“Around the next ridge. Not far at all,” said his charioteer, as though it were the first time the question had been asked.
“And the valley that leads up to Pytho – it’s across the Gulf from Korinth, isn’t it?”
“Further to the west, sir. But an easy day in a ship.”
“And we’ll take the chariots with us? And the horses too?” Did they have horses over there, or roads even? Geography lessons were still an ordeal, to be forgotten as soon as possible. Olli would know of course but he’d been back on Ithaka since midsummer last year.
“Yes, sir, we’ll be taking two chariots – the sons of the High King won’t be trudging in from the port like common rabble. There’s a decent enough track in from the coast, unless there’s a downpour and it turns to mud. Just the last part to walk, where it gets steep.”
“This serpent. Have you seen it?”
“No, sir, can’t say I have.”
“It’s a talking snake, isn’t it? It pronounces oracles and suchlike. On a mountain.” Menelaos hadn’t dared cross-examine Agamemnon on the subject. But he had a mental picture of a large, dragon-like creature perched on the crest of a snow-capped peak.
“They say it does. All I’ve ever seen, on the annual day of prophecy, is a great cloud of smoke. And there’s an old woman who gabbles away – all mumbo jumbo to me, sir.”
“An old woman? On the top of the mountain?”
“No, sir, she’s in a cave a short way up the hill from the town. As is the snake, I gather.”
“Oh.” His heart sank. “A big cave?”
“No, sir, quite a small one.”
Worse and worse. “So there’s nothing much to see.”
“Not for the likes of me, sir. But you and your brother will be treated as privileged guests of the sanctuary. I dare say you’ll know a great deal more about it than I do by the time the festival’s over.”
It all sounded so dreary. But his father thought otherwise, or he wouldn’t be sending them to find an answer to … to what? Agamemnon must know.
The road had flattened out and the horses trotted over the hard-packed surface, their noses nudging at the chariot in front. In a moment they would turn across the crest of the ridge and he would see the sea for the first time. Olli had described it last summer – almost as dark as the best Chian wine he’d said, but an intense, unimaginable blue. Would it be calm and gleaming today, or pinpricked with white-capped waves, or spray-streaked and wild with the wind?
They rounded the bend and drove straight into a column of armed men.
Menelaos stood bewildered, gripping the shaft of his spear as the road seethed with rearing horses, chariots and soldiers.
“What shall I do?” he yelled.
“I … I think all’s fine, sir.” The charioteer craned his neck. “They look like our own men. Up from Korinth perhaps. Just an accident, meeting them on a blind bend like this.”
Agamemnon was still standing in his chariot. And there was another chariot, the team all mixed up with Agamemnon’s, but no one in it. A man had seized one of the horses’ heads, and another, fair-haired man was pushing his way through the melee towards Agamemnon, before kneeling on the road and reaching up to clasp Agamemnon’s knees. Menelaos had never seen this done before, but he’d heard of it. The man was making a petition of some sort.
Menelaos jumped down and pushed through the crowd.
Agamemnon had a pleased expression on his face. “Thyestes, this is my younger brother, Menelaos.”
Menelaos stared. Thyestes? He couldn’t remember seeing him before, but Agamemnon would know. What on earth was he doing here?
“Your uncle, brother. Don’t stand there gawping.” Agamemnon turned to the kneeling man. “I apologise for my brother’s manners. He was a small child at the time.”
“Yes, of course. I remember him well. A charming little fellow.” The man’s voice was strangely familiar. Like their father’s, only pitched slightly higher. Thyestes smiled but his eyes remained cold and wary.
“This is a most opportune meeting, brother.” Agamemnon folded his arms over his chest. “Our uncle is returning to Mykenai to beg forgiveness from our father. His exile has lasted nine years; his letters of supplication lie unanswered. He is anxious to be embraced by his family again and wishes to make his appeal to our father in person. We will escort him back to Mykenai.”
“But we’re going to Pytho, to the oracle.” Menelaos cringed inwardly. Agamemnon had spoken so elegantly and all he could do was bleat back like a spoiled baby who’d lost his toys.
Agamemnon waved his hand in dismissal. “Our father’s question has been answered by this unexpected encounter. We no longer need to clamber up some dank mountain to understand what the gods have in store for us.”
“But why is he travelling with all these armed men?”
“Let me explain.” Thyestes eased himself off his knees. He would have towered over Agamemnon had the latter not kept to his chariot. “I was journeying alone, and in some distress. The worthy people of Korinth fed and clothed me, and due to the, er,” his eyes flickered over to the captain of the Korinthian soldiers and back to Agamemnon’s face, “the delicacy of my mission, they decided it would be in Atreus’s interests for them to escort me south. They are both my guardians and my keepers.”
“Yes, that’s quite correct, my lord.” The captain nodded. “We didn’t want any trouble on the road.” His mouth stretched wide under his hooked nose. A smooth, easy smile.
Menelaos felt a prickle of fear run up his spine. Surely there was something very, very wrong here.
He took a deep breath and let it out again. No, no. He was being stupid, imagining things, as usual. Agamemnon was much wiser than he was.
Chapter Eleven
“Agamemnon?” Menelaos peered round the edge of Agamemnon’s bedroom door. It was only a few hours since they’d arrived back in Mykenai, but after the relative chaos of their unexpected return, the palace had settled back into a more formal routine. Someone had even found time to insist he have a bath.
“Well, come in.” Agamemnon examined his reflection in a polished bronze mirror. Elaborately embroidered cloaks and jewellery lay tumbled on the bed and the room reeked of perfumed hair oil. “Don’t stand there looking like a replica of the Gorgon’s head. I presume this tousled apparition is attached to a body of some sort?” He raised an eyebrow and the manservant dressing his hair tittered in response.
“Sorry.”
“And stop apologising all the time. It’s not seemly in someone of your stature.”
“Sorry … I mean, what should I be wearing? And do I stand with you or with Uncle Gelanor? Where will Uncle be?”
“I will be standing beside Father’s throne, of course. Gelanor will be on the other side, the left side, since he’s only a bastard. You will be placed near me on the right. And try to stand straight and not fiddle with your clothes.”
“N-no of course not.”
“One of my men will lay out your best kilt for you when he has finished dressing me. Perhaps you could attempt to comb your own hair? But try, do try not to be late.”
The great hall was packed. The smoke from the braziers on the central hearth rose up in tendrils to the light well above, partly obscuring the people crowded against the brightly painted walls. Atreus was seated on the great throne, his robes rich with gold and silver thread. Behind him on the wall two painted lions reared up, confronting the gathered throng with the might and majesty of the Lord of Mykenai. Agamemnon was standing to his right and Menelaos thought he looked magnificent in his saffron and purple cloak, his hair glistening and his chin rigid with importance.
Thyestes was kneeling, his body sinuous with overt submission. He’d been on his knees for some time now and the king was starting to waver. Gelanor stepped forwards and whispered in Atreus’s ear, but Menelaos thought from his father’s frown that he wasn’t happy with what he was hearing. Perhaps, in Atreus’s eyes, a bastard half-brother, however well
loved, might not be the best person to oppose the claims of a legitimate one.
All eyes were on Atreus’s face, waiting for his decision. Menelaos glanced at Thyestes and his heart lurched. Couldn’t his father see those hard eyes shifting and darting behind the lowered eyelids, the cruel twist to Thyestes’s thin lips?
Atreus waved Gelanor away. He stood up, raised Thyestes off the floor and embraced him. “This is my dear brother, returned to us by the grace of the gods,” he said, his voice booming through the hall. “We will sacrifice in thanksgiving and feast to celebrate his return.”
Menelaos stood behind one of the big pillars on the edge of the hearth as the crowd dispersed, his stomach tight. He should be glad. He should be smiling and laughing like everyone else in the room, delighted that an old argument was finally resolved. What had the original trouble been anyway?
He felt sick.
He turned and walked from the hall. Now his father had gone, he could go to his room and sort his thoughts out in private. He probably had the whole business wrong, he usually did. But Thyestes’s eyes, the Korinthian captain’s over-ready smile, Gelanor’s concern …
“Uncle Gelanor.” He hurried towards the figure standing, irresolute, at the end of the corridor.
“Menelaos. My dear, dear boy.” Gelanor sounded uncharacteristically subdued. “I don’t think you should be seen talking to me at the moment. Or even looking at me. I am going to be very unpopular for quite some time.” He gripped Menelaos’s shoulder, his hand shaking, then swung around. Menelaos watched him walk away, short, frail and alone.
Chapter Twelve
Menelaos looked around him, stifling a yawn. The embers were already turning to dust, falling from the braziers onto the great hearth in small grey heaps. All the important guests had departed, leaving only a scattering of people hunched over the last watery dregs of wine. Even the singer had packed his lyre into its leather bag and gone to find a quiet corner and some sleep.
Two dogs were snapping at each other, their masters too drunk to pull them apart. What meat was left had begun to congeal on the wooden serving platters, broken bread lay dry and discarded and the wine pourers leaned, superfluous at last, against the pillars, their jugs drooping in their hands. The servants had already started moving about, sweeping the remaining food scraps into baskets and wiping the table tops with sponges. It was the end of the third night of celebration and the feast had exhausted itself.
But still his father sat on, in earnest conversation with Thyestes and Agamemnon. Until the High King should choose to leave, Menelaos knew that palace etiquette compelled him, as a royal son, to stay where he was.
As he gazed about, his whole body aching for sleep, he noticed six men talking at a table against a far wall, heads together, voices low, wine cups untouched. One of them seemed familiar, his hooked nose poised over a wide mouth. The Korinthian captain. Menelaos couldn’t remember whether he’d seen him at the other banquets. Not that it mattered – it was quite natural he should attend one of them at least.
At last Atreus rose to his feet and strode, with Agamemnon, to the side door leading to the royal apartments. Thyestes, close behind, stopped to speak to the captain. He paused in his speech as Menelaos approached.
“Sleep well, princeling,” he said, a half-smile on his lips.
Menelaos tossed under his blankets. Too hot with them on, too cold on such a chilly spring night to throw them on the floor. His small bedroom lamp cast wavering shadows across the ceiling. He wasn’t used to eating or drinking this much and both his stomach and his head were reeling. How much longer could these banquets go on for? Three more nights? Four? Five?
Could he eat or drink less without appearing rude? Could he possibly find a way to excuse himself and go to bed earlier without attracting comment? The only person who would tell him was Gelanor, but the invisible barrier of distrust and disdain erected around his uncle by the other courtiers made it too dangerous to be seen asking him anything in confidence. And indeed, he hadn’t seen his uncle for more than a few fleeting moments since the day of Thyeste’s pardon; there’d scarcely been time even to greet him in the simplest terms.
He slid out from under the blankets, dragged the chamber pot from under the bed and crouched over it, willing himself to be sick. His mouth watered and a strand of saliva hung irresolute in the air. He spat it out and waited. Nothing. But would vomiting make him feel any better? He’d felt ill for days, even when he was empty and sober, ever since Thyestes’s return.
He pulled his tunic on, pushed the blankets to one side and clambered back onto the bed to lie there shivering and sweating, praying for sleep or ease. Gripped by the last ebb of the night, the palace seemed oddly quiet, as though everyone was holding their breath.
The shouts broke through a dream in which he was riding, facing backwards on an old, broken-down mule. The training ground sergeant was yelling, “Faster, faster,” his arms flailing in the air, and for a moment the soldier’s shouted commands mixed strangely with an eruption of noise in the palace.
Then, as he came fully awake, silence.
Brawling, he supposed. A few drunkards trying to smash each other’s brains out in the main courtyard. The guards must have dealt with it already.
He climbed out of bed and stumbled to the window, fumbling at the shutters and pushing them wide. Outside, the air was darker than ever.
He tensed. Heavy footsteps came pounding down the corridor towards his room. Then a woman’s voice called out to him, hoarse and urgent as she banged with her fists on the door. Nurse! What was she doing here? What was happening?
He thrust back the bolts and she burst in, clutching a pile of sheets. Had she gone mad? Charging in here to change bed linen in the middle of the night?
She threw the sheets on the bed and started knotting them together, her actions as jerky and panicked as her words.
“You have to escape – here, help me – grab the corner of that sheet, tie it to the bed leg – quick!”
“But Nurse! What–?”
She thrust the sheet into his hands. “Just do it,” she wailed. “Lord Gelanor told me – he sent me – now throw the other end out the window. Oh gods! You poor pet!”
“But why ? What?”
“Your father’s dead – hacked to bits in his bed. Out the window with you. The postern gate – run to the postern gate!”
“But Agamemnon! He’s in the next room. We have to warn him.”
“No, no, no! He was with some woman, bless the gods. He’s gone already. Go!”
She shoved him to the windowsill and he clambered out, his knuckles white as he gripped the twisted line of sheets. She ran back to the door and slammed and bolted it as the clash of swords and the thunder of feet approached.
“What about you?” he shouted.
“Go!” she screamed, spread-eagled against the door.
He slithered down the sheets, arms and legs clumsy with shock; how he reached the ground without falling off, he had no idea. Now the vomit came surging out, soaking the bottom of his tunic and splashing over his bare feet. He could scarcely hear the splintering crash and the screams above for the ringing in his ears as he half-staggered, half-ran down the steep path to the postern.
Chapter Thirteen
Odysseus crouched behind the trunk of the tree, his fingers ready on the bowstring and an arrow resting lightly over his left hand. Argos lay still beside him, a black shadow in the deep shade of the oak. The bright sea shimmer sent splinters of light slicing up through the trees and the afternoon breeze rattled the young leaves over their heads.
A pigeon landed on the white rock below them. Argos pricked his ears and Odysseus turned his head slowly and frowned. Argos gave him a guilty look and dropped his head down on his paws. Good dog. Odysseus felt a sudden surge of pride.
The pigeon strutted up to the scattered barley grain and cocked her head as though one eye were better than the other. Then she bobbed down to eat, bobbed up, down, then up again.
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The arrow took her squarely just below the neck, and she vanished off the edge of the rock into the grass.
“Go fetch,” said Odysseus and Argos bounded off, his tail wagging his hind quarters to and fro, to re-emerge nursing both bird and arrow in his mouth. He trotted back to Odysseus and stood, panting and unsure what to do next.
“Good boy.” Odysseus stretched out a hand. “Give it. Come on, you’ve done this well enough before. Give it.”
Argos ducked his head and placed the pigeon carefully on Odysseus’s palm.
“Clever boy, good dog,” said Odysseus, patting Argos and rubbing his ears. He pulled a lump of cheese from the wallet on his belt and Argos wolfed it down. “That makes six pigeons. Enough for a pie, eh?” Argos thumped his tail on the ground in agreement. “Silly thing, you don’t like cloves and onions. Though you’d prefer the birds if I plucked them first, being a fussy sort of dog.” He gave him another rub.
He put the pigeon into the linen game bag and leaned back against the tree trunk. Ithaka. How he loved this island. Mykenai was nothing in comparison, for all its walls and towers. Apart from Menelaos. The shipping tolls weren’t due for review again till next summer so it would be a whole year more before he could see his friend again.
I wonder, he thought, twisting the gold bracelet he’d won from Menelaos round and round his arm, I wonder what he’s doing at this moment. Arms training? Chariotry? Hunting? Or dozing through a geography lesson?
What an amazing summer they’d shared last year. The official functions had been magnificent – Mykenai did splendour well. But their secret midnight rat hunting expeditions at the back of the stables had been far more exciting. As for the time they’d climbed the cliffs in the gorge below the citadel … He smiled. They hadn’t been caught, thank the gods, even after Menelaos prised that boulder loose. It was a sad day when Father finished his business in Mykenai and they sailed home.
But when the ship had passed through the Narrows at the mouth of the Gulf of Korinth and he’d seen the mountains of Ithaka far away through the haze – the high peak of Mount Neriton and the lower bulk of Mount Neion – he realised how homesick he’d been. His mother, Antikleia, and his little sister were waiting on the beach below Ithaka town, his mother waving and Kitti jumping up and down, full of furious excitement. And the Ithakans had clustered round, thumping him on the back as though he were already a man.
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