Action/Adventure, Drama
Set in c.1973
Disclaimers:
Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, The Sci-Fi Channel, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and The SciFi Channel. This story is written purely for my own entertainment, and that of anyone else who may happen to read it. No infringement of copyright is intended. It is not intended and should never be used for commercial purposes.
The original characters, situations and ideas contained within this work are the property of the author.
Author’s Notes:
Acknowledgements:
As always, I have to thank my beta reader, Sarah, for her diligent and entirely voluntary service.
Akrotiri
As he walked, Acastus brooded, as he was wont to do in recent years. Although once noted for bringing a bright and lively spirit to the Company of Gorgons, he had of late displayed a dark and melancholy face to the world. Even the opportunity of visiting his family, a rare treat as it was, did little to raise his spirits. Acastus’ kin lived close to the Hall of Medusa, but as a junior member of the company, he was very rarely released from his duties for long enough to call upon them. He suspected that his mentor and section prime, Meriope, had arranged this unexpected day of leave to try and lighten his mood; as yet it was not having the desired effect.
His mood did improve, however, when he entered his childhood home to be greeted by a beautiful, smiling girl of seventeen.
“Tala, little girl,” Acastus said fondly. He embraced his sister tightly and lifted her off her feet.
“Teka, you great ox,” Helena replied with equal affection. “And most people consent to call me a woman by now,” she added primly.
“You are still young,” Acastus insisted, although he knew that she spoke the truth.
“I am old enough to be married.”
Acastus snorted. “Yet too young to be pursued. I remember that, even if ‘most people’ do not, and if your would-be suitors persist in troubling our mother’s sleep…”
Helena laughed at his disapproval. “Better to be pursued too young than to be ignored too long,” she retorted. “A Gorgon, a squad leader of thirty-five, should surely be thinking of marriage at least.”
Acastus’ good humour dissolved in a moment. “I…think of it,” he assured her and then he changed the subject. “Have you had any word from Antigone or Priam lately?”
Helena eyed her brother with concern, but made no attempt to question him. “We received a letter from Antigone just last week. She has graduated as a chirurgeon and will leave the Sanctuary of Asclepius soon.”
“Then she will come home?”
“Only briefly,” Helena admitted. “She has been noticed by the priests for her skill and will soon leave Kritos for the Asclepieion on Epidaurus. She is to be trained as a Healer.”
Still oppressed by his own dark humour, Acastus’ pleasure was nonetheless genuine. “That is news indeed. You must let me know when she is here; I can not let her go without my congratulations and my blessing.”
“Of course.”
“And Priam?”
Helena shrugged. “He remains Priam. He has not written, but Meriope told mother that Damos reported in his last missive that Priam had managed to get one of Euripides’ shepherdesses into trouble.”
Acastus sighed. “Perhaps I should seek leave to travel to Halicarnasus,” he suggested.
Helena shook her head.
“Father always reined in Priam’s excesses,” Acastus argued.
“Priam’s excesses, when father was alive, were those of a youth of fourteen,” Helena reminded him. “I know that you seek to fill father’s place as best you can, but this will out as it will. The signs are not all unpromising,” she added. “Damos says that Priam is seeking to marry the girl. Mother is beside herself of course.”
“With rage or joy?” Acastus wondered aloud.
“It varies with the direction of the wind,” Helena replied. “She is delighted that he is to wed, but of course it puts an end to all hope that her precious boy will ever return home. Still, a good life as a shepherd is better than the direction in which he was going and better he lie with his own wife than with those of others.”
Acastus kissed the tattoo on his sister’s forehead. “Bitterness does not suit you, dear one,” he told her. “I know that it seems mother has favourites sometimes, but it is only absence makes it seem so. You should spend a month in the country, then you would see how rapturously she welcomed you back.”
“You would never let me go to the country.” Helena pouted prettily. “In the country, boys and girls sleep with each other; I might end up unceremoniously wed.”
“And as swiftly widowed,” Acastus growled.
“Fear not, dear brother, I am a good, civilised girl.”
“Any lovers?” Acastus asked.
“There was a girl, one of the prefects at the academy, but she favoured another.” Helena shook her head ruefully. “You?”
“No!” Acastus’ reply was sharper than he had intended.
Helena shied away from her brother’s anger, but quickly controlled her fear. “Anyway, everyone has favourites,” she said with a dejected sigh, but then she smiled. “You know you’re mine?”
“For now,” he allowed. He touched his sister’s face with his calloused fingers. “But I will lose you so soon.”
Helena looked away and blushed. “Mother is in the garden,” she said. “You should go through; I am attending to the meal. If you want to make yourself useful, you can dig me some carrots.”
Acastus took the fork from beside the back door and went out into Nissa’s garden. His mother was renowned as the finest gardener in Akrotiri and her yard was one of the most beautiful places on the entire planet of Kritos. One of her neighbours was looking over the fence, but not at the garden. Nissa herself was accounted one of the most beautiful of women and it was small wonder that Helena – who took after her mother in appearance – had so many suitors; almost as many as her widowed mother.
“Good morning, mother!” Acastus called out. He cast a fierce glower at the neighbour, who disappeared behind his own fence.
Nissa looked up from her flower beds. She wore an old robe and a floppy hat to protect her from the sun, but she rose with the dignity of a queen to greet her oldest son. “Acastus, my lamb,” she said, embracing him. “What are you doing with that fork, dear? I trust you had no intention of interfering with my garden?”
“No, not yours, mother,” he assured her. “Helena asked me to dig some carrots from her plot.”
“Then you may continue,” Nissa agreed. “Tell me how things are with you in the Hall?”
Acastus smiled and drove the fork into the earth. “Has Tal ma’te Meriope not informed you of everything?”
Nissa shook her head. “I want to hear from you.”
“Things in the Hall are well,” Acastus assured her. “A platoon leader’s post was available, but Meriope said that it was not time yet.”
“She told me that there was a warrior woman with whom you had grown close,” Nissa prodded, unable to contain her impatience.
The colour drained from his face. “She said…I…” His voice failed for a moment, but then realisation dawned. “Atalanta?” Acastus laughed. “Mother, she is married with a child of twelve. We are comrades and friends, nothing more.”
Nissa looked crestfallen. “You will grow lonely,” she cautioned.
“Not while I have so many friends,” he assured her, “and so close a family.” He found that he could not force a smile to his face and so turned away to pick a bunch of carrots from the newly-turned earth. “I am still young, mother. I will find someone,” he promised, but his voice was touched with melancholy.
“Meriope!” Nissa cried.
Acastus blushed, embarrassed that his mother had been listening to barracks rumours, but before he could protest that his regard for Meriope was purely that of a pupil for his teacher, Nissa had moved past him towards the house.
“Meriope! We had not thought to see you for weeks.”
Meriope clasped her friend in a powerful embrace. “Nissa, my dear. Acastus,” she added with a nod.
“Tal ma’te,” he replied, half-turning to hide his blushes.
“He looks so like his father,” Meriope commented.
Nissa looked unconvinced. “A little,” she admitted, “but Rathe was always more wiry. What brings you here today, Meriope? Not that you need a reason to visit, of course. Acastus, tell Helena to set another place at table.”
“Actually,” Meriope interrupted, “it is Acastus that I need to speak with.”
“Of course,” Nissa replied. “Then I will tell Helena. I hope that the two of you will be joining us when you are done with your Gorgon talk. You have not come to snatch my son away, have you?”
“Not at all,” Meriope assured her, “and I would be delighted to join you.”
Nissa beamed. “Then I will take those carrots, Acastus.”
“Tal ma’te?” Acastus asked, as Nissa walked back to the house.
Meriope turned on him with hard eyes. “Did you think that I was a fool?” she demanded. “Did you imagine that you could conceal this from me?”
Acastus, his head still full of the rumours that were spread about him, felt ever more awkward. “Tal ma’te…I am sorry, I…”
“You defeated Arachne in personal combat,” Meriope laughed, the frost melting from her expression. “Fates, Acastus! You bested the finest fighter in the Hall and you did not tell your teacher?”
“Oh. Well…I was not sure that you would be pleased. I know that Arachne is your friend and it was more luck than anything.”
Meriope smiled. “As has been said to me before now, against some fighters, luck will only take you so far. You have made me proud, Acastus; you are my finest pupil and one of the mightiest warriors in the company.”
“But not fit to be a platoon leader?”
“Warriors and generals are not always the same people, Acastus; Arachne herself had to come to terms with that. But your skill has not gone unnoticed and there is a cost for such distinction.”
“A cost, Tal ma’te?” Acastus replied tentatively.
“In your case, two costs,” his mentor explained. “Come into the house and I will explain.”
Acastus swallowed hard. “Yes, Tal ma’te.”
Helena was in a panic. Acastus was somewhat alarmed himself to note that Meriope had brought another four people with her: Glaucus, second of the section; his wife; their fifteen-year-old son and a small baby.
“Sir,” Acastus said, half-bowing to Glaucus.
“Acastus,” Glaucus replied. “I believe that you know my wife, Agema, and young Nestor.
“Indeed. Mistress Agema; Nestor.”
Agema smiled and bowed as best she could with a child in her arms. Nestor grinned broadly; the boy idolised Acastus.
“And this last is…?” Nissa asked.
Agema smiled and held the baby a little closer. “We wanted to call her Meriope, but the Primus would not hear of it,” she explained.
“It is too great an honour,” Meriope demurred, in a tone which defied anyone to assure her that she deserved that honour.
“We have chosen the next best thing, therefore,” Glaucus said. “She will be named after Meriope’s chariot: Penelope of Kalipolis.”
“Then we asked Meriope to be Penelope’s yat’ka,” Agema went on.
“She has done such a fine job with Nestor,” Glaucus agreed. “Not that he has become a warrior, as I had hoped,” he added, but without regret.
Meriope shrugged. “He is young, still,” she reminded them. “True, he has hands that are more clever than powerful, but he has a bold heart and swift reflexes.”
Nestor squirmed to be the focus of such attention, but although he blushed he also beamed with pride.
“But he is still young,” Meriope went on. “I consider him still to be in my care and I can not take on responsibility for his sister while I still have Nestor to worry about. That is why I believe that you should choose another to be yat’ka to Penelope; or, I should say, yat’kor.”
“But who?” Glaucus asked.
Meriope shook her head in mock despair. “Why do you think that I asked you to meet me here?” she asked. “Aside from the fact that Helena is the only woman in Akrotiri to surpass her mother in the kitchen and I hoped I might glean an invitation to lunch. I believe that you should entrust Penelope to Acastus. He is young himself, but he is brave, dutiful and skilled; a fine role model for any Jaffa. He will also defend her virtue like a tiger when she is grown.”
“That is certainly true,” Helena grumbled.
Nissa placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “You will be glad of him if any of your suitors ever exceed the bounds of decency,” she whispered. “Antigone was.”
Acastus felt stunned. “But…I could not, Tal ma’te. Could I?”
“Of course you can,” Meriope assured him. “I have done quite well with Nestor – if I say so myself – despite being childless; you will do no worse, I am sure. Besides, it is time that you took a stronger and more responsible role in society.”
“I am unsure,” Glaucus admitted. “Acastus is a fine warrior, but a bachelor still; a young man…”
“A Gorgon,” Meriope added. “An Olympios.”
This last sentence had an electrifying effect on the assembled company. All fell silent; Nissa stared; Nestor looked almost ready to worship Acastus as a god.
The first to break the stunned silence was Helena, who flung her arms around her brother with a squeal of delight. “Acastus! An Olympios!” she laughed.
“This is your second punishment for displaying such prodigal skill,” Meriope explained. “You must prepare yourself, my apprentice, for you have been chosen to represent the forces of the God King Minos at the nine hundred and thirty-fourth Olympiad.”
Glaucus and Agema did not stay for dinner; Helena was briefly relieved, then immediately mortified, lest she gain a reputation as a poor host. Meriope and Nissa distracted her from her worries by telling her the story of how Acastus had confronted Antigone’s overzealous admirer. After the meal, Acastus helped Helena to clear the table, keen to escape from his mother, his mentor and their reminiscences of his past failings.
In the kitchen, Helena wrapped her arms around her brother’s waist. “I am so proud,” she told him. “My brother, an Olympios!”
Acastus hugged her around the shoulders and forced a smile.
“And a yat’ka!” Helena went on. “Agema’s daughter is a lovely child, isn’t she?”
“She looked like any other baby to me, I’m afraid.”
Helena slapped his shoulder. “How can you say that? You’re supposed to be her guide and protector.”
“And I shall do my best,” he sighed.
Helena stepped back. “Aren’t you pleased?”
“I…I am flattered.”
“What’s wrong, Acastus?” Helena demanded. “You should be delighted.”
Acastus sat down at the kitchen table. “I know, but I can not. I just don’t know what that girl has to look forward to.”
“Acastus!”
Acastus shook his head again. “Sorry, little girl. I don’t mean to be this way.”
“You need a wife,” Helena declared. “Mother always says that Father was this way before they married, but I only remember him full of joy and life.”
“Father was this way because Mother was another man’s mistress,” Acastus reminded her. “That is not my sorrow.”
“Then what is?”
“Nothing, Helena, I assure you.”
Helena sat in her brother’s lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck leaned her head against his chest. “My poor brother, so afflicted by phantoms.”
Acastus shivered. He put an arm around Helena’s waist and rested one hand on her head so that she would not lift her eyes and see the tears in his eyes. “It is nothing,” he said again.
“If you…”
“No. I can not marry. Not now.”
“Not now?”
“Not…yet.”
“Then I won’t marry either,” Helena told him. “Then I can look after you and I won’t have to worry so much.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Acastus snapped. “If you foreswear marriage Akrotiri will undergo a sudden spate of suicides. I will marry, just not yet.”
“Well, soon you will be the most famous Jaffa in the galaxy. You will be spoiled for choice then.”
At that, Acastus laughed. “I think you overrate my chances…”
“In the Olympiad, or in love?”
“…but I thank you for your confidence.”
Helena sat back and wiped Acastus’ eyes with her sleeve. “Make us proud,” she told him.
“I will.”
*
Day 1 – The Olympic Oaths and Opening Rites
The first Olympiad had been held by the Goa’uld underlord Zeus in honour of his liege lord, Cronus. He had announced to all of the Titans that he would hold a great tournament on his fortress world, Olympus, where Cronus’ Jaffa could demonstrate their athletic prowess. The tables had been turned, however, when Zeus’ Jaffa had defeated Cronus’ athletes in every event. Cronus had been humiliated and at the climax of the event, Zeus had declared himself free of Cronus’ rule, launching the Titanomachy: the hundred year civil war between the loyal Titans and their rebel offspring, who named themselves the Olympians.
Cronus had
seized
In the
centuries since,
At the time of the nine hundred and thirty-fourth Olympiad, the system was held to be a common possession, to be held for common usage by the faction who had been victorious in the previous tournament. It was to Lord Hades – and his Queen, Persephone – that the honour of meeting the vast expense of holding the games fell on this occasion. As the master of the reigning champion, it was Hades’ duty to see to the arrangements for the tournament and as it was of course necessary to try and outdo the last Olympiad, this was an expensive affair. This might have explained why the various lords were so willing to surrender the world to the next Goa’uld who wanted to control it.
They would also have the duty – on their honour – of enforcing the Eirene Olympus and keeping the peace between the Jaffa servants of a dozen Olympians and as many Titans. This was not easy task; each of the Goa’uld would be hell-bent on victory and willing to use any means – or at least any means that did not directly contravene the torturous terms of the Olympic Treaty in such a way that it would be easily detected – to secure it. Past Olympiads had seen the sabotage and even the murder of opposing athletes; the use of every stimulant known to the Goa’uld race; the eugenic breeding, genetic manipulation or cellular alteration of both Jaffa and prim’ta; and the bribery and coercion of athletes and of the officiating Muses.
All athletes had to be Jaffa, sex, age and race were no restriction. Female Jaffa could be entered if they had the skill, although Dionysus’ Maenads had been banned eternally, for behaving in a manner which had brought the games into disrepute and, more to the point, revolted even the resilient sensibilities of the watching Goa’uld. As for incubator species, unas, shakri and panatans had all been entered at one time or another, although very few of these races had proven compatible enough with the prim’ta to survive as Jaffa past the end of the contest.
On one memorable occasion, a kalshek’tak Jaffa had been fielded as an athlete by Lord Hades himself; the vampire had violently rejected his prim’ta in the middle of the double stadion and expired in a pool of his own blood. Lord Hephaestus had entered cyborgs so heavily altered as to be unrecognisable as having once being human, until the last – nothing more than a symbiote held in an amniotic sac at the heart of a metal body – had been judged unlawful and future contestants restricted to a limit of forty percent modification.
The spectators at the Olympiad were few: the Goa’uld sponsors, or at least some functionary to represent them while they watched via long-range communication sphere; a handful of servants and ceremonial guards; the Muses in their role as official observers; and a small number of guests, invited to witness the greatness of the Titanic and Olympian armies. Nonetheless, the impact of the games was huge. It would play a great role in determining prestige among the factions for the next four years, as well as ending or reigniting dozens of conflicts and rivalries.
More than to the gods, however, the games were important to the Jaffa, because it was here alone that they had a chance to win immortality.
The Olympic
compound at the foot of
Two further temples, larger and more magnificent, had been constructed further up the slopes of the sacred mountain. These were dedicated to Zeus and Cronus and were there in case the leader of either of the two factions should arrive unannounced. It would not be unprecedented for one of these luminaries to make a surprise appearance and of course they could not be given any but the best accommodation. Hades had wisely chosen to be prepared for this eventuality. The Lady-Queen Hestia had once been taken unawares by Lord Zeus – not for the first time, if rumour be believed – and had had no choice but to put Lord Dionysus out of his temple to accommodate her liege. Both Zeus and Dionysus had been mortally offended; Hestia had surrendered the bulk of her holdings to Zeus and been forced to bestow the remainder upon Dionysus and accept a subservient place as his queen. While Zeus was likely to penalise one of his lords to a far lesser extent than he did the ladies and queens of the faction – for whatever reason, Mighty Zeus was noted for his bias against women – Lord Hades had no wish to be forced to surrender even one acre of his territory in recompense for such a faux pas.
The stadium itself was built to enclose the stadion track, two hundred paces in length and seventy-five wide. The stands rose twenty feet above the sand of the arena, then raked up another thirty, creating a colossal area of seating for a few dozen watchers. At the north end of the stadium the great statue of Lord Zeus loomed over the hosts’ royal box and glowered at the equally magnificent image of Lord Cronus which dominated the south and shadowed the gallery of the Muses. The east and west stands were watched over by the six women who were they nearest that the Olympians and Titans themselves had to gods: in the west, the Moirae – the Fates – and in the east, the Erinyes – the Furies.
Acastus emerged into the stadium from the Gate of the Erinyes – the western entrance, facing the great statues of the Furies. Although some might call it blasphemous, Acastus looked up and blew a kiss to the three figures: Tisiphone, the Avenger of Blood; Alecto, the Implacable; and Megaera, the Jealous One. They were savage figures, but Acastus was quite glad to enter under the remorseless gaze of those avenging spirits; they punished breaches of filial duty and his family were everything to him. Besides, their serpent locks were enough akin to those of the Gorgon helm that Nike’s élite had adopted the Furies as unofficial patrons, and dragon-winged and snake-haired they might be, but these renderings were actually quite lovely.
“If it is favour you seek, look to our backs,” Atalanta suggested in a whisper, glancing over her shoulder at the figures of the three Moirae. “They have more say in what shall be than the Kindly Ones.”
“True,” Acastus murmured, “but Clotho is barely a child and Atropos a crone.”
“Admittedly, Lachesis is rather splendid,” Sisiphon added, “but overall, I have to agree with Acastus; I would sooner tangle with the Kindly Ones, claws and all.”
Atalanta shook
her head and Xenophon shot a
dirty look over his shoulder; it was clear that the captain of
Poseidon’s squad
– a burly warrior of the Taurus Guard – did not
think well of Minos’
representatives, who had come to
“Anyway,” Acastus continued, in an even softer whisper, “there is no value in petitioning the Moirae. Their decisions were made a long time ago; the thread is spun and measured and awaits only the final cut.”
“You are a theologian as well?” Atalanta scoffed. “I suppose it is a small mercy that your attention is not entirely absorbed by pretty girls.”
“Squad!” Xenophon barked impatiently. “Salute to the Lord Hades and the Lady Persephone!”
The Jaffa turned and clapped their fists to their chests in salute to the box beneath the statue of Zeus.
“Salute to the Muses!”
They turned and repeated their salute towards the gallery at the south end of the stadium. Despite Xenophon’s use of the plural, only one of the Muses had appeared to officiate over these games. The feuds of the Olympians and the Titans were notable for their bitterness and ferocity, even by the standards of the Goa’uld. In order for any kind of diplomacy and commerce to exist there had arisen the need for a neutral party. This was the role that fell to the Muses, the twelve symbiote-daughters of Zeus by the Titan Mnemosyne, who had long served as the tenuous liaisons between the various System Lords of the two factions. Two of the sisters – Lady Clio and Lady Euterpe – had come to Kritos to test the nominated athletes, but the woman in the box, flanked by several ranks of armed Jaffa in the white ceremonial armour of the Boeotian Guard, was not one of those.
“Lady Melpomene,” Sisiphon whispered. “She seems to have little faith in the Eirene Olympus.”
Acastus could barely blame Lady Melpomene for her paranoia. Thirty guards might seem excessive, especially as the bodyguards of the Muses were the only Jaffa at the Olympiad permitted under the Treaty to bear fully-charged energy weapons, but of the twelve sisters, only the reclusive Mneme had never been shot and the Lady Erato – reputedly the best-loved of the Muses – had been slain while attempting to broker peace between Hephaestus and Coeus. The party responsible – the Titan, Coeus – had been wiped out in a concerted assault of the Olympic and Titanic armies, but this gave the surviving Muses little comfort and less reassurance. This was why they never travelled without considerable protection.
“Swear the oath!” Xenophon commanded.
As one, the Jaffa held their hands over their hearts and spoke in unison. “We swear in the sight of the Moirae and of the Erinyes that we shall obey the laws and statues of the Olympiad. We shall abide by the rulings of the Muses and comport ourselves so as to bring honour to our masters. We shall compete to the best of our ability, but use no prohibited means to enhance our performance.”
As he swore the oath, Acastus wondered if a human might consider a Jaffa’s prim’ta to be an unnatural stimulant or enhancement, but it was an idle thought; after all, no human would ever compete in the Olympics. Besides, the oath was all form. At least half of the competitors would cheat as much as they were able, with the complete collusion of their masters. The only real sin was to be caught by supporters of a rival interest. To Acastus, such behaviour was inexplicable; what value could there be in attaining a victory without honour?
“Turn to the gate!” Xenophon snapped and the Jaffa filed out. In the tunnel behind the Gate of the Erinyes, they passed Hephaestus’ squad – a grim-faced assortment – waiting their turn while Aphrodite’s athletes emerged from the Gate of the Moirae.
“So,” Atalanta said, “I know that I am to compete in three track races, the cross country and the melee shooting, but what about the rest of us?” She gave a soft moan as Acastus worked a particularly difficult knot out of the muscles of her shoulders.
“I am in the stadion, double and hoplitodromos, the pentathlon, both hand-to-hand events and the melee,” Acastus said.
“An impressive tally.”
“I am beginning to suspect that Primus Meriope hates me,” he mused. Without the slightest trace of self-consciousness, he ran his hands down Atalanta’s naked back, acting for all the world as though half the men in the barracks would not kill to have their hands where his were.
Acastus had never lied to his mother; it could not have escaped his attention that Atalanta was a woman of considerable beauty, but she was merely a friend and comrade and he was the same to her. Once graduated from their apprenticeships, Medusa’s Jaffa shared their dormitories, with no separation of men and women. The two Gorgons were therefore largely oblivious to the jealous gazes which Poseidon’s other warriors shot towards Acastus.
“It is a heavy load for you,” Atalanta agreed.
“I will be lucky if I can still walk by the time of the stadion,” Acastus said with a rueful chuckle, “let alone run. You have only five events; why are you so tense?”
“Five is no small number, and I am worried about the cross country race,” Atalanta admitted; it would have been futile to deny that she was anxious when he could feel the tension in every muscle. “I have heard tell that more athletes are injured in that event than any other.”
“All of the athletes away from the stadium and out of sight,” Acastus agreed. “The pentathlon is much the same, I believe.”
“You will be careful, won’t you?” Atalanta asked.
“As careful as you,” he promised. “I think Sisiphon is wiser or luckier than we; he is only running in the stadion and the double and fighting armed and unarmed. Four events and nothing outside the stadium.”
“Where is Sisiphon?”
“He is spying out the land,” Acastus replied, “and the competition. He is a scout by training. He says that is the only reason he is even on the squad.”
“I doubt that,” Atalanta chuckled. “He must have displayed some ability to have impressed the Muses. The Ladies Clio and Euterpe spent eight hours testing my abilities before they approved my inclusion in the tournament.”
“Really?” Acastus asked, surprised.
Atalanta propped herself on her elbow and turned to look quizzically at her comrade. “What do you mean?”
“All they did with me was look me over and mark my examination documents.”
Atalanta grinned. “And how long did they spend looking?”
“About an hour…or so.”
“Typical,” Atalanta snorted. “I have to struggle even to be allowed to compete; all a male athlete has to do is show a bit of thigh.”
“Well, a lot of thigh,” Acastus noted, defensively.
With a pattering of feet, Sisiphon dashed into the squad’s rest room. “Cover yourselves!” he snapped, snatching up a pair of robes and tossing them to the Gorgons. “The Lady…”
The rest of Sisiphon’s words were lost in the hubbub as the warriors wrapped robes and towels around their naked forms and scrambled to line up in the centre of the room.
The lady of whom Sisiphon had spoken entered the rest room. She was flanked by a nymph and moved with the dignity of a queen, but for a Goa’uld her garb was humble. She wore a robe of sky blue and shimmering, opalescent grey fabric. Her forearms were bound by delicate, golden bands and ribbons; gold and lapis studded the straps of her sandals. Most notably, however, the left side of her face was covered by an exquisitely-crafted half-mask of gold, supported by a narrow band which encircled her head and held her long, black hair in place. She stood before the athletes and cast her grey good eye along their line; her gaze paused for a moment on each of them and rested longest on Atalanta.
At last she turned to Xenophon. “You are all dressed,” she said. “How very disappointing.”
“I…forgive us, Lady Mentor,” Xenophon stammered. “Jaffa; dis…”
Lady Mentor raised her hand with a kindly laugh. “At ease, Jaffa. Spare my poor nymph’s blushes,” she implored, although the girl in question wore a mischievous grin that suggested it would take a great deal to draw a blush to her cheeks. “You are the pride of Poseidon’s forces, but that must matter little to you now. There are so few opportunities for any Jaffa to attain personal glory.”
“We live to serve, My Lady,” Xenophon assured her.
“Of course,” she replied, impatiently. “As Lord Poseidon’s representative at these games it is my honour to see you strive to uphold the reputation of your god. I trust that you are ready and that you shall comport yourselves with honour?”
“Yes, My Lady.”
“Good,” Mentor said, cutting short any further obsequies. She seemed mercurial and brusque, even for a Goa’uld, but Acastus found himself warming to her. Mentor seemed to have no time for empty flattery; in that – and in some other, indefinable way – she reminded him of Captain Medusa.
“That is my part in the proceedings. Yours will be as follows. This evening, all athletes are required to attend the ritual sacrifices to Zeus, Cronus and to our host, Lord Hades. You will also have an opportunity to make your own offerings to Poseidon and his underlords; I suggest that you also take the opportunity to look over the opposition. The games begin in earnest tomorrow with the double stadion in the morning and the melee shooting event in the afternoon.”
The Jaffa nodded their understanding. This was expected; the four-hundred pace foot race was one of the least prestigious events and as such was usually the first to be contested, likewise the shooting. It was the tests of true strength, speed and endurance that held the greatest place in the Jaffa heart.
“The evening will see further ritual sacrifices and the third day plays host to the thrown weapons event and the static shooting.” These were minor events, of little consequence and none of Poseidon’s Jaffa were competing. “Those unoccupied will be expected to assist in preparations for the Festival of Zeus in the evening. On day four the pentathlon will be competed, followed by the long foot race and further ritual sacrifices.”
Xenophon stifled a groan; clearly he was entered in both events. The pentathlon was a gruelling combination: a horse ride and an upriver swim of one thousand paces each, a long run across rugged country, and then a skirmish against automated enemies to reach a target range for the final spear-throwing match. To follow that with a fifteen-thousand pace endurance race would exhaust Xenophon and he would certainly have little hope of victory in the latter event.
Mentor ’s eye revealed something that might be sympathy, but that was all the sign she gave before she pressed on. “Day five sees the ippokotion” – Lady Mentor sounded as though the equestrian events were of particular interest to her; for most of the squad it simply meant another day of rest – “while the cross-country and swimming races will take place on day six.”
Now it was Thessalius’ turn to groan. The young Jaffa would be faced with a sixteen mile run over rough terrain, followed by several rounds of six-hundred pace swimming races. Acastus’ sympathy was great: He was competing in four of the remaining six events.
“On day seven, after the morning sacrifices, the hoplitodromos will be held, but I advise those of you also competing in the unarmed combat to save your strength for the afternoon. Lose the race and you lose nothing more; lose a bout in the pankration and you may well lose your lives.”
Acastus was impressed that she genuinely seemed to care; it was something else that made her seem more like Medusa. She was right about the seventh day’s events; the armoured race was a contest of little note and death in combat was not unusual, even in the ritual arena.
“Survive the pankration and you will be allowed to participate in that day’s ritual; the largest and most sombre by far, the Festival of the Moirae. On day eight the main event is the skirmish shooting, but there is also the archery. The ninth day will be entirely given over to the panoplation; again, those fighting in the armed event should be sure to rest well the night before. The tenth day will see the stadion and the Festival of the Muses; on the eleventh day the olive wreaths will be presented to the victors and the final ritual sacrifices shall be conducted. At sunset of the final day, the Eirene Olympus ends. All of you must attend the presentation, but you must be on board your transport and ready to leave by noon, because the traditional destruction of the stadium by the defeated sponsors is loosely arranged to begin as soon as the peace ends and there is always the chance that someone will get trigger happy and commence ahead of schedule.”
Mentor looked them over again. “Have you learned much of your opposition?” she asked Sisiphon.
“Not as yet, My Lady.” The Taurus Guard did not bother to ask how Lady Mentor knew of his activities. It was said that even Lord Poseidon had no secrets from his councillor; having met her, it was not hard to believe.
“Very well. Iphigenia,” she said, addressing her nymph. “Make your report.”
The slender girl stepped forward and made a small bow to her mistress. “My Lady,” she acknowledged. “Jaffa.” She turned and addressed herself principally to Xenophon. “At My Lady’s bidding, I have compiled a survey of the athletes competing in the Olympiad. It is a strong field, but there are only a dozen serious contenders. Foremost, of course, is Ephialtes of Hades, champion of the…”
“We know who Ephialtes is,” Xenophon assured her.
Every Jaffa
in the Olympic and Titanic territories knew that
name, for it had been
given to the nine hundred and thirty-third Olympiad. The past four
years had
been the years of Ephialtes; as the stadion champion, he was the most
famous Jaffa
in the entire
galaxy. This was the glory of which
Iphigenia blushed. “Of course. Other than Ephialtes, the servants of our host, Lord Hades, present little challenge. The other favourites for the stadion are Tithonus, a servant of Aphrodite, and Nimeus and Atalanta of our own squad.”
“How serious a threat is this Tithonus?” Xenophon asked.
“He is fast,” Iphigenia admitted, “but he would appear to have been chosen more for looks than prowess. He is most handsome,” she added, with a small blush, “but fleet of foot, agile, and not without endurance.”
“Indeed?” Atalanta raised an eyebrow and the nymph grinned lasciviously.
Mentor gave a small frown. “How my servants perform their duties does not concern me,” she said, with the unspoken warning that it most certainly did not concern any Jaffa. “Continue, Iphigenia.”
“Yes, My Lady. The most fiercely contested event in this Olympiad shall most likely be the pentathlon. The favourites are: Master Xenophon; Metrocles, a servant of Oceanus and also a favourite in the swimming; Iason, a cross-country runner and captain of Lady-Queen Demeter’s squad; Dardanus, the defending champion; and Latona, one of the Companions of Artemis.”
Acastus was a little slighted not to be listed among the front-runners; he felt that he had the edge over Xenophon at least.
Xenophon nodded. “Combat?”
“Theocritus of Elysia and one of Atlas’ giants, Onyx, are the strongest hopes, but Amadines of Thracis and Mandracles of Aetna may present an unpleasant surprise. In other areas it looks to be a fairly open field.” The young woman looked concerned. “There is something else,” she admitted. “Zeus has entered only three athletes and of them I know almost nothing.”
“My Lady,” Sisiphon said, “in this case I was able to learn something.”
“Speak,” Lady Mentor ordered.
“I have seen the giants of Atlas,” Sisiphon said, “but never have I seen anything like these three. They are huge; monstrous creatures of vast size and terrifying demeanour. They are called Gargittios, Orthon and Cerberus. The servants at their barracks call them the Hounds of Zeus. He expects them to triumph in all events.”
“What are they that he can be so confident?” Acastus asked.
Xenophon shot Acastus a warning look for speaking out of turn, but Lady Mentor answered before the Captain could issue a reprimand.
“I have heard only vague reports,” she admitted, “but I believe that I can say with certainty that they are the result of a thousand years of breeding, aimed at producing the perfect athletes to ensure Zeus’ domination of the Olympiad. Genetic manipulation was used at the genesis of their bloodlines, but they themselves have been neither altered, nor engineered and so the Muses have allowed their participation. Each has been entered in every event, although Cerberus is a runner, Orthon a fighter and Gargittios a swimmer. They are likely to be the greatest threat to you, both as rival athletes and as a danger to your lives.
“Do not be discouraged, however. There is no such thing as a perfect athlete; you will beat them if you can find their weaknesses.”
Xenophon nodded. “Then with your permission, My Lady, we shall return to our training.”
“You have my permission and my blessing, Captain. As the leader of this squad, you shall attend on me after the ceremonies tonight; I hope to have more information on the Hounds by then.”
As the Jaffa returned to their exercises, Sisiphon went over to Acastus. “You are another unknown quantity, my friend,” he said. “Young and untried, but many people consider you a threat to the favourites.”
Acastus smiled. “Thank you, Sisiphon.”
“I am not merely seeking to boost your ego, but to warn you, Acastus. You will be watched by many eyes. Aside from the Hounds, only one athlete is entered for so many events as you; a servant of Dionysus named Moera.”
“A Maenad?” Acastus asked, warily. He had heard enough stories of Dionysus’ wild women to fear an encounter with one. They were said to be savage, feral creatures with wanton, insatiable appetites. If the tales were true, they were peerless lovers, but they fed on their luckless paramours, gorging on warm human – or Jaffa – flesh, purely for pleasure.
“You know that a Maenad would not even be allowed in the stadium, let alone to be entered in the games. However, I did catch sight of this Moera and she is as close to a Maenad as you and I are ever likely to see. I do not think that she is your match, but there is some bestial power about her. Beware.”
“I suppose that I will have to encounter her,” Acastus mused.
“It would be hard not to meet her at some point. She is competing in every event that you are.”
*
That night, during the ritual sacrifices to Zeus, Cronus and the Muses, Poseidon’s squad sized up the opposition. There were two hundred and eighty-three competitors, of all shapes and sizes, but all eyes were drawn, first and foremost, to the three hounds. As Sisiphon had told them, Cerberus, Orthon and Gargittios were huge; Orthon, the largest of the three, was well over seven feet tall. There were others there worth taking note of, however, from the champions Ephialtes and Dardanus to newcomers like Tithonus and Latona.
As was usual, there were few female athletes present, with only Artemis – who never entered a male Jaffa for the games – entering more than one woman. This was something of a relief to Acastus, who understood that every man here was skilled, but that a woman who found her way to the Olympiad must be truly exceptional. He was not blasé, however; not only would his male opponents provide challenge enough, there was at least one female present who was his nearest rival; and possibly a cannibal.
At last, Acastus managed to find his way to a position from which he could see Dionysus’ squad around the edge of the ritual bonfire. It was considered acceptable for Jaffa competitors to conduct the rites of their own gods in this opening ceremony, but the behaviour of the Dionysians bordered on the blasphemous. The rites were notionally a solemn event, but these Jaffa danced wildly about a smaller fire, clutching each other close and working themselves into an ecstatic frenzy. He had heard many rumours about the Dionysian Jaffa; that they revelled in the flesh far more than a Jaffa should, and that they treated death as so much a part of life that they paid it no mind.
In the heart of the squad of nine Jaffa, a lone woman danced, throwing her body against those of her comrades with crazed abandon, and Acastus could see what Sisiphon had meant about her. Her pale, amber eyes were wide and wild, her long hair a tangled mane and her handsome features were set into a kind of bestial snarl. In the light of the ritual fires, her olive skin glowed through the long, ragged holes that had been torn – by her hands or another’s – in her once-demure robe. She was more like an animal than a Jaffa, and yet…there was an undeniable presence about Moera; a sensuality that Acastus found fascinating, in spite of himself.
It was only when the woman suddenly stopped dancing and turned her fiercely flashing eyes on him that Acastus realised that he had been staring. He tried to look away, but her gaze seemed to hold him paralysed.
“Someone seems quite taken with you,” Atalanta noted. She was standing at Acastus’ shoulder and he knew that he must truly have been distracted not to have noticed her approach.
He broke away from Moera’s lantern gaze. He felt weary to the depths of his soul and Moera’s interest in him did little to refresh him. Aware that his bleak thoughts were out of place, he forced himself to grin impudently when he turned to his friend. “Many seem taken with you.”
He regretted the quip at once, for Atalanta seemed rather subdued by the suggestion. “It is almost as though they do not see a warrior in me.”
“That will change,” Acastus assured her.
Atalanta shrugged and then sought solace in teasing her comrade. “She is still staring at you.”
Reluctantly, Acastus let his gaze be drawn back to Moera’s. “She is my arch-rival, it seems.”
One of Dionysus’ other Jaffa put his arms around Moera from behind, one hand clutching her hip and the other cupping her breast through the torn robe. Acastus expected the woman to repulse the man, perhaps violently, and he was shocked by the twist of anger that seized him when instead she leaned back into his arms. The Dionysian Jaffa were infamous for their scandalous abandon; it seemed that their reputation was not undeserved.
“Ignore her,” Atalanta advised, as Moera and her lover spun back into the whirling Bacchanal. “Either that or find the girl and bed her; you’re a free man, after all and she doesn’t look like one to stand on propriety.”
The back of Acastus’ neck flushed red. “Somehow, I do not think that I would be best advised to sneak into the Dionysian barracks.”
“Such things can be done,” Atalanta shrugged. “I did manage to meet my husband when he was a warrior in an enemy camp.”
“Yes, Atalanta,” Acastus sighed, having heard the story a dozen times before, “and I appreciate the benefits of your experience, but I believe that I will resist the urge.”
“As you wish, although such restraint can be unhealthy. Do you have a lover, Acastus? I have never asked.”
“I do not.”
“That’s odd, don’t you think? Most young men and women have a lover; even if you are not taken with one of your male comrades have none of the girls who swoon over you caught your eye?”
“It would be wrong to…”
“Your mother could hardly disapprove, and you know better than your brother how to avoid accidents.”
“Atalanta, please do not press this.”
The warrior-woman sighed. “As you wish. I suppose that I just worry about you. You are like a brother to me, Acastus; you know that.”
“And you are quite as annoying as any of my sisters,” he assured her, “with the added aggravation that you are older and wiser than I, instead of just believing that you are.”
“Well, you may be right not to dwell on matters of romance,” Atalanta conceded, as one or other of the Hounds crossed her line of sight; Orthon, she thought, although they all looked alike to her. “The woman may be a challenger, but so are those things, and I wager we shall have more trouble from them.”
“I shall not take that wager. I can scarcely believe that anything so brutal would be allowed to compete in honourable competition.”
“Only true Jaffa treat the games with honour; our sponsors merely wish us to win. We can only hope that with all of the effort put into breeding them so big, the Hounds’ creators were too arrogant to train them properly.”
Over by the sacrificial fires, the high priest of Hades slaughtered the last of the mighty oxen chosen for the occasion. The hot blood of the beast steamed and hissed as it sprayed across the bonfire and a hundred trumpets blared, signalling the end of the rites of sacrifice and the beginning of the inaugural feast. Without pause, the Dionysians fell upon the charred carcasses of their sacrificial beasts, hauling them from the fires and tearing the hot flesh with their fingers and teeth.
“I shall retire soon,” Acastus decided, turning his face from the scene. “I do not wish to run the double stadion weighed down with heavy food.”
“Agreed; but let us not run on an empty stomach, either.”
*
Acastus wandered slowly around the grounds of Poseidon’s barracks, gazing up at the stars. He had spent three hours in kelno’reem, but the dreamless release of sleep eluded him still. He enjoyed stargazing in Akrotiri and it always helped him to relax, but here the constellations were unfamiliar and uncomforting.
His reverie was broken by the sound of someone climbing – with a fair attempt at stealth – up the wall around the barracks. Unarmed, Acastus chose to melt into the shadows rather than meet the intruder head on. He crouched in the darkness and felt for a suitable rock. The largest he could find was only the size of a child’s fist and so, with a silent curse against all landscape gardeners, he palmed it to add weight to his own punch.
Acastus heard the intruder pause at the top of the wall and then, with catlike grace, she dropped to the ground. She wore a simple robe and long, wild hair flowed out behind her as she fell. She crouched on the turf, sniffing the air; it was her feral grace that gave her away.
“Moera?” Acastus asked, his surprise overriding his caution.
The woman spun to face him and took a step backwards, flexing her fingers like claws. Her lips parted in a savage snarl, but as her luminous eyes fell upon him her mouth curled into a kind of smile. Acastus wondered if what the woman could be doing here. Had she come to try and disable the competition, or was she doing as Atalanta had suggested he do? The latter seemed unlikely, as she seemed able to find such distraction in her own barracks.
“You know me?” she asked, tilting her head on one side.
“I know your name. I am Acastus of Halicarnasus.”
“Yes. I came for you.” The woman’s words could be taken more than one way and her tone gave little away.
“Why have you come for me? You know that you have earned death just for setting foot in this compound under the rule of the Eirene.”
“Only if you speak of it. And I came because I knew that you would not.” She took a step towards him, her entire body rolling with the motion and her voice dropping to a sensual purr. “I saw how you looked at me, Acastus.”
“Your presence flatters me, then.”
“You speak cleverly and prettily. I have little time for words, however,” she added, taking another rolling step.
“I…I regret that I can offer you nothing else,” Acastus said, although it was not easy to say. This close to her, he felt an instant connection between them; almost overwhelming and entirely sexual. She radiated a fierce, demanding vitality that was difficult to resist. And yet, he knew nothing about her except that he wanted her as he had never wanted a woman before; not even…
Bitter memory helped him, but it still took all of his strength to fight his desire.
Moera’s eyes narrowed. “You would reject me?” she hissed.
“Never,” Acastus assured her, certain that any other answer would invite a sudden and painful death. “However, neither of us – myself in particular – would compete at our best if we were to expend so much energy the night before the games began. I would not wish to give you poor sport in the morning.”
Moera gave a sharp laugh. “Pretty words, but I will test them, be assured. After the tournament, perhaps?”
Acastus bowed, although he never took his eyes off the woman. “It would be my honour.”
“I shall see you on the field tomorrow. As you save your strength tonight, I expect great things from you.”
“I shall endeavour not to disappoint.”
Moera stepped close and brushed her lips against his, the touch sending a shudder through his whole body; she growled and he almost echoed the sound. She stepped away, grinned at him and then ran to the wall, scrambled up the ivy and disappeared into the night. She left Acastus feeling dazed and confused, and not a little intimidated. She was strong, fast and agile and would be difficult to beat.
As he made his way back towards the barracks, he wondered if he could defeat such a natural athlete. After a few moments, his thoughts turned to how he could safely break his assignation with this deadly female. After a few minutes more, he began to question whether he should try to do so. Atalanta and Helena were right; it was unusual for a man of his age not to have taken a lover. Perhaps it was time that he gave in to temptation, even if Moera would not be the only love of his life.
*
Day 2 – The double-stadion and the melee shooting
Poseidon’s Jaffa were over-represented in the double-stadion. Four of the thirty-one competitors in this least of events ran in the Sea God’s name. Acastus flexed his muscles to loosen them and cursed the long, loose tunic that threatened to tangle his legs. He had trained naked and in armour, but never in anything quite like the traditional garb of the Olympios, adopted over nudity following the debacle at the three hundred and third Olympiad, when the Maenads made their memorable first – and only – appearance.
The competitors assembled on the starting line and ranged themselves out. This would be a straightforward race from the southern end of the two-hundred pace track to the northern and back again. There was enough space on the track for the runners to go more-or-less abreast on the straight, but it was at the turn that there would be trouble. At the far end of the track, the runners would be bunched together, some running one way, the others already running back; a perfect opportunity for the trailing runners to take a swipe at the leaders. Because of this, Acastus was particularly concerned to see that the draw had placed him between Cerberus and a burly Cryoguard who proved to be Amadines, the Jaffa named by Iphigenia as a strong contended in the fighting events.
Moera, favourably placed at one end of the line, shot Acastus a lascivious wink that did nothing to help him focus on the race. Cerberus looked down at the young Gorgon and gave a broad grin, exposing teeth that had been filed to ragged points.
The athletes turned from each other and focused all of their attention on the far end of the track as the air in front of them crackled with power. The energy shield enforced fair play and ensured that false starts were rare; if an athlete began before the signal, he would strike the shield and rebound with ten times the force of the impact. Although he knew that this event was of little importance, Acastus felt his mouth grow dry as he waited for the signal. His palms were sweating with anticipation and he rubbed them together, as though by removing the sweat he could remove the sense of growing anxiety.
“Let the athletes be ruled by their oaths!” The voice of Lady Melpomene boomed out, speaking the words of the ritual caution. Her gallery was behind them, but her words were amplified and broadcast from the entire perimeter of the stadium. “The athletes will stand at their marks!”
As one, the athletes took a step forward, placing one foot on the starting line. Acastus felt the hair on his toes stand on end as they drew close to the shield.
“The athletes will take their stance!”
The Jaffa dropped into thirty-one slightly different starting positions. Acastus favoured a standing start for the double stadion and Cerberus apparently felt the same, but Amadines crouched low, bending his weight over his forward foot until his head almost touched the energy shield.
A mighty cacophony of horns arose and the race began; the air shimmered as thirty-one bodies broke through the dissipating shield.
Amadines had a good start from his crouch, tearing through the first hundred paces, but he soon began to flag. As Acastus had expected, the Cryoguard was trying to run the race as a sprint, but he lacked the endurance to maintain such a pace for so long. Acastus felt that he was doing well, but away to his right he saw that Atalanta was well ahead of him and Nimeus, on the far side of Cerberus, was matching her. Cerberus himself began slowly, but he simply never stopped accelerating. He soon drew level with Acastus and passed him, powering forward, past Nimeus, growing faster and faster until Acastus could not believe he would be able to stop at the line.
He was right. Cerberus skidded to a halt several paces beyond the line, losing vital yards as he turned. He crossed the line running back just as Nimeus began his turn and for a moment the two were right on top of one another. As Cerberus accelerated past the Taurus Guard, he snapped up his elbow and caught the smaller Jaffa square in the face, knocking him flat.
As Acastus sped towards him, Cerberus raised his other elbow. Forewarned, however, Acastus pitched his momentum into a diving roll under the blow. He tumbled to a halt on the line and took off after Cerberus, noting with some satisfaction that the Hound had staggered when his treacherous attack failed to connect. Despite this, the big Jaffa was impossible to catch. As before, he did not flag; he simply gained speed until he reached the line and this time he did not stop until he reached the stadium wall and braced himself with his hands.
For a moment, it looked as though the Muse’s guards might actually shoot the Hound. It was clear that he had no intention of trying to scale the wall and attack Lady Melpomene, however, and so the staff weapons were lowered. Cerberus looked up to the gallery and gave a mocking laugh.
Acastus saw little of this, for as soon as he had crossed the line he jogged to a halt and then turned to walk back towards Nimeus. His fallen comrade lay very still, although his chest still rose and fell, and Sisiphon crouched over him.
“Furies, those Hounds are fast,” Atalanta gasped, walking over and leaning on Acastus’ shoulder for support.
Acastus slowed. “You ran well,” he told her.
“Not well enough; I know that.”
“Who won?”
“I do not know. We shall have to wait on the Muse’s decision.”
This was always the case in the Olympiad, of course. Olive wreaths were awarded at the discretion of the officiating Muse or Muses; as a matter of strict technicality actually winning the event was unimportant. Fortunately for Atalanta, if not for Acastus, the Muses were not permitted by the Olympiad’s sponsors to merely indulge their whims and reward their favourites and the only true discretion permitted to them was to disqualify those who displeased them or who breached the rules of the tournament.
The trumpets blared, and the two Gorgons turned to listen to the announcements.
“The athlete who attained third place in the double stadion,” Melpomene announced, “is Atalanta of Stymphalia!”
“Congratulations,” Acastus said. Atalanta smiled, but third place brought no glory, however good the run.
“The athlete who attained second place in the double stadion is Cerberus of Iolchus!”
Atalanta could not suppress a flash of satisfaction that Cerberus had not won the event.
“The victor of the double stadion is Moera of Phrygia!”
Acastus turned to look for the feral woman, only to find her grinning at his shoulder.
“You proved poor sport after all,” she teased. “I hope to find you still save your energies.” She darted forward and kissed him on the lips and then bestowed a similar kiss on Atalanta before jogging away to the waiting embraces of her jubilant squad. Acastus looked away, not wishing to see the other Dionysians greet her.
Atalanta raised an eyebrow.
“Do not ask,” Acastus told her. “If you love me, do not ask.”
“As you wish.”
The two Gorgons turned back towards Sisiphon and Nimeus and Acastus felt a chill in his blood. Nimeus’ breathing was much harder to see now and Sisiphon’s pose was one of great concern.
“He is drifting in and out of consciousness,” Sisiphon explained.
Atalanta nodded. “We’ll return him to the barracks. I can take his legs and…”
“No,” Sisiphon whispered.
“Sisiphon?”
“It…It is of no matter now.” He reached down and gently closed Nimeus’ eyes.
“Still, we can not mourn him here. We can…”
“It is alright!” Sisiphon snapped. “The need for care is passed; he can not be hurt any more. I will take him.” He gently gathered the other man into his arms and stood.
Acastus and Atalanta watched in surprise as Sisiphon struggled away.
“I had no idea,” Atalanta sighed. “Pity Sisiphon.”
“Pity Nimeus,” Acastus said darkly. “That was nothing short of murder, Atalanta, and the hound would have done the same to me if he could.”
“Thank the Fates that you were too quick for that.”
“Too slow,” Acastus corrected. “I knew what he planned because Nimeus reached that fate first.”
Atalanta took his arm. “Come, my friend; I’ve no stomach for jubilation.”
Acastus nodded his agreement. “It is an ill-starred beginning to the contest. I fear that this Olympiad will be bloody.”
*
Nimeus’ death bred great anger in Poseidon’s barracks, especially when word reached the athletes that Cerberus would receive no more than a warning for his actions, by order of Lord Hades in person. They knew that the Lady Mentor would lodge an appeal for the Muse to override the host’s cautious sentence, but the killer was Zeus’ man and even the Muses could not cross him with impunity.
“We must focus, however,” Xenophon told his squad. “We know now where the true danger lies, but our duty has not changed. We must be wary of these Hounds of Zeus, but we have come to give our all in competition. For Nimeus’ sake, we must thwart the Hounds by triumphing over them.”
There was a murmur of angry agreement from the squad.
“If I get the chance…” Sisiphon growled.
“Control yourself,” Atalanta hissed. “If you tangle with Cerberus in anger, he will crush you!”
“And the squad will be cast out in order to placate Lord Zeus,” Xenophon added. “There is a time and a place for revenge and it is not here and it is not now.”
Sisiphon fumed, but in silence.
“Now; let those of us engaged in the melee shooting prepare,” Xenophon commanded. “And for the Furies’ sake, watch your backs! I do not wish to bury any more friends at this Olympiad.”
*
Of course, the
melee shooting match was in
many ways a fatal accident simply waiting to happen. The competitors in
this
event – almost one hundred and sixty of them –
stood in a great loop in the
stadium, facing the ring of holographic projectors from which the
targets, some
static and some mobile, would be projected. When the match began, the
targets
would appear and disappear, twisting and leaping around the ring. Any
Force fields protected the stands where the sponsors and their guests sat. No such precautions existed for the athletes. Injury was common in the melee; death was not unusual.
The voice of the Muse boomed out. “Let the athletes be ruled by their oaths!”
To Acastus’ great relief, he was placed nowhere near to any of Zeus’ warriors and neither was Atalanta. He did find himself standing right beside Moera, however, and struggled not to let himself become distracted as they waited.
The Muse laid out the rules of the event: “The match will be marked by three blasts of the horn. Athletes will begin firing at the sound of the first horn; a second horn will signal the end of the match and athletes will cease fire immediately. No points will be scored after the second horn and any shot fired after the third horn sounds will result in disqualification from the event. The athletes will arm their staffs!”
The hiss and thump as one hundred and sixty staff weapons snapped open in unison was almost deafening. Acastus felt his scalp prickle as the simultaneous opening discharges unleashed a massive electromagnetic surge.
“Fates guide your hand, Jaffa,” Acastus whispered.
“And to where would you have it guided?” Moera asked.
> Startled, Acastus could not help glancing at Moera. Her eyes remained fixed above the targeting ring, however, and Acastus cursed himself for a fool as the horns blared out for the start of the match.
As he turned back, Acastus saw a static target, a simple set of concentric circles, appear from the ring. His staff blast hit the target dead on, but he was sure that at least two other Jaffa had beaten him to it. A second target – a springing deer – leaped up and this time Acastus scored the first hit, taking it in mid flight while Moera timed her shot for the apex of the leap.
After that, it was impossible to track the scoring. The targets – game animals, enemy warriors and even death gliders – came thick and fast and all that Acastus had time to do was react, fire, and scan for the next target. Instinct took over and it seemed only moments before the second horn blast signalled the end of the match. The targets kept leaping, but Acastus snapped his staff weapon closed at once. Many of the competitors kept firing, apparently not having heard the horns; fourteen warriors suffered a disqualification for this excessive zeal, and Melpomene called their names out before announcing the winners. One of Poseidon’s warriors – Polydeuces of Corinthos – was included on that list and was now due for a very ill-tempered lecture from Xenophon.
Acastus looked around as the disgraced shooters left the arena; they could count themselves lucky to be able to depart. The ground was littered with injured Jaffa; it seemed as though about one in ten of the athletes had been badly hit. Acastus had passed through the match unscathed, most likely because he was not considered a serious contender, but his feelings regarding Moera’s similar good luck were complicated and mixed. It might have made his life easier if she had been injured, but he was pleased that she was unhurt.
Acastus closed his eyes and murmured a benediction for the dead. He opened them again and saw Moera watching him with some bemusement; it seemed that the Dionysian reputation for disregarding death was well earned.
The voice of the Muse boomed out. “Aetes of Tyres is disqualified from the Olympiad for the deliberate shooting of Orthon of Iolchus!”
“Poor shooting,” Moera muttered as Aetes – a Raven Guard with sinister, hooded eyes – was led away. “Orthon isn’t dead. But yours was fine shooting,” she commended. “You have a sure hand.”
Acastus smiled. “I fear we have suffered from being placed so close. I am sure that you stole as many kills from me as I did from you. We might have had an easier time beside a less skilled warrior.”
“But where would be the pleasure in it?”
Servants from the various barracks came to collect their wounded; half-a-dozen Jaffa were not moving as they were taken away, but one was roaring in pain and rage. Orthon had suffered a blast to the shoulder, but did not seem greatly disabled.
The Muse spoke again. “The athlete who attained third place in the shooting match is Tithonus of Kyprios!”
“Not just a pretty face,” Moera purred, casting a smouldering glance towards the slim, beautiful young warrior.
“You do know how to make a man feel special,” Acastus noted.
Moera gave a deep, throaty chuckle and stroked Acastus’ arm. “Do not take it so. My interest in him does not end my interest in you.”
Acastus swallowed hard, trying not to show how hard that had hit him, but he was so shaken by her matter-of-factness that he missed the next announcement.
“Congratulations,” Moera said, squeezing his bicep.
“What?”
“Second place is nothing to shrug off.”
“Second…?” Acastus was rattled to think how distracted he must have been to miss that.
“Acastus!” Atalanta ran up and hugged him tight. “Fine shooting, my friend! Fine shooting indeed.”
“The victor of the shooting match is Atalanta of Stymphalia!” the Muse declared.
Atalanta looked thunderstruck. “Furies!” she gasped.
Acastus clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Chel’mok, Atalanta!”
“Many congratulations,” Moera added, brushing her fingers against the skin of Atalanta’s arm.
Atalanta took a step away from the Dionysian. “I think one of yours was killed,” she said coolly.
“Who?” Moera asked calmly.
“Anaster
of
Moera merely nodded once. “He will live on through his children.”
“You did not know him well?”
“He was my brother. Congratulations to you both; I must help to bear him.”
*
Day 3 – the throwing event, static shooting and the Festival of Zeus
“This is…weak,” Atalanta accused. “I realise that thrown weapons are not a major part of the machinery of modern warfare, but these fools barely seem to have trained.”
“Some of them are quite skilled,” Acastus replied distractedly, although he had barely glanced at the competition. His mind was quite absorbed by his own dark thoughts.
In the arena below them, one of Ares’ Cryoguards cast a javelin into the centre of the target. The Gorgons did not know the man’s name, but he soon would; there could be no doubt that he would win this match. The three Hounds were terrible, their presence in the throwing event an embarrassment to their master. They had not scored a single gold strike between them, although they threw with such power that they had broken seven target butts.
“The Ram has some ability, but no more than I do. You could defeat these champions easily, even on your worst day. Why are you not entered in this event?”
“Partly because I felt that six events is enough for a mere mortal like myself.”
“Perhaps a fair point, but this would not have taxed you.”
“This was the one event that I thought might not break my back, but Primus Meriope asked that I not consider an entry. She suggested to me that we should not display overmuch the extent of our training; in particular, she wishes the accuracy with which the Gorgons can engage with thrown weapons to remain as a surprise for any who might think to take us unprepared.”
Atalanta chuckled. “I sometimes think that Primus Meriope is too subtle for her own good.”
“I know that she is more subtle than I; for the rest, I put my faith in her.”
Acastus turned away from the arena and leaned back against the statue of Megaera. It was almost blasphemous for them to have climbed up to the platform where the statues of the Erinyes stood, but the air was clearer here and they knew that there would be no punishment; however much they might revere these mythical figures, the Goa’uld would never openly accord them sacrosanct status. Besides, if they had truly wished to keep people away, they would have guarded the stairs up to the platform, rather than simply concealing them.
“I do not think that I understand Moera,” Acastus sighed.
Atalanta chuckled. “Oh, my young friend; if any man ever understood a woman…”
“Does Leias not understand you?”
“I should hope not! The joy of my marriage would be in great jeopardy if Leias knew all that I thought and I am certain that he has thoughts that I do not want to know.”
“How can that be?”
“Well, I am certain that Leias neither needs nor wants to know how close I came to accepting Metrocles’ proposition.”
“Metrocles?” Acastus asked, confused.
“Oceanus’ champion swimmer,” Atalanta explained.
“He asked…But you are a married woman, Atalanta!”
“I know that; that is why I refused his offer, however tempting it might have been.”
“Tempting?”
Atalanta sighed. “He does have an exceptional body.”
“Atalanta!”
“I don’t know what you have to be upset about,” she challenged. “You’re not my husband.”
Acastus looked away from her, unable to meet her eyes.
“Acastus?”
“I do not like the thought of you breaking your vows,” he sighed. “I do not like the thought of uncovering any flaw in you.”
“I am flawed,” she assured him in a quiet voice.
Acastus took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I’m sorry, old friend. It was not my intention to lecture. I am sorry that you had to face that.”
“I expected it.”
“You did?”
“When I was put forward for the Olympiad, I was told that many athletes see the games as a chance to take a lover without fear of attachment or consequence. It seems that this is indeed the case.”
Acastus was shocked. “Who told you that?”
“Ilena, of course. Even among the Gorgons, few Jaffa are Olympians. For two from the same battalion, let alone company, to attend the same event is almost unheard of.”
“And you think that this is what Moera is seeking from me?”
“A lover without consequence? I do not think that she has much difficulty finding those at home. No; she wants something else, although I know not what. You should be wary of her, Acastus.”
“I am,” he promised, with a sigh. “I know that she has not set her aim on me alone.”
“And?”
“And…I do not know,” Acastus admitted. “She is very attractive, but… She is not what I want; not what I have sought.”
Atalanta shrugged. “Well, you would certainly not be the only one to seek such a release here. I think it likely that you would find it only once with Moera, however. Be prepared for that, won’t you?”
“That is my difficulty. I am not sure that is something that I could prepare for.”
“Then do not take her.”
“I am not sure that I can safely do that, either. I do not think that Moera would take rejection well. Has any man ever faced such a dilemma?”
“Yes,” Atalanta assured him. “But if you do decide to risk her embrace, I suggest you do so the day after tomorrow. You will have no events for two days after the pentathlon and that should give you time to recover your strength.”
“You think my need could be so great?” Acastus laughed.
“I am sure of it. That is a very energetic girl, Acastus and one who will take some satisfying.”
Acastus smiled. “And Metrocles?”
“Will no doubt find another to provide that which he seeks. He is a most handsome young Jaffa and I seem to be almost unique among athletes in holding to my vows. Perhaps Primus Meriope’s example has inspired me.”
There were four great festivals held during the Olympiad, honouring the highest lords of the competing factions, the Moirae who watched over the tournament and the Muses who controlled it. The first of the four was the Festival of Zeus, a collective rite of sacrifice and accord intended to cement the Eirene Olympus. Each squad would offer their own sacrifices to Mighty Lord Zeus, before assembling with their masters at the bonfire lit by Zeus’ own athletes to exchange gifts with the other squads and sponsors in a gesture of good faith.
As Poseidon’s squad received their gifts, each was passed to Mentor’s nymph, Iphigenia. The nymph’s dress was a masterpiece of sartorial and electronic engineering: it was not only a shimmering silken sheath that showed off her figure to dazzling effect, but also incorporated a complicated web of sensors and detectors which scanned each gift for monitoring devices, explosives and other booby traps. To refuse the gifts would have been an unthinkable insult; to accept them without precaution, nothing short of folly. Lady Mentor had chosen two of the Jaffa – Acastus and Xenophon – to act as a ceremonial guard: as the only member of the squad to win an event so far, Atalanta had been entrusted with the honour of presenting the squad’s gifts to the other sponsors.
Iphigenia passed an exquisitely crafted blade to Xenophon. She tapped a finger against the corner of her eye, the signal to place Lord Hephaestus’ gift with the other items which had been found to contain monitoring devices.
“The devil of it is that the items that we most want to remove from our presence are just the ones that we can not dump because the givers would know,” Acastus muttered.
Iphigenia laughed. “Ah, but how could they confront us without admitting to the discourtesy of placing the surveillance devices in the first place?” she asked. She flashed the two warriors a dazzling smile and then turned to receive the next gift.
Dionysus’ squad was represented by their captain, Kanos of Nysa, the man whom Acastus had seen embracing Moera at the first ritual sacrifice. Kanos carried nothing, but he led a woman by the hand. He wore an expression of embarrassment that seemed uncharacteristic for Dionysus’ Jaffa. The woman was petite and athletic, with a striking face, long dark hair and blurry, drugged eyes.
“Lady Mentor,” the man said, pushing the woman forward. “I present to you this gift from my master, Lord Dionysus.”
Mentor inclined her head. “We thank you, Master Kanos,” she replied formally, gesturing for Iphigenia to come and take the woman’s hand. “And our gratitude to your master; Lord Dionysus is truly generous to his allies.” As Kanos walked away, she turned to regard the drugged girl. “And what am I to do with this?” she wondered aloud.
“I think I can guess what Dionysus had in mind,” Iphigenia remarked. She was curiously outspoken for a nymph, but Mentor seemed to tolerate it.
“I have heard it rumoured that Lord Minos was to represent Great Lord Poseidon,” Xenophon remarked. “It may be that Dionysus expected as much.”
“Perhaps so,” Mentor agreed. “Iphigenia?”
Iphigenia ran a hand around the woman’s silhouette. “She is untainted, save by the sedatives,” the nymph replied. “You do not suppose that she would be violent without them?”
“I doubt even Dionysus would risk so direct and traceable an assault,” Mentor replied, “and this is no Maenad. But we should be cautious; I shall watch her. Come here, girl.” She held out an arm and the woman obediently moved to her side. At a gentle touch she slumped wearily to the ground and leaned her head against the Goa’uld’s hip. As the next athlete approached with his gift, Mentor dropped her hand to stroke the woman’s head.
“She is quite sweet, really,” Mentor noted.
“Not the word I should choose,” Xenophon murmured, watching the curve of the woman’s back as she bent her body to Mentor’s leg like a sleepy kitten. Acastus refrained from cautioning Xenophon to keep his mind on his duty; no Jaffa liked to be lectured by his juniors.
Once the gift giving was completed, Mentor dispatched Acastus with Xenophon and Iphigenia to return her gifts to her quarters – and to secure the dangerous ones where they could do no harm. Acastus was sure that he detected an almost mischievous twinkle in her eyes when she entrusted Xenophon with the girl. Once they reached the precinct, Xenophon insisted that Iphigenia help him to put the young woman safely to bed.
“And you are leaving her on her own?” Iphigenia teased.
“I do not bed drugged women,” Xenophon replied sternly as he locked the door to the bedroom. He pressed the key into Iphigenia’s hand. “Just in case. A woman need not be altered to be a threat.”
“How true,” the nymph replied.
The three of them walked back to the ritual ground, where the sacrificial fires now blazed high. Iphigenia almost ran; she was clearly eager to return to the fires, or to one of the Jaffa whom they had left in their crimson light. Acastus could not have turned away from the flames. The Jaffa had begun to dance, feeling secure under the eyes of the Muse’s white-robed guards. The Goa’uld had withdrawn to their own celebrations, leaving their servants to their pleasures. There was even some mingling going on, with members of one squad starting to bleed into the others. As Atalanta had noted, many romances – or liaisons, at least – had sprung up between the athletes and many Jaffa had openly sought their lovers tonight. Some of the braver unattached men were even hovering around the Companions of Artemis, an act akin to a moth fluttering around a fire, for it was death to touch one of the Huntresses.
It was of course dangerous to put yourself among any of the enemy, but the appeal was undeniable and Acastus found himself drifting towards Dionysus’ bonfire. Once more, the Dionysians had cast propriety to the winds, but this time a dozen or so of the other athletes had joined them. Acastus was pleased to see that Moera’s erstwhile lover, Kanos, was entwined with a man in the robes of Ares’ Cryoguard, but a moment later he saw Moera herself. She stood in front of Aphrodite’s runner, Tithonus, with one hand stroking his chest and the other resting on his hip. Tithonus was staring at her with a lazy smile on his face, his body angled hungrily towards her. As much as it hurt to realise that he had made no unique connection with Moera, Acastus felt greater anger to see how casually Tithonus accepted her interest, as though it were nothing of note.
Angry, hurt, and angry at himself for being hurt, Acastus turned away. His gaze fell on a slight figure standing in the shadows, staring as Acastus had been at Moera and Tithonus. Slowly, Acastus approached her.
“Mistress Iphigenia,” he said softly.
“Jaffa,” she replied. Her eyes shimmered with tears and burned with fury. “Will you escort me back to the precinct, please; I find I have no more stomach for celebration.”
“Of course, mistress,” he replied; he felt much the same himself.
He took Iphigenia’s arm and they walked back the way they had so recently come. Acastus recalled the spring in the nymph’s step as they approached the ritual ground; her feet were dragging now, but not from reluctance to leave.
Acastus released Iphigenia’s arm at the entrance to Lady Mentor’s sanctum, but she stayed by his side. “My chamber is quiet and secure,” she told him, apropos of nothing.
“I am sorry,” Acastus replied.
Iphigenia shrugged. “It is probably for the best. The Gods bless you, Jaffa.”
“And you, mistress.”
The nymph walked away and Acastus watched her go. His heart ached for her pain that was so like his own.
“You are a man of integrity.”
Acastus started at the sound of Lady Mentor’s voice, speaking at his shoulder. He had thought her dangerous before; now he wondered if even Captain Medusa could have challenged her.
“My lady.”
“You would have found her embrace more gentle than the Dionysian’s,” Mentor continued.
“It would have been bitter,” Acastus replied.
“Perhaps. I will protect you if the Dionysian seeks to make trouble, Jaffa. It is my duty to look to the health of the Jaffa who represent my Lord Poseidon and I will not allow a jealous athlete to interfere with my squad.”
“I thank you, my Lady.”
“On the other hand, you might do well to take a pragmatic view of this affair,” Lady Mentor added. “I am given to understand that you are seeking for one great love to complete your life.”
“I…yes, my Lady,” he admitted, surprised how much she knew. “My tal ma’te and her husband met while still very young. They had no lovers, no false starts, only the love that they still bear for one another. I envy…” He broke off, realising that of course a Goa’uld lady would not wish to hear his story.
“It is a state much to be desired,” Lady Mentor assured him, “but…Well, not to belittle your tal ma’te’s marriage, you may find that there are advantages to having lain with a woman such as Moera of Phrygia before meeting your one true love.”
Acastus blushed, uncomfortably. “I am not sure that I…”
“Oh,
you understand me well enough,
“You know of my Captain?” Acastus asked, feeling a swell of pride for his commander, who so often went unregarded, even by her direct superiors.
“Indeed. I have watched Captain Medusa with great interest ever since I became my Lord Poseidon’s right hand. She shows great promise; I should be a fool not to pay heed to her doings.”
Acastus bristled, angry at Lady Mentor’s implication. He knew his Captain despised her superiors, but she took too much pride in good service to ever betray them.
“Hmm,” Mentor purred.
“My Lady?”
“It is rare for a captain to inspire such loyalty. Lady Medusa must be extraordinary indeed.”
“You are most kind to say so, but my Captain bears no title of nobility,” Acastus noted boldly, half-expecting to be struck down for his temerity.
“Indeed?” Lady Mentor asked. “She has the right to do so; intriguing that she does not.” She stood a while in thought. “You may go, Jaffa,” she added after a long pause.
“Thank you, my Lady,” Acastus said.
*
Day 4 – the pentathlon and the long stadium race
The staff weapon had many strengths. It delivered a powerful blast at range, and was an effective close-combat weapon, granting the skilled user both reach and speed. One thing that it could not do, however, was be easily carried so as to leave the hands free. The two hundred and nine competitors in the Olympic pentathlon were required to carry their staff weapons from the start of the race to the finish, which was not too difficult during the riding and running stages of the race, but could prove difficult when attempting a one thousand pace swim against the slow but heavy current of the River Hippocrene. To meet this challenge the pentathletes had devised a number of carrying devices and hangers and Acastus had chosen to carry his staff in a long leather tube across his back.
“That will tangle you as you swim,” Moera cautioned; she herself wore no carrier at all.
“Perhaps,” he allowed, trying hard not to look at her.
Standing side-by-side, holding the reins of their horses, the two Jaffa surveyed what they could see of the competition. Acastus tried to banish the image of Moera and Tithonus from his mind and concentrate on the race, but it was not easy.
“A strong field,” Moera commented.
“Indeed,” Acastus agreed and his eyes sought those whom Iphigenia had named as the favourites.
He could see Metrocles a few places to his left; Atalanta’s would-be sweetheart was a broad-shouldered Jaffa with the powerful, sleek build of a born swimmer. He would be slower on land than many of his opponents, but he could build a good lead in the water and would emerge from the river less fatigued than most. Xenophon was beginning the race three ranks in front of Acastus. Dark and unsmiling, he stood next to a man who was his inverse image; Iason, Demeter’s captain, golden-haired and fair-skinned, but just as dour as Xenophon. He could not see the champion, Dardanus, now, but he had seen him earlier in the day. Dardanus had grey in his black hair and although he appeared supremely confidant his horse seemed far more anxious.
Acastus was not only a skilled rider, he also spent much of his free time in the stables of Akrotiri and knew horses well; as such, he found himself judging the field by the quality of their steeds. Without question the finest and most beautiful steed was a tall, strong, silver-haired mare who stood by the last of the favourites, the Huntress Latona. Latona herself was a woman of some beauty – Artemis chose her Companions on the basis of looks as well as skill and strength – and she stood with the haughty, dignified demeanour of a goddess.
“Do not waste your stares on her,” Moera suggested tartly. “The Companions of Artemis foreswear the company of all men.”
“So I have been told,” Acastus agreed, “although it might be better to look on one who has foresworn all men than on one who forswears none.”
Moera gave a low, throaty chuckle.
Acastus tightened his hand into a fist and turned his gaze from Latona and towards the three huge, chestnut geldings whose thankless task would be to carry the three Hounds of Zeus. “This will be ugly,” he mused.
“They are already ugly,” Moera replied. “And those I do foreswear.”
“You do have standards, then?”
“Very high standards,” Moera assured him. “This is an exceptional field from which to select, however.”
Acastus tried to focus on the relatively simple matter of the tournament. Two hundred Jaffa and as many horses made a great deal of noise; a blast of the horns was needed to call attention to the Muse before she spoke.
“Let the athletes be ruled by their oaths!” Melpomene declared, with more optimism than realism. If Cerberus would chance a killing blow in the stadium, he and his would not shrink from the chance to pare down the field once they were out of the sight of official witnesses.
“The athletes will stand ready!”
The Jaffa stood at the heads of their nervous horses, patting their noses and murmuring soothing words. They would not mount until the horns sounded, but the steeds could sense the tension in the atmosphere and they were growing skittish. Most of the riders had no idea how to soothe them and they were beginning to buck and paw at the ground.
Acastus stroked Ataxis’ mane and she stood calm and steadfast. The powerful roan knew and trusted her rider and she obeyed him without hesitation. When the starting horns sounded and Acastus swung himself onto her back, Ataxis was as steady as a rock, and with barely a touch of his feet she surged forward, dancing gracefully between the flashing, plunging hooves of the poor, panicked beasts of the other athletes. With barely a stumble, she broke from the pack and cantered along the open track towards the Hippocrene.
From the start there were only eight or nine riders in the running for the first stage, and of those only Iason and Latona were among the favourites. The leading horses ate up the five thousand paces to the river in almost no time at all. As they jumped down and ran for the water, the leaders had a good five-hundred pace lead on their pursuers.
Acastus swung the tube from his back and, as he reached the water, he paused to discard the baldric that had held it in place. He plunged into the current and began to swim, holding the watertight tube out in front of him with his left arm and swimming with powerful strokes of his legs and his right arm. Moera had been right to say that the straps would have tangled him in the water and so he had practiced for weeks in the river Lethe, which ran past Akrotiri to the sea, to master this particular swimming technique. He could now swim as swiftly with one arm as he had once done with two. He was glad that he had trained in a river instead of a pool, otherwise the current would have destroyed him.
Even with this practice, Acastus’ body was burning by the time he dragged himself out of the river at the landing stage and he was aware that many of the athletes had passed him in the water. He stumbled as he left the landing stage, but instead of forging on he let himself weave off the course and dropped into a crouch. As part of his training as a Gorgon he had learned to refresh himself by briefly slipping into a shallow state of kelno’reem and he did this now. He lost precious seconds as he crouched by the road, but the burning of his muscles eased. He rose with new strength in his limbs and set off at a run. Another dozen Jaffa passed him while he meditated, but in the first two hundred paces he had passed them again.
The pack spread out as they ran the five thousand paces from the landing stage to the Gauntlet, and as Acastus ducked and wove through the trees he often lost sight of all of his opponents. He could have been quite alone and he knew that this was the time when the Hounds or any other opportunist would strike. He was not very surprised, therefore, when the quiet of the wood was broken by a sharp cry.
The sound came from a rocky gully to the left of the track. Without thinking, Acastus turned from his course and ran along the top of this gully. He was well out of sight of the track when he saw the source of the scream. The Huntress, Latona, had been forced from the track and knocked down by one of the Hounds; Zeus’ thug stood over her with a bloody knife in his hand. Three other Jaffa already lay dead in the gully. Clearly the Hounds’ bid to dominate the games was moving to a new and even more deadly level.
Acastus did not hesitate; he took a two-handed grip at the firing end of his staff weapon and leaped down into the gully. The mace head of the weapon, a small, hard ball set with projecting knobs, slammed into the Hound’s skull with all of Acastus’ weight and strength behind it. With a soft grunt, the huge Jaffa – Orthon, Acastus thought; the largest of them – dropped to the ground. The knife dropped from his fingers and Latona swept it up; she took a stumbling step towards Orthon, but Acastus seized her arm before she could strike.
“Release me!” she cried.
“If you kill him, the blood will lie on your hands,” Acastus explained as calmly as he could. “Brute as he is, he is Zeus’ champion and the Great Lord will demand your life.”
“He has murdered three others here!” Latona protested.
Acastus clung to the struggling warrior-woman and clamped a hand over her mouth to keep her from crying out and attracting further attention. “And if you slay him, you will die for their murders also. Hades will not cross Zeus; not for your mistress and not over this. We will tell our mistresses, but we can not act alone and we can not act now.”
Slowly, Latona grew calm and Acastus released her.
“You speak wisely,” she said. “You show great sense for a man.”
“I had a good teacher. A woman.”
“Naturally.” A wry smile creased her lips. “You are right; we should leave this place. You must support me,” she added. “My leg is broken.”
Acastus was deeply impressed that the woman had stood for so long on a broken leg, although her endurance would not make its healing any easier. He could see now that her right leg was bent out of shape at the shin and so he offered his shoulder under her right arm and laid a supportive arm around her waist.
“Do not be too familiar, Jaffa,” Latona cautioned.
“I would not think of it,” Acastus promised, although the truth was that the moment she spoke he had become uncomfortably aware that the injured athlete was also a woman of remarkable beauty. He suspected – perhaps uncharitably – that this had been her purpose when she spoke, as much as to remind him that she was not for any man to touch.
“You may leave me here,” Latona announced, when they had hobbled across the course and into the rocks on the far side from the gully. “Return to the race with my best wishes; I shall heal as best I can here and then make my own way back to the arena.”
“As you wish, Mistress Latona.”
The Huntress blushed. “You shame me, Jaffa, for I do not know your name.”
“I am Acastus of Halicarnasus,” he replied.
Latona’s face wrinkled in displeasure. “You serve Minos?”
“I serve Medusa,” Acastus replied proudly. “I am a Gorgon.”
“Another woman?” Latona smiled again. “No wonder you are so wise. I have heard my mistress speak of Medusa; she sounds a worthy captain.”
“She is that.”
Latona nodded. “The Moirae be with you and your captain, Acastus of Halicarnasus,” she said. “Now go. Run hard.”
“Fates watch over you,” Acastus replied. He turned to go, but Latona called him back.
“Your staff weapon,” she said.
Acastus followed her pointing finger and saw that she shaft of his staff weapon was cracked. After all his efforts to keep the weapon dry, it would never fire again.
“You struck a mighty blow indeed,” Latona commended him. “I would be honoured if my valiant defender would bear my staff.” She held out her weapon; it was silver and the firing head was shaped in the form of the greyhound so beloved of Artemis.
With a bow, Acastus accepted, handing the Huntress his broken weapon in its place. Latona’s staff was lighter than he was used to, but a heavier counterweight in the mace head meant that the balance was excellent. “The honour is mine, Mistress Latona,” he assured her. “Fare you well.”
He turned and bounded down the rocks towards the course. Latona watched him go and then closed her eyes and slipped into kelno’reem.
Acastus pushed himself as hard as he could, and once more passed several opponents who must have been terribly confused – not to say frustrated – to see him overtake them a second time. Nevertheless, when he reached the deadly, tak-lined ravine that was the Gauntlet, there were six or seven Jaffa ahead of him. As many more had already been rendered unconscious by the takunitagaminiturintarons. At the far end of the ravine, the bulky shapes of Cerberus and Gargittios drew back their arms to throw their final spears. Moera was sprinting the final chain to the spear range.
Acastus hurled himself headlong into the Gauntlet. The rules of the fourth section of the pentathlon were quite specific: he had to make his way along the ravine, avoiding the incapacitating tak blasts; and he had to return fire and hit five of the automated weapons. His only hope of victory was that those ahead of him would miss all of their throws or be brought down by the taks. The former was actually quite likely, judging by what he had seen while watching the thrown weapon contest.
Ignoring everything else, Acastus rolled and sprang and jinked to avoid the tak blasts. He spun Latona’s slender staff in his hand and rocked the firing stud so that two plasma blasts stabbed out; two taks fell silent. He reached the end of the range as a third tak hissed and sparked into inaction and then rolled backwards, coming to his knees and snapping off two quick shots to complete the Gauntlet.
Behind him at the range, a horn blared; someone had won and he could only hope that it was Moera and not one of the Hounds. As he turned and charged for the range, a second blast announced that another athlete had struck the target. Acastus snatched up a javelin and threw; his aim was sure, but the horn blared a third time just before his throw struck home.
Once more, Acastus crouched and allowed himself a brief lapse into kelno’reem before he rose and approached Moera. The Dionysian’s face was red with effort and she breathed hard, her lips curled back from her teeth in a feral snarl.
“How went it?” Acastus asked.
“Cerberus struck the target first,” she fumed. “More by luck than by skill. I was only second. And what of you, Acastus? I was certain that you were ahead of me, but you seem determined to disappoint me.”
“I was delayed,” Acastus replied evasively. He might have elaborated, but the Muse was speaking from her gallery at the top of the ravine wall.
“The athlete Cerberus of Iolchus is disqualified from the pentathlon,” Melpomene announced. “This athlete is judged to have destroyed only four takunitagaminiturintarons during the passage of the Gauntlet and to have deliberately sought to impede another athlete.”
Acastus looked at Moera and smiled. She winked at him. Cerberus looked ready to shed blood.
“This being so, the athlete who attained third place in the pentathlon is Acastus of Halicarnasus.”
Moera kissed Acastus on the cheek; even having seen her with Tithonus, her touch made his blood boil in his veins.
“The athlete who attained second place in the pentathlon is Gargittios of Iolchus. The victor of the pentathlon is Moera of Phrygia.”
Acastus turned and returned Moera’s gesture, kissing her on the cheek.
“That is for third place,” she protested. Without ceremony, she took hold of Acastus’ hair and kissed him soundly on the mouth. Her mouth opened against his; her tongue parted his lips and her breath burned in his throat.
Acastus gasped in shock. “I…I must try harder next time.”
“In the games?” Moera asked, “or do you mean the next kiss?”
Acastus blushed. “Perhaps we should return to the stadium. I wish to see to my horse and besides, I must speak to Lady Mentor. I would not want Orthon to wake before she has a chance to discover him.”
“Discover Orthon?”
“I shall explain as we walk,” he promised.
Moera waited patiently while Acastus tended to Ataxis. By the time Acastus had made his report to Lady Mentor, Moera’s steed had been taken care of by one of her fellow athletes, but he was determined to see to the needs of his horse in person. Moera’s gaze rested heavily upon him while he worked, making it difficult to concentrate. Only once Ataxis was settled did Acastus turn towards the Dionysian; he was surprised to see her walking away. She turned at the stable door, however, and indicated with a smouldering gaze that he should follow her.
Moving quickly, she led him around behind the stables and back towards the Dionysian camp. Just as he was beginning to wonder if it might not be more sensible to turn back, Moera turned suddenly and disappeared into a hidden passage. Acastus followed and found himself at the foot of a staircase. He recognised this as the mirror of the passage and stair that he and Atalanta had climbed to reach the platform behind the statues of the Erinyes. He was therefore unsurprised when they emerged from the stairwell into the space behind the three Moirae.
Moera sat with her back against the statues. “You have never been with a woman before, have you?”
“I have not.”
“With a man?”
Acastus shook his head.
“Strange for such a healthy, handsome Jaffa,” she purred. She cocked her head to one side. “Is there something wrong with you?”
“You are as bad as Atalanta,” Acastus sighed. “No, there is nothing wrong with me. I simply wish to find one person to spend my life with, as my mentor did.”
“A worthy aim. And have you found such a person?”
He shook his head again, then stopped and nodded. Moera rose and put a finger on his cheek; it came away damp with his tears and she tasted the salt water with a stroke of her tongue. “She haunts you.”
“She…died badly.”
She stepped closer to him and kissed his cheeks, her tongue lapping at his tears. “Let her go,” she urged. “I will help you to be free of her.”
“I do not want to be free.”
“Then you will never find another,” she told him baldly. “Release her and your eyes will open,” she promised. “Give me what I want and I can give you what you need.”
Acastus swallowed hard. “I’m not sure…”
She kissed him again and leaned her body into his. “Then let me decide,” she said, her voice thick with desire and invitation.
“I will,” he agreed.
*
Atalanta made her way slowly back towards the barracks, feeling somewhat drained by her efforts. She had given the five-thousand pace race her all, but still the Hounds – or the two of them who ran – had charged away from her. She knew that this was her strongest event, but she would not even have managed to come in third had Orthon not been absent from the event.
Back in the barracks, she slumped onto her bunk. “Third place,” she sighed. There was no response. She hauled herself up and looked to Acastus’ bunk. It was empty. “Xenophon!” she called. “Xenophon? Where is Acastus?”
“How should I know?” the captain groused. “I barely saw him.” He shook his head. “It was a ghastly mess, though. The Hounds raced ahead on the cross country and then one of them waited to ambush the favourites. Orthon was found with the bodies of Iason, Dardanus and Thessalius.”
“Thessalius was not a favourite,” Atalanta gasped horrified. “Why would they kill him?”
“I believe that they mistook him for me,” Xenophon replied. “They killed him for me!”
“Then what became of you?”
Xenophon gave a bitter laugh. “I fell off my horse,” he snarled. “I fell far behind and, although I caught up in the end, I was struck down by the taks. That damned Cerberus took a swing at me,” he explained. “I avoided him, but not the tak.”
Atlanta forced her stiffened body to rise. She crossed to where Xenophon sat and laid a hand on his shoulder. “The Hound would have done you worse injury,” she assured him.
“I know. I am tempted to go with Sisiphon and murder them in their sleep.”
“You presume that they sleep,” Atalanta pointed out. “But what shall happen to Orthon now?”
“Lady Mentor and Lady Artemis found him with blood on his hands. He will be ejected from the competition and it is to be hoped that he may be executed by his master.”
Atalanta nodded in agreement. “And…Acastus?” she asked. “Is he unhurt?”
Xenophon gave a grunt of feigned disinterest. “I am sure that he is well. He avoided the taks and attained third place. He was last seen with the Dionysian slut who won the event; perhaps he is with her still,” he suggested with ill grace.
“I hope that he is not hurt,” she sighed.
Once more, Xenophon’s expression suggested that he could not care less where Acastus was, but he could not maintain the pose. “As do I,” he sighed.
Atalanta raised an eyebrow in inquiry.
“My concern is entirely selfish,” he assured her. “What he has done to earn such favour I do not know, but he has been summoned to attend Lady Artemis the evening after next. If he does not show up, I fear that the Great Huntress will make a eunuch of me.”
“And that would not please Iphegenia,” Atalanta teased, although her heart was filled with dread. “But what could Lady Artemis want from Acastus?”
Xenophon shrugged. “I know not, but I only hope that it is nothing too pleasant, for his sake. I do not truly believe that she eats those men who enjoy her favours, but I do know that they are never seen again.”
Atalanta shivered. Xenophon put a hand on her shoulder. “You are exhausted,” he noted.
“Weary, certainly. I had hoped that Acastus could attend to my aches and pains,” she sighed.
“Perhaps…I could do so?”
Atalanta gave Xenophon a searching look. “Perhaps you could,” she agreed. “Although I think that your need is greater than mine.”
Acastus finally dragged himself back to the barracks shortly before the evening meal, waking Atalanta from a pleasant sleep. She looked up at him and gave a teasing grin. “Were you beaten by your defeated foes, or is your rather tattered state a consequence of some more pleasant diversion?”
“I am not certain,” Acastus groaned.
Atalanta chuckled. “It serves you right for not being here when I returned. You caused me much anxiety, Acastus. Congratulations on attaining third place, however,” she said.
“And the same congratulations to you,” he replied. “You ran well, and I believe that Cerberus is weakening.”
“Not enough; but how did you see me?”
“I was on the platform behind the Fates,” he explained. “I watched you.”
“I am flattered that you found the time. Was this before or after you made love to the Maenad?” she asked tartly.
“During,” he replied. “And…in between.”
Atalanta sat up and stared at her friend with a kind of dawning horror on her features. “That is more than merely audacious,” she said. “I think it may well be blasphemy, as well as one of the most protracted bouts of lovemaking I have ever heard of outside of the more dubious claims of the God King himself.”
“It…had little to do with love,” Acastus assured her. “There was much passion, but my heart was empty. I felt no tenderness towards her.”
“Poor Moera.”
“She did not want my tenderness, certainly she showed me none in return. I wanted to feel something towards her, but it seemed that she would not allow it.”
“Do you regret it?”
“I do not know. She showed me…”
“Yes?” Atalanta’s tone was teasing, but her gaze was serious.
“I still do not understand women, but then I do not know how an uda’jeet functions.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I do not know how a glider functions, but I can fly one.”
“Alright,” Atalanta chuckled. “Let us leave that analogy by the wayside, before I start to become offended,” she suggested. “You make it sound as though Moera was training you to please a woman.”
He nodded dumbly.
“Then happy is the woman that you wed, Acastus. You were already a good man, and now a skilled lover as well.” She shook her head in astonishment. “You have certainly had a more satisfying games than I,” she sighed.
“I am not so sure. And you at least have gained a victory.”
“There are victories,” she told him, “and there are victories.”
“That there are,” he agreed, “but this does not feel like one.”
*
Day 5 – the flat horse race, the chase and the Festival of Cronus
Exhausted from his various exertions, and from attending the sacrifices, Acastus was in no hurry to rise early the next day, but he was not to be allowed his rest.
“Up, sluggard!” Xenophon commanded.
“Why?” Acastus demanded.
With an easy stride, Lady Mentor moved up to stand alongside her squad captain. “I need you to take poor Thessalius’ place in the horse races,” she explained. “I would not ask, but I am afraid it is a matter of pride. Poseidon’s stables have always been the envy of the Empire and he demands that he be represented.”
Acastus stilled his head before it could begin to shake. “I ran Ataxis hard yesterday,” he said, making sure not to draw any conclusions from this statement.
“Of course,” Lady Mentor replied. “Ready yourself and join me in the stables.”
Acastus sighed and sat up.
In the stables, Acastus found Atalanta attending to the harnessing of a horse; a magnificent grey stallion with long legs and a tall, proud neck.
“Come,” Mentor commanded. “Come and greet your steed.”
Acastus advanced slowly and lifted his hand to touch the stallion’s nose. “He is splendid,” he whispered. “All due to Ataxis, but I have never seen such a horse.”
Mentor advanced and twisted her hand in the stallion’s mane. “He is called Boreas, for he is as swift as the wind.” Boreas turned his head and she leaned close to let him nuzzle her face. “He is among the finest that my stables have ever produced.”
Acastus inclined his head in acknowledgement of the honour that she did him.
“Lethe,” Mentor called, and a young woman led out another horse. Acastus hardly recognised her as the slave given to Lady Mentor by Dionysus’ squad. Free from the drugs that had bound her, Lethe had a beautiful, lively face and she moved with a vigour that was matched by the steed at her side. The white mare was not as proud as Boreas, but she had a joyful, tripping step that made Acastus love her at once.
“And this is Megaera,” Mentor announced. “Do not let her playful air fool you, Jaffa; she is as contrary as a king.”
“Megaera?” Acastus asked. He had never heard a horse named for one of the Furies before. He approached the mare cautiously and laid a hand on her nose. The mare skittered nervously and tried to bite him, but he stepped in quickly and caught her ear in a gentle grip. He put his mouth next to her head and whispered: “I like your name.” The horse danced from side to side for a moment, then grew still.
“You are honoured,” Mentor assured him with a laugh. “Megaera likes you. That is good, for you are to ride her in the chase. Now, you must take Boreas out to the arena for the sprint.”
“Yes, my lady.” Acastus patted Megaera’s nose, bowed low to Lady Mentor and then took Boreas’ bridle from Atalanta. Megaera whickered jealously, but Lethe stroked the mare’s neck and she grew calm.
“Furies ride with you, my friend,” Atalanta said. “And thank the Fates the Hounds do not; their horses have blown their wind and no other can bear them,” she added with a grin.
“Poor beasts,” Acastus sighed. “Come Boreas; let us do what we can together for the glory of Poseidon’s stables.” He patted the beast’s flank and leaned in to whisper in his ear: “And for your own Lady Mentor.” Somehow, he felt better to be riding for her, rather than for Poseidon.
The flat race was a straight sprint along the length of the stadium; a simple, but demanding event given the sheer number of horses competing. Like the short foot races, it was the press and not the distance that created the challenge. Boreas was one of over a hundred horses at the starting line, all jostling for position. Rather than fight for a place, Acastus eased Boreas back behind the first row and found a place for the stallion behind two ungainly beasts in the colours of Ares and Atlas. The grey pranced impatiently, but Acastus soothed him with a gentle hand.
The muse stood in her box and cried out: “Let the athletes be ruled by their oaths!” The usual hush fell across the stadium. “The race will commence on the sounding of the horn.”
The horses skittered nervously, unhappy at being packed so tightly together. Acastus allowed Boreas to ease further back still