An arrow pierced the fragrant cup on Ty's head and tore off the wig, leaving her bald head bare. But the old woman sat unperturbed and did not even take her gloves off; rebellion seemed to be part of the court ceremonial to her.
Miruit, wounded in the stomach with a spear, lay in a pool of blood on the floor, scratching the ground with her nails and showing her teeth as it were in a smile, and the narrow childish hips moved slower and slower as though ending the dance of love.
The Hittite Amazons might not have withstood the attack of the Midians, had not half the mercenaries deserted the conspirators at the last moment.
The noise of the battle began to subside, the rebels were in retreat. The women had conquered the men. It had all happened so quickly that those present had hardly come to their senses.
Suddenly Ramose, lightly wounded in the left arm, came into the chamber dragging Tuta after him. He threw him at the king's feet and cried:
"Here is the chief criminal, sire! It is for his sake the other one has been working," he pointed to Merira and turned to Tuta again. "Confess, you rascal, or I'll kill you like a dog."
He raised the knife over Tuta. The king seized his hand.
"Let go the knife!"
Ramose did not obey and, shaking with anger, grumbled:
"Will you forgive this one, too?"