The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

by Iliffe, Glyn

  Eperitus charged him again and their weapons met, the loud scraping of the blades echoing back from the walls as they bent into each other. They locked eyes, then with a grunt Eperitus pushed his father back into the shadows.

  ‘You’ve still not got it in you to kill me, Son.’

  Eperitus looked at his father’s sneering face and felt a surge of hatred. Then he remembered Astynome’s words and wondered whether she was right, that there was something of Apheidas’s anger in himself. Was he looking at a reflection of what he could become? The thought subdued his fury and he stepped back.

  The hiss and pop of the fire was accompanied now by the stench of burning flesh, a smell all too familiar from the many funeral pyres Eperitus had witnessed over the years of the war. He saw his father move to the right, then realised Astynome had ignored his orders and was standing close by. Guessing Apheidas’s intentions, he ran across to protect her, just as his father dashed out of the darkness. The red glint of a blade was followed by a scream. Apheidas reeled away, clutching at the side of his face where the point of his son’s sword had opened the skin. Eperitus instinctively lifted his hand to touch the scar on his forehead, which Apheidas had given him in the temple of Artemis at Lyrnessus several weeks before.

  ‘Stay back, Astynome! Get out of the house and find somewhere safe to hide until this is over.’

  ‘I’m staying with you,’ she said, her voice resolute. ‘Haven’t you noticed the clamour outside? The Greeks are already in the citadel, so I’d rather die here with you than be raped and killed out there.’

  Before Eperitus could reply, Apheidas turned and ran towards a side door, shouldering it open and letting in the pungent smells of cold night air and vegetation. As if to confirm Astynome’s fears, the sounds of screaming and the clash of weapons could be clearly heard in the near distance.

  ‘Let him go,’ Astynome said, as Apheidas ran into the square garden that was visible beyond the open doorway. ‘He can’t get out of Troy alive.’

  ‘He can,’ Eperitus answered. ‘He’s too much of a survivor. I have to finish him now, while I have the chance.’

  ‘Then didn’t my words mean anything to you earlier? Do you want to become like him?’

  ‘I’ll never let that happen.’

  ‘Then think of me. If he kills you, he’ll surely kill me too. Even if he doesn’t, I’ll be captured and taken back to Greece as another man’s slave, forced to serve his every need and left to dream of what could have been between us. I want to be your wife and lover, Eperitus, the mother of your children. Is facing up to your father worth losing that?’

  Eperitus hesitated, beset by doubt. Had he become so selfish in his pursuit of Apheidas that he was prepared to risk Astynome’s safety? Was he so driven by his hatred of his father that it surpassed his love for her? Yet he had sought revenge for too many years now, and the fear of losing his opportunity quickly overcame the intellectual and emotional arguments that had suddenly emerged against it. He shook his head.

  ‘I have to face him, Astynome. Forgive me.’

  He ran through the doorway into the garden, dark but for the light of a single torch in a bracket on the wall. It took a moment for his senses to adjust to the open surroundings, trying to spot his father in the pillared cloisters that surrounded the courtyard, or among the shrubs and fruit trees that filled it. But the night breeze blowing through the foliage made it impossible to distinguish any other movement, while the rustling of leaves disguised all other sounds, except for the constant hiss emanating from the snake pit at the garden’s centre. Eperitus gave an involuntary shudder and moved forward.

  He spotted the glint of a blade from the corner of his eye and whirled to meet it, just as Astynome cried out in warning from the doorway behind. Eperitus stopped the blow with the middle of his sword, but was sent reeling backwards. He caught his heel and fell. With a victorious grin across his face, Apheidas ran out of his hiding place, his sword raised in both hands above his head. Without thinking, Eperitus rocked back and kicked out with all the force he could muster, catching his father in the stomach. He fell, crushing some of the low shrubs that lined the path that led to the snake pit. Eperitus was up in an instant, but Apheidas was already on his feet and raising his shield to counter the sweep of his son’s sword. A series of blows were exchanged, each one delivered with deadly accuracy and blocked with instinctive skill, until eventually the two men reached the gaping pit and stood back from each other, sweat-covered and breathing heavily.

  ‘Neither of us can win, lad,’ Apheidas gasped. ‘Why don’t you give this up and let me take my chances out there in the streets? You can try to deny the blood that’s in your veins, but I’m still your father and it’s an offence against the gods for you to try and kill me.’

  ‘You are an offence against the gods,’ Eperitus replied. ‘If I let you go, you’ll only blight the lives of others, usurping power and murdering innocent people like Arceisius and Clymene. By killing you, I’ll be honouring the gods.’

  He rushed forward again, catching Apheidas off guard and knocking his sword from his hand so that it skittered across the paved edge of the pit. Apheidas lifted his shield in desperation, blocking the thrust that would have skewered his groin and deflecting it into his thigh. He shouted with pain, but as Eperitus raised his sword for the killing blow, Apheidas found the strength to lash out with the rim of his shield and catch him on the side of the head, sending him spinning backwards onto the flagstones.

  Eperitus fought the blackness that threatened to consume him, calling on his hatred to push himself back up from the floor and find his feet. His head was dull with pain and as he touched the side of his face he could feel the blood where the lip of Apheidas’s shield had gashed the skin. Then his vision cleared and he saw his father standing at the edge of the snake pit with Astynome held before him. A burning torch lay on the ground, which she must have taken from the bracket by the door.

  ‘I seem to remember we’ve been in this position before,’ Apheidas mocked.

  Eperitus recalled the temple of Thymbrean Apollo, when his father had used Astynome as a hostage to ensure his escape, knowing Eperitus would not risk seeing her hurt.

  ‘He’s unarmed,’ Astynome shouted.

  Apheidas clapped his hand over her mouth.

  ‘I don’t need a weapon. One twist of my arm and her neck will break. Do you understand?’

  Eperitus nodded, slowly. ‘Just release her and I’ll let you go. You have my word.’

  ‘You’re not very good at keeping your promises, though, are you? And if you think I believe you’re just going to forget everything I’ve done and let me walk out of here, then you’re a bigger fool than I am. But there’s another way to solve this little dilemma. I’ve heard it said that for a man to conquer his fears he has to face them. Shall we see if it’s true?’

  A smile spread across his face as with a resigned gesture he pushed Astynome into the pit. Her scream echoed briefly from the walls and was suddenly silenced. Shocked, Eperitus ran to the edge and stared down into the Stygian blackness, while his father ran limping to another door on the opposite side of the courtyard. Eperitus turned, part of his mind telling him that Apheidas was escaping, but knowing full well that to pursue him was to condemn Astynome to death. And so he turned back to the gaping hole at his feet and, almost as if his actions were being controlled by someone other than himself, he threw his grandfather’s shield onto his back and reached for the torch Astynome had let fall on the flagstones. Tossing it into the black void, he prayed to Athena to protect Astynome, then jumped.

  Chapter Forty-one

  AT THE TEMPLE OF ZEUS

  Odysseus could hear the sounds of chaos long before he and Menelaus – with Helen, Pleisthenes and the remaining maids trailing behind – had found their way back to the servants’ entrance. The high-pitched screams of women penetrated the palace walls clearly, while the deep-throated shouts of hundreds of men formed a low roar in the background. The clatt
er of weapons could be heard, too, chattering away like angry birds as Trojan warriors tried to resist the overwhelming tide of the victorious Greeks. Then, as Odysseus reached the door and pushed it open, they saw the night sky ablaze before them, flames and smoke pouring up from Troy as its buildings burned with terrifying, glorious ferocity. Rain clouds pressed low over the city, bathed orange and scarlet by the fires below, and the warm night air crackled with the sound of fiery destruction.

  Odysseus shielded his eyes against the heat and light, then, drawing his sword, turned to Menelaus.

  ‘Keep the others close. There are men out there who’ll gladly murder us just to get at the women.’

  ‘They can try,’ Menelaus growled.

  Behind him, Helen stepped out into the night with Pleisthenes at her side. The lad had not said a word to his father since they had burst into his room, even when the Spartan king had taken him in his arms with tears in his eyes and spoken to him in the strange Greek language he barely remembered from his early childhood. Instead, he had pulled away and moved to his mother’s side, staring at Menelaus as if he were his enemy. Now, arm in arm, Helen and Pleisthenes stared at the burning sky with silent awe. The maids followed them from the palace and immediately began to wail in anguish at the sight before them.

  ‘Helen, shut them up for all our sakes,’ Odysseus pleaded.

  She spoke to them in a low voice and they fell quiet. Odysseus looked out at the broad courtyard, which had been so peaceful a short while before. Now it was strewn with the bodies of men and women, while on the opposite side a remnant of the Trojan royal guard fought valiantly against a much larger company of Greeks. In a corner, a man lay on a naked woman, pushing aggressively into her. The woman flapped limply with each movement, and for a horrible moment Odysseus suspected she might be dead.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Menelaus said.

  They ran to the top of the ramp that led down to the middle tier of the citadel. A group of four Greeks ran up the slope towards them, brandishing their swords.

  ‘Stand aside!’ Menelaus commanded.

  The brutal grins dropped from their smoke-stained faces and they parted before him, though with obvious reluctance as they stared greedily at the women he was escorting. The streets below were teeming with soldiers. Some were fighting their way into the two-storeyed houses at the same time as others were trying to leave with the plunder they had found. This consisted of anything they could lay their hands on, from silver cups to fine dresses or skins of wine. More than once, Odysseus saw men whose arms were laden with loot cut down before they could defend themselves, and their goods taken from their dead bodies. In other houses, people were leaping from upper windows as flames devoured the ground floor, only for the men to be put to the sword and the women to be dragged off by packs of soldiers and raped.

  ‘Look!’ a voice rang out. ‘Women!’

  A group of soldiers ran towards them, intent on taking Helen and her maids for themselves. Menelaus did not bother to order them back, killing the first with a swift stroke and sinking his sword into the stomach of the second. This only made the others angrier and Odysseus and Menelaus were forced to kill or wound four more before the rest retreated.

  ‘By all the gods, this is chaos!’ Menelaus exclaimed. ‘It’s worse than a pitched battle.’

  ‘What did you expect?’ Odysseus shouted over the clamour. ‘Come on: we need to find some of our own Ithacans or Spartans if we’re going to get Helen and your son to safety. Let’s head to the gates.’

  They found their way down to the lower tier of Pergamos, where to their relief the gates were protected by a disciplined company of Myrmidons. Their commander was Peisandros, who stepped out as they approached and held up his hand.

  ‘No prisoners or loot beyond this gate, Agamemnon’s orders. Take them into the barrack room for fair distribution later.’

  ‘You can tell my brother that Helen of Sparta is no man’s prisoner,’ Menelaus answered. ‘Neither are my son or any of these maids.’

  Peisandros stared wide-eyed at the blood-caked faces of the two kings, then with a shout of joy seized each man’s hand in turn and shook it.

  ‘My lords! We feared you were dead. There’ve been all sorts of rumours –’

  ‘Rumours haunt every battle,’ Odysseus chided him with a smile. ‘I’ve been killed at least a dozen times during this war. And a veteran like you should know better than to listen to such nonsense.’

  ‘True enough,’ Peisandros agreed, his gaze wandering to Helen. ‘So you’ve found her. And no less beautiful than the last time I saw her, all those years ago in Sparta.’

  ‘More beautiful,’ Menelaus corrected him. ‘Now, go and pick twenty of your best men to escort us back to the ships.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Peisandros replied, shooting a last glance at Helen before striding off to carry out his orders.

  ‘Now you’ve found yourselves a guard, Menelaus, I’m going back into the citadel,’ Odysseus said.

  ‘Are you mad?’ Helen asked, a look of genuine concern on her face.

  Odysseus shook his head.

  ‘Eperitus is somewhere up there. I won’t abandon him to be mistaken for a Trojan by a pack of victory-drunk Greeks.’

  Menelaus took his hand in both of his.

  ‘Thank you, Odysseus. I doubt things would have turned out as they have without your help.’

  Helen released her hold of Pleisthenes and stepped forward.

  ‘Menelaus is too frugal in his praise,’ she said, embracing the Ithacan king closely. ‘We owe you everything.’

  ‘Can I send a few of Peisandros’s men with you?’ Menelaus offered.

  ‘No need – it’ll be less dangerous without Helen and her maids. But there is one thing you can do for me.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘You remember Antenor, the Trojan elder who was our host when we came to the city before the siege started?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘His house is close to the citadel walls, a little to the right beyond the gates – you’ll remember it when you see it. If he and his family are still alive, take them down to the ships with you. He was a good man and doesn’t deserve to be slaughtered with the rest.’

  ‘Few do, if you ask me,’ Menelaus replied, ‘but I’ll do as you wish. May Athena go with you, Odysseus.’

  Odysseus nodded, though the Spartan’s words were a painful reminder that the goddess had abandoned him. He turned and ran back into the anarchy of the citadel. The mayhem had, if anything, increased. Bodies were everywhere, many stripped of clothing, others left like bundles of rumpled linen, barely recognisable as human beings. Odysseus had seen more battles than he could remember, but witnessing the slaughter of armed soldiers was poor preparation for the sight of old men, women and children lying murdered in the streets. He came across a dead woman, naked but for a single sandal, her outstretched hand still clutching the arm of a trampled infant. Many others lay where they had been stabbed, with lifeless eyes staring up at the blood-coloured clouds above. There were some, though, whose bodies had been hewn horribly by several blades. The scene sickened him and he thought of his beloved Penelope and little Telemachus – only ten years old – and how they might look dead on the streets of Ithaca. Vulnerable Ithaca. The fact he had left his home and family unprotected for so long suddenly tore at him, filling him with surprising panic.

  A scream interrupted his thoughts and a half-naked girl ran from a nearby doorway. Her sun-darkened skin marked her out as a slave, but beneath the dishevelled hair and the bleeding lip Odysseus could see she was beautiful. Five men ran out of the house after her, the first still clutching a piece of the girl’s dress in his fist. He also carried the marks of her fingernails on his red jowls.

  ‘Come back here, you whore!’ he shouted, dashing after her as she ran to the foot of the ramp that led up to the middle tier of the citadel. ‘We haven’t finished with you yet.’

  ‘Eurylochus!’ Odysseus shouted angrily, recognising
his cousin. Two of the others he also knew to be Ithacans, though they were the kind of soldiers he was not proud to think of as his countrymen. The other two were Taphian mercenaries who had arrived earlier in the summer with the last batch of reinforcements from Troy. ‘Leave her alone! Why aren’t you with the rest of the army?’

  The five men paused and half turned at the authority in Odysseus’s voice, but there was no shame in their drunken faces as they stared back at their king. Indeed, the Taphians eyed him with distinct rebellion in their eyes, as if they would happily have struck him down there and then.

  ‘What army?’ Eurylochus replied. ‘There is no army, just packs of soldiers getting their own back on the bastards who’ve kept us from our homes for ten years.’

  ‘She’s getting away!’ one of the others shouted ruefully, as the girl ran up the ramp and disappeared.

  Odysseus felt his temper snap.

  ‘Get back into the city and find as many Ithacans as you can!’ he shouted, red-faced with anger as he advanced on them. ‘Start restoring order, damn you. And if you lay hands on another woman without my permission, I’ll see you hanged for it in the morning. Do you understand?’

  Eurylochus scowled at him and the others showed an open reluctance to do as they were ordered. One of the Taphians circled to Odysseus’s unshielded right, while the other clutched the handle of his sword and began easing the blade from its sheath.

  ‘Put it away, Selagos,’ Eurylochus hissed at him. ‘Let’s go find the rest of our countrymen.’

  He spat on the flagstones as a last, defiant gesture, then slunk off reluctantly towards the gates to the lower city, followed by his cronies. But as Odysseus ran up the ramp to the middle tier of the citadel – hoping to find the girl and take her under his protection – he saw them turn aside down one of the narrow streets, doubtless hunting for more victims. The girl was nowhere to be seen when Odysseus reached the top of the slope, and after a fruitless search among the nearest alleys he knew she was gone, perhaps already snatched up by another group of soldiers. Suddenly weary, he stumbled into a doorway and leaned with his back against the wall. He had barely calmed his breathing again when a fierce clash of weaponry erupted from nearby. Five men in Trojan armour came sprinting around the corner of a house. Their leader was splendidly armoured and Odysseus recognised him as one of Priam’s few remaining sons; the others were members of the royal guard. Their weapons were red with gore and exhaustion was written in their every movement as they ran towards the temple of Zeus, farther up the street. Odysseus had hardly noticed the large, richly decorated building until that point, but as the men lumbered towards it he realised that they were seeking sanctuary inside, desperately hoping that the gods would protect them. As he looked at the edifice, he noticed for the first time that there was a ring of Greek soldiers standing about it. For a moment he was mystified; then he realised that others must have sought refuge there, and so far the victorious invaders had maintained enough self-discipline to respect the sanctity of the temple, preferring to set a watch over it and keep anyone from leaving or entering.