The Girl From Ithaca

by Cherry Gregory

  Gradually the aroma and the sound of sizzling fat drew all except Menelaus to the fire. Some of the men licked their lips, their eyes fixed on the roasting pig as if they’d prefer to eat the meat half-cooked than wait any longer. Odysseus joked with them in the easy way he had with ordinary men, until at last it was ready, and he was able to give thanks to the great god Zeus. There was a cheer as he sliced into the meat. Carefully he dedicated the skin and the bones to the gods and gave every man his share.

  Once we had the warm food in our hands, our mood lifted. Sailors sat in small groups, eagerly eating and stopping only to take a swig of wine or mutter a few words of appreciation.

  Odysseus dragged a log close to the fire and we sat together with our meal. Moths fluttered around our heads and an owl called, almost as if all was well and we were still in Ithaca. A full stomach and the warmth from the flames revived me a little and I whispered the details of my meeting with Helen.

  “I’ll tell him when he’s calmer,” Odysseus said, nodding his head towards Menelaus. He wiped his hands on the grass and picked up his wine skin. “Tonight we should be grateful to have got out of Troy alive. Paris must have bribed that old soldier, Antimachus, probably with the gold he took from Menelaus’ treasury.”

  My memory flickered back to Paris and his handsome face. “Paris, is he as brave a warrior as Hector?”

  Odysseus took a gulp of wine. “That’s hard to tell. He’s been in Troy less than a year and never been tested in battle.”

  “But Paris is the second son. Why has he lived in Troy for less than a year?”

  “Because there was a prophecy before he was born.”

  I groaned. Prophecies always meant trouble.

  “His mother, Queen Hecuba, was told she’d give birth to a baby son, whose hair would be as golden as her first son’s was dark,” Odysseus said.

  “That part’s true. Hector is dark and Paris is fair. But it doesn’t tell us much.”

  “It’s what came next,” Odysseus explained. “The Queen was warned the fair headed boy would bring fire and destruction to Troy. When she gave birth to a fair headed boy, she and Priam were convinced the prophecy was true. Priam ordered a servant to take the boy to the slopes of Mount Ida and kill him. The servant couldn’t bring himself to slaughter a new-born child, so he left Paris with a shepherd instead. He was brought up as a shepherd boy.”

  Someone picked up a flute. It wasn’t long before others were singing and clapping their hands. Three of the men started to dance and one set everyone laughing as he jumped up and down, rubbing his rump when he pretended to fall into the fire.

  Menelaus looked up at the sound of laughter and moved over to sit with us. “Good food and an excess of wine soon revive a man,” he declared, as if trying hard to convince himself.

  “Spoken like a true Greek,” Odysseus said, slapping him on the back. “I was telling Neomene about the Paris prophecy and how Paris spent his childhood caring for the sheep on Mount Ida.” He turned to me. “That’s why he’s skilled with the bow.”

  “But not as good as our Philoctetes. Remember Philoctetes has the bow and the arrows of Heracles,” Menelaus growled, suddenly reminding me of an old bear.

  My brother nodded patiently. “No one can beat Philoctetes.” He took another gulp of wine and when Menelaus fell silent again, continued with his explanation. “Paris had no idea he was a prince of Troy until he attended games arranged in the city. He won the archery contest and was recognised as the king’s son.”

  “But if Priam believed the prophecy, why did he take him in?” I asked.

  Odysseus shrugged. “Guilt, I suppose. And maybe Paris’ smile charmed even the king. Whatever the reason, Priam treats him like a favourite son, almost as important as Hector.”

  “I doubt many people ever say no to him,” I said, thinking of his smile. Then I blushed and sneaked a look at Menelaus, cursing myself for my tactlessness.

  But Menelaus hadn’t been listening. He seemed to be thinking of something else entirely. “If I could get my hands on Paris, he wouldn’t look so pretty,” he cried, banging his fists against the log we were sitting on.

  I left them alone after that: they needed to talk and I wanted to sleep. Lying down under the blankets, I listened to the music late into the night and thought of Helen. Would I ever give up my family and home and then endanger everyone I cared for, just to be with the person I loved? I didn’t think so, but how could I be sure when I’d never felt that sort of love? As I drifted off to sleep, it seemed a gift from Aphrodite might sometimes be a curse.

  Throughout the next day, the Greek fleet sailed into Tenedos. I watched Agamemnon stride around the camp with Palamedes as they checked each ship for the number of men, horses and supplies each kingdom had brought with them.

  Palamedes counted everything, from spears, shields and mules, down to the women slaves packed into the supply ships. Then he marked it down on his clay tablets. He came to the Ithacan ships in the late afternoon and complained about our meagre contribution. Sickened by the sight of him, I waved to Odysseus and signalled I was going to look around the other ships. I wanted to find Io.

  I found her watching the priest, the same priest who’d assisted in the killing of Iphigenia. Anger bubbled up inside of me. There he stood, in the shade of a tree, telling a group of Mycenaean soldiers how to build the altar. He was well fed and smiling, looking completely contented with himself and the world. It was as if Iphigenia had never existed.

  “Calchas isn’t worth it,” Io whispered.

  “Who?” I asked. “Who’s Calchas?”

  “The priest. You look ready to kill him, but he isn’t worth the trouble you’d make for yourself. I’ve felt like killing him myself these last few nights, but from what I can tell, he’s just a weak man who’s controlled by Agamemnon.”

  I looked at Io more carefully and noticed the dark shadows under her eyes. I paused for a moment, struggling to find the right words. “Has Agamemnon … has he been cruel to you?”

  “No, at least not yet. He spends most of his time with the one called Palamedes. And I’ve found someone to help me deal with him. Ceto’s been forced here too and she’s been his attendant for years. She’s knows exactly how to …”

  Io fell silent as the priest raised his staff and started to chant. “Mighty Apollo, god of prophecy and healing, give strength to our warriors and wisdom to our leaders. Let the gates of Troy open for us and the walls fall beneath our feet, so we can rescue Helen, Queen of Sparta.”

  One of Agamemnon’s men led a bull to the altar. More soldiers arrived and I caught glimpses of Odysseus, with Menelaus and Achilles. When I heard Evander’s laugh from the middle of a group of Ithacan sailors, I stood on tiptoe, trying to spot him.

  A scream pierced the air like an arrow.

  “The snake! It was the snake of Apollo!” Calchas shrieked, arms in front of his face. “Get the man away from me.”

  “What happened? Is Calchas hurt?” I gasped.

  “Didn’t you see it? There was a snake by the altar. I think it bit one of the soldiers,” Io said.

  “But what’s wrong with Calchas?”

  Io shrugged. “He’s just scared, I think.”

  Menelaus was holding the priest by the shoulders and shaking him, while Odysseus and Achilles dragged the injured man from the altar and into the shade of a tree.

  I tapped Io on the arm. “Let’s see if we can help.”

  “We need Machaon, the healer from the Thessalian army,” Odysseus shouted when he saw us.

  Io dashed away and I fetched water to cool the man’s forehead.

  “Good, do that till Machaon arrives,” Odysseus said.

  “My foot. It’s agony!” howled the man.

  I glanced at his right foot. It was already bright red and swollen. What sort of snake could do that so quickly?

  “We’re getting the healer,” I said, wiping the beads of sweat from his face.

  He nodded, his teeth clenched together
and his whole body shaking.

  I held his hand. “Tell me your name.”

  “Philoctetes, known as the archer,” he groaned. He seized my arm and stared at me with wild frantic eyes. “It’s from Apollo. He’s against us.”

  Then Machaon was kneeling at his side, examining the wound and bathing the foot. I edged away and sat with Io.

  “Ever seen a snake bite like that?” she asked.

  “No, never.”

  Io shook her head. “Nor me.”

  Something moved behind us. I looked back to see Agamemnon, with Philoctetes’ charioteer. The charioteer squatted next to Io, watching Machaon take pots of ointments from his bag.

  “Can you treat him, healer?” Agamemnon barked.

  Machaon spoke without looking up. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Whether it will be enough to save him, is a matter for the gods to decide.”

  Agamemnon grunted and turned to Io. “Woman, there’s nothing for you here. Go assist Ceto at the ships.”

  Io glanced at me and crept away. I stayed with the charioteer and handed ointments to Machaon when he pointed to them, but Philoctetes screamed when anything was applied to his foot.

  “This one’s called woundwort and it’s a strong aid to healing. Though in this case, probably not,” Machaon said, running a hand through his thinning hair. He poured a fine black powder into a cup and mixed it with water. “Crushed poppy seeds. It relieves pain and helps sleep. Get him to drink this and it might give some relief.”

  The charioteer lifted the sick man’s head and I encouraged him to drink. While we waited for it to take effect, his charioteer talked to him, telling him the pain would soon be over.

  “Looks like the snake was sent by Apollo,” Machaon said quietly. “There’s nothing we can do.”

  “There has to be something, sir. Philoctetes has the bow of Hercules and we need him to lead us,” the charioteer said.

  Machaon shook his head. “I’ve no medicine strong enough. If it’s a curse, it will never heal and he’ll spend the rest of his life in agony. The best he can hope for is a quick death.”

  The charioteer gripped Machaon’s arm. “Sir, you don’t understand. He can’t die.”

  “You’ll have to accept it. I can’t reverse the curse of a god, especially one as powerful as Apollo.” Machaon looked at the charioteer and snatched his arm away. “And you’re a soldier now, you’d better get used to death. There’ll be a lot more tomorrow.”

  The healer gathered up his jars and then beckoned to me. “Stay here and keep him as cool as possible. I’ll leave a handful of poppy seeds. If he’s still alive at dusk, make up the potion and use wine if you can. Might allow him some sleep. If he’s fortunate, he won’t wake up.” He took one last look at Philoctetes. “Good, good, I’ll check on him when I can.”

  “But he has to reach Troy,” the charioteer croaked.

  “You’d better toughen up, boy,” Machaon said, as he walked away.

  Menelaus and Odysseus returned soon after the healer left. They took the charioteer to one side and told him he’d be taking another Thessalian warrior into battle. The poor man gave up on his protests and nodded miserably.

  The wound started to smell. Soldiers edged away and then moved completely. Even his charioteer left us eventually, shamefaced and apologetic, mumbling he must see to the horses. As the sun sank below the horizon, I saw Machaon walking towards us. My relief turned to confusion when he simply glanced at the sick man and hurried by. Turning round, I realised he was heading for Agamemnon, now standing several paces behind us.

  “Where’s Odysseus? I’ve sent for him too,” Agamemnon stormed. “I want this sorted out quickly. We can’t have the man wailing like this. If you can’t do anything, what’s the chance of shutting him up?”

  “You want him killed?” Machaon asked.

  “He can’t come with us. So either we leave him here to starve, or we get it over with and kill him now. What’s it to be, healer?” Agamemnon said.

  Philoctetes’ face contorted in pain and I held onto his hand, unable to tell if he heard what they’d said. Remembering the ground poppy seeds, I mixed the powder and was helping him drink when Odysseus walked up to us.

  “Agamemnon wants me,” he said. “I expect he’ll be …”

  “They’re going to kill him,” I whispered.

  Odysseus’ expression didn’t change as he nodded and carried on to Agamemnon.

  I heard Machaon explaining what should be done with Philoctetes. “Best to tell him the wound will never heal, that he’ll spend the rest of his life in agony. No point in lies. Then leave a knife and hope he makes it easy on himself, and on the rest of us.”

  “You give him the news and the knife. Make sure he knows what he’s to do. But if he hasn’t killed himself by the end of the second watch, get rid of him yourself,” Agamemnon ordered.

  I felt sick in the very pit of my stomach. Was this how brave warriors treated each other? Machaon was a healer, but I’d seen goatherds on Ithaca take more care of a weakly goat.

  “Hold on, Agamemnon,” my brother interrupted, “what if we leave him on Lemnos? There’s a good supply of wild pigs there. It’d give him a chance of surviving. In time the curse might be lifted and he could join us in Troy.”

  “Seeing as your red ship appears to have wings instead of sails, you take the wretched man to Lemnos,” Agamemnon said, “but I’m warning you, Odysseus, if you’ve not returned by dawn, your army of shepherds fight with the Spartans. Menelaus will lead them into Troy.”

  “Then before I leave with Philoctetes, I want one thing understood. Medon is my second-in-command and in my absence, he leads the Ithacan troops.”

  “If that’s how you want it. But in the name of Zeus, get that man out of here!”

  I continued to do what I could for Philoctetes, but it wasn’t long before Achilles and Menelaus arrived to carry him to the red ship. I followed them and saw a young Ithacan soldier hurrying forward with a few supplies. He gave me a lop-sided grin and I recognised him as Thaddeus, a goatherd from home. He was a simpleton of nineteen or twenty, whose father beat him because he let his goats wander over the island. He’d probably thought coming to Troy was better than staying with his father. I looked for my brother and found him discussing the route with Evander.

  “Why don’t you leave Thaddeus with Philoctetes? He can see Philoctetes has food if he’s too ill to hunt,” I whispered.

  “I can’t spare any men. There’ll be a vicious battle tomorrow.”

  “You can spare Thaddeus. Even as a goatherd, he’s a liability. He forgets to concentrate and doesn’t understand instructions. He’d be killed before he reaches the shore.”

  Odysseus and Evander turned to study Thaddeus, just as the goatherd dropped a blanket into the sea.

  My brother rubbed his chin. “Seeing as it’s young Thaddeus, I think I’ll let him go. Though I’d plans of lending him and his goats to the enemy. He was my secret weapon to sap their morale.”

  So the red-hulled ship set out, taking the two men away from the war and into a life of seclusion on the isle of Lemnos. I watched the ship until it disappeared into the distance and then walked back through the camp of roughly made shelters, to the tent I was sharing with Odysseus.

  I was to go to Medon if I wanted anything. When I peered into his shelter, set next to ours, it wasn’t a surprise to find it empty. Medon would be busy checking every man was fed and equipped for the invasion. The thickly bearded captain of the palace guards never left anything to chance.

  Looking further, I saw groups of Ithacans sitting around small fires, some roasting chunks of meat over the flames and others eating and drinking. I recognised several in the nearest group and I wanted to sit amongst them, to be with them and not alone. But the idea would have shocked the men, as much as it would have horrified my mother.

  I retreated into my tent and lay on the hard pallet bed, staring at Odysseus’ armour.

  Chapter TEN

&n
bsp; Battle on the Beach

  Agamemnon stood before the large Greek army, looking exactly as a warrior king should look: proud, confident and powerful. He smiled as he raised his arms to silence the cheering men. Then he spoke to them in his loud, commanding voice that echoed around the camp.

  “You shall win both glory and gold this day, my friends. The Trojans will be waiting for us as we land, but remember, we outnumber them three to one and one Greek is worth ten Trojans!”

  Ajax waved his huge ox-hide shield in the air. “No Trojan will break through this shield!” he cried.

  I left the leaders as they shouted their encouragement and did exactly as Odysseus had instructed: I looked for a place on the supply ships. These deep berthed ships were packed with tools, hides, animals and women and would only approach the Trojan shore once a foothold was won. A pilot called out to me and I was about to climb on his ship, when I saw Io waving her arms, trying to attract my attention in the next ship along. Quickly, I ran along the gang plank and scrambled over the barrels and baskets of food, to reach Io sitting on sacks of animal fodder.

  “Not much room, but it’s comfortable,” Io said, trying to make space for me. “We’ve got a lot of horses on board, but I thought they’d be better than the mules.”

  I squashed in beside her. “Probably, except we’ve got our own special mule.”

  Io frowned and glanced round to see where I pointed. She groaned when she saw Calchas climbing the steps to the pilot’s platform. “He must have crept on after me. Now I wish I’d chosen the latrine digging tools for company.”

  Our crew was a mix of herdsmen, metal-workers and other strong men whose lives had been spent on land, not sea. Despite their muscular arms, they couldn’t match the speed of the more experienced oarsmen in the sleek war ships. As we made our way across the strait, the pilot counted out time and encouraged the men to sing as they rowed, but the horses were a heavy and unstable load and our ship was soon at the back of the fleet.