‘I have no stomach for the rape and massacre of innocents.’
‘There are no innocents in that depraved city, only sinners and sorcerers. Like this one.’ He jerks Manto’s hair and she staggers.
Or pretends to stagger. My skin is crawling – she’s not helpless, can’t he see that?
‘So why haven’t you killed her?’ I demand.
‘She’s my prize, Ithacan,’ he snarls. ‘I’m going to enjoy her at my leisure.’ He leers at her and she gives him a tremulous smile, her eyelashes quivering ever so slightly.
This has gone far enough. I pull out my xiphos and stride towards them, but Alcmaeon interposes himself. ‘Stand down, Odysseus, or suffer the consequences.’
I look from him to Diomedes to Manto. She’s watching with cool disdain, while Diomedes looks torn in two.
Alcmaeon’s eyes narrow. ‘Diomedes, disarm him,’ he commands.
I look at the young man, whose face contorts in the agony of impossible choices. Family or goddess… quite a dilemma. But cold logic – my goddess’s defining trait – tells me that I can’t risk all we’ve gained by bringing this simmering violence to the boil. I step away, sheathing my sword, and Diomedes exhales in relief.
Alcmaeon barks in triumph, his laughter cut short as he notes the clay flask, Tiresias’s lack of wounds, and his discoloured skin. ‘You let that pornos take poison?’ he exclaims. ‘Who gave you leave?’
‘I gave myself leave,’ I reply. ‘He told me all I needed to know, and there’s no honour in torture.’
‘You’ve deprived the king of his justice. You’ll answer to Adrastus for this, Ithacan!’ Alcmaeon turns to Diomedes. ‘Arrest him, cousin. He must go before the king, for treachery and murder.’
Diomedes goes a sickly green. ‘Alcmaeon…’
I spare him the agony of deciding. ‘No, you won’t,’ I tell them, stepping back and shrugging the Great Bow into my grasp, deftly nocking an arrow. I aim it, first at Alcmaeon, then at Diomedes. Manto, alas, is safely shielded by the pair of them. ‘I’ll be gone from Thebes with my Ithacans before you return.’
As I back away, I catch a glimpse of Manto’s face. There’s something there that gives me pause: I see hatred, but she now also realizes that I’ve helped ease her father into a peaceful death. There’s no gratitude, but there’s recognition… and calculation.
I know she must die, to ensure this nest of warlocks is thoroughly exterminated, but this isn’t the time. Athena would expect me to maintain at least the semblance of alliance with the Epigoni, and not to endanger Diomedes or force him into taking sides against her.
I’ve lost this little altercation, but there will be other chances to deal with Manto, I’m sure. I’ll seek out Doripanes before I leave the Argive camp and entrust her execution to the shrine at Pytho. They have every reason to kill the daughter of their most hated enemy, Tiresias. In the meantime, I suspect Alcmaeon will have little joy of Manto – take a serpent to your breast and it’ll bite. It’s what they do.
‘I won’t be needing your chariots and horses,’ I tell Alcmaeon and Diomedes. ‘And you’ll not overtake me.’
Leaving them the chariots is no gamble – there are more than a dozen other mounts I can choose from down at the base of the mountain. I back my way round the pool to the top of the path beside the cascade, then turn and run.
17 – The Pig-keeper’s Girl
‘May the gods gift you all that your heart desires, a husband and a house, and may they grant you like-mindedness. For there is nothing stronger and worthier than this, than when the two of them, husband and wife, keep house, thinking as one; bringing much sorrow to their enemies and pleasure to those who wish them well, and especially for them to hear of this themselves.’
—Homer, The Odyssey
Ithaca
Our two galleys slip into Ithaca harbour on a clear evening. We’ve had no wind since Corinth, where I said my goodbyes to Menelaus, and everyone’s mightily tired, myself included, as I’ve taken my turn rowing with the lads, singing the old songs in time to Tollus’s drum.
Diomedes is presumably still in Thebes with the occupying Epigoni army. I’ve had no word on the situation there since I marched my lads away, probably no more than an hour before Alcmaeon stormed back in, demanding my head, I don’t doubt. I have no idea where Bria is or how her dislocated shoulder fared – I didn’t see her when I returned to Thebes, nor had Menelaus been able to find her. Given that her Hamazan body is now carrying the child of Hephaestus, I’m not expecting a visit from her for some time, in that body anyway.
My home – my rustic, lovely Ithaca – is a picture of golden hills and aquamarine sea and sky as we cruise in, the sight a balm to tired muscles, and the lads are already looking forward to an abundance of warm water and the arms of loved ones. I yearn to do the same, but I’ll have to go up to the palace instead. Besides, I’ve sworn to myself I’ll end my relationship with Issa, and I can hardly use her to ease my own mind and body before I give her news she will probably find hard to bear.
I take my time getting the galley shipshape and seeing the men ashore, and then, after sending my greetings up to my family, Eurybates and I do the rounds of the families of those who’ve died, and that’s hard. I might know that we’ve achieved great things for Achaea on this journey, but those few brave men we lost were husbands, sons and brothers. All I can tell their loved ones is that they gave their lives courageously for what was right. It’s nowhere near enough, but I hope it helps – together with the arms and other personal possessions we’ve brought back and the obols I distribute to tide them through the first hard times, along with the promise of more.
My parting from Issa is painful, but she’s a business woman, and I think she could see it coming. We resolve to remain friends – whether our hearts can live up to that, we’ll see.
That all means Eury and I are late into the palace. Everyone’s still up, though not all are openly waiting. Mother greets me in the megaron with a taut smile and a teary embrace, clinging to me a little longer than she used to. ‘Do your enemies know who you are now?’ Anticleia whispers. ‘I’ve been fearing the worst, knowing what they did to your father.’
And what they’re still doing, I think to myself with a shudder, recalling Sisyphus and that awful boulder in Hades’s realm. ‘We’re safe,’ I tell her, unsure that’s true.
Then Ctimene’s here, dressed as a wife now, not a maiden, with her thick red hair pulled back and tied up with elaborate ribbons. We hug, and I search her face. ‘Is Eurylochus treating you well?’ I ask.
She must know that the merest criticism will see her new husband pummelled within an inch of his life, because she just murmurs, ‘Well enough,’ in a wan voice.
I’ll find out more in due course. For now, I kiss her forehead and go to face Laertes. Eurybates pays his respects to my mother and sister, gives me a ‘good luck’ sign and discreetly withdraws. I wish I could leave with him – he’ll have a better evening, even if he’s alone.
Laertes is with his new son-in-law in his upstairs room. He looks deep in his cups, and so is Lochus; they both glance up blearily as I enter.
But they’re not alone: Nelomon has beaten me here, and he’s in full flow, not even noticing my entrance. ‘…and it was incredible, milord! We sucked them Theban bastards into the ravine, just like Prince Odysseus planned, and when we nailed that spear reset trick he taught us, and the buggers skewered themselves – we didn’t have to move! All those blasted hours of training paid off in one magic moment! And the archery – shit, last year none of us could hit a mark, but we cut them down like chaff before the scythe! Those Argives will say they won it, but it was us, sir! And your son! Your son, sire! I know you and he don’t always see eye to eye, but he was magnificent!’
About then Nelly realizes I’m standing in the doorway, going more than a little red at all this praise. But it’s fair: we did damned well – all of us. Though I doubt Laertes wants praise for the cuckoo in his nest.
‘Oh, uh…’ Nelomon stammers. ‘I was just giving the king the word… begging pardon, and not looking to say anything you wouldn’t’ve said.’ He gives me a proud salute. ‘It was an honour to march with you, my Prince.’
‘Not a problem, Nelomon,’ I reply smoothly, because I don’t doubt it was Father that demanded the report, ahead of my own. I don’t think he expected such fulsome praise though.
Laertes peers at me in a way that suggests he’s seeing double, then he remembers appearances and rises. ‘Welcome home, my son,’ he says awkwardly, and because Nelomon is present and he doesn’t want gossip, he embraces me, murmuring platitudes, while Lochus also has to rise and grip my hands in greeting. I fill myself a goblet as Laertes thanks Nelomon – as do I – and the grizzled veteran leaves.
‘So, the hero returns,’ Laertes rasps, when the three of us are alone. ‘Is what Nelomon said true?’ His tones suggest he’d like to reject it all as empty boasting.
‘More or less,’ I reply, before giving him a fuller version of the story than Nelomon would know, which is to say, some of the truth but not all: that the sorcerous tokens I found here on Ctimene’s wedding night led me to Tiresias, and a hunt that ran from Delos to Thebes. That was, after all, why Laertes gave me his best ships and his most trusted men, and he deserves to know that, in finding the person responsible for practising sorcery under his nose, I haven’t let him down.
As for the events in Argos and Boeotia, the real truth isn’t for telling; I leave out Athena, Hephaestus and Harmonia’s treasures, and my part in the death of Tiresias entirely. ‘Agamemnon couldn’t give us open support,’ I say in summary, ‘but he wanted Thebes taken down – it was Menelaus who pressured me to join the Epigoni, though I couldn’t tell you at the time.’
There – another plausible lie, of the sort I’m becoming increasingly adept at.
Laertes takes it in, then glowers into the nearest brazier, empty of charcoal till the full chill of autumn arrives. ‘Ah yes. Tiresias… I recall that scoundrel meddling here and there, at the fringes of other’s deeds. I’m not sorry he’s dead – but what was he doing here in Ithaca?’
I give him the ‘restoring Eumaeus in Syros’ story. It does the trick.
‘The meddling bastard,’ Laertes cries, slamming his fist down on his knee, obviously forgetting how he fell oh-so neatly into Tiresias’s trap.
‘Well, that won’t be happening,’ Lochus slurs, sober enough to make more connections than Laertes, and grinning lecherously with it. ‘That snivelling slave will be tending pigs for the rest of his days.’
I restrain myself from punching his teeth out the back of his head. Laertes has just realized he’s treading on eggshells, albeit broken ones, and retreats into a sulky silence. I wonder what he makes of his new son-in-law, but he’s not giving too many clues. By the time he regathers his composure, Lochus is halfway through another goblet of wine. Laertes grimaces first at it and then at me. ‘Well, you seem to have won over Nelomon and his lot,’ he grumbles, pushing over the mixing bowl so I can fill my own cup.
I wonder if all their evenings are this cheerful… I serve him some wine, adding as much extra water as I dare. ‘I hope so,’ I reply. ‘We went through much together, and I think highly of them all.’
The king grunts and looks away. He misses that camaraderie, I’m sure.
‘Father,’ I say carefully, because this is important and true: ‘Everything I know about leading men, and of courage and comradeship in the face of danger, and about having the backbone to do what’s right even if it’s dangerous, comes from you. I am what you have made me.’
For some reason, it gets through.
He doesn’t let it show, of course. Men like him never do; he just blinks, eyeing some invisible spot up in the top corner of the room, and drumming his fingers on the table. ‘So, how did that old galley perform?’ he asks. ‘Can she still weather a rough sea?’
Before long, Lochus has slumped over the table, his snores gathering in strength, while Laertes and I keep talking about this and that, sharing the wine in slower and better watered measures, as we used to, basking in some rare peaceful middle ground and pretending the deeper things don’t matter. Turns out we have quite a good evening after all, and it’s an hour to midnight when I get up to go.
* * *
‘Odysseus?’ Ctimene whispers as she opens the front door of their house to find me standing outside, Lochus draped over my shoulder. She’s clad in a nightshift with a thin cloak thrown hastily over it, and rubbing her eyes blearily. It’s a full moon night, the light and shadows stark and the summer heat still sultry.
‘I have a present for you,’ I say wryly, lowering her drunken wineskin of a husband into an armchair, where he hunches sideways, murmuring dully.
‘Thanks, that’s just what I always wanted,’ she says miserably.
I drape a blanket over him, then go to the water basin, half fill a cup… and shielding what I’m doing with my body, I drop a little powder I filched from Tiresias’s travel pouch into the container and swirl it with my finger. Then I pour some into Lochus’s mouth and ensure he swallows. He rapidly falls into complete unconsciousness, snoring loudly and slobbering out of the corner of his mouth.
‘He’ll be asleep until midday, I guarantee,’ I tell her, taking her hand. ‘How are you, sister?’
She sniffs, on the brink of tears. ‘He treats me well enough: it’s not even two months, and he’s still trying to impress Mother and Father. But he’s…’ She pulls a despairing face. ‘I hate him. I hate the way he smells, laughs, spits, farts, belches, wears his hair, scratches his balls… I hate his skin and his hands…’
‘I’m not sure I should ask, but have you consummated the marriage?’
‘Yes,’ she replies, shuddering. ‘Several times over.’
‘I’m sorry…’ I look her in the eye. ‘Would you like to go for a walk?’
She frowns. ‘If you want. I’m not sleepy.’ She looks at the comatose, drooling figure in the chair, snoring like a herd of pigs. ‘I never get much rest with his racket,’ she adds.
I’m heartened by the small flash of cattiness I grew up with. She hasn’t lost all her spirit.
We tiptoe to the back entrance, where she buckles on some sandals, taking care to move silently so as not to disturb the servants. The house is not far from the palace and the road south past the shrines of Artemis and Hermes. She’s half expecting me to stop at the first, but I keep walking, on and on in the soft moonlight, past the little harbour we named after Phorcys, the Old Man of the Sea, and through the long valley beyond it. She stops me suddenly, realizing the direction we’re heading. ‘Odysseus?’ she says plaintively. ‘What are you doing?’
On the other side of the hill before us lies Maeus’s hut and his pig pens.
‘Walking,’ I tell her.
She catches my arm. ‘But…’
I know why she’s hesitating: all the unhappiness our family have been through this last year has been because of our mother’s infidelity. So I don’t press her, I just wait and let her think it through.
Her face, lit by the Huntress’s moon, flickers through fear, indecision, regret and need… in that order.
Then she kisses my cheek. ‘I’ll walk by myself from here, Brother,’ she says.
Without a backward look, she sets off up the hill. I’m still watching her, my heart full to bursting, as she begins to skip.
* * *
Late one afternoon, a month after my return, Hebea is cleaning my room while I’m repairing an arm guard with a stout needle and linen thread: princes don’t escape all the chores of the household in a poor island kingdom, and besides, I know if I do it, the job will be finished to my satisfaction.
Suddenly she straightens, her face twisting into a familiar, ironic grimace. ‘Ithaca! You’ll make someone a lovely wife one day, with those skills!’ she says crisply. She primps in front of my small bronze mirror, running her hands over her dress, admiring the curve of Hebea’s b
udding breasts and hips. ‘My, isn’t this little filly growing!’
I’m not too surprised – Bria was bound to show up again at some point. I put the arm guard down and, making sure the door is closed, give her a brotherly hug. ‘What news?’ I ask eagerly.
She mock-sighs. ‘It’s all just business with you, isn’t it?’ She pours herself the red wine I’ve been looking forward to enjoying once my repair work is finished, pushes the shutters wide and perches on the windowsill, sipping away as she looks out over the town and the harbour, and sniffing the sea air. ‘Well, what would you like to know?’
‘Why not start with your Hamazan’s pregnancy?’
‘Oh, that. I thought you’d want to know about important stuff.’
‘I want to know if Genia’s somewhere safe.’
I want to know that Bria cares enough to have followed through with the half-promise she made to me, back at the Springs, after she let the woman she inhabited be so brutally impregnated by Hephaestus, and then be taken into danger…
‘Don’t you worry about Genia. She can look after herself,’ says Bria, waving her hand airily.
No, there’s not as much care as I’d like to see. Or perhaps, none Bria wishes to admit to. At least she’s using Genia’s name, which she’s only mentioned to me once before.
‘What about, um, Penelope?’ It’s hard not to think of her as Arnacia…
Bria pulls a face. ‘How do I know? Stuck on Delos, I presume, surrounded by boring old priestesses all trying to outscore each other in the holiness stakes.’
I daren’t ask her about Kyshanda. ‘And the Epigoni?’
‘Ah, now you’re asking the right questions,’ she says, settling herself more comfortably. ‘Thersander has been made the new king of Thebes – mostly because everyone can see the place is completely wrecked. The fires lit during the sacking swept right through the whole upper city. The palace collapsed and all the granaries went up in flames. The population hates their new ruler but most of them have fled to the countryside; they have very little grain to get them through the winter, so they’ll be living off berries and wild greens and whatever roots they can dig up and cook. And Adrastus has returned to Argos with most of the Argive army.’
Oracle's War Page 34