“Insolence! You dare to mock me!” The soldier screamed at the sky again. “Do you hear that, mighty Zeus? You have brought your son so low that he is mocked by the mortals that crawl on the ground.” Raising his arms he entreated, “Acknowledge me, O Thunderer, so that this creature may know that I am indeed your son!”
Machaon may have rolled his eyes but the clouds had already marshalled. As the soldier came to the end of his plea the ground began to tremble, growling like a living thing. The land tumbled like the waves of the sea, the earth cracked and lightning netted a dry sky. Machaon fell beside Lupa and Oenone, and for a moment it seemed the hill itself would devour them. A flock of birds flew into the clearing, dropping plumes as they swooped. Machaon cursed as a feather pierced his shoulder like a well-aimed arrow. He pulled Oenone beneath him trying to shield her from the viciously moulting birds. But then, abruptly, it ceased. The land stilled and in the barren clearing the soldier remained standing.
Machaon sat up in the dust and shattered stone. He cursed again, pulling several feathered darts from his body. They left only shallow wounds but their sting was unpleasant. Oenone glared at him. He stood and offered her his hand but it appeared she preferred to kneel. “Beg forgiveness, you fool,” she hissed.
Sheepishly Machaon faced the son of Zeus and bowed. “My Lord Ares,” he said.
The god approached him, his black eyes stern and triumphant, and slightly amused.
Now that he was faced with a god, Machaon was not sure what to do, and he seemed to forget the reason for which he sought the Pantheon. He did not think to fall back in fear or reverence. Behind him Oenone sang a hymn praising the brutal god of war.
Ares motioned the Herdsman towards the shelter of a spreading oak that had withstood the earthshaking, and bade him to sit. Machaon took Oenone’s hand and brought her with him, lest her piety bring attention to his lack of it. She continued to sing and he was not sure how to ask her to stop without causing the god offence.
Lupa shook the dirt and stones from her coat and settled protectively between Machaon and Ares.
“You are a son of Agelaus, you say?” said the god. “I knew your worthy father, I knew his bulls.”
Machaon remembered then a memory wrapped so much in time and lore that it was hard to distinguish between what he had seen and what he had imagined.
Ares laughed. “You were barely more than an infant.”
Machaon nodded. Ares, the god of war, had come to Ida… before the Greeks, when Paris still lived among the Herdsmen. He had disguised himself as a bull and pitted himself against Agelaus’ beasts for the crown that Paris offered. He had won, of course. Machaon remembered Ares as being much bigger… but he had been a small child then.
“I liked Paris,” the god mused thoughtfully. “What business do herders of Ida have in Athens?”
For a time Machaon was struck speechless by both caution and shame. He wished his brothers were present—they had a way of cloaking the desecration in such necessity that it did not sound so vile an act. In the end Machaon told Ares of the curse of the Erinyes; of his offence against his mother’s bones and, hesitantly, the reason for it. He watched the god’s face carefully. The Amazons were beloved of Ares.
Ares’ brow descended. Perhaps it was the ending of day but the sky itself seemed to darken and the air became chilled.
Machaon did not flinch. “It was my act alone,” he said. “Oenone, my brothers and my sister are guilty only of loyalty to me.”
“I took Pentheselia’s bones from the earth,” Oenone protested before Machaon could silence her.
“Pentheselia was my mother,” Machaon said firmly. “The decision to misuse her body was mine.”
When Ares spoke, his eyes were aflame. “My brother built the walls of Troy, my father vanquished the Titans, Athene gave the world the olive tree, and Poseidon, the horse… but I, fearsome Ares, surpassed them all when I created the Amazons.”
Machaon braced himself. Of all the gods, he had to run into the one he’d most offended. “I had no quarrel with the Amazons,” he said, “till they took my sister.”
“Your sister…” Ares glowered at him. “She is flawed. What is wrong with her?”
“Her eyes are weak.”
“And her heart?”
“As strong as any I have known.”
“And did she not wish to lie with a god? Did she not wish her name to live on as Queen of the Amazons?”
Machaon hesitated. Would his answer condemn Hero as well as himself? In the end, he risked answering honestly. “No, my Lord, she did not. The Amazons took her by force and, pious though she is, she would only have lain with you by force. She is my sister… that will not happen while I can prevent it.”
Ares looked angry. “I would not force her!” he spat.
Machaon’s brow rose dubiously. The gods took what they wanted and, even among men, women had long been spoils of battle.
Ares saw his scepticism and snarled. “I am war! I am courage and sacrifice, I am loyalty and allegiance. The petty atrocities of mortals are not done in my name.”
“But they are done nonetheless,” Machaon murmured, remembering how his mother had died.
Ares exploded, pulling the dagger from his belt and placing it against Machaon’s heart.
Oenone grabbed the god’s arm. “No, my Lord, spare him… please!”
The blade remained pressed against the Herdsman’s chest. Machaon did not move. The point of the dagger pierced the linen of his tunic as he breathed, drawing just a drop of blood. He felt the rise of the savage rage that had plagued him since his brothers had thwarted Medea’s spell. He gritted his teeth, fighting the impulse to attack the god of war.
Ares’ gaze lost its fury and became curious as he watched Machaon’s eyes. He pulled away and Oenone released his arm, relieved. “You are bewitched,” he accused.
“So I’m told,” Machaon replied.
“Who bewitched you?”
“Medea of Kolchis. To hide me from the Erinyes.”
Ares stroked his short beard. “I’ve never thought of trying that… it works then?”
“For now.” Machaon shrugged. “But it has its own problems.”
The god of war sighed. “That is so for many things. I fathered the Amazons so my daughters would be protected, so they would have nothing to fear from men… so that men instead would fear them.”
Machaon nodded. “We fear them.”
“I did not wish that they turn against their own,” Ares continued sadly. “I am sorry they took your sister against her will. I fathered them to prevent that.” He wiped Machaon’s blood off Hero’s dagger and returned it to his belt.
“Why are you here, my Lord?” Oenone asked suddenly. “Why are you unable to leave this place?”
“I am restrained.” Ares sat down again. “The Pantheon intends to try me for the death of Halirrhothios… his father claims it was an act of wanton murder and the Pantheon is fond of judging me.”
“Where are they?” Machaon asked.
“They are here.”
Machaon scanned the trees for gods. Nothing.
“I can see them, and I can hear them,” Ares said calmly. “That is enough.”
Helios had left the sky to the moon and stars, and it was cooling rapidly. Machaon built a fire. There was no point in going anywhere now since it seemed the gods were here. It was unfortunate that they were clearly preoccupied.
Somewhere in his mind, Machaon could hear the Erinyes as they inhaled his scent from the earth, seeking, hunting. Tisiphone called to him, her slack lips drooling blood as she declared her obscene and violent intent. For a moment fear gripped him as he remembered the press of their rotting flesh against his own, the clawed hands which raked his skin. How long his thoughts were thus he did not know.
Someone clasped his face. Oenone. “Machaon!” Her voice pierced the fog into which he was sinking. “Keep your mind away from them—they will smell your fear and come for you.”
He took a deep breath and nodded, focussing on coaxing the flames.
Ares was shouting at the heavens again, singling out gods for his ire. He berated his brother Hephaistos for forging the invisible chains that held him, the goddesses for failing to protect Alcippe, and Apollo for being their father’s favourite. His most vitriolic condemnation he saved for Poseidon who brought him to answer for the death of a son who so deserved his fate.
Machaon watched the god quietly as Oenone fussed with the wound on his arm, left by the boar. He wondered what Hero would make of this.
When Ares returned to the fire his wrath was uncontainable. In his rage, he attacked the oak tree under which they sheltered. Machaon winced as the tree groaned and shook and showered leaves upon them. Hero’s temper was similarly volatile, though he couldn’t remember her ever assaulting trees… it was usually Cadmus who both elicited and bore the brunt of their sister’s fury. Experience told Machaon that it was best just to wait.
Eventually the outburst passed, but it was by then deep into the night. Despite the noise, Oenone had succumbed to the arms of Morpheus and slept curled around the body of the she-wolf.
Ares stared into the glowing coals, damp with the effort of battering the oak. He glanced at Machaon, who sat stoking the fire. “How do you bear it?” he asked.
“Bear what?”
“Being mortal. Being so powerless.”
Machaon shrugged. He had never thought of himself in terms of power. “We don’t really stop to ponder what we can bear,” he said.
“Perhaps it is a fortunate thing that young men do not fully understand that they are mortal or I would have no dominion and Hades no citizens,” Ares sighed.
Machaon’s brow arched. “The boys who began the siege of Troy were old men by its fall.”
“And they had learned that they were mortal!” Ares did not apologise. He became distracted then and looked anxiously into the distance. “Your brothers and sister will be in Athens by now,” he murmured. “Perhaps they will have found Alcippe already.” He shook his head.
“They will be kind to her,” Machaon assured him gently. “And if she wishes it, they will bring her back to you.”
“If I am still here,” Ares muttered despondently. “The Pantheon means to try me for murder tomorrow.”
Machaon frowned. How would the gods punish their own? “And if you are convicted?” he asked.
“Who knows… we gods are fond of these elaborate pantomimes of life and death. My father threw the Titans into Tartarus… perhaps that will be my fate too—to rot in the deepest pit of Hades with the old gods.”
“But surely…”
“I am Ares,” the god said bitterly. “I am war. Hated and reviled by man and god because in me they see death, destruction and anguish. How easily they ignore the righteous cause, the courage and the loyalty. These things are also war, but I am allowed only the worst of it.” Ares laughed scornfully. “After Troy, the gods have grown weary of that which they once considered sport… It is easier to blame me than to recognise their own part in the carnage and grief. Suddenly they are keen to do away with war entirely.”
“It would not be the worst thing the gods have done,” Machaon said rashly. The fall of Troy was still fresh and raw in his heart.
“You think simply, son of Agelaus,” Ares retorted. “Without war how will tyranny be resisted, how will freedom be won? The spirit of man is determined by those things for which he is willing to fight.”
Wisely, Machaon let it go. Ares’ words were not wholly untrue and he was, after all, the god of war. He probably could not be god of anything else.
Ares glanced at the nymph asleep by the wolf. “Why do you not sleep? Do you fear Morpheus will lead the Erinyes to you?”
Machaon poked at the fire with a branch. The thought had indeed kept him awake. “I am a Herdsman,” he said. “We are by nature vigilant.”
Ares stretched out to sleep. “Watch on then, Herdsman. If I am acquitted I will speak for you… but the Erinyes are not easily persuaded. More likely we will meet again in Tartarus.”
I, Orestes, am no longer pure. I shall carry the vile stain of my mother’s blood into exile… and I must pay the penalty to her.
Euripides, Electra
BOOK XXVII
CADMUS LOOKED OUT TOWARDS THE sea. The night had wrapped its black cloak about the world. But the moon hung low in the sky and so he saw the silhouette on the dark horizon.
“Ly! Look at this.”
Lycon joined him on the outcrop of rock. He held Hero’s hand tightly for she could see nothing in this light and the ground was treacherous underfoot.
“What is it?” Hero demanded, sensing the unspoken tension between her brothers. “What can you see?”
“Ships,” Lycon replied. “A fleet.”
“Too many to be trading vessels,” Cadmus murmured. He remembered the thousand ships which had arrived to lay siege to Troy.
“Can you tell where they’re from?” Hero whispered.
Cadmus shook his head. “Not in this light. Perhaps in the morning…”
Lycon pulled Hero away from the rock’s edge. “We’d better find Mac.”
Cadmus held his hand out to Alcippe who stood back from them in shadow. She had not let either son of Agelaus touch her. “Alcippe,” he said softly. “It’s steep here. Will you not let me help you?”
The war-god’s daughter hesitated, withdrew, and then she looked into the Herdsman’s eyes and saw there the gentleness Agelaus had given all his sons. She placed her hand in his and allowed his strength to secure her steps on the loose dirt and stones of the hill.
They climbed steadily towards the peak where they had left Machaon and Oenone with the man they thought a soldier. Alcippe was quiet but she held Cadmus’ hand with progressively less fear, and trusted with less reluctance.
They stopped when the night became too cold and built a fire on the mountainside. By the warming flames they told Alcippe a little of themselves. Cadmus, in his way, recounted exaggerated tales that he was convinced were amusing, and which the exasperated corrections of his sister often made so. Every now and then Alcippe’s eyes would lift and she would be distracted enough to smile.
They did not ask nor expect that she talk to them in return, but she did. Alcippe told them of her father, the god of war, who loved her as he did all his daughters. She spoke of him with a pride and warmth that was as deep as any daughter had ever held.
“My father is fierce in his anger and fierce in his love,” she said, biting her lip. “If he had come earlier…” She shook her head and straightened her shoulders. “I cannot understand how he could be imprisoned. He is a son of Zeus.”
Lycon stiffened suddenly. He stood slowly, his body tense and ready as he looked out into the deeper blackness of the forest.
Alcippe stooped to gather a rock in each hand. Cadmus unsheathed his sword and passed it to her instead. “Can you handle a blade?” he asked.
She nodded solemnly taking his sword and reaching for Hero with her other hand. Though the weapon was heavy, she bore it easily and well, and her eyes were steady as she prepared to fight. Briefly, Cadmus smiled, moved by her courage.
“Cad!” Lycon pointed.
Cadmus’ gaze followed as he pulled a short blade from his belt.
The movement was slight, just a breath in the leaves.
“Do you see it?” Lycon whispered.
Cadmus nodded, his eyes focussed for the slightest sign.
Even so, the spear was unexpected. It came from behind them, foretold only by the deadly whistle of the air it cleaved in its path.
A scream from the trees. “No!”
Cadmus whipped around to see his brother had fallen. He acted quickly, lunging reflexively for the movement he had seen in the trees. Electra screamed again when he caught her. “Orestes, run!” She bit and clawed at the Herdsman, calling him all manner of vile thing.
A scramble through the forest ahead told of Orestes’ obedience to
Electra’s cry.
Grimly, Cadmus dragged Agamemnon’s daughter back to the clearing where he called Alcippe to keep her under sword.
“Ly!” Cadmus shouted as he bound the wildcat princess, hand and foot. “Are you hurt?”
Lycon stayed down.
“Ly!”
Slowly, painfully, Lycon sat up, his hand pressed against his side where the spear had cut a groove as it flew past. Hero went to him, removing her cloak to stem the blood. He lay back and groaned.
“What are you doing to her?” Alcippe stared at Cadmus in horror as he secured Electra to a tree. The war-god’s daughter backed away from him.
Cadmus stopped, shocked by how she looked at him. “Alcippe,” he said gently. “My brother is hurt. I can’t help him and hold Electra as well.”
“Then let her go.”
Cadmus shook his head. “Not while Orestes is out there throwing spears.”
Electra screeched unintelligibly.
“Cad!” Hero called, panicked.
Cadmus left Electra in her restraints, to go now to his brother’s aid. He rolled Lycon onto his side and examined the wound. There was no bone exposed, nor organ pierced, but the gash was bloody and jagged. Cadmus cursed Orestes as he tried to think what to do.
Alcippe knelt timidly by Lycon. She was calm again though her face was streaked with tears. “Are you all right?” she asked. “No, of course you’re not… but you mustn’t worry, we’ll work out what to do.”
“It won’t stop bleeding,” Cadmus muttered.
Lycon gasped as Alcippe placed her hand on the wound and pressed it firmly. Still the blood would not staunch.
She turned to Cadmus. Her terror of him had passed and her eyes held only compassion and confidence. “Place your dagger in the fire and heat the blade,” she told him. “We can burn the wound closed.”
“What?” Lycon tried to roll away from her.
“You’re not serious?” Cadmus asked, grimacing.
“Greek healers have long sealed wounds thus when there is nothing with which to stitch them.”
“No!” Lycon said. “We’ll get Oenone to sew it when we find her and Mac.”
Trying War Page 20
