‘The Hera priests will throw a fit,’ I exclaim.
‘They are. But on Delos there’s an existing Artemis shrine, which its priestesses have just reconsecrated to include Leto and Apollo.’
Interesting. Tales of the gods are a lot more than they seem – and in this one the meaning is clear: ‘They’re elevating Leto to replace Hera, when the Trojans invade Achaea!’
‘Exactly,’ Bria growls. ‘That’s why Hera’s people hate Delos.’
‘What’s there?’ I ask, picturing a grandiose temple, covered in marble and gold.
‘Not a great deal,’ Bria replies. ‘Delos is tiny, with no natural springs. In the past, folk relied on fishing, trade and winter rainwater to live. It can barely support life, but it’s recently become an oracular shrine.’
‘Wonderful,’ I groan.
It was at the oracular shrine in Pytho that my life changed, and my family’s disintegration began. Oracles can see the future, or glimpses of it, and I heard things at Pytho that chilled my blood: not only that I’m the bastard son of Sisyphus, one of the most hated men in Achaea, but confirmation of the future Trojan conquest of Achaea, with blood and suffering for generations.
‘Must we go there?’ I ask.
‘Absolutely – someone there has had a spontaneous prophecy,’ Bria replies excitedly.
I frown. ‘What do you mean, “spontaneous”? Aren’t they all?’
‘Mostly. Normally a supplicant goes before an oracle with a specific question, which the resident seer asks of the spirits. But very occasionally, someone tending the shrine gets a “bolt from the sky” revelation, with no question to trigger it. That’s what they’re saying occurred on Delos.’
‘And so?’
‘Spontaneous prophecies are the juiciest ones, Ithaca,’ she enthuses.
‘What was it?’ I ask.
‘If I knew, we wouldn’t need to go there, idiot. The high priestess of Artemis didn’t wander round telling everyone. She didn’t even send word to Pytho, the greatest oracular shrine of all. Athena’s agent in Pytho – your old friend Doripanes – says the Pythia was quite shaken.’
‘Because even she wasn’t told? So we’re going to Delos to persuade someone to blab, to whisper this spontaneous and ultra-secret prophecy in our ears?’
Bria jabs a cheery finger at me. ‘You get there in the end!’
I recall the burnt note I reconstructed. ‘Which is why you think Ophion is heading to Delos as well?’
‘I imagine everyone wants to know what the prophecy was. All of our old “friends” are likely to be there, and a few new ones.’
I understand her meaning: last year, when I was awakened to my theios powers by Athena, I learnt that the gods’ existence depends on devotion; they’re at war with each other for worshippers, a hidden struggle full of shifting allegiances and deceit. But the goal is clear: survive and thrive, or be forgotten and perish. All other nations are similar: they have their own gods and goddesses, who rise and fall as their worship increases or falls away.
The scariest part is that many of the Achaean gods aren’t even terribly loyal to their own worshippers. Ever since the oracles started prophesying the destruction of Achaea at Trojan hands, Zeus, King of the Achaean Gods, has been seeking to extend his influence eastwards by merging his worship with the Trojan god Tarhum. The cults of Aphrodite and Ares are aligning to Ishtar, the Hittite Love and War Goddess, and they’re all befriending the cult of Apaliunas – who’s now ‘our’ Apollo – as they scrabble to survive the coming cataclysm.
Only those gods that are purely Achaean are standing by their people – like Hera, Athena, Hermes, and Hephaestus the cuckolded ‘husband’ of Aphrodite – but with every prophecy predicting the destruction of Achaea by Troy, none of their cults are thriving.
We’re on the losing side of destiny.
‘Could the oracles be wrong about the destruction of Achaea?’ I ask Bria, seeking a hope to cling to. ‘Can we survive Trojan expansion?’
She gives me an interested look. ‘Prophecies can be misinterpreted,’ she says in a careful voice, as if she could say more on the subject, but really doesn’t want to. ‘In error. Or even wilfully.’
Wilfully? Really? I’m about to probe her on that, when a movement catches my eye – we’re rounding a big headland now, and beyond it three long, low-slung galleys are emerging from the shelter of a rocky cove, strung out in single file, with their crowded rows of oars flashing in the sun as they dip and heave and swing.
Fishermen would have already set out in ones and twos before dawn, and traders would be manning larger, slower barques with smaller crews, propelled along the coast by sail alone; these are pirates, bearing down on us like hunting sharks, masts bare of yards and sails, and oar banks ploughing the calm water into foam. The galleys are smaller vessels than ours, too sleek and swift for us to outrun, but we have a heft advantage. Three on one isn’t good odds, though.
‘Coincidence?’ I ask Bria, before I hurry along the gangway towards the stern, shouting orders. ‘Furl the sail! Pollo, cease drumming! Rowers, ship your oars and arm! Every second rower is to take up his oar again, the others line the sides to form a shield wall! Eurybates, present our bow to them!’
The men hurry to carry out my orders, the benefits of all the drilling I’ve given them immediately obvious. There’s anxiety, of course, but the men know what they’re doing, their gear is in good order and stored close to hand under their oar benches, and they’re calm enough to see to their tasks without panic or fumble.
As for the tactics – we’re going to go straight at the bastards, and see what they’re made of.
I grab my personal bundle, stacked below the small deck in the stern, cram my helmet on my head – unlike the rowers I’m already wearing my breastplate – and take up my bow, the famed Great Bow of Eurytus. Beside me, Diomedes is arming, his helmet studded with boar tusks and his bronze breastplate gleaming. He has a broad smile on his face as he contemplates the carnage to come, and Bria looks just as bloodthirsty.
The three of us string out along the length of the ship: I take the prow, where the vantage is best for archery and from where I can command our approach; Diomedes takes a stand amidships, where the heat of the action will be; and Bria goes to the stern to protect Eury at the helm. I string the Great Bow – I’m the only one I know who has the strength and, more crucially, the trick of it – to do so. I nock my first arrow, deliberately slowing my breathing as I watch the sea wolves close in. The front two ships are veering slightly apart to come at us from either side, each vessel packed with fighting men.
For generations, the kings of the Cephalonian islands have been waging war on pirates. In many coastal settlements all over Achaea, fishing, trading and piracy all form part of the same way of life, and it doesn’t help us that most kings turn a blind eye, as long as the pirates pay tribute.
Of course, many Ithacans were pirates too – but we grew out of it. Laertes broke a Taphian piracy ring on the mainland coast ten years ago, burning their villages and stealing or sinking their ships, but the southern trade routes are not so well policed. This stretch, between the southernmost headlands of the Peloponnese and the island of Cythera, can be a menace.
‘Straighten up,’ I call over my shoulder, as the distances close.
‘Pull, pull,’ Diomedes is calling, as the final rowers return to their oars, fully armed. Every man has a spear to hand, and the two thirds of the crew who aren’t busy at the oars are already positioned along both sides of the ship, their shields locked as ordered. Now the rowers are picking up their stroke speed, urged on again by Pollo’s drum. I feel a swelling of pride – we’ve practised this manoeuvre many times, so that we can be ready if and when pirates erupt from their hidden coves, but this is the first time we’ve had to do it in earnest. Many ships are taken by pirates because their reactions are too slow.
But that just means we can fight, not that we’ll emerge seaworthy, if we survive at all.
; ‘We’re closing. Ready shields!’ I call, giving Tollus – the man in the shield wall nearest to my station in the prow – a reassuring look. ‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him. ‘There’s no running involved.’
He chuckles at that, visibly calmed.
The first of the two foremost pirate craft will soon be within normal archery range. ‘Be ready for arrows,’ I call. I’ve already looked to my own weapon: the Great Bow has better range than any other I’ve encountered. Perhaps an early taste of it might put some doubt in their minds…
I pull back the bow string and sight along the shaft then raise it, factoring in the range, the slight breeze, the pitch and flow of the waves. Somehow all this information seems to flow into my limbs as I draw, aim… now!
The bow sings, the arrow flies… and buries itself in the chest of a man in the nearest pirate ship’s prow.
There’s a murmur of appreciation from my men, and a visible ripple of consternation from the pirates. The dead man was clad in fine armour, with a helmet crested in an array of multicoloured plumes, no doubt filched from some noble-born corpse. To prove my shot wasn’t a fluke, I fire again, taking down the man beside my first victim.
‘Leave some for us!’ Diomedes shouts from the midsection, and the men laugh.
He’s being serious.
Now the distances are closing, and the pirates begin to shoot back, ragged volleys that mostly fall short – my two hits have rattled them, got them shooting too soon. A few shafts strike our shields, but one hits an oarsman, straight down through his collarbone and into the heart. He slumps sideways, his oar fouling the one astern of him before his mates can ship it, and the brief levity of a moment ago vanishes. We’re in a fight now.
‘Eurybates, steer to port,’ I call. ‘Head for the second craft.’ Despite any doubts he might be feeling about my order, the ex-keryx swings his weight against the bar connecting the massive double steering oars as I sight another arrow.
There’s surprise among my crew: this manoeuvre opens us up to the front galley’s volleys, but I have my reasons. Even so, I feel a thrill of anxiety as the lead vessel closes on our starboard flank. The third craft continues to lurk, as if assessing when to join the fray to use their strength to maximum advantage.
‘’Ware!’ Diomedes hollers, and shield arms tense and the men hunch, as more arrows come sleeting in. Another rower dies, three more take wounds, and the shield wall and hull on our starboard side now bristle with embedded shafts. Ahead, the rowers in the second pirate vessel are hastily shipping oars, to avoid the blades being snapped off as we bear down on them.
Shielding what I’m doing with my body, I conjure hidden flame into the bronze arrowhead and fire at the first craft – and then reel as the backlash from the surge of the sorcery I’ve used knocks my breath away. There’s always a price to pay for such magic, and I’m still learning how to manage it. There’s a gasp of horror from the men close to me – they think I’m wounded.
I straighten and gesture in reassurance a moment before my arrow shaft ignites in mid-air, the head slamming into the mast just out of reach of those aboard. My magical fire erupts with unnatural speed and virulence, spreading like the flames of a huge spilled oil lamp, and the men aboard howl in dread: in a wooden vessel waterproofed with oily black pitch, fire is a sailor’s worst enemy. For that very reason, it can be just as lethal a weapon against those who would use it – keeping a lit brazier on board to ignite a conventional fire-arrow, when the ship is tossing about and the wind swirling, is too great a risk to hazard. Quite apart from the fact that the damned things have a nasty habit of going out mid-flight.
In moments the enemy vessel is slewing away from us, the burning mast hurtling to the deck in a burst of embers and sending most of the men diving into the waves in dread, as we carve the water past them, bearing down on the second craft.
Our lads cheer wildly, torn between disbelief and triumph, but I’m a physical wreck by now, shaking in the aftermath of what I’ve done; sorcery is like this, I’ve learnt – you pour all your blood and marrow into some small alteration of our world, and the backlash is like being bowled by a runaway bull. Sometimes the advantage gained is barely discernible, but the backlash is debilitating – I guess that’s one reason why sorcerers keep to the shadows, and soldiers are still needed to fight wars. The art of magic isn’t so much in the act as in choosing your interventions skilfully, to maximum effect.
Bria and Diomedes steady the lads as we ship our port oars and crash against the second pirate galley, flank to flank. Both ships pitch and buck as timbers grind.
We stand higher in the water, and though they leap up at us, yelling battle cries, they’re faced with a steady shield wall, through which my Ithacans jab downwards with long spears, impaling the attackers through chests and throats and gaping mouths. In moments the pirate vessel is awash in blood, and those still trying to climb up to us slip in gore and slither back down.
Bellowing like a bull, Diomedes launches himself into the enemy ship, his spear taking one man through the gullet and driving him back, the shaft passing out between the man’s shoulder blades to plunge into the belly of the man behind. He leaves them there, spitted like a brace of roasting hares, as his xiphos comes out.
Theioi champions have a measure of additional strength and stamina, but Diomedes is something beyond my experience. It’s as though he’s stolen twice or thrice his due measure of blessings. One moment he’s slashing a man’s sword arm off at the elbow, the second he’s hurdled two spear thrusts like a Cretan bull-dancer, spinning as he lands and sending a pair of severed heads rolling into the scuppers. The next moment he’s buried his blade in the pirate commander’s chest, twisted the blade and wrenched. Our crewmen coming in behind are almost superfluous, struggling to find an able foe to take down. It’s all over in what seems like a few blood-soaked heartbeats, and I’ve not needed to fire another shot – a good thing because the way the fire-magic has recoiled through me, I’m struggling to stay upright.
Behind us, the burning boat is now fully aflame and sinking fast; I see men pulling off breastplates and helmets and throwing themselves into the water for the long swim to shore. And beyond them, the third vessel is now heaving away on a southward heading, passing behind us at the edge of bowshot.
I strain my eyes, and see Ophion standing in the stern of the third vessel. He gives me an ironical wave as his ship passes beyond range, his crew hauling up the yard and releasing the sail as a wind rises that barely touches us but quickly fills their canvas. In moments they’re well beyond our reach.
I turn my attention to the backslapping and cheering from our own crew. Diomedes’s prowess is being sung to the skies by our lads; they don’t see the theios gifts, just his excellence in the most deadly and prestigious art of all – war. A few dare to compliment Bria, whose blade is bloodied from a rush by the pirates to take our helm, but she ignores them, shouldering through the press towards me.
‘That was Ophion, wasn’t it?’ she snaps. ‘That was our man.’
‘It was indeed.’ We cast glowering looks at the swiftly receding vessel. But there’s little we can do. For some inexplicable reason, we’re still virtually becalmed even as they’re throwing a fine bow wave. I doubt we’d catch them anyway, and before we give chase, we have to deal with the aftermath of this brief, pointless and wasteful skirmish.
I grip her shoulder in thanks then stride along the gangway. ‘Lads, look to the wounded and dead. Who’s down? Who’ve we lost?’ I listen to the names – only two have died but they’re both men I’ve grown up with, and I feel their deaths keenly. I bite back tears as I say the traditional words, asking Hades to give them mercy in Elysium.
I’ve met Hades and he’s a damnable piece of work. Personally I wouldn’t choose to pray to him and I doubt he’ll take any interest in his new recruits, but I know better than to omit the ritual, uttered more for my surviving crew than for their dead friends.
Then I vault into the pirate vessel and
push through a ring of spears to the dozen or so cowering pirates who managed to surrender. Diomedes is here, keeping our crew calm when there’s still plenty of bloodlust in the air. I thank the Argive with a nod, then face the frightened prisoners.
They meant to kill us and take our vessel. They wouldn’t have shown us any mercy.
I don’t see anything in the way of warrior pride here, though: this lot seem more fisherfolk than real fighting men, by the smell of their clothing. And that glimpse of Ophion suggests they were being used. Not that that excuses them entirely.
I’m supposed to order their deaths, but there’s been enough blood, even though I’m as battle-hardened as most men here. ‘Who put you up to this?’ I demand of them.
The resulting babble tells me that a man fitting Ophion’s description sailed into their cove and promised them a small fortune for waylaying us. So Ophion knew he’d be pursued, which is interesting in itself – but he underestimated us if he thought this rabble could prevent pursuit. The pirates know little of their benefactor though, and are insistent he was from ‘up north’ – a Corinthian, perhaps… or a Theban. Eury had told me Ophion is a trader from Thebes. But I have no idea whether this is Ophion’s true persona or a disguise.
‘Thebes,’ Diomedes hisses predictably, baring his teeth.
‘How many of you can swim?’ I ask the surviving pirates.
My lads scowl at that. They’ve lost two good friends, and others have injuries that may well be permanent. But if these men die, their families will starve, their old people, their women, their children. A hard, hopeless death inflicted on innocents for what purpose? Most of the pirates raise their hands, but a few are badly hurt.
‘Make up a raft for your wounded,’ I tell the healthy ones. ‘Their lives are in your hands.’
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