The Girl From Ithaca (33 page)

“Yes, Lyra, wait outside.” Menelaus got to his feet. “I’ll call my charioteer and we’ll finish this business.” He forced a smile. “The war gets to us all at some point, but don’t look so worried, sister of Odysseus, I’m back to the old Menelaus now.”

I smiled at him and tried to look reassured, but when I thought of the old Menelaus, the Menelaus I’d seen leaping from his black ship in Ithaca, I knew that man was gone, lost on the Trojan plain as much as any soldier killed with a sword. My heart feeling heavy, I watched as Menelaus marched Lyra to his charioteer’s tent and gave instructions for the girl’s expulsion.

“Let’s go home,” I whispered to Agenor.

“Home?” he asked. “Ithaca?”

“I mean,” I stammered, a sudden sharp pain of homesickness stabbing my heart, “the Ithacan camp.”

Agenor smiled and led the way over the burning sand. “It serves as home for now, but I give you my word, I’ll see you back to Ithaca.”

Chapter THIRTY-THREE

Dream of Antilochus

A
s winter ran into spring, many of my days were spent with Antilochus. Sometimes I’d walk with him amongst the Pylian camp. As he checked that each man was properly armed, I’d hand out honey ointment to fight infections and draughts of willow bark as an aid to sleep. When the storms trapped us indoors, I listened to old Nestor’s stories and played games with both brothers. In better weather, Antilochus and I walked up to the Heracles’ Fort and spent dreamlike evenings alone.

As we lay together, we’d talk of after the war, when we could go home and resume our lives.

“If the Trojans surrender, we could be home by mid-Summer,” he said. “Ithaca is only across the water. I could visit you often and then …”

“Yes?” I said sleepily.

“Then I could ask my father to make arrangements with your father. Do you think you’d like living in Pylos?”

“Yes,” I said. I would love living anywhere Antilochos lived.

But there was a shadow hanging over us, hanging over all of us. Helen was still in Troy. When the days lengthened and the birds began to sing, hostilities between our camp and Troy would begin again.

And the Trojans had been busy during the winter. Priam had sent envoys to his allies, demanding or pleading for support. Odysseus’ spies reported the arrival of a thousand Dardanian troops led by Priam’s nephew, Aeneas, and a large army of Lycians under Sarpedon. Handfuls of Hittite mercenaries were also riding in, boasting about their portion of Priam’s gold. Finally there was King Memnon of Ethiopia. A spy in the palace overheard Memnon declare he would lead the Trojan allies and match Achilles in battle.

Antilochus grew restless when he learnt Memnon the Ethiopian was in Troy. “Memnon will give the Trojan’s hope. He’s the son of a goddess, and has never been beaten in battle.”

“But we have Achilles. He’s the son of a goddess too,” I countered.

“So my father keeps reminding me. Except I had a dream last night about Memnon.”

My stomach tightened. “What sort of dream?”

“We were fighting the Trojans again and Memnon appeared in front of us. He was about to kill Father.”

“You must have lots of dreams like that. Even I fight Trojans in my sleep,” I said, taking his hand.

Antilochus smiled. “Usually I dream of you.”

Six days later we heard news that Hector and Memnon were assembling the rivitalised Trojan force, Hector at the head of the Trojan troops and Memnon commanding their allies. Immediately Agamemnon’s herald sounded the alarm and the Greek armies marched out to meet them on the plain.

“I’m worried about Old Nestor, “I whispered, as Ellissa and went inside. “Antilochus had a dream that Memnon was about to kill him.”

Ellissa pushed the empty water jug at me and gathered up the washing. “King Nestor is well protected by his sons; he’ll be all right. Come on, we’ll keep busy at the stream until Machaon calls for us.”

So we spent the first part of the morning washing clothes at the stream, all the while on edge, watching for sight of Phoebus.

“There’s a storm coming,” Ellissa said, rubbing her back as I finished scrubbing the last tunic.

The sky was a brilliant blue and lizards were sunning themselves on the rocks beside us. I looked at her doubtfully.

Ellissa smiled. “I can tell. My bones ache.” Then her expression changed to genuine concern as she glanced towards the camp.

“Is it Phoebus?” I asked, turning round. “Where is he?”

“No, it’s Io and she doesn’t look well.”

Then I saw Io, plodding towards us, not with her usual bouncy step at all. She flopped down on the bank. “You two helping Machaon later?”

I nodded. “Aren’t you helping Nicodamas?” I knew that Agamemnon wanted a good supply of weapons and armour made ready for the summer season of barttles and all the blacksmiths had been working well into the night since the weather had changed.

“Not today. He says I need a rest.”

I stared at my friend. Io hated to rest unless she was ill, and she was hardly ever ill. I waited for the explanation, but she sat on the bank as if expecting me to say something. I pulled at a stray strand of hair and glanced at Ellissa. Ellissa seemed to be waiting for me.

I took a deep breath. “Are you ill?”

Io shook her head.

“I suppose you’ve been working hard on all the weapons,” I suggested.

“We’re always working hard on weapons, but I’ve been doing less than usual.”

“Oh, I see.”

Io leant back on her elbows and looked down at her stomach. I followed her gaze.

“I don’t suppose you might be, could you?” I said.

Io smiled, waiting for me to say the words.

“I don’t suppose you’re having a baby?”

She clapped her hands and laughed. “I was wondering when you’d notice! Nicodamas is superstitious about telling people. But I can’t help it if you guess, can I? He’ll be born sometime after the leaves fall but before the middle of winter.”

“He?”

“It’s what we wish for, so he can work with Nicodamas. But mainly we want him to be born in Mycenae.”

I nodded and thought of the usual difficulties of giving birth and multiplied them ten times over to match the problems in the camp. Ellissa and Gala had helped many of the women, but most babies died and some of the women too.

“Then you must rest a lot. That’s what Mother said to Penelope, when she was having my nephew,” I declared.

“But she’s the queen of Ithaca. There’s not much chance for me, unless you can convince Agamemnon.”

Ellissa patted my arm and pointed into the camp. “It is Phoebus this time.”

Phoebus pulled up his chariot at the stream and wiped the dust from his eyes. “Neomene, Ellissa, I’ve a message from Machaon. The wounded are on their way. They’re to be sheltered at King Nestor’s camp. I’ll take you there.”

“We’ll have to leave you, Io,” I said, climbing into the chariot, “but get in the shade when you can.”

Io rolled her eyes. “You’re worse than Nicodamas.”

As we arranged blankets in Nestor’s camp, two stable boys erected a canopy with ox-hide to give shade. It wasn’t long before Epeius and a Cretan arrived with the mule cart full of the wounded. The muscular Cretan carried the more severely injured to our shaded spot, while Epeius helped others limp from the cart. Desperate to hear Antilochus and Nestor were unhurt, I forced myself to ask what was happening.

Every one of the wounded told me Memnon was tearing through the Pylian army. A hard knot tightened in my stomach as more wounded men arrived with the same news, but no one could tell me anything about Antilochus or Nestor.

It was noon before the first of the wounded from Ajax’s army arrived. From what I could tell, Hector’s soldiers had surrounded the small group of men, encircling and penning them in, forcing them together as they tried to defend themselves.

“The Trojans kept coming, we were trapped,” a bowman said. “I stepped back and fell over a body. So they jumped on me. I can’t even remember what happened, except lying there with those blasted vultures flying round, waiting for me to die.”

“How did you escape?”

He smiled through his pain. “Achilles. I heard them chanting his name. The Trojans ran. Then I remember Machaon and the Ithacan mule man helping me to the cart.”

I felt more hopeful than I’d done all day when I left the bowman. Achilles had Hector on the run. Then an injured Ithacan told me how Aeneas had been driven behind the walls and Hector followed soon afterwards. I dared imagine Odysseus back with us, eating the evening meal, exaggerating his heroics of the day. And I thought of Antilochus and how he’d hold me as he talked of his battle and I’d massage his aching body to make the badness of the war go away for a short while. Maybe he’d tell me of the light and calm of Pylos and the sandy beaches looking west to Ithaca. How after the war I would be there with him. The tight knot relaxed a little. The two men I loved would return very soon and I’d laugh at this anxiety.

“We’re running out of woundwort,” Ellissa cried, as she helped a soldier to his feet.

I handed a cup of water to the Ithacan and raced all the way to Machaon’s tent to prepare the ointment. It was hot inside, but at least it was shelter from the sun. I mixed in the fat and wiped the sweat from my forehead, smiling to myself as I remembered Antilochus’ dream and Ellissa’s prediction of a storm. It looked like they were both wrong. Scooping up the paste into four pots, I dodged under Machaon’s row of hanging herbs and dashed outside.

The sudden brightness blinded me at first. I blinked and shaded my eyes as I waited for the dazzle to clear. I blinked again. I thought I’d seen Odysseus in the Pylos camp. I hurried back to the wounded and handed the pots to Ellissa. “Was Odysseus here?” I asked.

Ellissa nodded but she’d a strange look on her face and she pointed to Nestor’s hut. I started to run, panic swelling up inside of me. Someone was hurt, but this time it wasn’t Odysseus. I’d seen him. Was it Nestor? It had to be Nestor. It wanted it to be Nestor. In the hut, Odysseus seized me by the shoulders.

“What’s wrong? Who’s hurt?” I said, searching his face for reassurance it wasn’t Antilochus.

“I’m sorry.”

“Antilochus?” I whispered.

He nodded.

“I’ve Oenone’s remedy.”

Odysseus held on to my shoulders. “No, sister, it’s too late.”

I couldn’t take in his words. “But I have Oenone’s remedy.”

Slowly, I turned to look into the dark of the hut. He was laid on the bed. Nestor and Thrasymedes stood by him, their battle clothes covered in blood. Nestor looked away, tears welling up in his eyes. Thrasymedes tried to speak, but his voice was so broken and quiet, it was barely audible.

“It was Memnon, the Ethiopian,” Odysseus said quietly.

There was a large open wound to Antilochus’ chest and I slumped onto my knees beside him.

“He saved my life,” said Nestor, “yet I would die a thousand times for him. I am shamed. Memnon was upon us when my horse was speared and my charioteer injured. My son drew up his chariot to protect me and the Ethiopian flung his spear into his chest. He died for me, an aged father. A poor exchange.”

Thrasymedes sobbed, choking on his tears. “He was leading us against the Ethiopians and then he was dead. My brother is dead.” He covered his face with his hands. “He has been taken from us. How will we bear it, Neomene?”

I held Antilochus’ cold hand and cried out. I didn’t know how we would bear it. I looked up to see despair in Nestor’s face and I cried for him, too. How could any of us bear it? He was light and warmth for each one of us and Memnon had killed him.

They let me stay there beside Antilochus for a long time, not moving, not speaking and with a terrible ache in my heart. Gala joined me later, sobbing quietly as she held the hand of the child she’d nursed since babyhood, who’d grown into the good-looking man she loved as a son.

Eventually Odysseus led me out from the hut and back towards the Ithacan camp. As I went, I noticed Io cradling a soldier’s head in her arms, while Ellissa smeared his wounded leg with honey. I lay on my bed and closed my eyes. I heard Odysseus walking around the room, cleaning his weapons and preparing them for next time. There was always a next time. When the first rumble of thunder announced the coming of the storm, I felt as if the war would last until just one man survived, there being no one else left to fight.