‘Around the coast – different spot. The cove we’ve been using is being watched. Come on.’
Diomedes glares down at the prone champion. ‘Can I at least kill this Trojan priapus?’
‘Not on Delos,’ I reply. ‘We may want Sophronia’s friendship one day. Let’s get out of here.’
Bria pats Diomedes’s arm and murmurs something more persuasive than I can muster; he shrugs his shoulders and then we’re off, running like hares, with Diomedes in the lead. We theioi can move damned fast when we need to, and in less time than I could imagine possible we reach the bay where Eurybates has the ship close to shore. We wade out and strong arms haul us on board. Eury hugs me and pounds my back – thank the gods Arnacia-now-Penelope has healed my bruises – and we’re underway, Tollus at the helm.
I’m full of questions and the keryx is equally eager to answer them.
‘We saw your capture,’ Eury tells me. ‘We all wanted to land and attack, but Bria said we’d be overwhelmed and we’d better escape while we could. Diomedes was livid. He thought it was rank cowardice – better to die than abandon you, and so on. But she urged us to have faith. So we pretended to flee and when all the fuss died down, we snuck back along the coast, and she and Diomedes set off to find you.’
That’s all we have time for now, because a trio of war galleys has appeared, pulling out from the port barely a mile away. But with Eury taking the helm again, calling the wind-shifts and keeping our sails full, we start drawing away. At first we set a course due south, as though we’re fleeing to Crete, but as soon as the light is gone, Eury takes us south-west, into rougher waters but well away from land. Under starlight we change course again to head due west, aiming for Argos, near the north of the Peloponnese.
Dawn finds us alone in the water, our enemies lost behind us and a kindly north wind on our beam.
‘I think we have what we came for,’ I say to Bria. ‘We know the prophecy, we have some inkling how to use it, and we know who we face.’
Bria gives me a satisfied smile. ‘Our mistress will be pleased.’
No one on board has slept much, though we’ve tried, wrapped in our cloaks and hunched on the oar benches while Eury and Tollus shared the helm. Diomedes now has a short thick stubble that somehow makes him look even more rakishly handsome than before, but Bria’s no longer making eyes at him. Perhaps she’s finally accepted that he’s utterly oblivious to her. I’m yawning fit to tear my jaw muscles, and I’m ravenous.
‘So, how did you escape?’ Bria asks.
I describe Arnacia’s role – but not Kyshanda’s – and that seems to satisfy her. Then she tells me she’s in touch, in some sorcerer-avatar way, with our divine mistress. ‘Athena wants us to go to Tiryns, to meet with one of her avatars there, and take counsel. She wants the Epigoni to march before summer is out.’
I glance at Diomedes, who gives me a huge smile. ‘Thanks to you we’re finally going to war, brother,’ he says warmly. ‘At last we’ll have our revenge on Thebes.’
Either that or we’ll all die, and leave Achaea at Troy’s mercy. But I refuse to dwell on my doubts – after what Tiresias and Manto have done to my sister and Maeus, I’m due some revenge of my own.
But mostly I’m praying with all my heart that Arnacia and Kyshanda have managed to conceal their part in my escape. If they haven’t, I shudder to think what might befall them.
Part Two: The War of the Epigoni
9 – Laying Plans
‘The Lemnian [Hephaestus] … made this splendid marriage gift for Harmonia on her wedding day … a ring of emeralds glowing with a hidden fire, and adamant hammered with signs of ill-fortune, and Gorgon eyes, and the remnant ashes left on the Sicilian anvil from the final forging of a thunderbolt, and the hair that gleams on the foreheads of green dragons; and the woeful harvest of the Hesperides and the ill-omened gold of Phrixus’s fleece. Then he folded together diverse pestilences along with coal-black hair, booty from Tisiphone’s head, and the very worst of the force that drives the Girdle; these he ingeniously anointed with lunar spume, and drenched them with the poisonous drug of delight.’
—Statius, Thebaid 2
Tiryns, Peloponnese
Mighty-walled Tiryns, the poets call it. It sits in the middle of a flood plain, where the Inachos River flows into the great bay of Argos, in the north-east of the Peloponnese. There’s a citadel above a sprawling town, inland of the long sandy beach east of the river mouth, which acts as a port. The citadel is impressive, but Tiryns town, with roughly ten thousand inhabitants, is a scruffy place, its primary purpose to serve the barracks and the surrounding farms. It’s easily outclassed by its wealthier counterpart, the city of Argos, over the other side of the river.
Adrastus, the sole survivor of the Seven, rules the kingdom of Argos. He’s said to be a descendant of the mighty Perseus, and Bria says he’s a theioi, so maybe it’s true. We’re not here to see Adrastus though, or not yet – he’s in Argos, but here in Tiryns we’re seeking an elderly spinster, who lives modestly in her merchant nephew’s house below the citadel.
She’s also an avatar of Athena.
An avatar is in some ways the least of the theioi: they gain no great strength or power for themselves from what they are; if they have no other theios nature – champion, seer, sorcerer – they’re vulnerable most of the time and have to maintain lives of obscurity lest a rival deity murder them. They can’t see the future and have to practise many secret rituals and privations to maintain their link to their god.
But they’ll tell you they’re the most blessed men or women of all: because for a few hours, every now and then, they are inhabited by their patron god, and are at one with them. They speak of the utter bliss that this brings them, and the profound awe of seeing the world through the senses of the divine. And when they are inhabited, they are perhaps the mightiest theioi of all, so it’s best to tiptoe lightly around them.
Her name is Teliope, and she’s mentored Diomedes ever since he was orphaned as a child. She shuffles into the small storage room we’ve chosen as our rendezvous; it’s tucked behind an abandoned house in the shadow of the citadel, so we’re not likely to be disturbed. It’s just before dawn, the morning after our arrival in Tiryns. Yesterday Diomedes was greeted at the port, to be escorted with some pomp by a regiment of soldiers up to the palatial residence at the heart of the citadel. Diomedes is an important man here, even though he’s still only eighteen, inheriting nominal control of the citadel from his father Tydeus when he was barely eight years old, and growing into the role.
But today, he, like Bria, Eurybates and I, is dressed in servant’s clothing, and we’ve come to the storage room by back lanes and narrow paths, carrying assorted sacks and bundles as an alibi. This meeting must be absolutely secret – Tiryns has its share of spies, and what we’re about to discuss with Teliope may determine the fate of Achaea. Bria is keeping watch; as soon as the old woman arrives, the daemon declares the ‘all clear’ and bars the thick wooden door behind her.
Teliope is wearing a woollen veil over her hair and a mantle of deep blue, and she looks sixty if she’s a day. She has that peculiar air of superiority, serenity and paranoia that seems to cling to avatars, engendered by pride in being their god’s chosen, combined with the knowledge their patron’s rivals want them dead.
‘Greetings, my dearest Bria,’ she says, embracing the body-jumper, who is still in her Hamazan guise. Then she turns to Diomedes. ‘Greetings, son of Tydeus. The wraiths of your forefathers, the mighty Seven, await their longed-for vengeance. May we be the agency of that just goal.’
Diomedes raises both arms, as if to a goddess: clearly that’s the proper way to greet her, in his eyes.
She turns to me. ‘And greetings to thee also, son of Sisyphus.’
‘Could you call me something less inflammatory?’ I ask plaintively.
She ignores that, turning to Eurybates. ‘Greeting to thee too, Eurybates of Ithaca. Bria speaks well of you.’
Though s
he’s usually keen to establish herself as the biggest dog in the yard, Bria busies herself serving Teliope, arranging the drink and food she’s brought on a large wool bale doing service as a table, while we perch on stools about it. Bria has already lit a small oil lamp, and we all turn to face Teliope as she tips a libation from her cup to the floor, then sips delicately at the wine that remains.
The air shivers, and suddenly Teliope is young, austere-faced, grey-eyed and wearing a silver breastplate and a silver helmet inlaid with gold and topped with a black horsehair plume. Her features are timeless, her flowing hair is a shining ash-gold and her bearing, indeed her whole presence, is overwhelming. The cup is gone and she’s grasping a spear in her right hand. An owl on her left wrist flaps its wings, glaring at us with huge, intense eyes, while the four of us raise our arms in supplication, blinking in the radiance that emanates from her.
‘Be at ease,’ the goddess Athena commands.
Interestingly, she doesn’t look precisely the same as I’ve seen her before – different armour, subtly different face. I wonder whether her appearance is her own choice, or somehow dictated by other factors?
Regardless, I’m watching Diomedes almost swoon in reverence – Teliope is virtually his mother, and if at times she becomes a goddess before him, no wonder he’s fervent. I wonder how Athena sees him; when she gazes back at Diomedes I sense a lot of emotions.
Well, that could get complicated. I wonder if Bria’s noticed that emotional intensity as well.
Regardless, we touch hands to hearts. Gods aren’t omniscient, contrary to popular belief, but they do have plenty of ways of learning things, so I assume she’s found out most of what’s happened in Delos.
Just not all of it, I hope.
‘So,’ Athena begins, as we take our seats again, her voice clear and cool. ‘Bria and I have communed on recent developments. A chink has appeared in our enemies’ armour: the newly established Trojan alliance with Thebes is based upon long-established prophecies that claim Thebes is impregnable and her army invincible. For a whole decade, the Epigoni have prayed for vengeance, but in the face of such omens, they have not set forth to war. Only Attica has given support, when I sent Theseus, then King of Athens, to recover the bodies of the Seven.’
‘We are in your debt, Great Goddess,’ Diomedes declares, his eyes glazed with adoration. ‘Our gratitude is boundless.’
No wonder he’s been oblivious to Bria and Arnacia – his heart’s been taken. He’s utterly, senselessly in love.
The foolishness of it staggers me. But I can understand it. She’s a divinity, and the rest of the world is horribly imperfect.
‘Let me remind you all,’ Athena goes on. ‘For years the prophecies about the fate of Achaea have been uniformly dismal: Troy will continue to rise, now greatly empowered by her new harbour and, by taking full control of the Black Sea tin trade, come to dominate us through either strangulation of our trade routes, or direct war. Religion and politics in Achaea have already bent to accommodate that truth: the gods of Achaea who can are seeking accommodation with the Trojan gods, hoping to survive with their worship intact and even augmented. Many Achaean kings are courting Troy, seeking to be spared or given favourable status when the hammer fails. Others pray that the prophecies have been misinterpreted, and we may somehow survive or even prevail.’
Eurybates has been kept well up to date, so he nods along with us theioi to show his understanding.
‘And now, perhaps, the sign we’ve awaited has come,’ Athena declares. ‘It’s contained in these words, obtained by you, my most resourceful agents, from the spontaneous seeing granted to Arnacia, novice of Artemis:
‘Doom to Achaea, doom from the bite of the Serpents, nesting in the citadel!
The Stallion bears the Snake and the Lion succumbs, beguiled!
But He of Birth and Rebirth knows the lie! Blinded the Seer, blinding the words!
Rest thee not, for the Rock stands not so high that the Sea cannot wash it away!
Unleash the Boar, Man of Fire! Let Son avenge Father! But ’ware, for only by the Charioteer’s whip will the Dracons be tamed, the Sun dimmed and Truth stand revealed!’
Her voice becomes harsh as she speaks the words, imparting menace and loading each phrase with meaning. We sit frozen in the aftermath of the recital, thinking of the interpretations we’ve made and wondering if we’re right or wrong.
Bria is the first to break the silence. ‘“The Stallion bears the Snake and the Lion succumbs”,’ she repeats. ‘Thebes is the Snake, creating a base on Achaean soil for the invading Trojans, the horse breeders, and making the defeat of High King Agamemnon of Mycenae inevitable.’
‘Clearly,’ Athena agrees. ‘That first verse merely restates the believed position. But the next verse postulates that the ascendancy of Troy is not inevitable. “He of Birth and Rebirth knows the lie” – Tiresias, the Blind Seer that blinds us all. The Rock is not so high… Thebes can be defeated.’
‘I am the Boar,’ Diomedes states. ‘My father’s family claimed it as our badge.’ He turns to me. ‘And our friend Odysseus tells us he’s the Man of Fire.’
‘It’s what I’m calling myself these days,’ I reply with a half-smile.
Diomedes, being Diomedes, doesn’t notice the irony. ‘You should keep the name a secret,’ he advises.
‘Thanks. I will,’ I reply, just as seriously, before turning back to Athena. ‘Why me? I’ve nothing to do with Thebes, Argos, the Seven or the Epigoni. I’m not even sure who was most at fault in that blasted Theban civil war that started this whole business.’
‘Eteocles denied Polynices his share of the kingship; he and all his seed are in the wrong, and will be damned to Tartarus!’ Diomedes barks.
Athena holds up a hand to placate him before turning back to me. ‘Odysseus, you’re mentioned in other prophecies as well, as a threat to Troy’s plans. Why? I have no idea. The only explanation might be that your rather unique history as Sisyphus’s only surviving theios son gives you advantages others don’t have.’ She scowls at that: her protection was given me in return for my service, but I’m sure she suspects my loyalty at times.
What she’s not saying is that, through Sisyphus, I am descended from Prometheus, the god who rebelled against his own divine kindred, to protect mankind against the gods’ greed and cruelty. That can’t be reassuring to her.
I wonder if Bria has told her about my burgeoning fire skills: I’ve noticed she’s sometimes sparing with the truth, not only to me but about me, even with our patron.
For my part, we’re all aligned so long as Athena acts to protect Achaea.
I thrust those thoughts aside. ‘Whatever mission you wish of me, I’m ready,’ I tell Athena. ‘I have my own reasons to want to give Thebes a kicking. Quite apart from their treacherous alliance with Troy, Tiresias has ruined my sister’s life, and that of a man I love as a brother.’
She seems reassured by my vehemence.
‘Great Queen,’ Eurybates puts in. ‘Pardon my intrusion, but I’ve heard many contradictory tales about the Seven and their war on Thebes. Sometimes, like Odysseus, I find it hard to decide who might be in the right.’
‘Right, wrong – it’s irrelevant,’ Bria sniffs. ‘It’s a situation we can use, that’s all you need to know.’
Diomedes looks predictably appalled. ‘My kindred are in the right of it and I’ll take the head of any man that says otherwise!’ he declares, hand on sword hilt. ‘Any man at all.’
‘How lucky I’m just a woman, and beneath your notice,’ Bria snipes.
Diomedes goes red. ‘That’s not what I meant!’
‘Oh, so I am worthy of your blade, then? Think you’re good enough?’
‘Desist!’ Athena raises a hand irritably. ‘I’ll not have you two arguing over semantics. And Eurybates’s question is a fair one. I will give you the true story. If you put your unquestioning trust in it, your belief will aid our victory.’
Diomedes and Bria scowl themselves into
silence, while Eury and I settle back to listen. I don’t do unquestioning trust but I hide my cynicism. At the least, we will hear what Athena wants us to believe, which will be useful in its own way.
‘It was sixty-five years ago that this mess began,’ Athena begins. ‘Prince Oedipus of Thebes was disinherited and exposed on a mountainside at birth, because of a prophecy that said he would kill his father. He was rescued by the very shepherd who was supposed to abandon him, smuggled to Corinth and adopted, his true parentage unknown to his new parents. Eventually Tiresias found Oedipus, discerned the truth and decided he could control a malleable youth and, through him, the throne of Thebes – which at that time was also the High Kingship of Achaea. Tiresias contrived that Oedipus met his father in the mountains.’
The bones of this I already know, but I’d not realized how deeply Tiresias was involved.
‘Oedipus slew his own father, not knowing they were related. Picture him, a young man panicking when he realized he’d slain a king. Tiresias counselled him not to run, but to seize the opportunity. He led him to Thebes, where Tiresias and Creon took him under their wing. Why? Because he was a theios of a very powerful line – that of Cadmus. Tiresias wished to preserve that bloodline – but the only royal Theban woman he could guarantee would have theioi offspring was Jocasta – Oedipus’s own mother. So he contrived to have Oedipus mate with her.’
Even though I’ve known for many years what Oedipus did, I suck in my breath – the difference, I now realize, is that Tiresias engineered this deliberately. It wasn’t a tragic mistake. Egyptian pharaohs might marry their sisters, but to any Achaean incest is unnatural. I’m reminded of what I saw in Skaya-Mandu’s face when he embraced his sister, and bile floods my mouth.
‘But Creon was the queen’s brother, yes?’ Diomedes says. ‘Why not make him king?’
‘Because he’s not of the line of Cadmus, and he’s not a theios. And, if you were using your wits,’ Athena replies, giving him a withering look, ‘you’d know coupling with close family is a crime here in Achaea, but no one knew who Oedipus was, so he made an acceptable candidate.’
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