by Glyn Iliffe
‘I said, have you seen Apheidas!’
The man reached out a shaky hand towards Eperitus, begging for mercy. Eperitus placed the point of his sword against the man’s throat and drove it through into the earth beneath. The Lycian’s lifeless head lolled to one side and he was silent.
‘I’m here, Son.’
Eperitus whirled round to see a figure standing in the shadowed portico of the temple. The dull gleam of a drawn blade shone at his side.
‘You fought well,’ he said. ‘If your grandfather was alive he’d have been mighty proud of such a display.’
‘Not as proud as he’d have been to see me run you through, traitor.’
Apheidas chuckled. ‘Still so angry, Eperitus? Come now, such excessive rage goes against nature and the will of the gods. You must leave it behind.’
Laying his blade casually over his shoulder, he turned and disappeared between the tall wooden doors of the temple. Eperitus felt a bead of sweat trickle down across his cheek. Swatting it away, he gripped his sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white, then he walked up to the pillared threshold. The familiar temple smell of perfumed incense and woodsmoke drifted out from the darkened doorway. In the blackness beyond he could see an avenue of painted wooden columns, fading to grey as the shadows swallowed them, and a floor flagged with stone slabs, worn to a black-edged smoothness by generations of worshippers. He stepped inside and instantly felt the warmth of the sun sucked from his flesh by the chill, stagnant atmosphere of the temple.
He paused and scanned the heavy shadows, waiting patiently for his eyes to adjust, relying instead on the acuteness of his hearing and the supernatural ability of his skin to sense the slightest movement in the air. It reminded him of the ruined temple at Messene, where he and Odysseus had once fought an ancient serpent placed there by Hera. As he recalled the terrifying battle with the giant snake he noticed two points of light at the far end of the temple. They gleamed like eyes in the darkness, and indeed that was what they were – not living eyes, but the glass eyes of an idol. Half his own size, the painted wooden effigy stood in an alcove behind the white-washed stone altar. It had been carved with an ankle-length chiton, large breasts and a golden bow in its left hand. Eperitus shuddered: he was in the temple of Artemis.
There was a movement in the shadows beside the altar. Apheidas stepped from behind one of the painted columns and laid his sword irreverently on the plinth where sacrifices were offered to the goddess.
‘How long’s it been, Son? Eighteen years?’
‘Twenty, and my hatred of you hasn’t faded, Father. When you killed Pandion and took his throne for yourself, you brought a shame on our family that can never be removed – except by your death. I intend to claim that honour for myself, now.’
He raised the point of his sword, lifted his grandfather’s shield higher and took a cautious step forward.
‘Don’t be hasty, Eperitus. You’ve waited this long; at least listen to what I have to say before you do something we might both regret.’
Eperitus took another slow step and saw his father’s hand edge towards the handle of his sword.
‘There’s nothing you can say to me, Father. Your shadow’s lain over my life for too long and now I’m going to set myself free of it.’
‘A man can change, Eperitus. Twenty years ago I was only a little older than you are now – I was young and impetuous, thinking with my heart and not giving my head a say. I made a mistake.’
‘And now you’re making another.’
Eperitus lunged, aiming above the leather breastplate at his father’s unprotected throat. With astounding speed, Apheidas seized his sword from the altar and brought it up to meet his son’s blade. Bronze scraped across bronze until the two hilts locked against each other. Eperitus stared into his father’s dark eyes for a moment, but instead of seeing a reflection of his own hatred he saw something infinitely more disarming. For the briefest moment, he saw the father he had known as a boy – a man fiercely proud of his son; a man whom he had looked up to and admired. Then he remembered that his childish admiration had been destroyed by an act of unforgivable evil, and with a snarl of fury on his lips he pushed his father back against the altar and brought his sword down upon him. Again Apheidas’s reactions were quicker than Eperitus had expected, meeting the blow with the edge of his blade and at the same time kicking out with his foot, catching Eperitus in the stomach and sending him sprawling across the stone flags. He landed with his back against one of the columns and a cloud of dust fell down over his head.
Springing back to his feet, he moved out to meet the inevitable follow-up attack. But Apheidas did not take the advantage he had created, and instead moved behind the protection of the altar.
‘Don’t be a fool, Son. Can’t you see I regret what I did in Alybas? Your older brothers were killed fighting at my side, but . . .’ Apheidas paused, as if struggling with the memory. ‘But worse even than that, I lost you. Don’t you realize you were always my favourite, Eperitus?’
‘That’s a lie!’
‘It’s true. Your brothers were fine lads, but you’ve a greatness in you they could never have matched. Your grandfather knew that.’
‘And he would have known I’d never betray King Pandion or tolerate his murderer to live.’
Slipping the shield from his arm, Eperitus leapt across the altar and swung at his father’s head. Apheidas twisted out of the way and the blow decapitated the idol in the alcove behind him, leaving the headless torso rocking on its plinth. A sudden fury lit Apheidas’s eyes and he lashed out with his sword, striking sparks from the stone wall as Eperitus ducked beneath the slicing blade. Without pausing to think that his father was now trying to kill him, Eperitus ran beneath his raised sword arm and rammed his shoulder into his chest. Apheidas’s spine jarred against the overlapping edge of the altar, causing him to cry out in pain, but he quickly recovered and deflected another swipe of Eperitus’s sword. A moment later the temple was filled with the ringing of bronze as the two men struck blow after blow against each other. Then the tip of Apheidas’s blade, deflected upward by the edge of Eperitus’s weapon, slashed the forehead of the younger man. At the sight of his son’s blood, Apheidas’s anger left him and he stood back.
‘Forgive me,’ he said through heavy breaths. ‘Forgive me for everything. As the gods are my witnesses, Eperitus, I beg you to let the past go!’
Eperitus felt the sting of the cut and dabbed at it with the palm of his hand. The blood was dark in the gloomy temple as he inspected it.
‘Why? You killed a good man because of your selfish ambition. If it wasn’t for you, Pandion might still rule Alybas today and I’d never have been ashamed of naming you as my father. What’s more, you’ve betrayed Greece to serve Troy. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t fight you to the death, right here in this temple.’
‘Yes there is. I’m your father, Eperitus, and you’re my son. As soon as I knew you’d be attacking Lyrnessus, I insisted on coming here with Aeneas and Sarpedon . . .’
‘You knew I’d be here? You knew about the attack?’
Apheidas smiled, realizing his mistake. ‘Yes, I knew, but don’t bother asking me how – unless you intend to come back to Troy with me.’
Eperitus grimaced. ‘Troy?’
‘Of course. That’s why I came to Lyrnessus – to speak with you, if I could, and convince you of my regret about the past. You’re a man of honour, no one can question that, so come and fight alongside me for a worthy cause, in defence of a noble people.’
Eperitus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Just because you betrayed your king and your country, Father, doesn’t mean I’ll betray mine.’
‘There would be no treachery, Eperitus. Do you think I fight for Troy because I was thrown out of Alybas, or because I’m a mercenary who’ll sell my services to the highest bidder?’
‘You fight for Troy because you’re a man without shame, who cares nothing for his own honour or the honour of his family! Your own fa
ther would have killed you for what you’ve done.’
Apheidas threw back his head and laughed.
‘You poor fool,’ he said. ‘It’s because of your grandfather that I’m here in the first place.’
‘Speak plainly,’ Eperitus replied, angered by his father’s mockery.
‘Even you know your grandfather wasn’t from Alybas,’ Apheidas answered, calmly, ‘that he killed the man who raped and murdered his wife – my mother – and was forced into exile, taking me with him when I was only an infant. You remember me telling you this when you were a lad? And yet you never wondered where he came from?’
‘He would only ever say he came from the east. From Euboea or Attica, I’d always assumed—’
‘Your grandfather was a Trojan, Eperitus. I am a Trojan, and but for your mother’s blood, you are too.’
Eperitus glanced at the square of intense light beyond the door, where he was vaguely aware of voices in the street. His mind was reeling from his father’s revelation, wanting to reject it and yet instinctively knowing it to be true. At the same time, part of him understood that it did not matter. Not now, at least. He was born and raised a Greek and had spent the past ten years killing Trojans. Apheidas’s news was not going to change that, and somehow he knew his grandfather would not have wanted it to.
He flexed his fingers around the handle of his sword and focused his gaze on his father.
‘You’re wrong. I’m a Greek. My grandfather was a Greek, too. When he arrived in Alybas, Greece became his new home – that’s why he let me believe I was a Greek through and through. What good does it do a man to split his identity? After all, look at you.’
Eperitus spat on the floor at his father’s feet, then, feeling the old hatred surge into his veins, he lunged forward. Apheidas parried the blow with ease, as if he had expected it all along, and swung his own blade across his son’s torso, forcing him to leap backwards. Eperitus attacked again, furious now, but Apheidas smashed his sword aside and brought the hilt of his own weapon sharply up into his jaw, throwing his head back. Eperitus caught his heel, staggered and fell. As if in a nightmare he heard the sound of his sword clattering across the flagstones, and a moment later his armoured body was crashing down on the hard floor. The back of his head smacked against a slab, dazing him, and the next thing he knew his father’s foot was on his chest, the point of his blade resting against his throat.
Chapter Four
THE GIFT OF THE GODS
‘Kill me, then,’ Eperitus said savagely, loathing the dark eyes that were staring down at him. ‘Kill me and put an end to it.’
The sword was heavy and sharp against his flesh, but the face above it was bereft of menace. Instead, there was a sadness in it – regret, perhaps, for what could have been.
‘Put an end to your anger and shame, maybe,’ Apheidas said. ‘But not mine. Though you hate me, Eperitus, you’re my son. You’re all I have left. I used to think a man found immortality in a glorious name, covered in brave deeds and built on the bodies of dead enemies. Like Hector, or your Achilles. Do you remember how I used to tell you such things when your grandfather and I trained you to be a warrior? Well, they were the words of a fool. A man is remembered through his children. His glory can fade, but not his offspring.’
Eperitus closed his eyes and thought of his own daughter, Iphigenia, the child of his illicit union with Clytaemnestra, the wife of Agamemnon. Had not Clytaemnestra said the same thing as she begged Eperitus to take her and their daughter to safety – that he should forget glory and let Iphigenia be his legacy? But this was not the same. He had failed to protect Iphigenia. Agamemnon had murdered her to appease the vengeful Artemis, and had lived with that regret for over ten years. But he had not brought shame upon her or sent her into exile.
‘Don’t look to me for your own immortality,’ he said, whispering as the point of the sword continued to press against the base of his throat. ‘I am no longer your son, Apheidas. You lost me when you killed King Pandion and brought dishonour on your family. So kill me now, for if you don’t you have my word I will hunt you down and slaughter you like a sick dog.’
Apheidas’s brow darkened for a moment, and then the sound of voices – growing louder in the street outside – distracted him. He looked through the doorway at the blinding sunshine, then stared back down at his son.
‘I’ll not kill you, Eperitus,’ he said, raising his sword and slipping it into its plain leather scabbard. ‘And you can forget thoughts of killing me, too. You’ve neither the skill nor quite as much hatred as a man needs to murder his own father. Look to your heart and you’ll know it’s true. And when the time is right, you’ll know where to find me – inside the walls of Troy.’
He took his foot from Eperitus’s chest and knelt beside him. Eperitus looked up at his father and saw his own features reflected back at him: the same oval face, the same straight nose and thin, almost lipless mouth, and the same dark hair. Only their ages and the lighter skin and thoughtful eyes he had inherited from his Greek mother separated them, and for the sake of his Greek blood he would never forget that difference.
Apheidas pulled his fist back and hit him.
When Eperitus awoke it was to the sound of a woman screaming.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling, on which he could see stars painted in gold against a sable firmament. They were smoke-stained and half lost in the gloom, but at their centre he could see a crescent moon, the symbol of the goddess whose temple this was. Raising himself on to his elbows, he dabbed his fingers gingerly against the bruised cheekbone where Apheidas’s fist had connected, then lifted them to the new scar on his forehead. It was deep, but the blood had already caked inside the gash and stopped the flow of blood. With the inside of his skull pounding, he looked around between the wooden columns and noticed for the first time the faded patterns of blue, yellow and red flowers that twined around them. His sword and his grandfather’s shield lay close together, halfway between himself and the door of the temple, but of Apheidas there was no sign.
Then another scream broke the stillness and he realized he had not been dreaming. Ignoring the pain in his head, he leapt to his feet and ran over to retrieve his weapons. The scream had come from the street outside, and as he squinted into the fierce daylight beyond the doorway he heard harsh laughter followed by another scream. He dashed out of the temple, blinking against the brightness, and saw a black-haired woman clad in a knee-length white chiton, surrounded by a circle of five men. None of the men was Apheidas, but Eperitus recognized them all the same.
‘Come on, my sweet, stop playing with us,’ said one of the men. ‘We only want a little fun.’
‘Leave me alone!’ she spat. ‘I’m a priestess of the temple of Artemis!’
‘A virgin, then,’ leered the man, wiping spittle from his beard with the back of his hand. ‘I haven’t had a virgin since I was a young shepherd.’
‘And she was one of his flock!’ said another, raising a laugh from his companions.
‘Have you no respect for the gods?’ she retorted, scowling at them. ‘Have you no fear of the gods?’
One of the others snorted, a fat man whose face was red and shining with sweat. ‘What are you talking about, girl? Don’t you know you’re a gift of the gods to us? You’re our reward for conquering Lyrnessus.’
He lunged at her and caught her wrist.
‘Let the girl alone, Eurylochus,’ Eperitus said from the shadows of the portico, his voice calm and even. ‘Let her go, now!’
Eurylochus’s surprise at the sudden appearance of the captain of the guard was short lived. Keeping his hold on the priestess, who had stopped struggling and was looking intently at the newcomer, he spat in the dirt and frowned at Eperitus.
‘So, the absent hero has returned,’ he sneered. ‘Though it looks like someone has given you a beating in the meantime. But if you think I’m going to let this little beauty go just so you can have your way with her, then you’ll be disappointed.
’
Eperitus propped his shield against one of the columns and, sheathing his sword, walked out into the sunshine. Skeins of dark smoke were drifting up into the otherwise perfect blue skies and the smell of burning was thick in the air. He looked at the priestess, whose chiton he now saw was stained with dirt and had been torn open to expose a long, dark-skinned thigh; there were bloody scrapes on both elbows and forearms, and her lips were wet with fresh blood. As he glanced at her, she swept the tangled hair from her face to reveal dark, frightened eyes framed by long lashes. Her beauty took him by surprise and he had to forcefully shift his stare to Eurylochus.
‘I told you to let the girl go,’ he warned. ‘I won’t tell you again.’
Eurylochus’s face twitched with hatred. There was a moment’s indecision, then he shoved the girl into the arms of one of his cronies and pulled out his sword.
‘There’re five of us, Eperitus, and no witnesses. I tell you now, that girl’s a rare beauty in this godforsaken country and you’re not going to take her from me.’
Eperitus looked at the other four Ithacans who, except for the man whose arms were struggling to contain the priestess, had also drawn their swords and were fanning out in a crescent around him. He knew them all and none of them was any good as a warrior or as a man, but he left his sword untouched in its scabbard and instead fixed his eyes on each of them in turn. Finally his gaze rested on a skinny, rotten-toothed soldier whose red-rimmed eyes were quick to blink and look away.
‘I know you men,’ Eperitus told them in a slow, steady voice. ‘I know you for the weak-minded, back-stabbing scum that you are. Not one of you is worthy to call himself an Ithacan, and the only reason any of you are still alive is because you skulk at the back of every battle, furthest away from the fighting. How do I know that? Because I’m always in the thick of it, and I’ve never seen any of your faces at my side. So if you think you can take me – even five of you together – then come on. But if you do, then it’s to the death, and any man who pleads for mercy will be taken back to camp and executed. But if you put your swords back in their scabbards and walk away, I’ll forget I ever saw you here. Make your choice.’