The Bow

by Catherine Mayo

  “Humbug.” Diomedes swatted the air as though Stenelos’s behaviour was an errant blowfly. “Don’t believe everything he claims about Athena. He’s picked up some strange ideas. I worship Athena too, and she doesn’t blast me with brimstone every time I lie with a pretty girl.”

  “He won’t teach me unless I give Athena my–”

  “–severed balls on her altar? Get some rest while I talk sense into him.”

  Odysseus hesitated. For a few heartbeats his thoughts lingered on Skotia’s light, bony grace, the smell of her hair, the flicker of her eyelids. Perhaps it might be possible – just to spend some more time with her. Show her he wanted nothing more from her than friendship.

  Then he remembered the disgust in her voice last night, the way she’d cringed even as she put her hand on his thigh. Why would she want to sit in some poky room talking with him?

  Diomedes watched Odysseus leave, the final ingots safe inside the paunch. The boy must be in love – why else would he have denied it so fiercely? Mind, he’d been much the same himself at fifteen or sixteen, embarrassed at every blush. Stenelos needed his gloomy, self-righteous head banged against a wall.

  Poor Olli. The kindest thing would be to keep this girl out of his way for a few days. She’d do well enough working in the garrison kitchens down in the town. That porter Meskes could organise it – he seemed efficient enough.

  Diomedes scanned his desk, weighing up the first tasks of the day. The corn in the granaries was holding well but clean water would be a problem if ever Thyestes took the lower town, and there were other supplies to consider. When would they need to start rationing?

  Skotia scraped at the burnt stew on the bottom of the last cooking pot, the water already turned cold and scummy. She’d been up since dawn, and she was almost finished.

  She kept glancing over her shoulder, but no one had arrived to give her a whipping. So that boy must have kept his word, despite his slimy looks. It just showed you could be wrong about people sometimes.

  Meskes, the porter, came swaggering through the scullery door and beckoned. She upended the pot on the bench to drain and came warily over. She hated the sour smell of him, the way his piggy eyes darted about, hated how he always stood too close.

  Meskes muttered his instructions in her ear, his breath stinking of something foul and fishy. For a moment she thought she would faint and she grabbed the doorframe to steady herself.

  “Now?” she said, biting back her tears. How could Lord Diomedes do this to her?

  “That’s what I said. I don’t like repeating myself.”

  “Can I fetch my things?” A leather bracelet her father had made for her, a shawl she’d woven back in Arkadia, not long before she was sold. Small comfort where she was going, but she had nothing else.

  Meskes spat on the floor. “You’re a slave. You own nothing.” He seized her elbow and marched her from the kitchen.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “My master desires a tisane.”

  “Eh?” The cook stared at the fat boy lurking outside the kitchen door. “It’s scarcely cockerel’s fart. Don’t your boss sleep, like normal folks?”

  “He cannot. So he has sent me here for hot water and herbs. The pain in his throat is unbearable.”

  “You mean a tonic?” the cook said, wiping oily hands on his apron. “Why didn’t you say so first up?”

  The cook disappeared back inside the kitchen. Odysseus slipped in after him and peered around. Torches smoked on the walls, tubs of water stacked with dirty dishes stood on the benches and a gaggle of slave girls bustled about. But where was Skotia?

  Three whole days had passed and there’d been no sign of her. Not at night, serving the meal, nor during the day. He daren’t ask where she was, in case Diomedes or Stenelos misunderstood. The last thing he wanted was for Stenelos to regret forgiving him for his so-called night of passion. And he only wanted to be sure she was safe and well.

  This was the last place left to look, the one most likely to prompt comment. At least Eury had agreed to this pretence over the tisane. He’d been upset when he’d found out about the oath Odysseus had sworn to look after Skotia, in case it interfered with getting the gold back to Ithaka. But that was nonsense – it couldn’t be a problem once they’d left Tiryns and Skotia behind. Eventually, Eury had calmed down; this morning he’d even offered to feign a cough.

  But she wasn’t here either.

  Odysseus’s stomach lurched. She had to be all right. He wandered a little further into the kitchen and was cursed by a girl staggering past with a tub.

  “Here’s your hot water.” The cook reappeared, clutching a steaming mug. “What shall I put in it?”

  “Horehound.”

  “Horehound? Eurrgh. Don’t keep muck like that here. Tastes disgusting. Ask a doctor. Come to think of it, your Egyptian gent is a doctor. Doesn’t he have a bag full of this stuff?”

  “He has none left.” At least the excuse had got him in the door. “Honey will suffice.”

  Odysseus had almost reached the portico when the horns on the battlements started wailing, a wild prolonged cry which could only mean one thing.

  Thyestes’s soldiers had finally struck.

  Within moments the fortress erupted into manic life, as though an enormous child had plunged a stick into a huge hollow tree and stirred up a hive of wild bees. The garrison came pouring out of their quarters, some strapping on their armour as they ran up the steep stairs to the parapets. Officers screamed orders while more men staggered from the storerooms, clutching bundles of spears and arrows.

  Odysseus stood transfixed, the mug forgotten in his hand. From outside the walls he could hear hoarse cheering and the thud of scaling ladders slamming against the ramparts. The first rays of sunrise blazed like fire on corselets and shields as Diomedes’s archers fired arrow after arrow down on the enemy. Beside them their comrades were lunging down with pikes to cast the ladders off. Any time now the first of the Mykenaians might reach the top of the walls. Then the real fighting would begin.

  Diomedes came hurrying past and Odysseus grabbed his arm. “Give me a sword.”

  Diomedes stared at him. “What are you doing here? Back to your room.”

  “My room? But I want to fight.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. I’ll not have you prancing about the walls so some Mykenaian can throw you down to his fellows.”

  “But–”

  “You heard me. Go to your room. Now!” Diomedes frogmarched him over to the portico and stormed off again.

  “So there you are.” Eurybates’s head appeared from behind a pillar. “Never fear, Diomedes will be far too busy to keep track of us. They’ve kept the gates open at the top of the ramp to let the townspeople in. We might be able to see something of the battle from there.”

  They forced their way out against the tide of people pouring into the citadel and stopped a short way down the ramp. Women struggled past, laden with bundles, babies slung screaming on their backs. Children wailed and dogs barked their way through everyone’s legs; goats, sheep and the odd cow bleated and bellowed, splattering dung onto the cobbles. The noise and stink were enough to curdle milk.

  Odysseus stood on tiptoe. Oh, for his father’s effortless height. “What can you see?”

  “Not much,” said Eurybates. “The outer palisades are lined with foot soldiers … maybe they haven’t readied the chariot squadrons yet … no, there’s a dust cloud heading out into the plain. I suspect they’re circling round to take the enemy in the rear. Excellent work.”

  “It would be rather more excellent if we were allowed to fight. Blast Diomedes. I’m not a child.”

  “He doesn’t want you killed.”

  “So everyone else can risk their lives while we cower in safety?”

  “Sending your corpse back to Ithaka might upset your father somewhat.”

  Odysseus gritted his teeth in frustration. Suddenly, through a gap in the crowd, a familiar face caught his eye. “Look, Eury. Over ther
e. It’s Skotia, I’m sure of it.”

  Only a few paces away a slim girl with short inky black hair was staggering along under the weight of a large sack. Odysseus fought his way to her side. “Skotia,” he exclaimed. “I’ve been searching everywhere for you.”

  She twisted her head sideways to glare at him. The right side of her face was swollen and purple with bruises, an angry cut ran along her jaw and her right eye was half-closed.

  The sight set his heart beating so fast it nearly choked him. “What have they done to you?” he blurted, grabbing her hand.

  “Get away from me, you fat ugly pig.” She spat on his feet. “You’ve brought on enough evil with your lies.”

  He let go, stunned by the hatred in her voice. In the space of a few heartbeats the surge of bodies had pushed her away from him and up the ramp.

  “So it wasn’t Skotia?” said Eurybates, dodging around a pair of goats to join him.

  “Yes, it was.” Odysseus swallowed down on the anger surging in his throat. How, when, where, who had done this? “She’s been badly beaten. I’ll kill the man responsible.”

  Eurybates flung his arms up. “We’ve other things to worry about, Olli. There’s a battle raging, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I don’t care. You know I swore to look after her.” Odysseus forced his way up through the crowd, trying to keep the sack in sight. Now there were only two people between them. Another few strides, a well-levered elbow or two and he’d catch up to her. “Skotia,” he called. “Skotia!”

  If only he could talk to her, just for one moment.

  A gloomy face, made even grimmer with the addition of a boar’s tusk helmet, thrust itself into his from the shadow of the gateway. “What in Hades are you doing here?” said Stenelos.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Odysseus hammered his fists against the door, cursing as the guards’ footsteps retreated.

  “Don’t waste your strength. They’ve bolted it.” Eurybates strode to the window, through which distant battle cries and the constant hammer of bronze on bronze could be heard reverberating across the palace rooftops.

  “This is mad,” Odysseus shouted. “Why is Diomedes humiliating us? I’ve been trained to fight since I could hold a sword.” He kicked the door hard before throwing himself down on his bed, anger and frustration at boiling point. “Why don’t you say something, Eury? Or don’t you care?”

  “Of course I care,” Eurybates cried, his face flushing red. “Do you think you’re the only one with feelings? The only one who’s been stressed to breaking point over the last couple of months? At least you’ve had your archery to distract you.”

  Odysseus had a pang of guilt that he immediately brushed aside. If Eury felt so bad, he should have said. “That’s not what I’m talking about. How can we expect our friends to risk their lives for us if we do nothing to help them?”

  “Because we’re here to carry the gold back to Ithaka. So your father can win the war. And dead men aren’t very good at walking.”

  Odysseus buried his face in his hands. Everything was going wrong. He didn’t need Eury reminding him it was over two months since their arrival in Tiryns. Worse still, it had been impossible to send a message back to Ithaka to say that they were safe, for fear it would fall into Thyestes’s hands. Perhaps his parents even thought he and Eury were dead.

  Then there was Diomedes. How many times had the commander dismissed the idea the fortress could be conquered, boasting of its superior defences? What if Tiryns was defeated and Diomedes killed? All for helping them?

  And now Skotia. Odysseus groaned. Skotia with her bruised and battered face had disappeared into the crowd as Stenelos grabbed them and marched them away. What had they done to her? How could he put it right?

  “We’re counterattacking shortly before moonrise.” Diomedes handed a wax tablet to the soldier waiting by his shoulder and started scribbling on another.

  Odysseus glanced sideways at Eurybates. They’d finally been allowed out of their room after the battle had ended. Thyestes’s men were either dead or had melted away into the countryside under the force of repeated chariot strikes. The citadel still thrummed with noise and activity, the soldiers guarding the ramparts while the townsfolk ate, drank and argued within the safety of the walls, surrounded by a surging mass of bleating, jostling animals.

  “If our beloved King Alkmaion wasn’t ‘guarding’ the coast,” said Diomedes, raising his head from his work, “we could fling these wretches into the sea. As it is, our attack tonight will give them something worth thinking about.” His face was still smeared with blood and dust after the morning battle, but his eyes were bright and the fingers of his left hand were beating a rapid pulse on the tabletop as he wrote.

  “So why have you sent for us?” Eurybates asked.

  “Are we allowed to fight after all?” Odysseus tried to keep the excitement out of his voice.

  Diomedes was scanning what he’d written. Then he pressed the seal stone hanging round his neck into the soft beeswax of the tablet. “No. The attack will be a perfect cover for your escape.”

  “Tonight?” Demons and dragons, how wonderful was that? Trying his best to control his excitement, Odysseus started mentally listing what they would need. Food, strong boots, waterskins, clothes, weapons. Thank the gods the jerkins with the gold were ready, though heavy as Sisyphus’s boulders.

  But what about Skotia? Would he have any chance to talk to Diomedes about her before they left?

  “Tonight it is,” said Diomedes.

  “What of Thyestes’s patrols?” asked Eurybates. “You think it’s safe for us to leave?”

  “Safer than at any other time,” said Diomedes. “They’ll be busy mourning their dead and preparing for our counterattack.”

  “Preparing?” Eurybates looked shocked. “Won’t the attack be a surprise?”

  “Not if the prisoners we ‘accidentally’ allowed to escape remember the information we ‘accidentally’ let slip in their hearing.” Diomedes grinned at their shocked faces. “They have the general outline – we will strike south, towards the coast – but they think it will be at dawn. They’ll find out their mistake sometime after midnight. Well before then, you’ll be heading the other way, north and west around Argos and into the mountains.”

  Late that night, Odysseus and Eurybates groped their way down the great ramp and through the deserted town to the palisade. The moon wasn’t due to rise for some time, but they had to be far away by then.

  Thanks to an afternoon’s hard work with needle, glue and walnut juice, they looked like a pair of stout, sun-beaten peasant women, with their modified wigs and headscarves, and their long, rough-spun dresses. Next to their skin they wore soft undertunics; over these came the jerkins pocketed with ingots; while over the jerkins, back and front, they’d slung waterskins along with bags stuffed with cheese, bread, almonds and dried figs, spare leather to repair their boots, and the few other items of personal gear they needed. Over this again sat the dresses, long enough to hide the hunting knives they’d strapped against their calves.

  Odysseus’s mind was still in turmoil. On his expeditions from their room to gather equipment and food, he’d searched for Stenelos and Skotia but there’d been no sign of either of them. And the guards at Diomedes’s door had seen no reason to let him enter. His failure to put things right for Skotia weighed heavier on him than anything else.

  One problem at least was about to be solved. The starlight was just bright enough to show a solitary figure waiting by the small postern gate they were to leave by. “You have everything you need?” said Stenelos. “Food, water, weapons?”

  “Yes,” said Odysseus. “I tried hard to find you earlier, to say goodbye.” Not as hard a search as he’d made for Skotia, his guilt whispered.

  “I’ve been out on patrol,” said Stenelos, “and only just come in. There’s no sign of the enemy nearby, but be careful as you approach the river. Thyestes is likely to be smuggling through reinforcements;
he’ll know by now of Diomedes’s plans, the false ones at least. You’ll need to stay alert.”

  Odysseus squeezed Stenelos’s hands. “Thank you. For everything. I’ll never forget what you’ve taught me.”

  Stenelos grunted. “I hope not. I’ve put too much hard work into you.” He picked up a bow and quiver from the ground next to him and thrust them into Odysseus’s hands. “Take these,” he said. “They were mine when I first began my training. Hardly the great bow or arrows of Eurytos, but they’ll suffice.”

  Odysseus hesitated. What peasant woman would carry a bow? But … he ran his fingers over the polished white wands of goat horn, the black rope binding of the central grip, the taut string under his thumb. Yes, he would take it. “Thank you for such an amazing gift,” he said, his throat tight with emotion. “Perhaps, someday, I will draw it as well as you.”

  Stenelos snorted. “As well? You surpassed my skills soon after you began. Did you not realise?” He gripped Odysseus’s shoulder and shook it hard. “Why do you think I took so much trouble over you?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Once outside the gate they skirted along the bank of an empty riverbed, before crossing it to take a winding path into open fields. Above them the Little Bear shone, his tail pinned by the North Star to the hub of the wheeling sky. By keeping him on their right, they would come eventually to the main river. From there they’d head north around Argos, into the mountains.

  The wheat in the fields came barely to chest height. At first they tried bending low, but the weight of the gold-filled jerkins threatened to topple them. Offering a prayer to Athena to keep them from prying eyes, they hurried on, grateful when the crops gave way to orchards. The further they went, the tighter the stillness coiled around them, as though the night was holding its breath.