Argo: the first in the thrilling Blades of Bronze historical adventure series set in Ancient Greece

By Mark Knowles

You've read the myth of the Golden Fleece. Now find out how it really was for Jason and the Argonauts in this gripping reimagining of the famous Ancient Greek tale, and first book in the breathtaking Blades of Bronze series. Perfect for fans of Madeline Miller, Neil Gaiman and Natalie Haynes.

He has come to take what is yours...

Iolkos, Greece, 1230 BC. King Pelias has grown paranoid, tormented by his murderous past and a prophecy of the man who will one day destroy him.

When a stranger arrives to compete in the Games of Poseidon, Pelias is horrified, for this young man should never have grown to manhood. He is Jason, Pelias' nephew, who survived his uncle's assassins as a child. Now Jason wants his revenge – and the kingdom.

But Pelias is cunning as well as powerful. He gives Jason an impossible challenge: to claim the throne, he must first steal the fabled Golden Fleece of Colchis.

Jason assembles a band of Greece's finest warriors. They are the Argonauts, named for their trusty ship. But even with these mighty allies, Jason will have to overcome the brutal challenges hurled his way. His mission and many lives depend on his wits – and his sword.

PRAISE FOR THE BLADES OF BRONZE SERIES AND MARK KNOWLES

'A bold and thrilling voyage that plunges you deep into the world of ancient myth' Daisy Dunn
'Mark Knowles has taken the legend of Jason and the Golden Fleece, and stripped it down to its bare bones... A deeply researched historical epic, so brilliantly brought to life I could taste the salt air on my tongue... Epic battles, well-rounded characters sailing through a brilliantly described world' Adam Lofthouse
'What a spectacular triumph! Knowles has taken a reassuringly familiar legend and elevated it into a new, realistic and engrossing story' Sam Taw
'Knowles has combined historical realities with sure-footed imagination... brilliant' Dr Paul Millett
'[Knowles] has teamed his love of learning classics and childhood love of sword-and-sandals epics to accomplish something remarkable' Boarding Schools' Association

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Nov 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781801102711

Mark Knowles

Mark Knowles took degrees in Classics and Management Studies at Downing College, Cambridge. After a decade working as a frontline officer and supervisor within the Metropolitan Police Service, he became Head of Classics at a school in Harrogate. He is a particular fan of experimental archaeology and rowed on the reconstructed ancient Athenian trireme Olympias during its last sea trials in Greece in 1994. Follow Mark on @mark77knowles and markknowles.info

Book preview

cover.jpg

Argo

Mark Knowles

An Aries book

www.headofzeus.com

First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aries, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright © Mark Knowles, 2021

The moral right of Mark Knowles to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN (PB) 9781801102728

ISBN (E) 9781801102711

Cover design © David Wardle

Aries

c/o Head of Zeus

First Floor East

5–8 Hardwick Street

London EC1R 4RG

Map design by Michael Athanson

www.headofzeus.com

Contents

Welcome Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prominent Argonauts

Map

Prologue

Part I: The man who came down from the mountains

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Part II: In the wake of the flying ram

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXIII

Chapter XXXIV

Part III: To the stables of the Sun

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Part IV: The Priestess of Hekate

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Historical Note

Glossary

Months

Acknowledgements

About the Author

An Invitation from the Publisher

For Lara and Max

Prominent Argonauts

Jason of Mount Pelion, Thessaly

Oileus of Iolkos

Acastus of Iolkos

Tiphys of Thespiae (helmsman)

Euphemus of Taenaron

Ancaeus of Samos

Idas of Arene

Butes of Athens

Kalais and Zetes of Thrace

Castor and Pollux of Sparta

Peleus of Phthia

Telamon of Phthia

Herakles of Thebes

Hylas of Thebes

Meleager of Calydon

Orpheus of Pieria

Polyphemus of Thessaly

Idmon the wandering seer

Xanthias of Troezen

Lynceus of Messenia

Aethalides of Phthia

Mopsus of Titaressa

Dascylius of the Mariandyni (joined later)

Leodocus of Argos

Map

img1.png

Prologue

The Month of the Goddess

1250 BC, Iolkos

i

Lightning jagged behind the summit of Mount Pelion, etching its rugged peaks against a sky that broiled purple and grey with mist. Thunder grumbled over the fertile plains and sheltered harbours and, high above, the wind whistled through the numinous pine forests and valleys of Thessaly.

The two palace guards sheltering in the porch of the megaron of Iolkos shared a nervous grin. Childbirth extended no dignity to womankind, regardless of royal birth: from somewhere within, the queen was now lowing like a cow. A flash drenched the walled courtyard in brilliant, flickering light just beyond where they were stood, illuming the water that sheeted down the limestone blocks. A muffled crack of thunder followed several seconds later. The younger of the pair glanced up at the dark clouds scudding over the porch roof towards the harbour.

‘Can’t be a good omen, this,’ he muttered.

‘For her or for us?’

He frowned at the other man. In the unforgiving light of a portable brazier, his crooked grin revealed a missing front tooth. ‘For her.’

‘A baby born under a storm cloud or a baby heralded by The Thunderer himself. Depends what sort of mood your bard is in, doesn’t it?’ The guard shrugged and tapped the butt of his spear upon a louse meandering over a flagstone. ‘For us it’s a most excellent omen: another easy watch. Handouts in the morning. Some sleep.’

Another feral moan, louder this time, followed by other, hurried voices. The young guard shuffled on his feet.

His companion tutted. ‘Go inside. You’re more use in there.’

He watched him enter the shadowy hall and leaned his head back against the wooden pillar. The flutings were uncomfortable against his skull so he had to cock his head a little to the side to compensate. From within the hall, he could hear instructions for towels and warm water.

Perhaps the little royal brat was finally here?

More lightning, somewhere to his left, glowering through the clouds that wreathed the mountains. He yawned and listened to the steady hiss of water in the courtyard and the countless waterfalls drilling into the compacted earth. He caught a few snorts from pigs and a tired bleat from the small livestock enclosure tucked out of view in the near corner of the yard. The storm was making them restive. The rumble of thunder was growing more distinct: it appeared to be approaching the palace and, now that he thought about it, there was a metallic smell in the air. Under shelter, it was all quite cosy. He glanced across the courtyard at the propylon. A sickly orange glow brushed the pillars astride the entrance to the palace complex.

Not such a pleasant watch for the men out there, however.

The young guard returned.

‘I need to light up some more braziers and lamps in there.’

‘Boy or girl?’

‘Boy.’

‘Good. Then sneak me a cup of heated wine, will you?’

‘What?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘They’re not going to notice two guards having a drink minutes after the first heir to the throne of Iolkos is born, are they?’

‘I suppose not,’ he said after a time.

‘Well, go on!’

He watched him go and rasped the stubble on his cheeks with his thumbnail, leaning back against the pillar once again.

Long moments passed and he began to feel his eyelids grow heavy. He massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. Birth of an heir or not, falling asleep on duty was an instant death sentence.

He noticed a bulky silhouette shuffling across the courtyard towards him and he straightened up and hefted his spear. ‘Who approaches?’

The man stopped in the half-light of the porch threshold and lowered a heavy stirrup jar. ‘I’m sorry,’ he grumbled, ‘it’s late to be paying taxes.’ He stood and removed the hood of his cloak to reveal deep-set eyes beneath a broad forehead, thick curly hair and a well-kempt beard, lacking a moustache. There was a livid purple patch on his left cheek.

Was that a bruise or a birthmark?

The stranger smiled briefly, expectantly.

‘You want to pay your tax now? In the middle of the night?’

‘I’m late.’

‘You’re something strange is what you are. And he let you in?’ He nodded towards the propylon.

‘He…? Yes, the armed man down there did.’ The stranger’s eyes glimmered in the faint light.

The guard scratched his head and tutted.

‘So what’s in there?’

‘Olive oil, of course.’

The guard stared at it and then fixed the visitor with a frown. ‘Stay there, please.’

He returned a few moments later with a wooden ladle from an anteroom to the porch, which he presented to the stranger. He raised his eyebrows. ‘You want me to taste it?’

‘Go on.’

‘This is extra virgin, the best I make. What I drink, I steal from the wanax. What would the king think of that?’

‘It’s the custom, as you should know, for subjects to taste their produce beforehand. Why do you think this is?’

The stranger clenched his jaw. ‘Poison, no doubt.’

‘Poison, right. A precaution.’

The stranger shrugged. By now he was drenched, and runnels of water slid off the shoulders of his saturated cloak. He bent down, lifted the bung off the jar and sampled some of the oil. ‘Very good, even if I say so myself.’ He handed back the ladle. ‘Satisfied?’

The guard weighed him up. ‘Give it a few moments.’

The stranger’s eyes hardened momentarily but he said nothing and looked away.

At that moment, the guard was joined by his younger companion. ‘Who’s this?’

‘Wants to pay his dues.’

The younger guard looked from the humble clay pot to the soaking, humiliated stranger.

‘You could at least come out of the rain.’

The stranger stepped forwards. ‘Thank you,’ he muttered.

‘That’s enough,’ said the older guard. ‘Go and mark his contribution, will you? There’s wet tablets on the second shelf.’

The stranger picked up his jar and followed the guard into a small archive room, lit by twin lamps chained to the ceiling and pungent with the smell of olive oil. Shelves groaned under the weight of clay tablets, pots, bundles of hemp lamp wicks and various other household items. At the centre of the room were six earthenware storage containers, sunk into the floor.

‘Quiet inside the palace,’ observed the stranger, breaking the silence as the guard tested various tablets without satisfaction.

‘It is now. Second shelf where?’ He called to the other guard.

‘Right-hand wall, idiot. Where else?’ came the reply.

The guard tutted and rested his spear behind the door lintel against which the stranger was stood whilst he checked the shelves. He glanced at the weapon and at the exposed back of its owner. The spearhead was shaped like a large leaf with a split stem, riveted to the shaft.

‘What did you say your name was?’ asked the guard, retrieving a tablet and stylus.

‘I didn’t. My name is Pelias, son of Tyro.’

‘From?’

‘Er, Dimini.’

The hesitation went unnoticed. ‘Standard pithos, more or less,’ murmured the guard as he scratched the tablet. ‘Now pour it in there,’ he said, pointing to the vessels with his stylus. ‘They get emptied tomorrow, before it all goes off.’

The man grunted and did as he was bidden. The guard heard the viscous liquid glugging into a vessel as he finished marking the tablet and replaced it in a crate that seemed suitable for tax receipts. When he turned round, the stranger was looking straight at him, cradling his empty pot. The guard flinched and retrieved his spear.

Pelias glanced at it and offered a tight smile. ‘The head. Looks a little blunt to my untrained eye.’ With that, he bowed and left the room. ‘I bid you goodnight, gentlemen.’

Both guards watched him stride away across the courtyard towards the propylon, the jar hooked round his little finger.

‘Didn’t like him. Something strange about him,’ murmured the elder one, spitting on the floor as he often did to ward off evil spirits. ‘Got my wine?’

ii

The assault on the palace came less than two hours later. The first the guards in the porch knew of it was a stifled shout from beyond the propylon and the sounds of a brief scuffle. Then there were dozens of tall men, all armed, swarming into the courtyard.

The older guard jerked upright and retrieved a trumpet from a hook inside the porch. He had time for two quick blasts before the invaders were almost upon them. He dragged his younger comrade back, who had frozen in horror.

‘Inside the doors!’

They backpedalled and barely managed to get the heavy doors closed and barred before they were barged from without, knocking the younger guard onto the stuccoed floor. Although the wood was sheathed in bronze, the two housings for the bar were only secured by three long nails each. One of these loosened under the impact of another mighty blow.

‘Go and get help!’

In response to the trumpet, another five guardsmen emerged, barefooted, from rooms adjoining the megaron. Three had spears, two bows and quivers. The spearmen picked up figure-of-eight shields, faced with animal skins, from hooks on the richly decorated plasterwork and took up positions between the door and the central hearth. The next thudding blow drew shrieks from the bath chamber to the right, from which two maids emerged, clutching their faces in panic.

‘How many?’ asked one of the guards.

‘Too many. A boat full maybe.’

‘Pirates!’

From a door at the opposite end of the hall there strode a tall, slim warrior with long black hair and a pointed beard. He donned a helmet made from strips of boar’s tusk and brandished a bronze sword, the central rib of which glinted in the light of a brazier.

He appeared calm as he picked up a circular shield resting against the porphyry throne recessed into the wall on the left. The shield was bronze and was embossed with the head of a ram, the symbol of his clan. The guardsmen turned and hailed him as wanax before resuming their fighting stances.

‘Honour and bravery, my warriors. The night an heir is born to me is not the night we lose the boy his kingdom. Stand firm.’

They roared approval as another mighty blow sprang one of the bolt housings, and it clattered to the floor. Urine streamed down the inside leg of the young guardsman and pooled by his feet. His older comrade frowned at him.

‘Don’t go and slip in it.’

The other housing sprang loose and the bolt dropped to the floor, allowing the bronze-clad doors to burst open, flashing in the fiery light of the hearth as they clattered back against the walls. There was a daunting number of raiders competing to enter the hall, conical helmets casting long silhouettes against the gloomy courtyard outside. The first two arrows found their mark in the throat and chest of two warriors who failed to raise their shields in time. They staggered into the press of men behind them, giving the guards a moment to strike. They sprang forwards and thrust overhand blow after blow of their spears at any shape that moved. King Aeson himself crumpled two men with savage strikes to their faces before two wild-eyed soldiers who joined shields forced him backwards with slashes of their swords.

The young guard equipped himself bravely, and would recall in later years how sheer desperation lends the courage of a mountain lion to one fighting in defence of hearth and home. He feinted with a high thrust and deftly stepped aside as a soldier jabbed his own spear into empty space, yelping in shock as he felt a cold spear tip puncture his neck. The guard’s last memory was of grinning maniacally as his foe collapsed to his knees, clutching his wound, beside a fresco of a heroic warrior felling a centaur, the colours of which were vivid in the dancing light of a brazier. Then there was an explosion of pain to his forehead and instant blackness.

The bowmen only had time to unleash another arrow apiece before being bowled over by rain-sodden soldiers, though not before one slipped in a pool of water and wrenched his knee. The guard with the missing tooth killed one raider with a blow to his heart and nicked the artery by the groin of another, who dropped his spear and clutched at the spray of blood with a gasp. Moments later, he felt two spearheads punch into his own stomach. His last memory was of a face close to his own, teeth gritted in anger, wet hair plastered to a swarthy, blood-smeared forehead and bright colours and noise all fading to blackness.

The remaining three guards offered unflinching resistance and were soon blowing hard with the effort of circling this way and that, fending off a stream of men jabbing and slashing at their unprotected bodies, every blow unleashing a white-hot shard of pain. Overcome by loss of blood, they sagged to the floor, swinging weakly at fading shapes.

‘Drop your weapons, Aeson!’ boomed the voice of a man stepping over the tangle of fallen warriors by the entrance to the megaron. ‘I have no wish to stain my hearth with a kinsman’s blood.’

Aeson hesitated, sweating freely with his back to the hearth and his breathing ragged. His shoulder ached from keeping the shield raised and fending off numerous forceful blows. He risked glancing past the soldiers surrounding him to the man striding towards, whose head was concealed by a cowl. He removed it to reveal thick, curly hair and turned to the bodies behind him. He clicked his fingers at one of his men and pointed to one of the stricken warriors still clutching a spear. ‘And if he still breathes, that one can be spared too. He alone showed me some damned respect. You three: go and round up everyone else.’

‘Pelias? Pelias?’

The man turned slowly to face Aeson, his purple cheek livid in the flickering light of the hall. He grinned. ‘Drop your shield, and your sword, and we can embrace again, half-brother to half-brother. How long has it been?’

‘The gods that witness this will tear out your black heart, you treacherous shit!’ He threw down his shield, raised his sword and was poised to charge at Pelias. Another warrior beat him to it and barged Aeson to the floor, and others helped secure him as he bucked and writhed and the veins bulged in his neck.

‘Me and you, Pelias! Just me and you, right here! You need other men to fight your battles? You miserable, sulking little coward! You always knew I was the better man!’

‘No, Aeson, I always knew you were the favoured man. There is a big difference. You can’t even guard your own palace properly, so what gives you the right to possess it? And now,’ he said, clasping his hands behind his back, ‘I think I will just take a seat. May I?’

Aeson watched in impotent rage as his half-brother ambled over to the red throne and lowered himself with lingering pleasure. ‘A little narrow for a king of my stature but I suppose I’ll get used to it. Fetch me the diadem, would you?’

*

Queen Alcimede had been sleeping lightly on a pile of sheepskins. The black ringlets of her hair were tamed only by a thin headband and almost completely concealed the fabric of the cushion beneath her head. She was being attended by her quiet, dutiful maids when she was disturbed by a commotion in the megaron, below. Her new-born son, after having cried only briefly when he emerged, was now suckling at her breast, his skin a healthy red where the milky white vernix coating his body was sparser. He already had a fair covering of dark hair, just like his father, though his expression was much more serene. Even the slamming of heavy doors and panicked commands didn’t make him stir, though Alcimede jerked awake in shock.

‘Phyle, what is happening out there?’

A girl of barely sixteen summers appeared at the door, her pretty face tired and drawn in the lamplight. ‘I don’t… I don’t know, my lady. Wait… Just wait…’

When she returned a few moments later, Alcimede’s heart sank. ‘I… we’re under attack! They won’t kill me, or take me, will they, my lady?’ Phyle was shuddering like a new-born lamb. ‘I don’t understand what’s happening?’

‘Calm yourself, girl!’ said the queen, trying to muster a composure she did not feel. She looked instinctively down at her son, now asleep and off her breast. She heard the double doors to the hall rattling and its hinges creak. ‘Fetch the rest of the maids and nurse, and be quick about it. I know what we must do.’

Within a minute, four more girls, similar in age to Phyle, along with Alcimede’s own nurse were around her bed, whispering urgently. All but the nurse flinched at the sudden shouts and screams as men rushed into the hall below. The women had no experience of fighting, other than the hearthside tales they had been forced to listen to during banquets when, fired by strong wine and deep cups, the menfolk tended to exaggerate. But, as the strident, desperate yells and the clashing of bronze reverberated from the walls, and the breathy gasps of tiring men fighting for their lives floated through the chamber door, they were in no doubt why men boasted of surviving such things.

‘Courage, my child,’ said the nurse, clasping Alcimede’s hand. ‘No, don’t fight the tears: we need them now.’ Alcimede gazed at the reassuring face of the woman who had served her own mother so well since she was a little handmaid. The queen nodded and felt the onset of tears stinging her eyes whilst the nurse reached out and massaged the baby’s face. How cruelly the gods swap great joy for mortal fear! How could they be so ungrateful? Had they not accepted the regular and generous sacrifices they had been offered? She began to wail, a keening, heartfelt cry to which the other maids easily succumbed.

There were footsteps from the shadowy gallery outside and the door to the queen’s chamber burst open. A young, pockmarked warrior with a shaven head hesitated on the threshold, his torso and sword arm urging him to enter but his feet rooted to the spot. The look on his face morphed from hostility to something akin to fear.

‘Look at what you have done! Get out!’

The nurse stalked towards him, her fists balled at her sides and her lip quivering. She tried to ignore the sword blade hovering beside her. ‘This is how you abuse the sanctity of a royal house? Causing a queen to deliver a stillborn? Shame! Curses upon you!’

The warrior’s lips moved but no sound emerged.

‘Look! Take a good look! Take it all in!’

The nurse tugged his damp wrist, feeling his racing pulse. He dragged his feet, intimidated by the inhuman wailing and hair rending and visceral hatred pulsing towards him. ‘You’ve killed a royal heir! Look!’

Through the mass of shrieking girls, he caught a glimpse of a motionless child, its face waxy and pale, its fragile arms splayed around its mother, whose fierce, glistening eyes made him take a backwards step. He knew he had made a grave error in entering: like bursting in upon sacred feminine rites. Such imposters usually ended up dead or cursed, which was as good as the same thing. It hit him hard that he had been exposed to what men talked of around campfires, expostulating upon with the help of strong wine: hysteria. The room was thick and stale and cloying with it. He turned to the nurse, his eyes wide and his lips moving before backing out of the room and hurrying away along the balcony, deaf to the additional, high-pitched cry that now joined the dirge of the girls.

The men in the hall turned to the ashen-faced young warrior as he walked over to Pelias. Aeson, arms bound behind his back, was staring at the flames in the hearth.

‘What is happening up there?’ asked Pelias, leaning towards the warrior.

‘My lord, err, a stillborn child. The women are mourning him.’

‘Him?’ asked Pelias, sitting straighter.

‘He is dead, my lord.’

Pelias caught Aeson’s head snapping around towards him out of the corner of his eye. He licked his lips. ‘Are you certain? Did you see this yourself?’

The warrior frowned and met his master’s eyes. ‘I did. Not mistaken nor soon forgotten. Would you care to check for yourself, my lord?’

Pelias looked carefully at the youth: his eyes were distant and fearful. ‘No.’ He pursed his lips and turned to Aeson, who was struggling to get to his feet. ‘A small mercy the gods have seen fit to dispatch a child rather than I. You hear that, Aeson? The gods have been merciful towards you.’

Despite the efforts of two warriors, Aeson managed to struggle to his feet, raving, and spittle flecked his lips. ‘You are a dead man, Pelias, a dead man!’

Taken aback by the ferocity of those pale blue eyes, Pelias nodded to the soldier behind him, who felled Aeson with a blow to the temple.

*

Within the queen’s chamber, there were urgent whispers. Overcome by their sudden grief, the girls now shuddered, huddled against each other by the door, ready to leap upon any intruding warriors without a moment’s hesitation.

‘Forgive me, my lady, but it must be done now, whilst he is quiet.’

Alcimede’s breath came in short, sharp pants and her heart threatened to leap from her mouth. ‘No! No! One last hug, please!’ She smothered her son’s head in kisses and her tears ran down his cheeks, sending hot rivulets through the vernix. ‘My love! My life! I will see you again; this I promise! Oh my love, my heart!’

The nurse closed her eyes in profound sadness and a tear breached them, even though they had witnessed a thousand sorrows in their long life. She reached out for the child.

‘On my life, my lady, I will see he is protected for you. On my life. Give him to me, my girl. You must!’

Her chest convulsing with a fresh, crushing surge of grief, Alcimede released him and allowed him to be taken. The nurse quickly swaddled him and, beckoning two of the maids, crept towards the secret entrance to the queen’s chamber, parting the drapery that concealed it. The nurse turned to her queen for the final time.

‘Wait!’ Alcimede took a deep breath and drew herself upright on the bed. She retrieved something from a stool beside her bed. ‘Give him this token. Tell him how much his mother and father loved him in their brief time together. His name is Jason, son of Aeson. Tell him to live with pride in this. Promise me!’ she hissed.

‘On my life, I will.’

Part I

The man who came down from the mountains

I

The Month of Sailing

Twenty years later, Iolkos

‘More competitors, more athletes have arrived, my lord, requesting…’ The herald looked nervously at the king’s favoured guard, distinctive for the prominent ridge of scar tissue below his hairline. He was shaking his head softly. ‘Requesting an audience… with you. But I can tell them… to go.’

King Pelias waved him away and resumed massaging his throbbing temples. As he grimaced in pain, the crinkles around his eyes deepened into dark creases brimming with perspiration. His face, and his rapidly greying hair and beard, betrayed his advancing years and the pressures of running his precarious little kingdom.

The plaintive notes of a cithara drifted in from one of the adjoining rooms, accompanied by some gentle laughter at a missed note. ‘Someone burn that fucking… depressing instrument!’

The herald clicked his fingers at a servant stood by the stairs. ‘Another tincture for the king, sparing on the lemon…’

‘No!’ The king gripped the stone armrests, bracing himself to stand. ‘No more drinks, no more food, no more quack physicians. Call for that seer.’ He waved his arm expansively as he staggered towards the stairs. ‘The persistent old goat they say’s been loitering outside my palace for weeks. Make sure he washes before he comes near me.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

The herald blew the air from his cheeks when the king was gone, catching the eye of the servant and thumbing towards the palace entrance. He turned to the guard and whispered, ‘What’s got into him today?’

The guard wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and tutted at the sweat that plastered the hair to his wrist. ‘What d’you mean today?’ The air in the megaron was torpid, and the whisper of a breeze seeping through the main doors and the opening in the roof offered no relief. ‘He’s been like this for months.’

*

Even though the old man had apparently bathed, Pelias still wrinkled his nose in distaste as the seer settled himself upon the fleece-covered stool by the door of his private chamber. His beard was a dirty white, becoming rather brown around his mouth, matching the colour of his tatty tunic. What little hair he had was hoary and unkempt and Pelias began to regret granting him an audience. He looked out over the low roofs of the houses huddled around the palace, enjoying the exquisite ochre wash of light upon the tiles and the twittering of birds. He could just make out the sea coruscating between the boughs of a cluster of umbrella pines and cypresses by the bay. There was a light breeze up here, redolent with pine and sea air. He closed his eyes and felt his headache begin to ease, and tuned out the tedious introduction of the old man, who seemed now to be listing his credentials.

The droning eventually stopped and Pelias glanced at the old man with heavy eyes.

‘Well?’

‘My lord, your herald said you had been suffering from enervating headaches. Are you ill?’

Pelias snorted. ‘You tell me: am I? Are you a physician?’

‘No.’

‘Good. I dismissed the last one. Seemed to be recommending some kind of witchcraft.’

‘I am not a physician but our skills have certain things in common, which is how I might be able to help.’

The king shifted his weight onto his elbow and selected a grape from a dish. ‘Go on.’

The seer’s gums worked up and down as he pondered something. The king grinned at him.

Some light entertainment, at least.

‘Pelias was not the name you were given at birth, my lord, was it?’

The king stopped chewing the grape and spat out the pips. ‘You know this how?’

‘You were named after that injury.’ He straightened a bony finger. ‘There, on your cheek. Pelios means bruised in some dialects, does it not?’

‘Be careful, old man.’ The king’s eyes hardened. ‘You stray into matters of no import to you. Your dry observations about language don’t impress, either.’

‘I am sorry, my lord, I meant no offence. I am no teacher. What I do know is that the bruise was caused by a horse, a young foal, which kicked out at you when you were a small child. You were a sturdy boy. It would have killed most children that age, but the skin still bears the wound.’

Pelias weighed him up. He felt his temper rising but also a sharp pang of curiosity. He took a deep breath. ‘Keep going.’

‘My lord, here the territory of a seer gives way to that of a physician. I divined that you received an injury as a child, which can hardly be known by more than a handful of people still alive. A physician would then say that this blow, despite the passage of many years, is now causing your headaches.’

Pelias pursed his lips and looked out once more towards the sea. Perhaps the old man had a point, if not a cure.

‘The headaches come and go but this is not why I summoned you.’

‘No, my lord?’

‘No.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I have been having troubling… dreams, visions. They are disjointed and obscure and evaporate as soon as I wake and try to recall them, but they all make me feel… paranoid and suspicious of anyone and anything that threatens my rule, especially of late…’

He looked across to the old man for some prompt or reassurance but the seer was regarding him closely, his face inscrutable.

‘Maybe this is another cause of my headaches. This, and haunting images of every man I have ever killed or harmed… And every woman…’

Pelias shuddered as he looked at the seer. He felt his eyes boring into his own, and on into his very soul.

‘You have gravely angered a goddess, my lord.’

Pelias felt his stomach turn over. ‘Which goddess?’

The seer chuckled but the rasping voice that emerged was not his own. ‘You know very well which one.’

‘It was because of that woman I was taken away and left outside! To die! What would any man have done?’

‘Your stepmother, King Pelias, was kneeling by a shrine of Hera. You profaned a sacred place. You polluted the shrine with the blood of a suppliant and now Hera seeks revenge.’

Pelias’ forehead began to bead in a cold sweat and his eyes were agape.

How could he possibly know this? He had been alone. He was sure there were no witnesses! Had he been seen after all?

The old man’s eyes were now unblinking and glazed over, and he began to hum softly. Pelias felt a hot rush of anger and wanted to strike the charlatan for mocking him but something held him back. The old lunatic could stay here singing to himself but he had palace business to attend to. He harrumphed and swung his legs over the couch on which he had been reclining.

‘I see a man approaching the valley of Iolkos.’

Pelias became rigid.

‘He is a young man, handsome and slim. There is purpose in his stride.’ He blinked slowly, like a napping cat. ‘He is nervous, however, full of doubts. His business here will be dangerous…’

The king swallowed hard. He waited for the seer to continue but he sagged and expelled a ragged breath, exhausted.

‘Go on! Tell me more!’

But the seer was motionless.

Overcome with impatience, Pelias reached out and shook his bony shoulder. His bones felt as if they could snap like dry twigs.

The old man shuddered and blinked.

‘More!’

‘I am sorry, my lord, I am old and my powers are waning. There is but one more thing I saw before I lost the vision, as if in a heat haze.’

‘Yes? What is it?’

The seer met the king’s gaze and the king flinched at the certainty in his eyes.

‘He was wearing only one sandal.’

Pelias stared at him, wondering if he had lost his mind. ‘Guard!’

A bare-chested warrior entered wearing a linen kilt. ‘My lord?’

‘This man can leave. Offer him some food before he goes.’

II

‘Bow to the king before he addresses you… Bow to the king before he addresses you…’

The voice of the herald stationed by the door as he received the athletes before they entered the megaron was becoming repetitive, annoying even, like the buzz of a mosquito. Since establishing the games eight years previously in honour of Poseidon, the level of interest in them, both from spectators and competitors, had soared. Doubtless this was due to rumour of the rich prizes on offer rather than any increase in piety.

Distracted by the words of the seer, Pelias nonetheless gave an acceptable level of attention to the competitors, whose interest was in any event more taken by the lavish decoration of the great hall. The rich frescoes drew the most approving comments, as did the four central columns surrounding the hearth, studded with polished lapis lazuli and amethyst stones. He had even caused amusement in observing that, because of the amethyst stones, it was impossible for him to become drunk in this hall, protected by the quality of the stone that gave it its name. But even that was becoming tiresome.

Invariably, Pelias’ eyes were drawn to their feet and, when he saw that they were either barefooted – as most were – or wearing two sandals, he wanted to hurry through the pleasantries.

‘Bow to the king before he addresses you… Butes of Athens. Wrestler,’ announced the herald. The king looked on as a squat man with grotesquely misshapen ears and a beetling brow lumbered towards him. He slipped on an uneven patch of the floor and, as he fell, his sandal skittered towards the throne.

The wrestler flushed with embarrassment and approached Pelias sheepishly. ‘My lord, I am sorry! I intended no disrespect.’

Pelias regarded him closely. ‘Just as well you are not a runner, Butes of Athens.’

‘No indeed, my lord.’

Was this the man in the seer’s vision? Young… handsome… slim… He thought it unlikely: the athlete failed on all counts.

‘Off you go, Butes. Try to stay upright when you compete.’

‘Honoured.’

Pelias leaned towards his guard. ‘Ask the herald how many more are waiting in the courtyard.’

‘Yes, wanax.’

‘And another thing.’ Pelias beckoned him back. ‘Ask him if any are wearing just one sandal.’ If the guard considered it an odd question, nothing in his expression said so.

‘Bow to the king before he addresses you… Euphemus of Taenaron. Runner.’

Pelias turned to the door and saw a compact little man approaching. He was barefooted and stole across the floor like a panther. He had a very serious countenance, the faintest of frowns, and his skin was drawn tight over prominent cheekbones.

‘Welcome to Iolkos. I have never heard of Taenaron. Are all men there as small as you?’

‘I may be small but I am the fastest runner amongst any of the Hellenes. Probably anywhere.’

Pelias raised an eyebrow and noticed his guard approaching. ‘Quite a boast, Euphemus. I will put it down to youthful exuberance. Poseidon admires a trier.’

The frown deepened. ‘Thank you, wanax.’ He covered the distance from throne to door in what seemed like a second.

‘My lord, the herald states that there are only five men left in the courtyard and none of these is wearing just one sandal. Also, that tomorrow will be the last day of introductions. After sundown, no more entrants will be permitted before the games themselves commence.’

Pelias wondered why it was that he experienced the tiniest sliver of disappointment.

III

The young vagrant trudged towards the stream and let his traveller’s sack drop to the dusty earth. He rolled his neck and, hands on hips, looked around him. Other than the ubiquitous chatter of crickets, all was tranquil and serene. The stream gurgled ahead of him and, all along the riverbank, thorn bushes and myrtle trees provided fragrant and dappled shade. He screened his eyes and looked across the shimmering valley towards his destination, still a few miles distant. He removed his tatty linen tunic, which had become stained with his sweat and, naked, he took to the stream.

The water, fresh from the mountains, was very cold but all the more refreshing for his tired and filthy body. More than once he nearly lost his footing on the smooth stones and mud of its bed so, rather than resisting, he dropped back against the fast-flowing water, gasping in pleasant surprise at its bracing temperature. He rinsed his tunic and, balling it up, threw it clear of the bank so he could immerse himself completely. It occurred to him that a long walk was perhaps not the best preparation for an athletic contest. His muscles felt tight: perhaps too tight on reflection. He surfaced and cleared the long wavy hair from his face before massaging his limbs.

It was then that he caught sight of an old lady, bent double over a stick, approaching the bank near the point at which he had entered. She had a black shawl over her head and shoulders and, underneath, the skirt of her shapeless dress brushed the earth. She didn’t appear to be looking at him. He hesitated, considering it odd that, though his senses were usually very sharp, he had not been aware of anyone nearby for at least the past hour. The only other person he encountered before that was a young urchin, who ran in the opposite direction when he saw him.

This presented a slight problem. He didn’t want to go startling a frail old woman by emerging from the water naked. He had heard tales of sudden shocks doing old people in altogether. So, to preserve his modesty, he paddled a little further downstream and around a slight bend before clambering onto the bank, screened by more myrtle trees. As luck would have it, the lady’s back was now turned to him so he dashed towards his tunic and dropped it over his shoulders. He coughed. The old lady stiffened. She shuffled around on her stick and flinched at the sight of him.

‘Forgive me! I didn’t mean to startle you!’

She looked him up and down. He could see by the way her stooped body heaved that he had quickened her heart and frightened her. She said nothing, her beady eyes fixed on his.

‘I’m going to Iolkos.’ He pointed towards the stream. ‘Over there. In case… you didn’t know.’

She cocked her head to the side like a wary bird.

‘Well… I’ll be on my way.’ He picked up his belongings and edged away. The danger of her keeling over appeared to have abated.

‘Boy!’ He turned in surprise. Her voice, though dry, was not that of a frail old lady. She pointed her stick across the river. ‘Over this?’

‘That would be a feat! Through it.’

She chuckled and he noticed that half of her teeth were missing. Her words whistled through them.

‘Would you like me to carry you across?’

She inclined her head. If he didn’t know better through being raised by old shepherds, he might have mistaken the gesture for a ‘no’. He slung his pack across his shoulder and kneeled down in front of her. ‘Can you get on my back?’

She chuckled again before clasping her wrinkled hands under his neck. ‘Such disrespect, you young people. I’m not as frail as you think.’

He braced himself and stood. ‘Indeed, you’re not!’ She was a fair bit heavier than he had guessed and it was not easy going down the crumbling bank. ‘This will be good training,’ he said, trying hard to get purchase between the smooth rocks of the riverbed.

‘The games of Poseidon?’

‘You know of them?’

She tutted. ‘I’ve been around a lot longer than you.’

He grinned. She had spirit, this one. He liked her.

‘Honour to your town and parents, young man.’

‘My parents are dead.’ His chest deflated a little. ‘I was raised by mountain shepherds. Any honour I might bring would be theirs, not mine.’

Halfway across the stream, he felt his right foot being sucked into mud. He staggered on his left, trying to centre the weight of his own body, and that of the old lady, before pulling once again. The force of the water made this difficult and his other foot struggled to get purchase on the uneven bed. With a great heave, he pulled his right foot clear of the mud, snapping the leather bindings of his sandal in the process. He saw it picked up by the eddying water and swept away downstream, and groaned in dismay.

Not a good omen.

‘Oh dear, I’m sorry.’

‘My fault,’ he muttered, picking his way more carefully now. He changed the subject to deflect his irritation. ‘Have I seen you before? I feel I have.’

‘I’ve lived hereabouts for many years. Don’t go far these days.’

They made it to the opposite bank without further incident and he glanced down the stream. There seemed little point trying to find the sandal now but, with nothing to barter, it would be no easy task trying to find a replacement in Iolkos: he hoped that a lifetime spent in the foothills of the mountains had hardened his skin sufficiently.

Reading the look of disappointment in his face, the old lady retrieved something from a pocket on her skirt. ‘One good turn deserves another. Here, have this.’

He noticed her hand had a slight palsy. In her shrivelled palm was a small linen bundle. He shook his head. ‘I can’t take it.’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Why not?’

‘Because…’

‘You’re as poor as I am. Spare me your charity. Take it.’

He could see he was risking offending her so he took the bundle. ‘What is it?’

‘A little good luck token, for the games. A thing of small worth. Open it later. Tell me your name so I can pray for you, then you must go: I have slowed you down long enough.’ She prodded him with the handle of her cane.

He kissed her forehead and clutched the little bundle. ‘I’ll need all the luck I can find. My name is Jason. Farewell!’ He watched her hobble away for a few moments before turning towards Iolkos, feeling a little better about himself but unable to shake the nagging suspicion that he had seen her before.

He stopped in his tracks a minute or so later.

When he had left her, she was heading back in the direction from which he had seen her coming. That being so, why did she need to cross the stream in the first place?

He turned around. In the quiet expanse of rising ground behind him, between the bracing water of the River Anauros and the uplands, there was no sign of her.

IV

By the time he crested the final rise before he saw the sturdy walls of Iolkos, it was late afternoon and the zest had evaporated from