Oracle's War

by Oracle's War (retail) (epub)

  Damn right you should be. ‘Well?’ I demand, levelling my blade and turning slowly, while Menelaus does his best to look warlike and princely at my side.

  They all hesitate, looking at the man whose nose I’ve broken for guidance. He’s glowering at me with utter hatred and the promise of a knife in the back. ‘You,’ I say, ‘kneel. All of you, kneel.’

  They’re seething, but they’re also looking at the corpse of Stroma. I’ll wager they’ve been under his thumb a long time, and don’t know how to think without him – he’s been the big fish in their little pond, weeded out the men who couldn’t take his ways, and forced the rest to submit and even revere him. And now he’s gone, cut down without warning. They’re torn between vengeance, fear and the sniff of an opportunity to replace him.

  But most immediately and crucially, they fear me.

  If they’d sprung at us, we might have taken two or three before we died, but they’re still wavering, seeking leadership, when Eurybates leads my Ithacans into the village, striding in at double-time and not even slightly out of breath. That clinches it. The Argives glance at them fearfully, then one by one, with glowering resentment, they kneel.

  ‘Are you here to win a war?’ I demand. ‘Or are you here to abuse the weak? Is that the extent of the valour of the Argives? Hurting the helpless, massacring your allies, for pleasure? Are you thieves, rapists and murderers, or are you men?’

  I suspect my words are just wind and babble to most, but perhaps a few might take it in.

  ‘Cut down these bodies and bury them,’ I order. ‘Bring me the women who are still alive. Clothe them and return their property and food.’ I jab my bloodied sword at Broken-nose. ‘Who’s in command now, soldier?’

  ‘I was Stroma’s second,’ he mutters thickly, blood running from his nostrils. ‘I am Kossos.’

  If he’s Stroma’s mate, he’s probably just like his former comrade. Very likely he’ll take these men down the exact path Stroma was leading them and I’m not going to allow that. ‘Stand up, and draw your sword, Kossos.’ It’s not court justice, but this isn’t a court.

  He looks at me in surprise… and then alarm.

  ‘Come on, Kossos,’ I dare him. ‘You’re fast enough to brand an old man or cut the fingers off a beardless boy. Maybe you’re quick enough to defeat me?’

  I open my guard, taunting him.

  He’s not stupid: he knew what Stroma was, and sees the same in me. God-touched. ‘You’re a prince,’ he says hoarsely. ‘It’s forbidden to raise a weapon to a great man.’

  ‘You have my permission.’

  All eyes are now on him. We both know that if he doesn’t face me, he’ll be branded a coward. And if that happens, without Stroma to protect him, probably half the men here will want to exact some kind of vengeance on him, for old insults and grievances – that’s the way men like him dominate their peers. He won’t last a day, theios or not.

  His only way out is through me. It’s cruel, but rape and murder are crueller still. I want these men to learn this lesson the hard way. And I want both their old leaders gone. New blood might give them back their honour.

  Then fucking Amphilochus arrives, and messes that up.

  The young Epigoni prince comes storming into the village in a fancy painted chariot pulled by a pair of white stallions, his charioteer making a great show of the whip, and with a dozen mounted Argives behind him. ‘What in Hades’s realm is this?’ he yells. ‘We’re here to fight Thebans, not each other! Put up your blades!’ Then he recognizes me, and realizes that rather more than half the men here are mine. ‘Prince Odysseus, what is the meaning of this?’

  He’s either sanctioned this massacre, turned a blind eye to it or has no idea. None of those is an excuse.

  ‘I arrived at the scene of an atrocity,’ I tell him, not taking my eyes off Kossos, who’s like a drowning man that’s just glimpsed a boat. ‘Is torture, murder and rape, committed against our friends the Mycenaeans, the extent of Argive honour? Is it the extent of Epigoni honour? I want this man, the ringleader, hung.’

  Amphilochus gives me an incredulous laugh. ‘You’re worked up over some stupid piss-arse fishing hole,’ he sneers. Then he sees the body of Stroma, and his face goes puce. ‘What happened to my champion?’

  Own your deeds. ‘I happened to him.’

  Amphilochus stares, with those strange green eyes of his. Socially, he far outranks Stroma: theioi aren’t the preserve of the high-born. But I imagine he gave Stroma a free hand, provided he produced results. He may even have feared him.

  ‘Stroma struck the first blow,’ Menelaus puts in, and Amphilochus notices him for the first time. Again he’s forced to adjust. You don’t piss off the brother of the High King.

  But there’s still face to be saved. ‘Then I shall take control of my men, and appoint a new commander,’ Amphilochus says grudgingly. He surveys the wretched scene without too much discomfort. ‘These people should have cleared out from our route of march.’

  ‘They’re a good two miles from our “route of march”. And where were they supposed to clear themselves off too? Into the sea?’ I ask, with probably a little too much sarcasm.

  Amphilochus has no idea why I’m upset. ‘This is the price of war, Ithacan,’ he sniffs, and his entourage grunt in agreement.

  ‘War?’ I wave a hand at the corpses and the still-burning huts. ‘These people aren’t our enemies.’

  ‘But they’re nothing, nobodies. And my men are fighters – fine men, all of them. Some of the locals have been threatening our men. It’s nothing to get worked up about, let alone take it out on a very capable field commander.’

  Unbelievable. I’m fair set to get into a fight with this bone-headed young prince and his idiot followers, but Menelaus – bless him – has a better angle on this.

  ‘Corinth is part of my brother’s kingdom,’ he says, in a reasoned voice. ‘What will he do when I report that our own Corinthians have suffered at the hands of the Argives?’ That’s putting things mildly, and I have no idea what Agamemnon will do, as he’s a cold-hearted, calculating man – but a veiled threat is better right now than an all-out melee.

  Amphilochus finally recalls that we need Agamemnon’s help to get us across the Gulf to Boeotia. He puts his head together with his companions, then gives us a sour look. ‘Very well.’ He looks at the kneeling men. ‘You men, stand! I’m your prince, not him! You, Kossos, take command!’

  ‘I said I want this Kossos hung!’ I remind him.

  ‘It was all Stroma’s work,’ Kossos puts in, in a low voice. ‘I tried to restrain him.’

  Amphilochus seizes on his words. ‘There!’ he exclaims. ‘You’ve already had your justice, Ithacan. I’ll not have you slaughtering my best men because you don’t have the stomach for war. Rise, Kossos, and let’s move.’

  The broken-nosed warrior gives me a cold, murderous glare as he stands up, spitting a bloody gobbet of phlegm in my direction. ‘We’re at your service, Prince Amphilochus,’ he proclaims.

  Amphilochus’s charioteer lashes his horses and swings the chariot around, the horsemen fall in behind them and the Argive foot soldiers march off in their wake, leaving my Ithacans to clean up this ghastly mess.

  I’m furious, but what can I do? I go to my men – who are ashen faced, some of them retching or weeping. They’ve seen some fighting but nothing like this hideousness. Some of the Argives notice, sniggering as they pass. We watch them go in silent loathing.

  I turn to them. ‘Right, lads, now you’ve seen what war is. This is the great and glorious game, your proving ground, the place where heroes are made. Does it match the tales? Does it stir your blood? Do you want to go rushing off to the next village and inflict the same on them?’ I point at the tail of the Argive column. ‘Because if that’s what you want, go join them.’

  No one moves.

  ‘Nelomon, pick a squad. Cut down those bodies from the cross-beams and gather up the rest of the bodies. Eury, choose a few of the married men to he
lp you; give the surviving women – and anyone else who you find hiding – whatever clothing and water you can find, and see if the next village will take them in. The rest of you are on digging duties. Now move!’

  * * *

  As I predicted, High King Agamemnon doesn’t take this well. Not well at all.

  His local governor throws a tantrum of magnificent proportions even before Agamemnon gets to hear of the massacre. We are faced with a wall of Mycenaean soldiers between our camp and Corinth, with all routes into the city barred, which means no access to its taverns, bars and available women. Curiously, I’m the one blamed by the Argives, rather than Amphilochus’s men, for ‘having made a fuss’, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

  Even Bria shrugs callously when I describe what we’ve seen. ‘I don’t care,’ she declares. ‘We’re here on Athena’s business, trying to protect the whole of Achaea from the same treatment at the hands of the Trojans and their Theban allies. We can’t afford to get diverted by trivialities.’

  Trivialities? Not in my eyes.

  And not in the Mycenaeans’ eyes, either. Once more Menelaus comes to the fore – he knows the campaign is important to his brother, because Agamemnon wants someone to take Thebes down, as long as his own position isn’t threatened. But Menelaus still threatens to withdraw the promised troopships, even if I doubt he’ll go through with it.

  None of this, of course, is about the fishermen and their wives and children, whose fate is ignored and then forgotten. It’s all about Agamemnon and the insult to his honour, pride and sovereignty, with a strong, unspoken emphasis on the pride part of the equation. Adrastus knows the game: he piles gold at Menelaus’s feet, makes flattering, pleading entreaties using words like ‘royal brother’ and spouts apologies.

  In the end, Agamemnon honours his offer of ships, with a few amendments: they’ll be sailed by his own crews and they will return to Corinth after they have deposited our army on the northern side of the Gulf. I can see his point – he doesn’t want his vessels burnt or sunk by the coastal Boeotians once we’ve marched north to Thebes.

  What it means, though, is that once we’ve landed in Boeotia, we’ll be stranded there, which suits Agamemnon very well. If we conquer Thebes, well and good; if we’re defeated we’re probably trapped: the northern end of the Corinthian Isthmus, the only land route, is guarded by not one but two formidable mountain ranges. Argos will be fatally weakened – a power void that I’m sure Agamemnon would be only too willing to fill himself.

  I claim no great foreknowledge, but as it happens I’ve already arranged to have my two Ithacan galleys sail round the Peloponnese to the north coast of the Gulf as the wind allows. If the Argives fail, my lads will have the means to get out, even if no one else does.

  * * *

  Our landing on the south coast of Boeotia is met with little resistance. There’s a small port where the road to Thebes begins, but the harbour, sheltered though it is, has always served as a back door to Boeotia’s rich hinterland. Thebes looks more to the north and east across its wide, fertile plains, rather than to its mountainous southern border, dominated by the hulking mass of Mount Cithairon to our right where, Bria tells me, Oedipus was abandoned on its rocky heights as a baby and left to die.

  I’m surprised there isn’t a Theban army facing us on the beach – the port is only two days’ march from Thebes and they must be aware of our plans by now. But perhaps they believe we’re more than we are, and that they can only hold us at the walls of their city, because the port garrison is left to fend for itself.

  We’re met with arrow fire and a wavering line of spears as the ships’ prows grate on the sand and we leap down into the choppy waves. The hand-to-hand fighting is fierce but we greatly outnumber the defenders and the battle is soon over, leaving sand and sea streaked with blood. Even before our victory is certain however, Agamemnon’s crews are refloating their ships, and by the time we’ve torched the fort, they are pinpricks on the shining expanse of the Gulf.

  There’s no option left but to march on, to death or glory.

  After scaling the zigzag road through the coastal hills, we descend to the plains beyond, where we make camp for the night. Our progress the next day is punctuated by atrocities similar to the one near Corinth. It’s clear the Epigoni have little control over their war bands, and even King Adrastus doesn’t seem to care what’s done in his name. The result is a wave of refugees who flee before us, towards their only sure source of protection: impregnable Thebes.

  Once again, we Ithacans make up the rearguard. We keep coming across burning villages, fields, ricks and cottages, with mutilated bodies dumped in ditches or fouling the local wells and springs, corpses dangling from trees or skewered by pitchforks or wooden stakes, and the constant stink of death.

  Soldiers do take a lead from their commanders, and it’s interesting to watch my men: they seem to have developed a stony, ‘we’re better than this’ attitude that leads them to take pride in being different. I’m immensely proud of them – but if any do break ranks, they’ll feel all of my pent-up wrath.

  Not all of the Argives are behaving like savages, I grant that, and thankfully Diomedes remains above it. But when I complain to Bria I get no sympathy.

  ‘Athena is the Goddess of Reason, not Sentiment,’ she sniffs. ‘Harden up, Odysseus – there’s a war to be won.’

  And what a damned horrible war it’s turning out to be.

  So on we go, mile after ugly mile, and I march at the front of my men, head held high for their sake but sick at heart. I may deplore so much of this war, but I’ve schemed to unleash it and feel as responsible for this ghastly trail of destruction as the men who commit these crimes.

  13 – The Springs of Cithairon

  O Fate, giver of onerous gifts and painful suffering, and powerful shade of Oedipus! O Black Fury, you are truly one of deadly strength!

  —Aeschylus, Seven Against Thebes

  Thebes

  There is indeed a war to be won, and at the end of the third day since we came ashore, we’re standing on the plains below the great walled city of Thebes. I once heard a travelling tale-singer perform the Seven Against Thebes, which made it sound as though there were only seven attackers. He described the fortifications in utterly overblown detail: ‘Seven walls and seven gates, stretching unto heaven, such that King Eteocles could gaze from his window, down upon the palaces of Olympus.’

  In fact, Thebes has just the one perimeter wall – albeit a damned high and thick one. And there aren’t any mountains for miles around, certainly none that might compete with the true Mount Olympus, though every kingdom with a high peak claims the place. The seven gates are pure poetry too – providing each hero with his own special entry point to attack, a setting for his individual heroic death scene before the tragic demise of the whole assault. Tale-singers… I love them, but don’t go to them for facts.

  Menelaus, Bria and I join Adrastus and the Epigoni on a knoll with a good view of the city as they take stock of the task before them. Thebes is built on a long ridge, with the length of its crest guarded by its massive fortress wall and with the houses of the outer city clustered down its sides and onto the plain. Upper Thebes and Lower Thebes, they call it. The lower city seems deserted – it’s evening but there’s no smoke from cooking fires to be seen. Presumably they’ve all retreated inside the citadel in Upper Thebes, where there is a spring supplying water, and plenty of room for livestock, from the lowing we can hear even at this distance. The great walls are lined with archers and spearmen and there’s only one main gate, the approach so cleverly designed that if we want to break it down, our attack is going to get bottlenecked and savaged by archery fire.

  The city hasn’t been described as impregnable for nothing, and from all reports they’ve got rather more soldiers inside than we have arrayed on the plain. And there above the gate, among the glittering court of King Laodamas and his uncle Creon, I see two distant red-clad figures, and my hackles rise: Tiresias and Manto
.

  My arrival among the command group isn’t greeted with any warmth.

  ‘Here he is, the little Ithacan tittle-tattler,’ Amphilochus sneers. He looks like he wants to punch me, and I’d welcome the attempt.

  Cold-faced Alcmaeon lays a restraining hand on his younger brother’s shoulder. ‘Did the priestess on Delos truly speak of you as the Man of Fire, Prince Odysseus? Or is this just a chance for you to traipse behind us, picking up our leavings while you spin your lies?’

  Only Diomedes looks angered at this rude welcome. ‘I too heard the priestess speak,’ he snaps. ‘Do you doubt my word, Alcmaeon?’

  ‘Not your word, Diomedes. Or even hers,’ Alcmaeon replies. ‘Just your judgement in believing the interpretation. This Ithacan seems to trade in lies.’

  A quick glance around shows me the real reason for this: they’re frightened. The reality of Thebes is greater than their boasts, and they fear they’ll suffer the fate of their fathers. Lanky Thersander’s eyes are darting here and there, Crown Prince Aegialaus is gazing across at the walls with foreboding, and Euryalus, Promachus and Sthenelus are shuffling behind Alcmaeon. In other words, they’re all wanting to back out of this and they’re looking for scapegoats. I’m the most convenient one to hand.

  I ignore Alcmaeon and address Adrastus, who isn’t going to be field commander, but he’s still the ruler. ‘King Adrastus, the priestess of Delos gave hope, not certainty. Her words are attested, and they offer you the chance of a famous victory. Do the much-vaunted Epigoni only fight when victory is assured?’

  Adrastus has the haunted look of a man seeing ghosts. It was here that all his closest friends and kin died, and with it a cause he thought just. He’s been living with the burden of a survivor’s guilt and unfulfilled vows of vengeance for a decade. All the joy has ebbed from his life. Back in Argos, I saw that part of him welcomes this chance to give meaning to what he sees as a failed life, and that same part doesn’t care if he lives or dies, as long as he resolves a decade of doubt and self-pity.