Sacred Bride

by Sacred Bride (retail) (epub)

  I’m being provocative – Diomedes is twenty and Menestheus is in his forties. Although, as a king, he has to keep himself in some sort of fighting trim, he looks like the things he wrestles with most often are ledgers.

  He shakes his head. ‘The gift – and the wealth and power of the suitor – will be the only real measure. These games are just a ploy to distract and placate the younger men.’

  He might be right.

  ‘How are you placed then?’ I say, more to provoke a reaction than to seek an answer – I know how much he’s worth, but I’m curious to see how he views himself.

  ‘Attica is a growing power. We trade all through the Aegean, and Tyndareus and Agamemnon recognise this,’ Menestheus replies loftily.

  I hide a smile. Menestheus might be personally rich – very rich, in fact – but Attica has a way to go before it can rival Mycenae or even Argos in trade.

  ‘He’ll only marry her to someone Agamemnon approves of,’ Diomedes puts in, possibly to annoy the King of Athens. Agamemnon and Menestheus – two cold, calculating and paranoid kings – aren’t the best of friends.

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ Athena says crisply. ‘We must determine our approach, because this is a great opportunity to further our cause. Who are our main rivals, Bria?’

  Bria has obviously been giving this a great deal of thought, because she answers crisply. ‘Let’s start with the champions of Zeus, and Heracles – they’re working together. Their best contenders are Philoctetes, the famed archer; and Polyxenus, the King of Elis, who has plenty of divine blood and a strong war band. There are dozens of others but most of them aren’t big names, not people Tyndareus would select. But the shock contender in the Zeus-Heracles camp is Iolaus.’

  We all stare. Iolaus was the young companion of the mighty Heracles, until the demi-god died thirty years ago. He must be fifty by now, and the last I heard, he was advising Hyllus, Heracles’s eldest son.

  And he’s been the driving force behind the possible Heraclid invasion of the Peloponnese. Has Zeus changed his strategy, or is Iolaus here in Sparta as the prelude for war? Is he spying or searching for potential allies, or hoping to exploit the violence that’s already lurking under the surface?

  ‘The word is that Iolaus and Hyllus have fallen out,’ Menestheus comments, as if in answer to my thoughts. He should know: the war band of Hyllus is camped out in rural Attica, and Menestheus has been too frightened to do anything about them, not that he would appreciate being told that. They live like warlords, don’t pay tax or indeed pay for anything at all. ‘As you know, Iolaus has been wanting them to invade the Peloponnese but this cryptic prophecy about the ‘third fruit’ keeps delaying them. Iolaus has one interpretation, but Carnus, Hyllus’s favourite seer, refuses to endorse a march.’

  ‘Then Iolaus is the last person we desire to win,’ Athena remarks, frowning. ‘But is he really here to compete? Or is it a ruse – will Hyllus try to disrupt this?’

  ‘My agents say no,’ says Menetheus. ‘They claim that the Sons of Heracles were shocked by the death of Tantalus – another reason Iolaus broke with Hyllus, as I understand it. He accuses Hyllus of losing his nerve.’

  Perhaps… but in my opinion, Menestheus has been too eager to accept the most comforting explanation.

  ‘Iolaus, Polyxenus, Philoctetes,’ Athena repeats. ‘They’re not a terribly impressive trio of contenders, to my mind. I thought there would be better candidates from that quarter.’

  ‘Meaning the real contenders are still under wraps?’ I suggest. ‘Trojans, perhaps?’

  ‘Trojans?’ Menestheus exclaims. ‘They wouldn’t dare!’

  ‘I bet they would,’ Bria retorts.

  ‘Conquest by marriage,’ I muse. ‘But they know they can’t appear here openly. So they disrupt, stall and wreck other’s bids, then approach Helen on the quiet?’

  ‘Tyndareus would never permit it,’ Diomedes says flatly.

  ‘But he’s been ill, and still is, from what I just saw,’ I respond. ‘It’s Polydeuces – Zeus’s son – who’s really running the selection process. An ugly scenario – especially when you factor in Tyndareus’s rather convenient illness. Poison, maybe?’

  ‘Investigate that,’ Athena tells Bria. ‘What about the other contenders?’

  Bria scans her lists. ‘For Ares, the top people are Aias of Salamis – that big brute of a man – and another Aias from Locris who’s smaller, but a renowned fighter and athlete. Our new friend, Patroclus and his mate Elephenor, too. And Odysseus’s old “friend” Palamedes is here as well, in Aphrodite’s service.’

  I grit my teeth. ‘So many shitheads in one place.’

  It’s Palamedes that I’m most intent on – in Delos last year he tried to seduce the Artemis priestess, Penelope – or Arnacia as she was then – using magic, and then resorted to abduction when that failed. I’ve told him that if he tries anything similar again he’ll face me.

  ‘Hera has a number of candidates, but she’s pinning her hopes on King Agapenor of Central Arcadia,’ Bria goes on. ‘He’s young but already very capable. Since he’s a neighbour of Tantalus, Agamemnon has backed him to take control of Pisa, lending him extra soldiers for the task. He’s mature but still young, and he has a level head. A good candidate, because with him on board, Agamemnon would effectively control the whole of the northern Peloponnese.’

  ‘He’s a backwater hick,’ Menestheus sniffs. The more impressive his rivals, the more put-out he looks.

  ‘Hera’s also endorsed Idomeneus, the King of Crete,’ Bria adds. ‘Crete is nowhere near what it used to be, though. I think this is just a favour to Poseidon – a token of friendship, to put pressure on Zeus.’

  ‘If Hera and Zeus are considering reconciliation,’ Athena muses, ‘then such an overture to Poseidon could be a smokescreen. In any case, he doesn’t seem to have any candidates here – Pylos is where he has the strongest following, but King Nestor’s sons are too young for marriage. But the real question for us is, how do we promote you two?’

  She means Menestheus and Diomedes. ‘And who do we back, if neither of you are selected?’ Bria throws in, not even glancing at me, let alone rating me.

  ‘I’ve just provided Agamemnon with a wife favoured by one of the most astounding prophecies in recent years,’ I comment, not that it’s going to make any difference. ‘And helped end the worst feud in Achaean history; and given Tyndareus back his stolen daughter. At the moment, I’m the favourite son he never had.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Athena frowns. ‘Maybe you can get in his ear and push him towards Menestheus or Diomedes?’

  Thanks for the ringing endorsement of my own prospects, my Goddess…

  ‘My best chance is the games, not the gifts,’ Diomedes says. ‘Tiryns is strong but it’s not rich.’

  ‘My focus is the gifts,’ Menestheus growls. ‘Backed by the prestige of Athens.’

  ‘An obol each way, then,’ Bria quips. ‘Let’s get Ithaca alongside Tyndareus, then see how the gift-giving plays out. If it goes well for Menestheus, we get in behind him, otherwise we shift our focus to the games, and Diomedes.’

  ‘That seems reasonable.’ Athena gives a tired sigh. Even when a pure avatar is possessed by their deity, the process is draining. ‘Any closing thoughts?’

  ‘That this could turn into a bloodbath,’ I tell them. ‘It’s already started – Patroclus has effectively murdered Laas. Everyone is furious that Tyndareus has announced he’ll keep every gift, not just that of the winning man. There are too many foreigners for the Spartan soldiers to control, and armed enemies are camping cheek by jowl with their sworn rivals and enemies. There will be violence.’

  ‘A little violence could be twisted to work in our favour,’ Bria suggests, her head on one side.

  I stare at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe if a few more of them can kill each other off—’

  ‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous,’ I snarl. ‘That’s a perfect recipe for starting an all-out war – one t
hat would consume the whole of Achaea.’

  That assessment sobers everyone up.

  ‘Read the crowd, Odysseus,’ Athena urges me. ‘And make sure it’s Tyndareus, not Polydeuces, who has the ultimate say on all decisions. If we can guide him, we can at least prevent a disastrous result.’ She pulls a sour face. ‘If that means backing one of Hera’s suitors over a Zeus or Ares candidate, so be it.’

  ‘One person we didn’t debate,’ Bria says, scanning the list. ‘Agamemnon’s brother Menelaus is on the list.’ She looks at me. ‘He’s your best friend. What are his chances?’

  ‘I didn’t even know he’d put his name forward,’ I admit, my heart sinking. ‘I’m not surprised, though – Menelaus sees a woman in distress and wants to rescue her. But Agamemnon wants a new alliance, or so he told me. Menelaus brings nothing that Agamemnon doesn’t already command. It would double the marital bonds to Sparta, but at the expense of every other potential alliance. I don’t think even Agamemnon will support his brother in this.’

  Athena considers, then nods. ‘I agree. He’s not a contender. Anyone else of note?’

  Bria shakes her head. ‘There are dozens more, but they’re no-names.’

  ‘Then you know what do: Menestheus, remember to be charming, and don’t stint on gifts. Diomedes, smile and flex a lot, but show no mercy in the games. Odysseus – get close to the king. And Bria – find out about the possibility of poison and whether Zeus really does have any Trojans up his sleeve.’

  Her head sags, and a moment later, the goddess is gone. Teliope sits, swaying silently in her chair, until she has regained enough energy to speak.

  ‘I heard it all,’ she says, with a tired but serene smile. Avatars exist for these moments; to her she’s just experienced Elysium. ‘Athena be with you,’ she says, with a touch of irony. ‘You know your tasks, and I’ll be around if you need my assistance.’

  We thank her solemnly: we’ll need all the help we can get.

  13 – Gifts and Gambles

  ‘Then and there, their knees were weakened, and their hearts were bewitched with lustful desire, and all of them prayed that they could lie down with her in her bed.’

  —Homer, The Odyssey

  Sparta

  None of the candidates want to go first, lest their rivals simply add more to their own presents, in order to outdo them. But someone has to start things off. It’s a dilemma, and it has all the kings and princes of Achaea stumped.

  Inside the great hall, Tyndareus waits with his two sons, and a hoard of assessors with weights and measures, ready to apply a value to it all. The megaron is packed with priests, all declaring omens and signs about this or that. Servants and courtiers are everywhere, and so many strangers that the guards are having palpitations.

  Here outside the doors, everyone’s got handcarts laden down with golden bowls and two-handed cups, elaborately-woven carpets and wall-hangings and embroidered gowns, Eastern spices, ostrich egg goblets mounted in silver, plumes from Egypt, ivory and ebony from Kush, finely-wrought bronze weapons forged by the greatest smiths, and silks and fine linen of surpassing beauty. The men guarding each cart are doing their best to cover them over, to hide the full extent of the riches within from other suitors’ eyes.

  The suitors themselves are gathered in a knot, bickering over order of precedence – not who will go first, this time, but who will come last. They all want to make the final, most triumphal appearance.

  It’s the sort of thing that can start a fight, and the sort of fight that can start any number of wars.

  On a more mundane note, it means no one wants to enter the hall ahead of the others. We’re at an impasse, possibly an insoluble one.

  ‘Mine is a lineage unsurpassed on the mainland,’ Prince Idomeneus declares. A haughty, haunted man in his early thirties and already widowed, with crinkled hair and oily skin, he claims descent from the great King Minos, whose hands were said to only ever handle gold. But Crete, his island kingdom, hasn’t been a power in the region for many decades.

  ‘I think the word “main-land” answers that claim,’ Menestheus of Athens sneers. ‘What Sparta would want with a backwater king I have no idea.’

  ‘My palace surpasses Mycenae itself,’ Idomeneus shouts. ‘It’s thrice the size of Agamemnon’s stronghold.’

  ‘But threadbare,’ King Agapenor of Arcadia puts in dismissively.

  ‘Gentlemen, I’ll go first,’ a voice says crisply, cutting like a knife across the chatter.

  It’s my voice.

  ‘You?’ they all sneer, then the smarter ones shoot me suspicious glances. ‘Why?’ they demand.

  I give them a confident, knowing look, and flick my hair. ‘Better to catch the eye of the princess early, while she’s attentive. Youth and good looks, you know. These young women have a short attention span.’

  ‘It’s wealth that’ll decide this, not looks,’ Agapenor sniffs. ‘Not that you’re overly blessed with either, Prince… umm…?’ His voice trails off into a question, even though he knows exactly who I am.

  ‘Oh no, this will be all about Helen and what she wants,’ I tell them. ‘I’m close to the family – I grew up with them, here in Sparta. I had quite a soft spot for Helen when she was a little child – sweet, wee thing she was – and I’m sure she remembers how kind I was to her.’ In fact we had very little contact – she was in the nursery and I was off mucking about with Menelaus… ‘Polydeuces is the one really running this, and he’s devoted to his twin sister. He’ll make sure she’s happy first. All other considerations are secondary.’

  They look at me with burning eyes, trying to work out whether I’m showing them the secret road to glory, or merely leading them up the garden path. The rest of the courtyard has fallen silent to listen, while the suitors around me suddenly decide it’s vital to be among the early candidates. The whole process has reversed.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ King Idomeneus announces, pushing me aside, and then they’re all jostling for position instead of holding back, an undignified throng outside the vestibule, the giant entrance way to the throne room, kings and princes and their servants elbowing each other in a rush to get to the front of the queue.

  But at least we’ve made progress. Tyndareus’s keryx, Nassius, an older man I have known since I came here to live, has been waiting – the whole kingdom’s been waiting – for half an hour for this wrangle to be resolved. Nassius throws me a look of pure gratitude, before returning to the megaron door, ready to announce us in turn.

  I had no desire to be first anyway, so I seek out the best viewpoint instead, to assess the opening moves. Many other suitors decide to do the same, but I have a home advantage – I know all the tricks of sneaking around Sparta’s palace, so I slip through a side door and onto the servant’s stairs, which lead me up to the balcony which rings the megaron – a perfect lookout.

  Menelaus is there ahead of me, and we share a grin, before settling down to watch the show unfurl. Just below us, Tyndareus sits, tensed, on the main throne, already drawn and tired. He’s flanked by his sons Castor and Polydeuces on his left side – those two mountains of brash, youthful muscle – and Agamemnon and one empty throne on his right. It seems we’re all still waiting on Helen, so this show can’t begin after all…

  Then my eye catches another familiar figure: amidst a knot of priests and priestesses of every god, lurking behind the thrones in advisory positions, is my grandmother – Amphithea, the high priestess of Pytho. I shrink back before she sees me – she’s just as likely to point me out to Castor and Polydeuces.

  But seeing all these priests here makes me wonder – what is Zeus’s purpose in all this? Does he still intend Helen for the Trojans, or has that plan been abandoned, now that Tantalus, the Trojan’s chief ally in Achaea, is dead? What other purposes intersect here?

  But then Helen makes her entrance, without fanfare, from a rear door behind the thrones, catching Tyndareus’s keryx unaware, so that she’s already standing before her throne before he sees he
r. ‘Her highness, the Princess Helen,’ he hurriedly calls, his face going red.

  Everyone goes wide-eyed at this first glimpse of the greatest prize in Achaea, the sacred bride to be.

  She’s slender but shapely, clad in a silk bodice and flounced skirt of dazzling peacock blue, with a gauzy veil hemmed in gold cast over her golden hair, which streams down her back and upper arms in a river of radiant curls. Her ivory-pale arms are bedecked in gold bangles and a wide belt embroidered in gold thread enhances her breathtakingly slender waist and full, curved hips and bosom. She pauses a moment, fully aware of every eye, milking their appreciation, and their desire to see her face, then slowly removes the veil and gazes out over the court, taking the weight of scrutiny with effortless ease, a playful smile creasing her perfect, slightly-parted lips.

  Every man and woman present forgets to breathe, forgets that anything else exists but this one being. Their future queen, the woman who’ll fulfil their dreams. A child of Zeus himself, the prize bride, a fantasy made flesh. Seemingly so vulnerable, just a slip of a girl, but she is silk draped over marble, with a presence that seems timeless. Her presence fills the throne hall, and suddenly all these kings, princes and warriors are mere shadows.

  It’s as if an avatar of Aphrodite and Artemis called both goddesses to their body at once. There is youthful expectation balanced with absolute poise, sensual promise wrapped in innocence. Her divine heritage glows within her like an unseen fire.

  ‘A tongue of flame that consumes, burning all that it touches’… The last unexplained phrase from the Dodona prophecy leaps to my mind, and my mouth goes dry. Is she the one who that’s about – the flame we all want to hold, even though it burns?

  I’m less affected than almost anyone else present. For one thing, I’ve seen her before so her appearance isn’t such a surprise. There’s another thing: Helen once tried to kill me, during that damned Theseus affair – and when someone looks at you along the shaft of an arrow, mockingly recalls your shared past and then tries to put that arrow through your chest, a certain amount of empathy dies.