‘There’s a guard at the rear entrance,’ I whisper.
‘I assumed there would be,’ she replies, with quiet anxiety. ‘But you must know another way in if you—’
‘Nicked the votive plonk.’
‘Quite. We’ll need to hurry though – the meeting will be about to start.’
‘Don’t worry – it won’t take us long. Menelaus and I used to break in here at least once a week.’ I smile at the memory. ‘The wine wasn’t too bad, either – not that we cared too much about vintages in those days.’
I take her to the rear of another, smaller building with a relatively low, flat roof, and help her clamber up – silently, as there’s a family living inside. Their roof butts against the wall of a two-storeyed house which yields just enough toe and fingerholds for us to scale it. That done, we tiptoe over to a vantage point overlooking the Dionysus priest’s house, just a few yards away on the other side of another narrow alley.
On this side of the house opposite us, there are no windows and more importantly, no doors, and therefore no guards. It’s a modest building, with a few bedrooms upstairs that open off a narrow internal balcony that surrounds a large, central, covered light well. Below, there’s a single room that occupies the whole ground floor. If you were being grand, you’d call it a megaron, but it’s not that big. There’s an altar in the middle instead of the customary hearth, so it’s freezing in winter – presumably you don’t feel the cold if you’ve drunk enough votive wine. Thirty people at the most could pack themselves around the altar, if they stood shoulder to shoulder, but it doesn’t happen that often. Dionysus’s worship is a minor one in Lacedaemon, and most of their rites are secret, ecstatic and take place out in the fields and wilder places.
Penelope moves well, like the trained huntress she is, but now our cloaks will be a nuisance. ‘Leave your mantle here,’ I whisper in her ear, ‘so you can move freely. This next part’s the hardest.’
We shed our cloaks, and I pull out the thin, tough cord I’ve brought with me and tie a loop at one end, using a slipknot. I wait until the guard comes around the corner on a cursory sweep before returning to his position, out of sight. If he’s kept up the habits of years ago, there’ll be a small brazier and a flask of wine back at his usual station and he won’t budge from there for a while.
All’s clear…
There’s a wooden beam jutting out from the edge of the roof opposite, with a sturdy vertical pin near the end, the twin of a beam on our side. The men who build houses round here use such beams to secure a pulley, so they can haul up roof tiles and other building materials. I send the rope snaking over the alley, and loop it over the peg on the first attempt – it’s satisfying to find I haven’t lost the knack after all these years.
I pull the cord as tight as I can, winding it around the peg on this side and tying it off, coiling up the slack that’s left. With Penelope watching open-mouthed, I step onto it, as much to make sure I still have the skill as to test the strength of the rope. ‘Have you ever walked a tightrope?’ I whisper, after returning to the solid footing of the rooftop.
She gives me a panicky look. ‘No.’
‘Then I’ll make it easier for you.’ I tie another loop several feet along the slack and reach down to hook it over another bronze peg below us. Menelaus and I put it there all those years ago for this very purpose, and a sharp tug on the rope reassures me that it’s still firmly wedged into a joint in the massive timber framing that supports the wall.
Once that’s safely done, I stand and, with the coils of the remaining slack in one hand, tentatively place a foot on the upper rope, spreading my arms.
‘Are you insane?’ she whispers, incredulous.
‘I’ve done it before,’ I whisper back, and step fully onto the tightly strung cord. Then very, very carefully, I walk, one splayed foot after the other, across the empty space and onto the opposite roof.
Okay, it’s not quite that straightforward. In fact at one point I nearly fall and only my good balance enables me to steady myself. But I make it.
Once there, I stretch down to hook the last of the slack around yet another peg, the twin of the lower one opposite, drawing it as tight as I can before tying off on the beam at roof level. Penelope can now hang onto the upper rope while walking along the lower one, just as Menelaus was able to do, back when we went on our wine stealing expeditions.
She’s got the strength and nerve to make it across without mishaps, and a few moments later, we’re huddled together on the roof of the priest’s house. I pat her arm in appreciation of her efforts thus far.
‘Do we have to do that again when we leave?’ she asks, pressing her mouth to my ear. Her breath on my skin is sweet and I have to fight the impulse to reach out and stroke her face – this is the first time I’ve been so intimately close to her. I wonder how she feels about being near to me.
‘If the alarm is raised, we’ll be running out one of the doors,’ I tell her. ‘Otherwise, yes.’
‘Then so be it,’ she replies, her voice regaining its usual calm. ‘What now?’
I’m very impressed with both her composure and her athleticism. Clearly her confined island life hasn’t prevented her from staying fit and lithe. And though she’s clearly stressed, she’s maintaining her alertness, and hasn’t succumbed to fear.
She’s a diamond, I realise. A kindred soul.
‘There’s a suitable vantage point inside,’ I whisper. ‘We can climb in through the light well, and onto the balcony overlooking the ground-floor room. We’ll have to move silently but the worst is over – it’ll be much easier than the tightrope.’
I lower myself down into the light well, hanging by my hands so that my feet are dangling not far above the balcony rail. This is tricky too – if I misjudge it and miss the rail, I’ll make too much of a racket landing on the balcony floor, at best, or fall the other way to crash down onto the altar, at worst.
Just a few yards below me, there’s a hum of conversation and the shuffling of feet as people assemble – enough, along with the clatter of votive bowls and jugs, to mask the muted thud I make as I land neatly on the rail. I check that no one has heard me, before stretching my arms up to catch Penelope’s legs and lower her down. I can’t help noticing that her behind is pert and shapely as it slides through my hands…
Stop it, I tell myself, as I slide off the rail and crouch down beside her, out of sight but well within earshot.
We’re barely settled when I hear my grandmother, the Pythia, speak, just a few yards below us and clearly audible. ‘Welcome, Sophronia,’ she announces, in a cold, formal voice.
‘Greetings, Amphithea,’ the high priestess of Artemis responds coolly.
‘No doubt,’ my grandmother goes on, ‘you’ll know some of these others—’
A familiar male voice interrupts her, one that makes my skin creep. ‘I’ll speak for myself,’ it says, in a strong eastern accent. ‘I am Prince Skaya-Mandu of Troy. With me is my half-brother, Prince Parassi, and my sister, Kyshanda. We speak with the authority of the king and queen of Troy on all matters.’
Kyshanda… My poor heart feels such pain, I almost groan aloud. My face must have betrayed my anguish, and Penelope, bless her, covers my hand in hers and squeezes. I twist my hand over and squeeze back, straining my ears to hear my lost love speak.
But the next voice is new to me, a gravelly, resonant Achaean one, with an aged burr to his tones. ‘My name is Carnus, a seer in service to Hyllus and the Sons of Heracles, and an initiate of the Order of the Sphinx.’
I know both the name and the reputation: he’s a prophet who has always stood in Tiresias’s shadow, but he’s well known for his cunning and wisdom. The Order of the Sphinx are some kind of cabal operating throughout Achaea and Egypt, in service of Zeus. I’m doubly thankful to Penelope for asking me to come here with her. Our eyes meet in the half-dark, hers shining with nervous excitement.
The following voice I know only too well. ‘And I am Manto,’ the T
heban prophetess says, ‘daughter of Tiresias and the great Heracles.’
I tighten my grip on Penelope’s hand. Oh for my bow, and a quiver of arrows!
‘And I, Melampus, priest of Dionysus, will be presiding over this gathering tonight,’ a light, musical male voice adds. So… the local priest isn’t good enough – they’ve even imported the top Dionysus priest in Achaea. ‘Are we pleased with the progress of the wedding games thus far?’ Melampus asks.
‘I am,’ Carnus says gruffly. ‘Apart from one matter: why is the damned Prince of Ithaca still breathing? He disrupted our ploy to buy the girl’s hand, and then he wrecked the chances of three of our main contenders in the games. If I hadn’t instructed Patroclus to destroy the credibility of Diomedes, we may yet have had one of Athena’s men crowned as victor, and been forced to give him the girl.’
He’s only confirming what I already suspected, but it doesn’t stop me feeling an almost uncontrollable anger. I glance across at Penelope, who’s listening with a bitter, distasteful look on her face.
‘Tyndareus should have been compelled to hand her over to a candidate of our choosing from the start,’ Sophronia declares in a querulous voice. ‘This whole wooing has been a farce.’
‘The death of Tantalus and the sudden declaration of the wedding caught us all off guard,’ my grandmother Amphithea complains. ‘We were working on Tyndareus, but this acceleration of events could not be foreseen.’
‘Your grandson was behind that disaster too,’ Carnus growls.
‘Ithaca is no fortress,’ she replies. ‘You know where to find him if you wish to eliminate him.’
Thank you, Grandmother, I think. It’s obvious the blood in her veins is no thicker than water. I’m grateful for Penelope’s sympathetic glance at me, and another small tightening of our hands. Right now, I have no objection to holding her hand for the rest of my life.
‘We have assigned an assassin to deal with him, this very night,’ Skaya-Mandu puts in tersely. ‘Korakis, one of the best in the business. I’ll hear from him presently, I don’t doubt.’
Perhaps, but I don’t think you’ll enjoy his report.
‘Good,’ Sophronia says. ‘I’m weary of finding the phrase “Man of Fire” in my readings. Now, what of tomorrow?’
‘Very simply, this,’ Amphithea responds. ‘I shall go before King Tyndareus and proclaim that Zeus and Hera themselves command that this matter be resolved. I will tell him that, in the sacred shrine at the heart of the palace, where all the gods are honoured, I will grant him a special oracular pronouncement. It is an ancient place, and with a blood sacrifice and Manto’s help, I can enter a trance that will open a path to the spirits.’
‘But how will you ensure that you utter the right words, when the prophetic fit overcomes you?’ Carnus asks. ‘We all know that we are helpless when walking the Serpent’s Path, and we must speak as we are compelled.’
‘Manto’s father Tiresias found a way to control the visions,’ she replies, causing a stir among her audience. ‘Didn’t he, dear?’
There’s a murmured acquiesce from Manto.
‘Manto also has this skill,’ Amphithea goes on. ‘We will arrange it that she uses her powers to channel and manipulate the spirits, and I will speak the agreed phrases. Through easily interpreted symbolism we will point the king in the direction of Prince Parassi, alongside a prophecy of shared prosperity for Troy and Achaea. Once Tyndareus and Agamemnon hear our words, they’ll have no choice but to surrender Helen to us.’
‘And I’ll finally get the woman I was promised,’ a confident eastern male says. It’s Parassi himself – I recognise the tone of his voice from the gathering on Mount Ida two years ago, though he’s dropped the fake ‘country-bumpkin’ accent. ‘She’s grown into quite the beauty. I can fully believe she really is the most beautiful woman in the world.’
‘And with her at your side, as she desires, Agamemnon’s attempts to unify Achaea will die stillborn,’ Carnus says. ‘When the moment comes, resistance will be paltry. Polydeuces will usurp his father as King of Sparta, and be made High King of Achaea, as a client of King Piri-Yama of Troy, and the new Trojan empire will finally take shape.’
And what does Kyshanda think? She’s staying very quiet…
Penelope and I look at each other. I’m silently swearing that this will not come to pass, if I can possibly help it. From the grim expression on her face, she’s feeling the same. She notices suddenly that we’re still clutching hands and shyly releases mine, her face colouring. I miss her touch instantly.
‘And of course, Hera will be given full dominion here,’ Amphithea puts in imperiously. ‘As well as being honoured in Troy alongside their queen-goddess, Hanwasuit. This must be pledged.’
‘I have the authority to give that pledge,’ Carnus says firmly. ‘I am both seer and avatar, and call now upon the Skyfather to attest this.’
There’s a sudden shiver in the air, like a wind that surges over all my skin, and then a deeper, darker male voice resonates. Penelope and I stare at each other in alarm…
Carnus has taken on the spirit of Zeus himself…
‘I, Zeus-Tarhum, King of Olympus, do testify that Hera, my Queen, shall be known in the East as Hanwasuit, Queen of Thrones, and given worship throughout the kingdom of Troy and its adherents. Let this sign be my pledge.’
Far off, we hear a rumble of thunder, and suddenly the sky above seems to crack as a thunderbolt explodes above us, making every timber quiver, once, twice then thrice in rapid succession, the lightning piercing the gloom and bringing light and shadow into stark relief. Penelope’s mouth has fallen open and I put my hand over it to prevent her crying out in surprise.
‘By the Huntress,’ she whispers, when she’s calm enough to remove my hand. She looks petrified, yet utterly alive – which is exactly how I feel.
There’s complete silence below us, broken by Carnus’s weak cough. It seems Zeus only entered him very briefly, leaving him breathless. It takes him a few moments to recover enough to speak, and when he does his voice is still shaking. ‘Lady Amphithea, does that suffice?’ he asks.
‘It suffices,’ my grandmother croaks. She sounds shaken.
‘Under my rule,’ Prince Parassi puts in, ‘Achaea will be purged of the gods that have not stood with the Skyfather. Athena and Hephaestus will be the first to go. By the end of summer, with the help of Hyllus and his Heraclid followers, our soldiers will occupy every kingdom and every island to enforce our rule. Existing royal families will grovel before us, or be put to the sword.’
To hear it stated with such certainty, and such imminence, is chilling. Their plans are much further advanced than we feared, if they’re so confident that Hyllus and Heraclids will march to their drums…
‘Then we are agreed,’ Kyshanda says, speaking for the first time. I feel my whole body crumple in anguish when I hear the resolution in her voice. ‘Tomorrow, just before noon, Amphithea will go to Agamemnon and Tyndareus. It’s essential you Achaeans keep control of the shrine and the palace. Even with our divine blessing, you must remember that most of those present will be hostile to our Trojan party, and there may be active resistance to our appearance. We must be given the princess, and safe passage from Sparta.’
How cold and how certain she sounds. I want to cry aloud in denial. My lover, my heart pleads…
My once-lover…
Penelope presses her forehead to mine. ‘Be strong, Odysseus,’ she murmurs. Somehow her words, her presence keep me grounded as I face the hideous, unarguable fact that Kyshanda has now become my enemy. The last act of love she offered me was to warn me of the assassin. But from now on, we are utterly sundered.
Penelope’s presence anchors me, the touch of her forehead to mine the most real thing in the world. I wrap my arms around her and she does the same. Our faces press closer as each of us grieve – me for lost love, and her for a goddess that has betrayed her faith. Our cheeks press, skin to skin and in our despair, it’s as if we have no skin, tha
t we’re trying to burrow into each other’s souls. For all we’ve lost and are losing, and with the doom of our cause being stated so certainly below us, we seal a silent alliance.
Were it not for the gut-wrenching need I still feel for Kyshanda, standing just below us, I might already be in love with this precious woman I hold. But it’s too soon, and that wave of emotion hangs above me, poised but not yet breaking.
And of course, I have no idea how she feels, nor can I ask.
But if Kyshanda was like a forbidden dream, Penelope is an earthy grounding in all that’s wholesome. There’s a sense of rightness to everything about her, from her scent to the texture of her cheek as it presses to mine, that insists that she, not Kyshanda, is the true mate of my spirit.
I slowly become aware that they’re still talking, below us, and reluctantly, painfully, I open my eyes and so does Penelope. We stare into each other’s souls, almost forgetting to breathe as we hold each other tight. My mind is a turmoil; everything I thought I knew and wanted has been turned on its head.
Then another reality intrudes. I’m holding an Artemis priestess. There are legends of such transgressions being punishable by death. Theiae of Artemis have been known to hunt down men that have seduced one of their priestesses and leave their bodies pierced with so many arrows that they look like porcupines. I pull back, mortified.
Penelope, her face stricken, shakes her head, as if denying our moment of oneness. But the voices below intrude, taking our immediate attention.
‘What did you say?’ Skaya-Mandu has just blurted.
A new voice, a male with a Trojan accent, replies. ‘I was unable to make the kill,’ he says. ‘The Ithacan eluded me.’
‘You failed,’ Skaya-Mandu says numbly. He’s slow, when he’s thwarted.
Sacred Bride Page 29
