by Peter Tonkin
‘Don’t worry, Captain,’ I replied. ‘I am the son of a powerful trading house as well as an apprentice rhapsode. I can stand on that—it is firm ground.’
Odysseus glanced up. ‘Meaning?’ he asked.
‘The cloak Lord Hypatios is wearing if of Cretan or Trojan wool, imported to Aulis for weaving and dying. His tunic is Egyptian linen imported from Alexandria ready coloured, figured and embroidered; that is how I can tell it from more local cloth from Pylos, the Pyloan flax that makes the ropes and sails on your ship, Captain, and also underpins the riches that support King Nestor. His belt and footwear were both made in Naxos from local leather and, once again, imported to the markets on the mainland by vessels such as my father’s. The dagger he carries is made of bronze imported as brass and tin via Troy and made by our metalworkers in Chalcis then honed on one of our whetstones. Were it not for men of no account such as me and my family, he would be walking barefoot, naked and defenceless.’
Odysseus paused, still looking at me with the slightest of frowns. Then he smiled. ‘Remind me never to underestimate you or your family,’ he said. Then the smile vanished and he turned to the dead boy. ‘We’re going to have to carry the poor lad back aboard so I can examine him properly,’ he said. ‘I can take my time with that. But this is my one and only chance to examine the beach and I suspect that neither Nestor nor Hypatios will be willing to wait too long. So…’ He let the bush fall back then he stood and looked down the beach at the set of tracks leading up from the confusion of footprints at the water’s edge. ‘Look,’ he said, either to me or to Elpenor his crew-man. ‘These footprints suggest that one man walked up here but three men walked back. Now there’s a puzzle.’
I looked at the footprints he was describing and it was clear that he was correct. The sand was solid enough to show the shapes of the prints quite clearly. One set with the toe pointing up towards the bush we were standing beside, three sets with the toes pointing down towards the water’s edge. Some of them overlapped each-other of course, but the overall pattern was quite clear. My mind whirled, seeking an explanation for the strange phenomenon.
But Odysseus continued to talk. ‘However, note how some footprints are deeper than others. And see, this set with the toe facing seawards has particularly deep toe and heel-marks, with a little sand kicked up behind them every now and then. Now what does that tell us?’
iv
It told me nothing at all. I looked at Elpenor a little desperately but he just shrugged. Fortunately, the captain did not hesitate to enlighten us. ‘Two men, one walking backwards, carrying something heavy but motionless between them to this very place and then two men, unencumbered walking side by side back down to the sea. Which tells us something else of importance at once—namely that the murder was done there and only the burial was done here. Something that the absence of blood on the surrounding bushes and ground had already suggested. I have cut enough throats on the battlefield to know how much blood gets sprayed everywhere immediately after the act. So, two men carried the dead body and probably some kind of a shovel up here, dug the makeshift grave behind this bush, buried the corpse, then walked back down to the water once more. But wait.’ He stepped onto the sand beside the tracks, lifted his foot and compared the sizes. ‘Two small men—almost boys, if the size of their feet is a guide. And not all that strong if the depth of the grave is anything to go by.’
Frowning with concentration and stooping so as not to miss the smallest detail, Odysseus led us down alongside that set of footprints until they became lost in the crowd which flattened the sand to the tideline. He paused here, looking from right to left. On his right, the deserted camp-site; on his left a little distance away, the latrines. He hesitated, deep in thought. He turned left, frowning, but did not yet step forward. ‘Too good just to drop their loincloths, hold up their tunics and wade into the water to relieve themselves,’ he said. ‘As are we, for we have kings and lords aboard and to be fair the water is icy at night while, at our anchorage, the slope of the seabed is steep, rocky and dangerous, unlike this beach. And someone was too modest to use the latrine under public view. As is Lord Hypatios. Interesting. Deserving of a closer look.’
The latrines were a trench walled to knee-hight on this side by the sand dug out to make them. The inland section, perhaps a quarter of the whole length, was further protected by a screen of bushes that had clearly been cut from the undergrowth and then erected, using the low wall of sand to hold them firm. The path from the camp to the facility, beaten flat by the number of feet that had followed it, arched round the inland end of this as the other end was of course open to the sea. Abruptly and with no warning, Odysseus was following this path. He rounded the inland end of the latrine and stopped, looking down. Several tides had done their work and almost everything had been washed away. He squatted and for a moment I thought he might be going to avail himself of the facility. But no; he swung round, duck-like, his gaze raking everything nearby—beach, trench, fly-covered effluent, low sand wall, bushes… ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I think we have our killing ground.’ He gestured. On the far lip of the trench, on the sand wall and on the bushes above it was a spray of dark splotches, seething with flies. ‘Caught here at his most defenceless. Surprised by one attacker, perhaps two, though I would guess a strong child could have done the work unaided, were his dagger sharp enough. Throat cut guaranteeing silence, seclusion having already been provided. Guaranteeing silence, but also releasing that first spray of blood before the rest ran down his chest. As, no doubt, he toppled backwards and clutched his hands over the wound, trying to stanch the flow. Fruitlessly, of course. There might have been blood on the sand beneath our feet but it has been disturbed, so that all trace has gone. He would have been dead in a dozen heartbeats or so. Then two slight, almost boyish, men carried him up the beach, almost as soon as he was dead, I’d guess.’ He grimaced at the word. ‘But, until the flies came, it would be a sharp-eyed man who would notice the blood on the sand and the bushes as easily as we did.’ He straightened up and carried on. ‘Let’s look at the rest of the scene of this crime, shall we?’
A clear difference between here and the inner bay was immediately obvious as we came out from the latrines to look more closely at the main camp site. Whereas that beach, narrow though it was, seemed clean, here there was another low wall—this time made of sea-wrack, mostly of green weed, going grey as it died, liberally mixed with fronds and branches of brown. The sea-facing side of the foot-flattened area had been partially cleared of this—the dry bits no doubt added to the kindling in the fire-pits that pocked this area. While I was counting these pits and trying to assess how many they would have fed—quite a number going by the piles of scattered bones—Odysseus was giving closer attention to the weed itself. ‘Two,’ he decided after a while, straightening and looking out to sea.
‘Two what, Captain?’ asked his bemused crew-man.
Odysseus pointed. The weed had two marked gullies in it, with trenches coming through them deep enough for the water to be pushing foamy fingers further inland, the same as it was in the latrine. ‘Two ships, run up onto the sand almost side by side. Overnighting here together. Not so long ago either, judging by how little in fact the piles of bones and offal have been scattered by the local carrion eaters, not to mention how well-preserved the boy’s body is, despite dogs, carrion birds, ants and flies. At least a hundred people were fed and watered here, judging by those bones and the number of fire-pits. Either just before or just after Dion’s murder by the look of things. After, I’d surmise, given the position the ship would have needed to be in for his body to get swept past Euboea Island and under our bows. But, either way, one of the vessels beached here was certainly the ship Dion was murdered on.’
‘But how can you know that, Captain?’ I asked, scarcely able to believe the speed of his deduction or the certainty in his voice.
‘Logic, boy; logic. What ship would this unfortunate apprentice be travelling aboard other than the one that c
arried his master?’
***
Elpenor, who had led Odysseus’ patrol last night and who accompanied us now was one of the most powerful oarsmen aboard. He had, therefore, enormous strength and impressively wide shoulders. He was also a battle-hardened warrior, fearful neither of death nor dead men. When Odysseus was finished his examination of the beach, he had no compunction whatsoever at brushing the ants and flies off the front of the dead boy’s tunic, as Odysseus took one more look at it in the place where we had found the body. Although one arm had been partially consumed, it was easy to see that from wrist to elbow, both had been covered with blood. And, when Odysseus opened the loosely clenched fists, the fingers and palms were almost as thick with it as the front of the poor boy’s tunic. The captain continued his swift examination, revealing nothing more than the corpse’s tunic-skirts, his pitifully thin legs which seemed hardly strong enough to bear the body—let alone allow the boy to walk—and his cheap leather sandals. He nodded. ‘That’s all I need to see here, Elpenor,’ he said. ‘You can take him now.’
Lifting the corpse over his shoulder, Elpenor straightened. Holding the stick-legs gently against his chest while the staring head and half-eaten arms hung down his back, sluggishly dribbling sand, he started walking back to the inner beach. Thus the four of us returned to Odysseus’ ship and the impatient men waiting to set sail for Skyros.
As we walked, we talked. Or, at least I did; to begin with. ‘’So, can I get things straight in my head?’ I said to the captain.
‘By things you mean the sequence of events leading to the apprentice rhapsode’s murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can understand why you would want to do that as a matter of some urgency, especially in case the man who slaughters rhapsodes and their apprentices so brutally is waiting for us on Skyros, which I must admit seems quite likely.’
‘So,’ I persisted, talking to overcome my growing nervousness. ‘To begin at what seems to be the beginning, King Priam of Troy sent an embassy to King Menelaus of Sparta. That embassy included Prince Paris, no doubt amongst many other Trojan nobles, merchants and businessmen. But when the embassy left, they took Menelaus’ wife Helen with them either eloping or as the victim of kidnap. This was a particularly wounding blow on at least two levels. First, Menelaus is King Agamemnon’s brother and the insult to the King of Sparta also reflected on the High King of Mycenae, whose power is great and whose honour cannot be damaged without the direst of consequences. Secondly, and on a more personal level, perhaps, Achaean kings only take one wife and, unless she dies, she is the mother of the next generation of kings. Menelaus, therefore, stands not only wifeless but childless, facing the dangerous prospect of his royal line dying out when he dies. While Helen may simply join Prince Paris’ harem, on which he will, like his father, sire as many as fifty sons in due time.’
‘I haven’t heard it put like that,’ said Odysseus. ‘You certainly do not make it sound like the stuff of legend, suitable for one of your songs!’
‘But,’ I continued, ‘High King Agamemnon, for a range of political and financial reasons, which my father explained to me just before I joined your crew, has chosen to make the kidnap or elopement of his sister in law an excuse for war. He sends emissaries such as Prince Ajax, King Nestor and yourself not only to Troy to negotiate Queen Helen’s return, but also to threaten and bribe all the Achaean kings into joining him in a great war to rescue her. He and Nestor—amongst others I suspect—envision a short but immensely profitable campaign that will seal their fame, fill their treasuries and settle their dynasties for generations to come, as well as giving the Achaeans a major foothold in Asia beyond the little settlements that dot the coast of Anatolia now. Others, including Peleus, Lycomedes and yourself, fear a campaign lasting for years rather than months while doing untold damage to your leaderless and increasingly impoverished kingdoms at home. And at the heart of this stand Prince Achilles and his Myrmidons, their importance symbolic as much as practical, but nevertheless incalculable. If they join the High King, even the waverers will follow. If they refuse, his grand project may very likely collapse, his standing, honour and power damaged beyond recall.’
‘You have clearly thought this through,’ said Odysseus. ‘I’m impressed. Can you take your reasoning further still?’
‘Surely it all turns on the absence of Achilles. An absence that in itself gives nothing whatever away. Is he hiding because he is fearful of being made to take the Myrmidons into a war he does not wish to fight? Or is he secretly training to prepare himself to stand at the head of his army as the greatest warrior of his generation?’
‘Is he, in fact, doing what his mother says—or is he doing what his father says?’ Odysseus mused.
‘Each one of his parents believes the other to be wrong,’ I continued. ‘The only thing they seem to agree on is that they have no idea where he and his companion Patroclus actually are. So Queen Thetis has gone north to Mount Pelion to stop him training if that is what he’s doing, while King Peleus is sending messages south to Skyros, no doubt seeking King Lycomedes’ advice and support. Because King Peleus finds himself in a strange position. He believes his son wishes to lead his Myrmidons at Agamemnon’s side but he fears that if he supports him in this aim, he will make an implacable enemy of his wife Queen Thetis, his kingdom will wither into beggary long before any loot comes home, and his dynasty will die with his only son beneath the indestructible walls of Troy.’
‘And in the midst of this,’ said Odysseus ‘we have someone so desperate to stop Peleus passing on his fears to Lycomedes that they have murdered not only the messenger but the messenger’s apprentice. It’s no wonder that you’re thinking things through so carefully, lad, because there’s a fair chance that if Lord Hypatios as replacement message-bearer isn’t the murderer’s next target, then there’s a fair chance that you are.’
v
We waited on the beach beside Thalassa while Odysseus, unusually, hesitated. He began to discuss the quandary in which he found himself in low, pensive tones. He was really talking to himself but I reacted as though he was still talking to me. ‘We have moved the body. There was no further information to be gleaned from the grave itself and carrying the poor lad here has probably disturbed any further information that might have been on the corpse itself. But do we dare wash it? If we rinse it off here and now what else might we lose? But if we take it aboard as it is, we still have the option of washing it later.’
‘I’d suggest we take it aboard as it is then, Captain’ I said quietly. ‘That way you can continue to examine it sooner and wash it later.’
He nodded. ‘You might be right or you might be wrong. But at least we reached the decision through reasoning,’ he said. He shouted a series of orders. A couple of oarsmen appeared on the foredeck just above us. They leaned down over the side and we handed the body up to them. But that’s where things went wrong. The corpse was limp and disturbingly heavy. The sand it was covered with made it hard to hold. The men on deck seemed to take a firm grip of the chest, their hands under the flaccid arms, but an instant later it was falling. The heavy ball of its head smacked Elpenor in the face and he reeled back, stunned. He collided with Odysseus and both staggered away as the wave, generated by the corpse falling into the water, washed towards them. I didn’t even think. My body was in action long before my consciousness caught up. I dived forward and wrapped myself around the boy as though we were wrestling. His dead weight pulled me down with him as his limp arms wrapped themselves around me in reply to my grip. By the time I fully realised what I had got myself into, I discovered that I was clutching the still chest in a tight hug. His knees, as loosely active as his arms, battered me painfully in the pit of my stomach as though he had come to life and was fighting me off. His feet kicked me on the shins, both together as though somehow linked. My face was jammed unsettlingly close to the gape of his throat. As the water washed through it, scouring the sand away, the great wound opened and closed like
the mouth of some huge fish. The severed tubes washed in and out like the fish’s tongue. It seemed to me that they must have somehow been torn loose to be waving about like that, but of course I knew nothing about the inner workings of the throat so this was just an impression. [IW2]My grip on his chest tightened convulsively and a cloud of bubbles burst out of one of the sundered tubes, brushing over my face like the touch of a leper, making me jerk my own head back and shout with shock, losing what little air was still in my lungs.
I had just reached this point in my dazed half-dream, with the shock of it all beginning to pull me towards reality, when reality caught up with me. Several fists closed on the back of my tunic. My companion and I were dragged unceremoniously to the surface. Only when my face came out of the water did I realise that I was almost completely out of breath. I took one huge, shuddering gasp. ‘That was quick thinking, lad,’ said Odysseus as he set me on my feet while his Elpenor reclaimed the corpse.
‘I didn’t think at all, Captain,’ I wheezed.
‘Thinking or not thinking, you stopped him escaping. Well done.’
As we were speaking, Elpenor handed the now-washed corpse up once more and this time the dripping body made it safely aboard. Then the pair of them handed me up as well. The captain came next—unaided—and by the time the big oarsman jumped over the bulwark, the sail-handlers had raised the anchor and we were off. The dead boy lay, alone and forlorn on the foredeck as Odysseus ran lightly back to the stern where the helmsman, and his assistants kept tight hold of the steering board, while the oarsmen eased us round until we were facing out of the bay. Then, at a gesture from Odysseus the rowing master dictated the rhythm, the oarsmen took up the chorus and the ship headed straight for open water.
