by Glyn Iliffe
‘Leave those here with me. That isn’t negotiable.’
Eperitus hesitated for a moment then lay down his shield and spear, followed shortly after by his sword and dagger. Arceisius gave Eperitus a cynical look then threw his own weapon on the pile. Satisfied, the guard pointed them towards a gap in the circle of laurel trees.
Eperitus led the way into the shadowy interior, where strips of moonlight lay like rib bones across the flagstoned floor. Four soldiers stood at the corners of the temple, their sputtering torches casting a dim glow over the boles of the trees. At the far end was a white altar stone, tinted by the orange torchlight, and behind it an effigy of Apollo carved from the stump of a dead tree. Its legs, as they emerged from the roots, were entwined with thick fronds of ivy up to the knees. Its arms were locked by its sides – a necessity of being shaped from the bole of a tree – but in its left fist it clutched a horn bow and in its right a solid bronze arrow. Apheidas and Astynome stood on either side of the altar. They turned to look as Eperitus and Arceisius entered.
‘Eperitus!’ Astynome said, crossing the floor and embracing him. ‘I thought you might have changed your mind.’
‘You were late,’ he replied with a smile, kissing her forehead. It was cold from the ride to the temple. ‘Dawn isn’t very far off.’
‘But we’re here now and maybe soon we can be married.’
‘I hope so.’
‘That would be good,’ said Apheidas, taking a few paces towards his son. ‘Then I will have a daughter, too, and grandchildren.’
‘You haven’t got your son back yet,’ Eperitus replied.
‘Yet, you say. That’s more than I had hoped for. I’m glad you came, Son.’
He offered his hand and Astynome stepped away. Eperitus looked down and recalled the last time he had embraced his father in friendship – that same day twenty years ago in Alybas, when Apheidas had later murdered King Pandion and taken the throne for himself. It was still not too late to leave the temple and ride away, he reminded himself, but the moment he took his father’s hand he would be declaring himself a traitor to the Greek cause – an act no better than his father’s regicide.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Eperitus, but things have changed since we parted ways in Alybas. You’re my only son and I want you back. Nothing is more important to me than that.’
He pushed his hand nearer and smiled. Slowly, Eperitus reached out and took it, feeling his father’s rough, hot skin against his own. There was a moment in his heart when Odysseus, Ithaca and all the events of the war seemed to crowd in on him, and then were gone. He had passed through a doorway into a new life, as if the previous twenty years had been by-passed and had transported him and his father from that fateful day in Alybas to this day on the ridge above Troy. He smiled uncertainly at his father then turned to Astynome, whose closeness assured him this was not some strange dream.
Apheidas placed his other hand on Eperitus’s shoulder.
‘I know you hated me for what I did and that your hatred was real. But something like that doesn’t just go away.’
‘I’m coming to learn that only weak men allow the past to hold them back.’
‘Then was it the knowledge that you’re half Trojan that changed your mind? Or was it the love of a Trojan woman?’
‘It’s of no consequence where the blood in my veins originates from,’ Eperitus replied, ‘though you’re right that Astynome is one reason why I’m here. But it’s more than that. I’ve seen what men’s pride does to them, and how this war has turned their noble ideals into monstrous desires. It corrupts men’s souls. The war has to end so that good men like Odysseus can return to their families, and if the only thing stopping that is my own selfish pride, then it’s time I let the past go. If you can change, Father, then so must I – for Odysseus’s sake, and for Astynome’s.’
He reached out and took her hand.
‘This is the greatness I’ve always known was in you, Eperitus,’ Apheidas said. ‘That ability to choose when to do the right thing. And we will all need to make sacrifices if we want peace.’
‘But how is peace possible, Father?’ Eperitus asked. ‘Paris won’t surrender Helen and Menelaus won’t leave without her. Even if Paris was killed, Agamemnon has no intention of leaving Ilium without first destroying Troy and stealing her wealth. Besides, there’s a bitterness between Greeks and Trojans now that there never used to be. How can peace be possible?’
Apheidas did not answer immediately. He returned to the altar and ran a fingertip along its rough edges.
‘As I said, peace will require sacrifices. Painful sacrifices. Paris and Menelaus, Priam and Agamemnon – will any of them accept peace on anything less than their own terms? Would Hector or Achilles have compromised? Of course not. But I will.’
He looked at his son and there was a new hardness in his features.
‘I accepted a long time ago that Troy would never win this war and that peace was our only chance of survival. But that could never happen as long as Hector lived and gave the people hope of victory. That was why I persuaded him to go out and face Achilles.’
‘You sent him to his death?’ Arceisius asked, incredulously.
‘Yes – for the greater good of Troy. To pave the way for peace.’
Eperitus frowned. This was not what he had expected. He looked about at the stony-faced guards, then at Arceisius and Astynome before returning his gaze to his father.
‘And what else must happen for the sake of peace?’ he asked.
Apheidas gave him a reassuring smile. ‘I’m prepared to open the gates and let Agamemnon’s army in. An easy conquest, Son, that will see Helen returned to her rightful husband and Troy subjugated to Agamemnon. All I ask in return is that the people are spared and half the remaining wealth is left to them.’
‘No!’ Astynome protested, glaring at him with disbelieving eyes. ‘You never mentioned anything about opening the gates and—’
‘What other choice is there?’ he snapped back. ‘If Troy is to survive then we must make unpalatable decisions. The sacrifice of a few for the good of the many.’
Eperitus looked on in silence. When he had exposed Odysseus’s lies he had crossed a threshold. By coming to the temple of Thymbrean Apollo he had ensured he could never reverse that step, and that knowledge had given him the determination to see his betrayal through to the end. He had decided then that he would join his father in Troy and do whatever was required for an end to the war. But now he felt his stomach sink. He had expected Apheidas to propose a resolution acceptable to both sides; a diplomatic coup that would demonstrate his personal desire for peace. Instead, what he was suggesting was not peace at all. It was treachery. It was capitulation.
‘What about Priam and Paris?’ he demanded. ‘What about the Trojan royal line?’
‘Agamemnon can’t afford to leave Priam or one of his descendants on the throne,’ Apheidas answered coldly. ‘They’ll have to die, of course – right down to Hector’s infant son. Then another will be chosen to rule in Priam’s place, a Trojan capable of restoring Troy to its former glory and wealth, yet prepared to swear fealty to Agamemnon and his line.’
‘Who?’ Eperitus asked.
‘Don’t you understand yet?’ Astynome said, turning desperate eyes on her lover. ‘After you were the one who tried to convince me your father was nothing more than an ambitious, power-hungry murderer? He means himself. He wants to be the king of Troy!’
Chapter Forty-Seven
LOVE LOST
The man looked up at the high outer wall of the palace. Its sides were pale in the moonlight and he could see no hand or footholds in the smooth plaster. Looking about, he saw a handcart leaning against a nearby house. A moment later his black-cloaked form was atop the wall and dropping into the courtyard on the other side. He paused briefly, looking and listening for guards, but all he could hear were the voices of two men in the shadows beneath the roofed gateway. Satisfied they were ignorant of his presence, he crossed to the side do
or that he had been told would give him access to the palace corridors. It was unlocked, and after instinctively reassuring himself of the presence of his sword at his side and the dagger in his belt, he slipped inside.
The corridor within was lit only by a single, sputtering torch that revealed he was alone. Though he was a stranger to Ithaca, the layout of the palace had been explained to him in detail by the men who had hired him and he knew exactly where he would find Telemachus’s bedroom. Sliding his dagger from its leather sheath, he stole down the long passageway in silence, pausing briefly as he passed the open doorways of deserted storerooms on each side. Around the corner at the far end was another, shorter passage, again lit by a single torch. In the gloom he could make out the base of a flight of stone steps at the halfway point, leading up to the sleeping quarters above, while, further on, the corridor turned left. Ultimately, it led to the ground-floor bedroom that King Odysseus had constructed for himself and his wife, but the man had not been hired to kill Penelope, only her son who slept in the room directly above her.
The corridor and steps were unguarded and there was no sound of patrolling footsteps on the floor above. The Ithacans had clearly enjoyed peace for too long on their safe little island, protected from the corruption and violence that had overtaken the mainland since the kings had left for Troy. In northern Greece and the Peloponnese, where the man had learned his trade and been paid well for it, every noble household had armed men guarding its passageways at night. Almost disappointed that his hard-won skills would not be tested, the man slipped down the corridor to the foot of the stairs and looked up. Nothing. He took the steps quietly, but as he reached the top and looked both ways along the narrow corridor, the only sound he could hear was snoring from one of the rooms to his right. And so he gripped his dagger more firmly and moved stealthily towards the door that had been described to him.
He edged it open with his fingertips and looked inside. The room was spacious and by the moonlight that spilled in through the high, narrow window he could see a four-pillared bed with the sleeping boy beneath its piled furs. It did not concern him that his victim was so young – he had even murdered infants before at the behest of those who stood to gain from their deaths – and as he entered and closed the door behind him he whispered a prayer to any god who would accept it that the child would not wake before his blade had finished its work. Then, as he crossed the room, he caught something out of the corner of his eye – a line of twine at ankle height, barely distinguishable from the fleeces that softened the sound of his approach. But it was too late. He caught the line with the toe of his sandal and it tugged at something in the corner of the room. A moment later he saw something fall, followed by the clatter of metallic objects striking the floor in a cacophony of noise that shattered the peace of the night.
Instinctively, the man looked at the window. Realizing it was too high and small for a quick exit, he turned back to the door. But already he could hear the sound of approaching footsteps and the clank of weapons, and the next instant the door was kicked open and four men stood blocking his escape. One of them held a torch that threw a warm, flickering light into the bedroom. In that moment, it occurred to the assassin that he had but one hope of survival: the boy. He leaped across the room in a single bound and threw the furs from the bed, only to find more furs rolled up into the rough shape of a child’s body. Somehow he had been expected, and now he was caught.
‘Throw down your weapons.’
He turned to see a cloaked woman standing in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The four soldiers had entered the room and were standing two on each side of her, while behind her was a one-handed man leaning on a crutch. The assassin tossed his dagger at the feet of one of the soldiers and followed it with his short sword.
‘Who sent you?’ Penelope asked in a calm voice that concealed the anger she felt. ‘Who sent you to murder my son?’
The man did not answer. He had his instructions if he was caught, and for the sake of his assassin’s honour he intended to carry them out, but not yet.
‘I’ve expected an attempt on Telemachus’s life for some time now,’ the queen explained. ‘Hence the twine and the guards in the next room. It’s also why my son isn’t here. My husband left me to defend his kingdom while he was away, and that includes the heir to his throne. But though you came here to kill my only child, I am prepared to let you live on condition that you tell me who sent you. And when you do, you will be taken in a boat to the Peloponnese and forbidden on your oath to ever set foot on these islands again. Do you understand?’
The assassin nodded.
‘I will be only too pleased, my lady,’ he said. ‘But you won’t believe me, for you think of him as a loyal friend.’
‘Give me your word of oath and I will believe you.’
‘You should also know he is not alone,’ the man continued. ‘And I am not the only assassin in Greece. They will hire others . . .’
‘That’s why Telemachus was taken to Sparta several days ago,’ said Mentor, hobbling into the room to stand beside Penelope. ‘Out of harm’s way with Halitherses as a guardian; and there he will stay under the protection of the royal family – Penelope’s family – until the war in Troy is over. Then, when Odysseus and the army return, we will deal with your employer’s friends. But now, if you want to preserve your villain’s life, you’ll tell us who paid you to kill Telemachus.’
‘You promise I will be freed?’ he asked, looking at Penelope.
She nodded.
The man smiled. He was an assassin and the only code he followed was not to reveal who had employed him, so to lie on his oath was of no consequence. More importantly, Eupeithes had given him another name if he was captured, an innocent man who was also a member of the Ithacan Kerosia. His implication in the attempt on Telemachus’s life would earn him exile at the very least, and without him the Kerosia – and control of Ithaca – would inevitably slip into the hands of Eupeithes.
‘As Zeus himself is my witness, the man who hired me was called Nisus of Dulichium.’
‘Someone has to rule Troy,’ Apheidas said, shooting an angry, silencing glance at Astynome. ‘Why not me? I’ve fought as hard as any man in the army, Trojan or ally, and I’m the only one capable of saving the city from complete destruction. Tell me, Astynome, do you think Priam has been a good king? Do you?’
‘Yes!’
Apheidas gave a derisive laugh.
‘Commendable loyalty – typically Trojan. But everyone knows he should have sent Helen back the very moment Paris brought her to the palace. Any ruler worth his sceptre would have seen the trouble she would bring, but Priam never could deny a beautiful face. All Helen had to do was flash those eyes at him and expose a little cleavage and he was hers. The old lecher probably fancied he might visit her bed one night.’
‘How dare you!’ Astynome protested.
‘And as for Paris, did he ever show a care for his country after setting eyes upon Helen? No! All he could think about was having her for himself, whatever the consequences for Troy. Priam may have abandoned him as a baby, but he’s more like his father than Hector ever was. Neither man deserves to rule this land.’
‘And you do?’ Eperitus said.
Apheidas turned to his son, taken aback by his sneering tone. Then he brushed away his surprise and forced a smile to his lips.
‘Yes, Son, I do. We do. Do you think this is all about ambition? That I would open the gates of Troy to its enemies for my own glorification?’ He laughed and turned back to the altar, placing his palms on the cold stone and shaking his head. ‘Were you never curious as to why your grandfather was forced to flee Ilium?’
‘He killed the man who raped and murdered his wife.’
‘He killed a member of the royal family! Before then, ours had been the wealthiest and most influential of all the noble clans of Troy, second only to the royal family itself. We were forced to leave all that behind when we fled to Greece, and it was only pity and g
uilt that persuaded Priam to let me come back some years ago – though he didn’t return the land and possessions he’d taken from our family. But now I’m going to reclaim all of that and more, and you, Eperitus, will become my heir. All I ask is that you take my proposal to Agamemnon – he knows you’re a man of honour and will trust you. Persuade him to put our family on the throne of Troy and we will become the easternmost point of his new empire, a safe harbour for Mycenaean merchants to flood Asia with Greek goods – offering him allegiance and paying him tribute for as long as our bloodlines continue. And when I die you will become king, Eperitus, bringing honour and glory back to your grandfather’s name, righting the wrong that was done to our family. Astynome will become your queen and your children will establish a new dynasty, restoring Troy to its former glory until, one day, she is strong enough to throw off the shackles of Mycenae and rule herself again.’
His eyes blazed in the torchlight as he imagined a new Troy under his own rule. No longer would he be a mere nobleman; instead, he would avenge the shame of his mother’s death and father’s exile and claim the throne itself, replacing Priam’s unworthy dynasty with his own bloodline. He stared at Eperitus, confident his son would understand. The knowledge his grandfather had been dishonoured by Trojan royalty – and that his own inheritance had been stolen by Priam himself – would clear away his doubts and bring a surge of righteous anger. It was an anger Apheidas had felt all his life, but with Eperitus at his side he would finally see justice and an end to the years of bitterness.
‘Dawn is approaching, Son,’ he said, calmly now. ‘Go. Speak to Agamemnon and let us bring an end to this war.’
‘Speak to him yourself,’ Eperitus answered, narrowing his eyes at his father. ‘You and the King of Men would get on well – two power-hungry murderers who’ll stop at nothing to have your way. But I want no part of you or your schemes. I’d hoped you’d changed, Father, but you haven’t. You’re the same shameful monster that killed King Pandion twenty years ago, and if you think that by putting you on the throne of Troy I’ll restore one scrap of glory or honour to my grandfather’s name, then you have never been more wrong. You are not my father. As the gods are my witness, I never had a father!’