‘When he had spoken at length, he urged [them] onwards through shadowed mountains and ravines noisy with wind…’
—The Homeric Hymns: To Hermes
Two and a half weeks later, we’re climbing up a winding trail into the heights of the Arcadian mountains, laden with packs, dark-stained leather armour and our weapons. The two kings have allowed Bria and me to take the lead in this, with Telmius as our guide, and with Diomedes and Laas along for their prowess as warriors. In addition, we have four theioi champions from Mycenae, and though two owe allegiance to Ares, all of them are sworn to Agamemnon, who claims they are as loyal as any men he has – crop-haired Agrius, lean and lanky Philapor, and the Ares lads, dour brothers Ceraus and Pseras. Agamemnon put forward the two northerners, Elephenor and Patroclus, but I outright refused to have them. Thankfully Laas backed me up, and his word swung it.
Despite a certain reserve between us – we serve several different gods and there’s the matter of Theseus and Helen that’s still rankling with Laas – we’re all working together well so far, though Telmius remains a puzzle to me. That’s a concern, since we’re putting our lives in his hands.
Despite this, I continue to like him. He’s got a blithe hardiness, and laughs easily but never cruelly. He’ll share a joke as readily as a sly swig of liquor, and he clearly knows the wilds. ‘Forty years I’ve been traversing these mountains,’ he tells us. ‘I could tell you some tales.’
He takes a shine to Bria, flirting with her shamelessly. Of course she responds, though not with any real intent: I’ve seen Bria when she’s serious and she doesn’t just lap up jokes and flattery – she turns aggressively sexual. However, it’s his baritone laugh and her fluting giggles that have accompanied us on the first part of our journey, whenever they deem us far enough away from any habitation not to be overheard.
From Mycenae we wound our way north and west, skirting the town of Orneia, up in the hills, and the fortress of Orchomenos, out in the wide plains of East Arcadia, where there are too many eyes that might sympathise with Tantalus.
We’re travelling a day ahead of a larger body of soldiers, led by Agamemnon himself, with Elephenor and Patroclus with them. We’re in two parties in order to make our small group easier to conceal, since our role in the plan relies so much on stealth. Hiding the passage of the fifty men who follow us may well be harder, but if they are detected, it could work as a distraction for the Pisans, masking our own advance.
Sadly, Menelaus has been left behind, though part of me is relieved that he won’t be put in danger – this is not going to be a picnic. But when Agamemnon declared that he himself would join the war party, it became inevitable – it would be a foolish king that risked his heir on the same mission.
The war party is being guided by a friend of Telmius, a funny little man called Amolus who, like Telmius, wears a thick beard, against all fashion. A true Achaean man shaves, to show that he’s civilised. I’ve heard, though, that some northern barbarians are known to let their beards grow full on more extended campaigns, and I’m vaguely curious to see whether Elephenor and Patroclus would let themselves go to that extent. This trip, however, will hopefully be too short to find that out.
Our own task is to cross the whole of Arcadia, all the way through Tantalus’s kingdom to his ruling city of Pisa, kidnap his wife and then flee back the way we’ve come, joining with Agamemnon’s force in an ambush for our pursuers. But Telmius still hasn’t revealed how we’re going to do it – he just speaks of ‘hidden paths’.
The Hermes priest is leading the way this afternoon, and I’m next, followed by Bria. Laas and Diomedes are behind us, deep in conversation about sword-fighting techniques, with the four Mycenaeans trailing us watchfully. The two brothers, Ceraus and Pseras, are archers, and I’m bearing the Great Bow of Eurytus. Many soldiers scorn archery, or more particularly, the hours of training and practice that are required – they already have to spend so much time with sword, spear and shield.
Me, I’m just that bit more dedicated. Laertes loves to tell me that a small man has to work twice as hard as a big one, if he wants to be half the warrior: that’s my oversized stepfather for you – all encouragement.
‘What can we expect from here on?’ I ask Telmius, catching him up.
‘It may only be fifty miles from here to Pisa,’ he replies. ‘Trouble is, boy, it’s the worst fifty miles in Achaea. Ahead of us lies some of the most rugged land known, trackless labyrinths of sheer cliffs and boulder-choked ravines. And at this time of year the mountains are still crusted with snow. If you’re lucky enough to get some decent weather, the rivers turn into frigid torrents as the thaw starts. The standard route travels north around the worst of it, but it will be watched and we’ll have to take a different path. Then we need to find the river Ladon and follow it downstream to the confluence with the Alpheius, which winds past Pisa. This time of year it’s impossible, unless you’re with folks like Amolus and me.’
‘And you swear this path is unknown to the Pisans? And safe?’
‘Is anywhere safe?’ He wipes sweat from his balding scalp. ‘I’ll lead you by paths no one else treads.’ It’s not a comforting answer – surely Tantalus and his hunters know every passable wild goat track there is – and nor is his appraising stare. ‘You come with a certain reputation, Prince Odysseus. King Agamemnon says that you were the worst troublemaker in Sparta as a youth, but that you have a silver tongue and can wriggle out of any corner.’
‘Agamemnon was older than us, and Tyndareus kept him busy learning the affairs of state all hours of the day and night. When we weren’t at our lessons or arms training, Menelaus and I ran wild. He was jealous of us.’
‘So I deduced,’ Telmius says lightly. ‘It’s a pleasure to finally meet you – and of course, to meet the infamous Bria. She is something of a legend among legends, if you know what I mean?’
I do know what he means – Bria’s exploits are often secret, seldom credited and she’s almost never mentioned in any tales that slip into public awareness, but among the theioi she’s more than just a name. ‘Don’t tell her that, her ego’s bad enough as it is,’ I say, laughing.
We make camp that night below a high tor, where I can see that some kind of primitive stone monument has been erected long ago – a number of huge rocks placed in a circle. Telmius tells us it’s a holy place to Hermes, and that we’re making good time.
The weather is holding, and I bless our luck. The nights are freezing cold but there’s no rain and little snow lying on the ground where we are, and we have plenty of warm gear to put on. As usual Telmius and Bria’s lively banter lights up the evening. The Hermes priest passes round a wine skin – I don’t know where he finds them but he never seems to run out – and soon we’re all quite tipsy. The Mycenaeans decide we should play a game of chance, using the knuckle bones they carry around in their wallets. Diomedes and Laas join in, but after a brief and urgent-looking conversation with Telmius, Bria goes off alone, claiming she needs some privacy for ‘womanly reasons’.
I give the Hermes priest a suspicious look. ‘What was that all about?’ I mutter.
‘We were just discussing tomorrow’s route. Come, let’s take in the view.’
He leads me up the tor, a stiff climb, with the snow lying deep in the hollows beside the track, and we examine the stones atop the hill. They’ve been placed in a ragged circle, many years ago, judging by the moss that covers them.
‘I was conceived at a place like this,’ Telmius tells me. ‘It was a tradition for newlyweds to spend their first night inside such a circle.’
‘Doesn’t sound very comfortable.’
He laughs. ‘The couples usually managed to keep warm.’
‘So which way tomorrow?’ I ask, staring out from the peak at the taller, cliff-bound heights that already surround us. The land is so tangled and the ravines so deep, I can’t work out which direction we can possibly take next. ‘When does this secret path of yours begin?’
‘Right here,’ the Hermes priest says. ‘On this hilltop. Bria tells me that you and she have both walked in Hades’s realm, as has Laas?’
I have indeed. Telmius is not talking in metaphors: there are places outside but adjacent to this world. Bria calls the process ‘walking inside the mind of a god’. Something in the energies of worship and belief that the great deities feed upon creates these places: they bring to life the ideals of that god, and feel as solid as this world – but they’re not on any map.
I realise with growing alarm that this is his purpose – to lead us through the Arcadian mountains undetected, by taking us out of this world into the realm of Hermes. ‘Aye,’ I tell him, my body tense, both with fear and rising excitement: such places are a test, but they can be rewarding in strange ways. ‘It’s true I’ve been to Erebus, Hades’s realm, and to the smithy of Hephaestus also. But are you serious?’
‘Of course,’ he says gravely. ‘Tomorrow I will take you all into the Arcadia of Hermes.’ He’s watching my reaction carefully.
‘Does Bria know?’
‘She does – I told her before bringing you up here. We’ll tell the others tomorrow morning.’
I try to think it through. It sounds horribly risky, not the least because I’m still not sure how closely tied to Zeus Hermes is. I stare at Telmius, my skin prickling. Are we being led into a trap? ‘Why would Hermes allow this?’ I ask. ‘He’s Zeus’s messenger.’
‘Indeed he is… but he’s already having doubts, though I’m a little ahead of him in this matter – perhaps because I don’t have Zeus looking over my shoulder all the time.’ He gives me a piercing look. ‘As you well know, a theios can have thoughts independent to those of his god. And in the case of this Trojan matter, I’m not content for my master to toady around at Zeus’s beck and call, especially when there isn’t a Hittite god that my master will find suitable to align with. He’s an Achaean god through and through, and he’s not stupid.’
He’s telling me that his divine master might be biddable…
This is perhaps the best news we’ve had since the fall of Thebes. Though clearly it’s far from a settled deal, I’m exhilarated by a sense of possibility. Hermes on our side, but spying on Zeus? Could that work?
But I know I’m getting ahead of myself. Way ahead. Equally, this could be a baited trap, as I’ve already wondered. ‘So we can trust Hermes to help us?’
Telmius puts his head on one side. ‘I’m not going to risk letting him know all our thoughts… No, no, don’t look so worried. It’s really quite safe so long as we don’t draw attention to ourselves.’
‘Meaning, without Hermes realising we’re in his realm?’
Telmius nods cheerfully. ‘That’s it. I can open this gateway to let us in, and guide you through and out again, without him knowing.’
Tricky. But is not Hermes the God of Trickery? Which implies his theioi are also skilled in deviousness. I try and quell my nerves. Can the servant outwit his master?
We really are in Telmius’s hands now, and rather more than I had feared. ‘Then let this mission forge bonds of trust between us,’ I say carefully.
He laughs merrily. ‘You don’t allow yourself to trust anyone, do you? You’re even worse than Agamemnon.’
‘I’ve been stabbed in the back a few times too often,’ I tell him grimly. ‘So has Bria. I want to believe in this, and we’ll play it your way, but if there’s treachery, you’ll go down first.’
With that warning spoken, our bonhomie evaporates and I leave him to commune with his stones while I stalk back down the steep path to the camp. I veer into the next gully, meaning to talk to Bria, but then I see her head bobbing in the waters of a pool, one that must be cold as ice. I cannot imagine how she stands it, except that she’s a daemon and can probably stand all sorts of things I can’t even imagine. Hopefully her host, soft, smiling Meliboea, is oblivious to it too. I leave her to her bathing and return to camp.
Diomedes and the Mycenaeans are still knuckle-boning and drinking from Telmius’s wine-skin, but I’ve got too much on my mind and leave them to it. Reassuringly, Laas is standing on guard duty, a little way from the fire. I tell him to wake me when he’s had enough, before wrapping myself in my blanket and cloak, and closing my eyes to think, first and foremost, and then to sleep.
Laas nudges me awake some hours later, for my turn to keep watch,. The fire has burned low, and the other men are all snoring and venting clouds of wine fumes. I’m still half asleep as I add new branches to the flames, kick them into life and take up my post, huddled in my cloak, still caught in the tail end of a weird dream in which pipes danced over the music of the mountain streams. There’s a strangely warm wind blowing from the tor above, scented with heather, and the stars and moon are glistening overhead, crystalline and remote.
Laas swiftly falls asleep, and I scan Diomedes and the Mycenaeans slumped together companionably in a tight circle round the fire. Then I look for Telmius…
I jolt wide awake, my blood going cold.
His blanket is empty. I cast my gaze about, but he’s nowhere to be seen, though when I glance upwards, it’s like there’s a faraway star, a pinprick of light, atop the tor. A trick of the light, surely, but I’m nervous now. I come to my feet, unsure if I’m jumping at shadows or if there’s genuine danger here. All seems calm, and perhaps Telmius is still up on the hill, readying the gateway to Hermes’s realm?
I decide I really do need to talk this through with Bria, even if it means waking the grumpy cow up.
I don’t bother strapping on my armour – it’s too time consuming and noisy – so I settle for slinging my xiphos over my shoulder and stealing over to where she’s sleeping.
Or where I thought she was sleeping: there’s just empty ground – even her blanket is gone. For one ghastly moment I think she’s been dragged off by a wolf, or worse, but then I catch sight of movement up on the tor itself and creep up the steep path towards it.
I’m nearly at the top when I catch sight of her – or what I assume is her; right in the middle of the circle, surrounded by drifts of snow, a sleeping shape with a tumble of pale hair just like Meli’s protruding from one end of a wrinkled blanket. I’m debating with myself about disturbing her when someone steals out from behind one of the stones, a squat shape with a bald pate, a wild beard and bright eyes. He bends stealthily over her, reaching out…
Telmius! What’s the double-dealing bastard doing…?
I open my mouth to holler a warning. But two things make the words die in my throat.
The first is that Bria stirs, just as his hand grips the edge of her blanket, and with a throaty chuckle she twists up into his arms. She’s naked – I see moonlit flesh as she lets him kiss her, while his hand grasps and then kneads at her left breast.
And someone grips my wrist. ‘Shhh…’ a woman’s voice hisses.
There’s a dark shape, right beside me, and I catch a whiff of ripe, feminine body. ‘Quiet,’ she whispers, and something prods my back, right between my shoulder-blades. It’s not sharp enough to be a sword but I’m left somehow immobile and speechless.
How could I have let myself be caught like this?
The woman directs my eyes back to the stone circle – Bria’s abandoned the blanket and dropped to her knees, presenting her naked behind to Telmius. The wind has dropped to a whisper, but even so, it’s freezing up here, yet she’s oblivious to the cold. The priest lets his robes fall from his shoulders, and I feel as though my heart has stopped. Now that he too is naked, the reason for his odd gait becomes clear: he’s got the hairiest legs I’ve ever seen, and they’re backward jointed, ending in large, shaggy hooves, which have previously been hidden by his boots. Bria doesn’t seem to notice or care, and I realise that this isn’t the first time he’s gone to her. So much for thinking she isn’t interested in him… She arches her back and moans in pleasure as he enters her.
I look away again, at my captor.
In the dim light, she’s a feral thing, dirty-faced with a mane of dark hair and honey-coloured eyes which the moonlight fails to bleach. Her hot breath is fruity and sweet, and her teeth pointed and oddly bright. I don’t feel imperilled though; there’s just a strange sense of dislocation, as if this is happening to someone other than me. I realise that all that she’s pressed to my back is her finger.
But I’m paralysed anyway, even when she runs her free hand down the front of my tunic. Without warning the memory of Kyshanda overwhelms me, and I choke on a wave of misery and despair. The wild girl goes still, peering at my face curiously before leaning in and licking at the tears coursing down my face.
Her tongue is rough like a cat, and the shock of it – the coarse wetness, coupled with the hand massaging my crotch – takes my breath away. She kisses me, breathing through my mouth as if reviving a drowning man. The act makes my heart thud back to life, and blood gushes through my body.
Suddenly, overpoweringly, irrationally, I want her.
Kyshanda is gone, that small part of my mind that’s still trying to make sense of this tells me. Gone from your life forever.
That doesn’t mean I can’t long for her, mourn her, my heart replies. Or remain true to her memory.
I’m appalled at what is happening, appalled that my body can be so much at odds with my feelings, but the urgency of need, an overwhelming madness of the senses, has taken over. I let the woman drag me down onto the ground and pull up first my tunic then hers: in the moonlight her skin is bronzed, her hips narrow and her pubis thickly haired. She’s clearly already fully aroused and has no time for pleasuring, pulling me down onto her and moaning as I penetrate her wetness easily, and for several moments we grind and thrust, until her eyes bulge and a low groan escapes her.
It’s then that I realise that, in the midst of our passion, her forehead has sprouted horns, and her eyes are lit with yellow light. Whatever she is, she’s not human. But I don’t care. All I want to do is to use her to forget Kyshanda. Caught up in my need, I pound her until release floods me, a hot rush of pure lust that sweeps all thought, all the pain of my loss away for a few blissful seconds.
Then the reality returns, and I’m lying, entangled with a stranger who’s not even human. I wrench myself away, filled with self-loathing and stagger to my feet as she looks up at me with a puzzled, hurt look. But I can’t stand to be here a moment longer. I pull down my tunic, wrap myself in my cloak and flee, stumbling down the steep path and battering my toes against the rocks, all but oblivious to the pain.
I’ve betrayed Kyshanda. I’m a piece of shit…
Dawn finds me on a low rise below the camp. It’s still freezing cold and the sharp, ice-glazed rocks I’m sitting on, huddled over and clutching my misery to me, are stabbing through my tunic into my behind. My cheeks are crusted with tears and my eyes are swollen from weeping. The only time I’ve ever felt so wretched was the day I found out I was a bastard child and was cast from my family – but that day wasn’t my fault. This last night was.
I’m supposed to be in love; aren’t good people supposed to do everything for love? Yet I’ve betrayed Kyshanda, the most wonderful woman in the world, a woman to die for. It was only a month ago that we shared the most astonishing lovemaking. But as soon as temptation arose, I stuck my cock into a half-animal… I’m utterly disgusted at myself.
The crunch of footsteps behind me is the last thing I want to hear. I can tell who it is from their tread but I’m too numb to turn.
‘Fuck off,’ I mutter.
‘Poor Ithaca,’ Bria says, plopping herself down beside me. ‘Forced to have sex with a being of wild nature and magic, when all he really wants to do is sulk,’ she adds, without a trace of sympathy. She drapes an unwanted arm round my shoulder. Her hair is wet and she smells freshly washed. I most certainly don’t.
‘Why don’t you tell Big Sister Bria what’s the matter?’ she coos.
I go to push her away – but then it occurs to me that I do need to talk about this, and if not to her, then to whom? She’s the only one who knows – not conclusively, but she does – that I’m in love with Kyshanda, and she also understands the intricacies of the theioi world. If anyone is going to understand, it’s her.
‘Very well. You guessed right, Kyshanda was among the Trojan party at Dodona. Damastor and I managed to escape Skaya-Mandu in the gorge, but when Damastor fell and knocked himself unconscious, I found an abandoned hut in the hills for us to hide in. Kyshanda found us – she came alone, without her brother’s knowledge. We made love, and she offered me the chance to go with her to Troy. She swore I would be safe, and that Queen Hekuba herself had given her permission for us to marry. If I’d said yes, I’d be in Troy with the woman I love. At this very moment.’
‘But you didn’t say yes.’
‘Of course not! How could I? They still intend to conquer us, either by crushing our trade or by force. And Skaya-Mandu hates me. He’d murder me before we had the chance to get married, even if the queen’s offer is genuine. I had to say no, but…’
‘But it’s broken your heart. Poor boy,’ Bria murmurs, but this time there is sympathy in her voice. ‘I’ll not pretend I understand – I’ve never been in love. But I do feel sorry for you.’
I shoot her a glance. ‘Never in love? What about Hephaestus?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. Not even with him. I’ve had gods, daemons, people I wanted… needed… craved… who were snatched away from me. I’ve been reduced to this pitiful bodiless thing but I—’ Her voice cuts off, as if she’s caught herself on the verge of revealing too much. Then she sighs. ‘But never love. It must be horrible.’
‘What? No, it’s wonderful.’
‘Is it? I don’t see the evidence. All that unhappiness, that agony of want. And even if you get together, it just turns to banality and babies. Pooing and fouled breach cloths and wailing and vomiting, endless sleepless nights. Ugh! Look at you, crying on a hillside in the middle of nowhere! Great advertisement for love, you are.’ Her voice takes on her more familiar, practical tones. ‘All’s not lost, Ithaca. Your fate and hers seem intertwined. You’ve refused Troy, but you can still use her. Turn her to our side.’
‘Impossible… and I’ll not use her – I love her.’
‘Well, she is a prize piece of eastern fanny, I’ll grant you that,’ she says, with deliberate callousness. ‘Contrive to see her, give her some of that Ithacan whatever that she seems to like. And tell her this: that the only chance we have of a peaceful solution is if she works with us. See if she bites.’
‘That’s disgusting. I will not pervert or betray our love! It’s… it’s dishonourable.’
‘Dishonourable? Since when is the survival of our people a matter for honour?’ Bria snaps. ‘And what about trying to lure your enemies to your side with your body, like she does? How honourable is that, O Noble Prince?’
‘It’s not like that!’
‘Isn’t it? Maybe not on her part, but her bitch mother is happy to suggest it.’ Bria claps my shoulder. ‘Look, maybe you and she can still be together, if we win this secret war. Unlikely, but who knows? Isn’t that worth fighting for, instead of just giving up and crying your balls off on this fucking freezing mountainside?’
I stare at her in amazement. ‘Win the war? Is that possible? I thought the most we can hope for is Achaea’s survival.’
‘Of course it’s possible. You have to believe, Ithaca. Without hope, no one achieves anything.’
I hang my head, wondering if I can do this. Perhaps I can… and surely it’s worth trying? ‘But that girl… satyr… nymph thing… Kyshanda will hate me…’
‘Why, are you going to tell her or something?’ Bria snorts. ‘You were alone, you were bereft, and that horny little nymph caught you at a weak moment. From what you’re saying, neither you or Kyshanda have considered yourselves together since Dodona anyway. So really, all that happened was that a nature spirit wanting some carefree rumpy-pumpy caught you with your guard down, and you obliged. Big deal.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘No, you don’t. Harden up, Ithaca.’
‘She wasn’t even human.’
‘No, she was more than human – a creature of magic from Hermes’s realm, who came through the hilltop gate looking for some fun. Sadly for her, all she found was misery-guts you.’
We fall silent, as I reflect on what she’s said. Yes, it does feel better to have talked, and I do feel somewhat less guilty. That doesn’t mean I’m feeling good about any of it, but maybe there are things I can forgive myself for.
‘So, you and Telmius?’ I sigh, eventually. ‘Clearly it wasn’t the first time.’
‘Ha ha, horny as a goat, that old man,’ she chuckles. ‘We’ve been screwing every night since we left Mycenae. Dirty bastard can’t help himself.’ There’s absolutely no embarrassment on her face at all.
‘He’s a satyr!’
‘Mmm. And everything you’ve heard about them is true.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Why does no one know that?’
‘Who says no one does? He was born when Hermes possessed a he-goat, reshaped the body to a gorgeous man and seduced an Arcadian shepherdess. It’s the kind of thing that happens in Arcadia all the time. Hermes might look like a skinny weakling when he’s fawning round Zeus, but out here he’s the alpha wolf, gifted with all the wildness, the fecundity, the elemental power of nature this place can bring.’ She gives a little shudder, clearly remembering something that I have no desire to know about. ‘Anyway, it’s something Telmius’s closer friends turn a blind eye to. He’s valuable, and he’s fun to be around.’
‘So I see,’ I grumble.
‘Don’t worry, it’s just fucking,’ she snorts. ‘You know me, I’m a heartless bitch and nothing distracts me from the real job at hand.’ She stands. ‘Come on, the others will be waiting.’
I bite my lip, then stand, and before I can prevent her, she gives me a hug. ‘If we can put a knife into Tantalus, things will improve, Ithaca. The prophesies will change, Troy won’t look so scary, and your girlfriend might become a whole lot more accessible.’ Then she pulls away and wrinkles her nose. ‘On the way back, take a quick splash in the pond – you smell of nanny-goat.’
She peels with laughter and sashays away.
An hour later, we’re back atop the tor with our packs, among the stacked piles of stone. Telmius has traced two interlocking triangles, to form a six-pointed star linking every stone. Diomedes is pale beneath his tanned Adonis face, Laas is fidgeting, the journey into Hades’s realm in search of Helen clearly on his mind; and the four Mycenaeans are exchanging nervous glances. Agrius is wiping sweat from his close-cropped pate, Philapor is praying under his breath, and the two brothers are muttering to each other. Only Telmius and Bria look calm.
And me, I hope.
Philapor draws his xiphos, and Telmius gives him a sharp look. ‘No drawn blades, not even an arrow,’ he snaps. ‘I told you before.’ He beckons us all closer, so we don’t miss anything he says. ‘Remember, this is another world we’re entering, adjacent and akin to ours. It will seem peaceful to you, but there are dangers. The woods and pools harbour entities that will seek to take you and devour you, and the berries are not for the likes of you, and nor are all the streams safe. It’s best to keep anything with a blade sheathed, and to consume nothing but what you bring with you, unless I tell you it’s safe.’
‘Will the rivers poison us?’ Pseras asks anxiously.
‘Some, yes. Others will leave you longing to return here, losing all will to go on in our world. That’s why I’ve told you to fill your water skins. Remember this – the fairer something seems, the more dangerous it likely is. Especially beware any women you see.’ He looks at Bria and laughs, ‘Even you.’
‘I’ll try to keep my legs crossed,’ Bria snorts.
‘And finally, you are entering this world without Hermes’s knowledge. Keep close behind me and behave as inconspicuously as you can. Do nothing against my will.’
The Mycenaean champions don’t look happy at all: Philapor prays even harder, and Ceraus and Pseras press their foreheads together, willing themselves on. Not all theioi have seen as much as I have of the supernatural world, even though I’m relatively new to the game. Athena doesn’t have as many theioi as the other gods, so we have to pack more in, I guess.
I glance at Diomedes, who sets his jaw. ‘My love for Athena will anchor my soul,’ he pronounces. He’s speaking literally: the poor fool really is in love with Athena.
Telmius raises his voice, stepping to the centre of the stones, and begins to chant.
‘Oh great Hermes, child of Zeus and Maia, ruler of Arcadia with its many flocks of sheep, willing envoy to the immortal gods whom Maia bore, that nymph, that modest goddess with beautiful hair who lay coupled in love with Zeus…’
As his voice rises, it seems to resonate around the stone circle, as if we’re inside a rock chamber or a throne hall, not standing on a windy hilltop. The warmer breeze I caught an echo of last night becomes stronger and more prevalent, blowing the cold wintery mountain air away and replacing it with pastoral scents that tease the nostrils. Merely breathing becomes a pleasure, filling our lungs with wholesomeness.
‘Take me to thy realm, Great One,’ Telmius cries, going from stone to stone with his teetering gait, striking each with his staff. ‘Open the way!’ Six times he calls, and then he returns to the middle and strikes the ground. Light courses from stone to stone, and we gasp, staring about us.
At his final blow, the world changes. The mountains surrounding us remain the same shape, but only the peaks are snowy, and the lower slopes become a soft verdant swathe. The skies are clear and blue, heat envelops us and we’re instantly bathed in a light sheen of perspiration. Birds call, swooping around us, calling out their joyous songs.
‘Blessed Hera,’ Philapor groans, his eyes going wide.
‘Be silent,’ Telmius snaps. ‘Do not call upon her name in this realm.’ He’s red-faced from the unseen exertions of working this magic, leaning on his staff and panting, though with a satisfied look on his face as he gazes about him.
‘Welcome to my homeland,’ he says grandly.
I look round, savouring the air, and studying the terrain – it looks a whole lot friendlier now, though we still have a maze of rock to find our way through. ‘What’s the plan from here?’
Telmius smiles broadly. ‘Through meadows green and forests fair, across merry streams and sombre glades, ever onward, ever glad,’ he says, probably quoting something. Bria smiles fondly, and they exchange a satisfied look.
‘If you old people are done with nostalgia, we’ve places we need to be,’ I suggest. Now that Bria has talked some sense into me, I’m anxious to be going, to strike a blow for a future with Kyshanda, one that might be unlikely but is still worth fighting for.
Telmius squeezes Bria’s hand, then totters down the far side of the tor, on a slope that seems far easier than it appeared yesterday. We all follow him, along a goat-path… or satyr-path, I suppose… that descends in a sweeping arc until we’re heading broadly west into a valley full of flowers that takes us further into the mountains. Telmius has already told us we’ve not shortened the distance to Pisa by doing this, but that paths otherwise blocked by snow or flooding will be open to us, and the weather will remain clement. It’s a boon beyond price.
The day passes in idyllic conditions. After the long, fertile valley, we climb a high steep trail to a ridge that in our world would be covered in snow and ice, but here is clear, the going rugged but manageable. Even Laas relaxes a little, and as we descend toward a glade where Telmius announces we’ll camp, the taciturn Spartan theios addresses me, for the first time since we set out.
‘So, I thought we’d meet again,’ he says in his gruff voice. ‘I’ve still not made up my mind about that damned Theseus affair, but I’ll give you some rope.’
We look each other over – he’s a little heavier-set since I last saw him, his hair thinner on top and greyer at the temples, with a touch of sadness around his eyes. ‘How do you fare?’ I ask him.
‘My son died,’ Laas says flatly. ‘A boar hunt that went wrong.’
I have a boar’s-tusk wound on my thigh, a wound that would have killed me had not Athena and Bria intervened. ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I tell him, sincerely. ‘Do you have other children?’
He shakes his head. ‘Only a daughter. And my wife died, giving birth to her. The Goddess has not been kind.’
He means Hera, Queen of Childbirth, busy with other things that were obviously more important to her while Laas’s wife haemorrhaged to death.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say again. We share an awkward silence.
‘So, that prick Theseus got his due,’ he comments, eventually. ‘Thrown from the highest rock in Athens by Menestheus’s men, eh? Good riddance.’
‘I don’t disagree,’ I tell him, honestly. Theseus was a great hero, but he’d turned rancid. ‘Nor does Athena.’
‘And you restored Helen to her family,’ he goes on slowly. ‘Pregnant, though I’m sure you know that.’
I do, but I prick up my ears. Laas is a close confidante of the Spartan King, and likely to know more about how Helen and her child have fared than others.
‘So I’ve heard,’ I say.
He gives me a sharp look. ‘Then you know more than most – her father has worked hard to keep it a secret. To the outside world, Helen’s still a virgin, a most eligible bride.’
‘Very eligible,’ I agree, wondering where this is leading. Neither of us need to count the months off on our fingers to know she will have birthed the child by now. ‘Boy or girl?’
‘A girl. King Tyndareus told me. Keep that to yourself, though.’
I’m relieved – a boy would almost certainly have been dumped on some mountainside for the wild animals to feast on. ‘What’s happened to the baby?’
‘They’ve not let her keep it – which makes sense to me. She didn’t cope well with having it – well, what would you expect, when you’ve been raped? But the king has found a home for it, being his first and only grandchild to date – that’s on the quiet too, mind. Makes me think,’ Laas adds, after a moment. ‘I need a new bride, even if I’ll be too old to see my sons grow to men. And I’ve done well for myself in south Lacedaemon. I’m governor there now, with a new-built fortress town called Laos, named by the king for me, with a strong war band and more than a few ships. I’d make the girl a fitting husband.’
Helen’s a poisoned cup, I go to tell him, but pause. Perhaps something like this would be a good solution. Marrying her off to a lower-ranking man like Laas, a man Tyndareus trusts and someone tough and experienced who could learn her moods, might be a waste of her undoubtedly prodigious theioi gifts, but better that than her ending up in Troy. One day, she might shake worlds – you don’t get the blessing of every Olympian god and goddess and remain a nobody. But in the meantime, while the Trojans are such a threat…
‘It sounds a reasonable hope,’ I tell him. ‘But why tell me?’
He looks at me squarely. ‘Because you’re the Man of Fire.’ When I demure, he laughs grimly. ‘You weren’t contradicted, by Telmius or anyone else, at Agamemnon’s council. And you’re the cleverest prick I’ve ever met, and Tyndareus listens to you.’
It’s strange to think of Helen with this taciturn man, so much older than her. Nonetheless… ‘For what it’s worth, I’ll speak for you,’ I tell him. ‘I promise. Once we’ve got this Tantalus business resolved.’
He nods his thanks, and we stride on until we reach a flat stretch, a beautiful glade of mountain pasture where Telmius breaks into a lolloping run. We all follow suit, enjoying the change in pace and the sense of freedom it gives us, despite the weight of our gear, our strength buoyed by the magical energy of this place. We burst through a copse, and a herd of wild deer look at us then scatter, and I swear I glimpse a creature akin to the legendary centaur among them, a deer body with the torso, arms and head of an antlered man. They flash into the trees as we hurry past, while butterflies of extraordinary size and colour rise from our path and swarm about. Brightly-coloured birds glide over us, as if curious, then dart away.
Telmius takes us next through a narrow defile, alongside a rushing stream. I glimpse men and women on the far bank, among the trees, but when they see us they bound away, goat-legged satyrs and fleet-footed nymphs leap up the slope and into the pines. One horned girl looks back at me and I realise it’s her – from last night – but a moment later she’s gone, to my relief.
We pause at a ford, a few hundred yards downstream, and I gaze around. It’s beautiful, is Hermes’s realm. I’m more relaxed now, soaked in the tranquillity and the gentle sunlight that kisses everything and makes it glow. But the feeling isn’t shared, especially by Philapor, who’s mumbling a prayer to Hera.
‘I told you, before! Be silent!’ Telmius admonishes him. ‘Someone will hear.’
‘My Lady, the Queen of Olympus, will hear,’ Philapor retorts.
Telmius shakes his head. ‘Perhaps. But other ears are closer, and less friendly.’
That only makes the Mycenaean warrior pray all the harder. ‘Who will hear?’ I ask Bria. ‘Hermes?’
‘I don’t know,’ she mutters, scowling. ‘Oi, Philapor, shut your stupid mouth.’
Good old Bria, always one to defuse a tense situation.
The Mycenaeans give her an evil glare. All four of them are on edge, and eager to find someone or something to lash out at. Agrius puffs out his chest and steps toward her, fists bunching, and his mates crowd in behind him. I step in front, a placating palm pressed in either direction. ‘Tact, please Bria,’ I tell her, before turning to face the four angry theioi, as Diomedes joins me. ‘What she means is, this is the realm of Hermes – anyone calling out prayers to Hera is bound to attract attention from someone they might not want to annoy. Pray, by all means, but do it silently.’
The four Mycenaean champions don’t look mollified, but they’re probably reluctant to start a brawl on hostile territory and Bria does have a somewhat lethal reputation. So they accept my words, backing away while giving Bria their most belligerent stares, just to let her know she’d better watch herself.
‘My hero,’ Bria breathes in my ear – sarcastically, of course. She turns to give Diomedes a slap on the shoulder. ‘You too, darling,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘I’m so helpless on my own.’
Diomedes frowns. ‘Next time, you will be on your own,’ he grunts.
‘We’re all done playing?’ Laas growls. ‘Good – let’s move on.’
We follow the stream down to another river, then climb again, weaving to and fro along a winding path that makes little sense. I swear at times the rivers are running uphill, and the sun moves round willy-nilly as if it can’t decide what time of the day it is. But the landscape is breathtaking – giant outcroppings like spearheads, natural arches and trees like great towers, pools so clear you can see the fish swarming far below. It’s teeming with life; lizards, snakes, birds and beasts. We see spiders the size of cats weaving massive webs, and glimpse faces carved on tree trunks, whose eyes follow us as we pass. Reed pipes trill among the trees.
All day, Telmius leads us through paths no one else could have found, the most obscure clefts in rock faces opening out into wide trails, while seemingly obvious tracks lead to dead ends. Although we’re constantly watchful, the extraordinary beauty seems to be soothing even the Mycenaeans’ tension, and by evening we’re all talking like old friends. I walk mostly with Diomedes, who for all his stalwart singlemindedness and naivety, is maturing fast. It’s easy to forget he’s only nineteen – or so say I, only three years his senior.
Having helped him and his extended Argive family gain their revenge against Thebes, I’m interested in his family news. ‘King Adrastus still reigns in Argos, but he’s lost all interest in the kingdom,’ he tells me. ‘Thersander rules Thebes, but the populace have fled and the city is in ruins.’
‘Your army burned it down,’ I remind Diomedes.
‘We forgot in our anger that someday we’d need to rebuild whatever we destroyed,’ he admits. ‘But our biggest worry is Alcmaeon. He’s drinking heavily, ever since the priests of Pytho took away his war prize, Manto.’
I pretend I don’t know this already, ironical given that it was my idea, though I’d hoped they would kill the meddling sorceress. ‘I thought he was going to execute her?’
Manto is the daughter of Tiresias, and possibly the old seer’s equal in power and cunning. She hates the Epigoni… and me too, for my role in the fall of Thebes, and the death of her father.
‘She’s in Pytho as a prisoner,’ Diomedes says defensively. ‘The Pythia demanded that she help the oracle undo the work of her father, and Adrastus agreed. He was worried Alcmaeon was losing his heart to the woman.’
‘Losing his heart’. More like addicted to her body. I fume silently, because as I understand it, Manto has beguiled the priests and priestesses of Pytho as well. If the Pythia thinks she can control Manto, she’s being dangerously arrogant. But that’s another day’s problem.
We continue our winding, oblique journey until the sun meanders towards what I assume is the western horizon, and the sky turns a stunning rose-gold. Telmius halts us as the light dims and we make camp.
‘Is it safe to light a fire here?’ I ask him, as we settle ourselves in a lush clearing, with a dancing stream burbling past. ‘Do we need to set a watch?’
Telmius’s face crinkles into a grin. ‘Hermes is a patron of hunters, Odysseus. This place is nature in all its facets, the placid and the merciless. Fire is permitted so long as it is controlled and we use only fallen branches. And yes, it is better we post sentries. Our idylls are behind us – from now on, we must be wary.’
I take that to mean he and Bria won’t be slipping away tonight. We draw up a roster, two men every two hours, leaving Bria free to get some beauty sleep. I’ve drawn a straw for the first watch and settle down with a still-grumpy Agrius, though after I give him a swig from my liquor flask – an aniseed spirit Eurybates brews from an Egyptian recipe – he perks up considerably, and by the end of our two hours I know his entire family history. Then we rouse Pseras and Diomedes, and I settle into my blanket while Agrius goes to the stream for a drink.
The Mycenean champion is kneeling at the water’s edge as I go to close my eyes. Suddenly the water in front of him takes on a faint luminescence. He makes a small, choked sound as an arm shoots out of the river – which is impossible because that spot is only a few inches deep. It’s a thin greenish-skinned arm with a webbed hand that grasps Agrius’s throat and wrenches him face down into the water.
I leap to my feet, shouting the alert as he thrashes, legs kicking frantically as he’s hauled towards a deep pool.
Diomedes is already halfway there, drawing his xiphos as he runs, and the rest of us close in, yelling in alarm. The big Argive prince grips Agrius’s collar and wrenches, lifting his blade to hack down at the exposed arm of the river creature.
Suddenly there’s a brilliant flash of light, the air around us seems to explode and a figure appears in the midst of the blaze, throwing Diomedes aside like a toy. A pulsing force hurls us all off our feet and I land flat on my back, staring as the newcomer kicks Agrius out of the river, freeing him from the grasp of whatever creature had seized him and knocking all the breath out of him in the process. He stands over Diomedes and places one winged sandal on his throat.
Hermes – for it is none but he – is a tall but deceptively slender figure, clad in a glowing, rough-woven kilt, with sharp features and a winged cap over unruly golden hair. His gleaming eyes shift through a rainbow of colours as he stares around him. The wings on his sandals are small and golden-coloured – perhaps more decorative or symbolic rather than practical, to my eyes. But this is his realm, where he can do and be anything he wants.
I don’t move a muscle, but my eyes scan the glade, the darkness lit up by Hermes’s divine radiance. Satyrs, centaurs, nymphs and dryads are rising from the pasture and the water on every side; perhaps as many as a hundred wild looking creatures emerge, each of them in semi-human form.
I also notice one of our party has not been knocked flat. It’s Telmius. Hermes turns to him. ‘Well done, faithful servant,’ he says.
‘You bloody bastard…’ Bria starts. Then her voice trails off, because she’s not stupid.
Except that we are – all of us. Stupid as newly-born babes. We’ve walked into this, blindly, and there’s every chance we’re not walking out.