Volcanic rage erupted within me, a fury so fierce that I trembled with it. It was like the humiliation of the Calydonian boar hunt all over again, but even worse. Schoenus slackened his grip, and I wrenched away my hand, rubbing my bruised wrist.
My gaze burned into his. I would not be sold like a cow or a horse. In a flash, I came up with a plan to ensure my freedom.
There was a krater in the middle of the table, an enormous red-and-black pot filled with a sea of wine. Two servants were needed to carry it into the feasting hall, but I lifted it quite handily by myself, relishing the bite of the handles into my palms.
I carried the krater to the edge of the dais, then let it fall.
Wine and pottery exploded outward, like one of the bolts of Zeus striking the earth. Every conversation stopped, and those nearest wiped wine from their stunned faces.
Utter silence.
“Am I a prize to be won?” I called out, voice echoing from the walls. “Then win me. I will only marry the man who can beat me in a footrace, and there are none of you here who can do that.”
My words shimmered in the air like an army’s banners. I turned and left the hall, heading for the place not far from the palace where horse races were held and arms training conducted.
The honored guests followed me. I could hear them joking among themselves, scoffing about how fast I could possibly run with my nose stuck up in the air.
When we arrived at the field, a young man pushed his way to the front. “Well, if none of you will show this woman her place,” he called to the others, his accent marking him as an Argive, “I volunteer. Send for more wine, it won’t be long before our wedding feast.”
A track was marked out: a curving arc in the margin between the plain and the forests around its periphery. The course was clearly delineated with white chalk, and any great divergence from it would result in immediate disqualification.
I tore my fine chiton to the knee for freedom of movement, ignoring the scandalized muttering.Let them talk,I thought, stretching out my calves. They would be struck silent soon enough.
I crouched at the starting line, and the Argive joined me. Speaking softly, the Argive took advantage of our proximity to let me know all the things he would do to me on our wedding night, and everything that he would allow his male relatives and friends and even servants to do to me as well. My skin crawled, but I kept my eyes focused on the horizon.
The horn sounded, and we ran. I flew past the Argive, arcing along the track, and crossed the finish line before he’d even made it halfway. I had the fierce satisfaction of watching him lope over shamefully, red-faced and panting like a dog.
The crowd was stunned. Only one mouth was curled up in a smile—my father’s. But I knew this was not a look of pride or admiration; Schoenus was pleased because I was something he possessed, an object that others would fight to win.
“What says the loser?” Schoenus asked as he approached.
The Argive fell to his knees, bending his head in supplication. “Kill me. I won’t live with the shame.”
The shame of losing to a woman.Suddenly the absurdity of the situation struck me like a blow. Why were these men so stubborn? Couldn’t they see that they did not really want me, and I did not want them either? We could stop this if we could reach an agreement, with no more races and no forced marriage. But no one prized agreement here, only brute strength.
Something nudged my arm. My father, handing me a sword.“You have chosen this path. Now walk it,”he hissed in my ear.
The Argive’s neck bent before me, the bumps of his spine visible. He was a big man; it would take a hard blow to cleanly sever such a thick neck.
I felt sick. The gauntlet I’d thrown had turned into a noose around my neck. Schoenus would never let me leave now, and besides, where could I go? All the men of this region knew my face. I would be hunted to the ends of the earth if I tried to run, hounded day and night. There was no escape, and my life would be forfeit if I tried.
The blade trembled slightly, and I saw that my hands were shaking. The Argive shifted on his knees.
“Do it,”my father hissed.
The sword glinted and fell.
56
Atalanta
Cold winter light drifted through the slatted boards of the stable. I raked the rough brush along Kastana’s coat, and she leaned against me gratefully, her breath steaming in the freezing air.
I rode her every day, though Schoenus’s men trailed me once we passed the city gates to ensure that I did not try to escape. I was allowed physical exercise and seized it greedily, since it was the one breath of freedom permitted to me.
More than a year had passed since the race with the Argive. There had been many more challengers since, all unsuccessful. I remembered their last moments with a shudder. Not all the losers died as cleanly as the Argive; some begged for mercy, others cursed me, and a few declared I must have cheated.
But challengers kept coming, petty kings and chieftains who wanted to distinguish themselves. The suitors brought treasure, and none of them lived to reclaim it. Schoenus felt his prestige—and his coffers—swell with each death.
