“Does Menelaos know?”
“I have no idea.” Laertes dismissed the question with a shrug. “What is important is that Nauplios and Palamedes are bound to our cause. Atreus’s sons would never have escaped Sikyon without their help. Agamemnon needs to keep loyal people close by him, people he knows he can trust, and there’s no doubting Palamedes’s intelligence. Menelaos’s uncle, Gelanor, would have made a more kindly teacher but–”
“Still no word of Gelanor?” Argos had butted his head into Odysseus’s hand, and he scratched between the dog’s ears, hardly feeling the soft fur under his fingers.
“No, alas. But I believe we were discussing Palamedes’s tutorial skills. He’s the most suitable person available. And you and Menelaos must take some responsibility for his ill-humour, after that unfortunate escapade in Mykenai.”
“Can’t we invite Menelaos to Ithaka?” said Odysseus, trying to keep his voice relaxed. “Then we can take him to Pylos when I do my chariot training – he loves horses and there are almost none here.”
“That could be awkward. King Nestor is refusing to recognise either Agamemnon or Thyestes, and until he commits Pylos to our cause, he won’t wish to offer guest friendship to Menelaos.”
“But we don’t have to stay at Nestor’s palace – you have other friends in Pylos. Then Menelaos could come as our guest.”
“Agamemnon may not want to part from his brother so soon. It’s only a month since they arrived in Olenos.”
Father always found a reason for saying no. “Nestor can meet Menelaos by chance,” Odysseus said. “They’re certain to like each other. Nestor loves horses too. You can organise it, you’re so skilful with people.”
“Olli, don’t you try to flatter your way around me.”
“But it will help Agamemnon. You’ve been working so hard to draw Nestor into the alliance.”
“Mmm … perhaps.” Laertes paced up and down. “Very well,” he said at last. “I’ll find the right opportunity to ask Agamemnon. Now, stop jumping about. I’ll do it in my own time and in my own way.”
“I knew you’d understand. Argos! Down. You know Father hates having his face licked.” Odysseus looked up, serious once more. “I mustn’t anger Palamedes, or he’ll set Agamemnon against me.”
“How in Hades will you manage that?” said Laertes, laughing.
“I’ll keep out of Menelaos’s way.”
“Then you’ll upset Menelaos even more.”
“I know. But if I do, Palamedes might decide I’m an empty fool, someone who rejects their friends because they’re not important any more.”
Laertes raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see your point.”
“Palamedes wants Menelaos for himself. Did you see the way he behaved this afternoon? If he thinks I’m a threat, he’ll tell Agamemnon I’m a bad influence, and Agamemnon will refuse to let Menelaos visit us. But if I act like a harmless idiot …”
“That’s for you to decide.” Laertes gave him a wry smile. “The danger is, Menelaos may think you really are no friend of his, and he might refuse to come.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Menelaos sat in the dark little room Palamedes had been allotted as his study, staring at yet another unintelligible row of numbers. Through the tiny window above his head he could hear the other boys going through their military drill in the courtyard below. Their shouting and laughter belonged to a world so separate from his that it seemed meaningless, like the endless jarring of cicadas on a late summer’s day.
He put down the wax tablet, his sweating fingers slithering on the stylus. Palamedes erupted from his seat in the corner and grabbed the tablet.
“Nothing. You’ve done nothing,” he shouted. “You’ve sat there all morning, wasting my precious time, your mind full of drivel. Lazy, worthless, dung-brained piece of vermin.”
He spat a large gob of phlegm onto Menelaos’s hand. Menelaos tried to scrape it off on the table and Palamedes slammed the edge of the tablet down on his fingers. “Get on with your work, you little weevil.”
Menelaos fumbled for the tablet, his fingers stinging, and stared at it again. The midday heat pulsed against his temples and a wave of exhaustion overwhelmed him. The stylus slipped out of his hand, rolled off the table and clattered onto the floor. He jerked himself awake, groping for it before Palamedes could react.
But Palamedes had already leaped out of his chair. He hooked Menelaos’s stool from under him with his foot and started kicking him as he lay hunched on the floor, his boot finding every old bruise and cut with careful accuracy. “You lazy, careless little pile of rotting puke, you gutter filth, you mindless bastard son of a ravening whore bitch.” The insults wove between the blows, hard, low and relentless.
Please, not again, not today, Menelaos prayed. Dear gods, no, please no.
Palamedes picked up the stool and struck him with it. The edge of the seat hit the point of his elbow and he lost control. As the stool came thudding down once more, he twisted round and grabbed at it, wrestling it out of Palamedes’s hands. He scrambled to his feet, the stool poised to strike, but Palamedes had retreated to the door, his drawn sword in his hand.
“Don’t try anything stupid or you’ll pay for it in ways you haven’t even begun to dream of.” Palamedes spat the words out like bits of half-chewed gristle.
“You can’t … you can’t treat me like this. What have I ever done to you?” cried Menelaos.
“It’s not what you do, it’s what you are that’s so disgusting. A living lie, an insult to honour.” Palamedes was watching him with that cold, triumphant smile on his face. “Put that stool down, or I’ll drag you off to face your brother. You wouldn’t want to shame Agamemnon again, would you?”
Menelaos could still hear his brother’s voice, shaking with anger that day. It was just after it started, after he’d fought back for the first time and Palamedes, sporting his bruised cheek like a trophy, had paraded him in front of Agamemnon. His brother had screamed at him, called him a coward, a traitor to the memory of King Atreus for not taking his punishment as he should. And ordered Palamedes to beat him again while he watched, so he could see Menelaos had learned his lesson. If only Agamemnon had known what had really happened, if only he’d found a way to tell him.
But now it was too late.
Menelaos trudged down the stairs, his heels dragging on the edge of every step. Behind him, Palamedes was gathering up their military gear with an over-efficient clatter. Every bone and muscle in his body ached, and his legs and his head felt as heavy as lead. He couldn’t imagine how he was going to get through military drill in this suffocating afternoon heat.
Why did Palamedes choose such a time? Was it only so he wouldn’t meet the other boys? Or was it part of his punishment to labour in the full sun till every drop of sweat and energy had been wrung from him? Punishment for what? For living? Did the gods hate him as much as Palamedes did?
He thought he heard Odysseus’s voice at the foot of the staircase and his heart spun. Would Olli stop and talk to him this time? Would he even look at him?
He paused as Odysseus ran up the stairs, that dog at his heels. Odysseus glanced, vacant-eyed, in his direction.
“Hello,” said Menelaos, cursing the quaver in his voice. “How are you?”
Odysseus stopped for an instant and gripped Menelaos’s wrist. He mouthed something at him and was gone.
Menelaos blundered to the bottom of the stairs, blinded by unshed tears.
“Talk to you, did he?” sneered Palamedes as he joined him. “A nice, friendly greeting as usual?”
Menelaos shook his head, too miserable to reply.
“That’s because he thinks you’re muck.” Palamedes threw a shield and sword in his general direction. Menelaos crouched down and groped for them in the dust as Palamedes bent down to whisper in his ear.
“Because you are muck,” he whispered. “Son of the High King?” He spat. “Bastard son of a whore. And don’t ever forget it.”
Odys
seus hurried along the corridor towards their guest rooms, his heart racing. Was he doing the right thing? Every moment of every day he’d wanted to fling his arms round Menelaos. This coolness, this charade, was almost more than he could bear. And what must it be like for Menelaos? But at least this time he’d managed to give him a message. “Courage.”
There wasn’t time to say more but Menelaos must have understood. At the very least he’d know they were still friends.
Chapter Twenty-three
Through a crack in the door, Odysseus could see the four men sitting alone at the high table, lingering over the last of their wine. Not all four at once – he had to move his head slightly to bring each into view: Agamemnon fiddling with his wine cup; King Thoas slumped in his chair, his teeth stained grape-purple; Palamedes staring at nothing, a muscle twitching in his cheek. And his father, slowly edging the talk round to the plan he and Odysseus had discussed for the final time that afternoon.
Odysseus’s breath seemed very loud in his ears, even louder than his heartbeat. This was their last night here, their only chance to help Menelaos. Would Father go through with it? Or would he revert to his original scepticism?
A slight noise on the other side of the door made him jump. And now the crack had gone black – the guard must have shifted sideways to stand right in front of it. Hades, even the murmur of conversation had been cut off. Then the creak of a floorboard, the discreet clank of armour-plated leather as the guard moved once more, and Odysseus could see through the crack again. Thank heavens for that.
Agamemnon was clearing his throat in a businesslike way. “Speaking of Pylos,” he said, “I received a letter this morning from King Nestor. My dear Laertes, since you still have some hours at your disposal before you set sail for Ithaka, I would be grateful for your opinion.”
“By all means,” said Laertes.
A perfect lead for Father to follow.
“I don’t wish for any problems while I’m visiting Elis,” Agamemnon continued, “and Nestor has not made it clear whether he is for or against me. The Epeians, as you know, are worried he might invade their southern borders in support of Thyestes if I’m there …”
Odysseus strained to hear as Agamemnon dropped his voice. Something about Thyestes and Arcadia? The Epeians had far more reason to fear them. But that quick visit to Elis Agamemnon was planning shouldn’t provoke an attack. He’d be back here in Olenos before Thyestes heard he had left. At least, that’s what Father thought, and it seemed to make sense.
He could see his father glancing around. What was he looking for? Some stray servant with hungry ears and a wallet heavy with Thyestes’s gold, eager to betray their confidences? But the servants had cleared the tables and gone. Odysseus had watched them from the shadows at the top of the stairs before he’d risked coming down.
Father seemed reassured – he’d stopped peering about him and was smiling at Agamemnon. “King Nestor’s letters are familiar territory to me,” he said, “and I have more than enough time before we head down to the bay. The offshore wind to take us south won’t set in till after midnight.”
“Very good,” said Agamemnon, sipping his wine. “Palamedes, fetch the letter, will you? It’s in the small chest next to my bed.”
Kerberos. Odysseus flattened himself against the wall, praying the opened door would hide him. It would be bad enough to be discovered eavesdropping, especially as Father had ordered him to stay in their room, but to be discovered by Palamedes! The hideous man would make such a fuss, Father might change his mind.
The door flung wide but Palamedes didn’t pause to look around. He half-ran to the stairs and bounded up them two at a time, his scurrying footsteps disappearing along the upstairs corridor.
Odysseus closed his eyes in relief. But why was Palamedes in such haste? Perhaps he’d already guessed Father’s intent and didn’t want to miss anything important. And when he came back? At least the door had been left ajar. Odysseus shrank even further behind it, willing himself into invisibility.
“Do you think Thyestes really has told the Epeians he killed us?” Agamemnon was saying. “I’m not walking into another trap, am I?”
There was a clunk – a wine cup being put down on the table perhaps. “Not if you go tomorrow,” said Father. “It will take time for Thyestes’s spies to report your movements back to him.” Just what he’d said that afternoon. “And if you can prove to the Epeians you’re still alive and state your claim to your father’s throne in person, we will be more successful in enlisting their support.”
Odysseus heard a distant door close, followed by the sound of rapid footsteps. He froze as Palamedes hurried down the stairs and strode towards his hiding place. Would he see him? Then Palamedes was through the door, grabbing it as he passed, his fingers a hand’s breadth from Odysseus’s nose. It slammed behind him and Odysseus took a deep breath, a little ashamed to find his knees shaking.
A rustle of parchment, then Laertes’s voice again. “Typical. Courteous, full of empty flattery …” Odysseus put his eye back to the crack in time to see his father put the letter down, “… but I’m confident, from this, that he has no alliance with Thyestes. The Epeians have no cause for alarm.”
“Do you think I should extend my journey to Pylos?” Agamemnon replied.
“No, that would be most unwise. Nestor hates being cornered.”
Agamemnon grunted. “But can we not manage something?”
Now was Father’s chance. Would he take it?
“Some more subtle plan?” Laertes slapped his hand down on the table. “A fine thought. King Agamemnon, you have indeed inherited your father’s wisdom.”
Good old Father. Agamemnon thrived on flattery.
“I’m taking my son down to Pylos within the month,” Laertes went on. “He needs much work on his chariot skills and Ithaka is too steep for horses.”
Odysseus clenched his fists, his nerves in knots. Now for the crux.
“Menelaos could come with us as our guest. He would be learning from some fine charioteers and I can introduce him to Nestor informally. Your brother is certain to make an excellent impression.”
Wonderful. Father couldn’t have managed it better.
“Thank you.” Agamemnon sounded pleased. “Though there’s room for improvement.”
“Of course,” said Laertes. “But he’s matured a great deal in the last year. And a casual friendship with Nestor will open the door for future discussion.”
That should settle it.
But Agamemnon was frowning. “I have one major objection,” he said. “I will need to take Palamedes with me – I must have the dignity of a scribe. Who will take care of Menelaos’s education?”
“Some country clodpate,” Palamedes interjected, his voice a little too loud. “The whole idea is absurd.”
Odysseus felt his heart beat faster. Were they going to fail after all?
But Laertes was leaning forwards. “Absurd? On the contrary, King Agamemnon, I think your proposal is remarkable. I could not have thought of a better plan myself. What insight to insist we make some move towards Pylos. And King Nestor has skilled tutors aplenty.”
“Indeed.” Agamemnon inclined his head.
“But my lord …” Palamedes was on his feet, his cheeks flushed and his fists clenching in agitation.
“Be quiet.” Agamemnon tilted his head back to stare at him before turning back to Laertes. “That seems very satisfactory, King Laertes. And as you are departing so soon, I shall arrange for Menelaos to go to your rooms without delay.”
Palamedes started towards the door. “I’ll help him prepare, sire.”
No! He had to be kept away from Menelaos once the plan was struck; Father knew – they’d talked together about the danger. Odysseus stifled the urge to call out, his heart pounding in his throat.
“Won’t you need Palamedes to copy down your reply to Nestor?” said Laertes, his voice smooth.
“Certainly,” said Agamemnon. “Palamedes, fetch parchment, p
en and ink from my chest. Don’t stand there gawping, man.”
Oh gods, that would still give Palamedes an opportunity to go to Menelaos’s room.
“And King Thoas,” Agamemnon continued, “could you arrange with your housekeeper to assist my brother?”
Odysseus felt the sweat running down his back as once again he flattened himself against the wall. Palamedes came hurrying out with Thoas close behind. For one dreadful moment Odysseus thought the king would turn away towards the servants’ quarters, but no, by some blessed chance the housekeeper must be working upstairs.
There was a scrape of a chair from inside the hall. “Palamedes is too opinionated,” Odysseus heard his father say, his voice carrying easily through the open door. “I’m surprised at your tolerance.”
“Did you hear him tell me my idea was absurd?” Agamemnon replied. “I, the High King? If he were not my cousin and Nauplios his father, I might take very great exception to that.”
“We’re fortunate to have such a loyal and capable man as Nauplios working for us in Mykenai.”
Odysseus gritted his teeth. He hadn’t liked Nauplios when he’d met him in Mykenai last year. There was something about him, nothing he could put into words. And if he mentioned it to Father without good reason, he would look a fool.
“And at great risk to his personal safety,” Agamemnon was saying. “I will reward him richly when I reclaim my throne.”
“May that be as soon as the gods allow,” said Laertes. There was the sound of liquid being poured and the chink of cups. “Speaking of Nauplios, has he done more than spy for us? Recruit others in Mykenai to our cause, perhaps?”
“His last report came in two days ago. It seems there may be several men at court who are unhappy with Thyestes. Nauplios will move slowly, of course, but the situation is promising.”
“Splendid.”
“And he has been spreading the most inventive rumours. My stepmother has been acknowledged as Thyestes’s daughter, as you know. Now Nauplios is saying – through other people – that when she visited Korinth after her marriage to my father, Thyestes was there in disguise and seduced her. It seems her baby, my supposed half-brother, is not only his nephew and his grandson, but his son as well. Quite disgusting.”
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