Nobody's Princess (10 page)

“No, the game starts now, but you can count four of those, because I’m generous,” I teased, snagging away two of the six pits. “I’m still going to win.”

I had seven olive pits to Castor’s nine when Pirithous of Thessaly stood up. He must have been a famous man, because he was seated just three places away from Lord Oeneus. He began by letting all of us know that he was the son of Zeus. Castor ate another olive, spat the pit into his hand, set it down with the others, and mouthed
I win
at me. I was just about to ask him for a rematch when Pirithous finished his brag with the words: “But my lone adventures are only half of it. For the rest, Lord Oeneus, we must hear my dearest friend, my heart’s brother, Lord Theseus, king of Athens!”

At the sound of his name, Theseus rose from the seat next to Pirithous, a seat even closer to the king. I gaped at the sight of the handsomest man I’d ever seen, tanned and strong, with a ready smile. We were close enough for me to see his sea-green eyes and the streaks of gold running through his long, chestnut-colored hair. I didn’t know why the sight of him made my blood pound in my ears and my breath grow short. Even though he was much older than I, I couldn’t help feeling drawn to him. I even found myself thinking,
My sister’s husband is much older than she is too.
When he caught me gazing at him and flashed me a grin, I blushed from neck to hair.

Then he opened his mouth to speak.

To hear him talk about his adventures, you’d think he and Pirithous had fought their way to the throne of Hades and back. Not only was he Poseidon’s son, but he claimed a human father as well, the previous king of Athens. The monsters he’d slaughtered as a young man were the human sort—bandits who murdered innocent travelers—and then came his greatest victory: the minotaur! He’d sailed to Crete to face that terrible creature, half bull and half man. It feasted on human flesh, and Athens was compelled to send Crete seven youths and seven maidens every nine years to feed the beast. He slew it single-handedly, of course, freed the Athenian captives, and carried off heaps of Cretan gold, but not before he’d won the ardent love of the king’s own daughter, Princess Ariadne.

“
I
put an end to the minotaur,” Theseus declared. “Just as I’ll put an end to the Calydonian boar!” No one challenged his story—or even thought to ask what had become of that devoted Cretan princess—partly because the scars crisscrossing his chest and arms proved he wasn’t afraid of a real fight, but mostly because the other men soon went on to tell equally far-fetched tales of their own exploits.

So much for finding
that
attractive. I sighed. Theseus was handsome, but he was loud and arrogant. I remembered how Clytemnestra used to claim that my looks earned me unfair privileges, back when I was still a pretty child instead of the gangly girl I’d become. If someone would say the same of Theseus’s appearance, I bet he’d simply reply,
Why, yes, of course I get special treatment, I’m
entitled
to it.
Ariadne could keep him, if she even existed in the first place.

While the hunters took turns praising themselves, I nudged Castor and whispered, “Where’s the training ground?”

He thought he knew my reason for asking. “Oh no you don’t,” he said. “This isn’t Sparta. You heard what Lord Oeneus thinks of women who act like men. You’ll offend him.”

“What offends him is women who do
better
than men,” I said. “Don’t worry, I don’t want to do sword practice with any of them.” I indicated the still-swaggering hunters. “If one of them beats me, he’ll claim I had twelve arms, six heads, and spat poison. I just want to watch how you’re all preparing for the hunt.”

“Well, well, so you want to watch
men
exercising?” Castor snickered. “My little sister’s growing up!”

I gave him a hard look. “The boar isn’t the
only
pig around here.”

That made him laugh outright. “Ah, Helen, I’m only joking. But never mind where the training ground is. You can’t go. Lord Oeneus has forbidden any woman from lingering there, distracting us. He wants us to concentrate on getting ready to hunt the boar.”

I didn’t say another word on the subject. My brother was wrong. I didn’t want to go to the training ground to see the men; I wanted to watch Atalanta. I wanted to see for myself what a woman could achieve and how she did it.

I knew there was no question of sneaking there in my old disguise. My brothers would recognize me at once and send me away. They were honor-bound to respect the rules that our uncle had laid down.

That was all right. The training ground wasn’t the only place where I might be able to observe that astonishing woman. I’d find a way to get what I wanted: I was a huntress too.

It took me three days before I was able to find Atalanta away from the training ground, even though my aunt’s hectic life as hostess to all the hunters left me completely free. Each morning I disguised myself as a boy again and explored. No one bothered me. The coming boar hunt had filled the court of Calydon with dozens of new faces. I passed for just another one of the hunters’ servants.

My plan was simple. Meleager said that Atalanta had come riding up to the gates of Calydon. I didn’t know how to ride or much about horses, but I’d heard my brothers talk about the beasts often enough to know they needed to be exercised. I’d wait until Atalanta came to the stables to exercise her horse and follow her from there. I might not get to watch her practicing with weapons, but just being able to
see
her would be enough for me.

I went to the stables, made friends with one of the workers, and got a good look at Atalanta’s horse. He was a fine animal, short and sturdy, with a broad back the color of autumn oak leaves and a sooty muzzle, mane, and tail.
She’d never let anyone else take care of him,
I thought.

I’d guessed right: Atalanta did exercise her own horse daily. The problem was
when
she did it: She didn’t devote one set time for that activity. The first day I came to the stables, I learned she’d already been and gone. The second day, I loitered so long that one of the stablehands grew suspicious of a “servant” with no work to do. He chased me away before she got there. The third day, I thought my luck had changed: Atalanta arrived and mounted her horse while I was waiting.

That was when I learned that my simple plan to follow Atalanta from the stables had a simple flaw: No matter how fast I could run, a horse could run faster. She and her steed were away from the palace and lost in a cloud of dust, heading for the woodlands, before I even managed to pass through the citadel gates.

Running after her wasn’t the answer. I looked down at the trail the horse had left and began to track it. The fresh hoofprints showed how horse and rider left the road and took a hunter’s path into the foothills. Once or twice I lost the trail and prayed to keen-eyed Hermes to help me find it again. The trickster god answered my prayers with a fresh pile of horse dung right in the middle of my path.

I marched on without any sight of them until I began to worry whether I’d gone so deeply into the forest that I risked finding the boar before I found Atalanta. Plus I hadn’t thought to bring my sword, so I was defenseless.

Stop that!
I told myself severely.
Have you seen or heard the beast nearby? Or do you think that a gigantic boar’s like a forest nymph, able to slip through the trees and brush silently? You know he’d make enough noise to give you lots of warning. By the time he crossed your path, you’d be safe. Can
he
climb trees?

That was when I heard hooves pounding through the undergrowth. I ducked behind a big beech tree just in time to see Atalanta come riding back down the path. I stayed hidden until she was well out of sight, then continued up the trail. If she had a favorite spot for exercising her horse, I intended to find it. On the other hand, if she only rode him into the hills and back to the palace, I needed to know that too.

I continued uphill, eyes on the horse’s path, until I came to a clearing. It was ringed with ancient oak trees, and a little freshwater spring bubbled out of mossy rocks that cropped out of the earth at the northern end. The grass was torn up, and there were too many hoofprints for it to be a place she’d come to only once.

I crouched beside the spring and said a prayer of thanks to the unknown god who dwelled there, letting him know that he had my sincere gratitude for permitting me to find what I’d been seeking. Tomorrow I wouldn’t try to follow Atalanta. I’d wait for her to come to me.

         
9
         

ATALANTA’S STORY

The following day, I was up and out of the gates with the sunrise. In my hurry to reach the clearing, I forgot to bring any food or drink along with me, so by the time Atalanta appeared, my stomach was grumbling. I didn’t care. I was convinced that any sacrifice of comfort was worth it, just to watch her. I found a venerable oak tree whose branches made for an easy climb and scaled it high enough for the foliage to conceal me. Then I waited.

I had no way of knowing how long I’d have to wait or even if this might be the one day that Atalanta decided to take her horse elsewhere for his exercise. My stomach kept up a long recitation of complaints until at last I decided it might be wise to ask the gods’ help.

But which god? The answer was obvious, even though I didn’t like it. Atalanta was a huntress; therefore, Artemis the huntress was the only one who could answer my prayer.

I muttered my petition quickly, not really expecting the goddess to hear me. Like Father, I disliked Artemis for her heartlessness, her readiness to punish the smallest insult, even if it happened only by oversight. I’d sworn an oath in her name, and though I fully intended to fulfill it once the hunt was over—I knew better than to cheat the gods—wouldn’t she know I’d only used her as an excuse to escape Mykenae? Couldn’t she tell how little I cared for her? Why should she do anything for me?

As I sat straddling the branch, alone with my thoughts and a very unhappy stomach, I heard the sound of hoofbeats approaching from farther down the hill. The next moment, Atalanta’s horse burst into the clearing. I whispered my thanks to Artemis, though the part of me that didn’t like that goddess still wondered whether I could trust her gift.

It was a joy to watch Atalanta ride. She moved smoothly and naturally with her horse, making it look as though together they were one miraculous creature. I forgot all about my empty stomach as I watched her put the little stallion through his paces. Sometimes, while riding him around the clearing at a gallop, she’d drop lightly to the ground and race beside him. She had no trouble matching his stride, and there were moments when I believed she could have outdistanced him, if she’d wanted to do it. When she grabbed the dangling reins and leaped back onto him as easily as if she had wings, I had to bite my tongue to keep from cheering her name and giving myself away.

I might as well have cheered, because she caught me.

“What are you staring at, boy?” Atalanta drove her horse straight at the tree where I was sitting and shouted up into the branches. Until that moment, I’d thought my shelter was impenetrable.

“Nothing,” I muttered, clinging to a leafy limb of the ancient oak.

“Oh?” She raised one eyebrow. “Then what are you doing up there? Building a nest?”

“I’m picking acorns,” I replied with as much dignity as I could manage. It was a stupid thing to say, but it made her laugh.

“Get down, little squirrel,” she commanded me. “I won’t hurt you.”

I hung by my hands from the branch for a moment, then dropped to the ground in front of her, landing on an oak root and sprawling into last autumn’s fallen leaves. My tumble startled her horse, but she controlled the huge creature with just a touch of her knees to his barrel.

When I stumbled back to my feet, brushing crushed leaves from my clothes, the horsewoman studied me closely. “Ah,” she said at last. “I was wrong. You’re no boy. You’re the twins’ sister Helen, the Spartan princess. I’ve seen you at dinner, always sitting next to Prince Meleager. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that queens-to-be don’t belong in trees?”

“And you’re Atalanta the huntress, the one all the men are talking about. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that women don’t belong on horseback?” I shot back deliberately.

That made her laugh even more. “You tell
me
where we belong,” she said, and before I could catch a breath, she leaned down, hooked one arm around me, and swept me up in front of her on the horse. With a shout and a light flick of her heels, she set the stallion into a gallop through the forest.

We left the little clearing far behind. The horse laid back his ears and ran flat out, threading a breakneck path around the trees. Atalanta shoved me forward just in time to dodge low-hanging branches and kept me from slipping off sideways whenever her steed made a sharp turn. I felt the wind whip across my face and thought,
So this is what it’s like to fly!
I knotted my hands into the horse’s mane and felt all my fears blow away behind us like so many dead leaves. I let out a whoop of joy and didn’t want our wild ride to end until we’d ridden across the world.

Atalanta finally reined the horse back to a canter, then a trot, and finally a slow walk. We were on a rise just above the royal palace of Calydon. She dismounted gracefully and offered me a hand down, but I decided I’d show her I could do that for myself.

I swung one leg up and back, lost my balance for the second time that day, and hit the ground, splayed out like a starfish on a rock. I took the sheepskin pad with me. Atalanta’s horse looked down at me, snorted, and walked away, flicking his tail disdainfully.

“Did he just laugh at me?” I asked, slowly sitting up. Every bone in my body felt like it’d been beaten with sticks.

“I hope so,” she replied, grinning. “You earned it.” She picked up the sheepskin, sat down on a large boulder, and rested one arm across her updrawn knees. “Now, care to tell me why you’re wandering through the woods, dressed like that?” She indicated the sleeveless tunic I’d filched from Castor. It was much too big for me, even belted tightly. “Is it some Spartan custom, raising daughters to be sons?”

“My father’s got sons,” I said, standing up and shaking the dirt from my “borrowed” clothes.

“Mine didn’t.” Atalanta’s mouth turned up at one corner, but it wasn’t a smile. “When I was born, he was so disappointed that he ordered one of his servants to take me out to the mountains and leave me there to die.” She gave me a sudden, penetrating stare. “I guess you’ve heard the stories?”

“The men say that you were fed and protected by a she-bear until a party of hunters found you.” I looked her in the eye. “I don’t believe it.”

“Good for you, girl,” she said. “The part about the she-bear makes a good story, but it’s not the truth. The rest is.” She shrugged, then spoke matter-of-factly about what came of her father’s coldhearted decision. “I was abandoned to die but found by the sort of people my father wouldn’t understand. To them, a child was a child. To him, children were…tools. He only wanted a certain number and a specific kind; the rest were disposable. It was probably good that he didn’t need a daughter; otherwise, I’d have spent my life being forced to fit the mold of what
he
decided I should be.”

Her face was grim, and I saw her hands tighten into fists as she told me her story. I didn’t want to make her dwell on so much ugliness, but I had to ask. “How do you know all this? About your father, I mean.”

She relaxed a little and even smiled. “Oh, I like you! You can think. Yes, how
would
I know anything about either of my parents if I was abandoned as a baby? Well, the person my father sent off to do his dirty work was a slave, a man with no choice except to obey. The king might have owned his body, but his heart was his own. He wrapped me in a good, warm blanket before he followed my father’s orders to abandon me in the wilderness, and he didn’t lay me on the ground until he caught sight of a hunting party coming through the trees. Even then, he hid until he saw they’d found me.” She looked into the forest, as if hoping to catch sight of that good man’s spirit. “Then he came forward and told them who I was and why I’d been thrown away like an old rag. The only thing of any value that he owned was a single carnelian bead with a bear carved on it, but he offered the huntsmen that if they’d agree to help me.”

“So that’s where the she-bear in the story comes from,” I said.

“Probably.” Atalanta reached into her tunic and drew up a loop of leather cord. The brilliant burnt orange of carnelian glittered in the sunlight. “The man who became my foster father accepted this from the slave who saved my life. He didn’t need it, but he took it because it was the only way he could make that good man believe he’d keep his promise to raise me. When he was dying, he gave it to me and told me the whole story.” She cupped the carnelian bead in her palm and gazed at it as if it held her soul. “He never thought to ask the slave’s name, but the gods know it, and I pray to them all to reward him.”

She shook off the somber memories and tucked the necklace back out of sight. “Maybe I ought to thank my father for throwing me away. He’ll never know it, but he gave me my freedom. I intend to keep it, and thanks to my foster father, I’ve got the means to do it.”

“Is he the one who taught you to hunt?” I asked. Atalanta’s reputation as a master of spear and arrow was already legendary.

“Yes, and how to ride a horse too.” She whistled softly, and her stallion came trotting up, as obedient as a well-trained hound. She stroked his muzzle fondly. “There aren’t enough men like him.”

Something puzzled me. “The first time I saw you, my brother Castor told me you’re the daughter of Lord Iasius of Arcadia. If your father abandoned you—”

“Why am I burdened with his name?” Atalanta finished the question for me. “Simple. Because men, even slaves, reveal many secrets on their deathbeds, and so when that good man died, my father found out what really had become of me. By then he’d changed his mind about needing a daughter, so he ordered my return, as if I were a borrowed cloak.” She blew softly into the stallion’s nostrils, a strange action that seemed to please the animal. “You can guess how well
that
worked. But he did acknowledge our blood tie so that now all the world knows it. I can’t evade or deny it, much as I’d like to.”

She took the bit out of the stallion’s mouth, then looked back to me and said, “You still haven’t answered my question: Why are you dressed like that?”

“It was the easiest way to get out of the palace and follow you,” I replied. “No one stops a boy.”

“That’s clever,” Atalanta admitted. “Though I wouldn’t say you
followed
me. And why would you want to do that, anyway? Am I so fascinating because I’m a curiosity, the woman who hunts and rides like a man?”

“Is that what you think you are?” I said stiffly. “Back home, the warrior who taught my brothers how to fight with sword and spear taught me too. My mother taught me how to hunt. I hoped that you’d have something new to teach me; that’s why I’ve been watching you. But if you say you’re just a curiosity—” I turned away and started down the hillside.

Her hand fell on my shoulder before I’d gone ten paces. “The way to learn is face to face, not hiding in the treetops, little squirrel,” she said. “Especially if I’m going to teach you how to ride.”

“You’ll do it?” I was her devoted worshipper once more. “You’ll really teach me how to ri—?”

Just then, my belly gave a growl worthy of an earthquake, loud enough to silence me in mid-word. I lowered my eyes, embarrassed, but the huntress patted me on the back, and when I looked up again, I saw that she was smiling.

“I will, Helen. And the first thing I’ll teach you is this: Don’t come to your riding lessons on an empty stomach!”

We sat down together on a nearby rock while the stallion grazed. Atalanta had some sheep’s milk cheese wrapped in oak leaves stowed in the pouch at her belt, also a bit of bread and an apple. She was happy to give me the bread and cheese, but when I eyed the apple too she said, “No, greedy squirrel. This is for Aristos.” She whistled, and the horse came trotting up to claim his treat.

While he gobbled the fruit, she stroked his neck and told me, “Aristos
is
the best. Why should I give him any other name? When you’re on his back, see to it that you respect him or he’ll have you off again before you can blink.”

“I will, I promise, but…how could he tell if I didn’t?” I asked.

“Trust me, horses
know
things.” Atalanta offered me a drink of water from the leather flask she carried.