Olympiad Tom Holt

by Olympiad (lit)

Credit where it's due (Cleander said), it was an extremely fine piece of tactical thinking on Alastor's part. He'd figured out that the only offence that would justify breaking the truce was breaking the truce...

  So what he'd done was send the wretched Tachys over to our tent, while everybody was busy watching the games, equipped with a small, sharp knife. Tachys cut himself just above the hairline (where even a small nick will bleed like a fountain and make you look as if you've just been set upon by a dozen drunken centaurs), then ran from tent to tent yelling that Pentheus had drawn a sword on him and attacked him. Because everybody was watching what was going on in the middle, he had to run quite some way before he found anybody to pay him any attention; but as luck would have it, the first man to hear him was an Argive priest, very serious about the truce and the reputation of the games. This priest came bursting out of his tent with a sword in his fist, and by the time he reached the door of our tent, he'd accumulated a number of like-minded people intent on avenging the sacrilege in blood before the Lady Hera noticed and got upset.

  At some stage in his career, Pentheus must have acquired a sense the rest of us don't have that warned him about the approach of armed, angry men; that or the god told him, or he heard the yelling. In any case, he escaped from the tent by slitting open the back wall (with my razor), and headed for the middle in the hope of being rescued. This was a miscalculation on his part; as soon as it became known that the pursuers were chasing a truce-breaker - fairly quickly, because someone recognised the priest, which meant that whoever he was after had to be the bad guy - everybody present apart from us wanted to get a piece of him (a finger, maybe, or a bit of skin).

  If I'd been Pentheus, I'd have gone in for the foot-race rather than the wrestling. He was fast. Not only that; he made a fine show of jumping over obstacles (folding chairs, jars, rocks, slow-moving people who were still sitting on the ground) without slowing down or breaking his stride. It was without doubt the most spectacular display of skill and fitness of the whole event.

  Demodocus - I felt sorry for him. He stood like one of those statues they put in front of temples; he was so absolutely still you could have used him for a column and rested a roof on his head. I think he was too shocked even to be angry.

  Gratus nudged me in the ribs. 'I think it's time we were leaving,' he said.

  Brother or not, I was inclined to agree with him. I don't think I'm a particularly callous or unfeeling person, but it seemed fairly certain that there was nothing we could do to help Pentheus even if we felt inclined to do so (remember: at that point we didn't know that Alastor had set him up), and if we stayed put there was a better than even chance that anybody associated with Pentheus was going to come in for some of the leftover outrage and fury once Pentheus himself had been reduced to his component parts.

  'Good idea,' I said. 'Dusa-'

  She wasn't there.

  You know the story about Pandora and the jar; how she was given it by the gods, and when she broke the seal, all the evils and troubles that beset mortal men flew out to plague us for ever? Well, I'm prepared to bet that right up in the neck of that jar, along with Plague, War, Hunger and Death, was Sisters. Now, obviously I can't see any of you, but I'll wager that you're all sitting there nodding gravely, because you know I'm right. Personally, I shall never forgive the gods for that. I don't care what mankind had done to offend them; there was no call for them to go doing something like that to us. Just not fair.

  'It's all right,' Sarpedon said quickly, before I had a chance to speak. 'Grams and I'll go look for her. You head back to the tent, pick up as much of our stuff as you can; we'll meet up by that well on the Corinth road.'

  I really didn't want us to get split up at that moment; but neither did I want to plunge about in the middle of a lynch-mob searching for a madwoman. To be honest with you, Cowardice found the gates of my heart open and slipped in without any serious opposition from the long-term residents.

  'All right,' I said. 'See you there.'

  The hunt - quarry and hounds - was out of sight by now, and the field was deserted. As I made my nervous way across the square, I couldn't help thinking how desperately sad it all looked; the middle, the marker-stones, all the bits and pieces that people had left behind as they raced off. It was as if it was all trying to explain to me how pointless, how idiotic the whole idea of games-with-nobody-dead, games-playing, what I'd been trying to do, doing anything was. In that deserted space I felt as if I was the last man alive, and that everything had gone wrong all across the world.

  As I walked, a dream seemed to walk beside me; he was asking me to consider what it would be like going home, trying to explain. King Leon would be asking, Where's all the games-players you promised me? My father and sister-in-law would be asking, Where's Cratus and Dusa? What did you do out there, to lose all of them...?

  He wasn't a very nice dream, and I wished he'd go away; on the other hand, at least he was prepared to speak to me, and by implication he was suggesting that I might possibly make it home somehow. That was some comfort, being the only evidence I had that such a thing might be possible.

  There wasn't a lot left of our tent when I got there. Most of it had been trampled flat. I picked up everything I thought I'd be able to carry - a jar of flour, a goatskin bag with some cheese and olives, a sword, a cloak and a spare pair of boots, a few other odds and ends - looked around just in case I'd missed anything important, and crept slowly away.

  I reached the well and sat down on the parapet. There didn't seem much point in waiting there very long; my brother, sister and uncle were undoubtedly either dead or awaiting execution, my host was probably leading a search-party to find me to add me to the carrion collection. I resolved to count up to a thousand then set off for Corinth, which was in the opposite direction to home and therefore the line they'd be least likely to take when they came after me.

  I'd got as far as seven hundred and forty something when I realised there was somebody staring at me; an old woman, with a jar tucked under her arm.

  'You using that well?' she said.

  I stood upright. 'No,' I said, 'sorry. Here, let me turn the handle for you.'

  She glowered at me. 'I'm perfectly capable,' she said.

  Gods, I thought, now I'm offending perfect strangers. 'I'm sure you are,' I said. 'Just offering to help, that's all.'

  She scowled a bit more. 'I may be old,' she said, 'but I can still wind a well, thank you very much. If you get out of the way, that is.'

  I got out of the way. She gave me a further and fouler look, and tried to turn the handle.

  'It's stuck,' she said accusingly. 'What you been doing to it?'

  'Nothing,' I replied. 'I never touched it.'

  'It wasn't stuck before you came along,' she said. 'And now the to-the-crows thing won't turn at all.'

  'Would you like me to try?' I said. She clicked her tongue at me.

  'Try all you like,' she said, 'you won't shift it. It's stuck.'

  And it was, too. When I thought I felt the rope beginning to strain, I let go, not wanting to add damaging a well to my already impressive list of crimes and malfeasances. 'You're right,' I said, 'it's stuck.'

  'I know it's stuck. Now I'll have to go home and get our Euthydromus to climb down it and sort it out. And he's not as young as he was, neither.'

  Apparently old age and the passing of time were my fault now. It's amazing the number of bad things you can do and not even know you've done them. She sluiced me down with a little more eye-venom and hobbled away; I picked up my burdens and got ready to leave.

  'Cleander,' said a voice. 'Is that you?'

  Weirdest voice you ever heard. Sort of ringing and reverberating, not in the least bit human. A god, therefore, calling me by name; and the disturbing part was, it seemed to be coming up from the bowels of the earth, where generally speaking nice gods don't go.

  'Cleander,' the voice repeated. 'Is that you up there? Can you hear me?'

  I felt uneasy, not having anythi
ng to give the ferryman for rowing me across the River; then I thought about the stuck winch-handle, and the god opened my eyes. I looked round to make sure nobody was watching, then stuck my head down the well.

  'Pentheus?' I said.

  'Thank the gods,' the voice replied. 'I was beginning to think I was in trouble down here. I can't get back up.'

  I took a deep breath. It smelt rather strongly of well, but that was the least of my problems. 'You are,' I replied. 'Goodbye.'

  His yelp of dismay echoed up the well shaft and came at me like a clap of thunder. 'You can't just leave me here,' he said. 'I can't climb up the rope, it's all slippery. You've got to pull me up.'

  'No,' I said.

  'But if you don't, how am I going to get out? I could die down here.'

  I smiled. 'Even you ought to be able to manage that without screwing it up,' I agreed. 'Best of luck, anyway.'

  'Cleander!'

  Really, I was minded to walk away and leave him there. If it hadn't been for him - so all right, he wasn't responsible for all our troubles, just the overwhelming majority of them, including the loss of my family, the fact that I was alone and destitute in a strange and hostile city; things like that. On the other hand; on the other hand, he was the only man I knew in Argos who'd be pleased to see me. And I could always kill him later. Besides, if leaving Pentheus there didn't count as poisoning a well, I couldn't say what would, and poisoning wells is a great sin against heaven.

  'How did you get down there, anyway?' I asked.

  'They were chasing me,' he replied. 'I had a bit of a lead, but they were gaining. So I saw this well, grabbed hold of the bucket and jumped.'

  'I see,' I replied.

  'Right now,' he went on, 'I'm hanging from this rope with my feet braced against the sides. Are you going to help me or not?'

  'Only because drowning's too good for you,' I replied. 'Hold tight, and I'll see what I can do.'

  So I pulled, as hard as I could; and just as I was starting to hope that there was really nothing I could do for him (in which case I could go on my way with a clear conscience) I heard a joyful shout from down below. 'It's all right,' he said, 'I've got my footing now. There's stepping stones let into the sides. Keep pulling.'

  (A smart idea, that; so that when someone's got to go down the well to free a stuck bucket or mend a broken rope, they can be sure of getting out again. They're clever people, the Argives.)

  As I pulled I started thinking, if Pentheus has somehow managed to survive, maybe - just possibly - Cratus and Dusa and Sarpedon might make it too; after all, why would the god save a born pest like Pentheus, and destroy my family? Didn't make sense. Then again, very little of what the gods do makes sense, so it wasn't the most convincing of arguments. That said, I was feeling a bit more cheerful by the time Pentheus' head appeared over the lip of the well.

  The first thing he said was, 'Where are the others?'

  'I don't know,' I replied. 'I'm supposed to meet them here.'

  He crawled out snake-fashion and flopped on to the ground. I helped him up.

  'We can't stay here,' he said.

  'You can't,' I agreed.

  'You aren't going to abandon me,' he said - it wasn't a plea or a question, it was a statement of fact. 'I know, I'll hide somewhere nearby while you wait here for the others.'

  I grinned. 'You could hide down the well,' I said.

  'Not likely. What about one of the houses? I expect all the people are away at the games.'

  I shook my head. 'I've got a better idea,' I said.

  'Really?' His tone of voice was hardly flattering. 'What?'

  'My heart tells me,' I replied, 'that if the lynch-mob comes back this way, they'll be looking for a long, skinny games-player, as opposed to a couple of clod-busters on their way out to the fields. So long as we act normal-'

  He frowned. 'How do you do that?'

  'What do you mean? Just - well, you know. Normal.'

  'Sorry,' he said, grinning sheepishly, 'but I don't. I haven't exactly led what you'd call a normal life, so I don't know the rules.'

  'Oh for- Look, just try to do what I do, but don't draw attention to yourself. You think you can manage that?'

  'Remains to be seen.'

  'Put this on.' I shoved the spare cloak at him. By chance or divine intervention, when I'd gone back to the tent I'd grabbed the first cloak I could see; it turned out to be Sarpedon's travelling cloak -old, threadbare, carefully and repeatedly darned, just the sort of thing a poor, hard-working smallholder would wear. I looked rather more prosperous and well-bred in my own cloak and tunic; I, however, had the advantage of an honest face, not to mention a clean conscience. As a finishing touch, I shoved my beat-up old leather hat down on to his ears as far as I could make it go, and covered my own head with a bit of knotted rag.

  It's wonderful how our hearts can run in two opposite directions at once. There was one faction inside me that knew for a fact that Cratus and Dusa and Sarpedon had come to a bad end, and waiting for them here was a pointless risk. The other faction was convinced it was just a matter of holding still and biding time, and everything would be all right. In the middle was a third faction, stronger than both the other two put together, that refused to believe in or acknowledge what was going on, and seemed to regard the situation as some kind of dream or far-fetched joke. My mind was inclined to favour a compromise view, whereby our situation was grave but not nearly as bad as it could be, provided we acted sensibly, kept our cool and refused to listen to the siren voice of

  Panic - but the fact is, the truth isn't a resolution passed by a council of the Sons of the Achaeans; just because such-and-such is the way we think things should have turned out, we can't alter the way things have actually happened by taking a vote.

  'Now what?' said Pentheus, under the shade of my hat.

  'We hang around here,' I replied. 'We're two old friends who haven't seen each other in a while. Quite by chance we've met beside this well, and now we're catching up with each other's news.'

  'Right,' Pentheus said. 'That's what normal people do, is it?'

  'All the time.'

  We stood there for I don't know how long; long enough to prune a row of vines, long enough to heat a thick bar of bronze to forging red - I haven't the faintest idea. It just seemed a very long time, that's all. And all the while my heart was telling me, This is taking too long, if they were coming they'd be here by now, something really has happened to them and maybe you're never going to see them again. Now that really did frighten me, as I stood there pretending to be someone I wasn't. My brother and sister; I could no more imagine what it'd be like without them than I could imagine a day without sunlight. Every day of my life, near enough, I'd seen them, talked to them, argued and lost my temper with one or both of them. I don't suppose the thought had ever occurred to me that a day might come when they wouldn't be there. Well, how could I imagine such a thing? It'd be like a world where all the colours are different. Oh, people die, we all know that, just as we know that in Ethiopia the sun burns men's skins black, and we know that there are people who have just the one enormous foot, bigger than an old-fashioned figure-of-eight shield, which they shelter under from the fury of the noon sun. These are things we know to be true, on the assumption that this certainty will never intrude into our lives, and so it is with the death of those close to us. At the same time we know it's true and we believe it won't happen, in the same way that we believe we'll live for ever. We believe in the past and the future as we believe in the gods - there but not there, real but real in a different way. Not the sort of real that has any business with us.

  Now the thought was so close that I could almost feel it brushing my ear, and it made me fidgety and nervous. I was hopping from one foot to the other, glancing round all the time without even knowing I was doing it, until Pentheus remarked that I was the one who was supposed to know how to be normal. That didn't help; all it did was make me try really hard to behave normally. I guess that if there'd bee
n anybody there to watch, they'd have grabbed stones and started chucking them at me, assuming I was a crazy man.

  Just when I thought I was going to burst with worry, like a badly patched wineskin, someone tapped me on the shoulder. I swear to the gods, I hadn't heard a footstep or anything like that.

  'Cleander?' It was Dusa's voice. 'Oh, it is you. Why are you wearing that silly bit of cloth on your head? And who's-?'

  Pentheus took off his hat - my hat, but I never did get the confounded thing back. Pity; it was a good hat. Anyway, the next thing I knew about was a sharp pain in my toe as Dusa trod on it while leaping into Pentheus' arms. I stood there, registering the pain in my foot and another pain directly related to the spectacle of my sister embracing the man who'd ruined all our work and nearly got us killed. 'What's he doing here?' someone asked in a horrified voice; I assume it was Cratus, but I didn't bother checking at the time.

  'Can we go now, please?' Pentheus mumbled.

  'Yes,' I replied. 'And for gods' sakes,' I added ferociously, 'try to act natural.'

  My brother, sister and uncle all stared at me as if I was demented.

  'There is absolutely no point,' I insisted later, as we huddled round the largest fire we dared light, 'in going on any further. It's completely out of the question. The only subject worth discussing is, how do we get home?'

  They all looked at me and said nothing. None of us had been particularly talkative the rest of that day, once we'd given brief accounts of our various adventures directly after the games broke up. Pentheus' story was brief and unconvincing (though of course it later turned out to be true) - he'd been in the tent, having oiled and scraped, and was just pulling on a clean tunic when he heard yelling and trampling, which set off a basic survival instinct. He had no idea why they'd come for him, he hadn't done anything wrong.

  Rather better received was Cratus' version of how he'd shoved his way in and out of the crowd until he quite literally walked into Dusa; if the crowd hadn't been so thick, he'd have knocked her over. She'd set off with some idiotic notion of trying to rescue Pentheus, which had lasted just long enough to propel her into the thick of the crowd. At that point she'd realised that she didn't really want to be there, but by then her chances of getting out again without serious help were next to nothing. Eventually, by standing still and letting everybody else shove past them, they'd managed to get out of the crowd and head for the well. That, in essence, was that. I asked Sarpedon what he'd been up to all this time, but he just scowled and changed the subject, and none of us were in the mood for an argument, so I let it go.