by Peter Tonkin
As chance would have it, however, poor Sophos was their first corpse; at least that was what the servant who greeted us said before arranging for the body to be carried in and then scurrying off to summon his masters. This fact alone called both of them in to view it mere moments after our arrival. Like many heroes, including Achilles and my own captain Odysseus, Machaon and his brother Podialirius had been tutored by the wise and ancient Chiron on Mount Pelion; travelling from their great fortress of Larisa, capital of their kingdom of Thessaly just as, one generation earlier, their father King Asclepius had done before them. It was by no means a long journey for Pelion was within the borders of their kingdom and perhaps that was why the three of them, father and sons, had all spent more time with the elderly teacher than almost any others of his students.
As he did with Achilles and his father King Peleus of neighbouring Phthia, Chiron taught the Thessalian father and then the sons not only the arts of hunting, woodcraft and warfare but also those of healing. Achilles, I knew, would have made a fine physician had he not found himself to be the greatest warrior of his generation – perhaps of all time. Asclepius, on the other hand excelled in the medical field and ensured that his sons did also. Thus, as well as leading the Thessalian army, brought here in thirty ships, amongst the first to arrive, they were the men all the other leaders turned to in matters of medicine and surgery. Which was precisely what Diomedes was doing now.
The brother physicians could hardly have been less alike. Machaon was a square, commanding figure with a virile beard, curly hair and the largest hands I had ever seen – and I had seen Ajax’s. Podialirius in contrast was slim, beardless, fair hair like thistledown receding at the front and thinning on the crown. His hands were smaller than his brother’s, long-fingered and delicate. But both men had piercing brown eyes which had the ability apparently to see below the surface or through the skin and look straight into you, body and mind. Something they had in common not only with each other but also with Odysseus.
***
Machaon had been at last night’s feast, and many others before that for he and Podialirius had been amongst the earliest to answer Agamemnon’s call to arms. He had enjoyed not only the High King’s food, therefore, but also his entertainment. Unlike Diomedes, he had no trouble in recognising the dead man lying on the table in front of him. ‘This is Sophos!’ he said, clearly shocked. ‘Who has dared to do this to the High King’s rhapsode?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ said Diomedes. ‘Do you think you and Podialirius can cut out the arrow? We have another one we wish to compare it with.’
The physician looked up, narrow-eyed, his face set. ‘With the arrow that killed the priestess and the sacred deer I suppose,’ he said.
‘Just so,’ answered Diomedes.’
‘I thought the High Priestess asked Odysseus to look into that matter and the High King then deputed Palamedes in Odysseus’ absence!’ There was the briefest of pauses, then Machaon continued, ‘But one glance tells me that the arrow did not kill poor Sophos. The cut throat did and this excess of blood proves it.’
‘True,’ said Diomedes. ‘But we calculate that this was only because the throat was cut mere moments after the arrow hit – before in fact, it had a real chance to do its work. For I’m sure you will agree that it would have killed him quickly enough had the throat not been cut.’ As Diomedes was explaining our thinking in this matter, Machaon’s gaze raked over me – prompted no doubt by the prince’s use of the word ‘we’.
‘And so savagely cut!’ added Podialirius, apparently the gentler of the two brothers. ‘As he lay helpless on his back on the ground by the look of it. To what purpose?’ He shook his head sadly.
‘We thought, perhaps, that the killer planned to take his head as proof of a task completed,’ said Diomedes.
‘Though it does seem a strong possibility,’ I emphasised, without thinking – despite the fact that I was interrupting a conversation between a king and two princes, ‘that the murderers just needed the matter settled swiftly and didn’t have time to wait for the arrow to kill him outright.’
‘But whatever knife they used,’ continued Diomedes, ‘It certainly wasn’t up to the job of taking the head off after the throat was cut and the murder accomplished.’
‘No knife would be,’ said Machaon, his interest caught. He moved the rhapsode’s head from side to side with some difficulty, demonstrating the thickness of the muscles joining the skull to the shoulders, matched by the strength of the spinal column that they supported. ‘It would take a powerful stroke from an extremely sharp sword or, better still, an axe. I suppose the murderer thought at first his knife was up to the job.’
‘Why would that be?’ wondered Diomedes. ‘Surely any man who is soldier enough to be here in Aulis would be aware of the limitations of a dagger under such circumstances.’
‘I would guess that he may have calculated – wrongly, as we can see – that the fact his weapon had some kind of saw-blade might give him sufficient advantage,’ mused Machaon.
‘Saw-blade, Majesty?’ I queried.
‘Yes, lad. You can tell from the skin at the edges of the wound, the torn strings of muscle at the front of the neck and the manner in which the tubes have been pulled loose as well as being cut through. And, if you observe closely, the marks on the muscles themselves. This was done with quite an unusual blade. It was not merely a straight edge, honed sharp. It also had at least in some part, a series of serrations that meant it could be used not only to stab, cut and slice, but also to saw.’ He moved one massive fist beside the gaping wound, demonstrating how such a blade might be employed – and giving a graphic demonstration of how the various tubes and vessels had been sundered. Tearing loose as they yielded to the sideways sawing motion.
Gripped by something between a suspicion and a certainty so strong that it almost knocked the wind out of me, I pulled the Rat’s dagger out of my belt and held it up for the princely physician to see. ‘A blade like this one?’ I asked. The light caught the serrations down one edge of the long blade, that turned it into a saw indeed.
‘Yes,’ said Machaon. ‘Exactly like that one.’
ii
‘So,’ said Diomedes as we walked towards his chariot, leaving the brother surgeons to retrieve the arrow and examine the body further, then to clean him up making him fit for Agamemnon to see in the morning. ‘It seems you were not the only rhapsode on the Rat’s murder list. I had no idea when I agreed to keep an eye on you for Odysseus that the profession of rhapsode was such a dangerous one.’
‘In my experience, Majesty, it only becomes dangerous when rhapsodes become the repositories of dangerous secrets or the bearers of deadly messages.’
‘I know what secrets you know,’ said Diomedes pensively as we climbed aboard and the charioteer set the horses in motion. ‘But precisely who are they dangerous to?’
‘To the High King or his senior, most trusted generals,’ I answered. ‘Obviously to whichever of them killed the sacred stag and is trying at any cost to avoid risking the lives of his children. But even more now to the High King himself because the wind has stopped and no matter what the real reason for this dead calm may be, the army is beginning to believe it’s the hand of the Goddess, and the only way forward is to unmask the guilty man and sacrifice his child.’
‘Old ground,’ said Diomedes. ‘We’ve gone over it before and I’m convinced. Our next step must turn around the two daggers.’ He fell silent, clearly thinking. The chariot rolled back onto the Thebes road and swung right at once, taking us down through the western gate and into Aulis itself.
So I continued, voicing what I assumed his thoughts to be as we followed the main street towards the central square of the Agora. ‘We must discover where the jewelled dagger really came from and who set the Rat with his unusual dagger to killing rhapsodes. On the assumption that it could well be the same man. The one who was guilty of killing the stag and the priestess in the first place.’
‘But it seems to me,’ Diomedes continued, as the chariot came to rest outside the stables where the horses were kept and we stepped down side by side, ‘that this murder makes it less likely that the High King himself is guilty. Why would he send his own rhapsode – presumably with a secret message - to Queen Clytemnestra or someone else at his court in Mycenae and then have him murdered almost immediately after he left our camp?’
‘Which brings us back to Prince Machaon’s original question,’ I said. ‘If not Agamemnon himself, then who would dare to have the High King’s messenger murdered?’
‘Hmmm,’ said Diomedes. ‘We can only find that out if we can track down this man you call the Rat. And off-hand I’d say that was somewhere between unlikely and impossible. One man in an army of fifty thousand…’ He looked around himself as though surprised to see where he was. ‘Are you planning to stay here in the city tonight?’ he asked.
‘I was planning on going back aboard Thalassa, Majesty,’ I answered, my voice, I suspect, showing how depressed I was by the accuracy of his statement. I doubted even King Odysseus would have been able to find the Rat – one man among fifty thousand.
‘Then walk with me,’ suggested Diomedes, no doubt seeing how crest-fallen I was. ‘Pause at my tent for something to eat. Nestor’s men should have been out catching some fresh fish but I know the old man was hoping to get hold of a goat or two. It won’t be anything like last night’s feast but still…’ He looked around the square. The afternoon was approaching evening and the stalls were closing down for the night. It would be curfew soon.
We had just set out, side by side again, when Ikaros came hurrying out of the street which led to my father’s house. ‘There you are!’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
‘At my home, obviously,’ I said.
‘At your home, aboard Thalassa, in Odysseus’ tent: everywhere. A wasted afternoon for me – all so that I can return your bag.’ He handed it to me as he spoke. ‘The High Priestess thanks you and is convinced by your statement that the sacred stag was eaten at Agamemnon’s feast last night. She hopes King Odysseus may be able to see more in these things than she could, when he returns. And he’s due soon – or so the Oracle says. Any further news about the dead rhapsode?’
‘He’s with the physicians now,’ I said. ‘We spent some time there talking to Machaon and his brother. Sophos was their first corpse, apparently; unlikely as that sounds!’
‘First among many if Agamemnon gets his way,’ added Diomedes.
‘Well, that should put your mind at rest, then,’ said Ikaros.
‘How so?’ I asked, failing to follow his reasoning.
‘It means I didn’t kill the Rat with that slingshot after all. I’d wager he was somewhere there in the sick tents though, if you’d looked. He may not be dead, but he won’t be out and about cutting throats for a good long time!’
***
I stopped and turned to the retired hunter, gaping. I could have kicked myself, had I been capable of kicking anything much. Oh, how I missed Odysseus in that moment. There we were, Diomedes and I, discussing the impossibility of tracking down the Rat when we must have spent a good deal of time in the hospital tent within twenty podes foot-lengths of him. Odysseus would never have allowed such a simple oversight! Indeed, I thought ruefully, he would probably have asked Machaon where the man with the bruised temple was being tended and have been directed immediately to the Rat’s bedside. Further, I reflected bitterly, Machaon might well have been able to describe the men who brought him in – for Rat would never have been able to make it on his own, judging by the state we left him in. Those men would lead in turn to the leader of the army they were part of. And so we could have deduced the name of the man who killed the stag, who tried to have me murdered and who had asked for Sophos’ head!
I turned to Diomedes. ‘Majesty,’ I said. ‘I must return to Prince Machaon’s tent. Ikaros is right, the Rat might well be there. I may have the chance to talk to him; to ask some questions and hope to do so safely, surrounded by the physicians’ helpers and the other patients. I might even hope for a truthful reply!’
‘I will accompany you,’ decided the young king. ‘I gave my word to Odysseus to watch out for you.’
‘And I’ll come too,’ said Ikaros. ‘I’m already involved in this up to my neck and I really want to find out what in the names of all the gods is actually going on!’
The three of us set off at as rapid a pace as I could manage. We went out through the southern gate just as the guards were assembling to close it at curfew. Oddly the sun seemed to set later out on the slopes where the tents were pitched than it did in the valley where the city sat. We used the last of the light as the sun westered behind the tree-lined ridges of the Groves of Artemis, and arrived at the physicians’ tents just as twilight was closing down. As there was in Aulis, so there seemed to be a sort of curfew here. The helpers were scarcer. Machaon had gone – no doubt invited to another of Agamemnon’s feasts. His brother was just getting ready to leave as well, but he accorded Diomedes more courtesy than he might have exercised, perhaps, on Ikaros and myself had we not been accompanied by a king. ‘Welcome back, King Diomedes,’ he said. ‘If you’re looking for more information about poor Sophos you have arrived too soon. We will try to free the arrow and do the further assessment in the morning. He is packed away for now.’
‘It’s not that…’ Diomedes explained our new mission.
‘Yes,’ said Podialirius. ‘Now you mention it, I remember a man being brought in with just such a headwound as you are describing. One of the assistants saw who brought him to us. I never saw them; only the patient they had brought.’
‘A scrawny, rat-faced man,’ I added, making a mental note to see whether I could find the assistant Podialirius referred to should the Rat prove less than helpful.
‘That’s right,’ said Podialirius.
‘Can you tell us where he is?’ I asked.
‘I can do better than that,’ said Podialirius. ‘I can take you to him.’ The physician led the way out of the large tent, pausing at a table by the doorway to light a lamp which he took to light our way into the shadows of the tent a few doors down. As with most of the tents, there was no flooring – not even the rugs that the kings and princes tended to use. But rather than have his patients sleep on the ground, Podialirius had arranged for makeshift beds to be made with linen bags stuffed with straw and pine-needles for mattresses. The Rat was lying on one of these, covered with his cloak. The bruise on his left temple seemed to have spread across much of his left profile. He appeared to be in a deep sleep, but when Podialirius held the lamp close to him he stirred. He blinked. His eyes opened. The left one was bloodshot, the lids slightly swollen. The right one was clear, its pupil a sort of dirty brown. I saw it focus on the lamp flame, then on Podialirius who was holding the lamp, on Diomedes, Ikaros and finally on me. All without the slightest flicker of recognition.
‘He seems to have no memory,’ said Podialirius quietly, speaking as though Rat wasn’t there at all. ‘That is why I was keen to bring some people he might recognise to his bedside. A familiar face might stir some memories. What did you say his name is?’
‘Arouraios,’ I answered. ‘Rat.’
‘Hello Arouraios,’ said the physician. ‘Do you remember me?’
Rat looked at him blankly. He might as well have been speaking Hittite, Egyptian or Babylonian.
‘These men, Arouraios. They say they know you. Do you recognise them?’
Still no reaction. I reached into my bag and pulled out the gaudy dagger. He didn’t even blink. Finally I pulled his own serrated blade out and held it in the light.
Nothing.
‘I have come across this before with head wounds,’ said Podialirius. ‘He remembers nothing and no-one.’
‘Will his memory return?’ I asked, putting the daggers away, looking down on the bruised, blank countenance with disappointment and frustration.
‘Almost ce
rtainly. But I’m afraid I cannot tell you when it will do so – or indeed, how much of it will actually be there when it does.’
iii
The servant who saw the Rat’s arrival had gone for the night. Diomedes and I decided to come back in the morning, therefore, and see whether Rat’s memory had begun to return or whether the man who received him could describe – perhaps even identify – the men who brought him in. Ikaros wavered indecisively. On the one hand he really ought to be getting back to the Temple of Artemis. On the other hand, he was keen to accompany the king and me in the morning. It was Diomedes’ offer of dinner that decided the matter. When the three of us arrived at Diomedes’ tent and the open space it shared with Nestor’s, the elderly king of Pylos was busily overseeing the meal’s preparation himself, telling his cook a lengthy story about a meal he and his fellow Argonaut Admetus, King of Pherae, had prepared for Jason and Medea on the way back from Colchis. ‘Of course, that was a boar and all we have here is a goat, but the technique is the same. A glaze of honey mixed with olive oil…’