Trying War Read online

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  Happy reading,

  Alison Green

  First published in 2012 by Pantera Press Pty Limited

  www.PanteraPress.com

  Text Copyright © S.D. Gentill, 2012

  S.D. Gentill has asserted her moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.

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  ISBN: 978-0-9870685-4-5

  eBook ISBN: 9781-9-2199-711-2

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  For my friends

  Alastair Blanshard

  Leith Henry and

  Wallace Fernandes

  And my husband, Michael.

  Don’t relax now… it’s not over yet.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  BOOK I

  BOOK II

  BOOK III

  BOOK IV

  BOOK V

  BOOK VI

  BOOK VII

  BOOK VIII

  BOOK IX

  BOOK X

  BOOK XI

  BOOK XII

  BOOK XIII

  BOOK XIV

  BOOK XV

  BOOK XVI

  BOOK XVII

  BOOK XVIII

  BOOK XIX

  BOOK XX

  BOOK XXI

  BOOK XXII

  BOOK XXIII

  BOOK XXIV

  BOOK XXV

  BOOK XXVI

  BOOK XXVII

  BOOK XXVIII

  BOOK XXIX

  BOOK XXX

  BOOK XXXI

  BOOK XXXII

  BOOK XXXIII

  BOOK XXXIV

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Muse, speak to me of Pan, the beloved son of Hermes, goat–footed and two-horned, he who loves merry noise and laughter. Through wooded glades he wanders on cloven hooves, carousing with nymphs who dance on cliff edges. The mischief-making shepherd-god, uncivilised and unkempt.

  Homeric Hymn to Pan

  PROLOGUE

  GENTLY, SEDUCTIVELY, EOS SPLAYED HER rosy fingers to tease the black robe of night from the world. From the peaks, the horned god watched the dawn as he had each day since Troy had fallen. Below him, at the mountain’s base, lay the great circle of stone that had once surrounded that fabled city. Massive and impenetrable, it had withstood the siege of all the kings of Greece. Now the sun-bleached walls marked a perimeter of scorched earth and rubble, a monument of ruin and destruction.

  The citadel was gone, its fortified boundary an empty shell. The Trojans had been slaughtered or enslaved, a small number had escaped and fled. The Greeks too had gone, save a few occupying forces, but Pan, god of the Herdsmen, kept watch each day for a single ship.

  He was not by nature an interfering god, but his people had been wronged. These were difficult times. When the walls were breached and Troy lost, it had been easy for the defeated to blame those who knew the tunnels which led beneath the fortifications. There seemed no other explanation, for the Greeks had appeared silently within the city, to begin the end. The Herdsmen, the people of Pan, had always navigated the subterranean caverns to bring food into the barricaded city. They were declared traitors. Trojan vengeance had been swift and brutal.

  Pan reclined, one downy leg crossed over the other, as his ancient eyes searched the horizon for his ship. He had heard whispers that Odysseus, the accursed King of Ithaca, had finally told the world how he had breached the walls of Troy. The honour of the Herdsmen had been restored… for what it was worth.

  Cloven-hoofed Pan smiled. His Herdsmen were a humble people, beloved of a lesser god and content to be so. The three who had set sail with the girl in the wake of the war had been his particular favourites. The Trojans had considered them all wild, and uncivilised, yet it seemed these three had somehow extracted the truth from devious Odysseus, whom even Zeus and Apollo lauded as the cleverest of men. Pan wondered where they were. He loved the sons of old Agelaus, as he had their father. The girl, Hero, was a little mad, but amusing nonetheless. The horned god would be happy to pass time with them again.

  A movement on the azure waters caught Pan’s eye. It was not his boat, the Phaeacian craft which needed no rudder and cleaved the waves with the slightest breeze. It was not that mystical ship which he had lent the sons of Agelaus. Nevertheless he recognised the several red hulls that cut through the foamy waters towards the shore. He was more in
trigued than alarmed. They were the ships of the Amazons, the tribe of women from beyond the Black Sea. Children of the war-god Ares, they did not tolerate men among them. Pan shook his head. Amazons were by nature angry and aggressively pious—he’d known monsters who were more pleasant company.

  The god watched as they beached their boats. The Amazons had been allies of Troy. Their queen, flame-haired Pentheselia, had fought and died on the battlefield between the citadel and the sea. What business could her people have amongst the ruins? Perhaps they would seek out Kelios, who now led the Herdsmen. Perhaps they sought allies for some war—the Amazons were always at war with someone.

  Pan sighed. He was glad his own people were not so tiresome. The Herdsmen would never found great cities, nor conquer the world, but they suited him. He looked again for his boat.

  I shall sing of Poseidon, mover of the Earth and barren sea, god of the deep who is also lord of Helicon and Aegae. Two honours did the gods allot you, to be a tamer of horses and a saviour of ships! Hail, Poseidon, Holder of the Earth, dark-haired lord! Choose compassion and guard well those who voyage on the foaming sea!

  Homeric Hymn to Poseidon

  BOOK I

  THE FISH HIT HER FACE, a slimy, scaly slap that made her gasp. Hero fell back onto the deck screaming.

  “Quickly, grab it!” Lycon shouted, dropping the net with which he had reefed his catch from the dark waters of the sea.

  Hero tried, but the fish was slippery. She threw herself upon the thrashing creature but it writhed from her grasp, returning to the flecked waves where in moments it was gone.

  Lycon cursed. The waters here were not rich and their meal had just escaped.

  Cadmus swung down from atop the mast and looked over the side of the craft with regret.

  “Bad luck, Ly. Looks like we’ll have to make do with what’s left in the hold.”

  “It wasn’t bad luck,” Hero muttered angrily. “He flung it at me on purpose!”

  “Now why would I do that?” Lycon smiled at his indignant sister. “I’m hungry.”

  Cadmus laughed. “He’s got a point, Hero.” They had been asea for a number of days now, and there was not a great deal remaining in the ship’s hold.

  “No, he did it on purpose,” Hero insisted, convinced that the youngest of her brothers would happily starve in order to vex her.

  “Perhaps you could ask the sea-god to return it,” Lycon suggested, casting the net again in the wake of the boat. “Surely there must be some reward for all your praying.”

  Hero roared. “Your impiety caused Poseidon to turn his face away. He has withdrawn the bounty of the sea to punish you.”

  Cadmus grinned. “Surely Poseidon has more to do than steal our fish.”

  Hero’s temper was now well stoked and she responded with the fury that her brothers had always found amusing, berating them so fiercely that Machaon emerged from below the deck to investigate the din. A moment’s glance at the confrontation was enough.

  “Haven’t you two had enough of tormenting our sister?” he asked, shaking his head. “There must be something more interesting to do.”

  Cadmus grinned. “No—not really… even Poseidon has resorted to stealing fish.”

  Hero launched herself at him.

  Cadmus laughed and, scooping her small frame in his arms, held her over the side. Hero was not frightened—her brothers would never let her fall, no matter what they threatened—but the indignity of the handling did not help ease her temper. She clawed at Cadmus like a wildcat and he called her as much before dropping her unceremoniously onto the deck.

  Machaon shook his head and stepped over her as he moved to take Cadmus’ place on the mast. “Cad, go remind the boat where we’re heading. I’m beginning to think she’s forgotten.”

  Cadmus too stepped over Hero. He stood at the bow and placed his hand on the living prow which curvetted and reared under his touch like a startled steed. He smiled as he stroked the Phaeacian craft which Pan had given them to pursue Odysseus. “Steady there, my friend,” he whispered. “You have carried us across the world and back, you have helped us catch the King of Ithaca and reclaim the honour of our people. Our work is done, good ship, and now we go home. Troy, old friend—take us to Troy.”

  The boat surged forward with such force that Cadmus seized the side to keep from falling back. “Good girl,” he said.

  Hero joined him and placed her cheek against the smooth breathing wood. “I will miss you,” she said quietly. “I pray your master will be kind to you.”

  Cadmus laughed. “You mean Pan?” He put his arm companionably around his little sister. “You need not be concerned, Hero. Pan is not really a seafaring god—our ship will grow fat and lazy in some safe harbour.”

  “Ssshhh!” Hero frowned. She had become accustomed to the blasphemous manner in which her brothers spoke of their god, but it frightened her. The Pantheon was jealous and vengeful and they did not tolerate disrespect. Of course, Pan was the god of the Herdsmen and seemed as unable to behave like a god as the Herdsmen were of treating him as one. Perhaps that was why he was not allowed a seat at Olympus amongst the divine rulers of sky, sea and land. Still, Hero tried.

  “Let’s use the last of the wine to pour libations to the gods,” she pleaded. “They may reward us with sight of home. Perhaps we’re cursed, as Odysseus was, to wander the sea as penance for insult and impiety…”

  Cadmus groaned. “We need the wine—we’re not pouring it into the sea.”

  “The gods require tribute… they do not like to be forgotten.”

  “How could we forget them with you praying incessantly? The gods do not notice us, Hero… or they wouldn’t if you didn’t keep haranguing them.”

  Behind them Lycon cursed as he pulled in an empty net. “What do you think has happened to our herds?” he asked because he was hungry.

  Machaon had given up searching the endless blue horizon which merged unbroken with the fading sky. He descended to the deck, glancing briefly at Cadmus. They had spoken of this once or twice when the younger two were asleep. It was hard to know to what they would return, but it was unlikely that their once abundant herds and flocks had survived intact. What the Greek conquerors did not sacrifice to appease the gods would have wandered wild and unprotected. The Herdsmen had been condemned by Greek and Trojan alike. Who knew how many of their kinsmen still lived? When they had left to chase Odysseus, their people lay hidden in the labyrinthine caves of the mountain at the base of which had stood the legendary citadel of Troy, now reduced to a ruin of ash and blood.

  “The herds might be the least of our problems, Ly,” Machaon said finally.

  Almost immediately he regretted his words.

  Lycon’s eyes fell and darkened as his mind returned to the fall of Troy, the complete destruction of the people whom the Herdsmen had served for countless generations. “I have not forgotten, Mac.” His jaw tensed angrily. “Do you think the Trojans know yet that we did not betray them?”

  For a time Machaon did not answer. He, too, remembered well that the survivors had turned on them, flogging him as his father lay dying. But he had no wish to take Lycon back to that time… he knew images of the carnage haunted his brother’s dreams still. They had stood shoulder to shoulder in a mire of blood and fear and confusion, but Lycon was four years younger than he. This was their triumphant return—a time of joy.

  “Odysseus’ tale will by now have been retold often enough to be fact. The Trojans will have heard and all will be as it was.”

  “Without Troy?”

  “The Herdsmen are resourceful.” Machaon lent back against the mast. “The herds are probably strong again and there will be a feast to welcome us home—in fact they might have rebuilt the citadel… it’s probably bigger than it was.”

  Lycon laughed. “Gods, Mac, I hope not. I’m no longer as inclined to serve the princes of Troy.”

  Machaon smiled ruefully. “Yes, Scamandrios. We’ll need to speak with him.”

  “S
peak with him!” Hero exploded. “I’m going to cut his throat… after I’ve carved retribution into his vile, treacherous body and painted the walls of Troy in his blood. I shall offer his entrails to Nemesis and call almighty Zeus to send his eagles to pick clean the bones…”

  Machaon’s smile widened. They had all been born of Amazonian mothers, but it was through Hero that the hot, belligerent blood flowed most visibly. She had a talent for eloquent fury. It was probably a fortunate thing that her eyes were so weak, or Hero would be dangerous. As it was, their sister could not see beyond a few paces and perhaps it was that alone that constrained her anger.

  “We will deal with Scamandrios, Hero,” Machaon said evenly. He had not forgotten that it was Scamandrios who had accused them of betrayal and who had put him under the whip to torture their father. Still, Scamandrios was the only surviving son of Priam and claimed the throne of Troy. They would have to be careful.

  “So, do we have anything left to eat?” Cadmus asked, looking disdainfully at Lycon’s empty net.

  “Olives and honey, I think…”

  Cadmus grimaced. “I might just go sit on top of the mast for a while.” He sighed.

  “You can’t raise land by staring at the sea, Cad.”

  “Save me some honey… you can have the olives.” Cadmus began to shimmy up the sturdy pole.

  Machaon turned to Hero who was still muttering to her gods, demanding divine vengeance against the last prince of Troy.

  “Pray for fish,” he suggested.

  Before Hero could spit back a response, a shout from above them subsumed her wrathful piety in sudden joy.

  “Troy—I can see Troy! Gods, Mac, it’s Troy!”

  Then came forth the Amazon, the daughter of war-mongering Ares, the slayer of men.

  Aethiopis, Fragment 2

  BOOK II

  THE PHAEACIAN SHIP WAS AWASH with waves of excitement and relief and homecoming. The sons of Agelaus each climbed the mast to see for themselves the violet ranges and white beaches that appeared over the distant horizon. They described what they could see to Hero who stood at the prow and urged the craft forward. Cadmus howled, for he had always used the cry of the Herdsmen to express his joy, and on this occasion his brothers joined him, giddy with thoughts of home and kin. It was in this raucous manner that the living ship of Pan came into the shallow waters of the Trojan harbour.