by David
Sitting quietly a little distance from the circle, the warrior Achilles listened intently. He enjoyed the tales of Odysseus, especially those in which mortal men defied the gods and won the day. But mostly he loved the images they contained of comrades standing together like brothers, caring for one another, dying for one another.
“How did you get down from the sky?” yelled a man in the crowd.
Odysseus laughed. “We took down the sail, cut it in half, and strapped the pieces to the oars. Then, using the sail as wings, we flew down. Tiring work, I can tell you, flapping those oars.”
“The last time you told that tale,” another man shouted, “you said you called on Father Zeus, who sent fifty eagles to bring you down.”
“That was a different tale,” Odysseus thundered, “and I didn’t want to waste a sail. Now, if any other cowson interrupts me, I’ll soak him in oil and swallow him whole.”
Achilles smiled. There was no one like Odysseus. He gazed fondly at the old king. He was dressed in a tunic of faded red, his ornate belt of gold straining around his large belly. His beard was more silver than red now, and his hair was thinning, yet he radiated a power that was ageless.
They first had met many years earlier when Achilles was still a child in his father’s palace at Thessaly. He had crept from his bedchamber and hidden with his sister Kalliope on the wide gallery above Peleus’ megaron to listen to the tales of Odysseus. He had been thrilled then with the stories of heroes, and both of the children had sat wide-eyed.
Thoughts of his sister brought with them a sense of sadness and loss. He remembered his first real conversation with Odysseus after the fall of the Thrakian city of Kalliros. The Ugly King had brought a fleet of supply ships up the river and then had entertained the troops. Achilles had invited him to dine with him in the captured palace.
Odysseus had been tired after his performance, and the meeting had been stilted. Somewhere during the evening Kalliope had been mentioned. Odysseus’ eyes had hardened. “A fine, brave girl,” he had said. “I liked her enormously.”
“She betrayed the House of Peleus,” Achilles had replied.
For a moment Odysseus had said nothing. He had swirled the wine in his cup and then drained it. “Let us talk of other matters, Achilles, for I am not one to insult a man at his own feast.”
The response had surprised the young warrior. “I was not aware that I said anything that could give birth to an insult. I was merely stating a fact.”
“No, lad, you were merely repeating a great lie. I do not believe Kalliope was capable of betrayal any more than you are. She left Thera because a seer told her a friend would be in grave danger. She made her way, through great perils, to save that friend. And she died doing so.”
“That is not what I meant,” Achilles had said. “She betrayed my father.”
“And now we really must stop talking about her,” Odysseus had said, rising from the table. “Otherwise we will come to blows. And I am too old and fat to trade punches with a young warrior like you. Thank you for the meal.”
Achilles had risen to clasp hands with the older man.
“Let us not part with ill feeling,” he had said. “As a child I loved your stories. They inspired me. They made me determined to be a hero. All my life I have struggled to live up to that dream.”
Odysseus’ expression had softened then. “There is more to life than heroism, Achilles. There is love and friendship and laughter. It seems to me you know too little of these.”
Achilles had been embarrassed then. “I know of them,” he had said defensively. “When we were young, Kalliope and I were very close. And a man could have no greater friend than my shield bearer Patroklos. I have known him since we were children.”
“Let us have some wine,” Odysseus had said, reseating himself, “and we’ll talk of the woes of the world and how, through the brilliance of our minds, we can set them right.”
And they had talked long into the night. As they were draining their fifth flagon of wine, as the pearly light of dawn appeared in the east, Achilles had confessed he had never enjoyed a conversation so much.
Odysseus had laughed. “We are not rivals, you see, lad,” he had explained. “I am too old to be competition for you. And you know, that is why you lack friends. You are Achilles, and you compete for everything. Most young men are in awe of you or frightened of you. Only Patroklos feels no awe in your presence, for he was brought up with you and knows all your weaknesses as well as your strengths.”
He thought for a moment and then went on. “I’ve heard your father speak of your childhood. It was the same then. He talked of you winning all the footraces, the wrestling matches, the spear throwing, as well as the swordplay. You crushed all those other youngsters, never losing. You can admire a man who constantly defeats you. Rare to like him, though.”
“Hektor is liked,” Achilles argued.
“Ah, you have me there. When I arrived tonight, two soldiers escorted me to your presence. Who were they?”
“I did not notice.”
“Hektor would have. He would also have told me, if asked, the names of their wives and children.”
“That is clever of him,” Achilles agreed.
“True, but he doesn’t do it because it’s clever. He does it because he cares. And that is why his men love him.”
“I hear in your voice that you are fond of him, too.”
“Yes, I am. It is a tragedy to be his enemy. But I didn’t choose to be.”
“It seems to me that you are a good judge of men, Odysseus.”
“And of women, which—if we are not careful—will bring us back to talking of your sister. So now, since the dawn is rising, I am going to take to my bed.”
“Will you answer one question before you go?”
“It depends on the question,” Odysseus replied.
“Why do you dislike my father?”
“I will avoid that path, Achilles. No man should seek to come between a father and his son. You are a fine young man, and you have a good mind, so I will offer you some advice. Trust your instincts and base judgments on what your heart tells you. The heart will not betray you, Achilles.”
As the months of war ground on, Achilles had thought of that advice many times, especially when dealing with his father. As a child he had seen Peleus as a great king, powerful and brave. It was not an image he wanted to lose. Yet time and again he found himself making excuses for the man, for his pettiness, his cruelty, and, worse, his ability to blame others for his mistakes. Then the jealousy began. Where Peleus had been proud of Achilles’ achievements, he now began to berate his son for “stealing his glory.” Every success Achilles achieved in battle was belittled.
In the end, with Thraki taken and Hektor and his surviving men fleeing toward the eastern coasts, Peleus had relieved Achilles of command of the army and sent him with Odysseus to Naxos to bargain with King Gadelos for supplies of grain and meat.
“You want me to be a merchant?” he had asked his father, unbelieving.
“You will do as I command. Agamemnon needs food for the army. It will flatter Gadelos to have a great hero as part of the delegation.”
“And who will lead the attack on Hektor? He is no ordinary general. His mere presence is worth a hundred men.”
Peleus had reddened. “I will lead the attack. Peleus, king of Thessaly, will destroy this Trojan.”
Angry then, Achilles had spoken without thinking. “You have shown precious little appetite for battle so far, Father.”
Peleus had struck him open-handed. “Are both of my children destined to betray me?” he had shouted.
Shocked by the blow, Achilles finally had voiced the thoughts of his heart. “I loved Kalliope, and I do not believe she ever betrayed anyone.”
“You dog!” Peleus’ hand slashed out again, but this time Achilles caught his fat wrist.
“Do not ever attempt to strike me again,” he said, his voice cold.
He had seen the fear th
en in his father’s eyes, and the last vestiges of childhood admiration had vanished like mist in the sunshine. Peleus had licked his lips nervously and forced a smile.
“I am sorry, my son. The pressures of war… You know I value you above all men. My pride in you is colossal. But allow me a little pride, too,” he pleaded. “I will hunt down Hektor and bring us a victory. But I need you to go to Naxos. Otherwise men will say that the defeat of Hektor was because of you. Do this for me!”
Saddened and sickened by the wheedling tone, Achilles had stepped back. “I will do as you bid, Father. It will be good to get away from here for a while, and I enjoy the tales of Odysseus.”
“The man is a fat braggart, worthless and vain. Do not listen too closely to his lies, boy.”
Achilles had ignored the comment.
“Remember, Father, that Hektor is a warrior without peer. When you corner him, it will be a fight to the death. There can be no withdrawal, no pulling back. The man is a lion. Once you grab his tail, only one of you will walk away alive.”
Achilles had left the following day, traveling on the Bloodhawk, the sleek war galley manned by Ithakan sailors, veterans who had served Odysseus for many years. Achilles had tried to be friendly with the men, but as always, they were in awe of him, treating him respectfully and keeping their distance.
The days at sea and the enforced idleness at first had left him tense and bored, but gradually he had relaxed and had begun to see why the Great Green held such fascination for sailors. The vast eternal sea freed the mind from petty thoughts and vain ambitions.
Now, as he sat on the beach at Naxos, listening to Odysseus, he realized that he had no great desire to return to Thraki or even to fight in the war against Troy. A part of him wished merely to be a sailor, an oarsman, traveling the sea.
Odysseus concluded his tale to thunderous applause, and the listeners cried out for more.
“Too old and tired to go on,” Odysseus told them, then strode away to a cookfire.
Achilles saw several soldiers approach him. In the conversation that followed Achilles saw Odysseus turn as still as a statue, and he wondered what was being said. Others of the crew gathered around. Achilles saw Odysseus glance across at him. Obviously, some important news was being imparted. Achilles thought of walking across to join the men, but at that moment Odysseus strode away from them, moving toward him. Achilles rose to greet him.
Odysseus looked shocked. His face was gray, and there was sweat on his face. He looked into Achilles’ eyes and sighed. “There is word of your father’s battle with Hektor,” he told the warrior.
Achilles could tell from his expression that the news was not good. “Is he dead?”
“Yes. I am sorry, lad. Hektor destroyed him and his army at a place called Carpea.”
Odysseus fell silent. Achilles looked away, staring out over the night sea.
“I feared this,” he said softly. “I tried to warn him, but he was hungry for glory. Did he die well?”
Odysseus shrugged. “I did not hear all the details. But you must get back. King Gadelos is still neutral. Tomorrow we will see if he can spare a galley to take you north.”
“You will not be returning with me?”
Odysseus shook his head. “There was other news, Achilles. I must return to Ithaka immediately.”
He looked into the ashen face of the old king and knew then that it was not the death of Peleus that had stunned him. Odysseus seemed to have aged ten years.
“What has happened, my friend?”
“A pirate fleet with several hundred warriors has invaded Ithaka. They have taken my Penelope.”
Achilles said nothing for a moment. His warrior’s mind focused on the problem.
“You have only forty men,” he said. “We must request aid from the Kretan galleys or find willing warriors on the mainland.”
Odysseus shook his head. “The Kretans have orders to patrol the seas around Naxos. Only a direct order from King Idomeneos could change that. And he is far away, fighting near Little Thebe.”
“So you will go against them with but a single ship?”
Odysseus’ eyes blazed. “Penelope is the love of my heart and the light of my life. I will sail at dawn.”
“Then I shall come with you, my friend.”
The older man was touched. Reaching up, he clasped Achilles’ shoulder. “I thank you for that, lad. I truly do. But you are a king now, and your place is at home, not fighting another man’s battles.”
“No, Odysseus, you are wrong. I was a man before I was a king, and no true man walks away when a friend needs him. So no more arguments. I am coming with you.”
Odysseus sighed. “I cannot say that I am not relieved. Very well, then. We sail tomorrow. There is a man I must find who might help us.”
“Is he a warrior with a great army?”
“No,” Odysseus answered. “He is an old pirate named Sekundos.”
CHAPTER TEN
THE BLESSED ISLE
As she had on every evening for forty years, the High Priestess of Thera walked out onto the cliff top in the giant shadow of the Temple of the Horse and watched the sun descend into the sea. In high summer she would view the sunset from directly beneath the great head, but as winter deepened and Apollo’s Arc became more shallow, she would observe it from a sheltered bench, facing southwest.
She smiled as she thought of Apollo’s Arc. Not that she did not believe in the sun god. Far from it. Iphigenia believed in all the gods, most especially the demigod beneath the island, whose fury the temple had been founded to appease and gentle. What made her smile was the myth that golden Apollo climbed into his fiery chariot every day and flew it across the sky, pursuing his errant sister, the virgin Artemis, whose white chariot was the moon. What nonsense. As if two gods would waste their immortality in so fruitless a pastime.
Pain lanced through Iphigenia’s chest, and she cried out and staggered. Her left arm spasmed in an agonizing cramp. She staggered to the bench and collapsed onto it. Reaching into the pouch at her waist, she took a pinch of the powder there, placing it on her tongue. The taste was sharp and bitter, but she swallowed it and sat quietly, taking deep calming breaths. After a while the pain faded, though her arm ached for some time.
In the far distance she saw the tiny dot of a ship moving through the necklace of islands surrounding Thera. During winter ships rarely ventured far on the Great Green, fearing the sudden squalls when Poseidon swam. They certainly did not travel to Thera without an invitation. Yet now two were there: the Egypteian ship and this newcomer.
The Gypptos had arrived the previous day but had offered no reason for their visit. The leader, a lean, hard-faced young man named Yeshua, had sent two barrels of dried fruits as a gift offering and requested permission to remain on the beach for a few days. Iphigenia had granted his wish assuming they had repairs to make to their vessel. A strange craft it was, with its high curved prow and crescent sail. It seemed flimsy against the solidly crafted galleys of Mykene or Kretos.
The aftereffects of pain left Iphigenia feeling cold and nauseous. Wrapping her cloak more tightly around her thin shoulders, she leaned back against the bench. Craning her neck, she looked up at the horse. Even now she could vividly recall her feelings when she first had seen the isle and its monstrous temple. She had been barely fourteen, tall and thin and without the curves that caught men’s eyes. Her failure to attract suitors had left her shy and ashamed, but when Iphigenia had gazed upon the giant horse, she had been filled with a sense of purpose, of destiny.
“Lady!” Her reverie was interrupted by a young priestess with disheveled yellow hair who ran up to her, breathless. “It is the Xanthos! The Xanthos!” The girl was terrified, as well she might be.
Iphigenia looked sternly down at her. “Are you sure, Melissa?”
“Yes, lady. Kolea told me, and she has seen it many times. Kolea is from Lesbos. Her father is an ally of Troy.”
“I know who her father is, foolish girl!”<
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“I’m sorry, lady. Kolea told me it is Helikaon’s ship. No other ship on the Great Green is that big. Should we hide?”
“Hide?” Iphigenia surged to her feet. “From a murderous brigand? I am Iphigenia, daughter of Atreus the battle king, sister to Agamemnon. You think that I will hide?”
Melissa flung herself to her knees, her forehead to the floor. “Forgive me, lady!”
Pain seared again through Iphigenia’s chest. Biting back a cry of agony, she sat back down and took a second pinch of powder. It was too much, she knew, and the colors of the sunset sky began to dance and swirl. But the pain died down.
“Send Kolea down to greet the Xanthos,” she told Melissa. “Tell her to bring any messages to me immediately.”
She looked out to sea again. The Xanthos was beating its way across the great harbor, passing the black isle in the center. The young priestess hitched her skirt around her knees and ran off toward the jumble of stables and living quarters behind the temple.
“Melissa!” the older woman barked. The girl stopped in her tracks and turned, dust swirling around her bare feet. “Behave with dignity. A priestess of Thera does not run like a frightened peasant. She does not panic.”
The girl flushed. “Yes, lady.” She turned and walked quickly toward the stables.
Iphigenia smiled grimly. She knew how they all saw her: tall and forbidding, her iron-gray hair pulled back fiercely, emphasizing her hawk nose and fierce brows. They could not see beneath the wrinkled, sagging skin the remains of the young priestess who also had run like a colt, intoxicated by this life of freedom and unexpected pleasures. They saw only a woman grown old in the service of the Blessed Isle.
