Kineas interrupted her without intending it. ‘This is Achilles’ choice?’ he asked. ‘If I go east, I will live a short life, but a glorious one? And all the world will know my name?’
She smiled, and it was an ill smile, the sort that terrified men. ‘Do not interrupt me,’ she said. ‘Hubris has many forms.’
Kineas stood in silence.
‘If you go east, your life will be short, and no one but your friends and your enemies will know your name.’
Kineas nodded. ‘It seems like an easy choice,’ he said.
The goddess smiled. She kissed his brow…
He awoke to ponder the meaning of the first dream — a true one, he was sure. He needed Kam Baqca to interpret it, but it occurred to him that Helladius was not such a fool as he sometimes acted. The second dream needed no interpretation.
Kineas arose with the kiss of the goddess still lingering on his forehead and a sense of well-being, a very different mood from the day before. The sun was shining on the sand of the hippodrome. And down the hall, Sitalkes sat up in his bed and Coenus asked for a book, and the mood of the barracks changed as if the sun had come inside. Indeed, Kineas wondered if men were simpler creatures than he had supposed, that a day of sunshine could so change their mood, or serve to mend wounded men who had abandoned hope and turned to the wall, expecting to die. Men recovered in the citadel, and in their homes, as if the touch of the sun on their skin carried the healing of the Lord of the Silver Bow.
Kineas had a morning meeting arranged with the Athenian captains in his role as the acting archon, but well before that he donned his second-best tunic and a light chlamys and slipped out of the barracks alone. He purchased a cup of fruit juice from a stall in the agora, ate a seed cake in front of a jeweller’s stall, purchased a fine gold ring for Srayanka and then climbed the steps of the temple of Apollo just as the morning prayer to the sun was finished.
Kineas waited until the last of the singers were clear of the vestry before he approached the priest, and he was surprised to see the young Sakje girl walking with the maidens.
The priest was putting away his shawl, examining the fine wool for cleanliness as he folded it.
‘Helladius,’ Kineas said. ‘The Lord of the Silver Bow has seen fit to restore the sun.’
Helladius nodded. ‘My lord withholds his anger.’
Kineas raised an eyebrow. ‘Anger?’
Helladius shrugged. ‘Who can know the thoughts of the gods?’ he said. ‘But I imagine that my lord was less than pleased at the unburied bodies at the Ford of the River God and withheld the sun, just as the Lord of Horses sent his waters to cover the death at his ford.’
Kineas nodded slowly. His mother and his uncles had been such believers — those who saw the hands of the gods in everything. ‘It might be as you say,’ he admitted.
‘Or not,’ said Helladius. ‘I commit no hubris. What brings you here to honour my morning prayers?’
‘Who is the Sakje girl?’ Kineas asked.
‘Her father was a priest — a great seer, despite being a barbarian. His daughter is always welcome here.’ Helladius smiled at her retreating back.
‘You knew Kam Baqca?’ Kineas asked.
‘Of course!’ Helladius said. ‘He travelled widely. He wintered here with us on several occasions.’ He took Kineas’s arm and led him into the temple.
‘I think of Kam Baqca as a woman,’ Kineas said.
‘We knew him before he made that sacrifice,’ Helladius said, and then shook his head. ‘I don’t think you came here to discuss a barbarian shaman, no matter how worthy.’
‘I have a dream,’ Kineas said.
‘You have powerful dreams, Archon. Indeed, I saw when the Sakje treated you as a priest.’ Helladius turned and began to walk towards the temple garden. ‘Come, let us walk together.’
Kineas fell in beside him. ‘Yes. The gods have always seen fit to provide me with strong dreams.’
Helladius nodded. ‘It is a great gift, but I feel the gods’ will towards you, and it is strong. I don’t need to be a priest to tell you that the interest of the gods is not always a blessing.’ He gave a half grin. ‘The poets and playwrights seem to be in agreement on that point.’
Kineas stopped and looked at the priest as if seeing him for the first time. Helladius was hardly a humble man, and the wry humour he had just showed was not his public face.
Helladius raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you receive more than dreams, Archon? Does the will of the gods come to you awake? Or the voices of the dead?’
Kineas rubbed his chin. ‘You make my head spin, priest!’ He looked around the quiet temple. ‘I do not — how can I say this — I am not aware of other messages from the gods. But perhaps I do not pay attention properly. Tell me what you mean.’
Helladius rubbed his chin. ‘Listen, Archon. You have priestly powers. I have seen this happen elsewhere — among the Medes it is common. Not every man with priestly powers becomes a priest. Do you know of all the types of divination?’
Kineas shook his head. He felt like a schoolboy. His tutor had taught him about divination. ‘There are three types, I think.’
‘You were tutored by a follower of Plato? Not a Pythagorean, I hope. There are as many types of divination as there are birds in the air, but I will tell you a little of the three main types so that you may be on your guard.’ His voice took on a professional tone. ‘My father taught me that there are three types of divination. There is natural divination — the will of the gods shown in the flight of birds, for example. I perform this right every day. Or perhaps in the entrails of a sacrifice, such as I performed for you in the field. Yes? Then there is oracular divination — the will of the gods spoken directly through an oracle. These can be difficult to interpret — rhymes, archaic words, often they sound like nonsense or leave the hearer more confused by a riddle than ever he was by the question. And finally, there is the divination of dreams — the will of the gods spoken through the gates of horn into our sleeping minds.’ Helladius shrugged. ‘The dead may also speak in any of these ways, or rather, we may divine their speech. For instance, there is the kledon, where a god — or the dead — may speak through the mouth of a bystander, or even through a crowd, so that a priest may hear the speech of the god in random utterings.’ He smiled. ‘I am waxing pedantic, I fear. Tell me what you dreamed.’
Kineas told him his dream about his dead friends.
Helladius shook his head. ‘I have seldom had such a strong dream myself,’ he said in irritation. ‘I see why the barbarians treat you as a priest. And you have had this dream twice?’
Kineas nodded. ‘Or more.’
Helladius furrowed his brow. ‘More?’
Kineas looked away, as if suddenly interested in the mosaics of the god that covered the interior walls of the temple garden. He didn’t want to say that he had had the dream every night since the attack on Srayanka. Or that he had heard voices in the mouths of other men — the kledon.
Helladius rubbed his hands together. ‘It seems possible to me,’ he said carefully, ‘that the dead of the great battle wish to be buried. And they speak through your old friend.’
Kineas nodded. ‘I wondered. But I cannot arrange the burial of ten thousand corpses — even if I could call on the labour of every slave in this city. And today it seemed to me that Kleisthenes was offering me a gift, if only I had the wit to take it.’
Helladius nodded. ‘My first interpretation is the obvious one. I am sorry to say that I cannot dismiss it just because its achievement is impossible — the gods make great demands. On the other hand, your thought about the gift is interesting. I shall pray, and wait on you later in the day.’
Kineas bowed. ‘Thank you for your help, Helladius.’
The priest walked with him to the top of the steps. ‘The former archon never came to the temple without fifty soldiers and a bushel of scrolls containing new orders and taxes,’ he said. ‘I wish you were staying.’
Kineas shook his head. ‘I meant what I said, Helladius. It would start well. But in a year I would make myself king, or you would demand it of me.’
Helladius stood at the top of the steps, his pale blue robes blowing in the August wind. ‘May I advise you, my lord?’ he asked, and then, taking a nod for permission, he carried on. ‘Men like you — it grows. The voices come
