wanting him and Thetis?
None of it made sense. There were stronger boys in the village, though he hated to admit it, and girls lovelier than Thetis. Why had Orkestres picked them?
What could make them more valuable than a herd of goats and saddlebags of grain?
The King’s men exchanged jokes now and then, and comments about the country. Their accent was hard to understand, and some of their words were strange too. Orkestres barely spoke. He looked different now they were away from the village and people: older and slightly slumped. His mouth was held tightly closed, and he winced when the ponies had to pick their way across the rough creek crossing. Thetis was silent too, in front of him, staring at the country as though drinking in each detail.
The land changed as they travelled downhill. It was oak forest now, deep and dappled, the leaves turningautumn red, the track muddy under the ponies’ hoofs. Somewhere nearby a river added its mutter to the coo of pigeons, and once they heard the thin howl of a wolf.
Suddenly the trees stopped as though the forest had been cleaved by a sword. They halted, trees to the left and right of them. But laid out before them the land was patchwork, as though someone had sewn strips of bearskin or goatskin together to make a rug. In the distance were rows of olive trees, their trunks lichened and thick as a man, and then a square of vines with withered leaves, followed by a stretch of barley stubble: brown dirt with a few strands of straw, hopeful pigeons and sparrows pecking amongst it. The land was as dappled as the autumn leaves.
Nikko could see the river he had heard before, rushing between the rocks at the bottom of the valley. There were olives on the other side too, and more vines higher up the next hill. Yet there was no sign of a village. Just fields…and more fields…
He tapped the back in front of him. ‘Sir? Are we there? Is this Mycenae?’
‘Mycenae?’ The man gave a shout of laughter. ‘Did you hear what the boy said?’ He twisted round, his gaze surprisingly kindly over his shoulder. ‘No, lad. It’s another three days’ walk from here to Mycenae. We’re stopping at the next village till the others reach us.’
‘The others?’
‘The other King’s men and the tributes they’ve gathered.’ He grinned, showing brown stumps of teeth. ‘They’ll be slower than us. Good thing the acrobat decided to take you and the girl or we’d be herding goatsfor two days while the ponies carried the grain. Now we get to ride.’
He pointed. ‘The village is about another two sun fingers from here, boy, down in the next valley. Mycenae!’ He grinned again. ‘There are no wooden forts and stone huts at Mycenae.’
Nikko stared around as the ponies made their way through the big stockyard gate. There were more buildings here than he had ever dreamed of: wooden huts thatched with reeds like the ones in the village, but stone huts too, larger than the headman’s house back home.
What could Mycenae be like, if this was just a village?
Women and girls, grinding flour on their doorsteps, or twirling wool on distaffs, stared at him then dropped their gaze when he looked back, as was proper when a woman saw a man who wasn’t of her family.
The ponies plodded between the houses, up a rise to a building bigger than Nikko had thought existed in the world. It was almost as long as his entire village, built of stones so closely fitted together they looked like one enormous rock, hollowed out by giants. The walls were painted white, with red lintels above doors made of wood, instead of a flap of goatskin.
There was an open space in front of the building. In summer perhaps it had been grass, but now it was mud, and filled with animals. Rough brush fences were placed between the different groups of horses, goats and other animals so they didn’t escape or fight, making smaller pens within one big one.
Tributes for the High King, thought Nikko. Like us.
Goats bleated
None of it made sense. There were stronger boys in the village, though he hated to admit it, and girls lovelier than Thetis. Why had Orkestres picked them?
What could make them more valuable than a herd of goats and saddlebags of grain?
The King’s men exchanged jokes now and then, and comments about the country. Their accent was hard to understand, and some of their words were strange too. Orkestres barely spoke. He looked different now they were away from the village and people: older and slightly slumped. His mouth was held tightly closed, and he winced when the ponies had to pick their way across the rough creek crossing. Thetis was silent too, in front of him, staring at the country as though drinking in each detail.
The land changed as they travelled downhill. It was oak forest now, deep and dappled, the leaves turningautumn red, the track muddy under the ponies’ hoofs. Somewhere nearby a river added its mutter to the coo of pigeons, and once they heard the thin howl of a wolf.
Suddenly the trees stopped as though the forest had been cleaved by a sword. They halted, trees to the left and right of them. But laid out before them the land was patchwork, as though someone had sewn strips of bearskin or goatskin together to make a rug. In the distance were rows of olive trees, their trunks lichened and thick as a man, and then a square of vines with withered leaves, followed by a stretch of barley stubble: brown dirt with a few strands of straw, hopeful pigeons and sparrows pecking amongst it. The land was as dappled as the autumn leaves.
Nikko could see the river he had heard before, rushing between the rocks at the bottom of the valley. There were olives on the other side too, and more vines higher up the next hill. Yet there was no sign of a village. Just fields…and more fields…
He tapped the back in front of him. ‘Sir? Are we there? Is this Mycenae?’
‘Mycenae?’ The man gave a shout of laughter. ‘Did you hear what the boy said?’ He twisted round, his gaze surprisingly kindly over his shoulder. ‘No, lad. It’s another three days’ walk from here to Mycenae. We’re stopping at the next village till the others reach us.’
‘The others?’
‘The other King’s men and the tributes they’ve gathered.’ He grinned, showing brown stumps of teeth. ‘They’ll be slower than us. Good thing the acrobat decided to take you and the girl or we’d be herding goatsfor two days while the ponies carried the grain. Now we get to ride.’
He pointed. ‘The village is about another two sun fingers from here, boy, down in the next valley. Mycenae!’ He grinned again. ‘There are no wooden forts and stone huts at Mycenae.’
Nikko stared around as the ponies made their way through the big stockyard gate. There were more buildings here than he had ever dreamed of: wooden huts thatched with reeds like the ones in the village, but stone huts too, larger than the headman’s house back home.
What could Mycenae be like, if this was just a village?
Women and girls, grinding flour on their doorsteps, or twirling wool on distaffs, stared at him then dropped their gaze when he looked back, as was proper when a woman saw a man who wasn’t of her family.
The ponies plodded between the houses, up a rise to a building bigger than Nikko had thought existed in the world. It was almost as long as his entire village, built of stones so closely fitted together they looked like one enormous rock, hollowed out by giants. The walls were painted white, with red lintels above doors made of wood, instead of a flap of goatskin.
There was an open space in front of the building. In summer perhaps it had been grass, but now it was mud, and filled with animals. Rough brush fences were placed between the different groups of horses, goats and other animals so they didn’t escape or fight, making smaller pens within one big one.
Tributes for the High King, thought Nikko. Like us.
Goats bleated
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