The Girl From Ithaca (34 page)
Fires on the Beach
A
fter the funeral, I slipped away from the others and walked along the tide-line towards Ajax’s camp. Ajax’s end of the beach was quiet, everyone still with the funeral pyres except for the silent sentries at the gate. When I reached the camp’s boundary, I waded into the moonlit sea and started to swim.
The sea was warm around me as I lengthened my stroke. Odysseus was continually warning me to keep close to the shoreline, but I was soon further into the bay than I’d been before. I didn’t care about the dangers of strong currents or Trojan soldiers, it didn’t seem to matter now that Antilochus was dead.
I dived under the surface and felt the world disappear. The weak silver light from the moon followed me for awhile, until at last that shrank from me also. A shoal of small fish tickled my legs as they swam past. My lungs began to burst. I mouthed air bubbles and struck for the surface. Gasping for breath, I looked around and saw the fires on the beach. They were a long way in the distance. All I could hear was the gentle lapping of water against my head and shoulders. All I could smell was the dank seaweed. Yet in the grip of Poseidon of the sea, the only god I could think about was pale-faced Hades of the Underworld. Cruel, cruel Hades, who snatched away those we loved and held them as captives in his dark world.
Tortured by thoughts of Antilochus’ smile, his voice, his touch, I swam until my body screamed with exhaustion. Then I swam harder until my mind blacked out; I moved beyond feeling and merely sensed the rhythmic movement of my body swimming away from the funeral pyres and the death of Antilochus.
Eventually my arm hit something solid. Treading water, it took me a long time to realise it was the tall black rock we could see from the shore, the marker Odysseus used as a warning of the nearby dangerous currents. I clung to the rock for a moment and stared at the moon. It was Artemis, the goddess for whom Iphegenia had died.
I raised my fist and shouted at her. “I’m not as brave as Antilochus nor as pure as Iphigenia, so why am I still alive when they were dead?”
The goddess did not reply.
Loosening my grip, I let the currents take me. Through blurred eyesight I caught sight of the Little Bear in the sky, his tail still pointing north. I looked westward, imagining for a moment I could see Ithaca. Then I saw Father and Mother and Penelope too. I felt their warm arms about me. I saw the old herald asleep in the orchard and smelt the apple blossom. Odysseus’ young hunting dog barked and rubbed his wet nose against my outstretched hand, but when I tried to fondle his ears, he slid from view and Ithaca dissolved.
I coughed up a mouthful of water and gasped for air. With a sudden surge of fear, I realised I wasn’t at home and I had to get back to Odysseus and Ellissa. I glanced around for sight of the funeral pyres. They looked shockingly small but I was a strong swimmer, I knew I could reach them. Taking a deep breath, I aimed for the fires and took tired, ragged strokes towards the shore.
Many thanks to my husband Keith, my daughter Charlotte, and my mother, for all their support during the writing of this book and also thank you to Frank Kusy, Rosalind Myatt and Roman Laskowski for their invaluable support, help and guidance.
Neomene’s adventures continue in
Book Two: The Walls of Troy
THE WALLS OF TROY
I
o’s son laughed as I built up a tower in the sand. His joy was infectious and I laughed too, forgetting the hardships of this never-ending war. At two and a half years, Zeno knew no other life and accepted his surroundings with a confidence, not yet dented, that his needs would always be met. We were at the centre of the Greek camp, the armies of King Diomedes of Argos and Prince Achilles of the Myrmidons camped on my left and those of my brother, Odysseus, and the Spartan king Menelaus, to my right. Ahead of us loomed the large hut of King Agamemnon, the overall commander of the Greek forces.
“Again Neomene!” Zeno ordered, knocking down my wall and waiting for me to build another one. He’d be happy playing this all morning, I thought with a smile. At least it was easy to entertain him while Io served food to Agamemnon.
Zeno and I were so engrossed in our game, we didn’t see a small boat being rowed to the shore and then two men jump out and help an elderly man step quietly onto the sand. Zeno was still laughing when a shadow fell across my latest building. We looked up to see a tall, aged man standing above us. He wore the long flowing robe of a priest of Apollo. Two servants were behind him, carrying large leather sacks.
The priest held up his staff. “I am the High Priest from Chryse. I mean no harm to you or the child but I need to speak with Agamemnon of Mycenae. Take me to him.”
I looked at his stern face and did not dare disobey, even though I knew Agamemnon was dividing war booty from Achilles’ attack on Chryse four days before. I carried Zeno across the beach towards the Agamennon’s hut, while the little boy stared wide-eyed at the strange man following us.
The battle-hardened body guards posted around Agamemnon’s hut recognised the man as a priest and let us pass. Even the herald opened the door without the usual questions. Standing in the doorway, I saw Agamemnon sitting at his table with Achilles and the priest, Calchas, all drinking wine plundered from Chryse. As the old man stepped forward, Achilles and Calchas fell silent.
Agamemnon turned to reach for more meat and then noticed the uninvited guest. His face darkened. “Who are you? How dare you approach?”
“I am the High Priest from Chryse, the town your people sacked five days ago. My daughter Chryseus serves Apollo in our temple and is precious to both Apollo and myself. She was taken to your ships.”
“She’s a prize of war. I have claimed her,” Agamemnon growled.
“I will pay a fitting ransom,” the priest said. He nodded to his servants.
The two men pushed past me and turned out their sacks in front of Agamemnon. Gold cups, amber beads, ivory ornaments and other treasures clattered at the king’s feet.
Agamemnon frowned. “I have no use of trinkets. Your daughter is mine. You must leave without her.”
“My lord, he is a servant of Apollo. He may do us harm if angered,” Calchas said quietly, nervously fingering his own robes.
Achilles was more outspoken. “He’s an elderly man come to save his daughter. You dishonour all Greeks if you refuse him this request.”
Agamemnon rose from his chair, acting as though he’d heard neither Calchas nor Achilles. “Priest, I’ll not give up your daughter. She’s to be my concubine. Pick up your beads and go from here. If I see you again, I will have your throat cut.”
I backed out of the hut and stepped aside as the priest left his treasures and walked back to his boat. Zeno struggled from my arms and then tugged at my tunic, pulling me along the sand to continue our game.
Ahead of us, I saw the priest reach the water’s edge and raise his hands to the sky in a prayer. “Apollo, god of prophecy and healing, help your faithful servant. Shoot your plague arrows down on this camp so that the Greeks know the cost of insulting you.”
I trembled as the priest continued his prayer in a low voice. Five Mycenaean sailors were close by and they muttered amongst themselves as the sun’s heat bore down, scorching us with its intensity. If Apollo was angry, he could squash us like flies. Unaware of any danger, Zeno picked up pebbles and brought them to me with a smile on his face. What chance would he have if a plague hit the camp?
When Io joined us, Zeno stretched out his arms to her and she laughed as she hugged him. “You two had the better deal today, playing here instead of being stuck with Agamemnon in a foul mood.”
Zeno showed her the pebbles, counting up to ten and then shouting out a jumble of other numbers he’d heard, until finishing with a very definite sixty.
“Did you hear the priest?” I asked.
“No, but I heard Calchas and Agamemnon arguing about his daughter. It’s not like Calchas to disagree with Agamemnon, is it? I think he’s terrified of being punished by Apollo and kept warning Agamemnon about a curse.”
“Apollo’s arrows only destroy men,” I said. I saw her horrified face and quickly added, “But probably not your husband.”
“If you’re trying to stop me worrying, you are not doing a very good job,” Io muttered.
I sighed and tried a different approach. “I’m sure King Nestor and Odysseus can persuade Agamemnon to return the girl. They won’t want talk of a curse going through camp.”
Io shook her head. “He didn’t listen to Achilles and he never worries about curses. He doesn’t need to. He’s been brought up with curses heaped upon his family and yet nothing happens to him.”
It was only half-light when Odysseus shook me awake the next morning. “The healer needs your help,” he said.
I tumbled out of bed and splashed my face with cold water. “Machaon? Who’s hurt?”
“There’s fever in the camp. You and Ellissa go assist him, I’ll see to my men.”
My slave, Ellissa, raced ahead and found Machaon the healer reporting to Agamemnon in the Mycenaean camp.
“It started in the middle of the night,” Machaon explained. “Only a few afflicted in the centre of camp, but the fever’s rampant at either end of the beach and we have nearly a hundred dead already.” He rubbed his hand through his hair, thinking for a moment. “Ellissa, do what you can for Ajax’s men and Neomene, go to Achilles. I’ll be getting the dead away as quickly as possible.”
There were many desperately ill men in Achilles’ camp and as the morning wore on, the number of deaths increased. Machaon and a group of reluctant helpers hurried the bodies away, but rumours about the priest’s curse and the arrows of Apollo started to spread faster than the pestilence itself.
I was running to a young Myrmidon delirious with fever, when Agamemnon’s voice rang out behind me. He was striding amongst the fever victims, his herald marching one step behind. Stopping in the centre of a row, Agamemnon cleared his throat and drew himself up to his full height, looking more bull-like than ever.
“There’s a lie going around our camp. It blames the sickness on my refusal to give up the priest’s daughter. I do not know who started this lie, but to repeat it is a treacherous act.” He stared down at the men. “If fever is a sign of Apollo’s displeasure with me, why am I still here? Look at me, look at me, you fools! I am still standing. It is Achilles who has insulted Apollo and you will all die because of it.”
The sick men ignored his taunts, most barely conscious and others calling for water. Eventually Agamemnon walked away, retracing his steps to the middle of the camp. Glancing in his direction, I noticed a weakened soldier prop himself up on an elbow. When Agamemnon passed him, the soldier cried out.
“You’ve brought this curse on us. Do as our Prince Achilles says, give back the girl.”
Everything froze and then melted away, until all I could see was Agamemnon’s angry face. My legs propelled me forward. Agamemnon did not seem to move for several long moments. I’d almost reached him when I heard the sharp metallic rasp of a sword being dragged from a scabbard.
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C
herry Gregory was born and brought up on a farm in Nantwich, Cheshire. She studied law at Manchester University and later gained an M.Sc from Sheffield University. Over the years she has worked in law centres, youth clubs, schools and a playgroup.
She lives on the Shropshire/ Welsh border with her husband, Keith, and her daughter, Charlotte. Her hobbies include history, cycling and walking. Her second book,
The Walls of Troy,
continues the story of Neomene as she fights for survival in the Trojan War.