Sacred Bride

by Sacred Bride (retail) (epub)

  ‘Well, it’s his business,’ I stammer. ‘There’s no law against it.’ I thought I was a better reader of men than that, and I’m still not at all sure she’s right. ‘Anyhow, he seems a step up from that pig, Elephenor.’

  Bria snorts. ‘That wouldn’t be hard.’

  ‘I wonder,’ says Eury, ‘if either of them think they have a genuine shot of winning Helen?’

  ‘Tyndareus isn’t going to give his prize daughter to those animals,’ Bria snorts. ‘And I doubt Patroclus even wants her, unless she’s got a wizzle hidden under her dress. But Laas is right – watch for them to cut up rough if they don’t get their way.’

  We’re only a street or two away, when we hear shouting from behind us. Someone comes running by, hollering for the watchmen.

  ‘What is it, man?’ I call.

  ‘It’s the fucking barbarians,’ he says over his shoulder. ‘They’re starting a fight!’

  Oh, shit…

  ‘It can only take a moment,’ I exclaim to Eurybates and Bria, as we break into a run, heading back the way we came. ‘Where are Laas’s men?’ I can guess – down at the port, where the real danger ought to be. We race towards the tavern and through the gathering crowd, as women shriek and men shout in alarm at the smashing of pottery and the sound of metal on metal. We have to fight our way through the press, pushing and shoving – and then a massive hand is planted on my chest, and a big shaggy Thessalian shoves me back into the crowd.

  I peer around over the man’s shoulder, to see Laas raging in fury, his weathered face ablaze with anger as he lifts his xiphos and stabs it at the neck of another armed man.

  Patroclus.

  What happens next seems to stretch ever so slowly over far too many heartbeats. Patroclus sways from Laas’s easily-read blow, diverting the blade away and slashing sideways with effortless grace and precision, sending his long bronze blade crunching into the side of Laas’s head, shattering his cheek bone and lodging in his skull.

  The Spartan lord is dead before he hits the ground.

  The Thessalians surrounding the duelling-space roar triumphantly, as Patroclus makes a show of dropping to one knee.

  ‘No!’ he shouts showily. ‘No, I never meant this… But it couldn’t be allowed to pass. My honour is my life.’

  You bastard, I think, amazed at his temerity.

  ‘Patroclus, what have you done?’ I shout, earning another shove from his trained ape. This time I shove back, sending him staggering sideways. He goes to draw his sword, and Patroclus grabs his arm, while Bria grabs mine.

  ‘Careful, Ithaca,’ she murmurs.

  ‘You saw how he was,’ Patroclus says loudly. ‘He was already drunk when I arrived, and the moment you left, he said something vile, the sort of thing no decent man should say – first about you and your woman, and then about me when I defended you. He drew – first. Everyone here saw.’

  I look round the crowd, a sea of faces, some horrified, some stunned, some alight with a kaleidoscope of emotion, and damn him – damn them all – they’re nodding to a man.

  ‘Laas wouldn’t do that,’ I retort.

  ‘Laas did do that,’ the Thessalian prince replies, in the exact same tones. ‘He came at me, murder in his eyes. I tried to disarm him, but it was him or me.’

  I look down at the body, lying glassy-eyed in a pool of blood, the body of a man who I had a huge respect for, and a bleak sorrow settles on my heart. This is how the lives of warriors so often end – not gloriously on the battlefield but in meaningless brawls in squalid little towns, at the hands of murderous bastards like Patroclus.

  He provoked Laas, I’m sure of it…

  But I wasn’t there. I can’t prove it. And no one at all is speaking up for Laas. Perhaps I wouldn’t either, if I was just an ordinary man and there were a dozen brawny Thessalians in my face.

  Laas might never have become a close friend, but he was a decent man, loyal and generous and shrewd, and this serpent butchered him, probably only because he was an obstacle to winning Helen. I’m suddenly very afraid of what will befall us all in Sparta.

  * * *

  There’s nothing to be done for Laas, but to grieve – and nothing at all I can do about Patroclus. He’s claimed self-defence and there’s a whole room full of witnesses who are backing him. The local captain of soldiery here takes charge, and the Thessalians are gone by dawn. I take my time following, because I have no desire to share the journey north with Patroclus and his men. I’m still certain the Thessalian prince deliberately provoked the fight with Laas, but I can’t find anyone to break ranks from the tale that Laas was blind drunk and paid the price.

  Except that I felt that he was sobering up by the time we left the tavern… But I can’t prove that either.

  We stay on for Laas’s burial, so it’s not until the morning of the following day that we too take the road, leaving a dozen men with the ship and bringing the rest – nearly forty of them, north with us. We treat it like a trek through hostile territory, with scouts before and behind us. We camp in the wilds, posting sentries all around us and don’t go near the towns, which are filling up and turning as lawless as Cranae.

  Finally, after three days, avoiding the increasingly crowded roads, we arrive in Sparta just as the sun sets. It’s a place I know well, having spent my teenage years here, out in the middle of the plains, with Tyndareus’s palace atop a well-fortified hill and the town spread along a low ridge to its south. The palace is large and luxurious, but still too small to permit all the wedding suitors and their retinues, so even great kings are having to set up their own mini-courts, either in the best houses in the town or beyond it, on the tail of the ridge or even in the fields of the plain.

  It feels as though the whole of Achaea has descended upon this place, the visitors outnumbering the locals – and they’re all armed to the teeth.

  We’ve not seen Patroclus’s men since Cranae, and because we’ve avoided contact with other groups, we haven’t been able to tell whether Laas had been exaggerating about how many have come. He hadn’t: there are dark-skinned Minoans with ringletted hair, and deeply-tanned islanders from as far away as Cos and Syme and Rhodes, who look more eastern than Achaean. There are richly-clad Atticans and wild-looking Thessalians, and even wilder-looking Abantes, Elephenor’s people, brutal warriors from the large island of Euboea, along with swarms of lesser kings, princes and strapping theioi warriors.

  And priests, everywhere you look: lordly acolytes of Zeus, imperious priestesses of Hera, muscle-bound followers of Ares, and the servants of Hermes and Athena and Aphrodite and even the eastern Apaliunas – or Apollo, as people name him here. Dancers and revellers of Dionysus flock the informal markets that have sprung up everywhere, and wary huntresses of Artemis stalk about.

  They all know that Helen is more than just a bride.

  My mind goes back to an afternoon, two years ago, when Athena took me to an assembly of the gods. I didn’t really understand what a god was, back then – I still imagined they’d created us, that they loved us and were omniscient and omnipotent. I now know they’re more like hungry ghosts, who love mankind the way a lion loves its prey.

  Yet we who have a few drops of their ‘divine’ blood still serve them – mostly for our own ends, I suspect. I would be dead without Athena’s intervention, and I will repay that debt. And hers is probably the only ethos among the gods that I can respect: wisdom and reason.

  During that afternoon on Mount Ida – now referred to as ‘The Judgement of Parassi’ among those who were there – two significant things happened.

  The first was that Helen and her brother Polydeuces were introduced incognito as children of Zeus, who invited every deity to bless them, giving them all the gifts the ‘god-touched’ can possess. Such bounty is very rare, and can result in madness, genius, or both. The man who marries Helen will have a wife who can twist the world around her fingers – if he lets her express her full powers. I’m sure she will someday rule us all, regardless of Agamemnon�
�s ambitions, as will Polydeuces, when he reaches manhood in a few years.

  The second major act of that bizarre afternoon was that Zeus contrived a ‘beauty contest’ between his wife Hera, my patron Athena and Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love. The purpose of this farce was to put Hera in her place, and prepare the way for a new consort: Aphrodite. Gods and goddesses don’t actually marry – they’d rather eat each other – but sometimes their cults grow stronger through such alliances. Zeus’s purpose is to gradually disentangle himself from Hera and supplant her with a more malleable mate.

  That night, his instrument was Parassi – supposedly a shepherd, though Kyshanda has put the lie to that. Aphrodite’s proffered reward was ‘the most beautiful woman in the world’. That person was clearly intended to be Helen, destined to be a mighty queen uniting two kingdoms, with Troy as the ruling partner, all under the aegis of Zeus-Tarhum, the east-west incarnation of Zeus. The King of Olympus is effectively betraying his own people, in favour of those of a bigger nation. That’s the nature of gods, and the religion they inflict on us.

  My priority though, is to get myself on the list of suitors before Castor and Polydeuces realise I’m here and make some stupid move against me. So while Eurybates settles our men into our camp, erecting tents on the fringe of the general chaos, Bria and I join the crowds trudging up the ridge toward the palace, the way lined by stalls and hawkers and, no doubt, spies. I keep a fold of my cloak over my distinctive red hair, and tell the guards I’m ‘Megon of Cephalonia’ – my standard alias – here to sell trinkets to Queen Leda. I have a token from Tyndareus himself, given me in friendlier days, that gets me through. Once past the gates of the citadel, I join the queue outside Tyndareus’s reception hall, leaving Bria outside with my weapons to keep watch.

  Inside the palace, I espy men I know, but I keep my hair covered and my face averted as we slowly shuffle forward, through the echoing vestibule and into the main megaron, Tyndareus’s large and elaborated-painted throne room, where Tyndareus, Castor and Polydeuces are greeting those who’ve come to court Princess Helen. Tyndareus looks pale and tired, but his two sons are in their element, playing at being kings. This process is just a registration of sorts; the all-important gift-giving will occur tomorrow.

  I see Diomedes presented – as a warrior prince of Argos, that ancient and lordly House of Perseus, he’s a prime catch. Presumably his royal cousins have already arrived. Then King Menestheus of Athens steps forth. Patroclus follows, cutting a striking figure with his broad shoulders, blonde curly mane and tall, barbaric splendour. A giant named Aias of Salamis strides up, the biggest man I’ve ever seen. I’ve been lurking behind him, and no one’s recognised me yet.

  Now for the moment of danger. I give my name to the keryx at the head of the queue, and his eyes widen.

  ‘Odysseus of Ithaca,’ he calls.

  The name silences the room. Then Castor and Polydeuces, hot-headed young giants, leap to their feet.

  ‘Guards,’ Castor begins, ‘seize him—’

  Then Tyndareus’s voice cracks out. ‘Be still! Prince Odysseus is welcome here.’ He rises and comes to greet me, giving me a kiss on both cheeks while his sons watch, fuming. ‘Through you, my dear daughter was rescued,’ he murmurs. ‘Any imagined misdemeanours are forgotten.’

  ‘Not by all,’ I note.

  ‘But I am still king here,’ he says tiredly. Up close his face is drawn and grey. He’s been the bastion of Achaea, during the bloody years of Atreus’s and Thyestes’s feud, and it’s taken its toll. ‘We are honoured by your presence, Odysseus,’ he says, raising his voice over the hubbub that has broken out. ‘You dwelt with us as an honoured guest-friend, and it’s as a guest-friend and son that I welcome you again.’

  I smile back in relief. The king is still determined to cast aside the suspicions that have justifiably clung to me since the Theseus affair. I don’t deserve this forgiveness, but I’ll gladly take it.

  ‘How is Clytemnestra?’ I ask quietly, as I raise my arms in public salutation.

  ‘Sad,’ he says frankly. ‘I don’t think I will ever understand her relationship with Tantalus, and what she claims she’s lost. If she is to be believed, she fell in love with her family’s worst enemy. Other fathers would kill her for such a thing, but I can’t. Atreus and Thyestes and their feud has crippled the lives of us all, but it’s over now, thank all the gods.’ He leans in and whispers in my ear. ‘And she finds comfort in the infant girl – Iphigenia, she’s named her. That was well-thought of, my friend.’

  ‘Will she marry Agamemnon?’

  ‘She already has, last week in Mycenae,’ he tells me. ‘He made his offer and she finally acquiesced – I wouldn’t have allowed it otherwise. I was too ill to travel, and I understand Agamemnon won’t be bringing her here: too soon, he tells me through his messengers. He arrives tomorrow, for the gift-giving ceremony.’ He looks troubled, despite this supposedly good news. ‘I fear, despite her agreement to the marriage, that she hasn’t yet forgiven Agamemnon.’

  ‘I’m sure all will be well,’ I reassure him, though I don’t believe that can truly be possible: as a child, Clytemnestra, for all her quiet manners, never forgave nor forgot – it was almost her defining trait.

  On the one hand, it’s odd that Agamemnon wouldn’t want to flaunt his new bride in front of the assembled royalty of Achaea. But if Nestra is still traumatised, he can’t risk her behaviour – she could easily use the opportunity to make him look foolish, or worse. And I’m glad – very glad – she can stay quietly at Mycenae with the little girl and hopefully find a way forward for them both.

  With my name added to the official register of suitors, I am now supposedly untouchable for the duration of the wedding games. Castor and Polydeuces give me foul looks, but they’re stuck with me. I give them a cheery wave before taking my leave.

  Bria joins me as I exit, peering over my shoulder for any trouble, before tugging at my arm. ‘Come on,’ she murmurs. ‘Athena wants to see us.’

  * * *

  We meet in a house in the town which Diomedes has managed to secure as lodgings. Bria and I enter a small upstairs room to find him and another Athena champion already present: Menestheus, king of Athens.

  If there is a common characteristic among the theioi of Athena, it’s that we’re ruled by our heads. Even Diomedes, who isn’t outwardly a thinker, restrains his emotions with rationality. But in this turbulent world, we’re a minority. Most men, other theioi in particular, are ruled by the irrational forces of honour and ego.

  That doesn’t always make us Athena-worshippers nice people, of course. Not even his mother would claim that for Menestheus, a lean and lordly man in his late twenties, wealthy and with a reputation as a cold-hearted horse-trader. He’s so reserved when we’re introduced, he’s bordering on disdain. I honestly can’t see him winning anyone’s heart, let alone Helen’s. But perhaps he won’t need to – his riches might be enough.

  I’m puzzled why he hasn’t already married, when many men don’t expect to survive their thirties, but I’m guessing his ambition has caused him to wait for a better marriage than any he’s considered as yet, while his reluctance to risk himself in the ugly slaughter of battle gives him no urgency to breed before being cut down.

  Menestheus clearly has little time for me: an outsider from a remote island with no wealth, few ships and a tiny army compared to his. And he knows Helen despises me. He also knows I was neck-deep in the Theseus kidnapping plot. He’s far more worried about being upstaged by Diomedes, who cuts a vastly more impressive figure as a warrior, is closer to Helen’s age, and is devastatingly handsome to boot.

  And that’s us –Athena’s three most eligible champions. There are others, but they don’t have either the birth or the brawn to make them realistic candidates for Helen’s hand.

  We’re joined in our meeting by an old woman from Tiryns who I met last year. Teliope is one of Athena’s precious avatars – someone who can house the goddess’s spirit for a worthwhile
period of time. When we’ve placed guards outside the door and locked it, Teliope intones a prayer. Within moments, her spine straightens, her grey hair becomes lustrous and her green eyes go grey. A silver helmet appears on her head and an owl shrieks, somewhere in the night outside.

  We raise our arms in supplication. Athena surveys us gravely, then indicates the chairs arranged around the walls. ‘Please, sit,’ she says in a cool, resonant voice.

  Diomedes gazes at her with worshipful, even puppy-like devotion – he’s both a believer, and madly in love with her. It won’t do him any good; she’s a virgin goddess. Menestheus is reverent and nervous, as though he doesn’t know how to react to someone who outranks him. Bria’s laconically obedient, while I’m measured and watchful. Athena knows I have another allegiance – to Prometheus – something she chose to live with when she claimed me and awakened my theioi powers.

  Bria updates us. She has a full list of the suitors, and she’s found out the planned program for the coming days. ‘These are going to be old-fashioned wedding games,’ she tells us. ‘The suitors must compete in archery, running, boxing and wrestling – but not the pankration, presumably because of the danger of serious wounding and maiming – after presenting a “worthy gift” to the bride.’

  ‘Which Tyndareus will keep, no matter what,’ Menestheus grumbles.

  ‘Running these things is expensive,’ Bria says. ‘Though I suspect, from what I’ve heard about the gifts being brought, that Tyndareus could run it for a year and never have to dip into his treasury,’ she adds drily.

  ‘It’s naked greed,’ Diomedes grumbles.

  ‘But it’s exactly what I’d do, given the chance,’ Menestheus says seriously. At least he’s being practical, though he clearly hasn’t thought too hard about the potential for trouble from disgruntled suitors.

  ‘A lot of these suitors will be too old or out of condition to run, wrestle or shoot,’ I comment. ‘Is this a sign that Helen will seek a younger man?’