That assault seals it: the Thebans have seen their best enter the ravine and only a few return, they’re failing to take the heights, and now they’re being assailed from the side without warning. More and more of them start crying out: ‘Back to the city!’ and ‘The day is lost!’
It’s our turn to sweep forward.
I turn to my friends: ‘Eury, Menelaus – take control of our men. This is the Argives’ war – keep the lads in check. We don’t need to risk them now. Bria, were you able to get riding horses?’
The daemon jerks her thumb over to our right, towards a distant spot on the ridge beyond Glisas, where a rough track winds down from it to the plain. There’s a young man standing there, holding two fretful beasts. Together we run across to him and leap onto the horses’ backs. The Theban discipline is breaking now and their lines disintegrate into clumps of men retreating to the city. And there at last, in the middle distance, I see Creon’s banners as his entourage heads for Thebes eight miles away, a mix of chariots and foot soldiers, with two red-clad figures in their midst and the Sphinx priestess with them. We kick our mounts into a fast trot and head down the track.
Tiresias and Manto must die today. That’s imperative, if their false prophesies are to perish also.
Once on flat ground, Bria and I hammer our heels into the horses’ flanks and go galloping through the retreating enemy army, skirting the units that have retained any discipline. It’s a risk, but fleeing men seldom have more than escape on their mind; to turn and fight is to draw attention, and risk not escaping.
It’s damnable luck, then, when a stray shaft thuds into the rump of Bria’s horse. It staggers then crashes sideways, hurling her to the ground. I haul in my mount, shoot the first man to come at her, then heave her up behind me as more shafts fly. Behind us I hear trumpets blow, and I glance back: Alcmaeon’s banners have emerged from the ravine, and the Argives on the wings have descended the slopes. All are now advancing across the plain, meeting little resistance. The Thebans scatter, many now turning aside from the city, the obvious target for our forces, and hoping to hide themselves in the countryside.
As the Theban army fragments further, our flank attack cuts more and more of them off from the city, driving them west, their weapons and other equipment strewn over the plain. The city will still be defended, but I’m estimating that Laodamas and Creon lost half their men in the ravine, and another quarter, many of them wounded, are being driven away from the fortress.
I don’t think Thebes is feeling so impregnable any more.
Our surviving horse soon tires from its double load, but we still reach the city before what’s left of the Theban army arrives, with Creon at their head. I don’t make for the main gate, where the walls are still clustered with defenders, but for a deserted section of wall along the north side where there’s a large drain we can use to get into the city unseen. Our best chance to find and kill the two seers is to be inside the citadel before they arrive. Here we dismount amid the burnt-out ruins of the lower city, torched by us several weeks ago.
But as I help Bria dismount, I realize she’s nursing her shoulder. ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask anxiously – there’s no blood but she’s in considerable pain.
‘Dislocated,’ she says through gritted teeth. When I go to help her, she shrugs my hands away. ‘Go find that damned Theban snake,’ she snarls, ‘and his bitch daughter!’
‘But what about you?’
‘I can fucking deal with this myself,’ she shouts. ‘The whole damned war is about killing those mongrels. Have you gone soft in the head, you Ithacan priapus? Find them! Kill them!’
Clearly she doesn’t make a good patient; I pity whoever has to nurse her through childbirth. Faced with her fury, I scramble up to the mouth of the drain. I’ve only crawled a little way up, though, when I’m faced with a jumble of boulders and rubble. Blocked! Either the wall above has partially collapsed or the Thebans have deliberately sealed it. And if they’ve closed off this drain, they’ll have done it with the others. Cursing, I worm my way out again, remount the horse and ride as fast as I can to the main gate of the citadel. By the time I get there, the Theban advance party have already arrived, presumably escorting Tiresias and Manto.
But the first wave of Argives are so close behind them, no one manages to get the gates shut. Adrastus drives his chariot through at the head of his men, flanked by the six surviving Epigoni: Alcmaeon, Thersander, Diomedes, Promachus, Sthenelus and Euryalus. They’re flushed with triumph, and hungry to reap the rewards.
As I appear, Adrastus looks my way, his eyes still haunted. He’s been vindicated and can finally face his dead friends when Hades calls his name… but he let his son die.
I don’t expect gratitude; no one likes being indebted to another for success. But the king gives me a small nod of acknowledgment, and the Epigoni echo the gesture, grudgingly.
We’re allies, but sure as death we’re not friends.
* * *
There’s no real resistance, just the horrific ugliness we call ‘sacking’. That means the conquerors, their blood pumping and overcome with relief at being alive, take whatever they can grasp. Any woman remotely of breeding age is raped and claimed as a slave, along with any young children she may have. The men are killed, the treasury and palace stripped of their wealth, and then it’s drunkenness, gluttony, cruelty and vandalism.
It’s Tartarus on earth.
My only mission is to find Tiresias and Manto, which means searching every corner and cranny inside the citadel, so we Ithacans get to witness every kind of horror the Argives can come up with. The first imperative is to send Eurybates, with as many of our vanguard as he can muster, to bar the postern gate and make sure every drain and sewer that might give the seer and his daughter an escape route is blocked. What keeps a rat out will keep other rats in. The others, as soon as they arrive, are led by Tollus and Nelomon to search the lesser houses in the upper city while Menelaus and I seek out Diomedes, shadowing Adrastus and the Epigoni as they enter the royal palace. While they’re dragging out Creon in chains and executing him in the public square, we scour the building and its annexes and outhouses. It’s as fruitless as Tollus and Nelomon’s efforts prove to be.
By now, fires are breaking out all through the upper city, deliberately fuelled and fed with olive oil and whatever other combustibles the Argive soldiers can lay their hands on. There’s nothing more my Ithacans can achieve here, so I send them back to Glisas to bury our six dead comrades with all honour, then meet me back at our old campsite outside Thebes. I wish I could go with them, but the chances of finding Tiresias and Manto are diminishing with every passing moment. Diomedes, Menelaus and I hasten to the main gates again and scale the tower there to scan the roads that issue from the gate…
‘I see them!’ Diomedes exclaims, pointing southwards. I follow the direction of his finger, my theios sight stretched to its limits…
There! Two tiny red figures in a chariot are heading towards the foothills of Mount Cithairon, flanked by a group of riders, including the Sphinx priestess. They must have swerved aside well before Creon and his men entered the gate, and fled using the contours of the land to conceal their passing.
They’ll be heading to Chariclo’s pool, and whatever power Tiresias can still find there.
‘Athena wants those serpents’ heads,’ I remind Diomedes. ‘If Tiresias and Manto live, this job is only half done.’
We head down the steps and out of the gate… just as Alcmaeon appears, with Kossos and Xelos and Meratides, in two chariots.
‘We’re told the seer and his daughter took the road to the Springs,’ Alcmaeon says. ‘If that old pornos was truly behind all this, then he has to die.’
I should be pleased – he’s said nothing I don’t agree with wholeheartedly and the more of us there are, the surer we can be of success. But I have a very bad feeling about this… There’s no choice in the matter, however, so I make the best of it: ‘We’re with you,’ I tell Alcmaeon, despi
te my many misgivings. ‘I’ll not steal your revenge, but I need to see them both dead.’
‘Tiresias will be dragged back here to stand trial.’ Alcmaeon gives me a leering look. ‘And I’ve got plans for his daughter too.’
‘She’s as dangerous as he,’ I warn, remembering his lecherous reaction when she stripped before us just two days ago.
‘She’ll end up just as dead as her father,’ Alcmaeon laughs evilly. ‘Only she’ll enjoy the spearing more.’
I exchange a sickened look with my friends. But we have to go with Alcmaeon – Tiresias can’t be allowed to escape. And there’s always a chance we might be able to give his daughter a clean death before Alcmaeon gets to her. There’s only room for two of us in Diomedes’s chariot, and Menelaus, sensing the inevitable, is crestfallen. I urge him to find and succour Bria, which brightens his mood slightly.
Diomedes hurries me to where he’s left his chariot, we clamber aboard and he lashes his horses into a gallop, soon overtaking Kossos and Meratides. My back is itching from the knowledge that those two thugs are behind me as we rattle our way across the plain, but there’s nothing to be done about it.
The road is busy, full of wounded soldiers and fleeing civilians who scatter as we force our way through, pushing the horses hard. Behind us the smoke over Upper Thebes is growing, blackening the sky liked a monstrous thundercloud. The Argives are doing a thorough job of destroying their fathers’ nemesis.
Gradually the ground becomes more undulating as we approach the great mountain range of which Mount Cithairon is the pinnacle, and we’re forced to slow as the road roughens and eventually becomes no more than a cart track. It’s another burning hot afternoon and our horses are lathered in sweat. But we’re gaining: we glimpse our quarry – surrounded by their mounted escort – also struggling as the way becomes more difficult. Driving at speed in these conditions requires skill and experience; it seems neither the aged Tiresias nor his palace-raised daughter are very capable of it. They’re scarcely a mile ahead of us now.
‘Who’ll be king of Thebes after all this?’ I ask Diomedes as he urges his horses onward.
‘Adrastus is well settled in Argos, and though his kingdom is smaller, it’s in much better shape than Boeotia is, now we’ve had our way with it,’ he replies. ‘Thersander is the son of Polynices, so he has to be the primary claimant,’ he adds, not looking particularly pleased at his own conclusion. No one seems to like aloof Thersander.
I point ahead, at the dust cloud that envelops Alcmaeon. ‘Is he going to accept that?’
The young champion frowns. ‘I don’t know. His friends will expect him to press a claim.’
‘His friends,’ I echo derisively. I remind him about Kossos and what he did at the Corinthian fishing village. ‘We have to watch our backs – I do anyway, and so will you if you’re standing too close.’
‘Nothing will happen,’ he tells me. ‘Alcmaeon isn’t like that.’
‘It’s nice that you think so,’ I mutter under my breath.
We gather at the start of the main track leading up the mountain towards the Springs. Tiresias’s empty chariot sits upended, the shafts high in the air, while his horses, along with a dozen others, skitter away from us until they’re brought up tight by their tethers. With Tiresias fleeing and Thebes in flames, we suspect the guardians of the mountain are also in disarray. And we no longer need to move with the stealth that was so important last time we came here. Even so, we proceed up the lower slopes with some caution, swords drawn and every nerve at straining point.
Despite our fears, we reach the hillock overlooking the lower pool without incident. From the rocky amphitheatre above, we hear two high-pitched, wailing voices ring out, invoking Apollo.
Twelve soldiers are gathered below us by the pool, weapons at the ready. This time they’re expecting us and they sight us immediately.
‘Come on,’ Alcmaeon says grimly, ‘let’s go and spill some sorcerers’ blood.’
16 – Death and the Seer
‘A man fashions evil for himself who fashions evil for another, and an evil scheme harms the schemer most.’
—Hesiod, Works and Days
The Springs of Cithairon
We descend the trail at a run towards the lower pool and the start of the path leading to the Springs, Alcmaeon leading the way with his three killers close behind. Diomedes follows, perhaps subconsciously placing himself between them and me, while I bring up the rear. Several of the Thebans awaiting us have the build and arrogant stance of theioi, so we’ll have a fight on our hands. They have only a few shields between them, though – horseback is no place for the great double-circled style the Thebans mostly favour. But there are twelve of them, including four archers, and they’re using what shields they have to protect them.
The scrub covering the steep slope down to the lower pool is patchy, and there are places where it gives us some shelter from their arrow fire. We’re all armoured in our battle bronze but we still keep our bucklers high to protect ourselves, relying on speed. The archers shoot, but shooting into clumps of men on a battlefield is very different to hitting moving, dodging, shielded men. Our speed, the shields and the cover combine to see their shafts rattle off armour or into rocks or hiss past us. We reach the bottom of the trail unscathed. Here, Meratides and I sling our bucklers to our backs in order to notch arrows and draw as we charge into the open.
Meratides and I loose our shafts; one of the archers jolts as the arrow pierces his breastplate and he folds over it, while the other falls backwards, a shaft through his neck. The other two shoot back, and I dart sideways as a shaft whips through the air where I’d been, but Xelos takes an arrow in the thigh, below his shield and just above his bronze greave, and he goes down spitting curses. I shoot another archer as he reaches for his next arrow, then Alcmaeon and Diomedes go roaring into the swordsmen, backed by Kossos. Meratides shoots the last archer as I shoulder my bow, pull out my xiphos and join the melee.
I take a man in the side with a short-arm thrust, just as he tries to swing at Diomedes, then we’re shoulder to shoulder and parrying. I’m at the right end of the line; beside me Diomedes is hammering into the Thebans like a whirlwind, using all his power and speed to batter aside his foes, while Alcmaeon and Kossos bludgeon down those in their path. These Thebans lack heart, even the theioi – the defeat at Glisas has let in doubt and fear, and they’re thinking about escape more than victory. That’s how you lose.
Another pair are cut down and the remaining men run, taking to the track up to the main pool. Meratides shoots one in the back and the rest dive off the track and into the undergrowth, screaming imprecations against Apollo for betraying them. Alcmaeon thumps his chest in victory. Diomedes is drenched with blood, shouting in exultation, that rush of relief and triumph that survival and victory bring. I feel it too, but I quell the reaction, trying to emanate calm, because I don’t like this bloodlust that Alcmaeon and Diomedes are caught up in. Especially when we still have two formidable foes to deal with.
‘We’re going to gut them,’ Diomedes crows savagely as he goes to join Alcmaeon and his cronies in finishing off the wounded.
‘Let’s find Tiresias before we celebrate too loudly,’ I tell him, but he ignores me, his eyes still blazing from the fray. I grab his shoulder and snap, ‘Remember your father!’
It’s as though I’ve doused him in icy water; he rocks back on his heels. ‘Is this what he felt?’ he whispers hoarsely.
I have no idea what was going through Tydeus’s mind as he ate another man’s brains, but I’m more than nervous for my friend. ‘Calm yourself, Diomedes,’ I tell him. ‘Athena needs cool heads here.’
He winces, then his face takes on reverence for his patron and he nods. ‘I’m ready,’ he tells me.
The two of us charge up the winding path beside the cataract, leaving Alcmaeon and his men to follow. I want to reach Tiresias and Manto before them, because though I want the two sorcerers dead, there are lines I won’t cross.
/>
By the time we’re cresting the rise to where Chariclo’s pool awaits us, the high-pitched wailing sound we’d heard has ceased, but I have no sense whether that’s good or bad. I fit an arrow to my bow as we burst over the lip at the top of the path and see the pool and its stone platform beneath the high cliff. Diomedes is at my shoulder, sweat streaming and blood still wet on his blade.
Tiresias is on the steps leading from the platform to the pool, and he’s slumped over on his knees, staring despairingly into the water, his effeminate features flushed and puffy. The air still resonates with some kind of sorcery, the echo of his voice still hanging in the air, but defeated and broken.
He’s realized that Chariclo is gone… His mother…
Manto is standing beside her father, her face pale. She whirls as she hears us, her mane of black hair billowing. Even in defeat, she’s a magnificent creature. ‘Father!’ she calls, backing away. ‘Come!’
Tiresias doesn’t look up, doesn’t move.
A flash of light on metal catches my eye from the shadows – the Sphinx priestess has cast aside the dark cloak that had made her all but invisible. Her gold-painted chest is rising and falling, glistening with perspiration, her mask is pulled up and placed atop her head, and I see the dark, narrow features of an Egyptian. She’s staring at me intently, recognition in her eyes.
‘The Man of Fire,’ she calls across the water. ‘You’re on the wrong side, Promethean. You’re at war with your own gods.’
‘No, it’s your god that’s betrayed us.’
She shakes her head. ‘Great Zeus forges a new empire, one built on faith in him, stretching from Troy to Achaea to Egypt and beyond. Different races with different tongues, but he will unite them, through commonality of religion. It is your petty little deities, your Athenas and your Heras and the other insignificant wisps and shades that divide and doom Achaea. Zeus-Amon-Tarhum, the One God of Achaea, Egypt and Troy, will gather his people, by word and sword.’
Oracle's War Page 32