Trying War Page 11

  Machaon was deeply wounded now, constantly and viciously tormented. He had become silent, almost completely unresponsive, as he faced the horror in his mind. Hero refused to leave him even for a moment, praying feverishly as she tended the injuries to his body. Lupa too stayed with Machaon, hackles stiffened, her yellow eyes focussed on some invisible enemy. Medea busied herself preparing a pottage of honey and barley to which she added all manner of herbs and extracts.

  Lycon spoke quietly to Cadmus of his distrust of the witch, into whose hands they were placing the life of their brother.

  “We have no choice, Ly,” Cadmus whispered grimly. “Mac’s exhausted… we have no idea what the Erinyes are really doing to him.” He shook his head. “I don’t think we can wait.”

  “I know.” Lycon scowled as he tried to put words to his foreboding. “But Medea is a goddess, Cad, a witch. Who knows what she has in mind for Mac.”

  “We will watch,” Cadmus said calmly, trying to assure himself as well as Lycon. “We’ll hold Medea to her oath.”

  The witch of Kolchis turned from the well-fed flames that burned in the large stone hearth, and beckoned them.

  “We will begin,” she said. “Remove the wolf and your sister, and bring Machaon to kneel before the fire.”

  Cadmus grabbed Hero’s hand and pulled her gently from Machaon. “We must let Medea begin, Hero.”

  Oenone put down the basket of sea-onion lilies she had just brought in and spoke with an uncharacteristic gentleness. “Medea can help your brother, sister of my Paris, this I know.”

  Hero nodded. She was terrified but she could see Machaon’s noble spirit disappearing from his eyes—the Erinyes were taking him no matter how much he fought to retain his sanity.

  At first, Lupa resisted being parted from her charge, but Lycon coaxed the wolf to stand away, whispering into her ear that they would not leave Machaon unprotected.

  They guided Machaon to kneel before the hearth. He stared mutely into the flames, shaking slightly, seemingly unaware of what was happening around him.

  Medea left her pottage and knelt before the stricken Herdsman. Taking an ivory-handled dagger from her belt she cut the cloth of his tunic and stripped him to the waist.

  Hero gasped as the bloody marks of Tisiphone’s whip were revealed.

  “Hold him,” Medea commanded as she scooped handfuls of sea salt from a silver bowl. She rubbed the salt into the wounds over Machaon’s chest and broad back, allowing it to mix with his blood to form a red abrasive paste. Machaon flinched and pulled away but his brothers held him still.

  Then Medea poured libations of milk and water around the edges of the room and across the hearth. She cast powders into the flame which filled the air with thin fragrant smoke.

  Under her breath, Hero called on Pan. She knew that he was not a powerful god, excluded from the Pantheon and relegated to the woodlands and the wilds. But Pan was god of the Herdsmen and he loved her brothers.

  Medea made her sacrifice to Hecate, turning away her face and cutting the throat of the suckling pig. Hero closed her eyes. As often and as earnestly as she had sacrificed to the gods, she had never offered a living creature.

  As the screams of the pig subsided, Medea raised its corpse above her head, allowing the blood to flow in scarlet rivulets down her pale arms to soak her heaving chest. She sang a haunting melody in a language the children of Agelaus did not understand. Her voice was low, like a man’s, and seemed to have its source within the earth itself.

  Hero stood frozen by Oenone. The nymph watched the Princess of Kolchis like a hawk at hunt. Somehow it comforted Hero. She and her brothers had put their trust in Medea out of desperation, but Oenone knew about healing and magic—perhaps she could view this clearly.

  Machaon, for his part, did not fight. Hero could see the weariness in his body as he knelt passively before storm-eyed Medea and her bloody sacrifice.

  Still singing, the witch burned wineless cakes and lilies in the hearth, smearing the hot ashes on Machaon’s chest as she called on Hecate to aid her.

  Suddenly Machaon’s shoulders stiffened beneath the strong hands of his brothers, and he raised his head to face Medea. His dark eyes locked with hers.

  Medea poured her pottage into a wooden chalice and added a ruby elixir.

  Lupa began to growl. Lycon and Cadmus, too, seemed uncertain.

  Holding the cup to Machaon’s lips, Medea poured the pottage into his throat. He gagged but she did not stop. And with her free hand she extracted a silver wand from within her robes.

  It was this glimpse of the wand which galvanised their doubts to cause a simultaneous panic. This was no purification rite, it was a spell. Lupa snarled, crouching to spring.

  Medea raised the wand high.

  “No!” Oenone cried, lunging forward.

  The wand came down and light burst from its tip.

  Cadmus and Lycon pulled Machaon back, and Lupa leapt at Medea.

  “Mac!” Cadmus rolled off his brother as the sons of Agelaus sprawled on the tiled floor. They had stopped the wand touching Machaon but they had all been caught by the light.

  “You fools!” Medea screeched. “It was unfinished.”

  Lycon was on his knees.

  Hero bent over Machaon. “Mac…” He turned to look at her and she recoiled, a strangled scream caught in her throat.

  “Hero…” he started, bewildered by her response.

  Cadmus and Lycon stared at him also, shocked and unsure. The dark laughing gaze they’d always known as Machaon’s was gone. Their brother looked at them with the eyes of a wild beast—yellow fierce—the eyes of a wolf.

  Cadmus turned furiously on Medea. “What have you done to him, witch?”

  Medea’s grey eyes glinted dangerously. “I was trying to hide him from the Erinyes, as I promised.”

  “How?” Lycon demanded. “How did you intend to hide him?”

  “By turning him into a beast,” Oenone said, realising now what the witch had planned. “You were transforming him into a wolf.”

  “As a wolf he would be unrecognisable, he would be hidden.”

  “To what point, if he is a wolf?” Lycon said, horrified.

  Lupa growled.

  Lycon glanced apologetically at her, before he said again, “You didn’t ask Mac if he wanted to spend his life as a beast.”

  “I said I would hide him, and if you had let me finish he would be hidden—safe from the Erinyes until I returned him to a man.” Medea looked curiously at Machaon’s changed gaze. “This is the result of an unfinished spell,” she said coldly. “I cannot reverse this.”

  “What have you done to him?” Hero asked, still keeping her distance from Machaon.

  “They’re gone,” Machaon said suddenly. “The Erinyes are gone.”

  Medea smiled. “Well perhaps you are more wolf than you look. Perhaps they no longer recognise you.”

  “Undo it,” Hero said hotly. “Whatever you’ve done, make him a man again.”

  “Would you return your brother to the Erinyes, Amazonian child?”

  “Hero, it’s all right,” Machaon said, grimacing as he looked at the salt paste which caked his chest. “I’m fine.”

  “Mac… your eyes.” Lycon offered him a hand and helped him stand. “They’ve changed…” Lycon’s voice trailed off as he stared at his brother’s face.

  As he watched, Machaon’s eyes darkened, the black at the rim of his iris merging into the colour until all that remained of the yellow was a tiny fleck of gold in the dark pools.

  Medea pushed Lycon away to look more closely herself. She caught Machaon’s face in her hands and pulled it down towards her. “Do you see them?” she asked. “The Erinyes?”

  “No.”

  Medea shrugged. “Interesting.”

  “Interesting?” Cadmus exploded. He pulled the Princess of Kolchis away from his brother. “What evil thing have you wrought? What’s happening to him?”

  “You dare to touch me,” Medea hissed, pull
ing the dagger from her belt in rage. She struck out like a snake, slicing at Cadmus’ throat.

  Machaon moved quickly and caught the princess’ wrist in midair, tightening his hold until she gasped and dropped the blade. He put his other hand around her slender neck. His eyes glowed yellow again, and they were merciless.

  “Mac?” Cadmus began carefully.

  Medea whimpered. Machaon did not tighten the grip of either hand, but he did not release it either.

  “Mac, let her go.” Cadmus could barely recognise the man who stood before him. It was not just the yellow eyes—Machaon’s face was savage, murderous in its rage.

  Hero gathered her courage. She placed her small hand on her brother’s arm. “Mac—stop.” She pried open his fingers. The moments passed, taut with both terror and confusion. Finally, Machaon released Medea and his eyes darkened again. He stepped back, surprised, ashamed.

  Calm again, Medea studied him as she stroked her bruised neck. She was clearly astounded by the effects of her thwarted spell, though she did not seem displeased. “You are beast enough to hide from the Erinyes,” she said thoughtfully. “Though not forever. Even if you stood on four legs and ate carrion from the ground, they would recognise you eventually. But now you have time to seek sanctuary with the gods. And I should have your gratitude.”

  Machaon glanced at his brothers. The sons of Agelaus were wary, and a little less than grateful. It was Hero who replied.

  She knelt and kissed the hem of Medea’s gown. “We thank you, my Lady. Forgive us… we did not understand. You have helped my brother and we are in your debt.”

  Machaon sighed. He bowed his head. “I am sorry if I hurt you.”

  The witch of Kolchis smiled serenely. In the firelight, dripping with the blood of her pig sacrifice, she could take a man’s breath with both lust and horror. “I must bathe before our host returns,” she said. “I shall tell Deideimara that we are done, and that you are well.”

  Theseus forgot to spread white sails upon his ship when he approached the port; and Aegeus, seeing from the acropolis the ship with a black sail, supposed that Theseus had perished; so he cast himself down and died.

  So Theseus succeeded as King of Athens, and slew the fifty sons of Pallas; likewise he killed all who might oppose him, and the whole state came under his control.

  Apollodorus, The Library

  BOOK XV

  MACHAON STIRRED. HE HAD NOT been asleep for long but, for the first time in days, restful Hypnos had been kind and his mind had been his own.

  “Mac?” Lycon nudged him. “How are you feeling?”

  Machaon sat up in the sturdy wooden bed which Deideimara had made with snowy linens and soft fleece blankets. He rubbed a hand in his dark hair and smiled at the concerned faces of his brothers. “I’m well.”

  The women of Lycomedes’ house had bathed and attired them all in the rich fashion of the land. Machaon had slept while the feast was being prepared and his brothers and Hero had talked of the change in him.

  Hero was adamant that it was a small price to hide Machaon from the Erinyes. Cadmus and Lycon agreed, but not wholeheartedly.

  When he awoke, they spoke to Machaon of the change in his eyes, of Medea’s attempt to turn him into a wolf. He frowned as he remembered the consuming power of the rage which had possessed him, disturbed by the manner in which he had attacked the princess of Kolchis, whatever her crime.

  “We should return her to her father,” Cadmus said angrily.

  Machaon shook his head. “She kept her oath, Cad. I can sense the Erinyes searching for me, even now, but for the moment I am hidden.”

  “She tried to turn you into a wolf, Mac.”

  Machaon poked his brother. “Circe turned you and Ly into wolves for a time. It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  “It was itchy,” Lycon said absently.

  “Really?”

  “Gods, yes. Nearly drove me mad… I think it’s the fur….”

  “Oh.” Machaon scratched Lupa’s ears. “Still, it would only have been for a while.”

  Lycon shook his head. “The gods are always turning people into things and forgetting to turn them back. The world is full of rocks and rivers and beasts that were once perfectly happy people.”

  Hero scowled. “Are our troubles not great enough without blaspheming against the gods?”

  Cadmus laughed. “Have you not learned by now, Hero? The Pantheon pays us no heed—even when you were Queen of the Amazons, Ares did not appear.”

  “Indeed,” Lycon said gravely. “Perhaps they have abandoned us altogether.” His eyes glinted. “Might make life easier.”

  Hero barely stopped to gasp, so great was her horror. “Have you lost the little sense you were born with?” she demanded. “Are you trying to bring the wrath of the immortals upon us all?” She raised her hands in supplication. “Forgive him, Zeus, maker of men, for his mind has always been poor…”

  “Where is Oenone?” Machaon asked, interrupting her slanderous prayer and deftly changing the subject.

  “With Medea,” Cadmus said tersely. “The princess seems to have become fond of Oenone.”

  “Just what we need,” Lycon muttered. “Oenone was dangerous enough on her own.”

  WHEN LYCOMEDES OF SKYROS returned to his court after compensating the injured and aggrieved for the rampage of the bull, he found that his daughter had welcomed his new guests as he had asked.

  The comely sons of Agelaus looked more like young princes than the bedraggled travellers he had first met on the road. Even the one who had been wounded looked well and healed. If they were a little older one may well have caught his daughter’s eye as had the Greek Achilles many years before. As it was, they were not so different in age to Deideimara’s own son, the great Neoptolemus, who had risen to glory in the last days of Troy.

  Lycomedes sighed. His grandson had not yet returned. The spoils of war had been too great. As the son of Achilles and a great warrior in his own right, Neoptolemus had been awarded the best of Troy’s riches. The war was over but the victory party still raged.

  Not that the king begrudged his grandson this glory. But Lycomedes was old and Skyros was a bountiful and coveted kingdom. If Neoptolemus did not return soon there would be other men to lay claim to his throne. The aging monarch exhaled angrily. Theseus had made himself very comfortable in Skyros.

  THE FEASTING HALL WAS full. It was apparently customary in Skyros for the king to dine each night with at least three score of his lords. The errant bull had been sacrificed to Poseidon and the smell of roasting meat hung thick in the air. In a show of generosity and extravagance Lycomedes had also consigned two black rams, a boar and a shambling ox to the table.

  Hero stayed close to her brothers as they wove through the crowd to their places at the king’s table. There, they were given silver thrones upon which to sit, and golden cups filled with ruddy wine. Deideimara had relinquished her own throne by her father’s side to the Princess of Kolchis.

  “Gods,” Cadmus murmured as he took in Medea’s form, the perfect rise and fall of her body, beneath the gossamer cloth of her gown.

  “She’s a witch, Cad,” Lycon warned, noting the open admiration in his brother’s gaze.

  “So?”

  “Oenone said she dismembered her own brother.”

  “Brothers can be annoying.”

  Lycon laughed. “You’re an idiot.”

  Oenone too had been adorned in finery and gold. She took her place beside Medea.

  At Lycomedes’ right hand, taking the space of two men with his girth, was Theseus, the dispossessed king of Athens. He looked intently at Medea for a time, and pointed at her suspiciously as if her face were known to him, and then he was distracted by a platter of honeyed cakes.

  The feast began with a long drink to Zeus the Thunderer, and his holy brother, Poseidon, god of the sable locks. Then Lycomedes gave thanks for the men who had calmed the beast on which they now feasted. “We are fortunate indeed that you chose to break your
journey on our fair isle, for who knows what mayhem that creature had yet to wreak.”

  Theseus grunted, clearly displeased.

  “Indeed,” Lycomedes continued with an irritated glance at Theseus, “I should like nothing better than to have one of you remain as my son-in-law, with the others staying as honoured guests.”

  The sons of Agelaus were only mildly startled. The kings of Greece seemed to offer their daughters lightly. From what they had come to understand, it was a courtesy of sorts that was expected to be politely refused.

  “We thank you, my Lord,” Machaon replied. “You do us more honour than we deserve.”

  “Not at all,” Lycomedes said firmly. “Here on Skyros we judge a man by his acts, and I can see by your carriage that you are noble-born.”

  “We are simple herders, my Lord, unworthy of a princess.”

  “That is so,” Medea interjected as she looked intensely at Lycomedes. “These men are landless shepherds, undeserving of your royal daughter.”

  “And you, my Lady?” Lycomedes asked. “Surely you are gentle-born?”

  “In my own land, I am a princess,” Medea replied.

  The King of Skyros smiled, sinking slowly into the cloudy eyes of his mysterious guest.

  “What do you think she’s doing?” Lycon whispered to Machaon, as they watched Medea gently ensnare the old monarch.

  “I think it’s fairly plain, Ly,” Machaon replied, smiling. Lycomedes was being expertly seduced as they watched. Machaon shrugged. “It may be easier if Medea chooses to stay here.”

  “Can we find the gods without her?” Cadmus asked.

  “I’m willing to try,” Lycon muttered.

  Theseus also seemed enamoured, but it was with the bounty of Lycomedes’ table. He ate noisily, appreciatively, and for a good while this caused him to be uncommunicative about anything but his enthusiasm for the fare. Eventually he was sufficiently satiated to converse. After trying in vain to engage Oenone, he decided that the sons of Agelaus would be a more receptive audience.

  He spoke to them of the great bull of Marathon, whom he had subdued in his youth and dragged back to Athens. He told them how he had slain the Minotaur of Crete and stopped the human sacrifice which sustained the creature in its Labyrinth.