‘So say the rats as they leap from a sinking ship,’ I snarl back, drawing back my bow string, aiming at her heart. ‘Well, this ship isn’t foundering, and you’ll not board her unchallenged.’
She sneers, then suddenly a burst of light ignites into searing white flame, smoke billows and she’s gone, a shadow barely glimpsed. My arrow flashes blindly through the smoke, but all I hear is a metallic clatter, then – somehow – I hear the thud of wings and the roar of air, receding to silence.
How in Tartarus did she do that?
I curse, and turn back to face the two seers. Tiresias has barely noticed our arrival, but Manto is clutching her scarlet mantle around her, as if a garment might save her now, when all the armed strength of the Theban soldiers couldn’t.
Alcmaeon, Meratides and Kossos join us, gasping at the effort of running up the path in full armour. When Manto sees Alcmaeon, she emits a low groan and takes a few more backward steps, while he grunts hungrily, his intentions horribly clear. Tiresias reaches into a satchel at his side, pulling out a leather flask and tugging at the stopper.
Meratides doesn’t hesitate: he fires an arrow that takes the old seer in the arm. Tiresias screams as the shaft hits him, the flask drops onto the flagstones, Manto shrieks and Alcmaeon booms with mocking laughter. He strides round the edge of the pool, sword at the ready, and she pulls a dagger edged with green light and hurls it. When Alcmaeon hacks it aside with his blade she flees, past the shrine and into the defile.
Alcmaeon hurtles in pursuit. ‘Diomedes, with me!’ he shouts over his shoulder. ‘Kossos, you know what to do!’
Whatever that might be…
Within moments Manto and Alcmaeon have vanished, leaving Diomedes standing hesitant by the pool. He flashes me a wild look – it’s clear Alcmaeon’s intentions disgust him.
‘Go after him,’ I shout. ‘Kill her cleanly if you can.’
He nods, his face grim, and vanishes down the defile. I turn to see Kossos hurrying towards Tiresias, who is lying, writhing in pain, on the platform. Meratides has another arrow nocked already, and now Xelos has limped into view, the broken-off shaft of the arrow still embedded in his right thigh.
I don’t know much about Xelos: he’s sullen and silent, but he keeps company with some of the worst men I know – these other two. And I’m suddenly alone with the three of them.
I hasten round the pool, arrow nocked and bow string drawn, but I’m still behind Kossos as he reaches Tiresias. He grabs the old seer by his long silver hair and wrenches brutally, hurling him onto his back, still clutching the arrow shaft impaled in his right bicep.
‘Not so almighty now, are you, lady-man?’ Kossos growls gleefully. ‘Squeal, you old bum-hag. We’re going make you scream for days.’ He looks over at Xelos. ‘How’d you fancy giving this gynandros a hot knife, Xel?’
‘You’re doing nothing of the sort,’ I say sharply, tightening my draw on the bow.
Kossos looks at me with narrowed eyes. ‘Oh yes, your famous scruples again, Ithacan.’ He lets go Tiresias’s hair and straightens, blade in hand, and I’m chillingly aware that he’s only yards away. Unless I loose my arrow immediately I’m almost certainly going to be cut down.
Our eyes meet. He’s remembering his dead comrade Stroma and the fishing village in Corinth. I’m thinking that Tiresias of Thebes is the last man I’d ever thought I’d be putting my life on the line for.
But I’m not an animal: I’m a thinking man. A man of Athena. ‘We talk to him, then he dies,’ I state.
Kossos smiles coldly. ‘That’s very much the plan – a long conversation over hot irons and steaming blood,’ he drawls with relish. Then his eyes flicker, to something over my shoulder, and I realize I’m still in mortal danger, with a swordsman inside reach and an expert archer at my back.
The critical moment is now.
I drop and roll left, not the direction they might have thought I’d go, but it means the three of us – Kossos, myself and Meratides a dozen yards behind me with an arrow lined up at my back – are all in a line. Except that I’ve dropped under the arrow’s flight, despite Meratides’s attempt to correct as he shoots.
The shaft grazes past my helmet and buries itself in Kossos’s groin. He grunts and folds, his mouth falling open in shock as I spin. Before my shoulder strikes the ground I’ve drawn my bowstring and fired.
My arrow takes Meratides in the hollow at the base of the throat, ripping through his windpipe and imbedding itself in his spine. He flops to the ground and chokes in moments, his eyes staring glassily at my bow, the Great Bow that he so coveted.
‘Fuckin’ fuck…’ Xelos gasps, looking at me as I roll up onto one knee. I nock another shaft, training this one on him. He looks down at his blade, back at Kossos, who has slumped to the ground in a growing pool of blood, then drops the weapon and falls painfully to his knees. His leg is now leaking blood in great gouts – the arrowhead must have cut through more flesh while he’s been stumbling around and bit into an artery; he’s just too stupid to know he’s bleeding out.
‘Can’t run,’ he mumbles. ‘I surrender.’ Then he simply faints, falling flat onto his face.
At least I don’t have to watch him. I check on Kossos: he’s alive, just, but he’s also fainted through pain and blood loss. I don’t have a lot of pity, and there’s not much I can do.
I go to Tiresias – the old man is ashen faced, but he’s aware enough to know what I’ve done.
‘You make enemies easily,’ he wheezes. His stately, matronly features are pale and haggard, and he’s moaning in agony, even though he’s only suffered what turns out to be a fairly minor flesh wound.
‘I never set out to make you my enemy – you did that,’ I remind him. I sling my bow to my back, and crouch to examine the arrow: ‘I could pull this out, but you’ll only bleed more.’
‘Then leave it,’ he says, shaking his head, then seeming to pull himself together, some of his pride returning. ‘Was it you who murdered Chariclo, my patron and mother?’
‘It was hardly murder – you fed me to her.’
‘Aye, I did,’ he says sourly. His eyes stray to where he’s dropped the flask. ‘I beg you, let me take the poison. It’s hemlock, a strong dose.’
I eye him with little sympathy. ‘You may as well not bother – that’ll take nearly half a day to kill you. So it won’t stop Alcmaeon from making those final hours worse than the torments of the dead in Tartarus.’
‘I can speed the effects,’ he replies. ‘For me, death will be almost instant. Please, I see that you have a heart – give me this, I beg you.’
‘I should take you back to Adrastus to judge,’ I tell him. ‘Or leave you to Alcmaeon.’
‘That animal…’ Tiresias pants. ‘My daughter…’ he exclaims plaintively.
I could say something cruel, like ‘we reap what we sow’ – he and Manto have brought misery on many – but in fact I feel his pain. ‘I asked Diomedes to make her end swift,’ I tell him. ‘But Alcmaeon commands here…’
Tiresias groans, and clutches my hand. ‘I’ve been raped myself, as a woman.’ He meets my eyes. ‘Yes, even I.’
I do feel a shred of sympathy then. ‘I can’t imagine,’ I confess. ‘I don’t want to.’
‘I’ve crossed the great thresholds of this life, Odysseus: I’ve been both man and woman. I’ve lain with great men and beautiful ladies, and brought life into the world. I’ve walked the Serpent’s Path and blinded the great Pythia. I’ve looked on the faces of the gods, in all their cruel majesty. I’ve done things I’ll regret, but all of it for Thebes. My fair city – now a conqueror’s ruin, thanks to you.’
‘You chose Troy over Achaea,’ I tell him.
‘Achaea,’ he sneers. ‘A squabbling pit of barbarism. I’ve seen the East, Odysseus, the glorious East. Its time has come. Ever greater it grows, and spreads its influence. The Hittites, the Trojans – we’re standing at the dawn of their day. Your petty, backward, feuding Achaea will be swept away. I only regret that
Thebes will now share that fate.’ He glares sullenly at me. ‘You’re like a child that smashes a beautiful vase, not realizing its worth.’
‘Had you placed your skills at the feet of us “barbarians”, perhaps we might be better able to weather the coming storm,’ I retort, leaning in. ‘But I have a question for you, and I will get the answer, whatever it costs you. Why did you destroy my sister’s happiness and try to kill Eumaeus? Neither of them feel life is worth living, now that they have lost each other.’
His eyes narrow, then he gestures weakly at the flask. ‘Let me drink.’
‘Answer me, damn you!’ I grab the arrow shaft sticking out of his arm and twist it, too consumed with fury now to feel any compassion. ‘Tell me what I want to know.’
He shrieks, then lies gasping, staring up at me while I wonder how long we have. After what seems an aeon, his gaze falters. ‘Very well,’ he pants. ‘Eumaeus and Ctimene – perhaps you’ve wondered if it was because of his lineage, as rightful king of Syros?’
Rightful… That’s something at least: Eumaeus is who we believe.
‘But you’d be wrong,’ Tiresias croaks. Is there a trace of laughter in those green eyes of his? ‘Syros is nothing, and so is Eumaeus. That was just amusement, a sideshow. I was there for one reason, and one only: to draw you out, Man of Fire. To start this war.’
I’m shocked to the core. Bria was right – I was at the heart of his schemes all along – but time is running short. These aren’t questions I want Alcmaeon to hear answered. ‘Why would you start a war when you knew that the oracles were wrong about Thebes being impregnable – because you subverted those oracles yourself! Surely you didn’t believe your own lies?’
‘The true prophecies still favoured Thebes… wrongly, it seems.’
‘Wrong? How can a prophecy be wrong?’ I demand.
‘What do you think a prophecy is, Odysseus? An infallible stating of an immutable future? If so, you couldn’t be more mistaken. The spirits don’t see the future: they see the now, and estimate the most likely future. That’s all any augury is – a best guess.’
I stare at him, gutted with disappointment. Is this… this charade all we’re fighting for?
‘But… then what is their value?’ I stammer.
He grips my sword arm. ‘Young man, an oracular vision is worth more than diamonds, more than gold. The spirits see everything there is to see… and they extrapolate more. The accumulation of wealth, the flow of resources, the movement of people, of species, of weather and harvests and pestilences. All the sum of life, where it is now and where it must be going. What the spirits see is too complex for a single mind to grasp. Why else do you think the prophecies are so garbled? But to have that insight, to have that edge – kings would murder their very children to obtain so much knowledge.’
I begin to understand – especially recalling that glorious moment of clarity I experienced when I’d slain Chariclo and looked outwards through her dying eyes. Prophecy might not be a vision of fate, but its potency is undeniable. It might not say which leaf will blow where in a breeze, but it can sense a storm coming. Which is more valuable?
Athena, Bria, Doripanes – they all must know this, but they’ve never told me.
Though there’s always a chance Tiresias is still lying.
‘I gambled,’ he tells me. ‘Agamemnon was going to move against Thebes inside the next few years regardless – he would have drawn in the Epigoni, and together they would have overwhelmed us. By provoking the Epigoni into attacking too soon, we divide and conquer, preventing Agamemnon from acting in future. The spirits said that was our best hope, and that only you could persuade the Epigoni to march. I came to Ithaca to draw you out.’
I process that, thinking of all the events since the fateful wedding. I now see even the pirates’ attack in a completely new light: not as a serious threat, but just a goad, giving us a false triumph to encourage pursuit. And my escape from Delos now feels too easy…
He tightens his grip on my arm. ‘I have kept my half of the bargain – now it’s your turn to prove you can keep yours. Give me the poison.’
I’m tempted not to – he deserves everything the Epigoni might wish to do to him – but I’ve promised, and strangely, I now feel indebted to him. I hand him the flask and he drains it greedily, then starts muttering words under his breath that sound like a spell or a prayer. Hemlock normally takes hours to kill, but he’s said he can use his sorcery to speed it, and I believe him: he immediately begins to weaken.
I sit back on my haunches, watching as Tiresias fades. He’s been a legend of wisdom and insight all my life, and it feels momentous to be here at his passing. I half expect Gods, Fates and Muses to appear to bear witness. But I also hate him for his wrecking of lives, for all he’s destroyed to better the lot of himself and his city. He engineered the deadly feud between Oedipus’s sons, which still plays out today. His lies have undermined all Achaea, to further himself and his city. And I can only guess how many incidental things he’s destroyed along the way, like Maeus’s and my sister’s happiness. So my pity is very limited.
Suddenly the old man laughs, his eyes clouding over but still fixed on my face. ‘I have not told you all, Ithacan,’ he says. ‘The greatest seer in Troy is their queen, Hekuba, and she sees a future where you’re a general of Troy, married to her daughter Kyshanda. Alongside her sons, you will destroy both the Hittites and the Achaeans as Troy becomes the real power in this region – an empire greater than any in history. That’s why she wanted you brought to Delos…’
Hekuba wanted me there? To destroy Achaea? But Kyshanda and I hope to create a lasting peace instead. Tiresias must have it wrong… Or he’s lying again, even now…
Tiresias’s face is intent, even as his eyelids droop. ‘Hekuba asked me to disrupt your family’s peace and lure you to Delos, so that she could begin to weave her plan to entrap you.’ A knowing smile crosses his face. ‘Did you enjoy coupling with her daughter?’
I’m staring, stricken. Because if Kyshanda knew of her mother’s schemes, then our meeting wasn’t by chance, and the love she gave me can’t be trusted.
Was Tiresias playing his own game on Delos – to eliminate me if he could – even while he pretended to be working for Hekuba? He seemed quite happy to hand me over to Skaya-Mandu, to be tortured to death. Or did he know that Kyshanda would find a way to save me? What part might he have played in that?
The old seer chuckles. ‘See, just like that, I hold your happiness in my hand. Tell you this, you do one thing, or that, and you do another.’ Then he coughs, and his colour drains. ‘The hemlock… My limbs grow cold… my eyes…’ He takes my hand in his, and I can see that his sight is indeed gone. ‘We’ve played a game, you and I – a game in which I’ve never before tasted defeat – until now. With my beloved Thebes destroyed, I no longer care who triumphs. I’ve finally been vanquished, and this is my gift to the victor.’ Another bout of coughing takes him, and I fear he’s waited too long. Then he murmurs, ‘The daughter knows her mother’s plans…’
My heart thuds painfully…
Kyshanda’s love is false…
Or perhaps not… Tiresias is still capable of perverting the truth. “Blinded the seer, blinding the words”…
But doubt is now seeded in my heart.
Then the old man, the greatest prophet ever known, expires before me, a man who damaged so much I care about, and has left me with one last, small, evil gift…
His face empties, and the lines are smoothed away, revealing a glimpse of the beauty he’d once had as a man and as a woman. But I’m still hearing him confess that he’s blighted my sister’s and Maeus’s lives without a care, and loosed another serpent into my fragile family’s hearth. And he, as well as Hekuba, has been playing with my deepest feelings, and those of the woman I desperately want to love.
Curse you, I swear silently to myself. I hope Hades condemns you to Tartarus and you suffer for eternity.
* * *
It’s
only a short time later that I hear footsteps returning. I’m still bowed over Tiresias, but I’m not really seeing him; I’m thinking hard about this war with Troy we’re trying to stave off, and whose side I’m on. The right side, I have no doubt. But most of all I’m longing for Kyshanda, to see her, to look into her eyes and see there whether her love is true.
Then I hear a muttered curse, and look up.
It’s Alcmaeon, and he has Manto with him. She’s very much alive, still clad in her fine scarlet mantle. Diomedes gives me a sharp nod, and I respond in kind. He’s prevented her rape… for now.
On the surface, Alcmaeon and Manto look like a tableau of victory – the conqueror and his spoils of war – and there’s fearful resignation on her face, but she’s holding herself straight as a spear. I catch her eye and read nothing but contempt for us all. Outwardly a prisoner, she still seems perilous to me, the most dangerous person here.
She’ll get her claws into Alcmaeon if she’s not dealt with…
Alcmaeon is staring at the carnage beside the pool: Meratides lying dead with his neck skewered by my arrow, Xelos face down and bleeding to death, Kossos folded over Meratides’s arrow and unmoving. And Tiresias lying as if asleep. ‘What in Hades…?’ he rasps, in a low, disbelieving voice.
I rise and face him, calm now. ‘Your men assailed me,’ I tell him. ‘I was forced to defend myself.’
He takes that in, first with alarm, then with anger. ‘You’ll pay for this. They were good men.’
‘They were hardly that: Meratides tried to shoot me in the back; Kossos intended to butcher me for protesting the atrocities he and his friends committed in that Corinthian village. But perhaps that’s the sort of men you value?’
Alcmaeon spits. ‘Do you, a ragtag prince from a small rock in the western ocean, dare to question my choice of companions? Perhaps you’d like to pass judgement on the revenge I’m meting out on Thebes?’
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