Trying War

by S. D. Gentill

  “As much as my father is the god of war, his subjects are those who sacrifice themselves for the lives of others,” she whispered. “He saw what you did, Oenone.”

  Nikias and Demus limped into the marble clearing and hailed them. The kindly murderers were dazed but otherwise unharmed. They greeted the Herdsmen warmly and told them of Electra’s claims that Machaon knew how to gain the Erinyes’ pardon.

  “You believed her?”

  “We are all desperate men,” Demus admitted.

  “And so you came in search of Mac?” Cadmus asked.

  “Some of us did… the rest of us came to make sure the others did not kill him for his secret.”

  Machaon smiled. “And for that you have my thanks.”

  “Where is Orestes?” Lycon asked darkly.

  “He is here somewhere…” Nikias cast his eyes about the rock. “Electra is preparing him for the judgment that Athene promised. She will not rest until he is acquitted entirely.”

  Lycon sighed. “She is loyal,” he said. “However irritating.”

  “Even if he is acquitted, will his sanity return?” Cadmus mused aloud.

  “The kings of Greece have always been mad,” Lycon muttered. “No one will notice.”

  “There is hope for us all now.” Demus clapped Machaon on the back.

  Nikias beckoned the eldest son of Agelaus aside, and spoke quietly. “Take your family and go,” he advised. “Leave this accursed rock. There are dangerous men here now who are no longer imprisoned by the Erinyes.”

  Machaon nodded. Already they had noticed the cold, lurking presence of evil men. He frowned. Whilst he would not call the loathsome sisters back into existence, he wondered if the new, venerable manifestation of the Erinyes would deter these men from killing again.

  “Leave the wicked and the deranged to us,” Demus said reassuringly. “We will protect Athens, and we shall be atoned.”

  “I think you have already been atoned,” Hero said. “Do you not want to go home?”

  Nikias smiled warmly at her. “I did not intend it, but I killed my brother… I am not welcome in my mother’s house.” He put an arm around Demus. “Some of my murdering brothers have become dear to me… I will make myself useful here. Wise Athene has given us a chance to restart our lives.”

  “Then we will leave Athens to you.” Machaon took Hero’s hand. “We promised our people that we would return with our sister.”

  … so many suitors had been stung by maddening Eros and condemned with one fiery shot to fight as rivals in love…

  Nonnus, Dionysiaca, Book 6

  BOOK XXXIV

  AND SO THE CHILDREN OF Agelaus fled the mountain that Poseidon had pounded into the earth. They carried Oenone’s body between them and built her a pyre on the secluded beach on which they had hidden the Phaeacian craft.

  Alcippe came with them and helped light the fire which would carry the nymph to Hades. She was quiet and sad.

  If it had been possible, the Herdsmen would have taken Oenone back to Troy and buried her beside Paris, but they were too far from home. Instead they farewelled her with the mourning song of their people, raising their own calls with that of Lupa.

  Hero watched Machaon carefully as he howled with his brothers and the she-wolf. His eyes were still flecked yellow and she knew he was not free of Medea’s spell. They would have to live with it. If anyone could control a beast within him, it would be gentle Machaon.

  “They say we are kin to the wolves,” she whispered to Alcippe who looked on bewildered as the sons of Agelaus finished their song. “Our men have always used the language of the beasts. My brothers howl now so that those who have gone before us will know that Oenone is coming, and that she is beloved of the Herdsmen of Ida.”

  Alcippe gazed wistfully at the Herdsmen who now stood together watching the fire. “Where is your home, Hero?”

  “East of here.” Hero replied. “Glorious, ancient Ida, which loomed over the citadel and bore witness to all the battles of Troy.”

  “Will you return there?”

  “Yes, I think so… if the gods allow us.”

  “Will you not come with us, Alcippe?” Cadmus turned from the fire. Hero stopped, surprised by the sudden tender intensity with which he regarded the daughter of Ares. “We are happy to share what we have.”

  Lycon grinned. “We live in caves,” he said loudly.

  Machaon clipped him across the head, and Lycon laughed. “She needs to know…”

  “I will be a burden to you,” Alcippe began, blushing though she raised her eyes to meet the open gaze of Agelaus’ middle son.

  “You can wield a sword and a bow, and hunt… you will not be a burden,” Cadmus replied firmly.

  Hero frowned. She could do none of those things. She wondered for a moment if her brothers thought her a burden… surely not—the gods would have killed them long ago but for her.

  “The Earthshaker is angry that his son’s death is unavenged…” Alcippe’s eyes glistened.

  “We are Herdsmen,” Machaon said kindly, with a stern glance at smirking Lycon. “The gods do not notice us.”

  “But I am the daughter of Ares, the god of war,” she replied sadly. “I will draw the Pantheon’s gaze, and Poseidon is the most implacable of gods…”

  “You have not wronged him, Alcippe,” Cadmus said fiercely. “Poseidon has vented his rage on Athens—he’ll go back to stealing fish!”

  Hero gasped. Her lips pressed hard into a disapproving line. Though Poseidon had shaken her faith as much as he had the earth, only a fool would blaspheme against him so soon. Nevertheless, Hero bit her tongue and said nothing, for she could hear Cadmus’ heart in his words.

  “You couldn’t possibly be any worse than the last passenger we took.” Lycon decided now to assist his brother. “We would welcome you, Alcippe.”

  Hesitantly, Alcippe stepped towards Cadmus, clasping his strong hand in hers, even as she refused him. “I will not risk you all with my presence, and I will be needed in Athens.” She took a deep breath. “Will you not stay? Will you not be Athenian?”

  “We too are needed among our people,” Cadmus replied slowly. “For a time at least.” He did not press her to change her mind, but neither did he release her hand.

  Alcippe smiled shyly at the Herdsman. “I am the daughter of the fearless god of war,” said she. “I am not some delicate flower of a girl. One day Poseidon will lose interest, and I will be ready. I will take a boat and find you.”

  Machaon cleared his throat. “Ly and I had better restock the hold,” he said, nudging Lycon. “Hero, you’d best come too… You can pour libations over the deck… or something.” They grabbed Hero and left Cadmus and Alcippe to keep vigil over the fire.

  And so the shepherd and the god’s beloved child kept company for a time. He was gentle and quiet because she had already been hurt once. She was not frightened now, and so she allowed him to know her well.

  At one point Alcippe looked to the sky, and laughed. “Go away, I do not need you.”

  Cadmus looked up a little uneasily. “Has your father returned?”

  “No, it is just my brother Eros.” Alcippe hugged her knees close. “He is interfering, but he means well.”

  Cadmus’ brow rose. Eros was Ares’ son by the goddess of love, his arrows inflamed the hearts of mortals. He wondered briefly just how many of Alcippe’s relatives were gathered invisibly about them. He was not keen on having an audience of gods, however well-meaning.

  He looked again at the black-eyed daughter of war, who sat on the sand with her ivory arms about her knees. He remembered how she had demanded he release Electra, the strength and compassion with which she had closed Lycon’s wound, and he smiled. “You do not need him,” he agreed.

  When the shadows fell long again from the west, he walked with her to a grand house of many rooms and more servants. The mansion had withstood the tremors. It gave the Herdsman hope that Alcippe too would defy Poseidon and they would be reunited in time.
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  “My heart is constant, Cadmus,” she breathed as he held her. “I will find you. You will know my arms again.”

  Cadmus did not go in and they parted on the bronze doorstep. As he walked away he heard the rejoicing in the household as it was discovered that Alcippe had returned, and it soothed him to know that she would not be alone.

  The rest of Athens staggered in the wake of Poseidon’s anger. The palace of Menestheus had been destroyed entirely and Oenone did not go to Hades alone that day. Scores of Athenians crossed the Styx with the nymph whom Paris had loved first. Still, the toll of lives might have been worse if not for the fact that so many had fled the Amazons before the tremors began.

  Hesitant Menestheus had allowed his warriors into the city only as the Amazonian fleet ploughed into the turbulent sea with Attica at its stern. The bards, in their way, had already taken up their golden lyres to weave glory and drama into songs of how Athens had repelled the invaders. They knew not that the true tale was so much greater a story.

  It was from these poets, who wandered the devastated city in search of the fare which would feed their tales, that the Herdsmen had word of Medea. The bards sang of the strange woman who had bewitched Menestheus, and who had climbed into a golden chariot pulled by fire-breathing dragons as the tremors shattered Athens.

  When Helios descended to his palace in the west, the capital had already begun the task of returning to prosperity.

  The Herdsmen did not linger. Under the jewelled cloak of night, they pulled their faithful vessel into the foam and pointed her east. Machaon stood at the prow and thought of Troy, of the ruined citadel and the mountain, of Kelios and the Herdsmen of Ida. The wondrous ship of Pan leapt forth into the flecked waves and soared into the wine-dark waters like a caged bird set free. He laughed, heartened by her joy.

  Lycon lay on the deck and drowsily found stories in the stars for Hero, who could not see them. Cadmus’ eyes lingered on Athens for a time, and then he stood by Machaon and they talked quietly of a wistful sadness that they both now knew.

  Hero sat up, hugging her knees into her breast and rocking with the gentle roll of the ship. “What if the Amazons are waiting for us at Troy?” she said, almost to herself.

  “They will not come to Troy again,” Cadmus replied confidently. “Ares told them to go home and leave you alone.”

  “You don’t know that!” Hero replied. “He did not promise that.”

  The sons of Agelaus glanced awkwardly at one another, wordlessly debating the wisdom of telling Hero that Cadmus had impersonated the god of war. Hero glared at them suspiciously, and they concluded that it would be an unnecessary honesty.

  “We’ll be careful, Hero,” Machaon assured her. “We will keep you safe.”

  “We are none of us safe,” Hero sighed, but it was not a reproach. Just the way things were. Lupa raised her head from the deck.

  Lycon rolled his eyes. “Then we shall take you home, and you can be unsafe there,” he said impatiently.

  Hero stroked Lupa and smiled slightly with the warming thought of home. How wonderful it would be. She watched her brothers, the noble sons of Agelaus, who still seemed oblivious to the power of the immortals. Sometimes she did wonder if their courage was born of idiocy. But Hero knew now that she could protect them. She had defended war before the gods.

  Hero lay down on the deck, curling her body around the solid warmth of deep-furred Lupa, as the movement of the restful sea lulled her into the seductive arms of dark Morpheus. Her brothers sat beside her as she slept, playing dice and talking in the way of young men. Lycon teased Cadmus about the war-god’s daughter, but so gently that he did not mind, and for the first time in many cycles of the moon, Machaon talked of Nausicaa, the Princess of Scherie. With sadness they spoke of Oenone and how tragically she had loved, and of their laughing brother, Paris, who was now long dead. And into the night and through Poseidon’s salty realm, did the extraordinary Phaeacian ship bear them; guided always by the pattern of stars they called Agelaus.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’VE HAD MANY ALLIES IN writing this novel. I salute them here, with sincere and heartfelt thanks.

  My dear friend Alastair Blanshard who helped me destroy mountains as necessary. Who corrected my translations in the midst of civil unrest, and who taught me how to pronounce “Areopagus”.

  Leith Henry, my comrade in arms, who is my cavalry when things get bloody. Who has allowed me to conscript her time and again, and whose loyalty is fierce and fearless.

  The Greens, and the team at Pantera Press, who are mighty allies indeed. Who are both frontline and rear guard. Who urge me forward and have me covered.

  My husband, Michael, who I drafted into this war but who has fought valiantly nevertheless, and who makes sure I’ll live to write another day.

  My boys, Edmund and Atticus, who have always been warriors. Who howl like wolves and challenge the gods daily.

  My old friend Wallace Fernandes, who makes me laugh when things looks grim and provides me refuge from time to time.

  My father who first taught me how to fight. My sisters, Devini and Nilukshi, against whom I first fought.

  My brilliant editor, Deonie Fiford, who knows my champions well, and who makes sure I do them justice.

  XOU Creative who designed a glorious standard for this novel.

  The small army of friends, colleagues, booksellers, reviewers and readers who have come with me on this and past campaigns. I am deeply grateful for you all.

  ABOUT S.D. GENTILL

  S.D. GENTILL SET OUT TO study astrophysics, ended up graduating law, and later abandoned her legal career to write books instead of contracts.

  When the mood takes her, she paints, although she maintains that she does so only well enough to know that she should write. She grows French Black Truffles on her farm in the foothills of the Snowy Mountains of NSW, which she shares with her young family and several animals (the farm not the truffles).

  Sulari was recently offered a Varuna Fellowship. She was commended in the Fellowship of Australian Writers’ 2008 Jim Hamilton Award, long-listed for the Hachette/Queensland Writers’ Centre Australian Manuscript Development Program for fiction writers, short-listed for the 2008 New Holland Publishers and NSW Writers’ Centre Genre Fiction Award and most recently short-listed for Best First Book for the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize for her first novel, A Few Right Thinking Men.

  She has been writing for a few years, and thinking about it most of her life.

  S.D. Gentill is also the author of The Rowland Sinclair Series.

 

 

 
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