LOVE LOST
The man looked up at the high outer wall of the palace. Its sides were pale in the moonlight and he could see no hand or footholds in the smooth plaster. Looking about, he saw a handcart leaning against a nearby house. A moment later his black-cloaked form was atop the wall and dropping into the courtyard on the other side. He paused briefly, looking and listening for guards, but all he could hear were the voices of two men in the shadows beneath the roofed gateway. Satisfied they were ignorant of his presence, he crossed to the side door that he had been told would give him access to the palace corridors. It was unlocked, and after instinctively reassuring himself of the presence of his sword at his side and the dagger in his belt, he slipped inside.
The corridor within was lit only by a single, sputtering torch that revealed he was alone. Though he was a stranger to Ithaca, the layout of the palace had been explained to him in detail by the men who had hired him and he knew exactly where he would find Telemachus’s bedroom. Sliding his dagger from its leather sheath, he stole down the long passageway in silence, pausing briefly as he passed the open doorways of deserted storerooms on each side. Around the corner at the far end was another, shorter passage, again lit by a single torch. In the gloom he could make out the base of a flight of stone steps at the halfway point, leading up to the sleeping quarters above, while, further on, the corridor turned left. Ultimately, it led to the ground-floor bedroom that King Odysseus had constructed for himself and his wife, but the man had not been hired to kill Penelope, only her son who slept in the room directly above her.
The corridor and steps were unguarded and there was no sound of patrolling footsteps on the floor above. The Ithacans had clearly enjoyed peace for too long on their safe little island, protected from the corruption and violence that had overtaken the mainland since the kings had left for Troy. In northern Greece and the Peloponnese, where the man had learned his trade and been paid well for it, every noble household had armed men guarding its passageways at night. Almost disappointed that his hard-won skills would not be tested, the man slipped down the corridor to the foot of the stairs and looked up. Nothing. He took the steps quietly, but as he reached the top and looked both ways along the narrow corridor, the only sound he could hear was snoring from one of the rooms to his right. And so he gripped his dagger more firmly and moved stealthily towards the door that had been described to him.
He edged it open with his fingertips and looked inside. The room was spacious and by the moonlight that spilled in through the high, narrow window he could see a four-pillared bed with the sleeping boy beneath its piled furs. It did not concern him that his victim was so young – he had even murdered infants before at the behest of those who stood to gain from their deaths – and as he entered and closed the door behind him he whispered a prayer to any god who would accept it that the child would not wake before his blade had finished its work. Then, as he crossed the room, he caught something out of the corner of his eye – a line of twine at ankle height, barely distinguishable from the fleeces that softened the sound of his approach. But it was too late. He caught the line with the toe of his sandal and it tugged at something in the corner of the room. A moment later he saw something fall, followed by the clatter of metallic objects striking the floor in a cacophony of noise that shattered the peace of the night.
Instinctively, the man looked at the window. Realizing it was too high and small for a quick exit, he turned back to the door. But already he could hear the sound of approaching footsteps and the clank of weapons, and the next instant the door was kicked open and four men stood blocking his escape. One of them held a torch that threw a warm, flickering light into the bedroom. In that moment, it occurred to the assassin that he had but one hope of survivaclass="underline" the boy. He leaped across the room in a single bound and threw the furs from the bed, only to find more furs rolled up into the rough shape of a child’s body. Somehow he had been expected, and now he was caught.
‘Throw down your weapons.’
He turned to see a cloaked woman standing in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The four soldiers had entered the room and were standing two on each side of her, while behind her was a one-handed man leaning on a crutch. The assassin tossed his dagger at the feet of one of the soldiers and followed it with his short sword.
‘Who sent you?’ Penelope asked in a calm voice that concealed the anger she felt. ‘Who sent you to murder my son?’
The man did not answer. He had his instructions if he was caught, and for the sake of his assassin’s honour he intended to carry them out, but not yet.
‘I’ve expected an attempt on Telemachus’s life for some time now,’ the queen explained. ‘Hence the twine and the guards in the next room. It’s also why my son isn’t here. My husband left me to defend his kingdom while he was away, and that includes the heir to his throne. But though you came here to kill my only child, I am prepared to let you live on condition that you tell me who sent you. And when you do, you will be taken in a boat to the Peloponnese and forbidden on your oath to ever set foot on these islands again. Do you understand?’
The assassin nodded.
‘I will be only too pleased, my lady,’ he said. ‘But you won’t believe me, for you think of him as a loyal friend.’
‘Give me your word of oath and I will believe you.’
‘You should also know he is not alone,’ the man continued. ‘And I am not the only assassin in Greece. They will hire others . . .’
‘That’s why Telemachus was taken to Sparta several days ago,’ said Mentor, hobbling into the room to stand beside Penelope. ‘Out of harm’s way with Halitherses as a guardian; and there he will stay under the protection of the royal family – Penelope’s family – until the war in Troy is over. Then, when Odysseus and the army return, we will deal with your employer’s friends. But now, if you want to preserve your villain’s life, you’ll tell us who paid you to kill Telemachus.’
‘You promise I will be freed?’ he asked, looking at Penelope.
She nodded.
The man smiled. He was an assassin and the only code he followed was not to reveal who had employed him, so to lie on his oath was of no consequence. More importantly, Eupeithes had given him another name if he was captured, an innocent man who was also a member of the Ithacan Kerosia. His implication in the attempt on Telemachus’s life would earn him exile at the very least, and without him the Kerosia – and control of Ithaca – would inevitably slip into the hands of Eupeithes.
‘As Zeus himself is my witness, the man who hired me was called Nisus of Dulichium.’
‘Someone has to rule Troy,’ Apheidas said, shooting an angry, silencing glance at Astynome. ‘Why not me? I’ve fought as hard as any man in the army, Trojan or ally, and I’m the only one capable of saving the city from complete destruction. Tell me, Astynome, do you think Priam has been a good king? Do you?’
‘Yes!’
Apheidas gave a derisive laugh.
‘Commendable loyalty – typically Trojan. But everyone knows he should have sent Helen back the very moment Paris brought her to the palace. Any ruler worth his sceptre would have seen the trouble she would bring, but Priam never could deny a beautiful face. All Helen had to do was flash those eyes at him and expose a little cleavage and he was hers. The old lecher probably fancied he might visit her bed one night.’