Oracle's War

Copyright

Dedications

Cath: To my mother, Marjorie, whose love of books and all things Greek has been a continuing inspiration to me. Her wide-ranging curiosity, her penetrating scholarship and ferociously high standards have given me a healthy disrespect for anything second-best.

David: This is dedicated to my children, Brendan and Melissa, whose journey into adulthood makes me proud. Lots of love and best of fortune, guys.

Part One: The Seeress of Delos

1 – Family Life

‘Neither will the father agree with his children, nor the children with him, nor a guest with his host, nor friend with friend… Nor will there be any recompense for the oath keeper or for the just man or the righteous; instead they will praise the evil-doer and his violent dealing. Established custom will be moulded by them and respectful deference will cease to exist; and the evildoer will hurt the worthy man, swearing oaths with twisted words. Envy, foul-spoken, foul-natured, rejoicing in evil, will be the companion of mankind, wretches that they are one and all.’

—Hesiod, Works and Days

Ithaca

Fifth year of the reign of Agamemnon of Mycenae (1289 BC)

Three ragged lines of armed men are strung across the dusty clearing, rocky cliffs crowding in on both sides. The summer sun is beating down, glinting on bronze spearheads and helms. Inside boiled leather breastplates and helmets, two hundred men are sweltering and restless, blinking away rivulets of sweat as they squint at the place where the enemy will appear.

I’m standing on a rock, sword at the ready, perspiring as heavily as the men below me. We’re in a ravine, the world shrunk to a narrow defile as we face the curved trail, straining our ears for the first signs of attack. The sky is vivid blue, the sun pitiless, and dust clogs the air. Eurybates, the King’s herald, his keryx, is with me, barking reminders down to the men. ‘Straighten those lines! Second rank, close up! Wait for the signal!’

Resentful eyes turn our way, but I’m the crown prince of Ithaca and the men keep their mouths shut. ‘Not long now,’ I call out, my voice level and calm. ‘Hold your positions!’

Then Tollus hurtles round the bend before us, hollering. ‘They’re coming! There’s too many of them! Fall back!’

Immediately the senior men echo his fear. ‘Run! Run, they’re on us!’ they shout, and within a few heartbeats our lines have disintegrated. About a third of the men have hurled away their shields, the ranks have broken, and they’re all pelting down the ravine as fast as they can. Eurybates and I leap from our rock to be swept along with the tail, screaming orders amidst the hurly-burly, straining to look back over our shoulders for signs of our attackers through the dust cloud our flight has churned up.

‘Move!’ I roar. ‘Or Ares will stick spears up your arses! Run!’

And now the pursuit is on us, roaring around the bend in the ravine, darkened outlines in the dust cloud shrieking like harpies, their size and menace magnified by the murk. Our men bellow in response and redouble their efforts to get away as lithe shapes close in on the hindmost.

Then the first pursuer shrieks triumphantly and leaps onto Tollus’s back, bearing him to earth in a billow of dust. ‘Got you, Daddy! You’re dead!’ yells Tollus’s son, Kemos, his arms around his father’s neck.

The other leading pursuers – the older sons of my soldiers – catch our hindmost runners, and those men touched, slapped or indeed gang-tackled are compelled to collapse on the ground, while the rest of the mob of boys – and a few girls – pour over them, screaming in delight. A few come after me – my mane of red hair makes me a mark – but I manage to dodge out of reach. I look left and right, assessing, and then…

‘Now!’ I yell, and Eurybates echoes my call, his stentorian herald-voice resounding through the ravine.

This time the lads nail it – and it’s our sixteenth try at this, so they damned well better. The third rank, at the head of the flight, spin and drop, forming a line, spears down, shields up, and the second rank dart between them and fill the gaps, while those at the rear who’ve managed to stay clear of the horde of children – about half of them – hurdle both lines, and the spears come up.

‘Stop!’ I holler, because I don’t want any of the children running onto the spears, even though I’ve drilled the lads to ground the points during the drill. Some youngsters listen, others don’t, ploughing into the shield wall amidst gales of laughter, and for a moment the lines are a swirl of madly capering children and sweating, swearing men. I look at Eurybates and he nods.

‘I think we’re done,’ he says. ‘And the lads are ready to drop.’

I call for quiet, and find another rock to stand on so I can see them all, something of a necessity as I’m one of the shortest men here. I’ve been blessed with many gifts, but height isn’t one of them. ‘Right, lads, that’s it for the day! You did it in the end! Well done!’

They wouldn’t be Ithacans without feeling the need to question me. ‘Why are we even doing this, Prince Odysseus?’ big Nelomon demands. ‘Who in the world practises running away?’

There’s a murmur of agreement. ‘Yer father never made us do this!’ Tollus adds.

King Laertes – my father in name at least – has handed the training of the war band over to me. He’s a solid warrior, but he’s ageing, and his interests have turned more to farming than soldiering. I’ve developed my own ideas about tactics, given Ithaca’s diminutive size and steep, rocky terrain, and the men are taking time to warm to them.

‘We’re one of the smallest kingdoms in Achaea,’ I remind them. ‘When we fight, we’re always outnumbered – so we have to fight smarter. We have to have tricks up our sleeves, and this is one, like our ambush and archery training. And the camouflage and infiltration work.’

‘It’s fighting dirty,’ Nelomon grumbles. ‘Ain’t right.’

‘It’s called winning,’ I respond. ‘Imagine doing this in a real battle – where no one can see beyond a few yards, or hear anything in the clamour. If we pretend to break, the foe will think the rout is on. Their guard goes down, all they think they need do is chase and stab – but suddenly the tables are turned and they’re pelting into a wall of men, when they’re strung out and disorganized. We can win, by pretending to lose.’ I look around the crowd, see plenty of frowns, but more than a few nodding.

But Nelomon isn’t convinced. ‘If you were a real soldier you’d know better,’ he grumbles.

I turn to face him fully. This has been coming for a while. Nelomon was Father’s favoured field commander and he thinks he should be leading the training, with me in attendance merely as a gilded figurehead. And today’s new ruse will have insulted his code of honour – something every Achaean soldier has been raised with – even more than my other manoeuvres. ‘Oh?’

‘If you were full grown you’d not have these hare-brained ideas,’ he growls. ‘You ain’t fit for the line.’

This has gone beyond discontent. It’s rebellion. And it’s been answered by a mutter of agreement from some in the ranks. I have to deal with this now, and for good. ‘You think so?’ I reply, my voice loud with confidence, though to anyone watching, I should have every reason to feel nervous: Nelomon is a giant of a man, well beyond my stature. ‘Prove it.’

He glowers, looking around him at the overheated, dust-coated men and the watching children, wide-eyed at seeing their elders in conflict. I’m the prince, so he’s wary. Like it or not, I’m heir to the kingdom.

But he’s tired and angry too, and he wants to put me in my place. He thinks Laertes will back him, and he may well be right. With a grunt, he turns to his mate Itanus, hands him his spear and shield, unbuckles his sword belt and goes to remove his helmet.

‘Keep it on,’ I advise him. ‘You’ll be grateful.’

He grunts again, then goes into a fighting crouch, arms spread. ‘I’ll go easy on you, Prince – for your father’s sake,’ he growls, then he blurs into motion, rampaging forward without warning while I’m still handing my gear to Eurybates.

No warning – but not unexpected. I dart sideways, evade one massive paw and grip the forearm, swing him about while planting one of my thickly muscled legs into his path. He trips, I twist him into a flailing spin and he goes over head first, planting his chest and face in the dust but spared serious damage by his helmet. A moment later I’ve slammed a knee into the small of his back, winding him while wrenching his arm round almost far enough to dislocate it.

He gasps for air while I press down. ‘Told you you’d be grateful for the helmet,’ I say.

I feel him tense as I let his arm go and make as if to step away. Instantly his arm sweeps round, battering at my knee while he seeks to rise and bear me down – he’s so obvious. I’m braced, withstand the blow to the knee, let him grab me but twist again, using my burly torso and shorter build to gain superior leverage. I flip him up and over me, pinning him once more and driving my knee into his groin.

That about settles it.

‘You want to try again, Nelly?’ I ask, stepping away from the writhing man.

He glares up with absolute fury on his face, and I brace for more. Past experience tells me he’s not one for holding grudges, but this has been a major humiliation in front of men who respect and honour him, and we’ve been fighting over something he believes in strongly.

For a moment he tenses up, ready to try again – then he shakes his head.

My chest is heaving, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps, but defeating Nelomon has not been as improbable as it might seem. I am one of the theioi: a select and secret group of ‘god-touched’ men and women who are gifted with an additional edge in physical prowess or with various other qualities that, once awakened, set us aside from ordinary people. That awakening comes at the hands of the spirits we call gods. I was awakened by Athena, the Attican Goddess of Wisdom and Warfare, an apt partnership as she and I prize reason, skill and subtlety above all else, though I’m grateful for that extra measure of speed and strength.

‘Anyone else?’ I ask pointedly. ‘Or would you rather we all go for a beer?’

‘Beer sounds bloody divine,’ the deceptively casual Itanus drawls. There’s scattered laughter and everyone’s face lights up. Itanus helps Nelly to his feet, and everyone waits to see if he can take a fall in good grace.

‘You’re supplying the beer,’ Nelomon grunts. Already I can see his anger dissipating, much to my relief. I suspect he’ll be fine after the first tankard. He rubs his groin ruefully. ‘My wife’ll be having a quiet night tonight,’ he grumbles.

‘I’ll look after her,’ Itanus smirks, clapping him on the back. ‘I usually do.’

After that, we all saunter homewards, emerging from the ravine onto a plateau above the cliffs, with the broad strait between Ithaca and the larger island of Cephalonia sprawling below us, gleaming in the afternoon sun. We’re all draining the last of our water skins, the children bouncing among the exhausted men or riding their shoulders, crowing over how many they caught. Those who have been ‘killed’ over-often today are ribbed gently by the other men, and all in all, there’s a sense of growing camaraderie.

‘They’re still prone to grumble, but they’re starting to enter the spirit of it,’ Eurybates notes.

Since taking over the drill, Eurybates and I have worked side by side to make our men into something unique. Achaean men are generally part-time soldiers, and usually only learn the basics of warfare, drilling and formation fighting, so they can follow simple commands well. But I want my men to be different: as I told them earlier, we’re a tiny kingdom, and we need to punch harder to compensate – much like me. A good big man beats a good small one, they say: I’ve spent most of my life trying to turn that damned saying on its head.

Eury and I pause for a moment, admiring the way the fiery sun sinks behind the mountains of Cephalonia, their shadows creeping across the water towards us. Our island kingdom is a cluster of tiny dots on a vast sea, one that’s circled by lands most of us have never seen. Many of the lads would be happy to never leave our shores, but I’ve visited High King Agamemnon’s palace in Mycenae, the hollow plains of Lacedaemon, Attica rich in olives and silver, the springs of Thermopylae and other places so strange that most mortals never venture there.

Despite our insignificance, I also know that there are forces out there that can touch us. Emperors, pharaohs, kings and gods. When I look out across the seas I can feel them gazing back, hungry for land, wealth and power.

We descend the final ridge to Ithaca town, clay-coloured houses and tiled roofs clustered together on the slopes above the harbour, where trading vessels and a few dozen war galleys are drawn up along a finely pebbled strand. We’re not many, just a few barnacles clinging to a seaside boulder, a precarious, ruggedly beautiful place at the edge of civilization.

Above the town stands my father’s palace with its outer walls and courtyards and huddled outhouses, a big enough place by Ithacan standards but nothing in comparison with the might and luxury displayed by more powerful kings. I take the men into a large courtyard behind the servants’ wing, ensure the beer is flowing, then retreat with Eurybates into the cool of the royal quarters, where I seek the washroom to clean and change. Immersed in cool water, I rest my head and gird myself for the next battle, the sort you can’t win: family strife.

A year ago, my twentieth, I thought my family the happiest in Achaea. My father Laertes was devoted to my mother Anticleia, my sister Ctimene and I felt secure and loved, and after Father’s victories against the Taphian pirates a decade ago, our kingdom was prospering. I was taken to the oracular shrine of Pytho to be presented to the Pythia, Anticleia’s mother Amphithea, in fulfilment of the rituals of princedom.

What befell us at Pytho changed everything. I found I wasn’t the child of Laertes at all, but the result of my mother’s hitherto unrevealed seduction by Sisyphus, a cunning and much-loathed king of Corinth. Not long after I was born, Sisyphus was murdered, his body left in a city square to be torn apart by dogs. The revelation about my true father tore apart the harmony of our family and almost led to Mother being cast aside. Though I’ve since concocted a story to persuade Laertes my mother was innocent, the whole ghastly business is still a festering sore.

‘Prince Odysseus?’ a voice calls. A young girl’s head peers around the door frame – Hebea, a waif from Phocis we took in last year, now growing into a pretty young thing with a half-wild nature from her rough early life. I’m instantly wary, because she is also occasionally the vessel of a body-jumping spirit I know as Bria – another of Athena’s theioi servants.

‘What is it?’ I ask, sitting up in the bath, alert for danger, Bria’s stock-in-trade.

But the shy smile Hebea gives me has none of Bria’s sharp slyness. ‘Your mother’s calling for you,’ she says, running her eyes down my chest and beyond – she’s growing up fast.

I shoo her out – my mother loathes the casual seduction of servants that passes for normal behaviour in most great houses, something Laertes and I have been browbeaten into respecting. Not that I needed much persuading – I can’t speak for Father, but I don’t see there’s any fun to be had with someone who can’t say no.

With Hebea gone, I clamber out of the bath, dry myself and finger-comb my red tangle of hair into some kind of shape before a polished bronze mirror. There’s plenty to criticize – my face is alert rather than handsome, my hair is unruly at best and I’m certainly on the short side – but I’m not altogether displeased with what I see. Deep, broad chest and shoulders, a lean and muscular belly and strong legs are my good points. Despite my short stature I can outrun, outwrestle and outclimb almost any man on Ithaca even without calling upon my theios gifts, but I’m discreet about how I use my advantages: the god-touched need to stay something of a secret, for ordinary men fear those who are different, and our patron deities are often mutual enemies.

I dress and, deeming myself as prepared as I’m likely to be, I follow Hebea, expecting to be led to the banqueting hall, the central megaron of the palace, where Father is about to host a gathering of prominent families and foreign guests in celebration of my sister’s upcoming marriage.

Instead Hebea leads me to my father’s study, where my parents’ raised voices can be heard through the closed door. As has become the new normal, they’re anything but harmonious.

‘How dare you reconsider now?’ I hear my mother Anticleia demanding. ‘You’ll break her heart!’

‘She’ll get over it,’ Laertes replies in his impatient, dissatisfied burr. ‘I was never happy with her choice, as you know. The wrong type of husband could weaken Ithaca fatally, and we still have time to extract ourselves from this before it becomes binding.’

Wrong type of husband… I pause outside, while he and Mother rail on. I thought this argument was won.

Yes, Ctimene is about to marry an ex-slave. But her beloved Eumaeus – or Maeus, as we call him – is much more than that. He’s the son of the King of Syros, a smallish island kingdom in the Aegean, but a kingdom nonetheless. Maeus was stolen by pirates when he was a small child, and not long after, his father was deposed and murdered. The pirates sold him into slavery, not knowing who they had, and he was purchased and nurtured by Laertes. Once we realized his true heritage, Maeus became one of the family, raised in our household almost as an equal to Ctimene and myself. This marriage is supposed to see Maeus’s re-emergence, not just into society – he has already been freed and formally acknowledged as ‘one of us’ – but to begin a campaign to reinstate his line on Syros’s throne. Ctimene will be marrying a future king, in fact as well as name.

And the two of them are utterly in love. I think Ctimene is still a virgin, but they’re so besotted I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s not. And for my part, I think Maeus is worthy of her, and I can’t esteem a man higher than that.

So I have no hesitation in joining the fray on Mother’s side. They turn to face me as I enter, and Laertes flinches, as he always does now: the secret underbelly to this whole argument is that he wants an heir of his choosing, now that he knows I’m not his. Ctimene’s husband is his last chance at that.

‘What’s this about Maeus?’ I ask. ‘The wedding feast is in a few days and the guests are already arriving! Surely you’re not thinking of calling it off?’

‘Certainly not!’ Anticleia says.

‘Why not?’ Laertes says, in the same breath. ‘There are other men, good Cephalonia-born lads, who could step in. What about Eurylochus of Same—’

‘Lochus is a surly turd-smear,’ I interrupt.

Laertes colours. ‘His family are one of the most important in the islands. His father is a great lord, as were his ancestors. They matter here, far more than a slave boy with no living family.’

‘Maeus is the rightful king of Syros,’ Anticleia snaps. ‘You accepted his evidence yourself.’

‘Perhaps I was hasty,’ Laertes replies. ‘That piece of embroidery he produced could have been filched from anywhere. What if he’s an imposter? A cuckoo seeking a nest?’

Like you, his eyes add, flickering towards me.

‘Who was it who’d taught him his letters, then, before you bought him?’ I retort, sighing inwardly because this is old, old ground. ‘Only a prince would have been tutored in such matters.’

‘Perhaps one of the pirates taught him, in between bouts of buggery,’ Laertes snaps.

‘That’s a load of kopros,’ I reply, genuinely angry now. ‘You know what he told us—’

‘He’d swear night was day to get his hands on my daughter,’ Laertes shouts back. ‘I want her to have a husband the men of Ithaca and the islands will respect! As certain people have been pointing out to me—’

‘"Certain people",’ I mimic. ‘You mean Lochus and his father, and their phallos-waggling friends?’

‘Be quiet, Odysseus,’ says Anticleia, giving me a furious look. ‘Don’t speak to your father like that.’

Except he’s not my father… But I mutter an apology, realizing that my outburst isn’t helping.

‘You’ve given your word, Laertes,’ Anticleia pleads. ‘You cannot break it without incurring the wrath of the gods and the ridicule of your own people. And she loves him!’

‘Where has love ever got anyone?’ Laertes snarls back, because he loves Anticleia still, even though she bore another man’s child, the thorn in his side and the source of all his pain.

His words are still echoing off the walls when Eurybates, freshly washed like myself, knocks and enters. ‘The hall is ready, my king,’ he tells Laertes, his face and voice neutral. ‘The guests await.’

Both my parents are silent as Eurybates leads them along the passageway, my mother’s face white with anxiety, Laertes’s face inscrutable. Tonight, Ctimene and Maeus will be presented to the guests as a part of their betrothal, and every nerve in my body is tensed for them. What will Laertes do? Surely he can’t back out of this now.

Laertes and Anticleia enter the megaron, working through the multitude of guests as they head for their thrones against the far wall, while I linger by the main door out into the vestibule and the great central courtyard to bring in the future bride and groom. This is the last time Ctimene and Maeus will see each other before the wedding in three days’ time: after this banquet, Ctimene goes into the care of the Artemis priestesses for a ritual bridal vigil, while Maeus will be performing similar rites at the Hermes sanctuary.

I watch the gathering, noting who talks to whom and who listens, while greeting a few stragglers. One of the latter immediately intrigues me – a towering young man clad in a finely embroidered kilt, with deeply tanned skin and curling black hair, big soft brown eyes and a face so handsome he’s pretty. I try to guess his age: I put it at only eighteen or so for, while he’s shaved his face smooth – as all men wealthy enough to afford a good bronze razor do, I can’t see much hard bristle in the skin of his cheeks and chin. His servant announces him as Diomedes, son of Tydeus of Argos, names I’m well familiar with, though I’ve not met Diomedes before. Tydeus and Laertes were Argonauts as young men, building a friendship that endured after the Argo’s voyage ended, which explains Diomedes’s presence.

Diomedes has a strut to him that I’ve only seen in theioi – self-belief born of divine favour. And he’s wearing a pendant – an owl, the sign of Athena – which makes sense because Tydeus was also known as a follower of the goddess. I make a mental note to seek him out privately when opportunity allows.

But then my sister arrives, escorted by two maids, and for a moment she takes my breath away. She’s been clothed in sky blue, the dress graced with elaborate dark blue and green embroidery, a stark contrast to the vivid red hair she and I have from our mother, and she has the pale, transparent complexion so desirable among the high-born, evidence of a life free from labour in the sun.

She’s grown in the last year, her girlishness smoothed away under Mother’s strict eye. I miss our love-hate squabbling, the mutual teasing and outbursts of laughter, and our secret confidences and jokes, which have fallen by the wayside since we’ve taken on the burdens of adulthood. But I’m so proud to see her, clad in tight-waisted finery newly tailored for her as she gathers her wings to fly from the nest.

‘Good evening, Little Sparrow,’ I murmur, not giving any hint of Father’s misgivings or the sick feeling they have engendered in me.

She answers me with a tremulous smile. For a few short days, a bride is the centre of the universe, the festivities celebrating everything about her life to date and her first steps into the unknown. ‘You look wonderful,’ I reassure her, and she beams gratefully.

Then Maeus arrives, his best tunic pressed and his hair washed and oiled, his chin shaved smooth as silk and a nervous flutter in his eyelashes. I take his hand. ‘You look well, Maeus. But we missed you today at drill.’

He grins boyishly. ‘I heard you put Nelomon in his place.’

‘You know how these things go,’ I say, returning his grin. ‘Nelly will be sitting cross-legged tonight.’ Ctimene arches an eyebrow at me and I poke my tongue out, making her laugh despite her nerves. ‘Are you both ready?’ I say, resuming the grave demeanour such an occasion demands.

Maeus and Ctimene clasp hands and melt into each other’s eyes.

‘It’s time,’ I tell them, turning to the door.

Eurybates announces them as I prepare to lead them in. ‘The betrothed couple!’ he calls.

I let the room fall silent before leading Ctimene and Maeus slowly around the great hearth at the centre of the room then taking them across to the thrones where Laertes and Anticleia await. I steal the odd glance back, proud of the way Ctimene keeps her head aloft under the scrutiny of this room full of warriors, nobles and merchants and their nit-picking, judgemental wives. Maeus too looks steady, despite his sudden pallor.

Maeus is the same age as Ctimene – eighteen – and he’s the closest person I have to a brother. Born a prince, stolen and enslaved, orphaned, rescued, and now about to marry a princess and, with luck, become a king – he’s living quite a tale. I like him hugely. He’s lively, passionate and wears his heart on his sleeve, which right now is beating double time in adoration for my sister. They’re both floating on happiness.

I wonder if they know their dream marriage is being undermined behind their backs.

We reach the thrones, and I step back while the young couple stand before the king and queen to be formally greeted. My mother’s face is wreathed in smiles but Laertes is stern and grumpy, his hands clenched on his lap as he utters the traditional salutation.

I breathe out, in some small relief. He hasn’t refused them yet but there will be other opportunities. All four take their places at the high table, where a chair awaits me also. But before I can reach it, a hand plucks my sleeve. ‘Your sister has become a most delectable dish,’ an unwelcome voice murmurs in my ear.

Men have had their noses bloodied for less, but Father wouldn’t thank me for starting a ruckus here and now. ‘She’s a woman, not a meal,’ I tell Lord Tycho, father of the odious Lochus, and his son’s chief advocate.

‘A flower then, ripe for plucking,’ the man suggests. He’s a smooth man, much like the olive oil that is his primary source of wealth. He pairs this with a superior manner and no discernible moral backbone, like his son.

‘Maeus will make her a fine husband,’ I reply. ‘It’s all she dreams of.’

‘So you say, as is proper, but are they your deepest thoughts? The slave brings no wealth to the marriage, no retinue of men, no land, no goods and, in truth, little proof that he is as he says. Whereas my son Eurylochus brings all of these things. Between your father’s prestige and my status and wealth, we could establish a dynasty that would secure the future of our island kingdom. Surely as your father’s firstborn heir, that’s in your interest?’

It’s the way he says it that pricks my unease, the subtle emphasis on ‘father’… As if he knows I’m really illegitimate… I wonder how that might be.

‘Having Maeus as my brother-in-law is all the security I need,’ I tell Tycho, knowing I’m confirming his animosity. I’ve never trusted him anyway. ‘Lochus has left his run too late.’

I don’t want Lochus behind me in the succession, or this oily snake as a father-in-law…

I’m conscious that Father wouldn’t approve of my talking down to Tycho: Laertes isn’t just king of Ithaca; he rules over all of the Cephalonian Confederacy, the principal islands of which are bigger than Ithaca and wealthier too. Father needs men like Tycho, arguably the richest man in Cephalonia, on his side.

I pass on, noting who Tycho talks to next – an androgynous man I don’t know, one of the influx of foreigners who’ve come for the wedding. This one’s tall, slender and oddly effeminate, well dressed in a mainland style.

‘Eury,’ I whisper, as I pass the keryx, ‘Who’s that man with Tycho?’

‘He’s called Ophion, a trader from Thebes.’

‘What’s a Theban doing here?’ I ask, but Eury just shakes his head.

Most of the foreign guests are here because of Laertes’s days as a warrior – fellow Argonauts who followed Jason into the Axeinos Sea and opened up the tin trade for Achaea. Laertes was never one of the great champions but he was a stout fighter in his youth, a good man to have at your back, I’m told. I was proud of that lineage, and it aches that it’s no longer mine.

No one speaks well of Sisyphus, my real father.

What strikes me, as I watch Tycho and Ophion circulate, is just how much the opposition to Maeus and Ctimene’s union has grown. There’s not an Ithacan man present that isn’t eyeing Maeus doubtfully, and I catch discontented murmurings, whispered remarks questioning whether he’s really royal, raised eyebrows and frowns where there should be smiles.

I should have noticed this before. I’ve been too focused on my own concerns…

The underlying tension in the room spoils my appetite: the food tastes like grit in my mouth. As I mingle afterwards men quietly sound me out, worried – or so they say – that we’re committing ourselves to Maeus’s cause in Syros, and war against the people who killed his father. Outright war has never been a part of our plans, though these men seem less than convinced by my reassurances.

And everyone is praising Lochus, accolades he’s done nothing to earn. There’s the stink of bribery in the air: I see new necklaces on many of the wives, and new gold bracelets adorning many a wrist. Tycho and Lochus are rich by our local standards, but they don’t have that sort of wealth. Where has it come from?

Despite the undercurrents, no one makes a scene. I even manage a quick word with Diomedes – it seems he’s been told to seek me out too, so I’ve no trouble arranging to meet with him tomorrow. Then Laertes rises, we resume our seats and the room falls silent.

‘Gentlemen,’ he begins, forgetting the ladies as usual. ‘Thank you for gathering here tonight.’ A longish pause follows, while Anticleia glares at him, tight-lipped. What will he say? I feel physically sick at the thought of what might come next. Weddings have been overturned at the last minute before now.

Finally he clears his throat and speaks, his voice flat. ‘As you know, my daughter Ctimene, of whom I am immensely proud, will wed this fine young man in three days. This is their last meeting before their marriage, for they now each retreat into preparatory seclusion with the priests and priestesses. I ask your blessing to be bestowed on them before this auspicious event.’

I sag back in my seat, weak with relief. I’m guessing Mother has been hard at work during the meal, with words such as ‘oath-breaking’ and ‘dishonour’ likely to have featured prominently.

There’s a moment’s hesitation but then people start to call blessings in the name of this or that god, while Maeus and Ctimene face each other, holding hands. I feel a twinge of envy: the girl I’ve lost my heart to is far away, beyond my reach in all possible ways. It’s hard to envisage any circumstance that would allow me to wed Kyshanda, Princess of Troy – she’s far too high a prize for a lowly Prince of Ithaca.

However, as the eulogies proceed, Ctimene is praised for her beauty and lineage, but Maeus is virtually ignored. The poor lad is growing redder and redder; as the groom, this should be as much about him. As part of Ctimene’s family, I should delay until the end to provide a culminating blessing, but I can’t wait that long. ‘To Eumaeus,’ I cry, leaping to my feet, ‘a fine young man who’s been a friend to me all my life, and will be high in my esteem and counsel when that dread day comes that I must take up my father’s burdens.’

There, swallow that, I think, silently challenging the room. I’m the next king and this man is my friend. If you want my favour, earn his.

I think I’ve made my point, though Laertes frowns. After that, the blessings even