The Bow Page 16

  Odysseus glanced over at Phylas. The shepherd was fingering the cord round his neck again. “One tablet, sir, is from this summer’s muster on Zakynthos. The shepherd is one of the men kidnapped in the raid – you will find his name on the lists we gave you. My father placed his own seal on the tablet to prove it comes from him.”

  “Indeed,” said Nestor. “I know his sign well. And the other?”

  “Look at the stone hanging round Phylas’s neck and see what mark has been carved into the seal’s face.” Odysseus bent to pick up the bundle from the stool, cursing the tremor in his hands. Would this work? Or would his whole plan be for nothing?

  Nestor beckoned a guard over. While all eyes were on the king, Odysseus moved to a spot just behind Nestor’s throne. There, more or less out of sight, he unwrapped the bundle and donned the contents. It was a shame he’d had to wear his best ceremonial kilt for the court case – a tunic would have given him the chance to add some padding. Still, with luck, the cap would be enough.

  By the time he re-emerged, Didaion had hoisted himself onto his feet, his face purple. “This is chicanery, my lord,” he shouted. “Forgery, lies. I forbid–”

  “Sit down, sir,” said Nestor. “You are the defendant. You can forbid nothing. Herald. Bring me the stone.”

  But Phylas was clutching at the throat of his tunic, his face white and his mouth gaping open as he stared past Nestor’s shoulder. Suddenly he started for the door, only to be grabbed by the guards. “No,” he shouted, struggling in their grasp. “I didn’t do it; I never put a foot on them ships. I only drove the sheep. It were the others, the soldiers. They did it, I swear. Oh gods have mercy.”

  “Explain yourself,” Nestor thundered.

  “It was him,” cried Phylas, jerking his head at Didaion. “He ordered me. I never left the beach till they come back, I never went on any ship, I only did my job, like I was told.”

  Didaion lurched out of his chair. “He’s lying. He’s gone mad. The Ithakans–”

  “Silence!” Nestor rose to his feet. In the dead stillness that followed he waited while the herald cut the cord round Phylas’s neck and brought the seal over. Nestor matched it with the imprint on the second tablet. “Very satisfactory,” he said, turning to Odysseus. “If you can find the clerk who wrote the words on this tablet, and force a confession from him, your case is complete.”

  Odysseus had already pulled off the leather scribe’s cap with its tangle of black curls sewn round the brim. He straightened out his right foot which had somehow twisted under him, the tic in his left cheek easing into a smile. “He’s standing beside you,” he said.

  Chapter Forty-two

  The crowd was so thick Odysseus could hardly breathe. Argos was letting out the occasional exclamatory bark as people slapped Odysseus on the back or squashed his hands in theirs. Now Didaion had been led away in chains, it seemed most of Kyparissia had a story to tell, of theft or worse.

  Odysseus grabbed Argos’s collar and forced his way over to his friends. “Eury,” he said. “Did you spy those two yellow-veiled women?”

  Eurybates laughed. “The room was full of women, Olli.”

  “I’m sure one of them was Skotia.”

  Eurybates shook his head. “Your imagination is on the boil.”

  “Skotia?” Menelaos’s eyes were dancing. “Sounds like a girl. What do you think, Meges?”

  “Promising.” Meges grinned.

  Odysseus turned his back on them. “Eury, I saw her twice,” he said. “She can’t have gone far.”

  Eurybates sighed. “Olli, Skotia’s in Arkadia.”

  “She has legs.”

  “If she’s walked all this way to see you, she’d have stayed, two legs or six.”

  “She might not dare. She’s a runaway slave, remember?” He had to go and find her. Now.

  They were interrupted by Nestor’s herald. “The king asks you to join him for a light repast, sir,” the man said.

  “Thank you.” Odysseus stood, torn. There was so much still to discuss with Nestor – the return of the sheep, the ships.

  “We’ll look for Skotia later,” said Eurybates.

  “No,” said Odysseus, seizing his arm. “Will you search for me? Please?”

  “Damn it, Olli, I’m hungry too.” Eurybates groaned. “Oh, very well. But if you’ve eaten everything before I’m back, I’ll push you overboard on the way home.” He shouldered his way out, muttering under his breath.

  The herald ushered them into a luxurious room – clearly Didaion’s private salon – where Nestor was conversing with a group of wealthy-looking men. Platters piled with food were laid out on low tables and a servant was ladling spiced wine into decorated cups.

  “Congratulations, my dear Odysseus.” Nestor raised his wine cup in greeting. “Let us drink to your success. What a tragedy Laertes was not here to witness it. Such a dear, dear friend. Have I ever told you how he and I first met?”

  Only a dozen times or so, Odysseus thought, his stomach growling in rebellion. He winked at Menelaos and edged towards the food.

  “Dear me,” said Nestor, waving his cup at the food. “Young men and their appetites. A cousin of mine once attended a wedding feast and the guests had barely arrived when this boy, a most excellent youth, strong with his spear and most agile on the dance floor …”

  The story droned on, followed by another and yet another as the evening light faded and the lamps were lit. Odysseus waited for the chance to ask about the ships, but the opportunity never seemed to arise.

  At last Eurybates returned. “Did you see her?” whispered Odysseus. “Here – I’ve saved some food for you.”

  “Thanks.” Eurybates took the bowl and began eating. “I looked everywhere,” he said between mouthfuls. “No sign of her. Sorry.”

  Odysseus tried to hide his disappointment. It hadn’t been Skotia. What did he expect?

  “What will happen to Didaion?” asked Eury.

  “Didaion?” Nestor swivelled round. “Did someone mention our soon-to-be late, unlamented friend Didaion? I have been curious about his tax revenues for some time. As you see,” he waved his hand at the splendid furnishings, “he has been bleeding me dry.”

  “He’s been bleeding his own people dry too, sir,” said Odysseus.

  “Of course.” Nestor waved his hand in dismissal. “Anyone with a grievance may petition me in the usual way.”

  “Speaking of which, sir, my father wishes for compensation from Didaion, over and above the return of the sheep. And since we need transport to take the flocks back to Zakynthos, what better compensation than the ships Didaion used?”

  Nestor raised an eyebrow. “A curious idea, dear boy, borne of youthful impetuousness. Your father has his own ships.”

  “They’re needed for the blockade. Thyestes will attack us again as soon as he has an easterly wind.” Odysseus’s gut tightened at the thought.

  “Pshaw. These westerlies will last all summer; they always do.”

  “Only the gods can promise us that, sir.”

  Nestor pulled at his chin. “We will speak of it later. Tomorrow or the next day. Now is the time to celebrate, and as the night is still in its infancy, there is an abundance of time to tell you of some other extraordinary cases I have had the honour to preside over–”

  “Thank you, sir,” Odysseus interrupted. “But we must be up early tomorrow morning. The sooner we muster the sheep, the better.”

  “How unfortunate,” said one of the Messenians, a man introduced earlier as Ortilochos. “My home is not far inland and I had hoped you might attend the festival of Demeter. I have already mentioned it to your friend.” He gestured at Meges. “It begins tomorrow night, on the first full moon of midsummer.”

  “I urge you to go,” said Nestor. “I, alas, must stay here. Sorting through Didaion’s affairs will be most time-consuming.”

  Counting Didaion’s ill-gotten gains into his own treasury boxes, more like. “I’m afraid we must also refuse,” Odysseus sa
id. “My father would be furious–”

  Meges caught his elbow. “Olli, may I have a word with you?” he murmured.

  “Why?”

  “Come, let’s talk over here, in the corner.” Meges’s forehead creased into a frown. “I think you should accept the invitation. You and Menelaos.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Meges. What about the sheep?”

  Meges glanced over to Eurybates again, now deep in conversation with Nestor. “You don’t have to lead the muster. Nestor won’t negotiate over the ships tonight, not in front of these other men. Why not do that tomorrow, after we’ve left? And it will give Eurybates a chance to gain some kudos.”

  “But Eury hasn’t been far enough into the mountains to know where the sheep are.”

  “No buts,” said Eurybates, strolling over. “I have just asked Nestor to give us Phylas as a guide. The man seemed genuinely repentant. We all know how a servant has to follow his master’s orders.”

  Odysseus looked from one to the other, a knife of fear sliding under his ribs. It was obvious Meges and Eury had discussed this already. He’d been backed into a corner. Was that the only reason why he felt so uneasy?

  Were they right about Phylas? “Be careful,” he said. “I don’t trust him.”

  Eurybates slapped Odysseus on the back. “Olli, it’s time you enjoyed yourself. You deserve it. Leave the worrying to us.”

  “I cannot give you the ships without taking your father’s side against Thyestes.” Nestor’s small bright eyes darted across Odysseus’s face. “You know how I value my neutrality.”

  Odysseus stifled a groan. Their conversation in this stuffy storeroom had travelled a devious path all morning, around a now well-worn circle. Failure stared him in the face. “So we will not be compensated?”

  “Didaion will be paying you with his death. No other compensation is required.” Nestor, when pressed, was showing an unexpected talent for bluntness.

  “If you deny me the means to get the sheep home, does that not amount to …?” Odysseus bit his tongue. Accusing Nestor of theft would gain him nothing.

  Nestor pursed his lips. “Transportation is your father’s problem. He has enough ships, as I said last night.”

  Odysseus smoothed his grimace into a smile. “And as I said last night, he needs them at the Narrows.”

  “Then we are at a standstill.” Nestor picked up a small ornament and pretended to admire it.

  “What if I were to confiscate the ships?”

  “That would be an act of war.”

  “What if you were not to notice?”

  Nestor put down the ornament. “How could I not, when they are beached here in the harbour?”

  “Do you wish for war?” Odysseus felt his palms sweating. This was his last throw of the dice.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Not if I can avoid it. What if …?” Odysseus paused, looking at Nestor sideways. “What other name can we give to this?”

  “Ah.” Nestor paced back and forth across the storeroom floor. Suddenly, he stopped and spread his hands wide. “What if I were to lend you the ships? Under duress, of course.”

  That would not solve the problem, Odysseus thought. His father needed to keep them for the blockade. But once they had them … “We would return them as soon as we reasonably could.”

  Nestor laughed. “And perhaps we won’t be too specific as to what ‘reasonably’ might mean?”

  It was already afternoon when Odysseus and Menelaos mounted Ortilochos’s chariot and drove out through the gates of Kyparissia.

  A girl in a bright yellow headscarf was standing in a huddle of women by a well outside the town walls. She turned away as they clattered past, so Odysseus couldn’t see her face.

  He wanted to leap down from the chariot, but with the old lord on one side of him, Menelaos on the other, Argos wedged between his legs and the horses gathering speed, he had no choice. He had to stay where he was.

  He searched his mind for something he could pretend to have forgotten. His sword was slung over his shoulder, the spear his father had loaned him was in the holster on the side of the chariot, and his good clothes were in a bag under Argos’s paws. He had nothing else.

  Perhaps Eurybates was right, perhaps his heart was telling him lies. Skotia was many days walk from here. And she’d made her feelings very plain. Why would she come to Messenia?

  Chapter Forty-three

  The horses’ shadows were stretching far along the road ahead when the chariot reached a low hill jutting out from the skirts of the mountains. Ortilochos’s walled mansion stood on the crest, above a prosperous town.

  The upstairs room Odysseus and Menelaos were to share was comfortably furnished but simple, with plain white plaster walls like those downstairs. The copper bathtub in the corner was soon filled, so they could wash off the dust from their journey.

  “What wonderful horses Ortilochos has,” said Menelaos, rubbing his hair dry. “You can tell from the way they roll their eyes they’re sensitive beasts.”

  Odysseus grinned. He’d thought the horses nasty-tempered brutes, but Menelaos was forever smitten with love for something – a horse, a pretty girl, a long-legged hunting dog.

  The clatter of hooves drew him to the window. A chariot was pulling up in the courtyard below, followed by a straggle of laden mules. The two boys watched as an elderly man clambered down, removing his traveller’s hat.

  Odysseus caught a glimpse of a balding head and a beaked nose jutting out between thick, dust-clogged eyebrows before the man disappeared into the porch. “Who’s that?” he said. “He’s not travelling light.”

  “Why don’t we go down?” said Menelaos. “His horses are poor beasts, but the chariot deserves a closer look.”

  The new guest had already disappeared to bathe and change when the two boys and Argos wandered into the courtyard. The old man’s baggage was being unloaded from the mules and a long ebony case caught Odysseus’s eye. “What’s inside that?” he asked the mule driver.

  “None of yer business,” the man replied, heaving a heavy box off one of the mules and staggering with it towards the house.

  “Sour old bag of badger’s breath,” muttered Menelaos, turning back to the coveted chariot.

  Odysseus hesitated, running his fingers over the polished ebony. He had an idea what it could hold but surely …

  “What in Hades do you think you’re doing?”

  He swung round. The old man was standing right behind him.

  “I beg your pardon.” Odysseus took a step back as the old man pushed past him. “Does this case hold a bow?”

  “And if it does?” The old man tugged the case free as the muleteer hurried over. “By Kerberos,” he swore at his servant. “I’ve told you a thousand times to guard this load.” He stomped off towards the portico, the case cradled in his arms.

  “I didn’t mean any harm.” Odysseus hurried after him. “I’ve never seen a bow case so big. I’m Odysseus, by the way, Laertes’s son, from Ithaka.”

  “So I gather.” The sneer in his voice said how little he thought of that.

  “And you?”

  The man paused. “Since you’re full of impertinent questions, I am Lord Iphitos, of the house of Eurytos, the great archer.”

  “So this is Eurytos’s bow.” Odysseus felt his heart quicken. How many times had Stenelos told him about Eurytos’s death at the hands of his jealous rival, Herakles? His great bow had never been strung again and this old man, Iphitos, had no sons to pass it on to. Was it possible that such an extraordinary heirloom could end up buried with Iphitos when he died?

  Maybe there was a chance Iphitos would let him see the bow, before it disappeared forever. “My archery teacher swears every day by Eurytos,” he said, keeping pace with Iphitos. “His name is Stenelos.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  Odysseus felt a sudden pang of sympathy. It must be hard to spend your whole life in the shadow of another man’s deeds, however glorious. “St
enelos says there’s no bow like it,” he said, hoping to ease Iphitos’s mood. “Even Herakles’s bow is nothing in comparison.”

  The old man grunted. “Well, so he should. Excuse me, young man. I’m in need of my bath.”

  “May I see the bow?” Odysseus asked. “Later, of course. It would be a great honour.”

  At first he thought Iphitos would refuse. But Iphitos paused, considering. “Very well,” he said at last. “Come to my room before dinner.”

  The case was open on Iphitos’s bed when Odysseus and Menelaos entered, the polished limbs of the bow gleaming in the lamplight. The two arms, fashioned from massive goat horns, were a fathomless deep grey, almost black, fading through to pale cream at the very tips. In contrast, the leather thong wrapped around the joint at the central handle was a rich, vibrant red.

  Beside the bow lay a new coiled bowstring, and a quiver bulged with well-feathered arrows. Obviously, Iphitos took his custodial duties seriously, because everything looked in excellent condition.

  The square box they’d watched the muleteer unload sat open by the far wall and Odysseus caught the gleam of bronze. He sucked in his breath. The singers told how Eurytos would set up twelve crossed axes in a row, and fire an arrow through the narrow tunnel between the blades. Surely only the strongest of bows could possibly punch an arrow straight enough to clear them all. “May I hold the bow?” he asked Iphitos, his palms aching at the thought.

  “Certainly not,” said Iphitos. “I’m not having your sweaty hands on it.” His face twisted into a bitter smile. “Next you’ll be expecting to string it.” He gave a mirthless cackle.

  Odysseus looked from the bow to the bowstring to Iphitos. The absurdity of the idea almost made him laugh out loud. How many generations was it since Eurytos died? How many grown men had pitted their strength against this bow and failed?

  “He could, you know,” said Menelaos, quietly.

  “He’d tear his sinews off his bones before he came close.” Iphitos shook his head. “The age of heroes has passed, boy.”