Oracle's War

by Oracle's War (retail) (epub)

  Runt… I hate that word.

  ‘Did I?’ Bria says diffidently. ‘Don’t remember. I must’ve been…’ She runs her eyes up and down him disdainfully, and concludes, ‘I must have been really, really drunk.’

  His piggish eyes harden as he bends over her. ‘Listen, bitch, you don’t tease a man like that and not deliver. You’re fucking well coming with us.’

  ‘I don’t fucking well think so,’ Bria retorts. ‘In fact I don’t fucking well think you can fuck very well, so we’re not fucking well going to fuck.’ She looks at me. ‘Shorty, deal with this, will you?’

  Oh, thanks very much…

  I come up fast, slamming my right fist into Belados’s belly while my left hand snatches up my crockery tankard. I lash out with it, slamming it into the bridge of his closest mate’s nose. The nose breaks and so does the tankard, and then I’m wading in, smashing an uppercut into Belados’s jaw and sending him over the adjacent table. One of his other mates cops a fist to the throat, then Bria gives a whoop and smashes a chair over someone’s back and it’s all on…

  It’s good to be a theios; the difference between coming out intact and a world of pain is a good dose of extra strength and lightning reflexes. They don’t grant you invulnerability, but they are enough – along with the many, many hours I’ve spent learning how to fight with all my body, the venerable but brutal art of the pankration – to carry me through the brawl, which ends with Belados and his mates being dragged or carried out the tavern door, the only one still conscious screaming imprecations over his shoulder.

  The owner isn’t exactly pleased with us, but Obol-bags Bria patches things up, and we settle back to our meal and another round of drinks, while the remaining locals give us a wide berth.

  ‘Watch the short guy,’ I hear them muttering. ‘Fists of stone.’

  I wish they’d get over the short thing.

  There’s nothing much else to do, so we stay where we are for the rest of the day and on into the night, watching people come and go, picking up what gossip we can. We’re lingering over our final jug of sour wine as midnight comes around. The crowd has thinned and we’re tossing knuckle bones to see who gets the bed tonight. Apparently just because I lost last night doesn’t mean it’s my turn today – Bria doesn’t do ‘fair’.

  But then the street grows lively again, with lots of running feet and shouting. We’re getting up to go to the door and investigate, along with everyone else still drinking, when a dishevelled and hysterical young woman bursts in, her face bruised and swollen. She looks wildly around the tavern and then shrieks and runs straight towards me.

  It’s the maid, Actoris.

  ‘They’ve taken her!’ she wails. ‘They’ve taken my mistress!’

  6 – The Pursuit

  ‘Hear me, Poseidon, dark-haired one, O [immortal] horseman whose watery arms embrace the earth, who dwells at the very bottom of the deep-bosomed sea, wielding your bronze trident in your hand, lord of the oceans, sea-resounding, loud-thundering, earth-shaking, wave-tossed, graceful, whose four-horsed chariot gallops onwards, carving a turbulent path through the raging sea. This third part was apportioned thine by lot, O worshipful god, while the deep river of the sea, with its swollen waves and wild beasts, greatly pleases your heart.’

  —Orphic Hymn 17 to Poseidon

  Delos, Aegean Sea

  It’s dawn, finally. We’ve been awake all night, searching the little island in the dark, along with the rest of the inhabitants, everyone blundering about, stumbling over boulders, falling into thorn bushes and trying to arrest each other. As far as I could tell, most of them were drunk, and the general mayhem can only have helped whoever has abducted Arnacia to make their escape.

  The ‘whoever’ seems pretty obvious though: I’m assuming Nauplius and Palamedes are the culprits – who else? After the confrontation with Sophronia and the Theban seers, Nauplius and Palamedes were seen leaving Delos an hour after midday, their ship clawing its way north-west under oars against a headwind. But returning to Delos under cover of night would be simple with the prevailing north-westerly behind them. They weren’t seen arriving, but according to a solitary and not very sober eyewitness, a ship rowed out of Delos harbour just before midnight and headed due north. It’s a risk, taking a ship to sea in the dark with no moon, but it can be done.

  Icarius, on the other hand, stayed on the island and is now in custody, but he obviously doesn’t have his daughter with him so I can’t see how any charges will stick. Bria has been sneaking around and she reports that Icarius has been accusing anyone from lowly slaves to Zeus on High of the kidnapping.

  But we do have some hard facts. According to Actoris, Sophronia took supper once again with her Theban and Trojan friends, leaving just a pair of temple guards to watch Arnacia. At midnight, Arnacia and Actoris were asleep when they were woken by noises outside. Then two masked men burst in. The last thing Actoris remembers is trying to protect her mistress and taking a flurry of fists to her face. She woke up to find Arnacia and the men gone, and the two guards outside beaten unconscious.

  She immediately raised the alarm, but once her story had been verified, she was ignored in the ensuing kerfuffle. That’s when she decided to come and find me. Since I helped save her mistress once before, she’s convinced I’m the man for the job again. Flattering, but delivering on her expectations might be tricky.

  In the growing half-light, every ship in the harbour is heading for the northern horizon, rowing hard in the early morning calm before the wind picks up. We signalled Diomedes and Eurybates a few hours ago to bring the galley from Rineia, shooting a fire-arrow, as agreed, from the slopes of Mount Kynthos, and we’ll meet them in the same cove where we landed two days ago. Delos town is almost deserted: a few searchers are heading for their beds but most are aboard a pursuit ship, for Sophronia has offered an eye-watering reward for Arnacia’s safe return. We’ve even seen the Trojan warship set out, with Skaya-Mandu standing by the helmsman barking orders. There’s been no sign of Kyshanda, so presumably she’s still in the shrine. Sadly, I can’t see how I’ll get the chance to see her again, with all this going on. We’ve already taken Actoris back to the sanctuary, leaving her at the gate with all kinds of improbable reassurances that we’ll bring her mistress back. She’s utterly distraught, of course.

  Nauplius and his son have had Arnacia under their control all night…

  It’s an ugly thought.

  As soon as we’re confident we won’t be observed, Bria and I scurry along the coast to the cove where we first disembarked, hugely relieved to find our galley awaiting us. Diomedes helps us board, demanding to know what’s happening. I leave that task to Bria while I dash along the gangway, yelling orders. ‘We’ve got to get underway immediately! Come on, lads! Move your arses!’

  The next few minutes are all action as the rowers back oars, with Eury working the twin steering oars to pull the ship around. Then we’re churning the water white, building momentum to carry us out of the cove. I’m still standing next to Eury in the stern when Bria and Diomedes join me. It’s council of war time.

  ‘All right, what’s the plan?’ Bria demands, strapping on her breastplate.

  ‘Which way would they go?’ Diomedes asks.

  ‘They went north,’ Bria says. ‘I’ve already told you.’

  ‘No, Diomedes is right to question,’ I say. ‘Listen, I’ve got a theory. Who do Nauplius and Palamedes serve?’ It’s a rhetorical question and I answer it myself. ‘Aphrodite. Or at least Palamedes does. And where’s the nearest major shrine to Aphrodite?’

  Diomedes shrugs. He either doesn’t know or doesn’t care. So it’s Bria who replies. ‘The island of Cythera. That’s where the Clamshell was born – after Uranus’s balls hit the sea when Cronos cut them off.’

  ‘Or so the tales say,’ I reply. I’ve learnt too much in the past year to take these sorts of stories literally. ‘Whatever the truth, Cythera is the centre of Aphrodite’s worship. And why did those two take Arna
cia? To turn her into an acolyte of the Clamshell, of course. Where better – or safer – to do that than at Aphrodite’s central shrine? They’ll be sailing south-west towards Cythera, and so should we.’

  ‘But they were seen heading north,’ Bria insists. ‘That’s why everyone else has gone that way.’

  ‘More fool they. Nauplius is a clever man; he might well have sacrificed speed for misdirection, and made a circuit round the north coast of Rineia before turning south. That’s what I would have done in his shoes. And he’s had half the night to pull the trick off.’

  ‘Hell’s hounds, Ithaca, that’s not a plan, it’s a wild guess,’ Bria complains.

  ‘An educated guess,’ I correct her. ‘But right or wrong, the only chance we have of being the sole rescuers is to hazard a direction that no one else has taken, and hope we’re right.’

  Bria looks at Diomedes, who just shrugs – again. It seems he’s a big fan of Reason, but he’d rather cheer it on than use it himself.

  ‘All right, Ithaca,’ Bria concedes. ‘Let’s do it your way. At least Athena will know who to blame.’

  * * *

  Our quarry is in sight.

  It was a good four hours until we saw their sail, with the sun more than halfway up the sky behind us and the sea a glittering wine-dark blue. We made good progress, with a strengthening north-west wind on our beam and our crew braced to adjust the sail to take full advantage of every gust. A cry from our masthead was our first warning; Bria with her keen eyes joins me in the prow, staring hard before muttering an almost disgusted, ‘You were right.’

  ‘At least Athena will know who to praise,’ I quip.

  Soon even the non-theioi among us can make out the black trident painted on the sail, an echo of the symbol embroidered on Nauplius’s purple robes. By now, Bria is bouncing from foot to foot. ‘We’re cutting them down, Ithaca,’ she crows, as Diomedes joins us.

  ‘Their ship is smaller than ours and less sleek,’ he says, shading his eyes with his hand. ‘They shouldn’t get away.’

  ‘What about Poseidon?’ I worry. ‘Nauplius is clearly his acolyte – he wore trident tokens everywhere.’

  Bria looks both of us up and down, assessing, then says, ‘Nauplius is an old enemy of mine, with numerous allegiances. He’s used his silver tongue to persuade several gods to give him their favour, and Poseidon is chief among them. We’ve done well to catch him up at sea, but he’ll have some trick or other up his sleeve.’

  Forewarned, we watch our prey like hawks, as we bear down on the slower merchant ship.

  I’ve learnt much of the gods in the last year: they’re disembodied spirits, subsisting on belief, and they will use a man the way we use a blade. Bria, the source of most of my information, has made it very clear that there are limits to their power: Zeus can’t just hurl down a thunderbolt at will; Hades can’t merely wish an enemy dead, or Ares slaughter an army on his own. That’s not to say they can’t do some terrifying things, but there are reasons they don’t dwell openly among us: they fear each other, and perhaps they even fear us, though for different reasons. It’s unbelief that kills them, and nothing destroys a worshipful attitude more than everyday banality.

  ‘Can Poseidon hole us?’ Diomedes asks worriedly. ‘Or break our mast?’

  ‘He’ll try something,’ Bria says. ‘Get your men ready for a fight, Ithaca.’

  My lads aren’t far off being ready anyway, but I take them through the drill: we’re under full sail, with the ship heeling to the wind, so the oars are stowed, leaving most of the crew free to arm and to fight. They’re in good spirits, not seeing much threat in the smaller ship we’re bearing down on, especially after our skirmish with the pirates a few days ago.

  ‘Mind on the job,’ I growl, making my way along the gangway. ‘This is the sea, lads. Anything can happen.’

  At the helm, Eurybates is riding the gusts cunningly and we’re carving a fine wake through the waves. The rigging thrums, the men sing and the distance closes, until the gap is barely half a mile; every detail on board their ship becomes clear as my theios vision homes in. There’s a slim, girlish figure in a long tunic huddled by the mast…

  Her head and upper body are wrapped in a heavy-looking yellow cloth, so I can’t see either her face or hair. But I have no doubt it’s Arnacia.

  Then a huge creature breaks the surface barely a hundred yards away. I can’t see its head, but a series of triangular humps, the largest the size of a dinner table, crest an immensely long dark back. My mouth goes dry, even as it disappears again.

  ‘Brace yourselves,’ I shout to the crew, keeping my voice as calm as I can as I stare across the white-crested waves at where the creature had appeared, my mind seething with possibilities. Palamedes, in his seductive speech to Arnacia, spoke of the Ketea, ferocious sea monsters I’ve never quite believed in. Now I’m not so sure.

  Then something batters against the hull and the galley shudders. We all cry out in alarm, clutching at the railings or each other as the vessel lurches. Eurybates corrects us with a heroic heave on the crossbar that joins the twin steering oars, and I race forward to the bow, staring even harder at the ship we’re pursuing, trying to get some kind of inkling as to what we face. There’s a man in billowing purple robes in the stern, aft of the steersman, both arms raised, and he’s shouting aloud, his words lost in the wind and waves.

  Nauplius… This is his doing.

  Suddenly the sea-beast strikes in earnest and with a deadly intellect, smashing into the steering oars. The crossbar is battered by the impact, hurling Eurybates against the left-hand railing; he pitches into the sea, blood spurting from his temple, his body already limp. The entire vessel lurches and then slews sideways into the wind, the sail on its angled yard flapping madly.

  ‘Furl the sail,’ I shout, as I rip the leather buckles of my breastplate open, tear off my helmet and sword and launch myself into the water: Eurybates can swim but I don’t think he’s conscious.

  The salt water stings my eyes as I break the surface and pull strongly towards the keryx, who’s starting to sink, only his black hair visible. The water’s turbulent, the ship’s hull somewhere off to my left and the giant sea-beast an ominous darkness beyond it.

  I’m a strong swimmer: if you’re going to spend half your life on the waves – an Ithacan’s lot – you need to be able to deal with going overboard. I kick hard, clawing the water aside with my powerful arms. In a moment, I’ve reached Eurybates, diving down to grip him under the arm and drag him up. His weight slows me, but he reacts – he must already be coming round and he’s starting to thrash about.

  There’s blood in the water from the gash on his head. For a brief moment I worry about sharks, until I hear a crashing sound and look across to the ship. The sea-beast is alongside, smashing its tail against the side. Its massive block-shaped head tells me it’s a catodon, a sperm whale, and it’s got the bulk and power to dash our vessel to splinters.

  A catodon doesn’t attack ships.

  This one is doing just that, though. It crashes its tail against the hull again, while I scream imprecations at it, defying it, seeking to distract it, anything to stop it. But it strikes again, the ship pitching and almost capsizing.

  ‘Rope!’ I shout, kicking hard and keeping my arms under Eurybates’s shoulders. ‘Get Eury out of the water!’

  Not that that’ll be much use if the ship goes down…

  Amidst the confusion Diomedes responds: I see the big Argive hurtle along the railing and then a rope snakes out and strikes the water nearby. I pull Eurybates with me, though he’s now struggling even harder than before.

  ‘Hold still,’ I yell at him as I grasp the rope. I think he hears me – or else he’s slipped back into unconsciousness – because thankfully he goes limp. I’ve just managed to work the rope around his chest when Bria screams a warning. I spin my head to see that I have the beast’s full attention.

  I twist aside as the whale slams into us. The creature’s narrow lower jaw
slashes past my left thigh and calf then snags the rope, carrying us both along in a churning, surging bow wave. Eury and I are swept under. I cling to Eury as we spin and turn and then the rope severs and I’m kicking upwards again, following the bubbles as the beast’s tail buffets the water and vanishes in the swirl.

  We break the surface once more. I catch hold of what’s left of Diomedes’s rope and lash it round Eury’s chest, shouting to Diomedes to pull, one eye on that squat dorsal as the catodon turns.

  Diomedes and a few of the crew begin to haul the stricken keryx in, while I draw my dagger and dive down, to better see the beast coming. It’s speeding back towards me, jaws open, and I know this is the Sea God’s doing, because from every account I have ever heard of these majestic beasts, they just don’t do such things. But the water is streaming around its open mouth, ripping through its bared teeth and then it’s on me again.

  I twist once more from the teeth, plant my feet on the lip of the upper jaw and slide along the catodon’s right side, plunge the dagger into its cheek and rip open a great gash that finishes in the eye socket. Blood gushes over me and then the weapon pulls clear and I’m left tumbling in a crimson wake as the catodon thrashes on.

  I swear I hear it scream.

  I struggle to the surface in a churn of pink spume and gulp down fresh air. My eyes are in agony from the salt, but I manage to see through a blurred haze that Eurybates is being heaved aboard. I suck in another lungful of air, and go under again.

  The catodon is powering back towards me, blood streaming from its wounded cheek. It’s immense, magnificent and terrifying. I spin from its path, slither along the left flank and stab at its other eye, hating myself for maiming such a magnificent creature. Blinded, it will surely die. But I have no choice – I’m not just defending myself but the ship and all my crew.

  This time there’s a definite shriek that makes the water vibrate, blood gushes and then it corkscrews downward. I twist and turn, my knife torn from my hand and still buried in the catodon’s eye socket.