‘Dionysus gave such gifts to men, both a pleasure and a burden of grief. Whoever drinks to satiety, the wine drives him out of his wits, ties his feet and hands up together with impenetrable fetters, along with his tongue and his common sense…’
—Hesiod, Catalogue of Women
Penelope’s ministrations do me wonders. After a short nap, I’m ready to get up and move about – I’ve been damaged often enough to know that letting an injury stiffen can be the worst thing to do. So, eschewing Eurybates’s aid, I rise, wash my face and dress. I need to let Bria know what Penelope has told me about Hera, so I send Eurybates to her with a note, then join the throng in the megaron, to see if I can learn anything directly from Tyndareus.
But as I enter the hall, I see that the royal party hasn’t arrived yet, and a servant tells me that Helen is due to see Diomedes right now. I chat briefly with Menestheus – he’s about as much fun as a tax assessor – when a big hand falls on my shoulder.
I turn to face the chest of a giant, then look up.
Aias is glaring down at me, his nose straightened as far as such an already blunted appendage can be, but stuffed with wading. Both eyes are blackened and his lips are so swollen, they look like small sausages.
‘Prince Odysseus,’ he slurs, gripping my shoulder with fingers that could break a man’s collarbone.
Once on Ithaca, I was out walking when a feral dog came up and put his jaws round my calf, its teeth about to break my skin. I went rigid, and just stared down at him. If I’d moved, the dog would have savaged me, but I remained utterly still, fixing him with a steady eye. He let me go and trotted off.
‘Prince Aias,’ I say, with exactly the same resolute calm.
My bravado knocks Aias off stride – but only for a moment. He’s a theios and he’s used to public displays of courage. ‘You think you’re something special, don’t you?’ he snarls, planting a finger on my forehead. ‘But you’re just a jumped-up squirt with a smart mouth. A dishonourable bastard, without any honour.’
‘You know nothing about me or my honour,’ I reply levelly, while those around us watch avidly.
‘I know that you’re a filthy cheat with the foul mouth of a goat herder,’ he growls back. ‘I’m the better man, and I’ll prove that to you. That was just our first fight today, Ithacan. The second will make it even between us – and after the third fight, the loser dies.’ He shifts his thick finger down to jab at my sternum. ‘I swear this, on my honour, which is unblemished and the pillar of my existence.’
‘Pillar of my existence’, I think sarcastically. No false modesty issues here.
But this is no joking matter: he means it – two more contests, of who knows what, where or when, after which he’ll seek my death, having proved himself the better man. If I best him, he will believe it his duty before the gods to take his own life. That’s what honour means, to virtually every man in this room. And if I walk away, he’ll decry me as a coward for the rest of my life.
That would undermine every piece of counsel I give, every alliance I offer, every undertaking I propose.
‘I’ll be waiting,’ I tell him firmly. ‘You’re already one down – that’s quite a knife edge to walk. And now, if you don’t mind, I believe our host the King of Sparta wishes for my counsel.’
This may well be true – Nassius has just waved to me and is on his way through the press to speak to me.
Aias turns to the men behind him. ‘You heard that,’ he says. ‘The islander runt accepts. He’s mine.’ He thumps his chest. ‘Mark this moment. Him or me.’
That’s two men named Aias who I’ve made a lifelong enemy of in two days. I wonder who else with a name starting with ‘A’ I can offend next. I limp away, to meet the anxious looking keryx.
‘Prince Odysseus,’ he greets me, ‘You are a companion of the Prince of Tiryns? Do you know where he is? The princess is expecting him.’
I look at him quizzically. ‘I assumed he was with her already. I haven’t seen him since the wrestling this afternoon.’
He pulls a concerned face. ‘He left with Patroclus of Thessaly after their bout, but no one has seen him since.’
‘They left together?’ I’m somewhat surprised – their draw in the footrace yesterday was one thing but the Thessalian doesn’t strike me as a good loser, especially when there’s so much at stake. Then I think about Laas and how he died, and I’m suddenly afraid. ‘Is Patroclus here?’ I look around, and see that Elephenor is talking to High King Agamemnon, but his fellow northerner isn’t with them.
‘Does Elephenor know where they are?’ I ask, and Nassius shakes his head. I groan inwardly – despite Penelope’s ministrations, my leg isn’t up to dashing about just now. But I gamely volunteer my services. ‘I’ll find him for you.’
‘Thank you,’ the keryx says. ‘I’ll come with you.’
I’d really rather he didn’t, but my lads aren’t here and I may need someone to help me if we have to climb any stairs, so I reluctantly agree. I’d like to get my xiphos – no weapons are allowed in the megaron, apart from our eating knives – but there’s no time to fetch it.
We make our way out through the citadel gates into the town. Dusk is creeping over the narrow streets and I’m vividly aware of the note under my pillow and its warning. So far, I’ve stayed inside the palace at night, either in the courtyard or the megaron or my room, trusting on the palace guards and my own instincts to keep me safe from my secret assassin. This is the first time I’ve ventured into the town after the day’s end, and I’m feeling naked without a weapon. My skin is prickling with nerves.
Diomedes has told me who he’s lodging with, a nobleman I know well from my years here in Sparta, and we find our way to the house without difficulty, and without anything untoward happening. Even so, I have a premonition of some looming disaster. We hammer on the main door, which is opened by a servant, who explains that his master is out, visiting a friend and won’t be home this evening, but that Prince Diomedes is within. The man seems a little nervous, his eyes shifting to and fro.
When we ask if we can see Diomedes, he tells us to wait in the vestibule, a strangely inhospitable request – by custom, we should be taken into the main room, a smaller version of Tyndareus’s megaron, and plied with wine and simple food. When we insist on seeing Dio, the man demurs, but after a few more attempts to fob us off, he admits that Dio is taking a bath.
‘Up in his bedroom?’ I ask, glancing apprehensively at the steep stairs up to the second floor.
‘Oh no,’ the servant says, in shocked tones. ‘My master has a bathroom, properly plumbed and all.’
‘That’s all right,’ I exclaim, pushing past. ‘I’ve seen Diomedes stripped many times. He won’t mind if I barge in.’
‘He’s been there half an hour or more. Said he didn’t need me,’ the old man replies, clearly uncomfortable. ‘Didn’t want to be disturbed.’
Perhaps Dio has simply lost track of the time.
Or…
My heart is thumping against my ribs by the time we reach the bathroom, at the back of the house. The door is shut and my sense of danger is now overwhelming, all my theios awareness at screaming point. Where is Patroclus? What evil revenge might he have enacted? Dio could be lying in there with his throat cut…
I shoulder-charge the door as best I can with my gammy leg. It’s a flimsy thing and it bursts open immediately as the timbers splinter.
There are two naked bodies lying on the tiled floor. For one terrifying moment I think they’re both dead. They’re coiled around each other, top to tail, but as they jerk their heads up in alarm, it’s obvious what they’ve been doing.
Diomedes and Patroclus… Oh, shit!
I look away, while Nassius backs out of the room, squawking. Patroclus looks murderous – but not repentant. As for Diomedes, he looks like he’s waking from a dream into a nightmare.
Nassius stammers, ‘Dear Gods…’ then he grabs my shoulder and hauls me back into the passageway. The door, or what is left of it, slams behind us and I hear frantic curses and movement.
‘You know he can’t marry the princess now,’ the keryx babbles. His face is a mask of horror, and his hands are fluttering about as if to swat away what’s been going on in the bathroom.
‘It’s not a crime,’ I try to protest, but he cuts me off.
‘It’s a damnable disgrace,’ he rasps, gathering up his dignity.
That’s the nub of it – not whether either of us condones what’s been going on in the bathroom, but the insult it offers to Tyndareus and to his daughter. She’s been stood up. It almost doesn’t matter who Diomedes was making love to; the fact is, he preferred that choice over the honour of speaking with Helen.
And honour is the glue that binds Achaea together.
‘I must tell Tyndareus. I have no option,’ Nassius continues.
I seize his shoulders. ‘Please, let me deal with this. I’ll withdraw them both from contention – but I’ll do it discreetly.’
The herald stares at me suspiciously. ‘But I must—’
I place my face nose to nose with him. ‘You make this allegation, any allegation about what they’ve been doing, and Patroclus will deny it – with his xiphos.’
His eyes jerk about, his forehead suddenly beaded with sweat. ‘But you saw—’
‘So you want to pay for this with your head? Or start a general bloodbath? The suitors are ripe for any excuse to carve each other up.’ I shake him back and forth. ‘Listen to me, and listen carefully. It was very steamy in there. I believe I saw one athlete helping another scrape the bath oil off his chest. That’s what you saw, too.’
He nods. Or maybe his head’s wagging because I’m shaking him so hard. ‘Helen’s honour is at stake,’ he manages to gasp.
‘Aye. And these men’s honour is at stake as well,’ I go on, through gritted teeth. ‘And you know how warriors guard their honour.’
Honour – there’s far too much of the damned stuff crammed into this town right now…
His face is ashen. ‘Both of them, Prince Odysseus,’ he says. ‘I will be silent if you will swear that they will both be withdrawn.’ Then he pulls away, and I let him go – I can hear the two men inside dressing hurriedly, and both have weapons. Nassius’s life may be forfeit if I detain him any longer.
He’s disappeared by the time Patroclus emerges, his face flushed. His tunic is damp, his long hair tugged into some kind of order and he has his scabbard slung over his shoulder but the blade thankfully is still sheathed.
I take a painful step into his path, and he looks down at me, eyes narrowing. ‘Well?’ he says coolly.
‘I’ve persuaded the keryx not to speak to the king until I do. And the version I give will preserve your reputation.’
‘You don’t give a fuck about my reputation,’ the Thessalian sneers. ‘You’re only concerned about your friend.’ He places his hand on his xiphos hilt. ‘Perhaps it’s you I need to silence?’
I put my hand to where my own xiphos hilt should be – but of course, it’s back at the palace. Kopros!
Diomedes appears at his shoulder, his face sickly. ‘No one need be silenced,’ he says. ‘I will bear my shame.’
‘No one’s going to be shamed, if I can help it,’ I tell them. ‘And it’s not about what you’ve been…’ I’m about to say ‘doing’ which sounds crude and judgemental, and I don’t mean that. ‘…sharing,’ I conclude lamely.
If only I could be sure that Patroclus has brought the same open-heartedness to their love-making as Dio. But I’m not sure of that at all.
I can only imagine the fury Tyndareus will feel if he finds out why Diomedes has failed to keep his meeting with Helen. I’m sure the king knows that some men prefer their own kind – but if this got out it would mean public insult and humiliation to his family, with almost every important king and prince in Achaea here to witness it.
Thank the gods the servant didn’t come back to the bathroom with us… One less tongue to wag…
‘The keryx will only speak to Tyndareus if I don’t,’ I stress. Hopefully Patroclus will have enough sense to realise this means he’ll gain nothing by skewering me. ‘I’ll think of some excuse for you both.’
But what?
The two men look at each other, a silent exchange so complex I can’t begin to decipher it. Then Patroclus turns back to me. ‘It’s just pleasure,’ he says. ‘You know it makes no difference, with regard to the princess. She won’t want for tupping if I win her.’
‘Tyndareus won’t see it that way.’
‘Why not? Zeus’s balls, pretty much every man alive has tried it at some point; it’s a part of growing up.’
‘Meaning, you have grown up?’ I’m starting to lose my temper now.
‘Oh, fuck off! You and Menelaus—’
‘Are friends. Real friends, who would never risk the other’s reputation at the most crucial moment of their lives. Which is what you have just done.’
This has nothing to do with seeing two men together. Several of my own soldiers have let a close friendship go further, and it’s never overly bothered me, so long as it hasn’t undermined the cohesion of the unit as a whole. They’re all good men, and I’d trust them in a crisis – but not this snake.
‘Listen,’ I tell Patroclus, ‘it’s your own business who you lay with, but these games are for the hand of Helen of Sparta, who’s been blessed by every god on Olympus. This is no ordinary wedding contest – for the safety of Achaea she must be happily married off to a loving husband, not someone who spends his time lusting after everyone else he can get his hands on, male or female. That’s paramount, and it’s why you are both going to walk away from this contest.’
I can actually feel Patroclus calculating – can he kill me and then overtake Nassius? But then he’d have to kill the servant too… And can he trust Diomedes to be silent, given that the young Argive has just demonstrated a strong weakness for public confession?
Somehow he comes to the right conclusion. ‘Then we’re in your hands, Ithacan,’ he growls, and stalks away, without a backward glance, even at his erstwhile lover. Diomedes stares after him for a moment, waiting perhaps for some sign. When it doesn’t come, he slumps against the door post, hanging his head.
I steer him back into the bathroom, though the shattered door is unlikely to give us much privacy.
‘By all the gods, my friend,’ I say. ‘What came over you?’
He looks up, miserable as a prisoner in Tartarus. ‘I’m sorry,’ he blurts in a trembling voice.
I shake my head, still not really able to credit this. ‘That bastard has blessings from both Ares and Aphrodite,’ I tell him. ‘Did he…’ I wiggle my fingers in a vaguely ‘magical’ way.
‘No… He just… It’s always been there, inside me…’ He hangs his head miserably.
‘Bria is going to use your guts for harp strings,’ I tell him. ‘Which is nothing, compared to what our goddess will do. To get so close to victory and then let it slip through our fingers. Talking of whom, we thought you were in love with Athena!’
Diomedes sags onto the edge of the bathtub. ‘I do love Athena,’ he groans. ‘I adore her so much…’ He plucks at his tunic miserably. ‘I want to be her, not this… this thing I am…’
Oh gods, I groan inwardly. I sit beside him, go to put a consoling arm round his shoulders – and then suddenly feel profoundly awkward about that, for the first time in my life. For the next few moments, I’m floundering. ‘It’ll be all right,’ I finally say, my voice strained and unconvincing. ‘No one need know. I won’t tell Bria, or Athena.’
What exactly am I going to say to them, let alone Tyndareus, to explain Diomedes’s withdrawal?
He nods, but he seems beyond caring. ‘I’ll pack my things,’ he mumbles.
That would be a disaster in itself, but what if he decides to do something more drastic?
‘No, you’ll stay,’ I reply, and follow it with an argument he can’t disagree with. ‘This whole business is bound to turn violent at some point, and Athena will need your blade.’
He falls silent. ‘What will you say to Tyndareus?’ he asks eventually.
Finally the solution comes to me. ‘I’ll tell him your heart is already given to another, a lifelong love.’
He gives me a pained look. ‘I suppose I’ll need to marry someone now, to prove the truth of it.’
‘It would help.’ This is very far from ideal, but the alternative is worse. ‘Anyone in mind? It’ll be useful if I can give Tyndareus a name.’
‘King Adrastus has been nagging me about wedding his daughter. The youngest one.’
‘Aegialeia? But she’s your aunt!’
‘And my cousin, depending on how you look at it. Our family tree is a little complicated.’ He manages a wry smile. ‘She’s only a few years older than me…’ His voice trails off.
‘Do you like her?’
He shrugs. ‘She’s all right.’
‘I’ll tell Tyndareus you broke off a secret betrothal to come here,’ I say, ‘because you wanted the very best for yourself. But Aegialeia’s heart is shattered and yours is not much better. And you apologise profoundly for the hurt you are causing Helen. Or something along those lines. I’ll make it sound stirring and noble and honourable.’ I give his shoulder a pat. ‘Go upstairs and get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning. I’ve been tipped off that something big is about to happen, and you can bet your life Athena will want us involved.’
That at least pricks his interest – to be ready when his beloved goddess calls. I see him to the foot of the stairs, sure enough of his mood that I no longer worry that he’ll harm himself.
I hate Patroclus.
But regardless, I’m left to limp back alone along the streets of the town, staring into shadows and wishing I was armed. The assassin I’ve been warned of could be anywhere.
But I reach the palace unscathed, and when I enter the throne-hall, Nassius comes hurrying over and escorts me straight to Tyndareus’s side. The old king looks at me impatiently. ‘I’m told you found Diomedes?’ he snaps. ‘Where is he?’
I give him a regretful look. ‘Alas, Prince Diomedes, after examining his conscience, has decided that he can’t in good faith continue to court your daughter. The truth is, he has another love – a lifelong love for Princess Aegialeia, whom he left broken-hearted in Argos. He has tried to put his own feelings for her aside, but they will not leave him. So he apologises, and asks that you convey his regrets to your daughter.’
Tyndareus stares at me, astounded. ‘Another woman? Does he not know who and what my daughter is?’ He rolls his eyes at the utter stupidity of the assertion. ‘Has he lost his mind? I do believe Helen was warming to the notion of him, so taken was she with his prowess and bearing. He was champion of these games, the frontrunner for her hand!’
‘Believe me, he is fully cognisant of all this. But sometimes a man’s heart must rule his head.’
Tyndareus scowls, angry now on behalf of his family. ‘Not if they aspire to greatness. This was the opportunity of many lifetimes. I cannot believe any woman alive could matter more to a man than my daughter!’
I’m tempted to remind him that she’s not his daughter at all, and that she’s already been spurned by Agamemnon, but that would be cruel and utterly counterproductive. ‘I understand also that Patroclus has withdrawn, as he feels that the dishonour of losing the final of the wrestling discounts his claim. He’s already leaving.’
Tyndareus looks up at the ceiling, silently berating the gods in his exasperation.
‘What will you do now?’ I ask him.
He rubs his chin wearily. ‘What indeed? The gift-giving has been a disaster – it has caused more problems than it has solved – and now the games have also failed to reveal a worthy husband. I must consider and take counsel.’ He pats my shoulder. ‘Come, let us speak to Agamemnon, and determine a way forward.’
Although I’m anxious to see Bria now, and learn whether she has sobered Alcmaeon up and what tale she’s managed to prise from him, this clearly takes precedence. While Tyndareus discreetly explains to Agamemnon that there’s important news, I go to Nassius and tell him that both Diomedes and Patroclus have agreed to withdraw voluntarily, and that he should forget he knows otherwise. He’s not stupid – he nods understanding and thanks me for my wisdom and protection.
I then follow the two kings, leaving everyone in the megaron somewhat mystified, though the passing remarks I hear as I leave tell me they’re all thinking we’re going to meet with Diomedes and Helen, in readiness for the big announcement.
We regather in a private room behind the megaron – thankfully there are no stairs to negotiate – and take our seats. A servant pours us wine as Castor and Polydeuces join us, taking in my presence with sullen resignation. Then the door flies open and Helen walks in, magnificent in blue and green silk, shining gold tassels swinging from the tiers of her skirt. Her eyes narrow as she sees me, but she offers no protest.
‘What’s this about?’ she asks. ‘Where is Prince Diomedes?’
‘You tell her,’ Tyndareus growls at me.
‘Unfortunately, Diomedes has come to the realisation that his pursuit of your love is in vain, as his heart is already given to his cousin. He finds he must forgo happiness with you to honour his commitment to Aegialeia.’
Helen looks at me as if I’d just declared that pig shit was edible. ‘You’re saying he finds Aegialeia more desirable than me?’
‘I’m just as surprised,’ I remark – a little drily, perhaps. She gives me a sharp look, while her brothers make snide remarks about Diomedes ‘not having the balls’ to marry into their family.
But Helen doesn’t look too upset. ‘Then these stupid games have been an utter waste of time,’ she complains to her father. ‘Just as I said they would be. Why would I ever fall in love with someone on the basis of their ability to shoot feathered twigs at a bundle of straw, run round and round the town until we’re all dizzied at the sight of it or – worst of all – grapple with other men? I told you, over and over again, but no one listens.’
Tyndareus slumps back in his chair, his face a mix of frustration and resignation. So I’m not in any way surprised when Agamemnon is the next to speak.
‘It’s not about love,’ he growls. ‘It never has been. It’s about alliances and wealth and influence. At times, such a contest can reveal the right man, but I have always believed there to be better ways. To me, the games were always merely a means of keeping the suitors distracted while we make up our mind.’
Just as I thought, I congratulate myself ironically. You, oh noble High King, have viewed this as your process, your choice, all along. You and Hera. I’m so delighted to have crippled myself just to help your orchestrated distractions.
‘What do you have in mind, my lord?’ I ask him, politely. ‘Or who?’
I see Castor and Polydeuces burning to interject, but even those two bull-heads know not to interrupt the High King. As for Helen, she sits back with deceptive disinterest, but I can tell she’s listening avidly.
‘I believe only the gods can choose for us now,’ Agamemnon says slowly, eyes upturned as if he’s receiving a divine revelation.
Does he really think we believe he’s only just thought of this?
‘I have just been approached by High Priestess Amphithea, the Pythia,’ he goes on. ‘She asks that she be permitted to perform an oracular seeing and pronounce upon the best candidate – for Achaea. With all other options discredited, I must trust in Hera and Pytho, who have always guided my line.’
He seems to genuinely believe that Amphithea means him well. And so much for Tyndareus’s opinion. Amphithea gets to choose after all, with Manto looking over her shoulder and doubtless tweaking the result…
It all seems clear to me now: this is the position Zeus and his cabal wanted us to find ourselves in, all along. The winning candidate from the games has been sabotaged by an Ares man, and indeed, all the leading contestants are discredited, the richest kings have been sidelined, and now the gods – no, Zeus himself, with Hera as his gullible sidekick – can pronounce on their desired outcome.
I glance about the room. Castor, Polydeuces and Helen are neither surprised, nor perturbed. This is likely the outcome the two children of Zeus were promised anyway, and they’ve shared what they know with their older brother. And Tyndareus, who’s tried to stave it all off, is grey-faced, too tired to fight it any more. He’s as aware as anyone that this wedding contest has ended in disaster, with no clear favourite that everyone else can – even grudgingly – accept as the winner.
The longer this goes on, the greater the risk that it will turn violent, and on a large scale. And of course, the massive crowds of visitors are eating Sparta’s granaries bare. If circumstances force him to return the gifts as well, he may end up without two obols to rub together.
The High King turns to me. ‘Thank you for your counsel, Odysseus, but you’re no longer needed here. In fact, none of us are needed – it’s now a matter for the gods.’
Summarily dismissed, I start limping upstairs. It’s glaringly obvious to me that the Patroclus-Diomedes liaison wasn’t innocent desire – Patroclus took a fall for his side, in much the same way I took a fall for mine. The Pythia’s proposal to Agamemnon to resolve this was pre-meditated, with the knowledge that the wedding games would be a farce.
That confirms that the Pythia’s patron, Hera, is working with Zeus again, just as the Dodona oracle said. I could try to warn Agamemnon of this, but he won’t believe me. They’ve lined up a mutually-agreed candidate for Helen already, and I can guess who that is. Achaea’s fate is sealed. Unless…
It’s now dark outside, with heavy clouds obscuring the moon. I need to find Bria, so we can get our heads around this issue before it’s too late. We probably need Teliope too, and Diomedes if he has the heart for it, after all that’s befallen him. I’m going to need my xiphos if I’m heading back down into the town tonight, so I head for my room.
I reach my little room to find Actoris leaning against the wall outside, waiting for me. She breaks into a broad smile as soon as she sees me.
‘Odysseus, Lady Penelope said—’ she begins, but I raise a hand.
‘Actoris, it’s a true pleasure to see you, but I’m only here a moment. I have to go out again immediately.’ I fetch the key from my pouch.
She gives me a disappointed look. ‘My mistress asked me to give you a message.’ She brushes my hand with her fingers. ‘That assassin note – nothing’s come of it, has it? It must have been a joke, one of your funny friends. So I thought, maybe I could keep your bed warm for when you return? That’s if your leg isn’t too sore?’
After the day I’ve had, a little comfort would go a long way, but there really is no time for this, however sweetly meant. ‘I have to go and meet someone,’ I tell her. ‘Honestly. And the threat of an attack still exists.’
Actoris looks hurt, which is vexing, and as I unlock I try to find the words to let her down while remaining a friend. I push the door open, distracted by her presence… but these days I never truly relax, so I’m instantly aware of a breeze coming from a window that I left shuttered and locked…
The room is unlit, but the light of the hallway illuminates it, and I see immediately that the shutters are ajar and that someone is perched on the windowsill. Light gleams on metal as I grab Actoris and hurl us both aside just as a bowstring snaps loudly in the silent, echoing space and an arrow slams into the doorframe, the bronze tip grazing my cheekbone as it whistles past.
I react instantly, hurling myself at the shutters, smashing them wide open and throwing the assassin off his perch. He gives a startled cry as he plummets two flights onto the cobbles below. I look out hoping to see him badly hurt, but he rolls as he strikes the ground and somehow staggers to his feet. It looks like he’s broken his left arm, so he won’t be plying his bow for a while. He casts me a furious, thwarted look before stumbling away.
I go to cry out, but stop myself. I’ve got a mountain of things to do tonight, and I can’t afford to get bogged down with some pointless pursuit. At least he’s not going to be a threat for a while now.
I turn to Actoris. She’s crouched on the floor, staring mutely up at the arrow, which is still quivering in the wooden door frame. I pull it out – my name is inscribed on the shaft – before dropping to my knees beside her, my torn thigh muscle sending a savage flash of agony through my body.
‘We’re fine,’ I tell her, as she clings to me, shaking all over and trying not to cry. ‘The killer’s gone. We’re safe.’
But in my mind, I’m thanking my lucky stars – and whoever sent me that mysterious warning note when I first arrived. If I’d not been so wary, I’d be dead, and probably Actoris as well.
The glimpse I caught of my attacker has confirmed all my suspicions. His head was masked, so I could only see his eyes. But his legs were covered in slender tubes of cloth – eastern garb – and as well as his bow, he had a sword with a curved blade slung by his side. There’s a known eastern assassin’s cult that deals in weapons inscribed with their target’s name. They operate out of Troy.
So the Trojans are here already. Most of them want me dead, which isn’t so surprising. But one of them doesn’t. She wants me to live, even though she knows I will try and thwart all their plans. And she’s desperate enough to have bribed a palace servant to leave me a note, the handwriting awkward because it was written in what was to her a foreign script.
Kyshanda is still looking out for me…
I’ve forgotten Actoris’s mention of a message, but she fumbles in a pocket of her gown and pulls out a small wax tablet. ‘The town springs,’ it reads. ‘One hour, come disguised in servile garb. Bring a rope.’
‘It’s from Penelope,’ Actoris adds, unnecessarily. ‘Oh, and she’s made up some more ointment for you; she thinks this one will work better than the last.’ She hands me the vial.
I rub the ointment into my thigh muscles, ignoring Actoris’s offers of help – she’s a trier, I have to admit. Then I thrust the arrow through my belt and gather the few things I need together, along with my xiphos. My leg is already feeling much better as we exit the citadel, propping each other up like two drunks, as we head through the town – there are tipsy men with women draped over them everywhere, and we blend in well.
Once we reach the house where Bria has been sobering Alcmaeon up, I get Eurybates to take Actoris home, with Itanus and Pollo to escort them. Then I go upstairs to find Bria sitting slumped on a stool outside a bedroom. She looks up at me in annoyance when I appear.
‘Ithaca! Where have you been? I did not come here all this way to nursemaid a drunken mulas of an Argive—’
‘Save it,’ I tell her. ‘Diomedes blew it with Helen, so Tyndareus and Agamemnon have agreed to let the Pythia choose Helen’s husband, through an oracular reading – which Manto will be manipulating. We’ve already lost, unless we can disrupt it.’
Bria gapes at me. ‘Diomedes… what? Pythia… huh?’
It is so good to see her speechless. I just wish it happened more often.
I give her the heavily edited highlights of the afternoon and evening – without mentioning at all what happened between Diomedes and Patroclus. Instead I pretend that Diomedes and Helen argued, blaming it on the girl. ‘She clearly wanted this to happen all along,’ I tell Bria. ‘The wedding contests were just a ruse.’ This last part of my story has the advantage of being true. ‘And I’m supposed to meet Penelope in less than an hour, hopefully to discuss whatever the Pythia and Manto have cooked up.’
Bria takes it all in swiftly, and claps me on the shoulder. ‘So, the game moves on!’
‘Oh, and a Trojan assassin just tried to kill me,’ I throw in, just to knock her further off balance.
Her eyes widen for a fraction of a heartbeat, and then she shrugs, as though this is the most normal, natural thing in the world. ‘You’re clearly still alive.’
‘Thank you so much for your concern. The timing is significant, don’t you think: just after I left my meeting with the kings, and learned what they propose for tomorrow? The Trojans are not only here, they knew immediately what I’d be told – so they have active spies in the palace. They obviously fear how I might use that knowledge.’
‘If your enemies don’t want to kill you, you’re not screwing with their plans properly,’ Bria replies offhandedly. ‘It’s to your credit that they finally see you as a threat.’
‘Lucky, lucky me.’
‘Quite. Well, why don’t you take a turn with Vomitface Alcmaeon, while I find Teliope. Then go and meet your Artemis priestess at the Springs and see what you can get out of her.’ Bria grins evilly. ‘I’m presuming she doesn’t just want some of what her maid is after?’
‘Penelope isn’t like that,’ I retort, more hotly than intended.
‘Oh, but perhaps you wish she was?’ Bria says archly, deciding she’s found a chink in my armour. ‘Play it right and maybe you’ll nail them both. At once, even!’
‘Off you go!’ I tell her firmly. Then I pause. ‘I don’t suppose you found out if someone is really poisoning Tyndareus?’
‘Nothing conclusive,’ she admits, her face souring. ‘But that doesn’t mean it’s not happening.’ She claps me on the shoulder, then hurries away toward Teliope’s lodgings.
I’m left alone to check on our guest. Alcmaeon’s asleep on the bed, and the air is thick with the vile, syrupy stench of wine-vomit. I take the half-full bucket beside the bed downstairs and empty it on the midden, rinse it out, and bring it back.
Then I sit on the stool, taking a moment to remind myself of all I know about the snorting, snoring prick stretched out on the cot beside me. The key fact is that, like so many other men here, he hates me.
Alcmaeon led the Epigoni – the orphaned sons of the famous Seven who perished at Thebes – in a revenge attack on the city, ten years later. I helped them, because Thebes was planning to provide a beachhead for a Trojan invasion. But he and I fell out, in particular because he wanted to torture the seer, Tiresias, and rape Tiresias’s daughter, Manto. I just wanted both dead, because they’d blighted my sister’s life, tried to murder me and betray all of Achaea. In the end I had to settle for giving Tiresias a clean death, and arranging for the priestesses of Pytho to take the already pregnant Manto off Alcmaeon’s hands.
Alcmaeon has never forgiven me for that, and he’s an important, dangerous man: the heir apparent to the throne of Argos. And he’s here, drunk as a satyr, not for Helen’s sake but for Manto’s.
I nudge him awake. He comes to, rolls over and spews. I have the bucket ready, wait until he’s done, and feed him water until he’s aware enough to realise who it is that’s caring for him, and that he loathes me.
‘You,’ he growls. ‘You can fuh… ugh… bleurgh…’
Again, the bucket saves the day.
‘Good evening, Prince Alcmaeon,’ I greet him evenly. ‘Are you done yet?’
‘Aye…’ he mumbles blearily.
‘You’re welcome.’
He catches the hint of sarcasm in my voice. ‘If you think this makes amends for what you did—’
‘I never considered the possibility,’ I tell him. ‘I want to know what happened between you and Manto after I left Thebes.’
‘You can go…’ he starts. But then his eyes narrow. ‘Why should I tell you anything?’
At least he’s thinking again. ‘Because if I help you, you might help me.’
‘Help me how?’ he growls.
‘Help you get what you want. Or who you want.’
That snags his attention. ‘You know who I want,’ he rasps. ‘But you want her dead.’
‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I reply, not quite honestly. ‘Tell me what happened between you and Manto at Thebes.’
He fixes me with a cold, sweaty stare, his face working through various permutations of disgust, contempt and disdain, before settling on some kind of hopefulness, blended with outright suspicion. It’s a very odd mixture indeed.
‘When you fled,’ he begins finally, ‘I took her back to camp. I fully intended to cut her throat when I had done with her…’
His voice trails off, and I start to think that’s all he’s going to tell me.
Then he moans, as if in pain. ‘But the thing was, I couldn’t get done with her. Gods, I’ve had women, but never, ever, anyone like her. The passion, all she brought out in me… the sheer heart pounding excitement of riding that storm… You have no idea. We’re kindred souls, she and I. We were made for each other, enemies or no. We must be together. But then those interfering bitches from Pytho came for her, and they persuaded Adrastus. We fought – damn, I must’ve nigh shouted the walls of Thebes down, what was left of them – but they all turned against me…’ He buries his head in his hands. ‘They took her away.’ His voice trails off, then he mumbles, with naked honesty, ‘I’ve not been sober since.’
‘And you have a child by her?’
He gives me a haunted look. ‘Aye, a son… she birthed him in Pytho, nine months after she was taken from me. She’s called him Amphilochus…’
‘Your brother’s name,’ I remind him. ‘Why would she do that?’
Alcmaeon rolls over to face the wall. ‘You’d have to ask her,’ he says in a desolate voice. ‘Can I have a drink?’ he adds, in a deathly whisper.
‘I think not,’ I tell him.
Am I sorry for him? No. He was and is a thoroughly arrogant, dislikeable and violent man. But I pity anyone who lets Manto get her fangs into them. And right now, she’s the problem, not him.
I have a seed of an idea, and I think, looking at the drink-ravaged mess on the bed, that it will find fertile ground. But time is running short. And Alcmaeon, I realise as his breathing changes, has fallen unconscious again.
I leave the surly sot to sleep it off.
I have the chance, perhaps, for one last try at jamming a spar into the spokes of Zeus’s wagon. So I tuck my hair under a wide-brimmed hat I’ve brought with me, throw on a shapeless grey mantle over the pack that holds the rope, and pull a fold over my head. Muffled in my new disguise, I’m ready to meet Penelope at the town springs.