Chapter Eighteen
The Groves
Most of the islands of the Aegean were Greek now, in culture as well as politics. It had been different once, in some cases only a few decades ago. But those older peoples had been wiped out or absorbed, becoming indistinguishable from mainland Greeks in dress and speech, and the rituals they observed. There might be an occasional trace of a former culture – a ritual perhaps, or a sacred day still observed – but that was rare.
Crete was different, simply because of its size. The island had been called the Land of a Hundred Towns long before Theseus brought an end to Minoan glory, and the people had put down deep roots. That way of life survived today, especially in the mountain villages where few ethnic Greeks went. There were stories of heathen gods still worshipped, ceremonies where women dressed as water goddesses and dominated the men: even of children sacrificed on mountaintop altars. It would take generations to eradicate all that, but if there was a people in the world who could, it was the Greeks.
Scyros had kept some vestiges of its indigenous culture too, though it was a much smaller island, and had been conquered longer ago than Crete. Odysseus didn’t really know why. Some cultures were resilient, that was all. Or perhaps a benevolent god was watching over the island, preserving its festivals and rites.
If so, that god was surely Dionysus, patron of wine and amusement, and outright desire.
Scyros was dotted with his temples, mostly found in secluded places in the woods that covered the northern half of the island. There were stories about what went on in those glades, tales to make men groan and reed girls blush in the dark. Some of them must be true, or the island’s reputation for sensuality would have died out. Odysseus was actually quite pleased he hadn’t had to tell his wife he was coming here.
A journey of your own, Agamemnon had demanded of him. It was payment for the suggestion that the High King and a few companions go to Delphi to consult the Oracle. Odysseus supposed he should have seen it coming. Agamemnon didn’t like having his plans disturbed, or even delayed, and he was determinedly set on bringing down Troy. So now Odysseus was here, being rowed into the harbour of Linaria after a four-day journey from Mycenae, with a mission of his own to accomplish.
“I want you to bring Achilles here,” Agamemnon had said, back on the mainland. “Use those winged words your tongue speaks, Odysseus, and persuade him.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“Then tell the young idiot that I’ll harry him on every beach from here to Egypt unless he obeys. Do whatever you have to. Just don’t fail me, Ithacan. Get him to Mycenae.”
“There are rumours about this place,” Eliade said, leaning on the ship’s rail at Odysseus’ side. “Do you suppose they’re true?”
“I’m sure they are,” Odysseus answered dryly. “Some of them, at least.”
On the far side of the bay was a typical island town, square white houses with red-tiled roofs, sprawling on the slope of a hillside. Here and there were larger buildings; several temples, a pillared mansion that must belong to the local lord, and low structures built on stone platforms. Warehouses, Odysseus thought, raised above the level floodwater reached when it poured down the mountain after an especially heavy storm. Fields and pastures surrounded the town and invaded it, reaching into gaps between clusters of buildings to make best use of the sparse flat ground. Low down the fields were full of olive trees, while further up the hillside they were dotted with sheep and cattle. It could be any town on any island in the Aegean, except for one thing.
Ships lined the beach, drawn high up on the shingle. A few were traders, slightly broader than warships, grouped together some way north of Linaria town. But most were galleys, their hulls painted with black pitch, like long shadows in the afternoon sun.
Myrmidon ships. This was where they came to relax between raids, and this was where Achilles would be.
“Will you need me to find Achilles?” Eliade asked diffidently.
Odysseus pretended to roll his eyes. “Go and have your licentious night, my friend. I think it’s best that I find Achilles on my own.”
But there was no need to find him, as it turned out. They were met at the beach by an androgynous-looking man with cornflower hair, smiling with what appeared to be genuine pleasure. A closer inspection showed that his softness was an illusion, reaching no further than his face. This was a hard, fighting man, a Myrmidon for sure. The happiness might be real though. Sometimes it was.
“My lord Odysseus,” the man said. He bowed briefly. “It’s a delight to be able to greet you. I am Patroclus.”
“I’ve heard of you,” Odysseus said. Most people in Greece could probably say the same. Patroclus was one of the captains of the Myrmidons, serving under Achilles’ command and sometimes leading a raid himself. Usually that was when Achilles was god-struck by another young beauty, and when Achilles tired of his latest inamorata it was Patroclus’ bed he returned to. There were some who believed that if Patroclus should marry and abandon the raider’s life, Achilles might soon follow suit, and the beach towns of Phoenicia and Egypt would breathe a collective sigh of relief.
“I assume you’ve come to speak with Achilles?”
Odysseus eyed the youth. “Is my coming expected, then?”
“Someone’s coming was,” Patroclus said. “Achilles told us Agamemnon would never let him get away with missing a Gathering of Kings, even though his father still sits on the throne of Thessaly. He’s the best warrior in Greece. He’ll be needed for any major war.”
Ajax and Diomedes might be interested to hear that claim, Odysseus thought. Both men considered themselves a match for any soldier in Greece, and better than any except Achilles and each other. They might not claim to be Achilles’ better, but they wouldn’t stand for being openly named as his lesser, not for long. Especially not during wartime.
The casual way in which Patroclus made the comment was even more surprising. There wasn’t any doubt in his mind who was preeminent.
Never mind that now. “Why do you mention war?”
“A full Gathering couldn’t mean anything less,” Patroclus said. “Especially after the news out of Troy this summer, or so Achilles said. Since he stayed away that meant someone would be sent to speak with him, and here you are.” He smiled. “I knew when you passed the harbour mouth it must be you. Only Ithacan ships have those crimson prows.”
“Very observant of you,” Odysseus said. He meant it to carry a slight hint of sarcasm, but Patroclus just beamed as though he’d been given a wreath of oak leaves. It was no wonder Achilles found such comfort with this man, if he was so undemanding. The gods seemed to have decided that the more handsome a man was, the less he had between his ears, and Patroclus was very handsome. Almost pretty, in fact. He must be as dumb as an ox.
“Lead on,” he suggested. A nod to Eliade brought a grin to the other man’s lips, and he hurried off towards the edge of the town and the trees in search of a few Dionysian priestesses and some wine. Odysseus followed Patroclus into the streets, hoping Achilles would not be far away.