That year the moon had just filled for the fourth time, and it was already summer. The daughters of Siberia were restless in the encampment; all around me I heard talk of a warrior from the land where the sun sets. The girls huddled around the fire wide-eyed and eager to tell the queen the rumors they had collected during the course of each day, all talking and exclaiming at the same time. They said he came from a coast peopled by fishermen who barely wore any clothes or finery. They said he had burned down cities and raped women. They said that with the treasures he had looted from Persian cities, he had bought mercenaries. They said that with his golden lance and on his great white horse he had dared challenge the Great King of Persia, and had declared he would take Babylon, the greatest city on earth.
The queen remained silent. I could tell she was preoccupied with some secret thought. I could read the sadness through her smiles. The night wore on, and the chattering girls grew quieter. Soon they fell silent, making way for the chirping of grasshoppers and the crackling of the fire. I lay not far from the queen and was woken by a slight sound. She lifted the tent door and went out; I followed her. She jumped onto her horse, I on mine. She left the encampment and headed for the very heart of the steppe. I kept a respectful distance without losing sight of her.
The moon poured an ocean of silvery light over the steppe. The Amazon queen stood by the banks of the river, a motionless silhouette, while time trickled by. The clouds scudded softly past, reflected in the water. They too were heading slowly for the horizon, never to return. Although I was far from her, I could sense her trembling. Was she cold? Was she afraid? Fierce warriors and famished tigers had not succeeded in shaking her. What was she waiting for? Had some nomad invited her to follow him? Was it a woman who had arranged to meet her here to join us as an Amazon? Since when had she grown so weak that she carried a secret in her heart? Talestria, my wild queen, the warrior with two weapons, how long had she been at war with herself?
All of a sudden I was aware of a man's singing above the rustling grass, at first indistinct and then loud and clear. The outline of a horseman etched itself against the moon as it sank toward the earth. Although I did not understand the words, I grasped their meaning: he was singing of love, its intoxicating pleasures and its pain.
Talestria shuddered. Why that shudder? Had they met the year before? Had they exchanged sweet nothings? Had they promised each other this night of love beside the river? Talestria, my queen, had she forgotten our battles with those men who loomed on the horizon, come to steal our sheep and massacre us? Had she forgotten those hostile horsemen and their obsessive desire to catch us and use our bellies to bring forth still more valiant warriors of the steppes? Talestria had schemed, lied, and cajoled to appease hostilities, to ensure their support and evade their traps. For our survival she had lowered her proud forehead before their powerful chiefs. She had led us into war when the peace fell apart. Why should my queen-who was impregnable to emotion or fear-be shaking so this evening?
Who was this man who could imitate the dawn chorus? Why did his voice carve through my heart and reduce me to tears? He rode toward Talestria with his stallion's head lowered in a submissive stance. The white feathers on his helmet quivered in the wind.
The stallion suddenly reared up, and the horseman swooped down on my queen, holding a stick armed with long spines in his hand. Talestria tugged at her mare's bridle, and the two horses brushed past each other. She held his stick firm with the spiked bludgeon in her left hand while, with one swift twist of the crescent-shaped blade in her right hand, she sliced off his head.
Talestria wiped her weapons and put them back into her belt. She set off without a backward glance. The horseman's torso slipped from his steed and slumped to the ground. Blood sprang from his gaping neck and formed a stream tenderly watering the steppe. Soon wolves drawn by the smell would come and tussle over the corpse. Then crows and scavengers would pick the skeleton clean. Flies would lick up the last vestiges of sun-dried blood. Talestria had been the faster. Talestria, queen of the Amazons, was a better warrior than any man who wanted her as his trophy. Such is the law of the steppes. The strong grow stronger once they have overcome weakness. The weak have to hide or perish.
The sun circled in the sky and the moon was growing more slender. We collected two newborn girls and exchanged a mare for three young slave girls. Once the little ones were strapped to our backs, we set off at a gallop for the ends of the earth.
"Never love an Amazon," children sang as they ran through the tall grass while their parents dismantled their tents and herded their sheep together. "They kill those who love them best…"
Chapter 3
Armed with lances, masked with leather blinkers and covered in armor, the horses charged. They collided, breast to breast, their legs clashing together; they reared up and trampled fallen soldiers. Their manes scattered showers of blood. The men's shouts mingled with the frantic whinnies of their mounts as they fell, never again to rise to their hooves. Arrows whistled through the air. Lances, shields, bludgeons, tridents, axes, and iron whips gleamed. Wherever a weapon flashed, blood sprang forth, organs spilled, limbs and heads fell. The smell of sweat, blood, and excrement was suffocating. I could no longer hear the drum roll. I could no longer make out the sun through the haze of white dust. I lost track of time. I was stepping into that eternity where men are reduced to incandescent patches, luminous halos. There was a hot liquid running over my face, a barbed whip had just ripped a piece of flesh from my thigh, an arrow had buried itself in my left side, the sharpened blade of a dagger had cut my arm to the bone. A heavy weapon struck me on the nape of the neck, and I staggered. That moment I knew my god had abandoned me. He had abandoned me to my own fate, to the Persian warriors who were still hurling themselves at me. I had to make the choice alone: to wake up or close my eyes, to let myself be carried off by the sweet torpor or to return to the horror and the shouting. Suddenly I could sense death breathing over me, hear its lascivious whispering. It wrapped me in its arms and rolled out a smooth calm road before me, stretching to the horizon. I don't want its monotonous peace! I don't want that bland gray, that platitude and inertia! Give me life in all its color and madness! Give me copulation and galloping horses and warfare! My body felt all its pain again. Strength returned, and with it the terrifying grimaces of the men around me, the froth on the horses' mouths. I brandished my sword. My standards followed its lead and advanced slowly but surely toward the east.
Darius, the Great King of Persia, had come to meet me, intending to crush me with an army of one hundred thousand men. His elephants and camels, his barbarian foot soldiers and armored cavalries, had filled the valleys and spread out across the plain. Confronted with this unprecedented deployment of troops, I opted for the strategy of exhaustion. The number three is perfection, while nine possesses the magic of infinity. I constrained Darius to a long duel of three cycles, each of which would be divided into three battles.