‘Arnacia!’ I exclaim involuntarily, grinning with pleasure. ‘I was just thinking of you—’
She puts a finger to my lips to remind me to keep my voice down. ‘I’m called Penelope now,’ she murmurs. ‘Remember? Perhaps you’re not thinking hard enough?’
Her words are chiding, but her smile widens as her intelligent eyes measure me. She must be here with the Artemis priestesses, a sworn virgin and a theia to boot, a seeress whose prophecies are widely sought. ‘I’m surprised to see you here, pledging your heart to Helen. I thought another woman had won your love.’
She knows about Kyshanda – indeed they worked together to save my life, last year on Delos – but obviously she’s unaware that our relationship has ended. I shake my head, my expression telling her what I cannot put into words. ‘An Ithacan prince must set his sights upon the attainable,’ I tell her.
‘And you think Helen is attainable?’ She laughs, and then touches my arm apologetically. ‘I’m sorry your… er, eastern liaison hasn’t worked out. You seemed a good match, in spirit if not rank.’
I’m reminded how much I like this woman, an admiration born of the adventure we shared in the seas west of Delos, in which Diomedes, Bria and I helped her escape from the rapacious hands of Palamedes and his vile father, Nauplius. I gesture toward that erstwhile prince. ‘Does Palamedes still covet you, Lady Penelope?’
Her face hardens. ‘I received a letter, not long after you returned me to the shrine at Delos, apologising for their ‘misunderstanding’. Nothing since, thankfully.’
‘If he comes near you, I’ll gut him,’ I tell her grimly, meaning every syllable.
‘Thank you kindly, but I’m not short of protectors here.’
I look over her shoulder and see a knot of Artemis priestesses – including some theia huntresses who look like they’d happily put an arrow in my back. Do I recognise any from Pisa? I give them a cheery wave. ‘I’m pleased they’ve let you off that dreary island,’ I tell Penelope. ‘I thought they’d lock you up there, to prophesize for ever more.’
She gives me a slightly sad look. ‘So did I. And this is just a short interlude - we return there as soon as this is over.’
‘Then I hope for your sake that Helen takes her time,’ I joke. ‘How do you spend your days on Delos?’
‘I walk briskly around the island every day, and I swim,’ she tells me, with forced cheeriness. ‘I weave for hours – that’s how my prophecies now come to me. And I have Actoris for company.’ Her eyes twinkle. ‘She remembers you fondly,’ she adds in a teasing voice.
Actoris is her servant and companion, a plucky girl who kissed me in gratitude for helping her mistress, though nothing further happened between us.
‘I hope she too enjoys your island life,’ I say.
Penelope laughs. ‘I urge her to marry, but she insists the local fishermen are all idiots. She says she’ll marry when she’s good and ready.’ She looks at me frankly. ‘I think she has dreams above her station, poor girl.’
‘I know what that’s like,’ I sigh, ignoring the hidden meaning behind her words. ‘Any new prophecies?’
‘Nothing I could possibly share with that dangerous rogue they call the “Man of Fire”.’
‘Him? He’s not so bad as people say,’ I tell her with a wink, making her smile.
‘He’s got a lot of enemies in this room and very few friends,’ she murmurs, her levity fading. ‘Be careful, Odysseus. This place is like a tangled forest, infested with poisonous spiders and snakes. The gods are watching this place, and the stakes are terrifyingly high.’
‘Thanks for the warning,’ I tell her. ‘What would Artemis consider a good outcome here?’
‘I’m sure I can’t say,’ she says, a trace of regret in her voice that tells me that she still harbours doubts about her cult’s alliance with Apaliunas-Apollo. Not so long ago, Artemis had no ‘twin brother’, and her mother was Achaean Hera, not eastern Leto. Penelope is a traditionalist, and her heart is with Achaea, not the East.
‘Let’s hope the outcome is conducive to peace and security in Achaea,’ I tell her. ‘Now, you be careful too. People have been watching us talk, and they’ll want to know what we’ve spoken of.’
‘The weather, and the state of the crops,’ she says drily. ‘It’s good to see you, Odysseus. Regardless of our politics and allegiances, you will always be a friend, to me.’
She glides away, while I glow in that little moment of warmth. What an asset she’d be for our cause.
But I believe her vocation to Artemis to be steadfast, so that’s not likely to happen. I turn my mind to more immediate matters – the last of the suitors has been presented, and Tyndareus – now exhausted and deathly pale – staggers to his feet to address the room.
‘Thank you for your gifts,’ he tells the room. ‘The happy couple, whoever the groom will be, will appreciate them greatly. Their donors have been noted, and their generosity. As will the prowess of the men about to contend for her hand. Rest well tonight, my lords, for tomorrow the wedding games begin.’
He looks around the room – and his gaze finds me. ‘Prince Odysseus, could you help an old man up the stairs?’
He’s never needed such aid before, but now he’s sick and weak, and I’m swift to go to him. As I help him leave, I can smell his sour, unhealthy sweat. But I’m pleased – and intrigued – that he’s singled me out.
Get close to Tyndareus, Athena told me. So far, so good.
Castor, Polydeuces and Agamemnon join us in Tyndareus’s private rooms, while Helen, giving me a burnished stare, departs to the women’s quarters. No doubt her mother needs her. Leda has been a drunken wreck ever since Zeus’s sordid seduction years ago.
The moment the door closes, Polydeuces rounds on me – he’s only fifteen but he already towers over me, as tall as a full-grown man, and an exceptional one at that. He’s more than just a theios: he’s prodigiously gifted but he’s still young and blind to all subtlety.
‘What’s this pornos doing here?’ he demands of his ailing father. Castor steps in behind me, not a theios but still a mountain of muscle. Agamemnon watches with interest, and with a slightly bitter caste to his face: he too lacks theios gifts.
I’m wondering if I’ll end up coming to blows with them, but Tyndareus intervenes. ‘Settle down, my sons,’ he says, in a weary voice. ‘As I’ve already made clear, Odysseus is my ward and remains as a son to me. Theseus may have alleged that Odysseus aided him in taking Helen, but Theseus was a villain, and it was Odysseus who helped you rescue her. He will remain and he’ll be heeded.’
‘Thank you,’ I say gravely, helping him into his seat and turning to face the two brothers. ‘I really do have Sparta’s best interests at heart,’ I tell them, honestly. I glance at Agamemnon, who’s settling into the other armchair. The High King just looks coldly amused by all this.
‘Are you a suitor now, or an advisor?’ Polydeuces grumbles.
‘I’m a suitor, when it suits,’ I tell him.
Tyndareus drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘Castor, Polydeuces,’ he says. ‘You must be hosts tonight at the banquet. I’m too tired to attend. Go now, and prepare.’
It’s both a great honour, and a dismissal. Polydeuces is smart enough to recognise both, and they depart, grumbling. Once they’re gone, I’m left alone with the two kings. Time to learn their minds. ‘Did today go as you hoped?’ I ask.
Tyndareus leans against the backrest. ‘More or less,’ he replies, his voice etched with exhaustion.
I shake my head. ‘That gift-giving was a shambles,’ I say, ‘and it’s infuriated a lot of people.’
‘Hosting such a colossal gathering as this is costly,’ Agamemnon retorts, ‘though I suppose that someone coming from such a backward little kingdom as your father’s would have little chance to understand such matters. That wealth will be used to pay the great number of mercenaries King Tyndareus has had to hire, as well as reward all his standard troops for the extra hours they�
�ll need to work. And I can assure you, the more volatile suitors will see their gifts as an investment, a surety of good behaviour.’
So Polydeuces and Castor haven’t been the only ones pressuring Tyndareus into this. ‘I may choose to return gifts to the unsuccessful suitors later,’ the king mutters, avoiding my eye.
Really? So why not tell them so?
‘And there’s another thing,’ I add. ‘Helen and her brothers seem to expect that she will make the final choice.’
‘You shouldn’t allow the girl even the pretence of a say,’ Agamemnon says. ‘Young women don’t know their own hearts. As for this games nonsense…’
From which I gather he doesn’t hold out much hope for Agapenor’s success…
‘You’ve proclaimed a competition for her hand,’ I remind Tyndareus. ‘If you backtrack on that, there will be a massive amount of trouble. Let this play out: the games might not mean anything in the end, but it’ll allow the suitors to let off steam, instead of killing each other – or you.’ I stare at Agamemnon as well as Tyndareus. ‘I don’t know what reports you’ve had from Cranae, but I firmly believe that Patroclus provoked and murdered Laas, whatever he claims. He saw him as a rival he could eliminate.’
Agamemnon gives me a warning look. ‘Find a witness that says so. It was tragic, but these things happen when a man gets lost in his cups.’
He wants the Thessalians on his side, that’s clear, so he’s not going to turn on Patroclus. But Laas was Tyndareus’s most trusted man. Even so, the Spartan king steers the conversation into more neutral waters, commenting on this or that suitor, and we converse civilly until Tyndareus becomes so tired he can barely sit upright in his chair. I call for Nassius to help the old man to his bed.
‘Use your old room up here in the palace,’ Tyndareus says to me as I prepare to go, an amazing offer in the circumstances. None of the guests bar Agamemnon and Menelaus are sleeping in the palace. ‘I’d be grateful if you can attend the banquet, preferably to the end, and report back to me about anything untoward.’
I leave with Agamemnon, who turns to me as we pause outside the door. ‘Menelaus is constantly pestering me to offer you a role in my council at Mycenae,’ he tells me. ‘Would that interest you?’
I’m taken aback, especially after his dig about my provincial status. Though it’s nothing new for Agamemnon to deliver a blow with one hand and a caress with the other. Especially if he thinks he has something to gain. ‘I didn’t think you, er…’
‘My brother is wet behind the ears, I admit, but you’re clever,’ the High King tells me. ‘I’ve always known that. As for the business over Helen’s baby – I’m grateful. It’s given my wife some peace. You and I are ruled by our heads, Odysseus. But I also know you bring strange loyalties: Athena, Prometheus… I’m not sure what to make of that.’
‘I’m for Achaea,’ I tell him firmly. ‘But I’m also heir to Ithaca, so I can’t move permanently to Mycenae.’
‘I’m not asking you to relinquish your position, though why anyone would cling to that meagre rock of an island escapes me. But perhaps you might become an informal counsellor to me, attending my seasonal high council? I need intelligent people around me, even if I don’t always agree with them.’
‘Then I’m honoured,’ I reply. It’s true – I am. And also intrigued. Perhaps Agamemnon was impressed by my display today – he’s a calculating man, and devious, as I saw when he confronted Tantalus. Or rather, didn’t confront him…
He gives what passes for a smile on his cold face. ‘Excellent. Speak to my keryx about the dates.’
He wishes me good night and we part, him to the main guest suite and me to check out the small cell of my childhood, before I go downstairs. The upstairs part of the palace is quiet, but I can already hear the first guests arriving for the banquet, downstairs in the megaron.
The tiny, white-washed room is empty, except for a cot bed, already made up with simple covers, a small lamp on a shelf above the bed, and a stool by the window with a full water jug and a copper basin beside it. Under the bed, there’s a pottery pot if I need to piss in the night. Even after five years away, the room still smells the same: linseed oil from the bed frame and the faint drift of lavender.
I’ll have to head down to the feast shortly, but the day has taken more from me than I expected. I sink down on the narrow cot-bed for a moment – just a moment – and rest my head on the pillow, revelling in a sense of nostalgia when a crinkling sound has me sitting up again in a flash.
Someone has slid a folded sheet of parchment under my pillow. I kindle the oil lamp perched on a small shelf above the bed, and read. ‘Odysseus,’ it says. ‘Your life is in danger. Beware of the deepest shadows.’
There’s no name, and I don’t know the hand. The letters are slightly inexpert, as if by someone whose writing skills are poor.
Who left the note? How did they know I would be using this room? How have they learned of this peril, and why won’t they identify themselves? And how imminent is the danger?
My heart begins to beat double time, as all tiredness evaporates. I sit, listening to the growing swell of sound from the banquet below, and wondering what else the babble masks. Is that a stealthy footfall outside in the corridor? Is that really just the breeze that shifts the bushes far below my window? I let the lamp burn on, staring into the flame to steady my mind as my thoughts dart from one possibility to another.
And then my door-handle turns…
I’ve got my dagger out, heart thumping against my ribs, already on my feet even as the door swings open… and a shapely figure slips in and closes it again. It’s a young woman with a lively face and curly black hair, and I recognise her instantly.
‘Shh, it’s just me,’ she whispers – it’s Actoris, Penelope’s maid.
I blink in amazement. How has she found her way to my room? How does she know I’m here?
And then my brain, fuddled by surprise, finds the answers. She’s Spartan, just like her mistress, and she will have visited the palace many times, before she and Penelope left for Delos. And my room? She’ll know the servants well, being one herself, and whoever Tyndareus ordered to prepare my bed could easily have told her I would be staying here tonight.
Did she write the note? Has she come to warn me further?
But as she pulls off her cloak and starts to loosen her bodice, her real purpose becomes obvious.
‘Not the weapon I had in mind,’ she giggles, looking at my dagger with raised eyebrows. ‘Are you all right?’ she adds, hesitantly, when I don’t react. ‘Don’t I please you?’
My mind is racing. Penelope has either organised this visit, to console me over Kyshanda’s loss or, at the least, she’s turning a blind eye to it. Did she not tell me herself that Actoris thinks of me fondly? And the girl is attractive, a little fleshy for my taste but pleasing to the eye. More importantly, I like her, and I was impressed with her on Delos last year for her loyalty and courage.
However, I’ve been raised not to sleep with servants, including other people’s; my mother has drummed that into me many times. And right now, Kyshanda is still an open wound in my breast, and I’m still disgusted with myself over my coupling with the nymph, back in Arcadia.
But Actoris is here of her own accord, her face glowing in the lamplight with excitement and arousal. Am I going to punish myself for Fate’s cruelty over my Trojan love? Am I going to spend the rest of my life looking backwards? Maybe Bria was right, about needing to let go of the past? In my heart and in my head, I know I’ll never hold Kyshanda close to me again.
I go to sheath my dagger and realise I’m still gripping the parchment in my other hand. ‘Did you write this?’ I exclaim, waving it at her.
Actoris pauses, halfway through loosening her waistband. ‘What’s that?’ she says, frowning. ‘A love letter?’
‘No. Quite the opposite,’ I exclaim. I step over to the door, bar it and then close the window shutters as well before showing her the sheet. ‘Is this Pene
lope’s writing?’ I ask and she shakes her head, puzzling over the symbols before look up at me in astonishment.
‘“Your life is in danger”,’ she repeats. ‘“Beware the deepest shadows…” What does it mean?’
It’s clear she knows nothing of it. More and more strange.
‘Dear Actoris,’ I say, gathering up her cloak and draping it over her shoulders. ‘I’m really very flattered that you came.’ And I am. But I’d rather disappoint her than risk us both being murdered as we roll amorously around on my cot. ‘I think it’s best if you leave now – if my life is really in danger, I’ll not have yours imperilled as well.’
14 – The Games
‘First of all, they challenged themselves with a foot race. The race stretched out from the very starting line, with all of them sprinting fast, stirring up the dust with their feet… Next they tested themselves at wrestling, that painful sport … and at the jump … and at discus … and boxing … for there is no greater glory for a man, as long as he lives, than what he might accomplish with his feet or with his hands…’
—Homer, The Odyssey
Sparta
I escort Actoris along the corridor, my xiphos drawn and ready and all my senses alert. But we meet no one, apart from the guards at the top of the stairs down to the servants’ quarters, and I watch her head towards the kitchens and disappear. That done, I make my way to the megaron, to do my duty by Tyndareus.
The banquet is something of an anticlimax. The king has ordered the wine watered to a pale pink, and none of the suitors wishes to talk to the others or to me. They’re either guzzling their food, as though making sure they are getting something back for their extravagant outlay this afternoon, or pushing the congealing meat around and around in front of them, staring glumly at the tabletop, or glancing murderously around them. The serious candidates aren’t even present – they’re getting well-rested for the exertions of the morrow. Not long after the meal has ended, the bard places his lyre back in its leather bag, and the swarms of servants wiping down the tables with wet sponges soon dampen whatever high spirits might have survived the dregs of the feast.
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