Ithaca by Patrick Dillon Page A

raise torches of flaming pinewood to light the way, and slowly the procession moves off into the olive groves behind the beach. My mule rocks from side to side, brushing trees as it climbs the narrow path. Ahead of us, chains of torches lead up the hillside. I’m so tired I can hardly keep my eyes open. Two or three times I doze off and wake clutching at the saddle. Branches loom out of the darkness, framing a star-studded sky that might have been cut from purple velvet. Bats flicker across it. I hear the gentle hoot of an owl out in the olive groves. Cicadas shrill around us. In front, Nestor’s litter sways on brightly painted poles. I drift in and out of sleep. Sometimes I think I’m still on the swooping deck of Mentor’s ship, then wake to the mule beneath me.
    The last time I wake, it’s to the bustle of orders being shouted. We’re outside a large house—bigger than our house in Ithaca—with whitewashed walls and soldiers on guard at the gate. Torches hang in brackets on the walls, casting a flickering glow across a forecourt of beaten earth, where Nestor is being helped down from his litter. People are dismounting their mules. Yawning, I follow my host into a wide courtyard of raked gravel, where Nestor stops me.
    â€œYou need to rest,” he says kindly. “We won’t eat straightaway. Come to the hall when the bell rings.”
    All great houses are supposed to be laid out the same way, but I’ve only ever seen the house at Ithaca. Everything hereseems unfamiliar: the color of the walls, the height of the corridors, the carvings on the gateposts. I follow a servant down a corridor to a small room with a ceiling of wooden beams, its walls decorated a warm earth-red. A delicious smell fills the air. Under the window there’s a hip bath half-full of water—Nestor must have sent servants ahead to prepare it. A slim servant girl comes in through a door carrying a steaming pitcher, which she empties into the bath. Opening a wooden chest, she throws handfuls of rose petals, sprigs of rosemary, and crushed bay leaves into the bath. After the terror of the storm, it feels as if I’ve been transported to heaven.
    â€œClothes.” Her accent is foreign. She has a dark, delicate face, and her black hair, tightly curled, is braided on her head with a ribbon. She tugs at her light green dress to show she means clothes and opens a painted wooden chest to point out stacks of neatly folded gowns. Suddenly I’m aware of my own filthy clothes, still damp from the sea, of my hair caked with salt, my skin itching from two days’ journey. When she’s gone I peel everything off, step into the bath, and sink down into warm, perfumed water. It comes up to my chin, rose petals and sweet herbs revolving on the surface. I breathe in the deep, warm fragrance and close my eyes, feeling days of anxiety, of anger, of fear all soaking off me along with the salt that crusts my skin.
    The girl comes back in, carrying another steaming pitcher. I do what I can to cover myself, but she just laughs.
    â€œClose your eyes.”
    I close my eyes, bow my head, and feel a delicious stream of hot water cascade over me.
    â€œSit up.”
    I smell sweet soap and feel her strong fingers massaging it into my scalp, combing through the tangle of hair.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” I ask.
    No reply. The soothing touch of her fingers is almost sending me to sleep, so I sink back and close my eyes. Drowsily I ask, “Where are you from?”
    She doesn’t answer immediately, so I repeat the question. When I open my eyes, she’s over by the door, holding the empty pitcher, but there’s something in her face, something wrong. She looks desolate.
    â€œTroy,” she says. Then she’s gone, door closed.
    And suddenly I’m wide awake.
    Troy. How often have I heard that name? The Trojan War is part of my life—it’s part of all our lives. How often,