The Bow Page 15
She shook her head to clear her thoughts. If only those memories would let her alone. And now she’d started having such weird dreams. Every night they came to her, but what they meant she couldn’t begin to tell.
Back in the house, the clack of loom weights had ceased. Last night, the cloth on the loom was almost long enough for a gown. Aunt Danae must have finished it, ready to take to market tomorrow. If Aunt Danae sold it, she’d buy wheat and barley and a little salt, to add to the vegetables and fruit they grew here. Her aunt would be going on her own – the danger of discovery was too great. And even the thought of that big town in the plain, and the slavers in the marketplace, made Skotia feel sick.
Skotia picked up a bucket of dried sheep droppings to spread along the next row to be dug over. How she loved it here – the earth on her hands, the smell of manure and herbs, the wind, the flit of cloud shadows across the mountainside. And yet …
“Still pining after that boy?”
Skotia jumped. “Aunt. You gave me such a fright.”
“He’s gone.” Aunt Danae sniffed. “He won’t be back.”
“Yes and no. He’s still in here,” said Skotia, touching her breastbone.
“He’s a king’s son,” said Aunt Danae. “His mind’s full of wars and gold and ships and whatnot. You know where you’d fit in with that lot?”
“Yes. It was me who told you, Aunt. Remember? It’s just–”
“Love.” Aunt Danae rolled her eyes. “I felt the same about my husband – for the first year. I tell you, come midsummer next, you won’t remember what this boy’s face looks like. When my ugly oaf scarpered, it was a load off my eyes.”
“This is different.”
“We all say that.”
“No. I mean, I like him.” Skotia glared at her aunt, daring her not to laugh. “But it’s not love that’s eating me. He saved my life. I feel like he owns me.”
“You saved him too, in the cave. Him and that other one. That nasty piece of work who wanted to kill you.”
“Eury wasn’t all bad. He’s King Laertes’s squire. It was his job to look after Olli and the gold. Besides, they were only in the cave because of me.”
“You’re making excuses.”
Skotia shook her head. “It’s as though I can hear Olli talking inside my head. All that stuff he’s been brought up to think. Everything’s either a gift or a debt. My life’s the debt and I can’t see how I can pay him back.”
Should she tell Aunt Danae about her dreams? Ask what they could possibly mean? Why did the bow Olli had given to Demeter play such a major part? Skotia frowned. Once you gave something to the goddess, you should never take it back.
Skotia parted the branches of the oleanders, heavy with summer blooms. The secret mouth of the cave was dark, a crevice in the ground slicing into blackness. And there was the rope, still tied to the oak tree bole. She gripped it with sweaty hands and lowered herself down. Soon the sky above was like an eye peering at her, with Aunt Danae’s silhouetted head the pupil.
“How much further to go?” her aunt called.
Through her straddled legs she could just make out the floor of the cave beneath her. “Not far,” she called. She let the rope slide through her hands, its coarseness stinging her palms, and dropped the last few feet to the ground. “I’m down,” she cried, giving the rope a tug for good measure.
The rope spiralled up into the light, returning shortly after with a bundle tied to the end. Torches, food, water skins, another rope, her precious lamp. That should be enough; courage and faith would be their main weapons against the dangers ahead.
She stared into the black tunnel till her eyes hurt. Aunt Danae must be right about the dreams, unless they were sent by some demon to trick them. Were they acting in the name of Demeter or would the goddess’s wrath destroy them all?
Chapter Thirty-nine
The rowing bench was hard and narrow. Odysseus kept waking, thinking he was about to roll into the scuppers. He had to get some sleep so he’d have all his wits about him in the morning. Nestor had delayed and delayed, but tomorrow, a whole month since the sheep had been stolen, the court case would finally begin.
Perhaps he should have wedged himself into the cramped cabin under the steering deck with Meges and Eurybates. Out in the open, however, he felt closer to Skotia, though cold logic told him she was as far away as ever. How many times had he watched the stars wheel overhead and wondered if she were watching them as well?
But tonight, as they lay anchored in the harbour at Kyparissia, the sky was heavy with clouds and the darkness dense as a winter blanket. He tried to settle again, the ache of her loss gnawing at his heart.
The west wind shrilled through the rigging like a mourner at a wake. At least while it held, Thyestes’s ships would be trapped inside the Gulf. In his mind’s eye he could see his father peering into the spray-whipped night for any untoward sign or sound.
Choppy waves smacked against the stern and a loose rope slapped, over and over, against the mast. On the deck below him Argos dozed, his muzzle on his paws; on the next bench Menelaos mumbled through his dreams; around them the crew lay huddled under their cloaks.
The air felt charged, almost too alive to breathe. So much hung on the outcome of the court case. War with Messenia at worst. Even success might see Laertes’s friendship with Nestor spoil. What then of the ships they so badly needed?
Odysseus tried to focus on what he would say tomorrow, but his mind kept straying back to Skotia – the soft touch of her lips when she said goodbye; the way her skin had felt under his fingers. The percussive strike of the waves was making a resonant, soporific music and he drifted close to sleep again.
Suddenly, the rhythm faltered. He raised his head. Nothing. He must have imagined it. He lay back on the bench. There it was again, echoing in the timber. A jostle of smaller waves. Followed by an almost imperceptible bump. Someone was holding a small boat off the side. One of Didaion’s assassins?
The sentries were up in the bows, guarding access from the beach. What should he do? Wake the whole ship? But that would give whoever it was time to escape. Odysseus reached down beside Argos for the spear his father had lent him, a much-loved weapon that Laertes insisted had always brought him luck. But no – it was over-long to wield in such a confined space.
The bumping noise came again, louder this time. Argos raised his head and growled deep in his throat. “Sshh,” Odysseus murmured. “Quiet, boy.”
He glided his legs off the bench. “Menelaos,” he whispered, as quietly as he could.
“Uurr, what?” Menelaos jerked awake.
“Hush.” Odysseus laid a warning hand on his shoulder. “There’s someone trying to come on board. We’re going to capture him. You have your sword? Good. Now sit up, but don’t make a noise.”
“Where is he?”
“In a boat right below us. Wait till he comes over the rail. I’ll grab him–”
“And I’ll run him through.”
“No. Let him feel the point of your sword. But I want a confession from him. Quick, here he comes.”
There was a scrabbling sound. The man was making a right muddle of it, his feet slithering on the planks. The boat banged, harder this time, against the side.
“What’s that?” a voice called from further forward. The sailors near them stirred. Someone shouted and Argos broke into a peal of frenzied barks.
So much for his plan. Odysseus lunged through the port and grabbed the intruder’s arms. His wrist exploded with pain and he let go. A wild splash was followed by the sound of oars retreating into the darkness.
“Damn,” he exclaimed as his fury and frustration boiled over. “Damn, damn, damn!”
“Are you all right?” Menelaos asked, as the sailors clustered round. Argos nudged his knees, whimpering.
“What’s up?” said Meges’s voice out of the darkness.
“We had a visitor.” Odysseus sucked his wrist, tasting blood on his tongue. “But he escaped.”
“Yes.” How could the man have attacked him when he had a grip on both his arms?
Meges appeared with a lamp, his hand shielding the flame from the wind. “Let’s take a look.”
“He bit me.” Odysseus exclaimed, staring at the purple row of tooth marks.
“How unsporting,” snorted Meges. He nodded at Menelaos’s sword. “When all you wanted was to chop his head off.”
Chapter Forty
“You’d think he was the judge rather than the defendant,” whispered Menelaos in Odysseus’s ear. He gestured towards Didaion, who sat sprawled in an ornate chair next to Nestor’s throne, his head swivelling on his pudgy neck as he surveyed the gathering crowd.
“Don’t worry.” Odysseus leaned down to pat Argos, crouched under his stool beside a leather kit bag. If only he could apply his advice to himself.
“Why is that fat bladderful of ostrich pee sitting next to Nestor when we’re way over here?” Menelaos continued. “Are you sure it was such a good idea to have the trial in Didaion’s home town?”
“We’ll find out soon.” Odysseus stood up to ease his nerves. It seemed half the citizens of Kyparissia had crowded into the hall, perched on the benches or clustered against the extravagantly painted walls – tradesmen and their wives with their hats full of ribbons, farmers with the dirt still under their fingernails, fishermen with scales glistening in their hair.
Two women in bright yellow headscarves were peering round a pillar near the door. His heart lurched. One of them looked just like Skotia. He craned his neck to see, but she’d disappeared.
Idiot! Skotia was far away in Arkadia, and he had a case to argue. He must stop thinking about her.
“This can’t be Didaion’s first theft,” he whispered to Menelaos as he sat down again. “How else could he afford all this luxury? Gorgeous furniture, all those wall paintings – and he must be wearing enough gold for a royal bride price. Nestor’s tax inspectors will be doing their sums–”
“Sshh. Here comes Nestor now.”
A herald had appeared to pierce the hubbub with three wailing blasts on a conch shell as Nestor swept into the hall. The crowd hushed as the king raised his arms.
“Blessed gods,” Nestor intoned. “Bring us justice for the wronged, punishment for the wicked and mercy for the innocent.” He nodded at the crowd in a business-like way and took his seat. “I will explain the proceedings. The Ithakans shall outline their grievances, after which Didaion may state his defence. Witnesses can then be called by both parties. Gentlemen, let us proceed.”
Odysseus took the speaking staff proferred by the herald. There was a murmur of comment from the crowd at the sight of the bandage on his wrist. What, he wondered, would Didaion think of it? The governor must have had a report of last night’s attack by now. Yet Didaion’s face was blank.
The greybeards on Ithaka had all known how to win. They’d even agreed on several points – a rare event in any Ithakan discussion.
He must talk as long as possible. Two days, even three.
But what about?
Portents, they explained, shaking their heads at his ignorance. And prophecies, relevant or not. Ancestry, including descent from as many gods as possible; all major marriage alliances and every important friendship.
Family valour. Wars, duels, the rescue of maidens from monsters, the overthrow of demons, the destruction of giants, multi-headed serpents, dragons, sea beasts and so on. Borrow from other people’s family sagas – everyone else did.
Didaion’s faults and failings. With such a scoundrel, this part should take a full day at least.
The greybeards insisted he must also stride up and down, wave the staff about and bang it on the ground. Presumably to keep everyone awake.
He’d waited for them to tell him how to present the case. But no one mentioned that. Perhaps they thought Nestor might forget there should be one.
Odysseus, however, knew that Nestor was in love with the sound of his own voice. The only long speech he’d enjoy would be his own.
Out of the corner of his eye Odysseus thought he glimpsed that girl with the headscarf again. By the door this time.
No. Concentrate.
He whispered a prayer to Athena, his heart racing, and began.
The opening formalities were swiftly dealt with – indecently so, the greybeards would have said – and within an absurdly short space of time he began to set out his case. The date of the raid. The place on Zakynthos where the sheep were stolen. The names of the shepherds and the numbers of their flocks.
He paused while Eurybates handed Nestor a parchment transcript of the spring muster from Zakynthos.
“Thank you,” said Nestor. “But it seems to me that anyone can write a list.”
“I have the original clay tablets from the muster in the bag at my feet,” Odysseus explained. This was the major danger point. He had to keep the tablets back for later. Timing would win or lose the case. “Would you be happy for them to be produced when the witnesses are called?”
Nestor deliberated, fingertips joined. “Very well,” he said at last.
Odysseus hurried on before Nestor changed his mind, describing the nocturnal march inland; his own part as witness – there were gasps from the crowd at that; and the final hiding place in the mountains.
He saw Didaion twist round, frowning, his finger raised in beckoning. Another dangerous moment. Didaion mustn’t be allowed to send any messages. But Nestor had kept his word. Didaion’s servants had disappeared and Nestor’s own men now guarded the doors.
Odysseus invoked the kindness of the gods, praised Nestor’s wisdom and handed the staff back to the herald. “I am done, sir,” he said. Had his speech been short enough to have held Nestor’s attention?
Nestor cocked his head. “You may speak for longer if you wish,” he said. What was that look in his eye? Relief? Or scorn?
“Thank you, sir,” Odysseus said. “I will later, with your permission.”
Didaion prised himself out of his chair, seized the staff and began his speech. The greybeards would have been proud of him for he had all the tricks – the shake of the head, the roll of the eye, the wave of the staff, the prance, the pirouette, the pregnant pause. The question was, would he have the stamina?
Insulting remarks about Odysseus’s family mixed freely with improbably heroic feats by Didaion’s own. Monsters and maidens abounded. At last, the governor launched into his case. His fishermen had spied Etruscan pirates sailing away from Zakynthos, their ships loud with the bleating of sheep. His traders had seen the Ithakan shepherds shackled together at a slave market in a place so far north, ice and snow covered the ground at midsummer.
He could produce good, god-fearing witnesses. He recited their names and their fathers’ names, and their fathers’ fathers’ names as well. He could even vouch for their wives’ virtue and their mothers’ thrift.
On and on he went, long past the time for the noonday meal and all through the afternoon.
As the sun eased down the sky, the flood of words ebbed to a stop. As Odysseus had hoped, Didaion lacked the imagination to do more.
Nestor cleared his throat. “We can either adjourn till tomorrow or you can bring your first witness,” he said to Odysseus. “As we have not eaten since breakfast, may I suggest …?” He paused, eyebrows arched.
Odysseus shook his head. By tomorrow his chief witness might have vanished. “No, sir,” he said. “I wish to call on Phylas, Didaion’s head shepherd.”
Didaion threw his head back and laughed. “This whole business is a farce,” he gasped, turning to Nestor and grasping his arm as though in complicity. “Do you not agree?”
Nestor twitched his arm free. “Laertes’s son has been given the opportunity to present his father’s case.”
“But Phylas is up in the hills, minding his own business.”
“I believe not,” said Nestor. “Herald, fetch the witness.”
; Chapter Forty-one
Time dragged on. Odysseus stared at the side door, willing Phylas to appear. Nestor had promised to bring the shepherd here in secret and guard him well away from Didaion’s palace. It would take time to fetch him.
Even so, Odysseus felt sick with fear. What if one of Didaion’s servants had discovered where the shepherd had been hidden? Was Phylas lying dead somewhere with his throat cut?
The door opened at last and to his great relief, Phylas was marched in. The shepherd took the oath in a series of grunts, his eyes flickering from Nestor to Didaion to Odysseus and back. “What do you want of me, lord?” he asked Nestor. “I’m a poor man going about my master’s work.”
“I want an account of your actions over the summer,” said Nestor. “If you utter any falsehood, you will die.”
“What I’ve been a-doing, lord?” said Phylas. “Why, only the usual. The sheep were mustered and shorn more than a month gone, and the lambs taken out to be weaned.” His hand went to a cord round his neck, before dropping back to his side. “We’re up in the high pastures now, where there’s still grass.”
Nestor frowned. “Is that the testimony you expected, Prince Odysseus?”
“It is, sir,” Odysseus replied. “It’s what Phylas has left out which will interest you more.” He took two clay tablets from the leather bag at his feet, along with a small bundle which he placed on the stool behind him. “Please examine these tablets, sir. This pair will prove my point, though there are others like them.”
“Mustering records,” said Nestor, looking from one to the other. “But what is this?” He raised an eyebrow. “They’ve both been stamped with seals. How very unusual.”
“Do you see what they say, sir?”
“Why, exactly the same thing.”
“Yet they’ve been written by two different people.”
“Yes.” Nestor rubbed his chin. “And your point?”