by Michael Ford
‘Get away from me, sons of Dis,’ she shouted.
Lysander edged along the top of the ridge in a crouch, keeping out of sight. One of the men, small and wiry with a narrow face like a weasel, approached the girl and said something. She slapped him across the face. The sound echoed off the rocks like a whipcrack. The man staggered backwards, but his long-haired friend shoved the woman.
She fell to the ground. ‘Cowards!’ she spat, as she pushed her hair back out of her face.
The man who’d pushed her jumped into her horse’s saddle, and tightened the reins.
Lysander reached for his sling. He was directly above now, maybe fifty paces away. Too far to hit a man accurately, and besides, there were three of them, all armed with daggers and maybe worse.
But perhaps I don’t need to fight them all.
The third man, wearing a thick leather belt, climbed off his horse and stood over the girl.
Lysander slipped a sizeable pebble into the pouch of his sling, and began to swing it above his head.
Weasel-face grabbed the girl’s legs, holding them together while the man on the girl’s horse looped a rope. She struggled, beating her attackers with her fists, but they laughed as her hands bounced uselessly off their bodies.
Lysander released the sling and the pebble shot out. It fizzed through the air and smacked into the rump of the girl’s horse. It gave a terrified whinny and reared, kicking the man wearing the belt in the neck. The rider cried out as he was hurled off the horse’s back, landing heavily among the rocks. Weasel-face received a kick in the jaw and stumbled to one side. The robbers’ abandoned horse gave a whicker of fear and cantered off down the dusty path.
Lysander dumped his sack and scrambled down the slope. He grabbed a rock and charged forward. The fallen rider was back on his feet and spun round at the sound of Lysander’s approach.
‘Get away from her!’ Lysander shouted, smashing the rock into the man’s temple. He watched the man crumple at his feet. The young woman was trying to untie the ropes at her feet, and staring at Lysander in astonishment. Her horse was still bucking wildly and whinnying in pain.
The rope snapped in the girl’s hands and she ducked under the horse’s thrashing hooves to seize the reins. Weasel-face took one look at his fallen accomplices, turned on his heel and ran.
‘Watch my horse!’ the girl said, thrusting the reins into Lysander’s grasp. She rescued a discarded dagger from the ground.
‘Where are you going?’ said Lysander.
But she was already sprinting after the bandit.
By the Gods, she’s fast, thought Lysander.
The girl seemed to glide fluidly over the path. Lysander doubted whether he’d have been able to keep up. She caught the man after about seventy paces and heaved the dagger down between his shoulder blades. He careered into the ground, and she leapt on his back. Lysander saw her hand rise and fall a couple of times, then she wiped the blade clean and walked casually back. A thin streak of blood stained her cheek.
‘You were quick as a fox,’ said Lysander.
‘Never seen a girl who can run?’ she said, stroking the horse’s nose. ‘There, there, Hector,’ she soothed. ‘What made you start?’
‘I’m afraid that may have been my fault,’ admitted Lysander, holding up his sling.
‘Do you make a habit of attacking defenceless animals?’ she asked, her eyes sparking. Her hair, up close, was like burnished bronze.
‘I thought …’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’ve all had enough upset for one day. He’s a tough old thing, aren’t you, Hector? I’m Chilonis. Thanks for your help. I couldn’t have fought them off alone.’ Lysander could see that the girl was more upset than she wanted to admit.
Lysander peered down at the man who’d taken a hoof to the neck. He was unmoving, his head twisted at an unnatural angle.
‘I’m Lysander,’ he said. ‘I think you probably could have defended yourself without my help, if you’d had to. But thank the Gods, I happened to be passing.’
‘No. Thank you, Lysander. They were trying to rob me of my horse. Where are you heading?’
‘To Delphi.’
‘The Oracle?’
‘Yes.’ Please don’t ask me why, he prayed.
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Sparta.’
Her eyes widened, then narrowed with suspicion. ‘You look like you make a habit of fighting – is your nose broken?’
Lysander smiled and nodded. ‘It was an accident. I ran into someone on the street.’ He had no wish to burden this stranger with his tales of the Krypteia.
‘From the way you handled that sling, I wouldn’t have taken you for the clumsy sort,’ his new friend said.
Lysander laughed. ‘What about you?’
‘Argos,’ she said. ‘We should travel the rest of the way together. I hear there’s a boat from Agion.’
Lysander had never met a girl like Chilonis before. She was so forthright, it was hard to disagree with her.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘If we hurry we’ll make it before nightfall.’
Leaving the bodies of the bandits where they lay, Chilonis took hold of her horse’s reins, and she and Lysander walked side by side along the path. The rocky gorge descended into a wide plain of rich farmland.
‘The plains of Ceryneia,’ Chilonis commented. After a moment’s silence, she glanced over at Lysander. ‘Why are you travelling on your own?’ she asked, leading Hector through a shallow ford. ‘Where’s your father?’
‘He died before I was born,’ said Lysander, splashing beside her.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Chilonis. ‘What about your mother?’
Hector had dipped his head to drink midstream.
‘She’s dead too – half a year ago.’
‘I should stop asking questions,’ she said. ‘I don’t seem to be doing very well.’
They continued along the path, which had turned muddy where a minor tributary had overflowed its banks. Hundreds of footsteps marked the way – it was a popular route.
‘Don’t worry. What about you?’
Chilonis sighed. ‘I ran away.’
‘Why?’
‘I fell out with my father. He’s stubborn as an ass. He gets angry because I want to do things my own way.’
Lysander had to turn away so she wouldn’t see his smile. Stubbornness must run in her family, he thought.
‘Like what?’
‘I want to be an athlete – to compete in the women’s Games at Olympia.’
‘Women’s Games?’ Lysander had thought the Games, held every four years, were only for men.
‘Yes,’ said Chilonis. ‘The Elian Council have voted to allow the festival of Hera to fall in the period of the Olympic Truce.’
‘You’re certainly faster than any girl I’ve ever seen,’ said Lysander. ‘Faster than most boys too.’
‘That’s what I told my father,’ she said. ‘But he says running is not for women. He doesn’t want his daughter growing up to be a “Spartan thigh-flasher”.’
Lysander laughed. It was true that many Spartan women trained like men, and wore tunics with slits up the side for ease of movement.
‘So why are you going to the Oracle?’ he asked.
‘My aunt suggested it,’ she replied. ‘She said the Oracle would be able to advise me on the correct course to take. But my father said the Oracle was a waste of time – “prophecy at a price”, he calls it. So I packed some things, took Hector from the stable, and came anyway.’
They walked in silence for some way.
‘Will your father be angry?’ Lysander asked eventually.
‘For a while, I suppose. But he’ll forgive me in the end. Anyway, what about you?’
Lysander shrugged. There was something so open about Chilonis that he didn’t feel the need to hide anything from her.
‘I don’t really know,’ he said. ‘I suppose I want to find out what I should do next.’
‘Isn’t there anyone you could talk to in your homeland? Who do you most admire?’
‘My grandfather,’ said Lysander, without thinking. ‘He was the bravest man I ever knew. If I could be half the man he was …’
‘Is he dead too?’ asked Chilonis.
‘We burned his body a few days ago.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said, reaching out to rest a hand on his arm.
‘Don’t be,’ said Lysander. ‘It’s my fault he’s gone.’
They reached a spring, gurgling up from the mossy ground at the edge of the path. Chilonis reached down to fill her flask.
‘I remember when my great-grandmother died,’ she said. ‘She was old – in her seventies. She was known all over the city for her knowledge of herbs and medicines, and for helping bring forth children. Even the rich men would come to our father’s house when their daughters were with child. But even with my grandmother’s skill, there would be complications from time to time. She always said the worst was when the mother died during the birth. She’d leave the birthing hut, and pass the screaming newborn to its expectant father. Often he could tell from her eyes that his wife was dead, but she always used the same words of comfort: “Honour the dead by caring for the living”.’
‘She sounds like a good woman,’ said Lysander as they set off again. He couldn’t be sure, but he felt that Chilonis had tried to help his tortured heart in the only small way she could. By sharing experiences.
They reached Agion late in the afternoon. It was little more than a collection of fishing boats and small houses clustered by the water. The sun, dipping to the west, cast a trail of golden fire over the water. One man was unpacking the tackle from his boat on a narrow jetty.
‘We need to get over to Delphi,’ said Chilonis. ‘Can you take us?’
‘Not I,’ said the man. ‘It’s late for setting out now. You’d be best to wait for morning.’
‘Is there no one who might cross this evening?’ Lysander pressed. Now he was so close, he didn’t want to wait to speak to the Oracle.
The man stroked his beard. ‘There’s old Ankises,’ he said. ‘He knows these waters well. Lives in a hut four or five stadia up the shore. Try there.’
Chilonis thanked the man and they followed his directions.
‘Slow down,’ said Chilonis, as Lysander marched off along the shoreline path. ‘If he’s in, he’s not going anywhere.’
Ankises’ cottage came into sight. Lysander ran up to the door and pounded it with his fist. There was no sound of movement within. Lysander hammered again, and the door creaked open to reveal a tall, lean man who looked older than anyone Lysander had ever seen. Deep wrinkles were carved into his cheeks and forehead, and his big hands were knotted like the roots of a tree.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘We were told you might be able to take us across to Delphi,’ said Lysander. ‘Tonight.’
‘Tonight’s a night for staying indoors by the fire,’ said Ankises.
‘We have money,’ said Lysander, pulling his coins from the pouch.
The door shut in his face.
‘Charming,’ said Chilonis. ‘Come on, let’s head back to Agion.’ They turned to leave.
‘Where are you going?’ asked a voice. Lysander glanced over his shoulder. The old man was stood beside the hut, dressed in a hooded cloak. ‘You can tie your horse up behind the house. I’ll feed him on my return.’
Lysander smiled at Chilonis, who led Hector to the rear of Ankises’ hut.
They followed the old man down to the water, where a small rowing boat was moored. Ankises climbed in, surprisingly agile for such an elderly man.
‘Come on then,’ he muttered. ‘The sooner you get there, the sooner the Oracle can give you a confusing and costly answer.’ He laughed.
Chilonis climbed aboard, and Lysander unlooped the boat’s tether from its post on the shore. As he settled beside her on the wooden plank that served as a seat, he began to doubt his mission. If the Oracle didn’t give him an answer he could understand, would he ever find peace within himself? Hadn’t that been his mistake before? He’d blindly trusted the prophecy on the Fire of Ares, and so far it had brought only hardship and suffering to those he loved most dearly.
Ankises pushed the boat off with one of the oars, then pulled in long strokes away from the shore.
It was the middle of the night when they reached the far shore, and Lysander paid Ankises his fee. As they stepped off the boat, the old man began rowing back towards his home.
‘Don’t you need to rest?’ called out Chilonis.
Ankises laughed. ‘I’m eighty-eight years old. Soon I’ll have a very long rest indeed.’
Lysander watched as the oarsman was swallowed up by the darkness. Then he turned inland.
Is this where I’ll find my life again? he wondered. If the Gods are here, will they guide me?
Most of the small hamlet was asleep. The only sound above the lapping of the waves on the shore was the whirr of the cicadas, trilling out their midnight song.
‘Dawn won’t be long coming. We may as well sleep on the shore,’ said Lysander.
‘You can,’ said Chilonis. ‘But I’m going there.’ She pointed to a house where a light still glowed. A sign was painted over the door. ‘It says they have rooms to let.’
Lysander tried to work out how the letters fitted together, but his brain was tired.
The innkeeper asked no questions when Chilonis said they were brother and sister. Lysander was too tired to say a word. She showed them to a bed of straw in the stables and gave them some stale bread and cold stew. After they’d eaten, Lysander lay back in the straw and listened to the scurry of mice.
He longed for sleep to overcome him. Finally, out of the darkness, Chilonis spoke.
‘Lysander, about your grandfather. I’m sure you aren’t truly to blame.’
Lysander fought against the images that came into his mind – Sarpedon, plunging the sword into his own chest. Lying pale-faced on the deck of Vaumisa’s ship. His body on the pyre.
‘You don’t know what happened.’
‘My great-grandmother always said that the Fates take you when it’s your time. They spin your life on a thread and snip it when the Gods command. Your heart stops when the scissors close.’
Lysander fought against tears in the gloom.
‘I think they might already have come for me,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing left in my heart.’
Chilonis edged closer to him, and he felt her warm palm rest over his chest, where the Fire of Ares used to lie.
‘You still have a heart, Lysander. Don’t wait for the Fates to decide your future, seek it out for yourself. What’s past has gone. Your grandfather wouldn’t want you to stop living just because he has.’
Lysander was grateful for Chilonis’ words, but he couldn’t help pushing her hand away and rolling over on to his side. He stared out into the darkness. Beyond the walls of the stable lay the hills where he would find the Oracle and beg for help. No, not beg, he thought to himself. I’ll have to pay her. Was the boatman right? Was he being a fool, looking for consolation amongst the hills? Lysander had no way of knowing. All he knew and felt was the ache in his heart that had not gone away since the death of his grandfather.
I have to do something, he thought, as he closed his eyes. I have to hope.
Right now, hope was all he had left.
Chapter 7
‘Get in line!’ shouted the attendant priest. To Lysander he looked more like a soldier, with broad shoulders and arms thick as saplings. ‘Your time with the Oracle will come soon enough. Form a queue.’
‘What a thug,’ said Chilonis.
A chill wind rustled the leaves of the trees as they joined the line of supplicants. Evidently, Lysander and his new friend weren’t the only people keen to see the Oracle. Despite their boat ride through the night, crowds had already been thronging the hills when they’d arrived. Now, the colours of the morning w
ere muted, as though Aphrodite, Goddess of Love, had left a veil draped over the mountainside. In front of Lysander was an elderly couple – from their rough sheepskin shawls, Lysander guessed they were farmers, shepherds perhaps. They stood in silence, leaning on each other like the collapsed columns of a ruined temple.
‘Don’t worry,’ whispered the woman. ‘We’ll find the answers we’re looking for.’
He wondered what they needed to see the Oracle for. Had they lost something precious? Had their meagre crops failed, leaving them starving and without hope?
Bleating cut through the silence, and Lysander turned to see another attendant dragging a black ram on a thin cord. The animal’s hooves skittered on the rocky path and it strained against the tether, eyes rolling back in its head.
‘Perhaps it knows what’s coming,’ whispered Chilonis.
The attendant stopped by the spring pool and was joined by his companion. Together they manhandled the ram on to a flat rock by the water’s edge. The crowd watched with morbid interest. From a wicker scabbard, the attendant drew a slightly curved knife with a handle that glinted with polished bronze. He held it on his extended palms and lifted his face up to the mountain.
‘Apollo, Bow-Bearer, Bringer of the Sun, bless those mortals in your service and bestow the gift of Foresight. Be true in your guidance.’
The attendant’s voice was monotone, as though he’d performed the rites on countless mornings such as this. While his companion sat astride the ram and held its head steady, the attendant slipped the knife beneath the creature’s throat and gave an upwards sawing motion. The ram struggled, but was trapped firmly in position. Blood spattered out on to the rocks and into the water below, tingeing the spring pink. The crowd watched in silence, some nodding their approval of the sacrifice, as though it were proof of the God’s blessing. As the ram’s shudders grew weaker, the attendant loosed his grip and let the dying animal collapse on its side, forelegs quivering. The last trickles of blood pooled in the water, and the eyes stopped moving in the head. Lysander turned away, bile rising up into his mouth.
