SO WE WAITED. And we waited some more. Clearly, Chiron was having some difficulty convincing his brothers to help us, and not surprisingly. The sons of men and the sons of Centauros had never mixed well, especially in the wake of a certain marriage feast at Thessaly. The Centaurs, as everyone knows, are not among the more civilized races, and their fondness for wine was never matched by a love of moderation. So when Pirithous invited them to his wedding, he should have suspected it would end badly, which in fact it did, the whole affair culminating in a massive riot of drunkenness and savagery, with dead on both sides and a permanent rift of resentment settling between the two races.
“If they decide not to help us,” said Diomedes after a while, “what will we do?”
“I don’t know.” I took out Chiron’s map and spread it out on the table again.
“I suppose we must trust that all of this is in the hands of the gods,” he said.
“The god,” I said. “Chiron says there’s only one.”
“Well, Chiron might be wrong,” he answered. “In which case, you just ditched a thousand years of tradition in favor of one man’s opinion.”
“Technically speaking, he isn’t a man at all,” I replied. “But even so, that old bard we met in Limbo seemed to have his doubts as well. And what’s more, with the exception of Athena, I never much liked our gods anyway.”
“Shhhh!” Diomedes looked over his shoulder as though one of them might be standing there in the room with us. “If they’re listening, you’re likely to wind up pushing a rock for the rest of eternity—or worse!”
“Which is exactly why I don’t like them.”
Diomedes winced. In the long, convoluted stories of our ancestors, one point was made abundantly clear: it didn’t take much to provoke the anger of the Achaean gods. All you had to do to set them off was neglect a sacrifice or brag about your children or let someone give you an exaggerated compliment, and the next thing you knew, your parents were maimed, your children dead, and your feet submerged in boiling mud. Speaking twice the way I had could land someone in hot water—literally. But at this point, I didn’t figure I had much to lose. Besides that, I didn’t want Diomedes to win the argument.
“What makes you so quick to believe Chiron anyway?” asked Diomedes.
“Well, for one, he’s older than you.”
“So?”
“And smarter.”
“Fine.”
“And wiser.”
“Perhaps.”
“So if he’s older, smarter, and wiser than you, I can’t see that I have much reason to trust your opinions over his. And you know, there is a difference between superstition and tradition. Chiron’s odds of confusing those two are far less than yours.”
“Somehow I still find it all a little farfetched. If there’s only that one god, and he’s so just and merciful and whatnot . . . then why all this?”
“All what?”
“All this blood and filth and fire. If Chiron’s god is so good, why doesn’t he just fix everything and be done with it?”
I thought this over for a moment. “I guess he wouldn’t be particularly good if he didn’t let us make our own mistakes, and he wouldn’t be particularly just if he let evil acts go unpunished.”
Just then there was a commotion outside the tent and Chiron appeared at the entrance. “The boys would like to hear from you themselves,” he said. “Follow me.”
Chiron led us to a spot beside the river where the Centaurs had assembled in a wide circle. A dark Centaur with russet skin and a mane of jet-black hair stepped forward to speak. “Sons of Men,” he said, “Lord Chiron speaks highly of you. If not for his words, we would never have condescended to hear your request. It is only out of respect for him that we have refrained from killing you outright. Yet for all this, we would have one question answered, and from your own lips. Why, after all the centuries of hatred between your race and ours, should the sons of Centauros put themselves at your service?”
I looked around at the circle of stern faces and cleared my throat.
“Not you, Son of Laertes,” said the Centaur. “Him.” He gestured at Diomedes.
“Great Lord of the Bow,” I said, taking a step forward, “my friend is not skilled with words. If you would hear our plea—”
“We will hear your plea, Odysseus, Man of Many Faces. But not from you. We know well your name, and we know well your skill with words. Your lying tales have reached us even in the Underworld. We have no use for them.”
Chiron winced but said nothing.
“Instead,” the Centaur continued, “we would hear your petition from steady Tydeus’ son, known the world over for his courage.”
I stepped out of the circle, mortified. Diomedes stepped forward.
“Centaurs,” he said after a long, awkward silence, “I . . . I’m sorry. I . . . well . . . I just don’t see that there is any reason for you to help us.”
I groaned aloud.
“I don’t know what to say. I . . . you see . . . I am as much a liar as my friend, you see . . . so I don’t deserve your compassion either. And . . . I honestly can’t think of any reason why you’d want to help us. Me . . . you see . . . I am a man, and . . . and not such a good man either, really. In fact, I’m pretty sure I would never have helped you—at least . . . not while I was alive. Really. Right.” (It physically hurt just listening to him. I found myself forcing a broad grin and wishing more than anything that I could shrink into my armor like a turtle.) “Yet, gentlemen . . . uh . . . gentle . . . horses . . .” There were some muffled snorts. Diomedes grimaced. “Unworthy though I am, a god showed me mercy—and mercy when I least deserved it. So . . . if you would be godlike, maybe you would have mercy on me too.” He looked around the circle, his face red and sweaty, tears welling in his eyes. It was no way to end a speech.
I had to say something—anything—so long as it took the focus off Diomedes. I grit my teeth and stepped into the circle. But just as I did, a Centaur stepped forward from the other side. He had bright red hair that flowed down his back to mingle with his coat. Unlike the others, he wore no beard. He had a restless demeanor and shifted from hoof to hoof as he spoke. “Brethren,” he said, “who among us has more cause to hate the sons of men than I? They are a vicious, treacherous, arrogant race. I, Nessos, have the scars to prove it!” He thumped his chest. A long red scar ran across it. “A son of man gave me this scar, and it was that same son of man whom I poisoned with my very blood.” He looked around the circle at the rows of stern faces. “This man—this Son of Tydeus—he speaks truth. He does not deserve our compassion.” There were snorts of approval from the assembly. “But take note of that, brothers. Today I heard a man speak truth, and speak it plainly.” Silence. “I owe a debt of hatred to the race of men, and I’ve been paying it back in blood for many years.” He paused and kicked the dirt with a hoof. “I’ve had enough blood. I’ve had a river of it. Today, I pay my debt in mercy. The rest of you may do as you please, but as for me and my bow, today we serve the sons of men.”
“I have heard the words of Nessos,” said a second Centaur, stepping from beside me into the circle. “I, Pholos, have as much reason to hate the race of men as he does. But my bow too shall be at their service.”
“Aye. And mine,” said a third. “It has been too long since I was in a proper fight.” Then there was a chorus of shouts, whinnies, whoops, and neighs as the Centaurs voiced their approval.
“So it is decided!” shouted Chiron. “The neighs have it. Today, the sons of Centauros and the sons of man march together!”
There was a deafening cheer, and the Centaur beside me slapped me on the back so hard I fell on my face. “Sorry,” he said as he lifted me to my feet. “I haven’t felt this good in ages.”
Once the cheering and backslapping died down, it was decided that the best way to cross the river was to mount us each on a Centaur’s back and have the others cover us from the shore, training their bows on any Harpy that came within range. Nessos, the red-haired Centaur, volunteered to carry Diomedes. The dark Centaur, Pholos, would carry me.
“They will take you as far as the forest line,” said Chiron, “but once you enter the Wood of Suicides, you are on your own.”
“Again with the gloomy names,” I moaned. “How about we refer to it as the ‘Wood of Helpful Maidens’ from now on.”
The Centaurs regarded me in silence.
“There are maidens in the woods?” asked Nessos.
“That was humor,” explained Chiron, and there were polite nods all around.
Then there followed an enormous commotion as each Centaur galloped off to his tent and returned bearing a quiver, a bow, and a long wooden pike. Chiron alone remained unarmed, unless one counted the arrow he had long since abandoned to the tangle of his beard. Once all were assembled, he spoke again. “Brethren, you know the drill. Hold your fire until they come within range—and for your own sakes, don’t aim straight up. That’s how we lost Phrixos.”
“Don’t worry,” said Nolus over his shoulder. “We’ve gone hoof-to-claw with these old hags ten thousand times.”
“Of course, we’ve never actually beat them,” murmured Pholos.
At a brisk trot, the Centaurs escorted us up the Phlegethon until we came to a spot where the river widened into a shallow ford. Here the Centaurs stopped and formed in ranks while a detachment of younger ones made its way to the far side, its members planting spears in the sand.
As yet, I had seen no clear sign of the enemy, but the thick woods that bordered the river were now rustling with hidden activity. Dark shapes moved among the shadows.
“Quickly,” said Chiron. “When the Harpies figure out what we’re up to, our bows will not hold them off for long.” He lifted me onto Nessos’ back and gave me a clap on the shoulder. “Be well, Son of Laertes,” he said. “May the god of the four-letter name walk beside you.” We set off at a gallop into the river.
Then the trees shook, the wind stirred, and the forest released a cloud of screaming Harpies into the wine-dark sky.
All around was noise and chaos. The sky went dark and the wind whistled with beating wings. Behind me, I could hear Chiron shouting orders. Above, the relentless screaming of the hags. I hardly risked a look in either direction, however, for I’d never sat on a horse before, much less ridden one at a full gallop. I was desperately afraid I might slip from Pholos’ back and into the shallows of the boiling river. As it was, my legs were blistered toe to hip. Only when we reached the other side did I have an opportunity to take stock of the situation.
What I saw was rather hard to believe. For all the racket they were making, neither side—Harpies or Centaurs—seemed to be fighting. The Harpies circled overhead, baring their fangs and screeching; the Centaurs crouched behind their pikes, drawing bows. But neither side seemed willing to attack—the Centaurs for fear of raining arrows on their own heads, and the Harpies for fear of the massed pikes, which bristled skyward like blades of grass.
“Is this always how your battles go?” I shouted.
Pholos nodded. “Pretty much so, yes. But as for you, I recommend making a dash for those woods while we’re still able to keep these hags at a distance.”
I nodded.
“Go now, and godspeed.”
“Thank you,” I shouted back. I felt I ought to say more, but his attention had already turned to the Harpies above, so Diomedes and I set off at a sprint for the woods, nodding to the Centaurs on either side as we passed. Overhead, the enemy circled and screeched.