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Fantasy Stories

The Temple of Thorns

Written by John Lambshead

Illustrated by Chantelle Thorne

She sat cross legged on a wool sack in the small cult room and prayed. To her left a flight of stone stairs led up to the ground floor of the palace and, on her right, a break in a low wall opened onto a shorter flight that ran down into the sacred bath, where priestesses anointed themselves with sweet smelling unguents in honour of the Gods. She faced a low stone ledge that was covered in a thin sheet of gold on which stood small painted ceramic statuettes of the Gods, surrounded by token sacred offerings of flowers and berries that were fashioned in faience.

The room was lit by four torches attached to the walls, which gave off a flickering light that reflected off the white-tiled walls, causing the raised arms of the statues to seem to move in time with her chanted prayers. The room contained no wood at all; she knew that because she had searched it most thoroughly. She had not expected to find any, under the circumstances, but it was worth a try. She was dressed simply without jewellery but, as befitted a “slave of the God”; her clothes were of the highest quality. Her white linen dress shone in colours of red, orange and yellow in the torchlight, as did her blonde hair.

The baby in her arms cried gently and she held it to her breast to suckle, making soft cooing noises and pulling down the top of her long flared dress. Bright blue eyes gazed back up at her as her son fed greedily of her milk and she smiled fondly at him, stroking his face with her free hand. He finally finished and drifted off to sleep with a contented gurgle.

She heard the muffled sound of boots outside her door and then the bolt was thrown back with a thud that echoed around the cell-like room. Surely it was not dawn already? A companion of the king entered, dressed in the full martial uniform of an Achaean warrior. He was a tall man, who had to stoop to get through the low doorway, causing his polished bronze armour plates to clatter.

She ignored the companion and continued her prayer, making the signs of power and obeisance with her right hand. The man stood patiently by the door, obviously reluctant to commit the sacrilege of interrupting. When she was quite finished, he approached and saluted by touching his right hand to his heart.

“It is time, Lady,” he said, brusquely.

She went to rise, but she was encumbered by the child on her left hip and her legs were cramped, so she stumbled. The man held his hand out to steady her and she gripped it automatically with her right hand, without thinking.

“Ow!” she uttered a small cry.

“Is your hand injured? Shall I call a healer?” He looked with concern at her palm.

“It’s nothing.” She snatched her hand from his before he could examine it closely. She forced herself to smile. “It hardly matters now, in any case.”

He nodded and pointed to the door, indicating that she should leave. She went up the steps and through the door into a corridor of the palace. She turned right automatically towards the megaron but the companion tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the left.

“I am to leave from the side door, then, not the main entrance,” she said, with more than a touch of bitterness.

“Those are my instructions, lady,” said the companion, who had the grace to look embarrassed. He held a torch that he had removed from the sanctuary, as the part of the palace that they were heading for was badly lit.

She strode down the corridor, head held high. The palace was built on a small hill so every few yards, the corridor descended down stone steps. They turned a bend and the decorative level of the walls dropped sharply as they entered the working area. Doors led off into magazines where pithoi, giant jars, full of beans, grain and olive oil were stored.

They left the palace by a small door low down on the hill. The curtain wall of the citadel was just below them at this point and she could see guards huddling around braziers behind the parapet. Even at this height she could smell the acrid tang of burning charcoal.

“Is it really necessary to leave before dawn?” she asked.

“The curator thought it best if no one saw you go,” the companion replied. “He does not want the commoners to get over excited.”

“Do I really frighten him that much?” she laughed. “I think he overestimates my power.”

The companion shrugged, “I have . . .”

“Your orders, yes, I know,” she interrupted. “I am surprised that the curator thought that you alone would be sufficient to guard me.”

“Actually, I have some of my followers down in the chariot park to be your escort,” he said, a note of shame colouring his voice.

She laughed again. “I won’t try to overpower you then. Shall we go? We shouldn’t keep your men waiting, should we?”

The companion overtook her so that he could light the way as they took the treacherous path on the steep sloped hill. When they rounded the corner of the palace complex, she could see due east. The first shining glow of dawn lit the horizon and lights showed on rooftops as women moved around to prepare breakfast down in the lower town. Although the companion had obeyed the letter of his orders to remove her from the palace before dawn, he had cut it very fine. She was not surprised that he had interpreted his orders so, as no warrior liked to drive a chariot in the dark.

They descended by the main steps into the chariot park where the companion’s men waited. Horses were already yoked to the chariots, their heads held by grooms. The park was still in gloom, lit only by palace servants holding torches, so she smelt and heard the horses more than saw them.

The companion gripped her shoulder and propelled her to a chariot. “This is your driver,” he said.

A boy saluted her, and handed her up into his chariot, where she took the warrior’s place on the right hand side. The boy climbed in beside her and fussed with the reigns, shouting technical instructions to the groom at the horses’ head. While the boy made his final adjustments, she glanced up at the palace for the last time. The sun was high enough in the sky to illuminate the white stone in pink light. The curator stood in the main entrance, surrounded by his procurators, presumably checking that his orders were being followed although he would be hard pressed to see her down in the shadows. She deliberately turned her head away from the palace that had been her home since birth, and she did not look back again.

A zephyr slipped over the curtain wall of the citadel, funnelling through the alleys between the workshops and minor functionaries’ houses that surrounded the palace. It played with the dust and dead leaves, flinging them into the air in spirals. The zephyr rattled windows and tested the roofing tiles before sweeping down to the chariot park, unsettling the horses who pulled against the grooms’ grip, stamping their feet on the paving stones and tossing their heads.

The wind elemental detected the magic in her immediately and swirled around her, teasing her by whipping her dress around her legs. It kept sniffing at her right hand so she shooed it away, persuading it to go and play in the town; one of her titles was Mistress of Winds.

The companion bawled an order to his men and the column moved out. Her chariot started with jerk and she had to grip the guard rail with her right hand, ignoring the sting of pain, as she held her baby with the left. The companion led the column with her chariot right behind, where he could keep an eye on her. The chariot wheels clattered over the paving stones, the sound echoing off the face of the palace buildings. They passed out of the citadel by the cavalry gate, which opened onto the Argolid plain, bypassing the lower town where the commoners lived. The chariots picked their way carefully in the half light along the road of hard packed earth and stones that ran around the town. They progressively speeded up as more light filtered down from the rising sun until they were moving at a fast trot.

She had ridden in a chariot many times before so she automatically bent her knees to absorb the bumps. The chariot axle was completely unsprung but the passengers stood on taut leather strips that buffered against the worst of the shocks. She pulled her baby in close to her body, where he would be warm, as there was still a chill in the early morning air. The boy who drove her chariot chatted cheerfully to her about inconsequentials.

The column made good progress and they had reached the sanctuary of The Lady at Syssos by the time the sun was properly up. The priestesses were lined up outside as the column approached, their right hands raised to their foreheads in prayer. Their journey was supposed to be completely confidential but it was impossible to keep secrets from the Servants of The Lady.

“Stop the chariot,” she ordered her driver.

Surprised, he pulled up, disrupting the whole column. The warriors surrounded her chariot, gripping their spears nervously. She moved to climb out of the back but the driver grabbed her arm. When she looked at him imperiously, he dropped his hand.

“I’m sorry, Lady, but you can’t get out until we reach our destination,” the driver said.

The companion turned his chariot and galloped back. “What is it?”

“I am cold so I need to borrow a cloak. I wonder if you would be so kind as to ask the priestesses of The Lady if they could give me one of theirs?”

“Wait here, please, Madame,” he said. The companion jumped down from his chariot and hurried over to the sanctuary to talk to the women. A priestess unclipped her own cloak from her neck and handed it to him. He saluted her and returned, draping it over the lady’s shoulders.

“Would you fasten it for me?” she said.

He clipped the brooch in place, adjusting the hang so it covered her baby. Then, without a word, he returned to his chariot and restarted the column on its way.

It took several hours to reach Kephalos and she was soon glad of the additional layer of clothes as the weather gradually deteriorated and dark clouds gathered over the mountains. The wind built up, until it was blowing strongly against her back, whipping her blonde hair into her eyes. When they reached the little village the party debussed from the chariots. Kephalos was a small fishing port, built on the shore of a bay where a modest fishing fleet was drawn up on the sandy beach.

The locals had turned out to greet their illustrious visitor, as word spread from house to house, many of them holding their arms out in supplication to the Gods. Her escort moved closely around her and gripped their spears firmly. The illusion that they were an honour guard was stripped away as the men adopted the pose of guards, surrounding her and hiding her from the villagers. The party made its way along a path to the southern promontory that bounded the bay. She stumbled a few times as she still wore her delicate palace slippers but the warriors caught her each time. The wind howled around them and the sky overhead darkened, shedding the first drops of rain.

The royal party stood at the end of the promontory where the cliffs fell in a sheer drop into the sea. Spearmen and warriors sealed off the area but they allowed the companion and his party to pass without comment. She walked up to an elderly man in long purple robes and curtseyed. “Greetings, royal father.”

"You are no daughter of mine nor is your bastard my grandchild,” said the king.

“He is no bastard,” she said, defiantly.

“And who is his father?” said the king, rhetorically.

“I have told you,” she replied. “The God fathered my son.”

The rain was lashing down now, plastering her hair against her head, so she moved the baby deeper under the cloak to protect him.

“Ah, yes. Zeus came to you in a shower of gold and ravished you,” said the king, sarcastically, spreading his arms and appealing to his courtiers who dutifully laughed sycophantically on queue. “You think to foster my brother’s by-blow on me.”

She raised her right arm and her voice so all present could hear her voice over the storm. “The God did sire my child, father, and I call all here to bear witness to this injustice and to hear my prophecy. I will be avenged by my son, who will take the life of all those who have wronged me. This I foretell.”

While she talked, she rubbed the wound in the palm of her hand, checking that the wooden splinter still lodged where she had placed it yesterday. A thunderbolt struck the sea, lighting up the promontory and thunder crashed over them.

“Spare me your magic tricks, witch. The Gods will surely protect you if you are so beloved by them” said the king, with a sneer. However, a number of his cronies looked distinctly uncomfortable. Perhaps they remembered that the lady’s name meant “she who judges.”

There was nothing left to say so she walked to the edge of the cliff. Below, the grey-green sea heaved, spraying white foam into the wind. The baby cried, frightened by the thunderbolt, and she hushed him. She said a small prayer, building up the power in her hand, and jumped. As she fell, the lady thrust forward with her hand, crying words of magic, and an elongate bubble of yellow light snapped around her. She just had time to cushion her baby’s head with her right hand before she hit the water with an almighty splash.

The yellow bubble speared deeply into the salt water, surrounded by bubbles, where it hung in the water, drifting in the current. Blood ran from the baby’s forehead where the magically charged splinter had scored it. Two dolphins appeared and circled the bubble curiously, nosing against it with their beaks, their upturned mouths giving the appearance of a friendly grin. The dolphins metamorphed into nereids, the wet ones, like a lady taking off her mask. Their rear halves remained fish-like but the rest of their bodies had the likeness of beautiful green-haired women, breasts floating gently in the currents. The nereids were famous for their gentle humour and generous dispositions. These two seized the bubble and bore it away, taking it in turns to the surface to breathe.

****

A man and woman stood over an empty cot, gazing at each other. They were both dressed in simply cut clothes of expensive, lustrous linen, the man in a tunic and the woman in a dress decorated in purple whirls, which dropped to her ankles. Her hair was coiled in elaborate coils that fell in long strands in front of her ears but was piled up behind on top of her head.

“I can’t do it,” the woman said. Tears flowed gently down her face, depositing black streaks on her pale skin. “I just can’t do it.”

The man sighed. “You think that I like this, Serenissa? You think that I want this?” He put his arm round her. “There will be other children, Astarte willing.”

She pulled away. “I don’t want other children. I want her. I want her smile and I want the light in her eyes. She’s so special.”

“What would you have me do, see the city destroyed? Poseidon must be satisfied and only the magic of royal blood will do.” The man was angry now. “I have my responsibilities.”

“Yes,” the woman said, softly. “You have your responsibilities. But I have thought of an alternative.”

She held his hands and looked into his eyes; he looked back with growing horror.

****

The little girl played with her rag dolls on a tiled floor in a small room whose entrance, guarded by a spearman, opened onto a sunlit courtyard. Solid red pillars, that were wider at the top than the bottom, could be seen through the open doorway. A young woman, dressed in the elaborate robes of a priestess, entered and held out her hand.

“’Lo, Cassie,” said the little girl, jumping to her feet and rushing to hold the woman’s hand. The little girl chattered as the woman led her out into the courtyard. Like all children, she followed the woman without noticing where they were going. That changed when she found herself up on the citadel wall, as this was forbidden territory. She could smell and hear the sea but, no matter how she stretched, she could not see the ocean over the crenulated defences. Further along the wall, a wooden platform had been erected on which stood a pair of spearmen and two ladies, one dressed in the robes of a priestess and the other, in the rich, purple clothes of a queen.

“Mama,” the little girl yelled and tried to run to the platform but the young woman held her back.

The queen looked around in alarm. “What’s she doing here?” The queen tried to leave the platform but the spearmen grabbed her, one on each arm.

The spearmen looked at the priestess, who nodded. They seized the queen tighter and threw her off the citadel wall to the rocks far below.

The little girl screamed and screamed and screamed but the priestess and the young woman exchanged cruel and triumphant smiles.

****

“Gently, you sons of bitches, nose her in gently,” said the ship’s captain, holding himself rigidly upright as the deck pitched.

The rowers dropped their oars back into the water with a splash. They braced themselves and pushed back to brake the ship, noticeably slowing the galley. It slewed slightly in the water as the starboard oars bit just that little more deeply than those to port. The helmsman threw his weight against the steering oar, swinging the bow back into line.

“Quite right, Captain,” said Perseus. “We don’t want any accidents or you might get a closer shave than you need.”

Perseus spoke in Kretan, the common language of the islands, with the languid drawl of an Achaean aristocrat. He held the edge of his bronze sword against the captain’s throat.

The captain swore, but not too loudly. “Should we ever meet again,” he began.

Perseus interrupted him. “I will kill you on sight. Be thankful that this island was nearby, Captain, otherwise, I would have had to kill you and all the officers and try to navigate your ship myself. I hate sailing,” he added.

The captain twisted his head around to look Perseus in the face. From his expression, the man was trying to work out whether he was joking. Perseus snatched a glance behind and braced himself as it wouldn’t do to accidentally cut his hostage’s throat before the man’s usefulness was expended. As it happened, contact with the shore was reasonably smooth, the bow mounting the beach with a smooth hiss as momentum pushed the ship up the sand.

The rowers looked at each other uncertainly. Normally, they would have jumped overboard to pull the ship higher up the beach but the situation was hardly normal.

“Sit still, boys, and I will release your captain at the tree line. Remember, one wrong move and I kill him,” Perseus said, menacingly.

“Do what the bastard says,” said the captain, urgently.

Perseus lifted the man one handed out of the ship’s bow and onto the shore. He backed up the beach, careful to keep his hostage in front of him as a shield. The vegetation came close to the water’s edge so he did not have far to go. He stopped just within the trees.

“Remember your promise,” pleaded the captain.

“An Achaean prince always keeps his word,” said Perseus, loftily, as it never hurt to play up the heroic image a little. Who knows, someone might even be foolish enough to believe it. He reached down to the captain’s waist and pulled free a pouch. “Mine, I think,” he said.

The captain twitched but calmed down when Perseus pressed the sword harder into his throat. “You cheated,” protested the captain.

“True,” Perseus admitted. “But so did you so I thought it was a house rule. Goodbye, Captain.” He forced the man’s head down. The captain tensed and shut his eyes but Perseus laughed and kicked him out onto the beach before vanishing into the trees.

“Kill him,” yelled the captain.

Arrows flew, one embedding itself into a tree trunk over Perseus’ head and another glanced off the shield slung across his back, but mostly the missiles flew wide. He walked briskly for thirty paces or so then stopped. He leaned against a tree and took his boar’s tooth helmet off so he could hear clearly. An argument raged down on the shoreline with the captain wanting to organise a pursuit but the sailors would have none of it. They lacked the stomach to chase after a heavily armed Achaean hero in a forest as they knew it would go ill with the first ones to find the fugitive.

Perseus waited patiently until he heard the ship launched then he walked back to the beach to check that all the sailors had gone. He had no intention of being murdered in his sleep by the old raiders’ stratagem of a secret shore party left behind while the ship ostentatiously sailed away. The vessel was already far out to sea when he reached the beach and it was evident that he was quite alone.

He sat on a rock to consider his options, opening the captain’s pouch to count his spoils. The pouch contained “fingers” of bronze, a few twists of gold and a ring of dubious silver but the jewels were disappointing: small garnets, indifferent carnelians and some bright blue stones that looked like lapis lazuli but which, on closer inspection, turned out to be dyed faience. The forgers of Egypt particularly specialised in faking jewels from glass beads. The best piece in the pouch was the necklace that he himself had given the captain in payment for passage.

He enjoyed the stability of the land as he was a poor sailor. The sun warmed his skin and sent light skittering off the surface of the sea. He sighed, picked up a stone and tossed it into the sea where it fell with a plop, and was swallowed up immediately. He had no idea at all where he was. Somewhere, there would be a small harbour for fishing vessels and coastal traders—even the meanest island boasted that. He could choose a direction at random and start walking around the coast but, given the indented nature of Aegean coastlines, it was likely to be a long hike. He decided to walk inland instead as the island was hilly and he should be able to find a vantage point from where he might search for human habitation.

A breeze stirred along the water, curling around him, cooling his skin and bringing the smell of cypress from the island’s slopes. He could smell nothing man made, no wood, no smoke, no human smells at all. He stood up and attached his helmet to his sword harness then he strode purposefully back into the trees across ground that was dry with large areas of bare earth and scrubby bushes. He walked for some little time before he fancied that he heard the ring of a goat’s bell in the distance, but it never came again so maybe he had imagined it.

Soon, he had a more pressing need, water. You can smell water, if you need a drink badly enough and he was very thirsty, so he sniffed the air. He turned right, following a faint scent even though it took him far uphill.

The island was silent, except for the faint rustle of trees stirred by the wind and the occasional bird cry, so he heard the stream long before he saw it. He also heard a woman scream and his sword came free with a metallic hiss. He ran toward the sound, further cries guiding his steps, until he burst upon the scene, sword raised. There, he doubled up with laughter.

Satyrs surrounded a young woman who beat ineffectually at them. The diminutive goat-men danced in a ring around her on their unsteady, backward-pointing legs, taking turns to dart in close to stroke her hair and body. As fast as she swatted one away, another took its place.

The girl was clearly not an islander as she was far too tall, with hair blacker than a raven’s wing and smooth pale skin. She also wore an expensive, white, shining dress made of linen rubbed and washed in perfumed oil, indicating that she was someone special.

“What are you doing, Princess?” he asked, in Achaean. He tended to call all noble women princess—actually, he tended to call tavern girls princess as well as, in his experience, a little flattery was never wasted on the fairer sex.

“What does it look like, oaf? Do something. Ow!” she replied in the same language. A satyr sneaked in to pinch her bottom while she talked to Perseus. She dealt the goat-man a vigorous clout around his pointed ear that knocked him over.

Perseus laughed until he cried, placing her immediately by her accent. She was Maryannu, a descendent of the charioteers that had conquered their way down the Lebanese coast. They were cousins to the bronze-clad Achaeans who had turned west into the Aegean when the Maryannu clans had driven south, lured by stories of the wealth of Egypt. He bypassed the scrum to drink deeply out of the stream, splashing cold water onto his face and neck and gasping with enjoyment at the shock.

“Pass me my wand, you idiot,” she said, pointing. A slim length of hazel poked from a pack lay by the stream. The creatures must have surprised her while she drank.

“This wand, Princess?” he asked, pulling it from her belongings.

“Of course that wand!” she said.

He slapped two of the creatures away and passed her the polished wood. She raised it over her head and chanted something softly in Maryannan. The wand described an arc, sparkles trailing in the air behind it. He smelt acrid fumes, like those left in the air after a thunderbolt and fear spread like a contagion among the satyrs who fled squealing. One tripped over Perseus’ foot and it rolled in front of him, terror in its eyes. It scrambled along on all fours before vanishing into the bush.

“What did you do to them, Princess?” he asked, amused.

She smoothed down her dress with a fluid motion. “I made them see that which they most feared.” The princess shrugged. “I’ve no idea what that might be.”

“A lion, maybe,” he said, thoughtfully. It took considerable magic power to weave an illusion so real with just a few passes of a wand.

“Thank you for all your help,” she said, making a final, and quite unnecessary, adjustment to the hang of her clothes.

“My pleasure, Princess,” he replied, ignoring her sarcasm. “I suppose that you really are a princess?”

The girl elevated her nose a little higher. “My father is King Cepheus of Joppa. And you are?”

“Prince Perseus, at your service lady,” he said, bowing.

“Prince Perseus of where?” she asked.

“That’s a little complicated,” he said.

“I see,” she replied, lifting an eyebrow.

He doubted that she did, but he let it pass. She hefted up her bag and started up the hill.

“Where are you going?” he asked, falling in beside her.

“And when did that become your business?” she replied.

He laughed. “I’m just making conversation. It is a little unexpected to find a princess of Joppa roaming around alone on the islands.”

She turned and faced him, hands on hips, dark eyes flashing. “You don’t believe me do you?”

“Oh, I believe that you are a Maryannu lady, no one else would mangle Achaean quite so prettily, but a princess normally has a retinue.”

“I did have a retinue but I lost them.” She actually stamped a foot.

He pulled a branch back for her to pass. “That seems careless. How did it happen?”

“It was the first night after we landed. A spearman woke me saying that we were being attacked. There was a lot of yelling in the dark and Mattra, that’s the commander, told me to run into the trees so I did, but no one came after me. I looked for my men in the morning but they were gone.”

“Dead?” he asked.

“Just gone, leaving me alone” she said.

She was making an effort to be brave but he saw her lower lip quiver. She was by no means as assured as she pretended.

“I suppose we could travel together,” he said, gallantly.

“I suppose we could, if you are going my way.” She spoke formally, but she flashed him a smile of gratitude.

“Which is your way?” he asked, surveying the countryside.

“Up the hill but I am not supposed to tell you any more,” she said. “I am on a secret mission.”

“A secret mission, no less,” said Perseus, smiling.

“Now you are laughing at me,” she said, biting her lip.

“Perhaps just a little, Princess, but you look so solemn.” He held up his hand in supplication. “I intended to climb the hill a little higher anyway so we may as well go together for the company.”

They moved through the heat of the late afternoon and as they walked she chattered non-stop about the landscape, life in Joppa, and her family, until he soon thought that he knew a great deal about her. Normally, he found chattering women irritating but she was pleasant company, if charmingly naïve, so he enjoyed the journey, rather to his surprise. The trees thinned out to be replaced by bushes and, before long, the sun was low on the horizon.

“We should make camp for the night,” he finally said. “Do you have any food?”

“A little bread,” she replied. “You have brought nothing?”

“I have this,” he replied, unlooping a strip of linen from his pouch. “Wait here for me and be very quiet.”

Mercifully, she sat down without arguing. He stooped and picked up a round stone that he placed in the centre of the strip of cloth. He walked silently to the edge of a clearing and waited for rabbits emerging to feed as the sun set. A movement caught his eye and he whirled the stone over his head and released, the missile making a clean kill. Perseus retrieved his game and retraced his steps, dropping the dead animal in front of her.

“Clean the bunny, lady, while I get a fire going.” He pushed a dagger into her hands. Perseus skilfully kindled the fire but when he looked up, she was still poking tentatively at the rabbit with his knife. “You haven’t got very far with that,” he said.

“I don’t know how to, Perseus. I’m not a scullery maid.”

He was about to scold her for her arrogance when he realised that she was almost in tears. She really had no idea how to prepare food. Taking the knife, he quickly cleaned and skinned the beast, showing her the technique. He fixed the meat on sticks to roast over the campfire before settling down beside her.

“That man who was captain of your bodyguard, Princess.”

“Mattra?” she interrupted.

“Yes, Mattra. Known him long?” he asked, casually.

“All my life,” she replied. “He was often the spearman on guard outside my door in the palace.”

“I see,” he replied, neutrally.

“How did you get that scar?” she asked, pointing. “It looks like a thunderbolt.”

“I had an accident when I was young.” He rubbed his forehead self-consciously. “I have no idea when it happened. My mother said it was the price we paid the Gods to escape Argos.”

“Where did you learn to use a sling?” she asked.

“I learned from the shepherds of Seriphos. My mother, Danae, was exiled there and the king, Polydectes, married her. A princess of Argolis is a prestigious consort for a minor king and mother’s options were limited so she agreed to the match. Unfortunately, Polydectes acquired me as an unwelcome addition to his household so he encouraged me to spend as much time as possible up in the hills with the flocks.”

He rotated the sticks to cook the rabbit meat evenly.

“I decided to travel abroad once I reached my maturity. The king was so delighted that he actually gave me gold to speed me away.”

“Polydectes was not your father then.”

“Good grief, no.” He shared the rabbit out. They were both hungry and devoted themselves to the meal but, once it was over, she wanted to talk.

“So who was your father? I sense a palace intrigue,” she said, stretching her legs out languidly.

He found himself looking at her slender outline through the long dress, which shone red and orange in the firelight. A whisper of wind carried a hint of perfumed oils from her body.

“Zeus,” he replied, succinctly.

She laughed.

“No, really,” he said. “My grandfather, King Acrisius of Argolis, had shut my mother up in the palace as a punishment, when Zeus came to her as a shimmer of gold in the air and I was the result.”

“So who was your father really?” she wheedled.

“The Argolis has dual kings and the other one was my grandfather’s brother, Proteus. The reason that my mother was in disgrace is that she had been caught in bed with Uncle Proteus, so you work it out, Princess.”

“You Achaeans have such deliciously convoluted family scandals,” she said, giggling.

Her face shone bright in the flickering firelight.

“It’s late,” he said. “We should sleep.”

They settled each side of the fire, which flickered low. An animal howled somewhere out on the island startling her. She shot over the ashes and snuggled close to him.

“I’m cold,” she said, defensively.

He rolled over and put a strong arm around her. “Sleep well, my lady,” he said.

She fell asleep immediately but he lay awake a little longer. She smelt fragrant from the perfumed oils rubbed into her hair and skin. He breathed her scent in deeply, identifying hyssop, cypress and sweet sage. She snuffled gently and snuggled close to him, her body warm against his.

He was not unduly concerned with wild animals. He slept lightly, from long experience of the wilderness, and his bronze sword was close by his hand. He drifted into sleep with her scent in his nostrils, making him dream of exotic palace ladies, hearing the clang of their jewellery, the tapping of their boots on the stone floors and smelling the rich scent that followed them.

****

In the morning, Perseus found a rocky outcrop that gave him an unrestricted view over the trees so that he could see along the entire arc of the coast but there was no sign of human activity.

“What are you looking for?” the princess asked, from the bottom of the rock.

“A village where I can find a boat,” he replied.

“The only one on the island is over there,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction to the path they had taken.

He jumped down and glowered at her.

“Well, how did you think that I got here?” she asked, defensively.

“I didn’t like to ask. You being on a secret mission,” he said, sarcastically.

“You could stay with me,” she said, hesitantly. “In return, I could give you passage on my ship.”

“Why would you want my assistance?” he asked, warily.

“I’m scared,” she said, with disarming honesty. “I have never been on my own in the wilderness and . . .” She paused and looked at him with dark eyes shadowed with kohl, so strikingly different from the blue-eyed Achaeans. “I trust you.”

He did not know how to answer that as his own life had not inclined him to be overly trusting. He adjusted the hang of his shield to give his hands something to do. “You should not be so accepting of people, Princess. So why have you come here?”

“Up there,” she pointed up the hill, “is a ruined temple to one of the old gods. It contains a great treasure that I intend to claim for Joppa.”

“A great treasure,” he repeated, thoughtfully. “Perhaps I shall accompany you. No doubt Joppa would reward me handsomely, for seeing you and the treasure safely home.”

“Oh yes,” she said, happily.

They continued to climb but the way became steeper and rockier and they were soon forced to scramble. The girl was fit; life in the rich splendour of a Maryannu palace had clearly not spoilt her, but even so, she eventually tired. He halted to allow her to rest and drink. Naturally, she asked questions.

“How did you end up here, Perseus, with not even a water skin for refreshment?”

“I had to leave my ship rather too quickly.” He laughed. “The captain liked to play dice but he was a poor loser.”

“Did you win much?” she asked.

“Everything he had,” he said, with a grin. She laughed with him, showing even white teeth. “I am surprised that your father sent you so far from Joppa on such an errand,” said Perseus. “Hasn’t he any sons or heroes to call upon?”

“Daddy thinks that I am attending a ceremony up in the hills behind Joppa.” She giggled happily. “The queen, Cassiopeia, chose me for the task. She’s my stepmother and she thinks daddy cossets me too much. The temple is magical, you see, and I’m good at magic.” She tried to speak matter of factly but her tone betrayed her pride in her skill. “So you had to leave all your belongings on your ship?” she asked, adroitly switching the focus of the conversation back to him.

“I had nothing on the ship other than what you see,” he said, bowing. “I lost all else when I had to leave Siffa in a hurry.”

She clapped her hands with pleasure. “Your life is full of fast exits, Prince Perseus. Do tell me the story.”

“It was all caused by a bad oyster,” he said, solemnly.

“A bad oyster?” she repeated.

“The army commander had one for