Trying War Page 5

  Machaon stepped back. He had retrieved Pentheselia’s ravaged body from the Scamander River into which it had been flung by the Greeks. He had cleaned his mother’s corpse and buried her himself… deep in the hidden woods of Ida.

  Cadmus’ hand was on his shoulder.

  “She’s lying, Mac,” Lycon said coldly.

  Oenone did not apologise, she did not waver. “Four years ago, I watched you bury Pentheselia. Before we set out, I returned and took her bones and her armour from the ground.”

  Machaon was choked with horror and rage. “You desecrated her grave… why?”

  “You have nothing else to offer the Amazons—they will rebury her with the honours due a queen.”

  Machaon advanced on the nymph. “Had she not suffered enough at the hands of the Greeks?”

  “Pentheselia died years ago, Machaon.” Oenone did not flinch. “If her shade is summoned from Hades by what I have done, then it shall be summoned in aid of her daughter.” She kept her voice down but she spoke firmly. “Choose, Machaon. Your mother’s bones or your sister.”

  Cadmus glared at Oenone. “Kill her if you want, Mac. Ly and I won’t stop you.”

  Oenone did not retreat. She had known Herdsmen long enough. The idea of Machaon killing her was as ludicrous as the idea of his brothers standing by and allowing him to do so, regardless of what she had done.

  The chanting grew louder. Machaon looked down as Lupa nuzzled his hand. They were nearing the end of the canal. Through the mist, shadowy lines of men moved with the boat. The mysterious warriors of Kolchis were now a visible presence.

  Machaon stared at the casket, almost unbelieving. Horns sounded—they were close now. He turned to his brothers. “Bring it,” he said.

  Oenone smiled.

  Machaon did not, could not, look at her. But, however callous her actions, the nymph was right—returning Pentheselia to her country would buy them passage through Kolchis and perhaps even into the Amazonian village. Cadmus and Lycon each took one of the silver handles at either end of the ebony box.

  The ship entered the vast tunnel to which the waters of the canal led. Within, it was completely dark, so black that they could not make out water or stone or whatever else surrounded them. And then tiny points of light lit the way. As they proceeded the clusters of light became more dense and frequent. In different circumstances they might have thought it beautiful. The chanting grew louder, harsher—the mantra of warriors rather than priests, in a tongue they did not understand.

  They emerged from the tunnel into the heart of a vast hall. Once their eyes had adjusted to the sudden brightness, they beheld crystalline columns that stood like ancient limbless trees, so tall that it was hard to see the point at which they met the ceiling. A gate fell down behind them and another across the waterway before them. The Phaeacian ship was effectively caged. At first it seemed the hall was empty and then lines of black-robed warriors wove into the space like a network of dark veins. Their heads were cowled and so they remained faceless as they flooded the crystal hall with black.

  Machaon put his hand on the quivering prow. The ship had stopped, propelled by neither current nor breath of wind.

  “I’ll go first,” he whispered to his brothers. He climbed onto the side of the ship and jumped clear of the water onto the marble floor of the hall.

  The cowled men did not move. Machaon hesitated, unsure of what to do next, or who to address. He became aware of a creeping mist rising from the canal.

  “Declare your intention.”

  Machaon was uncertain as to who had spoken. He answered nonetheless.

  “I am Machaon, son of Agelaus. We seek asylum from the Greeks, safe passage to the lands of the Amazons.”

  “You trespass. What land do you call your own?” Again it was impossible to discern who spoke.

  “Troy… we called Troy home once…” Machaon hesitated. “When it still stood.” He glanced back at his brothers. “Today we are landless.”

  The black-robed men shifted, forming two lines to mark a path to the dark opening of another tunnel. They did not raise their faces, they did not speak. Cadmus and Lycon climbed out of the ship with the casket between them. Oenone too jumped lithely to solid ground with Lupa in her shadow. The wolf’s hackles were up and her wise eyes were wary.

  “Go!” Oenone whispered. “We are to go into the tunnel.”

  “Doesn’t look like we have much of an option,” Cadmus muttered.

  Machaon eyes stopped briefly on the box which held his mother’s remains. Their options seemed fewer by the moment.

  And so they walked the path to the mouth of the tunnel and into the darkness. The floor of the tunnel was smooth, as were its walls, hewn to a glassy surface. A draught of warm air was channelled towards them and in the distance the light was brilliant, and yet, where they stood they could see little. Somehow the strange light did not cast but appeared confined to whatever was at the end of the tunnel.

  Machaon hoped he hadn’t asked his brothers to follow him to Hades. They continued in blackness until, suddenly, sharply, they emerged into pure light. For a moment they stood dazzled. Lupa growled softly.

  This hall was perfectly square at its floor. The ceiling was made up of four triangular faces, which converged at a single shadowy point high above them. The pitched faces were painted with ordered rows and columns of motifs, some simple, others intricate and detailed. The Herdsmen stared mutely at a pride of lions reclined in companionable groups on the floor which was mosaicked with symbols of Helios, the sun god. The creatures gazed at them with thoughtful, knowing eyes but otherwise made no move.

  A square in the centre of the hall was raised upon the backs of wingless stone sphinxes, and upon this dais stood a breathtaking throne of silver so finely wrought it seemed to be fluid. It was guarded by bare-chested men in hound-faced masks. Two great eagles perched on the backs of life-size bronze bulls which flanked the throne. The effigies seemed to breathe, snorting smoke and flame from sculpted nostrils. In the throne lay a small wizened figure. Gnarled fingers held bead-tasselled sceptres in each hand.

  Oenone dropped to her knees and the Herdsmen followed suit.

  “What seek you?” the figure wheezed.

  “The tolerance of Aietes,” Machaon replied.

  “And what is it you wish me to tolerate, boy?” One eagle descended to the arm of the throne, studying the monarch as if he were prey.

  “Our presence in your kingdom as we travel to the village of the Amazons.”

  Aietes laughed, an action that involved a great deal of gasping and coughing, exacerbated by the smoking bulls, and which left the aged King of Kolchis exhausted.

  The Herdsmen kept their eyes lowered, waiting, hoping he would not asphyxiate.

  “Who are you, foolish boy, who wishes to die so horribly?” Aietes finally croaked.

  Machaon glanced fleetingly at his brothers, and then Oenone. “We are Herdsmen, allies of Troy, refugees from the Greek destruction of the citadel and our people.”

  Aietes pointed at him with a shaking sceptre. “Kolchis is no friend of the Greeks but we have no quarrel with the Amazons,” he rasped. “Men are forbidden in their village.”

  “They will welcome us, I think,” Machaon lied.

  Again Aietes laughed. “Arrogance! You are comely enough… but the Amazons have slaughtered thousands of comely men. If I allow you egress to the Amazonian village it will be as a blood sacrifice.”

  Machaon looked back at the casket his brothers carried between them, but the words would not come. Cadmus caught his eye and spoke instead.

  “We bring the remains of Pentheselia, Queen of the Amazons, back to her people.”

  Royal Aietes glared silently at them. “Pentheselia was cast into the Scamander by the Greeks.”

  “I took her body from the water and buried her with what rites I knew,” Machaon said slowly.

  “And why now do you desecrate her grave?” Aietes demanded.

  Machaon blinked, visibly
disturbed by his words.

  Oenone intervened. “My brother is not a priest. Pentheselia was a queen. She will not rest in Hades until she has been given her due in death.”

  The sorcerer-king looked meditatively at them all. “So it is her shade who torments you to undertake such a foolhardy quest.”

  “The dead are insistent, my lord,” Oenone replied. “We have risked much to keep her bones from the hands of the Greeks.”

  Aietes’ glassy eyes narrowed. “We would not leave our friends in the clutches of the miserable Greeks,” he said nodding.

  “Then you will grant us asylum in your kingdom, my lord?” Oenone pressed.

  Shifting his ancient body gingerly, Aietes signalled to his masked attendants. “You will remain here until such time as I decide.”

  “Then we are prisoners?” Cadmus asked, unsure. Aietes was hard to read.

  The king’s smile was thin. “Guests. Unless I decide to kill you. Then you will be prisoners… for a short time at least.”

  Clasping their knees with both hands, she begged them, “Let us flee upon this ship, before the king pursues us in his chariot. I shall bewitch for you the guardian serpent and, as he sleeps, I will give you the fleece of gold.”

  Apollonius of Rhodes, Argonautica, Book 4

  BOOK VII

  LYCON SAT TENSELY ON A canopied bed in the room in which they’d been confined whilst royal Aietes decided their fate. Cadmus reclined casually on the opulent feather pillows and finely woven sheets; they both watched Machaon.

  The casket containing the unearthed remains of Pentheselia had been placed on a wooden table. Machaon stood by it, staring quietly as if the box had him mesmerised.

  Softly, but with feeling, Cadmus cursed Oenone. Lycon nodded. They were not accustomed to Machaon being so unnerved. He had always been the first of them, they had always thought his heart the strongest.

  Lycon recalled the night, years before, when Machaon had returned from the lower slopes, after being gone so long that the Herdsmen had begun to search for him. Some feared that Machaon had been caught up in battle, that the hot blood of youth had caused him to forget that the Herdsmen were defenders… after all, his mother had been an Amazon. There had been whispers, too, that Pentheselia had led her warriors into battle that day—there were murmurs of her fate.

  And then Machaon was back, but pale and silent. For a long time he had not spoken. Agelaus had not pressed him to do so.

  It was Hero who’d finally demanded words. Just twelve, she had been too young to understand the grief in his silence. Machaon had told her then that their mother was dead; that he had buried her himself to save her body for Hades. Hero had raged at him for doing so on his own—what did he know of funerary rites? Once again Machaon had retreated into silence and it was not till days later that he confided in his brothers the state in which he had found his mother’s body. Hero had remained angry for months but, as far as Lycon knew, Machaon had never told her why he’d buried Pentheselia alone.

  “Mac…” Lycon started gently, anxiously.

  Machaon looked up. He seemed puzzled. “Can you two hear something?”

  “Like what?”

  “I thought I heard whispering.”

  Cadmus sat up. “Can you hear it now?”

  Machaon shook his head. “No… not anymore…” He frowned. “It’s probably nothing.”

  Lupa growled and pushed against him.

  He stroked her absently.

  “Are you all right, Mac?” Lycon asked.

  Machaon smiled. “Yes, I’m fine. Just getting used to the idea of ransoming my mother’s bones.”

  “We don’t have to.” Cadmus lay back again, but his voice was earnest. “Hero would not fault you for refusing to desecrate your mother’s grave.”

  Machaon sighed and rubbed his face. “The desecration has already been done… it may be the only way to get Hero back.”

  “The Amazons were Pentheselia’s people,” said Lycon. “Perhaps this is right.”

  “Perhaps.” Machaon was unconvinced, but he could hear the concern in his brother’s words. He shook off his brooding. “I wonder what they’ve done with Oenone?” The nymph had been summoned to the chambers of Medea, Aietes’ daughter. She had told the sons of Agelaus that it was a good sign—the favour of Medea might sway her father. The Herdsmen were unsure but they had little choice but to accede. None of them would survive without the friendship of the royal family of Kolchis.

  They had not been treated badly—the room in which they were imprisoned was luxurious, and they had been offered all manner of tender morsel and wine. They had been bathed by servants and attired in fine garments that were more suited to the bitter cold of this land—cloaks made of the finest fleece, and boots and leggings of soft leather. Regardless, Aietes had reserved the right to kill them, and they were wary of his whim.

  The bronze doors burst in as if under the force of some blast of wind. Lycon stood and Cadmus bolted upright. Machaon placed himself before the casket and Lupa’s hackles rose. A cowled figure in dark robes stood at the entrance. His head remained bent.

  “You are summoned.”

  “By whom?” Machaon asked carefully.

  “My Lady Medea.”

  The sons of Agelaus exchanged a guarded glance. There was a theatrical artifice to the palace of Kolchis, a polite, regimented façade which would tolerate no dissent.

  Cadmus and Lycon took the casket between them. They could not leave Pentheselia unprotected in this place.

  The Herdsmen and the she-wolf were led through the high halls of the Kolchian palace into the dark places where it seemed the princess Medea dwelled. The warmth and light dimmed progressively as they approached her chambers. The walls here too were painted with pictographs, but the colours were subdued and gloomy. The floor was mosaicked with shadows, which, in the flickering blue light of torches, seemed to move.

  Medea stood alone by a font of solid amber, gazing into a silver basin.

  Cadmus inhaled sharply.

  Medea’s beauty was dark—undeniable but troubling somehow. Her hair was black and coiled about her head like an ebony crown, stark against the pallor of her skin. She wore a gown of the sheerest linen, and her eyes, when she raised them, were the colour of a stormy sky.

  Blood red lips curved into the barest of smiles. A single brow arched. “You are still standing,” she said coldly.

  Machaon and Lycon knelt, and pulled Cadmus down beside them.

  “My Lady,” Machaon said tentatively, hoping that they had not already caused offence.

  Medea smiled and looked back to her basin. “That’s better. It is well you should remember your place.” Her turbulent eyes lingered upon the casket which sat between Lycon and Cadmus. “You have brought Pentheselia home.”

  “Not quite yet,” Machaon said cautiously. Medea’s eyes were greedy.

  “I knew Pentheselia.” She left the basin and stepped towards the casket. She bent and reached for the latch.

  “What are you doing?” Lycon demanded, placing his hand over the latch.

  Medea glared down at him. “So far I have seen a box with only your word of what it contains. Perhaps Troy would still stand if someone had thought to look inside.”

  Lycon moved his hand away slowly. The Princess of Kolchis had a point.

  Medea unfastened the latch. “You may rise,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. Cadmus stood quickly to pull Machaon back and away. “Don’t look, Mac.”

  Medea regarded them sharply. In her hand she cradled a skull to which a few long threads of sunset hair still clung. “What is Pentheselia to you?” she asked smoothing the remnant strands against the bleached bone.

  Cadmus replied quickly, his hand still on his brother’s shoulder. “The Amazonian queen was an ally of Troy, as were we. She died for our people in battle. She defended us in life, we defend her in death.”

  Medea looked long at them. “I can sense her shade.” She placed the skull back into the ca
sket. “Anger. Fury… And revulsion. It seems she is not pleased that you have disturbed the slumber of her death.”

  Again Cadmus replied. His grasp on Machaon’s shoulder tightened. “Pentheselia, Champion of the Amazons, should not lie unmarked and unremembered in a shepherd’s grave. Her place is with her people.”

  The grey eyes of Medea were penetrating. “Perhaps this is so.” She smiled suddenly. “I have worried you… do not be afraid for your sister. She is unharmed.”

  The sons of Agelaus stiffened.

  “How do you know?” Lycon asked.

  “Oenone is in my chambers. Your sister is a skilled healer… perhaps there are things we could learn from each other.”

  Machaon kept both the realisation and disappointment from his face. Of course she was talking about Oenone not Hero. For a moment he had forgotten that they were calling the nymph their sister.

  “Will you speak for us?” he asked bluntly.

  Medea went back to the font. “Come here.” She beckoned to Machaon. “Look into my basin. Tell me what you see.”

  Machaon did as she asked. At first there was nothing, just clear water against the silver. And then it clouded and churned and he saw three faces—feminine, serene with eyes of no colour, they gazed out from each other. They were intriguing more than frightening… and then the faces changed, monstrous features baring fangs and serpentine hair. The serpents reared. Reflexively, Machaon stepped back.

  “What did you see?” Medea asked eagerly.

  Machaon said nothing, his dark eyes large and troubled.

  “You saw her, didn’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “My Lady Hecate, mistress of magic and death who guards entrances in this life and the next.”

  Machaon pulled away from Medea’s excited grasp.

  “Perhaps… what does she look like?”

  Medea hissed. “She is divine, beautiful—the three-faced goddess of the crossroads…”

  “I guess that could have been her then,” Machaon replied, alarmed by the princess’ sudden zealotry. There were indeed three heads.

  Medea smiled, her tempestuous eyes sparkled. “Perhaps it is you.”