to piss, and I hate to be watched, so be away with you.”
The boy ran off. Odysseus, his good humor returned, strolled along the beach. He sat down on a jutting rock and looked back to where Helikaon was surrounded by crewmen from the
Penelope.
They were, he guessed, talking about old times.
Old times.
It was twenty years since Odysseus had first laid eyes on Helikaon.
Twenty years!
Sometimes it seemed merely a few trading seasons had passed. Odysseus had been young and at the height of his strength, and he remembered vividly the first time he had trodden the steep path to the hilltop fortress of Dardanos. The rocky fastness had become the capital of Dardania under Anchises the king, Helikaon’s father. He was said to be wealthy with ill-gotten gains and, more important to Odysseus the trader, had a beautiful young wife. Thus he climbed the steep rock-strewn hill accompanied by three crewmen and two donkeys laden with rare perfumes, jewels and gold, rich textiles, and trinkets that might appeal to a woman of taste.
At the fortress gates he had joked with the royal guard while weighing the defenses. The gates were thick but far too broad, a foolish vanity on the part of the king, no doubt. But the walls were high and well made, blocks of limestone fitted cunningly together without mortar. The guards at the gate looked well fed and alert. They eyed him curiously, which was only to be expected. He had already made a name for himself even in this distant northern domain.
Suddenly an excited young voice behind him cried, “Sir, sir, is that your ship?”
He swung around and saw a boy of seven or eight with night-dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. The boy was pointing down to the beach where the
Penelope
had been drawn up, looming large over the fishing boats around her.
“What if it is, you ugly little dwarf?” he growled.
The boy was taken aback but stood his ground. “I’m not a dwarf, sir. I’m a boy. I am Aeneas, the son of Anchises, the king.”
Odysseus glared at him. “Expect me to believe that? You don’t look like any boy I’ve ever seen. All the boys I’ve met have had four arms. Don’t try to fool me, lad. You’ll regret it.” He placed his hand on his dagger and stepped forward menacingly.
The boy was uncertain still—until he saw the wide grins on the faces of the palace guards and laughed.
“My father told me that Odysseus of Ithaka would be our honored guest and that he is a fine teller of tall stories. Will you tell me about the boys with four arms, sir? How many heads did they have?”
Odysseus gave him a grudging smile. “We’ll see, lad,” he said. “We’ll see.”
At that moment a harassed-looking middle-aged woman appeared behind the lad.
“Aeneas, where have you been? I thought I’d never find you. I’ve been all the way down to the beach looking for you. Come. Come here. Your mother wants you. You’re a bad boy,” she added as an afterthought.
She grabbed his arm and pulled him up the path toward the royal apartments. Aeneas grinned over his shoulder at Odysseus and then suffered himself to be dragged up the stone steps to a side balcony where a slender, beautiful dark-haired woman in blue robes waited. She knelt down to embrace the boy, who, glancing at Odysseus again, rolled his eyes.
Odysseus met the king in Anchises’
megaron,
the great stone hall where he received guests and ordered his daily business. The man was pale-skinned and gray-haired, his ice-blue eyes resting coolly on the trader as if he were no more than a palace servant.
Odysseus was well used to jumped-up brigands like this. He liked to think he was flexible in his dealings, and he had an arsenal of weapons to call on, ranging from outrageous flattery through charm to scarcely concealed threats. This king, though, was cool and remote, and the trader found him hard to read. They discussed the state of trade on the local coasts, sipping well-watered wine, and Odysseus told a couple of stories to
The boy ran off. Odysseus, his good humor returned, strolled along the beach. He sat down on a jutting rock and looked back to where Helikaon was surrounded by crewmen from the
Penelope.
They were, he guessed, talking about old times.
Old times.
It was twenty years since Odysseus had first laid eyes on Helikaon.
Twenty years!
Sometimes it seemed merely a few trading seasons had passed. Odysseus had been young and at the height of his strength, and he remembered vividly the first time he had trodden the steep path to the hilltop fortress of Dardanos. The rocky fastness had become the capital of Dardania under Anchises the king, Helikaon’s father. He was said to be wealthy with ill-gotten gains and, more important to Odysseus the trader, had a beautiful young wife. Thus he climbed the steep rock-strewn hill accompanied by three crewmen and two donkeys laden with rare perfumes, jewels and gold, rich textiles, and trinkets that might appeal to a woman of taste.
At the fortress gates he had joked with the royal guard while weighing the defenses. The gates were thick but far too broad, a foolish vanity on the part of the king, no doubt. But the walls were high and well made, blocks of limestone fitted cunningly together without mortar. The guards at the gate looked well fed and alert. They eyed him curiously, which was only to be expected. He had already made a name for himself even in this distant northern domain.
Suddenly an excited young voice behind him cried, “Sir, sir, is that your ship?”
He swung around and saw a boy of seven or eight with night-dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. The boy was pointing down to the beach where the
Penelope
had been drawn up, looming large over the fishing boats around her.
“What if it is, you ugly little dwarf?” he growled.
The boy was taken aback but stood his ground. “I’m not a dwarf, sir. I’m a boy. I am Aeneas, the son of Anchises, the king.”
Odysseus glared at him. “Expect me to believe that? You don’t look like any boy I’ve ever seen. All the boys I’ve met have had four arms. Don’t try to fool me, lad. You’ll regret it.” He placed his hand on his dagger and stepped forward menacingly.
The boy was uncertain still—until he saw the wide grins on the faces of the palace guards and laughed.
“My father told me that Odysseus of Ithaka would be our honored guest and that he is a fine teller of tall stories. Will you tell me about the boys with four arms, sir? How many heads did they have?”
Odysseus gave him a grudging smile. “We’ll see, lad,” he said. “We’ll see.”
At that moment a harassed-looking middle-aged woman appeared behind the lad.
“Aeneas, where have you been? I thought I’d never find you. I’ve been all the way down to the beach looking for you. Come. Come here. Your mother wants you. You’re a bad boy,” she added as an afterthought.
She grabbed his arm and pulled him up the path toward the royal apartments. Aeneas grinned over his shoulder at Odysseus and then suffered himself to be dragged up the stone steps to a side balcony where a slender, beautiful dark-haired woman in blue robes waited. She knelt down to embrace the boy, who, glancing at Odysseus again, rolled his eyes.
Odysseus met the king in Anchises’
megaron,
the great stone hall where he received guests and ordered his daily business. The man was pale-skinned and gray-haired, his ice-blue eyes resting coolly on the trader as if he were no more than a palace servant.
Odysseus was well used to jumped-up brigands like this. He liked to think he was flexible in his dealings, and he had an arsenal of weapons to call on, ranging from outrageous flattery through charm to scarcely concealed threats. This king, though, was cool and remote, and the trader found him hard to read. They discussed the state of trade on the local coasts, sipping well-watered wine, and Odysseus told a couple of stories to
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