In The Land Of The Amazons

From what he had learned from the crew, these barbarians often raped and then killed their women victims, sometimes cutting off their breasts in a final act of spite. Seeing Anaea and the other two women fighting desperately for their lives, and knowing that they would suffer such degradation and death, drove him to action. With little thought for his own weakened condition, he lifted his heavy shield before him and ran as fast as he could over the hot sand toward the screaming women.

The six men were so occupied with their victims that they did not see Chilon approaching swiftly from their rear. Anaea, however, did see him, and she cried out at the sight of the terrifying and formidable-looking warrior, who had seemed to appear miraculously from the ether.

Her attackers drew back in fear at the sight of the young Spartan, standing boldly before them with his shield and spear held high. His bronze, red-crested helmet with its long, sharp cheek guards, which hid his face from their view, frightened them, and they were temporarily paralyzed in thought and action.

"If you are a god," Anaea cried, reaching out her hand to Chilon, "help us! Save us from these evil men!"

It was the great bronze shield, of such length that it covered him from chin to ankle, which struck the greatest fear into the hearts of the men. Its highly polished surface reflected the sunlight directly into their faces so that they were blinded, and it was at that moment that Chilon hurled his nine-foot spear at the man whose lower body was now fully exposed. The point of the weapon pierced through his unprotected soft belly and ran straight through the vital organs, exiting just above his pelvis. He was already dead before his body collapsed on the ground.

The other two men, seeing their friend fall before them, seemed to suddenly wake up as if out of a dream, and rushed at him with their swords drawn, their spears too far away for them to reach. Chilon drew his kopis, using his shield to keep the two men off balance. They attacked him from both sides, looking for an opening. But the massive shield would not allow them to come close enough to land a blow. Finally, Chilon managed to knock one of the men to his knees, and as the latter stabbed futilely at his shield, Chilon lifted his kopis high and brought the blade down upon the man's wrist, severing his hand. The Mariandyni warrior screamed in pain and crawled away on his knees clutching his bloody stump. The other soldier, now overcome with bloodlust, threw himself at Chilon, slashing away at the Spartan's huge shield with demonic fury.

Having become aware of the plight of their comrades, the other three soldiers ceased their attack upon Xanthippe and Clymene, who were now slowly regaining consciousness, and rushed to get their spears. Now freed of their predators' grasp, both women crawled toward their horses. Xanthippe was bleeding from her mouth and her left eye was swollen, while Clymene had suffered a deep cut on her arm. But the cries of their young friend compelled them to action despite their great pain, and they managed to reach their weapons just as the soldiers were bearing down upon Chilon.

Xanthippe was the first to release her arrow at the backs of the fleeing men, striking one of them in the upper torso. He fell forward with a hideous scream and breathed his last into the soft, wet sand. Another fell to Clymene's arrow, which pierced his upper leg, forcing him to drop his spear. Her second arrow struck him in the chest, and he cried piteously as he died, only a few feet from his dead friend. The third man, having found his shield, and with his spear held high in his hand, was able to dodge the arrows, and came upon Anaea, whom he threatened to kill if they did not cease to fire. At spear point, he forced the terrified girl to walk toward the seacoast where the man with the severed hand had found shelter in the cove recently occupied by Chilon. Xanthippe and Clymene jumped onto their horses and followed him at a distance, afraid to shoot at him lest they hit Anaea.

Meanwhile, Chilon, was being hard pressed by his adversary, who seemed to care not one bit about the dire fate of his friends. Enraged beyond reason, he continued to hack away at the massive bronze shield, flinging curses at his opponent in his guttural, barbaric tongue.

Chilon felt the taste of blood in his mouth. The cut in his forehead, never fully healed, had begun to bleed again, and he felt himself becoming weak and disoriented. In a careless moment, he let his shield drop, and his opponent's sword thrust sliced into the flesh of his lower arm, forcing him to drop his armor. The Mariandyni now flung himself at Chilon in mindless fury, thirsting for blood. Chilon fell down onto his back, his left arm in great pain and his shield beyond reach. With great effort he threw his head forward into the man's face, turning his head to one side as he did so, forcing the pointed tip of his cheek guard up under his enemy's chin, piercing the soft underside. The man howled in pain and drew away, stanching the wound with the back of his hand.

Wielding the kopis like an axe, Chilon charged at the man, directing the blow at his right shoulder. But the blade was easily deflected by the hard, leather cuirass, and the careless downward thrust threw Chilon off-balance, giving his enemy the advantage. Seeing his chance, the Mariandyni kicked the sword out Chilon's hand and thrust his own sword at Chilon's exposed midsection. Chilon moved his body just in time, suffering only a minor wound to his left flank. Undaunted, the man struck again, this time inflicting another wound to Chilon's left breast. The Spartan clutched his chest and groaned in agony as he reeled back from the blow.

With the surety of imminent victory at hand, and heedless of his own life, the Mariandyni again pounced upon the wounded Spartan, seeking to bury his sword in his enemy's throat. But Chilon's eye caught something glimmering in the sand. It was his shield, and it was lying only inches away. As the man flung his body down upon Chilon, the Spartan reached down for his shield and raised it up just in time to counter the attack. The shield took the full force of the sword thrust, and Chilon staggered back under the impact. The man came at him again, his eyes wild like those of a vicious animal, and this time Chilon met him head-on, bringing his shield to bear upon the man's head, knocking him to the ground. For a few moments the man appeared dazed as his body tried to regain its equilibrium.

At that moment, Anaea, who in her struggles with her attacker was thrown to the ground, picked up a conch shell and flung herself at the man in a dash of maddened frenzy, driving the sharp end of shell into his left eye. He screamed in pain and bellowed curses at the girl as he stumbled blindly around the cave in search of her, blood running down his face. His wounded companion could offer no help as she ran out onto the beach in search of a Mariandyni spear.

"There are two of them in there!" she shouted to her friends as she ran past them. "Don't let them escape or they will bring the others!"

"Anaea! Anaea!" Xanthippe and Clymene called after her. "Come back!"

But the willful young girl did not hear their pleas. All she was interested in was helping the god who had saved her life.

Now armed with her own spear, she rushed across the beach head as fast as her legs would carry her, and coming upon Chilon, and seeing him in great difficulty, she threw her spear at the Thracian, the point settling deep into his thigh.

"Mariandyni pig!" she rasped, as she jumped upon him, forcing the spearhead deeper into his flesh.

He cried out in great pain and fell back onto the sand, blood gushing from the ghastly wound. But her anger prevented her from thinking rationally, and she stubbornly clung onto the spear shaft in the hopes of doing more damage. In doing so, she succeeded only in losing her balance, and collapsed in the sand next to her enemy. The look of his dark, ugly, scar-ridden face, made her shrink back, and as she did so, he stabbed at her, managing to inflict a wound to her upper arm.

Chilon had little time to waste.

Placing himself between the girl and her attacker, he lifted his shield high and brought it down forcefully upon the man's helmet, splitting it in two. The Mariandyni groaned loudly at the sight of his own blood trickling down his face and rocked back and forth as if drunk. Despite this, and in spite of his horrific wounds, he made one final attempt to kill the girl. But the point of his sword, meant to pierce her lovely and inviting neck, never reached its destination. As he looked up at the spreading shadow above his head, the great bronze shield rim impacted upon his naked skull with terrible force, smashing into the brain, killing him instantly.

Chilon knelt down beside the girl, who was struggling to catch her breath. In between her sobs and incoherent utterances she turned her eyes toward him, saddened to see all the injuries he had suffered for her sake. She showed him her bleeding arm, as if to let him know that she had been willing to suffer for his sake as well.

"Let me help you," he said to her as he inspected her wound.

The voice was tender, consoling; something she least expected from a terrible warrior god.

"Father Zeus sent you, didn't he?" she said, watching him intently. "You are his son, Ares."

"It's not a mortal wound," he replied, ignoring her reference to the god.

Suddenly, the terrified cries of the two remaining soldiers forced both Chilon and Anaea to turn their gaze toward the shoreline, where both men were being pursued toward open water by Xanthippe and Clymene, who were on horseback. It was pitiful to see them hunted down like so much wild prey, but no more pitiful than what they themselves had done to Anaea and her companions. The man with the bloody eye dashed toward the shoreline like a madman, hoping to escape death by running out into the ocean beyond the reach of their arrows. But he had only taken one step into the water when Clymene shot an arrow into his neck. He fell down dead as the waves broke over his still body.

They found the other man, the one with the severed hand, still nursing his mangled stump, entreating them to take mercy upon him. But Xanthippe and Clymene were in no mood to be generous to one who would have gleefully and callously taken their own lives only moments before. Even as he pleaded with them, they raised their bows and shot him full of arrows, putting his pathetic existence to an end.

The two women rode at full gallop toward Chilon, their bows drawn, coming to a halt only several feet from where he stood.

"Move away from her!" Xanthippe commanded.

Chilon rose and took a few steps back.

"Your friend has been wounded," he said to them.

Anaea held out her bleeding arm as if to confirm what he said.

"He saved my life, Xanthippe," she said. "The god saved my life."

Xanthippe dropped her bow and dismounted. She removed a small, tin flask and some cloth from her saddle bag and knelt down before Anaea.

"Why must you always be so headstrong?" she said, as she uncorked the flask and ran water over the wound. Once it had been cleansed, she placed some coarse woolen fabric over the torn flesh and tied the ends into a knot. "You should have waited for us."

"But then I wouldn't have been able to help him."

Xanthippe looked up at Chilon and offered him the flask. He thanked her and put the flask to his lips, drinking greedily.

"You should let me attend to your wound," she said, noticing the cut above his breast. "I am practiced in the healing arts."

Ordinarily, Chilon would have been loath to admit that he needed help, since most Spartans regarded it as a sign of weakness. But the pain was too great to ignore. Swallowing his pride, he handed the flask back to her and gave her permission to tend to his injury, which she did by first cleansing the wound and then wrapping a bandage around it.

He stood silently as she finished her ministrations, wondering how such a beautiful woman, who only moments before had ended the lives of her attackers with such ferocity, should now show him so much compassion.

"This will suffice for now," she told him as she drew her hands away.

He looked into her eyes, eyes as green as the emerald that still hung around Anaea's neck, and nodded his head in thanks.

"Who are you?" Clymene asked, eyeing him furtively.

"I am Chilon, son of Damagetus."

"A Greek."

She said the word as a disparagement.

"Put your bow down, Clymene," Xanthippe ordered. "I think it is obvious by now that he is not our enemy."

"With Greeks you can never be sure."

"Shut up, Clymene," Anaea said, looking up admiringly at Chilon. "He's not a Greek. He's a god."

Clymene laughed scornfully at the idea that the two terms might be considered mutually exclusive and brought the weapon to her side. "He is a Spartan and therefore a Greek."

"No, he is a god," the girl insisted.

"Take off your helmet," Xanthippe said to him.

Not accustomed to taking orders from women, Chilon hesitated a moment before removing it. As he drew the helmet over his head, Anaea gasped aloud.

"By the gods!" she exclaimed, unable to hide her admiration. "Is that not the most fair face you have ever seen?"

The three women stared at him open-mouthed, astonished by his incredibly good looks.

"The gods have blessed you with great courage—and great beauty," Xanthippe said to him, equally enthralled by his sublimely handsome features.

"Help me up," Anaea said to her friends. "It is unbecoming for me to lie down in the presence of a god."

Clutching her wounded arm close to her chest, Xanthippe and Clymene helped the girl to her feet. She moved slowly toward Chilon, eyeing him carefully, fascinated by his seemingly divine demeanor.

"You are a god, aren't you?" she asked him, not thoroughly convinced of his mortality. "Tell me, truly."

"Gods don't bleed, Anaea," Clymene said roughly, noting the many wounds on his body. Unlike her two friends, she was not as enraptured with the young Spartan. "He is just a man."

"A man far away from home," Xanthippe replied. "I saw some of the wreckage from your ship, just before we killed those Thracian dogs. Out there on the rocks...food, articles of clothing...all washed up on the shore. Where was your vessel bound?"

"To Megara and to my betrothed," he replied.

"Are you the only one to survive?"

"Yes, as far as I know."

She pointed to the wounds on his chest and head.

"Those injuries are going to need further treatment, more than I can do here. We will take you back to the city with us."

"I'm sure Lysippe will want to question him," Clymene said to Xanthippe.

"Who is Lysippe?" Chilon asked.

"Our queen."

"And your city?"

"Themiscyra."

Themiscyra. The words of the Spartan elders came back to him. The stories they told of the all-female warrior race that had fought at Troy almost a century ago had been true after all. It seemed almost too incredible to believe.

"Then are you...are you...Amazons?"

Xanthippe smiled as she picked up her bow.

"We are the children of Ares and Artemis; Scythians from the northern lands across the sea."

"I always believed you were a myth."

"We are no myth," Clymene said impassively. "We are the Oiorpata."

"It's a Scythian word," Xanthippe explained, "meaning 'killers of men'."

"A name well deserved," Chilon noted wryly.

Suddenly, without warning, he dropped his head down onto his chest and fell onto one knee, the sense of disorientation overtaking him once again.

"Chilon!" Anaea exclaimed, laying her hands on his. "What's wrong?"

"He has lost a lot of blood," Xanthippe said, concernedly. "Are you well enough to walk, Chilon?"

"I think so," he replied feebly.

"Come, let us help you."

To accept their aid was no easy thing for Chilon. As a Spartan, he had been taught to eschew comfort and endure great hardships. But after all he had been through, he was in no mood to deny assistance from the beautiful strangers—these Amazons, these killers of men.

After the women had despoiled the bodies of their enemies, they rounded up the soldiers' horses and fastened their reins together. Chilon was too weak to do much. He sat atop the lead horse as he watched the Amazons convey whatever possessions he had to the backs of the horses. The Mariandyni's bodies had been left where they fell, the gulls already circling overhead, attracted by the smell of blood.

Anaea was unusually quiet as they made their way through the open country and toward the mouth of the river, the one they called, "Thermodon". She had spoken only once to him, and that was to apologize for taking his emerald necklace, which she had returned to him prior to making their journey. She seemed quite content to steal glances at him every now and then, happy just to be in the presence of the handsome young man. Clymene was even more taciturn, riding just slightly ahead of everyone else, keeping her eye fixed on the horizon.

"This woman you are to marry," Xanthippe said to Chilon. "Is she beautiful?"

"Yes, very beautiful."

"How long have you known her?"

"We met once long ago as children. I have not seen her since."

"Then how do you know you love her? Or that she loves you?"

Chilon laughed. "I don't. The marriage was arranged by my parents a long time ago. I am bound to honor their wishes."

"But what about your wishes? Don't they matter?"

"A Spartan is honor-bound to do his duty, regardless of his own personal feelings."

"We Amazons also understand the meaning of duty. But I could never wed a man I did not love."

"I've heard that Amazon's don't marry."

"That's another myth," she said genially. "It is true that we once forbade marriage and men weren't even allowed within the walls of our city. But that was long ago."

Along the way, Chilon had questioned her about many things relating to the history of the Amazons. He learned that the phrase "killers of men" had no reference to killing men in battle, but that they used to kill male children born to them, allowing only the females to survive. Nowadays, she told him, male children were sent back to their villages with their fathers, the brutal practice of infanticide having been abolished once they had left their home in Scythia to live in Themiscyra, where they had fallen under powerful Greek influences. Chilon wondered about this, and how they had come to speak his language.

"During the ten years the Trojans fought against your people," she began, "many Greek warriors fled from Troy and settled in this land. They intermarried with our people and we adopted many of their customs. To this day, almost every Amazon speaks both Scythian and Greek."

"Your own name, Xanthippe, is Greek."

"My paternal grandfather was a Greek warrior from Delphi who fought at Troy."

"Clymene and Anaea are Greek names too. Are they like you?"

"Yes. They are both part Greek."

Chilon pondered this revelation for a moment, reflecting back upon Xanthippe's hope that he had died at sea.

"You know, when I was spying on you at the beach, I overheard you say something about wishing me dead. If you have Greek blood in you, why would you wish such a thing?"

"Many of our people detest the Greeks to this day because of what they did at Troy. They have never forgotten that our queen, Penthesileia, was killed by Achilles."

"From what I understand, she had challenged him to single combat."

"He did not need to kill her. He was invincible. He could have refused the challenge."

"It would have been dishonorable for him to do so. It was not his way."

"No. His way was to murder her. And I call it murder because his courage derived from the fact that he could not be killed. Where is the honor in that?"