by Iliffe, Glyn
An involuntary shout of terror left Eperitus’s lips. He stared wide-eyed at Trechos’s upturned face, and then began to crawl backwards on his elbows, not daring to turn his back on the sarcophagus for even a moment. The others were leaping down from the dais, their cries of horror and disbelief echoing around the chamber. Odysseus appeared above Eperitus and, seizing his hand, pulled him to his feet. Over his shoulder, Eperitus saw bony fingers clutching at the granite edge of the tomb, followed slowly by the giant skull with its hateful eye sockets and death’s head grin.
‘How is it possible?’ he gasped, stumbling back with Odysseus towards the crescent of warriors, who were shouting in dismay. ‘What gives it life?’
Odysseus’s hands were shaking as they clutched the black shaft of his spear.
‘I don’t know what makes it move, but it’s not life. Perhaps this was the dying curse of Myrtilus – that his betrayer’s bones would never find rest.’
They blundered back into the rank of Argives and Ithacans – Diomedes and Polites had already sought refuge among their comrades – and stared incredulously as the giant skeleton raised itself to its full height and stepped stiffly out of the sarcophagus, its joints rasping like blocks of stone as they moved. It turned towards the cowering warriors, looking at them with a loathing that was unfettered by human sentiment. They had violated its resting place and every last one of them would pay with their lives.
Odysseus was the first to throw off his disbelief and come back to his senses. He pulled the spear back over his shoulder and hurled it with all his might at the skeleton. The head plunged through its ribcage, raising a cheer from the others as the horror that had once been Pelops staggered back against the sarcophagus. It stared down at the shaft that protruded from its fleshless body, but instead of collapsing in a clatter of bones, closed its fingers around the weapon and, passing one hand over the other, slid it back out. Raising the spear over its head it launched it back at the waiting warriors. The bronze point narrowly missed Omeros and sparked on the stone floor behind.
Now Diomedes ran towards the dais, brandishing his sword and snarling with anger at the death of Trechos. The copper light of the torches glittered like fire across the blade as it swept down against the monster’s thigh. The blow would have cut through the flesh and bone of any ordinary man, but the curse that animated Pelops’s remains must also have given them supernatural protection. The sword bounced off the bone without even marking it. Skeletal hands now seized hold of Diomedes as if he were but a child, and with inhuman strength hurled him across the cavern to land with a crash in a pile of spears.
The Argives gave a furious shout and dashed forward. The colossal skeleton moved jerkily down the steps to meet them, knocking aside the first two men as they threw themselves at him. The others quickly formed a circle about it, hacking uselessly at the hard bone or thrusting the points of their swords between its empty ribs. Epaltes, the veteran warrior whose wife had told him long ago about the curse of Pelops’s tomb, ran at the monster with his sword held in both hands over his head. He swung the blade against its neck, but the sharpened bronze sprang back and flew from his grip. The next instant, the skeleton had seized hold of his arm and pulled it clean from its socket, spraying the others with droplets of gore as it tossed the detached limb into a corner of the chamber and let Epaltes fall to the floor.
‘By all the gods!’ Omeros exclaimed.
‘How do we fight that?’ Eurybates asked, slipping his shield onto his arm and picking up a spear.
‘We must try to cut off its arms and legs,’ Odysseus replied, drawing his sword from its scabbard. ‘Strike at the joints – it’s our only hope.’
After a glance at Diomedes, who was groggily raising himself from the pile of spears, he led the Ithacans into the fray. The skeleton had picked up Epaltes’s sword and was fighting the Argives, bronze against bronze. But the superior numbers of the warriors counted for nothing: the stabbing and slashing of their weapons were ineffectual, whereas a single sweep of the fiend’s sword took the head clean off one man’s shoulders, and a second blow – delivered with devastating speed – pierced the heart of another, killing him instantly. Eperitus rushed into the gap left by the slain man and, remembering his king’s words, sliced down at the skeleton’s elbow joint. It was as if he had struck stone. The impact vibrated up his arm and the sword fell from his numbed hand. The monster opened its jaws in a silent cry of hatred, but Eperitus ducked away just in time as its blade cleaved the air above his head.
He leapt back, unarmed and defenceless. Before a second blow could kill him, Diomedes dashed in with his sword and a shield he had taken from among the ancient weapons that littered the chamber, meeting the edge of the skeleton’s sword with the thickly layered oxhide. Eperitus snatched up his weapon and ran to Diomedes’s side as the monster turned upon them with a flurry of blows that, even with their great fighting skill and experience, they were barely able to survive. A moment later, Odysseus was beside them.
‘There must be a way to stop this thing,’ Diomedes shouted over the clang of bronze. ‘If our weapons can’t harm it, how can we hope to take the shoulder blade? Use your brains, Odysseus.’
‘Perhaps we don’t need the bone,’ he replied.
The three men fell back, breathing heavily as the skeleton turned to fend off another attack from the Argives and Ithacans.
‘What did you say?’ Diomedes asked.
‘Perhaps it’s not the shoulder blade that’s the key.’
‘Whatever the gods sent us here for,’ Eperitus said, ‘we won’t get out again until we’ve defeated that thing.’
Another Argive cried out and staggered back against one of the stone columns, blood gushing from a wound on his inner thigh. A moment later he slid to the floor and was still. Diomedes shouted with rage, but before the three men could rejoin the fight there was another roar. Realising bronze alone was useless, Polites cast aside his sword and threw himself against the guardian of the tomb, seizing its wrists and pushing it back against the sarcophagus. The skeleton’s own weapon fell with a clatter and, throwing a foot back against the steps, it fought against the might of Polites. For a while they seemed not to move. Polites gritted his teeth and, with sweat pouring off his face and limbs, tried to impose his flesh and blood strength over his enemy. But the supernatural curse that had taken possession of Pelops’s bones was greater still. The Ithacan’s shoulder muscles strained in protest as, with slow inevitably, his arms were forced back. Omeros gave a shout and ran forward to hack uselessly at the hard bone of the fiend’s arms. Wrenching free of Polites’s grip, it swatted Omeros aside and in the same move seized Polites’s shoulder. Polites threw his head back and screamed in pain as he felt the malicious power tearing at the ligaments in his arm.
And then the words Athena had spoken on the galley as they had approached the Peloponnesian shore came tumbling back into Eperitus’s head.
‘The only way to overcome the curse of Pelops’s tomb,’ he said aloud, ‘is for Ares’s gift to complete its purpose.’
Odysseus turned to him and in an instant they both understood.
‘Oenomaus’s spear!’ the king cried.
Eperitus did not wait, but ran back to the wall by the broken chariot where he had reluctantly laid down the weapon. He took it in one hand, his mind recalling vividly the story Odysseus had told as they had set out on their voyage back to Greece. Oenomaus’s spear was a gift from Ares, which the king had used to pursue Hippodameia’s suitors to their deaths. Its aim was straight and true, as was to be expected from a weapon gifted by the gods; but there had been one occasion when it had failed in its purpose – against Pelops. Now was the time for it to complete its task.
A shout of pain rang from the walls. Eperitus looked across and saw the skeleton tearing at Polites’s arm, determined on ripping the heavily muscled limb from its torso. Odysseus, Diomedes and a host of others were pulling at the monster’s arms and legs in an attempt to save Polites, though forlornly.
> ‘Stand clear!’ Eperitus called.
He pulled the spear back and took aim. The skeleton seemed to sense danger and turned to look at Eperitus. The light of the torches glowed on its grey bones and cast strange, enlarged shadows on the walls behind. Suddenly, it released Polites and began running towards the captain of the Ithacan guard, at the same moment as Eperitus launched the spear. It went clean through the fleshless ribs and carried on to stick quivering in the flank of the wooden horse that had crowned the sarcophagus. But as the bronze head passed between the bones, the ancient curse that held them together was broken and the skeleton fell in pieces to the floor. The skull rolled over to rest between Odysseus’s feet. The king picked it up, looked into its empty eye sockets, then threw it against a wall where it shattered into fragments.
Omeros and Eurybates ran to help Polites, who was groaning with pain, though his arm had remained in its socket by the sheer density of his muscles. Diomedes walked over to the pile of bones and picked out the ivory shoulder blade.
‘So this is what five of my men died for,’ he said, bitterly. ‘And yet you think we don’t even need the damned thing.’
He offered it to Odysseus, who took the untarnished ivory and held it up to the light of the nearest torch.
‘We must take it back to Troy, of course – the others will expect it – and yet the gods didn’t bring us here just for the sake of a bone. There’s something else, a riddle or a clue that will give us victory over Troy. I just have to find out what it is.’
Eperitus pulled the spear out of the wooden horse and looked about at the bodies of the dead men.
‘What if there is no riddle, Odysseus? What if the gods are playing with us, giving us hope where there isn’t any? What if there never was anything more here than a dead king hidden beneath a wooden horse? Perhaps the Olympians want the war to go on for another ten years.’
‘A king hidden beneath a wooden horse,’ Odysseus repeated, to himself. ‘Or inside a horse.’
Diomedes shook his head. ‘No, the gods wouldn’t lie to us. They sent us to find this bone and take it back to Troy. That’s all there is to it. Why does there have to be something else, Odysseus?’
Odysseus ignored him and walked over to the wooden horse on its toppled granite lid. He stroked its smooth mane and frowned.
‘The Trojans revere horses,’ he said, quietly. Then he turned to Eperitus and smiled. ‘I have it, Eperitus,’ he whispered. ‘I know what the riddle is, and I know the answer. I have the key to the gates of Troy.’
Chapter Nineteen
EURYPYLUS ARRIVES
Helen stood behind Cassandra as she sat on the high-backed chair, staring gloomily at her reflection in the mirror. The polished bronze surface was uneven in places and a little tarnished around the circumference, but there was no hiding the girl’s natural beauty.
‘White suits you,’ Helen said conclusively, gathering Cassandra’s thick, dark hair in her fingers and holding it behind her head to expose the long neck and slim shoulders.
Cassandra laid a modest hand across her exposed cleavage.
‘Black would be more appropriate.’
‘For your husband? Come now.’
‘Did you want to wear white when Deiphobus forced you to marry him against your wishes?’ Cassandra replied, harshly. ‘Besides, Eurypylus will not be my husband until he and his army have defeated the Greeks. My father was clear on that, at least.’
Helen looked across the bright, sunny chamber to where the wind from the plains was blowing the thin curtains in from the window. The air in Cassandra’s room was warm and humid, and carried with it the sound of pipes, drums and the cheering of crowds. Eurypylus’s army had already entered the Scaean Gate and was marching in premature triumph through the lower city on their way up to the citadel of Pergamos. Soon thousands of soldiers would be filling the palace courtyard below, where Priam would formally greet the grandson he had never met and give him Cassandra – Eurypylus’s aunt – to be his wife. And through the wine-induced fog that had obscured her thoughts and emotions almost every day since the death of Paris, Helen recalled how she had stood in her own room in Sparta, twenty years before, and listened with disdain as Agamemnon persuaded her stepfather, Tyndareus, to offer her in marriage to the best man in Greece. She shuddered at the memory and turned back to look at Cassandra.
‘Nevertheless, Hecabe has asked me to make you look your best for him, and your mother’s request is as good as an order.’
‘They say Eurypylus is an ugly man.’
‘Who says, and who would know?’ Helen laughed as she gathered Cassandra’s hair up at the top of her head and pinned it in place. ‘After all, who in Troy has seen him? Mysians and Trojans have hardly been good friends since Astyoche’s feud with Priam.’
‘I have seen him in my dreams,’ Cassandra insisted, ‘and he has a brutal face to match his brutal character. His heart is black, too, made so by an indulgent mother who has never denied him anything.’
‘Really?’ Helen responded, a hint of scepticism in her voice.
She finished tying up Cassandra’s thick locks and lifted her chin a little with her fingertip. The sombre face that had for so long been hidden behind drapes of black hair was now revealed in all its loveliness. She had a small but perfectly proportioned mouth, a slightly pointed chin with the merest hint of a dimple, pale, petite ears pressed forward by the volume of hair behind them, and large eyes heavily rimmed with long eyelashes. Cassandra looked at herself in the mirror and seemed surprised at what she saw, perhaps realising for the first time that she was a woman worthy of any man’s attention. Behind her, Helen stared at her own reflection and saw the beauty that had never withered with the loss of her youth, or been blemished by her grief for Paris. If anything, the years and her suffering had made her more beautiful, as if the divine blood that coursed in her veins had made itself more obvious with maturity. And something inside her suddenly wanted to tell Cassandra to cover up her beauty again, to hide it from a world that would kill and maim, burn and destroy for the sake of a woman’s looks.
Outside, the sound of pipes and drums was growing closer while the cheering had faded. The Mysians had left the crowds of the lower city behind and entered Pergamos itself.
‘Everyone knows there’s nothing Astyoche won’t do for her son,’ Cassandra continued. ‘And in return he hangs upon her every word, doting over her like a pet puppy.’
There was a hint of disgust in her tone, and Helen laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.
‘If she has spoiled him, it’s exactly because she wants him as her pet – a creature that will do her bidding without question. But I don’t believe she has given him everything. Not her heart. Else, why would she send him out to risk his life in battle, for the sake of a father she despises? In her pride she wanted Priam to come begging for her help – as she knew he would, one day – and that victory, symbolised by the Golden Vine, is worth more to her than Eurypylus.’
Another gust of wind blew the curtains inward again, brushing them against a small clay jar filled with perfume that Helen had brought with her for Cassandra. It fell from the table and smashed, making the two women start. As their maids had already been dismissed, Helen slipped her hand from Cassandra’s shoulder and walked over to the broken pieces, picking them up one by one and placing them in her palm. Kneeling there, she heard the pulsing of the drums and the heavy tramp of marching feet coming up the last ramp to the courtyard below, followed by a loud command and then silence. She looked at Cassandra, then stood and moved to the window. Dropping the shards of clay on the table, she brushed the fluttering curtain aside with her arm and looked out.
The large courtyard below was filled with armed men. On three sides, dressed in double-ranks, were Priam’s elite guard – Troy’s fiercest warriors, who wore the richest armour and carried the best weapons. On the far side were the men of Mysia: a sea of soldiers with dusty armaments, all of them young and strong with faces that were keen for wa
r, not beleaguered and desperate for peace like the Trojans and their other allies. Behind them, on the ramp that led up from the lower tier of the citadel and stretching back into the streets beyond, were the ranks of their comrades – spearmen, archers, chariots and cavalry. They numbered in the thousands, an army that could indeed turn the tide of the war against the exhausted Greeks.
In the space at the centre of the courtyard were a handful of men. The figure of Priam stood tallest, his purple robe resplendent in the sunshine and his black wig and face powder belying the age that had so rapidly caught up with him since the death of Hector. On one side of the king were his herald, Idaeus, and Antenor, the elder; while on the other were Deiphobus and Apheidas, the highest-ranking commanders in his army. Before them all was a tall, powerfully built warrior with a broad black beard and long hair that flowed from beneath his plumed helmet. A sword was slung from a scabbard under his arm and a shield hung from his back.
Helen sensed Cassandra’s presence over her shoulder.
‘That’s Eurypylus,’ she said with certainty. ‘And is he not as ugly as I told you?’
Helen stared down at his broken nose and crooked teeth, and at the cruel, selfish eyes that squinted against the bright sunshine. As she watched, Eurypylus took the hand his grandfather offered him, though with deliberate hesitation and without warmth.
‘Looks are not everything,’ she said. ‘No-one thought Paris handsome, not with that scar; but he was the noblest man in Troy – except perhaps Hector – and for a while he offered me freedom from everything that had tied me down. That’s why I fell in love with him, and love him still.’
‘Look at his eyes, Helen. How could Priam give his own daughter to a man with such evil eyes?’
‘Priam gives the women of his household to whomever he pleases,’ Helen answered, her gaze wandering to Deiphobus, whose once cheerful face was now stern and detached. ‘It’s the lot of a princess to be married to men not of her own choosing. Paris helped me escape from Menelaus, but now I’m married to Deiphobus against my will. And if the Greeks ever conquer these walls, I will be Menelaus’s again.’