Murder at Mykenai

by Catherine Mayo

  “Honourable?” Calm down, calm down, Odysseus told himself. He’s finally talking, don’t shout at him. He lowered his voice. “What has murder to do with honour?”

  “But it wouldn’t have been murder. You see–”

  “I don’t see anything. You’re caught up in some lunatic scheme inside your head.”

  Menelaos gripped his knees harder. “It wouldn’t have been murder because he’d only have been the tool. Like a knife or a spear.”

  “Suicide then. That’s even worse.”

  “No, not suicide. I wasn’t doing it. He was.”

  Odysseus opened his mouth then shut it again, clamping his shaking hands between his thighs. He had to, he had to control himself. What he truly wanted to do was scream obscenities, grab Menelaos and shake him till every tooth in his head fell out. And what use would that be?

  “You’re wrong,” he said, forcing his voice to sound reasonable. “It is suicide, because you would have been using him as a weapon. A knife or a spear, as you said. And the disgrace to your family–”

  “It was meant to look – it did look like an accident. Everyone thought so.”

  “No. Listen to me. It might have, to the huntsmen, but the gods know the truth. They would have cursed your whole family: Agamemnon, your sister, all the children they might ever have. Suicide is the most blasphemous thing a man can do.”

  Menelaos began to weep again.

  Odysseus put his arm around Menelaos’s shoulders. “I know you can’t face going back to Olenos,” he said. “But there must be some way to make it possible. You have to tell me what was happening.”

  “I did have another plan. I thought maybe I could kill Palamedes,” Menelaos whispered through his tears. “Make it seem natural, with, I don’t know, poison or something.”

  “Why don’t you?” Odysseus said, his anger boiling over again. “You probably couldn’t hide it, but why bother?”

  “Because his father would turn against us. Agamemnon would never return to Mykenai. Nauplios is our only chance, you heard your father say so.” Menelaos rubbed the tears off his face. “But now I know Palamedes is my cousin, I can’t even do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s destroying your own blood.” Menelaos groaned. “That’s as bad as suicide. You should understand – that’s what you’ve just been talking about. I’d be no better than Thyestes. Don’t worry, I’ll find some other way to get myself killed. It’s not your problem.”

  “Not my problem?”

  “It won’t affect you. Forget about it; go on with your life.”

  “Oh? Watch my best friend commit suicide and destroy his family? But we’ll ignore my feelings, since I’m not supposed to have any. What about your honour? Don’t you care for that at all?”

  “No, I don’t,” said Menelaos, suddenly calm. “I’m unimportant. I only care about Agamemnon. He’s the rightful High King; his destiny is to claim the High Throne of Mykenai. That’s all that matters.”

  “Agamemnon is the High King because he’s the son of Atreus. And you’re Atreus’s son too, the next in line to the throne. If Agamemnon dies–”

  “No,” said Menelaos. “I’m not.”

  The revelation came at Odysseus like a blow between the eyes. What a fool he’d been not to see it before. All those nights lying awake worrying about Aerope’s death. “That’s ludicrous,” he cried.

  “You don’t know,” said Menelaos, his voice bitter. “I’m sorry, all the help you’ve given me, all your kindness. You’ve taken me into your family, tried to make me feel …” He started to cry again. “It’s a lie. I’ve been living a total lie.” He shrugged Odysseus’s arm from his shoulders and scowled at the fire. “I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “Look at me.”

  Menelaos dragged his eyes back to Odysseus’s face.

  “Was it Palamedes who told you you’re not Atreus’s son?”

  Menelaos nodded, his eyes dull.

  “And you believed him?” Odysseus felt sick. “You still believe him, the lying twisting snake.”

  “Not only Palamedes. There was always, you know, whispering, people peering at me sideways. Back in Mykenai. I never understood it. Now it makes so much sense.”

  “So much nonsense,” Odysseus said. “Listen, everyone has heard rumours about your mother. Rumours invented by troublemakers and passed on by people who prefer empty scandal to truth.”

  “Thank you for being so kind,” said Menelaos. “I’m very grateful.”

  Odysseus chose to ignore the sarcasm in his friend’s voice. “I found out what did happen.” No answer. “I made Father talk about it, the other night in Pylos when he forced me to promise we wouldn’t escape. I haven’t had a chance to tell you yet.”

  Menelaos tensed, and for a moment Odysseus thought he might get up. Then he shrugged. “Say it then. If you must.”

  “It’s ugly enough. Your father was drunk, and your mother died because of it. But it wasn’t murder and she wasn’t an adulteress.”

  “What was it then? A fond embrace that turned by chance into a stranglehold?”

  “Listen. Please. Father said Atreus trusted your mother so much he shared all his thoughts with her. Because he never made a decision without her help, some of the courtiers became jealous of her power and started inventing lies about her.”

  “Did they invent my uncle? Or rather, my father.” Menelaos twisted his head to glare into Odysseus’s eyes. “My real father. You didn’t think of that, did you?”

  “Thyestes?” Odysseus stared back at him in shock. “Did Palamedes tell you you’re his bastard?”

  Menelaos groaned.

  “No wonder you looked so sick yesterday when I said Palamedes claimed you reminded him of Thyestes. The nauseating, putrid little cockroach.” Odysseus paused, his mind racing. “But that’s impossible. Atreus exiled Thyestes because he drank too much at their marriage feast and insulted your mother. So Thyestes lived in Cyprus for ten years–”

  “Five. When he came back – I don’t mean last spring, but before–”

  “Ten. When he returned to Mykenai the first time, you were already five years old. Do your arithmetic.”

  “And then they were lovers. My mother and Thyestes. That’s certain truth.”

  “No. The rumour-mongers said so, but she hated him, Father says. She’d never have done that. Gelanor told Father that Thyestes pretended to flirt with her, trying to stir up trouble, though Atreus seemed to treat it as a joke. But at last it gave her enemies their chance.”

  “How?”

  “They got Atreus reeling drunk one night and convinced him there was truth in the rumours. He stormed up to her room and she argued back so fiercely, he lost control, punched her so hard she fell and struck her head on the corner of a stone table. That’s what killed her.”

  “He struck her,” Menelaos’s voice cracked, “with an axe.”

  “Axe? Never! Ask Gelanor. He saw it happen; he knows your father never meant it.”

  “How can he know that?” Menelaos sat rigid, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “Then they buried her and life went on as normal.”

  “Normal? Your father almost lost his mind. He never recovered from it; it ruined him. Even his new marriage couldn’t help him forget. No one ever dared mention your mother again to his face. And Thyestes fled – to Elis, as you know.”

  Menelaos grunted.

  Odysseus shook his arm. “I’m not inventing this. Your father wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer. It was an accident.”

  “You only believe it because your father told you. How is that any different from–”

  “Oh, by all the gods,” Odysseus exclaimed. “At least accept you’re not Thyestes’s son.”

  Menelaos grimaced. “Perhaps. But he’s not the only candidate.”

  “Ah. You must be referring to all the stablehands she was supposed to have smuggled into her bed. I assume Palamedes has been feeding you that lie as
well. Start using your common sense, Menelaos. You lived fourteen years in the women’s quarters at Mykenai. No one could enter or leave without everyone knowing about it.”

  “So why did Atreus …?” Menelaos flushed. “Why did they hide me away with the women for so long? I should have left when I was twelve. If I’m his son, why didn’t he ask for me sooner?”

  “Gelanor said he couldn’t bear to see you.”

  “Because I’m too like my mother.”

  “No. You look like Atreus, Father says. When he was your age, he had the same stature, the same golden hair, the same eyes–”

  “So why?”

  Odysseus shrugged. “Perhaps you saw your mother die. And he couldn’t bear to see it again in your eyes – in his own eyes, staring back at him.”

  “I can’t remember seeing anything.”

  “Are you sure? What of that nightmare, the one where you’re clinging to the door? Wasn’t there someone crying? A man?”

  Menelaos gnawed his lip. It seemed from the tortured expression on his face, he was struggling with some thought or memory. But then his shoulders sagged. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice small. “I don’t know anything any more.”

  Odysseus tugged at his arm. “What are you hiding from? Don’t you want to be the son of Atreus?”

  “To be honest, I don’t care.”

  Odysseus cleared his throat; it was now or never. “If you truly don’t care, why did you want to kill yourself?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yet another thing that doesn’t matter? What else has Palamedes been feeding you?”

  “Stop it,” Menelaos flared, “I’ve told you. It. Doesn’t. Matter. Leave it be!”

  “Do you still want to kill yourself?”

  “What’s it to you? It won’t affect you.”

  “Won’t affect me?” Odysseus stared into the fire, biting back his tears. “It will destroy my life.”

  “No.” Menelaos slumped over, covering his face with his hands.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Menelaos whispered. “So, so sorry. Everything I touch turns to dust.”

  Odysseus put his arm round Menelaos’s shoulders and held him close. “We can’t give up, not yet. Tell me about Palamedes – tell me everything. Then maybe I can find a way to protect you from him.”

  “You’ll hate me.”

  “No I won’t. You’re my best friend. Please, Menelaos, you must trust me.”

  Menelaos took a deep breath. “If I do,” he said through gritted teeth, “you must swear never to tell anyone else. Ever.”

  His heart racing, Odysseus took out his knife, nicked his wrist and leaned forwards so the drops of blood fell hissing into the fire. “As I give my blood to you, oh sacred gods, I swear I will never betray this secret to anyone.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “The one thought holding me together all summer,” said Menelaos, his voice shaking, “was that you didn’t know about … about … I wanted so much for you to like me, to think …” He paused, reaching out to run uncertain fingers over Argos’s coat.

  Odysseus held him tighter. “Go on.”

  Menelaos rubbed his eyes. “It’s … I don’t … I feel so disgusted, so disgusting, so nothing. Everything I’m supposed to be is such a colossal lie.”

  “But now you know your mother didn’t–”

  “If you’re right about my mother, it makes things worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “For Agamemnon. You see, if I was a bastard, killing myself wouldn’t matter.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “But if he ever found out about this …”

  “This what?”

  Menelaos picked up a stick and started poking at the fire. “Remember the day when we caught the hare? And I was so upset about that adultery case? Because we thought they were going to drown the woman?”

  “Well, they didn’t, did they? They were drowning the rapist.”

  “I felt sure she’d been raped. And I thought–”

  “You thought that was what happened to your mother.” Odysseus looked at him, his eyes shining. “Someone had broken into the women’s quarters. I tried to talk with you about it. But you wouldn’t. And I didn’t know enough yet to tell you it didn’t happen, not like that. But now I have told you. So you don’t need to worry about it any more–”

  “Olli, please. Stop interrupting.”

  “Sorry.” Odysseus hung his head. “But–”

  “But nothing. This isn’t about my mother. I thought she was a whore. It’s … it’s Palamedes.”

  “What do you mean, Palamedes? He raped your mother? That’s impossible, he was far too young, it was years and years ago.”

  “No. Be quiet, for one moment. This is hard enough without … I mean, he … he didn’t just beat me, he, he …” Menelaos threw down the stick and burst into tears.

  Odysseus’s stomach heaved as the truth dawned. “He raped you?” he managed at last.

  Menelaos had buried his head in his arms, shaking uncontrollably. “I know, I know. I should, I could have stopped him,” he gasped between sobs. “Somehow. When it first started. I did fight back, more than once. I did try. I should have told Agamemnon straightaway, but I couldn’t find the words. Palamedes called me a coward. He said I must have wanted it. Wanted it?” He clenched his fists. “And Palamedes is my own cousin. How could he, why would he want to do that to me? It doesn’t make any sense. Anyway, Agamemnon had no idea. He said I had to take my beatings like a man, and when, when it went on happening, I didn’t, I couldn’t shame him. Oh gods! It’s all my fault, I …”

  Odysseus shook him hard. “Don’t be so stupid. How could it be your fault?”

  “If I was clever, like you, I’d have found a way to tell Agamemnon, without–”

  “Without Agamemnon killing Palamedes? That’s what you’re so frightened of, isn’t it? Nauplios and his clever schemes to put Agamemnon back on the throne.” What a clever trap Palamedes had set, with Menelaos’s unswerving loyalty to his brother as bait. And as for this whole ghastly business of him being Menelaos’s cousin …

  “Palamedes could count on your silence,” said Odysseus. “He knows how loyal you are to Agamemnon – he has it all worked out. As for calling you a coward, you’re the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

  “Brave? Me? No.” Menelaos sat up, his hands gripping his knees. “You’re the brave one.”

  “I have no idea whether I’m brave or not. I’ve never been put to the test. You have.”

  “Oh yes. The person who vomited all over his feet while saving his own skin.” Menelaos picked up the stick again, broke it in two and tossed it into the fire. “Leaving his nurse behind to be hacked to pieces.”

  “You couldn’t have saved her. She didn’t want to be saved.”

  “I didn’t even try. And I was petrified.”

  “Of course you were. Anyone would be,” said Odysseus. “People who are not frightened in a crisis aren’t brave, they’re fools. Real courage means staring terror in the face. That’s what you did at Mykenai, at Sikyon too; that’s what you’ve been doing all summer while you were planning to kill yourself for your brother’s sake. You have courage to burn.”

  “That’s your opinion. But what do I do now?”

  “Wait, let me think.” Odysseus closed his eyes. There was an idea, half-formed, lurking somewhere in the chaos of pity and anger that filled his mind. If only he could reach it, snare it.

  He opened his eyes again, gave Menelaos a twisted smile. “I have a plan,” he said. “It will be dangerous but I know you can do it.”

  “A plan?” Menelaos’s eyes widened.

  “Palamedes has done something so evil, so appalling, Agamemnon will certainly kill him if he finds out. That’s the key.”

  “But that’s the problem! Nauplios–”

  “Forget Nauplios. Trust me. You must realise Palamedes isn’t like you. He’s a bully, and bullies are
cowards. I was watching him back in Olenos and I’m sure I’m right.”

  “Maybe he is,” said Menelaos. “But he took a huge risk doing what he did to me. And it didn’t stop him.”

  “Did you ever threaten to tell Agamemnon?”

  “No. I couldn’t. Because of Nauplios. I told you–”

  “Forget Nauplios. What you must do, as soon as you’re back in Olenos – and you must return, you know that – is confront Palamedes. Tell him if he ever tries to rape you again, you’ll go straight to Agamemnon.”

  “Then Agamemnon will kill Palamedes.”

  “No, he won’t, because Palamedes will be too frightened to touch you again.”

  “Holy Poseidon.” Menelaos stared at him, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You make it sound so easy. What can go wrong?”

  “Only one thing. You must be prepared to tell Agamemnon, otherwise Palamedes will call your bluff.”

  “And if it doesn’t work?” Menelaos swallowed.

  “It will.” Odysseus picked up a log from the woodpile next to the fire and placed it on the flames. “And there’s this: I can’t believe Nauplios is our only way into Mykenai. It suits him to tell us that, but there must be other people who’ll open the gates or stage a revolt. Thyestes is sure to have other enemies.”

  Menelaos stared into the fire, his face drawn. The fresh log cracked and sparked as the flames took hold and a swirl of wood smoke writhed up in the eddying wind. Then he turned his head, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll try.”

  “I know you can do it.” Odysseus embraced him with both arms.

  The moment was so healing, Odysseus longed for it to last forever. But then Menelaos stirred. “There’s one thing you haven’t thought of,” he said. “When I confront Palamedes, he might panic – I know him better than you. He could try to kill me then and there, to silence me.”