Sacred Bride

by Sacred Bride (retail) (epub)

  ‘Aye, Tyndareus,’ Menelaus adds, at a nudge from me, lurking right behind him. ‘We are the suitors for Princess Helen. You made us give magnificent gifts to woo her which you still hold. Until you return them, that contract binds you! You promised us all an equal opportunity to contend for Helen’s hand, through proving ourselves in the games held in her honour. Yet here you are, in secret, deciding the matter without us! Where amongst you is the richest suitor? Where is the champion of the games? You’ve not played us fair, Foster Father, yet I know you are a fair man. Indeed, you are he who sheltered my brother and myself when no one else would, and restored my brother to his rightful throne. I don’t understand! Why should we now be excluded by…’ he sweeps his hand around to indicate the assembled priests and priestesses, ‘…some underhand trickery?’

  Tyndareus visibly groans, casting his eyes from the lines of men that now surround his shrine, to the lordly but now defensive figures stationed in front of the colonnades. And to his children – I see clearly that he fears for their lives, in this tense, fraught setting.

  Is he a part of this conspiracy? Or its victim? Or has he been manipulated? How will he react now that all the hidden hands are being revealed?

  I’m about to nudge Menelaus again when something happens, something which I haven’t planned for, which I could never have anticipated.

  Carnus steps forward, his weathered features changing as he advances down the garden. His face becomes smooth and lordly, his stature seems to grow by two feet or more and his robes turn a shining silver-blue. ‘Then you shall see this matter resolved!’ he pronounces – and every man present shudders.

  I’m among the closest, so I see the illusory form take shape. Those further back probably don’t see it in detail, but they all sense something, because a wash of fear ripples back through the assembled men, strong enough to penetrate their anger. Illusions must reach out to the observers, and alter what they see: the more people present, the harder it is to make this work. But to me and those in the front ranks of the watchers, it’s clear: Carnus has called Zeus into his body again.

  The Skyfather glares about him, his eyes gleaming and his voice breaking over us like thunder. ‘I call upon the Pythia of Pytho to come forth, to walk the Serpent’s Path, and reveal the man chosen by the gods to wed my daughter, Helen of Sparta!’

  There’s an audible gasp among the crowd as those watching and listening take this in – especially the words ‘my daughter’. The rumour that Leda was seduced by Zeus has never been publicly confirmed, though it’s well known in theioi circles.

  Poor Leda drops to her knees. ‘My lord,’ she cries, ‘My lord! I’ve stayed beautiful for you, my lord, I’m here!’ She drops to her knees before him, opening her arms to him, her plump body and bloated face scarlet and quivering, as she implores him to take her up again.

  Zeus doesn’t even look at her.

  Tyndareus, openly weeping, kneels down and gathers his struggling wife to his arms, pulling her face into his chest and pinning her there as the Skyfather walks straight past them.

  ‘We, the gods, will decide this matter,’ Zeus thunders. ‘Let the Pythia make her pronouncement!’

  We’re all mind-numbed, almost paralysed; those who can see are in awe of the sight and those behind are milling in confusion. I confess, I’m completely stunned – of all the ways this might play out, I never imagined Carnus invoking his god in public like this. Menelaus and Agamemnon look as helpless as I feel, all our brave initiative stolen away from us.

  A trice later, the priest of Ares and the priestess of Aphrodite start to shimmer with light: clearly they’re also avatars, because they grow in size, radiant with power and beauty respectively. Those men close enough to be affected by the illusion gasp in wonder; as Ares glowers about him, his gaze enough to make everyone take a step back, while the glorious visage of Aphrodite is enough to freeze the brain.

  Amphithea seizes the opportunity to take full control once more, with a vengeful glance at me. She steps to the side of the Skyfather, claps her hand and a black horse is led forward, already painted with symbols and garlanded in readiness for sacrifice. Before our stunned eyes, an axe, wielded by one of her guards, slams into its skull, and its knees buckle. Tyndareus cries out in agonised protest – it’s his favourite horse.

  Normally, with a sacrifice, the animal’s throat is slit, the blood is collected to offer to the god, then attendants discretely remove the body, to be dissected somewhere out of sight. But here, the axeman keeps hacking at the horse in a bloody frenzy, blood spurting everywhere, while Amphithea invokes Hera, her voice rising and falling in a pulsating chant. As she does, the blood fountaining from the horse’s body gathers and forms a spiral pattern on the flat cobblestones, a spiral only too familiar to me from my own experience of walking the Serpent’s Path.

  This garden has been transformed into a sacred oracle, where prophecies may be taken by a theios-seer.

  My heart lurches as my grandmother steps to the beginning of the spiral pattern, and behind her, Manto lifts her arms in supplication and preparation, just as they spoke of last night.

  I can’t let them do this without at least trying to prevent it.

  So I step forth, from behind Agamemnon and Menelaus. ‘I challenge this desecration!’ I shout.

  My grandmother whirls at the sound of my voice, her reptilian face contorting in fury; but worse is the visage of Zeus-Carnus, which is instantly inflamed with a terrifying wrath. He raises his hand and I am suddenly, absolutely aware of one of the most central beliefs concerning the Skyfather – that he can destroy a man with a thunderbolt.

  Among the gods, in a sacred place, belief is reality.

  He shouts aloud, and I am certain that I have overstepped – fatally. Time seems to freeze as lightning crackles across the sky. I am about to be destroyed.

  Prometheus, save me, I whisper – no, scream – inside my soul.

  An image flashes into my mind, of my tortured great­grandsire, hanging by a manacle on a cliff-face, naked and bleeding. His face is twisted and distorted by agony, his mouth emits a howl of perpetual torment, but his eyes are still clear as they see me, and the bravest smile I’ve ever seen transfigures his face.

  Odysseus, he says, inside my head. I am with you.

  Instantly, I sense something like a burst of energy envelop me.

  Zeus shudders and Carnus almost loses his grip on his deity; and although Zeus then reasserts himself, the energy required drains away the forces he’d conjured. There’s no thunderbolt, and I breathe again.

  My link to Prometheus tells me there wouldn’t have been an actual thunderbolt – not one that mortal eyes could have seen – but I would have collapsed from a massive heart seizure, and the moment would have been utterly lost.

  But I haven’t. The presence of my supernatural patron lingers within me; and Zeus-Carnus lowers his hand, sensing the countering power, and – extraordinarily – he’s now uncertain.

  Maybe even afraid.

  Prometheus is bound in Hades’s Realm, but perhaps that’s because they can’t kill him? Perhaps containing him is the most they can do…

  Before Zeus can recover, I seize my chance. ‘We’re here to adjudicate about a marriage,’ I shout. ‘The Pythia has denied a good man – a prince, a king in waiting – his lawful bride. This woman, here.’ It’s not Helen I’m referring to; my accusing finger is thrust at Manto, who stares at me, at first in stunned disbelief and then contempt which turns to disgust as Bria shoves Alcmaeon through the crowd, and out to the front to stand with me. ‘This is Prince Alcmaeon of Argos,’ I declare, ‘who has fathered a child with Manto, daughter of Tiresias. Under law, that child and this woman now belong to him. She has left the guardianship of the Pytho shrine, and is therefore subject to the laws of Achaea.’

  This is a law I’ve argued against many a time, a horrible, one-sided statute that has condemned many an unwilling woman, often the victim of rape, into a marriage that is little more than s
lavery. When I am king of Cephalonia, I will abolish it in my kingdom if it’s the last thing I do.

  But right now, although the law is an ass, it’s my ass…

  Few people here understand why I’m doing this. To most, this gathering is all about Helen and they’re completely dumbfounded as to why I’m suddenly invoking common law about someone else.

  But Zeus-Carnus knows, and so do Amphithea and Manto herself.

  Manto shrinks away as Alcmaeon advances toward her, his face twisted with desperate, uncontrollable want. It’s piteous, but his lust is something she’s conjured up and fed, until it has penetrated his very marrow. She is responsible for what he is; she made him this way…

  I’m waiting for her to try some trick, even to invoke some sorcerous spell that will avert this fate, but her face has changed from disgust to something more calculating. There’s even a glimmer of hope there. Perhaps she’s not Amphithea’s ally after all? Perhaps she’s her slave, and this is a way to escape, even if it’s into a different kind of bondage. But knowing her, she won’t be in bonds for long…

  She throws me a look that’s supposed to be of utter loathing, but she can’t hide a gleam in her eye that just might be gratitude. She’ll hate herself for that. All this is intensely ironical, because I was the one that suggested she be taken to Pytho in the first place. And now I’m freeing her from their clutches.

  These are tangled webs I’ve woven, and it’s not the first time I’ve had to fight to undo my own schemes. Just ask Theseus and Helen.

  ‘Are you, legally, the wife of Alcmaeon of Argos?’ I demand of her.

  ‘Yes,’ Manto snarls, before Amphithea can open her mouth.

  So I guessed right… The sorceress rushes to Alcmaeon as though he’s her every dream, falling to the ground and clutching his knees, wailing her thanks to the gods. Tears course down Alcmaeon’s cheeks as he bends down, sobbing, to embrace her and pull her to her feet. She responds by stroking his chest and gazing adoringly into his eyes… and likely reasserting her control…

  Alcmaeon has no further interest in this gathering – he pulls her away, and she lets him. As they leave the courtyard, they pass close by me and she shoots me a truly terrifying look, instantly covered by a simper. ‘I thought you wanted me dead,’ she murmurs.

  ‘Being married to him will do just as well for now,’ I whisper back, while Alcmaeon just gazes at her with the blank need of a poppy juice addict.

  ‘This isn’t over between us,’ she threatens, fixing me with those bewitching, scary eyes.

  ‘I know.’

  That’s all we have time for – Alcmaeon rouses himself from whatever erotic reverie he’d lost himself in and pulls his reclaimed wife impatiently away. The crowd parts and closes again behind them.

  I really, really don’t ever want to see either of them again. But I’m seldom that lucky.

  I turn back to see how Amphithea likes having her prop snatched away.

  Rewardingly, she’s not taking it well. Her face is suddenly naked – and fearful. Yes, she can still walk the Serpent’s Path: but without Manto there to pervert the voices of the oracle she knows what the spirits will say about Helen’s marriage. Phrases like ‘the doom of Achaea’ and ‘the inexorable rise of the Trojan stallion’ won’t sound too good in front of an angry mob of armed Achaean warriors.

  Got you, I think silently, hoping that’s true.

  Zeus-Carnus’s illusory face is wavering. This hasn’t played at all according to his plans, and now he’s caught between Scylla and Charybdis.

  ‘The omens are not… amenable…’ Amphithea says weakly. ‘I cannot… not today…’ She feigns weakness, as though on the brink of a fainting fit. Should I allow her to retreat, or insist on her seeing it through?

  But what if she prophesizes something so dire it breaks all of our hearts?

  I’ve almost resolved to let her back out, when the matter is taken from my hands.

  A wiry young man, wearing a traveller’s wide-brimmed hat and a dun-coloured tunic, emerges from behind the previously deserted colonnade dedicated to Hermes. As he steps forward, he transforms into the god himself, with winged sandals and a gleaming skull cap. ‘I desire to hear the words of the spirits on this matter,’ he proclaims, his glowing eyes passing through every hue of the rainbow.

  Zeus’s face is thunderstruck. As for Hermes, he doesn’t exactly wink at me, but something in his stance tells me that this may well be the fruit of our bargain in Arcadia. He will be looking for signs of double-dealing on Zeus’s part, especially any that concern the unleashing of Hyllus upon the Peloponnese. My heart begins to thump again.

  ‘I too desire this reading,’ says the avatar-priest of Dionysus, changing, as he speaks, into a beautiful youth clad in a leopard skin robe, with grapevines laden with fruit in his hair.

  The crowd recoils in awe, and so do I. This is escalating into something even more unpredictable.

  ‘As do I,’ thunders a massive figure with a broad, bare chest and seaweed in his hair, who steps from the shadows to plant his feet before the Poseidon icon. He’s joined by a silent, dark-haired, pallid deity with cavernous eye sockets – Hades.

  Teliope joins them, calling Athena into her body, a bronze helm atop her piled up hair, and a shrieking owl on her wrist. ‘I too would hear the fate of this young princess,’ she declares coolly. I glimpse Bria near her – she gives me an apologetic shrug, of the ‘what could I do about it?’ kind.

  The easterner representing Apollo backs away, looking this way and that, as if to escape. Suddenly his whole body trembles and he changes into a gloriously handsome man with golden skin and hair. ‘Do not permit this, Great Father,’ he tells Zeus. ‘There are malign influences here.’ He’s looking at me. ‘The spirits will not speak truly.’

  Sophronia is looking terrified. Either she’s not an avatar, or she’s too scared to summon Artemis into this fraught situation. She’s backing away, her eyes darting to and fro as she searches for a way out.

  Interestingly, no one appears to speak for Hephaestus at all, his colonnade remaining unattended. His era is indeed at an end, his cult dying away.

  I’ve been so mesmerised by what is happening before us, I’ve failed to realise there’s a cluster of people at the far end of the garden, huddled behind the statues of Zeus and Hera. Their identities are masked by the shadows and the folds of the cloaks they’ve dragged over their heads, but I suddenly realise from what I can see of their clothing that they must be the Trojan party – Parassi, Skaya-Manu and their men… and Kyshanda, here to collect their prize, but now trapped in a situation that’s escalating out of control. My pulse begins to race, and my throat goes sticky and dry.

  And on my left flank, behind the defiant avatars of Ares, Aphrodite and Apollo, the northern champions are beginning to appear; led by Iolaus the Heraclid, with Patroclus, Elephenor and Locrian Aias at his back. They’ve somehow found another way into the citadel, by persuasion or by force; they’re heavily armed and they look angry and ready for violence if needs be.

  What will Hermes make of this? I glance at the god, but his face is inscrutable.

  The reek of the sacrificed horse’s blood fills our nostrils. I swallow, very hard. This has become a meeting of all the Olympians, and it’s happening right before our amazed eyes.

  Tyndareus is awestruck, and his wife Leda’s eyes are red and swollen as she drinks in the sight. She’ll never recover from this. Maybe none of us will. But Castor and Polydeuces are gaping at each other, alive with excitement – they probably think of the gods as family anyway.

  As for Helen… she’s watching avidly, her lips parted and moist. After making all the great kings and heroes of Achaea fight for her, now she’s about to watch the gods contend as well.

  She seems to regard it as her due.

  Zeus rallies at Apollo’s words. ‘I do indeed see malign influences,’ he thunders, wheeling back and pointing at me. ‘The last bastard Promethean, for one. Give him the same fate as his f
ather!’

  Only a few of the people here know or suspect who my real father is – Sisyphus, who seduced my mother then died on the streets of Corinth, his body left to the dogs. The rest have no idea what Zeus is talking about. But Aias of Locris draws his sword and Patroclus, Elephenor and a dozen of their cronies follow suit, weapons bared in a sacred place. The watching priests among the crowd clamour protests, but no one’s listening.

  My Ithacans have stepped up, protecting my back, and now everyone’s got a weapon out, as the Northerners urge on their men, and Menelaus and Agamemnon’s guards array to protect their masters – not me. Suddenly, terrifyingly, we are teetering on the edge of the bloodbath I have feared all along.

  And the War-God is here, in the flesh… Ares stalks toward me. ‘Be still!’ his voice rings out.

  I feel the soldiers around me go rigid with fear. The ground quivers as he approaches, his gleaming bronze xiphos rasping from his scabbard. He’s eight feet tall, he’s built like a bull and nothing my brain screams at me can unlock my limbs. I try to reach inside myself to find Prometheus again, but it’s as if there’s some inner barrier around me, and I can’t reach him.

  I look to Athena, but Ares shoulders her aside as she tries to intervene – they might both be deities of war, but I’ve just glimpsed the relative might they wield. Ares lifts his blade, and no one – least of all myself – can stop him from hacking me down.

  Who do you pray to when your own goddess has just been swept aside?

  Then someone emerges from the crowd and interposes his blade between me and death.

  Diomedes.

  Ares roars, and swings anyway, but the Argive prince’s sword, wielded two-handed, slams into the space between the arcing blade and my neck, and with the deafening clang of metal on metal, god and hero strain against each other.

  ‘Get out of my path, you cock-sucking weakling,’ Ares snarls, and Diomedes flinches.

  But he doesn’t give way. He’s struggling, though, his muscles bulging and his joints twisting under the stress. But his intervention has unlocked my limbs and those of my men. We prepare to do something really stupid, something that will almost certainly end in our deaths…