‘First of all, they challenged themselves with a foot race. The race stretched out from the very starting line, with all of them sprinting fast, stirring up the dust with their feet… Next they tested themselves at wrestling, that painful sport … and at the jump … and at discus … and boxing … for there is no greater glory for a man, as long as he lives, than what he might accomplish with his feet or with his hands…’
—Homer, The Odyssey
I escort Actoris along the corridor, my xiphos drawn and ready and all my senses alert. But we meet no one, apart from the guards at the top of the stairs down to the servants’ quarters, and I watch her head towards the kitchens and disappear. That done, I make my way to the megaron, to do my duty by Tyndareus.
The banquet is something of an anticlimax. The king has ordered the wine watered to a pale pink, and none of the suitors wishes to talk to the others or to me. They’re either guzzling their food, as though making sure they are getting something back for their extravagant outlay this afternoon, or pushing the congealing meat around and around in front of them, staring glumly at the tabletop, or glancing murderously around them. The serious candidates aren’t even present – they’re getting well-rested for the exertions of the morrow. Not long after the meal has ended, the bard places his lyre back in its leather bag, and the swarms of servants wiping down the tables with wet sponges soon dampen whatever high spirits might have survived the dregs of the feast.
Back in my room, I check under the bed and bar both the door and the window again before settling down to sleep, my xiphos by my side. I wake the next morning to the quiet of dawn, alone and unassassinated, and struggling to free myself from a vivid and alarming dream.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, taking a moment to ponder what meaning the dream might have. In it, I’ve been making love to Kyshanda, until I notice she has furry legs and cloven hooves, and when she reaches the height of her pleasure, she makes a bleating sound, like a nanny goat. I hear ribald laughter, and I find I’m surrounded by dancing maenads, their skimpy tunics baring one shoulder and splattered with wine. Behind them is Penelope, turning away in disgust…
They say dreams either issue through gates of ivory or of horn. The former are delusions, sent to deceive us; the latter give us glimpses of the truth. This one I’m scared to analyse at all.
I drag myself out of bed, feeling fragile, and thinly spread.
This is just a symptom of giving up Kyshanda, I tell myself. I’ll get over it… Soon…
Or will I? I’m hardly an expert, I’m forced to confess to myself. After a few infatuations that went nowhere, followed by a pleasing but pale imitation of love with an Ithacan woman named Issa, what I had with Kyshanda felt pure as well as passionate, and it hurts to think that I may never feel that way about anyone else, ever.
But you will, the rational part of me insists. You will love again. Just the sort of advice I’d hand to someone else, all tidy and rational. But right now, my heart isn’t listening.
I can’t let myself be distracted further, though – I have a hard day before me. The competition is going to open with archery this morning, followed by a footrace this afternoon, wrestling tomorrow, and boxing the day after. Among the suitors are some of the mightiest men in Achaea. So I wash myself in the copper basin provided, put on a clean tunic and prepare myself mentally as best I can.
The archery competition is dominated by the famous Philoctetes, wielding the Great Bow of Heracles himself. He has a massive reputation as a master archer, and I’ve already heard that when he competes, no one even gets close to the standard he sets. Today is no exception, especially when Nassius, who is organising the games, sets up a variety of trick shots that make fools of most.
For my part, I don’t use the Great Bow of Eurytus, despite having brought it with me. I’m sorely tempted but it would draw too much attention to me, when my role here is not to be a competitor but an instigator. And a spy for Tyndareus, alert to any trouble. That I have the famous weapon isn’t widely known and I prefer to keep it that way. So with an inferior bow, and hiding my true abilities carefully, I fade early from the contest. A few people who know my skills, Diomedes and Menelaus amongst them, look at me curiously, but I shrug my shoulders, as if to say it’s just not my day.
I’m also more than a little preoccupied with the parchment note. Everyone competing here is carrying a bow, and a stray arrow in the back might be easily managed to look like an accident. Unless the danger isn’t coming from the Achaeans here, but from outsiders…
Philoctetes claims the prize, but that doesn’t bother me: he’s an arrogant, thin-faced reed of a man in his mid-to-late twenties, and despite a certain edgy charm, I don’t think Helen’s much taken with him.
The real contest will begin this afternoon, in the footrace. Our plan is to place Diomedes – handsome as Adonis and a warrior matched by few – right under Helen’s nose.
A light midday meal is served for the suitors in the main palace courtyard. I’ve not long finished eating when I’m greeted by Bria, curvaceous and provocative in the body of Meli, and with the air of languid exhaustion that tells me her night was rather more eventful than mine. She sashays up to me, hips swinging. ‘We have work to do,’ she states, batting her eyelashes at me as though I’m longing to bed her.
‘We both do,’ I agree.
She takes my arm and puts her mouth to my ear. ‘The best runners here are Aias of Locris and your mate Palamedes: nobble them, and Diomedes should win the race.’
‘Nobble them?’ I’m suddenly tense. These games and their rules are sacred: anyone who interferes with the natural outcome will be disqualified. And if they’re suspected of deliberately using foul play…
‘Trip the bastards up and bugger their legs,’ she advises blithely. ‘This is footrace as warfare, Ithaca.’
‘But—’
‘No buts. It happens all the time.’
‘Not on my patch.’
She smiles at me sweetly. ‘But your patch is so very, very small, Ithaca. And I know you’ll be clever about it – it’s rather important you don’t get caught.’
That’s the understatement of the year – deliberate interference at a contest as sacred as a marriage games can be punishable by death.
‘I’ve met young Aias of Locris, and I know all about Palamedes,’ I tell her, swallowing my doubts as best I can. ‘Believe me, I’ll have no trouble with motivation.’
‘Mmm, it’s no surprise that turd Palamedes is a good runner, is it? Think of all those bedroom windows he’s had to flee through,’ she sniggers. ‘Good luck, Ithaca. Go out hard, and cut down those two arseholes so that Diomedes wins.’
She sways back through the courtyard, as the assembling suitors jeer or whistle. Then the giant Aias of Salamis sweeps her up and makes a show of kissing her, while the other men laugh or catcall, then he pats her behind and shoves her toward the courtyard doors. Bria gives him an over-the-shoulder look that almost has him following her out into the square.
I look around, checking who is and isn’t here. The older men – Idomeneus, Menestheus, Polyxenos and a few others – are absent, disdaining the footrace. They know they won’t win and have chosen to spare themselves the ignominy of working up a sweat in front of lesser men for nothing. Alcmaeon has shown up, but he’s clearly drunk and out of shape. Among the younger men, I pick out those with a reputation for athleticism: Palamedes hasn’t arrived yet, but Aias of Locris looks confident; and I know that Diomedes is no slouch. Nor am I, for that matter; my strong thighs are excellent in a sprint, though I tend to fade over longer distances, when runners with a more wiry build come into their own. It’s the barbarians that interest me; Patroclus and Elephenor. Life in the north is no joke, and I suspect they’ll have speed and stamina to burn.
Then Nassius orders a horn to be sounded, and calls us to attention.
‘My lords, listen please! In a few moments, you will all parade through the central square in the town and out to the plain below, where King Tyndareus and his family await you. There, the race will begin – around the palace hill and the town three times, a distance of six miles. To the victor, the glory!’
That sets off a loud buzz of conversation – this is a longer race than any of us had expected. As I edge through the throng, seeking out Diomedes, I hear the unpleasant, rasping voice of the Locrian Aias. ‘Once I get the little princess alone, I’ll have her,’ he’s boasting. ‘Once you grab a woman’s pussy, they’re meat in your hands. Never fails, I tell you.’
Whoever wins this, you’re going to lose, I vow silently as I pass.
I find Diomedes, who seems well-rested and calm. I go over Bria’s crude plan with him. ‘I’ll have to go out fast,’ I tell him. ‘Faster than I can sustain for long. Stay ahead of the pack, keep something in reserve, then once I’ve done my bit, push for the lead.’
Diomedes nods diffidently, his eyes on Patroclus. I nod. The Thessalian will be a big threat. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘keep an eye on that one. Those northerners can run, and he’s a theios of Ares.’
Dio growls something under his breath, and goes into a series of stretches that make his impressive muscles flex and bulge. I do something similar, on a smaller scale. We watch the others as they watch us, everyone sizing up each other. Then Nassius calls us to move, and we all walk down from the palace through the town square and on down the hill. Most of us are silent, still limbering up as we go.
I know the track that we’ll follow – Menelaus and I walked and ran along it many times, when I lived here as a youth. The start and finish line has been painted onto a cleared and flattened piece of ground at a crossroads, where the track around the base of the hill meets the main road. We ready ourselves, spreading out along the width of the line and warming up more urgently now, getting our blood pumping so that our muscles don’t pull during the first, hectic sprint.
The whole town is here to watch, from house servants to craftsmen, to the sea of soldiers and servants who escort their masters. The kings, Tyndareus and Agamemnon, are now seated on a raised platform, along with Tyndareus’s wife, Leda, and their three younger daughters, and Idomeneus and Menestheus and the other older men who have decided not to compete in the athletic contest. The royal party is surrounded by an array of priests and priestesses, representing every deity, in a sea of colour.
I glimpse Penelope’s taut face and give her a brief wave, but she’s talking to someone – a man. I feel a surprising twinge of jealousy, but when I look closer I see from her stance that she’s not being at all friendly. And then I realise that it’s Palamedes, her would-be suitor… and attempted abductor.
I bunch my fists and head toward them, but then her arm swings, open-handed, and Palamedes reels back, clutching his cheek. When he tries to face her again, a pair of Artemis huntresses close in on either side, and he’s sent on his way.
Only then does Penelope see me – and her taut angry face softens into a wink.
Well done, you, I think warmly, following Palamedes with my eyes as he joins the runners. I drift in on his flank, unseen by my quarry, as Nassius calls us up to the starting line.
‘Hey,’ I growl in his ear. ‘I told you never to talk to her again.’
He looks startled, then glances over my shoulder and decides he’s got enough friends nearby to be brave. ‘You don’t have any call over me, you poison-mouthed runt,’ he spits back.
‘You’re not so pretty with a red handprint on your cheek,’ I tell him, and he flinches. ‘Watch yourself.’
I back away – there’s far too many Ares men around him and from what Bria’s said, if I get caught up among them when the race starts, I’ll be the one broken. Palamedes sneers as I edge away, but I’m not troubled. I know this racetrack very well – I ran it every day for years. My chance will come.
The crowd is thousands strong, chanting the names of their favourites. I hear Eurybates leading my lads in a rousing hymn to Ithaca, before chorusing my name, but that’s just one drop of sound in a sea of noise. I wave to them and they cheer lustily as they wave back.
Then Helen arrives, flanked by her brothers and followed by a dozen Spartan warriors. The people go silent in awe as she ascends the platform to sit near her father, her demeanour alert, even eager. I wonder who she’ll be cheering for.
Then Nassius blasts thrice on his horn, the first to warn us; the second time a few seconds later to ready us. At the third, we explode into action.
The first few hundred paces are brutal – Bria was right, this is war on the run. I’m not the only one here with an unsporting agenda, and not the first to strike either – I’m pushed and pulled, my feet are stamped on and several people try and trip me. Someone slams a fist into the small of my back and I almost go down. I’m wondering what the marshals are going to make of this lot – they can’t disqualify us all, let alone execute us. So I give it back too, angry enough to ram my fellow runners with elbows flailing, fighting for space until I see a gap and explode through it, getting clear of the main pack and pelting along, now eighth in a field of over forty.
The seven in front of me must have gone out as hard as they possibly could to avoid the sort of melee I got dragged into, and they’re strung out with the leader a distant twenty yards ahead – and it’s Palamedes, as I feared. Elephenor and Patroclus aren’t far behind him, then the giant Aias of Salamis, to my surprise. He runs gracelessly, but with real power. Diomedes is on his shoulder, with the archer, Philoctetes.
The nearest of the prominent runners to me is Aias of Locris, who has slipped into a steady, graceful lope, so I focus on him first. As we reach a low dip I know well, where the track is momentarily screened by willow trees, I close him from behind, ghosting in as he enters the shadow of the trees. He thinks he’s pulled free of the carnage in the pack, running hard and freely, so he’s not prepared when I lash out with my leading foot, clipping his ankles together. He cries out as he tumbles, rolling aside and rising in one fluid movement.
But I’ve veered to follow him, and as his snarling face turns towards me, I give him no time to react, slamming my fist into his jaw with a brutal running punch, and he goes down like a sack of meal.
I must admit to feeling a certain guilt and shame: this isn’t how I was raised to race. But I’ve been given my mission and I’ll see it through.
It all took seconds – I’m gone before the next runners enter the trees, and it’s his word against mine that he didn’t just trip, and we both know it. So I have no fear of retribution as I set off after the leaders, running as if this is the last lap. I need to use what strength I have as soon as possible; at this pace I’m going to blow out long before the finishing line.
I swiftly overtake the giant Aias, who is beginning to labour. He lunges at me as I dash by, but I’m ready for him and sidestep easily. Once I’m passed, some instinct has me glance back, in time to see him pick up a stone. As he hurls it at my head I dodge, and the missile whistles harmlessly past my skull.
He stoops to seek another, but the track is more open now, with a marshal positioned at the next bend, and he doesn’t dare try again. I’m gaining on Diomedes and Philoctetes, when Diomedes puts on a burst that puts paid to the archer – he tries to keep up but soon blows out, gasping and swearing as he falls back towards the main pack.
We’re out round the back of the hill now, with the eastern slopes rising sharply above us. I’m now shoulder to shoulder with Diomedes, who is only a few yards off the two northerners, Elephenor and Patroclus, with Palamedes not so very far ahead of them, running impressively. This stretch is lined with country dwellers, calling out encouragement as we pound by, with a few of Tyndareus’s officials spaced out along the way, marking off names on wax tablets as we pass. I give Diomedes a nod and we put on another burst, to catch up with Palamedes before my stamina runs out.
I tear ahead, into a stony section with some awkward potholes and rock outcrops, overtaking Elephenor on a particularly nasty patch where any misstep would see me breaking an ankle, and haring past Patroclus, who throws me an incredulous look. ‘It’s three laps, not one, you idiot,’ he pants, more amused than worried.
I ignore him, drawing as much air into my lungs as I can to sustain this last burst. Palamedes is only a dozen paces ahead of me now, his lean body well-suited to the task, his gait flowing as he eats up the yards. No wonder he’s renowned for these damned long-distance races. But I’m not bad – even for something like this – I’m the best runner in Cephalonia, and have been since I returned home from my spell in Sparta, even before Athena claimed me. And this track was Menelaus’s and my main training ground.
So yard by yard, I carve up the distance between us, so that when we burst back into the square and over the starting line, with the thronged citizens cheering themselves hoarse, I’m right behind him.
‘O-DY-SSE-US!’ my Ithacans are chanting. ‘O-DY-SSE-US! O-DY-SSE-US!’
I grin to myself and pour in more of my reserves. But I’m also conscious of a growing ache in my right thigh – the old wound sustained the day I became a theioi. It’s been healed by both magic and time, but it’s never been truly the same since that day. And now I can feel the deep scar tissue beginning to strain.
I’m up to just a few strides behind my prey though, and he knows I’m there. But the bastard keeps putting on a spurt, just as I’m about to catch him.
‘I know what you’re doing, islander,’ Palamedes calls back. ‘You can’t catch me!’
He puts on another burst and now I’m really struggling, my face burning with heat, my lungs like bellows and every step jarring through my thigh as we sprint along the next straight stretch, the seductive shade of the willows at the end of it.
Nothing left… nothing left…
But somehow, I find more, veering toward a jutting boulder as we reach the crest of the dip and ricocheting off it, sailing through the air…
…and slamming into Palamedes’s back, my left knee crunching into his buttocks as we collide and go head over heels down the slope, yelling as we tumble. He strikes the ground badly and flails to a halt at the bottom of the dip, clutching his left shoulder and screaming. I’m little better off, having ploughed into a clod of turf face first and bloodied my nose, so I’m lying dazed, only a few yards away.
I’m barely aware as Patroclus, then Elephenor and Diomedes in a duel for second, come rampaging past.
I sit up, testing out my thigh and wincing – a few more strides and something would have torn. Then I look across at Palamedes, who’s glaring at me with absolute hatred on his face. But he’s got a dislocated shoulder, and he’s not much danger right now.
Job done. I stagger to my feet as more runners pass us, I tentatively put weight on my right leg – it’s painful, and my run is over, but it’ll mend quickly enough.
‘You fucking cheat,’ Palamedes snarls. ‘I’ll have you dragged before the marshals! I’ll see you drowned for this! You proctos, you leprous piece of pig shit!’
All that profanity sounds funny coming from this snotty, lordlier-than-thou priapus.
‘A pure accident,’ I tell him, wiping blood from my face. ‘I would never break such sacred laws as these. Do you want a hand getting that arm back into the socket? I know how to do it.’
‘Go fuck yourself in Tartarus.’
‘Whatever.’ I leave him there as the rest of the field charges past, and gingerly climb out of the dip, heading back towards the town. If I amble along, making sure I don’t strain my thigh, I should be back at the crossroads with plenty of time to see the finish.
As I set off, I can feel his eyes on my back, burning with pure malice. He is, I decide, not the live-and-let-live kind, but hey, we were already enemies. Nothing’s changed except the intensity.
At this rate, my mysterious assassins will have to queue up for the right to kill me.
I make it back to the crossroads, hamming up my limp to reinforce the fiction I’ve withdrawn because of a serious injury. As the surviving competitors barrel past for the last time, I wave at them, putting on a woeful face. I find the watching crowd in high ferment as they await the end of the final lap. Eurybates and my Ithacan men are disappointed when I limp into their midst, after reporting to Nassius. We’re commiserating when Bria slips her arm through mine.
‘I love the smell of fresh man-sweat, Ithaca,’ she purrs. ‘How did you go?’
‘Aias is out, and so is Palamedes. Last I saw, Diomedes was still duelling with the two northerners.’
‘You should have stayed with him after doing the dirty on Palamedes,’ Bria says tartly. ‘He might have use of your talents yet.’
I give her a look. ‘I just about liquefied my bones, catching up with Palamedes. And that old boar tusk wound is tearing again. You’re lucky I can still walk.’
‘Men,’ she sniffs. ‘Always boasting of their prowess, but never as good as they think they are. Let’s hope Diomedes can do the rest by himself.’
‘Yeah, “Thanks, Odysseus, you did great”,’ I mutter, but she’s already gone, weaving through the crowd, while Eurybates and the lads give her dirty looks.
‘You done good, boss,’ one of my crew, stout Pollo, tells me. ‘Don’t listen to that stuck-up so-and-so.’
The lads have no idea who Bria really is. On our missions to Delos and Thebes last year, she was in the body of a Hamazan warrior woman. And ‘Meli’ is no warrior, and they’ve no reason to connect the two: they just think I have a penchant for cantankerous, mouthy women.
I clap Pollo’s shoulder. ‘I’ve got to attend on Tyndareus, lads. Cheer your lungs out for Diomedes, then go get a drink. I’ll find you later, if I can.’
I work my way through the crowd, towards the royal platform where Tyndareus and Agamemnon are leaning toward each other in deep conversation. Castor, Polydeuces and Helen are huddled together, laughing excitedly about the race. The upturned faces in the crowd below them are just as reverent as the suitors’, and suffused with excited joy, as if Helen’s moods are infectious. Given her powers, they probably are.
I work my way to the side of the platform, where I’m recognised by the guards and helped up. I walk around the back of a dozen Spartan advisers and one priestess – who happens to be High Priestess Amphithea of Pytho – my grandmother. I’m expecting her to ignore me, but although her already hard face scowls, she deigns to join me.
‘Grandson,’ she says stiffly. ‘You were unable to finish?’
‘I chose not to,’ I reply tartly. ‘It must be annoying for you that footraces are so random, and the spirits can’t foretell the winner. You could make a fortune that way, otherwise.’
‘The spirits are not concerned with such paltry matters,’ Amphithea sniffs. She’s clad in a full robe, with her head cowled by a fold of her veil, her face wrinkled as she squints in the morning sunlight. ‘They don’t care.’
‘But princesses do,’ I note, indicating Helen, who is now straining her eyes toward the final stretch of road leading toward the finish line. ‘And the outcome of this race could matter far more than the spirits might think.’
‘Her choices will be made for her,’ Amphithea says sourly.
‘Do you think so? I rather believe that she will change the choices of those around her. That’s part of her power.’
My grandmother has never forgiven me for being the son of Sisyphus, or forgiven my mother Anticleia for that liaison. Part of the reason is that she’s stiff-backed and unforgiving; the other part is her allegiance to Hera, who hated Prometheus – as all the gods did, in the end. That’s why he’s chained up in Erebus being tortured, and why I have to constantly watch my back, even though I’m under Athena’s protection.
‘I see you’ve managed to inveigle your way into Tyndareus’s confidence again,’ she grumbles, but then with a visible effort, she unbends a fraction. ‘I’m told we have you to thank for eliminating Tantalus?’
‘I was involved. Athena wants the same things as Hera – to prevent Zeus’s alliance with Troy from destroying Achaea…’ I cast her a quizzical look. ‘If that’s still what Hera wants?’
Or is she continuing to seek her own accommodation with her ‘husband’ Zeus and his new eastern friends?
‘That is still what she wants,’ Amphithea says, glaring at me. ‘But we were excluded from the attack on Tantalus. Agamemnon goes through the motions of worshipping Our Mother, but he’s not asking my advice any more. Why is that?’
She knows nothing of my Dodona prophecy, that’s clear. But she’s the highest-ranking priestess of Hera in the world and she must be behind any overtures to renew the alliance between Hera and Zeus.
Do I reveal what I know…? I sense I can make gains here, so I lean in close and whisper, ‘Why do you think you were excluded?’
For all her experience and guile, Amphithea’s reptilian face flickers with anxiety. Is that because she knows that I know about her cult’s duplicity? ‘I suppose nothing is truly secret, is it?’ she murmurs. ‘I’ve heard a whisper too, that Dodona has been silenced, but Zeus denies it.’
The old game.
‘Your whisper was correct – I went there myself and released Hera’s priestesses, the ones Zeus had imprisoned beneath the shrine.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Then you’ve done Hera a great service,’ she says reluctantly. ‘Did they prophesise for you before you released them?’ When I smile knowingly, her face becomes hungry. ‘What did they say?’
‘This and that,’ I tease. ‘They pointed us towards Tantalus, for example. But they warned against involving you, lest you go straight to Zeus’s people and share what you know with them.’
‘We would never have done that.’
‘So you say.’ I look at her pointedly. ‘But you’re sheltering that viper Manto, the daughter of Tiresias, so why should I believe a word you say?’
We glare at each other – Manto and Tiresias almost killed me, and they’ve destroyed my sister’s hopes forever: I’m not about to forgive anyone that shelters that sorceress.
‘She’s useful,’ Amphithea says shortly. ‘What matters is that the best Achaean candidate wins Helen.’
‘It’s not so important who wins Helen,’ I reply, ‘so much as who doesn’t. As the field narrows down, we should unite behind one candidate – someone that Helen will accept, with the status and personal attributes to make her a good husband, one that pleases her. Diomedes, for example.’
She scowls again – Grandmother’s default expression – but she’s considering it.
‘We’ll see how things work out,’ she says, peering out at the track as the noise of the crowd lifts. The leading runners have come into view, three of them strung out across the track, pelting towards us as the runners loom closer. We’re forced to break off, for the noise has become deafening.
Elephenor, Patroclus and Diomedes have burst into a final sprint, the Argive prince in the middle with the other two trying to pincer him and trip him. Elephenor suddenly veers and sacrifices himself, trying to bring Diomedes down in a crash tackle, but Diomedes throws out a straight right hand and fends him off. The northerner goes down in the dust, and ironically, the extra thrust of the fend gives Diomedes enough momentum to surge up alongside Patroclus, right on the line.
‘A dead heat!’ Nassius pronounces, his massive voice rising above the roar of the throng. His announcement is met by boos, cheers and gaping mouths, as everyone swings round to see how Helen reacts. She’s bouncing up and down on her feet, between her two brothers, clapping her hands together and squealing in apparent delight. It’s all very endearing, and I’m sure she knows it.
All this blood, sweat, noise and effort, for you, darling Helen. It must do wonders for your ego.
I watch Diomedes and Patroclus square up on the finish line, their chests heaving and faces bright with exertion, and for a moment everyone fears – or hopes – that they’ll come to blows, but instead the blonde Patroclus roars with laughter and throws his arms round the bemused Diomedes and hugs him.
‘What a race!’ the Thessalian bellows, thumping Diomedes’s back. ‘What a race!’
It’s enough to make me wonder if I’ve misread the Thessalian, because his almost childlike pleasure in the contest and its even result seems genuine. But my mind goes back to the death of Laas, and I’m not convinced. There’s something manipulative about the man, I’m sure of it. Diomedes, for his part, is initially taken aback, but then joins in the brotherly show, and it’s with much mutual backslapping that they proceed to the platform.
Behind them, a lithe young man swarms past a limping, bloodied Elephenor to take third, and I notice that it’s the Artemis priestesses who seem most delighted, including Penelope, who embraces the young man. I recognise him – his name’s Eumelus, he’s another from the north but he’s a close friend of her oldest brother, a decent man, and a follower of Artemis, someone I’ve met in passing as a youth in Sparta.
I make a mental note to congratulate him, give a nod in parting to Amphithea, then make sure I’m near Tyndareus as the two winners are brought forward to be rewarded, both of them still sweating profusely – two prime examples of manly beauty. No wonder Helen looks charmed as they’re introduced, their arms still around each other’s shoulders as if holding each other up.
For the remainder of the day, the locals are going to be running their own footraces – hopefully less brutal. A number of Spartan families have taken their lead from the royal marriage games and have put their own daughters up to be wed to the winners, and there’s a lively market for bets on the results, as well as dozens of food and drink stalls. An air of festival prevails, with music and laughter, a mood very different from that of the real competition.
On my way back up to the palace, several of Locrian Aias’s mates try to get at me, but my fellow Ithacans close about me, and the scuffle breaks off after some pushing and shoving. I see other fist fights, and there’s a general air of hostility – and the sense that scores will be settled in the wrestling and boxing contests that are to come.
But poor Palamedes won’t be a part of that, I note wryly, as I see him being led away by his friends, still clutching his arm. Even a theios can’t recover from such things that quickly. Bad luck.
But then I see Aias, the giant from Salamis, lumber past – he was well back in the field by the time he finished but he doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. The wrestling tomorrow, he clearly believes, will belong to him.
I just hope I don’t draw the big lug.
It’s another gloomy night in the megaron, with the bard struggling to find any rousing song that doesn’t depict some form of mutual violence. At one point, he begins a comic poem about Aphrodite’s seduction by Ares, and the cuckolding of Hephaestus, but is soon shushed by Nassius. By now, the glum looks of last night have been replaced with more murderous ones but, though harsh words are spoken more than once, no blows are exchanged and no blood is shed.
They’re probably saving that for the wrestling and boxing…
Once the dismal gathering has ended, and I’ve given my report to Tyndareus, along with a private recommendation of my own, I try to get some rest, with my door and window as firmly barred as before. But sleep is elusive and I end up spending too much time propped up, thinking about the day to come, and worrying at the slightest sound that seems too close to my door or window.
It’s only now that I realise how stupid I have been today, running along the track around the town, where a killer could have lurked in any of the bushes I passed and dispatched me with ease. That dip with the willow trees would have been the ideal spot, not only for my own misdeeds but for my death. ‘Beware of the deepest shadows’… I’d assumed this means that I will only be attacked at night, and in the palace, but maybe not…
I’d been so caught up in our plans for Diomedes, I’d barely thought of it. That I survived does nothing to ease my nerves. I have such a list of enemies here, it seems pointless to worry about who my intended assassin might be, so I try and think laterally.
Not many people in Achaea can write, but those who do, mostly kings, nobles and highly-trained bureaucrats, are well-practised, with firm characterful hands. This was written either by a child, still learning the craft, or…
The new possibility is so intriguing, it keeps me awake most of the rest of the night.
I rise before dawn, break my fast and then spend a good hour warming up down in the courtyard, ahead of anyone else, wondering if Tyndareus will have taken my advice. I’m eventually joined by a tired-looking Diomedes, who arrives in the courtyard wearing in the same clothes I saw him in at the feast last night, and reeking of alcohol. He’s with the Thessalian, Patroclus, and they’re laughing like they’ve known each other all their lives.
I’m instantly on guard. Patroclus is a little older than Dio, and a whole lot wiser.
‘How was your evening?’ I ask them both.
‘Fine,’ Diomedes mumbles, without meeting my eyes.
‘Try not to get drawn to fight each other,’ I advise them. ‘It would be a shame to spoil a beautiful friendship.’
They don’t even hear me.
I give my right thigh a good massage, to take some of the toughness out of the scar tissue, as the courtyard fills up – everyone thinks they can wrestle. Bria arrives, ignoring the men that call exhortations for her to come and give them a rub down.
‘Want some good news, Ithaca?’ she purrs. ‘Your mate Palamedes has left town, after complaining to the keryx and being told that he could take his lies and piss off. He’s screeching about collusion: if you listen carefully, you can still hear the whining noises echoing off the hills.’
‘Nassius and I go way back,’ I comment. Good – one less person I need to watch my back over.
Bria grins, then scowls as she sees Diomedes and Patroclus chatting. ‘Why is Diomedes talking to that prick?’
‘They seem to have bonded over dead heats and drink,’ I observe. ‘For an Ares man, that Thessalian seems to have way too much charm.’ I think about Laas. ‘No, not just charm… he can manipulate people.’
‘Since their cults began to work together, some of the Ares men have been blessed by Aphrodite as well, where the potential exists,’ Bria remarks. ‘Not all of them just grunt and hit things any more – some have learned how to speak in whole sentences, it seems.’
‘You think that bastard’s trying to work Diomedes around to Ares?’
‘I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.’
‘But Diomedes worships Athena,’ I protest. ‘Utterly.’
‘I didn’t say he’d succeed. Let’s just watch them for now,’ Bria says quietly. ‘So, how are you at wrestling? Seeing as you won’t wrestle me, I have no idea.’
I straighten up. ‘As good as I am at sprinting. Or better. Best in Cephalonia.’ It’s true.
‘You?’ she says disbelievingly, running her eyes down my shorter-than-most frame. ‘Really? Cephalonians must be smaller than I thought. I suppose you’re Cephalonian boxing champion as well?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Bria, there’s a huge difference between the two. Wrestling is all about balance and skill as much as bulk and strength. And height can be a handicap. If you know what you’re doing, being low to the ground gives you an advantage. I’ve won a lot of bouts like that. And I know what I’m doing.’ Short men have to work twice as hard to be regarded as half as good. I work hard. ‘Boxing depends on height and reach and bulk. You’ll notice I haven’t put my name down for that – there’s no point in me being beaten to a pulp by some of these big thugs.’
‘Well, you won’t need to worry now. Haven’t you heard the news?’
‘What news?’
‘Tyndareus is going to cancel the boxing.’
‘Ah.’ I give her a knowing smile.
‘So you know about it, already?’
‘I suggested it to him last night.’ So he took my private recommendation on board… ‘This lot…’ I jerk my head at the other suitors, ‘…are getting a bit too frisky.’
‘And it might spoil their pretty looks. Talking of pretty, Actoris, that maid of Penelope’s, could well be a fan of your wrestling moves. She was giving you the eye all yesterday. There’s a good chance she might have some interesting pillow talk…’
I had indeed felt Actoris’s eyes on me – but I’d not given her anything back. ‘I am not going to seduce a maid for petty gossip,’ I tell her.
‘You’ll never make a spy at this rate, Ithaca.’ Bria strikes a pose, one hand on her bosom and the other stroking her thigh. ‘Perhaps you need some personal training?’
‘I think we’ve had that discussion before,’ I remind her. ‘Why don’t you check out the local goatherds, in case your Hermes friend shows up again?’
She’s not put out in the least. ‘What a splendid idea, Ithaca – your Arcadian girlfriend might be there too! We could do a foursome!’ She snickers at her own wit, then changes the subject. ‘So, wrestling, then,’ she says with light, catty malice. ‘Same plan as yesterday, Ithaca: Nobble some contenders so that Diomedes can win again. If you can last the distance. Unlike your running.’
She sashays off before I can think of a suitable riposte.
Midmorning, we’re taken down to the central town square, where overnight Tyndareus’s hardworking servants have created a circular wrestling arena, with a floor of hard-packed dirt. There’s some space around it cordoned off to keep the crowds back, and a new royal platform directly overlooks it – we’ll be fighting right under Tyndareus’s and Agamemnon’s nose, as well as those of Helen and her brothers.
Half of the contestants take one look at Aias of Salamis and pull out, so there’s only two dozen of us entered. We’re drawn by lot into threes, with each having to fight the other two in turn, and the overall winner progressing to a pure knockout. I’m drawn against Alcmaeon – who, once again, is as drunk as a maenad on a feast day to Dionysus – and, annoyingly, Menelaus.
My friend and I hug. ‘I don’t suppose you’d take a fall?’ he asks, half-jokingly. ‘Just for me?’ He knows all about my wrestling skills – we grew up being tutored in the art together.
Unfortunately, the role Athena demands of me today won’t allow for any such thing. ‘I’m either fighting wholeheartedly, or going home,’ I tell him. ‘It would dishonour our hosts to do less.’
He sighs ruefully at the platform, where Helen’s throne awaits her. ‘Then I may as well go home myself.’
I eye him critically. ‘You’ve filled out a lot since we sparred together, and you’ve always had the size and weight. You just need to be more aggressive.’ I jab a thumb at Alcmaeon, and grin, ‘Just direct it all at him, not me, of course.’
He laughs and slaps my shoulder. ‘I think we’ll both enjoy taking him on.’
Our trio are drawn to fight third, so we watch the first two – victories for brawny Elephenor in the initial rounds and the giant Aias of Salamis in the second. Then Menelaus and Alcmaeon are selected by lot to take the ring first, meaning I’ll fight in the second and third rounds of our group. So I watch with pleasure as the aggressively drunk Alcmaeon has his face planted twice in quick succession by Menelaus, who certainly has picked up a trick or two.
I’m pleased for him, but Alcmaeon’s whole demeanour is puzzling me. If you’re here to win Helen’s hand, why undermine yourself by getting pissed every night before the games?
Unless he can’t help himself?
I’ve known many men with a drinking problem, and some are slaves to it. Yet, when we last parted, Alcmaeon was a cold-hearted, seething, revenge-obsessed killer, but no drunkard.
The next bouts fly by, as the crowds cheer and hiss their adopted heroes and villains respectively, while the royals look down, commenting loudly about technique, and the young women around Helen laughing behind their hands or cooing admiringly. Diomedes comes through his first round easily, and a few bouts later we’re into the second round, and it’s my turn.
I await the ballot, standing with a sweating, nervous Menelaus, and a reeking, silent Alcmaeon to see who I must fight: I draw Alcmaeon, which prolongs the agony of knowing I must fight my best friend. But I put that to the back of my mind and concentrate on the matter at hand.
We strip down to our loincloths, oiling our torsos and dusting our hands, then step into the ring on either side of the arena. Alcmaeon’s swaying still, and as I size him up, I’m struck by two things – one, that in this state he’s no threat; and two, something’s really got to him, for him to be like this.
What happened? I know he’s fathered a child on Manto – not a rape but a seduction, I’m told – but both she and the child have been snatched away from him. Is this what has affected him so badly?
I could almost pity him. Almost.
We stalk toward each other and face off. He towers over me and ordinarily he would be a real challenge, but not today. Nonetheless, I make little effort to slap away his attempts to get a grip on my shoulders, instead letting him bind as I grip him back. We contend like butting rams, shoving at each other with arms interlocked, low to the ground with legs wide. He’s struggling for balance and I could have flipped him three times inside the first few seconds. But it’s answers I really want from him, not empty success.
‘What in Erebus is the matter with you?’ I hiss.
Alcmaeon growls and snarls, tries to toss me and can’t, despite his weight advantage, while I renege on two more chances to end it. Finally he groans. ‘She’s… damn well… here…’ he mumbles.
The news staggers me. Manto must be with my grandmother’s entourage… though Amphithea never told me, when we spoke yesterday. I curse softly.
Alcmaeon takes that for sympathy. ‘I can’t get her out of my head,’ he moans. ‘And now she’s out there, looking at me as though I’m the lowest form of muck.’
No wonder he’s in such a mess. From what I’ve seen and experienced myself, she can play with any man’s head. And she’s borne him a child, whom he’s forbidden to see…
‘Oi, Ithaca, are you here to chat, or fucking well fight?’ I hear Bria screech from somewhere among the watchers. The crowd laugh and then they begin to jeer.
Fair enough.
I shift my footing while pivoting and twisting, and slam Alcmaeon to the ground on his back, locking up his arms and ramming a knee into his groin. He pukes as I rise, and shows no sign of being able to get up again. There won’t be a second bout, let alone a third chance to throw him.
That wasn’t nearly as much fun as I’d expected.
Manto’s here… I rise, look for my grandmother, and then stare into the cluster of priestesses behind her.
Quite deliberately, the daughter of Tiresias lowers her veil and looks straight back at me, her regal, dark-browed face resolute and arrogant. Round her neck, she’s wearing a magnificent necklace in the shape of a rearing cobra, and I catch a glimpse of her favoured scarlet clothing, beneath her cloak. She doesn’t look like anyone’s prisoner, but an honoured guest and adviser – which is exactly what she is, I’m sure.
Manto smiles coldly, and the golden cobra around her neck seems to move, as though it were real.
I wrench my eyes away, swearing under my breath as I stalk from the ring, leaving the servants to carry Alcmaeon out. Then I signal to Bria. She hurries toward me, her mouth open to give me a lecture – about faffing around instead of fighting, I expect – but I cut her off.
‘Manto’s with the Pytho delegation,’ I rasp into her ear. ‘Get Alcmaeon out of here, find him somewhere safe and sober him up. I want to know exactly what happened between him and that bitch.’
Bria’s tirade dies unspoken. ‘I’ll see to it,’ she mutters, patting my arm. ‘You do what you must against your mate Menelaus. No more mucking round.’ Then she’s gone, waving to Eurybates to help her out. He shoots me a questioning glance, catches my terse nod and follows.
I look back at where Manto was standing. She’s gone, but Grandmother is looking down at me smugly. I’ve half a mind to berate her, but I swallow my anger. Pick your fights, I remind myself.
My next one is with my best friend.
Menelaus and I walk out before the crowds together, with the sun approaching its zenith. The day had started on the cool side for early summer, but a cloudless sky and the press of the crowd mean that there’s now a warm fug in the air, and we’re both sweating already. As we turn to face the royal platform, I’m conscious that everyone here, apart from my small knot of Ithacans, is firmly behind Menelaus.
It’s no wonder: he’s tall, his hair is a mane of gold, and he’s got a fresh-faced cheeriness that makes even strangers warm to him – and the local people remember his years in exile here in Sparta. Whereas I’m a just a short-grown islander, though there’s no real hostility towards me. Some remember that I was here too, and that we’re friends. There’s some good-natured jeering, but mostly they just cheer for the beloved brother of the High King.
We bow to the royal platform, where the two kings have just clasped hands on a wager – shrewd Tyndareus knows that Agamemnon is compelled to bet on his brother, but that I know more about wrestling than Menelaus ever will. But I take a moment to focus on Helen, who is seated with her brothers. Castor and Polydeuces are of course barracking for Menelaus, and throwing me insulting gestures as if this were a tavern room brawl, not a contest for their sister’s hand. But Helen’s leaning back, appraising us both. She gives Menelaus a small, encouraging smile, and his face lights up. All his chivalrous instincts toward a vulnerable woman are there, plain to see. I watch his resolve double, then triple.
I’m going to feel wretched when I destroy his dream.
‘Prepare,’ Nassius calls.
We embrace, then go to our corners to dust our hands. I meet Menelaus’s eyes across the ring, see resolve and pride – he won’t ask for me to take a fall again, not in earnest. He’s bigger than me, taller and maybe stronger.
I plant him on his face inside six seconds and win the first bout. The second takes twelve seconds.
‘I’m sorry,’ I murmur as I rise.
There’s some good-natured booing, but a win’s a win. I salute the kings, then Helen. Up so close, her skin is flawless, lustrous, and there’s such glow to her that even somewhat disinterested as I am, I find myself holding my breath and staring.
‘Aias of Salamis will break your spine,’ Polydeuces sneers. ‘I’ve asked him to cripple you, as a personal favour.’
I ignore him. ‘I trust the princess is enjoying all this effort being expended on her behalf?’ I ask the coolly-amused young woman.
‘I always enjoy seeing big, handsome men working up a sweat,’ she says, in a distant voice. Then she leans forward and whispers, ‘But small, ugly, fishy-smelling men make me sick.’
‘Have you made your choice yet?’ I ask, just to see what she says.
‘I don’t see anyone worthy of me,’ she replies with a tight little grimace, quickly disguised as a ladylike simper. ‘Not in this barbaric backwater. But I’m sure my noble father will provide one.’
‘There’s so much more wealth in the east, isn’t there?’ I observe, watching her closely.
Her face tightens as she realises she’s revealed more than she intended. But Polydeuces comes to her rescue. ‘Accept your win and get out, Ithacan,’ he growls.
‘Yes, walk while you still can,’ Castor adds.
‘If I were permitted to compete,’ Polydeuces adds, ‘I’d kill you.’ Given the blessings he’s received as a theios, he might well be right.
I pretend for the crowd’s sake that the princes are offering encouragement, and back away, sharing a smile with Tyndareus, who’s just fleeced Agamemnon in their wager.
Menelaus is waiting for me, back on his feet now, dusty but nor really sweating heavily – I didn’t give him time to work up a head of steam. His disappointment is palpable, but it’s a measure of his friendship that he embraces me with genuine congratulations. He’s a good man, and Helen could do worse – but I fear for him, getting entangled in her schemes. Not that he’ll have much chance for that.
This is clearly all just a ruse. My growing suspicions have been confirmed – she’s picked out her husband already, and he’s not even a declared suitor: he’ll be lurking in the shadows, waiting to claim his prize and take her away… to Troy.