‘Hephaestus,’ her young-old voice crackles. ‘What an unexpected pleasure to hear from you.’ Then her eyes pierce the gloom and she sees Bria and me. ‘And what strange company you keep. Has Athena changed her mind about you?’
His face tightens. ‘You know how twisted the games of gods can be.’
‘I do indeed,’ Persephone says, with something like empathy. Then her gaze latches onto Bria and she smirks. ‘Have you been playing anvil to his hammer, dearie? Can you still walk?’ She titters lightly and adds, ‘Enjoy the next nine months. Eat well.’
I shoot Bria an alarmed look, but her expression doesn’t shift.
‘And look who else is here!’ the goddess goes on, her mismatched eyes focusing on me. ‘Odysseus of Ithaca, the favoured barbarian dish of Trojan princesses! Have you seen Kyshanda since I let her go? Quite the wild child now, I assure you. Does she still prefer men? I really couldn’t tell by the end of her time with me.’ Hades’s queen licks her lips with sensual malice.
I wisely keep my mouth shut.
‘Anyway,’ she purrs, returning her gaze to Hephaestus, ‘what can I do for you, my old friend?’
‘I’d like to purchase a fruit from your Grove,’ Hephaestus rumbles. ‘The furthest gone the better.’
I feel my skin go cold once more, despite the sulphurous heat of this place. I’ve seen the fruit Persephone grows: souls of the dead she has taken a dislike to are hung from trees in her grove – by the neck, on the edge of throttling – for as long as she likes. Sometimes centuries. It drives the poor tormented wretches – mostly women, as she’s harder on her own gender – utterly, raving mad. She then unleashes them as ‘Erinyes’ – some call them ‘Furies’ – whom she uses for retribution against the living.
The malignant spirits that Hephaestus uses to implant curses into his artefacts must come from the same grove, with Persephone’s blessing. I’m sickened yet again.
We watch as Persephone’s hand appears, holding a translucent apple with the outline of a woman cowering inside. ‘How about this one?’ she asks archly. ‘Late Minoan, adulteress, screaming mad and self-abusive.’
‘That’ll do perfectly.’ He holds out his hand and the apple tumbles from Persephone’s grasp into his big paw. We watch as the two gods negotiate a price and exchange smirked pleasantries, then Persephone vanishes.
Hephaestus holds the apple up to the light. Inside it, a dark-haired woman is begging for mercy.
‘Pah, don’t be like that,’ he chuckles callously. ‘You’re going to be imprisoned inside a beautiful dress for the rest of time! What woman wouldn’t want that?’
12 – Robe and Necklace
‘I saw … loathsome Eriphyle, who received cherished gold in exchange for her beloved husband’s life.’
—Homer, The Odyssey
Argos and the Isthmus of Corinth
We wait a day before we take the robe to Eriphyle.
It turns out we’ve been in Hephaestus’s mini-realm for over twelve hours, reappearing inside the Argos forge around the time of the evening meal and startling the daylights out of the real smith and his little family. The Epigoni hadn’t noticed we were gone and only Eurybates has been worried.
Bria’s parting with the Smith was awkward. It took place with the fires of the chasm burning low and his little realm shrouded in shadow, as if some fire inside him had burnt out. They kissed, murmured in each other’s ears, but while she was filled with resolve, ready to take on the world again, he seemed drained, a spent force. Neither looked back as they walked away.
‘Will he die?’ I ask, as we cross back into our world.
‘Die?’ she echoes. ‘No, but he’ll fade… Become the pawn in someone else’s games, like…’
She doesn’t speak the last word, but I can guess it: ‘me’.
Who were you? I wonder again. But I know better than to ask.
Anyway, we’ve got more immediate concerns if we’re to launch our war. First we head for the fortress in Tiryns. With Diomedes’s blessing, I’ve settled my Ithacan lads in the barracks since arriving from Delos, intending to take them to Thebes if we ever get round to marching. We arrive to find Eurybates with them – he’s been anxious as we’ve been out of touch all night. I apologize for putting him through such worry and explain what we’ve done, without going into detail for Bria’s sake.
Bizarrely, after the huge risks we’ve taken to secure it, Bria, Eurybates and I have quite a debate over whether we should give Eriphyle the robe. We all have misgivings as to whether it will have the desired effect, or instead unleash more unforeseen consequences that will worsen this tangled web of secrets.
Eventually, we proceed: the Epigoni aren’t going to march unless they can unite behind one leader, and despite being outranked by Adrastus – who’s too old to fight anyway – and by Aegialaus and Thersander, Alcmaeon does seem to be the Charioteer the prophecy means. There really isn’t anyone else who fits. But he’s not going to march unless Eriphyle can persuade him to, and right now, she’s adamantly against the whole idea.
We don’t know if that’s motherly love, or the influence of the cursed necklace, or a mix of both. And what adding the robe will do… well, who can say?
It’s a gamble: that’s the only thing we’re clear about.
We know that Eriphyle will refuse to see us. Apparently in our absence she went to Adrastus and demanded that we all be tried as conspirators and executed. Fortunately he didn’t agree. But somehow, we need to get close to her and gain her confidence for long enough to try out our trick. As Bria is the sort of person that the mildest-mannered soul finds aggravating, that task falls to me.
The important thing is to avoid Alcmaeon and Amphilochus, which is where Diomedes comes in. The Epigoni may not agree on much, but they all tolerate Diomedes, the youngest and most agreeable of the clan. I send him in that afternoon to lure the surly Alcmaeon and his younger brother out for some wrestling practice and a few drinks at a tavern, leaving Eriphyle alone with her servants.
Meanwhile I shed all weapons, put on some stained travelling garb, darken my hair and skin with walnut juice, tuck two small pads into my cheeks to fatten my face, and leave my now two-day-old stubble unshaven. Eriphyle had plenty of time to study my appearance when we met Adrastus and the Epigone the other night, and I know she won’t be easy to fool.
I wrap the enchanted robe in a spare cloak and swagger up to Eriphyle’s front gate, leading a newly acquired mule laden down with fabric. Early this morning I sent Eurybates back across the river to buy what I need in the markets down at the port. He’s done me proud, selecting the choicest wares and spending a fair amount of Bria’s obols in the process. Eriphyle is known for her vanity, despite the austere widow’s garb she affects at court.
‘Greetings, greetings,’ I say to the guard at the door. ‘Megon of Cephalonia, I’m called. Here to sell fine fabrics to the lady of the house. And maybe a little something for your own good wife,’ I add, winking as I pass him my wine flask.
Megon of Cephalonia is a persona I’ve been developing for several years now. He’s older than me by more than a few years, has a reedy voice, a relaxed line of patter, a strong provincial accent and a sharp eye for detail. I’ve played Megon in the Peloponnese and Phocis, I know him like a wayward uncle and the transition is easy and comfortable.
The guard’s a surly man, but he takes a swig from my flask and summons the housekeeper, a matronly woman with avaricious eyes. Silver is her vice, I quickly perceive, and I let her bargain me too low on a trifling bracelet as she looks over my fabric bolts. It works – she soon deems them worthy of troubling her mistress. I’m permitted to accompany her through the gate and across the main courtyard to the house. A servant holds my mule while I’m ushered through the portico and into a richly painted megaron, flooded with afternoon sunshine from the large light shaft that doubles as a chimney above the hearth.
I see Eriphyle first in profile, gazing into a mirror as a maid adjusts the jewellery in her
hair. No widow’s garb in sight either. She’s wearing an elaborate costume made from some lushly patterned red and green cloth of eastern origin, silk by the look of it. The small bodice, open to show her breasts, is thickly embroidered and the flounced skirt is heavy with bright tassels.
The necklace glistens heavily in her cleavage.
‘This is a cloth merchant, Megon of Cephalonia, Lady,’ the housekeeper tells her mistress. ‘I’ve looked over his stock and he has some fine wares for sale. There are some bolts that might interest you.’
Eriphyle looks me up and down, frowning slightly. Once again I feel the power of her presence… or is it the necklace that captures not merely my eyes but my whole awareness?
She bids me sit. ‘Thank you, Tiobe, you may remain and help me decide,’ she directs. She doesn’t for one moment look like someone who needs any help making up her mind – she’s just keeping the housekeeper close as a chaperone, as society would expect.
Tiobe orders some male servants to carry in my bolts of cloth, and I’m brought water to sip; the Lady has wine. Her severe visage is no softer than when I met her three nights ago, but she’s interested in my smooth chatter, punctuated by snippets of news from east and west, as I work through the stock. There are some she likes and I even make a few sales. She shows no sign of having recognized me, and gradually she relaxes.
Then I pull out the robe of Harmonia, and it’s as if the air has been sucked from the room.
‘Oh my…’ Tiobe blurts, her face going almost green. Eriphyle just stares, her mouth falling open.
In daylight, the robe isn’t just white – it’s radiant, giving off its own light like the face of the moon. The embroidery gives it texture and the whole just shimmers, cascading like liquid in my hands.
‘Lady Eriphyle?’ I prompt her, to remind her to breathe, if nothing else.
She stretches out a hand wordlessly, then retracts it, shaking like a leaf. ‘I know this dress,’ she whispers, then she glances sharply at her companion. ‘Tiobe, leave us.’
Tiobe is so dazzled by amazement and greed that she actually questions her mistress. ‘Lady?’
‘Get out!’ Eriphyle snarls, whirling on her. ‘Get out or I’ll have you flogged, you bloated cow!’
Tiobe bursts into tears and flees, but Eriphyle barely notices. All her attention is back upon the robe, shimmering like snow in my hand. ‘How did you come by this gown?’ she manages to ask, her voice hoarse with wonder and dread.
‘Well, there’s a market place in—’
‘The truth,’ she snarls, ‘or I’ll have the skin off your back!’
I bow my head and feign honesty. ‘My Lady, I was approached by a man in Tiryns, a trader of ill-repute. He sells certain things others won’t touch, as they are traceable by their… ahem, previous owners. I don’t often go to him, but when I do, the quality far outweighs the cost.’
She stares at the garment, hunger and awe spread over her face like thickened cream. And fear, too. I wonder if the two artefacts can sense each other. Does the necklace welcome this moment, or is it screaming warnings into her soul?
‘Thirty years ago,’ she says in a hoarse voice. ‘No, longer – forty or more. I was a young girl, my family had fled to Thebes after my future husband murdered my father.’ She stares at me with haunted eyes, as if to dare me to argue that such things cannot happen. ‘Dear Gods, but I remember it like yesterday. The young Theban king and his older wife, the prize he took when he slew her husband. The great Tiresias was there, his hair long and silver – I foolishly mistook him for a woman and he laughed and gave me an obol. And that dress… the Queen wore it – poor Jocasta.’
She straightens, and smooths her own elaborate but suddenly shabby clothes, gazing longingly at the robe of Harmonia. ‘Jocasta hung herself two days later, and we fled once more, our safe refuge lost.’
There are tears running down her cheek.
‘Would you like to try it on?’ I offer.
She shudders, shakes her head and then says, ‘Oh, please,’ in a helpless voice.
I’m expecting her to take the robe deeper into the house, and I’m wondering how I can ensure I’m not simply robbed of it and turned out, but she does nothing of the sort. She simply stands, pulls the knot loose on the front of her bodice and shrugs it off, unties the waistbands on the skirt and lets it slide to the floor. She’s wearing nothing beneath. Her belly is taut, with only a few stretch marks, her breasts are small and barely sagging, her thighs are skinny rather than slim but her skin is smooth and tight for her age. I look for magic but can detect none – her body is a testament to a strict regimen of diet and exercise in rigid denial of ageing.
The only thing she has on now is the necklace, gold and blue ovals hanging just above her brown nipples. She gives me an arch look. ‘Were you expecting an old crone, Master Megon?’ she asks, confident in her own physique. She stretches out for the robe and I hand it to her.
She holds it up, gazing at the subtle intricacy of the white on white embroidery, sighing at the feel of it, while tears roll down her face. I can almost see the faces her memory is conjuring for her. Oedipus, Jocasta, Tiresias, Creon. Her murdered father and her slain husband Amphiaraus… and her lover, Polynices.
She stands there naked, shaking. ‘What is the price?’ she asks.
‘I’ll tell you after you’ve tried it on.’
She sobs, pulls the cloth to her face and inhales the scent of it. For a moment I think she’s going to fling it away, but then she lifts it and slides it over her head. It shimmers down her body, covering her to the ankles, and she strokes it, marvelling at the way it caresses her skin, fitting perfectly yet flatteringly to her bust and hips, then flaring in great swirls of white around her legs.
‘I feel like a goddess,’ she whispers, as the robe’s magic makes her seem a young maiden in her bridal gown.
‘It’s as if created for One,’ I tell her, using the jargon of the salesman.
She gives me a sideways look. ‘You have a silver tongue, Megon of Cephalonia.’ She tugs the necklace out and lays it across the bodice. I feel the air shiver and wonder if she does too, but she seems lost in the beauty of them both. ‘They’re made for each other,’ she sighs, faintly.
They certainly are.
She gestures for me to follow and leads me into a side room, a dressing room, where lesser garments are hung for her inspection. She stands before a copper mirror and poses, her face avid with the need to possess this wondrous thing she’s sheathed in. ‘It’s glorious,’ she says in a shaky voice, turning to me. ‘Name the price, I beg you.’
‘That the Epigoni march on Thebes.’
Her eyes narrow, and she stares at me as recognition blooms. ‘Odysseus of Ithaca! You evil wretch! I should have you thrown to your death from the Judgement Rock!’
She turns, opening her mouth to shout – but I close the distance between us in a flash, slam my hand over her mouth and drive her up against the mirror. ‘No,’ I tell her in a low, urgent voice, both commanding and imploring. ‘Please, I beg you. Hear me out.’
Her eyes bulge, and I see only defiance. She’s going to screech the moment I loosen my grip. So much for the robe acting with the necklace to calm her…
‘Eriphyle! This is your decision, the fate of Achaea lies in your hands. You know why I’m here – we explained the other day. Achaea or Troy. But if that doesn’t move you, think on this: Tiresias and Creon used Polynices to bribe you with the necklace you’re wearing now, to ensure your husband joined the Seven. Both the men you loved were killed. Tiresias and Creon tricked you all into destruction, and they reign in Thebes still. Will you let them profit unchallenged? Will you let your kin, your own sons, linger and diminish having not even tried to keep their vows of honour? Will you let their memory forever be one of shame?’
She’s no less defiant, but she’s listening.
‘Did you know that when the Seven were trapped, fighting desperately to the death, Creon sought out Amphiaraus in co
mbat and taunted him, both with your infidelity and the bribe with the necklace. He laughed at Amphiaraus’s denials, and laughed even harder when Polynices stabbed your husband in the back.’
Bria told me this tale the evening before we went grave robbing, though how she knows, I’m not sure. In fact, given her track record, it mightn’t even be true. But it hits Eriphyle like a punch to the stomach. She begins to cry again, as her defiance collapses.
I feel like a bully, but right now that seems to be what’s needed.
‘If I take my hand off your mouth, will you speak softly?’ I ask. ‘If you try to cry out, I’ll break your neck,’ I add, for good measure. Not that I will; a hand back over her mouth will be sufficient, followed by a gag and a few bonds while I make my escape.
She gives a faint nod, and I release my grip. We’re still pressed body to body against the copper mirror, the white robe silken and gleaming against her pale skin.
For a brief moment, she’s silent except for the harshness of her breath as she gasps down air. ‘I knew that,’ she whispers, once she’s recovered enough to speak. ‘Or part of it. When Adrastus returned, he told me he’d seen Creon confront my husband and Polynices stab him.’
So Bria was telling the truth.
She goes on breathlessly. ‘Though he couldn’t hear all of what was said, Adrastus suspected enough to accuse me of “luring us to destruction”, and threatened to tell my sons. But betraying Argos was never my intent, I swear!’
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