Sacred Bride

by Sacred Bride (retail) (epub)

  Back in my room, I check under the bed and bar both the door and the window again before settling down to sleep, my xiphos by my side. I wake the next morning to the quiet of dawn, alone and unassassinated, and struggling to free myself from a vivid and alarming dream.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed, taking a moment to ponder what meaning the dream might have. In it, I’ve been making love to Kyshanda, until I notice she has furry legs and cloven hooves, and when she reaches the height of her pleasure, she makes a bleating sound, like a nanny goat. I hear ribald laughter, and I find I’m surrounded by dancing maenads, their skimpy tunics baring one shoulder and splattered with wine. Behind them is Penelope, turning away in disgust…

  They say dreams either issue through gates of ivory or of horn. The former are delusions, sent to deceive us; the latter give us glimpses of the truth. This one I’m scared to analyse at all.

  I drag myself out of bed, feeling fragile, and thinly spread.

  This is just a symptom of giving up Kyshanda, I tell myself. I’ll get over it… Soon…

  Or will I? I’m hardly an expert, I’m forced to confess to myself. After a few infatuations that went nowhere, followed by a pleasing but pale imitation of love with an Ithacan woman named Issa, what I had with Kyshanda felt pure as well as passionate, and it hurts to think that I may never feel that way about anyone else, ever.

  But you will, the rational part of me insists. You will love again. Just the sort of advice I’d hand to someone else, all tidy and rational. But right now, my heart isn’t listening.

  I can’t let myself be distracted further, though – I have a hard day before me. The competition is going to open with archery this morning, followed by a footrace this afternoon, wrestling tomorrow, and boxing the day after. Among the suitors are some of the mightiest men in Achaea. So I wash myself in the copper basin provided, put on a clean tunic and prepare myself mentally as best I can.

  The archery competition is dominated by the famous Philoctetes, wielding the Great Bow of Heracles himself. He has a massive reputation as a master archer, and I’ve already heard that when he competes, no one even gets close to the standard he sets. Today is no exception, especially when Nassius, who is organising the games, sets up a variety of trick shots that make fools of most.

  For my part, I don’t use the Great Bow of Eurytus, despite having brought it with me. I’m sorely tempted but it would draw too much attention to me, when my role here is not to be a competitor but an instigator. And a spy for Tyndareus, alert to any trouble. That I have the famous weapon isn’t widely known and I prefer to keep it that way. So with an inferior bow, and hiding my true abilities carefully, I fade early from the contest. A few people who know my skills, Diomedes and Menelaus amongst them, look at me curiously, but I shrug my shoulders, as if to say it’s just not my day.

  I’m also more than a little preoccupied with the parchment note. Everyone competing here is carrying a bow, and a stray arrow in the back might be easily managed to look like an accident. Unless the danger isn’t coming from the Achaeans here, but from outsiders…

  Philoctetes claims the prize, but that doesn’t bother me: he’s an arrogant, thin-faced reed of a man in his mid-to-late twenties, and despite a certain edgy charm, I don’t think Helen’s much taken with him.

  The real contest will begin this afternoon, in the footrace. Our plan is to place Diomedes – handsome as Adonis and a warrior matched by few – right under Helen’s nose.

  A light midday meal is served for the suitors in the main palace courtyard. I’ve not long finished eating when I’m greeted by Bria, curvaceous and provocative in the body of Meli, and with the air of languid exhaustion that tells me her night was rather more eventful than mine. She sashays up to me, hips swinging. ‘We have work to do,’ she states, batting her eyelashes at me as though I’m longing to bed her.

  ‘We both do,’ I agree.

  She takes my arm and puts her mouth to my ear. ‘The best runners here are Aias of Locris and your mate Palamedes: nobble them, and Diomedes should win the race.’

  ‘Nobble them?’ I’m suddenly tense. These games and their rules are sacred: anyone who interferes with the natural outcome will be disqualified. And if they’re suspected of deliberately using foul play…

  ‘Trip the bastards up and bugger their legs,’ she advises blithely. ‘This is footrace as warfare, Ithaca.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts. It happens all the time.’

  ‘Not on my patch.’

  She smiles at me sweetly. ‘But your patch is so very, very small, Ithaca. And I know you’ll be clever about it – it’s rather important you don’t get caught.’

  That’s the understatement of the year – deliberate interference at a contest as sacred as a marriage games can be punishable by death.

  ‘I’ve met young Aias of Locris, and I know all about Palamedes,’ I tell her, swallowing my doubts as best I can. ‘Believe me, I’ll have no trouble with motivation.’

  ‘Mmm, it’s no surprise that turd Palamedes is a good runner, is it? Think of all those bedroom windows he’s had to flee through,’ she sniggers. ‘Good luck, Ithaca. Go out hard, and cut down those two arseholes so that Diomedes wins.’

  She sways back through the courtyard, as the assembling suitors jeer or whistle. Then the giant Aias of Salamis sweeps her up and makes a show of kissing her, while the other men laugh or catcall, then he pats her behind and shoves her toward the courtyard doors. Bria gives him an over-the-shoulder look that almost has him following her out into the square.

  I look around, checking who is and isn’t here. The older men – Idomeneus, Menestheus, Polyxenos and a few others – are absent, disdaining the footrace. They know they won’t win and have chosen to spare themselves the ignominy of working up a sweat in front of lesser men for nothing. Alcmaeon has shown up, but he’s clearly drunk and out of shape. Among the younger men, I pick out those with a reputation for athleticism: Palamedes hasn’t arrived yet, but Aias of Locris looks confident; and I know that Diomedes is no slouch. Nor am I, for that matter; my strong thighs are excellent in a sprint, though I tend to fade over longer distances, when runners with a more wiry build come into their own. It’s the barbarians that interest me; Patroclus and Elephenor. Life in the north is no joke, and I suspect they’ll have speed and stamina to burn.

  Then Nassius orders a horn to be sounded, and calls us to attention.

  ‘My lords, listen please! In a few moments, you will all parade through the central square in the town and out to the plain below, where King Tyndareus and his family await you. There, the race will begin – around the palace hill and the town three times, a distance of six miles. To the victor, the glory!’

  That sets off a loud buzz of conversation – this is a longer race than any of us had expected. As I edge through the throng, seeking out Diomedes, I hear the unpleasant, rasping voice of the Locrian Aias. ‘Once I get the little princess alone, I’ll have her,’ he’s boasting. ‘Once you grab a woman’s pussy, they’re meat in your hands. Never fails, I tell you.’

  Whoever wins this, you’re going to lose, I vow silently as I pass.

  I find Diomedes, who seems well-rested and calm. I go over Bria’s crude plan with him. ‘I’ll have to go out fast,’ I tell him. ‘Faster than I can sustain for long. Stay ahead of the pack, keep something in reserve, then once I’ve done my bit, push for the lead.’

  Diomedes nods diffidently, his eyes on Patroclus. I nod. The Thessalian will be a big threat. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘keep an eye on that one. Those northerners can run, and he’s a theios of Ares.’

  Dio growls something under his breath, and goes into a series of stretches that make his impressive muscles flex and bulge. I do something similar, on a smaller scale. We watch the others as they watch us, everyone sizing up each other. Then Nassius calls us to move, and we all walk down from the palace through the town square and on down the hill. Most of us are silent, still limbering up as we go.
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  I know the track that we’ll follow – Menelaus and I walked and ran along it many times, when I lived here as a youth. The start and finish line has been painted onto a cleared and flattened piece of ground at a crossroads, where the track around the base of the hill meets the main road. We ready ourselves, spreading out along the width of the line and warming up more urgently now, getting our blood pumping so that our muscles don’t pull during the first, hectic sprint.

  The whole town is here to watch, from house servants to craftsmen, to the sea of soldiers and servants who escort their masters. The kings, Tyndareus and Agamemnon, are now seated on a raised platform, along with Tyndareus’s wife, Leda, and their three younger daughters, and Idomeneus and Menestheus and the other older men who have decided not to compete in the athletic contest. The royal party is surrounded by an array of priests and priestesses, representing every deity, in a sea of colour.

  I glimpse Penelope’s taut face and give her a brief wave, but she’s talking to someone – a man. I feel a surprising twinge of jealousy, but when I look closer I see from her stance that she’s not being at all friendly. And then I realise that it’s Palamedes, her would-be suitor… and attempted abductor.

  I bunch my fists and head toward them, but then her arm swings, open-handed, and Palamedes reels back, clutching his cheek. When he tries to face her again, a pair of Artemis huntresses close in on either side, and he’s sent on his way.

  Only then does Penelope see me – and her taut angry face softens into a wink.

  Well done, you, I think warmly, following Palamedes with my eyes as he joins the runners. I drift in on his flank, unseen by my quarry, as Nassius calls us up to the starting line.

  ‘Hey,’ I growl in his ear. ‘I told you never to talk to her again.’

  He looks startled, then glances over my shoulder and decides he’s got enough friends nearby to be brave. ‘You don’t have any call over me, you poison-mouthed runt,’ he spits back.

  ‘You’re not so pretty with a red handprint on your cheek,’ I tell him, and he flinches. ‘Watch yourself.’

  I back away – there’s far too many Ares men around him and from what Bria’s said, if I get caught up among them when the race starts, I’ll be the one broken. Palamedes sneers as I edge away, but I’m not troubled. I know this racetrack very well – I ran it every day for years. My chance will come.

  The crowd is thousands strong, chanting the names of their favourites. I hear Eurybates leading my lads in a rousing hymn to Ithaca, before chorusing my name, but that’s just one drop of sound in a sea of noise. I wave to them and they cheer lustily as they wave back.

  Then Helen arrives, flanked by her brothers and followed by a dozen Spartan warriors. The people go silent in awe as she ascends the platform to sit near her father, her demeanour alert, even eager. I wonder who she’ll be cheering for.

  Then Nassius blasts thrice on his horn, the first to warn us; the second time a few seconds later to ready us. At the third, we explode into action.

  The first few hundred paces are brutal – Bria was right, this is war on the run. I’m not the only one here with an unsporting agenda, and not the first to strike either – I’m pushed and pulled, my feet are stamped on and several people try and trip me. Someone slams a fist into the small of my back and I almost go down. I’m wondering what the marshals are going to make of this lot – they can’t disqualify us all, let alone execute us. So I give it back too, angry enough to ram my fellow runners with elbows flailing, fighting for space until I see a gap and explode through it, getting clear of the main pack and pelting along, now eighth in a field of over forty.

  The seven in front of me must have gone out as hard as they possibly could to avoid the sort of melee I got dragged into, and they’re strung out with the leader a distant twenty yards ahead – and it’s Palamedes, as I feared. Elephenor and Patroclus aren’t far behind him, then the giant Aias of Salamis, to my surprise. He runs gracelessly, but with real power. Diomedes is on his shoulder, with the archer, Philoctetes.

  The nearest of the prominent runners to me is Aias of Locris, who has slipped into a steady, graceful lope, so I focus on him first. As we reach a low dip I know well, where the track is momentarily screened by willow trees, I close him from behind, ghosting in as he enters the shadow of the trees. He thinks he’s pulled free of the carnage in the pack, running hard and freely, so he’s not prepared when I lash out with my leading foot, clipping his ankles together. He cries out as he tumbles, rolling aside and rising in one fluid movement.

  But I’ve veered to follow him, and as his snarling face turns towards me, I give him no time to react, slamming my fist into his jaw with a brutal running punch, and he goes down like a sack of meal.

  I must admit to feeling a certain guilt and shame: this isn’t how I was raised to race. But I’ve been given my mission and I’ll see it through.

  It all took seconds – I’m gone before the next runners enter the trees, and it’s his word against mine that he didn’t just trip, and we both know it. So I have no fear of retribution as I set off after the leaders, running as if this is the last lap. I need to use what strength I have as soon as possible; at this pace I’m going to blow out long before the finishing line.

  I swiftly overtake the giant Aias, who is beginning to labour. He lunges at me as I dash by, but I’m ready for him and sidestep easily. Once I’m passed, some instinct has me glance back, in time to see him pick up a stone. As he hurls it at my head I dodge, and the missile whistles harmlessly past my skull.

  He stoops to seek another, but the track is more open now, with a marshal positioned at the next bend, and he doesn’t dare try again. I’m gaining on Diomedes and Philoctetes, when Diomedes puts on a burst that puts paid to the archer – he tries to keep up but soon blows out, gasping and swearing as he falls back towards the main pack.

  We’re out round the back of the hill now, with the eastern slopes rising sharply above us. I’m now shoulder to shoulder with Diomedes, who is only a few yards off the two northerners, Elephenor and Patroclus, with Palamedes not so very far ahead of them, running impressively. This stretch is lined with country dwellers, calling out encouragement as we pound by, with a few of Tyndareus’s officials spaced out along the way, marking off names on wax tablets as we pass. I give Diomedes a nod and we put on another burst, to catch up with Palamedes before my stamina runs out.

  I tear ahead, into a stony section with some awkward potholes and rock outcrops, overtaking Elephenor on a particularly nasty patch where any misstep would see me breaking an ankle, and haring past Patroclus, who throws me an incredulous look. ‘It’s three laps, not one, you idiot,’ he pants, more amused than worried.

  I ignore him, drawing as much air into my lungs as I can to sustain this last burst. Palamedes is only a dozen paces ahead of me now, his lean body well-suited to the task, his gait flowing as he eats up the yards. No wonder he’s renowned for these damned long-distance races. But I’m not bad – even for something like this – I’m the best runner in Cephalonia, and have been since I returned home from my spell in Sparta, even before Athena claimed me. And this track was Menelaus’s and my main training ground.

  So yard by yard, I carve up the distance between us, so that when we burst back into the square and over the starting line, with the thronged citizens cheering themselves hoarse, I’m right behind him.

  ‘O-DY-SSE-US!’ my Ithacans are chanting. ‘O-DY-SSE-US! O-DY-SSE-US!’

  I grin to myself and pour in more of my reserves. But I’m also conscious of a growing ache in my right thigh – the old wound sustained the day I became a theioi. It’s been healed by both magic and time, but it’s never been truly the same since that day. And now I can feel the deep scar tissue beginning to strain.

  I’m up to just a few strides behind my prey though, and he knows I’m there. But the bastard keeps putting on a spurt, just as I’m about to catch him.

  ‘I know what you’re doing, islander,’ Palamedes calls back.
‘You can’t catch me!’

  He puts on another burst and now I’m really struggling, my face burning with heat, my lungs like bellows and every step jarring through my thigh as we sprint along the next straight stretch, the seductive shade of the willows at the end of it.

  Nothing left… nothing left…

  But somehow, I find more, veering toward a jutting boulder as we reach the crest of the dip and ricocheting off it, sailing through the air…

  …and slamming into Palamedes’s back, my left knee crunching into his buttocks as we collide and go head over heels down the slope, yelling as we tumble. He strikes the ground badly and flails to a halt at the bottom of the dip, clutching his left shoulder and screaming. I’m little better off, having ploughed into a clod of turf face first and bloodied my nose, so I’m lying dazed, only a few yards away.

  I’m barely aware as Patroclus, then Elephenor and Diomedes in a duel for second, come rampaging past.

  I sit up, testing out my thigh and wincing – a few more strides and something would have torn. Then I look across at Palamedes, who’s glaring at me with absolute hatred on his face. But he’s got a dislocated shoulder, and he’s not much danger right now.

  Job done. I stagger to my feet as more runners pass us, I tentatively put weight on my right leg – it’s painful, and my run is over, but it’ll mend quickly enough.

  ‘You fucking cheat,’ Palamedes snarls. ‘I’ll have you dragged before the marshals! I’ll see you drowned for this! You proctos, you leprous piece of pig shit!’

  All that profanity sounds funny coming from this snotty, lordlier-than-thou priapus.

  ‘A pure accident,’ I tell him, wiping blood from my face. ‘I would never break such sacred laws as these. Do you want a hand getting that arm back into the socket? I know how to do it.’