Trying War Page 15

  The Skyrothians were confused, panicked. Wolves were not common on the island, but now it seemed yet another was at large on the mountainside.

  Machaon responded to his brothers with a call of warning, a caution to stay away. But the unnerved hunters were not to know. To them it was a summons to a fiendish pack of manwolves.

  For a time it seemed as if the mob would flee but then they remembered the monster they had captured, recalled the fame that was within their grasp.

  “I’ll take his head,” said the largest of them as he swung his sword. “You boys kill the wolf.”

  Machaon held his own sword out before him, preparing for the attack.

  “Why should it be you?” the other Skyrothians demanded resentfully of their comrade. “Have we not, all of us, captured him? Why should only the name of Aramis be written alongside that of Theseus as a slayer of monsters?”

  “We cannot all of us slay the creature,” Aramis spat back.

  “Let the best of you try!” Machaon shouted.

  The hunters were unsettled by the challenge but none of them was willing to allow another to claim what fame lay in the execution of the monster.

  Machaon’s eyes moved quickly around the circle of men. They were shepherds and potters, not warriors. He could kill several if he needed to. He was startled by the fact that he wanted to, appalled by his own sudden desire for blood. He tried to slow his breathing—he was too angry. If he was not careful he would indeed be the monster they sought.

  Aramis was the first to act. He lowered his torch and set the dry grass at his feet alight. With shouts of approval his comrades did likewise and in moments Machaon and Lupa were trapped in a wide circle of fire.

  The Skyrothians cheered throwing fuel into the circle’s centre. “Burn monster, we offer you to the gods!”

  Machaon was seized by a primal terror, an impulse to run from the flames, to tear out Aramis’ throat as he did so.

  The Skyrothians were emboldened by the blaze which imprisoned their monster and they began to throw stones at the creature and the wolf with which it consorted.

  Both Machaon and Lupa flinched and snarled as the missiles found their mark, their eyes glowing yellow in the encroaching firelight. Machaon picked up one of the rocks and threw it back furiously.

  Aramis recoiled as the stone opened a cut on his brow. Through the flames, and the blood which now occluded his eyes, he stared at Machaon as if he were unable to turn his face away. Machaon looked straight back sensing—enjoying—the fear which gripped the man.

  “Inhuman…” Aramis choked. “He curses me with his gaze.”

  Macahon moved towards him, though the flames kept him imprisoned.

  “See…” Aramis appealed to his comrades. “It comes for me. It will seek me from Hades itself…” Aramis backed away from the inferno he had started. His comrades were silent now, stunned by the blood and sudden terror of their friend.

  The wolf howled and Theseus’ monster joined the beast. All semblance of courage left the Skyrothians, and they scrambled to flee, for it seemed to them that the flames would not hold the strange wolf-eyed man, so great was his wrath.

  Machaon stood by Lupa, his chest heaving as he struggled for breath. The moments ebbed away and fire began to consume the circle. He knelt low beside the she-wolf where the air was not so sullied by smoke. They had no choice—they would have to run through the flames.

  “Mac!”

  Machaon’s head whipped around. It was Lycon’s voice over the crackling roar of the fire. But where was he?

  “Mac, up here!”

  Machaon looked directly above him into the high canopy of the ancient elms which grew on the mountainside. It was hard to see anything for the choking updraft of smoke. But then he glimpsed his brothers.

  Cadmus tied a rope to a sturdy branch and let its end drop to Machaon. There was little time… the elm too would catch alight soon. Already the leaves on the lower part of the canopy were curling with the heat.

  Machaon unfastened his cloak and slipped it under Lupa’s belly, tying the rope’s end to the makeshift sling. Cadmus and Lycon hauled the she-wolf up. She struggled—wolves were after all not creatures of the air and she was already terrified. The fire closed in from all sides. Machaon felt the singe of embers on his back as he realised that it was too late. There would not be time to pull both of them from the flames and his brothers were now in danger of being trapped themselves as the lower branches began to smoulder.

  He tried to shout for them to go, to abandon him for their own lives, but the smoke took his voice and he could do nothing but gasp and cough. The heat was near unbearable… he kicked back the glowing faggots as the blazing ring burnt inwards.

  “Mac!”

  Cadmus’ voice was barely audible. Something fell on Machaon from above. He opened the clasp of the leather bag and found a sealed silver flask.

  “Cover yourself… fire… quickly.”

  Machaon could gather only the odd word. How was he to cover himself with a flask? He removed the stopper. The vessel contained a fragrant liquid balm. It was cool to touch and spread easily and far.

  There was no time to wonder about the origins of the potion—he smeared it on his exposed arms, biting his lip as he rubbed it over the wound torn by the boar. Immediately the skin beneath the balm cooled, protected somehow from the flames. Machaon worked quickly now, slathering his face and neck, his legs and his chest, until he was almost completely shielded from the heat. He splashed the elixir over his tunic, allowing it to soak the linen, before he replaced the stopper.

  Cadmus and Lycon had managed to pull Lupa clear and were moving through the branches to the trunk which stood outside the ring of fire.

  Machaon’s head was light, his lungs heavy.

  “Mac!”

  He focussed. The flames had reached him, fuelled by the dry leaves and twigs beneath the giant elm. He gritted his teeth and moved towards his brother’s voice. He ran because he expected to feel the bite of the fire at least a little… but there was nothing. Though he moved through a flame which now burned blue and intense, which curled the leaves of even distant trees and sucked the air from around it, Machaon was unharmed. He emerged from the inferno stunned by the power of the balm.

  Lupa reached him first, sniffing at his skin dubiously. Cadmus and Lycon greeted their brother warmly, thankfully. They had not known if the potion would work—they had feared that it would not.

  Now Machaon saw Medea watching them, well away from the site of the fire.

  “This salve was Medea’s?” he asked quietly.

  Cadmus nodded.

  “What are you both doing here?” he said, frowning. He turned to Lycon. “You’re supposed to be on the boat with Hero.”

  “I told you,” Cadmus muttered, poking Lycon. “He doesn’t listen anymore.”

  Lycon was unconcerned. “Skyros was preparing to replace their king with that idiot Theseus… I heard you howl—thought I’d better come rescue the two of you.”

  “I didn’t need rescuing,” Cadmus said. “Just Mac.”

  Lycon grinned. “Medea was trying to claw your eyes out when I came across you—certainly seemed like you needed rescuing.”

  “And Hero…?” Machaon asked.

  “She and Oenone are bringing the ship around to the other side of the island. We won’t be seen there.”

  “We must go now, you fools!” Medea called urgently, motioning them to come away. The fire was spreading fast, the elm was burning and nearby trees were also alight. Having often put out Hero’s sacrificial pyres, which invariably got away, the sons of Agelaus knew that this blaze would burn up the mountain. The safest path was to descend.

  Can it be that after the first Aphrodite was formed, Cronos cut his father’s loins a second time with the unmanning sickle, and the foam once again decided to form a goddess, a younger Aphrodite, from the sea?

  Nonnus, Dionysiaca, Book 7

  BOOK XX

  HERO STROKED THE LI
VING PROW anxiously, taking comfort in the confident strain of Pan’s mystical ship as it made its way through the rocks and reefs near Skyros’ shore. The main port in which they had been moored before Lycon left them had erupted into panic and violence. Many men had charged up the mountain to extinguish the flames while others remained, determined to find the man-wolf whose slaying would bring them fame among men.

  Oenone stood, one arm entwined about the mast, her eyes on the choppy blackness of the sea. The moon wavered in the water, an unstable reflection in the ripple of the swell.

  The shallows here were unforgiving, the rocks jagged and lurking just below the surface. The Phaeacian craft moved steadily, steering her course clear of disaster.

  Hero listened for the howls of her brothers amongst the din of horns, the chants and the screaming crowds, but there were none. She had heard the howls of all three earlier, but nothing for some time. She made the shape of the bay with her hands once again and pressed it against the prow as she tried to picture a destination she’d never seen. Her lips moved as she silently beseeched each god of the Pantheon in turn. She hesitated when she came to Ares—was he angry that she had refused him? Would the god of war kill her brothers to punish her?

  Oenone left the mast to lean over the ship’s side, her eyes straining towards the shore. In the moonlight the beaches were a silver skirt around the black body of the mountains. Lycon had been right—this part of Skyros was wild and empty of men.

  “Hero,” she called excitedly, “this is the place—I’m sure of it. I can see the spit curling back into the bay.”

  The ship too seemed to believe this was their destination, surging forward into the sheltered waters.

  “Shall we take the boat to land?” Hero asked the nymph.

  Oenone shook her head. “Let us stay near the shallows, ready for flight.”

  And so they waited. As the night grew long and cold, Oenone placed her own cloak about Hero’s shoulders and told the girl stories of her brothers when they were boys. Of Machaon, Cadmus and Lycon, she spoke with fond amusement, but of Paris she told tales yet coloured by love and pain.

  Hero wondered what could have made Paris abandon so deep and complete a love. She wished he had not. She loved him no less for his inconstancy—he was a son of Agelaus and therefore her brother. But still, she wished he had not.

  There was no warning when the Herdsmen emerged from the trees onto the beach—they were just suddenly there, running desperately for the water. Cadmus was dragging Medea with him, with scant regard for her station. He shouted at her to hasten and she shouted back, threatening to turn him into a pig.

  Arrows whistled past them and found land on the white sands as Skyrothian hunters appeared on horseback. Horns rang to herald their charge and announce the imminent capture of their quarry. Machaon was the first into the foaming water, but he stopped to push Lycon and Lupa on. The shewolf swam strongly. Machaon moved to help Cadmus with Medea.

  “I am Medea of Kolchis!” she screamed at the Herdsman. “I am a goddess, a priestess of Hecate—and you drag me across the beach like an overfull sack!”

  “A sack would move more quickly,” Cadmus replied in frustration as Machaon pulled her away. Machaon was, if anything, less gentle than his brother. And Medea was no less belligerent.

  He pushed her down beneath the waves as a volley of bronze spears met them from the shore. She clawed at him. Cadmus retrieved a spear from the water and threw it back as Machaon struggled with the Princess of Kolchis. Neither spears nor any other form of peril would soothe Medea’s wrath over the indignity of their handling.

  “You dare to lay hands upon me, you filthy, low-born savage…”

  Machaon hauled her through the waves nonetheless and she struggled like a wildcat. Her long robes had become heavy with water, tangling about her like a net. Cursing, she wrested free and removed the silver clasp at her shoulder. The robes fell away and she moved naked and light through the waist-deep water.

  For a moment Cadmus stopped, forgetting where he was as he gazed at Medea. The Skyrothians too, paused their assault as she stood in the foam, her ivory curves clad only in moonlight.

  From the shore someone shouted “Aphrodite, my Lady Aphrodite,” and those who tried to resume the attack were prevented by those who were convinced the goddess of love had risen from the waves once more. Medea laughed and slipped into the surging sea towards the boat.

  “Cad!” Machaon grinned as he clipped his brother across the head. “Come on, you idiot—we haven’t got time to fall in love.”

  They plunged, into the waves, striking out towards the Phaeacian craft which waited where the water became deep. Lycon reached the ship first and it was he who hoisted the princess onto the deck. He was still speechless when his brothers clambered aboard.

  Cadmus laughed at him. “The witch of Kolchis has turned our brother into a mute.”

  Hero was already at the prow urging the ship of Pan to make haste from the reach of Skyros and set her course towards Attica. The living prow arched in response and obediently leapt forth into the glistening waters of the Aegean.

  THEY WERE NOT LONG asea. Only twice they witnessed Eos clasp the face of the day in the warmth of her blushing palms, before Lycon sighted the long coastline of the Greek mainland from atop the mast. Now Medea stood beside Cadmus at the prow, staring towards the distant shore with greedy eyes. Cadmus watched her suspiciously. It was as if the princess wished to devour this land. Again he wondered why she had really brought them to Attica.

  Once on board Medea had forgotten her rancour, amused by the effect of her naked form. Pale and divine she had called the winds to speed their escape and only then had she re-robed.

  Cadmus thought of the swiftness with which she had seduced Lycomedes into her service. Theseus had been on Skyros for years and yet, it was only with Medea by his side that the king had acted against his old friend. Cadmus bore no love for Theseus—like Lycon, he thought the man a fool—but he wondered about the convenience of the Athenian’s sudden death.

  Machaon and Lycon stood with Hero, describing what they could see. She listened carefully, her face tense as she looked hard into Machaon’s eyes. He smiled. “Do not worry, Hero. I am myself, and the Erinyes have not found me.”

  “But they’re still looking?”

  He glanced away. “Yes. I can sense them searching, trying to catch my scent on the wind.”

  “Good thing you smell like honey then,” Lycon said, wrinkling his nose. Despite everything, Hero still insisted on protecting her brother with her own rites. Medea’s derision had been so scathing that Machaon had, in defence of his sister, allowed himself to be cleansed again with honey and wine.

  Hero was solemn. “Are they getting closer? Do you know?”

  “Yes… they’re getting closer.”

  “We might yet require the gods then.” Lycon sighed.

  Hero glared at him. “It is not for mortals to require anything of the gods!”

  “Indeed, I had always thought them unnecessary,” Lycon replied.

  Machaon put one arm around Hero and shoved Lycon with the other. “If we find the gods in Attica, I will ask them to rid me of the Erinyes… but, you know, Hero, they may decline to do so.”

  “You cannot just ask, Mac,” Hero said urgently. “You must beg the gods for their mercy, beseech them, offer them sacrifice and prayer, the dedication of temples in their honour…”

  Machaon’s brow rose. “You want me to bargain with the gods?”

  Hero regarded him as if he were simple. “It is how things are done. The gods will want to know what you can offer in return for their mercy.”

  Machaon laughed. “I have quite a nice sword,” he said, tapping the hilt which protruded from the scabbard on his back. “They could have that… it’s stolen from the Skyrothian armoury, of course, but I don’t suppose the gods will mind.”

  “The gods will not find you funny,” Hero warned, scowling. “They will not tolerate your disrespect.
”

  “Let us worry about that if we actually find them,” Machaon replied. They had only Medea’s word that the Pantheon was gathering in Attica, and they were all aware that the sorceress had her own reasons for being there.

  As the faithful Phaeacian ship came closer to land, they could see a noble city of vast monuments and obvious wealth. Its port was crowded with ships of trade, and lined with temples and statues erected to please and placate the gods. The land was rocky, the city was built upon and around a massive flat-topped hill, the legendary Cercropia, upon which stood the Athenian palace. Almost beside the Cercropian plateau was a mountain now shrouded in cloud. Machaon described the mainland to Hero. “Athens stands in the shadow of a mountain, as Troy stood in the shade of Ida.”

  They sailed the ship past the main port where merchant vessels and fishing boats jostled for space and sought landing in one of the many quiet coves not far from the city. They found a deserted beach on which to secure the ship of Pan.

  “Sleep, dear one,” Oenone crooned to the living prow as they hid her among the overhanging trees which grew down to the water. The ship, like the Herdsmen who sailed her, had a talent for escaping the notice of men. And so they left her behind the screen of trailing branches and made their way into the Attic capital.

  Medea’s eyes sparkled as she took in the city. A faint, satisfied smile played upon her lips.

  “Do you know this place, my Lady?” Hero asked timidly.

  Medea nodded. “This is Athens, over whose patronage Poseidon and Athene fought. It was once the city of that fool, Theseus. Before then, she was mine.”

  Hero remembered the joy they had all felt when they had first returned to Troy. It had been short-lived of course and now seemed long ago, but she understood the intense radiating happiness of homecoming. Her eyes welled suddenly as she thought of Ida. She had not even been allowed to set foot on the land she called home, and now they might never return. It was only a matter of time before the Amazons came for her, and they would not again let the sons of Agelaus live.