King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

by Glyn Iliffe

  The temple entrance had once consisted of a pair of doors approached by four broad stone steps. The doors had long since been burst open, while on the steps lay the skeletal remains of a human being. The rotted clothing hanging about it could once have been a priest’s robes, but such was the decay that they could not tell. The body had long since been picked clean of flesh and the bones bleached by the sun, but there was something in those empty eye sockets that retained an unspeakable terror, something about the open jaw that still cried out in silence.

  As they stared at the chaos a hideous scream rang from the temple. It rooted them to the ground with its despairing horror, then it was suddenly silenced. Eperitus’s blood ran cold and the hair on the back of his neck was stiff with fear.

  ‘Goodbye Polybus,’ Odysseus said grimly, staring at the shadowy entrance.

  So the serpent was still there, jealously guarding the temple against any who dared enter. Perhaps it had relieved them of the need to take the pursuit any further, but Odysseus would want to make sure that Polybus was dead. He would also want to honour his promise to Athena, though Eperitus hoped he had the good sense to go back for the others first; the thought of encountering another serpent in the darkness, without his spear, his shield or the aid of his comrades, made him sick with fear.

  Odysseus, however, had no intention of waiting. He led the way up the steps and into the shadowy interior of the temple, beckoning for the others to follow.

  ‘What could have made Polybus scream like that?’ Antiphus asked quietly, unslinging his bow and readying an arrow from his quiver. ‘If it caused all that damage back there, it can’t be a man.’

  ‘It’s a serpent. The spawn of Echidna,’ Odysseus answered, though he offered no account of how he knew.

  Antiphus looked at Odysseus in horror. Echidna was a monster of legend, half woman, half snake. A child of hers would be the stuff of nightmares.

  They edged further into the shadows, where for a few tense moments their eyes struggled to adjust to the gloom. They had come to the head of a long aisle, flanked on either side by two rows of pillars. The rank-smelling air was thick and oppressive and their limbs felt suddenly heavy with the toil of the battle they had just fought. Then they heard something heavy slithering across the dusty floor at the far end of the temple.

  Antiphus leaned his weight against one of the pillars and sought a target for his bow, but could see nothing in the weak light that suffused the interior. Odysseus drew his sword and walked cautiously towards a stone dais at the back of the temple, watching for movement as he passed between the rows of columns. Anxiety for the prince made Eperitus follow closely behind, his sword held before him. Never had he felt so vulnerable, or so naked, without his grandfather’s shield on his arm.

  Something glinted on the broad flagstones a few paces ahead of them.

  ‘Odysseus!’ he hissed, afraid to disturb the sinister silence. ‘Polybus’s sword.’

  Odysseus saw the discarded weapon and stopped.

  ‘The beast must have snatched him out of the darkness,’ he whispered, turning slightly to face Eperitus. ‘He couldn’t have known . . .’

  Suddenly the great bulk of the serpent lashed out from the shadows. Eperitus flinched and this was the only warning Odysseus had of the doom that was closing rapidly behind him. In that splinter of time he turned and swept his sword up to defend against the terrific force of the monster’s attack. The blade thumped into its thick neck, but the blow was thrown back without effect. The open jaws and long fangs would have bitten the life out of Odysseus in a moment, had not an arrow from Antiphus’s bow taken the creature in the eye and sent it lashing back into the shadows, hissing with pain.

  Eperitus’s shock at the speed of the attack and his companions’ reactions did not hold him for long. Nor did his fear of serpents. In an instant he became a warrior again, aware that death was upon them and his friends were in danger, and without thinking he charged after the retreating coils of the great beast. It sped away as fast as it had come, but in its half-blind confusion smashed into one of the painted pillars, splitting the wood and stalling its flight.

  He was upon the monster in an instant. His sword flashed down upon its glistening hide, but just as Odysseus’s blow had bounced off, so did his, unable to pierce the hideous skin. Its scales were like flaps of hardened leather, overlapping each other to form an impervious armour. Eperitus struck again, numbing his arm as the force of his blow was returned twofold by the creature’s defences.

  The pain from Antiphus’s arrow had caused the serpent to momentarily forget the men who had invaded its lair, but as Eperitus’s second blow rebounded from its hide it drew back and cocked its ugly head at him, surveying him with an evil intelligence in its eye. It was bigger than Python and, unlike in the pitch-black cavern at Pythia, there was just enough light to see the monster in its full, terrifying hideousness. It raised itself to the ceiling of the temple – the height of two tall men – but even this represented only one quarter of its full length.

  It gave Eperitus no time to recoil in disgust or horror, but darted towards him with the swiftness of an arrow. He could not even raise his sword in defence before its bony head punched the breath out of him and tossed him against one of the pillars like a child’s toy. The impact left him dazed, his senses reeling.

  Odysseus leapt to his defence, standing before him and slashing at the giant creature with his sword. At the same time Eperitus heard the twang of Antiphus’s bow and saw the arrow, a speeding sliver of light in the shadows, skitter off the monster’s armoured neck. It had drawn its body up into a coil now to give more force to its attacks, and swayed before Odysseus as it sought the chance to launch itself upon him. In response the prince sought to edge close enough to use his sword on the beast’s softer underbelly, but was repeatedly forced back by its cautious repositioning.

  Antiphus knelt to Eperitus’s right and drew his bow again. He wasted another arrow on the tough skin before sweeping out his sword and rushing forward. But before he could reach Odysseus’s side, the serpent flicked its giant tail and threw him back against a pillar, where he lay unmoving. Seeing his comrade dashed aside, Odysseus called on Athena’s name and charged beneath the looming head of the creature. With a huge thrust of his muscular arms he planted his sword in its neck.

  The ages-old monster bellowed with rage and pain. It slithered back across the floor to the rear wall of the temple, wrenching the deeply buried weapon from Odysseus’s grasp, and as it moved a large swelling was visible in the middle of its body, slowing it down. So this had been the fate of Polybus, Eperitus thought groggily. Then he heard Mentor behind them, calling Odysseus’s name from the doorway. Eperitus had never taken pleasure from the sound of his voice, but now he rejoiced at it. He only hoped he had brought the others with him.

  Looking back at the serpent Eperitus realized that it was not retreating to die from the wound inflicted by Odysseus, but was manoeuvring itself to strike again. He gripped his sword and struggled to his feet, feeling sick and disorientated. His instinctive reaction was to run to Odysseus’s defence, but he was too late. The creature opened its slavering jaws to reveal fangs as long as spears, shining blue in the fading light from the temple’s entrance, then hurled itself at the unarmed prince. Odysseus was swept from his feet by the force of the attack, yet somehow managed to seize hold of the brute’s head and hang on to it.

  For a moment Eperitus could do nothing but watch as the serpent tried to free itself of Odysseus’s grip, shaking its head like an untamed horse trying to throw its rider. But the man’s strength would not succumb, even when it butted him against the pillars, dislodging showers of dust from the ceiling. And then Eperitus’s fighting rage took him. His repugnance at the sight of the great snake was forgotten and he rushed in to the attack once more, leaping onto its back and forcing his blade between the tight-knit scales. His anger gave him strength and the blade slid between the overlapping plates into soft flesh, releasing a gush o
f black blood to erupt over his hands and forearms.

  Just then he heard a crack and saw Odysseus tossed across the temple, still holding on to the fang which he had torn out of the monster’s jaw. He fell against the stone dais and moved no more. Eperitus tried frantically to drag Polybus’s blade free again to inflict further wounds, but the serpent took no further notice of him. It was intent now on the man who had twice wounded it, maddened to vengeful lust by the pain that swept in great waves through its body, from its dimmed eye to the barbs that had pierced its previously impenetrable flesh. Eperitus’s eyes were fixed on Odysseus, knowing he could not save him now from the serpent, and in that moment he realized all his hopes were about to die with him. Then he heard a cry of anger and Mentor came running out of the shadows.

  In an instant he had placed himself between the beast and Odysseus. Dropping his shield, he slammed the butt of his spear into the ground by the prince so that the point faced directly up into the path of the monster’s head. Hardly noticing the newcomer in its rage and pain, it launched its full weight against Odysseus. The force drove Mentor’s spear point up into its brain and out through the top of its skull, killing it instantly.

  Eperitus fell from the back of the slain beast and crawled to where Odysseus and Mentor lay flattened by the weight of the fallen creature. With Antiphus still unconscious, it took all of Eperitus’s remaining strength to lever the heavy head from the two men and topple it over to one side.

  Fortunately neither man was badly hurt, and for all the violence Odysseus had suffered his only wound was a slight cut above his eyebrow, which was bleeding freely. They found Antiphus returning to consciousness, but he too had not suffered beyond a few bruises and cuts.

  ‘Where do you think Polybus is?’ he asked, looking at the dead monster.

  ‘There,’ Eperitus answered, pointing at the pregnant bump in the animal’s stomach.

  Antiphus walked over to it and drew a dagger from his belt. While they watched him he punched it into the soft underbelly and, using all his strength, forced open a great tear in the stomach. Suddenly a huge volume of liquid burst across the temple floor, spattering Antiphus with gore and almost knocking his legs from beneath him. In the midst was a slimy parcel of meat, spilling out like offal from a sacrificed heifer. Fascinated, Eperitus took a step forward, but instantly leapt back in horror as a great horde of lesser snakes came rushing out of the rent in their mother and squirmed their way to freedom in the shadows of the temple.

  The sight turned his muscles to water and he had to close his eyes and fight down nausea. He wanted to run as he felt scores of them sliding in cold masses across his feet, but the fear of dishonour was greater and he stood his ground. Only when the sound of them had disappeared did he dare open his eyes again. The larger object was Polybus and Antiphus had hold of his right hand. Using the blood-stained dagger, he sawed off the dead man’s bow-fingers, first one and then the other. When he was done, he dropped the limb back into the mess of gore and stowed his trophies in his pouch. He had a right to those fingers, Eperitus thought, and nobody questioned him.

  Their task had been completed and Odysseus’s promise to the goddess fulfilled, so they recovered their weapons and walked out into the twilight of the winter evening. The heaviness had lifted from the temple and Eperitus, breathing the clean air, was suddenly overcome by a sensation of relief, even joy, at being alive. He realized that the worry of facing the serpent had made him tense for days, but from now on he would be able to enjoy the prospect of Sparta, where they would be feted in luxury by one of the richest kings in Greece.

  Then a sound behind him made him turn, and he saw Polybus staggering down the steps towards him, dripping with the serpent’s bile and reaching out his maimed hand in a plea for help. The others turned also, as shocked as Eperitus to see the hideous ghoul who had somehow survived being devoured by the monster. Gone were his arrogant sneer and his self-confidence. Now his eyes were wide with terror, his mind lost for ever.

  As he came closer Eperitus could see him mouthing something, one word over and over again. At first he could not hear him, then suddenly his ranting grew more audible.

  ‘Fingers. Fingers,’ he groaned as he reached the young warrior. Then with a scream of loathing: ‘Give me my fingers!’

  At the last moment, he snatched the dagger from Eperitus’s belt and thrust it at his stomach. Eperitus instinctively caught Polybus’s wrist with his left hand and turned the blade aside, then swung his right fist into his jaw, toppling him backwards into the dust. Odysseus stepped forward and brought his sword down upon Polybus’s neck, severing his head with a single blow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE BOW OF IPHITUS

  Eperitus reached down to retrieve his dagger from Polybus’s death grip and, without a word being spoken, they walked free of the courtyard. The day’s fighting had left each of them spattered with gore, so they headed back downhill to the stream, where they stripped off and washed themselves in the cold, refreshing water. Mentor informed them that the last of the Taphians had been slain quickly, but as Halitherses had sent him to find Odysseus he did not know the full tally of their own casualties. The only thing he knew for certain, he said, was that he was hungry and wished there was something to eat.

  As he spoke, a fat sheep appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, its fleece shining like silver in the twilight.

  ‘Well, if that isn’t an answer to prayer,’ Mentor said, drawing his dagger from his belt and wading into the stream.

  ‘Leave it alone,’ Odysseus cautioned. ‘I don’t think we should touch it.’

  They heard bleating from further along the path. More silvery shapes were picking their way over the fallen rocks and through the scrub on either bank of the gurgling waters. A creeping, impenetrable mist followed them, its foremost fronds curling between their fat bodies and reaching towards the four men. Soon it was all about them, so that the only thing Eperitus could see was Odysseus sitting next to him on a rock. They heard the bleats of the sheep and saw their shadows in the fog, but their companions were lost from view.

  Then a voice spoke out of the haze. ‘Very wise of you to keep your friend from my sheep. I wouldn’t have wanted to kill him after he spiked that serpent for me.’

  They looked up and saw a young man standing before them. He was tall and carried a silver sheepskin draped across one forearm, whilst in his free hand he held a long crook. He had golden hair and huge grey eyes that looked at them sternly and expectantly. Odysseus was quick to recognize Athena and slumped to his knees before her; Eperitus followed his example and bowed his head so as not to look at the goddess.

  ‘Mistress,’ Odysseus said. ‘The beast is dead and the temple clean.’

  ‘I would hardly say clean,’ Athena complained. ‘But just to show you that the gods reward those who obey their commands, I’m going to tell you two things in return for ridding my temple of Hera’s pet.’ She put a smooth white hand under each of their arms and lifted them to their feet. ‘First thing, Odysseus: Tyndareus has already decided that Helen will marry Menelaus.’

  ‘Then I should return to Ithaca at once,’ Odysseus said.

  The goddess ruffled his red hair affectionately. ‘Not so hasty, please. It’s Zeus’s will that Helen be given to Menelaus – he’s planning something big, but won’t let anyone know about it. You must still go to Sparta, though. A man of your charms will find important friends there, and perhaps something else, too. But I shan’t spoil things for you.’

  Odysseus seemed restless. ‘You said there were two things, mistress.’

  ‘Yes: go to Messene and restock your provisions. There you’ll meet a man fording a stream. He will be carrying a large horn bow, which the god Apollo gave to his father. You must use your wits to get the bow from him, as he won’t be needing it for much longer himself. How you do it is up to you, but you will be ill advised to leave Messene without it. Do you understand me?’

  ‘What’s the importance of
the bow?’ Odysseus asked.

  But the goddess was gone, swallowed up by a billow of the fog. The gentle bleating of her sheep faded away and the mist evaporated about them to reveal Mentor and Antiphus, looking around themselves in surprise.

  ‘Where in Hades did that fog come from?’ Mentor said. ‘And where did those sheep go?’

  Antiphus walked over to them. ‘You had a lot to say for yourselves, didn’t you? Chattering away in the mist.’

  It was clear neither man had been aware they had been in the presence of an immortal. Odysseus and Eperitus made no answer, but instead headed back upstream to retrieve their shields and spears.

  Three Ithacans had died in the battle. Eperitus had expected there to be more casualties, but the islanders were tougher men than they looked. From their outward appearances he had first thought them simple folk with little inclination to fight and no stamina for battle. They seemed to him men who preferred wine and the song of a bard to adventure and hardship. And so they were. But there was something about their island identity that gave them a toughness and spirit excelling anything he had encountered before. Again and again they proved themselves against every test. And only slowly, through listening to them tell stories over the camp fire each night and hearing them grumble on the long marches, did he realize the source of this strength. It came from their love of Ithaca and the simple freedom they had always enjoyed there. They would do whatever was needed of them to regain the idyllic world Eupeithes had stolen.