The Gates of Hades

Gates of Hades

Nick Jenkins

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Nick Jenkins

For my father, who taught me how to write and what to read

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Chapter One

The door to the great hall slammed open and the fire roared in the hearth. A man in a white chiton strode into the room, and looked around angrily, hands clenched and his broad shoulders hunched. He carried himself stiffly, his back not bent by the years apparent from his greying beard.

Sancho!… blast it… where are you! the old man thundered.

Here, sire! his servant answered from behind him.

Pivoting on his heel, the old man snatched the cuirass held out to him and shoved the other man towards the door. Get my horse! he shouted, buckling the armour on.

The servant, a slightly younger man with thinning black hair and a salt-and-pepper beard, paused and threw out his arms. But Yossarian you can’t leave now… he said.

By all the gods! Why does everyone contradict me tonight! Have Aricholus at the gate by the time I get there or I will sever your empty head from your worthless shoulders!

Sancho knew he didn't mean it; after the years they had spent together he was familiar enough with Yossarian's temper.

But sire... he tried one last time.

Do as he says! interrupted a third man who, unnoticed, had entered the hall behind them.

This one was tall and strong and did not yet have the touch of grey in his hair. He stood, hands on hips, on the threshold of the hall and regarded master and servant with an amused smile.

Sancho fled into the night without a word.

The man moved to stand by the fire, So you mean to carry out this lunacy?

I do, I mean to see it through, replied Yossarian not bothering to look up.

The other man shook his head and regarded Yossarian sadly, a man he hardly felt he knew, You would trade your throne for the love of a whore?

Yossarian paused in his work at the straps of his breast plate and looked towards the other. As the light of the fire fell on their faces, the similarities between the two of them became apparent. They shared the same broad, square jaw and pale grey eyes but the other man’s waxen skin made him look sallow and thin.

Yossarian spoke and the other recoiled at the venom in his voice. I traded my throne and my dignity a long time ago when I made you strategos Marcos, he said venomously. But I have never sacrificed, and will never, sacrifice the love of my Serina for anything. He picked up a short sword from the table and hefted it, And if you ever use such language about her again – I will gut you like a pig, brother or not.

Yossarian regarded the other man a second longer and then snatched a scabbard from the table and strode from the hall into the whirling spiral of snow.

At the gate, Sancho stood clutching the reins of not one, but two, horses. His friend and servant snatched a shaggy woollen cloak from the back of one horse and came to meet him. Yossarian let him settle the cloak around his shoulders and noted with amusement that for someone who had protested his inability to leave that evening, Sancho was unusually well prepared.

The necks of both horses sported bulging panniers, stuffed with provisions, and Yossarian’s shield and helmet hung on the flanks of his own steed.

Yossarian slid the sword into its sheath and mounted Aricholus with a well practised motion that had grown stiff with age. Yossarian turned his horse away from the gate and urged it forward. Sancho took the reins of the other horse and fell in beside his master at a trot.

They passed out from the Citadel and down through the acropolis and two more sets of massive gates until they reached the outer gatehouse where two shieldmen snapped to attention as they passed. They crossed over an ancient bridge of stone and mortar and paused on the hill where Yossarian stopped and looked out at the twinkling fires of the city below them.

The acropolis was lost in the snow behind them and Sancho found his tongue again.

Where do we go sire? Where are we bound? he asked eagerly.

The old man was silent for a while and Sancho almost thought he had not heard him. We go to fetch my Serina, said the old man in a voice that was far away.

There was a startled expletive in reply that was lost in the wind. Yossarian patted Aricholus on the neck and twisted in seat to look back.

Sancho was standing mouth agape, clutching the reins of the other horse.

Yossarian twisted round again and urged his mount forward, his voice nearly lost in the swirling snow, That’s right Sancho, we ride to the gates of Hades!

~

The fire was small but bright and warm in the cold night. The snow had stopped and the firelight flickered against the over-hanging, powder-laden branches of the forest. Yossarian sat close, propped against a rock, and warmed his hands while Sancho fussed around with olives, cheese and wine.

Eventually Yossarian spoke, Don’t worry Sancho, I haven’t lost my mind, he said regarding his friend across the flames.

Sancho stopped and turned to look at Yossarian. In the firelight Sancho could see the white in the old man's beard and the bright twinkle of his eyes. His hands stretched out to the fire were scarred and pitted with a patchwork of skin, the consequences of a hundred sword fights won and lost.

His shoulders were broad and square and his neck bulged with sinew. In his prime, Sancho has seen him lift the carcass of a horse over his head and topple a siege tower with his bare hands.

But his prime had been a long time ago.

Yossarian sighed and straightened his stiffening legs.

He knew that like the others, Sancho thought the death of his beloved wife had driven him insane. Who could blame them? When she had died nearly three months ago, Yossarian had indeed nearly gone mad. Serina had become his whole life.

He had lost his second wife and his concubine years before, one to an assassin and one to pestilence. None had borne him any children and it was said in hushed tones around the acropolis that Yossarian had paid for his throne with his manhood. He knew this but cared little for it.

Serina's illness was long and difficult and she was in agony for months before she died. Yossarian had suffered nearly as much as she in the final days. He had spent the three months since shut up in his room, seeing no one but Sancho and wearing about him such a mantle of grief that even on the odd occasions he did venture forth, no one dared speak with him.

He spent most of that time in his beloved library, reading scroll after scroll by flickering torchlight until weariness overcame him and he slept where he lay.

It was from there that he had emerged this winter's night, already full of wrath as if he had anticipated the reaction his announcement would bring. He had confronted his brother in his bed chamber and made him assemble the agathoi that were at court and he had swept aside their protestations. And they all thought him insane.

Sancho, do you know the history of Sardis?

I know something of it my Lord, replied Sancho, still tending to the evening meal.

What do you know?

Sancho paused in his preparations, The city was named by Aeneas, the first Archon of Lydia who founded a settlement here when his people fled from Troas after the war. Sancho paused and his brow furrowed as he probed for a fleeting memory. There is also a myth that says Aeneas rescued his father from forces of great evil.

It was far from a myth and he did rescue his father from great evil, said Yossarian, a faint reproach in his voice.

Yes sire.

Sancho resumed his preparations but keeping an ear cocked in Yossarian's direction. He recognised when the old man liked to talk and it sounded like there was a story in the offing.

Aeneas was the first archon of the kingdom and it is in a direct line of descent from him that I hold my title and his is the blood that runs in Marcos’s veins and in my own, said Yossarian.

"Aeneas lived nigh on 400 years ago, as far as we can tell, and his great scribe and sage Sergestus was the chronicler of the time. His is the first record of our kingdom of Lydia and the deeds of heroes and kings like Aeneas. The histories have been passed down my ancestors and today I now hold them in my library in Sardis.

The kingdom was divided then much as it was when I first came to power. Petty princes fought over slices of land no bigger than a village and squabbled over mines and the forests. Aeneas and his father and their clan came from Troas after the war. They brought with them many soldiers of their family and they settled at Sardis.

Yossarian paused and ran a hand through his greying beard.

At the apex of his power, Aeneas suffered a terrible tragedy. His father, a Troan agathos, fell into a delirium, then into a fit and was snatched away. Sancho raised his eyebrows at the word but continued to stir the stew without comment.

Aeneas gathered his companions about him and divided them into two parts. The first and larger part he directed to continue to subdue the the kingdom and to consolidate his power.

Yossarian continued, The second part he gathered around him and rode for the Black Shore of Cumae where the entrance to Hades lies hidden in a cavern.

Yossarian frowned and stared into the fire.

"From there the trail grows cold and even Sergestus’s chronicles become obtuse. It appears that Aeneas did reach Cumae and did find the entrance. He descended and was not seen again. His companions waited twenty long days and twenty nights but he did not appear. They returned reluctantly to Sardis where their compatriots had proved victorious. One of them was appointed strategos and Aeneas' newborn son was placed on the throne to await the return of the archon.

After more than a year some argued that he was dead and would not return and that another should be appointed archon. The first strategos, Aeneas’ most faithful friend, disagreed and resolved to wait. After another year even the strategos’ will quailed and he began to consider ascending to the throne. Eventually he succumbed to the pressure of the noble born and acquiesced.

Sancho ladled stew into two clay bowls and turned from the fire to hand Yossarian one.

Yossarian held it in his hand without looking at it and continued his story. At the ceremony that would have made him archon, there was a great stirring in the hall and an apparition appeared in the midst of the people. It was Aeneas' father.

"Aeneas, it seemed, had descended into Hades and, after a great trial with dark forces, he wrested his father away from them and returned him to the world above. Aeneas' father had wandered the land in a daze for months before he had returned to his senses and found his way home.

Yossarian stopped and scratched at his greying hair. Aeneas' father deposed the strategos and took up his post instead, vowing to wait for the return of his son. That is why I bear the crest of Aeneas on my pennant and why Lydia owes so much to him.

Sancho said nothing in return, his thoughts were filled with hell and with death. He held out a hunk of black bread, torn from a loaf, and Yossarian took it. Yossarian looked into his bowl and ate slowly, dipping the bread into the stew.

Understand, Sancho I am not insane, merely a little crazy. I only seek to do what my ancestors once did, to find what they found, he said between mouthfuls.

Sancho pondered this and measured his words before he finally spoke, But Sire, Aeneas had his companions about him and his father was 'snatched away'... he did not... he had not... he trailed off helplessly.

Yossarian sighed wearily, Yes, Sancho I know. But I will not be denied. My love for Serina cannot be less deep than the love Aeneas love held for his father. Yossarian looked across the fire at his friend. But I will not ask any man to follow me where I go now, he said solemnly.

Sancho looked up startled. But sire I will be with you!

I cannot ask it of you, not where I am going. We have shared much, but this is beyond what any man can ask of a friend.

Sancho looked at him and said, You don’t need to ask it of me sire, I will give it freely and I will follow you even to... and here he smiled weakly, ... the gates of Hades.

Yossarian put down his empty bowl beside the fire, looked back across at his servant and friend, and smiled for the first time in months.

Thank you Sancho, I wouldn’t ask it of you, but your company will be welcome for however far you come. He yawned and stretched, Now I am tired and must rest for it is a long way even to Cumae.

He turned and rolled his cloak over him, turning his back on the fire.

Sancho busied himself with banking the fire and packing away the provisions.

Yossarian was right, it was a long way to Cumae, the trip could take several weeks, and after that who knew? The world was a wide place and many things could happen.

They'd be lucky to even reach Cumae unscathed. Sancho turned and regarded the old man's broad back across the fire. He could be asleep but Sancho didn't think so.

Sire? he asked quietly.

Yes Sancho? Yossarian replied without turning.

You said Aeneas's father returned to rule Lydia?

Yes Sancho, answered Yossarian, his voice heavy with sleep.

What happened to Aeneas himself? When did he return to reign?

Yossarian raised his head and turned it slightly so that Sancho could hear him better although he still did not turn to face him. He never did. His son was crowned archon upon the death of his grandfather. Aeneas was never seen again.

Oh, said Sancho quietly and shuffled closer to the fire against the engulfing blackness.

~

The next morning Sancho rose and extinguished what was left of the fire, knowing that his master would prefer a breakfast of hard bread on horseback rather than wasting time. As he groomed the horses Sancho reflected it had been a long time since they had been on the trail together.

It had been seven years since the War of Unification had ended and Yossarian had hardly stirred from the citadel in that time.

Most of his time was taken up with bureaucratic petitions and petty details of office. Occasionally he and Sancho went hunting or riding to relieve the boredom but never in those seven years had they donned their armour in earnest.

Oh, there had been the odd show of force or a clip over the ear for a disgruntled noble but nothing serious, nothing like the early years.

The War of Unification had lasted six long years and before that there had been a string of punitive raids against their enemies that had lasted nearly thirty years.

Everywhere they turned there was unrest and it had take a lifetime to quell. They had both lived a life of campaign. It felt good to be back on the road again where they’d spent so much time together.

Yossarian rose soon after Sancho and shuffled off into the trees to relieve himself and wash quickly with a handful of snow. Sancho packed up the campsite and loaded their possessions onto the horses. They set off into the grey and misty light of dawn, their breath freezing against their cheeks.

The sky cleared slowly and the sun burnt the mist away to reveal a bright blue sky above the powdery white landscape. They were in the depths of the forest now and the nearest habitation would be crofter's huts many stadia away on the edge of the forest.

When the sun had begun to warm their faces Sancho spoke,Sire, I have a question… he said.

You are as full of questions, as always, said Yossarian with a grin. It was a serious business they were embarked upon but like Sancho he was happy to be on the road again.

Sancho paused, not sure how to frame his question. We go to Cumae?

Yes, said Yossarian patiently.

But Cumae lies north and west and we travel south?

Cumae is a big place and no one knows quite where the path to Hades lies. First we need a map, we need a guide. So we go to find a ship to take us to Kritia and Knossos.

Why Knossos?

At Knossos lies a great library tended by a woman who knows more about the world than any other alive. I visited there once when I was younger and spent some time in her company.

Sancho grinned at Yossarian; his master’s early bedroom conquests were nearly as legendary as his battlefield victories.

Yossarian ignored him and continued, Her name is Hinan and she is a Twareg.

Sancho frowned, I have never met one but they say the Twareg have brown skin like a horse’s hide and jet black hair, he said.

Yes Sancho, their hair is black and their skin is brown but not like a horse's, its just as soft as yours or mine... he looked down at his friend, or perhaps in your case, even softer!

And Sire I have heard it said that their women…

Yossarian interrupted, I have heard a lot of things said about their women and all of them are foolish and untrue. They are men and women just like us.

They rode on for some time in silence.

Oh and Sancho?

Yes, Sire? the other man replied, still lost deep in thoughts of the Twareg.

Stop calling me 'sire', we’re travelling incognito. Use my name.

Sire? said Sancho, unsettled by this latest development.

No, sighed Yossarian, my name, just as when we were children.

Oh… yes sir… yes... Yoss, said Sancho uneasily.

~

In the throne room of the citadel, Marcos paced the floor.

That his half-brother had gone insane was clear to him, what he should do about it was less clear. He paced the length of the room while a thin old women with brittle bones and hard eyes watched him from a corner. His ageing mother was also his chief confidant and it was beneath her amused gaze that he paced now.

Maria's heart held no love for Yossarian. Concubine to the previous archon she had produced only one bastard child, Marcos. When Yossarian had ascended the throne she had made clear her displeasure that the young man should be chosen ahead of her get.

She let her son pace a little more and then spoke to him, Marcos!

The troubled man halted his pacing. Yes, mother? he said fractiously.

It’s obvious, she said, smoothing the fabric of her tunic where it folded on her knee.

It is?

It is, his mother affirmed gently. For too long you have been in the shadow of that peacock Yossarian. Now is your chance to rule.

Marcos frowned, the words were too close to treason for his comfort.

His mother could read his emotions as she could her own and sprang to her feet and advanced upon him. She did not slap him but Marcos cowered from the frail, old woman just the same.

She raged, I will not let you throw this opportunity away!

She turned away from her son.

It is within your destiny to rule this kingdom. You know it in your bones as well as I do. For thirty long years you have stood in Yossarian’s shadow and taken the scraps he has thrown you. You, who should have been archon in his stead!

Maria walked away from Marcos and towards the end of the hall where the fire still smouldered in the grate.

The fire in her heart smouldered too and she spun and gestured at her son with one hand. Yossarian’s time is up, she said, this latest lunacy is just another sign that he is unfit.

Marcos nodded, not convinced but unwilling to challenge his mother.

Maria fixed him with her stare, Yossarian must fail to return from this trip. You will dispatch your most trusted men to find him. Be discreet about it, for he is still well trusted amongst the agathoi and to move against him openly would be suicide.

She looked into the fire,Tell everyone that the men are sent to persuade Lord Yossarian to return. It will be too bad if they find him dead.

And you? he asked, the bitterness evident in his voice.

Maria looked back at him with no sign of emotion. She knew what he was thinking but he was a weak willed man and she despised his cowardice.

I too have agents in the kingdom, she said. But it is better that you know nothing of that for any hint of their involvement would soil your accession. Maria paced towards her reluctant son. Yes, she said, there are things afoot in Sardis that it is better you know nothing about.

Marcos looked steadily at his mother and weighed her words in his mind. It was repulsive but he could feel the lure of it in his bones and temptation overcame his negligible conscience.

Very well, he muttered, I will dispatch the men tonight.

Maria smiled at her son and patted him on his shoulder. Marcos pulled away without a word, leaving the room to seek out his men. The old woman watched him go and turned back to stand in front of the embers of the dying fire.

A curl of acrid smoke leaked out of the fireplace and stung her eyes. Through the blur of tears the glow of the coals flared into a burning hell.

~

Trudging through the wood Sancho reflected that it would be good to get out of the mountains and down to the coast. The cold ate into his bones and he missed the sea. The silence of the snow bothered him and he could almost smell the tang of salt in his nostrils.

In front of him Yossarian suddenly halted his horse and Sancho, stopped close behind him.

What is it? he asked quietly.

Trouble, I think, replied Yossarian, voice taut.

Ahead of them a small clearing broke the forest and Sancho could make out a cluster of people on the far side. This place was known as the 'Woodsman's Copse' and it was the crossroads for three or four tracks that wound through the woods.

Sancho pulled a javelin from the harness atop the pack-horse and left the animal to stand while he crept forward to the very edge of the trees.

On the other side of the clearing a small group of landsmen, wood cutters by the look of them, clustered in a nervous crowd while five or six armed men confronted them.

There seemed to be some sort of argument going on and Sancho understood Yossarian’s concern. Armed men abroad in daylight meant only one of two things, the first would be militia at work and the only other option would be thieves.

Their identity was confirmed seconds later when their leader, losing patience with his negotiations, drew his sword and struck a woodsman. From within the larger group a woman screamed and the other bandits pressed forward drawing their own weapons.

Yossarian swore under his breath, thrust the bronze helmet onto his head, seized the shield from Aricholus’s neck and spurred him forward. As he passed Sancho he leant forward and snatched the javelin that the other held aloft.

Tucking the shaft under his arm he crouched low on the horse’s neck and urged him at a gallop. The white carpet under his hooves frothed into a flying powder as he bore down on the melée.

The brigands did not hear the thunder of hooves until Yossarian was almost upon them. The men at the back of the group turned to face the new threat and one of them pivoted to receive Yossarian’s javelin full in the chest.

He fell, spinning, pierced through by the spear and spouting a crimson fountain onto the trampled snow.

Yossarian’s charge carried him past the men and he reined in Aricholus on the far side of the clearing. One of the men raised a spear and aimed it at Yossarian’s back. An instant later there was a flat cracking noise and he fell to the ground lifeless, Sancho’s lead sling-stone lodged in his skull.

The other men, ignoring their original targets, separated and three went after Yossarian while a lone man ran to meet Sancho.

Yossarian wheeled Aricholus round and spurred him forward again to meet their attack. The first man raised his shield over his head and charged in to strike at Yossarian’s leg.

Yossarian brought his long sword down in an overhand arc and cleaved through the shield in a single blow. The wooden and hide shield barely slowed the sword and a limb tumbled obscenely away into the snow with the stroke.

The second man, cannier than the first, ducked under Aricholus' bucking head and thrust up at Yossarian from his shield side. The long spear deflected off Yossarian’s bronze cuirass and dug a short furrow in his thigh.

Yossarian swore out loud and swatted the man in the face with his shield. The man fell back and Yossarian drove Aricholus forward, trampling the man under his hooves.

The third man turned to flee but the landsmen, thrown into action by Yossarian's charge, swarmed over him and he fell under their axes in a flurry of blows.

Across the clearing the last man also lay dead at Sancho’s feet, killed by single thrust to the belly. He had not known that a man armed with a spear should keep a swordsman at arms length and had paid for it by letting Sancho inside his guard.

Yossarian scanned the clearing for more opponents and, finding none, reined in the high-spirited Aricholus. The pain in his thigh was sharp and he could see blood seeping out from under his chiton.

He quieted Aricholus, dropped his shield to the ground and dismounted carefully, wincing at the pain. He kept his sword in his hand however, point low to the ground. Allies in combat often turned to enemies once the fighting stopped and he had no desire to turn from benefactor to victim.

The landsmen it seemed had no intention of turning on him and dropped their axes to rush to greet him. They mobbed him and showered him with praise, thanks and offers of everything from the run of their village to their first born child.

Yossarian waved them away and staggered over to sit against a pile of logs.

Good sir, you are hurt ! exclaimed one of the men rushing forward.

It is nothing, said Yossarian, wincing as he flexed his leg.

But sir… the man said and began fussing over him.

Stand aside, said Sancho striding into the midst of the group and pushing the man away. He cast aside his sword and stooped over the reclining form of Yossarian. He tore open Yossarian's tunic above his injured leg and inspected the wound.

Yossarian spoke over Sancho's head to the woodsman. Look after my horses and get your women away, this is not what they should see, he said.

The woodsman bobbed his head in acknowledgement and, turning to the rest of the group, ushered them away. The men took their women aside and the headman organised someone to retrieve Sancho's horse while he led Aricholus to a tree himself. Once he had seen the horses tied up he returned to to Yossarian and Sancho.

What are you doing so far from your homes? asked Yossarian, wincing as Sancho probed the shallow wound with his fingers.

It is my fault, Lord. My sister goes to make sacrifice at the temple of Cybele in Smyrna. It has been a long cold year and we were to sacrifice a goat and ask for good fortune come the end of Hekatombion.

Phaw! spat Yossarian.

He had no use for the new faiths. The hierophants were more money grubbing than merchants wouldn't give you the steam off their piss without an offering, most of which ended up in their bellies.

Yossarian preferred to believe in the elements in the world around him, what he could see and touch, not fairy tales.

I understand, sir, it is not to my taste either but I never could deny a woman anything.

Yossarian