by Ben Bova
Was it real? Had I really seen Anya, spoken my mumbled, half-frozen words to her? Or was it all a fevered delirium, the wild imaginings of a mind near death? Had I truly seen her or was I merely imagining what I wanted to see?
I floundered aimlessly through the waist-deep snow, for how long I have no way of knowing. I was like a ship without a rudder, a drunkard without a home. Anya wanted me to return to Pella and serve the witch Olympias, the self-styled goddess Hera. To murder Philip. To set Alexandros on the throne of Macedonia and start him on his bloody conquest of the rest of the world.
I could not do it. I could barely move my legs and force myself through the snow. The cold was getting worse, the wind sharper. It howled and laughed at me, stumbling and wallowing through the snowdrifts, lurching like an automaton set on a task it cannot understand.
Slowly, all sensation left me. Inexorably my strength ebbed away. I could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. I fell a hundred times and struggled to my feet a hundred times. But the remorseless cold was too much for me. I pitched face down again and this time I could not get up. Little by little, the snow covered me entirely in a grave of icy white. My bodily functions shut down, one by one. My breathing almost stopped altogether; my heart rate slowed to one sluggish beat every few minutes, just enough to keep my brain alive. I dreamed, long jumbled strange distorted dreams of my previous lives, of all the times I had died, of the times I had loved Anya in all the various human guises she had assumed. For love of me. For love of a creature that her fellow Creator had fashioned to be his tool, his toy, his hunter and assassin and warrior.
I had been built to lead a team of warriors just like myself back to the Ice Age strongholds of the Neanderthals. My mission was to hunt them down and kill them all, every last Neanderthal man, woman, and child. So that my descendants, so-called Homo sapiens sapiens could inherit not only the earth, but the entire span of spacetime that made up the continuum. My Creators were my descendants, far-future offspring of the humans they had built and sent back into time.
But once you begin to tamper with the flow of the continuum you set up shock waves that cannot easily be controlled. The price of the Creators' meddling with spacetime was that they had to constantly strive to correct the waves they had set in motion. If they did not, their continuum would shatter like a crystal goblet hit by a laser blast and they would be erased from spacetime forever.
They had bound themselves to the wheel of existence, to the ordeal of endless lifetimes, endless struggle. And they had tied me to their wheel with them. I was their servant, to be sent into placetimes to do their bidding. But they had not reckoned on the possibility that their creature could fall in love with one of them. Or that one of them could fall in love with a creature.
I served the Creators because I was built to do so. Often I had no choice; my will was extinguished by their control. But I recalled that on more than one occasion I had found a way to circumvent their control, found ways to fight against them, to thwart them. The Neanderthals still existed in their own separate branch of the continuum because of me. Troy fell because of my thirst for vengeance, not Achilles'. I was slowly acquiring knowledge and strength. Even haughty Aten had admitted that I was gaining godlike powers.
That is why they wiped my memory clean and exiled me to this placetime. To get rid of me. To leach my mind of the abilities I had so painfully learned over so many lifetimes. To put me away until they needed me again.
I loved Anya. And now she was telling me that I had to obey murderous, scheming Hera, despite my own feelings and desires. But how could I obey anyone, lying frozen and as good as dead in the snow at the top of lofty Mount Ararat?
Chapter 24
For an immeasurable span of time I lay in abyssal cold and darkness. I could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. My feeble thoughts, fading as my body froze, wandered to Ketu's concept of Nirvana. Was this the end of all sensation, the end of all wants and needs, the ultimate oblivion?
But somewhere in that dark nothingness I began to feel a hollow sinking sensation that gradually deepened into a wild, panicky impression that I was falling, plummeting through empty space like a meteor blazing across the sky. Abruptly I felt myself lying on a rough, uneven surface. Something hard was poking painfully into the small of my back. But the cold had gone; in fact, I felt comfortably warm as I sat up and opened my eyes.
I was sitting on a rocky hillside that descended to a heaving dark sea, where churning waves broke against the black boulders and sent up showers of spray. The salt tang of the sea reached me even up near the crest of the ridge where I sat, blinking away the memories of death, trying to adjust my mind to this new existence. There was a narrow crescent of sandy beach beyond the boulders, and then steep cliffs of bare rock. It was a gray day, yet not really chilly. The wind coming off the water was warm and wet, gusting fitfully. The trees up at the crest of the ridge sighed and rustled. I could see that the incessant sea breeze had bent and twisted them into hunched, lopsided forms like stunted arthritic old men.
I rose gingerly to my feet. I felt strong and alert. I knew I was a long way from Ararat, perhaps in a different era altogether. Then I realized that my clothing now consisted of a brief leather skirt and a leather vest so sweat-stained and cracked with age that it looked black. My dagger was still strapped to my thigh beneath the skirt. My feet were shod in rude sandals, bound to my ankles with leather thongs.
Where I was, and why I had been placed here, I did not know. I saw a trail threading through the rocks down the hillside to the narrow curving strip of white sand and an even narrower road that ran along the coastline. I headed for that road.
Then a new thought struck me. Who had sent me here? Hera, or Anya? Or one of the other Creators, perhaps—Aten, the Golden One?
By the time I reached the side of the road I felt like a blind man groping in unfamiliar territory, wondering which direction to take. To my right, the road followed the coast and then disappeared in a cut between two rocky cliffs. Far to my left, it swung inland from the beach and climbed up into the hills I had just come down from.
I decided to go to the right. The surf was rolling up peaceably enough on this narrow strip of sandy beach, but up ahead the waves smashed against the black rocks with thunderous roars. No one else was in sight, and as I walked along I wondered if Hera or the Golden One had sent me to a time before any human beings existed. But no, I reasoned: the road I followed was unpaved yet definitely the work of men, not an animal trail. I could see ruts in it worn by wheels.
As I walked along, the sun dipped below the dismal gray clouds, heading for the flat horizon of the even grayer sea. The road cut between the cliffs, then curved around another crescent-shaped beach. The coastline must be scalloped with these little beaches hugging the rugged hillsides, I thought. The sea was probably teeming with fish, but I had nothing with which to catch any. So when the sun touched the water's edge, red and bloated, I hiked up into the woods at the crest of the hills to hunt for my dinner.
By the time it was fully dark I was sitting before a small fire, hardening the point of a rough-hewn spear in its flames, digesting a supper of field mouse and green figs.
I started out along the coast road again at sunrise, my makeshift spear on my shoulder. Before long I came upon a fork; one branch continued along the coast, the other cut inland, up into the hills. I started up the hill road, thinking that it must lead somewhere. Yet for most of the day I saw no one else at all. Strange, I thought. Long ages of use had pounded the road hard and almost smooth, except for the ruts worn into it from the wheels of carts and wagons. Still I saw no one at all until well past noon.
Then I saw why no one else was using the road. In the distance, crowning a steep hill off to one side of the road, a walled city sat beneath the hot high sun. And what looked like a small army was camped outside its wall. It reminded me of Troy, except that this city was inland and the besiegers were not camped among their boats on the shore.
For long moments I hesitated, but finally I decided to follow the road to that camp. There must be some purpose for my being here, I reasoned. Perhaps this little war was it.
The discipline at the camp was extraordinarily lax, even compared to the unhappy camp of Philip's army before Perinthos. Men milled about, all of them armed but none of them in anything I could describe as a uniform. Most of them wore leather corselets. Their swords were bronze. They seemed to have no discipline at all.
Then a soldier in bronze breastplate spotted me. "You there! Stand fast! Who are you and what are you doing here?"
He was young enough so that his beard was nothing more than a few wisps. His shoulders were wide, though, and his eyes as black as onyx.
"I am a stranger in these parts," I replied. "My name is Orion."
A few of the other men-at-arms gathered around us, eyeing me casually. I had to admit that I was not much to look at.
"Where'd you get that spear?" one of them asked, grinning. "Hephaistos make it for you?"
Their accent was much different from the Macedonians. It was an older variant of the tongue.
"I can just see the Lame One forging that mighty weapon up on Olympos!"
They all broke into laughter.
"Zeus must be jealous of him!"
"Naw, he probably stole it from Zeus!"
I stood there like a bumpkin and let them slap their thighs and roar with laughter. The young officer, though, barely cracked a smile.
"You are not from these parts?" he asked me.
"No. I come from far away," I said.
"Your name—you call yourself Orion?"
"Yes."
"Who was your father?"
I had to think fast. "I don't know. I have no memory of my childhood."
"Doesn't know who his father is." One of the men nudged his nearest companion in the ribs.
"I am a warrior," I said, realizing that there was no word for soldier in their dialect.
"A warrior, no less!" The men found that uproarious.
Even the young officer smiled. Others were gathering around us, making something of a crowd.
I dropped my spear to the ground and pointed to the one who was making all the remarks. "A better fighter than you, windbag," I challenged.
His laughter turned to a hard smile. He pulled the bronze sword from the scabbard at his hip and said, "Pray to whatever gods you worship, stranger. You're about to die."
I faced him empty-handed. Not a man offered me a weapon or made any objection. The windbag was an experienced fighter, I could see. His sword arm was scarred, his eyes focused hard on me. I simply stood before him, hands at my sides. But I could feel my body going into overdrive, slowing down the world around me.
The flex of the muscles in his thighs gave him away. He began to lunge at me, a simple straight thrust to my belly. I saw it coming, sidestepped, and grasped his wrist with both my hands. I flipped him over my hip and twisted the sword out of his hand in the same motion. He landed on his back with a thud like a sack of wet laundry dropped from a height.
Pointing the blade at his throat, I said, "My gods have heard my prayer. What about yours?"
He stared up at me with the terror of death draining the color from his face. I drove the sword into the dirt next to his head; he squeezed his eyes shut, thinking I meant to kill him. Then he realized he had not been harmed and popped his eyes open again. I reached out a hand to help him to his feet.
The others simply gaped.
Turning to the young officer, I said, "I seek to join your forces, if you will have me."
He swallowed once, then replied, "You must speak to my father about that."
I picked up my spear and followed him deeper into the camp, leaving the others muttering and milling about. The youth led me past a makeshift corral where horses and mules stamped and whinnied, raising dust and reek. There was a row of tents on its other side. We went to the largest one, where a pair of men in bronze armor and tall spears stood a relaxed guard.
"Father," he called as he stepped through the tent's flap, "I've found a recruit for you."
I ducked through and saw a solidly built man with thick gray hair and a grizzled beard sitting at a wooden table. He was obviously at his noon meal; the table was covered with bowls of steaming stew and fruit. A silver flagon stood next to a jeweled wine cup. Three young slave women knelt in the far corner of the tent.
The man looked oddly familiar to me: piercing jet-black eyes, wide shoulders, and beneath his half-opened robe I saw a broad, powerful chest. His bare arms bore heavy dark hair crisscrossed with white scars. He stared hard at me as I stood before his table, tugging at his grizzled beard as if trying to stir his memory.
"Orion," he said at last.
I staggered back a step with surprise. "My Lord Odysseus," I said.
It was truly Odysseus, whom I had served in the siege of Troy. He was older, gray, his face spiderwebbed with wrinkles. He introduced the young officer to me as his son Telemakos.
He smiled at me, although there was puzzlement in his eyes. "The years have been good to you. You don't seem to have changed a bit since I last saw you on the plain of Ilios."
"Are we in Ithaca?" I asked.
Odysseus' face became grave. "Ithaca is far from here," he murmured "My kingdom is there. My wife." The steel returned to his voice. "And the dead bodies of the dogs who would have taken my kingdom, my house, and my wife to themselves."
"The city before us is Epeiros," said Telemakos.
"Epeiros?" I knew that name. It was the city where Olympias was to be born.
Odysseus shook his grizzled head wearily. "After all the years that I have been away from my home and my wife, the gods have seen fit to take me away once again."
"The gods can be cruel," I said.
"Indeed."
Odysseus bade us both to sit down and share his meal. The slave women scurried out of the tent to bring more food while we pulled up wooden stools to the table. Although I had been a lowly thes when I had first met Odysseus, less than a slave, he had recognized my fighting prowess and made me a member of his house.
Now, as the slaves ladled the hot stew into wooden bowls for us, Odysseus told me his long and painful story.
When he left the smoking ruins of Troy to return to his kingdom of Ithaca, his ships were battered by a vicious storm and scattered across the wild sea.
"Poseidon has always been against me," he said, quite matter-of-fact. "Of course, it did not help that I killed one of his sons, later on."
He grew old trying to get back to Ithaca. Ships sank under him; most of his men drowned. One by one his surviving men deserted him, despairing of ever seeing Ithaca again, choosing to remain in the strange lands where they washed up rather than continue the struggle to reach home.
"And all that while, every unmarried swain in the lands around Ithaca was camping at my household door, courting my Penelope, laying siege to my wife and my goods."
"They acted as if they owned the kingdom," said Telemakos. "They even tried to murder me."
"Thank the gods for Penelope's good sense. She has the strength of a warrior, that woman does!" Odysseus grinned. "She refused to believe that I was dead. She would not accept any of those louts as husband."
The two of them went into great detail about how the aspiring noblemen behaved like a plague of locusts, eating and drinking, arguing and fighting, cuffing the servants, assaulting the women, and threatening to kill everyone in the household if Penelope did not choose one of them to marry.
"I finally made it back to Ithaca to find my kingdom in ruins and my house under siege by these swine."
Telemakos smiled grimly. "But we made short work of them, didn't we, father?"
Odysseus laughed out loud. "It was more play than work. After I felled the first three or four of them the others went dashing away like rats at the sight of a terrier. Did they think that a man who has scaled the walls of Troy and fought real heroes in single combat would be frig
htened of a courtyard full of fatted suitors?"
"We cut them down like a scythe goes through wheat," said Telemakos.
"Indeed we did."
"So the kingdom is safely yours once again," I said.
His smile evaporated.
"Their kinsmen have demanded retribution," Telemakos said.
I knew what that meant. Blood feuds, dozens of them, all descending on Odysseus and his family at once.
"Among the slain was the son of Neoptolemos, King of Epeiros. So the kinsmen of the others have gathered together here in Epeiros, preparing to march to Ithaca, take it for themselves, and slay me in retribution."
Neoptolemos was a name I had heard before: Olympias' father, if I recalled correctly. But Olympias would not be born for a thousand years. Neoptolemos must be a ceremonial name carried by all the kings of Epeiros. Unless—
"But we have marched here to Epeiros' walls," said Telemakos, "and laid siege to their city. With all of them bottled up inside the city walls."
The youth seemed rather proud that they had carried the war to their enemies, rather than waiting for them to strike Ithaca.
Odysseus seemed less enthusiastic. "It is a fruitless siege. They refuse to come out and do battle and we lack the strength to storm the city."
I remembered how long it had taken to capture Troy.
In a rare show of impatience, Odysseus banged the table with his fist hard enough to make the slaves cower. "I want to be home! I want to enjoy my last years with my wife, and leave a peaceful kingdom for my son. Instead the gods send me this."
How like Philip he sounded. Except that Odysseus seemed to love his wife and trust his son fully.
"I wish there were something I could do," I said to them. "Some way I could help."
The ghost of a crafty smile played across Odysseus' lips. "Perhaps there is, Orion. Perhaps there is."