“My lord,” Bosander said, drawing his prince’s attention. “See who comes.”
“Ah, Epicles,” Idomeneus said, head to one side. “You’re wise to give yourself up. It’ll go easier on your friends.”
“You mistake me, sir,” Odysseus said, his hands held out to show he had no sword. “I haven’t come to give myself up to you. I’ve come to challenge you.”
Idomeneus raised one elegant eyebrow and moved towards Odysseus. “Challenge? Me?”
“Personal combat, warrior to warrior. If you win, you can do what you want with us. If I win, you let us go free.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Idomeneus. He glanced at his men. “You’ve no weapon.” He took two more steps in Odysseus’ direction.
Odysseus smiled. “Then give me one. Unless you’re afraid.”
Idomeneus drew his great sword. “This blade belonged to my grandfather, Minos the Great, and has been passed down to me as crown prince of Crete. I won’t dishonour it with the blood of a mere boy and a commoner, Epicles of Rhodes.”
Odysseus’ jaw tightened, and a quick flush of anger lit his cheek. But he calmed himself, remembering that he’d already dispatched a far greater foe. And realising that he’d probably disgrace himself by dropping another heavy sword.
“I’m no commoner nor am I from Rhodes,” Odysseus said. “My name is Odysseus, son of Laertes the Argonaut, prince of Ithaca.”
“And a lying rogue to boot,” said Idomeneus, which caused his men to laugh aloud.
“Better to be the lying rogue than the fool who believes him,” said Odysseus. He grinned impishly.
Idomeneus gritted his teeth. “If you’re a prince, then your homeland is going to need a new heir.” He took another step forward and raised his sword. Behind him, his men closed the gap at his back.
Odysseus whipped the leather cord from around his neck and held the spear point up. “With this blade, O prince of the Long Island, I slew the many-headed Ladon down in your maze.”
Idomeneus laughed. “You do have a certain courage, rogue, though you’ve said more lies in that sentence than I can count.”
“Give me a sword, and I’ll show you how much courage I have,” Odysseus said.
“Stop it, Odysseus,” Helen cried. “He’s the greatest warrior in all of Crete.”
From the corner of his eye, Odysseus watched the Cretan guards. Many of them were smiling.
“And how do you know this, Helen?”
She said in loud ringing tones, “He told me so himself!”
Odysseus smiled too, but didn’t relax his guard. “Then let him live up to his boasts.” All the while he was thinking, Hurry, Penelope, please hurry.
“I don’t wish fair Helen to witness your blood on the sand,” Idomeneus said. “But you need to pay for your arrogance and lies.” He sheathed his sword and unbuckled his sword belt, setting them carefully on the ground. Then he held up his fists.
Odysseus didn’t move, waiting to see what would happen next.
“We have a sport here in Crete where we fight with our closed fists alone,” Idomeneus said. “Are you up to that, young Ithacan?”
“Do you mean brawling?” Odysseus laughed. He put the spear point on the thong around his neck again. “In Ithaca that’s done in the taverns.”
“Here we call it boxing,” Idomeneus said. “No kicking, no wrestling. If you break the rules, you forfeit the fight.”
“And if I win, will you set my friends and me free?” Odysseus asked, making fists, though his hands were still raw and painful from the ride on the serpent’s back.
“You—win?” Idomeneus laughed, and his men echoed him. “I’m champion of the Cretan Games,” he said, adding casually, “I intend to beat you senseless. As a lesson of course. Merely as a lesson.”
Fists raised, Odysseus ran at the Cretan prince and took a swing, but Idomeneus—who was a head taller, though no heavier—stepped easily aside and punched Odysseus hard on the ear.
Knocked off his feet, his right ear ringing, Odysseus took a moment to get his bearings.
The Cretan guards were shouting for their prince, and Mentor and Praxios were yelling for Odysseus. Helen watched through laced fingers, not calling out for either.
If I can keep the fight going long enough, Penelope can free my men. He stood up, shook his head to try and clear it, then closed on Idomeneus again.
This time Idomeneus blocked him with a forearm, and then, as quickly as one of Ladon’s heads, a fist thumped Odysseus under the chest and another across the chin.
Odysseus reeled back, throwing his arms up to protect himself. Something salty was dripping into his mouth. He wiped a hand across his lip and he saw blood there.
Keep the fight going, he thought again, then realised that the only way for that to happen was to make Idomeneus come to him.
So he took a few steps back.
Idomeneus followed, as did the half circle of onlookers.
Then Odysseus took another few steps back. Each step brought the Cretans farther from the slave pens.
“Are you running from me, boy?” asked Idomeneus.
“No more than I ran from the crested head of Ladon,” Odysseus said. He saw out of the corner of his eye that Penelope had darted between the shadows of buildings and was heading towards the slave gate. He forced his eyes forward.
Idomeneus took another step, and Odysseus retreated again.
“It looks like running away to me,” the Cretan prince said.
Odysseus had been in his share of scraps over the years, sparring with friends and brawling with enemies his own age. He’d never been beaten. But what Idomeneus had done in those first blows was different than any fighting Odysseus had known. Idomeneus had used his fists like weapons. Odysseus actually admired the man’s skill.
But Odysseus knew he didn’t need to win the fight. He just needed to hold out long enough for Penelope to free the slaves. Still, he hated being a loser in anything, and he certainly wasn’t going to run away.
Entirely sure of himself, Idomeneus was now advancing. Before Odysseus could move back again, he’d taken another couple of punishing blows to the ribs. So he did the only thing he could think of. He wrapped his arms around Idomeneus and held on long enough to recover his breath.
The Cretan finally threw him off and backed away, almost dancing on nimble feet. “Where’s your bragging now, Ithacan boy?”
For a moment Odysseus lost his temper and he charged at Idomeneus, who smacked him once again on the jaw.
“Come on, Odysseus,” Mentor called out. “You can beat him. Remember the boar?”
All Odysseus remembered was that the boar had slashed him in the thigh. Now his jaw hurt and his ear rang and his ribs were sore, not his thigh. His hands were raw, his arms and shoulders ached. Still, Mentor’s cry of encouragement raised his spirits, and Odysseus launched a sudden attack on the Cretan, one blow glancing off Idomeneus’ chest, another landing solidly on his chest.
Behind them, Penelope had managed to sneak over to the gate without being seen.
The soldiers called out their own encouragement to their prince.
“He’s just a boy!” cried one.
“Finish him,” cried another.
“Give him a good one!” cried a third.
Idomeneus, still dancing about like the old satyr on his goat feet, called to Odysseus, “Your strength is failing, boy. But if you surrender now, I’ll spare you. You can be my slave, instead of going to your death in the Labyrinth.”
Odysseus shook his head twice, then lifted his bruised face to glare at the Cretan.
“What do I care about the maze?” he said. “I told you—I killed the monster. The horned beast and maiden met. I got my heart’s desire, which was to get out of the Labyrinth. And as for being a slave—I bow to no man. Not even if you beat me into the ground, Cretan.” He spit out a gob of blood.