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  “Ambush,” the boy screamed, pointing at a group of chariots that had erupted from a thicket off to their right.

  “Get down,” Diomedes yelled at the boy.

  “No. Give me the reins,” the boy demanded.

  “By the Gorgon’s head I will,” shouted Diomedes. “Kneel, damn you.” He lashed the horses – there was a chance they might slip through before the enemy reached them but it would be a near thing. The boy was still standing, blast him. Not that the chariot sides would offer much protection if he did get down.

  As their paths converged, the attacking chariots veered right, racing parallel to them over the rough ground by the road, spears poised and bows bent. Harness and gear told him these too were Thyestes’s men.

  What idiots. They could scarcely aim straight on such uneven ground. And, as he expected, their first volley flew wide. Diomedes turned his head to shout an order to Stenelos and a spear from the next volley sliced the back of his left arm. For a moment the chariot slewed as he fought for control, blood splattering onto his kilt.

  “Here,” The boy grabbed the reins from him and somehow hauled the horses back into line.

  There was nothing for it but to let the lad drive till the blood was staunched. Diomedes kneeled down, jamming himself against the side wall of the chariot, and hacked a strip of cloth from the hem of his kilt to wind tight round the gash.

  By the time he’d clambered back to his feet, Stenelos’s chariot had raced past, the priest at the reins and Stenelos with that massive goat horn bow of his firing arrow after arrow at the Mykenaians. Not for the first time, Diomedes was tempted to compare his lieutenant, proud, secretive and supremely skilled, with the great archers of the past – Herakles who founded Diomedes’s own fortress of Tiryns after he’d completed his many labours, and Eurytos, the only man who could rival Herakles in archery.

  But this was no time for such idle speculation. Diomedes pulled a spear from the holster mounted on the side of his chariot and hurled it at the nearest enemy warrior.

  The man was an archer and he’d slung his shield onto his back to free his left arm. He’d no choice but to duck. Diomedes’s spear flashed over his head and hit the chariot driver in the neck, hurling him over the far side of the rail. The driver had tied the reins about his waist and his dead weight slewed the horses round and down in a tangle of thrashing legs and splintering woodwork. The next chariot collided with the wreckage and the one beyond that swerved into a patch of reeds, throwing the occupants into the mud.

  Behind, Diomedes could hear his own men cheering over the pounding hooves and the clatter of wheels, the twang of bowstrings and the whack and thud of spears and arrows as they found their mark.

  And now they were almost at the crossroads, with the fortress of Tiryns off to their left and the road to the coast on their right. Already the battered remnants of the Mykenaian force were pulling back.

  “Give me the reins,” Diomedes said, more roughly than he meant, for the boy had done surprisingly well.

  The boy didn’t reply. He had his eyes fixed straight ahead, his fat cheeks hollowed and his face drenched with sweat. Diomedes choked on an inrush of breath. An arrow was sticking out of the boy’s stomach, with much of the shaft in view. He’d have been luckier if the arrowhead had gone right through him – easier to pull the whole thing out – but with the barbed head buried deep in his guts, he’d have little chance of surviving. Diomedes had watched too many men die under the surgeon’s knife.

  What endeared this lad to Laertes he had no idea, but Diomedes’s pride sickened at the thought of delivering a corpse to Ahtbar.

  Chapter Eight

  Diomedes pulled the reins from the boy’s fingers and guided his hands back onto the rail. “Hold on till we reach the ships,” he said, keeping his voice level. “Stand straight – the arrowhead will slice through your guts if you bend over.”

  He gripped the lad’s shoulder with his left hand and flapped the reins with his right. Ahead at the crossroads, Stenelos was gesturing to them from his chariot, waving his great bow about like a herald’s staff. The priest was deep in conversation with a mounted messenger.

  “There’s been fighting on the port road,” Stenelos exclaimed as they drew level. “Some of Thyestes’s soldiers must have slipped past us in the night. They’re heading this way, but we have enough men to hold the crossroads. It will be a good fight.”

  A quick glance down the coast road was enough – the dust cloud Stenelos was pointing to was fast approaching. And behind him the remnants of the Mykenaian pursuit were starting to regather. Diomedes turned back to his companions and pointed at the arrow. “We have a more urgent problem.”

  The priest turned, his mouth falling open in horror. Poor wretch, thought Diomedes. “We’ll make for Tiryns,” he said.

  The horns along the walls were blowing the alarm as the chariots clattered through the gate in the palisade that enclosed the town. While the other teams swerved right towards the barracks, Diomedes and Stenelos urged their horses up the steep ramp to the fortress on the crest of the rock. Once inside, they jogged across a wide courtyard to the portico of Diomedes’s palace.

  “Fetch the surgeon,” Stenelos shouted.

  Ahtbar was bent under the boy’s weight as he helped him down, the lad whispering urgently in his ear. “By the great god Imhotep,” the priest intoned, “I am a far greater doctor than any you have.”

  Diomedes opened his mouth to argue then shut it again. The whole world stood in awe of Egyptian medicine, with its secret incantations and magic potions. But it would take a very powerful spell to ease this arrow from the boy’s belly. “Take him into the hall,” he said.

  The priest shook his head. “We require privacy. Any audience will make my work impossible.”

  “If you insist.” Diomedes opened a door in the side wall of the portico.

  Inside, two scribes were busy at work, their styluses poised in clay-smeared fingers over their tablets. They rose in confusion as Diomedes burst in. “Out, out,” he cried, bustling them into the portico. Hopefully their writing table would take the boy’s weight. “Can my surgeon supply you with knives?” he said to Ahtbar. “Bowls? Saws?”

  “No,” said the priest. “I have everything I need.”

  Odysseus clung to Eurybates’s shoulder. It would soon be over, but they needed the door shut behind them before he lost control. Eurybates helped him stagger over to the table. “The shudders,” Odysseus mumbled. Those wretched cheek pads had slipped, confound them.

  “Shudders?” exclaimed Diomedes. “There, there, keep calm, lad. The priest will help you as soon as he can.”

  “He means shutters,” called Eurybates. “We must close them.”

  “But you’ll need light,” said Stenelos.

  Odysseus waved an arm in denial then clutched at the table edge as his legs started to buckle.

  As Eurybates heaved the shutters closed, Odysseus grasped the arrow and wrenched it out, lurched forwards, collided with a stool and crashed to the floor.

  “Oh gods,” cried Diomedes, grabbing Eurybates’s arm. “He’s pulled his guts out. And what’s he doing with that knife?”

  Odysseus managed to slice through the paunch’s leather ties before Diomedes snatched the knife from him. “Eury,” he cried, hooking the cheek pads from his mouth. “Take hold of my ankles. Now lift my legs. Higher. And walk backwards.”

  A cascade of gold, accompanied by flaps of rotting bladder and a ghastly stench, spewed out of the paunch as Eurybates dragged Odysseus across the floor. Odysseus plunged his arm inside to scoop out the final pieces of gold and scrambled to his feet, wiping a slimy hand on his tunic.

  There was a stunned silence. Then Diomedes burst into peals of laughter. “Laertes’s gold?” he managed at last. “Wipe that sour look off your face, Stenelos. Can’t you see the joke, man?” He picked up the stool and thrust it at Odysseus. “You deserve a seat after that performance.”

  Odysseus perched himself on the
stool, grinning. “Thank you.” He pulled off his wig, the mastic leaving long tendrils across his bristling scalp.

  “Who in Athena’s name are you?” Diomedes asked.

  “Odysseus, son of Laertes. And this is Eurybates, my father’s squire.”

  Diomedes’s eyes grew wide. “I had no idea. Even though I met you both two years ago.” He shook his head in wonder. “Your disguises were most convincing. And this,” he waved an arm at the gold, “is the most magnificent breastplate I have ever seen. I congratulate you.” He leaned forwards, suddenly solicitous. “Are you not hurt?”

  “Hardly a bruise.”

  “Then you owe the gods a fattened lamb or two.”

  “A small flock, I’d say,” said Stenelos, smiling at last.

  Odysseus returned the smile. He’d underestimated Stenelos. The skill with his bow that he’d shown during the chase was extraordinary, worthy almost of Eurytos, the great archer who – alone among his peers – had rivalled that supreme hero Herakles. Diomedes was still shaking his head in disbelief. “So why didn’t you pull the arrow out while we were in the chariot?”

  “I was driving,” said Odysseus. “I couldn’t let go of the reins. And the paunch was so tightly packed, I feared it might split open and spill the gold on the road.”

  “That would have given Thyestes’s men something to wonder at,” laughed Eurybates.

  “It certainly would,” Diomedes replied. “As it is, Alkmaion and Thyestes will be doing some hard thinking.” He prodded the gold with his foot.

  “Would you like some?” asked Odysseus. “You saved our lives.”

  “No.” Diomedes threw his hands in the air. “I didn’t rescue you to seize Laertes’s inheritance. My father and yours were friends. I’ll not abuse such a sacred bond.” He raised Odysseus from the stool and embraced him warmly. A wave of putrid air gusted out of the paunch and Diomedes reeled back, coughing and wiping his face.

  “My apologies.” Odysseus pulled his tunic off, undid the buckles and kicked the paunch into a corner. “You have to admit it worked.”

  “Indeed. But by Hades, don’t put it on again. Burn it, Stenelos.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” said Stenelos, “I think they need to keep their disguise. Thyestes will want the gold, but he’ll want Laertes’s son far more. If he finds out Odysseus is here in Tiryns, he’ll do his damnedest to smash his way in. And Alkmaion will be eager to help him.”

  “True,” said Diomedes. “You can imagine what a bargaining tool you’d be, Odysseus, in Thyestes’s hands. If Laertes didn’t hand Agamemnon and Menelaos over, Thyestes would kill you. Or send you back to Ithaka in instalments – a hand first, a foot to follow.” He strode up and down the room, his hands clenched behind his back. “We have to hide both your identity and the gold. My men are loyal, but it would only take one careless word.”

  “You’re asking me to wear that again?” Odysseus gesticulated at the corner.

  “Never.” Diomedes trumpeted with laughter. “Everyone saw how badly hurt you were when we arrived. Such a wound would keep you a month in bed – more than enough time to make a new stomach.”

  A month? “We must return to Ithaka as soon as possible – my father needs the gold.”

  “I understand. But you can’t leave the fortress now. Wait till Thyestes and Alkmaion tire of this matter. They will, never fear.”

  Chapter Nine

  For the first few days Odysseus stayed out of sight, in the room he shared with Eurybates. To keep boredom at bay they strung a rope from the rafters and used it to practise pull-ups and other exercises. Eurybates made sure all the fortress knew how miraculously fast a recovery his Cypriot servant was making from his wound, aided of course by Egyptian healing spells.

  Soon Odysseus started leaving the room for short periods, to shuffle along the corridors, clutching his newly made paunch and emitting the occasional groan. By then he knew that Thyestes’s troops hadn’t withdrawn when their pursuit had failed. Instead they’d flung a loose cordon round Tiryns, keeping the citadel on full alert while the surrounding countryside paid in trampled crops and stolen livestock.

  Alkmaion held the port, but showed no other sign of opposing his powerful neighbour. Perhaps, the rumours whispered, he’d found Diomedes growing somewhat too independent. Perhaps the two kings had already worked out a convenient settlement, once Tiryns’s gates were broken and Diomedes brought to heel.

  Odysseus was horrified at the cost Diomedes might pay for helping them, but their new friend laughed at his fears.

  “If Thyestes was serious about conquering Tiryns,” Diomedes replied, “he’d be doing more than skulking in the bushes. No doubt he’ll soon wander off to frighten someone with less stomach for bullying. After all, what does he stand to gain? A thin Egyptian and a fat Cypriot? No, all we have to do is wait.”

  The northern war was constantly in Odysseus’s thoughts. During the day, he could discuss the logistics of the blockade at the Narrows with Eurybates – his father’s supply lines and the help the Ithakans could expect from their allies. Eury seemed to be taking the whole situation very calmly, but their conversations, rational and sensible, did little to allay Odysseus’s growing unease as the days stretched into weeks.

  It was during the long hours of darkness that Odysseus’s fears became obsessive. One night, unable to sleep, he wandered along the northern wall of the fortress. The wall overlooked the main exercise yard at the back of the town, so it was seldom patrolled. As he’d hoped, he had it to himself, a good quiet place to think.

  How long could his father keep Thyestes’s ships at bay? And, with no chance of sending news to Ithaka any time soon, his parents would be sick with worry.

  Menelaos – where was he? Patrolling the Narrows, probably. Waiting for Thyestes to attack so he’d have a chance to avenge his father’s murder. Odysseus could see Menelaos in his mind’s eye, tall and lanky, balancing awkwardly on the foredeck of some ship, with a spear gripped hard in his clenched fist and the wind whipping his golden hair back from his forehead.

  After a while Odysseus steered his thoughts away from Ithaka and his family, towards more immediate concerns. Diomedes had decided the best way to carry the gold home was for them to wear it. Working secretly at night, he’d started melting it, piece by piece, into small ingots, which Odysseus and Eurybates then sewed into a pair of double-layered leather jerkins which, being sleeveless, could be hidden under a roomy tunic. But the smelting would take some time yet. And would the jerkins be too heavy? Would they be able to move fast enough to elude capture, if they did manage to escape?

  Escape. It would be very hard to slip out of the fortress and through Thyestes’s cordon without being caught. And then? With the port in Alkmaion’s hands, stealing away by sea was impossible. And Alkmaion and Thyestes between them controlled all the land routes north, east and west …

  Suddenly, Odysseus heard the crunch of boots on the gravel below the fortress wall. He ducked below the parapet to avoid being detected. The footsteps went across the exercise yard to the far corner. There was a faint clink, as though something hard had been put down with care, followed by rustling and a soft creaking noise. Odysseus strained his ears. Who would be wandering around the yard at such a time? What were they about?

  Curiosity overcame caution and Odysseus raised his head to peer over the edge of the parapet. A lamp sat on the stones in front of a row of archery targets. As he watched, arrow after arrow began thudding into the targets, some in close clusters of shafts and feathers, some fired, barely a heartbeat apart, into the centre of each target in turn.

  Odysseus stared into the deep shadows where the archer must be standing. Why would anyone practise archery in the dark? Who in Tiryns could use a bow with such speed and accuracy? What was it he wanted to conceal, and why?

  His nostrils full of the parapet’s mud brick smell, Odysseus hugged his knees to his chest as he grappled with this new puzzle.

  The next night he hid behind a pillar
in the portico. When a side door from the private apartments creaked open, it was Stenelos who emerged, burdened by a large quiver and clasping his massive goat horn bow, his gloomy face cadaverous in the lamplight. The lieutenant unlocked the gate above the staircase that led down to the exercise yard and locked it behind him again, while Odysseus crept to his previous hiding place on top of the wall.

  Once again Odysseus stared into the blackness beyond the lamplight, listening to the archer’s rapid breathing, punctuated by the rhythmic hiss and thwack of the arrows. Everyone used their breath; there was nothing strange about that. But in this case there was something odd …

  What was the key to Stenelos’s power and speed? Perhaps Herakles’s skill had been passed down within Tiryns over generations and finally to Stenelos. Mind you, Herakles was as much a villain as a hero, or so Father always said – he’d lured the great archer Eurytos here to Tiryns on a trail of stolen cattle then hurled him off the battlements to his death.

  And Stenelos was hardly built like a hero. He wasn’t tall, nor were his shoulders particularly broad. So there must be some special secret. Would he share it? Might he, Odysseus, be the one to prise it from him by stealth, if persuasion failed? If only he could see what the man was doing!

  The moon was young, setting in the west not long after the sun. By the time it rose late enough to light the end of the night, he and Eurybates might be on their way to Ithaka. If he were to solve the mystery of Stenelos’s skill, he’d have to act soon.

  There was a recess in the wall not far from where he was hiding, where the lamplight couldn’t reach. If he unstrung the exercise rope in his room, he could use it tomorrow night to lower himself down without being seen, and if he was very careful, without being heard. Once there he might be close enough to find out more.

  Eurybates rolled over. “Can’t you sleep?” he grumbled. “You’ve been tossing like a piglet on a hot plate.”