The little box bobbed more gently now on the calm sea.
“Still alive then?” Odysseus called to Mentor. His own voice was hoarse, his thirst enormous. His hands were cramped with hanging on to the handle of the chest.
“Still … alive,” Mentor answered. “I … think.”
“Don’t think,” Odysseus said. “It’s a bad habit. Thinking leads to wondering. Wondering leads to needing. Needing leads to …”
“Then … pray,” Mentor croaked.
Odysseus raised his head. “Athena!” he cried through parched lips.
The goddess didn’t seem ready to answer any more prayers.
And really, Odysseus thought suddenly, since her answers are worse than her silences, perhaps I shouldn’t ask for more. But they definitely needed fresh water. And soon. Mentor was in worse shape than he, having been so ill on board ship. I shall have to keep a careful eye on him.
Suddenly Mentor’s grip seemed to slacken, and slowly, soundlessly, he slid under the water.
Odysseus grabbed for him, caught a bit of his tunic, hauled him up again. Boosting his friend up on to the chest, Odysseus held him in place.
“Better the burning sun than a watery tomb,” he whispered.
Mentor coughed, moaned, lay still.
To keep both their spirits up, Odysseus began to tell stories about his father and the trip on the Argo—about the bronze giant Talos, about the Golden Fleece guarded by the dragon. He wasn’t sure that Mentor was even listening, but he kept on till he had no more voice.
Again and again, he scanned the horizon for some sign—of land or a ship—
A ship!
He blinked three times and looked again to be sure that what he thought he had seen was true.
It was not a cloud, no.
Not the white crest of a wave.
Definitely a ship’s sail.
“Mentor, look!” he cried. “We’re saved!”
Atop the floating chest, Mentor stirred sluggishly and with great effort lifted his head. His eyelids fluttered open.
“A ship!” Odysseus repeated, and let out a huge, hoarse laugh.
There was no mistaking the square shape of the sail now, and—soon enough—a black hull was clearly visible as well.
“What kind of ship?” Mentor croaked.
“The kind that floats,” Odysseus said. “The kind we need. Come on. Let’s get closer.”
He kicked and kicked, the exercise bringing the warmth back to his cold legs, driving them relentlessly towards the oncoming ship.
“Praise to the gods,” Mentor said, his words emerging in an alarming wheeze.
“It was praying to the gods that got us into this fix,” muttered Odysseus. “Let’s just help ourselves, Mentor.” He kicked some more.
Mentor half raised himself up and waved an arm at the ship.
“Over here,” he called out.
“You sound like a frog,” Odysseus said.
“You look like a frog,” Mentor countered.
But they both smiled broadly through cracked lips, and Odysseus kept on kicking.
The ship grew closer still, and they could see figures on the deck pointing at them.
Soon enough they were looking at a row of bearded, bronzed faces, and then a rope snaked down the hull past the painted fish on the side, to dangle in the water in front of them.
“You grab the rope, Mentor, and go up first,” Odysseus said. “Can you manage?”
Without answering, Mentor snagged the rope and started to shinny up hand over hand.
The rope was given a good shake from above, and Mentor slid back all the way into the water.
“No, you idiots,” came a rough voice from above. “Tie the rope to the box first.”
Odysseus bristled at the insult, but they were in no position to argue. So he tied the rope to one of the handles with a firm seaman’s knot.
Almost at once the bearded men began hauling it up.
His remaining strength giving way, Mentor slipped under the water.
Without stopping to think, Odysseus caught him under the arms with one hand, and with the other grabbed hold of the box’s lower handle. Then he held on to both with all his might.
If the sailors above were aware of the extra weight, they ignored it in their eagerness to get their hands on their prize. Soon box and boys were lifted up and over the side of the ship.
Odysseus and Mentor fell to the deck and lay there gasping.
Saved.
CHAPTER 7: A PRINCESS OF SPARTA
“HOI! UP, YOU LAGGARDS!” a voice called above them. Hands dragged them roughly to their feet and shoved them towards the stern of the boat.
Mentor had not the strength to stay upright, and Odysseus had to support him so that he wouldn’t fall forward and smash his face on the deck.
“You look bad enough without flattening your nose,” he whispered.
Mentor didn’t reply.
At the very rear of the ship two girls were sheltering under a sailcloth awning. The boys were shoved down beside them; then their escort rejoined the rest of the crew in examining the box.
One of the girls, heart-faced, with long, delicate lashes and a cascade of curls, shrank back from them. The other, plainer—as the moon is plainer than the sun—smiled a greeting.
“Helen,” she said to her companion, “they are prisoners just as we are. We have nothing to fear from them.”
“Fear’s not the problem,” Helen said, wrinkling her perfect nose and smoothing the folds of her robe. “We don’t know where they’ve come from.”
“From the sea actually,” Odysseus said, propping Mentor against a large water jar. He took a long drink from the jar and then gave some water to Mentor. “Like a god!” He laughed. “But we don’t know where you’re from either.”
Helen turned her head away, as if she disdained both his speech and his manner. The other girl answered for them both.
“I’m Penelope, daughter of Icarius. This is my cousin Helen.”
“Princess of Sparta,” Helen added tartly, turning back to deliver the line.
The conversation had brought Mentor out of his stupor. He smiled weakly at Helen. “We … are—”
Before he could complete his sentence, Odysseus cut him off with a sharp dig in the ribs. Knowledge is a two-edged weapon, Grandfather Autolycus once said. It can easily be turned upon you. He didn’t want the girls—or this rough-looking crew—to know anything about them until he’d figured out what to do.
“I am Eumeneus,” he said. “And this wet frog is my friend Astocles.”
“Really,” replied Helen, raising a regal eyebrow. “And what family do you come from? Are they important?”
Odysseus thought quickly. He knew that their tunics would give nothing away. On board a ship travellers wore the simple garments of sailors, for the salt and sea could ruin good cloth. Better, he thought, to be considered poorer than richer. At least for the moment. Richer might mean they’d be held for ransom.
“No, not important,” he said. “We’re swineherds from Cephalonia.”
Helen immediately drew back, as if a rat had just scurried between them. But Penelope laughed.
“A swineherd who speaks with a courtier’s tongue, Helen.”
“My swine are the king’s swine, princess. A man with half an ear can learn to how to speak like a man of the court.” He grinned, thinking that a good answer.
“Swineherds. Pah!” Helen held her nose as she spoke.
Penelope shook her head. “Since they’ve just been plucked from the sea,” she said sensibly, “they must be clean. Cleaner than we are, certainly.”
Turning her back, Helen said sniffily, “A clean swineherd is still only a pig keeper. Hardly fit company for princesses.”
Odysseus said nothing, and Mentor sighed and closed his eyes again.
But Penelope turned on her cousin and shook a finger at her. “They’re better, surely, than these brutes who abducted us.”