Afternoon sunlight filtered through the century-old alabaster colonnade. Grapevines clambered playfully over the pillars. Ripe clusters hung like beaded curtains, swaying in the breeze with an amethyst glow. Light spots danced on the newly laid wool rug. A troupe of playful golden sprites.
This was the small garden in the south wing of the Dardan estate. The spicy scent of thyme and sage mingled with the green, astringent smell of olive fruit. Stirred by the gentle wind from Mount Ida, the garden was a place of relaxation and comfort. Wild mint peeking from between the stones offered a cool fragrance. A strange duet with the aroma of baking bread from the distant kitchen.
Thaleia was arranging things by the round stone table. She carefully placed plates of honeyed pastries. She had asked Mistress Marsha to bake them specially. The memory of the old cook's knowing, congratulatory wink made her feel both shy and... sorrowful. The cook's weathered hand had patted hers while handing over the treats. The touch reminded her of her own long-gone mother.
Her fingers trembled slightly as they brushed the cool stone surface. The table's winding veins looked like the pathways of fate. She felt herself standing at a crucial crossroads.
Her long black hair was loosely tied up. She wore a high-necked linen gown. It hid the faint, intimate marks on her neck.
I hope this 'Nectar of the Gods,' mixed with mint and honeyed water, can soothe the coming storm... She took a deep breath. Lord Aeneas has given me status. But he's oblivious in matters of the heart. He doesn't realize this choice is unwise for his own interests. I must... take responsibility for my own selfishness. Secure peace on his home front for him. The thought lay in her heart, heavy as an olive pit.
Light, tapping footsteps sounded. Melanippe appeared at the end of the colonnade. She wore practical hunting clothes. The bronze shortsword at her waist and the buckle of her leather belt clinked together with each long, forceful stride. A clear, aggressive sound. The sun dusted her bronze skin with gold powder. But it couldn't melt the frost in her eyes.
Her deep brown hair swung. Her gaze, hawk-like, locked onto Thaleia. A cold, mocking smile touched her lips. "What's this? You called me here to gloat?"
Her eyes caught the marks on Thaleia's neck. Her left hand tightened on her sword hilt. A faint creak sounded from the strain. Her knuckles turned white. As if she were strangling some unseen foe.
Thaleia steadied the clay pitcher, which had trembled slightly under the other woman's intensity. She took a breath. Lifted her head and met Melanippe's gaze directly. Her eyes were clear and serious. "No. I'm offering an olive branch. To a sister who may, in the future, protect the same man."
Dido's arrival was soundless. She wore an elegant gown blending Phoenician and Arasyian styles. Her deep auburn waves were coiled gracefully at the nape of her neck. A silent maidservant followed, carrying a set of cups that shimmered with light. Their rims were inlaid with fine gold wire. The vessels shimmered with a rainbow iridescence in the afternoon sun. Fine, imported Egyptian glass. The light refracted from them danced across the stone table. Like living jewels.
Dido gracefully dismissed her maid with a wave. She personally arranged the glass vessels on the stone table. They shimmered with a rainbow iridescence in the afternoon sun. A stark contrast to Thaleia's simple clay pitcher. Her every movement was like a carefully choreographed dance. Even the sway of her skirts was perfectly measured.
She wore the gentle smile befitting an elegant princess. "My apologies, ladies. Fetching suitable cups for our little gathering made me tardy. But I trust I haven't delayed our proceedings?" It was as fluid as a court dance. She poured the clear, sweet mint-and-honey wine from the clay pitcher. Handed a glass to Thaleia, then to Melanippe. "Please, enjoy."
Her hostess-like aura left Thaleia and Melanippe little choice but to accept the glasses dumbly. Melanippe, especially, with her straightforward nature, was completely out of her depth in this kind of subtle warfare. The Amazon princess stared at the amber liquid swirling in her cup. Her brow was furrowed as if facing a formidable enemy.
Thaleia shook her head. Her gaze was on the glass Dido had given her. "Princess Dido... Princess Melanippe... I invited you here for this gathering not to boast. But for Lord Aeneas's sake."
The afternoon tranquility under the olive tree was shattered.
For Aeneas—Thaleia's words were like a spark to tinder.
Melanippe slammed a hand onto the stone table. Cups and plates rattled. The clay jar full of golden honey tipped over. The thick liquid spread across the rough stone surface. A physical echo of her boiling anger.
"You think your status as a concubine can intimidone an Amazon princess?" Melanippe's voice rose with fury. Her athletic body tensed, poised like an angered lioness. "A joke! My father Chiron had lovers from thirteen different tribes!"
Thaleia didn't flinch. She watched the spreading honey quietly. Her face showed no panic, only a look close to sorrow. In this age where a man could have only one wife, but concubines and lovers were commonplace among the elite—even a status symbol—her situation was both a blessing and a permanent shackle. Zeus, King of the Gods, had countless affairs in myth, never truly condemned. In reality, a woman's place in marriage was a chasm few could cross.
"Gaining this status is proof of my happiness," her voice was soft, yet clear to both women, "and it's also the brand that means I can never be his wife."
She lifted her head. Her gaze swept over Melanippe, then Dido. "But you two—your bloodlines are noble enough to stand beside him before the gods. Women of high status don't have the 'concubine' option. You must become 'wives.' Or 'lovers' with no formal ties."
Dido thoughtfully righted the clay pitcher. Her slender fingers picked up the honey knife. She drew it lightly through the spilled honey. She pointed to the deep central groove. "The wife... unique and sacred." Then she indicated the finer lines around it. "Concubines are sweet... but they can only cling to the edges." Her eyes turned to Thaleia. A slight arch of her brow. "Are you declaring... you have secured the position of concubine? But... only that position?"
The atmosphere congealed into an eerie stillness.
Thaleia gently drew an irregular bronze fragment from her robe. Jagged edges showed where it had been violently torn. "This is a piece of my father's shield. Proof of what Helenus did when he tried to force me to be his concubine." Her voice shook. "That vile prince destroyed a once-happy noble family. All for a body he found pleasing..."
She took a deep breath. Her voice steadied. "It reminds me. Without Lord Aeneas, my choices were submission... or death. My starting point was so low. To be his concubine is a blessing I'm grateful for. I dare not ask for more."
She carefully put the fragment away. Placed her hands flat on the cool stone table. "These hands will continue to mend his armor, manage his household, guard his daily peace. And if needed... they will pick up a bow again to protect him." Her gaze shifted to the other two. "But you, Princesses, are qualified to walk beside Lord Aeneas. As wives. Or as comrades-in-arms."
Melanippe stared blankly at her own hands. They were scarred and calloused. The hands that could draw a powerful bow now seemed lost. She fretfully touched the Amazon arm ring on her left bicep. The mounted moonstone gleamed with a cold light. The silver band represented an Amazon warrior's dignity and right to choose her mate—
Sacred traditions of single combat churned in her mind: victory meant the male warrior 'married' into the tribe; defeat meant surrendering the arm ring and leaving to become his wife; or, there was the lover's bond, requiring no duel, where children followed the mother's line...
Her father, Chiron, the legendary Amazon guardian, was the prime example of the latter.
She had secretly hoped for such a sacred duel with Aeneas to decide their path. But how to make that Trojan understand and accept this tradition from a matriarchal society?
The setting sun dyed the clouds a magnificent violet-red. Grapevines swayed gently in the evening breeze. A long silence fell in the garden. Only the rustle of wind through the leaves.
Thaleia picked up the pitcher. Silently refilled all three cups.
The simple act felt like the start of a ritual—Melanippe's movements were no longer violent, but heavy with thought; Dido elegantly raised her glass to Thaleia in a subtle toast before taking a slow sip.
Melanippe stared into her crimson wine, muttering, "Perhaps... I should challenge him to an Amazon duel... Win what I want openly and honorably."
Dido chuckled softly, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. "I still believe my Phoenician way is better. Bring him tangible benefits. Make shared interests the foundation for marriage. That is what's truly good for him." Her eyes grew brighter, as if she'd found her path—affection can grow, bonds can be contracted. The civilized way.
Soon after, Ainippe appeared at the garden entrance.
She raised a surprised eyebrow at the scene—Melanippe stood behind Thaleia, one hand on her shoulder, the other adjusting her grip on an arrow, while Thaleia earnestly mimicked the distinct Amazon drawing technique.
"To think they reached such an... unusual truce," Ainippe murmured, a playful smile touching her lips. "I was hoping for something more dramatic..."
The night wind carried faint cheers from the distant river valley town. The three women in the garden paused. Listened to the sounds of a thriving lordship. Then, almost in unison, they exchanged a look—a smile of relief, understanding, and unspoken accord.
Thaleia breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Her gaze drifted past the grapevines, toward the main estate building.
The first step, at least, was taken. Let me face the coming storms for you, my lord, she thought.