Troy: A Brand of Fire

by Ben Blake

  *

  “I will tell you again,” Agamemnon grated. “We will hear the Pythia’s words for ourselves. You will take us to her.”

  “No,” the priest said.

  He was kneeling beside the great stone, held down by Agememnon’s heavy hand on his shoulder. And kept there by the High King’s sword at his neck. His breathing was ragged but that was all the sign of nerves that he gave. A man sworn to Apollo’s service, and carrying that out at the most sacred site in Greece, had little reason to worry for his soul. It would wing its way to Hades when he died, but there it would walk in the Orchards of Elysium, with birdsong for company and ambrosia flowing in the streams.

  “The Lord of the Black Cloud take you!” Agamemnon swore. “Put aside your cursed stubbornness!”

  “It is not I who is stubborn,” the priest said. His voice was still quite calm. “The laws of this place were laid down by Apollo himself. I will not break them. Neither should you. The vengeance of the gods will fall as heavily on the High King as it would on a peasant.”

  Nestor was actually quite sure that was true. The Twelve Olympians had never been known for their tolerance towards mortals who transgressed. Offer your sacrifices, show proper deference and respect, and the gods would smile upon you. Fail in those things and all the things you prized were placed at risk: even your life, and the lives of your loved ones. The gods spread their vengeance widely when they struck.

  Menelaus was smiling tightly as his brother threatened the priest. That was no surprise; the younger Atreide brother had always followed the elder like a lamb behind its mother. There would be no help from that quarter. There would be none from Diomedes or Ajax, either; both men were standing back and looking uncomfortable, but not about to intervene. Nestor sighed to himself and moved forward.

  “There’s no need for this,” he said.

  Agamemnon turned a furious glare on him. “Be quiet, old man. I will have my way in this.”

  “And the gods will have theirs,” Nestor said. “Assaulting a priest is not the best way to gain the answer you need from the Pythia, High King. A calmer approach might be wise.”

  Agamemnon glowered at him, but with Nestor to shield him Diomedes spoke as well. “Perhaps if we each swear to sacrifice a ram to Apollo before the sun goes down tonight, the god might waive the normal rules, and allow us to hear the prophetess for ourselves?”

  The kneeling priest hesitated, then looked at Nestor, who shrugged and spread his hands.

  “I suppose he might,” the man said.

  After a moment Agamemnon withdrew the sword and stepped back. “A wise decision. Do not retract it.”

  Nestor hoped the High King wasn’t going to ruin the compromise by keeping up with his rudeness. He’d been in a foul temper since the Gathering at Mycenae, apt to snarl at anyone who came close. He’d struck his servants more than once, and while that wasn’t especially unusual he’d broken one man’s arm and left a maid unable to move her shoulder, and that certainly was. Agamemnon was sullen and hot-tempered by nature, but this behaviour was unlike him.

  Actually, now Nestor thought of it, the High King’s temper didn’t date from the Gathering at all. He’d been impatient then, determined to follow the course he’d already decided on, but he hadn’t been violent, or even very angry. The change in his temper had come afterwards, in the single day between the Gathering and the beginning of the journey to Delphi. Something must have happened in that time. Nestor had no idea what it could be, but he thought it would be wise to tread softly around Agamemnon until the fury passed.

  “You must leave your weapons,” the priest said. “No, High King, that is not open to discussion. I’m already breaking the rules for you. I will not allow you also to bear swords on the holy ground.”

  Agamemnon, for a wonder, only scowled. Nestor took off his sword belt and handed it to one of his followers. “Keep that for me. I don’t think there’s any danger for us to fear among the temples.”

  “Except the anger of Apollo,” the man said.

  “Yes,” Nestor agreed. He couldn’t help smiling, though it wasn’t even a little bit funny. “Except that.”

  Once they were disarmed, the priest led the five men past the sacred stone and into the temple complex. Nestor couldn’t resist touching the rock with his fingertips as he went by. He’d come here once before, to ask advice on an issue that didn’t seem important now, and he’d attached his hank of wool like any other plaintiff. But he’d never walked past it, seen the stone from the uphill side. Only priests and priestesses of Apollo were allowed to walk here.

  Until now, at least.

  In any other god’s worship such isolation might have been a source of lewd gossip; everyone knew what clerical types got up to at night, when men and women were mixed together. Or when they weren’t, for that matter. There were countless stories about it and twice as many crude jokes. But Apollo’s servants were sworn to celibacy, and they took the vow seriously. Nestor had never heard any plausible claim of impropriety among them, here or anywhere else.

  White-robed priests stopped to gape at the little group as it made its way up the path. Nestor wondered how long it had been since ordinary folk were allowed past the Cronus-stone. A hundred years? Two hundred, or even never? To judge by the astonishment of the robed men and women, they might not know either. A few of them stopped dead when they saw the kings, their jaws dropping open in comical surprise. Most moved on quickly when Agamemnon scowled at them though. What was wrong with the man?

  From the Cronus-Stone the path led up the outcrop and around it, until it crested the ridge and the temple complex was revealed. Pillared houses of worship stood atop broad marble steps, roofed with coloured tiles all mixed together, brilliant reds and greens alongside sunrise yellows. Dormitory houses stood between the temples, low-built but graceful, with herb gardens alongside and chickens picking at the ground in coops built against the walls. All the interlocking paths were lined with columns, painted red and linked with arches of white marble. The columns had been made by cutting stone into slices a foot deep and stacking them one atop the next, very precisely. There were better ways of building today.

  But the temples here were old, old. The site had been ancient at the time of the earliest myths. It was here that humans had first been created, the Golden Race of antiquity who had ruled the Earth for long years, aeons of time, before the mortal Men of today came into being. The Golden Ones survived now as the spirits of pools and forests: Naiads and Dryads, Alseids and Nereids and all the others. Givers of blessings and justice, in most of the tales, and lovers of mortals in the rest. Long after they were gone early men had come here, and wondered, and had begun to build temples and pillars the best way they knew how.

  The result wasn’t necessarily graceful, but it did have a power to it. Something crude but vital, Nestor thought, full of primitive energy. It made his skin prickle. There was potency here, that was for certain, thrumming in the air and the rock beneath his feet. He wondered how the priests stood it, how they slept with this constant hum in their ears.

  They followed the main street, right through the heart of the buildings. Presently they passed an amphitheatre on their right, cut into the hillside to form a deep artificial bowl. There were seats enough for two hundred people, perhaps more, and Nestor wondered how many priests and priestesses actually lived on this site. And how many of them performed, come to that. He could imagine them acting out a play of the birth of the Olympians, or Apollo’s daily drive across the sky in the chariot of the Sun, while their fellows listened in respectful silence. Probably all the plays they acted were serious things, long on piety but short on humour, so concerned with respect that realism was lost.

  Just past the amphitheatre they angled to the left, off the main road. They followed a smaller way around the back of a temple with an elaborate portico, much more modern in style than the building it fronted. It ran between a stand of cypress trees and ended at a narrow cave mouth, just large enough
to admit a man and utterly black. Nestor looked at it and found himself shivering. He didn’t want to go in there.

  Four priests stood in a line across the path. They stared in astonishment at the visitors, then turned angry eyes on their guide.

  “Tynaeus?” one of them said. “What are you doing? These people aren’t priests!”

  “I know that,” the man who’d brought them here said testily. “They are kings. The brawny one is Agamemnon of Mycenae.”

  “I don’t care if he’s the seventh son of Hermes,” the other man retorted. “He shouldn’t be here. What do you think you do?”

  “They were… insistent,” Tynaeus said. “Extremely so. I judged it wiser to allow them their way, and let Apollo decide if he is angered by their presumption. I rather suspect,” he eyed Agamemnon with open dislike, “that he will be. But that’s up to the god.”

  “That’s not yours to decide,” the guardian shot back. “Our task is to protect the god’s silence here.”

  “As I have, for many years,” Tynaeus said. “You know it as well as I. Don’t insult my dedication.”

  “You insult it yourself,” the man snapped.

  The High King showed his teeth, his patience gone. “Take us to the Pythia, little man, as you promised to do.”

  “That is forbidden!” the cave guard shouted.

  Agamemnon put a hand to his belt, where his sword hilt ought to have been. His expression darkened when he remembered it was no longer there. But Tynaeus was already moving forward, and for all his bluster the guard hesitated and then moved out of the way. Agamemnon followed, then Menelaus and hulking Ajax, leaving Diomedes and Nestor to stare at one another.

  “I don’t like this place,” Diomedes said. Handsome warrior prince he may have been, but there was no colour in his face, and he might have aged ten years since they passed the Cronus-stone. His voice trembled. “The air is wrong here. Do you feel it?”

  “I feel it,” Nestor said. “But I’m going in. Men have never named me coward before and I’m not of a mind to let them start.”

  He forced his feet to move, and a moment later ducked his head as he entered the cave. He heard Diomedes sigh and then follow after.

  Inside the others were waiting, taking time for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was almost totally black, a gloom relieved only by a tiny spark of light far ahead, thirty yards perhaps, though it was difficult to judge distance here. Nestor blinked, trying to clear a blur in his vision, but it wouldn’t go.

  “Go to the light,” Tynaeus said. “When you reach it you’ll be able to see another. There you will find the Pythia. I will not come with you. I’ve no desire to bring the god’s anger down on my own head, however foolish you people might be.”

  “Thank you,” Nestor said.

  “You may find yourselves struggling to see,” the priest added. “Or to hear, and your balance may desert you. That happens even to priests who have been here many times. I would tell you not to be concerned.” This time it was he who bared his teeth to Agamemnon. “But given your presumption, you have every reason to fear punishment. Do not be surprised if you find it.”

  He turned and left them, ducking back through the cave entrance into the sunshine outside. Nestor could have joined him with two paces but the daylight still seemed a distant thing, too far away to reach. He looked at Diomedes again. The king of Argolis was pasty in the gloom, like a sick man somehow tottering to his feet in the night. Even Agamemnon and Menelaus were silent, unable to make themselves go on.

  “Did we come so far just to stop?” Ajax rumbled. He strode into the darkness, his huge frame blotting out the distant candle.

  The others followed, Diomedes dragging his feet at the rear. The floor of the cave turned out to be very smooth, made that way by the priests no doubt, who would not have enjoyed tripping every time they came to speak with the Pythia. Still, Nestor held a hand in front of him and moved carefully, unwilling to take a risk or walk into somebody in the dark. His bones were too old to risk a fall.

  “There,” he heard Ajax say, up ahead. He must have seen the second light. A moment later the big man moved off to the right, striding confidently along even in the near-total darkness. As Agamemnon and then Menelaus moved on Nestor passed the candle, a fat stick of tallow wedged into a crack in the rock where hundreds must have sat before; the stone was smeared with grease, layer on layer of it running down to the floor. He was sure it was scraped off from time to time, or else the cave would have been blocked long ago. But it still reminded him of the age of this place. He couldn’t help shivering.

  Past the light the tunnel sloped downwards, heading deeper into the heart of the mountain. The five men shuffled along in a line, trying not to step on the heels of the man in front, except for Ajax who still walked as confidently as he would in a meadow at midday. Perhaps he gained his confidence from seeing Diomedes so pale. Achilles aside, those two were the finest warriors in Greece, and Ajax would think that if he showed no nerves today he’d gain a measure of advantage over the other man.

  The corridor turned sharply left, exactly where the second candle was, and opened into a round chamber with an angled floor. The men spread out along one side, not even Ajax willing to advance any further. When he reached the room Nestor saw why. The Pythia was there.

  She wasn’t as old as he’d expected, but he couldn’t actually put an age to her. Perhaps twenty, perhaps twice that. She sat on a chair at the far wall, most of her face obscured by strings of matted hair, with dirt ingrained in the rest. Her fingernails were broken off short and caked with muck. She wore a long chiton, so old and filthy that Nestor wasn’t sure what colour it had originally been. When she moved Nestor saw that she was chained to the seat, which in turn seemed to have been screwed into the rock. The sight made him grit his teeth. Nobody deserved to be kept this way, like an animal locked away for a lifetime.

  From one wall water came in a fine spray, a few inches above the floor. It steamed gently, but you’d have to hold a cup for a long time before it filled. The air felt damp, clammy.

  “No wonder the priests don’t like outsiders to see their Oracle,” he said to Diomedes. His voice sounded strange, as though the words were doubled.

  “What?” the man said, and he realised it was Menelaus. The younger Atreide looked almost green in the wan light of a few candles mounted on the walls. “What did you say?”

  “King of Sparta, lured away,” the woman on the chair said abruptly. Almost sang it, in fact, crooning the words like a child talking to a beloved doll. “Lost your dearest treasure, and dream of her at night. In daylight, too. Dream of her. Touch. Taste of her mouth. Dream.”

  Menelaus grew even paler. He seemed about to speak but only swallowed, and Nestor understood completely. He felt bile in his own throat. Tynaeus had said they might feel peculiar in here, though Nestor couldn’t remember his exact words now. His head felt stuffed with linen.

  “High King, beloved daughter,” the woman carolled. “Love her, lose her, send her away. Away to sorrow. Your sacrifice, or hers? Better that. Better that way. Your heart is sorrow.”

  “Ask her,” Menelaus said, speaking for the first time all day. “Ask her, brother. My gorge is rising. If we have to stay here long I’ll vomit on the floor.”

  Agamemnon nodded, and took a step forward. At once he swayed and fell back again, clutching at his throat. “Faugh! The air in here is foul!”

  “Not the air,” Nestor managed. “The water. There’s something in the moisture that makes us sick.”

  “The Olympians know what it must have done to her,” Diomedes said, with a jerk of his head towards the priestess.

  Agamemnon had recovered a little of his composure now. He didn’t advance again, but his voice came out stronger than the others were able to manage. “Pythia, hear my question! What will follow if Greece goes to war against Troy?”

  The woman went still. Normally the priests read out questions written down by petitioners, and then interpre
ted her answers before carrying them back to the surface. It was that which Agamemnon had wanted to bypass; he didn’t want a nameless cleric to change any of what the prophetess might say. He preferred to hear it himself. If he now had to ask the priests to translate it would be awfully embarrassing.

  “Troy rises to power, but Troy may yet fall,” the Pythia said. Her voice echoed in the cavern, seeming to come from many mouths at once. “Rise as Susa rises, fall as Hattusa falls. Troy’s fate lies in the hands of the Greeks.”

  The words died away. Her chin rested on her chest.

  “Does that mean,” Menelaus began, and stopped, frowning.

  “It means we will destroy Troy,” Agamemnon said exultantly. “Didn’t you hear her? Troy’s fate lies in the hands of the Greeks. If we lead our armies there, we will conquer, brother.”

  “More I will say.” The prophetess raised her head, and with a shock Nestor saw she was blind. He stumbled back a step, horrified by the dark holes where eyes should be. To his left Ajax made a choking sound and reeled away up the tunnel. A moment later Nestor heard the big man throwing up.

  “More,” the Pythia repeated. “If all Greece brings war to Troy, the greatest of heroes will fall on both sides. Fame will be won that rings down the ages. And the Euxine Sea will lie open to Greek ships, while Greece’s name will be written in letters of fire that burn for thousands of years. This I foretell.”

  She fell silent again, her head falling forward. Nestor gulped down his own bile, fighting to stay upright. He thought he was swaying and wasn’t sure. Tynaeus’ words came back to him, clearly this time; you may find yourself struggling to see, or to hear, and your balance may desert you. He could still hear Ajax blundering his way towards the surface. “We should go. Before these fumes overwhelm us.”

  “Good idea,” Diomedes agreed. He turned and hurried away, once turning his head to spit a great glob of phlegm against the passage wall. Menelaus was right behind him. In the chamber Nestor looked pityingly at the priestess.

  “I wish we could help her,” he said.

  “Without her there would be no prophecies. And we have what we came for.” Agamemnon still sounded jubilant. “A prophecy of Troy’s defeat. Come. Let’s join the others.”

  That isn’t what she said, Nestor thought. He was already struggling to remember what she had said though. Troy may rise or may fall, and that fate is in the Greeks’ hands; there will be glory and fallen heroes; and the trade routes of the east will lie open. Something like that. It did sound bad for Troy, he had to admit it, but the Pythia hadn’t actually said the city would fall. Prophecies were notoriously slippery things. You might think they promised one thing when in fact they did not, and the reality was far different.

  Best to deal with it on the surface. He turned and began to feel his way back up the tunnel, careful to avoid the slightly darker patch of floor where poor Ajax had emptied his stomach, and no doubt lost half his pride. He would be irritable for a long time because of that, easy to provoke to anger.

  Nestor couldn’t worry about that now. His head was ringing and he couldn’t feel his feet. Whenever he blinked the single candle up ahead became three or four, and he stumbled into a wall trying to walk towards the wrong one. Finally he just felt his way along with one hand on the stone, and when he felt the first breath of fresh outdoors air on his face it was like new love to a lonesome man.