve the sieged city. Penthesileia, who had actually shot the killing arrow, got an extra mission. She was to seek out the Greek hero Achilles and kill him.
"Yeah right," Penthesileia scoffed as she threw a new log on the fire. "They could as well ask me to kill Poseidon himself. I'd have as much luck with that as to kill Achilles. Bloke's a demigod, they say. Undefeated in battle. They even say he'd be up to take on Hector himself. So how am I going to do him in? Damn you, mother? Why did you have to go on with that story of having laid in love with the God of War, claiming that I was the daughter of Ares? Such nonsense! Such proud hubris! Such an embarrassment and now you get to pay for it – as do I!"
Penthesileia had never known life for being fair, only fools believed in such a thing. Fools and the lazy. However these days it felt like overly unfair to her. Not that she minded going into battle, this was what she had been trained for all her life. She actually did feel that invigorating rush of adrenaline when launching into the fight, riding ahead of her sisters in arms, to make a difference down in the burning sand in front of the closed gates of the mighty city of Troy. It was not that, not at all. No, it was her mission, a suicide mission it was. And suicide missions were for fools. Or those who had been backed so far off into a corner that there was no way out. Such was her fate now that her only two choices was either go further with this into a certain death, or run away like a coward, losing her face, and taint her sisters in arms, her real sisters and her mother and aunts with shame. No, the second alternative was not an alternative. There was only one thing to do, and that was to face Achilles, and at least make sure she made an impression upon the man. Make sure he never forgot her. That was her woe, that was the best she could do.
A night bird called out with a strident chirp, and the next thing the Amazon heard, was the snapping of a twig. In one swift move she flew up and pulled her blade, wished she had not stared that deep into her fire, because her eyes weren't used to the darkness surrounding her.
"Who's there?"
"It's just me, Derinoe," the somewhat husky soprano replied and the half a head shorter, brunette woman stepped into the circle of light. "Just needed to take a leak."
Pushing back her sword in the scabbard again, Penthesileia relaxed and then she rolled her somewhat stiff shoulders.
"I might as well sit down," Derinoe went on. "I'm on the next guard anyway. Where's Derimakheia and Bremousa?"
"Patrolling," her sister in arm replied. "First I thought it was them returning early. It's nice getting company, it's one of those nights, when you think the dark is full with enemies, bad vibes creeping like vapors along the ground."
"Ain't all nights like that in this forlorn place," Derinoe said as she slumped down on the log next to Penthesileia. "Filled with bad omens, strange sounds and creepy beasts."
"I agree to the latter," Penthesileia said and slapped across her neck. "Darn mosquitoes."
"That too," Derinoe said. "I think it's the war that does it."
"Sending up those little blood suckers at us?"
"Rather tainting the whole atmosphere, making it unbearable. The war attracts bad daemons, who comes along to feed upon our fears, sending us nightmares."
Penthesileia made a face, saying nothing. That was superstition, and she was so over it. The few daemons actually existing had been deprived of most their powers, the mightiest ones had either been killed by the gods or ran off to edge of the world. Only the small ones, the weak ones had managed to avoid the all-seeing eyes of the all-father. Nowadays they stayed put beneath within their murky tree stumps or underground caves.
"I'm not having nightmares," Penthesileia said after a while.
"Me neither and it's because of this," Derinoe reached inside of her tunic and retrieved a charm, a tiny bronze medallion hanging upon a leather string. It pictured the noble profile of the goddess Athena, carrying a hoplite helmet, pushed back to reveal her face."
"Athena, huh," Penthesileia said non-committedly.
"She protects me, has always been doing so," the other Amazon said, not without pride in her voice.
"You think she'll let you go home in one peace."
"Cannot know for sure," Derinoe folded her hands around her knee. She lacked two fingers on her left hand, so it locked a bit peculiar. "Only thing I know for sure is that she'll send my honor home in one piece. My infant daughter will not hear about a mother who made a fool out of herself off in Ilium."
"Yes," Penthesileia nodded solemnly, Derinoe was one of the few in the band who had children. There were her, Alkibie and Hippothoe who had given birth to daughters. And then poor Antibrote had birthed a worthless boy, the poor thing. And poor her, Penthesileia thought, she would never get the chance to have a daughter, she would never see her line continue, it was going to end here, on the sand plains of Ilium.
"Yes, the honour," she started all over. "Sometimes it seems that's the only thing we have left."
"Yes, but we will use it well," Derinoe replied. "And how about your father?"
"Don't you too start now," Penthesileia scoffed.
"Start what?"
"All that bull with Ares, I'm so over it now I might as well fall down dead here in front of the campfire, and I'll never even get to see Achilles, not to mention trying my skill against him."
"So it's not true then?"
"What do you think? Would the God of War bother with my mother? Al right, she's comely, and so am I, not that it's going to help me any now. But the God of War, I mean really, he who has access to all the beauties of the Divine Nation. Including the fantastic Aphrodite."
"Why wouldn't he?" Derinoe sounded oddly solemn. "As a matter of fact, he's the god of war, I'm sure he'd want something more vibrant, more perseverant than mere beauty. And your mother Otrera is a skilled and brave warrior, with a great record behind her. I'd recon she'd be just the woman for Lord Ares."
"And on what ground are you making these assumptions? Have you asked him?"
"Don't be ridiculous!"
"Honestly, Deri, don't you hear yourself how ludicrous this all sounds? As if I should be a daughter of HIM? Would I end up in such a hopeless situation then, you think? And pull all of you with me down too?"
"Leia, don't lambast yourself, we were all at fault that hopeless day, we should never have ventured into that stupid wood for a game which wasn't even there? No, we should have stood up as one and told Doretha we were not going to do it. And if she insisted, she could've as well have gone herself. The idiot! Well she did get hers after all."
Not responding in words, Penthesileia simply nodded her head. Doretha had been the first one to bite the dust. An arrow in her lower back, hit so bad it had injured her liver. And they hadn't even reached the plains of Ilium when that had happened. Doretha had fought in pain and agony for five days, lying on a cart while they rode on, becoming weaker and weaker, plagued by feverish visions. And on the sixth day she had died, and they had put up a funeral pyre for her, watching her body being consumed by the flames, sung their songs and danced their dances. Everything according to custom. Still, Penthesileia had felt the undercurrent there, a notion that justice had been done, or at least some malice. Because they all knew, that hadn't it been for Doretha, none of them would've been here. Well, perhaps Antibrote, Thermodosa and the twins Polemousa and Bremousa, who'd probably volunteered to go anyway. In search for honor, glory and some good old adventure.
They had been the most eager and zestful when the group of young amazons had made their War Pledges, the pledge all Amazons made, to come home victorious or to not come home at all. Most of all was plain stupid according to Penthesileia, but she had to play along in the game. She had to go up there on the dais and face all the other women, and the few servant men as well, and recite the age old pledge, even if she didn't believe in a word of it. Then again, what did it really matter, to say a few words, if it made the older women happy she might as well do it and get over with it. What really mattered was that they were here now. Here and fought a war most people believed was already lost, Hector or no Hector behind those mighty walls.
Hector, son of Priam himself, was said to be the only one who could be a match for Achilles. Or if it was the other way around, she had heard that too, and she guessed it depended on which side you were on when that was said.
"Perhaps it's the gods," Derinoe said after a while.
"What?" Penthesileia snapped out of here reveries.
"The gods, perhaps it's their plan after all, to send us here."
"Why should they?"
"Why not, they have always been having strange ideas. Perhaps it's their idea of having fun, pitching Ares' daughter against Thetys' son."
"But will you stop it already?" Penthesileia almost snarled. "I don't want to hear a word anymore about my presumed father. It's all just silly nonsense anyway."
"Girls," a voice suddenly rang out, and the next moment Derimakheia and Bremousa stepped into the circle of light.
"Hello," Penthesileia turned to greet them, and Derimakheia went on:
"The way you two chat or quarrel or what it is you're doing, you wouldn't hear a thing should the whole Greek army come careening at you. Riding on elephants!"
"Eli-say what?" Derinoe asked.
"Another fabulous creature the Greeks made up," Derimakheia scorned with a shrug as she sat down on a boulder opposite of Penthesileia and Derinoe. "Do get in and waken up Alkibie and Klonie now so that yours truly might finally be able to crawl down in bed."
"I will," Penthesileia volunteered and stood up and Bremousa turned silently and followed Penthesileia off to the tents. By the campfire Derimakheia and Derinoe started to chatter again, and Penthesileia thought she heard the name Ares being said several times. Rolling her eyes she wondered just how she could make that wear off. It was like a scar or a tattoo. Impossible to get rid of, it seemed.
Bremousa didn't say a thing though, she was one of the most taciturn people Penthesileia knew, and now she actually preferred the silence of the other girl to the others endless blabbing. Especially when it was about all those idiot things.
Entering the tents, Penthesileia approached first Klonie and then Alkibie and woke them up. The latter was reluctant and sleepy as usual and the former rose dutifully and started to dress.
"Everything calm out there?" she asked.
"Yes, if you don't count the mosquitos it's been a rather eventless night so far," Penthesileia responded.
"The mosquitos seldom bothers me that much," Klonie began before yawning so you could've driven a siege machine through her gape. Then she stretched and cracked her fingers before starting to putting on her armor and finally she hung her sword at her back. Then she went over to Alkibie, slapping her across the back:
"Hurry up now, lass, I bet the others really want to go to bed."
"I'm tired, I'm so sick of this," Alkibie complained. "I really wonder what in Tartarus I'm doing here."
"You're making a difference," Kloine tried to encourage her.
"No, I'm making a fool out of myself," Alkibie made a face, as she started dressing and grabbed her blade as well. "I was never meant to become a warrior. I'm a numbers girl, I'd be quite a bit more useful back home keeping track of what's in the storage and things like that."
"Yes, yes, yes," Penthesileia sighed. "We're a lot who shouldn't be here. Who were perhaps forced to give that Warriors Pledge, just because we were too much of cowards back then to stand our ground and say 'we're not going and to heck with oracles and all that crap'."
"Penthesileia!" Alkibie suddenly turned very alert. "Watch your mouth, don't speak like that!"
"Al right, all right, all right," the other woman groaned while she lifted the tunic over her head, her dark curls sparkling with static. "I will do, just to keep the peace."
Then she pulled out her sleeping bag and crawled down into it with a groin. First of all, she didn't believe in any kind of divine retribution for speaking badly about oracles and their interpretations of things and secondly, what could really be worse. She was going to fight Achilles and she was going to die in the hot sand beneath his feet. She had accepted this faith now, she had accepted that she was not going to live more than perhaps a week more. But she was going to go with her head held high, at least figuratively spoken. She had taken this pledge of war, and she would be damned if she was not going to live up to it. The only thing she wished was that there would have been a way for her to send at least some of her sisters in arms home. Everyone should not have to supper because she had fallen through on that disastrous hunting day.
With those thoughts Penthesileia turned around and shut out the small whispers still heard and soon she was sound asleep, drifting off in dreams far away from war and madness.
