‘Did Adrastus tell your sons?’ I can’t imagine Alcmaeon still revering her if he knew, but the question has to be asked, mostly to intensify Eriphyle’s guilt.
Her face is pure misery. ‘Adrastus meant to – he swore he’d let them cut my throat or hurl me from the Judgement Rock, but I was able to beg mercy. I never thought he’d listen, but…’
‘The necklace?’
She nods. ‘Sometimes, it speaks instead of me, and when it does, everyone listens.’
‘Is that why you wore it the other night?’
‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘Adrastus and I have been bitter enemies these last ten years. I wear it when I must.’
So, the necklace has some awareness, I reason. It can, if it chooses, seek to destroy its wearer, as it did with Jocasta. Or it can preserve its wearer, as is evident in the power it exerted to keep Eriphyle from her own sons’ certain vengeance. But the malice and madness that Hephaestus and Persephone have placed into it is also evident in the dissent and jealousies that plague the Epigoni and prevent them from uniting. So in that sense, it’s also acting to preserve Thebes.
I also wonder, not for the first time, whether now that the robe and necklace are reunited, she’ll still be able to control Adrastus, and prevent him from finally delivering his fatal information to her two sons.
‘Eriphyle, will you sanction the march on Thebes? Or shall I reclaim the robe?’
She tilts her head to the side, fluttering her eyelids. ‘Do you desire to strip me, Ithacan?’
Is this the necklace or the robe, or simply her? Either way, I find her sudden coquettishness both sad and disquieting. I suspect she’s been lonely for a long time, in her mourning and her bitterness.
I choose to disappoint her. ‘Which is it?’
She scowls, aware she’s been scorned. ‘I’ll keep the robe,’ she says sourly. ‘And you can have your war.’
* * *
Drums thunder, trumpets blare out their brazen challenge and the soldiers ranked before the outer walls of Argos thump their spear hafts against their shield bosses with a loud crack. The commanders, mounted in their war chariots, raise their swords in ceremonial salute, thrusting them into the air in the direction of the northern road that winds through the mountains up to Corinth and the north.
The Epigoni are marching to Thebes.
It’s a full two weeks since Eriphyle urged her kindred to war, after my fraught encounter with her. Behind the scenes, the tensions are wound tight. Adrastus can’t tell Alcmaeon and Amphilochus of their mother’s infidelities and treachery without destroying the Epigoni’s new-found unity, but it’s eating him up. It’ll be a relief to get the Argive royal family out of the city and away from her.
Despite Diomedes’s early boasts of a mighty force, they can only muster seven thousand men by scraping the kingdom’s proverbial barrel bottom, the army including some grizzled ex-Theban veterans who fled to Argos many years ago with Polynices, and their sons. Adrastus had expected allies to come forth, especially since he’s privately shared both the new prophecy and our interpretation of it with his fellow kings. But that’s proven an empty hope.
High King Agamemnon sent messengers urging peace after Hera’s priests vigorously discredited Arnacia’s revelations. He did however offer troopships to take us across the Gulf of Corinth to Boeotia, but no more, being loath to annoy Hera’s chief oracle at Pytho. Still, it’s something – Argos has no port or ships on the Gulf, and without Agamemnon’s help we’d have a long and desperate trek through the truly formidable mountain ranges north of the isthmus.
King Tyndareus of Lacedaemon, Agamemnon’s greatest ally, has also distanced himself. So too has Tantalus, King of Arcadia – he and Tyndareus hate each other anyway, ever since Tantalus kidnapped Tyndareus’s eldest daughter Clytemnestra. That’s another war waiting to happen. And as expected, wily Menestheus of Attica has cited internal issues, as Athena said he would.
As soon as the decision to go to war was made, I despatched Eurybates back to Ithaca to ask Laertes for more soldiers; he’s obliged me – not surprisingly, given that he has charged me to track down and kill the sorcerer who invaded his palace, manipulated him behind his back and blighted my sister’s life. Rather more to my surprise, he’s included his favourite commander, Nelomon and his mate Itanus. Perhaps he wants an independent view on what I’m up to, or perhaps he’s just feeling generous. Whichever way it is, I’m grateful – we now have a band of tough, versatile fighters about a hundred strong.
As auxiliaries in the eyes of the Epigoni, we’re towards the rear of the march. On the second morning, I’m chatting with Eurybates, ensuring we’re getting our share from the Argive supply column: armies consume food like pigs in a trough. Bria’s off pacifying yet another squabble among the Epigoni – who knew the order of march could be such a matter of pride?
Suddenly a chariot comes flying towards us, kicking up a cloud of dust as it bypasses the columns of marching men on the road. It’s driven by a tall young man wearing a bronze helmet topped by a massive red plume, which he pulls off to reveal a blaze of golden hair when he reaches us. He throws the reins to Eurybates, leaps down from the chariot and spreads his arms.
‘Odysseus!’
I rush to greet my childhood friend, pound his back and bask in his warmth. ‘Menelaus! What are you doing here?’
‘Agamemnon sent me to observe this damned kerfuffle! He wants a full report, whatever happens.’ Menelaus is grinning madly, his face and hair plastered with dust and sweat from his journey. ‘I had no idea you were here – I only met up with Adrastus an hour ago and you can imagine my amazement when he mentioned you. I excused myself and came back to see you as soon as I decently could.’ He shakes his head in amazement. ‘How are you involved, my friend? What’s this got to do with Ithaca?’
It’s a fair question. ‘Little kingdoms need bigger friends,’ I tell him. I’m not sure how much I should share with him, as he’s bound to take it all back to Agamemnon. ‘As you can see, I’ve only a hundred men here – just a gesture of support that could pay off in trading benefits.’
It’s plausible, and Menelaus accepts it without question. ‘You’re a shrewd one, always were,’ he says, nodding to Eurybates, whom he knows well. ‘Or was it Laertes’s idea?’
I shake my head. ‘In truth,’ …well, mostly the truth… ‘he and I have had another little disagreement, so I’m here on my own initiative. A meddling Theban ruined my sister’s wedding to the man she loves and forced another man on her, and Laertes let it happen. I’m here to make sure that Theban proktos gets what’s coming.’
Menelaus scowls. ‘Then I hope you find him. Who is he?’
‘Tiresias.’
‘The seer?’ says Menelaus, blanching. ‘Hera’s Tits, Odysseus, you know how to pick an enemy.’
‘I didn’t – he picked me.’
Menelaus whistles. ‘What does he have against you?
‘Meddling seems to be what he does,’ I tell him, and change the subject smoothly. ‘And what of you and your brother? Is Agamemnon finally going to choose a wife? Surely Helen of Sparta would be ideal. He’d seal the alliance with Tyndareus and gain a powerful theia as a bride.’
I spent considerable sweat and blood last year on getting Helen of Sparta back from her kidnapper, Theseus, so I have a personal interest in seeing the Spartan princess wed. That journey took me from Lacedaemon all the way to Erebus, the realm of Hades. Menelaus doesn’t know the details, though he knows I was involved.
Menelaus looks doubtful. ‘Have you not heard?’ he says, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘Helen is carrying Theseus’s child and she’s near her time.’
It’s my turn to whistle. ‘I haven’t heard that.’ I’m well aware Theseus raped the girl, but not that she fell pregnant. I’m shocked and distressed for her, but my mind is also doing the sums – it was late autumn when we pursued Theseus and Helen into Erebus and it’s midsummer now. So it’s definitely Theseus’s baby. ‘Tyndareus must’ve worked hard to ke
ep that a secret.’
‘Yes. Even my brother didn’t know until recently. I pray for her to have a girl.’
I know instantly what he means. A boy will be exposed or killed outright. But even a girl might not be safe, given her father… And what will Helen be feeling about that? Glad to rid her body of the aftermath of rape? Or bonded with the unborn child and desperate to keep it alive?
When I first encountered Helen years ago, she was a precocious, beautiful young girl. Last year, she was given every gift by the gods of Olympus – I was there when Zeus made a display of her. She was meant to be the prize bride whose marriage was to have awakened her gifts as a theia, gifts which would enable her husband to dominate the Aegean. Her rape by Theseus triggered her awakening, in the most brutal way possible. Now she possesses all her theia gifts, she might still be the key to power. On the other hand… Agamemnon may be the High King of Achaea, but he’s not a theios. He’s also the political leader of the Hera cult. How eager will he be to share his kingdom with the supremely gifted, god-touched daughter of Zeus, when the two gods are at strife?
‘I think she needs someone to look after her,’ Menelaus says, his voice still low. He’s big-hearted, and tends to see distressed women as poor, weak creatures in need of a rescuer.
I suppress a wry smile. In Erebus Helen all but stabbed me in the back, quite literally, and I can’t help but remember the ruthlessness she showed throughout a frightening situation. ‘I wouldn’t suggest you pursue her,’ I advise. ‘But a Sparta–Mycenae alliance makes sense, to unify Achaea. What about Agamemnon marrying one of Tyndareus’s younger daughters?’
‘They’re not yet of age,’ Menelaus says. ‘Agamemnon speaks of rescuing Helen’s older sister Clytemnestra from Tantalus of Arcadia. He’s a right evil bastard, but no one wants another war in the Peloponnese.’
That’s for certain: the Peloponnese is still recovering from the depravations of the Sons of Heracles. Their plundering rampage twenty years ago was an orgy of slaughter that triggered plague and famine.
‘Perhaps this expedition will make the situation clearer,’ I tell Menelaus. ‘Will you station yourself with my Ithacans?’
‘Of course,’ Menelaus says enthusiastically. ‘I’d not hear of doing otherwise!’
* * *
If the advent of my best friend means that I at least have good company on the road, the rest of the march is a sobering, even chilling affair. Ithaca’s an island, and no one’s attacked us in my lifetime. We’re seldom at war and I’ve never been on campaign, though I’ve caught glimpses of what that can mean when I dwelt in Sparta.
There are some soldiers for whom being on the march brings out their ugliest side; they descend into creatures worse than animals: rabid, shit-spewing monsters, Eurybates calls them. Not all behave that way – you’ll see acts of kindness and mercy too. But there’s always a hardened core, a dangerous, belligerent minority that see this as a chance to forget all the constraints of morality and enact whatever brutal, dark fantasies they harbour. They egg each other on, and try to corrupt others to do the same, to make their own sordid actions the norm. Usually their commanders see them as the vital ‘hard men’ they need, so they give them licence – and they’re often too scared to confront them anyway.
Until we cross the Gulf, we’re on friendly territory, with everything to lose if we provoke Agamemnon. Corinth, where we’ll take ship, is Mycenae’s major northern port and we’re relying on their fleet for transport. I keep my Ithacans on a damned tight leash and I’ll punish with all force if they transgress – they don’t let me down, though. But some among the Argives see this as just as much a part of the war as assailing Thebes itself.
Late one afternoon, we’ve left the mountains behind us and we’re approaching Corinth along a broad coastal plain, the main road now running eastwards, parallel to the coast and a little way inland. Menelaus and I are chatting about hunting dogs and his favourite racehorses when I spy a column of smoke rising off to our left, which quickly grows into a dense black cloud.
Perhaps I should ignore it: the lads have tramped seventeen miles since breakfast, they’re focused on the promise of an evening camp under Corinth’s walls, with plenty of hot food, wine, beer and rest. But I don’t like the look of the smoke at all. It could be a complete coincidence that a whole village goes up in flames just as the Argive army passes nearby, but I’m not inclined to believe in coincidences, especially ones like this. We’re still at the rear, and not beholden to anyone, which gives us some room to decide. Bria would probably argue, but she’s off somewhere and Eurybates and Menelaus agree with me – we need to investigate.
I’m riding in Menelaus’s chariot, so he spurs his horses along a gravel track that heads in the right direction as soon as we make our decision, leaving Eurybates to bring my Ithacans along behind us at as brisk a trot as their armour, packs and weapons will allow. As we draw near, it becomes clear that the whole village – a few dozen fishermen’s huts on the long sandy shoreline – is well alight. I hear a man shrieking his lungs out – an agonised, despairing wail that carries through the still air.
The man’s still screaming as we gallop the chariot through a smoke-wreathed scene from Tartarus. A dozen ‘X’-shaped wooden crosspieces have been erected, with naked men lashed to each. When I say men, the eldest would be in his seventies and the youngest barely a teen. Each has been mutilated, branded and then disembowelled, and they’re all dead but the last – a man in his fifties who’s shrieking in utter agony. He’s surrounded by around fifty Argive soldiers, a few of whom are taking turns to press burning torches to his wounds, laughing and backslapping and taking wagers on who can make him scream the loudest.
The path down to the shore is littered with children’s bodies, some as small as babies skewered with fish knives. On the beach, we can hear the screams of women, and lewd laughter. A few looters have stripped the huts of their possessions: pitiful small piles of food, cooking pots, nets and ropes. Now they’re lighting fires to burn the huts down.
A few of the younger Argives are trying to pretend it’s not happening and several have been vomiting. Only my experiences of last year prevent me from doing likewise. But my eyes are fixed on a big man with an axe head that he’s heated red-hot – he’s standing in front of the screaming man, bursting with laughter as another of his thugs sets the captive’s hair alight.
Menelaus drives the horses through the press of soldiers thronged around the crosspieces and I dismount, drawing my xiphos and slamming the hilt into the face of the man who’s just immolated the prisoner’s hair. He goes down in a splatter of blood, giving me a moment to assess the prisoner. The poor bastard is almost dead and he’s suffering horribly, so I finish him, opening his throat and spraying blood around the circle.
‘Control your men!’ I bellow, facing the axeman – he’s the ringleader here.
‘Who in Hades are you?’ he snarls, while his eyes flicker to someone behind my right shoulder.
I read that as danger and spin, smashing my shield into a man who’s about to stab me in the back. Our horses rear and their hooves almost take the axeman’s head off as his men scatter a few steps back.
Then Menelaus leaps down from the chariot, sword also drawn. He looks utterly appalled – this kind of horror is new to him. His brother Agamemnon would be little moved by such bloodshed, but Menelaus is a gentler soul. This is High King Agamemnon’s territory and the murdered villagers are his people too, however lowly.
‘I am Prince Odysseus of Ithaca, and this is Crown Prince Menelaus of Mycenae,’ I snarl at the ringleader. ‘Call off your men, and bring me your commander.’
He’s clearly a theios – an Ares man I’m guessing – and he’s built like a tree trunk, a gnarled and twisted one. He’s not intimidated in the slightest. ‘I’m the commander.’
Of course he is. I fix him with a stare. ‘And you are…?’
‘Stroma of Argos.’
The name’s familiar. I know of him as a
thug, famous for a handful of noted duels. A feared man, and a trusted companion of Amphilochus, Alcmaeon’s younger brother. But Amphilochus isn’t here. ‘We’re marching on Thebes, Stroma, not Corinthian fishing villages. Call off your men.’
He twirls the axe nonchalantly and glances down the beach. ‘I don’t think my lads have finished with this village yet. So why don’t you just move along, Prince?’
I’m astounded by his arrogance – clearly he’s had free licence all his life.
Which is about to end, I think grimly.
If I’d have been thinking more clearly, I’d have done all this from a distance, with a bow. Unfortunately the Great Bow is loaded on a baggage mule back on the main road and I’ve arrived ahead of my men. The only authority I have is whatever I carve out for myself.
I go for brazen – I’ve been hanging around Bria for a while now. ‘Yes, I’m a prince. So kneel, Stroma.’
He gazes pointedly down at me. ‘Why should I do that? You’re not my prince.’
‘Then don’t bloody kneel,’ I tell him. ‘Grovel.’
Axes are slow. Blades are fast. So when the big man loses that simmering temper of his and swings, I’m ready. I dart away from his reach then lunge in, slashing at Stroma’s face, ducking under his next swing then dodging his savage attempt to crush my skull with the haft as I ram my sword into his left thigh. He howls and tries to cut me down anyway; I throw up a boot and block his axe by planting my sole on the haft, just below the head. Then I thrust my xiphos into his left armpit and skewer whatever he uses for a heart, wrench the blade free, and spin. I’d rather have forced him to stand trial, but he was too dangerous to let live.
‘Anyone else?’
They’re all his hard men, but maybe only one or two others are theioi – that’s why he’s their commander. ‘Hard’, but they have a strong sense of self-preservation, and Stroma went down faster than they’d have liked. They now know I’m dangerous, and they’re thinking, and fearing.
Oracle's War Page 23