The Bow

by Catherine Mayo

  Odysseus kneeled down. As the water closed over his head, his throat clenched with fear. What if he sank too deep into the mud from the weight of the gold? What if the reed wasn’t long enough? He hardly dared try the first breath. But as his lungs filled, his panic ebbed.

  The boat drew closer and the water around him glowed orange in the torchlight. He felt like a fly trapped in a drop of amber. The light intensified – the land party must have arrived. How, he thought, can they not see us? Then their spears will come punching through the water, bronze grating on bone, the water clouding with blood, my blood …

  Then the light faded and the chunk of oars receded. He heaved himself up off his knees. “The water was lit up like day,” he whispered to the others as they surfaced. “We must have been so obvious.”

  Eurybates shook his head. “Imagine you’re in the boat. And you’re facing the torches up on the bank. What would you see?”

  “Torchlight reflecting off the surface of the water?”

  “And the same for the men on the shore.” Eurybates laughed quietly. “By doubling up their search, they were being too thorough by half.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The crash and hiss of surf echoed over the boulder bank. Odysseus could hear Skotia’s teeth chattering, from nerves or cold he couldn’t tell. He shifted uncomfortably on the hard shingle. Eury had insisted on doing the scouting and he’d been gone a while.

  What were they going to do with Skotia? How long would the chase continue? Would she be safe if they left her, say, at the far end of the beach? Or somewhere in the mountains? Maybe, and his heart leaped at the thought, maybe they could take her home to Arkadia. If her family was still there.

  Or she could come with them to Ithaka. It was obvious she’d escaped from Tiryns – what other explanation could there be? But Father might not want to harbour a runaway slave, especially one owned by his old friend’s son Diomedes. No, Arkadia was the best idea.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the rattle of stones. “There are soldiers round a fire at the river mouth,” Eurybates trilled in his ear.

  “What are they doing?” Odysseus warbled back. How long could they keep these women’s voices up? Which of them would forget first?

  “They’re jabbering away. About us, I expect.”

  “How do we get past them?”

  “No idea. There are fires along the beach too, and sentries on the boulder bank.”

  Poseidon! “Anything else?” Odysseus replied.

  “There’s another boat drawn up on the riverbank.”

  “Do you think they’ve been using it to search round the river mouth?” Skotia asked, her voice nervous in the darkness.

  “Probably. The seats and bottom boards are wet,” Eurybates replied. “I thought we could steal it.”

  “And then what?” Odysseus snorted. “You wave to them while we row past?”

  Eurybates paused. “We’re in this mess together. Why don’t you come and have a look?”

  It took forever to creep over the ridge and down to the river’s edge. Every time a stone clattered underfoot they froze, but the roar of the surf must have been loud enough to drown out any noise they made. At last they reached the boat, half drawn up out of the water and with a hemp rope running from the bow to a large lump of driftwood.

  “There are two sets of oars,” whispered Eurybates.

  Odysseus shook his head. “No. It has to look like the boat’s broken loose.”

  “Damn.” Eurybates lapsed into silence.

  “Wait,” said Odysseus, his eyes straining to see past the firelight. “How far does that spit run out into the sea? We could wade–”

  “With the boat between us and them–”

  “–they’ll be blinded by the firelight–”

  “–then we climb in the boat once we’re out far enough–”

  “–and row away.” Odysseus clapped Eurybates on the shoulder.

  “I told you it was a good idea.”

  “Won’t they see our hands?” asked Skotia.

  “How else can we hold on?” said Eurybates.

  “We could run that rope round the outside of the boat to the stern post, and hang on to that,” Odysseus said. “The rope will pull on the prow and stern, so the boat doesn’t tip sideways.” He grinned. “Just as well you have me here to think of everything.”

  Eurybates untied the rope from a lump of driftwood and secured the free end to the sternpost. Then the three of them lifted the boat clear of the shingle and eased it into the water.

  The bank shelved steeply, the loose pebbles tumbling away beneath their feet. For a heart-stopping moment Odysseus was out of his depth, the weight of the gold dragging him down. Somehow he grabbed the rope, his feet finding bottom again as Eurybates pushed the boat back into shallower water.

  As they reached the heel of the spit, a spew of waves threw them all off their feet. Odysseus came to the surface as Skotia emerged, spluttering beside him, choking as another roller crashed over their heads.

  Over the roar of water, Odysseus heard men shouting. The soldiers must have seen the boat.

  They struggled on blindly, hands clenched on the rope and faces hammered into the planks as the boat bucked like an unbroken horse. As soon as he dared, Odysseus peered round the stern. What he saw set him laughing till the next wave smacked him into the side.

  “What’s so funny?” gasped Eurybates, spitting out a mouthful of water.

  “They’re fighting.” Odysseus craned his head round again. “Two of them are shoving another soldier about. Maybe he’s the one who tied up the boat … now they’re pushing him into the sea. Presumably to retrieve it. Full armour … oh dear, he’s been dumped by a wave. No, he’s up … down again … here come the rest of them … but they daren’t wade in too far. They’re all standing round thigh-deep and arguing.” He threw his head back, crowing with delight. “I think we’ve outwitted them.”

  “Very good. Now, can you help push instead of laughing your widdler off?”

  Drenched and exhausted, they paused near the end of the spit, the fire a distant glare half-blotted out by tossing waves. Close by, the spume eased into inky black water. Odysseus and Eurybates heaved themselves into the pitching boat, then hauled Skotia in after them and planted her, wet and shaking, in the stern.

  “Who’s going to row?” asked Eurybates.

  “Both of us.”

  “And where are we going?”

  “West side of the bay,” said Odysseus. “There’s a decent-sized river that should take us a fair way into the mountains.”

  “What will we do with the boat?”

  “A sharp customer like you might want to carry it inland. You never know when it might come in handy. But I suggest we sink it.”

  It seemed like forever before the shore loomed out of the darkness and the prow grated on shingle. They scrambled out and the two men – by now Skotia was certain they were men – pushed the boat back into shoulder-deep water. She held the prow for them while they piled boulder after boulder from the stony beach onto the floorboards, then helped heave on the gunwales to send the boat to the bottom.

  A quarter moon was creeping over the far hills. And there it was, the final clue in the puzzle. Spies, she’d thought they must be. Why else would they be wandering around dressed as women? They’d seemed so pleased with themselves, with their silly voices and all.

  But now, with the moon up, she could see the short one’s hands – unusually long-fingered hands with broad palms. She’d know them anywhere. The Cypriot. That hideous fat boy who’d betrayed her.

  Traitor, liar, cheat!

  She wanted to scream in his face as he came wading ashore, but fear choked back her words. He was armed – she’d given him back that knife, damn it – and she couldn’t trust what he might do.

  Her stomach groaned with hunger. Better go with them for now, pretend she was still fooled, and steal some food while they slept. And the knife. Then she’d make off on her own.r />
  They were having another argument in that funny language. Then the priest – it had to be him – flung his arms in the air and stomped off up the beach, with the boy beckoning her to follow.

  Nothing more was said as they trudged through fields towards a steep-sided valley. A narrow road hugged the riverbank, but the boy announced they’d be safer away from it. Across a dry riverbed they duly went and angled up the far hillside, Skotia fighting for breath and the other two panting even harder.

  At last they came across a sheep track, cluttered with jagged rocks that tore at her soft, soaking-wet shoes and bit into the soles of her feet. Soon the pain was so bad she had to bite her lip to stop herself crying out. She limped on as best she could as the men in their thick boots drew away. She glanced up, caught her toe on a half-concealed boulder and fell.

  They hurried back to her. “What now?” said the priest.

  “My feet,” she muttered, her mind in a tumble.

  “Show me.” The Cypriot crouched on the path and ran his hands over her soles. “Blood,” he said, sniffing at the smears on his fingers. “Why didn’t you say before?”

  “I didn’t want to hold you up.”

  “Well, you will now.”

  The priest had turned away, arms folded across his chest. He doesn’t like the Cypriot either, she thought. The boy clambered to his feet and the two of them started bickering again. Then the priest disappeared up the track.

  “Where’s he gone?” she said, trying to keep the panic from her voice.

  “Searching for a hiding place. We’d hoped to be a lot further inland by morning.” The boy pulled out his knife.

  Skotia’s heart leaped into her mouth. Was he going to kill her? She closed her fists round a couple of stones. Let him try.

  He gave her an angry look. “I’m going to bandage your feet,” he said. He untied the scarf from his head and sliced off a couple of strips.

  He’d hardly finished when the priest reappeared. “There’s a disused hut not far up the hill,” he said, catching his breath. “The roof’s half fallen in – no one’s been there for ages. Here.” He handed Skotia a couple of stout sticks. “These might help.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled back at him, her heart warming at his unexpected kindness.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  When Skotia woke, the sun was high. She looked around, getting her bearings. This end of the hut was stippled with sunlight that fingered its way through chinks in the rough stone walls, but the other end was dark, choked with beams from the collapsing roof. The straw she lay on rustled with insect life and a line of ants straggled across the dirt floor to the doorway.

  Outside, in a walled yard, a jumble of things had been laid out to dry. What she took, at a first shocked glance, to be a pair of severed heads turned out to be two wigs perched on a couple of rocks.

  Her tunic was clammy with sea salt, the bruises on her face were still tender and her feet hurt, but not as badly as before. Once they’d reached the hut and had something to eat, the boy had smeared ointment on the cuts and re-bandaged them. She’d slept like the dead ever since.

  So much for her plan to rob them during the night.

  And yet, there was the food, spread in the sun, and no sign of anyone near. She crawled to the door.

  Two voices she didn’t recognise were talking softly, just outside the single gap in the stone wall. Who were they? And where were the priest and his horrid servant?

  One voice had a reedy, insistent tone; the other sounded resonant and musical. She crept close enough to hear what they were saying.

  “We must get rid of her,” said the reedy voice. “Her feet are too badly cut, Olli. We have to move fast – there’s so much at stake.”

  “I know, Eury. But we can’t,” replied the musical voice. “We rescued her. It’s our sacred duty to look after her.”

  “Have you forgotten Laertes, the war, the gold? They come before everything else.”

  She didn’t understand that last bit, but the cut feet and the rescue were clear enough … Skotia edged back inside the hut, her heart pounding.

  It was the two from last night. They knew all about her. Who were they? Not Egyptian or Cypriot. Their accents, now they thought no one was listening, were like Lord Diomedes’s. Upper class.

  Had Diomedes known about them? Or had they fled Tiryns because they’d been found out?

  Why had they rescued her? She rubbed her temples, her head aching. The one with the musical voice – Olli, the other one had called him – must be the tall man. Maybe he was a priest, only not an Egyptian one. That’s why he’d talked about a “sacred duty”.

  So the one with the reedy voice, Eury, was the short boy, the fake Cypriot – the fat, oily slob who’d betrayed her. Get rid of her? So he did want to kill her. He’d just lost his nerve last night.

  They’d stopped talking. Footsteps came crunching across the gravel.

  Where could she hide? Nowhere. She only had time to press her back against the wall before the fat boy blocked the door. He’d put on one of the wigs – he must imagine she still thought he was a woman. Idiot.

  He stepped inside, holding something. “I’ve made you new shoes,” he said, in that high warble.

  She nodded, her mind racing. There wasn’t room to dodge past him. Maybe she should pretend to try on these shoes with their dangling leather laces – out in the yard, that was it. If she could reach Olli, she’d be safe.

  “I used yours as a pattern,” he said. “I’ve allowed extra room for the bandages.”

  She laced them tight and stood up. The pain wasn’t so bad. She took a couple of steps, the door almost within reach.

  “They fit well,” he said, leaning an arm across the doorway. “And they’re much better than your old ones.”

  “You bastard.” She swung on him in a flash of rage. Her father had made them, a special gift. She’d hardly ever worn them except on feast days but she’d put them on to go with her mother to market, feeling so grand when all the other children had bare feet. And now this arrogant little creep … “You can stop talking in that stupid way,” she cried. “I know you’re not a woman!” She clapped her hands over her mouth. She still had to get past him and out the door. Fool, fool, fool.

  For some reason he was laughing. “I wondered when you’d work that out,” he said, dropping the pitch of his voice. He pulled the wig off; his hair underneath was short and curly and a blazing red colour. “It’s too hot for that ghastly thing anyway.”

  “And you’re not a Cypriot either.” She stopped dead as the full truth dawned. His voice wasn’t reedy; it was warm and musical. Olli’s voice. Which meant the tall man was Eury – the one who’d just said he wanted to kill her. Neither of them, neither of them could be trusted. She glared at the boy to hide her fear.

  “Cypriot?” The boy’s eyes widened. “Ah. I see.” He smiled cautiously. “Well, no. At least I’m not fat.” He patted his stomach, which did seem flatter under the dress.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “No.” He reached out to touch her hand and blushed when she pulled away. “I know you didn’t like me very much. Don’t worry, we are going to take care of you.”

  She felt her pulse beat in her temples. “Eury wants to kill me.” She jerked her head towards the gap in the wall.

  The boy looked shocked. “Last night, well, Eury was so angry – with me, not you–”

  “So why kill me?”

  “Not kill. But we have to get away; you don’t need to know why.” The boy grimaced. “Eury wanted to stop you following us. It was your scent the dogs followed.”

  She stuck her jaw out. “Comes to the same thing.”

  “That’s what I told him. You have to understand he was panicking, we both were; everything was going wrong.” He glanced over to the gate. “He doesn’t want to, now.”

  “Really? ‘Get rid of’. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He wants to leave you here,” he said, “with so
me food, while we go on.”

  She searched his face for the lie, but to her surprise he looked like he might be telling the truth. And wasn’t this exactly what she’d been planning? “That’s a good idea,” she said, hazarding a smile.

  “Not if we’re being followed.” He gestured at her feet. “They’ll catch you for sure.”

  She brushed her hair back from her eyes. “Why would they follow us up here? We’re not that important, surely?”

  The boy frowned. “I suspect one of the men we killed was. So important, the men chasing us didn’t care about Diomedes’s counterattack.”

  “What counterattack?”

  “Just listen.” The boy sucked his breath in through his teeth. “The man I shot first was wearing bronze armour. And he had a gold pendant round his neck.”

  Skotia shrugged. “So? He’s rich, that’s all.”

  “Can you remember them calling him anything?”

  There had been a name. She stood silent, searching her memory. “Heke-something?” she ventured at last.

  “Not Heketas?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?” The boy groaned. “Oh gods. Heketas is the name they use for Thyestes’s top commanders. That man must have been sent at the last minute to take command.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Which means they’ll not stop searching for us till they have our corpses strung from the battlements of Mykenai.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The boy’s eyebrows furrowed in thought. “The further we keep from any roads, the better.”

  “But they don’t know we’re here. We sunk the boat.”

  “They’ll have guessed who stole it. When they do find it, they’ll search this whole area.” His voice dropped. “Let’s pray they don’t bring their dogs.”

  Skotia shivered. “Yes.”

  He gave her a smile that threatened to twist into something else. “At least you know you can trust me now–”

  “Trust?” she shouted, her anger flaring white-hot. “I’ll go with you – I don’t have much choice – but I don’t trust you, not after you betrayed me.”