He seems to genuinely believe that Amphithea means him well. And so much for Tyndareus’s opinion. Amphithea gets to choose after all, with Manto looking over her shoulder and doubtless tweaking the result…
It all seems clear to me now: this is the position Zeus and his cabal wanted us to find ourselves in, all along. The winning candidate from the games has been sabotaged by an Ares man, and indeed, all the leading contestants are discredited, the richest kings have been sidelined, and now the gods – no, Zeus himself, with Hera as his gullible sidekick – can pronounce on their desired outcome.
I glance about the room. Castor, Polydeuces and Helen are neither surprised, nor perturbed. This is likely the outcome the two children of Zeus were promised anyway, and they’ve shared what they know with their older brother. And Tyndareus, who’s tried to stave it all off, is grey-faced, too tired to fight it any more. He’s as aware as anyone that this wedding contest has ended in disaster, with no clear favourite that everyone else can – even grudgingly – accept as the winner.
The longer this goes on, the greater the risk that it will turn violent, and on a large scale. And of course, the massive crowds of visitors are eating Sparta’s granaries bare. If circumstances force him to return the gifts as well, he may end up without two obols to rub together.
The High King turns to me. ‘Thank you for your counsel, Odysseus, but you’re no longer needed here. In fact, none of us are needed – it’s now a matter for the gods.’
* * *
Summarily dismissed, I start limping upstairs. It’s glaringly obvious to me that the Patroclus-Diomedes liaison wasn’t innocent desire – Patroclus took a fall for his side, in much the same way I took a fall for mine. The Pythia’s proposal to Agamemnon to resolve this was pre-meditated, with the knowledge that the wedding games would be a farce.
That confirms that the Pythia’s patron, Hera, is working with Zeus again, just as the Dodona oracle said. I could try to warn Agamemnon of this, but he won’t believe me. They’ve lined up a mutually-agreed candidate for Helen already, and I can guess who that is. Achaea’s fate is sealed. Unless…
It’s now dark outside, with heavy clouds obscuring the moon. I need to find Bria, so we can get our heads around this issue before it’s too late. We probably need Teliope too, and Diomedes if he has the heart for it, after all that’s befallen him. I’m going to need my xiphos if I’m heading back down into the town tonight, so I head for my room.
I reach my little room to find Actoris leaning against the wall outside, waiting for me. She breaks into a broad smile as soon as she sees me.
‘Odysseus, Lady Penelope said—’ she begins, but I raise a hand.
‘Actoris, it’s a true pleasure to see you, but I’m only here a moment. I have to go out again immediately.’ I fetch the key from my pouch.
She gives me a disappointed look. ‘My mistress asked me to give you a message.’ She brushes my hand with her fingers. ‘That assassin note – nothing’s come of it, has it? It must have been a joke, one of your funny friends. So I thought, maybe I could keep your bed warm for when you return? That’s if your leg isn’t too sore?’
After the day I’ve had, a little comfort would go a long way, but there really is no time for this, however sweetly meant. ‘I have to go and meet someone,’ I tell her. ‘Honestly. And the threat of an attack still exists.’
Actoris looks hurt, which is vexing, and as I unlock I try to find the words to let her down while remaining a friend. I push the door open, distracted by her presence… but these days I never truly relax, so I’m instantly aware of a breeze coming from a window that I left shuttered and locked…
The room is unlit, but the light of the hallway illuminates it, and I see immediately that the shutters are ajar and that someone is perched on the windowsill. Light gleams on metal as I grab Actoris and hurl us both aside just as a bowstring snaps loudly in the silent, echoing space and an arrow slams into the doorframe, the bronze tip grazing my cheekbone as it whistles past.
I react instantly, hurling myself at the shutters, smashing them wide open and throwing the assassin off his perch. He gives a startled cry as he plummets two flights onto the cobbles below. I look out hoping to see him badly hurt, but he rolls as he strikes the ground and somehow staggers to his feet. It looks like he’s broken his left arm, so he won’t be plying his bow for a while. He casts me a furious, thwarted look before stumbling away.
I go to cry out, but stop myself. I’ve got a mountain of things to do tonight, and I can’t afford to get bogged down with some pointless pursuit. At least he’s not going to be a threat for a while now.
I turn to Actoris. She’s crouched on the floor, staring mutely up at the arrow, which is still quivering in the wooden door frame. I pull it out – my name is inscribed on the shaft – before dropping to my knees beside her, my torn thigh muscle sending a savage flash of agony through my body.
‘We’re fine,’ I tell her, as she clings to me, shaking all over and trying not to cry. ‘The killer’s gone. We’re safe.’
But in my mind, I’m thanking my lucky stars – and whoever sent me that mysterious warning note when I first arrived. If I’d not been so wary, I’d be dead, and probably Actoris as well.
The glimpse I caught of my attacker has confirmed all my suspicions. His head was masked, so I could only see his eyes. But his legs were covered in slender tubes of cloth – eastern garb – and as well as his bow, he had a sword with a curved blade slung by his side. There’s a known eastern assassin’s cult that deals in weapons inscribed with their target’s name. They operate out of Troy.
So the Trojans are here already. Most of them want me dead, which isn’t so surprising. But one of them doesn’t. She wants me to live, even though she knows I will try and thwart all their plans. And she’s desperate enough to have bribed a palace servant to leave me a note, the handwriting awkward because it was written in what was to her a foreign script.
Kyshanda is still looking out for me…
I’ve forgotten Actoris’s mention of a message, but she fumbles in a pocket of her gown and pulls out a small wax tablet. ‘The town springs,’ it reads. ‘One hour, come disguised in servile garb. Bring a rope.’
‘It’s from Penelope,’ Actoris adds, unnecessarily. ‘Oh, and she’s made up some more ointment for you; she thinks this one will work better than the last.’ She hands me the vial.
I rub the ointment into my thigh muscles, ignoring Actoris’s offers of help – she’s a trier, I have to admit. Then I thrust the arrow through my belt and gather the few things I need together, along with my xiphos. My leg is already feeling much better as we exit the citadel, propping each other up like two drunks, as we head through the town – there are tipsy men with women draped over them everywhere, and we blend in well.
Once we reach the house where Bria has been sobering Alcmaeon up, I get Eurybates to take Actoris home, with Itanus and Pollo to escort them. Then I go upstairs to find Bria sitting slumped on a stool outside a bedroom. She looks up at me in annoyance when I appear.
‘Ithaca! Where have you been? I did not come here all this way to nursemaid a drunken mulas of an Argive—’
‘Save it,’ I tell her. ‘Diomedes blew it with Helen, so Tyndareus and Agamemnon have agreed to let the Pythia choose Helen’s husband, through an oracular reading – which Manto will be manipulating. We’ve already lost, unless we can disrupt it.’
Bria gapes at me. ‘Diomedes… what? Pythia… huh?’
It is so good to see her speechless. I just wish it happened more often.
I give her the heavily edited highlights of the afternoon and evening – without mentioning at all what happened between Diomedes and Patroclus. Instead I pretend that Diomedes and Helen argued, blaming it on the girl. ‘She clearly wanted this to happen all along,’ I tell Bria. ‘The wedding contests were just a ruse.’ This last part of my story has the advantage of being true. ‘And I’m supposed to meet Penelope in less than an hour, hopefully t
o discuss whatever the Pythia and Manto have cooked up.’
Bria takes it all in swiftly, and claps me on the shoulder. ‘So, the game moves on!’
‘Oh, and a Trojan assassin just tried to kill me,’ I throw in, just to knock her further off balance.
Her eyes widen for a fraction of a heartbeat, and then she shrugs, as though this is the most normal, natural thing in the world. ‘You’re clearly still alive.’
‘Thank you so much for your concern. The timing is significant, don’t you think: just after I left my meeting with the kings, and learned what they propose for tomorrow? The Trojans are not only here, they knew immediately what I’d be told – so they have active spies in the palace. They obviously fear how I might use that knowledge.’
‘If your enemies don’t want to kill you, you’re not screwing with their plans properly,’ Bria replies offhandedly. ‘It’s to your credit that they finally see you as a threat.’
‘Lucky, lucky me.’
‘Quite. Well, why don’t you take a turn with Vomitface Alcmaeon, while I find Teliope. Then go and meet your Artemis priestess at the Springs and see what you can get out of her.’ Bria grins evilly. ‘I’m presuming she doesn’t just want some of what her maid is after?’
‘Penelope isn’t like that,’ I retort, more hotly than intended.
‘Oh, but perhaps you wish she was?’ Bria says archly, deciding she’s found a chink in my armour. ‘Play it right and maybe you’ll nail them both. At once, even!’
‘Off you go!’ I tell her firmly. Then I pause. ‘I don’t suppose you found out if someone is really poisoning Tyndareus?’
‘Nothing conclusive,’ she admits, her face souring. ‘But that doesn’t mean it’s not happening.’ She claps me on the shoulder, then hurries away toward Teliope’s lodgings.
I’m left alone to check on our guest. Alcmaeon’s asleep on the bed, and the air is thick with the vile, syrupy stench of wine-vomit. I take the half-full bucket beside the bed downstairs and empty it on the midden, rinse it out, and bring it back.
Then I sit on the stool, taking a moment to remind myself of all I know about the snorting, snoring prick stretched out on the cot beside me. The key fact is that, like so many other men here, he hates me.
Alcmaeon led the Epigoni – the orphaned sons of the famous Seven who perished at Thebes – in a revenge attack on the city, ten years later. I helped them, because Thebes was planning to provide a beachhead for a Trojan invasion. But he and I fell out, in particular because he wanted to torture the seer, Tiresias, and rape Tiresias’s daughter, Manto. I just wanted both dead, because they’d blighted my sister’s life, tried to murder me and betray all of Achaea. In the end I had to settle for giving Tiresias a clean death, and arranging for the priestesses of Pytho to take the already pregnant Manto off Alcmaeon’s hands.
Alcmaeon has never forgiven me for that, and he’s an important, dangerous man: the heir apparent to the throne of Argos. And he’s here, drunk as a satyr, not for Helen’s sake but for Manto’s.
I nudge him awake. He comes to, rolls over and spews. I have the bucket ready, wait until he’s done, and feed him water until he’s aware enough to realise who it is that’s caring for him, and that he loathes me.
‘You,’ he growls. ‘You can fuh… ugh… bleurgh…’
Again, the bucket saves the day.
‘Good evening, Prince Alcmaeon,’ I greet him evenly. ‘Are you done yet?’
‘Aye…’ he mumbles blearily.
‘You’re welcome.’
He catches the hint of sarcasm in my voice. ‘If you think this makes amends for what you did—’
‘I never considered the possibility,’ I tell him. ‘I want to know what happened between you and Manto after I left Thebes.’
‘You can go…’ he starts. But then his eyes narrow. ‘Why should I tell you anything?’
At least he’s thinking again. ‘Because if I help you, you might help me.’
‘Help me how?’ he growls.
‘Help you get what you want. Or who you want.’
That snags his attention. ‘You know who I want,’ he rasps. ‘But you want her dead.’
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I reply, not quite honestly. ‘Tell me what happened between you and Manto at Thebes.’
He fixes me with a cold, sweaty stare, his face working through various permutations of disgust, contempt and disdain, before settling on some kind of hopefulness, blended with outright suspicion. It’s a very odd mixture indeed.
‘When you fled,’ he begins finally, ‘I took her back to camp. I fully intended to cut her throat when I had done with her…’
His voice trails off, and I start to think that’s all he’s going to tell me.
Then he moans, as if in pain. ‘But the thing was, I couldn’t get done with her. Gods, I’ve had women, but never, ever, anyone like her. The passion, all she brought out in me… the sheer heart pounding excitement of riding that storm… You have no idea. We’re kindred souls, she and I. We were made for each other, enemies or no. We must be together. But then those interfering bitches from Pytho came for her, and they persuaded Adrastus. We fought – damn, I must’ve nigh shouted the walls of Thebes down, what was left of them – but they all turned against me…’ He buries his head in his hands. ‘They took her away.’ His voice trails off, then he mumbles, with naked honesty, ‘I’ve not been sober since.’
‘And you have a child by her?’
He gives me a haunted look. ‘Aye, a son… she birthed him in Pytho, nine months after she was taken from me. She’s called him Amphilochus…’
‘Your brother’s name,’ I remind him. ‘Why would she do that?’
Alcmaeon rolls over to face the wall. ‘You’d have to ask her,’ he says in a desolate voice. ‘Can I have a drink?’ he adds, in a deathly whisper.
‘I think not,’ I tell him.
Am I sorry for him? No. He was and is a thoroughly arrogant, dislikeable and violent man. But I pity anyone who lets Manto get her fangs into them. And right now, she’s the problem, not him.
I have a seed of an idea, and I think, looking at the drink-ravaged mess on the bed, that it will find fertile ground. But time is running short. And Alcmaeon, I realise as his breathing changes, has fallen unconscious again.
I leave the surly sot to sleep it off.
I have the chance, perhaps, for one last try at jamming a spar into the spokes of Zeus’s wagon. So I tuck my hair under a wide-brimmed hat I’ve brought with me, throw on a shapeless grey mantle over the pack that holds the rope, and pull a fold over my head. Muffled in my new disguise, I’m ready to meet Penelope at the town springs.
17 – A Secret Olympus
‘How is it indeed, that when I learnt of such things, I came here, instead of respecting the oracle of the god? Because Hera is far greater than any divine oracles and would not forsake me.’
—Euripides, Children of Heracles
Sparta
There’s a cloaked figure standing beside the low wall that surrounds the town springs, waving to me through the crowds. Penelope’s composed face peers out from a fold of her priestess mantle as she looks me over. ‘Do you think you can climb if you have to?’ she asks.
‘My leg’s much more comfortable now, thanks to your new ointment,’ I tell her. ‘I can manage most things, as long as it doesn’t take too long.’ I look around me. ‘Why, what do we need to climb?’
She gives me a conspiratorial look. ‘I’m not sure yet. But there’ll be something. And thank you for protecting Actoris. She’s very lucky.’
‘We were both lucky.’ I hesitate then add, ‘I don’t know how to refuse her without hurting her feelings.’
‘You’re not used to refusing women, then?’ she says wryly. ‘I’ll have a word with her, to spare your feelings and hers.’ She indicates the direction of the lower town and adds, ‘Come.’
I find I have to hurry to keep up. Just as well my leg is feeling better than it was… ‘Where are we g
oing?’ I ask after a couple of blocks.
‘I want to break into a shrine,’ she says, slowing down enough to face me.
I stare. ‘Um, good, but why do you need me?’
‘Do I look like someone who knows how to break into anywhere?’ she replies.
‘No, but…’ We’re friends, good friends even, but our goddesses are hardly allies. ‘Why send for me? You have theiae in the Artemis cult who could do just as well.’
‘Yes, but I’d have to persuade them to do something against their scruples.’
‘You think I don’t have scruples?’
She pauses, a smile playing about her lips. ‘I’m sure you do, but they’re not the usual set. Listen.’ She drops her voice so we won’t be overheard by any passers-by. ‘Sophronia has been summoned to a meeting in the house of Dionysus’s local high priest, but I’ve not been invited. You know I have doubts about my patron’s place in Zeus’s new order, and I want – no, need – to hear what is being said. To do so, I need the help of someone outside my cult, and the only person I know with the skills and local knowledge who’d be willing to help me, is you. Or am I wrong?’
I’m never going to refuse that offer. ‘I’m your man,’ I reply – with an inadvertently flirtatious smile.
‘I’ve sworn off men, remember?’
‘I’ve not forgotten. It’s mankind’s great loss.’
‘Flattery will get you nowhere.’ She suppresses another smile. ‘I’m hoping you know the house.’
‘Indeed I do – Menelaus and I used to steal his ceremonial wine.’
‘Excellent. Come on – we’d better keep moving.’
I take the lead as we hurry on down through the town, making sure we avoid the deeper shadows, even though the Trojan assassin is hardly likely to be a threat at this point. The streets are still busy, torches on street corners and outside taverns creating small pools of light in the gloom. Boisterous laughter comes from the overflowing taverns, but the locals appear surly, probably already sick of the strangers and interlopers. Those who look at us do so incuriously, perhaps seeing a man and wife hurrying home. Although it’s early summer, the air is cold. Eventually I steer her through an alley that I know will take us to the rear of the priest’s house. I press Penelope against the wall as we reach the end of the alley, and creep forward, peer around the corner and then return.
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