The Year-god's Daughter: A Saga of Ancient Greece (The Child of the Erinyes Book 1)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  A deep crease formed between Laodámeia’s brows as she wrapped the remaining bread in cloth. Then she spoke the words Themiste least wanted to hear.

  “Aridela and her sister are as one. Iphiboë must open the path, so Aridela can walk alone into the dark.”

  Themiste shook her head at her attendant’s audacity. “You know the secrets of the Oracle Logs as well as I do since you transcribe my visions. But you took a vow never to repeat them.”

  “And it makes sense to burden one woman alone with drawing out their meaning?” Laodámeia’s voice held no defensiveness, merely practical common sense. “I for one will not risk my grandchildren’s future on such chance.”

  “You don’t trust Lady Athene to guide me?”

  “The prophecies are difficult to understand, my lady. We have this moment in time to talk privately. Do you want to waste it arguing?”

  “No,” Themiste said. “I see what you’re thinking— that there’s nothing I can do. But you’re wrong. After the Games, I’ll cloister Aridela in the mountain shrine. I will teach her all I know. If she is indeed the child in the prophecies, she’ll need all the wisdom I can give.” She twined her fingers together. “I won’t lose Aridela to the dark. I swear I’ll find a way to circumvent the future Damasen showed me.”

  Laodámeia clasped Themiste’s hand. Hers was cold and dry, almost bloodless, the skin scratchy. Blue blood vessels protruded. Themiste looked at it and wondered what it would feel like to be so old.

  “I ask you, lady— how can she achieve the strength and wisdom she needs if she’s exposed to nothing but damp cave walls, priestesses, and prayers?”

  “I’ll prepare her,” Themiste said, annoyed at the defensive tone in her voice. “When the time comes, she’ll possess will and abilities beyond what she could possibly have if left uninitiated. I may even show her the Oracle Logs. I haven’t yet decided.”

  Laodámeia’s snort was eloquently skeptical.

  Themiste tried to feel the confidence of her words, but couldn’t. She lifted her gaze from Laodámeia’s hand and met the woman’s steady stare. “In vision, when Aridela was born, I saw the world spread out before me. All was destruction and sorrow. Our wondrous achievements were gone, leaving only enslavement, murder, and humiliation. Even indestructible Athene vanished from every mind and heart.” Her voice broke. “I misread the Oracle Log and nearly killed Aridela. Now I no longer trust my instincts. What else might I do, or say, or act upon that could in the end destroy all hope? Will the dead king Damasen always be there to stop me from wrongdoing?”

  “There must be some lofty reason why we mortals must suffer in the dark, never knowing if we will, in the end, overcome evil.”

  “I love Aridela as though she birthed from my own womb. I only want to help her.”

  Laodámeia squeezed her hand. More gently, she said, “Has any ‘Gold Lion’ appeared to destroy us? No. Sixteen years have passed without incident but for the goring in the bullring and from that, she recovered. In all divination there are mistakes, misunderstandings. Perhaps these too, were wrong, my lady.”

  Themiste’s eyes stung with grateful tears, yet she turned to again gaze out to sea. Despite Laodámeia’s words of comfort, her unease strengthened.

  Chapter Five: Moon of Mead-making

  “Bleating, titless women,” said King Idómeneus with a scowl. “One day, I will rule as I see fit, with no counselors to hinder me. They tell me what I can and cannot do, and shiver in fear of peasants.”

  Chrysaleon smirked behind his hand at the image of Mycenae’s powerful council described in such a disrespectful manner. He glanced around the table at the other men— a few trusted counselors, wealthy tradesmen, high-ranking lords, and two generals. Hundreds more claimed fealty to the secret society named Boreas by his great-grandfather, but it would draw too much attention if all the members attended the infrequent gatherings. Most of Boreas’s followers made do with reports from those who did sit at this table.

  The designation fit— Boreas, the god of the unstoppable, devouring north wind, could punish the earth with endless frigid winter if he so chose. He had a close affinity with horses, and an inclination to force. It was said he could control the savage gryphons that lived in the highest mountains, and the one-eyed Arimaspoi warriors.

  “My lord,” returned one of the counselors mildly, “I beg you to remember that some of us care about your wishes, and the future of this country.”

  The king stuffed a hunk of barley bread into his mouth. “I haven’t forgotten,” he said, spraying crumbs as he chewed and talked. He tilted his head and drank, set the cup down with force, and swiped at a trickle of wine that crept like blood through his thin beard. Slapping the shoulder of the robed man next to him, he added, “You, me, my son Chrysaleon, and my trusted comrades will lead Mycenae into a new future, at the heels of none but Poseidon the earth-shaker and invincible Zeus.” He looked around the table at the others. “Soon, my friends. Soon.”

  Theanô’s father, the grizzled general, pressed his palms to the table and rose. “About the races at Olympia, my lord.”

  “Yes. Are you ready?” Idómeneus asked.

  “My men are fully prepared to force their way in. If it comes to it, they will gladly kill Hera’s priestesses. In fact, I think most of them hope the women resist. There hasn’t been much to occupy them of late.”

  Idómeneus gave a particularly twisted grin. “From now on, only men will run those races. We’ve come far; soon, women will have no importance, no say in the matters of the world. No one will care about moon-brides. No one will even remember them.”

  “Dusk is falling my lords,” said the boy at the door.

  The men rose, shoving their stools over the dirt floor. They circled the hearth, their eyes upon a priest who held a ritual dagger. Peering into the smoky rafters of the cramped, abandoned shepherd’s hut, he faced north and intoned a prayer to Zeus, then south and spoke one to Poseidon as the boy led a wooly ram to his side.

  The priest sliced the ram’s throat. Blood flowed over the stones around the hearth as the men bowed their heads. “Boreas,” they chanted. Each pressed his palm to his neighbor’s then silently, in twos, left the hut.

  Outside, Chrysaleon leaped into the chariot and took the reins. Idómeneus climbed in more laboriously.

  The others scattered in various directions after saluting the north and murmuring respectful farewells to their king.

  “It pains me that your brother isn’t here,” Idómeneus said as he and Chrysaleon made their way over the hills toward the citadel.

  Chrysaleon knew this complaint too well. “He cannot be trusted.” I wish you could do something, anything, without bringing that tiresome bastard into it, he left unsaid.

  “That’s going too far. Menoetius is trustworthy.” Idómeneus frowned at his heir. “It’s this lingering devotion to Athene, Hera and the others. I know he hasn’t yet discarded them, though he comes closer every year. One day, I hope to include him in Boreas. He would be most valuable to us.”

  Chrysaleon decided the safest thing to do was change the subject. “See your demesne, my lord,” he said as they topped the summit of a hill.

  Stretched before them like a god’s gigantic porridge bowl lay Mycenae’s valley, lit to fiery magnificence by a sinking vermilion sun. The citadel itself lifted from a central rise like an ornate crown of carved stone. Purplish-blue mountains ringed the plain, as much a defensive barrier to harsh weather and invaders as the massive walls currently being constructed.

  Soft music from a hidden shepherd’s aulos, mixed with the occasional bleat of goats, drifted through the evening. Chrysaleon breathed deeply, making a conscious effort to release his resentment of Menoetius and replace it with satisfaction. The vast expanse of lazy, well-tended fields and mudstone homesteads proclaimed his father’s holdings rich, successful and secure.

  “The evening air is sweet,” he said.

  “All I smell is dung.” Idómeneus cocked his chin at
a fresh pile near the chariot. He took the reins and sent the horses down the incline, raising a dusty cloud behind them.

  A clot of peasants forced them to slow the horses as they approached the citadel. The guards stood straighter and thumped the butts of their spears against the ground.

  “The king,” someone shouted, which brought more curious onlookers. Torchlight flickered over the massive carving set above the lintel-piece. The sculpture contained two lionesses; their front paws rested on the scrolled foot of a pillar. Their fierce eyes and bared teeth faced the approach ramp. Standing on the pillar, garbed in the traditional seven-layered skirt, was full-breasted Athene in her guise as mistress of the wild things, Britomartis. She towered above the gate and walls, saluting visitor and enemy alike with an outstretched spear.

  One day, Chrysaleon vowed as he scrutinized her implacable granite eye, his people would relinquish their backward loyalty to this deity. He and his father shared perfect agreement on the issue, but the king’s counselors, they who Idómeneus dubbed “bleating titless women,” advised caution and respect if they would continue to rule this land without needless bloodshed. Such displays as this monument appeased the native peasantry who had worshipped her since the initial formation of clouds, ages before Chrysaleon’s people arrived in these lands. But by all the gods, why must kings appease peasants?

  Mothers held up their children to touch the sides of the chariot as they passed. Men bowed, pulling their forelocks.

  “Will you pour the libation?” Chrysaleon reminded his father as they stopped before the gate.

  Two guards brought a stand to assist the king, and one handed him a silver ewer. Chrysaleon left the chariot as well and stood beside his father. Idómeneus poured wine at the junctures of earth and stone and spoke a prayer to Hippos, and the Lady. Both saluted then he and Chrysaleon walked beneath the lintel and entered the citadel precincts.

  Chrysaleon knelt before the carved steles at the grave site without preamble, though Idómeneus had to be helped to his knees by one of the guards; his joints were no longer pliable, and several old wounds further stiffened his bones.

  Here lay Chrysaleon’s mother, his father’s father, a sister, and numerous uncles. He bent his head, but paid no attention to the priest intoning the required prayers.

  Glory, strength, domination. Idómeneus long ago convinced Chrysaleon he would never truly possess these things until the sky swallowed the earth and women’s venerable power was crushed under the heel of man.

  Boreas, the clandestine society begun by Idómeneus’s grandfather, hatched one ingenious plot after another, designed to reach this goal with such subtlety that most would never recognize the transformation of their world.

  They had achieved significant changes through the region, and even among the islands. Boreas rewarded bards for composing songs that supported their aim, and these songs spread their message like slow, invisible flames. Tales gained credence, little by little, of the descent of goddesses, their subservience to fierce male counterparts. Boreas intrigued men with stories of the sky gods’ fearsome accomplishments. They’d lived too many centuries yoked beneath women’s dark, mystical power and were ripe for changes that gave them the upper hand. Hera so far suffered the most; she who could renew a state of partheneia by bathing in consecrated waters and who had been worshipped here for time beyond memory, was being whittled into an object of ridicule, at least among those who now ruled.

  Athene, though, remained invincible. Idómeneus and his cronies discussed her endlessly, but had found no way to diminish her— yet.

  A voice broke in on Chrysaleon’s reflections, returning him to the breezy hot evening.

  “Did you have a pleasant ride, Father?”

  The priest had finished the prayers and stepped back. The question came from his sixteen-year-old brother, Gelanor. Chrysaleon looked up in time to catch a mischievous glance being exchanged between the two, but before he could ask about it, Gelanor said, “Prince Harpalycus and his father arrived shortly after you left. There he is, on the wall.”

  Chrysaleon followed Gelanor’s pointing finger. High above, standing at the edge of the rampart, two figures watched the scene at the graves. Harpalycus, prince of Tiryns, which many called Mycenae’s only real rival in strength and power, was easy to recognize with his full beard and trademark breastplate displaying a gold wolf’s head embossed on bronze and leather.

  The other man stepped closer to Harpalycus’s side. Proitos, Harpalycus’s lackey, was short and grey-headed, his face pale and haughty. His presence gave credence to recent rumors that one was never seen without the other.

  Alarms clanged in Chrysaleon’s head. His gaze returned to his father, but Idómeneus gave nothing away as he laboriously rose to his feet.

  When he glanced back, Harpalycus inclined his head in mock obeisance. Swiftly descending darkness made it impossible to read his expression.

  Idómeneus said, “We shall wait upon the prince and his father in the Hall.” He motioned to Chrysaleon. “Come, my son. Let us welcome King Lycomedes together.”

  What was this about? Idómeneus despised Lycomedes and the arrogant prince, Harpalycus. But he supposed protocol demanded a courteous greeting, nonetheless.

  The king and his two trueborn sons trudged up the steep path. As they entered the palace, an obsequious crowd, all dressed in their finest attire, surrounded them. A slave brought Idómeneus’s favorite gold pectoral necklace, and a comb to smooth his windblown hair. Another tried to offer Chrysaleon the same treatment, but he waved the man away.

  Idómeneus clasped Chrysaleon’s bicep and led him toward the receiving hall, from which emanated a trickle of music and flare of light. There stood his lover Theanô, a blush on her delicate cheeks, her father’s meaty arm resting on her shoulders. What a sight she was, her flaxen hair dressed high with silver bands, her pale, bare arms. A lovely, tractable woman. She would make a fine wife. Chrysaleon wasn’t sure how much longer they could keep her nightly visits a secret from the hot-blooded general, who even now regarded the prince with scowling suspicion. He would have to marry her if they were found out. He didn’t really want to marry, but why not? It could be worse.

  “I ordered a feast,” Idómeneus was saying. “But first we must finalize a barter.”

  “What?” Chrysaleon tore his attention away from his lover and stared suspiciously at the king.

  The crowd parted, leaving one man standing before them— King Lycomedes of Tiryns, richly adorned in gold and pleated linen, his long hair curled, gleaming with oil.

  The satisfied expression on Lycomedes’ face sent more warnings through Chrysaleon’s mind. Idómeneus displayed the same smugness, as did Gelanor, who hung close, grinning.

  Lycomedes half-turned and held up his arm. “Come, daughter,” he said, and a blushing girl stepped from behind a pillar. Chrysaleon saw her fingers tremble as she placed them in her father’s hand.

  “My daughter, Princess Iros,” Lycomedes said.

  Chrysaleon saluted her and bowed, using that brief moment to arrange his expression into something less readable. He didn’t look at Theanô but felt her stare hammer the back of his head.

  Idómeneus stepped forward and took Iros’s other hand. Together the two kings led her to Chrysaleon.

  “We’ve finalized the agreements,” Idómeneus said. “Tiryns and Mycenae will be united, my son, through your marriage to King Lycomedes’ daughter.”

  Chrysaleon’s body clenched. Marriage, into the clan of the despised Harpalycus? His breathing tightened. He wouldn’t be used in such ways. His father hadn’t even prepared him. They would learn—

  As he opened his mouth, as Idómeneus’s face stiffened in alarm and Harpalycus’s hand inched toward his dagger, Chrysaleon caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone appeared at his side and gripped his shoulder.

  “Alas, that I am a bastard and scarred beyond tolerance,” Menoetius said. “Once again, Chrysaleon receives the finest honors. Not only
will he lead our people one day, but he is granted this beautiful lady, a royal princess to kiss him as he rides into battle, to weep when he’s wounded. You’re a lucky man, my brother.”

  Menoetius’s grip tightened into a warning pinch then he released Chrysaleon and stepped forward to kneel before Iros.

  The distraction gave Chrysaleon what he needed, an instant to disguise his fury behind a bland expression. Only Harpalycus ignored the interruption. Nostrils distended, fingers clamping the hilt of his dagger, he didn’t even glance at Menoetius but kept his gaze fixed on Chrysaleon. One frown, the slightest scowl, and Harpalycus would draw his knife. Blood would spill. Everyone knew of the fierce protective love Harpalycus bore for his sister.

  Perhaps this was for the best. Harpalycus would hardly declare war on the city his sister ruled as queen. Chrysaleon studied the trembling child who resolutely stared at the floor. Her hair, though ornately woven with shiny bangles, was of a tedious mousy color, neither blonde nor brown. There was still baby fat in her cheeks. She might not have even reached her first blood yet. In no way could she be termed beautiful, though she might someday be passable.

  Everyone stared at him, including the two kings. They wanted some reaction, and his father’s face told him it had better be agreeable. Harpalycus’s sneer deepened.

  Menoetius stood. He turned, peaking one brow toward Chrysaleon as he passed. Chrysaleon read the message as clearly as if his brother spoke aloud. Too bad for you. Better to be bastard than prince.

  He’d said it aloud many times through the years, whenever Chrysaleon was forced to honor boring obligations.

  From the look of things, the ruffled hair, the dust upon his leather tunic and grimy sandals, Menoetius had only this moment returned from a day of hunting, just in time to see his brother roped into an unwanted betrothal.

  All at once Chrysaleon wanted to laugh. He was able to step forward, go down upon his knee and clasp the plump child’s icy hand. “You offer me more honor than I deserve,” he said.