Last of the Amazons by Steven Pressfield

face that he not see. He looked away. The curls at his neck were held by a silver pin in the shape of a cicada. It seemed the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
    â€œAre we in the wrong, Thyone? To track Selene, I mean. It is my father Lykos’ doing, stirring the hornets’ nest to work harm to Theseus. But the swarm, once loosed, is not so easily put back.”
    How I esteemed him for addressing me thus! I longed to offer something to allay his burden but could not find my tongue. He seemed to sense this. He smiled.
    â€œGive me your word, then, that you will not run. Otherwise I shall have to set a watch over you.”
    The other who took care for me was Damon. My uncle put me to work caring for the horses, addressed me as “wrangler” and ordered me about in a gruff voice, for which kindness I could never repay him. At his command I slept beneath his bearskin and arose to stand watches at his side. I began to ken his rough-timbered ways. “Consider how warriors of Amazonia ride in their triples,” he counseled me. “Not shoulder to shoulder but wide apart, sometimes nearly out of sight across the plain. Yet the slightest chirrup will send each flying to the other’s aid. This is how you must think of yourself and your sister. Do you understand?”
    The ships embarked from Thessaly on the ninth day, navigating north by Athos, that mountain holy to Zeus, which appeared for two dawns on the port quarter, passed abeam, then at last sank from sight beneath the stern. The vessels coasted western Thrace now, drawing toward the Strymon. This was wild country. War parties of tribesmen tracked our passage from the shore. When we landed to take our meals and to make camp, they approached, demanding drink and baubles and sniffing about the ships, light-fingered. One heard Greek no more but savage tongues.
    The sea smelled different this far from home. Light was harsher, nights colder. I had to mind my cheekiness with the men now; they had gone testy and stalked the runway, spoiling for fights. They were scared. They gravitated about those veterans—Damon, Philippus, Phormion called Ant, even Father, irascible as he was—who had experience of these regions and could apprise them of what trials might lie ahead.
    Above the shell beach which marks the frontier of Strymonian Thrace, Atticus called the companies together. It was evening, after the meal and hymn. A stockade had been erected, horses picketed, arms stacked, and sentries posted.
    â€œComrades, the elements have favored us since the River of the Underworld, all thanks to God. It has been my judgment, as the aboriginal tribes have thus far permitted us passage, to concentrate upon making speed east. Now, however, we must recall ourselves to the business at hand. Within ten days we shall strike the Hellespont, or so the natives of this place apprise us. Another ten will bear us into the Black Sea—the Amazon Sea, as it is called out here—from which only Heracles, Jason, and our own Theseus have returned. We younger men know nothing of this country. Our intelligence of the race of warrior women, not to say the other savage tribes of the region, is slender at best, comprised primarily of myth and legend and tales from our fathers of the Amazons’ march on Athens. Therefore I have assembled the complement this night, to put forth a call to our veterans.”
    He turned to Ant and Philippus, Father and Damon, and the other men who had sailed on the first expedition.
    â€œCome forward, gentlemen. Our squadron coasts the same shoreline you sailed with Theseus, twenty years past. Tell us of that voyage. When exactly did it take place? For what ends was it undertaken? What happened when you reached the Amazon homeland? And how may the companies of our current voyage profit from your experience?”
    First to respond was Phormion called Ant, who had saved Damon’s life at Hell’s River; he offered bloodcurdling