“It would be if it were true,” said Laertes. “Is it?”
“Well, true or not, the man is an animal.”
“I quite agree. Any news of Gelanor?”
Gelanor. Odysseus had a vision of him sitting in their room at Mykenai all those months ago, running his finger round the rim of his cup, his eyes brimming with laughter as he recounted some scurrilous tale of life at court.
There was a pause, then Agamemnon sighed. “No, alas. Nauplios has heard no reports of his death, but that means nothing. My poor uncle seems to have vanished from the face of the earth.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Lord Sipylos, Head of Internal Palace Affairs, answerable only to the High King, the gods of Mykenai and his own conscience, strutted into the cramped office Nauplios had been relegated to on the outskirts of the citadel.
“Greetings,” cried Nauplios. “I take it you are in good health?” Not that he cared a dried fig for Sipylos’s wellbeing – the man had been making his life a misery for far too many years. And now Sipylos’s position was stronger than ever under Thyestes. At least they were free of that interfering busybody, Gelanor. Though what had happened to him, only the gods knew; certainly, no corpse had ever been found.
Sipylos eased himself into the waiting chair, his mouth stretching in a semblance of a smile. “Naturally,” he said, neglecting as usual to ask after Nauplios’s own welfare. “What have you prepared for me?”
For me? What sheer, unadulterated nerve. Nauplios invented his little masterpieces – his clever insinuations, his false rumours – for Thyestes. Or Agamemnon, as the case may be. Not for this slimy, obese, manipulative piece of waste matter.
“Well,” he said, returning the smile in kind. “I have had another excellent idea.” He leaned over the table, balancing his fingertips together in front of his nose. “It goes thus. High King Atreus welcomes Thyestes back to Mykenai, puts on a magnificent feast – as we know he did, thrice, though I’ve simplified it to one so as not to confuse–”
Sipylos snapped his fingers. “Quick, man,” he said. “I haven’t all night.”
“Of course not. I cannot say how much I appreciate your sacrificing so much of your valuable time on these trivial little concerns.” Horrid little man. “So, midway through the feast, a large platter appears laden with delicate meats. Atreus announces this as an exceptional dish, prepared solely for his brother’s enjoyment. Thyestes devours the meat which he proclaims to be delicious. Atreus claps his hands and another platter appears bearing the remainder of the dish – the heads of Thyestes’s sons. Thyestes has been tricked into eating his own children.” Nauplios sat back, waiting for Sipylos’s approval.
“Ye-e-es,” grated Sipylos. “Nobody who attended the banquets will remember this happening.” His piggy eyes glinted at Nauplios from under his fleshy forehead.
“No, of course not. It didn’t.”
“Then we must have it occur on some previous occasion.”
What an absurd suggestion. The whole purpose of the story was to give Thyestes a motive of such moral force, he had to kill his brother immediately. “But–”
Sipylos raised a warning hand. “But what, my dear Nauplios?”
Nauplios forced himself to simper. “But what an excellent suggestion. Quite inspired.”
Sipylos tilted his head back and sneered down his nose. “There is another problem with it. Thyestes has only one son. Tantalos. Who happens to be very much alive.”
“They could have been bastard sons. And does it really matter? The story is so … so pungent, it will take on its own veracity.”
“Perhaps. Have you written it down? Good.” Sipylos secreted the roll of parchment in his sleeve. “We will see.”
“But–”
“It has some slight promise, I grant you.” Sipylos leaned back, cracking one knuckle after another. “Once I have resolved its major defects, I will do my best to convince Thyestes of its merits.”
And take all the credit, thought Nauplios. A pestilence on the man.
“Now. Have your spies managed to uncover anything useful since our previous meeting?” Sipylos lent on the word “useful” as if he were squashing a fly. “Your last few reports have been lamentable.”
“I do have some new information. My son, Palamedes, sends word that Agamemnon is planning to leave Olenos.” Nauplios paused for dramatic effect.
“Indeed. And do I have to force you to tell me where Agamemnon is going?”
“Not at all. If you had not interrupted me …” Careful. He mustn’t lose his temper. “He goes to Elis.”
“Elis is a large place. Your son couldn’t be more specific where this pretentious young upstart will be skulking, could he?”
Poseidon take the man. “When Palamedes sent his report, it hadn’t yet been decided. I’m sure he will update us as soon as possible.”
“Meaning, you don’t know. And by the time you find out, Agamemnon will be somewhere else, no doubt. After all, Palamedes is his cousin, as you can be sure I never forget. He wouldn’t be withholding crucial information, would he? You’ll both have to do better than this.” Sipylos rose to go. “How is your dear wife, by the way?”
A less-than-subtle twist of the knife. Nauplios forced another further smile. “Very well, I believe.” A nice touch that, he thought; any warmth in the answer overshadowed by a strong indication of distance kept. And, in truth, he had no idea how she fared; her latest letter about their estates down on the south coast had been as formal as his own.
He watched Sipylos waddle out the door before pouring himself some wine. Barring the usual insults, the meeting hadn’t gone too badly. Playing both sides of this game was a trifle nerve-racking but his credit must be mounting, whether it was Thyestes or Agamemnon who ended up paying the bill.
Chapter Twenty-five
It was already dark when they gathered in King Thoas’s courtyard to sacrifice to the gods for a safe journey. Menelaos stood next to Odysseus, caught in a chaos of emotions: fear and loathing for Palamedes mixed with an almost suffocating relief at his escape, cut through and through by the ongoing pain of Odysseus’s betrayal. How could his old friend have turned his back on him? Yet here Olli was, at his shoulder as though nothing had happened, watching as a young goat draped in garlands was led to the altar.
The shadows danced in the torchlight as Agamemnon’s voice rose in prayer. The knife flashed and the goat crumpled, its blood gushing into the waiting jug.
“Look,” whispered Odysseus, pointing into the darkness. An owl glided into the torchlight, almost grazing the top of the wall with its talons before swinging away, its call trailing into the night. “Athena’s owl. She has come to bless us.”
He clung to the door, one white-knuckled hand clamped around the edge and the other scrabbling across the timbers. Behind him a host of black crows gathered, screeching and clawing at his back. He pressed his face hard against the oak, his nostrils saturated with the smell of linen seed oil, his whole body shaking with the effort to hold on.
Somewhere in the room beyond, a man was weeping, as though his heart was broken. And from under the door a dark river flowed, lapping around his feet, pouring along the corridor and vanishing silently down the great staircase …
Menelaos woke out of the old, familiar dream into darkness sliced in half by a thin line of light. The floor in front of his mattress was bare and the room empty. Panic gripped him round the throat. They’ve sailed without me, he thought. It was all a ghastly joke. Through the roar of blood in his ears he heard voices. He slid from under the covers and tiptoed to the door.
“Truly, Father, he won’t wake. I’ve been shaking him and shouting in his ear. We’ll have to carry him.”
Laertes raised an eyebrow and jerked his head towards the door.
Odysseus turned. “Oh, here you are,” he exclaimed. “I thought you’d been drugged.”
Menelaos rubbed his eyes and raised a smile. “I like my sleep.” In truth, he was so tired and so
re, he could scarcely stand.
“If we lose a breath of wind,” said Laertes, “I’ll thrash you both. Hurry now, while I check the chariot has been properly harnessed. These Aitolians are too clumsy to be trusted.”
Odysseus seized Menelaos by the elbow and propelled him back into the bedroom. “Your bags have already left with Eurybates and Argos. Here – boots, cloak. Oh, and I kept out a warm tunic. Put it on over yours. It’s cold on the water.”
“I thought you’d gone without me,” said Menelaos, his voice still uncertain with shock.
Odysseus stared at him. “No,” he said, the old affection clear in his voice. “Never. We would never do that.”
Laertes was waiting for them, fidgeting with the bridle of the nearest horse. “About time,” he said.
They crowded into the chariot and rattled off through the town and onto the track that looped like an uncoiling rope down the hillside to the bay. Laertes cracked his whip and the horses jolted into a canter.
Sacred snakes, thought Odysseus, trying not to shut his eyes.
“Corner,” called out Laertes. “Remember to lean out.” He heaved on the reins and they slewed round the first bend, the outside wheel wavering in the air before landing on the ground again with a thud. Odysseus sent up a prayer to the Aitolian god of potholes and stole a glance at his friend. Menelaos grinned back, his eyes bright. He couldn’t be enjoying this death ride, could he? Blessed Hermes, god of travellers, Odysseus prayed, save me from all horse-mad fools.
Somehow they reached the bottom of the hill in one piece, the insides of the horses’ thighs lathered in sweaty foam. Argos raced towards them and bounded around the wheels of the chariot, barking fit to wake Hades. Laertes handed the reins to Odysseus and jumped down to grab the bridles, his arms nearly jerking out of their sockets as the horses threw their heads about.
“They think they’ve been in a race, don’t you, my beauties? Hey, hey, settle there, good lads. That was a fine run, eh?”
A groom hurried forwards and Laertes turned to the row of slim warships drawn up to the shore, the red prows with their lowering eagles’ heads leached to a dull brown by the moon. Meges, promoted to Laertes’s naval second-in-command since the rescue, materialised at his shoulder.
“Are we ready to launch?” Laertes thrust his jaw out, his transformation from wild charioteer to grim naval leader instantaneous and complete.
“All ready, sir. We’ve shipped stem and stern lines already.”
“Good. Odysseus, Menelaos, on board and down to the stern.” Laertes raised his voice to carry down the line of ships. “All hands to launch.”
Menelaos looked at Odysseus and back at the steep sides of the nearest ship. “How do we climb up there?”
Odysseus scooped Argos into his arms. “Follow me,” he said over his shoulder as he waded through the thin surf. Menelaos watched as he climbed onto the beak of the ship’s prow and passed the dog up to a crewman. Then he ran up the pegs protruding from the sweep of the bow as if they were a ladder, and swung himself over the rail onto the foredeck.
Menelaos splashed in after him and paused.
“Grab the snout – that hump on the tip of the prow – that’s it. Pull yourself up. There. Now the pegs. And over the rail. Well that wasn’t hard, was it?”
“What’s the stern?” Menelaos asked.
“The rear end of the ship. We need as much weight there as possible to lift the bow off the beach … Argos, heel … Come on.”
Half the crew were already manning the stern oars, while those onshore gathered around the bow and the forward section of the boat. The helmsman’s voice rang out and the men began to sing, the oarsmen digging at the sea with their oars as the men in the water heaved at the ship in time with the roar of their voices. The wave of chanting echoed along the beach as each crew fought to free its ship’s hull from the suck of the sandy shore.
Suddenly, Odysseus felt his father’s ship rise out of the grip of the sand and float free. Before it could drift too far out the rowers nudged the bow in close again to let the onshore men stream aboard and take their seats on the benches. When all was ready, the small fleet glided out into the bay like shelducks across a pond.
He looked up. Far above, on the ridge overlooking the water, the walls and gathered roofs of Olenos crouched, wan in the moonlight. The hillside below the town lay in darkness – no messenger bearing a spluttering torch aloft was sprinting down that zigzag road to countermand Agamemnon’s instructions. Palamedes had been thwarted, whatever it was that he’d been doing. Menelaos was safe. Or at the very least, he was safe for now.
Chapter Twenty-six
“What do you think of my father’s driving?” Odysseus leaned against the fore rail, his red hair almost black in the moonlight. They were well under way now, the sail filled by a steady north wind, the oars shipped and the bulk of the crew bedded down for the night on their rowing benches.
Menelaos blinked. “Well, er …”
“It’s quite safe to talk. Father’s in the stern – he likes to stand with the helmsman while he sets his course.”
“I thought his driving was wonderful,” said Menelaos. And so it had been. He glanced sideways, trying to read his companion’s expression, this stranger he’d imagined he knew once upon a time. Why had Olli asked the question? Was it a trick?
But Olli’s face was open, his smile uncomplicated. Menelaos searched around for another word. “Marvellous,” he said, giving Argos’s ears a rub.
“Truly? I thought we were going to die,” said Odysseus. “Father almost lost control, three times, I believe, though I was praying too hard to be sure. Why do people drive like madmen, and why do we admire them so much for it?”
“Why?” said Eurybates, joining them on the small foredeck. “Because they revere courage and the conquest of danger.”
“Turtles’ toenails. They’re insane.”
Menelaos stared anxiously from one to the other.
“Don’t misunderstand me.” Odysseus scratched Argos’s head. “Hey, boy, you like that, don’t you? They say Father used to be an excellent driver, though he’s out of practice now. He had two racing teams in Argos when he was young.”
“Two?” Menelaos brightened.
“And won three major races. One at the midsummer festival and two at Plowistos. Or was it the other way round?”
“No, you were correct the first time,” said a familiar voice.
Menelaos jumped. Laertes. How much had he heard?
But the king seemed unconcerned. “I had a pair who loved the wet,” he said. “By Poseidon, I swear they could swim as well as they could gallop. We did well in the early spring, at the festival of Plowistos when the ground is so soft. With the prize I bought a team who could run on bare rock if you let them. But one of them died of colic and I never found a good match for the remaining horse.”
Menelaos looked up, his heart singing. “So how many teams do you have now, sir?”
“None.”
“None?”
“Not a one.” Laertes sighed. “Are you keeping a good watch? No rocks, no pirates in sight?”
“Well, sir …”
Laertes slapped Menelaos on the shoulder. “I jest. We should have a clear run from here till dawn. You lads can get some sleep.” He turned and strode off back towards the stern.
“When he said ‘none’ he meant, only warhorses?” asked Menelaos in a small voice.
“No,” said Odysseus. “He means, no horses at all. That’s the price he’s paid for being king of Ithaka.”
“You’re joking.”
“It’s no joke,” said Odysseus. “There’s not a single horse on Ithaka.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Menelaos, trying not to.
“It’s far too steep. People climb about on ropes. We tie knots for the children to hold onto – they can heave themselves up and down cliffs before they can walk.”
“Sparrows’ bladders.”
Odysseus laughed. “Well
, maybe I lied about the ropes. And the children. But not about the horses. The tracks are so rocky, a horse would be lamed in no time. Donkeys are sure-footed enough for the mountain paths and we use mules on our farm at the northern end, where it’s not so steep.”
Donkeys. Mules. Menelaos stifled a groan.
“Eury and I will take you mule racing. You’ll enjoy it.”
Eurybates wagged a finger at Menelaos. “Be very careful. He’s no business criticising his father for almost losing control – he’ll do anything to win.” He gave Menelaos a crooked smile. “Well, I’ll be off.”
The two boys watched him pick his way back along the central gangway, stepping over the feet of the sleeping crew. Then they lay down on the deck, wrapping their cloaks around them against the cold. Argos yawned and settled between them, his chin on his paws.
It took Menelaos a while to find a position that didn’t hurt too much. He managed at last, pleased he hadn’t shown any sign of pain, and shut his eyes, only to find the darkness as full of questions as bees within a hive. He opened them again. Odysseus was watching him, his face lit by the sinking moon.
He forced the words out, his stomach tight. “Why did you avoid me?” he whispered. “Back there?”
Odysseus swallowed. “I wanted you to come to Ithaka with us.”
“That makes no sense.” Menelaos swore under his breath.
“Let me try to explain? Please?” Odysseus stretched his arm across Argos and gripped Menelaos’s hand. “I persuaded Father to ask Agamemnon if you could visit us, but I knew Palamedes would prevent it if he found out too soon. So Father waited till the last possible moment. And I thought if I ignored you in the meantime, Palamedes would ignore me.”
“You could have said something. A word, a sign at least.”
“But I did, on the stairs that day. I thought you heard me.”
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