She wore an unadorned tunic, like most of the young men at that distant table, with her dark bronze hair pulled back and tied horse-tail style. The flickering light of the oil lamps made it easy to mistake her for a man, especially when I wasn’t expecting to see a woman among the weapons bearers.
“Who is she?” I asked Castor. And then, in a whisper: “She doesn’t look like a man; she’s just dressed like one. If she’s trying to disguise herself, it’s not—”
“I was only teasing you about her having stolen your trick, Helen,” Castor said fondly. “She’s never tried to hide the fact that she’s a woman from anyone; she’s proud of it, if you ask me. Her name’s Atalanta, and she’s the daughter of Lord Iasius of Arcadia.”
“A king’s daughter? And our uncle sat her all the way down there?” I asked, nodding to the far end of the great hall. “With servants?” I was flabbergasted. The king had placed her so far away from him that she might as well have been in another room. The insult didn’t seem to bother her or affect her appetite. She was eating heartily and had all of her dinner companions laughing at jokes I couldn’t hear. “Does Lord Oeneus want war with Arcadia?”
“Oh, she’s not here as a daughter of Arcadia,” Castor replied, smiling. “She’s here as one of us; she’s come to hunt the boar.”
“That’s disgraceful,” a new voice spoke in my other ear, making me turn sharply from Castor at the sound. While I’d been staring at Atalanta, our cousin Meleager had taken his place beside me at the table. He was just as frail-looking as Castor had described him, but there was nothing weak about the anger burning in his eyes.
“What’s disgraceful, cousin, that a woman’s a huntress?” I asked coolly. As a guest, I had to keep my own anger under control, but I didn’t like my cousin’s attitude toward Atalanta at all. “I’m surprised that something like that bothers you. I thought that in this land it’s acceptable for royal women to know how to hunt. My own mother, your aunt, taught me the same tracking and archery skills she’d learned when she was still a Calydonian princess.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Meleager replied. “The disgrace is how Father treats her. Maybe it’s because he’s only king of Calydon by marriage. If he’d been raised here, he might be more willing to accept her for what she is. Atalanta’s at least as strong and brave as half the men here, and she can outrace us all. The day she came riding up to the gates, some oafish palace guard tried to send her away. When she dismounted and told him she refused to go until she’d seen the king, he tried to—what was that stupid thing he said?—to ‘teach her she’s a woman.’” My cousin had a wicked smile. “It was an unforgettable lesson…for the teacher. She didn’t even have to use a weapon to disarm him, knock him off his feet, and hold him helpless until the king arrived.”
“I wish I’d seen that,” I said.
“And I wish Father could remember that he did. He says that it’s one thing for a girl to bring down a rabbit or two with her bow but that there’s something unnatural about one who also knows how to use sword and spear, who can wrestle, ride, and race like a man. He acts as if each of her achievements is a fluke.”
“True,” Castor put in. “When she beat me at wrestling, Lord Oeneus took me aside and apologized for the poor condition of the ground. According to him, the only reason I lost was that my foot must’ve slipped on a stone. I know better than that. I have to admit it. She’s not bad.”
“You mean for a woman?” I asked, putting a little bite into the question.
“Don’t put words in my mouth, little sister,” Castor responded. “After just a short while on the training ground with her, I saw what she can do. I felt it. I don’t know about the rest of the hunters, but Polydeuces agrees with me: She’s a worthy companion. A pity that our uncle won’t see that.”
Meleager shook his head over his father’s obstinacy. “How many times can he blame her wins on luck? He can’t stand to see a mere girl outdo men time after time. Hasn’t he heard of her exploits? The singers already know at least half a dozen stories about her triumphs as an athlete and a hunter.”
“Maybe he thinks they’re just stories,” I said. “That’s why he won’t believe them.”
Meleager snorted with disgust. “Then why is he so eager to believe the high-flown tales the singers recite about all of them?” He made a sweeping gesture that included every man feasting in his father’s hall. Two red spots flared on his pasty cheeks as he spoke with even more indignation. “They don’t even need the singers’ tales. They do their own boasting well enough. Too well. They come here with stories about how they’ve slain giants and monsters, but where’s the proof?”
I smiled, liking my cousin more and more. “What do you want them to do? Haul a dragon’s head around with them everywhere they go?”
I was teasing, but he took me seriously. “A dragon’s tooth would be enough. The hunter who kills the boar will be given its hide as a trophy—Father said so. The tusks go with the hide. I’ll bet that whoever wins that prize will always carry one tusk with him from then on and show it proudly. That’s because this beast is real. Anyone can destroy a thousand imaginary monsters.”
He took a long drink of wine and fell silent. His eyes never left Atalanta for the rest of the meal.
As the feast went on, I saw what Meleager meant about the other hunters’ love of boasting. It didn’t take much to get them started. Mention the weather and someone would claim to be the son of Zeus, master of the thunderbolt; say that you couldn’t eat another bite and someone would start telling the tale of how he’d slain a giant who could eat a whole ox in one mouthful. As soon as one of them would finish, another would start.
I leaned toward Castor and whispered, “Want to play a game? If we hear ten stories about dead monsters before we hear ten about who’s a god’s son, I win. Otherwise, you do.”