“How do you know this?”
“She married my brother while he was soldiering up north and came home with him to Pylos, not two days south of here. But for years her womb lay empty.”
“And then?” Odysseus felt his heart twist as he guessed the answer.
“And then she fell pregnant. But the birthing was hard and long and both she and her boy child were so unwell, she begged us send word. It seems the old man set out from Thessaly at once with the bow. Perhaps he thought if he laid it beside the babe, it would give the child strength.” Arion stopped, his face twisting into a grimace.
“Too late?”
Arion nodded. “The wee mite died four days ago and his mother turned her face to the wall. She barely survived him by a night. My brother is beside himself, so I set out with the news as soon as we had buried them. I got here just after dawn, to find Iphitos about to leave.”
“At dawn?” said Odysseus frowning. “That’s a strange time to arrive anywhere.”
“Not at midsummer, lad. With this full moon, I can travel faster at night by avoiding the heat of the day.”
Dangerous, maybe, though worth the risk if Arion was in a hurry. “And now?”
“No idea. Iphitos can’t think, he’s so overwhelmed.”
Odysseus made soothing noises, his thoughts racing. Iphitos’s tragedy might give him just the chance he needed. And yet, how could he take advantage of it, when the old man was already faced with such a terrible loss?
He straightened his shoulders. With his own life at stake, he couldn’t afford scruples.
Skotia sank onto a bank by the side of the road. “Aunt Danae,” she called. “We need to talk.” She rubbed her temples with a dust-gritty finger, trying to massage away her headache. All morning she’d dragged her feet from one step to the next. It was like those nightmares where you had to run but your legs wouldn’t move.
Aunt Danae turned round, Demeter’s bow swinging at her back. “It’s almost noon. We need to reach the trees by the river crossing before the heat devours us.”
“I must go back.”
“What? Are you fancying yourself in love with this boy after all?” Danae dumped herself down on the bank beside Skotia. “He can summon up a good argument in his defence, I grant you. But the sooner we’re home, the better you’ll feel.”
“No.” Skotia stared at her knees. “I’m not in love with him – that’s not the problem. You heard the way he talked. I don’t think he took the dream seriously enough.”
“He recognised the bow; the real bow.”
“But he was taking it so calmly – he was too interested in me to bother with the rest.”
“What can you do, more than you have?”
“I don’t know.” Skotia stood up. “I’m going back.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“I’ll go by myself then.”
Danae sighed. “If you must, you must. I’ll wait for you by the river.”
Odysseus woke up with a start. He’d only meant to take a short rest, yet from the angle of the sun through the shutters, it was after midday. He lay quiet for a short while, letting the events of the morning regather in his mind.
The old man had gone to his room, still clutching the bow case. A gaggle of women had followed him in, besieging him with concern. Odysseus had considered disguising himself as a maid servant and stealing the bow from under their noses. Fortunately common sense won out. Those women would be keeping a very sharp eye on anyone who invaded their arena of duty.
Far better to wait till they had left. And now, judging from the stillness of the house, that time had come.
Menelaos was still fast asleep, but as Odysseus swung his legs out of the bed, Argos stirred from his place at the door and came over to nuzzle his knee. “Well, boy,” Odysseus whispered, “let’s go down and see what we can see.”
To his dismay a murmur from within Iphitos’s room showed the old man was not alone. Suddenly, the voices grew louder, the door flew open and Arion came striding out.
Odysseus hurried after him. “How is Iphitos now?” he asked.
Arion shot him a furious glance. “I fear his wits are in danger, rather than his heart.”
“Why?”
“Why indeed? The old fool has decided this tragedy is a sign. He thinks fate is telling him to put the great bow to contest.”
“Contest?” Odysseus could barely keep the excitement from his voice. It was unbelievable, perfect. “When?”
“Tonight.” The man pulled a face. “As if any weakling here will be strong enough to claim it.”
“And you?”
The man straightened his shoulders. “We are still family, even though we may not be blood. By rights it should go to my brother.”
And to you, Odysseus thought. But not if I can help it.
Chapter Fifty-one
From where he sat, Odysseus could survey all the men and women packing the banqueting hall. The meal was almost finished and two hired acrobats were leaping about as the guests settled to their wine. Were there a few familiar faces from his dream? Hard to say.
He’d been feeling nauseous all evening. Nerves? Fear? He wiped his sweating palms on his tunic and picked up his cup to sniff the dregs. The wine was getting stronger.
He glanced sideways at the servant with the mixing bowl. By custom the man should be adding more water as the evening wore on. He’d just poured in another amphora of wine. Now he’d picked up the water pitcher. And put it straight down again without adding a drop.
Was that a wink? To whom? Odysseus’s fists clenched. It had to be Arion, the scoundrel – he’d just turned his head away.
So. Odysseus smiled to himself. Arion’s schemes weren’t going to affect him. Good manners at any feast demanded a lot of drinking, so he’d hatched a plan with Menelaos. Menelaos had been enthusiastic about his part. A little too enthusiastic, as it was turning out.
The servant strolled over and refilled Odysseus’s cup. It wasn’t long before the next distraction came, a clumsy leap by one of the acrobats which capsized a table amid a roar of ribald laughter. Odysseus slid his full cup over to Menelaos and retrieved an empty one in return, made a show of gulping the non-existent contents and dumped it down on the table.
The servant came forwards and filled the cup yet again. Odysseus had lifted it to his lips as if to drink when Menelaos grabbed his arm, sending wine sloshing onto the table.
“Look, Olli. Over by th’ door,” Menelaos said. “It’s her. An’ she’s with her father. Whad luck.” He started to his feet.
Odysseus pulled him down. “Maybe he’s her husband.”
“Don’ be stupid.” Menelaos rolled his eyes. “He’s ancient.”
Thirty, Odysseus thought. At the most. The girl was blond and pretty, in a plump-cheeked way, and giving the man a sly smile no daughter would ever give her father. “They’re definitely married,” he whispered in Menelaos’s ear.
“Nah. Never.” Menelaos grinned, his teeth stained with wine. “She’s … oops.” He hid a burp behind his hand. “Sorry. Isn’t she beautiful? See how she’s blushing? Prob’ly never ever been kissed.”
So Menelaos hadn’t gone past looking last night, in the swaying, smoke-laden light of Demeter’s fire. Well, there was no harm in humouring him, for the time being. “Now they’re here,” said Odysseus, “I can find out his name and visit him tomorrow for you.”
“I’ll come too.”
“No. Even a labourer doesn’t make his own marriage petition. What shall I take as a present?”
Menelaos screwed his face up. “There’s my sword, I s’pose.”
“You can’t woo a girl with a sword.”
“It’s a damn good sword.”
“I’m sure it is. But she’ll want something pretty. Jewellery. Or perfumed oil. And what about the bride gifts? I’ll have to mention them at least.”
“Don’ worry. Agamemnon’ll come up with something.”
Odysseus hid a smile. Agamemnon was empire rich in pri
de, but as threadbare in worldly goods as his brother.
“Anyway, she loves me.” Menelaos traced a fingertip through the spilled wine. “That’s enough.”
The crowd was growing hectic but still Iphitos sat on. Had Arion been lying about the contest? The rumour of it had spread like a brush fire on a summer’s afternoon but there had been no formal announcement. At last the muleteer came over to murmur in Iphitos’s ear. Iphitos whispered in turn to his host.
Ortilochos rose and clapped his hands. “Fellow Messenians,” he called over the patchy silence that followed. “My honoured guest Iphitos tells me the axes have been set up in the courtyard and the great bow of Eurytos is waiting to be strung. The man who strings the bow and fires an arrow clean through the crossed axes will win bow, axes, arrows and eternal glory.”
Outside, the courtyard was lit up like day. The outer walls were lined with torches, and from the east the full moon peered down. Odysseus twisted his fingers through Argos’s collar, his stomach tight with fear. He had to win this contest. Did he have the strength, the skill? Would Stenelos’s training be enough? “We’ll take a closer look,” he said to Menelaos.
They pushed their way through to the clear space where a row of double axes, crossed in pairs, stretched across the courtyard. The base of their shafts rested on the stony ground in such a way that each pair of axes looked like a man’s legs straddled apart. A straw target had been propped against the wall beyond.
Odysseus stared in amazement. All his life he’d imagined these axes to be mighty weapons, such as a warrior would wield in battle. But the double-bladed heads were surprisingly small and the axe shafts, though unusually long in proportion, were too slender for war. Perhaps Eurytos had had them made for this very purpose.
How did the crossed axe heads stay in place? Odysseus edged closer. The usual way to secure an axe head was to drive a wedge into the top of the wooden shaft. But these heads had been secured with crossways rivets which protruded slightly on either side. It was on these precarious balance points that the opposing blades rested, leaving a small central gap.
Odysseus leaned down to peer along the line of fire. “Such a tiny hole,” he murmured.
“I s’pose an arrow can get through.” Menelaos reached out a hand.
“No, don’t touch.” It was obvious the slightest movement would dislodge the blades, bringing the axes crashing down. That was the problem. Even a fool knew an arrow never flew perfectly straight, however hard it was fired. The curved trajectory must mean the fletching would brush against the final axe heads, at the very least.
He looked up to see Arion smirking at him. Around him a growing crowd of men jostled, full of banter and bravado.
“Worried, are you?” Iphitos’s voice grated in his ear. “You shouldn’t have drunk so much wine.”
Odysseus shook his head, his nerves jangling. The challenge seemed impossible. He glanced over his shoulder, the dream vivid in his memory. A courtyard just like this and a press of people round him. At least he had Menelaos; they needed to stay together, guard each other’s backs.
But Menelaos had vanished. Hellhounds. Where’d the drunken fool taken himself to? Odysseus pushed through the crowd, keeping a firm grip on Argos, to find Menelaos by the great gate in the courtyard wall.
“I saw her. An’ Olli, she smiled at me.”
That confounded girl. “I can’t see her anywhere.”
“Jus’ left.” Menelaos waved an arm at the street beyond, thronged with townsfolk in a festive mood. “With her father. Hey, Olli, if we follow them–”
“No. I told you. I’ll visit them tomorrow.” Curse and damnation. At any other time he’d have found this funny.
“M’be they’ve gone for a walk.”
Very possible. To steal a kiss somewhere private. The last thing they’d want was Menelaos, full as a wineskin, blundering up to them, asking for a knife in the ribs. Was that what the dream, the warning, was about?
Odysseus swung round as a cheer and then a groan came from the crowd behind him. “They’ve started the contest already,” he cried. “I need you to hold Argos. And I’ve told you. We’re in danger. Stay close to me.”
Menelaos glowered back, swaying on his feet. “Danger? Rubbish. They’re all nice, nice people here. Frien’ly as a, as a … oh never mind, you know what I mean.”
“Menelaos.”
“Nah.” Menelaos’s eyes pooled with tears. “You always want your own way, don’ you, Olli? Well, this time I’m staying right here. Eh, boy?” He bent down to pat Argos’s head, missed and tumbled onto his backside. He put his arms round the dog, kissed him on the nose then stared up, eyes wide as an owl’s. “Go on, you be a hero. Argos and me are waiting for my girl.”
Chapter Fifty-two
By the time Odysseus forced his way back to the axes, a ragged queue of hopefuls had formed. A brawny man, his face puddled with sweat and misery, stood to one side – presumably the first failed candidate. The next was already puffing his cheeks out in preparation.
Odysseus cursed under his breath. Menelaos’s little performance meant he’d be the last to try to string the bow. What if one of these others succeeded? Unlikely, from the flushed faces and wine-stained teeth. Fighting back his panic, he took his place at the far end of the queue.
One man struggling and cursing in a futile attempt to achieve the impossible looks much like another. Long before Odysseus’s turn came, the crowd had become distracted. Arion was still intent on the contest, goading each man on, his smile spreading wider and wider at every failure.
In contrast, Iphitos had retreated into himself, a look of profound disgust on his face. When Odysseus finally stepped forwards, the old man’s raised eyebrows spelled his contempt. “The Ithakan, is it? Aren’t you too drunk to dare?”
Arion was holding the bow close to his chest, as though it were already his. “Never fear, Uncle. He’ll disgrace himself just like the others.” With an ironic smile he passed the bow over.
Odysseus felt his blood quicken. At last it was in his hands. He turned it this way and that, caught between awe and disgust. The whole bow was slimy with mutton fat from all the unwashed hands that had preceded his. “Do you have a cloth?” he asked Iphitos.
Arion chortled. “It won’t make any difference.”
“At least he has asked,” Iphitos said, giving Odysseus a quizzical look. He produced a folded rag from the bow case at his feet.
It didn’t take long to wipe both the bow and the bowstring clean, taking extra care with the tips of the arms and the string loops. Odysseus hooked one loop over the lower tip of the bow and placed the tip on the ground, hard against the outside of his right foot, keeping the string taut all the while. Stenelos’s voice was resonating in his head: left leg over the bow; back of the knee braced against the binding; breathe into your ribs; sense ahead how your weight will flow from left to right; breathe out and with it set the muscles in your back and pelvis.
Useful as far as it went. But Stenelos had never strung the great bow of Eurytos.
Somewhere, Odysseus thought, back in the darkness of last night’s dream might lurk the instant when he’d strung the bow. He shut his eyes, trying to remember.
No, there was nothing there that could help him now, no hint of any special technique or trick.
The air seemed full of hidden voices whispering, hidden fingers plucking at his skin. His thoughts skidded sideways. Menelaos. What had become of him? Confound him, the obstinate, wine-sotted fool.
Concentrate. Concentrate on the bow. “Lady Athena,” he prayed, as Stenelos had taught him always to do, “give me your blessing.”
He flexed the fingers of his left hand high on the upper limb of the bow as he breathed in, then swung his full weight into his left arm as he breathed out – up, over, across and down. His right leg took his weight as the tip of the bow slowly arced towards the looped end of the bowstring, his strength pouring into the bow like a gust of flame roaring into a furnace.
&nbs
p; And the tip was edging down, closer, closer … still not close enough. His whole body was shuddering from the strain and the knot below the loop was threatening to force itself through his fingers. “Athena,” he whispered. “Dread lady. Help me.”
Everything before him flickered red, the bow, his hands, the string. A fierce new energy surged through him; the gap closed; the loop slid over the tip.
It was done.
He plucked the string and the bow sang a clear note, deeper than the bass string of a lyre. The chatter stopped as people swung round. There was a moment of absolute stillness, then the applause erupted, deafening him. He held the bow high, laughing with the amazement of it all.
“I don’t believe it,” Iphitos exclaimed, his jaw trembling. “After all these years, all those generations of men.”
“Wait,” Arion shouted, forcing himself between them. “The task is only half done.”
True. The row of crossed axes stretched across the courtyard before him. The gaps he had to fire through were barely at waist height. He certainly couldn’t manage it standing up. Maybe he could try crouching down on one knee, like the archer inlaid on an ancient dagger he’d once seen.
“Legs too weak to carry you any longer?” jeered Arion as Odysseus kneeled, his voice almost drowned out by the noise of the crowd.
“Not at all.” Odysseus caught the ghost of a smile in Iphitos’s eyes.
But where was Menelaos? Surely he’d have heard the applause. Why wasn’t he back here beside him? The damn fool; he’d gone off after that girl. Or collapsed in a drunken stupor. Well, if he needed rescuing, he’d have to wait.
Once he’d found the right place and lined up the gaps between the axe blades, Odysseus could glimpse the straw butt beyond, illuminated by the torches. The shaft of light lay straight as a spear before his eyes. No sign of a curve to accommodate the trajectory.
Perhaps this bow had such power it could drive the arrow hard enough to keep to the line. But he’d have to draw it to its full extent. He took stock of his aching arms and shoulders, still trembling from the effort of stringing. Would he have the strength? And would the fletching keep the arrow stable? The feathers would need to be in perfect condition.
The Bow Page 19
