roots like the starving animal she felt herself to be, and drank her share of the wine.
When the baskets were empty and the last drop had been squeezed from the wineskins, the tribe’s few possessions were gathered: the tents taken down and bundled together; a few bronze cooking kettles, a store of cloaks worn by former leaders. Kassandra was still seeing the Goddess’ face through and over Penthesilea’s own, and hearing the curious alteration in her kinswoman’s voice. Kassandra wondered if one day the Goddess would speak through her own voice and spirit.
The tribe of women drew their horses into a line of march: Penthesilea and her warriors at the head; the elderly or pregnant women and the smallest girls at the very center, surrounded by the strongest young women.
Kassandra had a spear and knew how to use it, so she took a place among the young warriors. Penthesilea saw her and frowned, but she said nothing; Kassandra took her silence as leave to stay where she was. She didn’t know whether she hoped for her first battle or whether she was inwardly praying that the journey would be completely uneventful. Dawn was breaking as Penthesilea called out the signal to ride; a single star still hung in the dark sky. Kassandra shivered in the wool robe she had worn at the ceremony. She hoped there would be no rain this night; she had left her riding leathers in the tent, and they had been packed somewhere among the leather bags and baskets.
Her closest companion, a girl of fourteen or so whom her mother called “Star,” riding next to her, made no secret that she was hoping for a fight.
“One year when I was small there was a war against one of the Kentaur tribes—not Cheiron’s band, they’re our friends, but one of the tribes from inland. They came down on us just as we left our old camp and tried to steal away the strongest of our stallions,” Star told her. “I could hardly see them; I was still riding with my mother. But I heard the men screaming as Penthesilea rode them down.”
“Did we win?”
“Of course we won; if we hadn’t, they’d have taken us to their encampment and broken our legs so we couldn’t run away,” Star said, and Kassandra remembered the crippled woman in the men’s camp. “But we made peace with them, and we lent them the stallion for a year to improve their herds. And we agreed to visit their village that year instead of Cheiron’s; Penthesilea said we have become too closely akin to his people by now and should skip a few years because it is not wise to lie with our own brothers and fathers for too many generations. She says when we do, the babies are weak and sometimes they die.”
Kassandra did not understand, and said so. Star laughed and said, “They wouldn’t let you go anyhow; before you go to the men’s villages, you must be a woman, not a little girl.”
“I am a woman,” Kassandra said. “I have been old enough for bearing for ten moons now.”
“Still, you must be a tried warrior; I have been grown now for a year and more, and I am not yet allowed to go to the men’s villages. But I’m not in a hurry; after all, I might be pregnant for nine moons and bear only a useless male, who must be given to his father’s tribe,” said Star.
“Go to the men’s villages? What for?” Kassandra asked, and Star told her.
“I think you must be making it up,” Kassandra said. “My mother and father would never do anything like that.” She could understand a mare and a stallion; but the thought of her royal parents engaging in such maneuvers seemed disgusting. Yet she remembered, unwillingly, that whenever her father summoned one of the many palace women into his sleeping quarters, sooner or later (more often sooner than later) there would be a new baby in the palace, and if it was a son, Priam would visit the palace goldsmith, and there would be handsome gifts, rings and chains and gold cups, for the newly favored woman and for her child.
So perhaps this
When the baskets were empty and the last drop had been squeezed from the wineskins, the tribe’s few possessions were gathered: the tents taken down and bundled together; a few bronze cooking kettles, a store of cloaks worn by former leaders. Kassandra was still seeing the Goddess’ face through and over Penthesilea’s own, and hearing the curious alteration in her kinswoman’s voice. Kassandra wondered if one day the Goddess would speak through her own voice and spirit.
The tribe of women drew their horses into a line of march: Penthesilea and her warriors at the head; the elderly or pregnant women and the smallest girls at the very center, surrounded by the strongest young women.
Kassandra had a spear and knew how to use it, so she took a place among the young warriors. Penthesilea saw her and frowned, but she said nothing; Kassandra took her silence as leave to stay where she was. She didn’t know whether she hoped for her first battle or whether she was inwardly praying that the journey would be completely uneventful. Dawn was breaking as Penthesilea called out the signal to ride; a single star still hung in the dark sky. Kassandra shivered in the wool robe she had worn at the ceremony. She hoped there would be no rain this night; she had left her riding leathers in the tent, and they had been packed somewhere among the leather bags and baskets.
Her closest companion, a girl of fourteen or so whom her mother called “Star,” riding next to her, made no secret that she was hoping for a fight.
“One year when I was small there was a war against one of the Kentaur tribes—not Cheiron’s band, they’re our friends, but one of the tribes from inland. They came down on us just as we left our old camp and tried to steal away the strongest of our stallions,” Star told her. “I could hardly see them; I was still riding with my mother. But I heard the men screaming as Penthesilea rode them down.”
“Did we win?”
“Of course we won; if we hadn’t, they’d have taken us to their encampment and broken our legs so we couldn’t run away,” Star said, and Kassandra remembered the crippled woman in the men’s camp. “But we made peace with them, and we lent them the stallion for a year to improve their herds. And we agreed to visit their village that year instead of Cheiron’s; Penthesilea said we have become too closely akin to his people by now and should skip a few years because it is not wise to lie with our own brothers and fathers for too many generations. She says when we do, the babies are weak and sometimes they die.”
Kassandra did not understand, and said so. Star laughed and said, “They wouldn’t let you go anyhow; before you go to the men’s villages, you must be a woman, not a little girl.”
“I am a woman,” Kassandra said. “I have been old enough for bearing for ten moons now.”
“Still, you must be a tried warrior; I have been grown now for a year and more, and I am not yet allowed to go to the men’s villages. But I’m not in a hurry; after all, I might be pregnant for nine moons and bear only a useless male, who must be given to his father’s tribe,” said Star.
“Go to the men’s villages? What for?” Kassandra asked, and Star told her.
“I think you must be making it up,” Kassandra said. “My mother and father would never do anything like that.” She could understand a mare and a stallion; but the thought of her royal parents engaging in such maneuvers seemed disgusting. Yet she remembered, unwillingly, that whenever her father summoned one of the many palace women into his sleeping quarters, sooner or later (more often sooner than later) there would be a new baby in the palace, and if it was a son, Priam would visit the palace goldsmith, and there would be handsome gifts, rings and chains and gold cups, for the newly favored woman and for her child.
So perhaps this
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