Half of the contestants take one look at Aias of Salamis and pull out, so there’s only two dozen of us entered. We’re drawn by lot into threes, with each having to fight the other two in turn, and the overall winner progressing to a pure knockout. I’m drawn against Alcmaeon – who, once again, is as drunk as a maenad on a feast day to Dionysus – and, annoyingly, Menelaus.
My friend and I hug. ‘I don’t suppose you’d take a fall?’ he asks, half-jokingly. ‘Just for me?’ He knows all about my wrestling skills – we grew up being tutored in the art together.
Unfortunately, the role Athena demands of me today won’t allow for any such thing. ‘I’m either fighting wholeheartedly, or going home,’ I tell him. ‘It would dishonour our hosts to do less.’
He sighs ruefully at the platform, where Helen’s throne awaits her. ‘Then I may as well go home myself.’
I eye him critically. ‘You’ve filled out a lot since we sparred together, and you’ve always had the size and weight. You just need to be more aggressive.’ I jab a thumb at Alcmaeon, and grin, ‘Just direct it all at him, not me, of course.’
He laughs and slaps my shoulder. ‘I think we’ll both enjoy taking him on.’
Our trio are drawn to fight third, so we watch the first two – victories for brawny Elephenor in the initial rounds and the giant Aias of Salamis in the second. Then Menelaus and Alcmaeon are selected by lot to take the ring first, meaning I’ll fight in the second and third rounds of our group. So I watch with pleasure as the aggressively drunk Alcmaeon has his face planted twice in quick succession by Menelaus, who certainly has picked up a trick or two.
I’m pleased for him, but Alcmaeon’s whole demeanour is puzzling me. If you’re here to win Helen’s hand, why undermine yourself by getting pissed every night before the games?
Unless he can’t help himself?
I’ve known many men with a drinking problem, and some are slaves to it. Yet, when we last parted, Alcmaeon was a cold-hearted, seething, revenge-obsessed killer, but no drunkard.
The next bouts fly by, as the crowds cheer and hiss their adopted heroes and villains respectively, while the royals look down, commenting loudly about technique, and the young women around Helen laughing behind their hands or cooing admiringly. Diomedes comes through his first round easily, and a few bouts later we’re into the second round, and it’s my turn.
I await the ballot, standing with a sweating, nervous Menelaus, and a reeking, silent Alcmaeon to see who I must fight: I draw Alcmaeon, which prolongs the agony of knowing I must fight my best friend. But I put that to the back of my mind and concentrate on the matter at hand.
We strip down to our loincloths, oiling our torsos and dusting our hands, then step into the ring on either side of the arena. Alcmaeon’s swaying still, and as I size him up, I’m struck by two things – one, that in this state he’s no threat; and two, something’s really got to him, for him to be like this.
What happened? I know he’s fathered a child on Manto – not a rape but a seduction, I’m told – but both she and the child have been snatched away from him. Is this what has affected him so badly?
I could almost pity him. Almost.
We stalk toward each other and face off. He towers over me and ordinarily he would be a real challenge, but not today. Nonetheless, I make little effort to slap away his attempts to get a grip on my shoulders, instead letting him bind as I grip him back. We contend like butting rams, shoving at each other with arms interlocked, low to the ground with legs wide. He’s struggling for balance and I could have flipped him three times inside the first few seconds. But it’s answers I really want from him, not empty success.
‘What in Erebus is the matter with you?’ I hiss.
Alcmaeon growls and snarls, tries to toss me and can’t, despite his weight advantage, while I renege on two more chances to end it. Finally he groans. ‘She’s… damn well… here…’ he mumbles.
The news staggers me. Manto must be with my grandmother’s entourage… though Amphithea never told me, when we spoke yesterday. I curse softly.
Alcmaeon takes that for sympathy. ‘I can’t get her out of my head,’ he moans. ‘And now she’s out there, looking at me as though I’m the lowest form of muck.’
No wonder he’s in such a mess. From what I’ve seen and experienced myself, she can play with any man’s head. And she’s borne him a child, whom he’s forbidden to see…
‘Oi, Ithaca, are you here to chat, or fucking well fight?’ I hear Bria screech from somewhere among the watchers. The crowd laugh and then they begin to jeer.
Fair enough.
I shift my footing while pivoting and twisting, and slam Alcmaeon to the ground on his back, locking up his arms and ramming a knee into his groin. He pukes as I rise, and shows no sign of being able to get up again. There won’t be a second bout, let alone a third chance to throw him.
That wasn’t nearly as much fun as I’d expected.
Manto’s here… I rise, look for my grandmother, and then stare into the cluster of priestesses behind her.
Quite deliberately, the daughter of Tiresias lowers her veil and looks straight back at me, her regal, dark-browed face resolute and arrogant. Round her neck, she’s wearing a magnificent necklace in the shape of a rearing cobra, and I catch a glimpse of her favoured scarlet clothing, beneath her cloak. She doesn’t look like anyone’s prisoner, but an honoured guest and adviser – which is exactly what she is, I’m sure.
Manto smiles coldly, and the golden cobra around her neck seems to move, as though it were real.
I wrench my eyes away, swearing under my breath as I stalk from the ring, leaving the servants to carry Alcmaeon out. Then I signal to Bria. She hurries toward me, her mouth open to give me a lecture – about faffing around instead of fighting, I expect – but I cut her off.
‘Manto’s with the Pytho delegation,’ I rasp into her ear. ‘Get Alcmaeon out of here, find him somewhere safe and sober him up. I want to know exactly what happened between him and that bitch.’
Bria’s tirade dies unspoken. ‘I’ll see to it,’ she mutters, patting my arm. ‘You do what you must against your mate Menelaus. No more mucking round.’ Then she’s gone, waving to Eurybates to help her out. He shoots me a questioning glance, catches my terse nod and follows.
I look back at where Manto was standing. She’s gone, but Grandmother is looking down at me smugly. I’ve half a mind to berate her, but I swallow my anger. Pick your fights, I remind myself.
My next one is with my best friend.
Menelaus and I walk out before the crowds together, with the sun approaching its zenith. The day had started on the cool side for early summer, but a cloudless sky and the press of the crowd mean that there’s now a warm fug in the air, and we’re both sweating already. As we turn to face the royal platform, I’m conscious that everyone here, apart from my small knot of Ithacans, is firmly behind Menelaus.
It’s no wonder: he’s tall, his hair is a mane of gold, and he’s got a fresh-faced cheeriness that makes even strangers warm to him – and the local people remember his years in exile here in Sparta. Whereas I’m a just a short-grown islander, though there’s no real hostility towards me. Some remember that I was here too, and that we’re friends. There’s some good-natured jeering, but mostly they just cheer for the beloved brother of the High King.
We bow to the royal platform, where the two kings have just clasped hands on a wager – shrewd Tyndareus knows that Agamemnon is compelled to bet on his brother, but that I know more about wrestling than Menelaus ever will. But I take a moment to focus on Helen, who is seated with her brothers. Castor and Polydeuces are of course barracking for Menelaus, and throwing me insulting gestures as if this were a tavern room brawl, not a contest for their sister’s hand. But Helen’s leaning back, appraising us both. She gives Menelaus a small, encouraging smile, and his face lights up. All his chivalrous instincts toward a vulnerable woman are there, plain to see. I watch his resolve double, then triple.
‘Prepare,’ Nassius calls.
We embrace, then go to our corners to dust our hands. I meet Menelaus’s eyes across the ring, see resolve and pride – he won’t ask for me to take a fall again, not in earnest. He’s bigger than me, taller and maybe stronger.
I plant him on his face inside six seconds and win the first bout. The second takes twelve seconds.
‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur as I rise.
There’s some good-natured booing, but a win’s a win. I salute the kings, then Helen. Up so close, her skin is flawless, lustrous, and there’s such glow to her that even somewhat disinterested as I am, I find myself holding my breath and staring.
‘Aias of Salamis will break your spine,’ Polydeuces sneers. ‘I’ve asked him to cripple you, as a personal favour.’
I ignore him. ‘I trust the princess is enjoying all this effort being expended on her behalf?’ I ask the coolly-amused young woman.
‘I always enjoy seeing big, handsome men working up a sweat,’ she says, in a distant voice. Then she leans forward and whispers, ‘But small, ugly, fishy-smelling men make me sick.’
‘Have you made your choice yet?’ I ask, just to see what she says.
‘I don’t see anyone worthy of me,’ she replies with a tight little grimace, quickly disguised as a ladylike simper. ‘Not in this barbaric backwater. But I’m sure my noble father will provide one.’
‘There’s so much more wealth in the east, isn’t there?’ I observe, watching her closely.
Her face tightens as she realises she’s revealed more than she intended. But Polydeuces comes to her rescue. ‘Accept your win and get out, Ithacan,’ he growls.
‘Yes, walk while you still can,’ Castor adds.
‘If I were permitted to compete,’ Polydeuces adds, ‘I’d kill you.’ Given the blessings he’s received as a theios, he might well be right.
I pretend for the crowd’s sake that the princes are offering encouragement, and back away, sharing a smile with Tyndareus, who’s just fleeced Agamemnon in their wager.
Menelaus is waiting for me, back on his feet now, dusty but nor really sweating heavily – I didn’t give him time to work up a head of steam. His disappointment is palpable, but it’s a measure of his friendship that he embraces me with genuine congratulations. He’s a good man, and Helen could do worse – but I fear for him, getting entangled in her schemes. Not that he’ll have much chance for that.
This is clearly all just a ruse. My growing suspicions have been confirmed – she’s picked out her husband already, and he’s not even a declared suitor: he’ll be lurking in the shadows, waiting to claim his prize and take her away… to Troy.
15 – Wrestling for Leverage
‘HESIOD: But what do righteousness and manly courage signify?
HOMER: To bring about a common advantage through private hardship.’
—Lives of Homer: The Contest of Homer and Hesiod
Sparta
There are eight of us in the afternoon bouts, with the winner progressing from each fight. So in theory we’re each of us three victories from glory. Over lunch, I seek Bria and Eurybates, hoping for reassurance rather than advice – I already know what I need to do but it’s eating away at my courage. Neither of them are about; hopefully that means they’ve found Alcmaeon and are busy sobering him up. So I’ll just have to face down my fears myself.
I eat with my Ithacans, keeping a wary eye on what I consume. Bria has yet to report back about the possibility that Tyndareus’s ill-health is due to poisoning, and now I know Manto’s here, I need to be extra vigilant on my own behalf, what with the assassin I’ve been warned of.
Imagine how much danger I’d be in if I were a serious contender.
As we march out to witness the draw, the crowds roar out encouragement for their favourites. The eight finalists are all theioi, though only those in the know realise – to the ordinary citizens here, we’re just men with that little bit extra: ‘Blessed by the gods’ they would say, without realising just how blessed we are…
There’s Diomedes and myself, for Athena. Those fighting for Ares, Heracles or Zeus are big Aias, Patroclus, Elephenor and Iolaus the Heraclid – an older man but as cunning as a fox. Finally, there’s Penelope’s brother’s friend Eumelus, for Artemis, and Protesilaus, an impetuous Thessalian whose tokens are to Apollo. So far, he’s been behaving as though this whole thing is a lark, but the fact that he’s got this far gives the lie to that and I don’t intend to underestimate him if we meet.
It’s likely only Diomedes has any chance against Aias, and even that hope is slim. We need a favourable draw, and a lot of luck if our plan is to work.
‘If we both lose, it’s all over,’ Diomedes murmurs to me, as we wait for Nassius to make the draw. ‘Helen will be given to one of Zeus’s cabal.’
‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘We still don’t really know if the games are going to matter. Menestheus and the older kings are still trying to bribe Helen and her brothers with additional gifts, so Athena’s other option may still be open.’ I pat his shoulder. ‘A cripple can’t aspire to her, though.’ I cast a meaningful glance at Aias of Salamis, remembering the threats Polydeuces and Castor made about getting him to maim me.
Diomedes follows my gaze. ‘You think he’d do that?’
‘Count on it.’ I lean closer and whisper, ‘I’ll do what I can.’ I’m trying to look brave, but inside my bowels are heaving, despite two visits to ease myself earlier. ‘This is your chance, Dio. You drew the footrace. Win this and you’ll be the crowd favourite, and that could carry you all the way to a wedding.’
He puffs up at that thought, as Nassius steps forth, and everyone goes quiet. The keryx removes the first clay tablet from the urn, and reads aloud.
‘Diomedes, son of Tydeus, prince of Tiryns.’ There are cheers, then a hush as he dips his hand into the urn again and pulls out another tablet: ‘He will fight Iolaus of the Heraclids.’
The young tyro against the veteran – a classic encounter. The crowd cheers vociferously.
The next tablets are those of Elephenor and Patroclus. So one of the northerners must eliminate the other. But it also means that one must progress.
And it means I have a one-in-two chance of drawing Aias. I glance over at the giant, who’s smiling up at the royal platform and the slender young princess, stripping her with his eyes as if he’s already won her.
‘Odysseus Laertiades, prince of Ithaca…’ Nassius booms, and I catch my breath. ‘…will fight Protesilaus, son of Iphiclus, of Phylace.’
I exhale in a mix of relief and frustration. It’s not what I’ve been praying for – well, wishing for – because praying is a waste of time. But I can’t help but be pleased I don’t have to face Aias yet.
Irrational, yes, but I’ve never claimed I’m perfect…
That means Aias will take on Penelope’s friend Eumelus, and I throw a glance the young Artemis champion’s way. He’s gone pale, while Aias simply guffaws before venting a ferocious roar and flexing one of those giant, treetrunk biceps, playing to the crowd. They cheer him on, and like some performing clown he gives them more poses, bellowing like a bull in heat.
‘Buffoon,’ I mutter to Diomedes as we part. ‘Good luck.’ On impulse I pull young Eumelus aside. ‘Go down early if you wish to avoid serious harm,’ I advise him.
‘But honour compels me—’
‘Honour is for idiots,’ I tell him. ‘Do what you must but no more.’
He looks upset at that, but then he says, ‘My friend’s sister speaks well of you,’ in tones that suggest that he’s a bit smitten with her.
I reply by clasping his hand. ‘Stay mobile, use your speed, and good luck.’
You’ll need it.
I head for my little patch, where Eurybates is waiting. ‘We’ve got Alcmaeon secure,’ he tells me. ‘Bria’s found him a room in that tavern behind the old well – you know how persuasive she can be. She’s
with him along with Pollo and Itanus.’
They’re two of my steadier lads. ‘Good work,’ I tell him.
I don’t watch the two fights that precede mine – I’m stretching physically, preparing mentally, letting the crowd’s reaction and Eurybates’s breathless reports inform me. ‘Diomedes took down Iolaus,’ he tells me. ‘Two bouts to one. The boy did well, after falling for an old trick in the first.’ He smiles sadly. ‘It was good to see a legend fight, but Iolaus is past his prime.’
That won’t stop Iolaus trying to help Zeus in other ways…
The cheering tells me that Diomedes is a popular victor, and there are young women watching that burst into inchoate shrieking whenever they see him. I’m just relieved he’s got himself out of that bout intact.
The next match-up is an interesting one: Patroclus defeats Elephenor with such ease that Eurybates is convinced the Boeotian took a fall. ‘He’s pretending he’s disappointed, but he doesn’t look too worried to me,’ Eury growls. ‘They’ll be wanting to capitalise on Patroclus’s efforts in the footrace, especially after Diomedes got through.’
‘Makes sense,’ I tell him, straightening and heading for the ring, as strangers slap my back and yell encouragement, advice or abuse. I’m not really listening. Protesilaus of Phylace is already waiting in his corner, and I’ve not really had a good look at him yet. But Menelaus has watched every bout the Phylacian has fought and he’s giving me some good advice: ‘He’s about twenty-five, fast for a big man, left handed but pretends he isn’t – he’ll move opposite to how most men would. But he’s all upper body strength. Go low, fight dirty.’
Hopefully the Phylacian’s people have limited their appraisal of me to: ‘He’s short, so it should be easy.’
Sacred Bride Page 24
