Sacred Bride

by Sacred Bride (retail) (epub)

  My last sight of Kyshanda shows me a heartbroken wraith, rain-soaked and weeping, crouched over the grave of our hopes and dreams.

  * * *

  Sunrise finds me wandering the jumbled foothills of Epirus, somewhere east of the gorge we came inland by, leading the mule with Damastor still slung over its back. I have no idea where we are – the clouds are still too thick to guess at the sun’s direction. I could be going east, north, south or west. Thankfully the rain has eased a little, and I just continue on, pausing occasionally to check my chest wound – now bound as tight as Damastor’s head, eat from the mule’s saddlebags, and drink from the occasional stream. I keep looking back but there’s no sign of pursuit.

  Has Kyshanda somehow managed to hide the mule’s tracks? She’s an experienced and powerful sorceress, with skills far beyond mine. Who knows what she has been able to achieve? And will Skaya-Mandu fly into another murderous rage when he wakes to find me gone. Has he killed her already?

  I’m wracked with fear and doubt. Have I made the right decision? Or is Achaea’s only real chance of surviving the Trojan expansion to have a prince working from within the Trojan camp, as Kyshanda believes? I can’t decide. All I know is that the only woman I’ve ever truly loved is now lost to me forever, and I am utterly wretched.

  I’ve been tending to Damastor as best I can. Around mid­morning, he stirs, groans and opens his eyes. ‘Oi, Ithaca,’ he says, sharply. ‘What have you done to me, you kopros?’

  Clearly, Bria is back.

  I help ‘him’ slide from the horse’s back. ‘What happened?’ I demand. ‘You left me – and your precious host – in a death-trap.’

  Bria takes in my matted hair, mud-soaked and ripped cloak, my clotted bandages and blood-splattered tunic with a critical frown. ‘It wasn’t my fault. Those ghosts knew what I was, and they cast me out. I had no choice.’

  I wonder about that, but I don’t know enough to say whether she’s lying or not. I don’t owe her the benefit of the doubt, but I let her have it anyway. ‘You might have warned me that they could do that.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’ She gives me an assessing look. ‘What have I missed?’

  I bring her up to date with a selected version of what happened – the prophecies and the freeing of the priestesses, our retreat through the forest and over the mountains, and the Trojan pursuit into the ravine. I leave out the presence of Kyshanda and Skaya-Mandu entirely, telling her merely that we’d lost our gear when I rescued Damastor from the river, and then been surprised by a Trojan patrol and had to abandon our overnight refuge. I let her believe the mule was stolen during our escape from the hut.

  Bria gives me one of her soul-piercing stares, though I’ve made that last bit sound as plausible as I can. Regardless, she returns to the most important matter – the prophecies. ‘So you managed to question the Dodona spirits, and then disable the site? That’s good work, Ithaca,’ she says, a little grudgingly. ‘What did they tell you?’

  I give her the words – questions and answers – in case we’re separated and only one of us gets back to safety. She shakes her head as I speak but offers no comment, which pisses me off a little. No doubt she’ll come up with something, when we have more time to talk. Right now, we need to work out where we are and get as far away from the Trojans as possible.

  Luckily Bria knows these hills well enough to lead us south and westward, towards the coast. We’re supposed to take turns riding the mule but Bria contrives to have a headache most of the time and claims the lion’s share – my chest wound doesn’t rank. Otherwise, despite the usual jibes and teases, we get on as well as can be expected.

  * * *

  Two days later we’re overlooking a small inlet, where a stream discharges into the Ionian Sea and my ship awaits us. Our galley is beached, and the men are watchful – this is the Thesprotian coast, and half the fishing villages are prone to piracy. We’ve still seen no sign of pursuit – if the Trojans are looking for us, they’re not looking in the right places.

  Eurybates, the keryx or herald of my father, King Laertes, comes to greet us, a broad smile on his dark, clever face. He’s part-Egyptian, around thirty-five years old with a wily head on his shoulders. In many ways he’s been more of a father to me than close-mouthed, belligerent Laertes, and I greet him like kin.

  ‘No troubles?’ I ask.

  ‘Just boredom,’ he laughs, looking me over. ‘And you?’

  ‘Trojans, ghostly priestesses, and an irritating and frankly useless companion,’ I tell him.

  ‘Useless?’ Bria says sourly. ‘You’d still be wandering about lost in those hills if not for me.’

  Eury is aware Damastor is Bria, though the rest of the crew don’t know the tall, slim lad beside me is anything other than he looks. He gives me a wink. ‘What happened to your gear?’ he asks.

  ‘Most of it is at the bottom of a flooded river. No point asking “Damastor” about that – he slept through it all.’

  Bria pulls a face, but can’t exactly deny it. Instead she changes the subject. Typically. ‘Our mistress needs to know what we learned—’

  ‘What I learned,’ I correct her.

  ‘Yes, what you learned, O wise and brilliant Odysseus,’ she grumbles. ‘I must commune with Athena, but I can tell you already – she’ll want to confer with you in person. Set sail for Corinth.’

  Eurybates looks at me questioningly – Ithaca, our home, lies not so very far to the south of the inlet, and Corinth is a long way out of our way, at the far end of the Corinthian Gulf. The lads will be wanting to get back to their families, not sail any further than they have to. In winter, every sea voyage is a gamble. But in this case, I concur.

  Except on very rare occasions, Gods can appear only through an avatar – a rare theios or theia with the power to channel their chosen deity through their physical body. I’ve seen Bria take this role on two occasions now, but it’s becoming clear to me that either she’s reluctant to act as an avatar herself because she’s a daemon; or that Athena prefers to use human avatars, who are more dedicated to the task. We will need to travel to the nearest of these avatars, and if she happens to live in Corinth, then it’s to Corinth that we must go.

  ‘I’ll take auguries on the weather,’ I tell Eury, and then drop my voice, so we’re not overheard. ‘I don’t like it either, but I think Bria’s right.’

  Bria and I go down to the shoreline alone, where I carve some lines in the sand, close my eyes and face the sea. Ever since Prometheus opened doors in my mind, I’ve been chipping gently away at the knowledge I’ve been given access to. Bria is my guide, but I’ve got this spell mastered now.

  ‘Spirits of Poseidon,’ I call softly, invoking the spirits that inhabit the seas and coasts, using an old tongue Bria’s been teaching me, one that the spirits know. As I speak I breathe on the little flame inside me that Prometheus lit, and it flares up. ‘Eyes of the Sea, show me the waters from here to Corinth.’

  It pays to keep things simple with the spirits, I’ve learned. They’re beings of pure awareness rather than intellect, and what they see is not what mortals perceive. But the easier the task, the more reliable the results, and this one’s straightforward. A wave comes in, higher than the rest, and for a few seconds it’s glassy, and I see what I need in its depths; a flowing vision of rocky cliffs and jagged promontories, taking me round the shores of Thesprotia, Acarnania and Aetolia, and through the Corinthian Gulf, soaring over waves of sour metal­grey under leaden skies. There are dark clouds to the south over the Peloponnese hinterland, heavy with snow, but there’s a northerly wind blowing, which will hold the brooding storm at bay and aid our journey. A window of opportunity, if we seize it.

  I call the lads together, and give them the bad news; they’re Ithacans, an argumentative lot, so they don’t just accept it unquestioningly: I’m bombarded by complaints and questions, but I’m their prince, and they know me well enough to understand I don’t do this sort of thing lightly.

  We drag the
galley back into the water, catching that promised north wind, the Boreas, which fills our sails with its icy-cool breath. Eurybates wants to talk, and Bria’s giving the bandage over my chest wound meaningful looks – presumably she thinks I should change the dressing, which is untypically caring of her. But for a moment I just want to be alone.

  To grieve.

  I still can’t believe the journey I travelled that night: from the heights of ecstasy to a desperate fight for my life, from a beautiful consummation of love, to a rejection of the chance to be with my beloved forever. I ache to see Kyshanda, to explain myself fully, to beg her forgiveness, to tell her that if she waits for me, I’ll wait for her, that there will be a way through this labyrinth. But logic tells me that such an outcome is impossible, and that I’m being a fool.

  Even if I was welcomed by King Piri-Yama and Queen Hekuba with open arms, married to Kyshanda in their most sacred temples, Skaya-Mandu or another of his brothers would murder me, because I would never be worthy of her, in their eyes. I’m a pauper prince, from the smallest kingdom of Achaea, with nothing to offer her but my love… while they’d be able to eliminate the ‘Man of Fire’, the most major obstacle to Troy’s ambitions.

  For my part, I don’t even know why the spirits see me as a threat. There are many theioi in Achaea, and no doubt many more in the Hittite kingdoms, and I’m far from the most powerful, skilled or knowledgeable. Yet somehow, it’s my name that comes up when the spirits are asked to identify the threats to Troy’s grand designs. It makes no sense to me, and it must make less to them. I’m amazed they take it seriously.

  Bria has lost patience with me, for she’s making her way down the central gangway, a boy walking like a woman, and drawing mutters from my crew. With an effort, I put aside thoughts of Kyshanda.

  ‘Does Athena know we’re coming?’ I ask her.

  ‘Of course.’

  Though Bria is a daemon, many of her skills parallel those of a theios like me, one who has access to all four of the theios gifts. But she’s not human, and her powers can take other forms. I’ve discovered she can also access Athena in some basic way, by communicating somehow through the spirit world. Even now, Athena’s avatar in Corinth will know we’re coming.

  ‘So,’ she begins, ‘what do you know of Corinth?’

  ‘Too much and not enough,’ I reply. I don’t really need to elaborate – last summer, we both camped outside the walls, along with the Argive army, on our way to Thebes. But due to the behaviour of some Argive thugs, we were forbidden entry to the city itself, so its streets are unknown to me.

  On the other hand, my true father, Sisyphus, who seduced my mother in secret, was King of Corinth before he was slaughtered, his body left in the streets for the dogs to rip apart. Sisyphus’s murderers were overthrown in turn, and Mycenae sent in soldiers to “keep the peace”. Now Agamemnon rules the city from his citadel at Mycenae, with a governor to oversee it, a handy outcome for him, as it gives him free access to the Gulf and its trade routes.

  ‘Is there anyone there who will be actively trying to kill me?’ I ask drily.

  ‘Now, wouldn’t that be a novelty,’ Bria drawls. ‘Everyone has spies there – it’s such a crossroads. We’ll need to keep our heads down.’

  ‘Suits me.’

  She fixes me with a look. ‘Who led the Trojans at Dodona?’

  I have a white lie already prepared for this one. ‘Parassi. Remember him?’

  Damastor’s open face doesn’t suit Bria’s scowl. ‘I wasn’t at the Judgement. But you were right – he was never a mere shepherd.’

  ‘I’m guessing he’s one of Piri-Yama’s by-blows,’ I comment, because I haven’t worked out how I could know otherwise, without revealing my conversation with Kyshanda.

  ‘Brave man – I’m told Hekuba’s not someone to cross.’

  I expect I’m going to find out all about that, now that Hekuba’s first plan – to nullify me by marriage – has failed.

  Bria looks me over. ‘What else happened?’ she asks eventually. ‘You’re very subdued.’

  You have to be careful how you lie to Bria – she’s very perceptive. ‘My interpretation of the prophecies is that we’re no closer to turning things around,’ I tell her, which is at least being honest, if not the real reason for my despair. ‘We kept the Trojans from stealing Helen two summers ago, then we destroyed their planned alliance with Thebes last year, but they still have all the advantages.’

  She seems to buy that. ‘You’re right, it’s frustrating,’ she says. ‘I thought too, that the death of Tiresias might change the odds, that we might see a rise in counter-prophecies. But hey, you and I know that a prophecy is just the best prediction the spirits can make, given what they know, at any moment in time.’

  ‘True,’ I say flatly. ‘I just wish they’d see more cause for optimism.’

  ‘We’ll turn it around,’ she tells me, with forced cheer. ‘There’s nothing more unpredictable than war.’

  I hope she’s right.

  5 – The Avatar of Corinth

  ‘…Athena, with her bright, blazing eyes, daughter of aegis-clad Zeus … takes no joy in the works of golden Aphrodite but loves wars instead, and the work of Ares, fights and battles, and the making of shining arms – she was the first to teach mortal men, carpenters and joiners, to make chariots for peace and for war, decorated with bronze; and she taught the art of fine workmanship to tender-skinned maidens in their homes, embedding it within the hearts of each one of them.’

  —The Homeric Hymns: To Aphrodite

  Corinth

  We spend the night on an Aetolian beach, and sail into Corinth in the middle of the following day. I dye my hair a dun colour, and take up my usual alter-persona, Megon of Cephalonia, telling the lads that for this visit they’re escorting a trader. They’re used to such things by now. I have plenty of my own war gear stored on board – a leather vest sewn with bronze plates and another xiphos, and most importantly, my prized bow – the renowned Great Bow of Eurytus. But all that has to stay on the ship – the bow is too recognisable, and ‘Megon’ isn’t a fighting man.

  With Eurybates left in charge of the ship, Bria and I head into the city clutching some ‘samples’, to find Athena’s local avatar. Bria, still in Damastor’s body, takes the lead, guiding me to a small house in a backstreet, where a grey-haired servant opens the door. ‘My Lady is asleep,’ she announces, loudly enough for any passer-by to hear. ‘But you may enter and wait for her to wake.’

  I frown, surprised and annoyed that Athena’s avatar can’t be bothered to stay awake long enough to greet us, but Bria just smiles as we’re led through the house to a back room, furnished only with three chairs.

  Then the old maid straightens, her dull raiment ripples into an illusion of finery and a bronze helm appears on her head. Somewhere above us, an owl hoots, and her face becomes smooth and timeless. Cool grey eyes regard me, as I recover from my surprise and raise my hands in supplication, Bria doing the same.

  The old woman is the avatar, not her lady.

  ‘No one really sees a servant,’ Athena says coolly. I smile in appreciation of the subterfuge – which tells me a lot about how important security must be here, in this city of spies. ‘Take a seat,’ the goddess continues. ‘We have too much to discuss to waste time on homage and chatter.’

  An avatar can only contain the presence of their god for a short time, and the fewer the illusions they use to signal their presence, and the smaller the audience, the longer they can sustain it. Hence, possessing an avatar in public to boost belief doesn’t really work: most present will disagree about what, if anything, they saw, and cry trickery.

  Funnily enough, the more vague the omens and signs, the more they’re believed: faith, it’s called, and it’s what these beings we call gods feed on.

  They didn’t make us, we made them. But that doesn’t make them any less real.

  ‘So, tell me these prophesies you extracted from Dodona,’ Athena says, her voice as comman
ding as usual.

  I sit and do as I’m bid, trying to decipher whether she’s pleased or displeased by the silencing of the shrine, but I can’t read her. Perhaps we’ve been forgiven because of my success in making the priestesses speak. ‘I asked the questions you gave Bria, before we set out for Dodona.’ The goddess gives me a satisfied nod. ‘So, to the first one, “Since the fall of Thebes, who in Achaea still aligns themselves with Troy?” the priestesses replied: “The Lion lurks in his den, waiting for the Third Fruit. The Wolf crouches in his lair, slavering over his mate. When the Stallion rears, both shall bare teeth.”’

  Athena takes that in gravely. ‘The Lion usually means Mycenae,’ she comments. ‘But this time, I believe, it refers to another prophecy: as you may know, the Sons of Heracles are in Attica, planning to invade the Peloponnese again, to perpetuate one of their father’s feuds. But they’ve been told they must delay until the “Third Fruit”.’

  Bria and I suck in our breath – we had indeed assumed this verse was about Mycenae. But Heracles was famous for wearing a lionskin cloak. Most people revere him, but since becoming a theios I’ve formed a different view: he was a brute, prone to blind rage and unbridled lust. Twenty years ago, his sons ravaged the Peloponnese, only to be driven out by a plague that followed their bloody conquests. That they plan to return is an open secret, and no one wants to face them.

  ‘The Third Fruit?’ Bria asks, her Damastor face serious. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A spontaneous prophesy received at Pytho, that spoke of a Heraclid victory,’ Athena explains, ‘if they attack after the coming of the “Third Fruit”, but warning of disaster if they fail to do so. They’re still arguing over its meaning. We’ll leave that for now – I’m more interested in this new prophecy: “The Wolf crouches in his lair, slavering over his mate. When the Stallion rears, both shall bare teeth.” The first part speaks to me of Tantalus, King of Pisa. He’s a notable theios from his mother’s side, known as the Wolf by his people. And he hates his cousin Agamemnon – being the only survivor of Thyestes’s brood.’