She must mean Skaya-Mandu, Kyshanda’s twin brother. Who else? Since our run-in last year, he’ll be ravenous for revenge.
‘Why did you come to Ithaca, “Ophion”?’ I ask Tiresias. ‘Why ruin my sister’s life?’ He may not confess the truth, but I might learn something from his lies…
‘Mere opportunism,’ the old seer replies smugly. ‘Reviving Eumaeus’s claim to Syros, calling on his line’s Caryatid allegiances, seemed disruptive to mighty Apollo’s cause.’
So I was right about Syros. And Bria was wrong…
‘And I confess,’ Tiresias continues, ‘I was curious to take a look at you. At certain oracular sites, the “Man of Fire” is becoming an over-frequent motif.’
‘But you didn’t harm me?’
Again, that coolly amused titter: ‘Did I not?’ He spreads his hands. ‘And here you are, far from the protection of your home and family, and completely in my power, thanks to the witless stupidity of your tame daemon.’
I can’t help flinching at that: he knew Bria and I would decipher the ashes we found in “Aunt Aiopia’s” room; he meant us to… And when the pirate attack failed, we were certain to follow him on to Delos.
Manto beams as she sees the dawning realization in my eyes. ‘Regardless, you won’t be leaving this cell alive, Ithacan. All those annoying little references to you in the prophecies will vanish, and Apollo’s ascendency will herald the Trojan dawn.’
She makes a violent gesture and an unseen force smashes into my midriff and hurls me against the wall. Fresh pain knifes through me as I lie in the dirt and straw, wheezing for air.
‘It’s been amusing, Ithacan,’ Tiresias snickers. Then father and daughter kiss on the lips and sashay out, the door left tantalisingly open. But the blessed daylight outside might as well be shining on Ethiopia, for all my chance of reaching it.
A few heartbeats later, Skaya-Mandu storms in.
The second-eldest heir to the throne of Troy is a slim, handsome young man of about twenty years. Since I last saw him he’s continued shaving his cheeks but grown a beard on the very point of his chin, which he wears braided and oiled. If anything his face is sourer than before. Or perhaps that’s because he has even more reason to loathe me – possibly as much as I despise him. His first act is to plant a boot in my guts, right where Manto’s sorcerous blow struck me, leaving me vomiting what little bile is left inside me into the straw.
‘I’ve been longing to see you again, you Achaean scum,’ the prince crows, drawing back his boot again. ‘You think you’re ever so very clever, don’t you? The so-called Man of Fire. But you’re nothing but a shit smear, a spluttering ember I’m going to piss all over.’
There’s an answering ‘haw, haw’ from the door. The woman I fought earlier is there, with a man dressed in the identical tooled leather armour, bows and quivers across their backs. Both have close-cropped hair, tattooed arms and identically cold, cruel smiles. From their size and their arrogant stance, they are clearly theioi – husband and wife, perhaps?
Who says love makes you a better person?
Their presence doesn’t stop me wanting to bait Skaya-Mandu. After all, I have nothing to lose – I’m going to be dead very soon, so I might as well cause him a little grief in the process. And if I can rouse his temper, he’ll kill me more swiftly, reducing the risk of my giving anything away under torture.
‘All the traders I’ve met say that everyone is full of praise for your brother Heka-Taru,’ I tell him. ‘They think he’s destined to be the king Troy really needs – it’s a shame you’re going to spend your life as number two, eh? But no one wants you as king anyway.’
‘Shut up.’ His face contorts and he kicks me again, but I twist enough to render it only a glancing blow, now that I’ve worked out how he moves.
Despite having my hands bound behind my back, I’m able to lever hard with an elbow and wrench myself up onto my knees. ‘But they all know you’re weak,’ I go on, recklessly. ‘They say that, back in the womb, your twin sister not only got both sets of brains, but both balls too.’
He lashes out with his right boot again, aiming at my head, but I duck and roll, so that I can sweep my bound legs round to kick his standing leg, bringing him crashing down. I throw myself on top of him, driving my knees into his chest and trying to bite his throat…
Then the two Theban scouts wade into me, battering me with their fists before hurling me off. Skaya scrambles to his feet and draws his sword – a long, wicked blade I’ve also met before.
Suddenly a woman shouts, ‘SKAYA, NO!’ her voice filling the cell. The prince and the two Thebans whirl round.
Kyshanda! She’s standing just inside the door, her arms flung wide, and she looks glorious in her fury. If she is the last thing I see, I will die happy. Behind her I glimpse more armed men crowding around outside.
‘Mother forbids this!’ she raps out, jabbing a finger at her twin. ‘She wants us to learn the Ithacan’s secrets.’
For the space of a heartbeat, Skaya-Mandu looks nonplussed. Then with his characteristic, bullying brutality, he lashes out at her, slamming the open palm of his left hand against her cheek and sending her reeling. ‘Do not presume to tell me what to do, slut!’ he roars. ‘Shut up and get out!’ He bunches his fist. ‘I’m going to kill this bastard, and our darling mother is too far away to stop me!’
Despite the blow, Kyshanda regains her composure almost immediately. ‘Brother, you misunderstand me. The Delos priests don’t mind you killing him, but first you have to learn what he knows. Don’t do it too quickly or he’ll not confess everything of value. You have all the time you need. Slow down!’
She’s brilliant. Even though her own position as my lover places her in deadly danger, she’s buying time for me. And even Tiresias would be fooled by her imperious tones.
Skaya-Mandu is certainly no match. He lowers his fist and suddenly he’s ashamed, reaching out and embracing her. ‘I’m sorry, Sister. Sometimes I let my passions rule me.’
‘We both do,’ she says in a forgiving voice, stroking his cheek.
He responds by nuzzling her in a disturbing way. Perhaps these eastern families are physically more demonstrative than Achaean ones, but to me there’s something troubling in his face and voice. ‘Dear sister, what would I be without you?’ he murmurs. ‘We share a soul.’
Delicately, she extricates herself from his embrace. Does she feel his behaviour is amiss too? If she does, she shows no sign of it. ‘Skaya, dear,’ she tells him, ‘the torment of a prisoner requires a cold heart, not hot blood. You know this. Plan your attack while you cool down.’
The two Thebans hunters grunt in agreement, and though Skaya-Mandu scowls, he concedes. ‘You’re right,’ he sighs. ‘But don’t think I’m not going to love every second of it,’ he adds, glaring at me with bared teeth.
‘And while you’re gathering your tools,’ Kyshanda coos, ‘let the Ithacan lie here in the muck, pondering all you’re going to do to him.’
‘Aye,’ Skaya drawled maliciously. ‘Let’s savour this dish, eh?’ He hugs her again, kissing her lips in a mostly brotherly way, then looks down at me scornfully. ‘Enjoy eating dust for a while yet, Ithacan. I will return fully refreshed and ready for some real entertainment.’
He leaves, pulling Kyshanda along with him, the Thebans trailing them. The guards slam the door and I’m left alone with a new set of cuts and bruises. I try to draw on my theios strength to sooth those hurts, but whatever Manto did has paralysed or locked those powers away, and I’m left helpless in the gloom, to hope and despair in equal measure.
* * *
I’m roused after a short, fitful reverie – not really sleep, more an escape into some inner space – by a cloaked woman with a dark veil draped over her head. There’s a guard peering at us through a gap in the door. For one glorious moment, I think it might be Kyshanda again, but then I catch a glimpse of an ageing, jowly face caked with pale make-up and framed by greying hair.
‘I’ll mana
ge on my own, thank you,’ she tells the guard. She’s carrying a pitcher from which she tips a stream of water into my upturned mouth. It’s better than the nectar of the gods. I gulp it down.
‘But I’m sure the Trojan prince said—’ the guard begins.
‘High Priestess Sophronia rules Delos,’ she interrupts, in a high, thin voice. ‘If this scum is too weak to talk, he’ll tell us nothing.’
Her voice carries enough authority for the guard to retreat. ‘Yes, sister,’ I hear him mumble, as she strides to the door and pushes it closed.
In a moment she’s returned to crouch down next to me, dipping her fingers in the water and smearing them across my bloodied cheeks. I feel a faint tingling, as though the cuts are scabbing over. Next she dabs water on my swollen eye, and within the space of a breath, I can open it again. My heart races. Surely Kyshanda has sent her to help me. Or perhaps this old crone is Kyshanda herself, using her magical powers to transform her appearance.
The woman pauses to tug at her face, pulling what I suddenly realize is a mask to one side and giving me a quick smile before settling it back into place. Arnacia! I struggle to contain my shock. Not a shape-shifter, to be sure, but a mistress of disguise nonetheless. And with magical healing skills to boot.
‘Look at you,’ Arnacia says drily, smoothing another cut closed, and alleviating the aching pain in my head by pressing my temples with cool, slender fingers. She pushes half a fig into my mouth and I bite down ravenously, flooding my mouth with juice.
She works at the bonds at my wrists and I feel them loosen a little. When I test them, I feel that more than mere rope has been loosened. The binding power that Manto has placed on me has eased.
She undid Manto’s spell… I look at her in an entirely new light.
‘How did you come to learn this skill?’
‘I’m not so untrained as the Delians think,’ she murmurs. ‘My mentor back in Lacedaemon taught me much when she first began awakening me as a theia.’ Arnacia’s eyes smile at me through the mask. ‘She said I have potential as both seer and sorceress.’
My mind is too full to take all this in. ‘Why are you here? You’re in terrible danger – if they discover what you’re doing—’
‘I owe you my life.’ She pushes a pitted olive into my mouth, and then some soft cheese.
‘But aren’t they guarding you?’ I ask. My mouth is full of food, but I’m too impatient with my questions to wait until I’ve swallowed.
‘They think they are. My maid Actoris is sitting in my seat, embroidering in full view, veiled decently and wearing my clothes. They think she’s me. If you get clean away, no one will know how you did it.’
Cunning and courage in equal parts. My admiration for her grows apace.
‘Take care,’ I warn her. ‘Tiresias and Manto are dangerous. They can reach into your head.’
‘They’ll not know they need to, provided you’re not caught again.’ She bends to my ear. ‘Your Trojan girl is distracting her brother and those Theban thugs he brought in here with him. You have a little time.’
‘My “Trojan girl”?’ I swallow. ‘What do you mean?’
Arnacia harrumphs. ‘Don’t play stupid, Odysseus, it doesn’t suit you. Kyshanda came to me for help this morning while you were still unconscious, and her eyes glazed over in the same vacuous way as yours do when you speak of her. Given you’re supposed to be enemies, I should point out that the relationship is doomed… but I probably don’t need to.’
For a young woman, she’s got an old head on her shoulders.
‘You won’t tell anyone?’ I plead.
‘There’s just the slightest chance the two of you, by joining hands, can prevent this coming war,’ Arnacia says. ‘May Artemis grant you both good fortune.’
I go to thank her and she stuffs another fig in my mouth. My heart still leaps: the new seeress of Delos has just told me that Kyshanda and I have ‘the slightest chance’. That’s good enough for me.
‘By the way,’ she adds, ‘Sophronia has agreed that I can take my vows tonight, to prevent Father from trying to abduct me and marry me off again. I’m going to serve Artemis for the rest of my days. I truly believe my skills can be best used from within our cult, to counteract the excesses of Apollo.’
I chew and swallow the fig. ‘I wish you well,’ I say, ‘while expressing my regrets on behalf of the male sex for your loss. You’d have made someone a wonderful wife.’
‘As if being a wife is the pinnacle of a woman’s ambitions,’ she sniffs. ‘Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. When a priestess of Artemis is fully ordained, she takes another name. I’m going to be “Penelope” in memory of your rescue. “Pene-l-opas” – the clever weaver’s face – to remind me of my rescue.’ She adds with a sly smile: ‘The middle “l” is for “logos”.’
‘“Logic”.’ I smile, and am surprised by a sudden, strange regret. Much as I love Kyshanda, I may never see the Trojan princess again. And this woman, utterly different, is a treasure, and someone much more equal to my station. But it seems our lives will only intersect this one, brief time. ‘I’ll pray for you, “Penelope” – to Athena, of course.’
‘I’m sure that’ll help,’ she says drily. ‘Now, the back wall of this hut is thin wattle, coated with plaster. I’ve sliced through the wattles from the other side and covered the cut with wet clay. Right here,’ she breathes, pointing. ‘Push and it’ll crumble. But allow me enough time to get myself well away first.’ While she’s whispering, she’s running her hands over my body, her touch followed by the same miraculous tingling as my bruises heal.
We share another smile, then she tips more water down my throat, wishes me good fortune, checks her mask is in place and departs, the guard banging the door behind her to leave me alone in the gloom.
I allow an agonising few moments for her to return to her room and remove her disguise, during which I’m utterly petrified that the door will fly open and Skaya-Mandu or the Theban sorcerers will enter. When I can stand waiting no longer, I wriggle free of the loosened wrist loops, untie my knees and ankles and crawl to the back wall. I place my sweating hands on the plaster. Slow, steady pressure is the thing – I cannot risk making any loud noise. Soon the wattle and daub crumbles, leaving a hole that’s just big enough for my broad shoulders to work their way through. Bless the girl – she’s done a lovely job.
The hut where I’ve been imprisoned is on the right-hand edge of Artemis’s compound. I slink over the sanctuary wall, keeping out of sight of the front of the hut, and run through a small orchard, leapfrog some low stone fences and sprint towards the goat track leading to the cove. It’s the only place I can think of heading to, though I have no idea where my ship might be – whether it escaped last night, whether it was chased out to sea or whether it’s been captured. If it’s gone, how in Erebus am I going to get off this damn island?
Then someone shouts, and an arrow fizzes past me and buries in a tree trunk. I spin and see a small group of Trojan soldiers, all of them clad in leather jerkins sporting the Apollo emblem, the lyre backlit by the sun’s rays. They shout their battle cries and come pounding along the trail behind me, led by a big bearded man whose musculature and speed scream ‘theios’. It’s lucky Arnacia has managed to unlock my powers – I run like the wind, not that there’s anywhere much to run to. If I’m caught, I’m going to be broken and I will reveal not only the information my enemies want, but the fact that Arnacia and Kyshanda aided my escape.
Forget the cove – I’ll have to take the shortest route to the sea. I’d rather drown than be captured.
I veer right and sprint towards the coast. This damned island doesn’t even have a decent cliff I can throw myself off. I’m pelting along as fast as I can when my right thigh – injured last year and slow to heal – begins to scream. I can hear that damned Apollo champion gaining on me, his breath rasping and his boots hammering the ground. I throw a look over my shoulder; he’s right behind me, with his curved sword drawn; he’s swinging it
and I can already feel what it’s going to be like when it bites into my neck. Another twenty strides and the pain in my leg is excruciating and he’s almost on me, reaching for me as we round a rock…
…and Diomedes erupts from the shadows and slams his forearm into the man’s throat. The Trojan’s legs keep going and his body flips backwards, and then he’s slammed into the ground, winded and choking, legs kicking as he tries to gasp for air.
I’m so flabbergasted I run smack into someone else and we go down in a heap; I pin them down with a wrestling move, until I realize it’s Bria.
‘My, Odysseus,’ she purrs, ‘I didn’t know you cared.’
I glance back to see Diomedes ram a fist into the Trojan’s jaw, rendering the man unconscious. Then he looks down at Bria and me with a cool smile. ‘There’s a time and place,’ he says, ‘and this isn’t it.’
I disentangle from the smirking Bria, but not before she brushes my right thigh with her fingertips. She’s not being amorous – or not altogether amorous; I feel a rush of energy as the pain ebbs and my strength returns.
Then she hands me the Great Bow. ‘Shall we greet the rest of them?’
Instinctively I nock an arrow, my head reeling at this sudden change in fortune. The desire to exact some payback from Skaya-Mandu, Tiresias and Manto is burning a hole in my chest, but the men pounding towards us are only following orders. And this is a sacred isle, with neutrality at its core. ‘We’re not at war yet,’ I reply. ‘Let’s see if we can keep it that way.’
‘You’re no fun, Ithaca,’ she complains, while Diomedes gives me a vexed hiss.
‘Never claimed to be,’ I reply. I edge round the rock and plant an arrow at the feet of the foremost, still some hundred yards away. They all yelp and dive for cover.
‘No closer,’ I call. ‘You’ve had your warning. The next arrow kills.’
No one emerges into the open, but in the distance I glimpse movement – more men coming, enough to overwhelm us.
‘Where’s the galley?’
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