“Won’t they want payment?” queried Menelaos.
“Really, how stupid can you be?” said Agamemnon, sounding more confident by the moment. “We sell the donkey. That will give us more than we need.”
If they weren’t caught first.
Chapter Nineteen
The tavern was smoky and crowded. Menelaos followed close behind the others as they pushed inside, shivering from the rainstorm which had drenched them as they reached the outskirts of the port. The tavern owner ladled them out a distasteful grey mush he called stew and they made their way over to an empty table, ignoring the curious and not over-friendly stares of the other patrons. Steam rose from their clothes as they ate.
The door burst open and a clutch of men crowded in out of the dark, demanding food and beer. In contrast to the local men, they were a cheerful band, joking and laughing together as they waited to be served. Carrying bowls and jugs, they shouldered their way through the crowd and squashed themselves onto the same table as the three travellers. Agamemnon glowered at them over the rim of his bowl but Menelaos was soon engaged in conversation with the young man beside him.
“Ag–, er, brother,” he said, pulling at Agamemnon’s sleeve. “These men have a ship. This gentleman, ah …” He consulted his new friend. “Meges, his name’s Meges. He’s the captain. He says they’re going down the gulf tomorrow.”
“Down? Down? Is he saying their ship is going to sink?” said Agamemnon.
Palamedes sniggered.
“I think he means ‘west’,” said Menelaos, blushing.
“A mere thought is no use to us. Have him say what he means.”
Menelaos consulted again with Meges. “Yes, they’re heading west out of the gulf. Shall I ask them to give us a ride?”
“Passage, not ride.”
“Yes. Sorry.” Menelaos poked, crestfallen, at a puddle of congealing stew on the table.
“Make the arrangements then,” said Agamemnon. “Or must I? As usual?”
“No, no.” Menelaos conferred with Meges once more. “Yes, they’ll give us a passage. There’ll be no charge if we help work the ship. They’re shorthanded.”
“Excellent. I’m sure you will make yourselves very useful.”
“There’s one problem – they’re returning to the ship immediately.” Menelaos listened while Meges whispered again in his ear. “Oh, and he says it’s a merchantman, so we’ll have somewhere to sleep.” Menelaos frowned. “Why is that?”
“They’re large and wide, whereas a warship is narrow and cramped. I thought you would have known that,” said Agamemnon. “Well, that is very good news. The tavern owner intended to charge us an absurd amount for beds.”
The sailors pushed back the benches and stood up to go. Menelaos hung back, scraping up the last grey blobs of stew before following them to the door.
Outside, the rain was easing off to a light drizzle as a full moon ghosted through a gap in the cloud. Meges set off on a zigzag route through a maze of back alleys.
Agamemnon pulled at his sleeve. “Where are you taking us?” he asked, his voice edged with suspicion.
“The ship’s moored a little further along the bay,” replied Meges over his shoulder. “But what’s this?” He held up his hand for silence.
Now Menelaos could hear the tramp and splash of heavy boots. The sailors flattened themselves against the house walls and Meges gestured to Agamemnon and his companions to do the same. Flickering torchlight lit up the entrance to the alley as a large band of armed men hurried past on the main road to the tavern.
Meges waited before signalling the all clear.
Agamemnon grabbed his shoulder. “Who are you?” he demanded. “Smugglers? Thieves?”
“Ssh. Keep your voice down,” Meges whispered back. “If you are who I think you are, you’ve rather more reason to stay out of their way than we have.”
Menelaos froze as Agamemnon’s head jerked back in alarm. Meges had seemed friendly but he obviously knew far more than he’d let on in the tavern. Could they trust him? Or had they walked into a trap?
“The whole coast is on the hunt for two dark-haired men,” explained Meges. “One short and stocky, one tall and thin, along with a golden-haired boy. You’re lucky you managed to eat your meal in peace, such as it was.” He looked around. “The sooner we’re on board the better. We can talk later. For the moment I’ll just say that I’m one of Laertes’s men. We’ve been watching out for you for days.”
Chapter Twenty
On the beach past the village, a small boat was drawn up on the sand. The sailors carried it down to the water and helped their passengers in. A light out in the bay glimmered through the rain, which had begun again in earnest, and the sailors pulled towards it through inky, pockmarked water. The bulky side of the merchantman appeared, a deeper black in the shrouding darkness, and the bowman eased them along to a short rope ladder hanging down the side. Balancing awkwardly in the narrow boat, they scrambled, one by one, up the ladder and onto the deck.
To Menelaos’s amazement, the belly of the ship was crowded with men. “What are they doing here?” he exclaimed.
Meges laughed. “We thought we’d try the subtle approach first,” he said. “I don’t believe anyone in the port thinks we’re anything but wool merchants waiting for a westerly wind to push us up to Korinth. But we have fifty fighting men hidden on board in case we had to haul you out of Aigeira by force.”
He led them through a curtain into a small, dark cabin tucked under the after deck and gestured for them to sit down. “It’s fairly simple but it’s dry, which is useful on a night like this. I’ll fetch you fresh clothes and something palatable to eat and drink.”
A short while later, as they were settling round a platter of olives, dried figs and cheese, a sailor poked his head around the edge of the curtain. “Rain’s easing, sir,” he said. “Visibility’s still a mite poor but there are a few clear patches in the east.”
“Very good,” said Meges. “Excuse me.” He nodded to his guests and went out.
They could hear his voice issuing orders, followed by a rush of feet. There was a rattle of blocks and a thump, then some muffled swearing and the creak of ship’s timbers as she gathered way.
A while later Meges returned, looking more relaxed. “We’ve put Aigeira a good distance behind us,” he said. “As far as can be seen, there’s no sign of a chase. Yet.”
“A chase? What an absurd suggestion,” said Agamemnon. “This is Arcadia. All the lands bounded by ocean know what poor sailors they are.”
“You’re both right and wrong there, sir. The Korinthians have sent ten warships – they’re stationed on the far side of the point east of the port.”
“By Hera, won’t those soldiers have sent word to them as soon as they found us gone?”
“Kerberos’s toenails,” said Menelaos, his face lighting up. “We will have a fight after all.”
Meges slapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “But I doubt it. Those soldiers were from the town up on the hill. I’ll swear they were searching for you. They weren’t out in the rain and the dark for the pleasure of it. But your Uncle Thyestes has been rather too thorough for his own good. He’s announced a substantial reward for your capture.”
“But that will make them even more eager, surely,” said Agamemnon.
“I gather not, sir. The Korinthians have infuriated the local population since the day they arrived. They’re not only superior,” Meges tipped his nose up with a finger, “they’re famous for their greed. They won’t cooperate with the Aigeirians for fear it will reduce their own share. And the Aigeirians think the Korinthians are far too rich already. They would rather risk losing the reward than share it with those decadent city dwellers.”
“Won’t they both see our sail when the moon’s out?” asked Agamemnon.
“Even Athena’s owl can’t see a black sail at night.”
“Black sail? Very good.” Agamemnon wiped his mouth with a napki
n. “And then?”
“Well, sir, I believe we’re taking you to Aitolia. Up to Olenos.”
Agamemnon’s mouth fell open. “Olenos? But that’s beyond the back of nowhere.”
“King Laertes will explain matters more clearly than I can. He’s waiting for us at the Narrows.”
“Strategy,” said King Laertes, the next morning, shading his eyes against the sheen of early sunlight slanting across the water. “That’s the key.”
Menelaos gazed around as Agamemnon and Meges bent over the simple map Laertes was drawing with a piece of charcoal on the ship’s deck. The warship they’d boarded only moments ago was sliding through crystal blue water, as vivid and as clear as Ollie had described last summer. This must be the Narrows, the place Meges had mentioned last night.
And a spectacular sight it was, with the mountains pulling close on either side and the whole of the great gulf to the east virtually sealed off, except for a thin gap a few stadia wide. Several warships were patrolling the channel while the merchantman they’d arrived on, its mission accomplished, was already making its lumbering way towards a nearby beach to off-load its cargo of soldiers.
Menelaos sighed. He should be feeling elated at their escape; he was pleased, very pleased in fact. And intensely grateful to Laertes. But somehow he’d expected Olli to be here, with his father. How splendid that would have been, to be standing on this swaying deck with his friend.
Well, there was nothing to be done about it. Perhaps they’d see each other soon, in this unknown town called Olenos.
“Why Olenos?” said Agamemnon, as though reading his thoughts.
“I know it’s a small place,” said Laertes, “and it doesn’t have major fortifications. But its natural defences are superb. King Thoas is preparing to shift his court from Pleuron in your honour, and he will make you both comfortable and welcome.”
“But Pleuron has strong walls. We’d be far safer there,” Agamemnon said.
“Not against a determined siege. Its fortifications are no better than Sikyon’s – nothing compared to Mykenai’s – and Thyestes will be very strong in a land attack. You know better than anyone how well equipped his army is.”
“My army,” said Agamemnon, grimly. “I am the High King, not he.”
“Yes, indeed.” Laertes sighed. “Alas, we are not as prepared as I would like. We need a strong alliance to hold the Narrows against Thyestes’s fleet, if it comes to all-out war. King Thoas holds the Aitolian, the northern side, but the south coast is still a problem. Elis doesn’t have a strong political leader and the coastal settlements claim they have very few troops or ships to spare.”
“What forces do we have?”
“We, the Ithakans, have twenty warships, and the Aitolians about the same. Thyestes can bring maybe eighty warships against us, and transports for the Arcadians.” Laertes spread his hands. “Until we are strong enough for a sea battle, Olenos is the safest place for you – it’s hard to reach by sea or land and we can guard you easily while we find more allies.”
“Why not Ithaka?” said Menelaos. “It’s surrounded by sea. And cliffs. Olli told me it’s like a floating fortress.”
Laertes smiled. “Ithaka is an excellent base from which to control piracy,” he said. “But the island as a whole is vulnerable to a major sea attack. There are several landing places and we don’t have the ships to defend them all. The beauty of Olenos,” he pointed to his map, “is the Aitolian gulf. It’s long and narrow. Here’s Olenos at the northern end. The lower half is full of sandbanks surrounded by salt marshes, a nightmare to negotiate. But if an enemy did manage it, entry to the upper gulf is through a narrow channel almost closed off by an island. You could hold it with ten ships, no more.”
Agamemnon stared at the deck. “So we skulk in some damp hole near the outer darkness while that creature sits on my throne,” he said at last.
“One day, King Agamemnon,” said Laertes, “you will return in triumph to Mykenai. Our first task is to ensure you remain alive to do so. Our second is to find the means to break Thyestes. That may take a while.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Something had gone terribly wrong. Ever since they’d beached his father’s ship in the wide bay below Olenos, Odysseus had expected to see Menelaos running down the winding road below the town to greet him, or pushing through the crowds that clogged the narrow streets. Surely he’d be knocking on their guestroom door as they bathed and changed after their journey from Ithaka; come rushing in to fling his arms around his friend before helping himself to the cold meats and cheese the housekeeper had brought them. But there’d been no sign of him.
And now, as they entered the palace’s banqueting hall, Odysseus glanced around, his puzzlement turning to anxiety. Agamemnon was sitting on the one great chair against the far wall with the local king beside him and a straggle of self-important looking Aitolians gathered on either side. There was a thin, fair-haired boy standing just to the right of Agamemnon, and for a moment Odysseus thought he was a stranger, that Menelaos was ill, or busy elsewhere. Perhaps he’d gone hunting and hadn’t yet heard they’d arrived?
Then the boy saw him and started towards him. Palamedes – there was no mistaking him – grabbed the boy and jerked him back, whispering in his ear. From the expression on his face, his words were none too kind. Menelaos – it was Menelaos, Odysseus could see that now – dropped his gaze and didn’t look up again.
Taller of course. It was a whole year since they’d met in Mykenai. And his hair had had a year to grow after they’d cut off his forelocks last summer. Much thinner too, haggard even – well, his father had been murdered, he must still be devastated.
But it was the lifelessness in Menelaos’s eyes that shocked him most, the way his body drooped from his shoulders like a spare tunic hanging unwanted in a cupboard.
Odysseus’s mind raced. He knew, in some strange way, that how he behaved now, in this dark, wood-beamed room in Olenos, would be crucial to both of them. Was it Athena, the dreaded war goddess whose mysteries he’d begun to follow last winter, who plucked at his thoughts? What was it she wished him to do?
Agamemnon’s welcoming speech drew to a close. Laertes nodded to Odysseus and they advanced across the room, arms raised in salutation to the High King as they would have done at Mykenai, just as Odysseus and his friends had mock-enacted back on Ithaka, saluting donkeys and stray geese and the occasional rock until Laertes had threatened to whip the lot of them.
Then they turned to King Thoas, a plump young man with a fleshy nose and a soft, irresolute mouth, and to Menelaos, with Palamedes glowering at them from behind his shoulder.
Odysseus waited his turn. Now he understood how he must act. He opened his mouth and allowed the trite phrases to slide from his lips. Most sorry to hear about the High King’s death … A tragic matter for the whole of Greece … Very glad that Menelaos had had a safe journey here … Prayed their accommodation was comfortable, and the Aitolians were taking proper care of them.
He watched the blood drain from Menelaos’s face, keeping his own as flat and emotionless as his words; watched Palamedes’s angry glare fade to amused contempt.
“What in every devil’s name are you playing at?”
“What do you mean, Father?”
Laertes took a deep breath and started again. “Your behaviour is incomprehensible. You’ve been beside yourself since we heard of Atreus’s murder, you’ve been desperate to see Menelaos again, but now I’ve finally brought you to Olenos you’re behaving as though you’ve never met him before.”
Argos stirred and whined deep in his throat.
“Shush, boy, quiet.” How much should he say? “The Aitolians have such poor manners, Father. I wanted to show Agamemnon we’re not provincials like them.”
“So? Everyone knows this isn’t Mykenai; the Aitolians are doing their best.”
“Their best is nigh on boorish – Agamemnon winces every time they turn their backs on him, or talk while he’s speaking.�
�� Odysseus scraped his hair back from his face with angry fingers. “But if we show him we know how to behave, he’ll take you more seriously. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“You may be right, as far as Agamemnon goes,” said Laertes. “But Menelaos couldn’t give a fig about courtly manners. He took your coolness very hard.”
“I thought he looked dreadful from the start.”
“You didn’t help.”
“What of Palamedes? He was hovering over Menelaos like a half-starved vulture.”
“By Poseidon.” Laertes threw his hands up in exasperation. “The sons of Atreus have enough problems without you inventing new ones. Palamedes has been appointed Menelaos’s tutor. He is obliged to hover. If you want reasons why Menelaos is unhappy, I could give you a list this long,” Laertes stretched his arms apart, “before we arrive at Palamedes somewhere near the end of it. Starting with Atreus’s murder, the loss of Mykenai, betrayal at Sikyon …”
And Aerope. Odysseus could scarcely imagine what Menelaos must have endured. Now, seeing his friend so altered made him ill with worry. “Meges said Menelaos was in good spirits when he rescued them,” he argued. “But he’s lost so much weight and his face is gaunt, as though he hasn’t slept for months. Something’s happened since.”
“I think the excitement of the escape is over and reality has made its mark. And yes, I agree Palamedes is not the ideal choice for a tutor, though they are cousins, remember–”
“Cousins? What do you mean?” Odysseus stared at his father in horror.
“Oh yes.” Laertes nodded his head sagely. “Didn’t I tell you?”
“Never. No one told me.”
“Not that there’s much to tell. Queen Aerope had a half-sister, the daughter of one of her father’s concubines. When Aerope came to Mykenai to marry Atreus, she brought the girl with her as her handmaid. And Nauplios saw a chance to further his career and married the lass. Not that it did him much good after Aerope’s death.” Laertes gave a sour laugh.
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