Diomedes has told me who he’s lodging with, a nobleman I know well from my years here in Sparta, and we find our way to the house without difficulty, and without anything untoward happening. Even so, I have a premonition of some looming disaster. We hammer on the main door, which is opened by a servant, who explains that his master is out, visiting a friend and won’t be home this evening, but that Prince Diomedes is within. The man seems a little nervous, his eyes shifting to and fro.
When we ask if we can see Diomedes, he tells us to wait in the vestibule, a strangely inhospitable request – by custom, we should be taken into the main room, a smaller version of Tyndareus’s megaron, and plied with wine and simple food. When we insist on seeing Dio, the man demurs, but after a few more attempts to fob us off, he admits that Dio is taking a bath.
‘Up in his bedroom?’ I ask, glancing apprehensively at the steep stairs up to the second floor.
‘Oh no,’ the servant says, in shocked tones. ‘My master has a bathroom, properly plumbed and all.’
‘That’s all right,’ I exclaim, pushing past. ‘I’ve seen Diomedes stripped many times. He won’t mind if I barge in.’
‘He’s been there half an hour or more. Said he didn’t need me,’ the old man replies, clearly uncomfortable. ‘Didn’t want to be disturbed.’
Perhaps Dio has simply lost track of the time.
Or…
My heart is thumping against my ribs by the time we reach the bathroom, at the back of the house. The door is shut and my sense of danger is now overwhelming, all my theios awareness at screaming point. Where is Patroclus? What evil revenge might he have enacted? Dio could be lying in there with his throat cut…
I shoulder-charge the door as best I can with my gammy leg. It’s a flimsy thing and it bursts open immediately as the timbers splinter.
There are two naked bodies lying on the tiled floor. For one terrifying moment I think they’re both dead. They’re coiled around each other, top to tail, but as they jerk their heads up in alarm, it’s obvious what they’ve been doing.
Diomedes and Patroclus… Oh, shit!
I look away, while Nassius backs out of the room, squawking. Patroclus looks murderous – but not repentant. As for Diomedes, he looks like he’s waking from a dream into a nightmare.
Nassius stammers, ‘Dear Gods…’ then he grabs my shoulder and hauls me back into the passageway. The door, or what is left of it, slams behind us and I hear frantic curses and movement.
‘You know he can’t marry the princess now,’ the keryx babbles. His face is a mask of horror, and his hands are fluttering about as if to swat away what’s been going on in the bathroom.
‘It’s not a crime,’ I try to protest, but he cuts me off.
‘It’s a damnable disgrace,’ he rasps, gathering up his dignity.
That’s the nub of it – not whether either of us condones what’s been going on in the bathroom, but the insult it offers to Tyndareus and to his daughter. She’s been stood up. It almost doesn’t matter who Diomedes was making love to; the fact is, he preferred that choice over the honour of speaking with Helen.
And honour is the glue that binds Achaea together.
‘I must tell Tyndareus. I have no option,’ Nassius continues.
I seize his shoulders. ‘Please, let me deal with this. I’ll withdraw them both from contention – but I’ll do it discreetly.’
The herald stares at me suspiciously. ‘But I must—’
I place my face nose to nose with him. ‘You make this allegation, any allegation about what they’ve been doing, and Patroclus will deny it – with his xiphos.’
His eyes jerk about, his forehead suddenly beaded with sweat. ‘But you saw—’
‘So you want to pay for this with your head? Or start a general bloodbath? The suitors are ripe for any excuse to carve each other up.’ I shake him back and forth. ‘Listen to me, and listen carefully. It was very steamy in there. I believe I saw one athlete helping another scrape the bath oil off his chest. That’s what you saw, too.’
He nods. Or maybe his head’s wagging because I’m shaking him so hard. ‘Helen’s honour is at stake,’ he manages to gasp.
‘Aye. And these men’s honour is at stake as well,’ I go on, through gritted teeth. ‘And you know how warriors guard their honour.’
Honour – there’s far too much of the damned stuff crammed into this town right now…
His face is ashen. ‘Both of them, Prince Odysseus,’ he says. ‘I will be silent if you will swear that they will both be withdrawn.’ Then he pulls away, and I let him go – I can hear the two men inside dressing hurriedly, and both have weapons. Nassius’s life may be forfeit if I detain him any longer.
He’s disappeared by the time Patroclus emerges, his face flushed. His tunic is damp, his long hair tugged into some kind of order and he has his scabbard slung over his shoulder but the blade thankfully is still sheathed.
I take a painful step into his path, and he looks down at me, eyes narrowing. ‘Well?’ he says coolly.
‘I’ve persuaded the keryx not to speak to the king until I do. And the version I give will preserve your reputation.’
‘You don’t give a fuck about my reputation,’ the Thessalian sneers. ‘You’re only concerned about your friend.’ He places his hand on his xiphos hilt. ‘Perhaps it’s you I need to silence?’
I put my hand to where my own xiphos hilt should be – but of course, it’s back at the palace. Kopros!
Diomedes appears at his shoulder, his face sickly. ‘No one need be silenced,’ he says. ‘I will bear my shame.’
‘No one’s going to be shamed, if I can help it,’ I tell them. ‘And it’s not about what you’ve been…’ I’m about to say ‘doing’ which sounds crude and judgemental, and I don’t mean that. ‘…sharing,’ I conclude lamely.
If only I could be sure that Patroclus has brought the same open-heartedness to their love-making as Dio. But I’m not sure of that at all.
I can only imagine the fury Tyndareus will feel if he finds out why Diomedes has failed to keep his meeting with Helen. I’m sure the king knows that some men prefer their own kind – but if this got out it would mean public insult and humiliation to his family, with almost every important king and prince in Achaea here to witness it.
Thank the gods the servant didn’t come back to the bathroom with us… One less tongue to wag…
‘The keryx will only speak to Tyndareus if I don’t,’ I stress. Hopefully Patroclus will have enough sense to realise this means he’ll gain nothing by skewering me. ‘I’ll think of some excuse for you both.’
But what?
The two men look at each other, a silent exchange so complex I can’t begin to decipher it. Then Patroclus turns back to me. ‘It’s just pleasure,’ he says. ‘You know it makes no difference, with regard to the princess. She won’t want for tupping if I win her.’
‘Tyndareus won’t see it that way.’
‘Why not? Zeus’s balls, pretty much every man alive has tried it at some point; it’s a part of growing up.’
‘Meaning, you have grown up?’ I’m starting to lose my temper now.
‘Oh, fuck off! You and Menelaus—’
‘Are friends. Real friends, who would never risk the other’s reputation at the most crucial moment of their lives. Which is what you have just done.’
This has nothing to do with seeing two men together. Several of my own soldiers have let a close friendship go further, and it’s never overly bothered me, so long as it hasn’t undermined the cohesion of the unit as a whole. They’re all good men, and I’d trust them in a crisis – but not this snake.
‘Listen,’ I tell Patroclus, ‘it’s your own business who you lay with, but these games are for the hand of Helen of Sparta, who’s been blessed by every god on Olympus. This is no ordinary wedding contest – for the safety of Achaea she must be happily married off to a loving husband, not someone who spends his time lusting after everyone else he can get his hands o
n, male or female. That’s paramount, and it’s why you are both going to walk away from this contest.’
I can actually feel Patroclus calculating – can he kill me and then overtake Nassius? But then he’d have to kill the servant too… And can he trust Diomedes to be silent, given that the young Argive has just demonstrated a strong weakness for public confession?
Somehow he comes to the right conclusion. ‘Then we’re in your hands, Ithacan,’ he growls, and stalks away, without a backward glance, even at his erstwhile lover. Diomedes stares after him for a moment, waiting perhaps for some sign. When it doesn’t come, he slumps against the door post, hanging his head.
I steer him back into the bathroom, though the shattered door is unlikely to give us much privacy.
‘By all the gods, my friend,’ I say. ‘What came over you?’
He looks up, miserable as a prisoner in Tartarus. ‘I’m sorry,’ he blurts in a trembling voice.
I shake my head, still not really able to credit this. ‘That bastard has blessings from both Ares and Aphrodite,’ I tell him. ‘Did he…’ I wiggle my fingers in a vaguely ‘magical’ way.
‘No… He just… It’s always been there, inside me…’ He hangs his head miserably.
‘Bria is going to use your guts for harp strings,’ I tell him. ‘Which is nothing, compared to what our goddess will do. To get so close to victory and then let it slip through our fingers. Talking of whom, we thought you were in love with Athena!’
Diomedes sags onto the edge of the bathtub. ‘I do love Athena,’ he groans. ‘I adore her so much…’ He plucks at his tunic miserably. ‘I want to be her, not this… this thing I am…’
Oh gods, I groan inwardly. I sit beside him, go to put a consoling arm round his shoulders – and then suddenly feel profoundly awkward about that, for the first time in my life. For the next few moments, I’m floundering. ‘It’ll be all right,’ I finally say, my voice strained and unconvincing. ‘No one need know. I won’t tell Bria, or Athena.’
What exactly am I going to say to them, let alone Tyndareus, to explain Diomedes’s withdrawal?
He nods, but he seems beyond caring. ‘I’ll pack my things,’ he mumbles.
That would be a disaster in itself, but what if he decides to do something more drastic?
‘No, you’ll stay,’ I reply, and follow it with an argument he can’t disagree with. ‘This whole business is bound to turn violent at some point, and Athena will need your blade.’
He falls silent. ‘What will you say to Tyndareus?’ he asks eventually.
Finally the solution comes to me. ‘I’ll tell him your heart is already given to another, a lifelong love.’
He gives me a pained look. ‘I suppose I’ll need to marry someone now, to prove the truth of it.’
‘It would help.’ This is very far from ideal, but the alternative is worse. ‘Anyone in mind? It’ll be useful if I can give Tyndareus a name.’
‘King Adrastus has been nagging me about wedding his daughter. The youngest one.’
‘Aegialeia? But she’s your aunt!’
‘And my cousin, depending on how you look at it. Our family tree is a little complicated.’ He manages a wry smile. ‘She’s only a few years older than me…’ His voice trails off.
‘Do you like her?’
He shrugs. ‘She’s all right.’
‘I’ll tell Tyndareus you broke off a secret betrothal to come here,’ I say, ‘because you wanted the very best for yourself. But Aegialeia’s heart is shattered and yours is not much better. And you apologise profoundly for the hurt you are causing Helen. Or something along those lines. I’ll make it sound stirring and noble and honourable.’ I give his shoulder a pat. ‘Go upstairs and get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning. I’ve been tipped off that something big is about to happen, and you can bet your life Athena will want us involved.’
That at least pricks his interest – to be ready when his beloved goddess calls. I see him to the foot of the stairs, sure enough of his mood that I no longer worry that he’ll harm himself.
I hate Patroclus.
But regardless, I’m left to limp back alone along the streets of the town, staring into shadows and wishing I was armed. The assassin I’ve been warned of could be anywhere.
But I reach the palace unscathed, and when I enter the throne-hall, Nassius comes hurrying over and escorts me straight to Tyndareus’s side. The old king looks at me impatiently. ‘I’m told you found Diomedes?’ he snaps. ‘Where is he?’
I give him a regretful look. ‘Alas, Prince Diomedes, after examining his conscience, has decided that he can’t in good faith continue to court your daughter. The truth is, he has another love – a lifelong love for Princess Aegialeia, whom he left broken-hearted in Argos. He has tried to put his own feelings for her aside, but they will not leave him. So he apologises, and asks that you convey his regrets to your daughter.’
Tyndareus stares at me, astounded. ‘Another woman? Does he not know who and what my daughter is?’ He rolls his eyes at the utter stupidity of the assertion. ‘Has he lost his mind? I do believe Helen was warming to the notion of him, so taken was she with his prowess and bearing. He was champion of these games, the frontrunner for her hand!’
‘Believe me, he is fully cognisant of all this. But sometimes a man’s heart must rule his head.’
Tyndareus scowls, angry now on behalf of his family. ‘Not if they aspire to greatness. This was the opportunity of many lifetimes. I cannot believe any woman alive could matter more to a man than my daughter!’
I’m tempted to remind him that she’s not his daughter at all, and that she’s already been spurned by Agamemnon, but that would be cruel and utterly counterproductive. ‘I understand also that Patroclus has withdrawn, as he feels that the dishonour of losing the final of the wrestling discounts his claim. He’s already leaving.’
Tyndareus looks up at the ceiling, silently berating the gods in his exasperation.
‘What will you do now?’ I ask him.
He rubs his chin wearily. ‘What indeed? The gift-giving has been a disaster – it has caused more problems than it has solved – and now the games have also failed to reveal a worthy husband. I must consider and take counsel.’ He pats my shoulder. ‘Come, let us speak to Agamemnon, and determine a way forward.’
Although I’m anxious to see Bria now, and learn whether she has sobered Alcmaeon up and what tale she’s managed to prise from him, this clearly takes precedence. While Tyndareus discreetly explains to Agamemnon that there’s important news, I go to Nassius and tell him that both Diomedes and Patroclus have agreed to withdraw voluntarily, and that he should forget he knows otherwise. He’s not stupid – he nods understanding and thanks me for my wisdom and protection.
I then follow the two kings, leaving everyone in the megaron somewhat mystified, though the passing remarks I hear as I leave tell me they’re all thinking we’re going to meet with Diomedes and Helen, in readiness for the big announcement.
We regather in a private room behind the megaron – thankfully there are no stairs to negotiate – and take our seats. A servant pours us wine as Castor and Polydeuces join us, taking in my presence with sullen resignation. Then the door flies open and Helen walks in, magnificent in blue and green silk, shining gold tassels swinging from the tiers of her skirt. Her eyes narrow as she sees me, but she offers no protest.
‘What’s this about?’ she asks. ‘Where is Prince Diomedes?’
‘You tell her,’ Tyndareus growls at me.
‘Unfortunately, Diomedes has come to the realisation that his pursuit of your love is in vain, as his heart is already given to his cousin. He finds he must forgo happiness with you to honour his commitment to Aegialeia.’
Helen looks at me as if I’d just declared that pig shit was edible. ‘You’re saying he finds Aegialeia more desirable than me?’
‘I’m just as surprised,’ I remark – a little drily, perhaps. She gives me a sharp look, while her brothers make snide
remarks about Diomedes ‘not having the balls’ to marry into their family.
But Helen doesn’t look too upset. ‘Then these stupid games have been an utter waste of time,’ she complains to her father. ‘Just as I said they would be. Why would I ever fall in love with someone on the basis of their ability to shoot feathered twigs at a bundle of straw, run round and round the town until we’re all dizzied at the sight of it or – worst of all – grapple with other men? I told you, over and over again, but no one listens.’
Tyndareus slumps back in his chair, his face a mix of frustration and resignation. So I’m not in any way surprised when Agamemnon is the next to speak.
‘It’s not about love,’ he growls. ‘It never has been. It’s about alliances and wealth and influence. At times, such a contest can reveal the right man, but I have always believed there to be better ways. To me, the games were always merely a means of keeping the suitors distracted while we make up our mind.’
Just as I thought, I congratulate myself ironically. You, oh noble High King, have viewed this as your process, your choice, all along. You and Hera. I’m so delighted to have crippled myself just to help your orchestrated distractions.
‘What do you have in mind, my lord?’ I ask him, politely. ‘Or who?’
I see Castor and Polydeuces burning to interject, but even those two bull-heads know not to interrupt the High King. As for Helen, she sits back with deceptive disinterest, but I can tell she’s listening avidly.
‘I believe only the gods can choose for us now,’ Agamemnon says slowly, eyes upturned as if he’s receiving a divine revelation.
Does he really think we believe he’s only just thought of this?
‘I have just been approached by High Priestess Amphithea, the Pythia,’ he goes on. ‘She asks that she be permitted to perform an oracular seeing and pronounce upon the best candidate – for Achaea. With all other options discredited, I must trust in Hera and Pytho, who have always guided my line.’
Sacred Bride Page 27
