Chapter 29
We all sit on the ground, the fire burning before us, smoke rising into the darkening sky.
As the sun sinks lower and the air cools, the women pull their cloaks more tightly around their bodies, the furs of lions and leopards keeping them warm.
Someone hands me a cup, its handle also carved in the shape of a lion.
I expect it to be brimming with wine, but this is creamy and fermented, sharper and more sour.
“Mare’s milk,” the queen tells me, nodding toward the grazing horses.
I take a sip. It fizzes slightly on my tongue, the flavor unexpected—rougher somehow, less refined than anything the gods enjoy but not unpleasant. It’s strong too. Intoxicating.
“Tell me your names,” I say.
Some of the words they use are unfamiliar, but I understand the meaning as they introduce themselves. Dagger-wielding. Worthy of armor. Protectress.
The girl’s voice is clear and strong when she speaks up. “Melo,” she says. Singer.
“Kydoime,” the queen says, her hand on her chest. Battle-cry.
The woman at her side nods at me. “Dorymache,” she says of herself.
Spear-fighter. They speak almost in concert, and always one keeps her hand on the other—resting on her thigh or linking their fingers together, loving and unmistakably intimate.
“We once lived across the sea from here,” Kydoime tells me. “It was always our homeland; the place where our ancestors had bred the horses we rode for generations.”
They were taken, they tell me—a part of the story where many of the others chime in.
All the women, overpowered by a foreign force.
By men who speak like I do, they say, captors from the lands I rule.
Men who took their weapons and forced them onto three ships, setting sail toward home, where they’d be kept as slaves—captives of war for the victors’ enjoyment.
Nausea rises inside me as I look from face to face across the flames.
I’ve seen these women as conquerors. Now I realize that was only a glimpse of their lives.
It’s impressed me to see how they fight, how they work, how they survive together.
Inspiring, even. I hate to think of them broken and ill-used, snatched away from their home and afraid.
“Don’t worry,” the queen says, her voice rich and thrilling. “We rose up. Took back our bows and arrows, our swords and spears and daggers, and we used them to kill every man on board.”
The smoke and the mare’s milk burn in the back of my throat. “All of them?” I ask, a rasp catching my words.
“Without mercy.” Her stare is defiant, daring me to condemn her.
I hold her gaze. “Men like that,” I say, “deserve no mercy.”
A ripple of satisfaction echoes around the circle; women nodding, their eyes intent on me. This is a fearsome band of warriors. Women united by determination and drive, ready to do whatever it takes to survive—and to win.
“But with your captors dead, why did you end up here?” I ask. “Couldn’t you go back to your homes?”
“We didn’t know how to sail,” Dorymache explains. “We didn’t know where we were. The ships drifted for days, until we reached a shore.”
“So the winds brought you here?” I ask.
“Not quite,” she says. “These lands are vast. All of it is Scythia, but we’ve roamed far from that first shore we found.”
More of them chime in, eager to tell me how they made this new land their home. Leaping from the stranded ships, the women made their way across the terrain—finding horses and liberating them for their own use, riding through the steppe, taking what they needed from whomever they found.
“How long ago was this?” I ask.
In the firelight, her eyes squint in concentration. “I was only a child,” she says. “Before I was taken, that is.” She nods toward the youngest Amazons. “We count them as fully grown when they’ve killed their first enemy.”
“So there are more of you now,” I ask, “than from those ships?”
“More women joined us as we rode,” the queen answers. “Women who were hardy from life on the steppe, women who wanted to fight and ride, not give in to the softness of a settled existence.”
“Just women?” I ask, looking again at the children.
“While some of us are happiest with women alone,” she says, her lips curving into a smile at Dorymache, “there are those among us too who crave the company of men—every now and again. We told you that we take what we want, and we move on. Any can love whoever she wants without question.”
I’m captivated by her words, the picture she builds of the Amazons roaming this land, shaping their lives according to their own desires.
In the echo of her voice, I can feel the thrill of seducing a woman away from her dull existence, of taking an opportunistic tumble with a lone traveler, of succumbing to the heat of a post-battle tryst with an ally—of everything it means for these women to live a life of freedom and pleasure.
My gaze, though, is irresistibly drawn back to Melo, the girl who sneaked away from her sisters to meet her lover by the stream. Her eyes are bright in the firelight, her hands clasped beneath her chin.
“And any man an chooses,” I say, “is never invited to join you like the women you gather? You always leave them behind?”
“Men are suspicious of us.” She leans forward, squatting on her heels, her arms wrapped around her knees.
“Even those who live like we do stop roaming eventually and set up homes. Their women give up a life of hunting and riding, and they stay in the wagons instead. The men remain as warriors and the women rear their children indoors.” She shakes her head.
“If we let men join us, it wouldn’t be long before they would try to rule us. ”
“We’ll never let it happen again,” Dorymache says, her face serious. “We won’t be tamed. There are many bands of us out here, our numbers always growing. Any one of us who changes her mind is free to leave and take up a domestic life if she prefers.”
“What about your sons?” I ask.
“Men raised by Amazons have never known anything different,” the queen says. “They don’t expect women to be weaker than men or better suited to a quiet life.”
“So they can stay with you?” I ask.
“Of course.” She sounds surprised that I’d question it. “We love our children. When the tribe’s sons are grown, they can ride with us as long as they choose, just like our daughters. We want to survive. We want to continue.”
“We just want to do it according to our own rules,” Dorymache speaks up.
The queen puts her arm around her shoulders. “We do.”
“And those men you attacked today,” I ask. “They threaten your survival?”
I’m watching the girl, Melo, out of the corner of my eye. She stiffens at my words, gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
The queen shrugs. “We don’t know,” she says. “We don’t know where their homes are, or why they’ve left them. They’re free to travel through the steppe like we do. But if we think they’re too close, we chase them away.”
“Or steal their horses,” I say.
“They haven’t dared attack us,” she says, her voice grim. “We want to keep it that way.”
“I can understand that.” I hold out my cup for more mare’s milk. I’m becoming accustomed to the flavor. I like it here, surrounded by these women, and the more I learn of them, the more I want to know.
One of the other women in the circle stands, holding a wooden bowl. Behind her, the sky is ink-black and sprinkled with stars. She reaches into the bowl and scatters a handful of flowering buds onto the fire.
As they burn, the smoke takes on a rich and earthy flavor, woody and herbal. I breathe in, and it uncoils through my veins, a sweet and heady rush that mingles with the effects of the fermented milk.
A good-natured cheer goes up around the fire. The queen smiles. “Have you heard enough, goddess?” she asks. “Did we move your heart?”
I take another sip. “You told me already that you don’t need divine assistance,” I remind her with a smile.
“You weren’t trying to move my heart to win my favor, were you?
” I speak lightly; they can see, I’m sure, how rousing I found their story.
The way they live their lives is a joyous thing.
I came here for a love story; I think I’ve found something even more intriguing.
“We’re strong enough to fight without anyone else on our side,” she laughs. “But we’d never turn down another god who wants to lend their favor to the Amazons.”
My hand stills, my cup hovering in front of my face. “Another god?” I ask. A presentiment awakens in my bones. Suddenly, I’m sure I know what she’s going to say.
“Well, yes,” she says. “I told you we’re the Amazons, but that isn’t our only name. There’s another one, one our enemies speak with fear, and we claim with pride.”
I set down the cup on the earth beside me, taking care to be precise in my movement, not to let my shaking fingers spill a single drop. “What name?” I ask.
Her chest is thrust forward, her chin tilted up, the flickering light warming her fierce eyes. “They call us the Daughters of Ares.”
The world slips and tilts, dizzying me.
Of course. Even in my horror, it makes perfect sense to me that Ares, in his self-imposed exile from Olympus, would find these women.
Their warlike nature, their indomitable spirits, their rebellious fire and love of freedom—it would call to him, as surely as the cry of the lovers called to me.
No wonder he found them; no wonder, once he did, he wouldn’t want to leave.
My throat tightens, my heart thudding painfully in my chest. “I didn’t know I was in another god’s territory,” I say, gathering myself to my feet, my knees weak beneath me. “It’s not my place to stay.”
“No, no,” the queen urges, standing too and taking my wrist in her hand. Her fingers are hard and callused. “ lands are wide and scattered,” she goes on. “Our sisters live all across the steppes. Ares visits us only infrequently. You won’t see him here.”