“STRATO!” bellowed a deep voice from the hallway.
Herostratus jumped. “Strato is my . . . how do you say it—nickname Hm. Yes. Hrmmph. YES, MY ALL-POWERFUL, ALL-KNOWING, WISE, AND BEAUTIFUL HIPPO?”
Cass groaned. “Hippo?”
Clomping noises resounded from the hallway, and we all instinctively backed away. From the top of the arch, a face peeked down at us. Her eyes were a deep brown, her hair jet-black and pulled back with a tightly tied string. I figured it was a woman standing on stilts or on the bed of some kind of vehicle. But when she fully emerged, she was on her own two legs. Which were themselves almost as tall as I was.
She strode in, her thick hair bouncing against her back like an animal pelt. Her feet were the length of my forearms, shod in sandals whose crisscrossing straps wrapped upward to her knees. As she set down a shield against the wall, a saber clattered against her leather tunic. She wore a black leather belt threaded with deep pouches, out of which peeked blowpipes, bows, and darts. Across her shoulder was a quiver strung over a thick, embroidered silk sash.
“Awesome,” Marco murmured.
“Can’t be,” Dimitrios rasped.
“Let’s go,” Eloise squeaked.
“Beautiful,” Torquin grunted.
“I am Maximo!” the woman growled at Herostratus. “Maximo, not Hippo. When will you ever get that right? I sound nothing like that clumsy, lazy, bulbous-nosed lizard!”
Immediately after saying that, Maximo cocked her head to one side like a nervous tic. A spear came ripping out of the tunnel behind her, inches from her ear, its point slicing through the air and thudding into the center of Herostratus’s chest.
We all jumped back. Eloise screamed. Marco rushed toward the old man as he fell to the carpet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE ZONS
“HOW COULD YOU do that?” Marco cried out, looking up at Maximo. “Just because he called you—”
“Pkaaaaach!” Herostratus let out a cough and lurched upward from the floor, yanking the spear from his chest.
I have never heard Marco shriek so loud. He scrambled away on all fours. The rest of us were pretty freaked, too.
Herostratus threw the spear into the fireplace, his tunic unstained by even a drop of blood. “Great gods, that hurts!” he said. “You see? They do this all the time. Kill, back to life. Kill, back to life. They love tormenting me!”
Maximo burst out laughing. Now more enormous people were emerging from behind her—all women, all dressed in warrior garb, all at least eight or nine feet tall. Their shoulders were the width of bookshelves, their voices deep, their legs as sturdy as tree trunks. One of them slapped Maximo on the back, scowling at her over a nose as big as a softball. “You may mock me, but you must admit I am a good shot,” she growled.
“You are full of surprises, Hippo,” Maximo said.
“A barrel of laughs,” Herostratus murmured.
Detouring to the roasting vromaski, Hippo ripped off one of its legs and began gnawing on it like an ice-cream cone.
“Welcome to the set of Seven Brides for Torquin,” Marco muttered.
Torquin was staring, mesmerized, and I realized it was the first time I ever saw him look upward at another person.
“Psssst . . . psssst!” Herostratus hissed from the floor, where he had fallen to his knees, bowing low to the ground. As he signaled for us to do the same, Hippo walked to within an inch of his face and let the steaming fat from the roasted vromaski leg drip onto her massive, dirt-encrusted toes. “Dinner, Strato,” she said. “Come and get it.”
“Lick the feet! Lick the feet! Lick the feet!” the others cried out rhythmically.
I turned away from the sight and waited till the cheering was over.
“That is so disgusting,” Eloise mumbled.
“I—I don’t think we belong here!” Brother Dimitrios said. “Perhaps we can leave now, Ms. Maximo?”
“Strato, where are your manners?” bellowed Maximo. “Are you not going to get up and introduce us to your guests?”
“Jack and Marco,” I said. “And Cass, Eloise, Torquin, and Brother Dimitrios.”
Shaking in his robe, Brother Dimitrios was now saying prayers under his breath in Greek. “Well . . . a Hellene?” Maximo said. “Perhaps we should be speaking your language?”
“English is . . . f-f-fine,” Dimitrios said, holding on to the ladder as if he were either going to keel over or try to run away.
Herostratus was standing now, a thin line of vromaski grease across his lips. “Jack and friends, it is my great pleasure to introduce the strongest, the largest, the longest lasting, the most beautiful and durable, exalted and all-powerful . . .” He cupped his hands to his mouth and let out a fake trumpet fanfare. “The Zons!”
Maximo bowed low from the waist. “Until we become better acquainted, Amazons will do.”
“I am dreaming, tell me I am dreaming,” Dimitrios said, pinching his own arm repeatedly.
Eloise smacked him. “That’s real. And so are they.”
“Do you not know who the Amazons were?” Dimitrios said. “They were not human. They were the woman warrior tribe of Ancient Greece—dedicated to Artemis, goddess of the hunt, known for their skills at killing. They had the bravery and cunning to attack Hercules himself!”
“Yes, well, we all make mistakes,” Maximo said with a sigh.
Cass nodded. “The name of the café upstairs . . . the company on Herostratus’s card. You’ve been here all along. Your name has stayed alive.”
“We protect our brand.” Maximo turned to the others. “Soldiers! What do we do with visitors?”
The women stepped forward, one by one, introducing themselves. After the first one shook my hand, I thought my fingers would come off with it. So I just waved hi to the rest of them. Myrto . . . Pitane . . . Priene . . . Anaea . . . Ephesos . . . Lysippe . . . Their skin color ranged from peach white to dark brown, and although they were thickly muscled, they moved like dancers, with smoothness and grace.
They seemed happy to see us. Weirdly happy.
“Um . . . guys?” I finally said. “Do you know why we’re here?”
Maximo chuckled, which began a ripple effect of laughter around the room. “Do you assume that because we are physically powerful we do not possess adequate brain resources?”
“I get that all the time,” Marco said.
“All of you, sit,” Maximo commanded. A pair of enormous hands pushed me downward to the carpet. “You would like to pursue the gift of the Atlantean. The Loculus. Yes?”
Marco, Cass, Eloise, and I exchanged a wary look. “Yes,” I said.
“Massarym told us you would come someday, of course. We just didn’t think it would take this long.” Maximo gestured to the open door overhead. “Do you have others in the antechamber, perhaps? I see three of you carry the mark, but it will be to your advantage to have a female.”
“I’m going to get the mark in four years, when I’m thirteen,” Eloise announced. “But I might dye it.”
“Ah, well, we shall see, but until then you are still just a child.” Maximo turned, clapping her hands. “Sisters! Phase two begins! The feast!”
A couple of the Amazons bounded into the tunnel, laughing and chattering. A moment later they emerged with cloths, bronze bowls, and plates. Herostratus put on a pair of thick animal-hide gloves and removed the vromaski from the flames. Even roasted with savory spices, the beast smelled awful. As he began slicing it, his knife blade broke. “Hmm, this one may be a bit gamy,” he said.
I hated the confusion. The noise. The chattering. The smell. I hated that we were about to eat the inedible with a bunch of loonies while Aly was lost and suffering.
This was enough.
“Stop!” I finally shouted. “We’re not here to eat! Please, we do not have time. Our quest is urgent. If you have the Loculus, we need it—now!”
The Amazons fell silent. They all looked at Maximo.
“Very well, then,” their leade
r said, snapping her fingers. “Clear the feast from the carpet and proceed to phase three.”
With a murmur of voices, the Amazons tossed their bowls against the walls and kicked aside the supplies on the floor. Chewing messily on the remains of their dinners, they spread around out the edges of the thick carpet. When Maximo snapped her fingers again, they dug their hands under the borders and lifted upward.
Before we could do a thing, the carpet rose around us and closed at the top, and we were in total, smothering darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE TIP OF A KNIFE
TORQUIN YOWLED IN anger. I could feel him fighting against the confines of the carpet, trying to break through. We all were trying, but the material was tough and thick. We had nothing to cut it with, and no leverage. Our arms and legs were all jammed together as we rose up off the floor, being hoisted through the room we could no longer see.
I could feel Eloise’s short, frightened breaths on my shoulder. I tried to put my arm around her but couldn’t get the angle right. As thick as the carpet was, I could hear the murmur of Amazon voices chattering excitedly.
It wasn’t long before we jolted downward onto something hard and vaguely lumpy. Above us, where the carpet was gathered, a rush of cool air entered—and daylight.
The carpet fell away, flattening on all sides. I had to blink my eyes against the brightness. A field of grass stretched out before us. I squinted up into the bottom of a vast dome that arced high overhead, ringed with bright lights. It looked like some kind of stadium, only there were no seats. Surrounding the structure on all sides was a wall of solid rock.
I heard a deep, echoing thump-thump behind us.
“Jack . . .” Cass said.
I spun to see that we were at the base of three wide stairs of white quartz, leading up to a platform. On it was an empty golden throne, so studded with jewels that it seemed to be firing bullets of light. To the left, the team of Amazons stood at attention, each woman clutching a leather ammunition sash draped over her shoulder.
One of them lifted a polished white tusk to her lips. It must have been hollowed out, because when she blew into it, an enormous blatt echoed through the stadium.
A stone door opened at the base of the wall. Four more Amazons emerged, younger than the ones we’d met and dressed in finer tunics, with gold thread and inlaid stones. They marched in formation up to the throne platform, singing a strange anthem.
Nurturer of Persians, Grecians,
Spartans, Thebans, and Ephesians.
Bow thee to the temple goddess,
Wise and strong and fair and modest!
“I wrote that,” Herostratus whispered proudly.
“Figures,” Marco said.
“I told them to use the English version—and for once they listened to me,” Herostratus said. “Now bow down!”
As we sank to our knees, an old woman stepped into the stadium through the archway. She wore a crown made of antlers that seemed too large for her head, and her tunic was made of fine, silken brown fur. A young Zon led her by the hand, but she didn’t need the help. She seemed to float as she walked, as if she were made of air. Her eyes were moist, the color drained from her irises. She stared straight ahead, and for a moment I thought she couldn’t see at all. Then her head turned, her eyes settled on me, and I felt as if someone were running the tip of a knife from my ankle to my neck.
The Zon led her up the stairs and settled her into the throne. Immediately Herostratus stood up and bowed. “Would your godliness like the usual half hour of comedy and song? In honor of our guests, I have some biting political satire about the American presidential election!”
The woman reached into an ornately carved marble urn at the foot of the throne and fished out an ugly dagger. Herostratus’s face turned white. Closing his eyes, he threw his arms wide to give the queen a target. “Here we go again. . . .”
She held out her left hand, palm out. Pointing her gnarled fingers upward, she began using the dagger to clean her nails. In a voice hollow and raspy, she hissed, “No satire.”
Herostratus’s eyes popped open. With a look of relief, he gestured frantically for us to stand. As we did, the woman stared silently. “Introduce yourself,” Herostratus mouthed.
I stood on shaky legs. What was the protocol for meeting the Greek goddess Artemis? “Um, hi,” I said, my voice a ridiculous squeak. “I’m Jack McKinley, and these are Torquin, Brother Dimitrios, Cass and Eloise Williams, and Marco Ramsay.”
She stared off to the distance as if I hadn’t said a thing. As if she couldn’t make out my presence in front of her.
“Say thank you,” Herostratus mouthed.
“So,” I said, “we’d just like to thank you for hearing us, O Great Goddess Artemis—”
She pounded her fist on the throne’s arm and sat forward. “Do not . . . ever . . . call me by that name.”
I jolted back, ramming into Marco. “I’m sorry if I offended you, but isn’t this . . . wasn’t this . . . the Temple of Artemis? That’s what we’re looking for.”
“There is no Artemis!” she thundered. “Tell me, do you mean that odoriferous javelin thrower Aeginaea of Sparta . . . or Alphaea of Letrini who hides her hideous face behind a mask, or that mousy twit Locheia . . . or Aphaea of Athens or Kourotrophos or Potnia Theron or Agrotera—or me?”
“I—I don’t know!” I stammered.
“Of course not,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Every god—every last minor male god—has an individual name, oh yes. But we hunter goddesses? We are all strong, we are all excellent shots, so we are lumped together . . . under the name Artemis.”
She drew out that name with a nasal lisp.
“Wh-wh-what shall we call you, O Great Goddess?” Brother Dimitrios stammered.
She smiled. “I am from Mount Cynthos, on the island of Delos. So you may call me Cynthia.”
The name hung in the air for a moment, until Marco burst out laughing. “Cynthia? The Temple of Cynthia? That’s a joke, right?”
The woman snapped her fingers, and the six frontline Amazons instantly reached for their bows and pointed them at Marco.
“Not a joke,” Marco said, hands in the air. “Not a joke at all. Oh, and BTW? That thing your pal Stratocaster does—popping back to life—that’s not in my wheelhouse. At least not here. So, arrows, very dangerous. Just saying.”
“Up! All of you!” she said.
We stood, and the Amazons surrounded us. Slowly Cynthia rose, and two of the Zons jumped up to help her. Squinting as if the light were too strong, she descended from the throne, circling us. “Do you think they built the most wondrous structure in the world—more than a hundred columns, a marble roof that scraped the clouds—for someone who could merely shoot a deer? Look around you. I was not merely a goddess of hunting but of something greater: womankind. I trained them in the hunt, tutored them in trade and in music, taught them to build and to read, helped nurse their babies. The Amazon race flocked from the mountains to worship at my feet. Then, upon the arrival of the Atlantean, it all ended.”
Now the Amazons were grumbling again, spitting on the floor, and muttering Massarym’s name.
“Massarym was a scholar and a gentleman!” Brother Dimitrios protested. “The Massarene monks have devoted centuries to his writings—”
“This gentleman lured us with the sad tale of his mother the queen, persecuted for her scientific genius,” Cynthia said. “He financed the building of the third and grandest temple, after the idiot Herostratus burned the second—”
“For which I have been dutifully doing penance ever since,” Herostratus broke in.
“By the time that temple was destroyed by the Goths, Massarym was long gone—but only then did his curse take effect,” Cynthia continued. “We were banished to live deep in the earth, tricked into protecting his Atlantean treasure until the rightful heirs came to claim it. Our time here has been long, and we are ready to be freed from our task.”
I couldn’t beli
eve my ears. “We can help you with that.”
“The curse stated that we would be doomed to protect the Loculus against attackers, and that no man would ever succeed in removing it,” Cynthia said. “These were Massarym’s words—no man.”
“We’re boys,” I said.
“Speak for yourself, Brother Jack,” Marco grumbled.
She shook her head. “You have the mark. All three of you. Even with my eyesight, I can tell. It will be impossible for you. Have you no female among the marked?”
“Yes, but she’s been kidnapped,” Cass said. “We’re trying to rescue her. We need your Loculus to do that. Actually, you would like her a lot—”
“Silence!” Cynthia said.
“Wait! I’m going to get the lambda in four years,” Eloise said brightly.
The Amazons all began murmuring. Cynthia signaled Maximo over for a private talk. They mumbled in some odd language with their backs to us.
“Why did you say that, Eloise?” Cass whispered.
“Because it’s true,” Eloise said. “I’m trying to help.”
“Hey, maybe they’ll just give the Loculus to her, because she’s a girl,” Marco said. “This could be the easiest gig yet!”
“See?” Eloise said, sneering at Cass. “You so do need me.”
Now Maximo and Cynthia were turning back toward us, with grim looks on their faces.
Cynthia put a hand on Eloise’s shoulder. “I suppose, dear girl, you’ll have to do.”
Eloise’s face turned three shades paler. “Wait. Do what?”
“Zons—prepare!” Cynthia shouted.
Amazons were bounding over toward us with armfuls of battle equipment—shields, swords, quivers, torches, darts, tubes—and plopping them down around Eloise.
Maximo dropped a helmet over Eloise’s head. “Acchh. Too big.”
Eloise ripped it off. “What is going on here?”
“The only way you can get the Loculus,” she said, “is to fight us for it.”