by Iliffe, Glyn
The sound shattered the silence that had enclosed her senses and tore through the temple like a blast of wind, rustling the leaves overhead and spilling silver scales of moonlight across the ground. With a rush like water filling a clay jar, she felt the physical sensations of sound, smell, touch and taste pouring back into her, trapping her consciousness once more with the clumsy heaviness of the corporeal world. Her thin, underdeveloped body felt as if it was encased in bronze armour, each small movement suddenly cumbersome and ungainly; her ears were momentarily sharp, filling her head with the sound of the wind and the roar of the sea, and the nerve endings in her skin reported every detail of the flagstoned floor, while screaming at her with the coldness of it. Her mouth was saturated with the taste of blood. The smell of it – mingled with the odour of soil and bark and the different aromas from her own body – was so overpowering she thought she must be covered in it. Then, with a shock that sank straight to the pit of her stomach, she recalled the soldier in the temple and looked down to see that her dress had indeed been ripped open and there was blood over her neck and breasts. She placed a hand between her legs, dreading that she would find more blood, and when she felt nothing remembered, finally, that it had been a dream and the blood belonged to the snake she had beheaded. She relaxed, but only until she recalled that what she had seen had also been a vision of the future. And it was then she sensed she was being watched.
Chapter Six
NISUS OF DULICHIUM
Penelope, queen of Ithaca, paced the earthen floor of the great hall. The flames from the circular hearth cast a crimson glow over the four central pillars and the circle of empty chairs where the Kerosia – the council of Ithacan elders – had sat earlier that day. The warm light pulsed against the lime-plastered walls, where it fought with the dense shadows for possession of the murals. The contest ebbed and flowed, revealing hints of the scenes depicted high up on the walls, of armoured men fighting and dying in battles of their own. Penelope, who had seen the murals almost everyday for the past twenty years, hardly even noticed them any more.
She reached an alcove in one of the walls – where a small effigy of the goddess Athena stood stiffly clutching her spear – then turned on her heel and retraced her steps towards the high-backed throne. The long wait was making her nervous. Though the palace was her home, in view of what she was planning to do she did not want to be noticed out of her own quarters so late at night. She reached the vacant throne, glanced at the double doors that led to the courtyard beyond, then turned again and headed back to the alcove. The nerves that tightened her stomach were a welcome distraction from the hole left by her loneliness. She had felt incomplete ever since Odysseus had sailed to Troy a decade before, but at least her son’s presence had comforted her; now that she had sent Telemachus to safety in Sparta, though, she was completely alone. The heart that had longed so painfully for her husband’s return now yearned to breaking point for her son.
And yet, as she reached the alcove again and looked down at the crudely carved face of Athena, she knew she could not afford to show weakness. She was a queen, and while her husband was away the burden of ruling Ithaca lay firmly upon her shoulders. As a woman, though, she could not rely on the strength of her arms, only the ability of her wits.
She turned and stared at the doors, willing them to open. Nothing happened and she continued pacing. She had other weapons, of course. She was tall and beautiful and could use these assets to her benefit, an art that her cousin Helen had developed to perfection – at terrible cost to the Greek and Trojan worlds. But Penelope had never been adept at playing that game. It went against her nature: as far as she was concerned men should only be flirted with for one reason, and she already had a husband. No, she thought, her needs would have to be dire if she were to resort to so base a method.
She reached the throne where none had sat since Odysseus’s departure and ran her hand over the carved wooden back. Her husband had left her in a strong position, with the support of the Kerosia and the people behind her, but he had also left a viper in the form of Eupeithes, the power-hungry merchant who had once tried to usurp the throne. By allowing him a seat on the Kerosia, Odysseus had gambled on the hope that giving him some power might placate his greater ambitions. He had also gambled on a prompt end to the war and a quick homecoming. This was despite the oracle he had once shared with his wife, that if he went to Troy he would not return for twenty years. He had never felt restricted by prophecies, though, and had promised to return to Ithaca before anything could threaten his kingdom. So far, he had been wrong. Now the viper had raised its head and struck its first blow.
A low howl of wind shook the doors, causing her to look up. Again, they did not open and she headed back towards the alcove. Eupeithes had bided his time, of course. It was even possible he had never intended to make a bid for power, but the length of Odysseus’s absence, combined with disillusionment among the nobility, had stirred his dormant ambitions. Either way, he had made his move now and suddenly, unexpectedly, the Kerosia was his to control – and only the king could overrule the council of elders. Having bought Polyctor’s loyalty years before, after Phronius’s accidental death – or murder, as most suspected – Eupeithes had been able to bargain for Oenops, another of his cronies, to take the old man’s place. That had left Nisus, Halitherses, Mentor and Laertes – Odysseus’s aged father – still loyal to the throne, but recent events had changed the balance again. While Halitherses had secretly sailed to the Peloponnese with Telemachus, taking Odysseus’s heir to safety in Sparta, an assassin had been caught in the boy’s empty room. Eupeithes was the obvious one to have ordered the prince’s death, but the assassin had sworn his employer was Nisus of Dulichium.
Penelope looked over her shoulder at the ring of chairs around the hearth. They were still draped with furs for the members of the Kerosia who had met that morning to discuss the allegation against Nisus. As the accused, Nisus was unable to take his own seat, and with Halitherses travelling to Sparta with Telemachus that had given the majority to Eupeithes. The verdict was almost a formality: Nisus was guilty of treason and had been sentenced to be executed the next day. What was more, Eupeithes had used the absence of Halitherses to have his own son, Antinous, voted on to the Kerosia as Nisus’s replacement. At a stroke, the Kerosia was now in Eupeithes’s hands and there was nothing Penelope could do about it.
The doors creaked open and a splash of weak moonlight cut a wedge across the dark floor. A cloaked figure paused in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom before slipping into the hall. A second, shorter man followed him.
‘Who’s that?’ Penelope called, anxiously.
‘Penelope, it’s me.’
The tension eased from her muscles as she recognised Mentor’s voice.
‘You were longer than I expected,’ she said, moving from the shadows into the warm firelight. ‘Were you delayed?’
‘A little. The guard on the gates is one of the new men that replaced the reinforcements sent to Troy. I don’t know I can trust him, so Eumaeus and I found a way in over the palace wall.’
Mentor crossed the great hall and kissed Penelope on both cheeks. He was handsome with a neatly trimmed beard and hard, confident eyes. The stump where his right hand had been severed by a sword was cased in leather, and though the wound had prevented him from going to war at Odysseus’s side it had at least ensured Penelope his friendship and support in trying to preserve her husband’s kingdom at home. Beside him was a man with a red-brown face and a head of thick, curly hair. Eumaeus was a slave, but as loyal to Odysseus as anyone on the island.
‘What about Nisus’s guard?’ Mentor asked.
Penelope shook her head. ‘A Taphian.’
Eupeithes had a long association with the Taphians, old enemies of Ithaca, and had insisted a troop of the tall, ruthless spearmen be added to the palace guard.
‘Then we have to kill him,’ Mentor said, throwing his cloak aside to reveal the sword tucked into
his belt. ‘We’ll take the body with us and dump it into the sea – at least then we can claim Nisus bought his loyalty and helped him to escape.’
‘Eupeithes will never believe that.’
‘It’ll seem the most likely explanation, and until he can disprove it he won’t be able to accuse anyone else. Are you still willing to draw the guard away from his post?’
Penelope nodded and crossed to a small door at the back of the great hall. The two men followed.
‘Wait either side of the door,’ she instructed. ‘I’ll make him follow me into the hall and then you can … do whatever is necessary.’
She pulled open the door and stepped into the long narrow passageway that skirted the great hall. It was dark but for two dying torches that hung at intervals along the walls. To her right was a corner that fed round to the rear of the palace and the stairs that led up to the sleeping quarters; to the right, the corridor stretched away into murky shadows, with several doorways on the right-hand wall that opened into storerooms. Nisus was locked in a room at the far end, where Penelope could just make out the figure of a spearman slumped against the wall. The sound of the door roused him from his slumber and he straightened up, watching Penelope as she approached.
‘Come with me,’ she ordered. ‘I have a task for you.’
The Taphian looked at her dumbly, then slowly shook his head.
‘I’ve given you a command,’ she said, more sternly this time. ‘If you wish to keep your position in the guard you will do as your queen tells you. Is that clear?’
The man simply stared at her, refusing to move. He even had the audacity to let his eyes fall to her breasts. She turned away indignantly, pulling her cloak about her, and fumed as she tried to think of how to get the brute away from the door.
‘The gods are mocking me,’ she hissed to herself. ‘A woman’s pride is her downfall, as Clytaemnestra used to say. And yet, what choice do I have?’
With a sigh, she loosened the sash about her waist so that her chiton fell open to expose her long, soft thigh. Biting her lip, she loosened it more so that the slit spread up to her naked hip. Then, forcing a smile, she pulled her cloak aside and turned to face the Taphian once more.
‘When the queen asks for a man’s help, she expects him to obey. Now, are you going to come with me or do I need to find someone else?’
The soldier’s eyes widened a little as they regarded the bare flesh of her leg. Then, as she turned and began to walk slowly away from him, he placed his spear against the wall and followed. Penelope sensed him getting closer and quickened her pace, at the same time trying to pull her dress together so as not to expose herself to Mentor and Eumaeus. The Taphian grunted something in his crude dialect, his voice sounding as if he was directly behind her. Quickly, she slipped through the open door into the great hall, but before Mentor and Eumaeus could emerge from the shadows the man’s arms slid beneath hers and his hands closed over her breasts. She gave a half scream, then Eumaeus appeared to her left holding a sack. He tried to throw it over the Taphian’s head, but the man spotted him and lashed out instinctively, catching the slave in the jaw and sending him flying back into the shadows. Mentor had rushed out in the same moment, sword in hand, but had fallen back as he saw the Taphian’s arm still wrapped about Penelope.
‘Kill him!’ she spat.
The Taphian turned to face Mentor, using Penelope as a shield. He fumbled for the dagger in his belt. Sensing what he was doing, the queen tried to grab his hand, but he was too strong for her and almost broke her wrist as he wrenched it away. Then Eumaeus appeared again, throwing the bag over the soldier’s head and drawing it down to his shoulders. The man shouted and Penelope was able to pull away as he seized hold of the bag and snatched it off again. Seeing his chance, Mentor leapt forward and pushed the sword into the man’s chest, forcing it through the ribs with all his strength until the point emerged out of his back. His arms ceased thrashing and his large body went limp, falling back against Eumaeus and then to the floor.
‘By all the gods,’ Eumaeus exclaimed. ‘Why don’t Taphians ever die easily?’
‘Do you think anyone heard?’ Penelope asked, rubbing her bruised wrist and wincing at the pain.
Mentor paused and cocked an ear, but after a moment of listening to the silence that had returned to the palace, he shook his head.
‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll free Nisus.’
‘The farthest storeroom, down to the left,’ Penelope told him as he disappeared through the doorway.
He came back moments later, followed by a grey-haired man whose rich clothes were now torn and shabby looking. One eye was black and swollen and there was blood in his nostrils and on his beard. Nisus looked down at the body of the Taphian, then at Penelope.
‘Thank you, my lady,’ he said. ‘Mentor has told me the risks you’ve taken to save me.’
‘A small repayment for the loyalty you’ve shown me over the years, Nisus. It’s too dangerous for you to remain on Ithaca, though; you must leave at once and not return until you hear my husband has come back. Go to Sparta and help Halitherses to protect Telemachus until I send for him.’
Nisus nodded. Eumaeus handed him the Taphian’s cloak, then bent down to heave the corpse onto his shoulder.
‘Sleep well, Penelope,’ Mentor said. ‘We’ll make sure Nisus reaches the boat, and that our friend’s corpse is never seen again.’
As they were going, Nisus turned to Penelope and looked at her a last time.
‘Take care, my lady,’ he said. ‘Things are changing rapidly now. You must play for time. In everything you do, try to buy time for Odysseus and the army to return.’
‘I will,’ she assured him.
And wondered how such a thing would be possible.
Chapter Seven
HELENUS
Cassandra looked up and saw the figure of a man silhouetted in the entrance to the temple. He was short, and though the shape of his body was hidden by the robe that reached down to his ankles, she sensed he was young and lightly built. He took a step towards her and a circle of moonlight fell across his pale, beardless face.
‘Did you do it?’ he asked.
His black eyes lingered on Cassandra’s nakedness and there was a carnal fascination in them, but as the girl sat up and drew back against the altar, pulling the halves of her torn clothing together, the longing in his features faded and he took another two steps into the temple.
‘I said did you do it?’ he repeated, his soft lisp becoming more pronounced.
She pointed at the decapitated body of the snake, the blood of which was still wet on her face, neck and chest.
‘Yes, Helenus, I did it.’
A smile spread across Helenus’s face. He stared down at his sister, his lustful curiosity replaced by an eagerness to hear more.
‘And? Did he answer? Did Apollo come to you?’
Cassandra met her younger brother’s gaze. He had inherited Priam’s handsome looks and piercing eyes, but there was none of his mother’s kindness in them. Hecabe’s only legacy to her son was her weedy, diminutive stature, which he hated because it meant he would never be a powerful warrior like his older brothers, winning honour in battle and earning the adoration of the people. Instead, he was destined to live in their shadow, privileged by his royal blood and yet overlooked because of his youth.
‘Of course he came. Does he ever miss the opportunity to torture me?’ she replied. ‘And, yes, he gave me visions.’
‘Of the future?’
Cassandra thought of the soldier in the temple of Athena, but that was personal. A gift from Apollo for her alone. She shook her head.
‘No, something greater. He gave me three oracles, the keys to Troy’s survival – or her destruction!’
‘What were they?’ he insisted, his voice harsh and eager.
Cassandra held her hand out to him and he helped her to her feet, his eyes dropping to her bloodied breasts again as the halves of her dress fell open.
‘I’m your sister, Helenus,’ she reminded him, standing up straight and no longer trying to hide her nakedness.
Helenus’s lowered his eyes to the floor. Seeing the heap of Cassandra’s cloak, he picked it up and – averting his gaze – handed it to her. Cassandra threw it about her shoulders and leaned back against the altar, lightly scrutinising her brother as he stood before her. Normally his clothes were expensive and fashionable, as befitted a son of Priam, but tonight she could see he wore the white robes of a priest beneath his rich double cloak. Not that he was a priest yet, of course – most priests of Apollo had shaven heads and were at least twice Helenus’s age – but he was already an initiate and had used his father’s authority to become an apprentice at the temple in Pergamos. His royal blood ensured he would one day rise to the priesthood, a position of power and influence, but not for many years yet. Not unless he could show Apollo had singled him out for a higher office. And for that he had to provide proof he had received the god’s blessing.