The Girl From Ithaca

by Cherry Gregory

  THE GIRL FROM ITHACA

  CHERRY GREGORY

  Published by Grinning Bandit Books

  http://grinningbandit.webnode.com

  © Cherry Gregory 2013

  ‘The Girl From Ithaca’ is the copyright of Cherry Gregory, 2013.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, digital or mechanical, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  Cover design: © BookCover.Me

  Second Edition

  Early praise for The Girl from Ithaca

  Here is an historical novel to captivate and enthral. Readers will identify with Neomene’s adventures to the point where they forget these are Greek myths and the story is fiction.

  – Rosalind Minett, author Intrusion

  I have nothing but praise for this vast, sweeping, yet enjoyably accessible interpretation of the Trojan legends. Ms Gregory has done her Homer-work well, and the result is a fascinating and finely woven tapestry worthy of Penelope herself.

  – Frank Kusy, author Rupee Millionaires, Kevin and I in India, Off the Beaten Track, Ginger the Gangster Cat and Ginger the Buddha Cat

  Dedication

  To Russell Millward.

  CONTENTS

  1. Across the Sea

  2. The King Is Mad

  3. The Messenger from Aulis

  4. The Lion’s Palace

  5. Iphigenia

  6. Persuasion

  7. The Little Bear and the Moon

  8. Helen of Troy

  9. The Curse of Apollo

  10. Battle on the Beach

  11. The War Council

  12. Menelaus and Paris

  13. A Deadly Embrace

  14. Ellissa

  15. The Fort of Heracles

  16. Amazons!

  17. Trojan Gold and Greek Chariots

  18. The Healer

  19. The Long March Back

  20. The House of Atreus

  21. The Prize

  22. Warning

  23. The Offer from a King

  24. To the Mountain

  25. The Tale of Three Goddesses

  26. Dogs of War

  27. The Return

  28. Achilles’ Way

  29. The Entertainers

  30. A Winter’s Song

  31. The Box

  32. Barefoot in the Sand

  33. Dream of Antilochus

  34. Fires on the Beach

  Acknowledgements

  Preview: Book II – The Walls of Troy

  About the Author

  Chapter ONE

  Across the Sea

  The island of Ithaca, 1200 BC

  The ship sailed towards our island, closing in like a dark stain on the blue of the sea. I narrowed my eyes and focused on the sail. Slowly, the lion’s head emerged from the haze. My throat tightened. King Menelaus of Sparta was coming—coming for Odysseus and all the men of Ithaca.

  I jumped from the ridge at the top of the cliff and ran through the coarse grass. Reaching the pine trees, I glanced about, hoping to catch sight of Lysander or any other swift-footed shepherd boy able to reach the palace before I could. But all was still. The gods had left it to me to warn my brother. Ahead of me, the sheep track looped down to the road, taking its time like the ghosts of animals whose feet once etched its path. Too slow, it was much too slow. I veered off the track and sprinted to the quicker, more direct route along the spine of rocks.

  At first I made good progress, but gathering speed, my foot slipped on the loose scree, sending stones skittering down the slope. They rattled and bounced over the side of the ravine, the clatter of their descent echoing around the rocks. I clung to a boulder, steadying myself before daring to go on.

  A shadow crept across the rock face. Looking up, I saw an eagle hovering above me, its large wings covering the sun. With one easy tilt of its wings, it swept round in a circle and drifted to the lowlands, as if mocking my earth-bound legs. It might have been the great god Zeus in disguise, observing the lives of mortals as he soared above us. I laughed at myself as I picked out a path down the outcrop. The king of all the gods had better things to do than watch a fourteen-year-old girl from Ithaca.

  Reaching the road at last, I stared into the distance, following the track as it left the rocky terrain. It cut through the grasslands and up the hill, pointing to the town’s hiding place as it nestled out of sight. I took a deep breath and set off, keeping my pace steady like Odysseus had taught me, my legs seeming to move on their own. I raced downhill for a long stretch, seeing no one except young boys with goats and sheep, their pipe music drifting through the air like wisps of smoke.

  Then, climbing uphill, I ran past a scattering of huts. A dog barked. Two girls peered out from an open doorway and a baby cried. Over the crest of the road, the town spread before me in a tapestry of grey, blue and red-brown thread. There was a clutter of men and women, carts and animals, all on their way to the market. I chased after them, closing in at every stride. I had to warn Odysseus. I clenched my fists and passed two ox carts, then dodged around the weaver’s son with his heavily loaded donkey.

  Dust stung my eyes, but I ran on, the houses becoming a blur until I reached the outskirts of town. In front of the carpenters’ houses, I glimpsed a group of children squatting by the roadside. A dark-haired boy looked up and left the others to run with me, his naked body glistening in the sunlight.

  The boy’s company lightened my legs and we picked up speed, forcing ourselves on through the stench from the tanners’ workshops. He took the lead and raced along a row of mud brick houses. I snatched a breath. The skilled tradesmen lived in these bigger homes; we were near the centre of town.

  It was only a low murmur of voices at first, but as I followed the boy round a bend in the road, the noise of men and women, mules and donkeys, even pipe music and the rattle of metal and wood, all competed for attention in the chaos of the market ahead.

  The boy stopped, his way suddenly blocked by a thick wedge of people. It looked as if half of Ithaca had been crushed into the confined space of the courtyard, herded together like sheep in the pen of a careless shepherd.

  “What now, Lady Neomene? Is it the market or the palace?” he asked, pushing the shock of black hair from his eyes.

  “The palace, but you go home now, I’ll manage this last part on my own,” I gasped. “And tell me your name.”

  “Nessus, youngest son of Remus, the ship builder.” He gave a quick bow of his head and turned to jog back. After a few strides, he glanced over his shoulder. “Lady Neomene, one day I’ll be the fastest runner in Ithaca. Then I will help you again.”

  I smiled and forced my way into the crowd. Traders were shouting about the taste of their fruit or the sharpness of their axe heads. People jostled and laughed and talked. A group of slaves recognised me and quickly let me pass, but then I found myself boxed in by a barrier of stalls. Dipping under the nearest, I crawled to the other side. The fair-haired daughter of one of the palace officials was staring down at me, open-mouthed.

  “Neomene, Neomene, what are you doing? If your mother finds out, you’ll be locked up in your room till next spring!” She helped me up and her face brightened. “Come see the cloth from Pylos. There’s wonderful colours. Even red. Father’s lent me a slave to carry everything.”

  “Not today, I must get home,” I cried, diving past my friend into a sea of frenzied bargaining and wild promises. Putting my head down and acting like a battering ram, I pushed on to the other side of the courtyard.

  Once clear of the market, I paused for a moment and studied the steep incline to the palace. It wasn’t far now. I’d raced up the hill many times when I�
�d stayed in the town too long and feared my mother would discover me missing. I aimed for the potter’s hut half-way up the hill and counted each workshop and house as I ran.

  The potter grinned when I touched the wheel. It was what all Ithacan children did when they needed good fortune; no doubt he’d done the same when he was a child. I wiped the sweat from my eyes and took another deep breath. The tops of my father’s trees beckoned me onwards, as if waving from the other side of the palace wall. I took off again, forcing my heavy legs to make one final effort. Skirting along the base of the wall, I ran to the gateway. A stocky guard jumped to attention and I hurried past, relieved now to see the palace entrance.

  “What is it, girl? Have the Spartans come?” It was Euryclea, my old nurse, sitting under the trees with my ten-year-old sister.

  I nodded and carried on, up the steps and through the large wooden doors into the hall. My feet clattered on the stone stairs two at a time. At the top I saw my brother walking quickly towards me.

  “The ship!” I cried. “It’s Menelaus!”

  Odysseus put his finger to his lips and then caught my arm, helping me into his wife’s private chamber.

  “Quietly, in here with Penelope, no need to alarm everyone. Now, are you sure? Did you see the lion’s head?” He closed the door behind us.

  “Yes, yes, I waited until I saw it. Just as you said.”

  I leant forward, hands on my knees, struggling for breath and willing my legs to stop shaking. Penelope moved nearby, settling her son in his crib and then placing her arm around me. I looked into her face and noticed a momentary glimmer of fear, before she drew herself up and smiled.

  “You must have run all the way. Odysseus, fetch your sister a drink. She needs water before she does anything else.”

  Reassured by Penelope’s voice, I took the cup and listened to her instructions. “We’ve still got time to prepare ourselves carefully. I’ll help Odysseus first and then assist you.”

  I gulped down the water and watched dark-haired Penelope extract two items from her clothes chest. She held a coarse woollen tunic against my brother, smiling as she did so.

  “What do you think, husband?” she said.

  Odysseus kissed her forehead. “Perfect, that’s perfect, exactly what I need.” He unclipped the gold brooch on his carefully woven tunic and Penelope helped him slip into the woollen one. He adjusted it on his shoulders and rotated his arms. His smile faded as he scratched his chest and then his back. “Are you sure it’s clean? It feels as if the previous owner’s left a few friends behind.”

  “It’s newly spun this season, though my young attendants enjoyed pulling it out of shape for you,” Penelope laughed.

  I washed quickly and smiled as my sister-in-law tied a leather strap around Odysseus’ waist.

  “And this will keep it in place,” she said.

  Odysseus scratched his neck. “In place? It hasn’t got a place. It’s like a meal sack.”

  Penelope took a step back and inclined her head as she looked at him, her eyes shining. “Yes, I see what you mean. It doesn’t show off that broad chest of yours and it gives the impression of a paunch.” She patted Odysseus’ stomach. “Fortunately, your sister’s attire is much more refined.”

  Penelope handed me one of her own robes and nodded at her dressing area. “Try this brooch. It will complement the yellow cloth.”

  I slipped behind the screen, pulled off my tunic and Penelope wrapped the smooth robe around me. Finally, she pinned it together with the amber brooch. Trembling, I touched the orange fire of the stone. Mother claimed amber drove away evil spirits and it felt so warm and alive, I almost believed her.

  There were hurried footsteps outside, but it was only Euryclea bustling in, out of breath and dragging my young sister with her.

  “What are you thinking of?” she cried, on seeing Odysseus’ tunic. She was a slave, Odysseus was her king, but she had once been his nurse and very occasionally the authority of a nurse overrode the power of a king. Her eyes narrowed as she stared him in the face. “I thought you’d grown out of such nonsense! Get dressed properly. You can’t welcome King Menelaus dressed like a drunken swineherd who lives all winter in the pig sty!”

  Odysseus held up a hand. “No, no, I’m being serious. Menelaus must go from here believing I’m mad, too mad to join his brother’s army against Troy. This tunic is part of my act. ”

  The old nurse glanced at Penelope.

  Penelope nodded as she combed my hair. “It’s true, Euryclea. We want Menelaus to think Odysseus has lost his mind. Agamemnon’s been planning this war for years, and now Helen’s kidnap is just the excuse he needs.” She stopped combing and looked at Odysseus. “I don’t want my husband to die because of King Agamemnon’s lust for war and Trojan gold.”

  “I’ve no intention of dying for Agamemnon,” Odysseus said. He paused and then smiled at his wife. “And you know what to do if Menelaus wants to see me, I’ll be on the North Beach sowing salt. You can look distressed enough, I think.”

  “And so can I,” Euryclea declared. “I’ve spent more than twenty five years watching you grow from a baby to a boy and then to a prince and king. I will weep for you in front of King Menelaus. See how unhappy I am even thinking of such a thing!” She tugged at her greying hair. Real tears glistened in her eyes and slid slowly down her face.

  I caught my sister’s eye from the other side of the room and looked away quickly. Poor Euryclea. I knew she loved Odysseus as much as any mother could, but she told Ctimene and myself so often, it was difficult to hide our amusement when she talked about his cleverness or his bravery or some other wonderful ability that always outshone our own accomplishments.

  When I dared to look up, Odysseus had his arm round Euryclea and was leading her to the door. “I don’t want you upsetting yourself like that,” he said, in a gentle tone, “and you’re needed for another important task. Mother knows our plan, but is nervous. If Menelaus sees her, she’s likely to give everything away. Find an excuse to stay with her and make sure she stays in her room.”

  “What about the old king?” Euryclea asked, her loyalty to the man who saved her from a cruel slave master as strong as ever, even after thirty years.

  “Father’s retired to the farm for a short spell. If he’s seen as ruling again, it might set off ideas about him leading the Ithacans to Troy.” Odysseus looked at Euryclea’s horrified face. “Oh, I wouldn’t let that happen, but he’s best out of the way.”

  Euryclea seemed satisfied with that and beckoned to my sister. “We’ll find the latest oils and fragrances from the mainland and see which your mother prefers.”

  Ctimene glanced at me. “But I want to meet King Menelaus. I’m as pretty as her.”

  I noticed Odysseus’ lips twitch slightly but finally he managed a frown. “You can when you’re Neomene’s age, but for now you obey Euryclea and look after Mother. Go with your nurse, I order it.”

  My sister sighed and then shot me an angry look as Euryclea pulled her from the chamber.

  Odysseus blew out his cheeks. “That’s Mother, Euryclea and Ctimene dealt with.” He watched Penelope tie the last braid in my hair. “And you’re ready too, Neomene. I’d not realised how grown up you’d become.”

  “You’ve not been looking very hard, my husband,” Penelope said, as she gave a final adjustment to the robe. “Now that’s good. You’re fit to greet the King of Sparta. Don’t be over-awed by him. Menelaus is tall and handsome, but he’s a generous man at heart. He’ll listen to what you say.”

  Odysseus took my arm. “The guards know what’s expected and they’ll escort you down to the harbour. I’ll need time to harness the ox and the mule, so delay Menelaus as much as possible.” He lowered his voice as he opened the door. “And may the goddess Athena guide you in our deceit.”

  Chapter TWO

  The King Is Mad

  My brother’s words echoed in my head, like cries of seagulls following fishermen’s boats. I fixed my eyes on the bac
ks of the two palace guards marching ahead of me and concentrated on the steady stamp of their feet. The rhythm stopped only when a herd of goats wandered across the track.

  The younger of the two men shook his head. “Looks like Thaddeus gone and lost them again. They’ll be heading for the palace stables, I shouldn’t doubt. The stable boys tell me they’ve got a liking for horse fodder.”

  My laugh sounded high pitched and nervous, even to my ears, but the guards laughed too and appeared not to notice. We’d all been hiding our anxiety since the news of Helen’s abduction reached Ithaca nine days before. The servant who’d related the story thought it an interesting piece of gossip, an entertaining rumour about people she didn’t know and from a land she’d never seen. But as soon as the words left her lips, Penelope’s sewing slipped from her fingers. Before her attendant could retrieve it, my usually calm sister-in-law had run from the room.

  Mother’s stern look forbade me from following her. She and I continued our needlecraft for the rest of the morning, the uneasy silence only punctuated by a servant’s cough or repeated instructions to unpick my untidy work. And while I fought with the tangled stitching, I wondered what could be so special about Helen of Sparta.

  At twilight, Odysseus took me to the seclusion of Father’s orchard and explained why Helen’s fate was entwined with our own. There I learnt about the oath he and the other princes of Greece had made at Helen’s wedding, the oath to join together and attack any man who stole her away. It was Odysseus’ idea; a way of preventing the many Greek kingdoms fighting over a beautiful woman. And it had worked. Despite being desired by almost every man who’d ever seen her, no one had attempted to take Helen since her marriage to King Menelaus.

  Until this summer.

  Then, when the days were at their longest and the wheat and flax ripened in the Spartan valley, a foreign prince arrived from the great city of Troy. Gifts were exchanged and he was welcomed as a friend and trusted ally. But on the fourth day of the celebrations, Menelaus was called away to attend the funeral of his grandfather. The following night, Paris of Troy snatched Helen and fled.