Chapter One #2
Hippolyte considered the harshness of life in a place such as this, for there could be little to hunt, nothing to fish, and no prospect of farming such lands.
She had seen mules, gray and hunched, long eyelashes drooped and blinking, but no horses.
The leaves were already browning on what few trees there were, their brittle twigs too weak to bear the meanest of fruit.
As was often the way when she passed through such lands, Hippolyte thanked the gods for all they had been given in Pontus and Themiscyra and vowed once again to present a sacrifice to her father upon her arrival home.
Hour after hour they rode, without stopping, even when the sun reached its apex.
There was nowhere to stop, no shade to be found at this time of day.
On they rode, until clouds began to form above them.
Thick and white, like freshly plucked down, these clouds cast thin shadows on the earth.
Small at first, they ripened as she watched.
Swelling with water, their bases glimmering with gray as they muted the sun’s rage.
There would be rain soon, Hippolyte thought, staring at those clouds.
Strong, refreshing rain that would fall in great sheets bridging the void between sky and earth.
This was the rain she had raced as a child, the rain she had lifted her head to greet, the rain she had let flow across her face, its very coolness replenishing her.
Her memory stirred with moments from her childhood, she and Penthesilea riding out for days, living only on the rabbits that they caught or the berries they could forage.
These were the days before Ares had chosen her ahead of her sister to rule the Amazons, despite Hippolyte not being the oldest. Only once had Hippolyte succeeded in drawing blood against Penthesilea.
A nick. Nothing more. But that had been enough for Ares to name her queen.
But now she dwelled on the times before that, when they would train and spar and ride from dawn until dusk unburdened by the cares of leadership.
They spent their time learning about their land.
Practicing on horseback those acrobatics that would one day be put to the test in battle.
But this had been one of their favorite games: to watch clouds thicken, to stand completely motionless beneath them.
There they would wait while the clouds grew grayer and grayer until they had swollen so fat they could no longer contain all the moisture within them.
At that point, the instant when the clouds cracked apart and unleashed their downpour, the girls would squeeze their horses and fly in an attempt to outride the rain.
Sometimes they made it. Sometimes they would reach shelter before the storm met them, or else keep riding at such pace that the clouds in time would lose their weight and have nothing left to drown them with.
But more often than not they ended the game drenched.
Soaked to the skin by the downpour. Hair plastered to their heads; their horses sodden from ear to hoof.
And they would laugh as the icy water ran down their spines.
Afterward they would build a fire and dry their leathers before riding back to Themiscyra and their mother to continue their training.
Noting again how the clouds were burgeoning above them, Hippolyte signaled to the women to pick up their pace. Squeezing her thighs around her bay mare, she urged it to a soft canter, and then faster still until she was galloping. Slicing through the grass.
The air drew through her hair like a comb as she closed her eyes and lifted her head to the sky.
Not even the thrill of a battle could compare to this, to the thunder of hooves rumbling through the earth beneath them and the cold blast of air needling her skin with pleasure.
The laughter of the women as they rode was more melodious than any lyre.
More tuneful than any flute. All were now following her lead.
Galloping as if their very lives depended on it.
A glance behind her brought a smile to her lips.
Several of the women were taking advantage of the opportunity to practice their horseback combat positioning, twisting to face behind them or else balancing on their knees as their horses sprinted across the ground, their feet barely grazing the short stubble beneath their hooves.
Some, Hippolyte saw, were grieving, remembering those who had been lost, all daughters, sisters, mothers.
She would let the mourners ride out first next battle.
Let them drown their pain in the blood of others.
As they approached the coast, the storm broke. Rather than the downpour she had hoped for, it fell in a mist. A light shower that formed perfect droplets on her skin and clothes before evaporating into nothing.
It was here, where the foaming waves crashed against jagged cliff edges, that the horses picked up the scent of home.
Their pace quickened without instruction from their riders.
Their nostrils flared as they turned in unison like a flock of birds, the pull of home upon them, the certainty that there was nowhere else on earth quite like it.
The citadel of Themiscyra had been built on the steppes of Pontus, with views out over the Black Sea.
The land that surrounded them was an oasis, regardless of the time of year.
It did not suffer droughts or floods. Their animals did not get plagued by mites or vermin, and the forests that filled the far regions to the east were as bountiful as the sea to the north.
Birds, rabbits, wild pigs, and mouflon made their homes above and below the ground, their songs and snuffles providing choruses day and night, their tracks weaving among the thick layers of foliage that made a bed of the forest floor.
Had they chosen to do so, the two thousand strong women might have picked a different-colored fruit for every day of the week, although no food was ever more satisfying than the food that came from a hunt.
They would hunt that evening, Hippolyte thought to herself as she rode ahead of her sisters and the women.
A good hunt to celebrate their victory and to find an adequate sacrifice.
They would need to salt and dry more meat, too.
Preparing for the long trips that might await them.
The queen’s mind was so lost in her home and the future that it took her a moment to spy the flash of light on the peak of a hill several miles to the east. And even when she did see it, within a blink she had disregarded it as if it were some trick of the evening light, like rays reflecting off a puddle, or light caught on the sheen of iridescent wings.
Small lakes and tributaries littered the land, though generally at lower levels than this.
Birds, however, could be found everywhere. It was likely to be a bird.
“My queen.” Antiope had sped from behind to catch her. “Did you see that? Did you see that light?”
“I did.” Hippolyte was about to dismiss any concerns her younger sister might have had when the light flared again, directed straight toward them.
Her heart quickened. It was no accident.
It was a sure and certain signal, a flash of polished brass.
One of the many mirrors placed along the tops of the steppes so that the women could signal each other.
But the pattern of flashes was one they had never used before—one they had never had cause to use before.
It was well known, throughout Anatolia and the whole of Greece, that if men or women were in need of the services of the Amazons, the women would hear of it one way or another, but it would always be their decision as to who they aided.
Sometimes money played a part, but often it was the righteousness of the cause that made the choice for them.
Never did anyone other than the Amazons themselves set foot on the silver sands of their beaches or ride the dense forests to reach the steppes of their home.
To do so would certainly bring about an intruder’s demise.
But in spite of this, the sequence of flashes came for a third time, and it could mean only one thing.
Outsiders had come to Themiscyra.