‘He must have taken more of a blow than I thought.

’
Michael recognised the voice of his earlier companion and coughed
as the smoke of burning herbs reached his nostrils.
‘Lysander, bring wine!’ The man shouted to a slim, dark-haired boy
who immediately approached with a clay pot.
‘Here.’
Michael’s head was gently raised and the warm pot of blood-red
wine was tilted to his lips.
‘You must have hit your head when you fell. You were lucky not to
have lost blood in that skirmish with my lady. You must learn that to
love her is sometimes to let her be. I, too, have tried to protect her and
come off the worse for it. She can handle a leopard and a wild boar in
a hunt as well as I can. She is three parts huntress to one part lady.
You must make offerings tonight to Ares, and of course, to the maiden
goddess Artemis. We can ill afford to be a man short with the war set
to break over the Rock before the moon grows full again.’ The man
frowned and his deep-set blue eyes were framed by a nest of wrinkles.
Michael moaned dully. He was still not in command of his senses
and it didn’t help that this man kept speaking in riddles. The man
tucked a blanket of kidskin around Michael, who took the opportunity
to study him more closely. He was stocky with legs as thick as tree
trunks protruding from a leather kilt. A short, clipped fringe framed
his weatherbeaten but still handsome face and his tawny hair was
tied in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. This is a man who has
fought many battles, Michael thought.
‘You should have been wearing a helm, Mikali.’ The man smiled
down at Michael. ‘Why don’t you let Demetrius fashion one for you?’
‘Demetrius? Forgive me.’ Michael found that the strange language
flowed from his tongue in twisted, old-fashioned sentences. ‘Forgive
me, friend,’ he mumbled again, ‘but the god of laughter must be
making a joke of me. I remember nothing. Who is this Demetrius? And
although you must think me as stupid as a goat, who are you?’
The man roared with laughter.
‘Your friend—yes—as much as your King!’ Then his voice grew
serious. ‘Mikali, do not joke with me. It is not so many years since
you, too, felt the hard of bull’s horns in your hand and heard the
cheers of the Cretan ladies ringing like a battle cry in your ears. We
sailed for Crete together, remember? You and me and our team of
Athenians? We jumped the bulls until our palms bled for the
amusement of King Minos. Mikali, you were one of the best of our
team—the team that paid the blood tribute to the King of Crete. We
fought the Minotaur together and we sailed triumphant back here to
the kingly house of my father. Do not tell me you have forgotten all of
that? Surely you are fooling with me, and you are good at it. As well as
I know you, even I could be tricked by your playacting.’ The man
smiled and then stared at Michael’s blank face quizzically. ‘My trusted
friend, to whom I vouchsafe the protection of my love, the Amazon,
you are, of course, in Attica and it is the eighth year of my reign. I am
the King.’
 ‘Amazon?’ Michael was confused. He had jumped bulls in Crete with
this man? Surely it was a case of mistaken identity. Michael sat up
and rubbed his chin, then started in shock—he had a beard!
The man, realising Michael wasn’t joking after all, continued
hurriedly, ‘I saved you on the day of the sow hunt. See, you have the
scar there in your side where the javelin struck you.’ He pulled away
the blanket that covered Michael’s body. Beneath it, Michael was
naked to the waist. There was indeed a red and ugly scar running
from his right side, below his ribs, to the v-shaped hollow where his
groin began. Michael stared in astonishment—not only at the fact that
he had never had a scar there before, but also that this wasn’t his
body at all! This chest was firm and brown with a handful of springy
dark curls nestling between pectoral muscles. His arms, once the
brunt of a bully’s laughter in the football change rooms, now boasted
hard biceps and broad shoulders. Michael flexed his muscles in
admiration and sat up. His eyes strayed to the bulge that strained at
his short linen pants. Whose body was this? How could he be in this
person’s body and yet know he was Michael O’Sullivan? He didn’t
belong here, he belonged … suddenly Michael realised that he could
actually remember very little about where he belonged. This body was
foreign to him and yet, as the minutes passed, it was more and more
difficult to remember what his former body was like. What was his last
name again? O … O’Brien? No … O’? … It was useless! Exactly how old
was he? Michael drew his eyebrows together and frowned in
concentration. After several minutes of silence, he realised he no
longer knew. His mind was empty.
‘I … I recall nothing. ‘I’m sorry. Who are you?’
Another peal of laughter ensued before the man cried out proudly, ‘I
am Theseus, King of Attica! Lysander, come and see if he recognises
you.’
The slim boy approached. There was a question in his voice as he
spoke. ‘Mikali?’
Michael studied him. Large brown eyes and a long Grecian nose
gave him a serious air, but Michael certainly didn’t recognise him.
Michael shook his head slowly.
‘But we have fought side-by-side and hand-to-hand these three
years past in the Lady Hippolyta’s guard. I am Lysander—brother in
arms and friend of your entire life! Son of Panos the son of Argolis,
brother of your beloved Arianne. Remember the day my father beat
you for urinating in his water pitcher?’
Michael didn’t, but smiled all the same. Theseus tutted and shook
his head.
‘You must remember Arianne—fairest maiden in all Attica,’
Lysander quickly turned to Theseus and added, ‘aside from the
Amazon Hippolyta. You and my sister have been batting your eyes at
each other for months. She lives like a wren now, feathering her nest
for a life with you. All the spoils of war and the daughters of lords
could not tear your heart from hers. Mikali, you must remember?’
‘Arianne,’ the name spilled sweetly over his tongue. He felt a vague
stirring in his loins—or whosever loins he was in possession of—but
he did not remember her either. As Michael said the girl’s name,
Lysander clapped his hands excitedly. ‘Yes, the maiden Arianne, my
sister. You remember?’
Michael shook his head apologetically.
‘Oh, rest some more … rest,’ muttered Lysander wearily. ‘The God’s
mirth aside, you will remember tomorrow. I will make an offering for
you tonight. Don’t say you have forgotten how to do that also, lest the
Gods inflict you in some other way. Goodnight friend.’
King Theseus, who was crouched down near the crock of fire, raised
himself.
‘I will ask Hippolyta to speak with you. She is of the woods and the
ways, perhaps she can calm you. She owes you an apology and I will
have her make peace with you. Perhaps it is that which has sent you
mad, knowing as I do how you all worship her.’