Lempriere's Dictionary by Lawrence Norfolk Page A

Dorceus takes the other arm, dragging him down for Oribasos to gouge red meat from the back leg of the prey, the leg in spasm, he falls and Nebrophonos finds the throat, rips at it so no screams now, only the sound of blood in the windpipe, a death-rattle that inflames Theron to bite into the soft flesh on the cheek. Laelaps to snap and maul at the tongue. Pterelas and Agre share the genitals between them, snarling at Hylaeus who fastens teeth in the back of the knee, the bloody flesh still moving until Nape and Poemenis twist the neck in opposite directions, Harpyia leaps back, startled at the cracking sound, licks hungrily for the warm marrow, joined by Ladon and forced off by Dromos as Canache, Sticte, Tigris and the rest of the pack gorge themselves on the corpse. Alce makes his way out to the silvery pool. Leucon raises his bloodstained muzzle to the slopes. The trees rustle, thick green foliage dances in the breeze. Asbolus barks in fury at their soft movement.
    The young man rolls, rubbing his face in the soft earth. Lacon yelps. His lips bleed. Aëllo paws at the ground. The mutilated body shudders with a last twitch of its muscles. Thoos throws himself in play on the ground. The young man claws at the earth. His nails split. Lycisce raises his head as an horse’s hooves plash their way upstream. Cyprius leads the way as the dogs rush to the horseman. Harpalos lingers by the pool. The girl looks up to the man on horseback who is waiting for her. Melaneus looks back to the carcass. He says nothing, simply holds his arm out. Lachne sniffs the air. The young man writhes. Labros runs in circles. She runs to the man, her feet splash water in all directions. Argiodus scampers from her path. She wears anklets of soft, brown leather set with turquoise. Hylactor licks the blood on his back. Melanchaetes leaps from the bank. The girl runs and jumps for the saddle, gains it, rests her cheek on his back. Her cheek is wet. Theridamas raises his head and bays at the sky as the horse moves slowly out of sight.
    The long, dark cloud-bank moved silently overhead, shading the hills fields and valleys as it went. It shaded the gashed and twisted body by the pool. It shaded his son, wrapping its grey shroud about him. A grey shade touched his skin with cold fingers, like mist. He felt dry, racking sobs forcetheir way up his throat. There were no words at first. Deep inside him, at his centre, a black gland was already leeching its transfiguring thought through his body and its channels, observing its own slow seepage into the basin of his brain, offering its mouth to him in his grief and, as it coupled with him, it was accepted. In his mind’s eye, the book was still open on the table in his room. Actaeon was still alive, still waiting for the dogs to reach him. Here, half-lying in the pool, was his father’s torn cadaver. Between both these bodies was his own, which connected them, turning one into the other.

    The oil-lamp held ten wicks. An unusual design, it flickered and gave off a fitful light. One was a lighting wick; of the other nine, three were lit.
    ‘We hear Dundas’s bill may be debated next month. We hear there is support for it.’
    ‘An enquiry has been made. There should be no difficulties, although….’
    ‘A little leverage might ease a conscience or two. Have it done. If there are still difficulties, we shall think on it again.’ He paused. ‘The other business?’
    There was a short silence.
    ‘Carried off as we planned.’
    ‘Jaques can be sent to France now. We must not delay further. The girl can go with him.’
    Assent was indicated.
    ‘The boy?’
    ‘Matters are in hand. I cannot foresee any difficulties, not at the present.’
    ‘Your place is
precisely to
foresee. Do so. Remember what is at stake.’
    A third voice sounded. Deeper, slower than the others.
    ‘Everything. Everything is at stake.’

    The overladen pacquet pitched and yawed despite the calmness of the sea. Every time its prow broke