by Hilary Green
‘But the Achaeans have been their lords for generations.’
‘Nevertheless, to them we are still the conquerors.’
‘I think you’re exaggerating, Melanthos. The woman was probably angry because we were taking food from her family. When we get back to the palace I shall see she is sent some extra wheat, or perhaps a female kid. She will think less unkindly of us then.’
Melanthos looked at me and smiled. ‘Well, do it if you like. You may win one family that way. But the gulf is too great to be bridged by gifts.’
I shook my head obstinately. ‘I won’t believe that.’
‘Well,’ he remarked quietly, ‘perhaps that’s for the best. After all, you have to be their king one day.’
Back at the palace I took leave of him and wandered away, seeking somewhere to be alone with my thoughts. At the side of a small stream that curled around the foot of the hill I came upon Sirios, sitting on a flat- topped rock with his lyre on the ground at his side. He would have risen to greet me but I waved him back and dropped onto the grass at his feet.
He said, ‘If the Prince is seeking solitude I can take my lyre elsewhere.’
‘On the contrary,’ I returned, ‘it is I who am intruding on you. I should be glad of your company – but perhaps you are composing a new song and I am interrupting.’
He smiled and sighed. ‘I did sit down here with that intention – but I find the noise of the cicadas and the sound of running water make me drowsy.’
I stretched myself full length and closed my eyes. ‘Yes, it is peaceful … hard not to fall asleep …’ I yawned and let my mind drift. Hovering on the brink of a dream the words of Kerkios suddenly came back to me. I opened my eyes.
‘Sirios, if you heard a Dorian say that the third seed was grown – what would you think?’
He turned his head quickly and fixed his eyes on me.
‘I should think it was time to look to my defences. But where have you heard this?’
‘What does it mean? Do you know?’ I sat up and leaned towards him.
‘Have you not heard the tale of Heracles?’
‘Who has not? But which tale? There are so many I find it hard to believe that one man could have accomplished so much.’
‘Nor did one man,’ the bard replied. ‘There have been many princes of that name, and who is to say of which of them the tales are told? But this is sure. The last prince of that name ruled Tyrins of the mighty walls when Nestor, your great-grandfather, was young. But when he died and his sons laid claim to the kingdom they were driven out.’
‘Well?’
‘Do you not know that the Dorians call themselves the sons of Heracles?’
‘No. Why should they? Are they indeed his descendants?’
‘Their princes claim it. Perhaps his sons went north and settled amongst the barbarians. If so, it is likely that they mingled their blood with that of the chieftains of the tribe.’
‘But what has this to do with ‘the third seed’?’
‘When the sons of Heracles consulted the oracle at Delphi it was prophesied that they should return with victory ‘at the third seed’. So, when the harvest came round for the third time, they made the attempt and were met by the armies of Atreus, High King of Mycenae, at the isthmus of Corinth. There Hyllus, their leader, challenged any champion in the opposing army to single combat. Echemus, King of Tegea, accepted and Hyllus was killed, so the Heraclids withdrew defeated.’
‘Then the prophecy was false?’
‘Perhaps. Or perhaps the third seed referred not to wheat or barley but to the seed of man.’
‘The third generation? And that would be …?’
‘You are the third descendant of Nestor.’
We gazed at each other for a moment in silence. Then Sirios said, ‘But tell me where you heard the phrase.’
I repeated Kerkios’s story and added, ‘But I cannot understand why Cresphontes should send such a message to my father. If the prophecy really refers to him and his brother it is surely to Tyrins that they must return – or perhaps to Mycenae, since Heracles also claimed the High Kingship. What has it to do with Pylos?’
‘You are right,’ returned Sirios, ‘but there could be a reason. Neleus once did battle with the great Heracles and was defeated. Perhaps Cresphontes believes that this gives him some claim over Messenia, too.’
‘But it’s laughable!’ I exclaimed. ‘They are barbarians, who scarcely know how to construct a ship. How can they imagine they could match themselves against our army?’
Sirios lifted his shoulders. ‘It seems far-fetched, I know. But then, they have never encountered our soldiers. Or perhaps it is only bravado. Who can say? I have told you the old stories, that is all.’
I rose abruptly, all thoughts of sleep forgotten. ‘My father must hear this. Come with me, Sirios.’
I began to hasten up the hill and then realised that he had dropped behind. When I turned to wait he said, smiling, ‘My dear Prince, I do not think that the danger is so imminent that an old man needs to strain his heart panting up hills.’
I took his lyre and gave him my shoulder to lean on and forced myself to match my pace to his until we reached my father’s apartments. He was sitting in his private courtyard, studying some documents.
I said, ‘Forgive me for intruding, father, but I must speak to you. It has to do with what Kerkios told us the other day.’
He gestured to both of us to be seated. ‘Well?’
I turned to Sirios. ‘Repeat what you have just told me.’
My father listened to the old man in silence and when he had finished said, ‘You have done well, Alkmaion. I should have thought myself to consult Sirios. He knows more of what has passed in years gone by than any of us.’
I said, ‘What do you think, sir? Is there any danger of an attack?’
He shook his head. ‘I cannot believe so. The Dorians have little bronze and little skill in forging it. The gods have not seen fit to impart to them the sacred mysteries of the smith’s art. I judge it this way. The old King, Aristomachos, is dead. His sons are young and hot headed. They are planning, perhaps, a few raids on neighbouring territories. But Cresphontes, having heard the prophecy, cannot resist hinting at it to Kerkios. It is bravado, merely. What do you think, Sirios?’
‘Perhaps so, my King. As you say, they cannot hope to match us.’
‘Nevertheless, it is well to be forewarned and I am grateful to you. I shall give it some thought. Meanwhile, let the knowledge remain between us three. You understand me?’
When Sirios had gone I said, ‘Then you believe there is no danger, sir?’
He turned his brooding eyes upon me. ‘I believe it is best that we should appear to think so.’
‘Then you believe there is?’
‘Cresphontes is a man of ambition. Perhaps he plans a little piracy, an attack on one of our merchant ships – maybe even a raid on one of our villages. If he really thinks he can do more then he is a fool. Your uncle was right this morning when he said the Dorians would not withstand a single chariot charge. But we shall do well to be on our guard. I shall send another ship north to see if we can pick up any further information.’
As I left my father's apartments I saw Karpathia crossing the courtyard. Normally she was attended by two hand maidens but for once she was alone and on an impulse I called out to her. She stopped and turned and for a moment her face lit up as it used to when we found ourselves together. The next instant, the smile was gone, leaving the cold mask I had come to expect.
I put my hand out to her. 'Karpathia, why do you have to be so distant? We never talk now. We used to be such good friends.'
She looked at me and for a moment I thought I saw the glint of tears in her eyes. 'Dear brother! I wish we could be as we once were. I miss it, too. But you have to understand, things are different now. I am different. Now that I am dedicated to the Great Goddess I have to put aside all other loves, all other friends.'
'Isn't it lonely?' I
asked.
Her lips quivered and then she pressed them hard together. 'No. I have companions. The other priestesses …' her voice tailed away.
'But that isn't the same,' I protested. 'They don't love you like I do. You can't laugh and joke with them, can you? And what about the future? Don't you want a husband, children?'
She shook her head suddenly, almost angrily. 'Alkmaion, you don't understand. You can't … yet. But you will soon. Once the Goddess has taken you to herself, you don't need mortal friends. We can't go back to how things were – even if we wanted to. I have always known that this was my destiny. It is the greatest honour a woman can have. Beside that, nothing else matters.
She turned quickly and walked away, but not before I had seen a single tear escape and glisten on her cheek.
Chapter 3.
Before bedtime that evening I had something more immediate to occupy my thoughts. I had just finished my bath and was scarcely dressed when I was summoned to my father’s presence. To my surprise I found my sister Karpathia and the Chief Priest already there. The Priest was a tall, thin-faced man with dark, hooded eyes whose gaze I found it hard to sustain. As a child I had been terrified of him. Now I knew him for a man second only in power to my father, the guardian of the mysteries of the Great Goddess. I saluted them and turned enquiringly to my father.
He said, ‘Alkmaion, in a few days you will enter your seventeenth year. Also, it is not long now until the Great Spring Festival. I have been thinking that it is time for you to begin to play a full part in that Mystery, but before you can do so you must be initiated.’
The Chief Priest said, ‘We have consulted the omens, Prince. The Goddess is willing to receive you.’
My throat had gone dry. I had never found anyone who would speak of what happened during those rites. I said huskily, ‘When?’
It was Karpathia who spoke. ‘Tomorrow. Your period of initiation will last twelve days and will end three days before the night of the full moon. That will be at the start of the New Year Festival. Come to the sanctuary at sunrise. You must be fasting, and alone.’
I slept little that night and rose while it was still dark. I had given orders for a chariot to be prepared for me and as I left the palace I could see it waiting. In the grey dawn light it took me a moment or two to recognise that the charioteer was Alectryon.
‘You knew!’ I said.
‘I guessed,’ he replied.
I hesitated. ‘I am to go alone.’
‘I know. But I will drive you to the foot of the Holy Mountain.’
I mounted the chariot in silence, unable to trust my voice. A cold fear clasped my belly and I could have wept with gratitude for his company.
He said softly, ‘Don’t be afraid. We have all been through it – and survived.’
I swallowed and forced myself to speak casually. ‘Well, at least I shall know the answers to all the questions I’ve wanted to ask all these years.’
‘No-one is permitted to know all the answers,’ he replied soberly. ‘There are some questions it is best not to ask.’
After that we drove in silence. I huddled into my cloak and watched the sky over the mountains flush pink and then become streaked with crimson and gold. We skirted the wide curve of the bay until we came to the cluster of buildings that housed the slaves who tended the sanctuary. At the bridge crossing the channel that divides the Holy Island from the mainland Alectryon drew rein and laid a hand briefly on my shoulder.
‘Be of good courage. My thoughts go with you, even if I cannot. We shall meet again in twelve days.’
I muttered my thanks and set off along the broad ceremonial way that led towards the Sacred Cave and whatever awaited me there.
Of what happened during the days that followed it is forbidden to speak. Yet I am afraid that those who come after me may be unacquainted with the Sacred Mysteries and I wish them to understand why it was that the young man who presented himself for the final ceremonies in the grove of sacred oaks was not the same as he who climbed the path to the sanctuary in that chilly dawn.
Those who have watched and fasted for many days and nights will know something of what I experienced. Deep in the caves there is no dawn and no sunset, only the endless chanting of the priests and the inexorable chill that gnaws its way into the very bones. Initiates will remember the desperate struggle to remain awake and upright and the cruel pricks of the goads that brought us back to our senses each time sleep tried to claim us. Only they will know how it feels to be bound to the pillar that is the holiest dwelling place of the Mistress and scourged until your seed spews out upon the altar stone. Only they will remember the power of the smoke from the sacred fire, which robs a man of mastery over his thoughts and brings the terrible messengers of Her power. I fled Her as a stag, with Her hounds snapping at my heels. They ringed me with fire and my spirit soared up as a bird to float above the mountains and the sea, but She pursued me as an eagle and stooping bore me down, down into the depths of the ocean, choking and struggling for breath; until at last I was reborn on her altar, helpless and slippery as a new born infant.
They permitted me to sleep then and when I woke one of the Priestesses was kneeling by my bedside. Her name was Eritha and from my first arrival I had been aware of her. She was not beautiful as most people would use the term but there was something compelling about her face that constantly drew my eyes. She was very dark, with high cheekbones and huge, luminous eyes above a wide, curving mouth. The ritual garments of a priestess, a long flounced skirt and a small, tight-waisted bodice, left her full breasts bare and her thick, dark hair hung in heavy ringlets over her honey coloured shoulders. She touched my hand and held out a goblet.
‘Drink. It is warm wine. It will soothe you.’
I sipped the hot, spicy potion and almost at once felt a delicious languor spreading through my body. Eritha reached out and caressed my face and hair. As I drew back from the touch she whispered, ‘Be at ease, Prince of the Achaeans. I am here to bring you comfort.’
Her hand moved down over my chest and rested on my belly. Whether I willed it or not I could not have prevented my body’s instinctive response. She lowered her head and I gasped as I felt her lips upon me. Desire surged through me in great waves but when I was almost at the peak of excitement she drew back. I reached for her, groaning with frustration, and she slipped off her garments and straddled my body. I took the heavy breasts in my hands and cried aloud as her soft flesh encompassed me.
I understand now that she was a courtesan, trained in the arts of the Great Goddess, but at the time she played upon my senses as a musician plays upon his instrument. She came to me several times after that and the lightest brush of her finger could raise me to new heights of ecstasy and yet, even at the time, I felt my craving for her as a kind of sickness.
Once I asked her for how many others she had performed similar services but she only smiled and stroked my thigh and murmured,
‘Not all who come here are Princes of the Blood. Besides, you chose me with your eyes the day you arrived.’
I returned home on the evening before the beginning of the Festival. Since my childhood I had been accustomed to the processions and offerings that accompanied the season but I had never understood their meaning. Why, for example, was it called the festival of the New King? Why did my father disappear for three days, during which time the Household went into mourning? Once I had asked Mukala to explain it to me but she had so terrified me with her warnings against inquiring into the Mysteries that I had never dared ask again. Now all would be revealed to me, but I felt only a heavy dread mingled with a sickening excitement.
The following day the mysteries began.
In preparation the casks of new wine had been brought out of the palace storerooms. As the sun neared its zenith the people began to gather on the hilltop and the casks were broached. Glad to dull my senses, I drank greedily until, with whoops and yells, the whole assembly moved off towards the Holy Mountain. I may not speak of what follow
ed, and even if it were permitted I should find it hard to do so, for after the first few cups of wine my brain was clouded. I recall the frenzy that gripped us all and the ecstatic rhythms of the dance. At one point my hands and lips were red, not with wine, but with the warm blood of some still-quivering animal. And then, as the moon rose, Eritha’s arms drew me down into oblivion.
I woke in the chill of early dawn. My body felt sore and stiff, my head pounded and my stomach crawled. Eritha lay beside me, her lips parted and still smeared with blood. About me I could dimly make out other bodies, sprawled together like corpses on a battlefield. The air of the cave was stale and foetid.
I dragged myself painfully to my feet and staggered towards the pale light at the entrance. The air struck cold on my body. I flung myself down across a rock and was miserably sick. Then, like a wounded animal, I crept from bush to bush until I felt I had reached a place where no one was likely to stumble across me. There I dropped to the grass, trembling as if in the grip of fever. A twig cracked behind me and I started up, as a hunted stag that has taken refuge in a thicket gathers itself at the approach of hounds for a last, desperate flight. But it was Alectryon who had followed me. We looked at each other in silence for a moment and then I let my head drop back onto my arms. He sat down beside and laid a hand briefly on my tangled hair.
After a moment he said, ‘You are shivering and the ground here is still wet with dew. On the other flank of the mountain the sun will be shining. Let us go and find a warmer place to sit.’
I forced myself to sit up, though my head swam. He helped me to my feet and wrapped his cloak about me, then led the way along a faint path that led around the shoulder of the hill. As he had predicted the sun here was already warm. We found a flat-topped rock from which the morning damp had dried and sat down. I hugged the cloak about me and felt the fits of convulsive shivering become less frequent.
At length Alectryon said, ‘I wish I could have warned you, but it is forbidden.’