Sacred Bride

by Sacred Bride (retail) (epub)

  ‘Go fuck yourself in Tartarus.’

  ‘Whatever.’ I leave him there as the rest of the field charges past, and gingerly climb out of the dip, heading back towards the town. If I amble along, making sure I don’t strain my thigh, I should be back at the crossroads with plenty of time to see the finish.

  As I set off, I can feel his eyes on my back, burning with pure malice. He is, I decide, not the live-and-let-live kind, but hey, we were already enemies. Nothing’s changed except the intensity.

  At this rate, my mysterious assassins will have to queue up for the right to kill me.

  * * *

  I make it back to the crossroads, hamming up my limp to reinforce the fiction I’ve withdrawn because of a serious injury. As the surviving competitors barrel past for the last time, I wave at them, putting on a woeful face. I find the watching crowd in high ferment as they await the end of the final lap. Eurybates and my Ithacan men are disappointed when I limp into their midst, after reporting to Nassius. We’re commiserating when Bria slips her arm through mine.

  ‘I love the smell of fresh man-sweat, Ithaca,’ she purrs. ‘How did you go?’

  ‘Aias is out, and so is Palamedes. Last I saw, Diomedes was still duelling with the two northerners.’

  ‘You should have stayed with him after doing the dirty on Palamedes,’ Bria says tartly. ‘He might have use of your talents yet.’

  I give her a look. ‘I just about liquefied my bones, catching up with Palamedes. And that old boar tusk wound is tearing again. You’re lucky I can still walk.’

  ‘Men,’ she sniffs. ‘Always boasting of their prowess, but never as good as they think they are. Let’s hope Diomedes can do the rest by himself.’

  ‘Yeah, “Thanks, Odysseus, you did great”,’ I mutter, but she’s already gone, weaving through the crowd, while Eurybates and the lads give her dirty looks.

  ‘You done good, boss,’ one of my crew, stout Pollo, tells me. ‘Don’t listen to that stuck-up so-and-so.’

  The lads have no idea who Bria really is. On our missions to Delos and Thebes last year, she was in the body of a Hamazan warrior woman. And ‘Meli’ is no warrior, and they’ve no reason to connect the two: they just think I have a penchant for cantankerous, mouthy women.

  I clap Pollo’s shoulder. ‘I’ve got to attend on Tyndareus, lads. Cheer your lungs out for Diomedes, then go get a drink. I’ll find you later, if I can.’

  I work my way through the crowd, towards the royal platform where Tyndareus and Agamemnon are leaning toward each other in deep conversation. Castor, Polydeuces and Helen are huddled together, laughing excitedly about the race. The upturned faces in the crowd below them are just as reverent as the suitors’, and suffused with excited joy, as if Helen’s moods are infectious. Given her powers, they probably are.

  I work my way to the side of the platform, where I’m recognised by the guards and helped up. I walk around the back of a dozen Spartan advisers and one priestess – who happens to be High Priestess Amphithea of Pytho – my grandmother. I’m expecting her to ignore me, but although her already hard face scowls, she deigns to join me.

  ‘Grandson,’ she says stiffly. ‘You were unable to finish?’

  ‘I chose not to,’ I reply tartly. ‘It must be annoying for you that footraces are so random, and the spirits can’t foretell the winner. You could make a fortune that way, otherwise.’

  ‘The spirits are not concerned with such paltry matters,’ Amphithea sniffs. She’s clad in a full robe, with her head cowled by a fold of her veil, her face wrinkled as she squints in the morning sunlight. ‘They don’t care.’

  ‘But princesses do,’ I note, indicating Helen, who is now straining her eyes toward the final stretch of road leading toward the finish line. ‘And the outcome of this race could matter far more than the spirits might think.’

  ‘Her choices will be made for her,’ Amphithea says sourly.

  ‘Do you think so? I rather believe that she will change the choices of those around her. That’s part of her power.’

  My grandmother has never forgiven me for being the son of Sisyphus, or forgiven my mother Anticleia for that liaison. Part of the reason is that she’s stiff-backed and unforgiving; the other part is her allegiance to Hera, who hated Prometheus – as all the gods did, in the end. That’s why he’s chained up in Erebus being tortured, and why I have to constantly watch my back, even though I’m under Athena’s protection.

  ‘I see you’ve managed to inveigle your way into Tyndareus’s confidence again,’ she grumbles, but then with a visible effort, she unbends a fraction. ‘I’m told we have you to thank for eliminating Tantalus?’

  ‘I was involved. Athena wants the same things as Hera – to prevent Zeus’s alliance with Troy from destroying Achaea…’ I cast her a quizzical look. ‘If that’s still what Hera wants?’

  Or is she continuing to seek her own accommodation with her ‘husband’ Zeus and his new eastern friends?

  ‘That is still what she wants,’ Amphithea says, glaring at me. ‘But we were excluded from the attack on Tantalus. Agamemnon goes through the motions of worshipping Our Mother, but he’s not asking my advice any more. Why is that?’

  She knows nothing of my Dodona prophecy, that’s clear. But she’s the highest-ranking priestess of Hera in the world and she must be behind any overtures to renew the alliance between Hera and Zeus.

  Do I reveal what I know…? I sense I can make gains here, so I lean in close and whisper, ‘Why do you think you were excluded?’

  For all her experience and guile, Amphithea’s reptilian face flickers with anxiety. Is that because she knows that I know about her cult’s duplicity? ‘I suppose nothing is truly secret, is it?’ she murmurs. ‘I’ve heard a whisper too, that Dodona has been silenced, but Zeus denies it.’

  The old game.

  ‘Your whisper was correct – I went there myself and released Hera’s priestesses, the ones Zeus had imprisoned beneath the shrine.’

  Her eyes widen. ‘Then you’ve done Hera a great service,’ she says reluctantly. ‘Did they prophesise for you before you released them?’ When I smile knowingly, her face becomes hungry. ‘What did they say?’

  ‘This and that,’ I tease. ‘They pointed us towards Tantalus, for example. But they warned against involving you, lest you go straight to Zeus’s people and share what you know with them.’

  ‘We would never have done that.’

  ‘So you say.’ I look at her pointedly. ‘But you’re sheltering that viper Manto, the daughter of Tiresias, so why should I believe a word you say?’

  We glare at each other – Manto and Tiresias almost killed me, and they’ve destroyed my sister’s hopes forever: I’m not about to forgive anyone that shelters that sorceress.

  ‘She’s useful,’ Amphithea says shortly. ‘What matters is that the best Achaean candidate wins Helen.’

  ‘It’s not so important who wins Helen,’ I reply, ‘so much as who doesn’t. As the field narrows down, we should unite behind one candidate – someone that Helen will accept, with the status and personal attributes to make her a good husband, one that pleases her. Diomedes, for example.’

  She scowls again – Grandmother’s default expression – but she’s considering it.

  ‘We’ll see how things work out,’ she says, peering out at the track as the noise of the crowd lifts. The leading runners have come into view, three of them strung out across the track, pelting towards us as the runners loom closer. We’re forced to break off, for the noise has become deafening.

  Elephenor, Patroclus and Diomedes have burst into a final sprint, the Argive prince in the middle with the other two trying to pincer him and trip him. Elephenor suddenly veers and sacrifices himself, trying to bring Diomedes down in a crash tackle, but Diomedes throws out a straight right hand and fends him off. The northerner goes down in the dust, and ironically, the extra thrust of the fend gives Diomedes enough momentum to surge up alongside Patroclus, right on the line.

&nb
sp; ‘A dead heat!’ Nassius pronounces, his massive voice rising above the roar of the throng. His announcement is met by boos, cheers and gaping mouths, as everyone swings round to see how Helen reacts. She’s bouncing up and down on her feet, between her two brothers, clapping her hands together and squealing in apparent delight. It’s all very endearing, and I’m sure she knows it.

  All this blood, sweat, noise and effort, for you, darling Helen. It must do wonders for your ego.

  I watch Diomedes and Patroclus square up on the finish line, their chests heaving and faces bright with exertion, and for a moment everyone fears – or hopes – that they’ll come to blows, but instead the blonde Patroclus roars with laughter and throws his arms round the bemused Diomedes and hugs him.

  ‘What a race!’ the Thessalian bellows, thumping Diomedes’s back. ‘What a race!’

  It’s enough to make me wonder if I’ve misread the Thessalian, because his almost childlike pleasure in the contest and its even result seems genuine. But my mind goes back to the death of Laas, and I’m not convinced. There’s something manipulative about the man, I’m sure of it. Diomedes, for his part, is initially taken aback, but then joins in the brotherly show, and it’s with much mutual backslapping that they proceed to the platform.

  Behind them, a lithe young man swarms past a limping, bloodied Elephenor to take third, and I notice that it’s the Artemis priestesses who seem most delighted, including Penelope, who embraces the young man. I recognise him – his name’s Eumelus, he’s another from the north but he’s a close friend of her oldest brother, a decent man, and a follower of Artemis, someone I’ve met in passing as a youth in Sparta.

  I make a mental note to congratulate him, give a nod in parting to Amphithea, then make sure I’m near Tyndareus as the two winners are brought forward to be rewarded, both of them still sweating profusely – two prime examples of manly beauty. No wonder Helen looks charmed as they’re introduced, their arms still around each other’s shoulders as if holding each other up.

  For the remainder of the day, the locals are going to be running their own footraces – hopefully less brutal. A number of Spartan families have taken their lead from the royal marriage games and have put their own daughters up to be wed to the winners, and there’s a lively market for bets on the results, as well as dozens of food and drink stalls. An air of festival prevails, with music and laughter, a mood very different from that of the real competition.

  On my way back up to the palace, several of Locrian Aias’s mates try to get at me, but my fellow Ithacans close about me, and the scuffle breaks off after some pushing and shoving. I see other fist fights, and there’s a general air of hostility – and the sense that scores will be settled in the wrestling and boxing contests that are to come.

  But poor Palamedes won’t be a part of that, I note wryly, as I see him being led away by his friends, still clutching his arm. Even a theios can’t recover from such things that quickly. Bad luck.

  But then I see Aias, the giant from Salamis, lumber past – he was well back in the field by the time he finished but he doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. The wrestling tomorrow, he clearly believes, will belong to him.

  I just hope I don’t draw the big lug.

  * * *

  It’s another gloomy night in the megaron, with the bard struggling to find any rousing song that doesn’t depict some form of mutual violence. At one point, he begins a comic poem about Aphrodite’s seduction by Ares, and the cuckolding of Hephaestus, but is soon shushed by Nassius. By now, the glum looks of last night have been replaced with more murderous ones but, though harsh words are spoken more than once, no blows are exchanged and no blood is shed.

  They’re probably saving that for the wrestling and boxing…

  Once the dismal gathering has ended, and I’ve given my report to Tyndareus, along with a private recommendation of my own, I try to get some rest, with my door and window as firmly barred as before. But sleep is elusive and I end up spending too much time propped up, thinking about the day to come, and worrying at the slightest sound that seems too close to my door or window.

  It’s only now that I realise how stupid I have been today, running along the track around the town, where a killer could have lurked in any of the bushes I passed and dispatched me with ease. That dip with the willow trees would have been the ideal spot, not only for my own misdeeds but for my death. ‘Beware of the deepest shadows’… I’d assumed this means that I will only be attacked at night, and in the palace, but maybe not…

  I’d been so caught up in our plans for Diomedes, I’d barely thought of it. That I survived does nothing to ease my nerves. I have such a list of enemies here, it seems pointless to worry about who my intended assassin might be, so I try and think laterally.

  Not many people in Achaea can write, but those who do, mostly kings, nobles and highly-trained bureaucrats, are well-practised, with firm characterful hands. This was written either by a child, still learning the craft, or…

  The new possibility is so intriguing, it keeps me awake most of the rest of the night.

  I rise before dawn, break my fast and then spend a good hour warming up down in the courtyard, ahead of anyone else, wondering if Tyndareus will have taken my advice. I’m eventually joined by a tired-looking Diomedes, who arrives in the courtyard wearing in the same clothes I saw him in at the feast last night, and reeking of alcohol. He’s with the Thessalian, Patroclus, and they’re laughing like they’ve known each other all their lives.

  I’m instantly on guard. Patroclus is a little older than Dio, and a whole lot wiser.

  ‘How was your evening?’ I ask them both.

  ‘Fine,’ Diomedes mumbles, without meeting my eyes.

  ‘Try not to get drawn to fight each other,’ I advise them. ‘It would be a shame to spoil a beautiful friendship.’

  They don’t even hear me.

  I give my right thigh a good massage, to take some of the toughness out of the scar tissue, as the courtyard fills up – everyone thinks they can wrestle. Bria arrives, ignoring the men that call exhortations for her to come and give them a rub down.

  ‘Want some good news, Ithaca?’ she purrs. ‘Your mate Palamedes has left town, after complaining to the keryx and being told that he could take his lies and piss off. He’s screeching about collusion: if you listen carefully, you can still hear the whining noises echoing off the hills.’

  ‘Nassius and I go way back,’ I comment. Good – one less person I need to watch my back over.

  Bria grins, then scowls as she sees Diomedes and Patroclus chatting. ‘Why is Diomedes talking to that prick?’

  ‘They seem to have bonded over dead heats and drink,’ I observe. ‘For an Ares man, that Thessalian seems to have way too much charm.’ I think about Laas. ‘No, not just charm… he can manipulate people.’

  ‘Since their cults began to work together, some of the Ares men have been blessed by Aphrodite as well, where the potential exists,’ Bria remarks. ‘Not all of them just grunt and hit things any more – some have learned how to speak in whole sentences, it seems.’

  ‘You think that bastard’s trying to work Diomedes around to Ares?’

  ‘I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.’

  ‘But Diomedes worships Athena,’ I protest. ‘Utterly.’

  ‘I didn’t say he’d succeed. Let’s just watch them for now,’ Bria says quietly. ‘So, how are you at wrestling? Seeing as you won’t wrestle me, I have no idea.’

  I straighten up. ‘As good as I am at sprinting. Or better. Best in Cephalonia.’ It’s true.

  ‘You?’ she says disbelievingly, running her eyes down my shorter-than-most frame. ‘Really? Cephalonians must be smaller than I thought. I suppose you’re Cephalonian boxing champion as well?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Bria, there’s a huge difference between the two. Wrestling is all about balance and skill as much as bulk and strength. And height can be a handicap. If you know what you’re doing, being low to the ground giv
es you an advantage. I’ve won a lot of bouts like that. And I know what I’m doing.’ Short men have to work twice as hard to be regarded as half as good. I work hard. ‘Boxing depends on height and reach and bulk. You’ll notice I haven’t put my name down for that – there’s no point in me being beaten to a pulp by some of these big thugs.’

  ‘Well, you won’t need to worry now. Haven’t you heard the news?’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘Tyndareus is going to cancel the boxing.’

  ‘Ah.’ I give her a knowing smile.

  ‘So you know about it, already?’

  ‘I suggested it to him last night.’ So he took my private recommendation on board… ‘This lot…’ I jerk my head at the other suitors, ‘…are getting a bit too frisky.’

  ‘And it might spoil their pretty looks. Talking of pretty, Actoris, that maid of Penelope’s, could well be a fan of your wrestling moves. She was giving you the eye all yesterday. There’s a good chance she might have some interesting pillow talk…’

  I had indeed felt Actoris’s eyes on me – but I’d not given her anything back. ‘I am not going to seduce a maid for petty gossip,’ I tell her.

  ‘You’ll never make a spy at this rate, Ithaca.’ Bria strikes a pose, one hand on her bosom and the other stroking her thigh. ‘Perhaps you need some personal training?’

  ‘I think we’ve had that discussion before,’ I remind her. ‘Why don’t you check out the local goatherds, in case your Hermes friend shows up again?’

  She’s not put out in the least. ‘What a splendid idea, Ithaca – your Arcadian girlfriend might be there too! We could do a foursome!’ She snickers at her own wit, then changes the subject. ‘So, wrestling, then,’ she says with light, catty malice. ‘Same plan as yesterday, Ithaca: Nobble some contenders so that Diomedes can win again. If you can last the distance. Unlike your running.’

  She sashays off before I can think of a suitable riposte.

  Midmorning, we’re taken down to the central town square, where overnight Tyndareus’s hardworking servants have created a circular wrestling arena, with a floor of hard-packed dirt. There’s some space around it cordoned off to keep the crowds back, and a new royal platform directly overlooks it – we’ll be fighting right under Tyndareus’s and Agamemnon’s nose, as well as those of Helen and her brothers.