Arnacia’s voice remains toneless, her eyes rolling back in her head until I can only see the whites. ‘I remember the lamps,’ she breathes. ‘The flames were dancing like maenads in the draughts, and I was angry because an Apollo novice had been pestering me to go out and drink with him and his wild friends. Chloea and I were clearing away the offerings when I heard thunder, and then a knocking sound beneath the stones as if something below was trying to get out. I cried out in fear and Chloea asked me what was wrong, and then—’
Arnacia is suddenly seized by some inner force and shaken. Her hands go to her throat, she croaks and gags and then she rakes her temples with her fingernails. Diomedes jerks awake and grabs her arms, barely managing to hold her – it’s obvious she’s possessed by some supernatural strength. She seems unaware of her struggles or his vice-like grip, her voice rising like the shrieking of a crow as she snarls out a chilling blast of words.
‘Doom to Achaea, doom from the bite of the Serpents, nesting in the citadel!
The Stallion bears the Snake and the Lion succumbs, beguiled!
But He of Birth and Rebirth knows the lie! Blinded the Seer, blinding the words!
Rest thee not, for the Rock stands not so high that the Sea cannot wash it away!
Unleash the Boar, Man of Fire! Let Son avenge Father! But ’ware, for only by the Charioteer’s whip will the Dracons be tamed, the Sun dimmed and Truth stand revealed!’
I’m scribbling hard, while the open-mouthed Diomedes holds her tightly against him, wrists clamped. Bria’s eyes are blazing triumphantly as she snaps her fingers and shouts, ‘Wake now, Arnacia!’
The young priestess collapses against Diomedes, shuddering, as we share awed looks.
I compare notes with Bria, while Diomedes soothes the girl. She gazes up at him as the trauma of her experience recedes, her face transfixed by a yearning, tremulous want, but Diomedes just strokes her hair indifferently, apologizing for his presumption.
Then Arnacia straightens, her hand going to her mouth. ‘…and Truth stand revealed,’ she stammers. ‘I heard myself, that time. I heard it all!’
Bria gives a satisfied nod. ‘And do you know what it means?’
Arnacia purses her lips, her face guarded once again. ‘Do you?’ she replies evasively.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s already solved it, I muse, impressed by her strength of will.
Bria shrugs, her face noncommittal. ‘I’d need to do some research.’
‘So would I,’ Arnacia replies.
Suddenly we’re all back to being half-enemies, having each got what we wanted. Bria will have already deciphered most of the imagery, I suspect; I know I have.
‘You’re a trainee priestess, Arnacia,’ I observe. ‘And a seeress. I’m sure a “pene opas” like you has it all figured out. But we’re people of our word: we’ll not force you to speak.’
She half smiles: ‘A “pene opas”? A cunning weaver with hidden insight. I like that.’ Her shrewd grey eyes study me speculatively. ‘I wish we could be friends, Odysseus, but these are such troubled times.’ Her gaze strays regretfully to Diomedes, who is running his fingers through his thick black curly hair. Is he preening? Or merely restless? ‘I’m tired,’ she sighs.
‘That’s understandable,’ Bria says. ‘Why don’t you finish your meal, then get some rest?’ She looks at me. ‘Come on, Ithaca,’ she says, ‘we need to stretch our legs. Dio, keep watch over our little prophetess, in case any of the crew get ideas.’
I’m a little hesitant about leaving Diomedes alone with Arnacia, but Bria snorts when I mention this on our way up the hill behind the cove. ‘Diomedes is so self-obsessed he’s barely noticed she’s female,’ she snickers. ‘Let’s find a quiet spot and talk about prophecies, shall we?’
* * *
The hillside is bare and rocky, affording us a good view down to the cove and the bustle of activity round the ship. I settle myself down on a handy boulder and wait for Bria to speak. Strangely, it’s not hard to equate the woman inhabiting this buxom, muscular warrior-woman to the skinny little maid Hebea: they both cock their head the same way, and speak in the same rhythms.
‘So, Ithaca,’ she says, ‘that was fascinating, wasn’t it? Doom to Achaea from the serpents’ bite. “Serpents” plural. Who do you equate with snakes that we’ve recently encountered?’
I understand her hint: snakes, often called “dracons”, are a common motif right across Achaea, and can represent a number of things. They’re often tied to land and its ownership, but also to rebirth and prophetical insight – and Tiresias of Thebes is strongly associated with snakes. ‘In Tiresias’s legend, he struck a pair of mating serpents before he turned into a woman.’
‘Indeed – and remember, since I attacked him, Tiresias is temporarily struck blind whenever he prophesises.’
‘“Blinded the Seer, blinding the words”,’ I say, quoting Arnacia’s prophecy. ‘Does “blinding the words” mean there’s some kind of lie being told? Can a seer lie?’
‘No,’ Bria replies. ‘You need to understand how a prophecy works: each oracular site is home to many spirits, beings that see time as a river; they can walk downstream and see the future, or upstream and see the past. Special people – theioi with the seer’s gift – can intermediate with those spirits, often at some personal cost, and receive those predictions. But communication between the spirits and the seer is imperfect. It depends on how strong, skilled and experienced the seer is, and on the power of the site. That’s why the prophesies of the seeress in Pytho, or those of Hekuba of Troy, are prized more highly than those of Delos or Dodona or the dozens of lesser oracular sites.’
‘So the seer utters what the spirits tell them? Can the spirits lie?’
‘No,’ she says flatly. ‘But they can be deceived, or the seer can misinterpret what they’re trying to impart.’
Very interesting, I think to myself. You’ve not told me that before. And you hinted earlier that prophesies might, just possibly, be worked against…
I sense that, typically, Bria’s only telling me what she thinks I need to know, but I’m not going to fight about it now. Instead, I focus on the problem before us. ‘So, the prophecies concerning Troy are universally held to be true: they will conquer Achaea by war or by economic strangulation. Arnacia spoke of the Stallion, and Troy is famous for its horse breeding. “The Stallion bears the Snake”… which is Tiresias. Or even Thebes?’
‘One or the other. Possibly both.’
‘“And the Lion succumbs” – surely High King Agamemnon in Mycenae. Is that right?’
‘That’s the likely interpretation. But Mycenae is not the only place which claims the lion as its symbol. There’s Argos as well. And Thebes, just to complicate matters.’
Thebes again. ‘“Let Son avenge Father” – that’s the Epigoni, obviously. But then it says: “the Sun dimmed”. What does that mean?’
Bria grins. ‘Come on, Ithaca. Use your brains. What’s Apaliunas’s symbol? You saw it all over Delos.’
‘A lyre silhouetted against the sun’s rays – the symbol of Apaliunas-Apollo. But he’s worshipped as a god of light, not the sun as such. Helios is our Sun God.’
‘Now you’re really playing dumb. Gods are thieves, Ithaca. Scavengers. They steal our souls, our offerings, our loyalties, our wives. What’s to stop them stealing power from each other?’
‘Very well. “The Sun dimmed.” Apollo, newly instated as Zeus’s son. But who is the Charioteer?’
‘I’m sure time will tell,’ Bria muses. ‘What about the Rock that stands above the Sea?’
I rack my brains to come up with an important citadel on an outcrop overlooking the ocean. ‘Might it have something to do with Syros? The island is rocky enough, though no more than any other around here. And Tiresias travelled all the way to Ithaca to try and destroy Maeus.’
She smiles coolly. ‘No, the Rock is Thebes.’
‘Thebes? But it’s miles from the sea. And they say it’s built on a
low ridge, not a rock.’
‘Don’t be so literal, Ithaca,’ Bria retorts. “The Rock”, “The Sea” – what else could they stand for?’
‘Something old, established? And something new… or something that changes?’
‘And what is more established than Thebes – the oldest, most venerable city in Achaea? Their rulers were high kings when Mycenae was still a village.’
‘And Tiresias is Thebes’s major seer. The damn city’s turning up everywhere.’
‘Isn’t it just?’ Bria says sourly. ‘Diomedes and the other Epigoni may have sworn to avenge their fathers, but the prophecies are universal: mighty Thebes will never fall. And thus, the Epigoni have never rallied and marched.’
‘But this new prophecy – a spontaneous prophecy, the most powerful sort – says it might fall?’
‘Exactly.’ She leans towards me, so that we’re almost nose to nose, and murmurs, ‘And what did the phrase “Unleash the Boar, Man of Fire” mean to you, son of Sisyphus – descendant of Prometheus, the titan who gave us fire? Given that Diomedes’s father Tydeus fought at Thebes with a boar on his shield. And his son still wears his boar’s-tusk helmet?’
I feel my throat tighten. ‘The prophecy wants me to rally the Epigoni?’
‘“Let Son avenge Father”,’ she quotes, her breath on my skin and her eyes intent. ‘Fancy starting a war, Ithaca?’
I pull away from her, thinking hard. This feels immense. The Seven and their failed war has been legend for a decade now, and the impregnability of Thebes has been a fact ever since. Even High King Agamemnon won’t go to war with Thebes, even though they’ve defied him on numerous occasions.
‘Sophronia heard Arnacia’s prophecy, and she summoned both Tiresias, via Manto, and Skaya-Mandu and his twin,’ I breathe. ‘She didn’t tell Agamemnon, or the Pythia. She went straight to Troy, the arch enemy of Achaea… and to the Thebans.’
‘Mmm,’ Bria agrees. ‘And they all seemed rather close, didn’t they?’
‘Thebes is allied to Troy, then,’ I exclaim. My mind races as the implications sink in. ‘They could provide a friendly beachhead for a Trojan invasion. Thebes itself is landlocked, but they have an excellent sheltered port at Aulis, in the channel between the mainland and Euboea. And Thebes has a bigger army than most, and the backing of the most famous seer in Achaea.’
I feel physically sick. Thebes is plotting treachery: a betrayal of Achaea and everything I hold most dear. I thought all Achaeans would fight to defend Achaea. But this implies that it’s Thebes which is engineering war, and not just with the Epigoni. Once, Thebans were the high kings, now they’re overshadowed by Mycenae – they want a return to primacy and aren’t afraid to make deals with the all-conquering Trojans to get what they want.
I glance back towards our camp, thinking about Diomedes and his kin. The Epigoni might be obsessed, but Achaea needs to harness their bone-headed aggression in order to survive. ‘I hate it when you’re right,’ I tell Bria. ‘But Tiresias has to be stopped.’
‘Don’t forget Tiresias’s bitch-daughter, Manto,’ Bria says sourly. ‘She’s as dangerous as he is. They say that when Tiresias was a woman, Heracles himself lay with “her”, and Manto was the issue.’
Once, when I was very young, Heracles was my idol, but since becoming a theios I’ve learnt a darker truth about that “hero”. He was a barbaric force of nature who used his theios power to bully an entire people. Now he’s a god, and seated at the feet of Zeus, the All-Father, who recently has begun to be worshipped in Troy as “Zeus-Tarhum”, a melding of the two principle deities.
‘Then Heracles… and therefore Zeus, support Thebes?’ I ask.
Her grim look answers that question.
‘Where does Syros fit into all this?’ I ask, returning to my earlier thought.
‘Syros? What are you talking about, Ithaca?’
‘Tiresias came to Ithaca to destroy Maeus, and we were about to return Maeus to the throne of Syros, which is an ancient stronghold of Artemis…’
Bria arches an eyebrow. ‘Who’s married to your sister now?’
‘Lochus? But he’s an idiot. And why would Tiresias be bothered trying to put an idiot on the throne of Ithaca?’
‘You’re being the idiot, Ithaca. You’re the one out of favour. You have no idea how damn close you came to being disinherited and thrown out when you stood up for Maeus. You were the target.’
I think about it, but I’m sure she’s wrong. Laertes could have denounced me as a bastard as soon as the Pythia exposed me, but he didn’t, then or now. Out of pride, perhaps, but pride, honour, and the need for public esteem are major elements of his personality. And he’s lent me his best ship and some of his finest men. No, Syros has something to do with this – I just haven’t worked out what yet.
But I can see we’re at an impasse, so I change the subject. ‘If we attack Thebes, we’ll be going up against the major champions of Heracles and Zeus.’
‘We will indeed,’ Bria says brightly, covering my hand with hers and leaning in close again, her mood shift abrupt and not very subtle. ‘Do you rise to a challenge, Ithaca?’
I pull my hand away. ‘I’ve told you where you and I stand, Bria.’
‘But this body and I are in full agreement, Ithaca. We like you, and we’d welcome you tonight.’
‘I’ve only your word for that – and either way, I’m not interested. Thanks, but no thanks.’
‘But you screwed one of those randy maenads on Delos, didn’t you?’ she retorts. ‘I could smell her on your skin that evening.’
‘That’s my business.’
‘Where was that Princess Kyshanda that afternoon?’ she asks, her eyes boring into mine. ‘I didn’t see her in the temple that day.’
‘I have no idea.’ I rise, and stride off down the hill.
8 – Returning the Prize
‘[Apollo] god of Delos, haughty in victory newly won …
Saw [Eros] bending his bow with sinewed string drawn tight.
“Young rogue,” he said, “What concern have you with the weapons of the mighty?
These arms suit my shoulders.
With a sure aim, I can wound wild beasts or enemies … my countless arrows slew …
Do not lay claim to my renown.”
And now [Aphrodite’s] son replied: “Your weapon, Phoebus,
May transfix all, but mine shall vanquish you.
Just as every creature yields to divine power,
In the same way shall your glory be brought low by mine.”’
—Ovid, Metamorphoses
Rineia and Delos, Aegean Sea
I still don’t get any sleep that night, Bria or no Bria. The damage from the whale attack is even worse than I had thought and I’m amazed that we stayed afloat long enough to reach Rineia. The repairs to the hull take up much of the night, with mallets hammering at the wooden dowels that hold the timbers to the ship’s frame, and copper pots of steaming hot pitch being swung inboard to reseal the joints by torchlight. I work as hard as my crew – the vessel has to be seaworthy well before dawn, for we need the cover of darkness to sail Arnacia back to Delos and land her without being caught. I’ve staked my honour on her safe return, but with the island on high alert, I have no desire to be captured by either Skaya-Mandu or Tiresias.
Bria brings Diomedes and Arnacia on board not long before we sail, placing Arnacia amidships and bringing the big Argive aft to join me in the stern, where I’m overseeing the final repairs to the steering oars. It’s obvious they want to talk, so I send my crew off to other jobs – we’re pretty much done anyway – and stand with the other two at the stern rail, where the night breeze will carry our words away from the rest of the ship.
‘That whole bloody prophecy is about Thebes, isn’t it?’ Diomedes says, surprising Bria as well as me, I confess. ‘The Charioteer she spoke about – that’s Alcmaeon, for sure.’
Alcmaeon is one of Diomedes’s lame-brained cousins.
‘Why must he be t
he Charioteer?’ I ask. The Argives have been an important royal family for generations, right back to Perseus – before they nearly obliterated themselves a decade ago – but that doesn’t mean the sun shines exclusively out of Argive arses. Nor, as far as I know, has this new generation ever been blooded in battle.
‘He won the Nemean Games last year, the Isthmian Games the year before – by three whole lengths – and the Elian Games the same year, with the best chariot-racing horse team I’ve ever seen…’ Diomedes proceeds to rattle off a list that seems to include every provincial contest and royal funeral games in Achaea.
Good racing form, but hardly the sort of experience we need…
‘That’s nice,’ says Bria, patting his arm and succeeding in interrupting the flow. ‘And it just so happens we think the Rock above the Sea is Thebes itself. So you’re on the right track.’
‘I’m the Boar,’ says Diomedes, his fist clenched against his heart.
‘Yes, indeed. And your friend here,’ says Bria, draping an arm over my shoulder, ‘is our “Man of Fire”.’
‘You?’ Diomedes retorts, peering down at me in the gloom, a twinkle in his eye. ‘I was expecting…’
‘Someone taller?’ I supply, and we both laugh.
* * *
Eurybates and the men work the galley away from the coast of Rineia and set our prow towards Delos, catching a rare south-west wind. There’s no moon, but the sky is starry and crystal clear as we cleave our way through the water. Thankfully the sprung timbers show no signs of opening up again – the lads did their work well.
Bria and I have gathered up Arnacia and shifted ourselves to the prow, out of the crew’s way. Bria starts telling me what she thinks we ought to do next, but I’m not interested – we do this my way.
‘Arnacia,’ I say, turning my back on the daemon, ‘we’ve promised to get you back to Delos, but for obvious reasons we have no desire to be met by High Priestess Sophronia and all her new friends. We’re not going into port, we’re going to land at a small cove south of the town and get you ashore quietly. From there, you’re on your own. I suggest you tell them you jumped overboard – which has the benefit of being true – and a fishing boat picked you up and brought you back to Delos.’
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