The Gates Of Troy (40 page)

‘Thank you. Who are you?’

‘We’re going to Mycenae,’ Odysseus said, stepping forward and pulling the torn halves of the girl’s dress across her breasts. ‘King Agamemnon has sent us.’

The girl watched the other four members of the troop trot up behind him and dismount.

‘Then you must have come from the army at Aulis,’ she said, letting her eyes roam over Odysseus’s bearded face and broad chest. ‘And you must be one of the kings, judging by your looks.’

‘Don’t concern yourself about me,’ Odysseus said, his hands on his hips. ‘Tell us who you are and what has happened to you.’

‘You can put me down now,’ the girl instructed Polites. There was authority in her voice, though her simple dress and her suntanned skin indicated she was no more than a peasant girl or a slave.

Polites let her slip gently to the ground, and as she stood they could see she was almost as tall as the colossal warrior. She turned to Odysseus. ‘My lord, whoever you are, my name is Galatea. I serve the goddess Artemis in her temple on the other side of that wood, and live with my widowed mother in a house nearby. Until recently I led a simple but happy life, tending to my mistress’s shrine and offering her prayers and pleasing sacrifices. But, ever since the kings left for Aulis and took their armies with them, these lands have become a dangerous place. There are so many brigands roaming the countryside now, no one dares to venture far from their towns or villages. Then, last night . . .’

A pained look filled her eyes and for a moment the strength left her. Polites caught her as she fell, supporting her in his arms as if she weighed no more than a child.

‘Here,’ said Eperitus, handing her his water. ‘Take as much as you need.’

She thanked him and lifted the skin to her lips, taking several mouthfuls.

‘Then last night
they
came to the temple. There were four of them, standing in the shadows by the entrance, but I could see the torchlight gleaming on their bronze swords. I told them to leave – ordered them to in the name of Artemis – but they just laughed. Then one slapped me across the face and tore my dress. Another stripped me bare –
me
, a virgin servant of Artemis!’

‘They weren’t afraid to violate the sanctity of the gods?’ Odysseus asked, frowning.

‘Or the sanctity of their servants,’ Galatea said, tears suddenly filling her eyes. ‘When they were finished they beat me and left me on the temple floor, where I think I just drifted into a sort of dream. Eventually I was woken by the dawn light spreading across the temple floor, gleaming red, warming me as it touched my skin. And then I remembered my mother.’

She stopped, unable to go on through her broken-hearted sobs.

‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Eperitus said. He removed his cloak and laid it over a low boulder with a flat top.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, wiping the tears from her face and allowing Polites to help her to the seat. Polites, not to be outdone by Eperitus, removed his own cloak and threw it about her shoulders. Galatea continued her story. ‘I returned to our house, where the door lay thrown from its hinges and in splinters, and I began to fear the worst. The brigands were nowhere to be seen, so I stepped through the doorway and looked about at what remained of our home. They had broken every pot we own – no doubt searching for anything of value – and the shards lay all over the floor. Our few bits of furniture had been smashed to smithereens, the floor had been dug up to find buried goods, and they had even shredded our mattresses. It was under one of those I found my mother.’

‘Alive?’ asked Odysseus, who was now seated cross-legged on the road to hear Galatea’s tale, leaning across his knees towards her.

‘Yes, thanks to the merciful gods. I patched up the mattresses and laid her down on them, with a leg of lamb I’d saved from yesterday’s sacrifice. But it’s the last of our food and we’ve nothing left to cook in or eat out of. They found the few precious things we had.’ She gave an ironic laugh. ‘And now I can’t even bring back the leftovers from the sacrificial offerings.’

‘Why not?’ Eurylochus asked.

‘Why?’ Galatea repeated, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. ‘Because only virgins are allowed to serve the goddess. Now I’ll have to leave the temple and our little hut and wander the countryside, scratching about for scraps of food.’

‘But when the winter comes you’ll starve!’ said Polites.

‘Life is often hard, especially on unmarried women,’ Galatea replied, struggling to her feet. ‘And I can always turn to prostitution. But I thank you for your help, sirs, and bid you a safe journey to Mycenae. Maybe you’ll see those brigands on the way, and if you do you can teach them not to disrespect the sanctity of the gods.’

‘It won’t be a quick death if I catch the swine,’ Eperitus said. His anger had grown as each layer of Galatea’s story had been unfolded, and he was silently praying to Athena that she would let him find the men who had committed such a violation.

Polites stood and went to his pony, returning a few moments later with a leather bag in his fist, which he pressed into Galatea’s hand.

‘I’ll not see you forced into prostitution yet. It’s only some dried meat and a bit of bread, but it’ll keep you for a few days, if you’re careful.’

The girl smiled at him, but returned the bag to his huge hand.

‘Thank you, friend, but you might as well keep it. My mother and I will starve sooner or later, unless some man takes pity on us. But who’d take a pair of destitute women under their roof? Few men around here can afford to keep themselves, let alone a violated priestess and her mother.’

‘Keep Polites’s food,’ Odysseus commanded, dipping into the pouch that hung from his belt and producing two bangles of pure gold (he always carried items of value for bartering with). They flashed in the morning sunlight and drew all eyes to them. ‘A man will accept a dowry for a wife, regardless of her misfortunes. These should satisfy most men.’

He held Galatea’s hand and placed the bangles in her open palm. Then he took Polites’s leather bag and hung it from her wrist by its strap. The priestess looked at the gifts for a long time.

‘Here,’ said Eperitus, handing her his own food bag.

Talthybius and Antiphus followed with handfuls of bread and dried meat, which spilled from the girl’s hands, forcing her to kneel and pick them up. Arceisius also gave what little he had, and finally even Eurylochus parted with a half-eaten leg of mutton; Eperitus, who had always known Eurylochus to be closely attached to his food, was surprised, but nonetheless gave him a look that forced him to part with some cakes of bread, too, before withdrawing from sight behind his pony.

‘We must go,’ Odysseus announced, checking the position of the sun then turning to his pony and taking the reins.

Galatea placed her hand on his shoulder. ‘But how can I thank you?’

Odysseus smiled at her. ‘Just return to your mother and bring some joy back to her heart.’

The men returned to their ponies. Eperitus was last, taking his cloak from the rock and throwing it over his shoulders before mounting. Galatea started to unfasten Polites’s cloak, but he told her to keep it as he had a spare. Then he turned his pony and spurred it forward with a jab of his heel to its ribs.

‘Wait!’ Galatea suddenly cried. ‘There
is
something I can do for you. I can place your weapons on Artemis’s altar and ask her to bless them. I know I can’t serve her in the role of priestess any more, but she’ll remember the years I dedicated to her and answer my prayers, I’m certain of it. And maybe she will return your kindness to me by giving special qualities to your weapons. All I need is one item from each of you, just to show my gratitude. I remember a hunter who asked for his bow to be dedicated at the altar, and he later claimed he never missed a shot.’

The men halted and looked at her in silence as they pondered her words. It was difficult for any warrior to part with his arms, but somehow the prospect of having them blessed seemed appealing. Then Antiphus lifted his treasured bow from his back and handed it to her.

‘You’ll be quick?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she replied with a smile, kissing his maimed hand where the fore and middle fingers had been docked.

Talthybius and Eurylochus were next, handing her their swords in their scabbards, which she threw over her shoulder with the bow. Polites placed his oversized helmet on her head and was followed by Arceisius, who handed her his spear.

‘You’re overloaded as it is,’ said Odysseus, passing her his dagger.

‘But I’m tall and strong,’ Galatea replied.

Finally, she turned to Eperitus.

‘And you, sir? What about that dagger in your belt – I can ask Artemis to make the blade sharp enough to cut through bronze.’

Eperitus laid a protective hand on the hilt of his cherished dagger. It had been given to him by Odysseus when they had first met, and he treasured it above all else, with the exception of his grandfather’s shield. But Galatea came close to him and placed a long-fingered hand on his arm.

‘Please, sir, let me repay your kindness.’

‘Give her the dagger, Eperitus,’ Talthybius urged him.

Eperitus reluctantly removed the prized gift from his belt and handed it to her. She tucked it into the sash about her waist, alongside Odysseus’s blade.

‘I’ll have to ask you to wait here for me, as men aren’t permitted in the temple,’ she said, bowing to them as she backed away. ‘It’s just on the other side of the wood, so I’ll be back soon. I’ll bring my mother, too, if she has regained her strength yet. She’ll want to thank you herself.’

The warriors dismounted again and watched the priestess disappear into the wood, Polites’s dark green cloak blending easily with the undergrowth and quickly disguising her even from Eperitus’s sharp eyes. He sat on the rock from which Galatea had told her story and took a swallow from his water skin. Already he could feel the absence of the dagger, the handle of which normally pressed against the hard muscles of his stomach. He watched Odysseus haul a sack of grain down from the back of the baggage pony and order Arceisius to feed the animals, before walking over and sitting on the rock beside him.

‘Unless Troy falls quickly,’ the king said, ‘I’m beginning to worry that we won’t have any homes to come back to. The rule of law is already crumbling and we haven’t even set sail yet.’

‘Ithaca’s safe,’ Eperitus replied, taking a mouthful of water and handing the skin to his friend. ‘Mentor and Halitherses will take good care of the place, and they’ve enough good soldiers under their charge to fight off any raiders.’

Odysseus wiped the sweat from his brow and squinted up at the sun. ‘It may be safe for now, whilst Mentor is seen to be acting under my authority. But the longer I’m away, the weaker my authority will become and the less people will listen to Mentor’s commands. Penelope is a good queen and the people love her, but she can’t impose her will at the point of a spear. And Telemachus is only a baby.’

‘And perhaps all the oracles and prophecies are wrong and we’ll be back on Ithaca within a year, glorious conquerors of Troy, our names to be sung forever in the tales of the bards.’

‘That would make me happy,’ Odysseus nodded, looking at the others sitting under the shade of their ponies with the warm blue of the Saronic Sea behind them. ‘And perhaps it would slake your thirst for adventure and renown, at least for a few more years.’

Perhaps, Eperitus thought, and with an unexpected pang of homesickness he found himself thinking of how nice it would be to be back on Ithaca with Odysseus and Penelope, safe from the threat of war and busy playing his own role in the upbringing of Telemachus. It occurred to him then that he was more like Odysseus than he had ever thought, or at least that his friend’s love of home had rubbed off on him over their years together. But as pleasing as these thoughts might be, he also realized that happiness of that kind could not be attained until he had first answered his own questions about himself. He had always thought of it as a personal quest for glory, a name that would endure beyond his own death, but in truth it was simply a desire to find out who he really was. Odysseus, he felt sure, had no such need – though Troy might yet reveal parts of his character that he did not know about – and Eperitus envied him his contentment.

He glanced over his shoulder at the woods where Galatea had taken their weapons, but there was no sign yet of her returning through the trees. When he looked back it was to find Eurylochus’s small eyes boring into him. He was quick to turn his head away, but the look served to remind him that Eurylochus’s animosity had not gone away, and he had not forgotten their argument on Samos.

‘Shouldn’t she be back by now?’ asked Talthybius after a while, craning his neck towards the wood. ‘I know prayers can be a complicated business, but all the same . . .’

He trailed off as if reluctant to follow his question to its natural conclusion. Odysseus, however, sucked on his teeth for a moment then rose to his feet.

‘I’m starting to believe that a mere girl may have tricked us out of our goods and weapons,’ he began. There was a chorus of protest, which he stilled with raised palms. ‘It’s true: where a band of armed brigands would have failed, it seems a pair of plump white tits with some audacity behind them have succeeded.’

The looks on the faces of the others revealed their growing anxiety about the whereabouts of the priestess, but they were unwilling – or too embarrassed – to accept Odysseus’s deduction. Polites, in particular, was adamant that Galatea had been telling the truth, and in the end it was agreed that Antiphus and Eurylochus should be sent to the temple to find her.

They returned quicker than expected, the hooves of their ponies kicking up a cloud of dust as they sped back across the fields from the wood.

‘There isn’t even a wooden hut, let alone a temple!’ Antiphus cried.

‘Odysseus is right, she’s fooled us all,’ Eurylochus added, panting as he pulled his pony to a halt.

‘And I’ve lost the bow I had since I was a boy. If I ever see that girl, I’ll . . .’

‘Silence, Antiphus,’ Odysseus commanded. ‘We have a mission to fulfil, so we might as well forget our losses and move on. Mount up, all of you.’