‘These belonged to your grandfather Perseus,’ my father told me. He lifted the bronze shield reverently and handed it to me; it clanged to the floor and took my arm with it, making me wince. The shield was so heavy that it took all my strength to prop it up against my small body.
My father told me how Zeus the Thunderer, king of the gods, had fathered Perseus, the hero who slew the hideous monster Medusa. It was her face pictured on this shield.
‘Eventually Perseus married Andromeda of the royal family of Mycenae, then became the father of Alkaios,’ he paused, smiling as though he held a treasure within himself. ‘Alkaios, who became the father of Psyche.’
As he spoke my name, an upswell of pride filled me, and suddenly the shield felt lighter. I was the child of heroes and gods. I hefted the shield to a more comfortable position and basked in the glow of my father’s indulgent smile.
‘But you will be an even greater hero than your grandfather Perseus,’ my father told me. ‘The Oracle of Delphi spoke no prophecies about Perseus, but she had one for you. You will be the greatest hero of all.’
My training began the next day. My father commissioned a child-sized bow and taught me how to draw it, painstaking in his patience. He took me on hunts, sitting me on the saddle in front of him so that I could watch as we ran down our quarry. His oath men observed this with puzzlement, unsure of what to make of a girl trained like a boy, but eventually they came to regard me as a familiar oddity. My father showed me how to heft a spear and wield a sword, and my skills blossomed.
I only went to the women’s quarters in the evenings now, where Maia would cluck her tongue at the dirt caked into my clothing and my mother would ask me what I had learned that day. I told her eagerly, my words falling over one another in the way of young children, until Maia hauled me away for a bath and a change of clothes.
I spent the warmer seasons at my father’s side on the practice field or the hunt, but in the winter, I went with the rest of the palace children to sit at the feet of the old blind poet as he told us stories of the gods and heroes. The poet had lost his sight early in life, and as a result he had taken up the lyre instead of the sword and shield. He was a man of no city, wandering where he willed and trading his songs for shelter and food. He brought the stories of the heroes and gods to life in the fire-lit feasting hall of Tiryns as the winter rains fell outside.
How do I explain the relationship between my people and the gods? The gods were real to us, as factual as a cup or table, but there was no love between us except for the basest kind. Gods might father children with mortal women or offer blessings to their favourites, but they might also entrap us in riddles or kill us to satisfy an immortal grudge. You could not trust the gods, though you needed to respect them.
The poet launched into the tale of the world’s creation, theegg of Chaos and the immortal gods who tumbled out, beginning with Gaia the earth goddess and Ouranos the sky. I picked at a scab on my knuckle, sighing with boredom. I didn’t care much for the gods, with the sole exception of Artemis, daughter of Zeus and goddess of the hunt and the moon. Sister of the sun, who ran fleet-footed along the mountains just as I did.
I liked the stories of heroes far better. The gods were im-mortal and had nothing to lose through their endeavours, but heroes risked everything for the chance at immortal fame. Heroes persevered against the limitations of their own mortality and became lights for other human beings to follow. Humans might even become gods by proving themselves worthy through their deeds.
I perked up when the blind poet told the story of Bellerophon, who once dwelled in this very city of Tiryns. Bellerophon was tasked with defeating the fearsome Chimera, a monster that was equal parts lion, goat, and serpent, and breathed fire into the bargain. Bellerophon was clever: he shot the Chimera with a lead-tipped arrow, which melted in its fiery breath and suffocated it. I made note of this strategy in case it came in handy when I became a hero myself. I yearned for the glory of it, my story told around campfires for generations.
How small my ideas of heroism were back then. I had not seen very much of the world, and I was certain that a few slain monsters were all that was necessary to make a hero. I knew nothing of war or death or love.
‘Someday the poets will tell stories about me too,’ I told the other children later. They stared at me owlishly. ‘I’m going to be the greatest hero of them all,’ I added. ‘There was a prophecy about it and everything.’
Freckle-faced Dexios, the son of the stable master, sneered.He had never taken me seriously after seeing me fall off a horse at the age of six. ‘You can’t be a hero,’ he told me. ‘You’re a girl.’
I kicked him in the shins and sent him crying to his mother.
Eventually there came a limit to what my father could teach me. Alkaios was a king and not a hero, however much he might have wished otherwise. It was time to send for a teacher, but whom? Chiron was the obvious choice, but my father wasn’t about to apprentice his nine-year-old daughter to a centaur. A rogue Amazon from the steppes might have done nicely, but they often died in captivity, and hiring one was out of the question since those wild women did not recognize any civilized currency.
In the end it was my mother who suggested the most promising candidate. The next day, my parents sent a letter.
A few months later, Atalanta arrived at the gates of the city.
She came alone, without an entourage or any fanfare, though word of her arrival spread like wildfire. She rode through the famous Lion’s Gate of Mycenae but did not spare a glance for the stone beasts; she had killed real lions, and these did not impress her. She wore the dusty tunic and trousers of a hunter and sat atop an ill-tempered bay mare that snapped at anyone who came too close. She looked like a creature fashioned from driftwood and sinew, or perhaps a nymph from the deep forest, though the lines on her weather-beaten face and the strands of grey in her hair marked her plainly as a mortal woman. Atalanta, the hero.
Of all the tales the blind poet told, my favourites were the ones about Atalanta.
Atalanta had fought at Jason’s side during his quest to retrieve the Golden Fleece, and she had been the first to draw blood from the monstrous Calydonian boar. When it came time forher to marry, she refused to be sold like a cow or sheep and vowed instead to wed only the man who could beat her in a footrace. A very long time passed before anyone could be found who was capable of this feat.
My father did not take me to the fields or forests the day that Atalanta arrived in Mycenae. Instead, I spent the morning being scrubbed and brushed like a sacrificial lamb by Maia and the servant girls. I tolerated this treatment so that I could listen to their gossip.
‘Do you think it’s really her?’ asked the girl who had brought the hot water, leaning on a doorframe.
‘Ithasto be her. There’s no mistaking it,’ Maia said as she scrubbed my back and underarms. ‘There’s only one woman among the cities of the Greeks who rides like that.’
Dexios told me later that he was the one who took the reins of Atalanta’s horse, having beaten out his two older brothers for this honour. Awestruck by her presence, he squeaked, ‘Is it true that you were raised by a bear?’
Atalanta gave him a vicious smile, eyes glinting. ‘Why don’t you go ask the bear?’
The boy had hurried away holding the reins of her horse, which tried to crop a tuft of his hair with her yellowed teeth.
I went to meet Atalanta in the largest of the palace courtyards, together with my mother and father. Maia had forced me into a pure white chiton so that I looked like a temple maiden, though I didn’t see the point; a hero wouldn’t be impressed by fancy clothes.
Atalanta sauntered into the courtyard with the easy grace of a mountain cat. ‘Hail, and welcome to Mycenae,’ my father said, according her a deep bow. She did not return it. I felt a flicker of irritation at her impertinence; even if she was a legend, she didn’t need to be rude to my father.
