Furies (57 page)

At last the fissure widened and his lungs filled with fresh air. He climbed to his feet and looked around, blinking in the sudden gleam of light, trying to orient himself. On the ground glowed a small, gleaming silver disc. The moon, he realized, or its reflection in a pool of water at least, the ground surrounding it littered with shards of shattered rock. The night sky stood suspended between two craggy walls. He was standing at the bottom of a crevice deep in the earth. Is this the light I followed, he thought wretchedly. A mere reflection of the moon?

“Apollo has emerged,” a man’s voice proclaimed.

Zeanthes stood perhaps ten cubits away in a patch of moonlight. He was almost unrecognizable, his eyes gleaming and wild, his robes soiled with dirt and soot. Tyche knelt trembling before him, wrists bound before her. The sophist held a knife to her throat. She looked up at Aculeo, not daring to speak, her eyes pleading with him silently.

“Zeanthes, she’s just a child,” Aculeo said. “Let her go.”

“Have you learned nothing in our time together, Aculeo?” the sophist asked with a desperate smile. “I taught you of Persephone, of Dionysos. I guided you, gave you my Ariadne.”

Ariadne? Aculeo wondered. Wasn’t she Dionysos’ wife or something?
What the hell is he talking about?

“Don’t pretend you cannot see the splendour of it all,” Zeanthes cried.

“The splendour of what?” Aculeo demanded. “Of kidnapping and murdering innocent women? All to satisfy some sick fantasy of yours?”

“Fantasy? No, it’s an exploration, a journey to reality, a voyage to the greater truth!”

“What truth?”

“All of it of course. Do you not see that?”

“No. Nor do I care. It doesn’t matter anymore, Zeanthes. It’s over.”

“O dear Apollo, there is no such ending,” the sophist said. “There is only this life and the divine.”

“You want to speak to me of this? You want me to understand? Fine,” Aculeo said, stepping closer to Zeanthes, his hands held up, clearly empty. “Let the girl go and we’ll talk of it all you like.”

“Stay where you are,” the sophist warned, pressing his knife against Tyche’s throat. She gasped in pain.

“Zeanthes, please don’t hurt her.”

“I can do no real harm to her. Human souls are immortal.”

Aculeo looked at the girl, so young, so terrified, pleading with him with her eyes. “But why cause her suffering?”

“The Gods require their sacrifice.”

“Then take me instead.”

Zeanthes looked at him in surprise. He licked his lips, thinking. “Apollo as the sacrifice?”

“Yes.”

“A beautiful construct. But foolish.”

“How is it foolish to save your own life? Your own soul?”

Zeanthes yanked the girl’s head back sharply, making her cry out. “It’s not my life that rests on the edge of a knife, dear friend.”

Aculeo removed his knife from his belt and laid it on the ground between them. “I give you my oath, Zeanthes. Release Tyche and my life is in your hands to do with as you will. Hurt her and I’ll cut you down, piss on your scattered ashes and give sacrifice to every god there is that your divine, immortal soul be fucked for all eternity. Your choice.”

“No,” Tyche whispered, shaking her head at Aculeo. “Don’t …”

“It’s alright,” Aculeo said, smiling at the girl, tears stinging his eyes.

The sophist stared at him for a moment, licked his lips, considering the offer. He slowly nodded. “Alright, kneel before me then.”

“Let Tyche go first.”

“Oh? And trust you to simply keep your word?”

“I come to you alone and unarmed,” Aculeo said. “My only wish now is to save the girl. After that I’m yours.”

The sophist glared at him, his breathing heavy and uneven. He cut the ropes binding Tyche and shoved her to the ground. She climbed unsteadily to her feet, looking at Aculeo, her eyes filled with dread.

“Don’t worry,” Aculeo said. “Just get yourself to safety.” He watched her take a hesitant step away, then another before she finally slipped into the shadows.

“On your knees, hands out before you,” Zeanthes demanded, his face pale in the reflected moonlight, his eyes like empty holes cut in the sky. Aculeo complied, the sharp rock on the ground cutting the fragile flesh of his knees, as his wrists were bound behind him. “Embrace Dionysos, the beast god within,” the sophist whispered hoarsely, stepping behind Aculeo, pressing the knife to his throat. “Become one with the primal herd, be as one with him, the twice-born.” Aculeo could smell the man’s sour sweat, felt the edge of the cold blade against his flesh, a sick shock of pain rippling through him. He closed his eyes, ready to die.

A shriek of fury pierced the darkness. He opened his eyes just as a demon flew from the shadows and launched itself at Zeanthes. The man cried out in surprise, spun around to confront his assailant, knocking Aculeo to the ground. Aculeo twisted his head around in time to see Tyche step away from Zeanthes, a razor sharp rock clutched in her trembling hand, the edge of it stained with blood, her eyes filled with loathing. The sophist’s right bicep was gouting dark blood where the girl had cut him. He looked down at it in astonishment.

“Tyche, please, just get away,” Aculeo cried.

Zeanthes lunged at the girl. Tyche took half a step sideways, then slashed him again. The sophist dropped his own knife, looking down in bewilderment at the blood gushing like a fountain down his arm. His hand had been sliced open at the base of the thumb, almost severing it, exposing a web of pink-white bones and tendons. Aculeo struggled to his feet, trying desperately to free himself. Zeanthes grabbed the girl by the neck with his good hand and pulled her close. She swung the rock up in a short arc, cutting his stomach open. The sophist bellowed in shock and staggered back. Tyche thrust the razor-like rock into the side of his neck again and again. Zeanthes gave a strangled cry, fell to his knees, blood spouting from the gaping wounds. He held out his bloody hands in desperation, squealing like a beast in a slaughterhouse as the girl hacked at his face, his cheeks, his neck, his eyes. He curled in a ball on the ground, trying frantically to protect himself. Tyche plunged the rock into his back and neck over and over, crying “Osti! Osti! Osti! Osti!” until Aculeo finally managed to pull her off.

Tyche
looked up at him, her face and robes soaked in the slaughtered sophist’s blood, trembling, eyes lit with waning fury. “Osti,” she whispered, then collapsed into Aculeo’s arms.

The moon was shining into the open atrium as Aculeo and Tyche entered Calisto’s villa. There were no lamps lit and the furniture was covered with sheets, which snapped and rippled like restless spirits in the breeze scattering sand blown in from the street. Peacocks ran wild through the empty halls, filling the darkness with their eerie cries, pecking occasionally at the handfuls of seed left for them on the marble floors which were spattered with the birds’ waste.

Aculeo heard the sound of footsteps and looked up to see Calisto hurrying towards them. “You found her,” she said. “You’re alive!”

Aculeo collapsed on a nearby couch, his face slick with sweat. “Where’s Idaia?” he asked.

“I’ve no idea, she’s not here!”

“I sent her away,” Tyche said simply. “She’s safe.”

“Gods be praised,” Calisto said.

“We need to gather her and leave tonight, understand?” Aculeo said. “Ralla will come after us. It’s not safe to stay any longer.” He groaned, grinding his teeth against another sickening wave of pain that washed over him.

“We’re almost ready,” she said, forcing a smile as she stroked the damp hair off his forehead. “Here, let me tend your wounds.” He closed his eyes and let her lift his tunic. He heard her gasp. “Ah, my love. You must have lost so much blood.”

“I’ll be fine, just get me some water,” Aculeo panted.

Tyche gave Calisto a worried look. “He needs a healer,” she said.

“Fetch Kushu – hurry!” Calisto said to the girl, who nodded and ran from the atrium. Aculeo could still see the walls of the catacombs when he closed his eyes, the sound of waves slapping against the walls of the cistern, the pinpoint of Zeanthes’ torchlight as he tried to escape into the darkness.

He woke up with Calisto stroking his face, gazing down at him, her eyes glistening with tears. “Where are we?”

“Still here – come,” she said, helping him to sit up. He grunted in pain, his face covered in sweat. “I’m so sorry, I know it hurts my love. You’ve been so brave. Drink this,” she said, holding a cup to his mouth. The wine was strong and sweet, infused with myrrh and cinnamon.

Aculeo shook his head. “Just water.”

“In a moment, I promise. Drink this first.”

He drank it down in small sips. A warm sensation spread through his stomach, seeping tendrils throughout his body. The room was spinning. He closed his eyes again, leaning back in her arms. “We need to go.”

“We will. Just rest a bit first,” she said, her voice soft, soothing. “Where shall we go to?”

“Somewhere far away from here, anywhere you like,” he said. “Neapolis perhaps, or Knossos. We could have a farm.”

“Yes,” she said, stroking his head. “Tell me about our farm.”

“It sits on top of a tall hill overlooking a grove of olive trees,” he said. “Fat goats run about in the pasture. A path leads from the house down to the sea, a beach of white sand, the sea blue as azure. We have vineyards, and the wine we make is so sweet the bees envy us.”

“Do we have children?” she asked, pressing his hand to her cool, soft lips.

“Of course,” he said, drifting off again. “As many as you like, all of them beautiful like their mother. They run out across the sand to play in the sea, their faces brown as acorns.” He looked up at her suddenly. “We should go now, Calisto.”

“Rest a little longer. How long will it take us to get there?”

“I don’t know, two days, maybe three depending on the winds.”

“Then we shall give sacrifice and pray to the gods for favourable winds.”

“Yes, favourable winds,” Aculeo said. He listened to the sounds of slaves stacking wooden chests and furniture in the fauces, waiting to be ported down to the harbour for the journey. “You’ve packed too much, it will only slow us down. Just bring the clothes on your backs, what money you have. We’ll buy passage on the first ship ready to leave.”

“Alright.”

“You need to gather Idaia. And Tyche. Where is she? Is she alright?” he asked, looking around in a panic.

“My love, stop worrying so much.”

He lay back in her arms again. “Zeanthes would have murdered me down there if not for Tyche.”

“She’s very brave,” Calisto said.

“I can scarcely believe Zeanthes was behind this madness.”

“He wore his mask well,” she said, stroking his head. “Never mind, it’s over now. Try to rest.”

A fragment of memory came to him then, unbidden. “When we were in the catacombs, Zeanthes said something about how he gave me his Ariadne. What could he have meant?”

Calisto bent her head and kissed him gently on the cheek
. “He meant me, my love.”

“What?”

She sighed and drew her hand gently from his grasp, holding it to her breast.
“He meant that he gave me to you.”