Then the next morning he’d woken to find a squirming puppy scrabbling up his chest.
Argos was almost half-grown now, a great gangly puppy, all long legs and wet nose and tongue. He really was coming along well; even Father thought so now, though he’d been more than dubious to start with.
“There’s a deal of work in a dog,” he’d said that first morning. “He’s not a toy. I’m not having a half-trained animal running about the palace, knocking over tables and biting the servants.”
“Give the boy credit for some ordinary common sense,” said Antikleia, whose present it had been.
“Will you help me train him?” Odysseus interjected.
“Of course.” Father’s annoyance had evaporated immediately.
And it had been hard work, but it was paying off. Soon Argos would be ready to try out his hunting skills with other people around. Odysseus smiled to himself – all his friends loved Argos, but taking him out with them had only taught the dog bad habits.
As soon as he’d realised the problem, he’d started going out alone with Argos straight after the midday meal. At first it felt strange, just the two of them roaming the island together, but after a while he’d come to value this quiet, focused time. And once Argos was safe back in his kennel, there was still plenty of time left in the day for the usual mischief.
A squall of wind sent the wildflowers sprawling through the grass. Odysseus stretched and yawned. Truly, life was good.
“What shall we do now, eh, dog? Shall we climb down to the sea for a swim, or up the mountain to see what the rest of the world is doing?”
Argos followed his gaze.
“Wise dog. That was my choice too.”
They scrambled up to the main track and turned south along it until they met a steep path leading to the observation post high on the ridge of Neriton. As they climbed, the scattered oaks gave way to tangled scrub. Soon even this was shouldered aside by the raw, slabby bones of the mountain.
There were four men on duty at the observation post. The watch captain came over to greet them.
“Olli. We’ll have you on the roster soon, you come up here so often.”
Odysseus grinned. “Anything exciting today?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Two merchant ships up from Pylos on the edge of this westerly. Nought from the gulf, as you’d expect. They’ll be confined to harbour praying for a change of wind. A few fishing boats over from Sami.”
They stared out across the sea towards the mainland. The afternoon shadows cast by Mount Neriton were already creeping far out over the water.
“What’s that?” said Odysseus.
“Where?”
“Look.” Odysseus pointed. “Halfway from Oxia. Do you see that white speck?” He stared hard. “Only one ship, I think, and it must be under oars. They can’t have a sail up against this wind. Whoever they are, they’re working hard to get here.”
“I still can’t see. Oh yes. There.” The captain glanced up at the sky. “The wind’s starting to back. And rising with it. If it shifts enough to the south, they’ll raise a sail and be here tonight. We’ll need to fire up the beacons to help them into the harbour.”
He began shouting orders to the crew. Under his direction they swung the great copper mirror into position and twisted it back and forth in the sunlight, signalling down to the palace. An answering series of flashes confirmed the message had been read.
Chapter Fourteen
The ship, despatched in urgency from Elis, came in that night on the back of a south-east gale. The crew, wet, cold and exhausted, were billeted in the town while Laertes spoke with the captain up at the palace.
“It’s the High King. Murdered.” The captain shivered under the cloak clutched tight around his shoulders. “Butchered in his sleep.”
Odysseus sat mute at Laertes’s feet, one white-knuckled fist gripping Argos’s collar. Menelaos’s father. That tall, proud, white-haired man in his magnificent robes, hacked to death. The news was unimaginable, numbing.
His parents were staring at each other, aghast. “Oh gods,” Laertes groaned. “Atreus. Poor blighted soul.” Suddenly, he banged his fist down on the arm of his chair. “Unarmed and defenceless, in his bed. The cowardly, treacherous brutes.”
Odysseus swallowed hard, the saliva thick in his throat. If Atreus was dead, who else was? Though surely the captain would have said. Wouldn’t he? “Were they all killed?” he blurted. “Menelaos too?” He found he’d started shaking all over and he hugged his free arm round his knees to hide it.
Antikleia cleared her throat and for a moment he thought she was thinking the same thing. “Could it be that the gods might be angry with Atreus,” she said instead, “for murdering his wife all those years ago?”
Laertes glared back at her, wiping the tears off his cheeks with his cloak. “Murder, my dear? Murder is a little far-fetched–”
“Far-fetched? Slaughter, then. You could hardly call it a legitimate execution.”
So Atreus had murdered Menelaos’s mother. That was worse than anything he could have imagined. Odysseus felt the room chill around him, his parents’ arguing voices receding under the pressure of his own thoughts.
“My dear Antikleia,” his father was saying. “The man’s soul has scarcely left his body.” He gave his face another angry wipe. “How can you judge Atreus for a sudden madness, all those years ago, when everyone avowed the gods themselves had sent it?”
“So why have the gods struck him down now?” argued Antikleia.
She was so angry, Odysseus thought – as angry as he’d ever seen her, with hands clutching the chair arms and face flushed almost as red as her hair. Had Aerope been a friend of hers? Or was it enough that she was a woman?
“Why blame the gods?” Laertes looked back at the captain. “What part did his brother play in this?”
The captain spread his hands. “Thyestes has been quick to declare himself High King. But he needs to win widespread support to justify claiming the title. We’re not his subjects, you know.”
“And in Mykenai?”
“They’ve all sworn loyalty to him. Those who haven’t vanished.”
“That place is a snake pit,” said Antikleia. “They’ve never known what loyalty means.”
A snake pit – that summed it up well. Odysseus shivered, his initial numbness more than overtaken by a sickening dread as he remembered the dark aura of menace and intrigue that Mykenai had exuded. And Menelaos caught in the middle of it. Son of the High King; son of the murdered High King. Was there any chance at all the murderers would have spared him?
Laertes groaned again. “When I had word of Thyestes’s return I knew there’d be trouble. And this will only be the start. Thyestes was full of arrogance and ambition before he was banished. My navy goes on full alert tomorrow and you Elians,” he turned back to the captain, “had best do the same.”
How soon Father had twisted the talk round to politics. “But what about Menelaos?” Odysseus repeated. “What’s happened to him?”
Three heads swivelled towards him. “Our spies did say,” said the captain, “they saw Atreus’s head hanging on the battlements.”
“His head?” Laertes gasped, the tears returning to his eyes. “Oh blessed heavens. And Gelanor will have been the next to die. It was only a few days ago he wrote to say he was in danger for speaking out against Thyestes’s return. That villain will have dismembered him.”
“What of Atreus’s new wife?” said Antikleia acidly. “And her baby boy? You don’t seem to be very worried about them.”
“Now that is the strangest news of all,” said the captain, leaning forwards. “Thyestes is claiming she’s his daughter. Whatever the truth of it, she’s quite safe.”
“But you still haven’t told us anything about Menelaos,” cried Odysseus.
The captain shrugged. “There’s no word of him. Or his brother.”
“Perhaps they’ve escaped.” For a wild moment, Odysseus felt hope surge throug
h him.
Laertes rested his hand on Odysseus’s shoulder. “We can’t assume that.”
Odysseus squirmed under his grip. “If Thyestes killed them, he’d have displayed their bodies. If no one’s seen them, they must have escaped. We have to find them.”
Laertes shook his head. “And where do we seek?”
Odysseus beat his fists on the floor in frustration. “So we sit here doing nothing?”
“You misunderstand me.” Laertes took a deep breath. “Shouting, hammering the floor, leaping to wild conclusions – none of this will achieve anything. Tomorrow I will start gathering as much information as I can. Without facts, one cannot act.”
“I’m sorry,” Odysseus stammered. “I shouldn’t have spoken like that. But there must be something I can do.”
“You can pray. The gods are always listening.”
Odysseus scrambled to his feet. “I’ll go to the cave and pray to the nymphs.” He reached for his cloak. “Eury can come with me.”
“Now? Olli, the storm is still raging. And it’s far too late. Go to bed – sleep if you can – and we’ll sacrifice there together at dawn.”
“The path under Neion will be sheltered from the wind. We’ll keep a vigil for them and you can join us in the morning. Please, Father.” Odysseus seized Laertes’s hands. “It’s the least I can do.”
They stooped to squeeze through the narrow entrance of the cave. Eurybates heaved the door closed, shutting off the hectic noise of the storm. Their torches, which had spluttered in the swirling wind outside, flared up, bringing the thick darkness to dazzling life. The huge stone columns soared up to the roof far above and the clustered stalactites cascaded down towards them like great, frozen waterfalls. They stopped, as they always did, in silent wonder, waiting for the invisible spirit of the nymphs to greet them. As their breath quietened, the moment came – a sense of calm that eased both mind and body.
Then they made their way down the rough-hewn steps and the steep wooden staircase into the second darkness below, the most sacred place. Odysseus placed their offerings on the great stalagmite in the far corner of the floor – a handful of barley, another of flour – as Eurybates poured a full measure of red wine into a shallow depression in the top of the rock.
They stepped back from the altar, raising their arms in supplication while Odysseus prayed, his words whispering around the walls.
Chapter Fifteen
On his second attempt Menelaos managed to clamber onto the horse’s back, behind Agamemnon. His body was a mass of bruises and grazes – he’d fallen off three times last night in that wild journey from the postern gate along the Korinth road, the horse lurching and stumbling on narrow tracks that led westward through the frost-gripped hills towards Sikyon. Somehow, Agamemnon had known where to go – from hunting trips, he’d said curtly when Menelaos asked, though all he’d meant by the question was how his brother could see so well on such a dark night.
As dawn smeared the eastern sky, they’d arrived at this small stone hut, with its rough timber lean-to and the pile of hay that had concealed them while the chase passed by. The old peasant who hid them had hacked at the horse’s mane and tail, rubbed dust and muck into his coat and hitched him up to a sledge – hauling stones from the fields to make a wall, he’d explained to the searchers. The disguise had worked and the soldiers had left the old man and his run-down beast to their task, poking around the hut in a careless way before setting off again.
Menelaos wrapped his arms around Agamemnon as his brother kicked the tired horse into a walk. At least they now had bread and water. He’d felt immensely guilty when the old man pressed a bag containing what seemed the only food he had into their hands. He turned and raised his arm in farewell to the stooped figure in front of the hut.
The door opened into a glow of light. In the rush of warm air that embraced them, Menelaos rubbed the blood back into his smarting fingers as he peered over Agamemnon’s shoulder into the room. The steep cobbled streets of Sikyon had been glazed with ice and their horse, exhausted after hours of hard riding, had slithered and skittered so badly they’d been forced to dismount, their breath smoking in the freezing air as they hastened up the last slopes and begged the sentries to take them to the king.
The royal palace sat on the crest of a hill, the fortifications which guarded it small and weak compared to Mykenai, for this was a minor kingdom, nominally independent but overshadowed by its powerful neighbour to the east. But what did that matter if the king and his guest, their cousin Tantalos, could be persuaded to give them shelter?
Menelaos shivered. Was Tantalos as good a friend as Agamemnon thought? They’d been constant companions for years; as close as brothers, Agamemnon had said. But Tantalos was Thyestes’s son. How could that not matter?
Inside the room, two people were sitting on either side of a heavy oak table, a mousy-haired young man to the right and a plain-faced girl on the left. They must be Tantalos and his new wife. Between them a richly dressed old man – the king of Sikyon surely – sprawled asleep, his bald head resting on the remains of the evening meal.
“Agamemnon, Menelaos. Greetings.” Tantalos rose to his feet, indecision fighting with unease in his hovering smile. “These are Atreus’s sons, Klytie,” he said, turning to the girl.
Agamemnon hurried forwards and kneeled down, grasping Tantalos’s knees. “In the name of all the gods, cousin, by our shared blood, speak for us, beg your host to spare us and keep us safe.”
Tantalos stared down at Agamemnon’s bowed head, and across at Menelaos. He’s frightened, thought Menelaos, more frightened than we are. Perhaps Uncle Gelanor had been right, in that brief, whispered exchange at the postern gate, Agamemnon on fire to be off, Gelanor hanging onto the bridle, his voice urgent. “Sikyon is too dangerous,” he’d said. “True, Tantalos is staying there for the while, but he’s his father’s son in the end, despite growing up with you, despite everything Atreus has done for him. Go east. Go north, south, anywhere but Sikyon.”
Then shouts and the clatter of nail-shod boots on the cobbles behind them, Agamemnon wrenching the horse free as he thrust his heels into its sides, Menelaos clinging to his brother’s waist, straining his head round to see Gelanor running, tumbling down the bank below the road and into the riverbed under a hail of arrows. Was there even the smallest hope his uncle had survived? And Nurse – but he knew what had happened to her.
And now they were in Sikyon, against Gelanor’s warning, throwing themselves on Tantalos’s mercy.
The plain-faced girl stood up. “You must protect them, husband,” she said. “They are your family.”
Menelaos racked his memory for a name. Klytemnestra, that was it – Tantalos had called her Klytie, just before. Everyone in the women’s quarters had discussed the marriage at length. How long ago? It must be at least a year. But it was more about the flow of bride gifts Menelaos’s father had provided for Tantalos to woo her with, and the great dowry she had brought him in exchange.
The wedding had taken place in her father’s house, far to the south, so the women had been cheated of an opinion about the wedding dress, not that it stopped them speculating endlessly about it. And wasn’t there some gossip about marrying the ugly twin off first? Whose daughter was she? Confound it, it really didn’t matter. All that counted was that this plain young girl with the hard mouth and the soft eyes was on their side.
The silence dragged on, broken only by the king’s rasping snores. He must be very drunk, Menelaos thought, to be sleeping through all of this. And with his face buried in that serving dish. How much gravy must have smeared itself across his cheek?
Tantalos stood irresolute, his shoulders twitching, his eyes dodging round Klytie’s steady gaze. At last he shrugged. He stooped over the king, shaking him by the shoulder and muttering in his ear. The old man raised his head and gazed at them through bloodshot eyes. He was utterly fuddled with wine, it was obvious to anyone. He frowned, scratched his belly, grunted his agreement, belched
and went back to sleep.
Tantalos raised Agamemnon from the floor. “Welcome to Sikyon. I don’t know how long you can stay. My father has already sent messengers asking for your capture and return. But if we can defer somehow …” He glanced at Klytie and back again. “At least till we decide where you might go from here.”
They were safe, for now. Menelaos let his eyes wander round the room, the pounding of his heart slowing. A far door had opened and a golden-haired girl, breathtakingly pretty, was standing watching them. She entered the room and glided over to Klytie, wrapping an arm around her waist.
Klytie caught his eye and smiled. “Menelaos, we haven’t met before but I’m so pleased we can help you. This is my twin sister, Helen. We missed each other so much, my father sent her to join us while we visited Sikyon.”
Helen. That’s who the old gossips in the women’s quarters had been talking about. Something about Klytie being bait. Bait? And why were she and Tantalos here anyway? Light dawned and he bit back his laughter. Stupid! Of course. Agamemnon. They were trying to marry Helen off to his brother. Klytie’s father, whatever-his-name-was, wanted his favourite daughter to be the wife of the next High King. Maybe she was supposed to meet Agamemnon by chance, on one of his hunting trips perhaps, arrange to be rescued from the jaws of a slavering boar or some such. Well, the wheels had fallen off that chariot of dreams.
Helen smiled sideways at him through her curls and lowered her eyelids. Shy, he thought, smiling back, suddenly aware of his stained tunic and bare feet. What an absolutely lovely girl.
Murder at Mykenai Page 6