I unstring the bow to keep the gut dry till I’m ready to use it, and sling my quiver over my shoulder. ‘Shall we?’
‘Good luck,’ Meratides wishes me in a mocking voice. ‘Try not to think of them as living men.’
If he can aim an arrow as well as he aims a barb, he’ll do well. All I can think of as I work my way down the trail is that these are men, with families, parents, siblings, probably wives and children, and that I’ve never killed a man from hiding before. But I wrestle those thoughts down as I traverse the woodland below, clamber across the inevitable waterfall and through more dense undergrowth to reach the opposite escarpment. This is war, just as much as drawn blades and massed charges, or so I tell myself.
I slither into position high on the crest of a sharp ridge, above a rock face overlooking the lower pool. Perched behind a small outcrop, I now overlook the men we’re going to shoot, and the steep path up the side of the cataract. Visibility is still very patchy, the cloud surging about to blur everything in mist. The noise of the stream echoes off the cliffs and the air is cold and damp. Timing is going to be important. If the mist thickens after Alcmaeon gives his signal, I’ll end up shooting blind.
I spot Meratides behind a tree opposite me, on the other side of the clearing, and wonder, What if he uses this opportunity to shoot me? He’s a friend of Kossos, and Kossos will be eager to avenge Stroma’s death…
But I have to clear that from my mind. I string the bow and prepare the two shots I’ll make by laying out my arrows. I add an extra for good measure, just in case Meratides and I both aim at the same man. I have only a guess as to how long I have, so whenever the mist allows I focus on my most likely targets, the pair of men closest to my side of the pool, and decide which of them will be the more difficult to hit.
Then I wait…
The signal that arrives isn’t subtle – the cloud below me thins and Alcmaeon, Bria, Diomedes, Xelos and Kossos simply walk into view. The four Thebans freeze, and for a moment all their attention is on the newcomers.
Meratides shoots as do I, and we both aim true. My first arrow takes the man I’ve sighted in the throat and he drops, and immediately I’m focusing on my next target as my hands flick through placing my second arrow, nocking, drawing, aiming as he looks sideways, seeing his fallen comrades and opening his mouth to holler.
Two arrows slam into his chest, mine and Meratides’s, and I curse: we’ve left the fourth to yell and run for his life, pelting towards the bottom of the path beside the cataract. I snatch up my reserve arrow, sight as swiftly as I can and let loose, but there are boulders in my way and it’s Meratides’s shaft that strikes the fugitive in the middle of his back and takes him down. I’ve been outmanoeuvred: Meratides took out a man he knew I’d see as my target, while making sure he had the best line of sight on the last of our victims.
It’s clever – but it’s also the most fucking irresponsible thing he could have done. There’s a real chance he’s alerted the Thebans. Just to win a wager.
Swearing under my breath, I scramble down, out of sight on the far side of my ridge, not merely in case he sends a shaft my way. I’ve seen something Meratides can’t have – from here I can clamber along a ledge below the lip of the ridge, cross a rocky slope and jump a narrow ravine to scale the back of the tower overlooking the path to the upper pool. There’s likely a sentry up there, who I’ll need to kill as quickly as possible to prevent the man raising the alarm.
If he hasn’t done so already…
It’s doable so long as I can avoid dislodging any loose rocks before scaling the back of the tower – or if I do, hope the sound is masked by the gushing cataract. I put the bow over my shoulder, shuffle along the ledge and leap from outcrop to outcrop, thrusting doubt aside as I plant my feet and hurl myself across the ravine. For a moment a gulf opens up beneath me, and then I strike the far wall, clawing for a foot- and handhold and finding enough purchase to cling on. There’s no time for prayers of thanks, though. I find first one toehold and then another and look up. There are bigger gaps between the rough stones of the wall above, and as I progress I’m able to move more confidently. Just before the top of the tower, I take a moment to draw breath and peer back between my legs.
I can’t see the bottom of the ravine for the cloud, but I can sense the ragged rocks far below. A fall would have killed me.
But it didn’t.
I ease my head over the parapet. There’s a solitary sentry, and he doesn’t know I’m here. But he’s alert, leaning over the far parapet and staring out into the mist. Could he have heard the fourth man yelling, over the roar of the water? Or did he just react to something out of the ordinary, a sixth sense of something amiss that all good guards develop?
I leap on him from behind, my left hand over his mouth to stop his cries while I drive my dagger between his ribs. He convulses in my arms, then goes limp as I lay him down. That’s now two unsuspecting men I’ve killed, I muse in some disgust. Three, if I count the man Meratides and I both shot. I seem to be getting good at this…
Now the mist cloud swirls and parts again, just long enough to stare down at the cataract. I glimpse all but one of our party running up the winding path next to it. I can also see Meratides – he’s at the lower pool and about to start climbing after them. So Alcmaeon is simply going to charge his way into the shrine…
I can’t get ahead of him, so I’m left with little option but to give him cover. I draw my bow again as three Theban archers emerge over the lip at the top of the path, taking up a defensive position there in good cover among a cluster of boulders, well protected from anyone coming up the path.
Is this routine, or did the sentry alert them somehow?
Either way, they’re completely exposed to my position, and I take careful aim through the gap. My first shaft punches into the side of the rearmost archer, and the other two, looking away from me, are slow to react: I’ve shot the next one in the neck – that’s five unsuspecting men – before the last of them finally looks up at the tower and sees me. We shoot at the same time, but he’s scared and shoots wide, while I hold my nerve and aim straight, taking him in the chest and driving him to his knees.
Then Alcmaeon and Diomedes appear through the mist, sprinting up the path, with Bria, Kossos and Xelos on their heels to find three expiring foes. I bound down the steps inside the tower and emerge at the base to greet them. ‘About time,’ I say, just to annoy them.
The Epigoni prince glares at me. ‘How did you get up here so fast? Have you been here before?’
What, so now he thinks I’m Tiresias’s spy and luring him into a trap?
‘I spotted an alternative route and got lucky,’ I tell him. And killed four more of the enemy in the process, if you’d bothered to notice, you arrogant kopros…
‘We need to keep moving,’ Bria snaps.
She’s right, and Alcmaeon knows it. Giving me a doubtful look, he signals us forward, just as Meratides joins us, out of breath. Bria, Meratides and I notch arrows to our bows and we all take the last climb at a run, cresting the slope to reach the edge of the upper pool just as the mist clears again. It’s fairly big, perhaps twenty strides across, and very deep, judging by the dark, clear water welling up from a source far below the surface. On the other side of the pool is a man-made platform of stone built over a natural outcrop, with a stone spire set in the forefront and broad steps leading down to the water’s edge.
Our advent is greeted with consternation, but not panic. Fresh guards were heading towards us to reinforce their comrades at the rise we’ve just cleared, but when we appear they back up and position themselves around the two sorcerers.
Tiresias and Manto are at the centre of a stone platform overlooking the upper pool, in the dusky shadows of an overhanging cliff. Both are resplendent in scarlet, with three Theban warriors beside them. The other men are seemingly ordinary soldiers, ten of them forming a shield wall and another six arrayed behind them with bent bows. Their officer is standing behind the a
rchers, his plumed helm nodding as he takes his orders from Tiresias.
I curse under my breath. So much for taking them by surprise – our best chance of success. My shaft is aimed squarely at Tiresias, because if anyone is going to get killed here, it’s him. Bria and Meratides have the same idea, so there are three arrows that’ll take him down. But we’ve left our shields at the base of the cliffs we climbed, so as soon as we open fire, we’ll receive a volley of arrows in return, with little means to protect ourselves.
If we’re all killed, it’s hardly going to help the Argives conquer Thebes.
But for all that they outnumber us, no one takes that first, fatal step. I’m reminded of wild animals I’ve seen during hunts in Sparta in my youth – wolves, lions and the like. They don’t fight each other except in great need, for they know that even victory carries the risk of wounds that become infected and kill.
No one here wants to die. If we were lions, we’d growl at each other, then back away. Two of the enemy archers re-aim – at me. But they’re still holding their fire, awaiting Tiresias’s command. If he or Alcmaeon speak, there will be a bloodbath, the outcome uncertain, even for the two commanders. Neither of them seem eager for an unnecessary death.
It’s an impasse. For now…
‘Well?’ I call out, trying to sound braver than I feel. ‘Who wants to die first?’
We all hold our breath, trembling on the edge of violence. But then the grey-haired seer exchanges a look with his black-haired, imperious daughter and steps forward to the edge of the platform, overlooking the pool. His resonant, androgynous voice fills the space.
‘Hail, Alcmaeon, son of Amphiaraus. Welcome to the Springs of Cithairon, sacred to Chariclo. Hail Diomedes, son of Tydeus. Greeting also to thee, Odysseus, son of… ah, Laertes. What brings you all to this holy place, with weapons drawn?’
‘You know why we’re here,’ Alcmaeon retorts, his voice harsh and discordant beside the music of Tiresias’s tones. ‘You wrestled the throne of Thebes from Polynices and his issue, for your puppet king Laodamas. We demand our birthright!’
‘Everyone wants a throne,’ Tiresias observes drily, ‘and everyone claims it’s their birthright. All I know is that the man who sits on a throne is the one with the strength to hold it. With Creon’s help, King Laodamas is that man in Thebes. Not Adrastus or Alcmaeon or Thersander or whoever else wants it. Your army is weak, your siege is ineffectual and the kings of Corinth and Mycenae and Attica tire of your warmongering. Best you all flee before they turn against you. You know the true prophecies: Thebes is impregnable, and Laodamas will remain its ruler. Your invasion is doomed.’
‘Not so!’ Alcmaeon shouts, brandishing his fist. ‘We know the new oracle’s words! You’ve been lying to the world, Tiresias, you old suagros! Thebes will fall, pig-fucker – to me! I will bring her gates crashing down!’
‘So speaks the “Charioteer”,’ Tiresias sneers. My heart beats harder. He seems to have interpreted Arnacia’s prophecy much as we have – does he believe it’s true? ‘Although there are many possible interpretations,’ the sorcerer continues, ‘from Helios the Sun God to a dozen other charioteering champions in Thebes alone… if it’s not just the arrant nonsense of a neophyte seer.’ He puts his hand on his hip in a feminine way, peering across at us condescendingly. ‘But that’s the heart of it, isn’t it? You’re here because one prophet says something you desperately want to be true, taken second-hand from a lying Ithacan you’d be better to wrap in chains.’
Damn, he’s good. In a few short moments, he’s got the Epigoni prince and his men – who despise me anyway – transfixed by his words and wavering. ‘You’re the liar here, Tiresias,’ I shout, anxious that his isn’t the only voice being heard. ‘I know what you did in Ithaca, and I know what you’re doing here! The Pythia cast you out for good reason, you poisonous serpent!’
‘Name-calling, Man of Fire?’ he replies haughtily. ‘How disappointing. With your growing reputation I’d hoped such pettiness beneath you. Finding worthy adversaries is so hard at my age.’ He descends the stairs to the edge of the pool, his posture confident, and returns his attention to Alcmaeon. I’m longing to put an arrow through his treacherous heart, and I’m sure he knows it. But at this distance it’s a chancy shot, and we didn’t come here to commit mass suicide. He knows that too.
So we’re forced to listen to the old man as he declaims. ‘I have a suggestion, Prince Alcmaeon,’ he calls across the water. ‘This whole foolish invasion seems to rest on conflicting prophesies. We could resolve it with bloodshed, or let the oracles contend! Let a seer of yours – I’m told the Man of Fire has gifts in that field – walk the Serpent’s Path with my daughter, and see what truths emerge!’
My skin prickles. What is he suggesting? How does he know of my gifts? My latent gifts. What questions has he asked the spirit world about me? Why is he offering Manto, not himself?
Why is he offering anything at all?
It doesn’t take long for me realize what he’s up to. Yes, killing us would be a major blow for the Epigoni, but victory isn’t assured. But discrediting Arnacia-Penelope’s words in front of Alcmaeon, denying the new prophecy and reinforcing the myth of Thebes’s impregnability will do far more harm to our cause.
Is winning – whatever that might look like – even possible here, at the shrine to his own mother?
I’m sure it’s a trap, but I’ve just spent a night probing Doripanes about the Serpent’s Path and he’s allayed some of my fears of it, so much so that I’ve been hankering for the opportunity to test myself. And I believe in Arnacia’s prophecy, which means that if the real truth does emerge, it must be our truth: that Thebes can be conquered after all. Alcmaeon will then know for sure that I can be trusted and that this war can be won.
And I also know that if I refuse this test, Alcmaeon will never believe me again. He might even kill me right here, if Tiresias’s men don’t do it for him. I can feel his eyes on me, full of suspicion, and the malice of Kossos and the cold-hearted greed of Meratides are just as palpable. To back out risks almost certain death.
Do I have the strength to reach into the spirit world? To not only wrestle the truth from Tiresias’s lying grasp but proclaim it? Two nights ago, Doripanes seemed to think so.
On the other hand, I’ve never yet walked the Serpent’s Path, and Manto is the daughter of the greatest seer alive, and a powerful sorceress in her own right. She must have done this many times. Accepting Tiresias’s challenge could be just as suicidal as rejecting it.
But I’m cornered. ‘Very well,’ I call out.
Tiresias answers with a faint, triumphant smile.
* * *
The Theban captain – almost certainly a theios – orders his men to stand at ease, but they still remain arrayed facing us, and their weapons are close to hand. Tiresias has climbed back up to the platform, where he’s conferring with his daughter. At last able to move without fear of being shot, I shed my weapons – my xiphos, my dagger, and hand the Great Bow to Bria.
‘Don’t let that priapus Meratides get hold of this,’ I tell her. It sounds like a dying bequest. ‘I’m going to need it later,’ I add, unconvincingly.
Alcmaeon and his cronies are whispering together, and Diomedes is hovering, caught between his kin and his loyalties to Athena. But then he joins us, clapping my shoulder. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ he asks.
‘I know the theory,’ I reply. ‘Doripanes explained it to me. I think I know what to expect.’
‘You’ll win, I have no doubt of it,’ Diomedes declares, with the invulnerable confidence of youth.
I smile – he’s only three years younger than me. Was I once that naive? ‘I’ll do my best,’ I tell them both.
Bria kisses my cheek. ‘For luck – you’re going to need it.’
Diomedes seems to think this means we’re lovers, because he goes red, stammers something and backs off to give us privacy. I roll my eyes and Bria grins. Then I ask something I’ve been mea
ning to find out for weeks. ‘Bria, are you – I mean, the body you’re wearing – is she really pregnant to Hephaestus?’
Her smile turns a little sour. ‘It would seem so. She missed her last bleeding.’
‘Hades’s Balls, was that in your plan?’ I ask.
‘Hardly. I wasn’t terribly sure about the cycles of this body, but I thought I was all right. Hephaestus’s seed – in that place – must have been quite potent.’ She gives a small shudder at the memory. ‘I think he’d have knocked me up, no matter what stage I was in my courses.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
She gives me a shy, hopeful look. ‘I’m, we’re going to carry it to term, and give it life. It’s been a long, long time since I bore a child.’ She hugs her breasts suddenly. ‘I owe it to Genia – that’s the girl whose body I’m in – to help her through this.’
‘Will the Smith come knocking when he finds out?’
‘Who knows?’ She pats my arm. ‘Anyway, that’s another day’s problem. How are you going to get through this challenge? You know that a mistake on the Serpent’s Path can kill you?’
I nod grimly. ‘Yes. Doripanes was at pains to point that out, but what choice do I have? Back down and we’re screwed, both in terms of the war, and probably any chance of leaving this place alive.’
Just then, Tiresias claps his hands, drawing our attention to the platform. We all stare as Manto, all sultry, sinuous movement, glides down the stairs to the edge of the pool. ‘Come to the water,’ she calls to me. ‘We’re ready to begin.’
I feel my mouth go dry. But with the eyes of friends and foes boring into me, I walk forward, right to the edge of the pool. The water’s so crystalline I can see dozens of feet down, into a deep shaft of rock filled with pure liquid. I flex my shoulders, take a long breath and try to clear my mind.
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