The Bow

by Catherine Mayo

  “She could come with you.”

  “Olli, I already told you what Ithaka would do to me. Remember?” She paused, scraping the hair from her eyes with her free hand. “I’ll tell you once more: I’ve come here to be free of you.” Tears beaded in the corners of her eyes. “I’ve failed. I got it wrong. I’ve come all this way to tell you a piece of nonsense.”

  Odysseus stood, silent. Then he let her hand go.

  He wanted so badly to tell her the dream meant nothing. To lie, so the spectre of her debt to him would go on reaching its fingers into her heart, make her hurt as he was hurting, force her to come to him.

  Obligation and misery were the only weapons he had. Even at the beginning, up on the walls at Tiryns, he’d known better than to use them. And now? He ran his tongue over dry lips. “The bow in your dream is the great bow of Eurytos,” he said, just managing to keep his voice level. “And it’s here, in Ortilochos’s house. I saw it today.”

  She stared back – in acknowledgement or disbelief, he couldn’t tell. Then she swung round to Danae. “So the dreams’s true.”

  “And we’ve warned him,” said Danae. “As we agreed.”

  “We have to stay and help.”

  “No. It’s up to him now. We need to return this bow to the cave. The boy’s right – we may well have upset Demeter by taking it.”

  “But–”

  “No buts. We’ll set off at first light.”

  Odysseus frowned. Skotia had dreamed he was in danger long before they removed the bow. And Danae had been sure the goddess had given them permission. What was the woman really saying?

  As for himself, he should return to the fire, to Menelaos. Still, that didn’t seem so urgent, now he knew more about the dream. Nothing would happen before tomorrow. “I’ll sleep here tonight as well,” he said. “Who knows? Perhaps the dream will come to me.” Perhaps more than a dream would come, if Skotia was as reluctant to leave as she seemed.

  He could hear their voices whispering together on the far side of the glade. Then silence, apart from the murmur of leaves above his head and the skitter of small creatures in the undergrowth. They must have fallen asleep.

  If only, if only … oh Skotia. He stifled a groan, his chest aching with misery. What a fool he was. Better, far better for him to have left.

  He wriggled around to find a hollow in the hard ground for his hip. The night dragged on, sleep edging round him till it caught him unawares …

  Something brushed his cheek and he woke with a start. He grabbed at the shadow hovering above him, found a handful of hair and twisted it hard.

  “Ow! Let go,” a voice hissed.

  “Skotia?” he whispered. His heart was beating so hard it almost strangled the words in his throat. She’d come to him after all.

  She lay down beside him and, wordless, stroked the hollow of his waist.

  His mind spun as he drew the sweet salty smell of her into his lungs. “You’ve changed your mind?” he murmured.

  “We won’t see each other again,” she replied. She leaned forwards to brush her lips against his. The shock of it coursed through his body and he pressed against her, willing her to kiss him again. “So I …” Her fingers tightened momentarily then eased round to caress the small of his back.

  “So you what?” Say it, say it, his mind screamed. Tell me you love me.

  She kissed him, longer this time, but her lips told him nothing. Nothing and too much.

  This was no different from that night in Tiryns, when she’d forced herself to touch his thigh. He wrenched her hand away. “You think you ought to do this,” he said, forcing the words out. “To be even. Like balancing a list of figures.”

  “Why do you always have to spoil things?” she gasped, struggling to free her hand. “I want to do it. So do you.”

  Yes, he wanted her, wanted her more than he could have imagined. His whole body was trembling with the closeness of her, with the torment of her touch. He shook his head, his breath coming short and sharp. “No, I don’t want to do anything. I want you. I want you to need me so badly, you can’t stop your hands stretching out to me. I want you to love me.” He let go her wrist. “Otherwise it’s a sham.”

  She twisted her face away. For a moment he thought she was crying. Then she turned back to him, eyes dry and jaw set. “I’m sorry, Olli. I do like you. More than I thought I ever would. But I don’t love you. I thought this might be something I could give you. To say goodbye.”

  He gritted his teeth, not trusting himself to speak.

  She stiffened. “You’re too proud, Olli.”

  “Proud? Why shouldn’t I be? And aren’t you proud? So proud they couldn’t break you, back in Tiryns? So proud you can’t take anything from me?”

  “Olli, I’m talking about you, not me. You want everything to be perfect.”

  “No, not everything.” He paused, searching for words.

  “Have it your own way.” She stood up and walked away.

  “No, Skotia, wait,” he called, every nerve, every instinct screaming for her to stop, to come back, for her eyes to light up at the sight of him, for her hands to sketch her love for him on his skin. But she kept walking.

  He was in a courtyard. All around him people were laughing and drinking and calling out to each other. Beyond them danger hovered like a black demon, its breath fetid with the stink of death. He craned to see, but the crowd clustered thick around him.

  And he had the bow in his hands, the dark grey horn and the red leather binding. He slipped the loop of the bowstring over the lower tip, placed it on the ground hard against the outside of his right foot and swung his left leg over the bow, his breath gathering in readiness. The act of stringing it was fluid and swift, just as Stenelos had taught him.

  He picked up an arrow, notched it and took aim …

  Chapter Forty-eight

  “So, Meges.” Eurybates wiped the sweat from his face with a forearm. “What do you think of Phylas?”

  “You’ll find him pleasant enough in a gruff sort of way,” said Meges. “Give him to me for a year and I could turn him into a decent sailor.”

  Eurybates gazed round the abandoned village perched high on the mountain ridge. In the late afternoon light, it looked very different from that ghastly dawn a month ago. Then he and Olli had been fugitives, fearing the worst.

  Now he was back with a band of Ithakan sailors and a troop of Nestor’s soldiers, with justice served and honour high. “We’ll need Phylas to guide us from here on. Send him up the front for me, will you?”

  Eurybates looked the man over as he came forwards. A typical hill shepherd: tall, wiry, tough, weather-beaten. One met his sort at every muster. Pure gold once you won their trust.

  Yes, Eurybates told himself, not for the first time, he’d done the right thing. Olli could keep his doubts. King Laertes would certainly approve.

  By the time they reached the high croft with its drift of sheep on the hillsides above, Eurybates had even more reason to congratulate himself. Phylas had been more than cooperative. Eloquent even, when encouraged to talk about his sheep.

  Eurybates fell asleep that night, his upcoming report to Laertes half-finished in his mind. “Most expedient … responsible decision-making … wise use of local intelligence …” He’d write it all out neatly in the morning.

  Someone was jogging his elbow. “Come, sir,” the man was saying. “Quick.”

  Eurybates followed, stumbling over sleeping bodies on his way to the hut door.

  Outside, the moon had sunk behind a ridge, but there was still enough light to make out what had happened. The ropes, binding wrists and feet, so thoughtfully adjusted to ease Phylas’s circulation, lay in a tangle on the ground. Two sheepish-looking guards were making a belated attempt to appear awake and alert.

  A hand grasped his shoulder. “What’s this?” Meges crouched down beside him. “Where’s our shepherd?”

  “These fools of Nestor’s,” Eurybates exclaimed. “They’ve let him escape f
rom under their noses.” He could already hear Laertes’s cool voice cross-examining him. Why, why hadn’t he kept Phylas inside the hut?

  “I’d have kept him in the hut,” said Meges.

  “I don’t remember you saying so at the time.”

  “Not my place to interfere.”

  How very unIthakan. “Where do you think he might have gone?”

  Meges swept an arm in a wide arc. “East, west, north, south? You tell me.”

  “Are you sure you’ve covered all the possibilities?” Eurybates picked up a rope. “This’ll have his scent on it. Can sheepdogs follow a trail?”

  Meges shook his head. “From the look of Phylas’s curs, they’re more likely to eat the rope.”

  “I wonder they didn’t bark.”

  “Well, they’re Phylas’s dogs, aren’t they?” Meges’s mouth twitched. “What do we do now? Rush off blindly in all directions?”

  Eurybates swore under his breath. “What’s the most likely choice?”

  “Not west. He’ll stay away from the coast.”

  “And south takes him towards Pylos.”

  “East? Arkadia’s a handy place for a runaway.” Meges smirked.

  Confound the man. “Or north. That narrows it down to most of Greece.” Eurybates fought back the urge to bury his head in his hands.

  “I don’t know why you’re so worried,” said Meges. “Phylas led us here. We’ve found our shepherds, and they can take charge of their flocks. Phylas has his freedom, which he deserves, in my opinion. What’s your problem?”

  If only it was so simple, thought Eurybates. There was his report to Laertes for a start, all those smug phrases. And he was starting to feel he might have misjudged Phylas. Olli had thought … oh gods, now he’d never hear the end of it.

  Meges nudged him in the ribs. “I wonder what young Olli will have to say about this, eh?”

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Odysseus opened his eyes. The first glimmer of light was creeping through the branches overhead and the birds were stirring. The far side of the glade was empty, the grass crushed flat where Skotia and Danae had slept. He stood up and walked over. The ground was still warm – they must have only just left.

  He slumped down, too heart-weary to stir. Now he knew he would never see Skotia again.

  After a time his mood shifted, questions gathering round him like unwanted guests. What did the dream mean? It must have some purpose. It wasn’t fantastical, as many dreams were, but now he was properly awake, it did seem more and more unlikely. And yet … the sense of danger had been so strong he could almost smell it, even now.

  His eyes searched the clearing, his ears alert to every sound, the hair on the back of his neck pricking against his tunic collar. Was he scared only because Skotia had told him he should be? Or was there some other reason?

  The bow. There was no mistaking that. Eurytos’s bow. And in the dream he’d strung it – an impossible task, as his father had said many times over the years. Did that mean he actually would? Or was it a symbol for something else? That was the trouble with dreams – you simply couldn’t tell.

  And what was he taking aim at? All he’d been aware of was the arrow and the act of drawing the bow, which had seemed so easy. As easy as stringing it. So – two highly improbable things to offset against the apparent reality of the dream.

  On the other hand, it had compelled Skotia to travel all the way from Arkadia, so she believed it. And the fact he’d had the dream himself must mean something. But what?

  The sun had not long risen when he reached the place out on the bare ridge where the path forked. Silence ruled the mountainside and the early morning air was cool. He sat down to think some more, wrapping his arms around himself to keep warm.

  Eurytos’s bow was the key. Without it he’d be killed. How could he lay his hands on it? Iphitos certainly wasn’t going to give it to him, which meant he’d have to steal it. If he took the bow out of the case and put something else in instead, the case would feel the right weight. Iphitos had no reason to suspect anything, so he probably wouldn’t check inside before it was packed onto one of the mules.

  But when could he manage to do that? Iphitos had said, at dinner last night, that he’d be leaving first thing this morning. But he was an old man and it would surely take some time for him to get dressed and breakfasted and packed and ready to go.

  So there might just be a chance to break into Iphitos’s room. By walking casually through the door? Probably not. Where was his and Menelaos’s bedroom in relation to the old man’s? Could he cut a hole through the ceiling? Too noisy. And too slow, even if he could find a saw. Climb through the window then? Would the shutters be open? And how much should he tell Menelaos?

  Odysseus shivered. This wasn’t like scrumping pears from an orchard. The bow was a famous heirloom, the centre of the old man’s existence. Iphitos would be devastated at the loss.

  And what if the dream was a deception, sent by Demeter because he or Eury had offended her in some way? Her revenge would be to have him caught red-handed and humiliated before all the Messenians. Nestor would rub his hands in mock lament and deny all compensation for Didaion’s crime … and what Father needed now, more than anything else, was those ships.

  Down in the forest a dog barked. Argos? And someone, it sounded like Menelaos, calling. Odysseus whistled in answer and set off down the path as Argos erupted from the trees and bounded up the hill.

  “Down, Argos, down! Sit. Good dog, good dog, there, there.” Odysseus squatted down, ducking his head to avoid the worst of Argos’s tongue. “I’m here, I’m fine, there’s no need for all this fuss.”

  Menelaos hurried up to join them, gasping for breath. “Where’ve you been?” he panted, collapsing on the grass. “You were gone. All night. Argos was beside himself. Oh my lungs. Then we followed your scent. Up here.”

  “Why did you wait till morning to come looking for me?” said Odysseus. “Or had you only just gone to bed yourself?”

  “Well.” Menelaos took a deep breath. “There was this girl, you see. This lovely girl. And I kept trying to dance with her. Somehow the other women were always in the way.”

  Odysseus opened his mouth to interrupt. If they really were in danger, the sooner they talked about it the better.

  And yet, if he gave Menelaos a good listening to first, his friend might pay more attention afterwards. Odysseus tried to rearrange his face into something that resembled concern.

  “Then I fell asleep,” Menelaos was saying. “By the fire. I don’t remember lying down. I was still there when I woke up, just as it started getting light. And she’d vanished.” He grabbed Odysseus’s arm. “Olli, she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I have to talk to her father.”

  “Why? Are you in love with him too?”

  Menelaos punched his shoulder. “Stop talking tadpole’s tripe. I’m going to marry her. Well, not straightaway. But I’ll have to say something to him, to begin the courtship. Today or tomorrow.”

  “Shouldn’t you talk to her before you confront her family?”

  “She feels the same, I know it. She kept looking at me in this special way. Stop laughing. It’s not funny.”

  Odysseus bit his lips. “No, it’s not. Has it occurred to you she might be married already?”

  “Asses’ earwax. She’d never have stared at me like that if she was.”

  “At the festival of Demeter, women can act as they please.” Odysseus raked his fingers along Argos’s back, eliciting a whine of contentment.

  “Why don’t you stop treating this as a joke and help me?”

  “How?”

  “Ask who her father is.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “No idea.”

  “Menelaos, I don’t even know what she looks like.”

  “I told you. She’s gorgeous. She makes all the other girls here look like toadstools.”

  Odysseus sighed. “Very well. I’ll keep my eyes open for a girl who doesn�
�t look like a toadstool. Just for you. In exchange, you can help me steal Eurytos’s bow.”

  Menelaos gaped at him. “What? Why?”

  I can’t tell him about Skotia, thought Odysseus. He’ll roll around laughing, dig me in the ribs, ask me whether she’s got nice breasts or rosy lips. And I’ll hit him.

  Instead he told him about the clearing and the white rock in the moonlight, the threat of danger and his dream.

  Chapter Fifty

  Odysseus paused beside the dying remains of the bonfire, to scan the mansion below. The gate into the courtyard was open and he could hear the sound of voices and the whinny of a mule. Death and Hades. Was Iphitos already leaving? He broke into a brisk jog, Menelaos close behind.

  The scene inside stopped them in their tracks. Iphitos’s mules were standing unattended, surrounded by bundles and boxes. But the ebony bow case was nowhere to be seen.

  Over by the porch a group of people were huddled in a circle. From their midst came the sound of sobbing. Someone shifted and he caught a glimpse of Iphitos sitting on the ground, the bow case across his lap and his face buried in his hands.

  Menelaos nudged Odysseus’s elbow. “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I’ll find out.”

  A well-muscled man in a travel-stained tunic was standing on the edge of the group, a brooding look on his face. Odysseus went over and introduced himself in a low voice.

  The man nodded in a distracted sort of way. “Odysseus? I’ve heard the name. I’m Arion.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “The end of all Iphitos’s hopes,” said Arion. “His grandson has died.”

  “Grandson?” Odysseus tried to hide his surprise. “I thought Iphitos had no heirs.”

  “No sons,” said Arion. “His wife gave him a daughter. The girl grew up praying she would keep Eurytos’s line alive.”