Murder at Mykenai Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Logo

  Map

  Characters

  Part 1: Mykenai

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part 2: Murder

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part 3: Exile

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Part 4: The Deer Hunt

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Part 5: Olenos

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  More Great Fiction

  A voice slid like a knife into his ear. “You vermin,” it said. “In a moment you’ll be nothing, no more than a lump of dead meat. That will silence our little secret, won’t it?”

  Friendship vs. Treachery in Ancient Greece, a decade before the Trojan War.

  Menelaos, teenage son of the assassinated High King of Greece, is skidding ever deeper into danger. Odysseus, his best friend, tries to help – but Odysseus’s great ideas have a tendency to backfire …

  Central Greece in the Late Bronze Age

  Characters

  ITHAKA (Ee-tha-ka)

  Laertes (Lah-er-tehs): king of Ithaka (Ee-tha-ka)

  Antikleia (An-tee-klay-a): wife of Laertes

  Odysseus (O-dee-se-ooss) also Olli, Olesses (O-les-sees): son of Laertes and Antikleia

  Eurybates (You-ree-bah-tehs) also Eury (You-ree): squire to Laertes

  Argos (Ar-goss): Odysseus’s dog.

  Kitti (Ki-tee) short for Ktimene (Ki-tee-me-neh): younger sister of Odysseus

  Meges (Me-gehs): an Ithakan sea captain

  MYKENAI (Mee-keh-neye)

  Atreus (Ah-tre-ooss): High King of Greece

  Aerope (Ah-er-ro-pah): previous wife of Atreus

  Menelaos (Me-ne-lah-oss): second son of Atreus and Aerope

  Agamemnon (A-ga-mem-non): eldest son of Atreus and Aerope

  Gelanor (Ge-lah-nor): illegitimate half-brother of Atreus

  Agelaos (A-ge-lah-os): trainee soldier

  Thyestes (Thee-ess-tees): younger brother of Atreus

  Nauplios (Now-plee-oss): a Mykenaian bureaucrat, father of Palamedes

  Palamedes (Pah-lah-meh-dehs): a scribe at Mykenai, son of Nauplios

  Sipylos (See-pee-loss): a Mykenaian bureaucrat

  SIKYON (See-kee-on)

  Tantalos (Tan-tah-loss): son of Thyestes

  Klytemnestra (Klee-tem-ness-tra) also Klytie (Klee-tee): wife of Tantalos

  Helen (He-len): sister of Klytemnestra, later famous as Helen of Troy

  NORTHERN AND WESTERN GREECE

  Aitolians (Eye-to-lee-ans) and Epeians (E-pay-ans), who live in Elis (Eh-lees): allies in north-west Greece

  Thoas (Tho-ass): king of Aitolia

  Nestor (Ness-tor): king of Pylos (Pee-loss)

  GODS

  Poseidon (Po-say-don): god of the sea

  Hera (Heh-ra): patron goddess of Mykenai – Queen of Heaven

  Athena (A-thee-na): goddess of war and skill; the owl was her mascot

  Hades (Hay-dees): god of death; also the underworld

  Kerberos (Ker-be-ross): the guard dog at the gates of the underworld

  Hermes (Her-mees): god of travellers

  Zeus (Ze-ooss): god of the sky; also a planet, now known as Jupiter

  Artemis (Ar-te-meess): goddess of hunting and childbirth

  Orion (O-ree-on), Taurus (Tow-russ): a mythical huntsman and his prey

  Herakles (He-rark-lees): a great hero, known to the Romans as Hercules

  Gorgon (Gor-gon), Harpy (Har-pee): mythical monsters

  Author’s notes on pronunciation

  My pronunciation guide is a working compromise between common English usage and Ancient Greek, which can sound very strange to our ears. As far as spelling is concerned, I have favoured transliterations close to Ancient Greek forms. For example, I have used “k” rather than the more commonly adopted “c”. Italicised syllables are accented.

  Where I have put “ow”, it should rhyme with “ouch”; “eye” rhymes with “high”; “ay” rhymes with “say”; “th” is always soft, as in “third” rather than “though”; “ss” is soft, as in “toss”, while “s” is hard, as in “has”; “g” is always hard, as in “get”. Long “e” (“eta” in Greek), which I have replicated with “eh” is a hard sound to duplicate – it should be like “ea” in “thread”.

  Chapter One

  This had to be the strangest thing he’d ever seen. Odysseus stared at it, caught between laughter and amazement, and it glared right back, its tiny head swaying snake-wise at the end of a long, scrawny neck. Two huge bony legs on massive feet supported a body the size of a donkey covered in a sprawl of ragged feathers.

  “What a wicked expression it has, Eury,” he whispered to his companion, a dark-skinned, black-haired youth a few months short of twenty, and a full head and shoulders taller than himself. “Worse than that old man’s after I stole his pears.”

  “Oh. So you did steal those pears,” said Eurybates.

  “Of course.” Odysseus stretched his eyes wide. “What did you think?”

  Eurybates shrugged and smiled. “I won’t tell your father,” he said.

  They gazed about them. It seemed half of Mykenai had crowded into the steep road leading up to the palace, craning, shouting, chattering, shrieking and waving as the procession passed by. A tightly bodiced woman squeezed onto the step above them, tiny beads of sweat glistening on her white-painted face; a hunched old man elbowed forwards on their right, his small, sour mouth almost hidden in the folds of his cheeks; across the street a young courtier languished, ornate, perfumed and cradling a wriggling puppy in his arms.

  The ostrich caught sight of the puppy. Its head swerved, and froze as the puppy started to bark. The courtier turned, laughing to his neighbour and the bird struck, its great clawed foot lashing up, out and down. The puppy scrabbled out of the young man’s grip and pelted off down the cobbled road as the man swayed and crumpled, his reddening hands clutching his face, blood streaking down his chest and through the tassels of his kilt.

  The crowd heaved and surged as panic broke out. The ostrich bolted, dragging its struggling keeper in its wake, and crashed into a mule loaded with two massive clay jars. The mule reared and the ostrich lashed out again, its claws slitting the leather harness like thin linen.

  A jar shattered as it crashed to the ground, disgorging a torrent of stone bowls,
scarabs, spices, glass beads and gold. The keeper lunged at the bird’s tail feathers, stepped on the beads and landed flat on his face. The other jar ricocheted down the steps, scattering bystanders, dogs and soldiers in all directions.

  Up ahead a gilded sedan chair blocked the road. The bearers dropped the chair with a thud and fled as the ostrich charged towards them, hissing furiously. It galloped over the chair’s struggling occupant, snapping support poles, ripping awnings and scattering feathers in its wake before vanishing up the hill.

  At last chaos untangled into order. The young man was carried away, the debris was cleared, the remnants of the procession continued on and the crowd, straightening their clothes and their shoulders, set off after it in the hope of fresh disaster.

  “Ha. That was more than we’d bargained for,” said Eurybates.

  Silence.

  “Eh? Olli?”

  He peered around him, a sick taste in his mouth. “Olli?” he called. “Olli. Odysseus!”

  No answer.

  Worry turned to anger. “Irresponsible little wretch,” he swore under his breath. “Vanishing again – in Mykenai of all places. Laertes will flay the hide off me.”

  He stared around again. To his right a tangle of whitewashed buildings stretched back towards the great gate. In front of him the hill reared up, capped by the smooth walls of the palace. To his left the road curved round, hugging the citadel wall on its way to yet another maze of buildings.

  His royal charge could be anywhere.

  Chapter Two

  Odysseus climbed the last thin rungs of the ladder until his head was a handspan below the narrow overhang of the palace roof. From here the ground seemed a very long way down, but that didn’t worry him, he liked heights.

  He glanced over his shoulder. The wild confusion in the street below had started to settle. His chest was heaving but there was no time to gather breath – he must be out of sight before Eury missed him, certainly before the guards on the citadel walls remembered their proper business. He didn’t want an arrow in the back.

  What luck the plasterers had taken time off to watch the procession. Lucky too that they’d tied the top rung to a hook in the wall. Now he could lean out to grab the edge of the roof parapet without dislodging the ladder. After all, he had to get down again somehow.

  He brought his feet up another rung, swung out on his left hand and groped for the edge of the parapet with his right. There’d be a moment when he’d be swinging on his hands, feet dangling above – well, he wasn’t going to fall, was he?

  He took a deep breath, stretched as far as he could and grabbed the edge. Now for the other hand. He heaved himself up and rolled headfirst over onto the roof.

  “What in all devils?” said a voice. “Who are you?”

  “Oh,” he said, sitting up, his mind racing as fast as his heart. “I’m the roof cleaner. Come to clear the rubbish out of the spouting holes.”

  A fair-haired boy sat cross-legged on the tiles about halfway between the parapet and a large light well. Odysseus looked him over. No, no chance he could be the real cleaner. His tunic was so finely woven it shone like an onion skin and the borders were dyed in bright colours no slave could ever wear. Gold at his throat and wrist. Skin as pale as a girl’s, almost as if he’d never been outside. And the shaved head and drooping forelocks were a child’s, but he was too old for that surely – he had to be at least thirteen, maybe more. Probably not much younger than himself.

  How strange.

  The boy pushed a corn-yellow forelock back behind his ears. “Spouting?”

  “The holes round the edge that let the rainwater out.” Not a bad try at a servant’s accent, he thought, relaxing a little. Right down to those clipped vowels he’d heard the local workmen use.

  “What rubbish?”

  “Leaves and things …” Odysseus glanced round. Not a tree in sight. “Leaves can travel a long way. And there’s bird droppings, feathers. All sorts. You’d be surprised.”

  The boy did look surprised. “It seems quite clean to me.”

  “That’s because I do such a good job. I come up here, er, most every day.” He paused.

  “Is that so?” The boy narrowed his eyes. “They dress you well for a roof cleaner.”

  Poseidon take it! He should have kept talking. Now he’d given this boy time to think. “Well, you see, it’s a big day. There’s a great procession, a trade, ah, degelation. Egyptians. So I had to wear my best in case anyone saw me.” Would the boy swallow that one?

  The boy shrugged. “That’s a shame. You being a cleaner, I mean. My nurse says you can never trust slaves. So you’re certain to tell someone you saw me here.” He shifted, as if to get up. “I’ll have to throw you over the edge.”

  “Oh.” He wasn’t serious, was he? Surely not. Odysseus edged away from the parapet, just in case. “But I’m not a slave. This is a hered, ah, hereditary position. My father was a roof cleaner and his father too, naturally, it being hereditary, like I said. It’s an important and dangerous job. Now wait. Your nurse’ll be a slave for sure. So you can’t trust nothing she says.”

  The boy grinned and Odysseus started laughing. Not that he’d been worried.

  “Shh.” The boy put his finger to his lips. “Someone might hear us.”

  “Down there?” Odysseus pointed to the light well, placed, no doubt, above a large upstairs room. “I’ll speak quieter, promise. Anyway, who are you?”

  “I’m Menelaos. Son of Atreus.” The boy pulled a face.

  So, a son of the High King; that explained the clothes at least. But why the sour expression? “Isn’t that what everyone wants to be?” Odysseus asked, pretending to be impressed.

  “Except they’ve forgotten I exist.”

  “Forgotten? What do you mean?”

  “It’s as though …” Menelaos gave him a strange look. “Well, sometimes I think they’re trying to hide me. I’m much too old to be with the women any more.”

  “Did you do something wrong?”

  “No. Nothing. Well, nothing that bad.”

  “Do you think it’s because your father’s found a new wife?” A piece of gossip Odysseus had heard his father discussing last night. “I mean,” he hastened to add as Menelaos frowned, “someone whose babies might be more important than you are?”

  “I don’t think so.” The frown deepened. “Though she is, er …” Menelaos made a circular movement over his stomach.

  “Pregnant. Well, they’ll be in a lather about that for a while. It won’t last forever.”

  “I’ll be ancient by then.”

  Odysseus wagged his head in sympathy. “Not a tooth in your head, wrinkled up like a dried fig and hanging off a walking stick.” He held out a shaking hand, fingers clawed around an imaginary handle.

  “It’s no laughing matter. My life is endlessly boring already. Climbing up here is the only exciting thing I do.”

  Odysseus gestured again at the light well. “Up through there? That’d be hard.”

  “Well,” said Menelaos, “it is, now you say.”

  “How d’you manage it?”

  “There’s an altar below the light well with jars for pouring the sacred wine. If you put two jars upside down, one on top of the other, then stand on them and jump–” He stopped. “You’re going to tell, aren’t you?”

  “No, no, I swear I’m not. By Athena.”

  “Athena?” Menelaos stared. “Why Athena? We only worship Hera here. At least, as far as I know.”

  Death and Hades! What a stupid mistake. Odysseus paused. Perhaps it was time for the truth. “By Hera then,” he said, in his normal voice. “And I swear you can trust me. I’m not a roof cleaner for a start.”

  Menelaos’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re saying I should trust you because you’ve just been lying to me?” He paused, scratching his shaved head. “Interesting. So who are you, really?”

  “I’m Odysseus, son of Laertes.”

  “Ah.” Menelaos’s face went blank.


  “Laertes is king of Ithaka.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s a very small place,” said Odysseus. “A long way from here. Not very important.”

  “Oh. No, no, I’m sure it is. Important, I mean.” Menelaos spread his hands. “Geography’s not my best subject.”

  “In that case …” Odysseus curled a lock of his bright red hair round a forefinger. “In that case, it’s immensely powerful,” he adopted a pompous expression, “groaning with gold and scarcely a day’s walk away.”

  They laughed, stifling the sound with their hands.

  “Why did they call you Odysseus?” said Menelaos. “It sounds like you’re angry.”

  “‘Wrath with mankind’? My mother’s father chose it.”

  “But most people give babies nice names, ones that mean ‘bold heart’ or ‘generous’ or ‘mighty spearman’.”

  “Not my grandfather,” said Odysseus.

  “Why not?”

  “I think he was in trouble over some cattle at the time. Someone accused him of stealing them and he was feeling cross about it.”

  “Had he?”

  Odysseus grinned. “Probably. Anyway, I prefer my nickname, Olesses. The destroyer. You can call me Olli if you like.”

  “The destroyer? What have you been up to?”

  “Oh, this and that.” Odysseus twiddled his thumbs.

  “I see. So why are you here?” said Menelaos.

  “My father’s in Mykenai on business. Before that we were in Argos, visiting his father. My other grandfather,” Odysseus said, rolling his eyes. “What a disaster that was.”

  “Disaster? Why?”

  “Apparently, I’m too much like my mother. And not enough like him.”

  Menelaos gave him another strange stare. Then he turned his head away to gaze out over the parapet at the mountains marching into the far haze.

  How very odd, thought Odysseus. He’d only said it in jest, though his grandfather had taken it seriously enough. Menelaos should have laughed, made some clever remark of his own. Instead, he’d gone so white it was as though he’d been bled to death.

  Odysseus shivered. They’d arrived only two days ago, but he’d sensed already that all the grandeur and wealth of Mykenai – the great Lion Gate, the massive multicoloured buildings and the mighty fortress walls – hid a host of dark and ugly secrets. Perhaps Menelaos could tell him something of it.