One vision I was able to retain from the kingdom of Amazonian dreams. A female dragon, swishing its tail with nine spinal projections, was menacing an Amazon with its deadly venom. The hooves of her horse, quick to obey the tugging reins, saved her from a blow of the dragon’s horns. She raised a strange weapon to its jaws. Though it gleamed with gold like other weapons of the Amazons, it was kitchen tongs. With it she nipped the snorting lips and then she smacked the creature on the back of its neck with a soup spoon. The dragon that no hero could slay collapsed at the Amazon’s feet, lifeless by the hooves of her panicky mount.
This vision was visual, as the word implies. But it was also auditory. Words thundered out while it was happening. It achieved more completeness in words than it did in images, because at times the images got blurry and shrank to miniature size, as if abruptly forced into the far distance.
We slept, as you might expect, for many hours. When we opened our eyes, the sun had already crossed a fair stretch of sky. A dazzling sky filled the air with a sense of well-being. The dogs roused themselves when their owners got up. Around our bed, a flock of young eunuchs had prepared tens of gilded waterbasins, adorned with fine copperwork, set on solid tripods. Cattle were grazing peacefully among trees loaded with fruit. Horses pranced by with an invincible air. Waves of the sea broke gently on the light sand. The river seemed motionless. The evening before it had had waves. Maybe it had been a trick of the light. Now as morning began, it had a pleasantly relaxed look to it. Everything was serene.
In the center of what had been the cave that the god had forced open stood the god himself, wrapped in mist, the only thing not bright and clear in the whole scene. Unmoving, surrounded by light shadow, he avoided our scrutiny. Was he there alone? Had Orthea, the Amazon who loved him, returned to pass the night with him after her bout of collective lovemaking? Had they at last found a way to fuse with each other? As if in answer to my question, I saw Orthea walking not far from me. I returned my glance to the hill. On the flat top supported by the petrified centaurs, a herd of deer was feeding quietly amid trees.
By the gilded washbasins, with the help of the shaven-headed eunuchs dressed in the large Egyptian skirts of thick white linen, the Amazons removed their strings of semiprecious stones and washed themselves. They then put on short togas of fine linen.
We breakfasted on fresh figs and nuts. While we ate, various groups were preparing themselves for leaving. They readied their horses in the oddest way. Instead of putting saddles or blankets on their backs, they rubbed them with strongly perfumed oils. They themselves dressed in tunics with gathered sleeves, tied around the waist and reaching down almost to the knees. Hippolyta asked me what plans I had in mind to recover the throne of Egypt.
I explained where my entourage was located, assuming that they must by now be on the road to Ascalon, the Philistine city where several allied kings awaited me and where part of the treasures of the Lagids was deposited safely under lock and key. There I planned to recruit an army.
“And how are you going to do that?”
“I’m starting with you and me. I know from you that nobody but the hero can defeat you. I have a handful of men in Ascalon and more in Pelusium. My ships are ready. It is a considerable fleet. The rest of my army awaits my orders in Hermonthis. Then the King of Nabatea has promised help, and the messages from Petra are all positive. But the greater part of my army will be mercenaries.”
When I said “mercenaries,” the Amazons, who up till then had listened respectfully, burst into open laughter, as if I had said something comically idiotic.
“You mean Persians?” asked Hippolyta, ignoring the laughter. “A bad alliance. They’ll gobble up Egypt before you realize it. As for mercenaries. .”
Once again her friends burst out laughing. “Well, for a start, what are you going to pay them with? Not all the gold in the world can inspire an army with courage, make it invincible — and that’s what you need!”
Now it was my turn to laugh. How could she be so ingenuous?
“Your Majesty,” I said, holding in my amusement. “Egypt’s gold is exactly what makes an army brave. The people of the Nile are not made for the arts of war, but we win our battles because we pay high wages to foreigners.”
“I think, Cleopatra, we think, I should say, and I don’t mean to challenge you, that you’ve no idea what wars are made of.”
“Of course I have. Wars are fought with intelligence and gold.”
“Seriously?”
The other Amazons had lost interest in our conversation, being more concerned with preparing for their departure.
“Naturally you need the gods on your side,” I added, thinking that was what she referred to.
“There’s no human activity in which the gods don’t participate, if they are summoned properly. But I’m not talking about that. Would you agree that war is an encounter between persons, that it does not resemble the struggle of a tiger to control its territory, that it isn’t like the fury of a zebra or a squabble in the marketplace between uncouth thieves?”
“I’ll agree to that.”
“And that force, in order to be victorious force, requires intelligence, cunning and, above all, spirit.”
“Agreed.”
“If these qualities are present and necessary in every human activity, they are more so in war, because otherwise it wouldn’t be war but just swapping blows at random, and under those conditions not even Hercules could achieve anything.”
“True. I seeing what you’re getting at. But you can have all that with good management and the right strategy. . and with gold. You can get it with gold.”
“Stop right there, Cleopatra! Gold is like excrement, impossible to live without, but useless.”
Her words were interrupted by a sound I did not recognize. It crashed through the air, profoundly unsettling the Amazons. They all ran for their weapons and off toward their horses. The three columns hurriedly prepared for battle, as the eunuchs bustled to bring them their feathered helmets, the golden shields, and the maces, but not the axes. I struggled to understand what was happening, but I caught only fragmentary comments: “the Sirens again”. . “those damned singers”. . “claws in the throat.” It made no sense to me that a sound got them battle-ready. The more I try to describe that sound, the more its description eludes me. It was insidious, sweet to an extreme, almost cloying, even disgusting. I had never heard it before but somehow it failed to surprise me. At moments it appalled me, it disturbed me, and yet it had the jaded quality of a song sung too often, something chewed in the mouth by a cow, something trite.
Queen Hippolyta came over to me, dressed in the Amazon tunic, mounted on a splendid Lybian steed, and she invited me to get up.
“Come on, Cleopatra.”
“On your horse? Give me my own.”
“Not now.”
She reached out an arm. I grabbed it and climbed up beside her. One of the eunuchs dashed forward to give me the banner of the Amazons to carry. Hippolyta dispatched a small contingent under the command of Melanippe toward the far side of the hill, while we trotted toward the river. Hippolyta explained, “The song of the Sirens comes from underground. We have to hold back the males. The monsters await them on the sand, where the bull touched shore.”
We galloped over the well-trodden road of white earth that ran alongside the river racing fast a few feet below. Its waters seemed to carry along the song of the Sirens. Somebody shouted, “Look!” pointing to the channel. A man was already swimming there with feeble strokes. I saw a rope fly out and it lassoed the swimmer, dragging him back toward the bank.