‘We will attack,’ he grates out. ‘What honour would remain to us, if we turned back now?’
* * *
The assault on the walls of Thebes goes as well as one would expect, when the commanders are divided and full of doubt, the king is filled with self-destructive despair and the stronghold’s defenders outnumber the attackers almost two to one.
I watch with Menelaus and Bria as the first wave attempts to pepper the parapets with arrows. The walls are so high, the Argive arrows lose much of their momentum and seem to have little effect. The counter volleys from the Thebans are strong and inflict significant casualties, killing many men on the ground as they struggle to place the first wave of the ladders we’ve improvised with timber scavenged from the lower city. Predictably, the ladders are hurled back, with considerable loss of life, and the defenders’ laughter rings out when the initial attack peters out. The next three waves end exactly the same way. It’s futile, and costs hundreds of lives with barely a defender harmed.
Even in my worst dreams, I didn’t imagine we’d be this incompetent. If I’d known, I would never have encouraged them to come here. Tiresias must be wetting himself with glee.
When we gather that evening I try to interest the Epigoni in siege techniques: battering rams to smash the gates or tunnels dug beneath the walls, but they look at me as though I’ve grown an extra head. Apparently anything mechanical is cowardly and dishonourable. I get the same reaction when I suggest using grappling hooks to prise away lower blocks in the walls and undermine them – a technique Eurybates told me the Egyptians use. Adrastus gives me no support – this whole business is about honour for him.
So the assault becomes a siege: Alcmaeon manages to convince his kin that they can wait out their enemies, that they have an entire countryside to plunder for supplies while the granaries of the city are finite, especially with so many refugees in there. On the surface, his argument is not unreasonable, but while we can prevent anyone going in and out of the main gate and the postern at the far end that links Thebes to the road to Phocis and Pytho, we don’t have the numbers to encircle the citadel properly, especially since we’re handicapped by the maze of houses and alleyways of the lower city, even after we’ve plundered and burnt it.
The result is that the principle objective of a siege – to starve the defenders – is impossible. We can’t stamp out the numerous small groups of enemy skirmishers out on the plains, or the supply trains with which continue to smuggle provisions into the city, heaving them over the walls at night or up any number of drains. The siege is as doomed as the initial assaults were, as far as I can see. My repeated attempts to advise the Epigoni are scorned as dishonourable, until I give up. This is a bigger mess than my most pessimistic expectations.
A week passes, then two and three, and the Epigoni lurch closer to the brink of falling out completely. Aegialaus won’t speak to Thersander: the pair are at loggerheads over the claim to the throne of Thebes, even though we’re showing no signs of ever seizing it. Alcmaeon and Amphilochus are faced with a revolt from their sycophants, Euryalus, Promachus and Sthenelus, over the ongoing failure. And when I spend time with Diomedes, now strung as tense as a bow string, he’s ostracised by his kin for his friendship with me and his allegiance to Athena.
I can see him turning in on himself as his brooding turns bitter. Spurned by his kindred and alternatively driven and rejected by the virgin goddess he blindly adores…
A nasty mix for an eighteen-year-old, especially if you add in a decent dollop of adolescent sexual frustration.
Meanwhile, priests of Ares and Zeus and even Apollo are entering the Argive camp, telling whoever will listen that the All-Father is displeased at this ‘futile and unnecessary war’. And Adrastus just stares at the walls, lost in memories.
Something has to break.
* * *
At the beginning of the fourth week, my little Ithacan enclave at the rear of the Argive lines receives a visitor. He comes in under cover of darkness when I’m having yet another in a series of increasingly frustrated discussions with Menelaus, Bria and Eurybates, as we try to find a way through this deadlock. We’re in the midst of a heated debate over how long we can afford to persist before we give up and leave the Argives to it, when a soft voice calls from the edge of the firelight.
‘Prince Odysseus, may I join you?’
My guards are startled – they never saw the grey-clad newcomer arrive, but when he drops the fold of the cloak that has covered his head, revealing a bald pate, an angular face and deep-set eyes, I wave them away. ‘Doripanes!’ I greet him. ‘What are you doing here?’
Doripanes is a friend from Pytho, a priest who protected me last year from the Pythia herself. That’s because he’s also one of Athena’s most vital servants: her spy in the inner sanctum of her rival, Hera.
‘The Pythia sent me here to see what transpires,’ he says, in his composed way. He clasps my hands and Menelaus’s, embraces Bria warmly – they’re old allies – and nods at Eurybates before joining us at the fire. ‘She’s worried about this war.’
‘It’s not much of one,’ I tell him.
We give him a precis of events so far, describing the predicament the attackers find themselves in: a hopeless siege, with the only likely outcomes either a costly defeat or a humiliating retreat. I admit that I have my two Ithacan ships standing by near the coast if we do have to withdraw, though I emphasize that Doripanes has to keep this to himself – the last thing I want is for any of the Argives to hear of it. Thousands of men won’t fit onto two galleys designed for sixty men apiece.
Doripanes takes this in silently. When I’ve finished, he sips his wine then says, ‘The Pythia is highly concerned about this rogue prophecy from Delos.’
I’m sure she is, given she regards herself as the paramount seer in Achaea, and indeed the world.
There’s another complication, of course: the Pythia is my own grandmother, but regards me as an abomination, being a son of Sisyphus, whom Hera hated.
‘So Delos still hasn’t communicated directly with my grandmother?’ I enquire archly.
Doripanes gives me a half-smile. ‘Agamemnon told her what he knew, of course, as soon as he heard from Adrastus, but by that time the account was fourth-hand. So I was despatched to Delos for confirmation of the actual words, but High Priestess Sophronia refused to see me. However I did manage to discover it was probably you that told the Epigoni what was said.’
‘Who did you learn that from?’ I ask. ‘Did you meet…’ I’m about to say Arnacia, before I remind myself she’s changed her name ‘…er, Penelope?’
‘No, but I was approached by her maid, a girl called Actoris.’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘Very little, apart from the fact that you had somehow acquired information about the prophecy.’
I tap the side of my nose – let him speculate. What’s fascinating me is that Arnacia-now-Penelope is secretly prepared to defy her superiors on Delos – perhaps because she doesn’t trust Sophronia to defend the traditions of the Artemis cult against the Easterners. Perhaps my attempts to wean her away from Artemis might yet bear fruit?
‘Are you able to discuss what you heard with me?’ Doripanes asks.
‘Of course.’ I would trust Doripanes with my life; in truth, I’ve done so before. ‘As we interpret it, Arnacia’s words told us that Thebes is not as impregnable as people believe, and that the Thebans and Trojans are secretly allied. An Argive victory here would weaken the threat the Trojans pose to Achaea.’
We go over the exact prophecy together, with Doripanes immediately focusing on the phrase, “Blinded the Seer, blinding his words”. ‘“Blinding his words”,’ he repeats, leaning forward. ‘You see, this is one of the most troubling aspects for us in Pytho: we pride ourselves in being the supreme oracle. Other sites have their special linkages to specific spirits and daemons, which give them certain insights at times, but it is Pytho which is pre-eminent. We see the big pict
ure more clearly than any other oracle. At times, I confess, we’ve misled ourselves and misinterpreted small matters, but on things as important as Thebes, Troy and the fate of Achaea, we should never be wrong.’
‘Perhaps standards are slipping?’ Bria sniffs. ‘Is Hera weakening?’
Doripanes looks at her with narrowed eyes. ‘You’re quite wrong – under the current Pythia, we’ve never seen more clearly. Even Hekuba of Troy sent her daughter to consult us last year, as you know.’
‘So you think this girl on Delos is wrong?’ Menelaus asks. ‘Did she misspeak her words? Or were they recorded wrongly,’ he says, blushing – he knows I was the scribe. ‘Or have we misinterpreted them?’
‘It’s possible,’ Doripanes says, looking at me.
Even I feel doubt at this point. But I have a question for him. ‘How well do the Pythia and Tiresias get on?’
Doripanes bares his teeth. ‘That snake is not welcome at Pytho, and never will be. If he dares to come we’ll take his life.’
I’m a little taken aback at his vehemence. ‘So Hera really was pissed off at him over saying who gets the best orgasms,’ I remark drily.
‘That old tavern tale?’ Doripanes laughs, shaking his head. ‘No, the antipathy is much deeper than that. Tiresias was once one of us – a servant of Hera, and our greatest male seer. But he transgressed: he tried to make the site his, by deception. He stole into the heart of the sanctuary and walked the Serpent’s Path in the dead of night, seeking to bind the daemons of Pytho to his will. It was an attack more deadly to us than one by a thousand men, but the goddess herself fought back, inhabiting the incumbent Pythia and driving him out, though it cost her that avatar’s life.’
This is all news to me. ‘Walking the Serpent’s Path’ is the phrase used for the process of the seer entering the spirit world to gain insights into the future – not something I’ve ever done in earnest. One day I know I must, if I’m to use my own latent oracular gifts, granted to me by my ancestor Prometheus last year alongside my propensity for fire and other talents. But for now, I believe I’m a long way from being ready.
‘Clearly Tiresias can still prophesise, despite not having Hera’s patronage,’ I observe.
‘He went straight to the cult of Apollo with all his knowledge, and now he’s the pre-eminent rogue prophet in Achaea. He has deep-rooted connections to the spirit world – at times the current Pythia still encounters his daemon when she walks the Serpent’s Path.’
‘So, earlier you said that the Pythia has at times been misled on small matters? Is it possible that Tiresias could deceive her on large ones?’
‘Perhaps, but all other sites, including Dodona, have agreed on Thebes being impregnable. Until now, of course.’
‘How sure can you be that they haven’t been tampered with too?’ Bria suggests. ‘Perhaps Tiresias has you all in the palm of his hand?’
Doripanes gives her a fraught look. ‘That’s the fear that draws me here.’
‘Are you saying that Tiresias could have blinded every seer to Thebes’s vulnerability?’ Menelaus asks. ‘Agamemnon loathes Laodamas and Creon, but he’s been too worried by that prophecy to march on them, though at times the Thebans have defied us beyond all tolerance.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’
‘How would he do it?’ I enquire.
‘You’re ever the practical one,’ Doripanes says approvingly. ‘Tiresias needs an oracular site of his own to work through, and there’s one such place near Thebes: the Springs of Cithairon. They’re high on a mountain range of the same name, some ten miles south of the city. Tiresias’s mother dwells there – the nymph-spirit Chariclo. She inhabited a young woman during a sexual encounter and Tiresias was conceived. Chariclo still haunts the place and is his spirit guide. It’s the centre of his power – and therefore, his vulnerability.’
‘We landed just to the west of Mount Cithairon,’ says Eurybates. ‘How hard is it to reach the Springs?’
‘It will require a theios’s strength and endurance,’ Doripanes replies. ‘I understand the Thebans still control the approaches to the mountain, despite your siege.’
‘You understand correctly,’ I tell him. ‘The Epigoni couldn’t blockade a paddock.’
Doripanes smiles. ‘So I gather. But I also understand the trail to Mount Cithairon to be lightly patrolled, with the sentries linked by a system of signals, so that anyone at the shrine beside the Springs can be informed of any hostile approach.’
‘How do you know?’ Menelaus interrupts curiously.
‘It’s my business to know such things,’ Doripanes replies. ‘I have people inside Thebes, and ways to get messages out. They tell me that Tiresias is going to the Springs tomorrow, to commune with Chariclo. If you can reach the Springs undetected, you could intercept him.’
I’m intrigued and excited – to catch Tiresias in the open and eliminate him might change everything. ‘Will he be alone?’ I ask Doripanes.
‘No, he’ll have guards with him. Even by himself, he’s a formidable force, especially there, the very source of his power.’
We’ll need a small group to escape detection, but an elite one, so we’ll still be able to deal with the seer. A job for theioi. I exchange a glance with Bria, who is looking just as interested.
‘Getting up the lower slopes of the mountain won’t be easy,’ Doripanes warns. ‘The only section that’s not closely watched is considered unclimbable. The Springs are some way further on, hidden in the ridges below the summit of Mount Cithairon. The path to the Springs will likely be patrolled, and the Spring itself has its own perils.’
‘We should do it, though,’ Menelaus blurts.
‘We will,’ I tell him, ‘but you won’t, O Crown Prince of Achaea! Agamemnon would have my head if anything happened to you.’
Menelaus looks crestfallen, but he knows I’m right. Despite their prominence, his family outgrew theios blood several generations ago.
‘I’ll lead this mission,’ I tell Doripanes.
‘“Lead”,’ Bria snorts. ‘The new kid wants to lead…’
‘It’s all right,’ I tell her, ‘you can come, if you promise to behave. And we’ll need Diomedes – young or not, he’s one of the best warriors I’ve ever seen.’
‘A good choice,’ Doripanes agrees. ‘I’d accompany you myself, but this old body isn’t up to such a climb.’ I can understand that: even a theios is subject to age, and Doripanes doesn’t have a champion’s physical gifts. ‘But I can tell you what you’ll find at the Springs…’
He has much to say to us, and I’ve more than a few questions of my own: about the Serpent’s Path and how a misleading prophecy could be propagated. What I learn is both exciting and profoundly daunting, and it’s well after midnight before any of us lie down to sleep, and hours more before I end my conversation with Doripanes and fall into a fitful doze.
* * *
Before we can leave, Diomedes has to get both Adrastus’s and Alcmaeon’s permission to relinquish direct command of his men for a few days and join our venture, and in return Alcmaeon demands that he comes with us as our leader. It’s a matter of trust – or rather, lack of it: he doesn’t trust me.
We’ve no choice but to agree.
Alcmaeon brings three Argives with him, presumably to outnumber us ‘unreliable’ followers of Athena. There’s a nimble-looking archer named Meratides and two big warriors – Xelos and inevitably, Kossos, the malevolent comrade of the late Stroma. Kossos fixes me with a vicious look, glaring at me down a nose still misshapen from the blow I gave him at that Corinthian village. I protest but Alcmaeon’s not interested in my objections.
‘My men don’t turn on their own,’ he says loftily, implying that I was the one at fault in Stroma’s death. No doubt Kossos has already given him his own version of events.
I’ll have to watch my back all the way. Wonderful.
After I’ve impressed on my men that they must guard Menelaus and Doripanes with their lives, we set
off southwards at dusk, across an undulating plain that we’ve spent the previous weeks of the siege pillaging and burning. We’re wary of roaming Theban patrols, because secrecy is crucial. Nonetheless we reach the foothills of Mount Cithairon without incident and, more importantly, without being seen.
We find the place Doripanes told us of – high cliffs at the head of a narrow gorge between two known goat tracks leading to the upper mountain, both well guarded. To avoid detection, scaling the cliffs has to be done in total darkness, which isn’t ideal for climbing. With a crescent moon dipping behind the mountain ridges to our west as we enter the gorge, there’s not enough light for an ordinary man, but just enough for a theios. We wind our way up through thorny underbrush, and over and around tumbled boulders to reach the base of our climb. Here we’re forced to leave our shields – it’s impossible to climb with them, and hauling them up after ourselves will make too much noise.
The rock is smooth limestone weathered into overhanging flutes and narrow cracks, with barely enough for our fingers to grip hold of and almost nowhere to attach our ropes. Doripanes was right: only a theios champion could do this. I hand the Great Bow to Diomedes and go first: I’m a good climber, with strong fingers and arms.
The first rope length’s the worst, a tiny crevice I can barely get my fingers into, which becomes a chimney almost too wide to span. If I get up this first pitch and attach a rope, the others will find it easier. I almost fall, twice – but I don’t. It’s probably half an hour but feels longer before I can find an acceptable belay point and send my rope snaking back down. Bria comes up next with another rope and I take this second length up a further stage while she belays the rest of our party. I find a rock shelf not far below the crest of the cliff where we can gather before we make the final scramble to the top, and give the rope a couple of sharp tugs to let the others know they can follow.
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