‘But then one of the men tried to rip the pelt down.’ Evenyears later, this sacrilege still drew a sneer from my teacher. ‘I was on him at once. He pulled out his sword, but before he had a chance to use it, Meleager ran him through. I learned later that this man was Meleager’s own cousin.’
Atalanta looked at me across the fire, head tilted. Her gaze flicked over me like I was a fishing net she was trying to untangle. After a long moment, she said, ‘When you choose a husband – and I think the time is coming for you to do so – do not choose a man who is merely handsome or rich or powerful. Choose a man like Meleager.’
I looked away, back towards the darkness, my heart sinking. This wasn’t how I was expecting the story to end, and this wasn’t the moral I wanted to hear. ‘I don’t want to get married. I want to be a hero and a priestess of Artemis like my cousin Iphigenia.’
Atalanta blinked in wild confusion. I think she was prepared for the confession of a childish crush or fear about leaving home; she did not expect outright refusal. ‘Psyche, you are the princess of Mycenae,’ she said. ‘The man you marry will become the next king of your country, and your son will inherit the throne. You have a duty to your people.’
I thought of Helen, whose wedding marked the grave of all her ambitions. ‘My duty is to become a hero like you,’ I said.
‘I was married once too, Psyche,’ Atalanta said, direct as a spear. ‘When things are right, love is not an obstacle to becoming a hero. It’s the very reason heroes rise.’
Though I knew Atalanta had a son, I’d never thought of her as a wife. I toyed with a twig as I considered this, twisting it in my fingers until it snapped. ‘Was Meleager your husband?’
My teacher turned her face towards the depths of the forest, the firelight casting sharp lines along her cheeks. ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘Meleager died soon after the hunt for the Calydonianboar. The story of how I met my husband is a tale for another day, and my mouth is already dry from talking. Rest assured that he was no less brave or virtuous than Meleager.’
‘It’s not like it matters,’ I replied. ‘Women don’t get to choose their husbands.’
Atalanta scoffed. ‘Who told you that? Some girls get traded off, it’s true, but you’re the daughter of the Mycenaean king. You’ll have your pick of suitors.’
I sighed and hugged my knees. I thought of my mother and father, leaning towards each other in the garden like two matched trees. Perhaps marriage wouldn’t be so bad when I was ready for it, but that was still many years away. ‘Fine. But I want to finish my training first,’ I declared.
‘It would be a waste for us both if you didn’t,’ Atalanta replied tartly, coaxing a small smile onto my face.
The next step, Atalanta decided, was for me to prove myself as an athlete at one of the regional competitions. These were held for young women to show off their abilities to both the gods and prospective husbands, and the greatest of them was the Heraean Games, held in honour of the goddess Hera, queen of heaven and goddess of union. There, I would compete for the winner’s laurels.
I could not hide my awe when we disembarked from the ship. I had never seen so many human beings in one place, not even during Helen’s wedding. There were people from Sparta, Argos, Thebes, faraway Crete, even little Athens, all of us baking together under the unyielding sun. Atalanta, who despised crowds, took refuge in her tent like a surly cat as soon as the servants set it up. I, on the other hand, scanned the assembly for a familiar face. Soon I found it.
Iphigenia waved at me from a cluster of priestesses whohad come to officiate the sacred rites for the event. I ran to her, nearly knocking her from her feet with the force of my embrace. We had planned this reunion through the letters we exchanged frequently, but to see her again was a joy like no other.
‘Look at you, a priestess of Artemis!’ I said once we released each other, tugging playfully at her robes of office and the fillets in her hair.
‘Not a full one, I’m still only in my novitiate,’ she corrected laughingly. ‘I still can’t believe I got Father to agree. And look at you, an athlete and a hero!’
I was about to tell Iphigenia to save her praise for after I won, but I was distracted by the looming presence of a senior priestess behind Iphigenia’s shoulder. She was broad as a hill, taller than Atalanta, probably even taller than my father. Her stern face could have been carved from granite, and she crossed her arms as she considered us.
‘Iphigenia, you neglect your chores,’ the elder priestess chided. Behind her, I could see the others setting up tents and kindling cookfires. ‘Who is this?’ she added, gesturing at me.
‘Psyche of Mycenae, my cousin,’ Iphigenia replied sweetly. ‘And I’m so sorry about the chores, Callisto. Once Psyche leaves, I’ll join at once.’
That fierce glance turned towards me. ‘Psyche,’ the priestess called Callisto repeated, sounding out the syllables of my name slowly. ‘You are Atalanta’s student, are you not?’
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I had thought my teacher was the most frightening woman I’d ever met, but Callisto outdid her.
The priestess nodded. ‘I know Atalanta by reputation. If you are her student, then you will be competing in the games today.May victory be yours. Iphigenia, join us once your conversation is finished.’ With a whirl, she turned back to rejoin the group.
Iphigenia grabbed my hands, giddy with delight. ‘From Callisto, that’s as good as shore leave! Come on, let’s go have some fun.’
There were a few hours yet before my race; events were held in the morning and late afternoon, with a break when the sun was at its zenith and the whole world felt like a hot bath. In that moment, nothing sounded more appealing than an adventure with my cousin.
But I soon found out, to my dismay, that Iphigenia’s idea of fun was sneaking conversation with a pair of boys from some backwater city in Thessaly. Their names were Achilles and Patroclus, and they were a year or two older than us. Iphigenia looked as though she might leave her position as priestess of Artemis to worship at the altar of Achilles, her wide eyes fixed on him. I never thought my clever cousin would be one of those girls who prayed to Aphrodite and her son Eros for love, but now, with a sickly feeling in my stomach, I saw things might be otherwise. I hoped Iphigenia wouldn’t actually leave the order of priestesses to pursue this oaf.
I disliked Achilles at once. He had the beauty of a god and the arrogance of a prince, a distasteful combination. Besides, I hated to see my cousin act like a dog begging at the knee for scraps.
‘People always say I’m intimidating,’ Achilles began in a lazy drawl. ‘But Patroclus is the one who’s actually killed somebody. Just another boy, but a kill nonetheless.’ Achilles nudged his friend. Both were perched on the same stool, their bodies touching with easy familiarity.
Patroclus smiled good-naturedly, though there was a shadow in it. He was all salt and earth, taller than Achilles but somehowan afterthought, the last person in the room that drew your attention. ‘It’s true. An accident during a game of dice, but it happened. Psyche, Iphigenia tells me that you’ll be competing in a few hours.’
Being in the company of a murderer unsettled me, but I was pleased by the change of topic. ‘Yes, in the footrace. But I’m not worried about winning, since I’ve had the best of teachers.’
