Chapter Two
“It must be a mistake,” Antiope said. “An accident. A ship that has gotten lost, perhaps?”
There was no fear in her voice, only confusion.
Confusion Hippolyte could feel herself. The single short, fleeting flashes of light had each lasted the same duration and had come consecutively, with no pauses between them.
It was the sign that a boat was approaching from the Black Sea and encroaching upon their land.
But for someone to land on their shores deliberately would be an act of war.
A war that they would undoubtedly lose. There were only two possibilities: either this ship had lost its way or its sailors had lost their minds.
Whichever the situation, she would not waste time wondering.
With a whip of her hands, she dug her heels into her horse’s side.
Raising the reins, she pushed her body forward into its withers.
The animal knew the movement well. Within two strides, it was galloping forward, its rear legs sweeping back and forth in unison as its hooves skimmed the earth, Hippolyte’s hair pushed back and away from her face by the force of the wind.
“Your zoster?” Penthesilea called to the queen as she quickened her pace and galloped alongside her. “We must prepare to fight. We must prepare for war.”
Always the fight was at the front of Penthesilea’s mind.
The kill. The glory. It was true, there had been competitiveness between the pair.
The desire to shine brightest in their father’s eyes.
But out of all her sisters and the women she fought with, there was no one that Hippolyte would rather have beside her in a battle.
No one as fearless when faced with the gleam of a thousand swords.
No one whose hand or mind were quicker. Her ax, her bow, her spear, whatever the weapon, if it were wielded by Penthesilea, it would not falter or miss. She was the warrior of all warriors.
“I have the zoster here.” Hippolyte replied.
The horse maintained its speed as the queen leaned to one side, slipping her hand into the satchel that was strapped fast to the saddle.
A saddle stitched by her women, filled with wool and horsehair to soften the long rides.
From out of the satchel, she pulled a large belt, which, with only one hand now on the reins, she fixed around her waist.
The leather zoster, which held her sword and knives, was reinforced with bronze and gold plaques and shone with a soft luster, reflecting all the light that fell on them.
Etched into it were patterns so intricate and delicate it was obvious to all who saw it that it was the work of the gods.
Despite its metal plates, it was supple between her fingers, and its shape had molded to her body over the years of wear.
The gift had been handed to her from her father, Ares, on the day she had been crowned Queen of the Amazons.
His acknowledgment of her strength and leadership of the women.
It had cemented her position as ruler and served as a physical reminder of the ichor that ran through her veins.
In every battle since receiving the gift, she had worn the zoster without fail.
Now she sometimes felt her women fought for the belt as keenly as they fought for her.
For it displayed the truth: that each of them was blessed by Ares, and his hand would see their fates remained strong.
Hippolyte spoke to only her three sisters, who now rode alongside her, Antiope and Penthesilea to her left side, her youngest sister, Melanippe, to the right. “Signal the women to stay back. This may yet be a misunderstanding. I do not wish for bloodshed unless it is necessary.”
“They have come to Themiscyra. They must pay the price they deserve.” Eagerness for battle rang out in Penthesilea’s voice.
“They will, if it is deserved. We do not condemn simple mistakes, though. There may well be an innocent explanation for this.”
“I should return to the citadel. I should head to the children. See that they are protected,” Melanippe said.
She was by far the youngest, barely old enough to battle when Hippolyte had been crowned queen.
Her hair was the fairest of them all, but her skin the darkest. Her almond eyes, while the same shape as her sister, had a unique wideness to them.
A youthfulness, almost an innocence. This was the first time that Melanippe had come to battle since the birth of her twin daughters the previous spring.
She had been eager to return to the field, to feel the weight of her sword in her hand again, to feel that cut of a breastbone beneath her blade, and Hippolyte had welcomed her back to the fray.
However, now she could see the pressure this absence had placed on her, which was only heightened by their current situation.
“Plenty of women remained in Themiscyra. Over half our numbers. They will have protected them. You will stay with me. I wish for all the daughters of Ares to ride in together.”
“As you wish, my queen.” Melanippe dipped her head slightly as she rode forward. There would be no discussion on the matter. The queen had spoken.
No more conversation followed. No more words passed their lips other than to spur their steeds.
The distant sweeping sounds of the sea were drowned out by the hammering of the horses’ hooves, the heaving of the riders’ breath barely muffling the drumming of their hearts.
The light on the steppes flashed only once more.
The women upon the hill would have noted that the army had changed its speed and would know their signal had been received.
They, too, would be arming themselves now, preparing for whatever was to come.
Led by the queen, the warriors took a weaving path up the steppes.
It was not the fastest route back, but it allowed them sight of the sea below, and what they lost in time they would gain in knowledge of these intruders.
As the sea came into view, Hippolyte pulled on the reins of her mare, easing it into a slow canter before drawing it to a halt.
Her heart pounded as she checked the zoster around her waist and observed the scene below.
The water was choppy, surging with frothy whitecaps that were broken by the wind before sinking back into the swell ready to rise again.
Above them swilled dark clouds, their edges tinted with violet.
Clouds that threatened a storm but were scudding fast across the sky.
Experience told Hippolyte they would pass the mountains before the rains broke.
Normally the queen might lose herself in such a view—the perfect backdrop against which to ponder battle plans for the future.
But today her gaze held fast on the ship.
The women rarely traveled by sea if it were avoidable.
Their horses could take them any place they wished to go, often faster and without the fear that Poseidon, or some other jealous god, might turn his wrath in their direction and impede their journey.
As such, she did not have an intricate knowledge of sea vessels, could not expatiate upon them in the way she might upon horses or weapons or the way a bivouac of leather pelts can be assembled to withstand any terrain or weather.
Still, she knew enough about water vessels to know that what she was viewing was a trireme.
And a trireme was a ship of war. If the men on board came to shore, it would be a fight on their sands.
With three rows of oars and brass plates that shone a burnished orange in the muted evening sun, the ship’s mainsail slapped back and forth in the wind, its percussion fighting for dominance amongst squalls of seagulls and the crashing of the waves.
Hippolyte felt each smack of fabric as if it were a hand against her skin.
An echo of the thudding within her bones.
This was no lost vessel. No merchant been blown off course by a storm.
These were rich men. Powerful men. And powerful people knew exactly where Themiscyra was.
They had dropped anchor a fair way from the shore, perhaps suspecting the sharp coral and rocks that hid beneath the surface close to land.
Perhaps they had chosen the distance, knowing that they were beyond the reach of the women’s venom-tipped arrows.
The specifics didn’t matter. They were too close by at least a hundred miles.
The queen strained her eyes, trying to see more. At such a distance she could make out no details to identify the vessel’s origin, but she knew around two hundred men could fit aboard such a ship. Perhaps three hundred. It was a fact that caused her confusion, rather than distress.
In some battles, such a number might suffice for victory, yet what were three hundred men against the two thousand women of the army?
Her women could kill them all with their arrows before they set a single foot upon the sand.
And if it came to it, they would. But surely the intruders knew this.
Perhaps if they had come as a fleet, a hundred such vessels, outnumbering the Amazons ten or twenty to one, they might stand a chance.
But one ship. What could possibly be the purpose, unless every person aboard wished for a swift death?
“There, have you seen it? They are coming to shore.”
Just as Penthesilea spoke, the queen’s eyes fell upon another vessel in the water.
It had been dropped on the far side of the trireme and only now was coming into view.
It was a small smudge. A dark shadow amongst waves, little more than a blot beside the trireme, though recognizable still as a small rowing boat.
“That cannot hold more than a dozen men at most,” Hippolyte said, her horse fighting against her hold as she held her there.
Had she dropped the reins, it would likely have run straight to its stable without pause.
But she held it there, watching as the small vessel drew closer.
A dozen men, perhaps, but from the way their vessel raced forward, oars plowing through the water, they were strong.
“What can they be thinking?” Penthesilea asked. “This cannot be an attack, can it?”
“We rule nothing out,” Hippolyte replied. “Keep your arrows at hand. It will not be long now. Men have come.”