Maiden of Artemis

By Eloise Bahr

Before the men of myth and legend, there was Otrera, first Queen of the Amazons.

It wasn't until the prince's blood coated Otrera's hands that she realized she'd sentenced herself to death. In her darkest hour, Artemis offers her a second chance at life and freedom. But in return the goddess commands unwavering

• Language: English
• Publisher: Musadora Publishing
• Release date: Feb 6, 2024
• ISBN: 9798989573905

Book preview

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There was an ethereal perfection to Mount Olympus that put Artemis on edge. No matter how many millennia passed, each time she set foot in her father’s kingdom it was suffocating. Endless columns of white marble were as tall and strong as the trees of her forest, though they stood perfectly straight and unyielding. There were no sounds of life as far as Artemis could see or hear in the sterile and pristine palace.

Soft moss and crunching leaves were what she usually felt beneath her bare feet. Yet on this day, her sage-colored slippers tapped against the polished stone floor as she made her way to the throne room. A cloudless sky allowed for sunbeams to fill the open corridor, which reflected off the pillars but failed to warm her at all. Each step echoed off the walls, putting her further on edge.

As Artemis crossed into the antechamber, the scent of jasmine reached her. Despite the high mountain air drifting through the columns, she was smothered by its sweet smell.

Her gaze landed on the climbing vines, noting that, despite being a welcomed splash of green, they were firmly contained. So too were the gardens and pools that were interspersed among the various courts of the Olympians. Each of Zeus’s chosen had been given their own palace within his kingdom, though none were as pristine and grand as his.

Where others saw beauty and flawlessness, Artemis saw only the presence of her father. It was as rigid, imposing, and as controlling as he was. While the sweet stars of jasmine were a break in the monotony of his immaculate design, there was the expectation of keeping their place. Any vine reaching too far or taking up too much space would be cut back without hesitation.

Apollo wondered why she spent so little time here. Of all the Olympians, there was only one other who ventured to the mortal realms more often than herself. As much as Artemis wished to be anywhere else, however, she wasn’t one to deny her father.

Sister, I’ve been waiting.

Artemis’s attention moved from the vines to the figure entering the chamber from the balcony. It was Athena. Sunlight caught on her shining breastplate of silver accented with gold, and her helm sat perched atop her dark chestnut tresses. A head taller than Artemis and twice as muscular, Athena was an oak beside its sapling.

The corners of Athena’s gray eyes crinkled as she offered a smile. Those eyes, the same as their father’s, were the only thing Artemis had in common with her half sister. That, and the desire to remain chaste for eternity. Artemis preferred to focus on what they chose to have in common rather than what they were forced to share.

Have you had your audience yet? Artemis asked, glancing at the golden doors. Just beyond was their father resting atop his cushioned throne. She wondered briefly if his queen would be beside him. Hera’s presence always made the obligatory meetings uncomfortable.

Of course, Athena said, unaware of the privilege that came from being Zeus’s favorite. Every lunar cycle the king of the gods held court. Before spending the better part of the day addressing the concerns of his subjects, Zeus would hear from his six Olympian children, the ones he deemed powerful and important enough to share a seat at his table. To appease everyone’s egos, it was decided their audiences would be in alphabetical order. Nevertheless, Athena always managed to be heard before both Artemis and Ares. Their father claimed to have no preferences. Everyone, except for Athena, knew better.

Tomorrow I’m journeying to Attica. There’s to be a war.

Of course there is, Artemis said, neither surprised nor impressed. Mortals prayed most for good health followed closely by victory in battle. Or maybe rain. Top three, Artemis was sure.

It’ll be one the poets tell for an age, Athena said, crossing her arms and nodding with confidence. Artemis had to refrain from rolling her eyes. Every war was one for the ages as far as her half sister was concerned. It was all tiresome, repetitive, unnecessary, and barbaric. Never mind the loss of mortal lives, the destruction of her forests during the pursuit of victory left a sour taste in her mouth. Athena noticed the look of distaste and said, "It’s all for a noble cause. You see, decades ago the sons of Metion seized the throne of Athens, driving out Pandion the second. Now his son Aegeus— the rightful king— and his brothers are reclaiming what’s theirs."

You’re supporting the aggressor? Artemis raised an eyebrow in skepticism. It was unlike Athena to show favor to the antagonist, preferring to aid those defending their homeland. Such aggressions were only smiled upon by their half brother, Ares.

The goddess of war and wisdom stiffened at the accusation. He’s the descendant of Erichthonius and, as such, knows what’s best for Athens.

Because he has your guidance, hmm? Artemis gave her an expectant look. For a goddess who insisted on not being bound by love or oaths to men and immortals alike, Athena spent much of her time counseling mortals. Why do you waste your time with these men and their squabbles?

Athena was both offended and baffled by the question. She scoffed.

To improve their lives and those of their people, of course. My wisdom is a greater gift than any.

If you wanted to improve their lives, you’d put their women in charge.

Athena’s laugh echoed off the marble walls. The sound sparked something within Artemis.

Ah, yes, have the women lead—the ones whose emotions will cloud their judgments, whose venomous nature will start more wars than any man, and who weep and wail the moment there’s danger. Those who faint at the sight of blood? Athena laughed again and Artemis was filled with indignation.

I didn’t know you fainted and wailed, sister. Artemis’s eyes narrowed.

Athena brushed off the jab. Of course I don’t.

But you’re a woman, are you not?

Yes, but I’m not like other women. Neither are you.

I think we’re more like them than you’d like to believe.

A rolling boom of thunder interrupted their debate, drawing their attention toward the golden doors. They burst open, and out stormed their half brother, Ares. He seethed with a fury that was rarely found off the battlefield. The doors slammed shut behind him. Squeezing his helmet between his hands, the brute’s muscles flexed under the onyx armor he wore. If it hadn’t been forged by adamantine it would have been crushed as easily as dried leaves. Dark eyes inspected the helmet as he squeezed, mouth pulled into a sneer and jaw tensed. His lips parted, but instead of the scream of rage Artemis expected, he gave a sharp inhale then slow exhale.

You’d think he’d learn, Athena muttered under her breath. The sound drew Ares’s attention to the two of them. For a moment he glared, but then he forced a smile. Artemis scowled in return, the frown deepening as he swaggered in their direction. His cloak, a deep burgundy like freshly spilled blood, cascaded off his shoulders and trailed on the stone floor as he closed the distance between them.

Father tells me we’re to be on the same side of things for once, Ares said as he neared, a conceited smirk spreading across his face as he raised an eyebrow. Athena’s expression remained neutral until she caught sight of the look Artemis gave her. With a frown, she shifted uncomfortably and cleared her throat.

That’s an oversimplification, Athena said, more to Artemis than their half brother. She looked to Ares and said, And we’ve been over this. You needn’t involve yourself in matters of Athens. That’s my domain.

"War is my domain, Ares said. His eyes narrowed in annoyance before he found a more dismissive tone. Unlike you, I don’t participate only when it conveniences me."

Artemis glanced between them, holding her breath as she waited for one to make the first move. While Athena had far more patience than the notoriously short-tempered Ares, the latter had the innate ability to antagonize the other to action. Her half sister’s celestial gray eyes darkened, and her jaw tightened with the strain of controlling herself.

I don’t expect a belligerent savage such as you to understand the nuances of divine justice. If I thought there was a chance you could understand concepts beyond destruction and slaughter, I might enlighten you. Artemis and I both know I would have better luck teaching rocks to fly.

A manic laugh echoed through the room, sending a chill down Artemis’s spine. There were all sorts of unsettling sounds in her forest that didn’t bother the goddess; screeches from hawks, screams from panthers or foxes, and squeals of giant boars, yet none of them compared to the shrill cackling that went on and on.

She didn’t move.

Footsteps from behind her sent her heart racing. She knew as well as the rest of them who found amusement in their strife. Artemis hoped that if she pretended she hadn’t heard, it would leave.

Athena appeared as disturbed as she was, but Ares remained composed. Artemis shouldn’t have been surprised to see the smallest of smirks pulling at his lips. She couldn’t imagine herself ever associating with such a creature, let alone be entertained by it.

Delightful as always, Athena. You never fail to amuse me. She’s the highlight of our journey to Olympus. Wouldn’t you agree, Ares?

The voice was grating, like a mosquito buzzing in her ear. A faint tickle of feathers brushed against Artemis’s arm as the malevolent creature passed. Artemis dared a glance, taking in the dark wings that protruded from its back and the darker, greasy hair. Its face turned upward and thin lips curved up under a beaked nose in a manic grin of yellowing pointed teeth. With its sunken features, not far from that of a corpse, and bulbous pale eyes, it was difficult to believe that this demon was allowed to walk among her father’s pristine halls.

A look of disgust settled on Artemis’s face. Its eyes made contact with hers for an instant before she looked away. With a beat of its wings, the demon took flight, circling the three of them once before hovering at Ares’s shoulder. The creature was half his size, no larger than an average mortal woman. There was another laugh, closer to a giggle this time before it said, "My mistake. I almost forgot the real reason why you’re here. Not that I know personally, but I would argue her company is more pleasurable than amusing."

Ares’s expression soured at the implication and in a stern voice said, That’s enough.

Should I stay with Athena while you finish your business? His demonic companion asked, giving the goddess of war a mischievous glance. The thought of being alone with such a monstrous creature left Artemis feeling ill.

I should think not, Athena said, her back stiffening before addressing Ares, You know very well that father has not only commanded you to maintain supervision of this one but has forbid you from seeing—

Say another word, sister, and I will be compelled to work against you in your endeavors with Aegeus, Ares growled, obsidian eyes beginning to glow with the fire of his rage building within.

As Athena opened her mouth to retort, the demon let out a gleeful squeal. It was difficult to tell whether it was the noise or the gravity of the threat that caused Athena to falter. Whether it was her powers of wisdom or strategy that aided in her decision, she remained silent. With a curt nod, Ares blinked back his fury and took his leave. His companion let out a squawk of disappointment before following him, whining about wanting to attend the feast that evening.

Once they were out of sight, Athena’s shoulders slumped, and she let out a long exhale. Artemis’s anxieties waned, and she too could breathe easier. With Athena rubbing her temples, Artemis asked, "Is it true that you’ll be working with him?"

Ares and his companions are a… necessary evil. Athena’s voice was grim, resigned to the facts of divine purpose. Each of them had a role to play and brought balance to the universe. Artemis knew this as well as the rest of them, but it didn’t mean she had to like it. He’s a lustful god who craves the rush of battle and other vile things. One who cares more for the glory of victory than what comes after.

Artemis sneered at the description, disgusted by him and everything he stood for. With arms crossed she replied, If women ruled, I don’t see why there would be a need for him.

What you’re proposing is impossible, Athena said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Is it? Father imprisoned Kronos—time himself—in the pit of Tartarus. Are you suggesting our dearest brother is stronger than Kronos? Unable to be contained?

Athena’s expression went from skeptical to thoughtful as she considered Artemis’s words. Her eyes turned pale and gaze grew distant as she considered all the knowledge she had, weighing the options. The mere action of Athena taking her seriously gave Artemis hope, and she held her breath.

With a blink, Athena returned to the present and said, No. Not possible.

Artemis sighed and crossed her arms. Why not?

Even if you were able to recreate mortal civilization in its entirety, which is nearly impossible without some sort of catastrophic event like a flood—don’t get any ideas of going to uncle or father. But even if you were able to do that, you’re assuming women aren’t violent. Never mind the fact that Ares doesn’t care about what’s between the legs of the immortals praying to him.

You think so little of them? Artemis’s brow furrowed in her anger.

They’re mortals. Of course, I do.

What if you’re wrong?

Athena gave her a conceited look, which stirred the resentment she felt into rage. With a low groan, the golden doors to their right swung open. It was her turn to hold an audience with Zeus. Not one to keep their father and king waiting, Artemis stepped away, still fuming.

In the steps between Athena and the doors, she searched for something, anything, that might make the other goddess change her mind. She paused at the entrance and said over her shoulder, I’ll prove it.

The doors closed behind her, so she couldn’t hear Athena over the din of their movement say, I’d like to see you try.

1

O trera, hurry up.

The last bits of sleep were snapped away as the command hit her like a whip. With renewed vigor, she returned to her task. As she had done a thousand times before, she wrapped the long strip of linen methodically around her chest. She’d become a woman many winters ago, but that truth was kept hidden.

She tied a knot and tucked it away with care, so when she pulled her gray tunic over it, everything beneath the fabric disappeared. Her hand passed over it once to confirm it was acceptable as she steeled herself for inspection, then pulled at the heavy curtain that sheltered her from view.

Bah! Finally.

Otrera had grown accustomed to the bite of Theía’s impatience over the years living on the farm. Especially since she often deserved it.

Theía hunched over a soot-covered kettle that hung in a large fireplace. The burden of years in such a position weighed heavy on the old woman’s back. Otrera had learned right away how particular and unforgiving Theía could be when she’d first arrived nearly a decade ago. With time, Otrera found the old woman capable of emanating a warmth unlike anything she could remember feeling before. Much like the fire that crackled beneath the kettle, Theía’s words could burn or warm. It all depended on whether you remembered the importance of respect.

With a hand on her lower back, Theía straightened with a groan. Flames licked at the kettle, as hungry as Otrera was for what bubbled within. The old woman placed a wooden ladle on the rough-hewn table before turning to face Otrera. She beckoned with a swift jerk of her head and held out her hand.

Come get warm. There’s work to do.

Obediently, Otrera padded closer, her bare feet eager to get off the cold stones. She stood in silence as the old woman reviewed Otrera’s work, grateful for the fire’s warm kisses on her back. Theía clucked her tongue as her knobby fingers passed over the wool tunic that was a foot shorter than it should have been. Otrera couldn’t remember the last time it fit her, nor could she remember when she had first started to bind her chest.

At first, Otrera had protested about how uncomfortable the binding was. But Theía insisted. As Otrera grew, the gangly nature of girlhood turned into young womanhood. Theía said it was better to hide the changes than to draw attention. It was Theía who had instructed her to bind, and showed her how. A beautiful girl would fetch a good price at the market, she’d said. It was best to remain plain and inconspicuous for as long as possible. Theía adjusted the cord wrapped around her waist to hide any hint of the figure beneath.

That will do, I suppose. But your hair. Bah! Otrera what have I told you?

It won’t stay, Theía. Otrera said, groaning in frustration at the dark, frizzy curls that fought free from the braids she slept in. Redoing them daily took more time than was allowed. Theía always insisted there was too much to do. Yet, the old woman complained of how wild and messy Otrera looked when she didn’t take the time to recreate the braids that kept her hair out of her face.

Then wake up earlier. You look like a gorgon.

I’ll cover them up, Otrera quipped as she snatched a piece of muslin and twine from a basket of bread. Centering it over her forehead, she deftly tucked and tied until only bits of curls framed her face. There, tamed.

It will have to do. Theía said, picking crumbs from Otrera’s hair with a frown. Take this.

Theía thrust a piece of rough bread and a goblet of watered-down wine in her hands. She eagerly ate, dipping the bread into the wine to soften the hard crust. While Otrera wolfed her breakfast down, Theía returned to her work, alternating between stirring the lentils in the kettle and shaping loaves of bread on the table. Her wrinkled hand wiped away sweat from her brow, and when a beam of sunlight peeked through the window, she looked up from her tasks.

Hurry, there’s much to do. After you gather the eggs and milk the goats, bring in that stubborn one. We’ll need him later.

Otrera nearly choked on her last bit of crust in her hurry to protest. Not that one. He always bites or charges at me. He’s the meanest, most stubborn—

All the more reason to sacrifice him.

The significance of a sacrifice distracted Otrera from the thought of the unpleasant task of wrangling the large buck Theía had in mind. Their master made a sacrifice to Hermes whenever he was entertaining a potential buyer. It was a small price to pay for being smiled upon by the god of commerce. Otrera knew by now that the larger the beast, the more important the buyer. With a sigh she resigned herself to the unpleasantness ahead.

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Outside, there was still a bite in the air as Otrera went about her morning chores. Over the sounds of birds waking in the nearby woods were farmhands shouting to one another. They struggled to round up the stallions who were more vocal in their protests than the mares and geldings, and more dangerous too. Perhaps the big ram wasn’t the worst thing after all.

As she pushed chickens aside to pick up their still-warm eggs, she concluded that the man her master wanted to impress must have been a general, or perhaps a prince. Only a man in need of a war horse would be interested in purchasing a stallion, and only a man who was looking for more than one was important enough to sacrifice a goat so large. She only had the bragging stable boys as reference, but she was sure her master and his ancestors were among the most notable Andravida horse breeders in all of Attica.

Her suspicions were confirmed as the morning waned, and she caught sight of something that sparkled in the distance. Otrera stopped plucking ripe pomegranates from the gnarled tree that half hung over the fence of one of the many pastures. A couple of mares lingered nearby, hoping Otrera climbing the tree would send some tumbling into their patch of grass. Balancing on one of the thicker branches, Otrera held herself steady and shielded her eyes from the sun to get a better look.

Two horses walked down the road that led to her master’s house. Upon them sat two armored men. Behind them were four more men walking, and a fifth drove a covered wagon. Their polished bronze breastplates shone in the morning sun. Two of the footmen carried pikes whose banners of crimson and gold fluttered in the breeze.

As they drew closer, she noticed one of the horseman’s helmets had a grand Corinthian crest of black and rust horsehair. A scarlet cloak spilled down his shoulders onto the creamy-white haunches of his steed. To his right, the other’s crest was smaller and only black. Otrera had never seen a man of such importance before, and a fascination took hold.

They disappeared into a dip in the road, and Otrera scrambled higher into the tree hoping for a better look. A few pomegranates thudded to the ground, and the mares nickered with satisfaction as they helped themselves to the bounty.

By the time she returned her gaze to the road, they were closer than she had anticipated, and it was then that she realized her foolish mistake. The treetops gave her a better view of the road, which meant that the road had a better view of her.

Panic crept into Otrera's veins when it occurred to her that these men would be riding past her in a matter of moments. Heart thudding in her chest, she searched for a way down but found none. The climb had been so clear, yet looking down, she couldn’t recall what branch she had been on a moment before. The height she had reached was one that took her by surprise. Otrera didn’t understand how she’d gotten up so high. She could have sworn she only went up a limb or two.

You there!

She froze like a deer after it hears a branch break. Otrera’s eyes jumped from the branches below to the horseman who had called up to her. She almost let out a yelp of surprise; he was mere feet from the tree. The others stood on the road in relative silence. All eyes rested on her, and Otrera felt her face grow hot.

Are you in need of assistance? The rider asked. Otrera thought she had been flustered before, yet as his dark eyes pierced her own she found herself without words. It took the sound of his horse stepping closer to bring her to speak.

No, sir, thank you. I’m quite alright. Otrera said, then shrieked as her foot slipped and she fell into the branches below. The rough bark scraped her cheeks and arms yet didn’t hurt as much as the laughter that erupted from the men on the road. She had never encountered this many strange men before, let alone soldiers, or worse, potential customers. Surely her master would find out what a fool she was and give her a lashing for being an embarrassment. To make matters worse, the basket, which was precariously perched on the lower branches, fell. Pomegranates rolled everywhere and evoked more laughter from the men. Otrera’s face flushed a deeper shade of pink, and she wished they would go away. She blinked back tears that threatened to fall while she tried to keep her wits together.

What are you doing up there anyway?

The soldier dismounted and lashed his horse to a fence post, then moved to stand at the base of the tree. She could hear the amusement in his voice, and her temper flared.

Teaching the horses to climb trees. What does it look like? Otrera snapped, glaring at the man below.

From her perch, he looked small, but it was clear that he was brawny, and a capable fighter. His strong, dark brows furrowed, and she regretted what she said. Otrera scolded herself for speaking out of turn but was then startled with a bark of laughter. She scowled at him, angry and fearful. She was a cat in a tree being taunted by a pack of dogs. It was all fun until one of them realized how powerless she really was. The claws of her words could only keep him at bay for so long. How easily he could pull her down and do what he pleased with only his pack to hear her cries for help.

You’re a feisty one, he said with a grin as he removed his helmet. He ran his fingers through his chin length chestnut tresses, but a strand fell away from the rest.

Her grasp on the branches tightened.

You’re bleeding. Let me help you before you really hurt yourself.

Otrera was sure he spoke the truth about the extent of her injuries based on how much her knees stung, yet she remained in place. He moved closer, ducking to avoid the lower, thicker limbs. As he neared, Otrera became acutely aware of her modesty. In an attempt to rearrange the layers of her tunic, she found herself slipping again.

She cried out and desperately tried to grab hold of a branch to break her fall from the canopy. The sensation of falling overwhelmed her, and she closed her eyes, preparing for the pain of hitting the ground.

There was a clatter of metal on stone and a whoop of delight from the road. She opened her eyes to find the soldier staring back into hers. For a moment, she clung to him, cradled like a rag doll in his strong arms, and overwhelmed by his presence. He smelled of the road, a combination of horse, leather, dust, sweat, and an oddly subtle sweetness. His jaw was strong and stubbled with a short beard, softened only by the smirk that pulled at his lips. Dark eyes twinkled with satisfaction and mesmerized her as he looked her over.

Then, all at once, her senses returned, and she released his cloak. Hands turned to fists, striking his breastplate with tiny thuds. Suddenly, the strong arms were gone, and she found herself falling again.

What kind of thanks is that? he asked. His counterparts hooted and hollered. Otrera scrambled up from the ground and stepped back. She ignored the pain in her tailbone and grabbed a pomegranate, ready to throw it at him if he were to advance. He turned his attention back to her, and laughed at the threat of being pelted by fruit.

Leave me, sir. I beg you, Otrera demanded with as much strength as she could muster. She drew herself to her full height, yet he was a head taller even without the helmet at his feet. She was all too aware of his ability to overpower her. Her heart raced, and her eyes darted to find an escape. Perhaps his brawn made him slow on his feet. Regardless, all she needed was a distraction.

Ariston, that’s enough. Let’s go. The barking command of the other horseman broke the tension, and as the man’s attention was pulled from her, Otrera fled. She hopped the fence with far more grace than she had had climbing the tree. Hades have the pomegranates; her only desire was to get as much distance between her and those men as possible. She made it halfway across the field before stopping to catch her breath. Otrera could still hear the amusement in his voice as he called, You’re welcome! Don’t let me catch you up another tree. I might leave you there next time.

2

With a great heave, Otrera managed to pull the goat a few feet. It was the fifth time the animal had stopped to browse the vegetation between his paddock and the house. He lowered his head, threatening to use his dark twisted horns as he took a step forward.

Come on. Stop it, Otrera grumbled. The goat resisted with a bleat before taking another step. She struggled with him for another twenty paces before he found a new clump of grass.

No! We’re already late! Theía’s going to kill me.

You bet she will. The familiar voice of Pamphilos reached her ear.

She looked to see the farmhands lounging nearby, eating boiled lentils with