Sacred Bride

by Sacred Bride (retail) (epub)

  The day passes in idyllic conditions. After the long, fertile valley, we climb a high steep trail to a ridge that in our world would be covered in snow and ice, but here is clear, the going rugged but manageable. Even Laas relaxes a little, and as we descend toward a glade where Telmius announces we’ll camp, the taciturn Spartan theios addresses me, for the first time since we set out.

  ‘So, I thought we’d meet again,’ he says in his gruff voice. ‘I’ve still not made up my mind about that damned Theseus affair, but I’ll give you some rope.’

  We look each other over – he’s a little heavier-set since I last saw him, his hair thinner on top and greyer at the temples, with a touch of sadness around his eyes. ‘How do you fare?’ I ask him.

  ‘My son died,’ Laas says flatly. ‘A boar hunt that went wrong.’

  I have a boar’s-tusk wound on my thigh, a wound that would have killed me had not Athena and Bria intervened. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I tell him, sincerely. ‘Do you have other children?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Only a daughter. And my wife died, giving birth to her. The Goddess has not been kind.’

  He means Hera, Queen of Childbirth, busy with other things that were obviously more important to her while Laas’s wife haemorrhaged to death.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. We share an awkward silence.

  ‘So, that prick Theseus got his due,’ he comments, eventually. ‘Thrown from the highest rock in Athens by Menestheus’s men, eh? Good riddance.’

  ‘I don’t disagree,’ I tell him, honestly. Theseus was a great hero, but he’d turned rancid. ‘Nor does Athena.’

  ‘And you restored Helen to her family,’ he goes on slowly. ‘Pregnant, though I’m sure you know that.’

  I do, but I prick up my ears. Laas is a close confidante of the Spartan King, and likely to know more about how Helen and her child have fared than others.

  ‘So I’ve heard,’ I say.

  He gives me a sharp look. ‘Then you know more than most – her father has worked hard to keep it a secret. To the outside world, Helen’s still a virgin, a most eligible bride.’

  ‘Very eligible,’ I agree, wondering where this is leading. Neither of us need to count the months off on our fingers to know she will have birthed the child by now. ‘Boy or girl?’

  ‘A girl. King Tyndareus told me. Keep that to yourself, though.’

  I’m relieved – a boy would almost certainly have been dumped on some mountainside for the wild animals to feast on. ‘What’s happened to the baby?’

  ‘They’ve not let her keep it – which makes sense to me. She didn’t cope well with having it – well, what would you expect, when you’ve been raped? But the king has found a home for it, being his first and only grandchild to date – that’s on the quiet too, mind. Makes me think,’ Laas adds, after a moment. ‘I need a new bride, even if I’ll be too old to see my sons grow to men. And I’ve done well for myself in south Lacedaemon. I’m governor there now, with a new-built fortress town called Laos, named by the king for me, with a strong war band and more than a few ships. I’d make the girl a fitting husband.’

  Helen’s a poisoned cup, I go to tell him, but pause. Perhaps something like this would be a good solution. Marrying her off to a lower-ranking man like Laas, a man Tyndareus trusts and someone tough and experienced who could learn her moods, might be a waste of her undoubtedly prodigious theioi gifts, but better that than her ending up in Troy. One day, she might shake worlds – you don’t get the blessing of every Olympian god and goddess and remain a nobody. But in the meantime, while the Trojans are such a threat…

  ‘It sounds a reasonable hope,’ I tell him. ‘But why tell me?’

  He looks at me squarely. ‘Because you’re the Man of Fire.’ When I demure, he laughs grimly. ‘You weren’t contradicted, by Telmius or anyone else, at Agamemnon’s council. And you’re the cleverest prick I’ve ever met, and Tyndareus listens to you.’

  It’s strange to think of Helen with this taciturn man, so much older than her. Nonetheless… ‘For what it’s worth, I’ll speak for you,’ I tell him. ‘I promise. Once we’ve got this Tantalus business resolved.’

  He nods his thanks, and we stride on until we reach a flat stretch, a beautiful glade of mountain pasture where Telmius breaks into a lolloping run. We all follow suit, enjoying the change in pace and the sense of freedom it gives us, despite the weight of our gear, our strength buoyed by the magical energy of this place. We burst through a copse, and a herd of wild deer look at us then scatter, and I swear I glimpse a creature akin to the legendary centaur among them, a deer body with the torso, arms and head of an antlered man. They flash into the trees as we hurry past, while butterflies of extraordinary size and colour rise from our path and swarm about. Brightly-coloured birds glide over us, as if curious, then dart away.

  Telmius takes us next through a narrow defile, alongside a rushing stream. I glimpse men and women on the far bank, among the trees, but when they see us they bound away, goat-legged satyrs and fleet-footed nymphs leap up the slope and into the pines. One horned girl looks back at me and I realise it’s her – from last night – but a moment later she’s gone, to my relief.

  We pause at a ford, a few hundred yards downstream, and I gaze around. It’s beautiful, is Hermes’s realm. I’m more relaxed now, soaked in the tranquillity and the gentle sunlight that kisses everything and makes it glow. But the feeling isn’t shared, especially by Philapor, who’s mumbling a prayer to Hera.

  ‘I told you, before! Be silent!’ Telmius admonishes him. ‘Someone will hear.’

  ‘My Lady, the Queen of Olympus, will hear,’ Philapor retorts.

  Telmius shakes his head. ‘Perhaps. But other ears are closer, and less friendly.’

  That only makes the Mycenaean warrior pray all the harder. ‘Who will hear?’ I ask Bria. ‘Hermes?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she mutters, scowling. ‘Oi, Philapor, shut your stupid mouth.’

  Good old Bria, always one to defuse a tense situation.

  The Mycenaeans give her an evil glare. All four of them are on edge, and eager to find someone or something to lash out at. Agrius puffs out his chest and steps toward her, fists bunching, and his mates crowd in behind him. I step in front, a placating palm pressed in either direction. ‘Tact, please Bria,’ I tell her, before turning to face the four angry theioi, as Diomedes joins me. ‘What she means is, this is the realm of Hermes – anyone calling out prayers to Hera is bound to attract attention from someone they might not want to annoy. Pray, by all means, but do it silently.’

  The four Mycenaean champions don’t look mollified, but they’re probably reluctant to start a brawl on hostile territory and Bria does have a somewhat lethal reputation. So they accept my words, backing away while giving Bria their most belligerent stares, just to let her know she’d better watch herself.

  ‘My hero,’ Bria breathes in my ear – sarcastically, of course. She turns to give Diomedes a slap on the shoulder. ‘You too, darling,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘I’m so helpless on my own.’

  Diomedes frowns. ‘Next time, you will be on your own,’ he grunts.

  ‘We’re all done playing?’ Laas growls. ‘Good – let’s move on.’

  We follow the stream down to another river, then climb again, weaving to and fro along a winding path that makes little sense. I swear at times the rivers are running uphill, and the sun moves round willy-nilly as if it can’t decide what time of the day it is. But the landscape is breathtaking – giant outcroppings like spearheads, natural arches and trees like great towers, pools so clear you can see the fish swarming far below. It’s teeming with life; lizards, snakes, birds and beasts. We see spiders the size of cats weaving massive webs, and glimpse faces carved on tree trunks, whose eyes follow us as we pass. Reed pipes trill among the trees.

  All day, Telmius leads us through paths no one else could have found, the most obscure clefts in rock faces opening out into wide trails, while seemingly obvious tracks
lead to dead ends. Although we’re constantly watchful, the extraordinary beauty seems to be soothing even the Mycenaeans’ tension, and by evening we’re all talking like old friends. I walk mostly with Diomedes, who for all his stalwart singlemindedness and naivety, is maturing fast. It’s easy to forget he’s only nineteen – or so say I, only three years his senior.

  Having helped him and his extended Argive family gain their revenge against Thebes, I’m interested in his family news. ‘King Adrastus still reigns in Argos, but he’s lost all interest in the kingdom,’ he tells me. ‘Thersander rules Thebes, but the populace have fled and the city is in ruins.’

  ‘Your army burned it down,’ I remind Diomedes.

  ‘We forgot in our anger that someday we’d need to rebuild whatever we destroyed,’ he admits. ‘But our biggest worry is Alcmaeon. He’s drinking heavily, ever since the priests of Pytho took away his war prize, Manto.’

  I pretend I don’t know this already, ironical given that it was my idea, though I’d hoped they would kill the meddling sorceress. ‘I thought he was going to execute her?’

  Manto is the daughter of Tiresias, and possibly the old seer’s equal in power and cunning. She hates the Epigoni… and me too, for my role in the fall of Thebes, and the death of her father.

  ‘She’s in Pytho as a prisoner,’ Diomedes says defensively. ‘The Pythia demanded that she help the oracle undo the work of her father, and Adrastus agreed. He was worried Alcmaeon was losing his heart to the woman.’

  ‘Losing his heart’. More like addicted to her body. I fume silently, because as I understand it, Manto has beguiled the priests and priestesses of Pytho as well. If the Pythia thinks she can control Manto, she’s being dangerously arrogant. But that’s another day’s problem.

  We continue our winding, oblique journey until the sun meanders towards what I assume is the western horizon, and the sky turns a stunning rose-gold. Telmius halts us as the light dims and we make camp.

  ‘Is it safe to light a fire here?’ I ask him, as we settle ourselves in a lush clearing, with a dancing stream burbling past. ‘Do we need to set a watch?’

  Telmius’s face crinkles into a grin. ‘Hermes is a patron of hunters, Odysseus. This place is nature in all its facets, the placid and the merciless. Fire is permitted so long as it is controlled and we use only fallen branches. And yes, it is better we post sentries. Our idylls are behind us – from now on, we must be wary.’

  I take that to mean he and Bria won’t be slipping away tonight. We draw up a roster, two men every two hours, leaving Bria free to get some beauty sleep. I’ve drawn a straw for the first watch and settle down with a still-grumpy Agrius, though after I give him a swig from my liquor flask – an aniseed spirit Eurybates brews from an Egyptian recipe – he perks up considerably, and by the end of our two hours I know his entire family history. Then we rouse Pseras and Diomedes, and I settle into my blanket while Agrius goes to the stream for a drink.

  The Mycenean champion is kneeling at the water’s edge as I go to close my eyes. Suddenly the water in front of him takes on a faint luminescence. He makes a small, choked sound as an arm shoots out of the river – which is impossible because that spot is only a few inches deep. It’s a thin greenish-skinned arm with a webbed hand that grasps Agrius’s throat and wrenches him face down into the water.

  I leap to my feet, shouting the alert as he thrashes, legs kicking frantically as he’s hauled towards a deep pool.

  Diomedes is already halfway there, drawing his xiphos as he runs, and the rest of us close in, yelling in alarm. The big Argive prince grips Agrius’s collar and wrenches, lifting his blade to hack down at the exposed arm of the river creature.

  Suddenly there’s a brilliant flash of light, the air around us seems to explode and a figure appears in the midst of the blaze, throwing Diomedes aside like a toy. A pulsing force hurls us all off our feet and I land flat on my back, staring as the newcomer kicks Agrius out of the river, freeing him from the grasp of whatever creature had seized him and knocking all the breath out of him in the process. He stands over Diomedes and places one winged sandal on his throat.

  Hermes – for it is none but he – is a tall but deceptively slender figure, clad in a glowing, rough-woven kilt, with sharp features and a winged cap over unruly golden hair. His gleaming eyes shift through a rainbow of colours as he stares around him. The wings on his sandals are small and golden-coloured – perhaps more decorative or symbolic rather than practical, to my eyes. But this is his realm, where he can do and be anything he wants.

  I don’t move a muscle, but my eyes scan the glade, the darkness lit up by Hermes’s divine radiance. Satyrs, centaurs, nymphs and dryads are rising from the pasture and the water on every side; perhaps as many as a hundred wild looking creatures emerge, each of them in semi-human form.

  I also notice one of our party has not been knocked flat. It’s Telmius. Hermes turns to him. ‘Well done, faithful servant,’ he says.

  ‘You bloody bastard…’ Bria starts. Then her voice trails off, because she’s not stupid.

  Except that we are – all of us. Stupid as newly-born babes. We’ve walked into this, blindly, and there’s every chance we’re not walking out.

  8 – The Herald of Zeus

  ‘From the heavens, Father Zeus himself ordained … that glorious Hermes should have charge especially over birds of omen and fierce lions and white-tusked boars, and over dogs and sheep, as many as the broad earth breeds, and dominion over all cattle.’

  –The Homeric Hymns: To Hermes

  Hermes’s realm, Arcadia

  Telmius gives Bria a solemn look, with perhaps a touch of apology, then raises his arms in supplication. ‘Divine Father, Herald of Zeus, Great Hermes,’ he calls out, ‘I have led these men to you, as you asked me to do when you espied them here, but I pray you hearken to them, before passing your judgment.’

  Hermes looks at him sternly. ‘Why should I listen to trespassers, wayward son?’

  ‘Because I tricked them into coming here,’ Telmius replies, avoiding our eyes.

  I grip the hilt of my xiphos but find I can’t pull it free. So much for promising Telmius the worst if he betrayed us, worthless piece of kopros that he is…

  Hermes arches one eyebrow. ‘Why would you trick them, my son?’

  Why indeed?

  I stare, my mind racing, and then it starts to dawn on me.

  Telmius told us he thought his father and patron was wrong in his allegiances; perhaps he’s been looking for a way to bring this home to Hermes, and he sees us as that chance. In that case, he may have led us here, right into Hermes’s clutches, expressly for us to state the case for Achaea over Troy. I can almost forgive him his lies… I might even have done the same. But if we can’t persuade Zeus’s herald to betray the Skyfather, we’re all dead, and I’m not so forgiving about that.

  Telmius’s response confirms my suspicions. ‘Divine Father,’ he says, in a nervously obsequious voice, ‘these men – and this woman – travel on a matter of vital import, for the safety and security both of Achaea, and all those people who give you worship. They sought the paths of your realm to evade the winter, at my suggestion.’

  Hermes is listening intently, his eyes shifting in hue from blue to green to gold. ‘To what purpose?’ he asks, in a voice of soft menace.

  ‘To rescue a woman abducted from her family, and forced into marriage to another against her will. And to bring that miscreant to justice.’

  But that’s not our primary purpose. And why should Hermes care about one abducted girl? Why doesn’t Telmius speak more to the point?

  But Hermes does appear moved by the tale. ‘A heinous crime indeed,’ he says, nodding thoughtfully. ‘And yet, not uncommon. How does this rescue safeguard my worshippers?’

  Telmius mops his brow. ‘The man who perpetrated this crime is in collusion with the enemies of Achaea, and his fall would greatly weaken them.’

  It’s a convoluted way of drip feeding Hermes the necessa
ry information, but I can see what he’s doing. Engaging Hermes’s sympathies for Nestra’s fate could make the Herald-God think more kindly of us and our cause. But now he’s frowning, as he begins to see Telmius’s purpose.

  His strange, motley minions murmur and chatter as they listen, straining their ears and eyes to take in their master’s words. I doubt that’s a coincidence either: Telmius must have made sure they’d be here, to witness the decision if it goes our way. I’m stunned at his audacity, but if he’s misjudged, he won’t be a ‘favoured son’ much longer.

  ‘And the name of this criminal?’ Hermes asks slowly, glancing around the clearing. He’s probably come to the same conclusion as I have, and it doesn’t seem to be pleasing him. ‘Speak clearly, Telmius, for I am not happy to be disturbed by intruders in my own realm.’

  ‘Great Father, the miscreant of whom I speak is King Tantalus, who has stolen Clytemnestra, the daughter of King Tyndareus of Sparta. It is to Pisa these men go, to rescue her.’

  Hermes’s face becomes ever more thunderous, and his people shiver and take a backwards step. I glance carefully about to check on our party. Diomedes’s eyes are closed, but I can see his chest rising and falling. Agrius is bent over his own belly, winded and scared to do aught but snatch at his breath. Like me, Laas, Bria, and the other three Mycenaeans are still lying on the ground, gaping wide-eyed, their limbs rigid.

  ‘Who speaks for these intruders?’ Hermes asks reluctantly.

  ‘I do,’ I say, before anyone else can. I know my gifts of oratory, and though Bria might know more about the nuances of this place, she’s just as likely going to piss everyone off. ‘I am Odysseus of Ithaca.’

  Hermes’s glittering eyes turn my way, settling on me like molten stone. ‘The Man of Fire,’ he says coldly. ‘I have heard your name spoken, but always in tones of mistrust and contempt.’