Hippolyta and the Curse of the Amazons

CHAPTER TWELVE

MONSTER FROM THE SEA

“WHERE ARE WE going?” Hippolyta asked in a hoarse whisper, not trusting her voice otherwise. Her wrists were already beginning to ache and her fingers to go numb.

Dares didn’t turn to look at her. Instead he stared ahead at the road. At last he spoke, his voice held tight as if he were afraid it might break. “To a headland a few miles north of the city.”

“A headland?” She tried to think. Would they try to drown her? She could swim a bit. A little bit. But she’d only paddled in slow rivers amid quiet pools, never in the sea. She pulled against the restraints, but they held fast.

“I warned you, girl,” Dares said, still staring straight ahead. “I warned you to be careful in the presence of the king.”

“May he be torn apart by harpies!” Hippolyta cried.

Dares ignored her outburst. “I told you to read the character of the king by the height of his walls, but you didn’t listen. We Trojans have paid dearly for those walls.” He snapped the reins against the horses’ backs, and the horses leaped forward. “You will pay dearer yet.”

“What have the walls of Troy—” Hippolyta started to say, but her teeth clattered together because of the rough ride, and she couldn’t continue.

Used to the chariot’s bounce, Dares had no trouble speaking. “Many years ago the gods Apollo and Poseidon plotted against their father, great Zeus. When he found them out, Zeus exiled them to earth to serve King Laomedon for a year as laborers. Laomedon had them haul those great stones all one hot summer. When their task was done, they demanded payment, but Laomedon refused.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Hippolyta said, leaning forward to ease the ache in her wrists.

Dares’ face was grim, his lips like a scar. “The gods were not amused, child. Poseidon sent a huge sea monster to terrorize our land. It is still here, regularly smashing the outlying farms and devouring anyone who dares live outside the walls of Troy.”

“So, I suppose, then, that I am to be a tribute to that monster,” Hippolyta said, her voice strangely calm. Now that she knew, she was no longer afraid.

Dares nodded, unsmiling. “The headland is where the monster comes ashore to feed,” he said. “As long as it eats its fill there, it goes no farther inland. Anyone the king condemns is chained out there on the rocks.”

“Can you leave me my battle-ax, my bow?” Hippolyta said. “Chain me if you must, but let me die fighting. Please, Dares.”

He shook his head. “I cannot, child. I cannot. But your death will be swift. That I can promise you.” Never looking her way, he slashed the reins once again against the horses’ backs, as if the sooner they got there, the sooner she would be at peace.

Suddenly she remembered her dream: the sacrificial altar, the jagged knife slicing down. “Oh, Artemis, dread goddess,” she cried out loud, “I rescued a child from your altar. Now it seems I am to be the one sacrificed in his stead.”

They entered a stretch of country that was barren and abandoned. As the chariot rumbled over the ill-kept road, Hippolyta noticed the smashed ruins of buildings, ripped-up trees, the skeletons of sheep and cattle.

“No one ventures here anymore,” Dares told her.

“Unless they’re bringing sacrifices,” she added.

He nodded.

The headland ended in a rugged outcropping of rock from which a gray ledge jutted out over a small shingle and the sea.

Obeying Dares’ reluctant command, the soldiers climbed out of their chariots and dragged Hippolyta out onto the ledge. There they stood her between two gnarled pillars of stone and lashed one of her wrists to each pillar. The rocky slope dropped away to where waves rasped over a narrow stretch of shingle, making it difficult to stand upright.

Once the soldiers had secured Hippolyta, Dares sent them away. He drew his sword and spoke softly. “If you’d like, child, I can end this quickly for you now. The king will never know. It’s all the gift I can give you.”

Hippolyta stared for a moment at the blade. That would not be a hero’s death, not the death of an Amazon princess. And though only Dares and she would know, she could not bring herself to ask for the quick, easy sword thrust. She shook her head.

Dares sheathed his sword and glanced at the sea. “The monster won’t appear till dusk. The wait will not be easy. Pray to your gods, child.” For a half breath it seemed as if he wanted to say more, but instead he shook his head and abruptly left.

Hippolyta tugged at her bonds, but her hands were securely fastened and in such a way that she had no strength with which to pull. After a furious struggle, trying to saw the leather thongs against the stone, she realized that she couldn’t free herself that way.

She looked down at the lapping waters. How peaceful the sea seemed. One part of her refused to believe the story of the monster coming out of that undisturbed water.

“Perhaps,” she whispered to herself, “perhaps Laomedon just wants to frighten me into submission.” She gave a little barking laugh. “That would be just like him.”

But the ruined buildings, the bones of cattle and sheep, had told a different story. Deep inside she knew that this was no stupid game.

The hours dragged by. When Hippolyta tried to relax against her bonds, the pressure on her shoulders was agonizing. She had to keep her legs straight, even though they ached with stiffness.

“Artemis,” she said at last, “if you won’t free me, at least give me the courage to face the end like an Amazon.”

There was no answer to that prayer.

Hippolyta licked her dry lips and studied the waves, waiting for some sign of movement. That was when the sun plunged down in front of her, casting the sea in crimson, like a great puddle of blood.

Perhaps, she thought, I will grow tired enough to fall into a swoon. Which was about as much mercy as she could hope to get from the gods. It was certainly more than Laomedon would have granted her.

Laomedon. Suddenly she knew how to pray.

“Poseidon, Apollo,” she cried aloud, “you whom Laomedon has offended, grant me a means of escape, and I will see that he suffers for what he’s done.”

Barely finishing her desperate prayer, she heard a scuffling sound to her left, and she tried to turn to face the noise. Better to see my death than be surprised by it, she thought. But she couldn’t twist her head around enough.

Something was coming down the path, scrabbling and sliding without fear of being heard.

But the monster was to come from the sea!

Is there more than one serpent? she thought. More than one killer?

“Who’s there?” she cried out. “Don’t come closer. I’m armed. I’ll hurt you.”

But the scrabbling continued for a long minute, and then suddenly a small figure stood in front of her, smiling wanly.

“Tithonus!” Hippolyta cried. “What are you doing here?”

The prince’s fine clothes were covered with dust, and his face was gray with fatigue. It looked as if he’d come all the way from Troy on foot.

“I had to see you,” he said. “So I sneaked out of the palace. I had to walk. I—I don’t know how to hitch up a chariot.”

“See me—for what?” Hippolyta licked her dry lips again. “To mock me?”

“No, no, not to mock you.” His face screwed up. “You look awful.”

“I’ve been better.”

“Do you want something to drink?” he asked, offering the goatskin that hung from the leather strap across his shoulder. He pulled the stopper and held it toward her.

Hippolyta pulled at the thong fastening her right hand. “I can’t take it by myself.”

He moved closer and raised the skin to her lips, clumsily pouring some water into her mouth. It trickled down her chin and neck.

“Trying to drown me before the monster comes?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“If you really want to help me, untie these knots.”

He shook his head again. “My father would kill me.”

Just what I’d like to do, Hippolyta thought. She wondered why Tithonus was there if he didn’t mean to help her.

“Then go back to your palace,” she said, “and think about your … sister”—it was hard to say the word, but she managed—“being ground to little bits between the teeth of a monster.”

He shuddered, and his head drooped guiltily. “You must be very afraid.”

Hippolyta didn’t like the way his pity made her feel. “I’m an Amazon warrior,” she said. “I’m not afraid to die.”

Tithonus glanced over his shoulder at the waves, still crimson with the sunset. “I would be.”

Hippolyta made another futile tug at her bonds. “You’re only a little boy. And a Trojan.” She said the eight words with as much contempt as she could muster. “But if you’re not going to free me, why have you come?”

“To ask you about my mother,” Tithonus said, his voice on the edge of a whimper.

“Our mother.”

He nodded. “But maybe you just want me to go. So you can die in peace.”

“No,” Hippolyta said quickly, “stay.”

“Do you mean it?” His face seemed to brighten a bit.

Hippolyta nodded, though the effort made her neck hurt. The hours in the sun, arms tied to the pillars, had given her a splitting headache, but she was trying to think clearly. And she was starting to form a plan.

“We can talk a bit. Before dark. Before the monster gets here. But,” she whispered hoarsely, “my throat’s awfully dry.”

Tithonus lifted the waterskin again. It grazed her lips, and water splashed over her face. Shaking off the droplets, Hippolyta cursed.

“I’m sorry,” Tithonus said. “I’ll try to be more careful.”

“Give me the waterskin,” Hippolyta ordered. “Put it in my hand.” She spread the fingers of her right hand.

“But you won’t be able to—”

“Just do it!” She took a deep breath. “Do you want me to die of thirst before we have a chance to talk?”

Tithonus did as she said.

Hippolyta made a great show of trying to stretch her neck and head toward the right to bring herself closer to the waterskin.

“If you loosen the thong just a little bit—not all the way, I know your father wouldn’t allow it—then I’ll be able to swallow,” she said.

Tithonus hesitated.

“Just a little,” she wheedled. “Then I’ll answer all your questions.”

He reached up to where her wrist was lashed to the pillar, plucking at the thongs but to no effect. “I can’t do it,” he said. “It’s tied too tight.”

“Try again,” Hippolyta urged. It was difficult keeping the desperation out of her voice. She kept thinking that even her little sister Antiope would have worked harder at the knots. “Try again,” she whispered.

“I can’t.”

“Then I can’t tell you anything about our mother. I won’t have the voice”—and she let her voice go gravely—“or the time.”

He twiddled with the thong some more, and at last the bond began to loosen. As soon as she felt it give a bit, Hippolyta pulled at it with all the strength she had left.

With one strenuous heave, her right arm came loose, and the waterskin went flying. She smacked her fist into Tithonus’ startled face. While he tumbled backward, down the rough stone slope to fall on the shingle below, she loosened her left hand.

Then she began flexing her fingers to get the numbness out and rubbing her chafed wrists. Reaching down for the waterskin, she’d almost picked it up when a roar thundered out of the water.

The sea below her was bubbling like a cauldron, big waves heaving onto the shore. Three gigantic green humps mounded out of the water, and when they plunged in again, a cloud of spume rose high into the air.

Someone screamed.

For a moment Hippolyta thought it was she herself. Then she remembered Tithonus and looked around for him. He was half sitting, dazed and frightened, on the beach, the waves lapping over his feet.

Many different thoughts wrangled in Hippolyta’s head:

I could leave Tithonus to the monster.

I could save him and bring him to his father.

We could both be eaten.

I could kill the monster.

But all these were subsumed in one final thought: I can bring him back to Themiscyra.

She smiled grimly at the thought. He was a spoiled, whiny, useless princeling and she didn’t like him at all. Besides, his father would have sacrificed her, so she would sacrifice Tithonus in place of the baby. It was the only way left to her, now that Laomedon had refused to help her mother. She would take Tithonus to Themiscyra and give him to Valasca for the altar in exchange for her mother’s release. Then there’d be only one live boy child born of Otrere in the world. Wouldn’t that fulfill Artemis’ demands?

Hippolyta looked back at the sea. The dark, humping shapes were above the waves again and heading once again toward the shore.

Tithonus was right in the monster’s path.

Hippolyta pressed a knuckle to her mouth to keep from screaming. An Amazon doesn’t scream. Then she scrambled down the slope to rescue the Trojan prince.