It’s sound advice, though it’s not what Athena will be wanting, and that low blow to his ankle was my best shot. I mightn’t get another chance, and all I’m doing is alienating people right now. Achaeans love a winner, but we despise a dishonourable loser.
I go out there resolved to do this right, using my one possible edge: technique.
This time I pretend to repeat my earlier tactic, circling as if trying to avoid close quarters, but then I let him catch me, our shoulders lock as our arms entwine and he uses his massive weight to drive me back, but I fold and go under, buckling to one side then wrenching at his left arm as we roll over and forcing it up and back, while jamming my shin against his other arm as he tries to turn over, and for a moment I have the upper-hand.
We strain against each other, and though he’s huge, I’m no weakling. The crowd hush, because they all know the sport well enough to see that I can win from this position. I bear down, rearing over him, and any other man would have buckled…
…but this huge bastard suddenly heaves and I go flying, barely staying in the ring, while he rises, roars in triumph and slaps his thighs.
‘Come on, dwarf!’ he shouts. But he advances with considerably more respect, as I scramble up and step away from the edge of the ring, circling again.
‘Nearly,’ I tell him, and he knows.
There aren’t many rules – no punching, no headbutts, no elbows, no kicking – all the fun stuff like that is reserved for the pankration. My leg flip in the first bout was excused because I didn’t actually kick him – technically he fell onto my upraised feet. So there’s not many ways you can overcome such a mismatch. I circle, I feint and dart away. I slap away his arms, and once I even slap his already bloodied nose, making him yelp with pain, but I’m running out of space again. Sooner or later he’s going to grab me, and then it’ll be a case of survival before Nassius stops it.
He throws a move, left then right then lunge – but it’s ponderous and I go in straight and hard, and for a moment I’m under him and pushing up, driving him back as he flails for balance. The crowd rise to their feet as they see this man-mountain toppling backwards, with the edge of the ring looming behind. Again, anyone else and they’d be gone…
…but his excess bulk allows him to crash us both down and we both flail desperately on the ground, seeking a hold, any leverage at all as we thrash against each other. I take a sly knee to the small of my back that almost numbs my spine, but I overcome the pain fast, throwing one arm over the back of his head and wrapping it round into a reversed chokehold while driving with both legs to force him to crash chest first into the dirt. His back is oiled and liquid with sweat – an expanse of bronzed muscle – but he can’t throw me this time, and I realise that he’s also tiring, his stamina flagging because none of his bouts have ever lasted this long. He strains, roaring to Ares for aid.
I squeeze tighter as he fights back but he’s losing air. So he stops trying to break my hold and attempts instead to get up and drive me backwards. I can’t stop him, because he’s so fucking big, but damn I try, heaving with both legs, trying to hold back the wall of muscle, straining with all my strength as the crowd leaps to its feet again, and this time they’re marvelling because the little guy is going toe-to-toe with the big guy and holding his own…
But then my right thigh muscle – the one shredded by the boar-tusk – rips yet again. I scream, give way and convulse in blind agony, my left thigh jerking upwards in reflex – and that’s all it is – as Aias topples onto me… face first onto my left knee…
It breaks his nose, and the body that crashes down onto mine is utterly limp. But I’m seeing through a white-hot haze as I kick free and then crawl to an open space and just lie there, trying to hold back my howls of agony as I clutch my torn upper thigh and vanish into the pain.
When I regain enough vision and hearing to be aware of anything else, it’s to find uproar: Aias’s people want my head for my ‘foul, dastardly false blow’ – but Eury and my Ithacans are shielding me amidst the push and shove, while Nassius bellows for attention.
Finally the horns blast and there’s something like silence. Soldiers separate my men from Aias’s, and Eury helps me to my feet. I have to clutch his shoulder and hold on, as he helps me hobble into the space before the royal platform. Looking up through the haze of pain, I wipe my sweat-filled eyes and manage some kind of salutation to the kings.
Tyndareus and Agamemnon are looking at each other with quizzical expressions, not quite sure what to say, especially in public. A deliberate knee to the face is not permitted, but it was genuinely accidental and most knowledgeable observers would agree. Either way, Aias is still out cold and I’m not going to be fighting anyone for a long while.
It’s hard-earned, but it’s a win. I don’t think even Bria could complain.
‘Well, Prince Odysseus, it seems no one should ever bet against you,’ Agamemnon observes, with wry amusement. He’ll be pleased, I warrant, at least for Hera’s sake – Aias was very much an Ares man.
Now my vision’s cleared, I can read the crowd: they’re in turmoil – their favourite is down, the villain of the piece has the victory and perhaps through underhand means – they aren’t sure and opinions run both ways. But the small man beat the big man, and there’s nothing a games crowd likes more than an upset.
‘I learned all I know about wrestling here in Sparta, my lords,’ I tell the kings, my voice raised so everyone can hear me, and that goes down very well. The crowd suddenly remembers that the victor is one of them, so this is a home ground victory.
Naturally, Castor and Polydeuces are sick to the stomach. But Helen is sitting back with arms folded, a faint smile on her lips as if all this hurting for her sake is a wonderful amusement.
I cast off from Eury’s shoulder and somehow stagger up the steps, salute the kings again then kneel before her, wincing painfully as my poor right thigh spasms.
‘Is that abominably painful?’ she asks.
‘My princess, you have no idea,’ I tell her. ‘I fear I won’t be contesting the final.’
‘Will you ever walk again?’ she asks, with even more interest.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I tell her, managing to sound debonair. ‘Old wound, one that flares up occasionally.’
‘Good.’ She fakes a smile. ‘It would be awful for Ithaca if you had to relinquish the kingship one day, because you were crippled. Though in such a backwater, perhaps that doesn’t matter?’
What a treat it would be, to be married to such a sarcastic, caustic puddle of bile.
‘Quite the opposite,’ I tell her, suppressing my temper. ‘To be King of Ithaca, the ruler of the Cephalonian Confederacy, requires considerable wit and vitality. And I am more than sufficient for such a task.’
She dangles another silver bracelet in front of me, which I accept with what good grace I can muster, before limping away, past her stewing brothers and the bemused kings.
Eury grabs my shoulder at the foot of the steps, and takes my weight. ‘Get me to somewhere I can lie down,’ I mutter in his ear.
‘You don’t want to watch Diomedes and Patroclus fight?’
‘I don’t give a shit,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve done my part. And the best bit is, I don’t have to marry that foul-minded little kunopes up there.’
* * *
It’s still daylight when I wake up – somewhat startled as I didn’t actually know I was asleep. I’m in my room in the palace, the afternoon sun is seeping through the shutters and Eurybates is saying, ‘Lady, I don’t think he’s awake…’
‘I am,’ I call in a husky voice, cough up some phlegm to clear my throat and say more firmly, ‘Who is it?’
‘Who were you hoping for?’ a slim woman asks drily, entering my room with her head beneath a fold of her veil, then dropping it as she perches on a stool beside the bed.
It’s Penelope.
‘Lady?’ I say, startled and somewhat aghast – I’m naked beneath a flimsy and badly-spread blanket.
I try to sit up, but she raises a palm.
‘No, stay there,’ she tells me firmly. ‘Your keryx says you have tissue damage to your leg?’
‘I, er…’
‘Actoris insists I tend you,’ she says, in an ironic voice. ‘Apparently she’s quite worried about your inner thigh.’
I go scarlet, which she finds highly amusing, in her quiet, reserved way.
‘I have some healing skills, as you already know from Delos,’ she says briskly. ‘Show me where it hurts.’
I struggle to pull the blanket up while keeping my private parts covered, utterly embarrassed but unable to refuse. My family equipment appropriately concealed, she probes my thigh – painfully – then applies a messy brown paste Then she closes her eyes and concentrates, her palms against my skin. A gentle heat begins to radiate, soothing and pleasant, and the throbbing pain starts to ease.
When I was awakened as a theios by Athena, the goddess applied a similar healing to the same thigh – it was swifter, but then, she’s a deity. This is slower and less efficacious, but it’s undeniably beneficial.
‘Seer and sorceress. You’re a theia of many talents,’ I say appreciatively.
‘One tries,’ she says, a smile warming her coolly composed features. ‘The paste is arnica-based, good for muscles and bruising. I would suggest complete rest.’
‘Then you’d better warn your maid,’ I say, remembering Actoris’s little wave this afternoon.
‘Don’t worry,’ Penelope replies. ‘Actoris has plenty of good sense – when she’s not mooching about, dreaming of you.’ She leans in and looks me in the eye. ‘I could use a break from hearing about your noble profile and kindly demeanour, though.’
‘I’m not encouraging her.’
‘You’re her hero,’ she says quietly. She pulls out a strip of gauzy fabric from her bag and begins to wrap it tightly around my thigh, to bind the paste to my skin.
‘I’m not such a hero,’ I reply, thinking about that last fight. ‘The only chance I had against Aias was to goad him, but I prefer not to act that way.’ For some reason, I don’t want Penelope to think ill of me.
She pauses in her tasks, and looks at me with wise eyes. ‘I’ve watched men wrestle, and as a huntress I’ve learned some of the art myself. I know what you were doing. And why.’
‘I didn’t know girls wrestled.’
‘Only those brought into the arktoi, the “little bears” of Artemis,’ she replies, smiling at the memory. ‘Sometimes we all have to fight a little dirty to win. As you clearly know.’
‘I’m having trouble picturing you wrestling,’ I remark, colouring when I realise that I’m flirting.
‘Good,’ she says tartly, though her eyes glint with mirth. ‘As a priestess of Artemis, I’ve moved beyond such things.’ She pulls my blanket over my thigh and rises. ‘Athena will be pleased with your efforts today, I suppose?’
‘Only if Diomedes does his part,’ I reply. Then I realise that I have no idea what time of the day it is, or even if it’s the same day. ‘Or has he…?’
‘He had the victory,’ she tells me. ‘Two bouts to one in a close-fought match against the Thessalian, Patroclus. He’s to be presented to Helen in private, tonight. I understand your grandmother the Pythia will chaperone them.’
Yes. I clench a fist triumphantly. Well done, Dio.
‘Does it make any difference, though?’ I wonder. ‘Tyndareus still hasn’t truly said how the groom will be selected. For all we know, Menestheus or Idomeneus… or someone worse… has bribed the king behind the scenes, and the games are meaningless.’
Penelope purses her lips. Then she leans towards me, close enough for me to smell the rosemary oil on her skin. ‘I shouldn’t tell you,’ she murmurs, ‘but Artemis’s favourite avatar is part of our entourage. She’s been fasting and preparing for the goddess to possess her imminently. My high priestess, Sophronia, met with the Pythia not long after dawn, and your grandmother is adamant the real decision will be made tomorrow. She has confirmed what you’ve already guessed – the games are meaningless, and Hera will decide who will marry Helen.’
I sit up, forgetful of my blanket. This could be crucial. ‘Tomorrow? And by Hera?’
‘If I find out more, I’ll let you know,’ Penelope says, while her eyes stray to my bared chest and abdomen. Then she seems to remember that she’s a virginal priestess, and with an awkward bob of the head, she exits the room.
I’m doing head-spins inside as her footsteps bustle away, wondering what in Erebus to make of all that.
16 – Alcmaeon
‘Dionysus gave such gifts to men, both a pleasure and a burden of grief. Whoever drinks to satiety, the wine drives him out of his wits, ties his feet and hands up together with impenetrable fetters, along with his tongue and his common sense…’
—Hesiod, Catalogue of Women
Sparta
Penelope’s ministrations do me wonders. After a short nap, I’m ready to get up and move about – I’ve been damaged often enough to know that letting an injury stiffen can be the worst thing to do. So, eschewing Eurybates’s aid, I rise, wash my face and dress. I need to let Bria know what Penelope has told me about Hera, so I send Eurybates to her with a note, then join the throng in the megaron, to see if I can learn anything directly from Tyndareus.
But as I enter the hall, I see that the royal party hasn’t arrived yet, and a servant tells me that Helen is due to see Diomedes right now. I chat briefly with Menestheus – he’s about as much fun as a tax assessor – when a big hand falls on my shoulder.
I turn to face the chest of a giant, then look up.
Aias is glaring down at me, his nose straightened as far as such an already blunted appendage can be, but stuffed with wading. Both eyes are blackened and his lips are so swollen, they look like small sausages.
‘Prince Odysseus,’ he slurs, gripping my shoulder with fingers that could break a man’s collarbone.
Once on Ithaca, I was out walking when a feral dog came up and put his jaws round my calf, its teeth about to break my skin. I went rigid, and just stared down at him. If I’d moved, the dog would have savaged me, but I remained utterly still, fixing him with a steady eye. He let me go and trotted off.
‘Prince Aias,’ I say, with exactly the same resolute calm.
My bravado knocks Aias off stride – but only for a moment. He’s a theios and he’s used to public displays of courage. ‘You think you’re something special, don’t you?’ he snarls, planting a finger on my forehead. ‘But you’re just a jumped-up squirt with a smart mouth. A dishonourable bastard, without any honour.’
‘You know nothing about me or my honour,’ I reply levelly, while those around us watch avidly.
‘I know that you’re a filthy cheat with the foul mouth of a goat herder,’ he growls back. ‘I’m the better man, and I’ll prove that to you. That was just our first fight today, Ithacan. The second will make it even between us – and after the third fight, the loser dies.’ He shifts his thick finger down to jab at my sternum. ‘I swear this, on my honour, which is unblemished and the pillar of my existence.’
‘Pillar of my existence’, I think sarcastically. No false modesty issues here.
But this is no joking matter: he means it – two more contests, of who knows what, where or when, after which he’ll seek my death, having proved himself the better man. If I best him, he will believe it his duty before the gods to take his own life. That’s what honour means, to virtually every man in this room. And if I walk away, he’ll decry me as a coward for the rest of my life.
That would undermine every piece of counsel I give, every alliance I offer, every undertaking I propose.
‘I’ll be waiting,’ I tell him firmly. ‘You’re already one down – that’s quite a knife edge to walk. And now, if you don’t mind, I believe our host the King of Sparta wishes for my counsel.’
This may well be true – Nassius has just waved to me and is on his way through the press to speak to me.
> Aias turns to the men behind him. ‘You heard that,’ he says. ‘The islander runt accepts. He’s mine.’ He thumps his chest. ‘Mark this moment. Him or me.’
That’s two men named Aias who I’ve made a lifelong enemy of in two days. I wonder who else with a name starting with ‘A’ I can offend next. I limp away, to meet the anxious looking keryx.
‘Prince Odysseus,’ he greets me, ‘You are a companion of the Prince of Tiryns? Do you know where he is? The princess is expecting him.’
I look at him quizzically. ‘I assumed he was with her already. I haven’t seen him since the wrestling this afternoon.’
He pulls a concerned face. ‘He left with Patroclus of Thessaly after their bout, but no one has seen him since.’
‘They left together?’ I’m somewhat surprised – their draw in the footrace yesterday was one thing but the Thessalian doesn’t strike me as a good loser, especially when there’s so much at stake. Then I think about Laas and how he died, and I’m suddenly afraid. ‘Is Patroclus here?’ I look around, and see that Elephenor is talking to High King Agamemnon, but his fellow northerner isn’t with them.
‘Does Elephenor know where they are?’ I ask, and Nassius shakes his head. I groan inwardly – despite Penelope’s ministrations, my leg isn’t up to dashing about just now. But I gamely volunteer my services. ‘I’ll find him for you.’
‘Thank you,’ the keryx says. ‘I’ll come with you.’
I’d really rather he didn’t, but my lads aren’t here and I may need someone to help me if we have to climb any stairs, so I reluctantly agree. I’d like to get my xiphos – no weapons are allowed in the megaron, apart from our eating knives – but there’s no time to fetch it.
We make our way out through the citadel gates into the town. Dusk is creeping over the narrow streets and I’m vividly aware of the note under my pillow and its warning. So far, I’ve stayed inside the palace at night, either in the courtyard or the megaron or my room, trusting on the palace guards and my own instincts to keep me safe from my secret assassin. This is the first time I’ve ventured into the town after the day’s end, and I’m feeling naked without a weapon. My skin is prickling with nerves.
Sacred Bride Page 26
