Murder at Mykenai

by Catherine Mayo

  The wall of rain drew away and out of it, as if dragged through a curtain, the Epeian ship emerged.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  Her rigging had gone and her mast and sail sprawled overboard; her deck swarmed with men, and as the Ithakan ship drew near, everyone on board could see bodies floating in the bloodstained sea. Four low skiffs were clustered round her like dogs tearing at a wounded boar. A knot of Epeians around the mast were still putting up a fierce fight against the pirates, and the screams and shouts and the hammering of swords rang clear over the water.

  “We’ll board her from our port side,” Laertes called out. “Have the grappling hooks ready. Those men forward of the mast, board her stern. Meges will lead them, with Eurybates and Odysseus. The men aft of the mast will follow me into her bows.”

  “What about the pirate skiff moored this side of her?” asked Odysseus. “Surely it’s in the way?”

  Laertes gave him a fierce grin. “You’ll see,” he said, drawing his sword. “Don’t furl the sail, men, till we’re almost alongside.” He strode along the gangway. “Wait … wait. Now.”

  The crew of the skiff were intent on the battle raging above their heads and the Ithakans were almost on them before they whirled round. Odysseus caught a glimpse of open mouths and staring eyes, then the low-slung boat exploded into a tangle of splintered planks and vanished as the two ships crashed together. Meges and Eurybates leaped onto the Epeian deck as the grappling hooks flew, yelling at the top of their lungs. Odysseus scrambled over the rail close after them, fighting for firm footing on the blood-soaked rowing benches.

  “Left, watch your left!” shouted Eurybates over his shoulder.

  Odysseus twisted round and flung up his shield as a sword came whistling down, skidding then catching in the thick rawhide. He pushed hard against it, thrusting his own sword up from under the rim of the shield, felt it bite soft flesh, grate on hard bone.

  The man flailed around with his blade as he teetered on the edge of the next bench, bare feet slithering. Odysseus stabbed again, higher, the sword jarring on the man’s ribs. He twisted it round, felt it slice deep between the bones. The man slid backwards and crumpled screaming into the scuppers, blood foaming from his mouth.

  He swung on his heel as another man threw himself at him, swinging an axe double-handed above his head, his red mouth open like a gash in his wild black beard. Odysseus ducked sideways, plunged his sword under the Taphian’s arm as he hurtled past, jerked it out as the man crashed headfirst over the rail behind him onto the Ithakan deck.

  He found he was bawling “Ithaka, Ithaka,” his voice already hoarse, the Ithakans bellowing around him as they surged onto the ship. This was no parade ground fight but a chaos of hacking and lunging, bashing and stabbing, as the ship lurched and heaved under them.

  And every blow he struck was for Menelaos, every thrust a revenge for all the evil his friend had suffered.

  He kicked the legs out from under one man, slammed his shield into another’s face, thrust his sword up under the edge of a corselet, saw the man’s eyes widen and fix under his leather cap. He heaved with every ounce of strength left, felt the man buckle, muscles suddenly slack, and forced him backwards over the far rail, heard the splash as his body hit the water.

  He paused, gasping for breath, searching round for another opponent. The fighting had receded, a wall of Ithakans pushing towards the mast. And there was Eury to his right, bending over a blood-streaked man spread-eagled in the door to the low cabin under the poop.

  Eurybates glanced round, his face pale. “The evil bastards. At least they’d only begun amusing themselves. I think he’s still alive. Give me a hand, will you?”

  Odysseus stared aghast at the man’s mangled arms and legs, the flesh sliced in a haphazard crisscross like rows of toothless, blood-filled mouths. And his face, the slit nose, the raw and naked ear holes, the open mouth crammed with – oh gods, the man’s own ears – he was choking and gagging on them, with his jaw skewed and the eyes …

  Only one man’s eyes looked like that.

  “No,” he said, stepping back. “No, I can’t.”

  “What do you mean, ‘can’t’?”

  “I’ve been forbidden to touch him. I’ve sworn.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s Palamedes.” Odysseus turned, triumph rising in his throat, nausea close behind. He staggered to the rail and vomited breakfast, bile and everything else that could wrench itself out of his stomach into the sea below. Exhausted, he hung there, the ship grown quiet behind him. Over on their own boat, Argos was howling, a high wail that echoed over the water.

  “You fought well.” A voice, Meges’s voice, behind him. “It’s always hard after your first battle.”

  “Yes. I suppose.” Beside him a man lay wedged between two rowing benches. Odysseus kneeled down, felt for a pulse. Nothing. He shivered. How many other corpses must there be?

  He scrambled to his feet and stared around. Laertes was over by the mast, embracing a man in a boar’s-tooth helmet, the ship’s captain perhaps, and talking to another man, tall, stoop-shouldered and dressed in a coarse stained tunic. Eurybates staggered past, a twitching, cloak-wrapped bundle over his shoulder, and Odysseus followed him along the gangway.

  “Your arrival was an extraordinary piece of good fortune,” the tall man was saying.

  Odysseus suddenly realised who it was, despite the tunic. Nauplios.

  “When Agamemnon agreed to accept my ransom for Palamedes,” Nauplios went on, “I thought the gods had smiled on us at last. But then …”

  Ransom? Odysseus’s heart spun. It was beyond belief that Agamemnon could have accepted gold for murder. Or even attempted murder. Dear blessed Athena, let Menelaos still be alive.

  “But then this catastrophe befell us.” Nauplios raised his arms as if in prayer. “We had given up hope.”

  “It was the gods who brought us here in time,” said Laertes. “Now, captain.” He turned to the man in the helmet. “As you have Agamemnon’s goodwill, we will tow you across the channel to Pleuron and assist with your repairs. I’m sure King Thoas’s shipwrights will oblige you with materials.”

  Blackest Hades, thought Odysseus. Ten thousand hellhounds. Would they never reach Olenos?

  “Thank you for your offer, sire,” the captain replied, his eyes shifting about. “But I think, no, I am certain we can man one of the pirate skiffs with the crew we have left. We’ll beach the ship in the shelter of the spit and return for her later.”

  “I won’t hear of it.” Laertes slapped him on the back. “What of transporting your dead? When did one friend not help another?”

  “We are forever in your debt,” Nauplios interrupted. “But I am nervous King Agamemnon may forget his present generosity.” He exchanged the briefest of nods with the Elian captain “Thank you, but no. We will manage quite well on our own. The sooner my poor son reaches Elis the better. He is, ah,” his head swivelled towards the poop, “safe in the cabin there.”

  “Hardly safe.” Eurybates dumped his burden on the deck at Nauplios’s feet.

  “What’s this?” Nauplios crumpled to his knees and clawed the cloak back with frenzied fingers. “Oh gods,” he wailed. “No! Palamedes! No!”

  Laertes turned away.

  “He might live.” Eurybates swore softly and spat on the deck.

  “Watch your language,” said Laertes.

  Eurybates grimaced. “He bit me, sir,” he said, shaking his fingers. “Ungrateful wretch. I was only trying to clear his mouth.”

  Laertes put his arm around Odysseus’s shoulder, his mouth twisting in a wry smile. “The gods have a strange way of delivering justice,” he murmured, “as you’re starting to find out.”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  On the other side of the oak-panelled door a man was weeping.

  Odysseus glanced at his father and back at the steward, who was standing irresolute in the corridor close by. “Is Menelaos dead?” he asked, his hear
t thudding in his chest. Had they come too late? He realised he was gripping the ointment jar so tight his whole hand ached.

  “Not as far as I know, lad,” the steward said. “That’s his brother, King Agamemnon, weeping. But he’s been in a sorry way for days now. The doctor won’t speak to the likes of us servants.” He shuffled his feet. “But I’m sure Lord Gelanor would have said, if the boy had, er, passed on, there being a fair amount of work in a funeral, if you see what I mean.”

  Odysseus glared at him. Was that all it would mean to this horrible man – more work?

  “Indeed,” said Laertes, his face unreadable. He raised his fist and for a moment Odysseus thought he was going to strike the steward. But no, it was only to knock on the door.

  There was a pause, then footsteps approached and the door opened a crack.

  “My dear Laertes,” Gelanor murmured, pulling it wider. “How extraordinary. And Odysseus. Goodness, it is most generous of you to have come. If only Menelaos were more aware, he would take great comfort from your visit.”

  “May we see him?” said Odysseus.

  Gelanor peered down the corridor. “The doctor has his own ideas about visitors but he is elsewhere at the moment. And you’ve made quite a journey to be here. If you’re quiet and don’t stay long, it can’t do any harm.”

  Odysseus tiptoed into the room, his father close behind him. The corridor had been gloomy, lit only by a half-shuttered window at its farthest end, but in here it was darker still, the window heavily curtained and only a small lamp in the corner to shed any light. A seated figure by the bed was hunched over, sobbing quietly, his head in his hands.

  As they approached, the noise stopped and the man sat up. Agamemnon it had to be, but Odysseus was shocked at his appearance. His hair was dishevelled, his sunken cheeks were unshaven and his eyelids were red and swollen.

  “Dear nephew, here are two good friends come to give us their support,” said Gelanor, going over and placing a hand on Agamemnon’s shoulder.

  Agamemnon stared at them as though he’d never seen them in his life, before slumping over and covering his face with his hands once again.

  Gelanor gave Laertes an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry we cannot offer you a better reception,” he said, stepping aside.

  Menelaos was lying on his back, a swathe of bandages round his head, his left arm tied in a splint and a sheet drawn up over his chest. His mouth was sagging open like a corpse and, with his arms and legs flat along the mattress, he looked as though they had already laid him out. Only the sound of his breathing, fast and shallow, showed he still lived.

  Summoning his courage, Odysseus edged over to the bed and forced himself to look closer. Menelaos’s face was flushed an angry colour, with livid patches on both cheeks. His eyes gaped, unfocused, at the ceiling, while a trail of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth down his neck and onto the undersheet. “Is it all right to touch him?” Odysseus whispered.

  “By all means,” Gelanor replied, “if you’re gentle.”

  “Of course.” Odysseus took Menelaos’s hand carefully in his. The dry skin seemed to burn under his touch and the fingers were loose and unresponsive. “Menelaos,” he said. “It’s Olli. Your friend. Can you hear me?” No reaction. “We’ve come to see you; we brought something Mother made–” He stopped, biting his lower lip to curb his tears. What could a mere pot of ointment do against this?

  Suddenly, Menelaos’s whole body twitched and his jaw started trembling violently, his eyes flickering about. Odysseus let go of his hand in shock. This was worse than any imagining. “Menelaos, you’re going to get better,” he stammered. Hades, what a stupid thing to say, he thought. They should never have come. What possible use could he be?

  Now Menelaos’s legs were flailing about under the sheet. He’d begun making a whimpering sound, like a dog in pain; there were words there but they were slurred beyond recognition.

  Odysseus felt close to vomiting. “What’s happening?” he said. “Where’s the doctor?”

  Gelanor shook his head. “I should have prepared you better. Menelaos has been like this since the fever began. And the doctor is with him more often than not.”

  Without warning, the door flung open and a short, red-faced man strode in. “What are you doing here?” he said. “Away from that bed with you.”

  Laertes stepped into his path. “I am King Laertes of Ithaka, and this is my son, Odysseus. And who are you, good sir?”

  “I’m the doctor,” said the man. “And I don’t care who you are. Barging in here without my leave, disturbing my patient. Out. Both of you.”

  “Come sir,” said Laertes, taking the ointment pot from Odysseus. “These are hasty words. We have travelled a long way, with a likely remedy for the infection. My wife is a skilled herbalist and–”

  “And she thinks she has the right to interfere with my treatment? Go.” The doctor grasped Laertes by the elbow and propelled him into the corridor.

  Odysseus started to follow, his temper flaring, but Gelanor held him back. “Leave them, Olli. There’s enough noise and confusion here already.”

  Gelanor eased the door closed but Odysseus could still hear their voices a little way down the corridor. Father had adopted a soft, placatory tone, his words muffled by distance and the thickness of the door panelling.

  Whatever he was saying, the doctor was having none of it. “And what are your wife’s qualifications for producing this substance?” Odysseus heard him reply, his voice pitched high with annoyance. “None the medical profession would recognise, I would warrant.”

  More soothing sounds from Father. If anyone could talk the doctor round, it was he.

  “‘Many fine ingredients’ indeed,” the doctor interrupted again. “That is something of a wild generalisation, do you not think? Are you able to name them, sir? And tell me precisely in what quantities? As for these ‘prayers to naiads’ you refer to, I daresay your good wife has her little practices and they may produce some small and coincidental benefits, but this is a serious case and I will not tolerate any interference.”

  “But the ointment is an excellent one,” Laertes said, speaking louder. “And we have gone to a great deal of trouble – trouble and danger – to bring it. Here, take it, I insist.”

  The doctor grunted something in reply. Footsteps, too soft-shod for Laertes’s boots, approached the door and for a heartbeat Odysseus thought his father had prevailed. But they went straight past and along the corridor to the far end. The creak of shutter hinges was followed by a faint, splintering sound and a cry of fury from Laertes.

  The doctor had thrown the ointment out the window.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  “How dare he?” Odysseus cried, seizing the door latch. “I’m going to smash that doctor’s face.”

  “You will do nothing of the sort.” Gelanor grabbed his ear and twisted it till the tears started from Odysseus’s eyes. “Calm yourself. There, that’s better,” he said, releasing his hold.

  A flurried exchange of insults in the corridor came to an abrupt halt. Odysseus pulled the door open and craned his head out just in time to see his father striding towards the stairs, the doctor on one side and the steward on the other. Father’s head was held high, but it seemed for all the world as though he was being evicted.

  Odysseus glanced back over his shoulder at Agamemnon, who had risen to his feet and was bending over Menelaos. “What’s happening?” he asked Gelanor.

  “We’ve disturbed the patient, I would think,” said Gelanor. “Now, you and I are coming out into the corridor for a little discussion.” He closed the door behind them before continuing. “So. I want to remind you why you came here. Was it not to comfort Menelaos? To help him? Because if you make a great fuss rearranging the doctor’s nose – and he’ll not allow it to happen quietly, I promise you – the commotion won’t do Menelaos the slightest good.”

  “It’ll do the doctor good.”

  “Don’t be a fool. The doctor has managed to keep
Menelaos alive – up till now, at least. With his nose poking out the back of his head, he might not do so well in the future.”

  “But he destroyed my mother’s ointment. He didn’t even open the jar.”

  “Listen to me. From the little I know, once the fever has taken hold it must run its course. And the best way to help Menelaos survive it is to give him as much rest and quiet as possible. Which brings us back to my first point.” Gelanor squeezed Odysseus’s elbow. “What do you want to do? Would you rather join your father? I doubt he’ll be upstairs again.”

  Odysseus stared down at his boots, still salt-crusted from their journey. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  “So you’ll promise to leave the doctor’s nose where it is?”

  “Yes.” Odysseus nodded. All these promises!

  Gelanor gave Odysseus an appraising glance. “Very good. Shall we go back in?”

  “Gelanor.” Agamemnon was beckoning as they entered, his face tight with fear. “Come here. Look at this.”

  Odysseus peered round Gelanor’s shoulder. Sweat was pouring down Menelaos’s face, and the sheet covering his body was soaking wet. “Is he dying?” he gasped.

  “I don’t know.” Gelanor turned, his face full of anguish. “I’ll fetch the doctor. You’d best make yourself scarce, Olli, in case he finds you here and decides you’re responsible.”

  It was evening before Odysseus could steal a chance to return to Menelaos’s bedroom. The doctor had been there all afternoon, but not long after dinner had been served and eaten in the great hall, he’d come down and spoken a few words to King Thoas. From the king’s whispered asides to Laertes, Odysseus gathered the fever had reached its crisis and broken. That could be good news or bad.

  The steward came out with a platter of cold meats and the doctor busied himself eating. If he was prepared to leave his patient, it was probably good news. Odysseus slipped from the hall and hurried upstairs, his spirits rising. He paused outside Menelaos’s door. All seemed quiet, so he tiptoed in.