Odysseus in the Serpent Maze

by Robert J. Harris

  Odysseus shrugged the insult away, but a deep line grew between his eyes. “It was just lying there in the sea cave. I almost missed it in the dark. But my foot connected with it, and it rang out against the stone wall. Never leave gold lying about, I say.”

  “What were you doing in the cave?” Bosander asked.

  “We took shelter from a storm and rock slide,” Odysseus replied innocently. “When we emerged, there you were, waiting for us. Not much of a reception for children in this Crete of yours.”

  Idomeneus eyed the others. “We had no storm on this side. And whose children are you?”

  Ever mindful of his grandfather’s warning that knowledge was a two-edged weapon, Odysseus was about to begin a false story. But Helen stepped in front of him.

  “I am Helen, princess of Sparta, captured by pirates and escaped here by the grace of the gods. I demand in the name of my father King Tyndareus that you treat me with the respect proper to my station. And my handmaiden Penelope as well.”

  Odysseus cursed silently, but Idomeneus seemed impressed.

  Even more than impressed.

  Struck down like Mentor, possibly unmanned.

  Which may be to our advantage, Odysseus thought. He kept silent and watched the Cretan prince.

  Idomeneus bowed. “Despite the dirt and the worn clothes, I can well believe you’re a princess. But alas, Helen of Sparta, at the moment I have little hospitality to offer you.” He turned back to Bosander. “Watch them all while I go into that cave.”

  Key in hand, he headed into the sea cave. A moment later he was out again, roaring. He brandished the key in Odysseus’ face. “What’s happened here?”

  “I don’t know,” Odysseus said, keeping his voice guileless, though the crease between his eyes deepened. “We took shelter in the cave, and suddenly there was a sound of rocks falling, and the walls began to shake. We ran this way, afraid of being buried alive.”

  “And you saw nothing of what lies beyond?” demanded Idomeneus.

  Odysseus shook his head.

  Idomeneus turned to Helen. “Is this true, princess?” His eyes narrowed. “If you truly are a princess.”

  “If I’m a princess?” Helen’s voice rose with her indignation. “When you insult me this way, what reason have I to answer?”

  She folded her arms and looked at him from under a fringe of hair. It was the kind of look that could bring strong men to their knees, and Idomeneus was young enough to be smitten. But Odysseus thought he detected a false note in Helen’s voice. Suddenly he realised that Helen was playacting.

  Thank you, he whispered under his breath. It would buy them some time. Time, he knew, was always on the side of the prisoner.

  “I meant no insult, princess. But I must know everything about this key. See—it’s marked with the name of the traitor, Daedalus. Everything of his interests us. We shall return to the city and see what my father has to say.” He put a hand on Helen’s arm. “You come with me, Helen of Sparta. As for the others …” He turned to Bosander.

  “Bring them all along,” Bosander suggested.

  Idomeneus nodded. His men jumped to do his bidding, and Odysseus, Penelope, and Mentor were suddenly and ably surrounded and taken in hand.

  They marched back into the woods and along a well-worn trail. Helen’s sandalless foot was bound up by Idomeneus with a piece of cloth ripped from his own tunic.

  The trail led across rugged foothills to a plain where twenty chariots waited, guarded by armed men. The Cretan horses were small, black, and well muscled, with slim heads and eager legs.

  “Back to the city,” Bosander commanded.

  The four were not treated roughly, but separated and placed in different chariots. At a signal from the prince, the charioteers slapped their reins against the horses’ rumps, and the little horses began to pull.

  Odysseus was impressed with how smoothly the Cretan horses ran, galloping in quick, short bursts of speed. He said so to the charioteer, who glanced briefly over a shoulder at him.

  “Specially bred. We keep brothers together. The king is a horse lover. So is his son.” The charioteer spoke in short bursts too.

  “My father loves horses. Poseidon, bull roarer, keeper of the horses of the sea, has special shrines on our land,” Odysseus told him. Not a lie exactly. But not all of the truth.

  “Ah, the king will like that,” the charioteer said, and turned back to his task.

  Odysseus smiled. He’d learned more than he’d told. Always a good thing to do when in the company of enemies.

  The sun was beginning to sink when the chariots turned east and travelled along a rough track by the coast. The sea here was a deep green, and the waves rolled in, high-crested, fierce.

  They rode past a particularly jagged piece of the coast, where rocks like teeth pointed out at the sea.

  Suddenly something in the fading light caught Odysseus’ eye: a ship impaled upon the outer rocks, hull smashed beyond repair. The white and red eye on the side of the ship seemed familiar.

  Captain Tros’ ship!

  “My lord Idomeneus, wait!” Odysseus cried out.

  Hearing him, Helen pulled at the prince’s shoulder. He signalled to his men, and soon they’d all reined in their horses.

  Idomeneus got down from the chariot and walked over to Odysseus. “Why have you stopped us, boy?”

  “That ship—” Odysseus began.

  “Sea raiders,” Idomeneus said. “Come to steal from us.”

  “But …” Mentor shut up when he saw the look of Odysseus’ face.

  “The very ones who kidnapped Princess Helen, her handmaiden, and us, great prince,” Odysseus said. “Are they all dead?”

  Bosander grunted. “Some.” He pointed to five bodies lying several hundred yards away. “The rest we’ve taken to be sold as slaves.”

  “Unburied …” Mentor said.

  Again Odysseus shut him up with a look. As the dead sailors’ prince, Odysseus knew he was responsible for the men, though he’d had nothing to do with them for many days. Still they needed a proper burial, or else their shades could not cross over and enter the land of the dead. He would have to trick Idomeneus somehow.

  He thought quickly, then said, “Great prince, I’m Epicles of Rhodes, and we guard our realm as fiercely as you do yours. But we believe that no matter what a person has done to us, we must show the same respect to the unburied dead as we would to a stranger seeking sanctuary at our door.”

  “When a thief comes to my door, I don’t entertain him,” Idomeneus retorted.

  “But all who sail the sea are sacred to Poseidon,” Odysseus said. He gestured up the beach where the unburied sailors lay. “To treat them this way dishonours the bull roarer himself.”

  Idomeneus’ hawk face turned a deep russet colour. “Do you, a mere boy, a Rhodian, dare speak to me of my duty to the gods?”

  Shrugging casually, Odysseus said in placating tones, which still carried to all of the soldiers, “I only speak what I know, great prince. And to spare your land the fate that once befell mine.” The deep line appeared between his eyes.

  “What fate?” Bosander asked.

  “When my king, Lord Tlepolemos, first came to Rhodes, he found a land ravaged by famine and plague. The dead were piled high in the streets; children wept because of empty bellies. Brave Tlepolemos, son of mighty Hercules, discovered the reason.” He hesitated, waiting for the question to come. As he knew it would.

  “What reason?” called out a soldier.

  “Yes, tell us,” cried another.

  Idomeneus sighed. “Go ahead, boy. Finish your tale.”

  “Great Idomeneus, it’s a story carved from history, as true as … as this Rhodian teller.” He gazed wide-eyed at the prince with what he hoped looked like innocence. “Tlepolemos found a hidden bay where many ships had been swept on to the rocks. There, unburied, lay the remains of a hundred sailors. For this sacrilege Poseidon had cursed our island.”

  “And …” Prince Idomeneus
said, clearly tired of the story.

  “And the brave Tlepolemos buried every one of those dead seamen himself in a single night, a feat worthy of his father. From that day till this, Rhodes has been free of Poseidon’s curse and has prospered under Tlepolemos’ wise rule.”

  The Cretan soldiers and charioteers were silent for a moment. Then they began to move restlessly, even fearfully.

  Finally one man dared the question they all wanted to ask.

  “Brave Idomeneus, shouldn’t the dead men be buried?”

  Bosander spoke for the prince. “You, Epicles, and your friend—whatever his name is—can bury the dead yourselves. In a single night. Like your noble king.”

  The prince smiled slowly. It made his hawk face even fiercer. “Yes—it’s only right that you two invaders work for your suppers.”

  As they dug the five graves in the sandy soil, well above the high tide mark, Odysseus was silent, but Mentor complained continually.

  “One shovel between us? And the stink? And to do this on an empty belly? I’m not a son of Hercules. Nor are you …”

  At last his rote of misery drove their Cretan guards back to the campfires, which left the two boys alone with their awful task.

  The minute the guards were gone, Mentor turned to Odysseus. Holding up sandy hands, he said. “What were you thinking—telling all those lies? Epicles of Rhodes!”

  “Keep digging,” Odysseus whispered.

  Mentor bent down and dug some more with his hands, looking like some sort of hound at work burying a bone. “Why not tell them the truth?” He looked up over his shoulder.

  Odysseus smiled slyly. “The truth, Mentor? And what would you have me say? That these were my men? My grandfather’s men? We would be dead on the sand next to them.”

  Mentor was silent.

  Odysseus continued. “There are three reasons to lie to the Cretans. First, it gives us power over them, for we know what they don’t. Second, it buys us time, the prisoners’ only coin. And third—”

  Mentor stood up and, hands on hips, interrupted. “And third, you just like to tell stories.”

  Ignoring his friend, Odysseus finished, “And third, it gets these good men buried.” He dug into the fourth grave with pretended gusto. “So shut up and dig, Mentor.”

  Mentor returned to his digging. But after a bit he looked up again. “What were they doing here, so far from home?”

  “Looking for us. Can you imagine Tros going to Father and saying, ‘By the way, I lost your son overboard, Laertes.’ Not and keep his head.” He thrust the shovel into the sand.

  “Was that story—the one about Rhodes—true?”

  Leaning on the shovel, Odysseus grinned. “What do you think?”

  Mentor shook his head. “I no longer know with you, Odysseus.”

  “Penelope does,” Odysseus whispered. But Mentor had turned back to his digging and so he didn’t hear.

  Finally, sand-covered and with aching backs, the boys rolled the dead sailors into their graves and covered them over with sand.

  Several of the soldiers had wandered over to watch. One gave Odysseus a piece of bread. Another loaned him a wineskin.

  “Mighty Poseidon,” Odysseus said, breaking the bread into crumbs, which he tossed into the air, “let these sailors who died on your wine-dark waters go swiftly into the land of the dead.” He poured the wine into the sand as a further offering.

  A third soldier grumbled, “Waste of good wine, that.”

  Odysseus ignored him and went on. “Father Zeus, hear our prayers.” He raised his eyes to the full moon. “Send swift Hermes to guide these sailors to the distant west.”

  Looking around at the soldiers, Mentor added quickly, “And may their families be assured that even in a foreign land, they received a proper burial, one that is pleasing to the gods.”

  Bosander joined them. He said in a gruff but not unkind voice, “Wash off in the sea, boys. Then join your womenfolk at the fire. We’ve saved you a bit of food.”

  CHAPTER 19: THE GREAT KING’S PALACE

  “A BIT OF FOOD?” COMPLAINED Mentor. “Hardly even a bite.” He looked down at the wineskin and the half loaf of hard bread.

  Odysseus wolfed down what they’d been given without measuring it.

  “We’d hardly any more,” Penelope told them. “Though Idomeneus did give Helen some dried dates.”

  Odysseus swiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced at their captors. Smiling, he waved at the nearest soldiers, who pointedly ignored him. “Soldiers on a scouting trip never carry great stores. We must be soldiers too.”

  “Not I,” Helen said, stretching prettily. “I’m a princess. When we get to the palace, there’ll be kitchens and beds and baths and—”

  “And dungeons,” Mentor put in grimly.

  “And the Labyrinth,” Odysseus added, though he seemed almost excited at the prospect.

  “What’s Idomeneus been looking for?” Penelope asked.

  “What we found,” Odysseus said. “Daedalus’ workshop. But we mustn’t tell him that. Because then he’ll find out we destroyed the place. And he won’t be happy about that.” He looked particularly at Helen as he spoke.

  Helen shrugged prettily. “All I did was sit down on a plinth.”

  “I doubt Idomeneus will see it that way,” Penelope told her. “And I’ll be sure that he finds out whose fault it was.”

  “It was an accident,” Helen began to wail.

  Penelope shut her up with a quick elbow to the ribs. “Listen to Odysseus.”

  “We’ve got to go along with the Cretans for now,” he said. “We’re in no position to fight off or escape a band of armed warriors.”

  “Besides,” Penelope added, “where would we go?”

  “And what would we do for food?” Mentor added. “Dried bread will only get us so far.”

  “Exactly,” Odysseus said. “We need a ship, food, weapons, and the rest of Tros’ sailors if we’re to make it off this island.” He didn’t tell them he’d no idea how to manage all that. One thing at a time.

  Just then Idomeneus came over. “Better get to sleep,” the prince said. “Soldiers rise very early. And we’ve still got a long ride in the morning. Princess Helen, are you comfortable?”

  She dimpled at him. “I’ll be more comfortable when we’re at your palace,” she said.

  Comfort, Odysseus thought grimly, is the enemy of the hero. How often he’d heard that from his father’s soldiers. Nevertheless, in his sleep he dreamed of hot food, sweet wine, and a soft bed.

  In the morning, as early as Idomeneus had promised, they set off again along the dusty road, soon turning inland.

  Well before noon they came to a small village with an inn the size of a pigsty, and as inviting.

  Odysseus and Mentor now had their legs tied with just ropes, to ensure that they didn’t wander. Odysseus suspected that it was Bosander who’d made that decision.

  However, the innkeeper brought the girls water to wash in, as well as plates of cheese, olives, dates and wine. A garrulous sort, the innkeeper exchanged pleasantries with the soldiers as well. He ignored the boys.

  “Just as well,” Odysseus whispered to Mentor. “I didn’t understand a word he said anyway.”

  “I didn’t want a conversation with him,” Mentor said. “Just some of his food.”

  It was the charioteer who enlightened Odysseus as they charged along the rock-strewn road. “The innkeeper speaks Cretan. And badly. We”—he struck himself on the chest proudly—“we are Achaeans. We conquered this land.”

  No wonder Idomeneus and his men are so edgy, Odysseus thought. His father always said it took ten generations to conquer a people. From Minos to Deucalion to Idomeneus was a short three.

  By afternoon, they were travelling along a broad, paved highway, wider and smoother than any Odysseus had ever seen. Along the roadside were shrines, stone markers inscribed with the image of a double-headed axe.

  Soon they passed small villages made of
whitewashed stone houses; then two-storey houses of brick began to crowd the roadside.

  “Knossos,” said the charioteer. “Our capital.”

  Odysseus watched carefully. If they were to escape, they’d have to know the way.

  The outskirts of Knossos were chockablock with airy dwellings, noisy workshops, long storage barns. To the north Odysseus could see a wide harbour where ships bobbed at anchor. But the chariots didn’t turn in that direction. Instead they passed through a pair of enormous gates into the city itself.

  “The palace of Minos,” said the charioteer, reining in the horses so that Odysseus could have a better look.

  Odysseus stared, amazed. The Cretan palace was twice the size, ten times the size—no, twenty times the size—of his father’s and his grandfather’s palaces combined. It seemed to stretch away as far as he could see, storey upon storey rising up on thick russet pillars. Unlike the palaces he knew at home, kept within high defensive walls, this structure sprawled outward in every direction, as if the makers had no fear of intruders. Workshops, stables, storerooms had accreted to the central building, making the place enormous. To the south and west were bright yellow-walled apartments looking like honey spilling from a jar.

  Without wanting to, Odysseus found himself awed. But he bit his lower lip to keep from giving himself away.

  The chariots halted at last, before a high stone gateway carved with the double axe. Idomeneus and his men dismounted and, herding their prisoners along, entered a pillared courtyard.

  “This is … incredible,” Mentor whispered to Odysseus. He kept swivelling around to see what lay on every side. “Can the gods on Olympus have anything this magnificent?”

  Helen too, was amazed. “What riches. What power …”

  “Look over there,” Odysseus whispered to them. “Those walls on the left side. See—they’ve been blackened with fire, and not recently either, I’d guess. And I saw some ruined houses on the western edge that haven’t been repaired.”

  Penelope nodded. “I see what you’re getting at, Odysseus. For all their riches and power, they’ve had a share of disaster too.”