Twenty years? I had been with them less than two seasons ago.
I looked at the two brash sons of the god and only human insight pointed out the shadows in their eyes. Fair-haired and fine-featured, with smiles that dazzled, these two youths had been subjected to a torment that no hero could have withstood. They had a sheen about them that was the armour of immortality. They had been hurt, now they could not wait to get on with what they did best.
Stealing chariots!
‘Get in. We have to get you down to your friends.’
‘How did you know I was here?’ I shouted as Conan slewed the chariot round and Gwyrion shoved me into the car.
‘The mad man who rules here. He sent a messenger to us. He seems to regard you as a friend.’
The wild youths drove me around the battle, towards the line of tents behind the lines. Urtha’s pennant fluttered from one of them. Indeed, Urtha sat inside, scowling and sulking, his weapons laid out before him. Niiv stood behind him, arms crossed. Her face brightened when I entered the enclosure.
‘That man! That Unborn bastard. How dare he confine me to the tent! But he says it’s necessary. Why is it necessary, Merlin? Who in the name of Thunder is he?’
He was talking about Pendragon. As Urtha rose to his feet, strapping on his sword, the resemblance between the two men flashed again, from his eyes, from the set of his mouth, from the iron look.
‘I believe he needs you to survive. He’ll want to tell tales of you in times to come.’
Urtha nodded sagely, the mood lifting. ‘Yes. Merlin, you have a sharp eye, even if your wits have deserted you for the moment. Which son of which of my grandsons will he be, I wonder.’
A future king, I told him; it was all I could tell him. It was too costly to look so far ahead, and I had resisted the temptation whilst in Taurovinda. But I added, ‘And a king who will never forget his ancestor, not if I’m around to remind him.’
Urtha looked at me from the corner of his eye. Chariots thundered past outside the tent, axles screeching; the stink of sweat lay heavy on the air. Urtha was deciding whether I was flattering him or appeasing him. He clearly liked the idea of being remembered. It was in the nature of these rough warriors to enjoy the thought of future notoriety.
‘Don’t tell him everything you know about me.’
‘Of course not.’
‘The shield of Diadara…’
‘You found it. The quest was well done.’
‘As indeed it might yet be. There is still time. But never mind that. What of Munda? Is she a captive of this warped man? Is she alive?’
When I told him that she was the pain in his face blew away like a breeze. There was a sparkle in his eyes again. ‘Is she in the palace?’
I told him what I knew; I used the words that Kinos had used. Urtha stepped outside the tent and stared across the ocean. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘when you first went ashore, I could have sworn I heard her calling. I should have gone with you.’
A spear sliced through the air, piercing the canvas of the tent, and all three of us flung ourselves to the ground. ‘I knew these were pitched too close,’ the chieftain muttered as we stood again. But a shadow fell over us, the harsh breathing of a tired horse. A broad-shouldered man, protected in leather and iron, towered over us, staring down. It was hard to see his face against the brilliant azure of the sky, but a moment later he smiled. It was not the Pendragon, as I’d first suspected.
‘Is my brother well?’ Gorgodumnos asked. ‘I’ve not seen him here, so I imagine he survived the siege. There are others who didn’t.’
‘Morvodugnos is brash, loud and feeding well,’ Urtha retorted. ‘His is a good sword hand to have in Taurovinda. As was yours. What happened to you?’
‘A spear in the back happened to me,’ Gorgodumnos replied. ‘I’m particularly keen to meet up with that bastard again. My horse came back without me, I hope. You should have known I had not deserted.’
‘Yes,’ I said to him. ‘We knew that you had died. You were missed very much. Ambaros called you the best of us. So are you fighting with the Dead?’
He shook his head, adjusting his position on the broad saddle. ‘No. Too recently dead to have been recruited by the madman. There are many of us here who followed the Greeklander, but who are not in his control. But we are not Unborn either, so we have no status.’
‘Mercenaries?’
‘Not even that. Scavengers. Followers. This world is upside down. We follow the smell of the afterlife, even if we don’t understand it.’
He turned his mount left side on. ‘This is a strange world, my lord Urtha. Delay your crossing for as long as you can.’
‘I shall. Be in no doubt of that.’
‘And the same message to that younger brother of mine, that great bull, Morvodugnos. When it comes to his time to cross at the Ford of the Last Farewell, I’ll be waiting for him. But tell him: not until he has achieved the Feat of the Nine Whirling Women!’
Gorgodumnos laughed, saluted us and cantered heavily towards the sea. He joined a small, sorry band of riders, and they all raised their weapons towards us. They were the fallen of Urtha’s Cornovidi and of the Coritani who had come to his assistance during the siege of Taurovinda. Where they rode after that, and for whom they fought, if they fought at all, I couldn’t tell.
Kinos’s ‘Trojans’, far outnumbering the ranks of the Unborn, made a sudden push and the forces under the various commanders, Pendragon included, wheeled about and repositioned further down the dunes, towards the sea. Men and horses swarmed through the lines of tents, scattering canvas and stores of spears. Urtha, Niiv and I fled along with the retreat, pausing only in our flight when the clans turned back to the hill and formed a solid line again, using shields and the gut-wrenching spears with five sets of recurved teeth to make a stabbing wall that turned the tide of the battle. As the flow of fighting moved back towards the palace of green marble, the shuddering corpses of both Dead and Unborn were revealed, so many thrashing, bleeding fish after a cruel catch.
I had imagined that Jason and his argonauts were in the thick of the fray, pushing forward to pierce the defensive lines and seek out Kinos. But the man and his war band appeared out of the sun’s glare from the direction of the ocean, Tisaminas carrying the flopping body of Atalanta. The broken shaft of a thin dart was stuck in her chest, but her eyes were still aware. Jason, in his dark cloak, looked dreadful, his long hair matted with sweat and blood, his tunic spattered with gore.
‘There you are, Antiokus! We need all the help we can get if we’re to storm the palace.’ He grinned without humour, glancing up at the rising walls. ‘A familiar sight, if you remember. And this time, no Medea to bar our entry. Kinos is in there, and I’ll fetch him out.’
‘Kinos is on the battlefield. He’s the only Greeklander you’ll see, the argonauts apart.’
‘I’ve seen the sciamach,’ Jason said with a shake of his head. ‘He was also on the plain beyond the Thunder Hill. Medea’s trickery, no doubt. A good likeness, but not the man himself.’
I would have laughed had it not been so tragic; twice Jason had been in his living son’s presence, and twice he had rejected the young man’s identity, preferring to think of him as a shadow warrior, a sciamath. Their eyes were blinded to the truth, both father and son.
Yes, that was Medea’s doing.
And where was Medea?
And then, like Pallas Athena on the plains of Troy, she seemed to whisper to me, as the goddess had whispered to her favoured champions, You were close enough to hear me breathing.
‘You look alarmed, Antiokus,’ Jason said, frowning. The sweat ran from him and his breathing was heavy. ‘Gather your wits, and your weapons. The good, golden boys will take us to the gates.’
The Cymbrii were waiting restlessly close by, watching the ebb and flow of the siege war. Their chariot was only sufficient for two of us; the rest, Jason suggested, should follow on foot.
‘The palace will be heavily defended,’
someone said, and I heard myself say: ‘It’s empty. There’s nothing there but dreams.’
Except in the war room.
‘Dreams, and my son,’ Jason corrected out of ignorance. ‘My son’s dreams. I’ll know him when I see him. He’ll know me as well. Medea did a good job of hiding him, Antiokus. But seven hundred years is collapsing to a few moments only. Come with me, old friend. Come and search the palace with me.’
I held back; Jason watched me, disappointed, perhaps remembering his vow to kill me, a promise made in pain and anger, suddenly forgotten as he strove to clutch the last straw of his life and happiness in Iolkos. Perhaps he sensed in my hesitation a moment’s fear and assumed I would keep my distance. He strode past me to the reckless youths, his head lowered, cloak swirling.
‘He has no intention of killing you now,’ Urtha whispered. ‘He has the lust for life again.’
Whatever the High King was implying, I walked swiftly after the old argonaut, wrenching a spear from the ground on my way, and jumped into the crowded car just as Conan turned the chariot and whipped the horses. Even with the weight of four men, the beasts seemed to fly across the ground, swinging round to avoid the edge of the fighting, plunging through thin woodland and finding the rough path that wound across the side of the hill to the gates above. Bones jarred and teeth rattled as we climbed to the palace, Jason and I clinging to the rope loops on the sides of the car and watching each other impassively.
As we came to the deserted and unguarded open gates from the iron sanctuary, I saw the flash of light on bronze below. A chariot detached itself from the fray, working its way back to the hill, a lone Greeklander bent low as he thrashed with the reins.
Kinos was withdrawing.
Jason laughed as he jumped to the ground, staring up at the gleaming façade of the palace, hair blowing in the dry wind that streamed from within. He recognised this enlarged and elaborate construction, familiar as Medea’s palace, the home where he and the enchantress had lived for a few years, at least, in harmony and happiness. Niiv, Hylas and Tisaminas came panting up the road. All young, they had run almost as fast as the horses. The rest of Jason’s band had stayed behind. Niiv’s eyes sparkled. She had never experienced anything like this: alive and fighting in the world of ghosts; discovering what she imagined to be the secret landscapes of the dead. She clutched my arm as we entered the iron sanctuary, but she had her mind on the sight and smell of the place, only the child in her clutching at the familiar and comforting skin of the man she loved and needed.
Jason turned in a circle where he stood. ‘Good gods! I should know this place, but where’s the bull? There should be a bull where those bloody statues stand.’
Then he saw the faces, noticing the features below the corrosion, the watchful eyes, the youthful smiles, the clean lines of faces not yet scarred by war or tortured by grief.
‘It’s me!’ he declaimed, and added, laughing, ‘High and mighty.’ Then grimly: ‘And the woman of my fever dreams…’
But he was impressed by what he saw, as if there was welcome and dignity in being represented in this way, even in the company of a wife he despised. The images were massive; he felt them to be triumphal. Kinos had called to him, and he had answered the call.
His son would be waiting for him.
Our footsteps echoed through the empty halls as Jason led us at a steady trot, searching the bright corners for evidence of the boy he was convinced was hiding here. He had hesitated at the bridge, staring down into the booming, chthonic reaches, but had run over the marble arch with confidence. Not so Niiv, who clung to me in horror. I had not realised that she had a terror of falling.
‘The place is empty!’ Jason cried at last. There was confusion and dismay in his tone of voice. ‘It’s just a shell!’
He took off towards the main entrance, Hylas in tow. I turned back on my tracks and with Niiv hurrying after me, her spear clutched nervously in both hands, her pale eyes wide with caution, I retraced my earlier steps and found the war room.
‘Wait here,’ I told Niiv. ‘Don’t cross the threshold—’
‘Why not?’
‘And don’t ask questions!’
‘What is this place?’ The moving lights, the images on the walls, were reflected in her eyes. ‘Who are those men?’ she whispered, her gaze flickering between each of the stooped, hunched, thoughtful bronze warriors grouped around the map table.
‘They’re only toys,’ I reassured her. ‘Stay here.’
She sat down against the outside wall of the dark room, peering round the open door every so often, struggling to understand.
I went to the concealed shrine. The brazen statue of Pallas Athena regarded me dully through the eye slits of its face-hugging helmet.
‘You played a fine trick on me in the hinterland. But I wonder: has your own enchantment faded, this deep in the Otherworld?’
Cold metal eyes caught the movement of light; but there was no light of their own deeper than the bronze.
‘He doesn’t even know you’re here,’ I went on. I was quite determined to have my say, even if the inhabiting spirit of the ikon chose to remain aloof. ‘You must have some token charm left in your body to have been able to stay so close to him, and so out of sight. He’s felt your kisses and your tears. He’s used the power of the earth itself to turn his memories into this monstrous structure. Your son is mad, Medea. You are aware of that, I’m sure. For all your protection, you couldn’t stop him losing everything that mortal men call wits. He’s just a dog, howling at the moon. He acts by instinct. He’s no more alive than the toys he’s made in memory of his father’s stories.’
Cold metal eyes; no light of their own. Perhaps I was wrong.
‘But then, why am I surprised that he’s mad?’ I taunted. ‘His mother was full of confusion. Medea! Priestess of the Ram, yet her sanctuary in Iolkos was built around the figure of a bull. She could have hidden him in any country of her wish, but she flung him into the future, into a land of the dead. He was doomed from that moment on. Doomed to madness as his mother is doomed to fail in her protection. You hide as Athena, Protectress of Cities. You protect nothing but your own need to have the vestige of a son. Your son is dead.’
Cold eyes. Without light.
I rapped my fingers against the tarnished breast, where the heart might lie. ‘If the betrayal had been yesterday, or last season, a year ago, I could understand how you could hold such hate in your heart. But you have lived the centuries, waiting. Seven centuries, Medea. It’s seven centuries since you sent Kinos to this unfortunate location, to hide him from his father’s eyes. You’ve waited, lived, waited, eaten, drunk, slept, walked, mourned, and waited. Seven centuries! How can hate live so long? I don’t understand. How can any living being hate for so long?’
The eyes grew alive!
‘Did seven centuries diminish your love for Jason? You fool. We live in twilight. Time slows at twilight.’
The voiced rasped from the metal. The words shocked me as much by their sudden expression as by their content. Medea was right: seven centuries after I had known Jason I had jumped at the chance to raise him from his grave in the Northlands lake. There are some feelings that live as if immortal, despite the thousands of encounters that come and go along the way
My question had been naive. Interestingly, to issue a challenge on the persistence of her hate for her husband had been the charm that enticed the soul out of the statue. She tipped back the helmet, threw off the bronze. She seemed to flow from the hard metal into soft, dark-robed warmth. Here was the old woman again, the beautiful woman, my first lover, faded yet not diminished by the passage of time through her bones and flesh. The shrinking of her body was testimony to the power of enchantment that she had used to make one life among so many lives in her endless existence. As before, I failed to see the age, only breathed the scent of first passion, reaping again the memory of youthful love before we had been set apart along the Path.
I wanted to take her in my arms
. We were close enough to kiss. But she kept a distance between us, only a smear of sadness suggesting that she, too, was remembering older days, before Jason, before her truest love, before her fragile life had been shattered by Jason’s betrayal of her.
Did she read my mind? I was powerless, beyond intuition. My bones slept; all the carvings there, all the charms that made me so powerful in the outside world, slept comfortably, glad of a rest. Did she read my mind? She could surely have no skill in this land; then again, perhaps, like her son, she was drawing on the echoes of older magic still preserved on this strange island, in the middle of the Realm of the Shadows of Heroes.
‘You can have no idea of the horror of my life as Priestess of the Ram in Colchis. Something had taken away my charm. It was a dead place, and I was rotting. That’s why I built a sanctuary to a better god—a bull god—in Iolkos! It had all gone wrong in Colchis; Jason did not abduct me, as the silly story goes: he rescued me. There is a saying, somewhere in the world of Ocean, that when a ship founders in a storm, its crew will clutch for life at broken spars. Jason was my broken spar, not perfect, but enough to keep me living. How greedily I clutched at him. He gave me back my life. He was a spar of wood. But he was rotten at the core. When the spar decayed, I sank down into the deep.’
‘Taking your two sons with you.’
‘I couldn’t leave them. Jason was a brutal man. Think what he would have done to them!’
‘I know what you’ve done to them. One wanders the world, selling his skills with weapons, confused and lonely, haunted by the past. The other is a madman, drawing on old forces to recreate a life as a man that is nothing but childishness. You’ve killed them both, Medea. What solace do you get from being near Little Dreamer? The boy doesn’t even know you’re here.’
But all the fight had gone from Medea. She might have blazed at me, struck me, found new words in a harsh voice to justify what she had done in Iolkos seven hundred years ago. Only sadness touched the once fair features. And loneliness. ‘You don’t understand,’ she whispered. Then she glanced sharply to the door. ‘Who is out there?’