The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

by Iliffe, Glyn

  ‘Eurypylus will never have me.’

  Helen was not listening. Her eyes were on Deiphobus and she wanted a cup of wine.

  ‘Marriage is inescapable,’ she muttered, half to herself.

  ‘In time, another man will take me against my will. But I will not marry Astyoche’s son.’

  Helen caught Cassandra’s last words and turned to her.

  ‘There are worse husbands than Eurypylus. Deiphobus forced me to marry him while I was still in mourning for his brother. But if you’re planning to run away –’

  Cassandra shook her head. ‘There’s no need, Sister. Eurypylus will be killed by Achilles before he can marry me. I have seen it.’

  ‘Achilles is dead.’

  ‘He will return.’

  Helen looked pityingly at Cassandra’s sad, pretty face.

  ‘Well, whatever may or may not happen to Eurypylus, your mother still wants you to be ready to meet him at this evening’s feast. I’ll find your maid and send her to clear up the rest of this mess.’

  She left Cassandra looking out at her husband-to-be and found her slave waiting outside the door. As the girl rushed off to attend to her mistress, Helen felt the darkness of her grief for Paris stealing up on her again. She lowered her head into her hands and succumbed to the sinking sense of loss once more. Then, with tears in her eyes, she went to find her own room, where she would bury her face in the single tunic of his that she had kept and cry until the mood passed. And then she would drink the wine she had hidden there and ease some of her pain.

  The voyage to the island of Scyros, skirting the coastline of southern Greece, had been quiet and smooth. Water, provisions and shelter had been easy to find in the many harbours and coves along the way, though the few people who dared speak to them were at best suspicious, at worst hostile. But for the men of Ithaca and Argos it was a joy to be back in Greece again, to see her mountains and islands and every evening to sleep on her beaches. The survivors had quickly forgotten the horrors of Pelops’s tomb and put behind them their grief for the comrades who had been slain there; now their minds were on the end of the war and an imminent return to their families and homes. For a while, as they sailed beneath a Greek sun and ate Greek food, their spirits were bubbling with optimism, as if the defeat of Troy was now a mere formality.

  It was not, of course, and none knew that more than Odysseus, Diomedes and Eperitus. In those long days, blessed by sun and wind that required them to do little between rowing out to deeper waters in the morning and finding a sheltering cove before dark, they had plenty of time to think about what now lay ahead of them. After retracing their way out of the maze – dragging the bodies of the dead Argives with them to be burned on a pyre beneath the evening stars – Odysseus had explained the significance of the bone to Eperitus and Diomedes.

  ‘The bone itself is nothing more than a token,’ he told them as they made camp by the banks of the Alpheius. ‘It will be an encouragement to the army, because the oracle Helenus gave us said Troy will not fall without it. However, it isn’t the reason the gods sent us to Pelops’s tomb.’

  ‘Then what is the point of it?’ Diomedes had asked.

  They were sitting away from the others, around a small log fire of their own. The flames cast an orange glow over their faces, distorting their features with strange shadows. Eperitus looked at Odysseus and had absolute faith in the power of his friend’s mind. There was no situation he could not think his way out of, and no riddle he could not decipher. He had found a way through the maze, and he would know the meaning of the shoulder bone. That was why Athena, the goddess of wisdom, had chosen him.

  ‘The gods were giving us a clue to conquer Troy. The walls were built by Poseidon and Apollo: they can’t be smashed down or scaled, and as long as there are men to defend them the city can never be conquered from the outside. But if we could get men inside the walls – enough of them to capture the gates and hold them open until the rest of the army arrive –’

  ‘As simple as that,’ Diomedes said, sardonically. ‘And how do we get a large force of men into the city in the first place? Turn them into birds so they fly over the walls?’

  ‘The maze!’ Eperitus exclaimed, thinking he understood. ‘You mean we should dig a tunnel beneath the walls and into Troy. The gods sent you into the maze to give you inspiration!’

  Odysseus shook his head.

  ‘No tunnels, Eperitus. The ground Troy is built on is too hard. Besides, the Trojans would see what we were up to and guess our intent. You’re right in one sense, though: we were sent into that tomb to see something, something that would show me how to get inside Troy. Do you remember I once said I’d been given an idea by Astynome smuggling herself into the Greek camp in the back of that farmer’s cart, and by Omeros’s retelling the story of how I got past those Taphian guards hidden in a pithos of wine? Well, Pelops’s tomb has finally shown me how I can smuggle an army into Troy.’

  ‘How?’ Eperitus and Diomedes asked.

  ‘You’ll see in time,’ Odysseus replied with a grin.

  Despite having tantalised his comrades, Odysseus stubbornly refused to say any more about the inspiration he had received in Pelops’s tomb, so their thoughts and discussions now focussed on the two remaining oracles: how they would steal the Palladium from the temple of Athena in Troy and, more urgently, how they would persuade Achilles’s son, Neoptolemus, to join Agamemnon’s army. Eperitus remembered the small, light-haired boy he had seen in the palace gardens on Scyros the day Achilles had joined the expedition to Troy. He sympathised with the doubts of the ordinary soldiers who questioned the value of a fifteen-year-old lad who had never seen combat before, and who had been hidden away behind the skirts of his mother’s chiton all his young life. But these uncertainties never bothered Odysseus or Diomedes. The two kings understood that a son of Achilles would be worth all the effort spent in bringing him to the war. The only problem that concerned them was how to prise him away from the clutches of his deceitful grandfather and – a greater problem in Odysseus’s eyes – his jealous mother.

  Finally, the day came when they saw the high, rugged hills overlooking the wide harbour of Scyros. The noon sun caught the copper gates of the palace halfway up the highest hill, which flashed to them like a beacon. As they slipped towards the calm, sheltered waters of the harbour, Sthenelaus called for the sail to be furled and the anchor stones to be made ready. At first, Eperitus was surprised to see the numerous fishing boats drawn up on the shingle beach and the handful of merchant vessels at anchor. A throng of people left their homes or their chores to watch the approach of the fighting galley, showing no signs of fear, only curiosity. Then he understood: Scyros had survived the depravations of the rest of Greece because its king had not been one of the oath-takers and thus had refused to send his army to the war against Troy. Scyros had remained safe and prosperous because Lycomedes had stayed at home.

  Small boats came out to meet the warship, manned by fishermen or boys offering to take the crew ashore. Soon, Odysseus, Diomedes and Eperitus were leading half a dozen Argives up the cobbled road to the palace gates, while the remainder were ordered to stay on board. Odysseus knew King Lycomedes could not be trusted and had told Sthenelaus to stay alert while they were gone, ready to come to their aid if necessary. From his lofty viewpoint, Lycomedes would have known of the galley’s approach long before its anchor stones were cast overboard. There was no telling what sort of reception he might give them.

  The copper gates swung open to reveal two dozen well-armed soldiers and a short, officious looking herald who insisted they leave their weapons with the guards. They had expected nothing less and gave up their spears and swords with little more than a show of reluctance. They were ushered into the great hall, sombre and shadowy despite the column of dusty light that shone down through the smoke hole in the ceiling to touch on the low flames of the hearth. Eperitus remembered the chamber well from his first visit to Scyros ten years before, though then it had been evening
and the hall had been filled with nobles and lit by numerous torches. Now it was empty but for an old man and a woman. The man was seated in a wooden throne draped in furs. His hair and beard were white and his skin was ashen grey. His thin nose seemed to twitch slightly as they entered, while his small, closely set eyes watched them keenly from beneath heavy eyebrows. The woman had a chair next to his, but chose to stand as the newcomers entered, placing her hand on the back of the throne. Like him she was tall, though she was many years younger. Her hair was long and dark and her natural beauty was made more aloof and alluring by the stern gaze that she fixed on the men.

  Eperitus did not recognise King Lycomedes at first, so old and gaunt had he become, but he could see by the clear eyes and hawklike stare that he had lost none of his wits. The woman he knew immediately was Deidameia, Achilles’s widow – though she would not know that yet – and the mother of Neoptolemus. Of Achilles’s son there was no sign.

  ‘Welcome to Scyros, my lords,’ she said. ‘Step forward into the light and tell us who you are and what it is that King Lycomedes can do for you.’

  ‘I am King Diomedes of Argos, son of Tydeus. This is King Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes, and these are Eperitus, captain of the Ithacan royal guard, and our companions. We have brought a message for the wife and son of the great Achilles.’

  At the mention of Odysseus’s name, both Lycomedes and his daughter turned to stare at the broad figure in the shadows behind Diomedes. Lycomedes’s eyes were filled with sudden suspicion, remembering how Odysseus had tricked him before; but Deidameia’s face had lost its austere self-assurance and turned pale, as if already guessing the news the men had brought.

  ‘I am Deidameia, daughter of King Lycomedes and wife of the great Achilles. What is your message?’

  Odysseus stepped forward and touched Diomedes’s elbow, indicating he would reply.

  ‘Our message is for Neoptolemus also,’ he said. ‘Where is your son?’

  ‘I will not allow you to speak to my grandson, Odysseus,’ Lycomedes answered. ‘The last time you were here you fooled Achilles into joining Agamemnon’s army, and we have not seen him since. What’s to say you won’t try to take Neoptolemus back with you this time?’

  Deidameia lifted her hand to silence her father, a gesture that raised eyebrows among their guests.

  ‘Give your message to me, Odysseus, and I shall tell my son. He can hear it just as well from my lips as yours.’

  ‘Very well, my lady. Your husband is dead. He fell storming the gates of Troy, where he was struck down by the arrows of Prince Paris.’

  The statement was spoken evenly, but the silence that followed seemed to fix the words in the air about them. Deidameia shrank a little, as if something had gone out of her. Eperitus saw her grip on Lycomedes’s chair tighten slightly. Then she drew on her inner strength and pulled herself back up to her full height. Her lips became thin and pale, her eyes stony and hard.

  ‘Achilles died ten years ago, when he left this island in your ship, Odysseus. Thank you, my lords, for coming all this way to bring me your news. I will sacrifice to Poseidon and pray that you have a safe journey back to Ilium.’

  ‘And Neoptolemus?’ Odysseus asked, showing no signs of moving. ‘He will have questions. He’ll want to know how his father died.’

  ‘You’ve already said he was shot by Paris,’ Deidameia replied. ‘I will let him know.’

  ‘It won’t be enough,’ Diomedes said. ‘If he has anything of his father in him, he’ll want to know every detail. And not just about Achilles’s death, but also about the things he achieved while alive: the men he killed, the cities he conquered –’

  ‘That is my fear, King Diomedes. He has too much of his father in him, and to hear of Achilles’s deeds will turn his mind towards Troy at a time when his thoughts should be of home. Lycomedes is right: you have not come here to tell me of my husband’s death, but to take my son away to replace Achilles on the battlefield! Part of me feared it as soon as your sail was spotted, even though I didn’t know who you were. And yet he is my son, not yours. I won’t stand by and allow you to take him away like you did my husband.’

  ‘Neoptolemus is nearly a man, my lady,’ Odysseus countered. ‘Such decisions can only be made by him. What’s more, if you send us away without giving him the chance to question us about his father – to question the men who knew Achilles best in life, and who witnessed his death – you are denying him something every man has an elementary right to: a knowledge of his sires and an understanding of his roots. Do that, Deidameia, and his love for you may turn to hatred.’

  ‘We will take that risk,’ Lycomedes said, struggling to his feet and pointing to the doors they had entered through. ‘Neoptolemus will never be yours. Now, leave my island and return to Troy.’

  But as Eperitus was expecting the king to have them thrown out and put an end to their hopes of ever fulfilling the oracle, Deidameia laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder and gently eased him back into his throne.

  ‘You will excuse my father. Neoptolemus is the sole heir to the kingdom and he doesn’t want to see him go off to a war that has nothing to do with Scyros. But what you say is true, Odysseus. Neoptolemus deserves to hear about his father and it’s not my place to deny him that. I’ll allow you to speak with him tonight, if you still wish it, at a feast we will hold in your honour.’

  ‘We do wish it,’ Diomedes answered, glancing uncertainly at Odysseus beside him.

  Deidameia smiled at him, something of her earlier authority and self-assurance returning.

  ‘You see, I have faith in my son. He has his father’s love of fighting, but he is less driven by passion and more inclined to follow his intelligence. He will know why you’re here, but he’ll not rush madly off to war. And by ill chance for you, tomorrow morning will marry Phaedra, the girl I have chosen to be his wife and bear his children. You may tempt him, Odysseus, but in the end he will choose love over glory.’

  She bowed to them, then turned and walked from the great hall.

  Chapter Twenty

  NEOPTOLEMUS

  After the audience in the great hall, Odysseus, Diomedes, Eperitus and their escort were taken to the same wing of the palace the Ithacans had been quartered in on their first visit to Scyros ten years ago. They climbed the steps to the roof and looked down at the galley in the bay below.

  ‘It’s a thin hope now,’ Diomedes said. ‘If the lad’s getting married, the last thing on his mind will be coming with us to Troy. We couldn’t have arrived at a worse time.’

  Odysseus didn’t share his gloom.

  ‘I’d say the gods have brought us here at exactly the right moment. Tomorrow, we would have found him a married man, freshly committed to his new life as a husband. Today he’s in that strange, fleeting place where the old has gone but the new hasn’t yet come. His mind may be full of love for this girl he’s due to marry, and yet it’ll also be stricken with doubt. He’s young, remember. He’s never ventured beyond the shores of Scyros. The news of Achilles’s death may open a new door – a chance to follow his father’s path, away from domesticity and into adventure. I’ve seen it happen to others in his position. More than that, he has Achilles’s blood in his veins: when Neoptolemus sees the gift I’ve brought him, it’ll be enough to challenge even his strongest convictions about getting married.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Diomedes replied.

  In the afternoon, after they had eaten a modest lunch, Eperitus was resting on the mattress in his room when a slave brought him a clean tunic and told him he was to go to the garden as soon as was convenient. He left before Eperitus could question him, so the Ithacan changed his clothes and went to answer the summons. He followed the scent of flowers and the rich aroma of well-composted earth until he found the walled gardens where he had first seen Achilles – disguised as a girl by Lycomedes to prevent him from being taken off to the coming war against Troy. He entered it through an arched gateway and saw it had not changed much since his first
visit, except then it had been spring and there had been fragrant blossoms on the trees on either side, and now it was autumn and the leaves were turning an ochre colour and peeling off to form a patchy carpet on the lawn. The circular pond at the centre of the garden was filled with lilies that boasted a handful of white flowers. Dressed in a yellow chiton and seated on a stone bench at the water’s edge was Deidameia, looking at him expectantly.

  ‘I’m glad you came, Eperitus. Please, join me.’

  She patted the space beside her and he sat. He could smell her perfume, potent even in a garden full of flowers. She gave him a smile and he could see the fullness of her lips and the way her skin was still soft and supple with her youth, despite the advanced maturity he could read in her eyes.

  ‘What do you want of me, Deidameia?’

  ‘A warrior’s bluntness, I see. I just wanted to talk a little.’

  ‘You picked the wrong man, my lady. Odysseus is the one for talking –’

  ‘Ah, but can I trust him? I think I can trust you, though. You have an honest look about you.’

  ‘I think you’d find my conversation a little dull, unless you want to hear about war and death.’

  ‘But that’s precisely what I want to hear about,’ she replied. ‘Particularly the war in Troy and my husband’s death. Were you there?’

  Eperitus nodded and, reluctantly at first, told her what he had witnessed on the day Achilles had died. It would have been a short account – he had none of Odysseus’s ability to embellish a story – if Deidameia had not teased out every important detail from him. She showed little emotion as the full truth was laid before her, and when the story was done insisted on hearing more about Achilles’s achievements before his death. Eventually, after Eperitus’s clumsy retelling was done, she turned to the real reason she had summoned him.