Trying War

by S. D. Gentill

  Lycon noticed and squeezed her hand. He did not ask. There were many reasons now why Hero might be sad, or scared or angry.

  “So what do we do now?” Cadmus asked Machaon quietly. “How exactly do we find the gods?”

  Hero looked up. “We must go to the temple.”

  Lycon glanced around them. “Which one?” Everywhere marble effigies declared houses of worship.

  “We must throw ourselves at the feet of Zeus, the father.” Hero’s fragile vision could not distinguish one statue from another but there was no city in the realm of Olympus which would not pay homage to the king of gods.

  Machaon shrugged. It seemed as good a plan as any. Hero was better versed in theological protocol than they.

  Medea laughed scornfully. She put out her arms and closed her eyes. Her dark hair streamed out behind her as she stood communing with the wind itself. “Can you not feel them?” she said softly. “The mighty ones, lords of sea and sky, mothers of earth and moon.” Her grey eyes opened to settle on the grand shrouded mountain behind the city. “You will find them there.”

  Machaon looked back. “What is that place?”

  “It is where the gods have gathered,” Medea replied.

  “How do you know?” Cadmus challenged.

  “I am the granddaughter of Helios who drives the chariot of the sun and sees all,” she said imperiously. “Not even the new gods are hidden from his sight.”

  “And he told you what he saw?” Cadmus asked sceptically.

  The princess smiled. “Zeus the Thunderer cast the messenger of the old gods into the darkest pit of Hades, but Helios is kin to the winds.”

  Cadmus glanced at his brothers. There was indeed something unusual about the way the mountain remained shrouded in cloud, though the massive columned palace built on the plateau beside it gleamed white and clear in the morning sun. Whilst the port, the city and the way to the palace and its surrounds teemed with people, the mountain and the swathe of land about its base seemed deserted. And yet their lingering distrust of Medea made them hesitate.

  “I will leave you here,” Medea announced.

  “My Lady…?”

  “Our bargain is complete.” She turned away from them already. “I require you no more.”

  “But what will you do? Where will you go?” Hero asked.

  “That is none of your concern, Amazonian child.”

  “You have not undone whatever it was you did to Mac,” Lycon protested.

  “I told you, I cannot.” She shrugged, disinterested. “Perhaps the new gods can reverse it.”

  “What do you mean you…?” Cadmus began hotly.

  “We wish you well then, my Lady,” Machaon interrupted, placing a cautioning hand on his brother’s shoulder.

  Medea turned. Her cloudy eyes were bright with excitement, her smile triumphant. “Go quickly shepherds,” she said slyly. “Athens is not safe.” With that, she simply turned and walked away, disappearing quickly into the traffic of bodies and carts.

  On the beech tree you carved “Oenone” and as the trunks grow so does my name. Grow great and high and straight and take my honours to the sky. Oh poplar, planted by the stream’s edge with this verse carved in your seamy bark:

  If Paris should live to Oenone spurn the waters of the Xanthus shall backward turn

  o Xanthus, turn back in haste; waters return to your fount!

  Paris has deserted Oenone, and endures.

  Ovid, Heroides, Book 5

  BOOK XXI

  THE SONS OF AGELAUS HAD armed themselves well. The war was not long over, and though Troy had been vanquished, the Greeks had lost many warriors in the ten-year siege of the citadel.

  They did not expect the Greeks to be their friends.

  Of course their loyalty to Troy was not obvious at a glance. Still clad in the fine style of Lycomedes’ court, the Herdsmen did not stand out among the fashionable citizens of Athens, and they were in any case adept at moving unnoticed among their enemies… but nevertheless, they were cautious.

  Hero took the dagger that had been her father’s last gift. Her hand trembled a little as she attached it to her belt. They were going to stand before the Pantheon of gods. Her brothers were unprepared. It would be for her to protect them somehow. But her own piety had been compromised. She had offended Ares with her reluctance. The god of war had abandoned the Amazons because the girl they offered him as their queen had been frightened and flawed. Would he be in the gathering, she wondered? Would he kill them all for her insult?

  At Hero’s insistence they went first to the shrine of the gods in the city’s agora, and lined up with citizens and travellers to sacrifice and praise the Pantheon. Hero offered fruit and wine and raised her hands in earnest and desperate prayer. Oenone knelt too, petitioning the gods in her own remote way.

  The sons of Agelaus looked on. It had never been their way to pray and it seemed not even these circumstances would drive them to it. They could see the mountain which Medea claimed to be the meeting place of gods though it was yet robed in the peculiar dense mist.

  Machaon spoke quietly to his brothers as they waited for Hero and Oenone to finish. “I suspect,” he said carefully, “that appealing to the mercy of the gods might not go so well.”

  Lycon frowned. “We’ve got to try, Mac.”

  Machaon nodded. “Yes, probably. But we should be prepared for this to go horribly wrong.”

  “Prepared, how?”

  “It is I who is cursed,” Machaon said gently. “There is no reason that we should all die if the gods will not grant me pardon. Remember that the Amazons still seek Hero.”

  Lycon shook his head. “If the gods will not help, we will find another way, Mac.”

  Machaon’s face was troubled. “I think I should seek the gods alone.”

  Cadmus laughed at him. “Even if we were willing, do you really think Hero would allow you to stand before her beloved gods alone? She has devoted her life to atoning for our heresy—she is unlikely to permit you to go before the Pantheon unsupervised.”

  Machaon frowned. Cadmus was right… and perhaps Hero was too. The greater gods were easily offended. The Herdsmen had become accustomed to Pan’s unassuming deity.

  Cadmus glanced at the long line of pilgrims who waited their turn at the shrine. “Do you think these people know the Pantheon is just over there?”

  Lycon folded his arms as he watched. “They don’t seem to. Perhaps they avoid the mountain for some other reason.” He hailed the nearest pilgrim and asked him.

  The pilgrim regarded the Herdsmen warily, his eyes lingering on Lupa who stood beside Cadmus. “The mountain is sacred,” he said.

  “Does no one venture onto it?” Lycon asked.

  “Only fools,” the man replied gruffly. “It is forbidden. They say the cloud which envelopes it was sent by Zeus to hide the monsters who call the place home.”

  Lycon tried to question him further, but the pilgrim moved forward to take his place at the shrine and would not respond.

  In time, Hero and Oenone stepped back from the altar and returned to them. They set out towards the shrouded mountain on foot. Around its base the land was thickly wooded with the olive trees that had been grey-eyed Athene’s gift to the people of Athens, and for which they revered her above all gods. In her custom, Lupa vanished into the forest.

  It was not long before they noticed the strangeness in the wild olive groves. Once they were within the trees, the groves seemed to stretch and expand in every direction and both the large plateau on which the palace stood and the mist-veiled mountain to which they headed seemed far away.

  “It is the gods at work,” Hero said in awe, com for ted by the supremacy in this land of the goddess of wisdom. Surely clear-eyed Athene would see the good in Machaon, the injustice of his persecution by the dreaded Erinyes. Inwardly Hero prayed, calling in turn upon each member of the Pantheon, reminding them of her piety in the hope they would forget her brothers’ lack of it.

  The sons of Ag
elaus noticed the zealous brightness of her eyes and, though they knew full well what she was doing, they let it pass without comment. They had grown accustomed to the fact that their sister wielded prayer as the warrior did a sword. They had always considered it a slightly less dangerous form of warfare.

  Oenone fell into step beside Machaon. She slipped her hand into his. “I am sorry, Machaon. I took your mother from the ground to help you… but I should have allowed you to choose.”

  Machaon looked at her, aware suddenly that he was no longer angry with the nymph. “You were right, Oenone,” he said simply. “It was our best chance.”

  “If I had known that the Erinyes would hunt you for it…” she began. He felt her slender hand tremble in his. “I did not wish that for you, Machaon.” She tightened her grip as she tried to explain. “Paris and I were so happy once, when Ida was our home.” She smiled as she remembered. “He said our love would be legend—the world would judge love against the measure of Paris and Oenone’s. Our children would be beautiful because they would be conceived in the deepest, most abiding passion.” Oenone released him and wrapped her own arms about her as she hugged close the memory. “And then, he saw Helen and I was forgotten… by Paris and the world. The Prince of Troy had married the most beautiful woman on earth and the wife he had before was unimportant. It will be Helen who lives forever as the love of Paris.”

  Machaon glanced at his brothers who had fallen silent as Oenone spoke. “Paris wronged you, Oenone,” he said quietly. “We have always known that. As much as Agelaus cherished Paris, he knew it too. We accepted Helen, but we did not forget you.”

  “Once I nursed my anger like a newborn babe… nurtured it, because it protected my heart like a warm blanket. But that anger is spent and my heart is cold—there is nothing I would not give to have my Paris back.”

  “Paris can’t come back, Oenone,” Machaon said, unsettled by the desperation with which she spoke.

  “No, but I will join him in Hades one day.” The nymph gazed at Machaon longingly and he sensed it was Paris’ face she saw. “If I atone by helping the remaining children of Agelaus, perhaps he will forgive me for letting him die.”

  Hero’s voice was low but clear. “You have no reason to atone, Oenone. Paris asked too much.”

  Oenone laughed bitterly. “I wish I had saved him… even if it was only to return him to Helen’s arms.”

  Machaon stopped and placed a finger to his lips. Slowly he reached over his shoulder for his sword while they listened.

  Footfall… two men, perhaps three.

  Cadmus and Lycon, too, laid bare their blades.

  And Agamemnon, King of the Mycenaeans, married Clytaemnestra, daughter of Tyndareus, after slaying her husband and his child. Clytaemnestra bore Agamemnon a son, Orestes, and daughters, Chrysothemis, Electra, and Iphigenia. Agamemnon’s brother, red-haired Menelaus, married Helen, the sister of Clytaemnestra, and reigned over Sparta.

  Apollodorus, The Library

  BOOK XXII

  “CAD!” LYCON SHOUTED THE WARNING as a man dropped from the tree above his brother.

  Cadmus spun and blocked the knife as it descended.

  Two more men burst from the trees. Machaon and Lycon put themselves before Hero and Oenone, ready to defend… but the newcomers did not engage them. Instead they pulled the first man away from Cadmus and restrained him, crying, “Orestes, no!”

  Cadmus backed away. Orestes screamed in frustration, straining to escape. Spittle frothed at the edge of his lips as he cursed and threatened.

  “What offence have I caused you?” Cadmus was confused by the ferocity and vitriol of the stranger.

  Orestes lunged for him again, vowing to rip the heart from his chest. Once more the man was held back by the other two, who dragged him to the ground and sat upon him. The weight must have been considerable because Orestes’ threats faded into a wheezing struggle to breathe.

  The children of Agelaus and Oenone watched on in alarm.

  The two men, who were now seated on Orestes, looked up and smiled. Both were large, their faces broad behind dark beards. One was a man of many years, the other not much more than a youth, his beard thin and downy.

  “Thank you,” Cadmus said finally.

  “It is no great thing,” said the younger.

  “Have I caused your friend some offence?” asked Cadmus, kneeling to look closely at the man they called Orestes. His attacker was thin but he seemed well built and strong. He was young—no older than they.

  This time it was the man of years who spoke. “Do not take it personally… Orestes is completely mad. He does this from time to time—we all take turns to keep an eye on him.”

  “We?” Machaon asked.

  “We of the temple,” the younger said solemnly. “I am Nikias, and this is Demus. We’re sitting on Orestes, the Prince of Mycenae.”

  Machaon introduced himself, his brothers, his sister and the nymph.

  Lycon sheathed his sword. “Of the temple… you are priests?”

  The men laughed. “We are a brotherhood, I suppose,” Demus said, squinting at the sky. Helios was descending with crimson and gold in his wake. “It will be dark soon and we must not venture long from the temple.”

  “You had better come with us,” Nikias said. “The temple is safe.”

  At this, Demus laughed heartily.

  The sons of Agelaus were about to refuse the invitation when Hero spoke. “Thank you. If there is a shrine on this mountain, we should honour it before we go further.”

  “Hero…” Machaon began.

  “We must do this properly,” she whispered fiercely.

  And so the sons of Agelaus deferred to their sister’s will and helped the bearded men bind Orestes, before getting the madman to his feet. Then they followed as Demus and Nikias pushed and dragged the Prince of Mycenae through the undergrowth.

  The temple was not far, hidden for the most part by the surrounding trees, and partially hewn into the rock at the base of the marble mountain. It was a strange construction, carved with fearsome, predatory images. Stone serpents entwined the columns, and frightening effigies reached out from the walls. It was crowded. Some of the men in its shelter huddled in corners, others worked carving more cruel figures into the stone, and still others stood silently by, watching. A line of men with long matted hair perched on a ledge, cooing like pigeons.

  Hero gasped, clutching Machaon’s hand as if she were small again. This was like no temple she’d ever known. These were not the images of the gods in her heart.

  “What in Hades…” Cadmus murmured.

  “What is this place?” Lycon motioned them to come no closer than the bottom step.

  Demus turned back to them. “This is the temple of the Erinyes, we are the brotherhood of the accursed. It is only within the temple that we are not tormented by the loathsome sisters.”

  Hero watched as Machaon stared at the carvings. She kept her hand in his.

  “Do not be afraid,” Nikias said earnestly. “Not all of us are mad, and only some of us are truly evil.”

  “But you are all…” Lycon began.

  “Murderers… yes… for the most part, though some of us had good reason.”

  Unconsciously, Hero backed away.

  “But is that not why you are here?” Demus asked. “Because the pursuit of the Erinyes has become so unbearable that you are willing to spend your life in this refuge of desperate men?” He did not look particularly at Machaon but addressed the question to them all.

  “No,” Cadmus answered. “There are no murderers among us.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  The sons of Agelaus moved now, to surround Oenone and Hero, as men spilled hesitantly from the temple, taking the steps with fearful glances about them.

  “Do not be afraid,” Nikias said again. “There are enough of us who are still good men to keep the mad and the evil at bay.”

  Cadmus’ eyes moved to Orestes.

  Nikias nodded. “His ma
dness is worst when he leaves the protection of the temple, for the Erinyes find him quickly. But we make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone.”

  Even as he spoke it became apparent that some of the men were being held back and controlled by the others. They screamed and fought and struggled in restraint.

  “You were all pursued by the Erinyes?” Machaon asked.

  “Are,” Demus replied. “We have all been cursed. Some of us came to this place before the sisters drove us into madness, for others it is too late.”

  “And you cannot ever leave?” Hero asked, her eyes glistening with both horror and compassion for their plight.

  Nikias smiled at her, and his face seemed even younger. “If we leave the temple for long the Erinyes find us again. At night it is particularly so.” He glanced at the glowing sky. “We must all go in soon.”

  “No!” Orestes screamed and attempted to run away.

  Demus grabbed him and for a moment they struggled.

  “Orestes!” The voice was both soft and firm.

  Orestes stilled and raised his face to the woman who ran down the temple steps. She was fair and tall, her carriage regal. In the dying light her eyes seemed golden. She spoke to him tenderly. “Come, brother, it is time for rest.” She held out her hand for his.

  “Electra,” he said. “Is that you, Electra?”

  “Yes, Orestes. It is your own Electra… come with me now and I will sing you to sleep in the temple as I used to sing for our father’s noble ear. Do you remember? He said I sang like a muse. Come now.”

  “If you think it best, Electra.” Orestes took her hand, a gentle compliant lamb in her presence.

  “I do… I’m sure our father would too,” she said, as she led him up the steps.

  Cadmus frowned as they watched the pair enter the temple. “Will she be…?”

  “There are many men who would give their lives to protect Electra from the others,” Demus assured him. He pointed to the dozen who followed the brother and sister as they stepped into the grim shrine.