“What reason?” called out a soldier.
“Yes, tell us,” cried another.
Idomeneus sighed. “Go ahead, boy. Finish your tale.”
“Great Idomeneus, it’s a story carved from history, as true as … as this Rhodian teller.” He gazed wide-eyed at the prince with what he hoped looked like innocence. “Tlepolemos found a hidden bay where many ships had been swept on to the rocks. There, unburied, lay the remains of a hundred sailors. For this sacrilege Poseidon had cursed our island.”
“And …” Prince Idomeneus said, clearly tired of the story.
“And the brave Tlepolemos buried every one of those dead seamen himself in a single night, a feat worthy of his father. From that day till this, Rhodes has been free of Poseidon’s curse and has prospered under Tlepolemos’ wise rule.”
The Cretan soldiers and charioteers were silent for a moment. Then they began to move restlessly, even fearfully.
Finally one man dared the question they all wanted to ask.
“Brave Idomeneus, shouldn’t the dead men be buried?”
Bosander spoke for the prince. “You, Epicles, and your friend—whatever his name is—can bury the dead yourselves. In a single night. Like your noble king.”
The prince smiled slowly. It made his hawk face even fiercer. “Yes—it’s only right that you two invaders work for your suppers.”
As they dug the five graves in the sandy soil, well above the high tide mark, Odysseus was silent, but Mentor complained continually.
“One shovel between us? And the stink? And to do this on an empty belly? I’m not a son of Hercules. Nor are you …”
At last his rote of misery drove their Cretan guards back to the campfires, which left the two boys alone with their awful task.
The minute the guards were gone, Mentor turned to Odysseus. Holding up sandy hands, he said. “What were you thinking—telling all those lies? Epicles of Rhodes!”
“Keep digging,” Odysseus whispered.
Mentor bent down and dug some more with his hands, looking like some sort of hound at work burying a bone. “Why not tell them the truth?” He looked up over his shoulder.
Odysseus smiled slyly. “The truth, Mentor? And what would you have me say? That these were my men? My grandfather’s men? We would be dead on the sand next to them.”
Mentor was silent.
Odysseus continued. “There are three reasons to lie to the Cretans. First, it gives us power over them, for we know what they don’t. Second, it buys us time, the prisoners’ only coin. And third—”
Mentor stood up and, hands on hips, interrupted. “And third, you just like to tell stories.”
Ignoring his friend, Odysseus finished, “And third, it gets these good men buried.” He dug into the fourth grave with pretended gusto. “So shut up and dig, Mentor.”
Mentor returned to his digging. But after a bit he looked up again. “What were they doing here, so far from home?”
“Looking for us. Can you imagine Tros going to Father and saying, ‘By the way, I lost your son overboard, Laertes.’ Not and keep his head.” He thrust the shovel into the sand.
“Was that story—the one about Rhodes—true?”
Leaning on the shovel, Odysseus grinned. “What do you think?”
Mentor shook his head. “I no longer know with you, Odysseus.”
“Penelope does,” Odysseus whispered. But Mentor had turned back to his digging and so he didn’t hear.
Finally, sand-covered and with aching backs, the boys rolled the dead sailors into their graves and covered them over with sand.
Several of the soldiers had wandered over to watch. One gave Odysseus a piece of bread. Another loaned him a wineskin.
“Mighty Poseidon,” Odysseus said, breaking the bread into crumbs, which he tossed into the air, “let these sailors who died on your wine-dark waters go swiftly into the land of the dead.” He poured the wine into the sand as a further offering.
A third soldier grumbled, “Waste of good wine, that.”
Odysseus ignored him and went on. “Father Zeus, hear our prayers.” He raised his eyes to the full moon. “Send swift Hermes to guide these sailors to the distant west.”
Looking around at the soldiers, Mentor added quickly, “And may their families be assured that even in a foreign land, they received a proper burial, one that is pleasing to the gods.”
Bosander joined them. He said in a gruff but not unkind voice, “Wash off in the sea, boys. Then join your womenfolk at the fire. We’ve saved you a bit of food.”
CHAPTER 19: THE GREAT KING’S PALACE
“A BIT OF FOOD?” COMPLAINED Mentor. “Hardly even a bite.” He looked down at the wineskin and the half loaf of hard bread.
Odysseus wolfed down what they’d been given without measuring it.
“We’d hardly any more,” Penelope told them. “Though Idomeneus did give Helen some dried dates.”
Odysseus swiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced at their captors. Smiling, he waved at the nearest soldiers, who pointedly ignored him. “Soldiers on a scouting trip never carry great stores. We must be soldiers too.”
“Not I,” Helen said, stretching prettily. “I’m a princess. When we get to the palace, there’ll be kitchens and beds and baths and—”
“And dungeons,” Mentor put in grimly.
“And the Labyrinth,” Odysseus added, though he seemed almost excited at the prospect.
“What’s Idomeneus been looking for?” Penelope asked.
“What we found,” Odysseus said. “Daedalus’ workshop. But we mustn’t tell him that. Because then he’ll find out we destroyed the place. And he won’t be happy about that.” He looked particularly at Helen as he spoke.
Helen shrugged prettily. “All I did was sit down on a plinth.”
“I doubt Idomeneus will see it that way,” Penelope told her. “And I’ll be sure that he finds out whose fault it was.”
“It was an accident,” Helen began to wail.
Penelope shut her up with a quick elbow to the ribs. “Listen to Odysseus.”
“We’ve got to go along with the Cretans for now,” he said. “We’re in no position to fight off or escape a band of armed warriors.”
“Besides,” Penelope added, “where would we go?”
“And what would we do for food?” Mentor added. “Dried bread will only get us so far.”
“Exactly,” Odysseus said. “We need a ship, food, weapons, and the rest of Tros’ sailors if we’re to make it off this island.” He didn’t tell them he’d no idea how to manage all that. One thing at a time.
Just then Idomeneus came over. “Better get to sleep,” the prince said. “Soldiers rise very early. And we’ve still got a long ride in the morning. Princess Helen, are you comfortable?”
She dimpled at him. “I’ll be more comfortable when we’re at your palace,” she said.
Comfort, Odysseus thought grimly, is the enemy of the hero. How often he’d heard that from his father’s soldiers. Nevertheless, in his sleep he dreamed of hot food, sweet wine, and a soft bed.
In the morning, as early as Idomeneus had promised, they set off again along the dusty road, soon turning inland.
Well before noon they came to a small village with an inn the size of a pigsty, and as inviting.
Odysseus and Mentor now had their legs tied with just ropes, to ensure that they didn’t wander. Odysseus suspected that it was Bosander who’d made that decision.
However, the innkeeper brought the girls water to wash in, as well as plates of cheese, olives, dates and wine. A garrulous sort, the innkeeper exchanged pleasantries with the soldiers as well. He ignored the boys.