Myrina saw his point, of course, and did not repeat her request. But she could not ignore the heartbreak looming ahead. Soon, Hippolyta would want to return to Ephesus, and Kara, Animone, and Kyme would undoubtedly go with her. When they left, Lilli would be sleeping all by herself among strangers in a dormitory in this foreign land. As much as Myrina loved her sister and hated to imagine life without her, there were moments when she felt Lilli might be happier in Ephesus, surrounded by friends.
It did not help that Paris, eager to demonstrate his brotherly love in a more agreeable way, offered to teach Lilli how to ride her own horse. Seeing the excitement spreading like rings around his proposal—involving not only Lilli but everyone who cared for the girl—Myrina could not bring herself to naysay the plan. And so, every evening, after completing his affairs for the day, Paris would come looking for them in the queen’s courtyard, to give Myrina a quick kiss on the cheek and steal away Lilli for an hour of raucous fun behind the horse stables.
Another blow to Myrina’s contentment was the rampant expectation that she would act the princess in all things and be a hunter no more. Before they had arrived in Troy, it had not even occurred to her Paris might want her to change her ways, but no sooner had they settled into his room before he implored her—in between adoring kisses—to let him put away her weapons for the time being and wear only the clothes he gave her.
“Please understand,” he had said, after teaching her how to use the golden brooches that held her new, flimsy garments together, “I love your hunter’s heart and would never want you otherwise. But people here are old-fashioned and I don’t want them to laugh at me—”
“You mean, they are new-fashioned,” Myrina corrected him. “Did you not tell me that in the olden days, before the Earth Shaker came—”
“Shh!” Paris looked around nervously, although they were completely alone. “We just need to give them time to adjust to the change—”
“What change?” Myrina held out the frilly dress with dismay. “Look at this useless fabric; it is already torn! I might as well walk around naked.”
Their discussion had, perhaps predictably, ended right there, but it was by no means over, at least not for Myrina. She had not exaggerated when she told Paris on their wedding night that she did not know how to be a woman. And although he had been exceedingly accomplished at introducing her to certain aspects of womanhood, he had not prepared her for those many hours of the day where she would have to walk and sit and talk like one, enduring the relentless boredom of female propriety.
While Paris spent his days with the king, either in the throne room or out and about, Myrina had no choice but to remain with her sisters in the queen’s courtyard. In the beginning, she thought the place beautiful; a wide portico went all around a small rectangular garden with a sparkling water basin in the middle—a basin thrice as large as the one she had known in the Temple of the Moon Goddess. But after walking the labyrinthine seashell garden paths a few times and realizing they all ended up exactly where they started, she began to suspect the heavily guarded seclusion was intended as much to keep the women in as to keep strangers out.
Reclining comfortably in the shade of the portico, the queen spent most of the day with her eyes closed, nodding along to gentle music played by elderly courtiers and sipping tea handed to her by silent servant girls. She rarely engaged anyone in conversation, yet expected all her ladies-in-waiting to sit faithfully by, sharing in her graceful indolence.
Myrina could scarcely believe it was the same woman she had met on that first day, spewing bile in front of the house altar. Not once had the queen mentioned the episode; in fact, when Myrina and her sisters were first brought into the courtyard and officially introduced, it was as though the woman had completely forgotten that initial exchange—as if she had imbibed some elixir that dulled her memory and made her world more agreeable.
“Ah, yes,” she said, when Hippolyta had recited the elaborate greetings sent by Lady Otrera. “My dear sister. How kind. Do thank her and make up something lovely to tell her in return.”
And that was it. Hippolyta was waved aside to make space for a tray with fruit, and no one said another word of welcome. Understandably disappointed, Myrina’s companions soon began to talk longingly of the chores awaiting them at home, and it took all her eloquence to talk them into a full week of such pompous boredom.
“I cannot believe you have chosen this life,” whispered Animone one day, glancing across the courtyard at the king’s concubines and their children, roaming rather noisily under the opposing portico. It had not escaped Myrina’s notice that several of the women were pregnant; what truly bothered her was the look of pity in Animone’s eyes suggesting that one day, she, Myrina, would be the old queen dozing off in the chair, exhausted by nights and nights of sleepless solitude.
That evening, she returned to her quarter with a stash of toy weapons and waited for Paris with new excitement, ready to pounce on him the way she had done so often on the beach in Ephesus. But when he entered the room and looked down at the wooden sword sliding to a halt at his feet, Paris merely laughed and shook his head. “Where did you get these?” he asked, oblivious to Myrina’s dueling stance.
“I stole them from the boys,” she replied, deflating with disappointment.
“My half brothers?” Paris frowned. “Poor lads. I had better go explain—”
When he finally returned, Myrina was lying on the bed, staring at the painted patterns on the ceiling. Vines, eggs, and fruits … all symbols of fertility. “We are nothing but mares, are we?” she said. “Walking around daintily in our little enclosure, waiting to be bred.”
Paris was too astounded to reply right away, and before he could even bend down to kiss her, Myrina rose from the bed. “Hippolyta may have her weapons,” she continued, “but Myrina may not. And Lilli may ride, but Myrina may not—”
“Of course she may!” Paris came around the bed with a smile, but she turned her back to him.
“A horse!” she said, arms crossed. “I want to ride my horse.”
He laughed and seized her by the waist. “My little hunter princess. Weary of luxury already. Wishing she was back in Crete, begging for food scraps.”
Myrina fairly erupted from his embrace.
“Wait.” Paris tried to rein her back in. “I meant it kindly.”
“I know.” She turned to face him, struggling to swallow her distress. “And you have been nothing but kind to me. I am an ungrateful rat—”
Paris smiled and took her by the chin. “Such a lovely one.”
Myrina swallowed again. “Please let us go back to your cabin in the hills? Just for a few days?”
He nodded. “As soon as your sisters have left, we will go. You will hunt for food, and I”—he pulled her back into his arms—”will hunt for you.”
Just then, as they sealed the plan with a kiss, there was a knock on the door.
“The king requests your presence in the temple,” said a voice.
When he saw Myrina’s disappointment, Paris said, “Why don’t you come with me? They might as well get used to you being there. Where is the crown I gave you? Better put it on. The temple is where we receive our enemies.”
THE TEMPLE OF THE Earth Shaker was a stern and forbidding place. Built with the same giant boulders Myrina had noticed at the entrance to the citadel, it did indeed give the impression of being the home of an immortal being who took no pleasure in human comforts. There were no furnishings, no finery of any kind; even the pillars holding up the tall ceiling were plain and unadorned, impressive merely by their vast girth.
The only one seemingly at ease in this stony vault was the deity himself: a gilded colossus reclining—as if asleep—on an elevated stone shelf that ran along the entire back wall of the temple. There was no food put out for him, no leafy wreaths or votive presents laid out beneath his couch; his only entertainment were four flawless yearlings walking freely around the temple, eating hay off the floor.
> Entering the building by Paris’s side, Myrina found King Priam poised on an elevated platform in the middle of the temple room, surrounded by an assembly of armed guards and somber noblemen.
When she had first met the king, he had struck her as being just another man; today, however, he wore a horned crown and a fur-lined robe and looked majestic indeed. “Father,” said Paris, joining him on the podium with Myrina in tow, “what is the occasion?”
“It is good that you have both come,” said King Priam, gesturing at a herald, “for your first well-wishers are waiting at the gate: the ever-prowling lions of Mycenae.”
Myrina felt Paris stiffen, and she sensed the thunderous surf of the ocean beyond the city walls. She had worked hard to forget the grisly events in Mycenae, but now it all returned to her in an attack of breathless panic: the dead prince on the floor, the stench of blood, the wailing slaves left behind….
There was nothing she could do to slow the steps of Fate. A tumult at the temple entrance prompted Myrina to turn to see a group of men struggling to restrain a white horse. When they finally had the animal under control, two men—one old, one young—came forward to address King Priam, the elder leaning heavily on the younger.
Only then did Myrina recognize the old man as Agamemnon, Lord of Mycenae. It was less than a year since she had seen him enthroned before the great fire pit in his reception hall, but those few months had gnawed at him with the hunger of decades.
“My friend,” said King Priam, stepping forward with open arms. “You have blessed my country with your presence.”
To which Agamemnon, stooped with age, looked up and said, “Would that someone bestowed a blessing on me. For your son’s last visit marked the beginning of an evil time.”
“I am grieved to hear it.” King Priam donned a frown of concern. “Grieved and surprised. My son”—he held out a hand to make Agamemnon aware of Paris’s presence—”told me he found Mycenae thriving.”
“Yes, well”—Agamemnon paused to cough, and the sound reverberated throughout the temple—”your son left my country before the tragedy became apparent. He must therefore be ignorant of my woes.”
“Indeed I am,” said Paris, stepping partly in front of Myrina, perhaps to obscure the men’s view of her.
“That mask you gave me—” Agamemnon fought back another cough. “It has marked me for the grave. But I do not blame you. Nay, I have come to ask for help.” Gesturing at the men behind him, Agamemnon had them bring the white horse forward. “And to pay tribute to the Earth Shaker. For months we have had unfavorable winds and high seas, or we should have come earlier.”
“A handsome present,” said King Priam. “Now, tell me who you have with you. I see it is not your son.”
Agamemnon grimaced and patted his young companion on the arm. “This is my nephew, the heir of Sparta. Menelaos is his name, and he was betrothed to my daughter. But”—the old king paused for air—”my daughter has been abducted from my house; no one knows where she is. And my son—” Unable to go on, the Lord of Mycenae gestured for his nephew to speak on his behalf.
Young Menelaos of Sparta was not an unattractive man, but as soon as he began talking, Myrina sensed that here was someone who had been brought up to kill without reserve and to whom authority was synonymous with truth. “A foul attack,” he began, with staccato obedience, “was launched against peaceful Mycenae. The enemy was a tribe of women who fight like men and cut off one breast to better throw the javelin. We call them Amazones—women without breasts. Some say they have found shelter here at Troy.”
“That is outlandish!” exclaimed King Priam. “I have never heard of such women. Have you?” He stared at Paris, who shook his head, equally shocked. Fortunately for Myrina, no one bothered to question her on the matter; she would almost certainly have been unable to feign ignorance.
“Do you give me your word?” asked Agamemnon, straightening. “For I have sworn to come after them with sword and fire.”
King Priam spoke without hesitation. “My word is yours. If I ever see such unnatural creatures—why, I will likely kill them myself.”
“They murdered my son,” Agamemnon went on, his anger giving him renewed strength, “and stole away my daughter Helena, the only child born of my loins who may survive me. I do not have much life left in me, but what breath I have I will use to get her back. Will you join hands with me?”
Myrina looked on in horror as the two kings shook hands. Could it really be true that the surly Helena—presently in Ephesus, wearing Myrina’s jackal bracelet—was King Agamemnon’s daughter? “I am not going home,” she remembered the girl saying, her face white with agitation. “My father will kill me. He will. He killed my mother. And my sister. I know he did.” If that father was indeed Agamemnon, Myrina could well believe it. She could even forgive the girl for running away—had it not been for her spiteful subterfuge.
What was to be done? Myrina scarcely knew. Glancing at Paris, she wondered if he knew that the abducted princess had left Mycenae on board his ship. But Paris was no longer following the exchange between his father and Agamemnon; he was staring at a slender silhouette standing in the temple door, hair in disarray. Kara.
Lashed by premonition, Myrina seized Paris by the arm, willing him to rouse the guards. But it was too late; Kara could not be stopped. Running up the aisle to Agamemnon, she threw herself at his feet, hugging his knees so violently he had to put a hand on his nephew’s shoulder to steady himself. “Kind Father!” she cried, even as the guards dragged her away. “I am here!”
“Wait!” Agamemnon waved at the guards to leave her. “I am not a man who kicks away a woman in supplication. Speak up!”
“They took me away against my will.” Kara looked up at Agamemnon through tears of fear and relief. “I never meant to go.”
The Lord of Mycenae looked down at her, speechless. Then his eyes narrowed. “I have seen this madwoman before—”
“Enough!” exclaimed Paris, stepping forward. But it was too late; Kara had been recognized.
“How did this moonstruck creature end up here?” Agamemnon asked, his voice rising in fury. “She was the one who—” He buried a hand in Kara’s hair and pulled her up with all his might, drawing a panicked scream from her. “Who killed my son, you miserable whore? Did you?”
“No!” cried Kara, trying to free herself. “No! I told them not to—”
“Where are they?” Agamemnon pulled her by the hair again, flinging her across the floor. “Tell me! Where are they?”
“Stop! Please stop!” Kara held a protective hand over her belly. “I am carrying your grandchild—”
Agamemnon stalked forward to slap her across the face. “Then I will kill two with one blow. Speak up, madwoman! Where is my son’s murderer?”
Sobbing beyond control, her face smeared with tears, Kara at last raised her hand and pointed a trembling finger at Myrina.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Wonders are many, yet of all Things is Man the most wonderful…. He can entrap the cheerful birds, Setting a snare, and all the wild Beasts of the earth he has learned to catch
—SOPHOCLES, Antigone
ISTANBUL, TURKEY
AT LEAST THREE HUNDRED GLITTERATI HAD ACCEPTED THE INVITAtion to Reznik’s masquerade, and the whole house reverberated with migrating crowds and echoed laughter. There was no furniture or décor to soften the noise—no sofas, no rugs, no curtains; it was all concrete, steel, and glass, with marble sculptures self-consciously poised in every corner, artfully illuminated by spots. Had someone told me the building was still under construction I could well have believed it; it took a certain kind of person to feel at home in an étagère of naked concrete, even if the view spanned two continents.
The guests, by contrast, were everything but monochrome. Not just the women, but also several of Reznik’s male guests were attired in grotesque, theatrical dress that made James look reassuringly handsome and normal, even in his Aladdin costume. There were half-naked sup
ermodels wearing scant costumes glued directly onto the skin and designer werewolves with diamond-studded collars; as it turned out, the shimmering, swirly peacock face paint Rebecca and I had commissioned at the Kanyon shopping mall was ridiculously understated.
“There he is,” said James, pointing out a man dressed as a Spanish bullfighter in the flamboyant crowd.
Tall and rigid, his white hair tamed by a brush cut, Grigor Reznik stood out among his dazzling entourage as a man of impeccable fashion and military discipline, whose smile never extended beyond his lips.
Suddenly chilled by foreboding, I said, “Perhaps we should forget about that manuscript—”
“Don’t be such a stink, Morg!” James deftly snatched three champagne flutes from a passing tray. “Here, drink this and loosen up. Both of you. We do not want him getting suspicious.”
Between sips of champagne I wondered how many of Reznik’s guests knew who he really was and what he had done before moving to Turkey. Did they know about his secret police and the rat-infested asylums where, as a Communist Party boss, he sent political prisoners? Did they know that even now, in his so-called retirement, Reznik left broken men like Dr. Özlem in his wake, and that he had ignored warning after warning from the Turkish authorities regarding his criminal involvement with the antiques trade? Any moment now, I couldn’t help thinking, an Interpol SWAT team might kick down the designer door and haul everyone away to jail in a haze of tear gas. And yet here we were, Reznik’s supposed friends—all three hundred of us—drinking his champagne and validating him with our presence.
As we made our way through the crowd, I saw a vaguely familiar figure weaving in and out of sight before disappearing through a doorway. “Did you see that tall blonde in the silver mouse suit?” I whispered, pulling at Rebecca’s arm.
“Who?” She stretched left, then right, but couldn’t spot the woman.
“She’s gone now,” I said. “But I’m positive it was the one who stole my phone in Nafplio. She obviously works for Reznik.”