STEPHEN DEDMAN
Stephen Dedman is the proverbial writer to watch.
He writes: “I was born in Adelaide in 1959, and have lived most of my life in Perth. I escaped from most of the institutes of higher learning in that city, have held several boring jobs and a few interesting ones (including actor, experimental subject, and manager of an sf bookshop), and enjoy travel as long as it doesn’t involve boats, ships, or horses.”
His short stories have appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Asimov’s, Science Fiction Age, Aurealis, and Eidolon; and in anthologies such as Glass Reptile Breakout, Alien Shores, and Little Deaths, and his first short fiction collection, The Lady of Situations, will be published this year. His first novel, The Art of Arrow Cutting, was published in 1997 and shortlisted for the Bram Stoker Award for Best First Novel. His next novel, Foreign Bodies, will also be published this year.
Here, Dedman takes on one of the most familiar Greek legends ... but we assure you, this story won’t be familiar.
* * * *
Helen stared over the battlements at the Akhaean forces, and sighed. “You’re a fool,” she repeated. “Why did you have to kill him — and in an ambush, too? This will just make them more determined.”
Paris bristled. “He was their strongest fighter —”
“He was a weakling, and our best hope. If you’d let him have the women he wanted, he’d have talked the Akhaeans into going back home. But no, you had to murder him, from behind cover, when he wasn’t even armed. And why Akhilles? Why not Menelaus, or Odysseus, or even Makhaon? That would have hurt them much more. Instead, Agamemnon’s given his armour to Odysseus, who’s much more dangerous, and made him even more powerful.”
Paris stared at her. After ten years, he rarely noticed her legendary beauty any more, though it hadn’t faded. “Odysseus? Odysseus is a nobody with a big mouth, little legs, and the soul of a farmer. Give him a chance and he’ll go running back to that duck-faced wife of his.”
“Odysseus is the son and grandson of the two greatest thieves ever known,” Helen snapped, “and some say he’s a great-grandson of Hermes himself. He’s a spy, a seer, a skilled liar, a collector of secrets and mysteries, the favoured of Athena, the most clever man in the Akhaean camp, and the reason everyone else is out there.” She walked away from the wall, and looked back at Paris, her blue eyes cold. “He was the man who advised my father to sacrifice a horse and have all my suitors swear an oath to Poseidon on its bones to defend my husband against anyone who tried to take me. And they’re all there — see them?”
“So he’s clever,” sneered Paris. “That doesn’t make him a seer. And do you know what he was doing when Palamedes went to summon him to the war? Sowing a field with salt! Palamedes had to put his son in his path to stop him!”
Helen said nothing. She had heard the story, of course, but she had also heard that Odysseus had been in a prophetic trance, and the ten furrows sown with salt had been a forecast of ten wasted years. Odysseus was said to have seen strange things in such trances — monstrous beasts; wars vaster than any ever known; cities of glass; great ships with neither sails nor oars, that sailed under the sea; men flying like Daedalus in boats with metal wings; magical spears taller than any tower, able to hurl themselves across oceans; and other visions beyond any comprehension.
“Anyway, Odysseus is gone,” Paris continued, sullenly. “He and Diomedes have sailed away looking for some weapon that’s supposed to win the war for them — the bow and arrows of Herakles, or the shoulder-blade of Agamemnon’s grandfather, or something. That’ll probably be the last we ever see of either of them.”
“No,” said Helen, sadly. “If there’s a weapon that could give them victory, Odysseus will find it, even if he has to kill the man who found it before him.”
* * * *
Odysseus, the red-haired King of Ithaka, was dreaming of horses. This was hardly remarkable — the small ship was carrying fresh chariot-horses from the stables of Menelaus, and redolent with the stinks of their sweat and manure. War, Odysseus thought sourly, was a great consumer of horseflesh. None of the Akhaeans had forgotten the oaths they’d sworn on the bones of a horse, or that it had been the Ithakan’s idea.
Odysseus woke suddenly, trying to piece together the fragments of his dream — something about horses, and Poseidon Earth-shaker, and the walls of Troy ... a way through the walls. Or over them, or under them ... He shook his head. He’d discovered small gaps suitable for spying excursions, but nothing that would admit an army without quickly becoming a trap.
Unable to sleep, he walked to the railing and stared out over the wine-dark sea, hearing the creaking and splashing of the oars, and the whinnying of the horses in their stall nearby. One of the oarsmen chuckled at his short, twisted legs and small penis; without even a glance in his direction, Odysseus smoothly snatched up a ball of dry horse-dung and threw it at him. There was a muttered curse, and scattered chuckles from other rowers; Odysseus merely dusted off his hands, trying to understand.
He’d disliked horses for as long as he could remember, just as he had the sea. Ithaka was a small and mountainous land, with few plains and fewer roads broad enough for chariots, and though long walks hurt his legs, so did riding horseback. But the dream had been as vivid as any vision Athena had ever sent him, and it was unmistakeably about horses. And wood. And the walls.
Odysseus shook his head and leaned on a railing. He was good at interpreting the dreams of his cohorts, usually to his own advantage, but he was frequently troubled by his own. He tried to rearrange the pieces of the dream into a shape that made more sense. A horse that could jump the city’s walls? Not unless the Muses saw fit to lend him Pegasus; even his grandfather Autolykus, an expert at breeding cattle for desirable traits, had never tried to mate horses with birds. Walls of wood? Again, mere wishful thinking. A wooden horse?
He turned his back to the railing, staring at the horses and the ship. What possible use was a wooden horse?
* * * *
Sunrise found Odysseus still sitting by the railing, half-awake and staring at the sea as it was tinged with pink, and then with yellow, by the reflection of the sunlight. He looked up warily as Diomedes approached. “Couldn’t sleep,” he grunted. “Dreams.”
The Aetolian nodded. “What about?”
“Horses.”
“Probably your guilty conscience,” Diomedes replied. “If you hadn’t slaughtered that poor horse, we’d all still be at home with our wives.” He stretched and yawned, hiding a grin.
“I would be,” said Odysseus, drily. “Do you miss yours?”
“No, but that’s still no reason to butcher a good horse.”
“I dreamed about a wooden horse. Does that make any sense to you?”
“You wouldn’t have to feed it,” Diomedes said, after a moment’s thought. “Unfortunately, these ones you do, so if you’ll excuse me —”
“You’re not related to the Thracian Diomedes, are you?”
“No, but I stole some horses from one of his grandsons. Good horses, too, fastest I’ve ever seen.” Legend had it that Diomedes of Thrace had fed his horses on human flesh; the younger Diomedes loved horses as much as his namesake, but considered that this was pampering them unnecessarily. “Now, horses like his might do more to win us the war than the bow of Herakles, though I wouldn’t want the job of mucking them out. Meat-eaters’ dung stinks like — what’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” replied Odysseus slowly, after a silence of several seconds. “Just ... something my grandfather taught me, when I was a boy.”
“What?”
“I can’t remember.”
Diomedes stared at him, then chuckled and returned to feeding the horses. Odysseus closed his eyes. He’d only been a boy when his grandfather had died, and the old man had told him a lot that he hadn’t been able to understand at the time. He dimly remembered a story of a weapon more powerful than any bow — and Autolykus had known a lot about bows, too; he’d taught him how Daedalus had made Herakles’ bow from layers of different wood laminated together, multiplying its power and range. He’d also been an expert on envenoming arrows, and other drugs and poisons. The young Odysseus had been fascinated, and had practised archery until he was able to shoot an arrow through the rings of twelve double-bladed axes set in a row. It was a useful skill for a man with twisted legs barely able to carry the weight of armour and shield —
Odysseus suddenly began shaking, as he realised that it was Autolykus’s unknown weapon that had crippled him as a boy, stunting and scarring his legs and leaving him in greater agony than he could recall or imagine. And the only thing he still remembered was that it had happened in the stables.
He staggered back to his bunk, momentarily almost sorry that he’d had Palamedes killed in revenge for involving him in the war. Palamedes had been a military genius, though he was better known as the inventor of dice — popular as a pastime for bored soldiers, but originally designed as a means of divination. The bone dice Odysseus removed from his quiver had been Palamedes’ own; he rolled them, and tallied up the score. Six, one, and two. It had to mean something, just as his dream did. He dropped the dice back into his quiver, and brooded.
* * * *
Helen stared over the battlements at the Akhaean forces, and asked, “Who killed him?”
Priam said nothing, but Helen noted that he wasn’t weeping as he had when Akhilles had killed Hektor; it was many years since Paris had been the old king’s favourite son. “No-one’s sure,” replied Deiphobus. “He was hit by three arrows. Probably Philoktetes — some are saying it was Odysseus, but he was nearly three hundred paces away at the time ...”
Helen nodded. It didn’t really matter; Odysseus had armed Philoktetes and the Akhaeans’ other great archers with powerful new bows, so he deserved at least part of the blame. I should leave, she thought. It’s the only way to end this war without everyone dying.
* * * *
“You know, I used to like horses once.” Odysseus stared at the carpenter as he carved an eye, the size of a discus, out of the fir. Behind him, other slaves were finishing wheels nearly twice their own height, or fetching wood for the fires.
“What changed your mind?” asked Diomedes, lazily.
“An accident,” replied Odysseus. “Did you know that Helen tried to escape over the wall last night?”
The Aetolian raised an eyebrow; he had his own sources of information, most of them being Trojan women that he’d seduced, but Odysseus always seemed to hear the enemy’s secrets before he did. “No, but I’m not surprised, not with Priam marrying her to Deiphobus. Maybe someone should go in and bring her out.”
“Maybe, but Menelaus won’t like it. It’s not just Helen any more; he’s still furious that Paris died before he had a chance to finish him off. He’s going to want to kill Deiphobus himself, at the very least.”
Diomedes shrugged, and watched the slaves as they laboured. “It’s still hard to see that as the weapon that’s going to bring us victory overnight, after all these years. Nestor is telling Agamemnon that you’re insane, that this thing will never work.”
“Nestor’s an old man, and he’s never liked new ideas. Besides, with Makhaon dead, we can’t afford to just keep wearing the Trojans down.” Reluctantly, Diomedes nodded; the surgeon Makhaon had saved enough lives over the ten years of the war to be counted worth a thousand soldiers. “Too many dead heroes on both sides,” Odysseus brooded, “and what have they gained? The survivors have won some pretty slaves and shiny armour, but how can we know what’s happening to our kingdoms while we’re here? This horse is going to fulfil my oath and take me home; that’s honour enough for me.”
* * * *
The Akhaean soldier was thin and ugly, and smelled so foul that Helen took him out onto the roof of the palace and stood upwind before questioning him. “What is Odysseus planning?”
“He’s built a great wooden horse,” replied the soldier. “It’s supposed to be a symbol of the horse the kings swore their oath on — the pieces re-united and the oath forgotten, or something.”
“Who told you this? Odysseus?”
The soldier grimaced. “D’you think he’d say anything to me? He’s the bastard gave the order for me to spend my days collecting horse-dung.”
Helen glanced at her husband, who smiled and shrugged. “Why?”
“For laughing at him,” was the sullen reply.
“I mean, what does he want with horse dung?”
“I don’t know,” replied the soldier, his tone making it clear that he’d never wondered, either.
“Maybe it’s for poisoning arrows,” suggested Deiphobus; both sides dipped arrows and spears in manure when no other venom was available.
“Might be,” said the soldier, after a moment’s thought. “He’s had a load of some yellow powder brought in from somewhere, too; I don’t know whether it’s a poison or a medicine, but you’d think it was gold from the way he’s hidden it.”
Helen studied the Akhaean carefully. He was too tall and far too thin to be Odysseus, though she knew that the Ithakan had learnt the art of disguise from the notorious Autolykus and almost certainly visited the city frequently. And the soldier seemed sincere enough, motivated as much by hatred of Odysseus as by any hope of gain ... but Odysseus was cunning enough to have used just such a man to carry his own lies and poisons into Troy. It occurred to her that that might be what the wooden horse was intended to do; carry poison or pestilence into the city. Or maybe ... “How large is this horse?”
“How large? I don’t know; Odysseus wanted it small enough to fit through your gates, so the legs are a bit short, like his ... maybe half as long as a galley, I guess.”
How many men could stay hidden inside a space that large, she wondered. Forty, fifty, maybe more, but was that enough to take the city, even given the advantage of surprise? She looked closely at the soldier, wishing for a moment that he were Odysseus, or one of his messengers, so she could ask what the Akhaeans had planned for her. Death, or forgiveness? She was sure she could seduce Menelaus into sparing her, given time, but Odysseus might have persuaded Agamemnon to keep her away from her first husband. Or would he have counselled mercy for her, for reasons of his own?
“What else do the Akhaeans have planned?” asked Deiphobus.
“They’ve told us to be ready to sail by the full of the moon. The horse has to be ready by that time, too.”
Seven days, thought Helen. Seven days, and this war may be over, one way or the other. She wondered who her husband would be when the moon began to wane.
* * * *
Troy’s best archers watched from the top of the walls, waiting for the order to fire, as Akhaean slaves and soldiers dragged the great wheeled horse towards their city by moonlight. The order never came, even when the soldiers came within a few paces of the western gate; none of the Akhaeans seemed to be armed or armoured, and they fled towards their ships as soon as the horse was in place. It was almost an hour later that the gates opened and a small team of Trojans emerged to examine the figure. Apart from the head and neck, which had been carven with skill and obvious care, it was merely a collection of rough-hewn planks shaped into enormous cylinders. The front left wheel, of soft fir-wood, had broken under its weight. Tapping on the legs and body suggested that they were hollow, but filled with something like sand.
Helen, remembering the soldier’s story about the yellow powder, stared curiously at the horse from a tower in the northern wall. Behind her, she heard the unsteady footsteps of Priam; flanking and supporting him were two of his youngest sons, Capys and Thymoetes. “What is it?” asked the king, querulously.
“Some trick of Odysseus’s,” she replied.
“The word going around the city is that it’s full of treasure,” Priam grumbled. “A peace offering, reparations, a sacrifice ... some of the people want it brought inside, others want it destroyed. Deiphobus and Laokoon are demanding that it be burnt, and Kassandra is wailing that it’ll kill us all. I’ve ordered the gates shut, only a few soldiers to go outside. What do you think? Do you want to see it?”
She stared at the horse, then nodded, and followed him down to the gates.
* * * *
Helen walked cautiously around the horse three times, keeping a safe distance and looking, with no success, for a trapdoor. In thankful anticipation of a safe return to their homes, read the inscription on the left flank, the Akhaeans dedicate this offering to the Goddess. “Maybe we should take it to the temple,” suggested Thymoetes, softly.
Capys laughed. “Athena always favoured the Akhaeans anyway, especially Odysseus. I say either we burn it at once, or break it open and see what’s inside.”
Both ideas were popular, Helen thought, hearing the shouts that were coming from inside the city. Laokoon, another of Priam’s sons, hurled his spear at the horse’s belly before anyone could stop him. The Trojans gathered around watched, some half-expecting blood to drip from the rent in the wood, but all they saw was a trickle of fine dark powder. Helen rushed forward and caught some, wondering why she was filled with fear by a handful of dust.
“Burning sounds good to me,” said Deiphobus. Helen glared at him, then called out to Menelaus, imploring him to come out.
Deiphobus grabbed her from behind, one arm around her chest, the other under her jaw. “What are you —”
“If it is full of fighters,” she hissed, “wouldn’t it be better to get them out alive and ransom them?” She tossed her head, breaking free of his grasp, then called out to Odysseus in a perfect imitation of Penelope’s broad, flat accent. Priam stared at them, then nodded.
“Do it,” he ordered, then turned to Thymoetes. “Have as many good archers as you can find line up on the walls in case anyone comes out.”
“And what if they don’t?” demanded Laokoon, as his brother ran for the gates.
“Then we burn it,” said Priam, grimly. “Before sunrise, when the wind changes, and let the people see what we think of the Akhaeans’ gifts.”
* * * *
Seven hundred paces from the western gates, the Akhaeans’ best archers sat around a small fire and played dice for slaves — except for Odysseus, who stared towards the city, his great bow in his right hand, his favourite spear (tipped with the barb of a sting-ray) in his left. Six, one, two, he repeated silently, as though it were a prayer, rather than just the formula Autolykus had taught him. Six parts of saltpetre, the white crystals found under old piles of horse manure, to one of sulphur from the hot springs, to two of charcoal, well mixed together, then wet to form a paste, and dried to a black powder. Autolykus had taught him to use a handful of the dust for creating smoke, bright light and noise to create confusion, but the young Odysseus had wanted to see what an urn filled with it would do. The blast had crippled both of his legs, disembowelled his favourite pony, and set fire to his grandfather’s stables. The wooden horse that the Trojans were preparing to burn contained more than a hundred times that amount of powder, plus stones and metal shards. Odysseus saw the flash, and a moment later, a sound like thunder as the horse exploded.
* * * *
The Akhaeans took the city just before sunrise. The blast had cracked the thin western wall, blown one of the gates from its hinges, and started fires in the city; more importantly, it had killed Priam and most of his family, as well as the city’s best archers, and hundreds who had gathered around the horse to watch it burn. Helen had fled when the fire began, and Deiphobus had chased her to her chamber, where she stabbed him with a dagger. Menelaus found them there, put down his sword, and led her back to the Akhaean fleet while the other Akhaeans fought over the spoils. Neoptolemus, son of Akhilles, dragged Priam’s body to a peninsula that would later be called Gallipoli, and left it there to rot.
* * * *
Odysseus stood lashed to the mast while his crew rowed on, their ears stoppered with wax. Determined to be the first man to hear the song of the sirens and tell the story, he scanned the surrounding rocks for the feathered women. There was no sign of them, but the winds carried sweet voices to his ears; come to us, he heard, come to us and we’ll tell you the future.
I’ve already seen the future, Odysseus thought. Weapons that kill warriors and cowards, kings and slaves, all alike. Wars that level entire cities. The age of heroes ended, nothing more than a memory, a story told by the bards and only half-believed.
* * * *
AFTERWORD
I often tell people that the way to start a short story is to bang two ideas together and see if you get a spark. This one came about because I banged a title I liked against a character who’s interested me for most of my life.
I discovered Greek mythology in a big way a few months before the first moonwalk, when my teacher asked me to find out what I could about the god Apollo. I became hooked, and bought myself an illustrated translation of the Odyssey for my tenth birthday.
Over the next few decades, I read as much Greek myth as I could find, and learnt some of the history behind it, as well as making several false starts at stories and novels based on the myths.
Odysseus is my sort of hero — clever, devious, arrogant, curious, practical, beloved of the Goddess of Wisdom, descended from the God of Thieves, an actor and tale-spinner and dream-interpreter and spy. Best of all, he’s a draftee, who would rather be home than fighting a particularly stupid war. Unfortunately, I wasn’t convinced by the idea of the Trojan horse, and I decided there had to be more to the story than that.
Not including twenty-seven years of research, this story took about a week to write. Apart from the Iliad and Odyssey, Robert Graves’s The Greek Myths and M.I. Finley’s The World of Odysseus and The Ancient Greeks (all Pelican Books) were invaluable. My thanks to whatever gods there be for good bookshops.
Oh, and it’s a science fiction story, too. One of my other favourite characters from Greek myth was Daedalus...
— Stephen Dedman