Murder at Mykenai

by Catherine Mayo

  Odysseus scratched a scab on his knee. Menelaos was right, he hadn’t thought of that. His mind scrambled for the answer. “So …”

  “So?”

  “So you must tell him – before you say anything else – that your friends know what he’s done. He has to think, if you die, there are other people who know, people who will go to Agamemnon.” Odysseus almost laughed at the completeness of it. “Then it’s in his interests to keep you alive, protect you even.”

  “But it’s ‘friend’ not ‘friends’. And you’ve sworn to keep silent,” exclaimed Menelaos.

  “Yes, but Palamedes doesn’t know that. And he’ll be far more frightened if he thinks there are several people. Father, for instance.”

  Menelaos looked up at the lightening sky, then back at Odysseus. “Do you truly think I can do this?”

  Odysseus held him tight once more. “Of course you can.”

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Menelaos gazed out over the water towards the distant shore below Olenos, clutching the bow rail with white fingers, his nerves already in knots. There’d been a flurry of commands from Meges, the ship’s captain, and now two pairs of footsteps approached along the central gangway behind him.

  “How is our new lookout?” said Meges. “Who can you see?”

  Menelaos turned. Eurybates was standing behind the captain, smiling in that slow way of his. “We’re still too far away. But there’s a great crowd gathered on the beach,” he said.

  “So the messenger has arrived before us.”

  “Even if his horse went lame,” said Eurybates, “he’d have travelled a good deal faster than we’ve done, rowing against this wretched headwind.”

  “There’s my brother.” Menelaos tried to keep the excitement from his voice.

  “Agamemnon,” said Meges. “So it is. Standing alone at the front – no, there’s a man even shorter beside him. Begging your pardon, sir.” He gave Menelaos an apologetic smile.

  “That will be your uncle, Menelaos,” said Eurybates. “Lord Gelanor. Quite a welcoming party.”

  “If we had young Olli here,” said Meges, “he’d be telling us what colour the borders of their tunics are.”

  “Even if he couldn’t make them out.” Eurybates laughed. “Mind, even Olli’s wilder guesses are right more times than not.”

  A shiver ran down Menelaos’s back and he gripped the rail tighter still. Was this a sign? An omen? You superstitious fool, he told himself. Eury and Meges are only jesting. But the gods do put words in people’s mouths. Please, dear Zeus, blessed Hera, he prayed, let Olli be right this time. Let Palamedes be a coward.

  Now the beach was close and he could see each face in the crowd. Yes, it was Agamemnon, standing with his legs straddled and his arms folded over his chest. And Gelanor and King Thoas. Menelaos stared harder and his heart lurched. Palamedes was glaring at him over Agamemnon’s shoulder. Well, of course; what did he expect? “Courage,” he whispered to himself. If he had any.

  The oarsmen eased the ship in to the shore. Menelaos swung himself down the curved prow and splashed through the shallows as the ship ploughed its long nose into the sand. He ran up the beach, too flustered to remember whatever etiquette might be required, and flung his arms round Agamemnon.

  “Welcome, brother,” said Agamemnon. “I wish I could say welcome home. But this place must suffice until the gods grace us with their kindness once more. I am most glad to see you safe and well.”

  “Yes. And I am too. I mean, I’ve missed you, I can’t say how much.”

  “Most proper of you.” Agamemnon had to tilt his head ever so slightly to look into Menelaos’s face. “And you’ve grown. Quite a giant. I am most eager to discover how your military skills have advanced. But that can wait. King Thoas is preparing a feast.”

  “A feast? For me?”

  “For you?” Agamemnon raised an eyebrow.

  “Sorry,” said Menelaos, crestfallen.

  Agamemnon laughed. “No, no, for both of us. He has ordered the slaughter of a remarkable number of bulls to celebrate our reunion.”

  “How splendid.” Menelaos caught sight of Palamedes’s glowering face and his courage sagged. It was one thing to talk about him with Olli, but now, face to face, especially now he knew they were cousins, it was all too much to bear.

  But Tantalos, who had betrayed them back in Sikyon, was a cousin too. And he was quite resigned to hating Tantalos, had been for some time now. In fact, he could parcel up his feelings for Tantalos and put them away somewhere safe for days at a time. Somehow, this unexpected thought gave him heart. Kinship didn’t give Palamedes power over his soul.

  And there were Gelanor, Eury, Meges, standing close around him and the sun shining warm on his head. No, everything would work out as Olli had promised. “I’ve brought greetings from King Laertes and Queen Antikleia,” he said, remembering his manners. “And gifts from both of them.”

  Palamedes’s lips twisted into a sneer but Agamemnon was still smiling. “Excellent,” he replied. “Gelanor has given me a very good report on your behaviour. It seems you have done rather well, down in Pylos.” He put his arm around Menelaos’s shoulders and led him over to the waiting chariot. “First a bath, and then we’ll talk some more. You must tell me all about it.”

  Chapter Forty

  The sun was sinking towards the west. The first guests were arriving and it was more than time to change for the banquet. Menelaos hurried up the stairs and along the corridor to his bedroom, Palamedes so close behind him the toes of his boots were clipping Menelaos’s heels. He felt exhilarated, almost light-headed – he must confront Palamedes now and this new urgency was overpowering the dread which had weighed on him all summer.

  He paused to open the door and Palamedes lunged past him, grabbed the latch and held it shut, leaning on him so hard his face was squashed against the oak door panel.

  “That was a disgusting performance down at the beach.” Palamedes spat out the words like pips from a sour grape. “I would expect no better from your disreputable friends; I was expecting very little of you, but to humiliate the High King before us all, throwing your arms around him as though he were a common whore, is beyond belief.”

  Menelaos’s mind raced. Don’t say anything, he’s trying to confuse you, he told himself. He’s scared, he’s panicking, you can smell it on his breath. Concentrate. Focus on what you have to say.

  “I thought I’d beaten your appalling manners out of you, but I see we have a long way to go.” Palamedes kicked his ankles viciously, jerked the door open, shoved Menelaos in, then slammed it behind him.

  The guests were all seated at the banqueting tables but there was still no sign of Menelaos and Palamedes.

  “This is absurd,” said Agamemnon. “Surely my brother has learned to be punctual by now.”

  “He and Palamedes have a great deal to talk about, my lord,” said Thoas. “Two young men meeting for the first time in months.”

  “I think they have been more than long enough,” said Gelanor. “King Thoas, could you send to see what is delaying them?”

  “Yes, of course.” Thoas beckoned a servant over. “Tell those two young gentlemen to hurry along.”

  Still the time dragged by. Agamemnon sat tight-lipped, his fingers drumming on the tabletop so hard the knives jumped and clattered around him.

  Menelaos struggled to move but the blinding pain in his head took the breath out of him. He couldn’t think very well. He couldn’t see very well either and his whole body was soaking wet. He was lying on the floor. How had he got there? And there was a pool of red liquid under his nose. Blood? His blood? His mind slipped and slithered in and out of consciousness.

  A voice slid like a knife into his ear. “You vermin,” it said. “You thought you could order me around, didn’t you? You thought you were someone after all. Well, in a moment you’ll be nothing, no more than a lump of dead meat. That will silence our little secret, won’t it?”

  Menelaos was suddenly, sho
ckingly aware. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Olli had said … What had Olli said? He heard footsteps pad around the room, the ring of metal and then the prick of a blade against his neck.

  Something about friends – that was it. “My friends know …” His voice came out in skids and croaks. The pressure of the knife wavered and he swallowed to clear his throat. “My friends know you raped me. If I die, they will tell Agamemnon everything.”

  There was a harsh hiss of breath, a string of muttered obscenities, the rustle of cloth, more curses, the creak of a board.

  He couldn’t feel the knife blade anymore. Was that what happened, when you had your throat cut? Your senses failed?

  The room seemed strangely still. What was happening? His right arm was pinned under him so he tried moving his left. The pain came at him like an axe blow and he bit his lip to stop crying out. At least he couldn’t be dead when it hurt that much. The logic struck him as hysterically funny and he almost laughed. He was turning into quite a philosopher. A little late, perhaps.

  No. Concentrate.

  He started counting heartbeats to focus his mind, but his head ached too much, the throbbing gradually merging till all he knew was a great blurred burden of pain. Then nothing.

  Palamedes paused in the corridor outside the banqueting hall, trying to control his rising panic. That meddlesome servant had hurried ahead to push the door open, but there was still no chance of escape, not with the guard at his side and with a hand laid none too gently on his shoulder.

  Thank Poseidon he’d put on a dark-coloured tunic this afternoon – those half-dry splashes of blood shouldn’t be too visible, especially once it was dusk and the palace lit mostly by the wavering light from the torches in their wall brackets. He put a bland smile on his face and managed, somehow, to stroll into the hall as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “Ah, here they are, my lord,” exclaimed Thoas. “Nought to worry about, was there?”

  “Why are you late?” growled Agamemnon. “Where is my brother? Speak up, man.”

  “I would prefer not to say, my lord,” said Palamedes, eyes downcast. How long could he keep Agamemnon from the truth?

  “Prefer not? What nonsense is this?”

  “I found this gentleman loitering by the postern gate, my lord,” said the guard. “He claimed he was going for a walk, despite we’re all barred and bolted for the night. The servant you sent out came hurrying over, and between us we thought it all seemed a bit, er, strange. So we brought the gentleman back here.”

  “Thank you.” Agamemnon turned to Palamedes. “A walk? Explain yourself.”

  “I needed to clear my head, my lord.” Palamedes swallowed, his mind in turmoil. He had to get away. If it hadn’t been for that wretched servant, this busybody of a guard … as for what lay upstairs …

  “Answer me.”

  Palamedes cleared his throat. “Your brother’s behaviour was so, so appalling, I needed to compose myself.”

  “Behaviour? What behaviour?”

  “He was grossly insolent, my lord.” Palamedes fingered the neck of his tunic, his thoughts gathering shape. “I’ve punished him and confined him to his room. The boy must learn to behave.”

  “Confined him to his room?” Agamemnon’s face reddened. “Ridiculous. This banquet is being held as much in his honour as in mine. Fetch him immediately. I will deal with his insolence at the appropriate time.”

  “Of course, my lord. I will go to him now.” Palamedes stood up. Yes, that was the wisest thing. Best to be sure the boy was silenced forever. He’d panicked before the task was completed.

  Then find a way over the walls.

  As for Menelaos’s friends, well, the boy must be bluffing, to save his miserable life. And if not, Thyestes was a better man to follow; this fool Agamemnon would fall by the wayside, and his precious friends with him. That he was a cousin of sorts was worse than useless anyway, had been for many years, whatever Father’s hopes might still be. And the blood tie had cost Mother her health and her happiness. The thought of her, abandoned and alone down in Argos, stoked the old, familiar rage in his gut.

  “Menelaos was put to bed,” he said, pausing by the door. “It may take time to have him dressed again and ready.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  A blaze of orange light glowed around him, fighting its way under his eyelids and urging him awake. For a moment Menelaos lay still, dazed by the pummelling pain in his head, his thoughts lurching about like drunken men at a feast. The fire, he must be lying in front of the fire. Any moment now the hunters would wake up and they’d set off after the deer. And then, and then? Something important, there was something terribly important he had to do. What was it? If only he could think.

  He opened his eyes wide then narrowed them again, squinting through the golden fog that swayed and drifted before his face. Slowly, objects took shape – a broken jug lying shattered in a pool of water, a blood-splattered tunic tumbled over a stool, a narrow bed huddled in a corner. Where was he? Ithaka? Olenos?

  His mind wavered and he felt himself sink back into darkness, hedged in by the metallic smell of blood, the acid sweat of danger. He mustn’t fall asleep. What was this strange light? Fire? It had to be fire, the room was alight. He was going to burn to death!

  He jerked upright and almost screamed from the pain. His left arm hung crooked and useless from his shoulder, his brain hammered inside his skull and bile rose to claw at the back of his throat. But he had to move, he had to get out.

  Somehow he forced his legs under him and struggled onto his knees, shuffled over to the window and hauled himself up, his good hand clutching the windowsill. Far away in the west the sun was blazing its way down to the horizon, the sky wreathed in ribbons of red cloud. Below him in the courtyard, a servant passed, carrying a cloak. From a downstairs window a snatch of laughter floated up.

  What a fool he was. The sun was setting, that was all. But …

  He twisted away from the window and gazed around. There was blood everywhere, on his arms, his clothes, on the floor, on the smashed pieces of the jug. He put his hand to his head and found his hair a sticky mess, his face crusted with blood.

  His mind reeled.

  The water jug. Palamedes. Yes. Palamedes charging at him, swinging the jug over his head, water spewing everywhere. Throwing his left arm up like a shield to protect himself, the wild look in Palamedes’s eyes as the jug came down. And then, wasn’t there a knife? What had happened after that?

  Palamedes had gone. That was obvious. But what if he changed his mind and came back upstairs to finish off what he’d started?

  Menelaos staggered the few steps to the door, his knees sagging, then paused, clinging to the handle, fumbling for the bolt before he remembered Palamedes had removed it months before. He’d be trapped if he stayed here.

  He must get down to the hall. But how? He could scarcely stand up let alone walk; he had to find something he could lean on. A quick glance around the room set his stomach surging as his head swam. There was a spear propped in the corner; that would make a fine crutch.

  He sidled round to it, his back hard against the wall in case he fell, and grabbed it with his right hand, feeling the thick ash wood of the shaft strong in his fingers. After a few hurried paces, the room started spinning again.

  Slowly. He’d manage better if he took it slowly.

  The corridor was empty. Everyone must be at the banquet. He took a deep breath and set off, blood dripping onto the boards. At the staircase he hovered above the plunge of steps down into the gloom behind the hall, the treads wavering towards him and away again like an ocean swell. Far below, as if at the bottom of a cliff, he could just make out the hall door. Beyond it, voices, and with them, help, safety.

  The pad of feet. He froze. Someone was approaching. Palamedes? Coming back to kill him? Was he up here, in the corridor?

  But the sound was ahead of him, not behind. Now he could hear voices. More than one, unless his hearing
was as confused as his sight. There they were, emerging from some side entrance. A guard, and someone he didn’t know and, oh gods, yes, Palamedes, smiling and talking. All friends together. Were they coming up the stairs? They would overpower him easily – there was no chance he could wield this spear against one man, let alone three.

  No, they had gone into the hall. Menelaos could imagine Palamedes spinning his lies. And they’d all believe him.

  He had to confront Palamedes again. In front of Agamemnon.

  But was that in Odysseus’s plan?

  What about Nauplios? Mykenai?

  Forget Nauplios, Olli’s voice whispered in his ear. You must be prepared to tell Agamemnon.

  Tell him he’d been raped? No, that was too hard, far too hard.

  Courage, Olli’s voice said, louder this time. You have courage to burn.

  Did he? There was only one way to find out.

  But first he had to get there. Menelaos took a tentative step, slid over the lip of the first tread and teetered on the second, only his grip on the spear saving him from hurtling headfirst to the bottom. It was hopeless. With difficulty, he managed to sit down, his knees more giving way than bending. He cradled his useless arm in his lap, his head sagging against the cool of the stairwell wall. It would be so easy to stay here, let everything slip from him, be someone else’s problem …

  He jerked back into consciousness. I know you can do it, the voice was saying. Could he? What was the alternative? Did he really want to die? Leave Palamedes free to murder him?

  Never.

  He eased his backside down one step at a time, Olli’s voice chanting with the pounding in his head. Courage, courage, courage. At the bottom he hauled himself up the spear onto his feet and stumbled to the hall door. He could hear two voices on the other side: Agamemnon, Palamedes.

  “Menelaos was put to bed,” Palamedes’s voice was saying. “It may take time to have him dressed again and ready.” Footsteps. The rattle of a bolt.