‘HESIOD: But what do righteousness and manly courage signify?
HOMER: To bring about a common advantage through private hardship.’
—Lives of Homer: The Contest of Homer and Hesiod
There are eight of us in the afternoon bouts, with the winner progressing from each fight. So in theory we’re each of us three victories from glory. Over lunch, I seek Bria and Eurybates, hoping for reassurance rather than advice – I already know what I need to do but it’s eating away at my courage. Neither of them are about; hopefully that means they’ve found Alcmaeon and are busy sobering him up. So I’ll just have to face down my fears myself.
I eat with my Ithacans, keeping a wary eye on what I consume. Bria has yet to report back about the possibility that Tyndareus’s ill-health is due to poisoning, and now I know Manto’s here, I need to be extra vigilant on my own behalf, what with the assassin I’ve been warned of.
Imagine how much danger I’d be in if I were a serious contender.
As we march out to witness the draw, the crowds roar out encouragement for their favourites. The eight finalists are all theioi, though only those in the know realise – to the ordinary citizens here, we’re just men with that little bit extra: ‘Blessed by the gods’ they would say, without realising just how blessed we are…
There’s Diomedes and myself, for Athena. Those fighting for Ares, Heracles or Zeus are big Aias, Patroclus, Elephenor and Iolaus the Heraclid – an older man but as cunning as a fox. Finally, there’s Penelope’s brother’s friend Eumelus, for Artemis, and Protesilaus, an impetuous Thessalian whose tokens are to Apollo. So far, he’s been behaving as though this whole thing is a lark, but the fact that he’s got this far gives the lie to that and I don’t intend to underestimate him if we meet.
It’s likely only Diomedes has any chance against Aias, and even that hope is slim. We need a favourable draw, and a lot of luck if our plan is to work.
‘If we both lose, it’s all over,’ Diomedes murmurs to me, as we wait for Nassius to make the draw. ‘Helen will be given to one of Zeus’s cabal.’
‘Maybe,’ I reply. ‘We still don’t really know if the games are going to matter. Menestheus and the older kings are still trying to bribe Helen and her brothers with additional gifts, so Athena’s other option may still be open.’ I pat his shoulder. ‘A cripple can’t aspire to her, though.’ I cast a meaningful glance at Aias of Salamis, remembering the threats Polydeuces and Castor made about getting him to maim me.
Diomedes follows my gaze. ‘You think he’d do that?’
‘Count on it.’ I lean closer and whisper, ‘I’ll do what I can.’ I’m trying to look brave, but inside my bowels are heaving, despite two visits to ease myself earlier. ‘This is your chance, Dio. You drew the footrace. Win this and you’ll be the crowd favourite, and that could carry you all the way to a wedding.’
He puffs up at that thought, as Nassius steps forth, and everyone goes quiet. The keryx removes the first clay tablet from the urn, and reads aloud.
‘Diomedes, son of Tydeus, prince of Tiryns.’ There are cheers, then a hush as he dips his hand into the urn again and pulls out another tablet: ‘He will fight Iolaus of the Heraclids.’
The young tyro against the veteran – a classic encounter. The crowd cheers vociferously.
The next tablets are those of Elephenor and Patroclus. So one of the northerners must eliminate the other. But it also means that one must progress.
And it means I have a one-in-two chance of drawing Aias. I glance over at the giant, who’s smiling up at the royal platform and the slender young princess, stripping her with his eyes as if he’s already won her.
‘Odysseus Laertiades, prince of Ithaca…’ Nassius booms, and I catch my breath. ‘…will fight Protesilaus, son of Iphiclus, of Phylace.’
I exhale in a mix of relief and frustration. It’s not what I’ve been praying for – well, wishing for – because praying is a waste of time. But I can’t help but be pleased I don’t have to face Aias yet.
Irrational, yes, but I’ve never claimed I’m perfect…
That means Aias will take on Penelope’s friend Eumelus, and I throw a glance the young Artemis champion’s way. He’s gone pale, while Aias simply guffaws before venting a ferocious roar and flexing one of those giant, treetrunk biceps, playing to the crowd. They cheer him on, and like some performing clown he gives them more poses, bellowing like a bull in heat.
‘Buffoon,’ I mutter to Diomedes as we part. ‘Good luck.’ On impulse I pull young Eumelus aside. ‘Go down early if you wish to avoid serious harm,’ I advise him.
‘But honour compels me—’
‘Honour is for idiots,’ I tell him. ‘Do what you must but no more.’
He looks upset at that, but then he says, ‘My friend’s sister speaks well of you,’ in tones that suggest that he’s a bit smitten with her.
I reply by clasping his hand. ‘Stay mobile, use your speed, and good luck.’
You’ll need it.
I head for my little patch, where Eurybates is waiting. ‘We’ve got Alcmaeon secure,’ he tells me. ‘Bria’s found him a room in that tavern behind the old well – you know how persuasive she can be. She’s with him along with Pollo and Itanus.’
They’re two of my steadier lads. ‘Good work,’ I tell him.
I don’t watch the two fights that precede mine – I’m stretching physically, preparing mentally, letting the crowd’s reaction and Eurybates’s breathless reports inform me. ‘Diomedes took down Iolaus,’ he tells me. ‘Two bouts to one. The boy did well, after falling for an old trick in the first.’ He smiles sadly. ‘It was good to see a legend fight, but Iolaus is past his prime.’
That won’t stop Iolaus trying to help Zeus in other ways…
The cheering tells me that Diomedes is a popular victor, and there are young women watching that burst into inchoate shrieking whenever they see him. I’m just relieved he’s got himself out of that bout intact.
The next match-up is an interesting one: Patroclus defeats Elephenor with such ease that Eurybates is convinced the Boeotian took a fall. ‘He’s pretending he’s disappointed, but he doesn’t look too worried to me,’ Eury growls. ‘They’ll be wanting to capitalise on Patroclus’s efforts in the footrace, especially after Diomedes got through.’
‘Makes sense,’ I tell him, straightening and heading for the ring, as strangers slap my back and yell encouragement, advice or abuse. I’m not really listening. Protesilaus of Phylace is already waiting in his corner, and I’ve not really had a good look at him yet. But Menelaus has watched every bout the Phylacian has fought and he’s giving me some good advice: ‘He’s about twenty-five, fast for a big man, left handed but pretends he isn’t – he’ll move opposite to how most men would. But he’s all upper body strength. Go low, fight dirty.’
Hopefully the Phylacian’s people have limited their appraisal of me to: ‘He’s short, so it should be easy.’
We salute the royal spectators, but this time I’m all concentration, and don’t really take in the nuances of their expressions. The crowd is a wall of sound and I shut it out, though I’m aware they’re on my side this time – Phylace is a long way to the north from here – even further north than Elephenor’s and Patroclus’s kingdoms – and no one here wants their princess to marry a barbarian. I’m watching the way Protesilaus moves, over on the far side of the ring, planting both feet, hands on knees, breathing deeply. He looks calm, confident, and bloody big.
‘Begin!’ Nassius calls, and we advance, slapping away each other’s initial attempts to grapple, circling left, right, seeking a misstep. He’s wary, so am I, and those are muscular shoulders he’s got. Then he steps in, and it’s either dodge or grapple – I try to take him by surprise by hurtling into the clinch and we collide, as I drive up under him. He’s forced back a few steps, but he twists and tries to throw, I hold on and we’re both off-balance – we crash to the dirt, legs flailing for purchase, arms locking as we seek a choke hold. We’re grunting at the exertion, skin to slippery skin. I’m working on locking up his right arm while he tries to trap my legs and roll on top.
Suddenly he gains the purchase he needs – as I find my lower leg pinned, he rears up and slams down, chest to chest and almost winds me. He’s got the leverage now, gravity in his favour, then his forearm whacks the side of my neck and I’m chewing dust. I fight hard, but he’s got the weight to pin me harder, harder…
‘First bout to Protesilaus!’ Nassius snaps, and the Phylacian rolls away, his intent face triumphant. I nod acceptance – he got me fair and square – and bounce back to my feet, cursing myself. There’s time for water and to re-dust my hands, and then it’s bout two, which I must not lose.
This time I go in more cautiously, feigning uncertainty as we circle, circle… Again it’s Protesilaus who comes in – hard this time and faster than before and that’s almost enough to outdo me – but as he rams into my chest I deliberately go with him, while gripping his weaker right arm, lifting and twisting, so that instead of finding himself on top of me and the victory all but won, we crash to the earth again. This time I’m on top with the better grip, wrenching his arm brutally round and rising to pin him, chest down beneath me. I could break his arm and there’s nothing in the rules to say I shouldn’t…
…but I don’t, and the Phylacian recognises that. As Nassius calls the bout in my favour I rise and Protesilaus looks up and nods shortly, acknowledging what I did and didn’t do.
‘You’re too nice,’ Eurybates says, while handing me the water-skin. ‘Bria will skin you for showing mercy.’
‘My guiding principle is to be a better person than Bria in all things,’ I tell him.
‘Low hurdle,’ he comments wryly. ‘But aren’t you trying to be a wrecker?’
‘I’ll win anyway,’ I tell him, hoping I’m right. Otherwise Athena’s likely to be as unimpressed as Bria.
It feels like no time at all before Nassius calls us to our third and final bout. The noise ringside is deafening as we step forward and size each other up. Whatever complacency either of us had is gone, knowing one slip will ruin our hopes – his to marry Helen, mine to wreck Aias’s chances if I can. We close slowly, warily, crouched over with weight forward, moving almost in slow motion. He’s trying to ensure I have no choice but to take him on, body to body, so that his superior weight can tell, while I’m trying to provoke him to lunge too soon, a little off-balance. He feints a charge, goes left, then drives in with his right shoulder…
I place my trust in Menelaus’s assessment, and that saves me. Because this is another feint, designed to make me deploy my weight and balance to counter his right – but his feet shimmy and suddenly he’s bullocking forward, leading with the left, but I’ve gone in lower than him, dropping to one knee and driving once again up under his shoulder as we slam together, chest to chest. He kicks off from his calves and thighs, tries to rear up over me again. I resist, resist…
…and then twist at the hips and wrench him downwards while sliding my arm from his right shoulder to his throat and pull him backwards onto me. He slips into a choke hold while my shorter legs lock onto his.
Protesilaus fights with all his power, trying to wrench his legs free and pull away, but I hang on, and as his first attempt subsides, I tighten my grip, forcing his back to arch. His face is scarlet now, eyes bulging as he tries to prise my choke hold free, battering at my forearm, pumping his hips up then back into my midriff, trying to knock the air from my lungs…
…but he can’t get enough purchase to jolt loose, and it’s his energy that gives out first. He’s left clutched in my arms, writhing feebly as his face turns dark puce. In moments, he’s slapping the turf in frustrated surrender.
‘Bout three and victory to Prince Odysseus,’ Nassius calls out.
I release my opponent slowly, because some men don’t know when they’re beaten, but the Phylacian rolls over and gives me a rueful grin, gasping for air. ‘You fight well for a little man,’ he pants. ‘Too quick, too many tricks.’ He offers me a hand, and when I grip it, we haul each other up and he gives me a grudging hug. ‘Good luck, eh,’ he mumbles. ‘Especially if you fight that bear from Salamis.’
I’m led to the royal platform, still panting, where Agamemnon rubs his chin and tells me that he knew better than to bet against me this time. But Helen and her brothers are no friendlier.
‘It’s the dwarf again,’ Polydeuces snickers as I salute them.
‘We’ll be peeling him from the turf next round,’ Polydeuces adds.
I just focus on Helen. ‘Princess, when royal children take up the mantle of their parents and become rulers, they must also embrace the dignity and honour of that role. For Polydeuces, that day is still far off, but for you it’s only days away. I look forward to seeing the woman emerge from the child.’
She leans forward and beckons me close. ‘I lost my childhood the day Theseus decided I was a gift he would unwrap,’ she hisses, for my ears alone. ‘He said you were involved, and he had no reason to lie.’
Same old, same old.
‘I guided your rescue. Theseus was lying to get himself out of a hole.’
He didn’t lie at all, but that’s a truth that needs to die…
‘You were serving Athena, and you were going to give me to one of hers,’ she hisses back. ‘Maybe you even thought to have me yourself? Was that your plan?’
‘Theseus broke from Athena, and she aided your rescue – through me.’
That does nothing to allay her suspicion, but I can see she’s unable to say categorically that I’m lying. Her lovely face takes on a sour, dissatisfied caste. ‘How can I marry anyone I can’t trust?’ she asks quietly. ‘You may as well withdraw now, because you’re wasting your time.’
‘If I thought that was true, I would,’ I reply evenly.
Let her think I’m here for her, for a little longer.
I doubt she buys that, though – she’s far from foolish. With minimal grace, she gives me another victor’s bracelet: it’s larger, and a purer silver – this trip is starting to turn a profit. I rise and Tyndareus gives me a friendly smile as I depart the platform – at least I have one true ally up there. If only I could win over Helen and her brothers.
I’m anxious to go and see what can be learned from Alcmaeon, but there’s the small matter of the next round of the wrestling. Aias predictably flattens Eumelus, but the young man takes my advice and goes down swiftly, coming out with nothing worse than a grazed cheek and a bruised shoulder. I console him afterwards, and manage to share a smile with Penelope as she takes her battered friend under her wing. Behind her, Actoris gives me a half-wave. Still keen… Ah, well.
The four remaining champions – myself, Diomedes, Patroclus and Aias, stand before the kings for the semi-final draw. I’m desperate for the draw to provide me with what we need. If Diomedes can win the final then, combined with his first-equal in the footrace, he’s got a strong case for being awarded the overall honours for the games. And there’s only one way he can do that…
The draw comes up with what I want, and yet I feel sick to the core as Nassius reads out the names. I’m on first, pitted against Aias of Salamis.
Little man, big man. Everyone knows how this one ends.
The gamblers in the crowd are restless because they can’t find anyone to bet against Aias, so they start taking odds on whether I’m maimed, whether I’m conscious at the end of the bout or whether I survive at all. Aias is playing up to it, carrying skinny young girls round, one on either shoulder while pulling fierce faces.
But I’ve been thinking back to Thebes last year, and a personal duel between two champions – a hopeless mismatch, only accepted because of pricklish Argive pride. The favourite duly won, but he took a wound that made him vulnerable when he fought his next fight, and so he died.
That’s my role here today. To somehow disable Aias badly enough that Diomedes – if he wins his bout – can beat this towering lug. The question is, how can I manage it? Or am I about to have my head ripped from my shoulders?
Let’s find out…
I have Eurybates muttering in my ear as we make our way through the crowds ringing the arena – his last piece of advice is well-meant but substantially worthless: ‘Don’t die, she’s not worth it.’ Then he claps me on the shoulder as I enter the ring and the crowds cheer wildly: because Aias just entered on the other side, a shrieking want-to-be maenad on either shoulder. He kisses them both, nuzzles their cleavages then lowers them down and spanks their bottoms to propel them back into the crowd, before swaggering to the front of the royal dais.
Theseus without any brains at all…
Aias is almost seven foot tall. I’m five and a bit. He’s got a rough-cast, broken-nosed face that speaks of many, many bouts and in terms of bulk, he’s got perhaps double my body mass and it’s all muscle. I’ve never seen a bigger man. I met him two years ago in the company of Heracles, up on Mount Ida, and the demi-god didn’t make him look small. There’s no obvious weakness, not even in speed. He’s not noticeably one-sided, and his technique looks sound, if predictable.
But he’s a cocky bastard, and though he plays the buffoon, I sense pride and a quick temper. I made a point of watching his bouts this morning, and he’s no gentle giant; he enjoys dominating and humiliating others.
I join him before the platform, where Castor and Polydeuces are leaning forward avidly, while Agamemnon is offering Tyndareus double-or-nothing on the obols he lost on me earlier. I glance at Helen, but she’s too intent on Aias’s massive, oiled torso, where even the muscles have muscles, to bother with me at all.
We turn to each other, and Aias makes a show of looking over my head, then mock-starting as he looks down to find me. ‘Oh,’ he guffaws, ‘there he is.’
‘Why?’ I retort loudly, as the crowd shushes to listen. ‘Are you short-sighted as well as cross-eyed?’
The broad grin on his face dies, as he glares down at me in surprise.
‘Tell me,’ I add, ‘was your father the hippopotamus, or your mother?’
His eyes bulge and he lunges for my throat, but I dance out of reach. ‘You kopros-eating dung-beetle,’ he snarls. ‘Let’s do this with swords!’
‘Sure, let’s,’ I call back, as the crowd buzzes in disbelief. ‘You’re so slow, I’d kill you thrice before you drew.’ I sense that all the royals are now leaning forward, but I don’t take my eyes off Aias. ‘The only question would be whether I could stab deep enough through the lard to find your vitals.’
It’s not nice, it’s not accurate and it’s not even subtle – but niceness, accuracy and subtlety would be lost on him. He goes red and then purple and clenches his fists, wading towards me while Nassius roars that the fight will follow the rules – such as they are – and for Aias to be still. ‘Wait for my—’
Aias doesn’t wait: he shoves Nassius aside and charges, arms spread and face enraged – but I do the opposite to what he expects, and come toward him. As he rears up over me I slide in on my back, pretending I’ve slipped, and drive both feet upwards into his groin. They slam into his family jewels as he bellows in agonised fury, while momentum and my upwardly thrusting legs propel him headfirst over me… and his face ploughs into the dirt over the edge of the ring.
Technically, we haven’t even started, but the keryx – furious at being pushed aside – shouts, ‘First bout to Prince Odysseus!’ and the crowd gasps, and then screams, a mix of excitement and outrage.
Aias peels himself off the dirt, bloody-faced and bent over, and tries to come at me again – it takes four armed guards to restrain him, while I provocatively stroll over to my water jug and my chalk bag. Eurybates joins me, while my other men fend off angry members of the crowd who want to take up my ‘dirty, dishonourable tactics’ with me first-hand.
‘Good work,’ Eury tells me, ‘but the surprise element is gone, now. He’s going to cool down, and start thinking again. Be ready for a real fight, my prince.’
‘I will,’ I tell him, flexing my hands and thinking hard. ‘But he’s not the sort to cool down that fast. I can still goad him.’ I clap Eury’s shoulder as Nassius calls for our return.
This time the crowd is hushed as we enter, though what cheering there is, is still for Aias, while I attract all manner of low hissing. Castor and Polydeuces are glaring at me with real anger, and Tyndareus and Agamemnon look uncomfortable, not wanting to be seen to condone what most see as cheating.
Helen though, seems a little amused by it all. Well and good.
I’m right – Aias has probably been given a strong talking-to by his men, but he’s still seething. His huge fingers are twitching into a throttling position, and he’s breathing through flared nostrils like a bull in mating season. He’s actually pawing the turf with one foot.
‘How was that, fat boy?’ I ask him. ‘Think you’ll ever piss properly again?’
‘I. Am. Going. To. Kill. You,’ he snarls with slow menace.
‘I do believe your voice has gone up an octave,’ I comment loudly, and even Helen sniggers.
Aias begins to advance and Nassius – brave man – steps before him. ‘This time, no one moves before I say,’ he shouts, looking up at the not-so-gentle-any more giant with a steadfast expression. ‘You will both await my signal.’
‘Make it a clear signal,’ I advise. ‘This bloated ass I’m fighting isn’t very bright.’
‘Why you—’
‘Be still!’ Nassius barks. ‘And be silent, both of you!’
‘But I was hoping Aias could sing for us, now that he’s a castrato’ I reply, getting another laugh from the crowd. Aias splutters and the keryx glares at me.
‘Prince Odysseus, do you wish to be disqualified?’
I wink at him. ‘Not when I’m on the verge of victory.’
‘You’re on the verge of death!’ Aias shouts. ‘I’m going to smash you! I’m going to pulp your skull! I’m going to rip you limb from—’
‘Prince Aias!’ Nassius shouts. ‘I have asked for silence!’
‘…limb! I’m going to crush your—’
‘Aias, shut the fuck up,’ someone shouts from among his entourage – and all power to whoever he is, because Aias clamps his jaw shut, though he’s still seething fit to burst.
‘Thank you,’ Nassius says tersely. ‘Now, to your corners.’
I back away, and as the keryx leaves the ring, pitch my voice for Aias’s ears. ‘It’s good that your friend knows how to control you. Does he cuddle you to sleep at nights?’
Nassius gives me an evil look, but he’s clearly bluffing about disqualifying anyone. Instead he shouts, ‘Begin,’ and folds his arms, as if distancing himself from the carnage to come.
This time Aias advances slowly and crouched over – probably a good position to adopt, when you’re nursing bruised nuts – and I do the same. A few yards in I begin to crab sideways, making him turn as he advances. He lunges at me cautiously, probably aware – assuming he can count – that one more mistake and he’s lost. He keeps away from the edge though, giving me room to dart away, but all he has to do is turn and pursue, closing down the escape angles again.
It’s a slow road to victory for him; eventually I’m going to run out of room – it’s not sustainable.
‘Not so fucking chatty now, eh,’ he sneers. ‘Come here, runt. Let’s see if you can fight.’
He tries to hem me in, I evade again and as I go, I flash my hand in and tweak his left ear, making the crowd murmur and him snarl in frustration, turning and hurling himself at me, momentarily all his weight in the front foot.
I slam my heel into his leading ankle, as if it’s an accident in passing.
If he’d been an ordinary man, it would have broken, I’d likely have been disqualified and we’d both have been eliminated – but he’s a damnable freak and I just bounce off, land badly and almost get pinned. As it is I kick free, rise and spin, coming away as we both leap to our feet and then he charges me, grappling my shoulders before I can get away.
I offer token resistance, concentrating on staying up as he drives me backwards, then falling out of bounds before he can drag me to earth and do some serious damage.
‘Bout to Prince Aias!’ Nassius shouts and his stave slams into the turf beside our heads, to get our attention.
That prevents Aias from trying to break my neck, so it’s a good thing.
One-one.
Reluctantly, Aias lets me go, getting up and glaring down at me. ‘Thought so,’ he sneers. ‘You’re all tongue.’
‘Is that what you tell your boyfriend?’ I ask mildly.
‘You—’
Bang goes that stave again as Nassius calls, ‘To your corners!’
Eurybates puts his arm round my shoulder as I return to my stool. ‘Right choice to take the fall,’ he murmurs. ‘If you get caught again, do the same. Don’t risk your life: if Diomedes wants the princess so very badly, let him take the rest of this.’
It’s sound advice, though it’s not what Athena will be wanting, and that low blow to his ankle was my best shot. I mightn’t get another chance, and all I’m doing is alienating people right now. Achaeans love a winner, but we despise a dishonourable loser.
I go out there resolved to do this right, using my one possible edge: technique.
This time I pretend to repeat my earlier tactic, circling as if trying to avoid close quarters, but then I let him catch me, our shoulders lock as our arms entwine and he uses his massive weight to drive me back, but I fold and go under, buckling to one side then wrenching at his left arm as we roll over and forcing it up and back, while jamming my shin against his other arm as he tries to turn over, and for a moment I have the upper-hand.
We strain against each other, and though he’s huge, I’m no weakling. The crowd hush, because they all know the sport well enough to see that I can win from this position. I bear down, rearing over him, and any other man would have buckled…
…but this huge bastard suddenly heaves and I go flying, barely staying in the ring, while he rises, roars in triumph and slaps his thighs.
‘Come on, dwarf!’ he shouts. But he advances with considerably more respect, as I scramble up and step away from the edge of the ring, circling again.
‘Nearly,’ I tell him, and he knows.
There aren’t many rules – no punching, no headbutts, no elbows, no kicking – all the fun stuff like that is reserved for the pankration. My leg flip in the first bout was excused because I didn’t actually kick him – technically he fell onto my upraised feet. So there’s not many ways you can overcome such a mismatch. I circle, I feint and dart away. I slap away his arms, and once I even slap his already bloodied nose, making him yelp with pain, but I’m running out of space again. Sooner or later he’s going to grab me, and then it’ll be a case of survival before Nassius stops it.
He throws a move, left then right then lunge – but it’s ponderous and I go in straight and hard, and for a moment I’m under him and pushing up, driving him back as he flails for balance. The crowd rise to their feet as they see this man-mountain toppling backwards, with the edge of the ring looming behind. Again, anyone else and they’d be gone…
…but his excess bulk allows him to crash us both down and we both flail desperately on the ground, seeking a hold, any leverage at all as we thrash against each other. I take a sly knee to the small of my back that almost numbs my spine, but I overcome the pain fast, throwing one arm over the back of his head and wrapping it round into a reversed chokehold while driving with both legs to force him to crash chest first into the dirt. His back is oiled and liquid with sweat – an expanse of bronzed muscle – but he can’t throw me this time, and I realise that he’s also tiring, his stamina flagging because none of his bouts have ever lasted this long. He strains, roaring to Ares for aid.
I squeeze tighter as he fights back but he’s losing air. So he stops trying to break my hold and attempts instead to get up and drive me backwards. I can’t stop him, because he’s so fucking big, but damn I try, heaving with both legs, trying to hold back the wall of muscle, straining with all my strength as the crowd leaps to its feet again, and this time they’re marvelling because the little guy is going toe-to-toe with the big guy and holding his own…
But then my right thigh muscle – the one shredded by the boar-tusk – rips yet again. I scream, give way and convulse in blind agony, my left thigh jerking upwards in reflex – and that’s all it is – as Aias topples onto me… face first onto my left knee…
It breaks his nose, and the body that crashes down onto mine is utterly limp. But I’m seeing through a white-hot haze as I kick free and then crawl to an open space and just lie there, trying to hold back my howls of agony as I clutch my torn upper thigh and vanish into the pain.
When I regain enough vision and hearing to be aware of anything else, it’s to find uproar: Aias’s people want my head for my ‘foul, dastardly false blow’ – but Eury and my Ithacans are shielding me amidst the push and shove, while Nassius bellows for attention.
Finally the horns blast and there’s something like silence. Soldiers separate my men from Aias’s, and Eury helps me to my feet. I have to clutch his shoulder and hold on, as he helps me hobble into the space before the royal platform. Looking up through the haze of pain, I wipe my sweat-filled eyes and manage some kind of salutation to the kings.
Tyndareus and Agamemnon are looking at each other with quizzical expressions, not quite sure what to say, especially in public. A deliberate knee to the face is not permitted, but it was genuinely accidental and most knowledgeable observers would agree. Either way, Aias is still out cold and I’m not going to be fighting anyone for a long while.
It’s hard-earned, but it’s a win. I don’t think even Bria could complain.
‘Well, Prince Odysseus, it seems no one should ever bet against you,’ Agamemnon observes, with wry amusement. He’ll be pleased, I warrant, at least for Hera’s sake – Aias was very much an Ares man.
Now my vision’s cleared, I can read the crowd: they’re in turmoil – their favourite is down, the villain of the piece has the victory and perhaps through underhand means – they aren’t sure and opinions run both ways. But the small man beat the big man, and there’s nothing a games crowd likes more than an upset.
‘I learned all I know about wrestling here in Sparta, my lords,’ I tell the kings, my voice raised so everyone can hear me, and that goes down very well. The crowd suddenly remembers that the victor is one of them, so this is a home ground victory.
Naturally, Castor and Polydeuces are sick to the stomach. But Helen is sitting back with arms folded, a faint smile on her lips as if all this hurting for her sake is a wonderful amusement.
I cast off from Eury’s shoulder and somehow stagger up the steps, salute the kings again then kneel before her, wincing painfully as my poor right thigh spasms.
‘Is that abominably painful?’ she asks.
‘My princess, you have no idea,’ I tell her. ‘I fear I won’t be contesting the final.’
‘Will you ever walk again?’ she asks, with even more interest.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I tell her, managing to sound debonair. ‘Old wound, one that flares up occasionally.’
‘Good.’ She fakes a smile. ‘It would be awful for Ithaca if you had to relinquish the kingship one day, because you were crippled. Though in such a backwater, perhaps that doesn’t matter?’
What a treat it would be, to be married to such a sarcastic, caustic puddle of bile.
‘Quite the opposite,’ I tell her, suppressing my temper. ‘To be King of Ithaca, the ruler of the Cephalonian Confederacy, requires considerable wit and vitality. And I am more than sufficient for such a task.’
She dangles another silver bracelet in front of me, which I accept with what good grace I can muster, before limping away, past her stewing brothers and the bemused kings.
Eury grabs my shoulder at the foot of the steps, and takes my weight. ‘Get me to somewhere I can lie down,’ I mutter in his ear.
‘You don’t want to watch Diomedes and Patroclus fight?’
‘I don’t give a shit,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve done my part. And the best bit is, I don’t have to marry that foul-minded little kunopes up there.’
It’s still daylight when I wake up – somewhat startled as I didn’t actually know I was asleep. I’m in my room in the palace, the afternoon sun is seeping through the shutters and Eurybates is saying, ‘Lady, I don’t think he’s awake…’
‘I am,’ I call in a husky voice, cough up some phlegm to clear my throat and say more firmly, ‘Who is it?’
‘Who were you hoping for?’ a slim woman asks drily, entering my room with her head beneath a fold of her veil, then dropping it as she perches on a stool beside the bed.
It’s Penelope.
‘Lady?’ I say, startled and somewhat aghast – I’m naked beneath a flimsy and badly-spread blanket. I try to sit up, but she raises a palm.
‘No, stay there,’ she tells me firmly. ‘Your keryx says you have tissue damage to your leg?’
‘I, er…’
‘Actoris insists I tend you,’ she says, in an ironic voice. ‘Apparently she’s quite worried about your inner thigh.’
I go scarlet, which she finds highly amusing, in her quiet, reserved way.
‘I have some healing skills, as you already know from Delos,’ she says briskly. ‘Show me where it hurts.’
I struggle to pull the blanket up while keeping my private parts covered, utterly embarrassed but unable to refuse. My family equipment appropriately concealed, she probes my thigh – painfully – then applies a messy brown paste Then she closes her eyes and concentrates, her palms against my skin. A gentle heat begins to radiate, soothing and pleasant, and the throbbing pain starts to ease.
When I was awakened as a theios by Athena, the goddess applied a similar healing to the same thigh – it was swifter, but then, she’s a deity. This is slower and less efficacious, but it’s undeniably beneficial.
‘Seer and sorceress. You’re a theia of many talents,’ I say appreciatively.
‘One tries,’ she says, a smile warming her coolly composed features. ‘The paste is arnica-based, good for muscles and bruising. I would suggest complete rest.’
‘Then you’d better warn your maid,’ I say, remembering Actoris’s little wave this afternoon.
‘Don’t worry,’ Penelope replies. ‘Actoris has plenty of good sense – when she’s not mooching about, dreaming of you.’ She leans in and looks me in the eye. ‘I could use a break from hearing about your noble profile and kindly demeanour, though.’
‘I’m not encouraging her.’
‘You’re her hero,’ she says quietly. She pulls out a strip of gauzy fabric from her bag and begins to wrap it tightly around my thigh, to bind the paste to my skin.
‘I’m not such a hero,’ I reply, thinking about that last fight. ‘The only chance I had against Aias was to goad him, but I prefer not to act that way.’ For some reason, I don’t want Penelope to think ill of me.
She pauses in her tasks, and looks at me with wise eyes. ‘I’ve watched men wrestle, and as a huntress I’ve learned some of the art myself. I know what you were doing. And why.’
‘I didn’t know girls wrestled.’
‘Only those brought into the arktoi, the “little bears” of Artemis,’ she replies, smiling at the memory. ‘Sometimes we all have to fight a little dirty to win. As you clearly know.’
‘I’m having trouble picturing you wrestling,’ I remark, colouring when I realise that I’m flirting.
‘Good,’ she says tartly, though her eyes glint with mirth. ‘As a priestess of Artemis, I’ve moved beyond such things.’ She pulls my blanket over my thigh and rises. ‘Athena will be pleased with your efforts today, I suppose?’
‘Only if Diomedes does his part,’ I reply. Then I realise that I have no idea what time of the day it is, or even if it’s the same day. ‘Or has he…?’
‘He had the victory,’ she tells me. ‘Two bouts to one in a close-fought match against the Thessalian, Patroclus. He’s to be presented to Helen in private, tonight. I understand your grandmother the Pythia will chaperone them.’
Yes. I clench a fist triumphantly. Well done, Dio.
‘Does it make any difference, though?’ I wonder. ‘Tyndareus still hasn’t truly said how the groom will be selected. For all we know, Menestheus or Idomeneus… or someone worse… has bribed the king behind the scenes, and the games are meaningless.’
Penelope purses her lips. Then she leans towards me, close enough for me to smell the rosemary oil on her skin. ‘I shouldn’t tell you,’ she murmurs, ‘but Artemis’s favourite avatar is part of our entourage. She’s been fasting and preparing for the goddess to possess her imminently. My high priestess, Sophronia, met with the Pythia not long after dawn, and your grandmother is adamant the real decision will be made tomorrow. She has confirmed what you’ve already guessed – the games are meaningless, and Hera will decide who will marry Helen.’
I sit up, forgetful of my blanket. This could be crucial. ‘Tomorrow? And by Hera?’
‘If I find out more, I’ll let you know,’ Penelope says, while her eyes stray to my bared chest and abdomen. Then she seems to remember that she’s a virginal priestess, and with an awkward bob of the head, she exits the room.
I’m doing head-spins inside as her footsteps bustle away, wondering what in Erebus to make of all that.