The Year-god's Daughter (The Child of the Erinyes)

by Rebecca Lochlann

  Idómeneus gave a particularly twisted grin. “From now on, only men will run those races. We’ve come far; soon, women will have no importance, no say in the matters of the world. No one will care about moon-brides. No one will even remember them.”

  “Dusk is falling my lords,” said the boy at the door.

  The men rose, shoving their stools over the dirt floor. They circled the hearth, their eyes upon a priest who held a ritual dagger. Peering into the smoky rafters of the cramped, abandoned shepherd’s hut, he faced north and intoned a prayer to Zeus, then south and spoke one to Poseidon as the boy led a wooly ram to his side.

  The priest sliced the ram’s throat. Blood flowed over the stones around the hearth as the men bowed their heads. “Boreas,” they chanted. Each pressed his palm to his neighbor’s then silently, in twos, left the hut.

  Outside, Chrysaleon leaped into the chariot and took the reins. Idómeneus climbed in more laboriously.

  The others scattered in various directions after saluting the north and murmuring respectful farewells to their king.

  “It pains me that your brother isn’t here,” Idómeneus said as he and Chrysaleon made their way over the hills toward the citadel.

  Chrysaleon knew this complaint too well. “He cannot be trusted.” I wish you could do something, anything, without bringing that tiresome bastard into it, he left unsaid.

  “That’s going too far. Menoetius is trustworthy.” Idómeneus frowned at his heir. “It’s this lingering devotion to Athene, Hera and the others. I know he hasn’t yet discarded them, though he comes closer every year. One day, I hope to include him in Boreas. He would be most valuable to us.”

  Chrysaleon decided the safest thing to do was change the subject. “See your demesne, my lord,” he said as they topped the summit of a hill.

  Stretched before them like a god’s gigantic porridge bowl lay Mycenae’s valley, lit to fiery magnificence by a sinking vermilion sun. The citadel itself lifted from a central rise like an ornate crown of carved stone. Purplish-blue mountains ringed the plain, as much a defensive barrier to harsh weather and invaders as the massive walls currently being constructed.

  Soft music from a hidden shepherd’s aulos, mixed with the occasional bleat of goats, drifted through the evening. Chrysaleon breathed deeply, making a conscious effort to release his resentment of Menoetius and replace it with satisfaction. The vast expanse of lazy, well-tended fields and mudstone homesteads proclaimed his father’s holdings rich, successful and secure.

  “The evening air is sweet,” he said.

  “All I smell is dung.” Idómeneus cocked his chin at a fresh pile near the chariot. He took the reins and sent the horses down the incline, raising a dusty cloud behind them.

  A clot of peasants forced them to slow the horses as they approached the citadel. The guards stood straighter and thumped the butts of their spears against the ground.

  “The king,” someone shouted, which brought more curious onlookers.

  Torchlight flickered over the massive carving set above the lintel-piece. The sculpture contained two lionesses; their front paws rested on the scrolled foot of a pillar. Their fierce eyes and bared teeth faced the approach ramp. Standing on the pillar, garbed in the traditional seven-layered skirt, was full-breasted Athene in her guise as mistress of the wild things, Britomartis. She towered above the gate and walls, saluting visitor and enemy alike with an outstretched spear.

  One day, Chrysaleon vowed as he scrutinized her implacable granite eye, his people would relinquish their backward loyalty to this deity. He and his father shared perfect agreement on the issue, but the king’s counselors, they who Idómeneus dubbed “bleating titless women,” advised caution and respect if they would continue to rule this land without needless bloodshed. Such displays as this monument appeased the native peasantry who had worshipped her since the initial formation of clouds, ages before Chrysaleon’s people arrived in these lands.

  But by all the gods, why must kings appease peasants?

  Mothers held up their children to touch the sides of the chariot as they passed. Men bowed, pulling their forelocks.

  “Will you pour the libation?” Chrysaleon reminded his father as they stopped before the gate.

  Two guards brought a stand to assist the king, and one handed him a silver ewer. Chrysaleon left the chariot as well and stood beside his father. Idómeneus poured wine at the junctures of earth and stone and spoke a prayer to Hippos, then the Lady. Both saluted then he and Chrysaleon walked beneath the lintel and entered the citadel precincts.

  Chrysaleon knelt before the carved steles at the grave site without preamble, though Idómeneus had to be helped to his knees by one of the guards; his joints were no longer pliable, and several old wounds further stiffened his bones.

  Here lay Chrysaleon’s mother, his father’s father, a sister, and numerous uncles. He bent his head, but paid no attention to the priest intoning the required prayers.

  Glory, strength, domination. Idómeneus long ago convinced Chrysaleon he would never truly possess these things until the sky swallowed the earth and women’s venerable power was crushed under the heel of man.

  Boreas, the clandestine society begun by Idómeneus’s grandfather, hatched one ingenious plot after another, designed to reach this goal with such subtlety that most would never recognize the transformation of their world.

  They had achieved significant changes through the region, and even among the islands. Boreas rewarded bards for composing songs that supported their aim, and these songs spread their message like slow, invisible flames. Tales gained credence, little by little, of the descent of goddesses, their subservience to fierce male counterparts. Boreas intrigued men with stories of the sky gods’ fearsome accomplishments. They’d lived too many centuries yoked beneath women’s dark, mystical power and were ripe for changes that gave them the upper hand. Hera so far suffered the most; she who could renew a state of partheneia by bathing in consecrated waters and who had been worshipped here for time beyond memory, was being whittled into an object of ridicule, at least among those who now ruled.

  Athene, though, remained invincible. Idómeneus and his cronies discussed her endlessly, but had found no way to diminish her—yet.

  A voice broke in on Chrysaleon’s reflections, returning him to the breezy hot evening.

  “Did you have a pleasant ride, Father?”

  The priest had finished the prayers and stepped back. The question came from his sixteen-year-old brother, Gelanor. Chrysaleon looked up in time to catch a mischievous glance being exchanged between the two, but before he could ask about it, Gelanor said, “Prince Harpalycus and his father arrived shortly after you left. There he is, on the wall.”

  Chrysaleon followed Gelanor’s pointing finger. High above, standing at the edge of the rampart, two figures watched the scene at the graves. Harpalycus, prince of Tiryns, which many called Mycenae’s only real rival in strength and power, was easy to recognize with his full beard and trademark breastplate displaying a gold wolf’s head embossed on bronze and leather.

  The other man stepped closer to Harpalycus’s side. Proitos, Harpalycus’s lackey, was short and gray-headed, his face pale and haughty. His presence gave credence to recent rumors that one was never seen without the other.

  Alarms clanged in Chrysaleon’s head. His gaze returned to his father, but Idómeneus gave nothing away as he laboriously rose to his feet.

  When he glanced back, Harpalycus inclined his head in mock obeisance. Swiftly descending darkness made it impossible to read his expression.

  Idómeneus said, “We shall wait upon the prince and his father in the Hall.” He motioned to Chrysaleon. “Come, my son. Let us welcome King Lycomedes together.”

  What was this about? Idómeneus despised Lycomedes and the arrogant prince, Harpalycus. But he supposed protocol demanded a courteous greeting, nonetheless.

  The king and his two trueborn sons trudged up the steep path. As they entered the palace, an obseq
uious crowd, all dressed in their finest attire, surrounded them. A slave brought Idómeneus’s favorite gold pectoral necklace, and a comb to smooth his windblown hair. Another tried to offer Chrysaleon the same treatment, but he waved the man away.

  Idómeneus clasped Chrysaleon’s bicep and led him toward the receiving hall, from which emanated a trickle of music and flare of light. There stood his lover Theanô, a blush on her delicate cheeks, her father’s meaty arm resting on her shoulders. What a sight she was, her flaxen hair dressed high with silver bands, her pale, bare arms. A lovely, tractable woman. She would make a fine wife. Chrysaleon wasn’t sure how much longer they could keep her nightly visits a secret from the hot-blooded general, who even now regarded the prince with scowling suspicion. He would have to marry her if they were found out. He didn’t really want to marry, but why not? It could be worse.

  “I ordered a feast,” Idómeneus was saying. “But first we must finalize a barter.”

  “What?” Chrysaleon tore his attention away from his lover and stared suspiciously at the king.

  The crowd parted, leaving one man standing before them; King Lycomedes of Tiryns, richly adorned in gold and pleated linen, his long hair curled, gleaming with oil.

  The satisfied expression on Lycomedes’ face sent alarms pealing afresh through Chrysaleon’s mind. Idómeneus displayed the same smugness, as did Gelanor, who hung close, grinning.

  Lycomedes half-turned and held up his arm. “Come, daughter,” he said, and a blushing girl stepped from behind a pillar. Chrysaleon saw her fingers tremble as she placed them in her father’s hand.

  “My daughter, Princess Iros,” Lycomedes said.

  Chrysaleon saluted her and bowed, using that brief moment to arrange his expression into something less readable. He didn’t look at Theanô but felt her stare hammer the back of his head.

  Idómeneus stepped forward and took Iros’s other hand. Together the two kings led her to Chrysaleon.

  “We’ve finalized the agreements,” Idómeneus said. “Tiryns and Mycenae will be united, my son, through your marriage to King Lycomedes’ daughter.”

  Chrysaleon’s body clenched. Marriage, into the clan of the despised Harpalycus? His breathing tightened. He wouldn’t be used in such ways. His father hadn’t even prepared him. They would learn—

  As he opened his mouth, as Idómeneus’s face stiffened in alarm and Harpalycus’s hand inched toward his dagger, Chrysaleon caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Someone appeared at his side and gripped his shoulder.

  “Alas, that I’m a bastard and scarred beyond tolerance,” Menoetius said. “Once again, Chrysaleon receives the finest honors. Not only will he lead our people one day, but he is granted this beautiful lady, a royal princess to kiss him as he rides into battle, to weep when he’s wounded. You’re a lucky man, my brother.”

  Menoetius’s grip tightened into a warning pinch then he released Chrysaleon and stepped forward to kneel before Iros.

  The distraction gave Chrysaleon what he needed, an instant to disguise his fury behind a bland expression. Only Harpalycus ignored the interruption. Nostrils distended, fingers clamping the hilt of his dagger, he didn’t even glance at Menoetius but kept his gaze fixed on Chrysaleon. One frown, the slightest scowl, and Harpalycus would draw his knife. Blood would spill. Everyone knew of the fierce protective love Harpalycus bore for his sister.

  Perhaps this was for the best. Harpalycus would hardly declare war on the city his sister ruled as queen. Chrysaleon studied the trembling child who resolutely stared at the floor. Her hair, though ornately woven with shiny bangles, was of a tedious mousy color, neither blonde nor brown. There was still baby fat in her cheeks. She might not have even reached her first blood yet. In no way could she be termed beautiful, though she might someday be passable.

  Everyone stared at him, including the two kings. They wanted some reaction, and his father’s face told him it had better be agreeable. Harpalycus’s sneer deepened.

  Menoetius stood. He turned, peaking one brow toward Chrysaleon as he passed. Chrysaleon read the message as clearly as if his brother spoke aloud. Too bad for you. Better to be bastard than prince.

  He’d said it aloud many times through the years, whenever Chrysaleon was forced to honor boring obligations.

  From the look of things, the ruffled hair, the dust upon his leather tunic and grimy sandals, Menoetius had only this moment returned from a day of hunting, just in time to see his brother roped into an unwanted betrothal.

  All at once Chrysaleon wanted to laugh. He was able to step forward, go down upon his knee and clasp the plump child’s icy hand. “You offer me more honor than I deserve,” he said.

  Iros’s eyes widened. She blushed as she stammered, “M-my lord,” and inclined her head.

  “Come,” Idómeneus shouted. “We’ll feast together.”

  Chrysaleon rose and offered Iros his arm, noticing how pale she’d turned.

  Lycomedes gestured. Two women approached and led her away, the opposite direction of the feasting hall.

  “She’s overtired,” Lycomedes said to Chrysaleon’s questioning glance. “And shy. She’s lived a secluded life. As her husband, you will have the pleasure of molding her into whatever pleases you.”

  His words were enough to send Chrysaleon’s gaze shooting toward Harpalycus. He wasn’t surprised to see a snarl and clenched fists. Whatever Lycomedes planned to accomplish through this betrothal, he did it without his son’s approval.

  “Your upcoming voyage to Crete forced me to hasten things,” Idómeneus said, low enough not to be overheard as they walked toward the mouth-watering scent of roasted pig. “I want you married before you leave, and it would please me if she grows heavy with child while you’re gone. Delays in these matters help nothing, and remember—your sons by Iros can kill Harpalycus and any of his offspring.” He acknowledged the congratulations offered by one of his counselors.

  “I didn’t wish to marry yet,” Chrysaleon returned. “And I surely wouldn’t have chosen her.”

  “That is of no matter to me. You will do as I command. This union with Tiryns and Crete’s overthrow will make us invincible.” He strode away to join a crowd of well-wishers, seizing a jeweled bowl in his gnarled hands and giving a full-throated laugh.

  Harpalycus….

  The tic beneath Chrysaleon’s left eye sprang to life, as it had done whenever he was tired or angry for as long as memory served.

  Even now, as the king’s guests feasted, laughed, flirted and admired the dancers, Harpalycus made no effort to hide his rage. He leaned against the far wall, flanked by two of Lycomedes’ guards, no doubt ordered to keep the prince of Tiryns from causing a scene.

  Shadowing his master was the scrawny, yellow-skinned Proitos.

  Smarting over his father’s trickery, Chrysaleon sought to ease his impotent fury. He sauntered over, nodding at the guards’ salutes.

  “Your sister,” he said. “My wife.” He offered a deliberately lecherous grin.

  One of the guards placed a hand on Harpalycus’s forearm. The prince jerked it free. “Perhaps. We shall see.” He swallowed hard and for the slightest instant, his lips whitened.

  “Lay hands upon me again and you’ll lose your fingers,” Harpalycus said to the guard without so much as glancing at him.

  The guard flushed. “My lord, your father ordered me to prevent problems.”

  “You haven’t changed,” Chrysaleon said, crossing his arms. “Still a boy in a man’s body.”

  “I don’t fear slaves and commoners, as some men do.”

  The guard’s jaw clenched. He set his gaze upon the opposite wall and fell still as wood.

  “Men find worthy adversaries,” Chrysaleon said.

  The antagonism was a long-simmering thing. Nine years it had festered, since Idómeneus ordered his fourteen-year-old son to attend Harpalycus’s twelfth birthday celebration at the citadel of Tiryns.

  Chrysaleon and a group of boys wanted to see who could throw a
spear the farthest. As they passed Harpalycus’s bedchamber, they heard a scream and cries for mercy. Upon entering, Chrysaleon saw Harpalycus whipping a slave who was crouched on the floor.

  He wrenched the whip from Harpalycus’s hand.

  “Give that to me,” Harpalycus shouted, red-faced.

  “What did he do?” Chrysaleon returned.

  Harpalycus’s eyes widened and he sucked in a deep breath. “Do you think I must answer to you?” His fists clenched. “This is Tiryns. You are nothing here.”

  King Lycomedes entered just then and overheard his son’s discourteous comments.

  The king blanched and put himself between the two boys. “How dare you speak to Prince Chrysaleon in that manner,” he’d said, staring coldly at Harpalycus. He turned to Chrysaleon. “I ask your forgiveness on behalf of my son, who is too ignorant to ask it for himself. He’ll be punished, you have my vow.”

  “I don’t want him punished.” Chrysaleon damned his bothersome curiosity. He could be outside right now throwing spears. “I only—”

  “I don’t need you to intercede for me.” Harpalycus lunged past his father, his fist flying toward Chrysaleon’s jaw, but Lycomedes tripped him, sending him sprawling.

  “That is where you belong,” Lycomedes shouted. “And that is where you will remain.” He gestured to his serving men. “Take him away.”

  Harpalycus was dragged, screaming curses, from the room.

  Lycomedes bowed in such a servile manner that Chrysaleon’s lip curled. “You’ve honored us by coming here for my son’s birthday celebration. Harpalycus is an ignorant fool.”

  Chrysaleon allowed the other boys to pull him away. Later, at the feast, Lycomedes ordered the guards to bring Harpalycus in while he presented his son’s birthday gift, matched stallions from Thrace, to Chrysaleon, in front of a densely packed hall.

  “I don’t want them,” Chrysaleon said. They were beautiful, but they would only remind him of the boy he hated.