Oracle's War

by Oracle's War (retail) (epub)

  Yes, Ctimene is about to marry an ex-slave. But her beloved Eumaeus – or Maeus, as we call him – is much more than that. He’s the son of the King of Syros, a smallish island kingdom in the Aegean, but a kingdom nonetheless. Maeus was stolen by pirates when he was a small child, and not long after, his father was deposed and murdered. The pirates sold him into slavery, not knowing who they had, and he was purchased and nurtured by Laertes. Once we realized his true heritage, Maeus became one of the family, raised in our household almost as an equal to Ctimene and myself. This marriage is supposed to see Maeus’s re-emergence, not just into society – he has already been freed and formally acknowledged as ‘one of us’ – but to begin a campaign to reinstate his line on Syros’s throne. Ctimene will be marrying a future king, in fact as well as name.

  And the two of them are utterly in love. I think Ctimene is still a virgin, but they’re so besotted I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s not. And for my part, I think Maeus is worthy of her, and I can’t esteem a man higher than that.

  So I have no hesitation in joining the fray on Mother’s side. They turn to face me as I enter, and Laertes flinches, as he always does now: the secret underbelly to this whole argument is that he wants an heir of his choosing, now that he knows I’m not his. Ctimene’s husband is his last chance at that.

  ‘What’s this about Maeus?’ I ask. ‘The wedding feast is in a few days and the guests are already arriving! Surely you’re not thinking of calling it off?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ Anticleia says.

  ‘Why not?’ Laertes says, in the same breath. ‘There are other men, good Cephalonia-born lads, who could step in. What about Eurylochus of Same—’

  ‘Lochus is a surly turd-smear,’ I interrupt.

  Laertes colours. ‘His family are one of the most important in the islands. His father is a great lord, as were his ancestors. They matter here, far more than a slave boy with no living family.’

  ‘Maeus is the rightful king of Syros,’ Anticleia snaps. ‘You accepted his evidence yourself.’

  ‘Perhaps I was hasty,’ Laertes replies. ‘That piece of embroidery he produced could have been filched from anywhere. What if he’s an imposter? A cuckoo seeking a nest?’

  Like you, his eyes add, flickering towards me.

  ‘Who was it who’d taught him his letters, then, before you bought him?’ I retort, sighing inwardly because this is old, old ground. ‘Only a prince would have been tutored in such matters.’

  ‘Perhaps one of the pirates taught him, in between bouts of buggery,’ Laertes snaps.

  ‘That’s a load of kopros,’ I reply, genuinely angry now. ‘You know what he told us—’

  ‘He’d swear night was day to get his hands on my daughter,’ Laertes shouts back. ‘I want her to have a husband the men of Ithaca and the islands will respect! As certain people have been pointing out to me—’

  ‘“Certain people”,’ I mimic. ‘You mean Lochus and his father, and their phallos-waggling friends?’

  ‘Be quiet, Odysseus,’ says Anticleia, giving me a furious look. ‘Don’t speak to your father like that.’

  Except he’s not my father… But I mutter an apology, realizing that my outburst isn’t helping.

  ‘You’ve given your word, Laertes,’ Anticleia pleads. ‘You cannot break it without incurring the wrath of the gods and the ridicule of your own people. And she loves him!’

  ‘Where has “love” ever got anyone?’ Laertes snarls back, because he loves Anticleia still, even though she bore another man’s child, the thorn in his side and the source of all his pain.

  His words are still echoing off the walls when Eurybates, freshly washed like myself, knocks and enters. ‘The hall is ready, my king,’ he tells Laertes, his face and voice neutral. ‘The guests await.’

  Both my parents are silent as Eurybates leads them along the passageway, my mother’s face white with anxiety, Laertes’s face inscrutable. Tonight, Ctimene and Maeus will be presented to the guests as a part of their betrothal, and every nerve in my body is tensed for them. What will Laertes do? Surely he can’t back out of this now.

  * * *

  Laertes and Anticleia enter the megaron, working through the multitude of guests as they head for their thrones against the far wall, while I linger by the main door out into the vestibule and the great central courtyard to bring in the future bride and groom. This is the last time Ctimene and Maeus will see each other before the wedding in three days’ time: after this banquet, Ctimene goes into the care of the Artemis priestesses for a ritual bridal vigil, while Maeus will be performing similar rites at the Hermes sanctuary.

  I watch the gathering, noting who talks to whom and who listens, while greeting a few stragglers. One of the latter immediately intrigues me – a towering young man clad in a finely embroidered kilt, with deeply tanned skin and curling black hair, big soft brown eyes and a face so handsome he’s pretty. I try to guess his age: I put it at only eighteen or so for, while he’s shaved his face smooth – as all men wealthy enough to afford a good bronze razor do, I can’t see much hard bristle in the skin of his cheeks and chin. His servant announces him as Diomedes, son of Tydeus of Argos, names I’m well familiar with, though I’ve not met Diomedes before. Tydeus and Laertes were Argonauts as young men, building a friendship that endured after the Argo’s voyage ended, which explains Diomedes’s presence.

  Diomedes has a strut to him that I’ve only seen in theioi – self-belief born of divine favour. And he’s wearing a pendant – an owl, the sign of Athena – which makes sense because Tydeus was also known as a follower of the goddess. I make a mental note to seek him out privately when opportunity allows.

  But then my sister arrives, escorted by two maids, and for a moment she takes my breath away. She’s been clothed in sky blue, the dress graced with elaborate dark blue and green embroidery, a stark contrast to the vivid red hair she and I have from our mother, and she has the pale, transparent complexion so desirable among the high-born, evidence of a life free from labour in the sun.

  She’s grown in the last year, her girlishness smoothed away under Mother’s strict eye. I miss our love-hate squabbling, the mutual teasing and outbursts of laughter, and our secret confidences and jokes, which have fallen by the wayside since we’ve taken on the burdens of adulthood. But I’m so proud to see her, clad in tight-waisted finery newly tailored for her as she gathers her wings to fly from the nest.

  ‘Good evening, Little Sparrow,’ I murmur, not giving any hint of Father’s misgivings or the sick feeling they have engendered in me.

  She answers me with a tremulous smile. For a few short days, a bride is the centre of the universe, the festivities celebrating everything about her life to date and her first steps into the unknown. ‘You look wonderful,’ I reassure her, and she beams gratefully.

  Then Maeus arrives, his best tunic pressed and his hair washed and oiled, his chin shaved smooth as silk and a nervous flutter in his eyelashes. I take his hand. ‘You look well, Maeus. But we missed you today at drill.’

  He grins boyishly. ‘I heard you put Nelomon in his place.’

  ‘You know how these things go,’ I say, returning his grin. ‘Nelly will be sitting cross-legged tonight.’ Ctimene arches an eyebrow at me and I poke my tongue out, making her laugh despite her nerves. ‘Are you both ready?’ I say, resuming the grave demeanour such an occasion demands.

  Maeus and Ctimene clasp hands and melt into each other’s eyes.

  ‘It’s time,’ I tell them, turning to the door.

  Eurybates announces them as I prepare to lead them in. ‘The betrothed couple!’ he calls.

  I let the room fall silent before leading Ctimene and Maeus slowly around the great hearth at the centre of the room then taking them across to the thrones where Laertes and Anticleia await. I steal the odd glance back, proud of the way Ctimene keeps her head aloft under the scrutiny of this room full of warriors, nobles and merchants and their nit-picking, judgemental wives. Maeus too looks st
eady, despite his sudden pallor.

  Maeus is the same age as Ctimene – eighteen – and he’s the closest person I have to a brother. Born a prince, stolen and enslaved, orphaned, rescued, and now about to marry a princess and, with luck, become a king – he’s living quite a tale. I like him hugely. He’s lively, passionate and wears his heart on his sleeve, which right now is beating double time in adoration for my sister. They’re both floating on happiness.

  I wonder if they know their dream marriage is being undermined behind their backs.

  We reach the thrones, and I step back while the young couple stand before the king and queen to be formally greeted. My mother’s face is wreathed in smiles but Laertes is stern and grumpy, his hands clenched on his lap as he utters the traditional salutation.

  I breathe out, in some small relief. He hasn’t refused them yet but there will be other opportunities. All four take their places at the high table, where a chair awaits me also. But before I can reach it, a hand plucks my sleeve. ‘Your sister has become a most delectable dish,’ an unwelcome voice murmurs in my ear.

  Men have had their noses bloodied for less, but Father wouldn’t thank me for starting a ruckus here and now. ‘She’s a woman, not a meal,’ I tell Lord Tycho, father of the odious Lochus, and his son’s chief advocate.

  ‘A flower then, ripe for plucking,’ the man suggests. He’s a smooth man, much like the olive oil that is his primary source of wealth. He pairs this with a superior manner and no discernible moral backbone, like his son.

  ‘Maeus will make her a fine husband,’ I reply. ‘It’s all she dreams of.’

  ‘So you say, as is proper, but are they your deepest thoughts? The slave brings no wealth to the marriage, no retinue of men, no land, no goods and, in truth, little proof that he is as he says. Whereas my son Eurylochus brings all of these things. Between your father’s prestige and my status and wealth, we could establish a dynasty that would secure the future of our island kingdom. Surely as your father’s firstborn heir, that’s in your interest?’

  It’s the way he says it that pricks my unease, the subtle emphasis on ‘father’… As if he knows I’m really illegitimate… I wonder how that might be.

  ‘Having Maeus as my brother-in-law is all the security I need,’ I tell Tycho, knowing I’m confirming his animosity. I’ve never trusted him anyway. ‘Lochus has left his run too late.’

  I don’t want Lochus behind me in the succession, or this oily snake as a father-in-law…

  I’m conscious that Father wouldn’t approve of my talking down to Tycho: Laertes isn’t just king of Ithaca; he rules over all of the Cephalonian Confederacy, the principal islands of which are bigger than Ithaca and wealthier too. Father needs men like Tycho, arguably the richest man in Cephalonia, on his side.

  I pass on, noting who Tycho talks to next – an androgynous man I don’t know, one of the influx of foreigners who’ve come for the wedding. This one’s tall, slender and oddly effeminate, well dressed in a mainland style.

  ‘Eury,’ I whisper, as I pass the keryx, ‘Who’s that man with Tycho?’

  ‘He’s called Ophion, a trader from Thebes.’

  ‘What’s a Theban doing here?’ I ask, but Eury just shakes his head.

  Most of the foreign guests are here because of Laertes’s days as a warrior – fellow Argonauts who followed Jason into the Axeinos Sea and opened up the tin trade for Achaea. Laertes was never one of the great champions but he was a stout fighter in his youth, a good man to have at your back, I’m told. I was proud of that lineage, and it aches that it’s no longer mine.

  No one speaks well of Sisyphus, my real father.

  What strikes me, as I watch Tycho and Ophion circulate, is just how much the opposition to Maeus and Ctimene’s union has grown. There’s not an Ithacan man present that isn’t eyeing Maeus doubtfully, and I catch discontented murmurings, whispered remarks questioning whether he’s really royal, raised eyebrows and frowns where there should be smiles.

  I should have noticed this before. I’ve been too focused on my own concerns…

  The underlying tension in the room spoils my appetite: the food tastes like grit in my mouth. As I mingle afterwards men quietly sound me out, worried – or so they say – that we’re committing ourselves to Maeus’s cause in Syros, and war against the people who killed his father. Outright war has never been a part of our plans, though these men seem less than convinced by my reassurances.

  And everyone is praising Lochus, accolades he’s done nothing to earn. There’s the stink of bribery in the air: I see new necklaces on many of the wives, and new gold bracelets adorning many a wrist. Tycho and Lochus are rich by our local standards, but they don’t have that sort of wealth. Where has it come from?

  Despite the undercurrents, no one makes a scene. I even manage a quick word with Diomedes – it seems he’s been told to seek me out too, so I’ve no trouble arranging to meet with him tomorrow. Then Laertes rises, we resume our seats and the room falls silent.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he begins, forgetting the ladies as usual. ‘Thank you for gathering here tonight.’ A longish pause follows, while Anticleia glares at him, tight-lipped. What will he say? I feel physically sick at the thought of what might come next. Weddings have been overturned at the last minute before now.

  Finally he clears his throat and speaks, his voice flat. ‘As you know, my daughter Ctimene, of whom I am immensely proud, will wed this fine young man in three days. This is their last meeting before their marriage, for they now each retreat into preparatory seclusion with the priests and priestesses. I ask your blessing to be bestowed on them before this auspicious event.’

  I sag back in my seat, weak with relief. I’m guessing Mother has been hard at work during the meal, with words such as ‘oath-breaking’ and ‘dishonour’ likely to have featured prominently.

  There’s a moment’s hesitation but then people start to call blessings in the name of this or that god, while Maeus and Ctimene face each other, holding hands. I feel a twinge of envy: the girl I’ve lost my heart to is far away, beyond my reach in all possible ways. It’s hard to envisage any circumstance that would allow me to wed Kyshanda, Princess of Troy – she’s far too high a prize for a lowly Prince of Ithaca.

  However, as the eulogies proceed, Ctimene is praised for her beauty and lineage, but Maeus is virtually ignored. The poor lad is growing redder and redder; as the groom, this should be as much about him. As part of Ctimene’s family, I should delay until the end to provide a culminating blessing, but I can’t wait that long. ‘To Eumaeus,’ I cry, leaping to my feet, ‘a fine young man who’s been a friend to me all my life, and will be high in my esteem and counsel when that dread day comes that I must take up my father’s burdens.’

  There, swallow that, I think, silently challenging the room. I’m the next king and this man is my friend. If you want my favour, earn his.

  I think I’ve made my point, though Laertes frowns. After that, the blessings even out a bit, and Ctimene and Maeus give me grateful looks, even though most who praise Maeus do so in a distant and grudging manner.

  Following that, there’s a small ceremony where the betrothed couple bid farewell to each other with a chaste kiss, before being led away by the Hermes and Artemis priests to their sanctuaries close by. I breathe easier. They’re safe in the guardianship of the gods now. Tycho’s lobbying for Lochus has come too late.

  The guests linger a while longer, enjoying the singing of the palace bard and Laertes’s wine in equal measure. When the former puts his lyre aside and the latter becomes watered to a pale pink, they take the hint and disperse to their homes and lodgings, or to the guest rooms in the palace. I’m about to head to my own bed when a familiar figure glides over to me. Issa is a rich and independent widow, Tycho’s chief rival in the local olive trade. She’s almost twice my age, with crow’s feet about her eyes and greying temples, but she still has a fine figure.

  I make no overt move to greet her or even show any particular sig
n that she’s more than a passing acquaintance, even as her scent washes over me. ‘My apologies, lady, for not speaking with you before,’ I say, feigning stiffness. ‘I failed to see you arrive.’

  We watch the last people filing past us before she gives me a knowing chuckle. ‘You looked quite wistful tonight, Prince Odysseus,’ she murmurs, batting her eyes just so.

  ‘I was envying the happy couple the pleasures of discovery to come,’ I tell her, my eyes straying to her cleavage as she intends, the aureoles of her nipples barely hidden by the embroidered edges of her tightly laced bodice.

  ‘Mmm, you do enjoy new discoveries, don’t you?’ she says, briefly touching my arm, her fingers tingling on my skin. She leans in to add, ‘I trust you still appreciate pleasures that you’ve already sampled?’

  Behind us, the servants, under Eurybates’s sharp eye, are gathering the wine goblets into baskets and swabbing down the tables with damp sponges. I long to lead her back through the megaron to my rooms, for my physical need for her is suddenly pressing.

  But we have always kept our relationship private, so instead I make my way to the main door as if taking the air, and Issa bids me goodnight and drifts away, as though she were merely about to head home by herself.

  We reunite a short distance away from the torch-lit palace, I take her hand and we stroll in the direction of her own villa nearby.

  * * *

  Father’s palace is built on a high point between two forested mountains, with the road from the town forking just beyond the palace gates. One branch leads across a broad saddle to another port on the further coast, the second sidles southwards round the mountainside to fertile land beyond, where Issa has her estate. Just beyond the crossroads, the sanctuaries to Artemis and Hermes nestle into the mountain slope, perhaps two furlongs apart.

  Our path first passes the Artemis shrine, and not far beyond it there’s a lovely bower where I draw Issa into the shadow of an oleander bush, touching, stroking, exploring the sweetness of her lips, as we tease each other in anticipation of the pleasures to come. It’s a beautiful night and we have all of it ahead of us. Why hurry? A warm breeze is stirring the branches of the trees around us, covering any sounds we may make, and although the moon is up, we are well hidden from the road.