Glowering in silence, Odysseus knelt and picked up his humble amulet, tying it around his neck once more.
Bosander handed the gold key to Idomeneus. “This is surely the key the man Praxios spoke of, my prince. He didn’t lie.”
“Few men lie when faced with the threat of the Labyrinth,” the prince remarked slowly. His eyes grew hooded, the lids closing halfway down. He took a step closer to Odysseus, looking more like a hawk than ever. “How did you come by this key, boy?”
Odysseus shrugged the insult away, but a deep line grew between his eyes. “It was just lying there in the sea cave. I almost missed it in the dark. But my foot connected with it, and it rang out against the stone wall. Never leave gold lying about, I say.”
“What were you doing in the cave?” Bosander asked.
“We took shelter from a storm and rock slide,” Odysseus replied innocently. “When we emerged, there you were, waiting for us. Not much of a reception for children in this Crete of yours.”
Idomeneus eyed the others. “We had no storm on this side. And whose children are you?”
Ever mindful of his grandfather’s warning that knowledge was a two-edged weapon, Odysseus was about to begin a false story. But Helen stepped in front of him.
“I am Helen, princess of Sparta, captured by pirates and escaped here by the grace of the gods. I demand in the name of my father King Tyndareus that you treat me with the respect proper to my station. And my handmaiden Penelope as well.”
Odysseus cursed silently, but Idomeneus seemed impressed.
Even more than impressed.
Struck down like Mentor, possibly unmanned.
Which may be to our advantage, Odysseus thought. He kept silent and watched the Cretan prince.
Idomeneus bowed. “Despite the dirt and the worn clothes, I can well believe you’re a princess. But alas, Helen of Sparta, at the moment I have little hospitality to offer you.” He turned back to Bosander. “Watch them all while I go into that cave.”
Key in hand, he headed into the sea cave. A moment later he was out again, roaring. He brandished the key in Odysseus’ face. “What’s happened here?”
“I don’t know,” Odysseus said, keeping his voice guileless, though the crease between his eyes deepened. “We took shelter in the cave, and suddenly there was a sound of rocks falling, and the walls began to shake. We ran this way, afraid of being buried alive.”
“And you saw nothing of what lies beyond?” demanded Idomeneus.
Odysseus shook his head.
Idomeneus turned to Helen. “Is this true, princess?” His eyes narrowed. “If you truly are a princess.”
“If I’m a princess?” Helen’s voice rose with her indignation. “When you insult me this way, what reason have I to answer?”
She folded her arms and looked at him from under a fringe of hair. It was the kind of look that could bring strong men to their knees, and Idomeneus was young enough to be smitten. But Odysseus thought he detected a false note in Helen’s voice. Suddenly he realised that Helen was playacting.
Thank you, he whispered under his breath. It would buy them some time. Time, he knew, was always on the side of the prisoner.
“I meant no insult, princess. But I must know everything about this key. See—it’s marked with the name of the traitor, Daedalus. Everything of his interests us. We shall return to the city and see what my father has to say.” He put a hand on Helen’s arm. “You come with me, Helen of Sparta. As for the others …” He turned to Bosander.
“Bring them all along,” Bosander suggested.
Idomeneus nodded. His men jumped to do his bidding, and Odysseus, Penelope, and Mentor were suddenly and ably surrounded and taken in hand.
They marched back into the woods and along a well-worn trail. Helen’s sandalless foot was bound up by Idomeneus with a piece of cloth ripped from his own tunic.
The trail led across rugged foothills to a plain where twenty chariots waited, guarded by armed men. The Cretan horses were small, black, and well muscled, with slim heads and eager legs.
“Back to the city,” Bosander commanded.
The four were not treated roughly, but separated and placed in different chariots. At a signal from the prince, the charioteers slapped their reins against the horses’ rumps, and the little horses began to pull.
Odysseus was impressed with how smoothly the Cretan horses ran, galloping in quick, short bursts of speed. He said so to the charioteer, who glanced briefly over a shoulder at him.
“Specially bred. We keep brothers together. The king is a horse lover. So is his son.” The charioteer spoke in short bursts too.
“My father loves horses. Poseidon, bull roarer, keeper of the horses of the sea, has special shrines on our land,” Odysseus told him. Not a lie exactly. But not all of the truth.
“Ah, the king will like that,” the charioteer said, and turned back to his task.
Odysseus smiled. He’d learned more than he’d told. Always a good thing to do when in the company of enemies.
The sun was beginning to sink when the chariots turned east and travelled along a rough track by the coast. The sea here was a deep green, and the waves rolled in, high-crested, fierce.
They rode past a particularly jagged piece of the coast, where rocks like teeth pointed out at the sea.
Suddenly something in the fading light caught Odysseus’ eye: a ship impaled upon the outer rocks, hull smashed beyond repair. The white and red eye on the side of the ship seemed familiar.
Captain Tros’ ship!
“My lord Idomeneus, wait!” Odysseus cried out.
Hearing him, Helen pulled at the prince’s shoulder. He signalled to his men, and soon they’d all reined in their horses.
Idomeneus got down from the chariot and walked over to Odysseus. “Why have you stopped us, boy?”
“That ship—” Odysseus began.
“Sea raiders,” Idomeneus said. “Come to steal from us.”
“But …” Mentor shut up when he saw the look of Odysseus’ face.
“The very ones who kidnapped Princess Helen, her handmaiden, and us, great prince,” Odysseus said. “Are they all dead?”
Bosander grunted. “Some.” He pointed to five bodies lying several hundred yards away. “The rest we’ve taken to be sold as slaves.”
“Unburied …” Mentor said.
Again Odysseus shut him up with a look. As the dead sailors’ prince, Odysseus knew he was responsible for the men, though he’d had nothing to do with them for many days. Still they needed a proper burial, or else their shades could not cross over and enter the land of the dead. He would have to trick Idomeneus somehow.
He thought quickly, then said, “Great prince, I’m Epicles of Rhodes, and we guard our realm as fiercely as you do yours. But we believe that no matter what a person has done to us, we must show the same respect to the unburied dead as we would to a stranger seeking sanctuary at our door.”
“When a thief comes to my door, I don’t entertain him,” Idomeneus retorted.
“But all who sail the sea are sacred to Poseidon,” Odysseus said. He gestured up the beach where the unburied sailors lay. “To treat them this way dishonours the bull roarer himself.”
Idomeneus’ hawk face turned a deep russet colour. “Do you, a mere boy, a Rhodian, dare speak to me of my duty to the gods?”
Shrugging casually, Odysseus said in placating tones, which still carried to all of the soldiers, “I only speak what I know, great prince. And to spare your land the fate that once befell mine.” The deep line appeared between his eyes.
“What fate?” Bosander asked.
“When my king, Lord Tlepolemos, first came to Rhodes, he found a land ravaged by famine and plague. The dead were piled high in the streets; children wept because of empty bellies. Brave Tlepolemos, son of mighty Hercules, discovered the reason.” He hesitated, waiting for the question to come. As he knew it would.