Menelaos braced himself, but the pain wasn’t as bad as he’d expected.
“Good. Very good. The bruising is particularly deep just here,” she rested her hand midway down his back, “but I doubt there’s a fracture. To help you heal, you’re to do as little physical activity as possible over the next few days.”
“Impossible,” said Odysseus. “We’ve got military training and fatigues and–”
“I’ll talk to the sergeant,” said Antikleia.
And she won’t even raise her voice, Menelaos thought. Nor will the sergeant answer back.
Antikleia opened a chest at the back of the room and returned with two small clay pots. “I’ll apply these three times a day. One is for cuts and sores, and the other will draw out the bruises. We’ll start now. Lie down on the table over there, Menelaos, on your stomach.”
Menelaos tried to relax, his face buried in his arms. Her fingers were cool on his skin and, although the ointments stung a little at first, the pain soon began to ease. He could hear her singing, very softly, as she worked, but the words were unlike any he’d heard before.
Odysseus peered over her shoulder. “I could do that.”
“And do you know all the prayers?”
“You could teach me. In fact, you’ll have to teach me. When we go to Pylos–”
“Who said I’m not coming to Pylos?”
“Oh.” Menelaos twisted his head round. “That’s wonderful. But why do you need prayers?”
“Each herb is sacred to a particular god or spirit,” explained Antikleia. “For example, dittany – that’s the principle herb in the first jar – is sacred to Artemis. And as each of these ointments contains several herbs, there are a great many prayers to be said, all in the correct order. Some of these old naiads are very sensitive about etiquette.” She smiled.
“What else besides dittany?” Odysseus picked up one of the pots and sniffed it.
Antikleia took it from him and went on with her work. “My son feels compelled to dismember things,” she said to Menelaos. “He imagines if he can put a name to every part, he can control the whole.” Her words were sharp-edged but her eyes were full of pride.
She truly loves him, thought Menelaos. She knows all his faults, she’s not slow to criticise him but she loves him regardless. Would his own mother have felt the same?
There was a small, private place in his mind where he stored an image of Aerope, a place like a precious jewellery box that only he could open. There, without fail, she had waited for him over the years – tall, slim, fair-haired, with soft blue eyes and a small, gentle mouth, turning her head to greet him.
Somewhere, even deeper in his mind, he knew this image was a lie, that he had no memory of her he could trace. That he’d conjured this picture up years and years ago, in the dark, as a weapon against his nightmares.
But now she’d changed, subtly, irrevocably, shaped by the poison of Palamedes’s words into a new creature. The real Aerope. His mother the whore. Her painted eyes had lost their innocence, hard lines ran down from the sides of her nose to her jaw, the gentle smile twisting into a sneering red gash. He shivered again. “Do you want to be a healer, Olli?” he asked, anxious to banish this warped and dangerous stranger from his thoughts.
“I long to be many things. Healer, priest, king, singer, spy–”
“Anything with a secret at the core of it.” Antikleia laughed. “My son, Menelaos, adores secrets.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” said Menelaos, keeping his voice level.
“Most people like telling secrets,” said Odysseus, giving him a strange look. “I like keeping them.”
Menelaos froze. If Olli is fishing, he thought, I’m not going to bite.
Chapter Thirty
“Yesterday’s court cases went very smoothly,” said Laertes over breakfast the next morning.
“I loved your summing up in the donkey trial.” Odysseus smiled across the table at his father. No harm keeping Father in a good mood, not that he was likely to renege on his promise over the hunting trip to Kephallenia. “Everyone laughed.”
Laertes inclined his head in thanks. “Yes. I think they were genuinely amused.”
The family were sitting on a terrace overlooking Antikleia’s herb garden. It was still early morning and the sunlight was slanting through the branches of a large fig tree to warm the cobbles beneath. Nearby, in the shade of a grapevine, Argos was keeping a watchful but not too optimistic eye on a platter of cold meat and cheese at Laertes’s elbow.
“I rather suspect, however,” Laertes continued, cutting himself a slice of white goat’s cheese, “that the last one will be very unpleasant. You boys are excused if you wish.”
“That’s the adultery charge. You think we’re too young for the more macabre details?” Odysseus glanced across at Menelaos. “What do you want to do?”
Menelaos shrugged, his eyes elsewhere. “You decide.”
“I doubt there will be any macabre details,” said Laertes. “The husband’s case is based on circumstantial evidence alone. He’ll have trouble proving it, but if he does, the two accused will be executed. And if he fails, he’s liable for the death penalty himself, for bringing a false accusation in a case that carries a capital penalty.”
Eurybates placed a wooden bowl full of almonds on the table next to the platters of fruit and cheese. “The husband didn’t find them together, did he, sir?” he said. “So why does he think they were lovers?”
Laertes selected an apricot and examined it for blemishes. “The male accused was found by the husband putting his boots on by the front door. And it seems the woman was in hysterics when the husband went upstairs.”
“It sounds like rape to me, sir. What do you think?”
“He doesn’t, at the moment,” said Antikleia. “That’s his task – to listen first and think afterwards, once the facts are before him.”
“Quite so, my dear,” said Laertes. “Except that, technically, a woman can’t be raped if she’s inside her own house. Legally, it’s always adultery. Well, what do you boys wish to do?” He nodded at Menelaos, head bent over the fruit and cheese on the wooden platter before him. “Eh, Menelaos?”
“Oh, er, I have no idea, sir.” Menelaos looked up, his face a blotchy red. “Beg pardon sir, I, er, I need to excuse myself. It must be something I’ve eaten. Sorry.” He pushed the platter back and hurried off.
“He’s not well,” said Antikleia. “Go with him, Olli.”
Odysseus stared after his friend, his own belly tight with worry. They’d both eaten the same food, today and yesterday. And Menelaos had seemed quite healthy a moment ago. It couldn’t be that. Nor could it be the conversation. Menelaos must have heard people talking of adultery and rape before. And execution. Who was it who’d mentioned execution? Not so many moons ago.
Of course. Mother. And she’d been talking about Aerope. “You could hardly call it a legitimate execution,” were her words, that awful night when the Epeian captain had told them of King Atreus’s murder. And if you added that to some of the rumours he’d overheard, eavesdropping down at the port …
“I think he’d rather be left alone,” he said.
“I’m going,” said Kitti, her mouth full of half-chewed bread.
Odysseus grabbed her arm. “Leave him, Kitti.”
“Not to the privy, silly. I’m going to the court case.”
“No, you’re not,” said Antikleia. “Sit down, Kitti, and close your mouth while you’re chewing.”
“But–”
“No.”
Kitti chewed and swallowed mightily. “The boys are going. I’m old enough too.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Am. I’ve just had a birthday. I’m a whole year older.”
“Hey, Kitti,” said Odysseus. “If you can get older by a year in only one day, how old do you think you are now?”
“Eight, silly. Olli, Olli, silly Olli,” she chanted, grinning and waving her arms back and forth.
&nb
sp; “Not according to your logic. One year a day? That makes you two thousand, nine hundred and twenty years old. Plus another three years for the days since your birthday. You’re far too old to go to the court case. You’ll smell so bad, dragging your oozing, disintergrating corpse into the Great Hall, everyone will leave. In fact, you smell so bad now, I’ll have to bury you in the garden after breakfast.”
“I do not smell. Beast,” cried Kitti, trying to thump Odysseus. She dodged his grasping hand, collided with the table and knocked the bowl of almonds onto the paving stones.
“Ktimene,” said Antikleia. “That’s enough. Pick those almonds up, finish your breakfast and go with Nurse to brush your hair.
“But, Mama, it’s not fair.”
Menelaos leaned against a pillar in the colonnade beside the herb garden. He was feeling better now – time by himself in the dark quiet of their bedroom had settled his swarming thoughts. Laertes had meant well. He hadn’t looked at him in any particular way; it was only imagination.
But he couldn’t bear listening to any more of it.
And here was Olli, finished with his breakfast and down here in the garden with Argos.
He watched from the shadows as Odysseus threw a stick high in the air. Argos bounded a few feet and paused, his body twitching. As the stick came hurtling down he leaped to meet it, caught it in his jaws and padded back to Odysseus. He placed it carefully in his master’s outstretched hand and shuffled back, tensed over his haunches, for the next throw.
“Good dog! Well done!” Odysseus gave his ears a rub. “Is that you, Menelaos?” he said, twisting his head round. How are you now?”
“Much better.” Menelaos came over to sit on a stone bench. “I, er, well, I’d be happy to hear the court case. I mean, I don’t want to stop you attending, but the problem is, I might be sick again” – there, that was the excuse he needed – “and I don’t wish to make a fool of myself rushing in and out of the hall all day.”
“Don’t worry.” Odysseus smiled, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “I’ve a much finer idea. We’re going hunting.”
“They won’t let us.”
Odysseus laughed. “Did you notice how intent Father is on his court work?”
“Yes, I did.”
“He’s cancelled our lessons, so …”
“Oh. But our tutor will remember.”
“But he doesn’t know we’re not attending the court case. Yet. Though I’m sure you’re longing to tell him.”
“Hardly. But won’t he–?”
Odysseus gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Not if we’re already somewhere else. It occurred to me there are any number of hares up on Mount Neion, who are aching to be part of one of Mother’s stews.”
“And it would be kindness itself to assist such burning ambitions.” How strange it was, Menelaos thought, that Odysseus’s mother, the queen of Ithaka, should take such an interest in the preparation of food, not that she did any actual cooking. In Mykenai it would be unheard of. But this was Ithaka. And the stews were very good.
“Are you saying my mother burns them?”
“I meant the hares.” Menelaos flushed. “Their ambitions.” But Odysseus was laughing again; he hadn’t really been misunderstood.
“That’s all right then. And anyway, Argos is ready to try out his hunting skills with an audience.”
An audience? “Oh. How many of us are going?”
“Just the three of us.”
Thank heavens for that. “But, er, talking of your mother stewing, I’m supposed to be resting.”
“She can’t stop us,” Odysseus patted his arm, “once we’re gone.”
Chapter Thirty-one
Menelaos was glad for the chance to gather his breath. They’d drawn a blank further down the mountain but Odysseus was convinced they would have more luck up here. And sure enough, Argos had found something. The dog was straining at the leash, his nose busy and his tail quivering.
“Good dog. Shush now – sit, sit.” Odysseus crouched down. “See how the grass is bent over, Menelaos? Here, and here.”
Menelaos nodded. Even a greenhorn like himself could see the faint trail which ran up through the long grass and between two entangled bushes before vanishing into rocky ground.
“The hare came down the hill early this morning. Argos can still smell her scent though it’s almost midday now. I’m picking she came from those rocks up there. So that’s where she’ll head back to.”
“What rocks? Oh, I see. And now?”
“We’ll set the net up behind those bushes where she can’t see it. Then we’ll circle around to a gully I know that will take us a fair distance downhill. We’ll need to be as quiet as possible. We don’t want to flush her out too soon.”
The gully was fearsomely hot and full of rocks that threatened to rattle off down the hill. But at last they climbed out onto an outcrop and gazed back up the mountain.
“Where’s the net?” said Menelaos, shading his eyes with his hand.
“See those oak trees? And just above them a patch of rocky ground? The bushes and the net are right below them, hidden by the trees. Now, when Argos flushes her out, you keep to his left and I’ll go right. That way she’s less able to double back. And shout as loud as you can.”
“Run uphill and shout at the same time?” Impossible.
“Are you a hunter or a jellyfish?” Odysseus slipped the leash and Argos started weaving his way backwards and forwards across the face of the slope, the two boys tracking up behind him.
“By Athena, he’s picked up the scent,” shouted Odysseus. “There, she’s off. Do you see her – running up the hill over there?”
Argos disappeared after the hare in a wild baying rush, with the boys in hot pursuit. Menelaos arrived at the net gasping for breath, with grass stems wedged in his boots and the hat Odysseus had insisted he wear scraped off his head by a branch. The net was heaving, Argos was still barking and Olli was … Ah, there, in the middle of the bushes. Menelaos plunged in after him.
“What a catch.” Odysseus held up the hare by the back legs, its throat slit and its blood dripping down through the branches.
“How did you know it was a ‘she’?” Menelaos patted the bloodstained game bag lying on the grass between them.
“The hare? You’ll find the answer between its legs. Or don’t you know about that yet?”
“Of course I do.” Menelaos picked up a pebble and shied it at his friend.
“Ow!”
“Serves you right,” said Menelaos. “When you’ve spent as much time as I have in the women’s quarters, you’re not left in much doubt.” No, his thoughts said, skittering about, don’t think of that. “How did you know before the chase though? Argos might have had a close view, on the way up the hill, but I doubt you could tell till we caught her.”
“Well, yes. It’s the way we Ithakans talk. All hares are ‘she’. Pigeons too. Donkeys on the other hand are ‘he’ even when proven otherwise. Oh, look.” Odysseus pointed to the saddle at the foot of the mountain. “Something’s happening.”
“Happening? What do you mean?”
“Father must have reached a verdict.”
Far below, a procession was winding its way down from the palace towards the town and the harbour.
“Where are they going?” said Menelaos.
“To the sea. On Ithaka, adulterers are always drowned.”
Menelaos felt his stomach heave. “Why?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. I’ve heard many stories where the sea acts like a lover, though sometimes a cruel one. Remember the song of the sirens? They seduce men into swimming towards them, only to watch them drown.”
“That’s not love.” Menelaos paused. “There’s something else I don’t understand. Why did Laertes say it wasn’t rape if it happened inside the woman’s house?”
“That’s the way the gods see it. They make the laws. Perhaps they think if the man enters the house, the woman must have let him in. But it can’t be that
simple.”
“Yes, what if he broke in? Or tricked her into letting him in? And then …” Menelaos struggled to keep the tremor from his voice. “It seems so unfair. And now they’re going to kill her. Are you sure the gods are always right?” He stared at the tiny figures as they crept down the hill.
Odysseus sighed. “That’s blasphemy. We mustn’t doubt the gods.”
“But if he’d attacked her, if she fought back–”
“If Father’s unsure, he’ll ask the gods before he decides.”
“How do they answer him?”
“He’ll offer up a question while he sacrifices. If a bird flies across the sky from left to right, their answer is ‘yes’. If it flies the other way, the answer is ‘no’.”
“So the law isn’t fixed.” Menelaos knotted and unknotted his fingers, while the sweat beaded on his upper lip.
His guess had been right, thought Odysseus. Menelaos had seemed anything but ill since they came up the mountain. His pretence at being sick at breakfast was an excuse to avoid attending the court case today. He’d almost fallen asleep during the hearings yesterday, so it would be easy to assume he found the whole process stupifyingly boring.
Yet here he was asking a tidal wave of questions about adultery. As though he’d been thinking of nothing else all morning.
Because of Queen Aerope? Had she been surprised with a lover? Perhaps the rumours were true. And King Atreus had executed her for it. Mother had called it murder but perhaps she’d felt sorry for Aerope despite her behaviour. Or Aerope might have been ambushed in her room – just as they’d ambushed the hare – and Atreus had killed her anyway.
If only he could persuade Father to talk about it. He had to find out more.
What did Menelaos know? Nothing, he’d said, last summer in Mykenai. Would Agamemnon have changed his mind and told him? Unlikely. Who else might have? Palamedes?
Of course. Palamedes. But what had he said? Something tortured and evil, no doubt. He’d called her a whore, or rather, he’d called Menelaos a whoreson, back in Mykenai – it amounted to the same thing. Though what could have prompted him to speak so ill of his own aunt? “I was thinking,” Odysseus tried to keep his voice easy, “about your mother.”
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