The Bow

by Catherine Mayo

Skotia peered yet again from the doorway of the small hut she’d stumbled across as the night drew in. There’d been people here very recently but, she argued with herself, they’d be back by now if they were going to return. Maybe today’s attack on Tiryns had scared them off.

  The dark beyond the small clearing had settled into an uneasy hush. She closed the door and added another branch to the fire she’d coaxed out of the warm coals in the hearth. She’d been lucky to find a handful of barley meal and now, with a bit of water from a jar by the door, she was making porridge. Her stomach growled. In the confusion of the attack this morning she’d been given nothing to eat.

  She sat back on her heels. She’d escaped! Tonight she’d sleep, not exactly safe, but free. Free of Tiryns, free of Lord Diomedes, free above all of Meskes.

  The porter had been hanging round the barracks each day, watching her while she scraped muck off the logs positioned over the latrine buckets, before heaving the buckets with their stomach-churning contents to the cart by the gate. Four hundred men used the latrines, and if their aim with a spear was as bad, Tiryns was doomed.

  She’d look up, her hands smeared with filth, and see Meskes leaning against a wall, gloating over the fate Lord Diomedes had chosen for her. She’d trusted the commander, worked hard for him. And now … she stirred the thickening porridge. That revolting Cypriot boy, it was all his fault. He’d conned her into trusting him. What a fool she’d been.

  Last night some soldiers had beaten her till she couldn’t stand. Meskes had told them she’d stolen a ladle from the mess hall. She hadn’t, but they didn’t care to listen. He’d watched the beating, laughing every time she cried out. And as she lay on the ground after, he’d bent down. “This is only the start,” he’d whispered in her ear.

  She had spent the rest of the night stiff with fear, her mind scrambling for a way to escape. And this morning Demeter had heard her, sending the enemy to scale the walls and giving her this chance. After the battle, she and some other girls had been rounded up to strip the enemy corpses of their armour and carry them out beyond the main palisade gate. It had been so easy to give their guards the slip.

  She lifted up a corner of the shawl round her shoulders, working the cloth between her fingers to free the scent. One of the girls in her old room had it hidden under a mattress. It had been simple enough to steal in there during the attack, and find it.

  It still held the lingering scent of the wild sage her father had rubbed it with the day she’d finished making it. And, holding the cloth to her nose, she could hear his voice and see his eyes smiling at her. “A fine piece of work,” he’d said. “I have a daughter to be proud of.”

  Eurybates stopped. “What was that?” he whispered, gesturing into the darkness to their left.

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “It sounded like a twig snapping. I don’t like this.”

  Odysseus hitched the quiver more securely onto his shoulder. “Stenelos was right. We’re not the only ones about.”

  “We’re bound to cross paths with Thyestes’s men.” Eurybates sounded even more nervous than Odysseus felt.

  “It’d be more dangerous going south,” Odysseus whispered back. “And east takes us in totally the wrong direction.”

  “But if we went east, made for the Saronic Gulf, we could pick up a ship and–”

  “Listen!” Odysseus grabbed Eurybates’s arm. “It’s that noise. Again.”

  A sharp cracking sound sent Skotia’s heart into her mouth.

  She listened, every muscle tensed. Nothing.

  Silly. The night was full of noises – she remembered how, at home, the animals had moved around outside, how the hut had creaked as the night cooled.

  Then another crack, closer this time, and men’s voices, just outside the door. Her hands fluttered over the fire, as though to hide it from sight.

  The door burst open with a screech of shattering timbers, and she screamed as the soldiers grabbed at her. She kicked the pot and the burning branches at them, biting and tearing with her fingernails, her voice babbling for mercy as they dragged her out of the hut, the flames from the scattered fire licking up the brushwood walls and lighting their hungry faces. She knew what ugliness they would do to her. Death would be the kindest part. She screamed again, unable to stop herself.

  The sound of breaking timber split the silence, followed by a rending scream. Then Odysseus heard a girl’s voice, pleading. Another scream, shocking in its intensity. A small copse took shape in the blackness ahead, the trees silhouetted against a dull red glow that unfurled like a rose and flared into fury.

  “Quick!” Odysseus started towards the fire, cursing the weight of the gold.

  Eurybates staggered after him and seized him by the shoulder. “No,” he said, trying to keep his voice down. “Don’t be stupid. We can’t get involved. We’re trying to escape.”

  “I don’t care. I’m not letting them kill a young girl.” Odysseus wrenched himself free. “I’ll shoot. You grab her.”

  There were five of them, tossing her from one to another, throwing her down, daring her to scramble up and make a run for it. Skotia choked for breath as a well-aimed boot to her stomach drove the air out of her lungs. Her eyes were streaming from the smoke and the dust and she tried to wipe the tears away in case they thought she was crying. Whatever they did to her, she’d never give them that pleasure.

  “Hey, Heketas,” one of them called as he picked her up again and hurled her across the clearing.

  And now the tall one had her. His fingers crushed her throat as he pulled up his tunic with his free hand. His head was thrown back in laughter, a gold pendant gleaming on his bronze-clad chest.

  An arrow slammed through his neck, the feathers as red as the blood that spouted from his mouth. His fingers sagged open and Skotia fell to the ground. Before she could roll away, another soldier came crashing down, pinning her to the dirt of the farmyard.

  Shouts, shrieks, the man on top of her thrashing about.

  Then silence.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Someone heaved the soldier off.

  A dark-faced woman was stooped over her, coarse black hair straggling from a headscarf. “Get up,” the woman said, in a funny, high-pitched voice.

  Skotia scrambled to her feet. The smoke clawed at her throat and she staggered, coughing, towards the edge of the clearing.

  “Look out!” another voice yelled.

  The woman jerked her to one side as an arrow whistled past. Skotia slewed her head round in time to see a soldier blunder off through the trees, a feathered shaft sticking out of his shoulder. A second arrow thudded into a tree trunk as he disappeared.

  “I thought he was dead,” exclaimed the woman.

  “Feigning. He was about to knife you.” Another brown-faced woman, shorter and stockier than the first, had a bow half-drawn and an arrow notched. The woman was staring at her, as though at a ghost. Then she lowered the bow and thrust the arrow back into its quiver. “How fast can you run?” the woman asked, hitching her dress up through her belt. Her voice was odd too. All high and warbly.

  “I was the fastest in my village,” Skotia replied.

  “Good. Come on.” The woman turned and lumbered off along the path. So much for speed.

  The hut was well ablaze now, the leaping flames lighting the way ahead. Skotia was half out of breath by the time they were through the orchard beyond – after two years of slavery her legs weren’t used to running. Just as well the two women were so fat. By now they were panting hard.

  They’d gone a fair way when the track divided. “North,” she heard one of them shout, and they swerved right. Then the short woman stopped so suddenly, Skotia barrelled into her.

  “Sorry–”

  “Hush.” The short woman held up her hand. “Dogs.”

  In the distance, far beyond the fire, came the sound of barking.

  “You should have killed that soldier,” the tall woman muttered. “The one who got away.�
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  “You were in the way,” the short one snapped back. “Did you want me to shoot you instead?” She turned to Skotia. “Have you left anything behind?”

  Skotia’s mind went blank. Then she clutched at her neck. “My shawl,” she gasped. “It must’ve fallen off.”

  The two women looked at each other.

  “On the ground,” the tall one said. “Near the door. I didn’t think of it. Everything happened too fast.”

  “We can’t go back.” The short one swore under her breath.

  “I can make another,” said Skotia. Why the fuss?

  “They’ll give it to the dogs to sniff,” the short woman replied in that odd high voice. “Then they can follow your scent.”

  The tall woman started arguing in some strange language, jabbing the short one in the chest with a finger. Skotia listened, open-mouthed. Where did these two come from, with their badly made dresses and strange hair? Were they even women?

  “No. Never,” the short one butted in. “We’ll head for the river,” she said angrily. “The dogs can’t smell us once we’re in the water.”

  Back they went to the fork and along the other path. When it too twisted north, they forced their way through a field high with crops, pushed through some reeds and stumbled onto the dry rock bed of a river.

  “Where’s the water?” the short one exclaimed, clattering about on the boulders. “There was plenty when we came across from Argos.”

  “It’s summer, you idiot,” said the tall one.

  The short one scratched her head. Or his head. More and more, Skotia was starting to think these two might be men. “Look, as far as I can see,” she – or he – went on, “we’ve three alternatives. Keep to the riverbed and hope we find water soon; find a track to take us to the sea; or try to reach that lake, the one between Argos and the coast. We can lose the scent there.”

  “These boulders will be lethal in the dark,” said the tall one. “Twist an ankle and we’re done for. And I doubt there’ll be any water till the river reaches the sea. If we find a track, others will be using it too.”

  “So it’s the lake. I’m guessing it’s about ten, fifteen stadia away. There’s bound to be a way around the edge. We can follow it to the sea; if we keep to the shallows we can wade along the beach almost to the edge of the plain.”

  Skotia felt even more uneasy than before. There was something horribly familiar about the know-all way the short one spoke … and that voice was so weird. Definitely not a woman’s voice. So what was he? Not a peasant, that was for sure.

  Chapter Twenty

  Odysseus felt his foot catch on something. For three lurching paces he thought he would fall. The others were too far ahead to help, and the baying of the dogs sounded closer than ever.

  By some miracle he kept his feet under him and struggled on. The lake couldn’t be far now. Everything hurt: knees, back, shoulders. His throat burned, his eyes stung with sweat. The weight of the gold was so jarring, it made his teeth rattle.

  Where was the lake? Had they even come the right way? The men behind him were shouting now, their voices high and eager for the kill … and yet, and yet … was he imagining it or was the ground softer at last?

  A tall figure loomed up in front of him and he swerved in panic. Then Eury had him by the elbow and they blundered on together as tangled dry grass gave way to mush and reeds and water.

  “Don’t stop,” Eurybates gasped as Odysseus slowed enough to clutch his sides. “We’re heading to our left, isn’t that it? So the lake edge can lead us towards the river and the sea?”

  “No. Give me a moment.”

  “We don’t have a moment.”

  “Let me think. How far out do these reeds go?”

  “I don’t know. Come on.”

  “Far enough, if the gods are kind.” Odysseus pulled himself straight. “We’ll go right.”

  “No, that’s away from the river–”

  “– out to the edge of the reeds and double back once the dogs have lost our trail.” Odysseus looked around. “Where’s that girl?”

  “Here.” Skotia appeared, black against the darkness.

  Odysseus hitched his dress even higher and waded into the rushes.

  Now they had reached the lake, his thoughts were floundering round like fish in a bucket. Those bold plans they’d made in Tiryns had unravelled so fast, he’d had no time to do more than react.

  He’d just killed four men. In cold blood. It had been a stupendous feat to pull off. Technically. An archer against several armed men at close quarters usually had no chance after the first arrow. Before he could notch another, they’d be on him, hack him to pieces. Stenelos’s training alone had given him the speed.

  But now he’d started to feel sick, just as he had after the sea battle last year. Each of these men was someone’s son or husband or father. Some small child would be waiting at home, crying when he didn’t return. Ever.

  Yes, they would have killed him and Eury. But only because Thyestes ordered them to fight. Odysseus fought back his nausea. Could he have managed things differently? Then he remembered what the men were going to do to Skotia and his anger overwhelmed all his remorse. It didn’t matter who she was or how she’d got there; he hadn’t known it was Skotia till afterwards. He didn’t need Eury to tell him how much more danger he’d put them in. He knew they had to get the gold back to Ithaka – he wasn’t a complete cretin.

  Eury had wanted to tie her up and leave her behind. He can’t have meant it – fear must have usurped his tongue. That had led to another furious argument over the oath he, Odysseus, had made to Skotia – how he’d sworn by Athena and Demeter to look after her. How could he possibly have known this would happen? Perhaps it was the gods themselves who had led them to Skotia, to save her.

  As for their disguise, Skotia couldn’t have seen through it yet. It was too dangerous to tell her who they really were, both for her and for them – he agreed with Eury on that.

  He tried to jam a wet hank of hair back under the sodden headscarf. And this stupid dress was tangled round his thighs. Concentrate, he told himself; you can worry about all of that later.

  The dogs had reached the place where they’d first pushed into the reeds, following them westwards but on firmer ground, with the men shouting encouragement.

  Eurybates tugged at his shoulder. “How much further?” he whispered. “Shouldn’t we–”

  “I know, I know.” Odysseus replied, remembering just in time to use that silly women’s voice. Eury was right – they’d gone far enough. He turned to his left, waded out till the water was almost up to his chin and turned left again to work back, inside the outer edge of the reeds. Now the water was deeper, he had to be incredibly careful. The gold was so heavy – one false step and he’d slide out of his depth, with little chance of struggling back again. After a while he stopped to listen, the other two close beside him, as the sound of the pursuit grew fainter.

  “I think we’ve done it,” Eurybates whispered. “They’ve kept on north-westwards.”

  “Sshh!” Odysseus froze as pounding footsteps approached, a single runner on the solid ground back from the reeds. Then the man had passed, heading south-east towards the river.

  They struggled on. The starlight was too faint to allow anything but a glimpse of open water whenever a small gap appeared in the reeds. Beyond that Odysseus knew the lake must stretch south till it butted up against the broad shingle bank that backed the beach on this side of the river.

  Suddenly the darkness ahead began to glow.

  “At least they’re still heading in the wrong direction,” Odysseus murmured.

  As if in answer, an orange light winked in the darkness far ahead, then another, and another.

  Eurybates clutched his shoulder. “They’re dragging a boat across from the river mouth. Listen.”

  Odysseus could hear it, a faint, grating noise just distinguishable over the distant roar of the sea. Then a splash and the steady chunk of oars. Ribbon
s of light twisted across the lake towards them.

  “What now?” said Eurybates.

  “Duck below the surface when they come past?”

  “What if we can’t hold our breath that long?”

  Odysseus paused. “Are you suggesting we hide on the bank instead?”

  “No. Look. Behind you.”

  The torch bearers were returning and by the slowness of their progress they were searching the bank more thoroughly than before.

  Eurybates groaned. “We’re done for.”

  Skotia grabbed Odysseus’s sleeve. “Horsetails,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Horsetails,” she insisted. “They’re rushes with a hollow stem. My father showed me them. And–”

  “Of course. Breathing tubes.”

  “There were some not far back.”

  “Can you find them? Here.” Odysseus gave her his hunting knife. “But be quick.”

  There was a swish of water, then a long pause punctuated by the approaching plash of oars and the voices of the searchers on the bank. At last Skotia reappeared. “Got them,” she whispered.

  “I’ll cut them to length.”

  “I’ve done it already.” Skotia tugged at Odysseus’s sleeve. “That last open bit of water we passed, it’s shallower. I kneeled in it and the water was just over my head.”

  “No. Let’s wade out further,” whispered Eurybates.

  “And get hit on the head by an oar?” Odysseus replied. “Or drown? No, she’s right.”

  Skotia led them back. “Here,” she said, passing over two rough-skinned stems. “I reckon it’ll take both hands. One to squeeze your nose shut and the other to hold the tube upright. You tilt your head back, like this.” She demonstrated.

  “Like some dumb marsh bird,” Eurybates muttered.

  “No one cares what you look like,” said Odysseus. “Here, take the quiver.”

  “What do I do with this? Throw it at them?”

  “Very funny. Put it under your legs to stop it floating. I’ve got the bow to worry about.”