Odysseus took the golden key out of his tunic and compared the two groups of signs. “I can see that,” he growled. “What else?”
Penelope frowned and looked down again at the papyrus. “It’s full of long, complicated words I’ve never heard of before. Things like high-draw-lick. And awe-toe-mat-ick.”
Mentor sat down next to her. “Where does it say that?”
She showed him the script on the page. “I think these are instructions for making things, because there are drawings of many strange things too.” She pointed out a tall, pointed building, a strange-looking chair with legs like a woman’s, water flowing down a series of complicated channels, a pair of wings, a plated hound.
“That’s the dog we just fought,” Helen said.
No one argued with her use of “we”.
“And there’s the ship,” Odysseus said, picking up four of the sheets on which both the outside and the inside of the ship were drawn. The inside drawings showed clearly how the wheels and rods fitted together to make the oars work. There was also a lot of script on the page, which meant nothing to him now. He stuffed the papyrus down the front of his tunic and promised himself that when he got back to Ithaca, he would learn how to read it.
When.
Not if.
Just then Helen—who’d been unaccountably and blessedly silent—gave an awful yelp and tumbled to the floor. A marble plinth that she’d sat down on was even now sinking into the floor.
“Is this another of Daedalus’ tricks?” she cried.
Before anyone could respond, there was a thunderous rumbling from somewhere above their heads.
“A storm?” Penelope asked.
Odysseus’ eyes narrowed; his mouth went dry. A prickling at the back of his neck warned him that something much more serious was about to befall them, only he didn’t know what.
The thundering sound was closer now.
And louder.
The room began to shake.
Suddenly, with an awful certainty, Odysseus knew.
“Get out!” he cried, pushing the others towards the door. “Out! Out! Out!”
Penelope grabbed Helen by the arm and dragged her through the door, down the dark passage towards the great bronze door, which was still agape.
As they got closer, a huge boulder crashed down in front of the opening and rolled away towards the stone jetty.
“By the Furies!” Mentor gasped. “Are the gods playing skittles with us?”
“Not the gods,” Odysseus cried. “Daedalus.” He took a deep breath. “We’ve got to get out of here right now!”
More boulders rolled down from the cliffs above them.
“If we go out, we’ll be crushed,” Penelope shouted back.
“If we get pinned inside here, we’ll be buried alive,” he replied, charging outside.
The others followed, but they looked up fearfully. The entire cliff face was breaking apart above them, sending torrents of stones large and small tumbling down towards the harbour.
“The tunnel,” Helen screamed. “We’ll be safe there.” She lifted her skirts and began running straight towards the sea cave. But as she ran, one of her sandal straps broke, and she fell, sprawling, some twenty steps short of her goal.
“Helen!” Mentor cried. Without hesitating, he scooped her up in his arms and ran with her towards the cave. As he ran, a small stone glanced off his ear and a larger one grazed his back, but he kept to his feet.
Right behind him came Penelope, and then Odysseus. At the last minute, Odysseus turned and looked back at the ship.
Huge rocks the size of horses were raining down on it, splintering the decks.
“Nooooo,” he moaned as the hull buckled and cracked.
Then Penelope grabbed him by the arm and yanked him into the sea cave just as a boulder the size of the bronze hound hit the ground where he’d been standing.
He touched his tunic, where the papyrus drawings were stowed. If it takes me years, he thought, I’ll build another such ship, greater than the Argo my father sailed on. And, he promised himself, he’d make a voyage such as no man had ever made before.
“I swear this by the gods,” he whispered.
Only Penelope heard, and she didn’t ask him what it was he swore. It was as if she already knew.
CHAPTER 18: RITES FOR THE DEAD
WHILE THEY HUDDLED ANKLE-DEEP in water, the rocks outside the tunnel piled up until they were all but blocking the tunnel mouth. The walls vibrated with the impact of stone upon stone.
“We need to get out of here before the roof collapses,” Odysseus said, starting to slog through towards the open end.
Mentor agreed. “Lucky the tide’s going out, or we could have been drowned.”
The girls followed right behind them, though Helen limped slightly because of her missing sandal.
When they emerged out the other side, they all blinked in the sudden light.
“Dry land and daylight,” Helen said, pointing to a shingle of sand. “Things are looking better.” She stumbled towards the sand.
Penelope and Mentor cried out together, “Helen, no!” Odysseus reached for his dagger.
Out of the woods above the beach a dozen armed men suddenly appeared, striding towards them. Four held spears, three mighty bows with the arrows already nocked; the rest had drawn swords.
Odysseus took his hand away from the knife. A boy with a knife, he reasoned with himself, is no match for fully armed men. He brought his hand up weaponless. Better to use my brain.
“We come in peace!” he cried.
One young man, in bright bronze armour and a high-crested helmet, strode ahead of the others. He had a fierce hawk face.
When he got close to them, he laughed and called over his shoulder, “Stand easy, men. These are only children.” He was scarcely older himself.
Odysseus bristled. I’m no child, he thought. I’m a prince of Ithaca, old enough to have already slain a boar, rescued two princesses from pirates, and beaten a bronze hound. But he didn’t say it aloud.
One of the swordsmen, grey-bearded, with corded muscles and a deep scar over his right eye, stepped between them. He held his sword chest-high and pointed right at Odysseus’ throat.
“Idomeneus, my prince,” he said in a gravelly voice, “in this place who knows what form an enemy may take. Remember that young Theseus, who slew the beast in the maze, was but a boy. Remember the trickery of Daedalus and his little son.”
“You worry too much, Bosander,” said the prince. He took off his helmet and wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand.
The older man didn’t lower his sword and, once again, Odysseus’ fingers went to the hilt of his dagger, which he pulled out slowly, insolently.
“Hsst,” Penelope said in his ear, “what are you thinking? One knife against a dozen armed men? You’ll just get us all killed.”
Odysseus knew she was right. But he’d already figured that out on his own. He hated that she didn’t trust him.
Bosander knocked the knife from Odysseus’ unresisting fingers with his sword.
“I was just giving it to you, old man,” Odysseus said. “No need to stand a sword’s length away.”
Bosander moved close and pulled at the thong around Odysseus’ neck with more roughness than was necessary.
A gasp went through the men.
“Look, my lord!” one cried.
Idomeneus stiffened. “Take it, Bosander!”
The grey-bearded soldier sliced the thong with his sword and, dropping the bronze spearhead on the sand, kept the golden key.
“Are you brigands waiting to rob us when we have done you no harm?” Odysseus demanded, his voice hotter than his heart.
Idomeneus glowered at him. “Mind your tongue, stripling!” he warned. “Though you’re an Achaean by your speech, you’re still a stranger here. Be careful how you address the son of Deucalion, king of Crete.”