Sacred Bride

by Sacred Bride (retail) (epub)

  And of course, my heart has already been given, torn asunder and handed back to me in pieces, only too recently.

  Even so, I still wonder a little how those lips would taste…

  Menelaus, poor fool, is gazing as if he’s never truly seen her before. Poor fool.

  Everyone else seems stupefied by her beauty, her poise, and the promise of all she brings – divine favour, wealth and power. And for the men, there’s the added allure of knowing that her gorgeous face could be the one he sees as he snuffs out the candles at night, and her perfect body the one he rides into the realm of Aphrodite.

  As if all the world is merely a play for her amusement, Helen signals to Nassius, waiting at the doors, and sits down on her throne, ramrod straight. It’s almost with disappointment that those present pull their eyes from her – if they can – to watch the suitors present themselves, and wonder if any mere mortal can be worthy of her.

  ‘Prince Idomeneus of Crete,’ Nassius booms, and the first of the candidates advances down the aisle, his face grim and lordly, like a man leading his warriors into battle. Idomeneus walks erect and proud, his waist-long hair oiled, bearing an ancient trident as a rod of office; though his true allegiance is to Hera, he retains some of the traditional emblems of Poseidon. His slaves are weighed down with bolts of finely-woven wool, the strands dyed in a startling array of colours, for Crete is famous for its flocks and the quality of its handwork.

  Under the cloth lie chests overflowing with golden necklaces and finely-carved ivory, and signet stones of beautiful, translucent agate, etched with tiny but exquisite figures and sacred images. He must have emptied his coffers to put together such a hoard, I’m thinking, which will have his nerves on edge. He comes before the thrones, makes his salutations first to Tyndareus, then to High King Agamemnon, and finally dropping to one knee before Helen, his arms outstretched beseechingly.

  ‘I, Idomeneus of the line of the great Minos, extend my hand to thee, and offer marriage,’ he recites formally. ‘I bring you these gifts freely, and pray you will bless my suit with favour. Crete once ruled the Aegean and will do so again, with thy divine presence at my side, to bring us the favour of the gods.’

  Ambitious, I think wryly. And not the sort of thing to say in front of Agamemnon. ‘Nice of him to eliminate himself so soon,’ I whisper in Menelaus’s ear. I don’t think he hears – he’s still staring slack-jawed at Helen.

  Idomeneus’s servants busy themselves unloading the cart and arraying his gifts at Helen’s feet. He stays looking up at her, and I can see him desperately looking for some sign of favour. Her eyes are shining, and after a moment of graceful pause, she extends her hand, palm down, and he shuffles onto both knees and kisses it, reverently.

  Now he must move aside, his face alight with worship, while everyone else tries to outbid him.

  ‘King Menetheus of Athens!’

  Athena’s favoured king stalks forward and doubles his rival’s gift hoard, adding in a string of beautiful slave girls skilled in fine needlework and the promise of his fastest race horses. His coolly-calculating eyes glaze over as he too kneels before Helen and stumbles over his speech, all eloquence dissolving before her melting gaze. But she lets him kiss her hand nonetheless, which renders Menestheus speechless with adoration.

  ‘King Polyxenus of Elis!’ Nassius announces.

  Like Idomeneus, he’s widowed and in his mid-thirties, and with a reputation as a seasoned warrior. Elis is in the western Peloponnese, and they’re traditional allies of Sparta. But it’s not a strong kingdom, its wealth and strength dissipated by vicious feuds, with successive kings struggling to centralise authority. His gifts are nowhere near as generous as the preceding two kings’, and everyone reads the dismissive looks on Castor’s and Polydeuces’s faces as a sign that he’s already behind his rivals, though Helen still permits him to kiss her hand.

  ‘King Agapenor of Arcadia,’ Nassius calls out.

  Agapenor is Hera’s man, and something in Helen’s shift of gaze tells me that in her eyes, he’s far more to her liking than the older kings who have preceded him. I can already sense that, to her, the gifts are nothing, even though her brothers are drooling at the wealth piling up at her feet. Her eyes glint as she receives the man’s booming declarations of love, and takes in his ruggedly handsome looks, deep chest and strong arms. He’s a warrior-king, a fine theios too, and looks the part. As well as a staggering amount of richly embroidered cloth, a large casket of golden jewellery, and a string of slave girls even more beautiful than Menestheus’s, he has brought more martial gifts – gilded blades and helms, and a decorative bow, ‘because I know the Lady loves to shoot’.

  Mmm, you’ll have to watch that, I think wryly, remembering Helen’s potshot at me, back in Erebus.

  I lean in to Menelaus. ‘Let’s get down there,’ I murmur. Eventually he hears.

  We’re about to leave the balcony when Philoctetes strides forward, clutching Heracles’s Great Bow, the only bow in Achaea that can match my own. I want to see what he intends, so we wait, leaning over the rail to watch. Philoctetes is a prince of Methone, a northern region of Thessaly, with a highly strung, pricklish air. To my amazement, he has the cheek to pledge the Great Bow if and only if his suite is successful. His other gifts reflect a wild, poor region. But Castor and Polydeuces are eying up his bow greedily.

  ‘Our terms are that all gifts must be given, verdict unknown, and will not be returned,’ the young Polydeuces says loftily. ‘Either you are a suitor, or you are not.’

  Philoctetes flushes. ‘The Great Bow is an heirloom from the greatest warrior ever known, given to me because I am alone in matching his ancient skill. It is mine in trust, only to be passed on to one who is worthy.’ Meaning a son by Helen, presumably… He indicates the small jewellery casket he’s also brought. ‘These are my wooing gifts.’ He bends and kisses Helen’s hand, murmuring something that makes her colour slightly, then smile, which makes the whole room murmur. Perhaps he has skill with verbal arrows too.

  Elephenor has already presented himself while Menelaus and I were hurrying downstairs; we join the queue at the great door into the hall as Patroclus steps forward, looking quite extraordinarily handsome in a gold-embroidered kilt and deep purple cloak that sets off his blazing blue eyes. He’s armed with a load of rich furs, including a snow-white pelt from lands far to the north, in addition to looted weapons and jewellery. Once he reaches the thrones, I can’t see him for the throng of heads in the way, but I hear him proudly reciting the names of the men he killed in battle to gain them, as if their shades are part of the gift hoard.

  Then Aias of Salamis, a man as immense as his island kingdom is small, carries in a huge stag over his shoulder to lay at Helen’s feet. Good venison, I don’t doubt, but it looks very dead. His booming voice echoes round the megaron as he also promises an unlikely number of beef cattle. There’s no sign of them here in Sparta however; the rumour is that he intends to steal them off his neighbours, who can’t be very impressed.

  I’m getting a bit frustrated now; my height – or lack of it – means I can’t see a damn thing. So I deposit my rather modest jewellery cask on a table beside Nassius at the door and explain to him in a whisper that I’m not trying to jump the queue. He nods agreement and I elbow my way forward in time to see Helen making a show of touching Aias’s huge biceps, and letting him kiss both her hands. Both hands… He has made an impression… Aias strides to his place beside a pillar looking like he’s won already.

  I cross my fingers for Diomedes, who cuts a fine figure as he strides forward and gives his lineage. As prince of Tiryns he’s a decent catch, and his looks outshine everyone else, with the exception of Patroclus, enough to draw an appreciative sideways look from Helen to her brothers, though my young friend is clearly nervous of her.

  After him comes a surprise contender, who wasn’t on Bria’s list yesterday: Prince Alcmaeon of Argos. He commanded the Argive conquest of Thebes last year, and he’s a surly, malevolent fig
ure. Last I saw him, he swore to hang me – yes, someone else that wants me dead – because we disagreed over what to do with the two Theban seers, Tiresias and his daughter Manto. He wanted to torture the former and rape the latter: I prevented both outcomes, and Alcmaeon is not the sort of man you thwart. He presents himself before the throne in all his glowering anger, and stalks out afterwards, his eyes meeting mine as he leaves.

  He draws a finger across his throat. Looks like I’m not yet forgiven.

  Then it’s Menelaus’s turn. As I watch, I’m joined by another suitor who sidles up beside me. A quick glance shows me a young man with a shifty face and dull-blond hair. As Menelaus goes on one knee before the girl he knew as a child, I wonder if he’s thinking how little chance he has, even though he’s Agamemnon’s brother. Knowing him, he’ll see her as a young woman who has suffered, and needs to be cared for, after the ordeal with Theseus and her resulting pregnancy. His noble heart burns to ‘rescue’ her, though I don’t see a woman that needs rescuing – quite the opposite.

  His gifts are generous enough to befit a man who represents Mycenae, and he’s Agamemnon’s heir, in the event the High King dies before fathering a son. But what he lays before Helen is noticeably less than Agapenor’s gifts, and there’s a reason – Agapenor is Agamemnon’s first preference and the High King has been adding greatly to the Arcadian king’s offerings.

  ‘That one’s weak,’ the man beside me growls. ‘No threat to anyone.’

  ‘Mind your words,’ I snap, looking the stranger up and down. He’s another northerner, judging by his accent, with a burly but not overly tall build. He stinks of sweat and women – common pornes, judging by the smell, a mixture of cheap perfume and unwashed crotches. But it’s his whole manner that sets my teeth on edge. ‘I know Menelaus well,’ I add. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Aias, Prince of Locris,’ he replies, without looking at me. His eyes are full of Helen, drinking her in with naked lust writ large on his face. ‘Wouldn’t you like to skewer that sweet piece of meat?’ he drools.

  ‘I’d keep such sentiments to myself, were I you,’ I tell him, icily.

  ‘Why? Isn’t that why we’re here?’ Aias says, in a low, crafty voice. ‘No doubt some rich pig will yoke her in the end – but meantime, we get to sniff around her fanny.’

  I face him fully. ‘You’ll shut your face, or I’ll shut it for you.’

  ‘You? I don’t think so.’ His eyes flicker over me, then he looks back at Helen. ‘Anyway, you’re just like me –a chancer trying his luck, so you can tell your bastard grandchildren that you were here. And I bet that little wanton sleeps with her window open – she’s no virgin, I’ll tell you that for free. Women don’t bat their eyelashes like that unless they’ve had a cock in them.’

  Right, you dirty piece of shit…

  I go to grasp his collar – and Nassius announces, ‘Prince Odysseus of Ithaca.’

  Reluctantly, I let my hand drop, at which Aias of Locris snickers, ‘Any time, Islander.’

  ‘There will be a time,’ I assure him, then stride, still seething, through the megaron.

  About halfway across, I realise that in my fury at that Locrian pig, I’ve left my paltry gift box on the table outside, and that the whole court is looking at me like I’m an idiot.

  Which I am.

  I have a choice – to stand like a fool and ask someone to bring my little cask; or turn around and fetch it myself. Either way, the entire hall will have a laugh at my expense, and I’ll have probably messed up any chance I have of influencing this event.

  Or…

  Bugger it, why not? I mutter, as my idea takes form. Because this whole process isn’t going Menestheus’s way – he’s been outbid several times. Nor is Diomedes likely to shine – despite Helen’s sideways glances. He’s been noticeably overshadowed by Patroclus’s dazzling good looks and Aias’s brawn. Either this whole gift-giving larceny gets sidelined, or we, Athena’s champions, have lost already.

  So I stride forward, salute Tyndareus and Agamemnon and Helen, ignore the two princes because they loathe me anyway, and announce myself in a loud, proud voice. ‘I am indeed Odysseus Laertiades, Prince of Ithaca, and my gift to you, Princess Helen, is my true heart, and my dedicated service, in the name of Achaea. I pray that you accept my offer.’

  ‘No gift?’ sneers Polydeuces. ‘That’s outrageous! Where’s your honour?’

  ‘None at all?’ Castor echoes, angrily. ‘How dare you mock our sister—’

  ‘Peace,’ Tyndareus wheezes, and despite his weak voice, his sons go quiet. He sits up – he still looks deathly, and he’s been all but asleep for the last few suitors – but now he’s interested again. ‘Please, Odysseus, my ward and son of my great friend Laertes, explain yourself.’

  ‘My King, you are as much a father to me as Laertes,’ I reply, addressing him directly but burningly conscious that Helen is looking at me with piercing eyes, trying to discern what game I’m playing. ‘You know me as only a father knows his son, and so you know how deeply I honour your daughter and all your family. But if my offer of love, companionship and respect is to be judged solely by the quality of my material gifts, then my honour and yours are diminished. These noble virtues cannot be purchased. And to avoid hubris and absurdity, I must tailor my worldly gifts to my prospects, which apparently are none.’

  The hall is now silent, as they all try to work out what I’m saying – I’ve been deliberately obtuse, but hey, I’m thinking on my feet here.

  Castor and Polydeuces are turning Helen’s wooing into little more than a cattle auction, lowering the honour of Sparta. But do I dare say this out loud?

  Tyndareus gives me an approving nod. Perhaps he’s come to the same conclusion?

  ‘We were invited to Helen’s wedding games,’ I add, emboldened now to speak for all the suitors here who are no richer than I. ‘We ask no more than for a fair chance to compete for the hand of a beautiful young woman, as your invitation promised.’

  Castor and Polydeuces are glaring at me furiously – in their minds they’ve already spent the gifts – and Helen is frowning. Agamemnon looks interested, though; who knows what labyrinthine thoughts are passing through his paranoid mind?

  Then Tyndareus darts a look at Helen, whose face is now a mask. Hiding what? ‘Your suit is of course welcomed, Prince Odysseus, and my daughter is honoured,’ he wheezes. ‘And be assured, the gifts offered are not the only measure of any suitor, in my eyes or those of my daughter. And I value the sentiments you have offered, from the nobleness of your heart.’ He gestures me forward, towards Helen, while the hall mutters at his words.

  Those suitors that have already pledged gifts are now looking at me as though I’ve tricked them, as I kneel before Helen, who gazes down at me with suspicious eyes. ‘I haven’t forgotten a thing, Ithacan,’ she murmurs, her voice like ice. ‘Theseus said you aided in abducting me, until you dirty thieves fell out.’

  ‘He lied,’ I say, in a low whisper for her ears alone – barefaced cheek on my part, given that I’m the one lying. Up close she’s flawless, her skin perfect, but she exudes – for my benefit – a glacial coldness.

  ‘I will never marry you, you stinking fisherman,’ she whispers back, while smiling for her father’s sake.

  ‘Then who will you marry?’ I ask, mirroring her smile.

  Her face turns sly. ‘The man I want. Not some old fart my family try to foist on me.’

  ‘Then choose well,’ I exhort her, quite seriously. ‘The fate of Achaea rests on your decision.’

  ‘Whoever I choose will be victorious, won’t they,’ she murmurs smugly. ‘So regardless, I win – and I really don’t care who loses.’ Her smile widens, showing her pearl-like teeth. ‘Now piss off, before I change my mind about allowing you here.’

  She offers her hand and I kiss it, though I’d rather kiss a cobra.

  * * *

  The rest of the gift-giving is more muted, as Tyndareus’s words sink in, and people begin to think hard
about the games to come. Most weddings are predestined – the guests arrive knowing who the groom will be. This openly competitive situation is very rare, and when it occurs, major gift-giving is only expected from the winning contender. And when games are used to determine who will become the husband, no marriage gifts from the groom are required at all. The only wealth handed over is the bride’s dowry.

  Castor and Polydeuces have broken that rule… and now their father has overridden them.

  I can sense the consternation of some – the rich, non-martial kings like Menestheus – as it sinks in that their wealth may not buy them the prize. But others, like Diomedes, Philoctetes, and Aias of Salamis, will now fancy their chances.

  The remainder of the suitors present their gifts – fifty-odd men in total are offering themselves today, most of them looking both angry and bitter, as they behold the greedy farce that has drained their treasuries – but few stand out as real contenders. My hackles rise as I watch the vile Aias of Locris swagger forward, and murmur something that makes Helen’s cheeks go pink; and I’m still fuming as Palamedes, son of Nauplius, presents himself. He’s a rakish man, a charmer with a glib tongue. When he sees me watching him, his face hardens. But he’s an Aphrodite man – he won’t come at me head on.

  If he gets Helen alone, though, he’ll use the same tricks he tried on a young priestess in Delos, a girl I helped to rescue from him. I resolve that, so far as it’s in my power, that won’t happen.

  Eventually, though, I lose track of the contenders, studying Helen instead, trying to read her mood. So I don’t really notice the slender, robed figure that arrives at my side until she plucks my sleeve.

  ‘Hello Odysseus,’ she whispers.

  I turn to see the very same young Delian woman who had filled my thoughts not long before. She’s wearing a pale green dress and a green veil with a pendant of a leaping deer hung round her neck. Her thick brown hair is tightly bound back, and there’s a half-smile on her sharp, clever face.