Oracle's War

by Oracle's War (retail) (epub)

  I point all this out, while Alcmaeon listens stonily and those with him carp, but Adrastus listens with the air of a man hearing the mechanics of his own execution. ‘I don’t hear anything that gives me hope,’ he mutters.

  ‘They seem to have every advantage,’ I agree. ‘We need to do the unexpected, in order to turn the tables on them and gain the upper hand. I believe I know a way.’

  ‘Pah!’ Thersander begins to object, but Alcmaeon – reluctantly – raises a hand to forestall him.

  ‘Go on,’ he says grudgingly.

  So I do, and within the hour we’ve reached agreement. They aren’t happy – they mistrust me, and fear for their honour as much as for their lives – but no one has an alternative that doesn’t involve merely lining up to die.

  * * *

  Not a lot of sleeping happens that night: once the strategy is agreed, it has to be disseminated to those who must be told, for those with key roles need to prepare their men. Alcmaeon and I review the placement of every unit, to ensure all is as we require it. We don’t like each other – far from it – but I think a grudging respect emerges, from him for my deviousness and from me for his tactical acumen and willingness to bend rules. Like me, he’d rather win than die. I think when the breakfast fires are lit tomorrow, we’ll make a fight of it, he and I.

  Once that’s done, we return to our own units and I brief my men, who aren’t surprised they’ve been given a key role: it seems yesterday’s action has instilled some confidence in them – in my methods, and their own abilities. They’re with me, and that’s some relief.

  I take Menelaus aside. ‘I don’t wish—’ I begin, but my friend cuts in before I can speak further.

  ‘You don’t wish me to be hurt, or even to be put in any harm’s way?’ he asks with a crooked smile.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, too bad. Achaea needs our victory, even if my brother doesn’t realize that. We’re fighting Thebes to protect Achaea from the Trojans. So I will be fighting at your side – the safest place I can identify.’

  That gets us both laughing.

  We all prepare for battle in different ways: some men go inwards, thinking of their lives and families and making peace with themselves. Others seek friends and talk of anything but the hours to come. Some seek out the priests, praying for luck and for courage. Some drink or go to the camp women.

  I’m the gregarious sort: I go from fire to fire, and sit a while with whoever is there, listening as much as talking, offering encouragement if I can. I feel the weight of these men’s lives on my shoulders, though truthfully I’m among the youngest here. But it’s what Laertes would do.

  Menelaus, having volunteered to fight, is rightly nervous. Bria takes him in hand, predictably enough: by which I mean she seduces him, quite brazenly. I suspect she’s just doing it to annoy me, but I have no problems with it. No one knows what tomorrow might bring, so I’m glad my friend has what I presume is a good night.

  I’m with Diomedes when the sun rises, sitting on an outcropping rock south of the crucial defile we’re defending. ‘What do you hope for today?’ I ask him, as we finish the last mouthful of spiced wine.

  ‘Glory,’ he replies, his handsome, chiselled features lit by the rising sun, golden light gleaming in his black curls. I expect Adonis looked a lot like Diomedes. ‘What else is there?’

  ‘Victory,’ I remind him.

  ‘Victory with honour – or death with glory,’ he says solemnly. ‘They are the only paths to the Elysian Fields.’

  I’d take a dishonourable victory any day, but I don’t voice that. In truth, I’m no wiser about our chances than he is. I’ve not held a battle line, and all I know of fighting has been in small skirmishes and single combat. Will my own courage hold? I don’t yet know, but I’m determined it will.

  Then trumpets sound, to rouse those few who’ve slept, and our camp comes alive. Across the plain, the Theban army awakens also, amidst bells and drums and brazen blasts. It still takes all of two hours though, before we see them emerge. They’ve food to consume, libations to pour and ritual purification to perform before their soldiers strap on their armour and line up to march forward and confront us, stirring the summer dust with thousands of booted feet.

  By then we’ve already taken our places, roughly three thousand Argives manning the lines, with the rest of the army nowhere to be seen. My Ithacans are in their allotted positions: more than half are concealed up on the heights above the ravine, commanded by Nelomon and Bria and armed with bows and javelins and spears. I’ve kept my forty best spearmen with me, along with Menelaus, ready to take my promised position just behind Adrastus’s men in the centre. Eurybates is with me, to run messages and relay orders, perhaps the most critical role of all.

  I join the king and the Epigoni as they line their chariots up in the centre, bickering quietly among themselves and none too welcoming when I arrive. Adrastus is fully armoured for the fight, despite his age and his crippled leg. The lines of their foot soldiers stretch out on either side; they’re weak – thin and porous. The result seems preordained.

  ‘The gods see all, Odysseus of Ithaca,’ mutters Sthenelus – the most pious of the Epigoni – as I approach.

  ‘Good,’ I reply shortly. ‘They might learn something.’

  His eyes narrow at this impiety. ‘Betray us and you will suffer for eternity.’

  ‘Conversely, then, the rewards for my loyalty and success shall also be eternal,’ I tell him, and that about exhausts his capacity for banter. I slap his armoured shoulder and join Alcmaeon to watch the Thebans form up. We can make out Creon and Laodamas and their entourage – some of them much-vaunted warriors – as they take their places opposite our position, only a few hundred yards away. Most of them are in chariots too, as befits their station. It will be interesting to see if they use them as a mobile attacking unit ahead of the foot soldiers’ advance, as the Egyptians and Hittites do, or follow their footmen in, or indeed dismount to fight.

  Two red-robed figures flank Creon, the Theban king-maker: Tiresias and Manto. Tiresias’s arms are raised and I can just make out his voice, wailing some prayer, undoubtedly to Apollo. But my eyes are drawn to another figure with the two seers: a woman wearing a cloak with eagle wings capping each shoulder. The cloak is open at the front, and either she’s got the most lifelike gold filigree armour ever made, or she’s bare-breasted and daubed in gold leaf. Her face is hidden by a lion’s mask.

  So that’s one of the Sphinxes…

  When I point the Sphinx priestess out to Alcmaeon, his hackles rise. ‘I’ll send her back to Zeus with her head rammed up her cunt,’ he growls, spitting contemptuously, but I can see the anxiety through the layers of bravado.

  Zeus has sent one of his emissaries to show open support for Thebes, now that victory seems assured – to Alcmaeon this must seem like more soil cast on the grave of his dreams. For my part I’m in disguise – I’ve darkened my hair with walnut juice, as I did before on Delos, and I’m wearing plain armour, to conceal from Tiresias the fact that I’m alive. It may make no difference to our master plan but I don’t wish the seer to be alerted to the slightest possibility of trickery. We want the Thebans to feel invincible, and careless with it.

  The Theban army is impressive: rank on rank of well-disciplined men, armoured, helmeted, grasping thick-hafted war spears and moving in time to their drums as they array opposite our positions, outnumbering our three thousand men several times over.

  I hear the Theban captains pointing to our lines and shouting, ‘Half the cowards have deserted overnight, lads! We’ll roll through them! Zeus and Apollo are with us!’

  Around me, I can feel the Argive soldiers sweat, as the reality of what they face today confronts them. All logic and tradition says that we’ll all die.

  We’re expecting archery, and then an overwhelming frontal assault, but to our surprise a white flag is waved. The Thebans were in no mood to talk yesterday, so this respite is puzzling. I first suspect Tiresias m
erely wants to taunt Adrastus one last time, but in fact the seer isn’t one of the four men who come forward. Instead it’s Creon who emerges, with King Laodamas and two royal champions acting as charioteers.

  Adrastus grimaces, then nods to Alcmaeon, his general, and Aegialaus, his son. Under parley tokens, the three of them are driven forward and dismount from their chariots to talk, while their charioteers stand at their horses’ heads, calming them. I’d love to be there, but instead maintain my anonymity, watching them confer from a distance. It doesn’t take long, and when they return, the king and his kin are clearly angry.

  ‘King Laodamas demands a duel with our best champion,’ Adrastus announces once he’s dismounted from the chariot. ‘He insists it must be one of the Epigoni.’

  It’s not uncommon for champions to seek duels before a battle – there’s glory to be won and personal feuds to be settled – but sometimes it’s a way of neutralizing a dangerous foe before battle is joined. I immediately suspect this challenge falls into the latter category.

  ‘Who’s the best fighter amongst the “Offspring”?’ I ask Adrastus quietly, amidst the uproar.

  ‘In all things,’ he replies, ‘it is Alcmaeon. Diomedes shows promise, but he’s not yet as experienced. The others are all god-touched, but none have the strength of will or dedication of Alcmaeon. It has to be him.’

  I don’t like Alcmaeon one whit, but I presume the king is right about his abilities. But not only is Alcmaeon his only experienced field commander, he’s absolutely crucial to our plan. ‘Will he win?’

  Adrastus shoots me a look: ‘Have you not heard of Laodamas, the son of Eteocles? The man’s a killer! He burned his own aunts alive for permitting an honourable burial for Polynices. He’s built like Ares himself.’

  ‘So you refused the duel, surely?’

  Adrastus gives me an incredulous look. ‘No, such a challenge can never be refused. Creon called upon Apollo to witness “the craven Epigoni in their last hours”, and Laodamas cursed us, one and all. Alcmaeon will fight Laodamas, for it is better to die than to submit to such churlish defamation.’

  ‘But we need Alcmaeon! I spent half last night going over our battle plan with him! The rest of his brethren went to bed! If we lose him, all our planning is for naught!’

  Adrastus gives me a deathly look. ‘Our plans are for naught anyway, Prince Odysseus. You gave us hope, so that we stayed when we might have run. That’s all I ever wanted of you. Victory is beyond us.’

  I curse inwardly, but all I can do is bow to him before I hurry away. I have only a few moments to save the battle, and we’ve not even started fighting yet.

  Alcmaeon has already dismounted from his chariot in preparation, for the combat will be fought on foot, first with javelins and then with swords. His kindred have also dismounted and are pressed around him, offering all manner of advice. ‘Stay low,’ they’re saying; ‘keep moving,’ ‘watch his feet’ – all standard parade ground patter that we’ve been hearing since we were infants. Sthenelus is praying to Hermes, and Diomedes is seething because he wants to be the one fighting. I shove through, despite the fact they’re all a head taller than me.

  ‘Alcmaeon, you can’t do this!’

  ‘You stay out of it, Ithacan,’ he growls. ‘I’m ready for him. I have a chance.’

  ‘We have a battle plan, damn it! Do any of these morons know it?’

  He scowls. ‘It wouldn’t have worked anyway. You’ve never even been in a battle.’

  ‘It is going to work – but only if we have you directing your men! We don’t have time to brief someone else! Damn you, I am counting on you for victory!’

  Alcmaeon grinds his teeth. ‘You should have heard that proktos out there. He told me that Zeus and Apollo will piss on my corpse! Such insults cannot be swallowed!’

  ‘I’m not asking you to swallow them. If this plan works, we’ll net Laodamas, along with the rest of them. But man on man he’ll gut you, and that’ll break the morale of the men, as well as rob us of our field commander! Don’t you think this isn’t exactly what Creon and Tiresias want? This is a calculated move.’

  He rounds on me, jabbing a finger in my face. ‘Of course I know that! But I have no choice!’

  ‘Yes you do! Swallow your stupid pride and let someone else duel him!’

  ‘They’ll die!’

  ‘Aye, perhaps. But at least we’ll still have you – the man your soldiers look up to, and the only one that can enact our plan of battle.’

  ‘I will not ask someone else to take my place.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ another voice cuts in. ‘I’ll do it.’

  It’s Thersander, the string-bean prince who’s probably the least capable swordsman of the Epigoni.

  ‘You?’ Alcmaeon sniffs. ‘Cousin, you won’t stand a chance.’

  ‘I know,’ the skinny young man says, his voice a little squeaky but his face determined. ‘But Odysseus is right. If it has to be one of us, then let it not be you.’

  ‘Then I’ll fight,’ Diomedes puts in. ‘At least I’ll test him.’

  I’d rather he didn’t – and I’m sure Athena, Queen of Cold Logic, wouldn’t want her new champion thrown away so cheaply. But it’s not my place to argue.

  Then all of them demand to fight at once: Amphilochus, trying to take the burden from his brother; the chorus line of Promachus, Sthenelus and Euryalus joining in because everyone else is… and then another voice cuts across them all. ‘I claim this battle, by right of primogeniture,’ says Prince Aegialaus, Adrastus’s son.

  ‘No,’ they all cry, because he’s the heir of Argos.

  ‘I have the right!’ Aegialaus snaps back, his face white but his eyes blazing. ‘Half the insults of Laodamas were directed at me! ‘Little fool’ he called me. ‘Daddy’s idiot son’. Had I less honour I’d have cut him down under the flag of parley! If any should fight him, it will be me!’

  With that he storms back to Adrastus, loudly demanding the fight, and I expect Adrastus to refuse – though I couldn’t be better pleased at this development. Aegialaus is in all likelihood committing suicide… But I don’t object, so long as Alcmaeon is around to put our battle plan into action.

  I’m still surprised – and everyone else is shocked, I think – when King Adrastus agrees. ‘My son, you make me proud,’ he says. He draws his sword and gives it to Aegialaus, hilt first. ‘Take this, the royal blade of Argos, and bear it to good fortune.’

  I think I understand: the king believes us doomed, and he’d rather his son die a hero, in a duel with a great champion, than being cut down on the battlefield like some common spearman – or worse, being dragged back to Thebes alive, to be executed humiliatingly. By Adrastus’s reckoning, this is the honourable path.

  As for Aegialaus’s thoughts – perhaps he’s cunning enough to realize all this, but the odds are it’s just pig-headed pride and arrogance.

  The watching Argives give a rousing cheer. I sense that Aegialaus isn’t well liked – he’s an angry young man – but this is true heroism in their eyes. As he arms himself, I slip in close – I want to wish him well and, besides, there’s just maybe an opportunity in this.

  ‘Prince Aegialaus,’ I murmur, as a servant tightens his breast- and backplate straps, ‘What is your goal?’

  ‘To die with honour,’ he says, wide-eyed, as he gazes around, drinking in what he expects to be his final sights. I’ve faced death much of late, and I know that feeling. His heart will be pumping, adrenalin surging, every last detail vivid. But I need him to be thinking.

  ‘Aegialaus, listen carefully,’ I tell him. ‘Your goal is not to die, it is to kill him if you can. But if you can’t, wound him. Don’t let him walk away unharmed. Be the key that another man can unlock.’

  He gives me a sharp glance, and his round eyes narrow a little. It’s not much, but we share a nod.

  Then trumpets blast from within the Theban lines, and we all turn our heads to look. Laodamas has come striding out. He’s a massive man in hi
s late twenties, with a bull-like torso and tree-trunk legs. He looks every inch a warrior in his prime, though in theory he’s not yet reached it: in Achaea we say a man is mightiest in his early thirties, when youthful folly has been supplanted by experience. I look more closely and see telltale signs that he’s still enjoying his youth a little too well: the red tip to his nose speaks of too much wine and the dark circles under his eyes of too many nights bedding women instead of sleeping. Perhaps even on this last night that’s just passed.

  If I was Aegialaus, what would I do…?

  But it’s not me fighting. Aegialaus emerges from our ranks, with many a back slap and god-bless, to confront his foe as the two armies draw closer to watch the spectacle. This sort of duel is a time-honoured tradition. Battles have even been declared won and lost on the strength of such a fight. To be the victor is to win undying glory, and a place in the war band of Zeus or Ares – and now Heracles, since his ascension to Olympus – or so the priests promise. And the lore of duels is replete with surprise victories.

  I’m moved; who wouldn’t be? This is primal – death and glory. All young men picture such moments, and even I wonder: how would I fare? Would I comport myself with courage? Would I prove myself? Who is the real me?

  So despite what my head is telling me, my heart is very much with Aegialaus as the young man strides forward. He exchanges a few low words with the Theban king before they pace apart again and set themselves at the ready. They’re both wielding javelins, shields held high so their body armour is hidden and only their plumed boar’s-tusk helmets and their eyes can be seen over the rims. The polished bronze greaves that protect their lower legs glitter in the sun as they take their stances.