King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

KING OF ITHACA

GLYN ILIFFE

KING OF

ITHACA

MACMILLAN

First published 2008 by Macmillan

First published in paperback 2009 by Pan Books

This electronic edition published 2009 by Pan Books

an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd

Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Rd, London N1 9RR

Basingstoke and Oxford

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ISBN 978-0-230-74449-3 in Adobe Reader format

ISBN 978-0-230-74448-6 in Adobe Digital Editions format

ISBN 978-0-230-74450-9 in Mobipocket format

Copyright © Glyn Iliffe 2008

The right of Glyn Iliffe to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

FOR JANE

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks go to my editor, Julie Crisp, for her persistence and faith in King of Ithaca, as well as her hard work in making this book what it is. I would also like to thank Professor Helen King of Reading University for providing notes and comments on the original manuscrips.

GLOSSARY

A

Achilles

–

Myrmidon prince; later the principal hero of the Trojan War

Actoris

–

Penelope’s body slave

Aegisthus

–

son of Thyestes; he murdered his uncle and foster-parent, Atreus, the father of Agamemnon and Menelaus

Agamemnon

–

king of Mycenae, and most powerful of the Greeks

Ajax (greater)

–

king of Salamis

Ajax (lesser)

–

prince of Locris

Alybas

–

home city of Eperitus, in northern Greece

Anticleia

–

queen of Ithaca; mother of Odysseus

Antiphus

–

Ithacan guardsman

Aphrodite

–

goddess of love

Apollo

–

archer god, associated with music, song and healing

Arcadia

–

region in the central Peloponnese

Arceisius

–

shepherd boy named after a former king of Ithaca

Ares

–

god of war

Argos

–

powerful city in the north-eastern Peloponnese

Artemis

–

hunter goddess, noted for her virginity and her vengefulness

Athena

–

goddess of wisdom and warfare

Athens

–

city on Aegean seaboard

Atreides

–

the sons of Atreus: Agamemnon and Menelaus

Atreus

–

former king of Mycenae

Attica

–

region of which Athens was the capital

C

Castor

–

Cretan prince

Cedalion

–

former apprentice of Hephaistos, taken by the blind Orion to act as his guide

chelonion

–

flower native to Ithaca

Clytaemnestra

–

daughter of Tyndareus and wife of Agamemnon

Crete

–

island to the south of Greece

Ctymene

–

sister of Odysseus

D

Damastor

–

Ithacan guardsman

Demeter

–

goddess of agriculture

Diocles

–

Spartan warrior

Diomedes

–

king of Argos and ally of Agamemnon

Dulichium

–

Ionian island forming northernmost part of Laertes’s kingdom

E

Echidna

–

monster with the upper torso of a beautiful woman and the body of a serpent

Elatos

–

chief priest of the oracle at Pythia

Eperitus

–

warrior from Alybas, exiled for refusing to support his father after he had murdered King Pandion

Epigoni

–

collective name for the sons of seven Argive heroes who led a doomed expedition against Thebes; the Epigoni, amongst them Diomedes, later avenged their fathers by laying waste to the city

Eumaeus

–

faithful slave to Laertes

Eupeithes

–

ambitious and treacherous Ithacan noble

Eurotas

–

Spartan river, named after the king who drowned himself in its waters

Eurycleia

–

slave to Laertes, formerly Odysseus’s nurse

Eurytus

–

father of Iphitus

G

Gaea

–

earth goddess

Gyrtias

–

warrior from Rhodes

H

Hades

–

god of the Underworld

Halitherses

–

captain of Ithacan royal guard

Helen

–

foster-daughter of Tyndareus (actually fathered by Zeus); renowned for her beauty

Hephaistos

–

god of fire; blacksmith to the gods of Olympus

Hera

–

goddess married to Zeus

Heracles

–

greatest of all Greek heroes (otherwise known as Hercules)

Hermes

–

messenger of the gods; his duties also include shepherding the souls of the dead to the Underworld

Hestia

–

goddess of the hearth and protectress of the household

I

Icarius

–

co-king of Sparta, with his brother Tyndareus; father of Penelope

Idomeneus

–

king of Crete

Ilium

–

the region of which Troy was the capital

Ionian Sea

–

sea to the west of the Greek mainland

Iphitus

–

Oechalian prince who befriends Odysseus

Ithaca

–

island in the Ionian Sea

K

Kerosia

–

Ithacan council meeting

Koronos

–

wealthy Ithacan noble

L

Lacedaemon

–

Sparta

Laertes

–

king of Ithaca

Leda

–

unfaithful wife of Tyndareus

Locris

–

region in north-eastern Greece

M

Menelaus

–

brother of Agamemnon

Menestheus

–

king of Athens

Mentes

–

Taphian warrior

Mentor

–

close friend of Odysseus

Messene

–

city in south-western Peloponnese

Mycenae

–

most powerful city in Greece, situated in north-eastern Peloponnese

Myrmidons

–

the followers of Achilles

N

Neaera

–

Helen’s body slave

O

Odysseus

–

prince of Ithaca, son of Laertes

Oechalia

–

city in Thessaly, northern Greece

Olympus

–

mountain home of the gods

Orion

–

legendary hunter

P

Palamedes

–

suitor to Helen

Pandion

–

murdered king of Alybas

Parnassus (Mount)

–

mountain in central Greece and home of the Pythian oracle

Patroclus

–

friend of Achilles and captain of the Myrmidons

Peisandros

–

Myrmidon spearman

Peloponnese

–

southernmost landmass of Greek mainland

Penelope

–

Spartan princess, daughter of Icarius

Philoctetes

–

shepherd who lit the pyre of Heracles, for which he was awarded the hero’s bow and arrows

Phronius

–

Ithacan elder

Polybus

–

henchman of Eupeithes

Polytherses

–

twin brother of Polybus

Poseidon

–

god of the sea

Priam

–

king of Troy

Pythia

–

home of the chief oracle in Greece

Python

–

giant serpent, guardian of the Pythian oracle

Pythoness

–

high priestess of the Pythian oracle

R

Rhodes

–

island in the south-eastern Aegean

S

Salamis

–

island in the Saronic Gulf, west of Athens

Samos

–

neighbouring island to Ithaca, also under the rule of Laertes

Sparta

–

city in the south-eastern Peloponnese

T

Taphians

–

pirate race from Taphos

Taygetus Mountains

–

mountain range to the west of Sparta

Teucer

–

half-brother and companion to the greater Ajax

Thebes

–

city in central Greece

Theseus

–

Athenian hero who slew the Minotaur

Thrasios

–

priest of the Pythian oracle

Tiryns

–

city in north-eastern Peloponnese

Tlepolemos

–

prince of Rhodes

Troy

–

chief city of Ilium, on the eastern seaboard of the Aegean

Tyndareus

–

co-king of Sparta and father of Helen and Clytaemnestra

X

xenia

–

the custom of friendship towards strangers

Z

Zacynthos

–

southernmost of the Ionian islands under Laertes’s rule

Zeus

–

the king of the gods

book

ONE

Chapter One

MOUNT PARNASSUS

It was a chill dawn on the foothills of Mount Parnassus. The sun rose slowly in the east, infusing the dark, empty skies with a pale radiance. A collar of mist clung to the upper reaches of the purple mountainsides, shifting restlessly with the morning breeze. Eperitus shook the stiffness from his limbs and sniffed the air, which was sharp with the savoury prick of smoke. Pilgrims, he guessed, warming themselves by freshly made fires before the trek up to the oracle.

He decided against the luxury of heat. After a frugal breakfast of cold porridge he gathered his few possessions and followed the bank of a stream that fed down from the hills. The sloping route was crooked and stony, but it gave an even footing and its steep banks were topped with twisted olive trees that hid his progress from unwelcome eyes. In his right hand he carried two ash spears, their shafts smooth and black. He also kept a sword slung in a scabbard under his left arm, its blade sharpened to a keen edge. Hanging from his shoulder was his grandfather’s ox-hide shield, given to him by the old man before his death, whilst for added protection he wore a shaped leather corselet and greaves. A bronze helmet hid his long, black hair, its cheekguards tied loosely beneath his clean-shaven chin. His only other possessions were a thick cloak of brown wool, a bag of oats and stale bread, a skin of water and a pouch of copper pieces.

For a while as he walked the only sounds were the clear water washing over the stones of the riverbed and the sighing of the wind in the trees. Birdsong greeted the winter sun as it edged above the green hilltops, and he felt a lightness in his mood that he had not sensed since leaving his home in the north. The journey to Mount Parnassus had taken several days, during which he had walked alone with sombre thoughts, pondering the fateful events that had forced him from his home. But now, with his goal only a few hours’ march away, his spirits were reviving with every step.

His peace was suddenly disturbed when harsh shouts erupted from the other side of the river, followed by the angry clash of weapons. Men cried out in fear and confusion before, as suddenly as it had occurred, the din of combat ceased and left a ringing silence in its wake.

Like most young Greek nobles, Eperitus had been taught to fight from an early age and this training came to the fore as he crouched low and glanced about himself, his spears clutched tightly in his sweating palm. Taking up his shield by its handgrip, he strained his ears for further sounds of battle. Although he had yearned to see combat for as long as he could remember, as battle lurked unseen amidst the troughs and swells of the landscape opposite he felt his mouth grow dry and the blood pump thicker through his veins.

He took a moment to calm his nerves, then splashed across the riverbed and threw himself down against the bank, his heart rampaging against the hard earth. Crawling cautiously up the slope, he eased into a position where he could spy on whatever waited beyond.

Before him lay a broad bowl scooped out of the rocky landscape, filled with scrubby grass and circumvented by a low ridge. In the centre were the remains of a disturbed camp: the ashes of an extinguished fire, some wooden dishes and a few trampled cloaks. Two bands of warriors faced each other across the debris, waiting in taut readiness for a movement from the others.

The smaller group, whose camp had been attacked, had formed a line of perhaps a dozen shields. They were half dressed and had obviously armed in a hurry, but were organized and ready to defend themselves. At their centre, casually wiping blood from the point of his spear, stood a short and powerful warrior with a chest as broad as his shield and muscular arms that looked strong enough to break a man’s spine. He was clearly of noble blood and stared at the opposing force with disdain, his eyes calm and untouched by fear.

Facing him were fully twenty men, standing in a line with the sun glinting on their raised spear points. They were too well armed to be bandits, so could only be deserters from the war in Thebes, where a siege was raging only a short march away. They had lost their discipline and looked haggard and weary. Their armour was scarred and covered in dust; some men bore the wounds of recent battles, and all looked as if they had not slept for days. Already one of them lay face-down in the dirt.

Standing head and shoulders above them all was their champion. A colossus with a booming voice, he strode about shouting crude challenges to the nobleman. ‘Your father’s ghost rots nameless in Hades and your mother whores to feed her starving belly. Your children suckle at the breasts of slaves while your wife ruts with swineherds. And as for you!’ He snapped his fingers in derision. ‘I’ll be stripping that armour from your dead body before breakfast.’

The giant’s insults received no response from his stocky opponent, who remained indifferent to the tirade. Eperitus, however, had heard enough. Driven by his hatred of deserters – and of all men who had surrendered their honour – he leapt to his feet on top of the ridge and thrust one of his spears into the dirt by his sandals. Kissing the shaft of the other, he drew back his arm and launched it with all the momentum his body could command. A moment later it thumped into the spine of the foul-mouthed braggart, sending his vast bulk crashing forward into the dead fire. His thick fingers clawed furrows through the ashes as, with a final curse on his lips, his open mouth gushed blood over the blackened stumps of wood.

Eperitus did not stop to exult over a lucky throw. Plucking his remaining spear from the ground he ran at the twisting backs of the deserters, yelling at the top of his voice. Leaderless and taken by surprise, they dissolved into confusion before him. A spear was hurriedly thrown from one flank, but the aim was poor and the missile skimmed the ground before his feet. Then three men in the centre of the group hurled their own weapons in another hasty attack. One split the air over Eperitus’s head; the second clattered off the thick hide of his shield; the point of the third glanced off his left greave, crushing the leather against his shinbone.

The pain coursed up his leg and almost caused him to fall, but the momentum of his attack carried him on towards his assailants. Seeing the nearest fumbling to bring up his shield from his shoulder, he quickly sank the bronze head of his spear into his groin. The man fell backwards with a scream, doubling into himself and wrenching the spear from Eperitus’s grip.

At once his two comrades drew their swords and rushed to attack, yelling with fear and anger as their weapons crashed against Eperitus’s shield. He fell back before the onslaught, somehow keeping a grip on the heavy ox-hide as he held it out against their repeated blows. Meanwhile, with his free hand he tried desperately to pull his sword from its scabbard, knowing that his death was surely but a heartbeat away.

At that moment, the rank of men he had rushed to help cast their own spears into the disarrayed ranks of their opponents, laying several out in the dead grass. Then they raised their swords and charged across the gap that separated the two sides. Eperitus’s attackers threw fearful glances over their shoulders, uncertain whether to rush to the help of their friends or to finish the newcomer first.

Their indecision was an opportunity Eperitus did not waste. Tugging his sword free, he swung the obsessively sharpened blade in a wide arc around the side of his shield, shearing the leg off one of his enemies from above the knee. Blood spurted in great gouts over the dust and, with a look of disbelief in his red-rimmed eyes, the man toppled over into the mess of his own gore, there to thrash out the last moments of his life.

Eperitus leapt back from a thrust of the other man’s sword. The attack was not forced, though, and for a moment they eyed each other from behind their shields. The surviving warrior was much older than Eperitus, a greybeard with the marks of previous battles on his face and body. It was also obvious that he had come to the limit of his endurance: his bloodshot eyes were fearful and desperate, pleading for mercy. But Eperitus knew that if he lowered his guard for one moment, this same enemy would happily strike him down and send his ghost to the ignominious death the young soldier feared above all.

Breathing heavily, he gripped the leather-bound handle of his sword more firmly, turning his knuckles white. The ringing of bronze against bronze came from nearby, punctuated by shouting and the screams of the wounded. His opponent looked nervously over his shoulder, and in that instant Eperitus sprang forward, knocked the man’s shield aside, and hacked his sword down through his ear and into the skull. He tugged the blade free and with a second, heavier swing, cut off his head.

By this time a new leader had gathered what remained of the deserters into a knot on one side of the hollow, where they struggled to hold off the attacks of their more disciplined opponents. Almost immediately another of their number fell writhing in the dust, struck down by a strong and stern-faced man, worn by age, battle and the elements. His grey hair and beard were long like a priest’s, his armour old-fashioned but full. He used his shield to force a gap in the enemy line where his victim had fallen, but by then the battle was collapsing into a brawl, with men struggling against each other and seeking security in the closeness of their comrades. There was little room now to use the point of a spear or the edge of a sword. Each side was pushing its weight behind their shields, trying by brute force alone to break the wall of their foes. Men swapped curses instead of blows, so closely locked were they, and neither side gave ground.

Suddenly from the top of the ridge came the shouts of newcomers. A group of nine soldiers stood there with the plumes on their helmets fanning in the wind and the dawn sun flashing a savage red from their armour. Eperitus grew hopeful at the sight, thinking them reinforcements, but as the remaining deserters pulled back from the melee and ran up the slope to join them he realized that the battle was far from over. Pulling a spear from its lifeless victim he ran across to where the stocky noble was shouting orders at his men to re-form in the base of the hollow.

The grey-haired warrior slapped Eperitus on the back. ‘Well done, lad,’ he welcomed him, without taking his eyes off the enemy line forming on the brow of the ridge. ‘It’s a while since I’ve seen that much courage in battle. Or that much luck.’

Grinning, Eperitus looked over to where their opponents were advancing down the slope towards them, pulling back their spears and choosing their targets. At that moment, the short nobleman stepped forward and held the palm of his hand out towards the enemy spearmen.

‘Lower your weapons!’ he ordered, his great voice stopping them in their tracks. ‘Too many men have died today already, and for what purpose? For the few copper pieces we carry? Don’t be fools – return to your homes and preserve your lives and your honour.’

In reply, one of the newcomers stepped forward and spat into the dust. His face was scarred and mocking and he spoke with a thick accent.

‘Thebes was our home, and now it’s nothing more than a smoking ruin. But if you want to preserve your own miserable lives, give us the coppers you do have and we’ll let you go on your way. We’ll have your weapons and cloaks, too, and whatever else you might be carrying.’

‘There are easier pickings than us in these hills, friend,’ the nobleman responded, his voice calm and assuring. ‘Why waste more of your men’s blood when you can find yourselves some rich, defenceless pilgrims?’

There was a murmur of agreement from the line of spearmen, which stopped as the scar-faced man raised his hand for silence.

‘We’ve had our fill of pilgrims,’ he said. ‘Besides, our dead comrades are calling out for vengeance – you didn’t think we would just leave their deaths unpunished, did you?’

The nobleman sighed and then with surprising speed launched himself up the slope, hurling his heavy spear at the line of warriors and sending one toppling backwards under the weight of its impact. Eperitus felt the excitement rush through his veins as he charged with the others towards their foe, screaming and casting their spears before them. A few found their targets, causing the new arrivals to fall back as their confidence wavered. The scar-faced man hurried to rejoin his comrades, who threw their own spears a moment later. Their aim was hasty and sporadic, but a lucky cast found the eye of a young soldier running beside Eperitus, splitting his head like a watermelon and spraying the contents over his arm.

The next moment Eperitus’s sword was raised and he was driving into the enemy line with his shield. One man fell backwards before him, catching his heel on a stone. There was no time to plunge his sword into his prostrate body, however, as a much larger and stronger man leapt forward and thrust a blade straight through his shield. The point stopped a finger’s breadth from Eperitus’s stomach, before jamming tight in the layered ox-hide.

Eperitus snatched the shield to one side, tugging the sword from his opponent’s hand and opening his guard. Without hesitation, he sank the point of his blade into the man’s throat, killing him instantly.

As he fell another man lunged at his ribs with a spear, but before the point could spill his lifeblood onto the rocky ground, the grey-haired warrior appeared from nowhere and kicked the shaft to one side. With a sharp and instinctive movement that belied his age, he hacked off its owner’s arm below the elbow and pushed his gored blade into the man’s gut.

Covered in sweat and blood, they turned to face the next assault, but their remaining foes were fleeing over the ridge, leaving their dead behind them.

Chapter Two

CASTOR

Eperitus looked around at the carnage of his first battle. The surrounding rocks were splashed with blood and littered with corpses; the cries of the enemy wounded were silenced one by one as the victors slit their throats. He knew he should feel triumphant that he had killed five men. Instead, his limbs were heavy, his mouth was parched and his shin throbbed painfully where the spear had hit his greave. All he wanted was to cast off his armour and wash the blood and dirt from his body in the nearby stream, but that would have to wait. The stocky leader of the men he had helped was sheathing his sword and walking towards him, accompanied by the old warrior who had saved Eperitus’s life.

‘My name is Castor, son of Hylax,’ he announced, holding out his hand in a formal token of friendship. A glimmer of mischief burned in his quick, green eyes, like sunlight caught in a stream. ‘This is Halitherses, captain of my guard. We’re pilgrims from Crete, here to consult the oracle.’

Eperitus grasped his hand. ‘My name is Eperitus, from the city of Alybas in the north. My grandfather was captain of the palace guard, before his death five years ago.’

Castor released his fierce grip on the young warrior’s hand and removed his helmet, his nail-bitten fingers thick and dirty against the burnished bronze. A mess of auburn hair, which he flicked aside with a toss of his head, fell down almost to his eyes. Though not a handsome man, he had an amicable smile that broke through his deep tan.

‘And your father?’

Eperitus felt anger flush his cheeks. ‘I have no father.’

Castor looked at him piercingly but pressed no further. ‘Well, we’re indebted to you, Eperitus,’ he continued. ‘Things would have gone badly if you hadn’t come along.’

‘You could have handled them without my help,’ Eperitus replied, dismissing the compliment with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Just a band of deserters, by the look of them.’

‘You’re doing yourself a disservice,’ Halitherses assured him. ‘And perhaps you overestimate our abilities. We’re just pilgrims, after all.’

‘Perhaps,’ Eperitus replied. ‘But not many pilgrims go about armed to the teeth, or can fight like a trained unit.’

‘These are dangerous times,’ Castor answered, blinking in the early morning sun. ‘Are you here to speak to the Pythoness, too? It’s no business of mine, of course, but you’re a long way from home if not.’

Eperitus again felt his cheeks flush with the sting of the unspoken shame that had driven him from Alybas.

‘Our crops failed this year and we haven’t enough in store to see us through the winter,’ Castor continued, realizing the young warrior was in no mood to talk. ‘We want to fit out a fleet with oil and pottery to trade abroad for food, but won’t lift a finger until we’ve consulted the gods on the matter first. If the seas are calm and pirate-free, then we can sail in confidence. If not,’ he shrugged his massive shoulders, ‘then our people will starve.’

There was a mournful cry behind them and they turned to see a man kneeling beside the torso of the young soldier who had died during the charge up the slope. His hands hovered over the corpse, wanting to touch it but repelled by the scraps of hanging flesh where his friend’s head had once been. Finally, he collapsed across the bloody chest and began to sob.

Eperitus wtched as his new comrades, joined by Castor and Halitherses, quickly began the process of digging a grave with the sword blades of their enemies. Once this was done they laid the body inside and threw the swords at its feet, followed by the dead man’s own weapons and shield. Then they piled rocks over the grave, carefully placing the stones so that no scavenging animal could find an easy passage into the flesh beneath.

Eperitus stood silently as they saluted the young soldier three times, their shouts carrying a long way through the cool mid-morning air. Afterwards he helped bury the sixteen enemy dead, digging a shallow pit for the bodies and casting stones on top. The men did not exult over these corpses, nor did they bury them out of respect. They merely put them in the ground so that their souls would go to Hades and not stay on the earth to haunt the living.

By midday the burials were finished. Castor ordered his men to make a fire and fetch water from the nearby stream for porridge, and invited Eperitus to share their rations. A bag of fresh olives had been found on one of the bodies, and as they spat the stones into the fire and drank draughts of cold water Eperitus eyed his eleven new companions in silence.

On the opposite side of the fire was a handsome warrior with a short beard and an athletic build. He held clear authority within the group – seemingly subordinate only to Castor and Halitherses – but his eyes were cold and hard as they focused on the newcomer. Sensing his hostility, Eperitus turned his gaze to the man’s neighbour, a dark-skinned soldier with a head of thick, black curls, a full beard that reached into the hollows of his cheeks, and a chest and arms that were matted like a woollen tunic. He was regarding Eperitus with an icy curiosity, but as their eyes met he offered a quick smile and rose to his feet.

‘We owe you our gratitude, friend,’ he said with a low bow, but as he raised his head and stared at Eperitus the questioning look had returned. ‘Perhaps you will tell us what brings you to Mount Parnassus?’

Eperitus looked thoughtfully into the dying flames. He was an exile, banished from Alybas for resisting the man who had killed its king. Now his only hope – indeed, his only desire – was to become a warrior like his grandfather before him, and so he had come to seek guidance from the oracle. But the agony of his shame was still too raw, and he was not prepared to share this with a stranger. Besides, something in the questioner’s manner told him to keep the details of his past a secret – at least for the time being.

‘I’m here to seek the will of Zeus,’ he said, raising his head. ‘Beyond that, I don’t know.’

Castor raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s a bigger question than you might think. The answer could be difficult to accept.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Zeus doesn’t give his favour lightly, and once he makes his plan clear you have to follow it with a true heart. Do that and honour and glory will be heaped on you, and the bards will sing your name for eternity. But if you fail . . .’ Castor tossed a piece of bread into the flames. ‘Your name will be blasted from the world for ever, forgotten even in Hades.’

Eperitus’s heart kicked with excitement, heedless of Castor’s warning. The thought of his name being put into song, to be revered long after his death, was everything a fighting man wanted to hear. This was the only immortality a man could win, and every warrior sought it. An unlooked-for shaft of light had illuminated the shadowy path to Eperitus’s destiny and in his excitement he decided to depart at once.

‘Castor, your words are god-given. You’ll forgive my haste, but I want to be on my way to the oracle. Farewell, and I pray the gods will protect you all and bring you good fortune.’

He picked up the shield his grandfather had given him, with its fourfold hide and the new wounds that decorated it, and slung it across his back. But before he could pluck his spears from the ground, Castor stepped forward to bar his way.

‘Slow down, friend. We’re all going to the same place; I say let’s go together. We could do with your protection.’

Eperitus laughed. ‘And I could do with your rations! But I can’t wait here any longer – Mount Parnassus is still a three- or four-hour march and the afternoon won’t last for ever.’

‘Let him go his own way,’ said the handsome soldier, stepping into the circle of his countrymen. His eyes were dark and full of suspicion as he fixed his stare on the newcomer. ‘We didn’t need your help or ask for it, stranger. If you think that running into a fight which we were winning, killing a couple of Theban deserters while their backs are turned and then claiming all the glory for yourself has put us in your debt, then I’ll be happy to show you your error. We don’t need scavengers.’

Eperitus placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. Quickly glancing around the circle of Cretans he could see that every eye was on him, waiting for his reaction to the insult. If he drew his blade, surely they would aid their countryman and all his hopes of glory would perish in a short, frenzied death. But his soldier’s pride would not permit him to back down from such a slur on his name. He felt suddenly alone.

‘I agree, Mentor: we don’t need scavengers,’ Castor said, taking the man’s arm and gently steering him to one side. ‘Or parasites or hangers-on of any kind. But we do want fighting men.’ He lowered his voice, though the slight wind carried his words to Eperitus’s keen ears. ‘You know there’s trouble brewing at home. He could be useful, and his spirit impresses me.’

Mentor muttered something inaudible. Castor nodded then turned back to the others, announcing that matters were settled and – if Eperitus was willing – they would journey to the oracle together. The young warrior released his grip on his sword and exhaled.

‘And what’s more, Eperitus, after we’ve heard the Pythoness we can give you safe escort to the harbour where our ship is moored. It’s a busy place, and if you’re looking for adventure you could do worse than start in a port. What do you say?’

Eperitus nodded. ‘A stranger in a foreign land has to accept offers of friendship whenever they’re made.’

At this Castor took a dagger from within the folds of his tunic and offered the hilt towards him.

‘Then you should be a stranger no more. Take the dagger. Go on, take it. As Zeus, protector of strangers, is my witness, I swear to you my lasting friendship and loyalty. By this token I promise to honour and protect you whenever you’re in my home or on my lands; never to oppose you in arms; and always to help you in your need. This oath will be true for myself and my children, to you and yours until seven generations have passed, as our customs require.’

Nervously Eperitus took the dagger and held it in his sweating palm. It was rich in gold and the handle was inlaid with a scene from a boar hunt – a work of great craftsmanship. Closing his fingers about it, hiding its enthralling wonder, he looked gratefully at Castor. The prince’s eyes were expectant.

Eperitus was familiar with the noble custom of xenia, offering friendship to guests, which he had seen his grandfather carry out many times. It was not merely good manners, but a promise of unbreakable friendship. An alliance for life. It lay at the heart of the code by which warriors brought themselves renown, the code that made their names both feared and celebrated throughout Greece.

After a moment’s pause he unslung the scabbard from his shoulder and removed the sword. Sliding the blade into his belt, he offered the leather sheath to Castor.

‘I’ve nothing more to give you than this,’ he said solemnly. ‘It was given to my grandfather by the father of our king, after he saved his life in battle. It belonged to a great man and I offer it to you freely, happy it’s given to a warrior of noble blood. With it I offer you my own oath of allegiance. I swear to honour you whenever we meet. I will never take up arms against you, but will defend you from your enemies. As Zeus is my witness, for myself and my children to you and yours until seven generations have passed.’

Castor took the scabbard and winked at the young warrior, while behind him Mentor glowered with displeasure.

They marched silently in single file, tracing the mountain pathways that had been worn smooth by thousands of pilgrims over hundreds of years. A shower of rain in the late afternoon had made the stones slippery, so they picked their way carefully and used their spears as staffs. Upon reaching the upper slopes they could see a large plain spread below them. A wide body of water lay beyond it, which Eperitus fancied led to the sea. Above them the sky was grey with the passing rain clouds; evening was closing and soon the moon would rise above the crest of the hills.

Castor and Halitherses were striding ahead of the rest of the group, who, after the exertion of the battle, were beginning to lag as the relentless march continued, their strained breathing filling the air. Eperitus, who was tiring of Mentor’s watchful presence only two or three paces behind, left his place in the file and stretched his pace out to join the two leaders.

‘Evening’s nearly upon us, Castor,’ he said as he caught them. ‘Are we to make camp or march into the night?’

‘Is the walk taking its toll on you?’ the Cretan grinned.

‘I can match you step for step, friend, unlike the rest of your men. Their arms weigh them down and the air back there is heavy with their constant sighing.’

Halitherses looked back and grunted. ‘Too much peace has made them soft. They’re good lads – plenty of spirit – but may the gods help them if they ever find themselves shield to shield in a real scrap.’

By now the chariot of the sun had slipped below the horizon and the detail was draining out of the world, making it difficult to be sure of their footing on the wet and smooth-trodden path. Despite this and the state of his men, Castor did not slacken the pace for one moment. It was clear he would reach the oracle at Pythia tonight, even if they did not.

‘It’s dark now,’ he said, ‘but the full moon will be up before long. The temple’s only a short march away and I want to be there before the Pythoness drinks one too many of her potions.’

‘You speak like you’ve been there before,’ Eperitus said, intrigued. For days on his solitary journey he had turned over the stories he knew about the oracle. Mount Parnassus was a magical and sacred place, full of mystery and terror. Returning pilgrims in Alybas had told of a fire-breathing hole at the heart of a mountain, guarded by a monstrous serpent, where men descended after offering a sacrifice to Gaea, the earth mother. Inside was the Pythoness herself, upon whom the goddess had bestowed the power to know all things past and present, and all the secrets of the future. Wreathed in smoke, she would speak in mysterious riddles that only her priests could interpret, whilst all around her the cloud of stinking fumes would shift to depict ghosts of ages past, or spectres of things to come.

‘Not into the oracle itself,’ Castor answered, ‘though I’ve waited outside while my uncles went in. They live here on the slopes of Mount Parnassus and consult the oracle two or three times a year. I came here in my youth to claim an inheritance promised by my grandfather, so I remember the place well.’ He looked about himself. ‘We hunted boar a number of times in these hills.’

Halitherses, who had taken the lead from Castor, called back over his shoulder. ‘Show him the scar.’

Castor paused to pull aside his cloak, revealing a long white scar that ran up half the length of his thigh from the knee. It was still visible in the fast-failing light beneath the thin canopy of trees, though Eperitus had not noticed it before then.

‘A boar?’ he asked.

‘Not just any boar,’ Castor replied. ‘It was a monster, a gigantic beast of untold years. His hide was thicker than a fourfold shield and you could see the scars of old spear thrusts through his coarse hair. Two great tusks jutted from his mouth,’ he held up his forefingers before his chin and glared boar-like at the young warrior, ‘as long and as sharp as daggers, though twice as deadly with his bulk behind them. But most terrifying of all were his eyes: as black as obsidian, burning with hate for all mankind. They were filled with the experience of a beast that’d outwitted more than one huntsman, and I knew I wasn’t his first victim. Though I was his last.’

‘Your uncles killed him?’

‘I killed him!’ Castor told him proudly. ‘I was the first of our party to see him charging out of a thicket with his breath clouding the morning air. Though only a boy, I threw my spear between his shoulders as his head was lowered at my belly. My grandfather and uncles tell me he was dead before he hit me and only the momentum of his great bulk carried his tusk into my thigh. As for me, he knocked my legs away and I hit my head on a rock. I woke up a day later with my wounds bound and every bone in my body aching.’

‘You were fortunate.’

‘Fortune has nothing to do with it,’ Castor snorted, turning to walk back up the path as his men finally caught up with them. He held open the inside of his shield, revealing a painted image of a maiden in full armour. ‘Athena protects me. I honour her above all other gods, excepting Zeus of course, and in return she keeps me from harm. She saved me from the boar, not fortune.’

Castor’s choice of deity intrigued Eperitus. Most men had their favourite Olympian, whom they prayed to more than any other and in whose honour they would make an extra offering at every meal. For sailors it was Poseidon, god of the sea; for farmers Demeter, goddess of the harvest; for craftsmen it was Hephaistos, the smith-god. Merchants would make offerings to Hermes to bring them good trade; young women would pray to Aphrodite to make them into wives; and wives would pray to Hestia, protectress of the home. The hunter would worship Artemis and the poet would dedicate his songs to Apollo. And Castor, like all soldiers, should have paid homage to Ares, whose realm was the battlefield. The ferocious god of war gave his followers a strong arm in the fight and, if it was their day to die, an honourable death surrounded by their fallen foes. Instead he chose Athena, the goddess of wisdom. She was the symbol not of brutality in battle – which all fighting men valued – but of skill with weaponry and warcraft. She gave her favourites cunning, resourcefulness and the ability to outwit their enemies, not the blood-thirsty joy of killing with which Ares endowed his followers. It seemed a strange choice for a man.

The moon showed her pockmarked face above the line of the hills, like a gigantic gorgon transforming the landscape to stone. The plain below their right flank remained dark, though the shard of water that pierced it sparkled like ice. Deep shadows stalked the silvered hillsides about the file of warriors, who were made conspicuous by their movement and glinting armour.

During their whole march they had barely seen more than half a dozen other pilgrims. Winter had just begun, of course, and it was not the season for travelling to and fro across Greece. Nevertheless, there would always be people who needed to consult the gods. Maybe fear of deserters from the siege of Thebes kept them away, Eperitus speculated, or perhaps the need for the gods was less urgent, now that the civil wars of Greece had all but ceased. Peace had brought prosperity and a brittle sense of security to the people.

Suddenly Castor brought his men to a halt, pointing up at the hillside ahead where trails of smoke drifted up through the treetops into the clear night air.

‘See?’ he said. ‘The oracle is up there.’

‘Thank the gods,’ groaned a voice from the back of the file. ‘My feet are dying beneath me and my stomach needs food.’

Castor was unmoved by the self-pitying complaints of his men.

‘We can make camp later. First I must see the Pythoness. Those of you who can wait until morning had better set up camp here, where you won’t gag on the smell from the fumes. And make sure Damastor doesn’t stand guard again, in case his snoring attracts another band of roaming deserters.’

The soldier who had spoken to Eperitus by the fire lowered his head as his comrades jeered him, their good humour surprising considering the danger he must have left them in by sleeping on guard duty that morning. Then they started to shed their armour and baggage, clearly having no intention of taking another step that night.

Castor threw a heavily muscled arm about Eperitus’s shoulders. ‘Meanwhile, you and I can go and question the hag about what the gods have planned for us.’

Eperitus watched the skeins of smoke trailing into the night air and quickly forgot his fatigue from the day’s trials. At last, he was nearing the oracle itself.

‘We’ll come with you as well,’ said Halitherses.

He was joined by a lean, grubby-looking man with hollow cheeks and a big nose. He introduced himself as Antiphus, and as Eperitus took his hand he realized he was missing his two bowstring fingers. This was the harshest and most effective punishment for hunting without leave on a noble’s land, and was usually meted out only to the low-born: by hacking off the index and forefingers the man was made ineffective as an archer. It was this that caused Eperitus to note with curiosity that Antiphus still carried a bow on his shoulder.

‘There’s a sacred spring ahead,’ Castor informed them as they walked up the slope towards the trees. ‘We should bathe there before we enter the temple.’

They walked into a circle of trees that stood about a wide, dark pool. Water broke from a rock on the far side, gurgling softly in the still night air. As Eperitus watched, the moon emerged from behind a veiling cloud and transformed the clearing with her ghostly light. He found himself in a dreamscape, a place of unmatchable beauty where the simple glade had shed its earthly guise to reveal a heart of magic. The moon’s disc moved in the water, wavering, slowing towards stillness but never quite achieving solid form. The boles of the trees became pillars of silver, as if the men had stepped inside an enchanted hall where the glistening pool took the place of the hearth and the whispering branches formed a roof over their heads. Not without reason was the spring considered sacred: Eperitus almost expected to see a deer leap into the clearing, pursued by Artemis herself, bow in hand.

Then Castor removed his cloak, armour and tunic and quickly lowered himself into the water. He was soon out again, replacing his garments. The others followed, each one flinching from the icy bite of the water, their complaints echoing about the ring of trees.

Slowly Eperitus scooped up handfuls of water and tipped them over his arms, shoulders and chest. The cold was sharp, initially, but as he became used to it he started to feel a new sensation tingling across his skin, like the breath of a god.

‘Don’t stay too long,’ Castor warned. ‘The gods tolerate bathers in the daylight, but the darkness is a time for water nymphs and other supernatural beings. Be quick.’

The water poured off Eperitus as he stepped out. He put his tunic back on and hugged his thick cloak about his body to keep off the chill night air. Yet at the same time he could feel a transformation: the tiredness had lifted and the bruising on his shin where the spear had hit the greave no longer pained him. He felt alive, alert and awake.

As they emerged from the trees they could smell wood smoke and roasting meat. They saw the glow of flames from a plateau further up the hill and scrambled their way up the slope to reach the blaze of several camp fires surrounded by clouds of moths, where groups of pilgrims had laid down their blankets for the night. They avoided looking at the warriors as they walked between their lighted circles, reluctant to attract the attention of the heavily armed men. Eperitus paid the pilgrims no mind either: he was engrossed by the large, pillared edifice ahead of him, built against a sheer face of rock where the mountain rose again from the plateau. A faint red glow came from inside, like a bloody wound cut into the dark of the night, and swirling out of the entrance was a trail of white smoke. They had found the oracle.

‘They won’t let you in now. They never lets you in after dark.’

They turned to see a young man dressed in a coarse black tunic with a fleece draped over his shoulders against the cold. He sat by his own small fire next to a pen full of goats. The animals were subdued by the night and lay pressed against each other for warmth. Occasionally a kid would bleat or the tangled mass of bodies would kick and shift as one of its members repositioned itself. The herdsman pointed up at the temple.

‘Just got a new Pythoness from the village. The ol’ one died, see, and this un’s only been at it a few weeks. Makes the priests a bit protective, it does, an’ they want ’er to get plenty of rest at night.’

‘She’ll speak for me,’ Castor responded. ‘I’ve got business that won’t wait.’

The herdsman smiled sympathetically. ‘You’ll be lucky to get by those priests, m’lord. I’ve seen rich folk, nobles like you lot, offer ’em a gold piece to see her after dark, but the priests just laugh at ’em. Say she’s special, is this’n, and they don’t want to tire her any more’n what they have to. Breathing them fumes all day takes years out of a Pythoness, so it does. The one what died looked old enough to be my grandmother’s mother, though in truth she were only a few years older than what I am. Those fumes rot the flesh as well as the brain, y’know.’

Castor turned and carried on up the slope. It was all the persuasion the others needed to leave the herdsman to his advice.

‘’Ang on,’ the herdsman shouted, springing up from his fire and running after them. ‘If you’re goin’ anyway, you ought to buy one of my goats. You can torture the priests and hold the Pythoness upside down by her ankles, but the goddess won’t speak unless you take her a sacrifice. Ain’t your lordships respecters of the gods?’

Castor grabbed the man by his tunic and pulled him close. ‘Don’t ever question my loyalty to the gods. Now, go and fetch me a one-year-old goat, pure black with no markings.’

‘Get me one, too,’ Eperitus ordered. If Castor could not wait until morning, neither would he.

The herdsman returned with an animal under each arm. The beast he gave to Castor was as black as night and wriggled like a hydra. Eperitus’s was brown and white and had hardly managed to rouse itself from sleep. They threw them over their shoulders and held them by their cloven hoofs.

‘Tha’s one silver piece for blackie, and six coppers for the other, sirs.’

‘We’ll give you five copper pieces for them both,’ Eperitus corrected, disgusted at the man’s audacity.

The herdsman turned to him with a broad smile on his dirty face. ‘That black un’s my best animal. If your lord wants . . .’

‘Here,’ said Castor, impatient to get on. He handed the goat herder two silver pieces and started towards the temple.

‘You should learn the good grace of yer master,’ the trader told Eperitus, before turning to walk back down the slope. Eperitus gave him a swift kick to the buttocks to speed him on his way, which provoked a stream of insults hurled towards his departing back.

As they rejoined Castor and the others a great belch of smoke swirled out of the temple door and coiled into the night air. For the first time Eperitus consciously recognized the faint stench that had been growing since they left the pool. He turned to Antiphus, who wrinkled his large nose in response. It smelled of rotten eggs, the nauseating, throat-drying stink that poets associate with Hades itself. Suddenly Eperitus wished he had waited until morning.

‘Perhaps she’s asleep like the herdsman said,’ Antiphus suggested, uncertainly. ‘Wouldn’t those other pilgrims be here otherwise? Let’s come back tomorrow.’

‘Go back if you want,’ Castor replied, holding the struggling goat tighter about his shoulders and looking up at the steps to the temple. ‘You can all wait until morning if you’re afraid. But I’m going in now.’

After a brief pause, the others followed him up to the mouth of the oracle.

Chapter Three

PYTHON

They approached the dark portico that led to the most famous oracle in all Greece. Its rough grey pillars glowed red with the light of whatever burned within and the stench of sulphur was nauseating. A man appeared at the entrance and walked quickly down to bar the way. He was dressed all in black and carried a long staff.

‘The Pythoness sleeps. Now leave before I put a curse on you all.’

‘Don’t be so hasty,’ Castor said, stepping up to the holy man and fixing him with narrowed eyes. ‘How much will it cost to wake her up?’

‘Your money won’t make any difference here,’ the priest answered, his gaze shifting uncertainly under the scrutiny of the fierce-looking warrior. ‘Whole cities send tribute to the oracle, so your pitiful . . .’

‘Then you leave me no choice but to wake her myself! Stand aside.’

It shocked Eperitus that his new friend dared talk in such a way to a member of the most powerful priesthood in Greece. It surprised the cleric too, who for a moment looked as if he would merely slip away into the shadows. But his arrogant manner soon got the better of him, used as he was to bullying pilgrims from every station in Greek life. In an instant he jerked his rakish arms into the air and in a quivering moan began to invoke the goddess Gaea.

Eperitus squirmed nervously as his chants filled the air about them. He feared the goddess would take her supernatural revenge on them at any moment, angry they had offended one of her earthly representatives. But Castor was not so easily intimidated and simply walked around the man.

The others followed, only for the priest to bound up the steps and throw himself in front of them again, his arms extended and his voice raised to Gaea. His outstretched palms halted the intruders in their tracks and Eperitus, for one, was filled with terror by his wailing. Though he would happily fight any number of armed men, who was he to stand up to a goddess?

‘We’ll have to turn back, Castor,’ he said. ‘Unless you want to bring the wrath of the gods down on us.’

‘Athena will protect me, even from Gaea,’ he answered, calmly stroking the nose of the goat about his shoulders and looking up at the priest. ‘Antiphus! Take this animal, will you.’

The priest’s chants were growing louder and more urgent as he saw the armed pilgrims were not retreating. Already he had called down fire from the heavens, cursed them with sudden blindness and invoked several diseases. He was condemning their future wives to barrenness when Castor held up a hand and began to talk through the cacophony.

‘Your incantations don’t work, so save your breath and let me speak. King Menestheus of Athens has sent me to consult the oracle. And in return for an answer to his question he promises three bronze tripods and cauldrons to match, as well as twenty talents of silver.’

The wailing stopped and the priest came down a few cautious steps. ‘What’s the question?’

‘A great sea monster – a kraken – has been smashing our ships into kindling and devouring the crews and cargoes whole. Our merchants are afraid to leave port and we Athenians are starting to feel the pinch. The king’s desperate for the wisdom of Gaea to help rid his city of the beast, and so I must speak to the Pythoness. Every wasted day puts more of our ships in peril and starves Athens of much-needed trade.’

As Eperitus listened to Castor’s story he began to wonder further about his friend’s identity. Did he really come from Crete – as he had told him – or was he in truth an envoy from King Menestheus? Surely he could not cheat his way into an audience with the Pythoness on the pretence of being an Athenian, then ask about a voyage from Crete? He glanced at Halitherses and Antiphus, but they avoided his eyes.

‘There were Athenian merchants here only the day before yesterday,’ the priest responded suspiciously. ‘Why didn’t they mention this kraken?’

‘Because they buy goods from the ships of other cities,’ Castor replied. ‘If they came here and put it about that a sea monster was attacking vessels just off the harbour at Piraeus, the rumour would spread and no foreign merchant would dare come to Athens – they’d be out of business within weeks. Didn’t they appear a little nervous?’

At that moment, a husky female voice called out faintly from deep within the temple. ‘Lies within lies!’ it echoed. ‘Don’t let him in! A maze he is, that man, unto others and unto himself. Though not to us. Not to me.’

The voice laughed, a horrible, retching chuckle.

‘Through the fumes we see him clearly,’ it continued. ‘We know him, then, now and tomorrow. Send him away, quickly. Sleep matters more than poor island princes.’

The priest looked angrily at Castor, who stared back even more determined than ever.

‘I’m not some dog who’ll sleep by the footstool of its master, waiting to be woken with a kick,’ he said, gripping the hilt of his sword. ‘In the name of Athena, you will let me in!’

‘Indeed,’ said a voice from behind the warriors. They turned to see another priest, an older man this time with white robes, a purple cloak draped over one arm and carrying a staff the length of a spear. There was something ethereal about him; his long hair and beard appeared to be filled with strands of bright silver and he had big, round eyes like an owl and a nose that ran straight and did not dip at the bridge.

‘Let them in, let them in,’ the old man said authoritatively, striding towards the pilgrims and waving them up the steps.

‘But Elatos,’ the other priest protested, ‘the Pythoness said to send them away.’

‘We may be priests, Thrasios, but it sometimes makes us arrogant and heedless of our duties as human beings.’ The head priest reached the entrance to the temple and Eperitus suddenly noticed how tall he was – a full head and shoulders above everybody else, even Halitherses. He placed a hand on the younger priest’s arm. ‘Now then, you can see these men are nobles; warriors, no less. Take their animals and sacrifice them, as is required, and call on the presence of the gods this sombre night. Unless I’m greatly mistaken, the prince here will not be kept waiting.’

‘That’s right, my lord. I’m Castor, son of Hylax, come from the island of Crete to consult the oracle.’

‘Are you and have you?’ said the priest sceptically. He placed his fists on his hips and spat irreverently on the step. ‘My name is Elatos, and if you wish to speak with the Pythoness you will first give me three copper pieces. As you’ve brought two animals I assume one of your friends also wishes to receive her wisdom? That will be another three copper pieces.’

Eperitus pulled three of the dwindling number of coins from his pouch and handed them cautiously to the man. ‘I seek the will of the gods.’

‘A wise thing to do,’ the head priest replied, taking his payment along with Castor’s and hiding the pieces in a fold of his robe. ‘Once the sacrifice has been made, follow Thrasios through the crack in the rock at the back of the temple. He will lead you to the Pythoness, but stay close to him! A serpent – Gaea’s own son – protects the priestess, and he’s been known to pick off the odd stray pilgrim.

‘Thrasios will also interpret the Pythoness’s ramblings for you. I find his devotion to the gods helps him understand the precise meaning of the priestess’s gibberish. She’s quite unconscious of it herself, of course. Spouts the stuff all day long yet can’t remember a word of it, let alone interpret it.’

At that point Thrasios appeared on the broad top step. He held Castor’s goat under one arm and a sacrificial knife in his free hand.

‘Come through,’ he ordered, impatiently.

Antiphus led the way. Only Elatos remained, wishing the men goodbye before turning to retreat down the steps. As he placed his foot on the first step, though, he caught Castor’s eye and said in a hushed voice, ‘Meet me by the sacred pool when this is over. I have something to discuss with you.’ Eperitus was not given time to ponder Elatos’s words, as Castor pushed him in through the high, pillared doorway.

Viewed from the outside the temple looked small, but inside it had been delved into the rock-face and was as big as the great hall of the king’s palace in Alybas. The ceiling was high and dark, punctured by a hole through which the blue evening sky was visible. A large, well-stocked fire in the centre of the temple sent trails of smoke through the room, most of which eventually escaped out of the vent in the roof. In the side walls were alcoves that housed rough terracotta images of various gods, each of them lit by a flaming torch that left great black scars on the limestone plaster above. The plaster itself was decorated with what had once been colourful images of animals and men moving through a landscape of rivers and trees, but now these pictures were fading and in places had peeled away. The smoke of the fire and the torches had dulled some beyond recognition.

Only the far wall remained untouched. This was the sheer face of the mountain: rugged, grey and cold. Eating a line straight through its centre was a dark crack, just wide enough for two men to enter side by side. Eperitus strained his eyes to see into its blackness, but the firelight that filled the temple revealed nothing of whatever lay beyond. Then, as he watched, he heard a faint hissing that made his flesh creep. Suddenly he was reminded of what Elatos had said about the serpent that guarded the oracle. His hand instinctively sought the hilt of his sword and with a shudder he turned away.

To his left Thrasios was kneeling and holding the two goats by their stumpy horns. A second priest appeared from a side door and placed shallow bowls of water on the floor. A moment later the animals bowed their heads to drink, unconsciously giving their consent to be sacrificed. Hardly allowing the black animal to take a second lap of the water, Thrasios lifted it to the altar and, picking up his knife, cut off a wisp of its wiry hair. This he threw into the blazing fire whilst uttering prayers to Gaea, conducting the ritual with practised ease and with the relish of a man who enjoyed his work. Eperitus watched in admiration as he controlled the struggling beast with one hand then stunned it with a blow from the handle of his knife. A moment later, still calling on the goddess, he placed a large bowl beneath the goat’s limp head and slit its throat. Thrasios waited for the gush of blood to stop then handed the carcass to the other priest, who finished the work of cutting it up. The second animal met the same efficient death and its various parts were shared between the fire, as a burnt offering to the gods, and the priests, for their evening meal.

Once the act of sacrifice was complete, Thrasios took a torch from the wall and led them into the narrow crack at the back of the temple. It led into an unlit chamber where they waited as the priest cast the light of his torch this way and that, searching keenly for something in the blackness.

As the only light came from this single flame, it took their eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness. Eperitus could sense by the feel of the air and the echo of the small sounds they made that they were in a large cave, a pocket within the solid stone of the mountain. As Thrasios moved his torch through the gloom Eperitus glimpsed a natural archway leading into even deeper darkness beyond. Nothing else was visible, making him feel unnervingly exposed and vulnerable. Then he saw the light catch on something to his left, something shining that moved at incredible speed. Suddenly the torch was whipped out of the priest’s hand and they were plunged into darkness.

‘Don’t move!’ Thrasios hissed, his voice strangely distant, as if he stood on the far side of the cave. ‘If you draw your weapons you’ll be killed. It’s Python. He’s watching you.’ He sounded frightened. ‘You shouldn’t have insisted on coming so late. He’s confused.’

‘Don’t you have any power over the creature?’ Halitherses whispered urgently.

‘I can calm him, but you must remain silent. Don’t move.’

The great beast shifted across the stone floor not two strides away from them. Eperitus realized this was no mere snake but an animal of supernatural proportions. Fighting the urge to take out his sword, he dared to turn his head and behold the full horror of the monster.

Snakes, to Eperitus, were loathsome creatures. Their hideous limbless torsos, their cold skins and lipless mouths froze his flesh with disgust. As he beheld Python, with its vast coils contracting and stretching, it circled them once and then, to Eperitus’s horror, paused opposite him.

Slowly it raised its heavy triangular head and extended it towards his face. Even in the dull light each individual scale was now clear to the terrified warrior as Python’s slender nostrils fanned his face with its cold breath, the ageless eyes regarding him with a malice that dwarfed the hatred of any man. As Eperitus watched, transfixed by mind-numbing horror, its mouth parted with a long hiss to release a glistening, forked tongue, which flickered out and touched his lips.

At that moment a number of things happened. Eperitus reached for his sword but his hand was seized, preventing him from drawing the weapon. The creature pulled its head back as if to strike, and then a female voice called to it from the archway. It was the same husky voice that had denounced Castor’s lies when they had stood outside in the night air. Quickly the serpent turned its head in response to the voice, just as the other priest appeared with another torch from the entrance behind them.

The stuttering flame threw back the void and to Eperitus’s relief he saw that the guardian of the oracle had slid back into a corner of the cave, its scales glittering like a thousand eyes amongst the shadows. Thrasios hurried the pilgrims across the open floor and through the archway at the far end. Eperitus was the last through and collided with Antiphus’s back in his eagerness to reach safety.

With his torch held before him Thrasios now took them into a low-ceilinged passageway. They followed its short course as it descended sharply to below the level of the temple. It was warm, stuffy and claustrophobic and the sickening stench of sulphur was much stronger now. Then a new light appeared, and within moments they had turned a bend in the passageway and stood at the threshold of a second, smaller cavern, its floor split by a great crack from which foul-smelling fumes hissed upward to the high ceiling to be lost in the darkness above their heads. A few torches struggled against the stifling vapours, but served only to lend the place a sombre, strangulated life.

The vent in the rock opened up lengthways before them. At the far end a large black tripod had been set up directly over the abyss with a young woman seated on it. She wore a long white robe of a thin and revealing material, and her hair hung loose over her shoulders. There were dark rings about her eyes as if she had not slept for many nights, and her yellow skin was deeply lined, like that of a much older woman.

As Eperitus looked at her he inhaled a lungful of the pungent smoke rising from the vent. It made his eyes water and his vision cloud; shadows crawled about the walls like wraiths. Then the Pythoness looked up wearily at the newcomers.

‘Sit down,’ she said. Her voice was weak and quiet, but the men obeyed. Only Thrasios remained standing, in attendance on his mistress, whose eyes and cheeks appeared deeply sunken in the shifting half-light.

He handed her a wooden bowl and, with a fragile and almost helpless movement, she took something from it and put it into her mouth. Eperitus watched her lower her head and chew. After a while her chin fell on her chest and her body went limp, remaining still for some time. He looked at Castor, but the prince was watching the priestess with a hawklike stare.

Suddenly her body jerked upwards as she sucked in a lungful of the vapour through her nostrils, held it, and then exhaled with a long sigh. Thrasios took a step towards her, excited, twitching restlessly in his eagerness to help his mistress. The Pythoness began to inhale deeply now, lifting her head to take in the fumes that coiled about her. Her eyes remained closed as her breathing grew quicker, heavier, her shoulders thrown back and her small breasts thrust outwards with each breath. Thrasios snatched the bowl from her lap, threw the long, dark leaves that filled it onto the floor, and used it to waft more of the vapours into the face of the priestess.

Gradually her breathing slowed and the Pythoness relaxed. Then she turned to face her visitors. But it was not the same tired woman the men had seen earlier. Now she was self-assured, even arrogant as she surveyed them. And there was something else about her: her eyes had changed.

With horror Eperitus saw that the irises were now yellow and the pupils were vertical slits. She opened her mouth and hissed, a forked tongue lolling out of her lipless mouth.

‘Who seeks the future?’

‘I do,’ Castor answered, showing no fear. He stood and kicked Eperitus’s sandalled foot. Struggling against the fear within him, he rose to his feet to face the Pythoness.

‘And I,’ he whispered.

They were the only ones standing. The others knelt before her, touching their hands and foreheads to the cave floor. The Pythoness pointed at Castor.

‘What is it you seek, Odysseus of Ithaca?’

Eperitus stared at his companion and then at the Pythoness. Castor looked equally shocked, but a moment later was kneeling before her with his head bowed.

‘Yes, I know you,’ she continued. ‘Long have I waited for you: the hero who will make a name so large it will take an ocean to swallow. Ask.’

‘My father’s kingdom is threatened, goddess. I must know if I will rise to become king in his place, or whether the throne will be seized by his enemies. Will I reign, or will I be exiled by usurpers?’

The Pythoness gave her answer without hesitation.

‘Find a daughter of Lacedaemon and she will keep the thieves from your house. As father of your people you will count the harvests on your fingers. But if ever you seek Priam’s city, the wide waters will swallow you. For the time it takes a baby to become a man, you will know no home. Then, when friends and fortune have departed from you, you will rise again from the dead.’

‘Thank you, goddess,’ he said, and sat down beside Antiphus. He placed his head in his hands and was silent.

‘Do you understand the prophecy?’ Thrasios asked.

‘Aren’t you the interpreter?’ Halitherses retorted.

‘I’ve had more difficult riddles to decipher. You must fetch a princess from Sparta, Odysseus, and she will defend your palace from usurpers. You will become king and reign over a prosperous kingdom for ten years. From then you have a choice: to stay at home, or go to the city of Troy far away in the east. But be warned, if you choose Troy you will not see your homeland for twenty years; and when you return you will be alone and destitute.’

Eperitus glanced inquisitively at Castor, or Odysseus if that was his true name, but the prince did not look up as Thrasios interpreted his fate. Instead he fixed his eyes on the chasm and said nothing.

‘And you, Eperitus of Alybas?’ the Pythoness asked, pointing at the tall young warrior. ‘What is your question?’

Chapter Four

HELEN OF SPARTA

The great hall of the palace at Sparta was dark but for the glow of a fire at its centre. Colossal shadows stalked each other about the high walls, whilst the sputtering of the flames echoed in the emptiness of the vast space. Around the large circular hearth four pillars stood sentinel, as thick as tree trunks, their heads lost in the gloom of the high ceiling.

On ornate chairs between two of the columns sat three richly clad men. Before them stood an old priest with a long, white beard and beside him knelt a scribe, taking notes as one of the seated men spoke.

‘A bad summer usually means a bad winter, in my experience,’ he said in a deep voice, looking down at the scribe.

The slave glanced up from his clay tablet and nodded. ‘Yes, my lord.’

His master was Tyndareus, co-king of Sparta, a fierce-looking man with wild hair and a thick beard, not yet touched by grey despite his respectable age. His large bulk seemed to embody the power he held, though disuse was turning his muscles to fat and excessive feasting had swollen the proportions of his stomach.

‘We’ll need to demand more grain from the farmers for the winter provision,’ Tyndareus continued. ‘They won’t be happy about it, of course, but I’ll not risk the people starving. It also means the potters will have to make more storage jars, and quickly.’

‘At least the extra work will make them happy, brother,’ commented the man to his right.

‘But with this year’s poor harvest, my lord, we could hardly take any more grain from the farmers without starving them to death.’ The scribe held up one of the baked tablets at his side as if the dashed figures were all the proof he required.

Tyndareus passed his golden cup behind his head, where it was hurriedly refilled by one of the attending wine stewards. He took a swallow and nodded at the priest, who was fidgeting for attention.

‘Speak, priest. What do the gods say I should do?’

‘The signs are that the winter will be mild, my lord.’

Tyndareus’s brother spoke up again. ‘So does that mean we won’t have to store extra grain?’

‘Not quite, Lord Icarius,’ the priest said. ‘There will be more than the winter to provision against.’

‘And what does that mean?’ Tyndareus growled.

‘The gods have sent me a dream that, as joint rulers of the city, you should both be wary of.’ Tyndareus scowled; he did not like to be reminded that he and his younger brother were officially co-kings, when in reality Icarius had little say in state affairs. The priest continued undeterred, waving his hands about in a fussy manner. ‘Seven nights ago I was asleep in the temple when I dreamed the palace was filled with great men. There were warriors from all over Greece, men of wonderful renown accompanied by their squires and soldiers. I saw this very hall filled with banqueting: men emptying your best golden wine cups as quickly as the slaves could refill them; the women hardly able to do their work for the attentions of so many men; voices calling for more meat, and yet the courtyard outside already swimming with the blood of sacrificed oxen.’

‘Perhaps the dream refers to King Agamemnon’s visit?’ Icarius suggested, nodding towards the other seated man.

Agamemnon, king of Mycenae and son-in-law to Tyndareus, had arrived in Sparta the day before. He was a full score of years younger than his hosts, and yet had a more authoritative bearing than either of them. Tall, athletically built and handsome, his hair was long and brown with a hint of red and his beard was cropped neatly to his jawline. He wore a tunic of purest white beneath a blood-red cloak which was clasped together at his left shoulder by a golden brooch. This depicted a lion tearing apart a fallen deer, and captured with great skill the majesty, power and ruthlessness of the man. Yet his cold expression revealed nothing of his emotions. He ignored Icarius and focused his icy blue eyes on the priest.

‘Well, damn it?’ thundered Tyndareus. ‘What does the dream mean? Are we going to be invaded? Will our halls be filled with enemies?’

‘No,’ declared Agamemnon, quietly. ‘The Greeks are at peace with each other for the first time in years, and I’ll see that maintained. Even if the old man’s dream was sent by the gods, it won’t mean that.’

‘Then what does it mean?’ Tyndareus demanded.

‘This isn’t the only time I’ve had the dream, my lord,’ said the priest, stroking his long beard thoughtfully. ‘For six consecutive nights I suffered the same images, until the gods released me from them last night. I interpret this to mean the men will be guests at the palace. What’s more, they will be here one month for each night I had the dreams.’

‘Six months!’ Icarius exclaimed. ‘How in Zeus’s name are we to feed an army of Greece’s finest warriors until next summer? We can barely even feed our own people.’

Tyndareus waved over his chief steward and ordered more fruit to be brought. ‘I assume, priest, you’ve sent an envoy to consult one of the oracles.’

‘Oh yes, my lord. Naturally.’

‘Then we shall wait on the advice of the gods. Not that I can see any reason for inviting a horde of kings here for winter residence. Can you imagine the fights? No, I think you’ve made a mistake this time; your dreams mean something else, or nothing at all.’

Tyndareus turned from the priest to focus on the Mycenaean king.

‘I’m intrigued by these fantasies of yours, though, Agamemnon. Do you really expect to preserve peace between the Greek nations?

The fruit arrived and Agamemnon selected a slice of melon. He took a bite without spilling a drop of juice.

‘Yes, I do. Greece is tired of civil war. I used to go to the marketplaces and hear the women bemoan the loss of sons and husbands in distant battles, whilst the merchants grumbled about the trade they’d lost because of one war or another. But I’ve seen how happy the people have become during this lull. They’re hungry for peace, and I intend to give them what they want.’

Tyndareus scoffed. ‘How? The merchants and women can pine for peace, Agamemnon, but there are too many fighting men in Greece now. The wars have bred a new class of professional soldier. Each state has a standing army, just waiting for the next call to war – and they’re getting restless. For every shepherd, farmer, potter and bronze-smith in Sparta there’s a warrior. Do you think they’ll be willing – or able – to trade their swords for pottery and ivory trinkets? Maybe you think they can sail to Crete in their upturned shields and sell unwanted helmets to farmers and fishermen? And already your so-called “peace” is falling apart again: what about Diomedes and the Epigoni, laying siege to Thebes?’

Agamemnon gave a pained smile. ‘Diomedes desires peace more than anything else. I’ve spoken about this with him and he’s given me his word that he only makes war to avenge the death of his father. That’s all. He doesn’t fight the Thebans for slaves or plunder.’

‘He may not,’ said Icarius. ‘But his men do. Why else would they fight?’

‘I said peace will continue in Greece, and it will,’ Agamemnon insisted. ‘When the nations realize the benefits of commerce over war, attitudes will change. The people want peace with their neighbours and their rulers are prospering already from the free flow of goods. That’s where peace starts. But commerce alone won’t unite us, nor will even the most solemn oaths. And there’s your question about our restless armies, Tyndareus, always itching to be heroes.’

Tyndareus slurped down the last of his wine and the squire refilled his cup. ‘So what do you propose to do?’

‘If we’re to grow rich through commerce, we need to trade freely outside of Greece.’

‘And we do,’ said Icarius.

‘Not any more,’ Agamemnon corrected. He chose another piece of melon from the platter and took a bite, spitting the seeds one by one into the flames. ‘Have you heard of King Priam?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Tyndareus said. ‘Ruler of Troy, and a powerful man by all accounts.’

‘Too powerful.’ Agamemnon frowned. ‘He’s started imposing a tax on trade passing over the Aegean. He claims the sea for Troy and says all ships must pay him tribute. Something I won’t tolerate.’

Tyndareus finished another cup of wine and belched loudly. ‘You may have to, son. You can’t dictate terms to Priam on his own territory.’

‘I don’t regard the Aegean as Trojan territory!’ Agamemnon told him coldly. ‘Besides, Mycenaean ships are not the only target, Tyndareus. Your own merchants will soon feel the pinch, as will the rest of the Greek states. Which is why I’m here – to offer a solution that will ensure free trade throughout the Mediterranean, keep the peace here and give our armies their wish for glory. I propose to call the Greek kings to a council of war. We’ll raid Ilium and teach Priam to respect us!’

Agamemnon gripped the arms of his chair and stared at the Spartan kings, the flames reflecting vividly in his eyes. With his son-in-law’s words ringing in his ears, Tyndareus stood and began pacing up and down by the fire, shaking his head.

‘Don’t be a fool. It’s impossible.’

‘Is it?’ asked Icarius, leaning back and tugging thoughtfully at an earlobe.

‘Yes it is,’ Tyndareus snapped. He held out his cup to a slave, who rushed to refill it. ‘Take it away, you idiot! I need a clear head if I’m to avoid being talked into one of my son’s wars. Now listen to me, Agamemnon, you come here talking peace and propose a war. That’s fine by me, but can you really see the Greek kings joining forces for anything – even to sack foreign cities? Can you imagine all those generations of petty hatreds and family feuds simply being pushed aside so that Mycenaean merchants don’t have to pay tribute to Troy? Can you hear all those proud men swearing oaths of fealty to each other?’

Icarius stood. ‘Listen to him, Tyndareus. Of course we could bring them together, even with all their hatred for each other. Most of them only hold grudges because of what their fathers and grandfathers did to one another. The feuds can’t continue for ever. We need an objective that’ll unite the Greek-speaking cities and make us into a people.’

‘A great people,’ Agamemnon added fiercely. ‘Can you even imagine the power of a united Greece?’

‘United under your leadership, Agamemnon?’ Tyndareus said, looking at him suspiciously. ‘Even with your political skills you couldn’t lead the Greeks. If you could ever get them under one roof, they’d only kill each other. Or is that what you want?’

‘Of course not. But ask yourself this: would you rather take a Spartan army to fight Greek-speaking Argives, or Corinthians, or Athenians; or would you rather kill Trojans with their unintelligible bar-bar-barring, their strange dress and the way they insult the gods with their outlandish worship?’

‘You know my answer to that . . .’

‘And wouldn’t you like to see peace at home and all our wars fought abroad? Don’t you want a unified Greece where a man can go about his business in safety, whether it be a journey to Pythia or a visit to a neighbouring city?’

Agamemnon stared hard at his father-in-law, demanding an answer.

‘Son, you have great vision and I don’t doubt Greece has the potential of which you speak,’ Tyndareus sighed. ‘But if you couldn’t convince Diomedes, your closest friend, to forget his family’s feud with Thebes, what chance will you have of making the kings of Greece swear allegiance to each other? We can’t be reined in like a team of horses, you know, and we’re too damned paranoid about each other to join forces against Troy.’

Agamemnon sighed and looked into the flames as a slave placed an armful of fresh logs in the fire. He had come to Sparta to seek the support of the second most powerful king in Greece, after himself, and instead had found wisdom greater than his own. If Tyndareus had supported him, or if Icarius had been king, he would have convened a council of war. But the older man had spoken with authority and truth: decades and even centuries of feuds would not be cast aside lightly. Even the gods themselves could not command the Greek kings to come together under one roof.

He shook his head in resignation.

‘I’m glad you see sense now, Agamemnon,’ Tyndareus said, smiling broadly. ‘Shall I call the bard for a song? Something light, preferably – perhaps a poem in Aphrodite’s honour?’

Agamemnon sat up and snapped his fingers. ‘That could be the answer.’

‘What? A poem?’

‘No – the goddess of love! What man can refuse her?’

The Spartan brothers exchanged puzzled looks. Agamemnon stood and began pacing the floor. ‘Your daughter, Helen, she’s about fifteen or sixteen years, yes?’

‘Thereabouts.’

‘So she’s old enough to marry.’

‘What of it?’

‘She’s the most desired woman in all Greece!’ Agamemnon enthused. ‘You see her with the eyes of a father, Tyndareus, but other men . . . they would kill to marry her.’

Moments of silence slipped by as Agamemnon continued to pace the floor, his leather sandals soft on the flagstones. ‘Have you considered Menelaus as a son-in-law?’ he said after a while.

‘I haven’t given Helen’s marriage any thought at all, if that’s what you mean,’ Tyndareus replied defensively. ‘But your brother’s a good man. I’ve liked him ever since you two were boys, when I threw your uncle – that scoundrel Thyestes – out of Mycenae. Yes, Menelaus would probably be my first consideration.’

‘Good. I wanted to know that before I asked you about inviting suitors for Helen.’

Tyndareus shook his head. ‘Oh, I wish I hadn’t drunk so much wine; a man needs a clear brain whenever you’re around. Why should I want to invite suitors to my palace?’

‘You asked how I would gather the best of the Greeks under one roof,’ said Agamemnon. ‘Well, that’s my answer. What prince or king would ignore an invitation to pay court to the most beautiful woman of our time? And there’s another lure: I would have become heir to your throne when I married Clytaemnestra, had I not already ruled my own kingdom; that means the right to your kingship will now be passed to the man who marries Helen. With her beauty, power and wealth, the suitors will come flocking to Sparta. Don’t you see, Tyndareus? It’s the priest’s dream.’

Icarius lifted his cup in a toast to Agamemnon. ‘And when you have them here you’ll convene your council of war. You’re a clever man, Agamemnon. One day you’ll be leader of all the Greeks, and then you can take us to glory.’

‘Or death,’ Tyndareus added.

A figure watched them from a shadowy alcove above. Her raven-black hair was covered by the hood of her white robe and her face was hidden behind a thin veil. Only the gleam of her dark eyes was visible in the shadows as she listened to the plans of the men below.

Helen’s heart sank. Tyndareus was not even her real father – Zeus had that honour, though Tyndareus did not know it – and yet he had the audacity to put her up for auction like a slave. As for Agamemnon, he was nothing but a butchering megalomaniac. His mind was a maze of political stratagems and his black heart beat only for the glory of the Greeks. If she were a man she would take a sword down to the courtyard and kill all three of them.

But she was not a man. If she was to stop the king of Mycenae weaving his web about her, she would need subtler weapons than swords or spears. But Helen had learned that the weapons she possessed were more powerful than bronze. She smiled bitterly. From an early age she had been forced to veil her beauty because of the effect it had on the men around her. But as she grew older she had learned how to use that effect to her advantage. Power belonged to men, of course, but men could be manipulated.

Helen looked down at the three kings. Why should she give herself meekly to Menelaus, or any other man they could force on her? She was no brood mare to be traded on the whim of kings. She was a daughter of Zeus and had a right to choose her own lover, one who would take her as far away from the confining walls of Sparta as she could get.

Chapter Five

THE SACRED POOL

‘I’ve come to ask the will of the gods,’ Eperitus said. ‘What is their plan for me, and how do I seek out my destiny?’

The Pythoness ran her tongue along her lips and hissed.

‘Ares’s sword has forged a bond that will lead to Olympus. But the hero should beware love, for if she clouds his desires he will fall into the Abyss.’

Those were her last words to them, as with a final hissing laugh she pulled the hood of her robe over her face and lowered her head.

‘The audience is over,’ Thrasios declared. ‘You must leave now.’

‘And the prophecy?’

The priest gave an arrogant sneer.

‘The gods are already moving in your life. A friendship forged in battle may steer you to glory and a name that survives death. But instead love will lead you astray and you will become nothing.’

He announced the last part with satisfaction, as if this was a fitting end for a soldier.

‘That’s a lie!’ Eperitus responded angrily. ‘I’ll never sacrifice glory for love.’

‘Eperitus!’ Odysseus cautioned him, putting his arm about his shoulders and leading him out in the wake of the priest. ‘The oracle only warned you to beware love. That part of your destiny is still in your own hands. I’ve never heard of a man who wasn’t given a choice by the gods. And besides, did you listen to the first part? Glory and a name that will survive death! What more could a warrior ask for?’

The prince was right, Eperitus thought: his destiny was still his own, and what woman could make him surrender his honour? He looked at Odysseus, who was smiling reassuringly at him; surely their new-found friendship was the one spoken of by the Pythoness. If he was permitted to join the small band of warriors, then his promised destiny would hopefully follow, leading inexorably to fame and glory.

Python was nowhere to be seen in the first cave and they were soon outside again, standing beneath a night sky stuck full of stars. It was good to be away from self-important priests, stinking fumes, the snake-priestess and her vile protector. Eperitus breathed the night air deeply and grinned. Life was just beginning.

As they approached the camp, Odysseus took Eperitus to one side.

‘Eperitus, you heard what the Pythoness called me?’

Eperitus frowned, ‘Odysseus of Ithaca, yes.’

Odysseus let the others go on ahead. When they were out of sight he folded his arms and gave the young soldier a searching look.

‘So what are you thinking?’ he asked.

‘That depends on whether you are Castor of Crete, or Odysseus of Ithaca.’

‘My name is Odysseus,’ he answered. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of me?’

Eperitus shrugged and shook his head apologetically.

‘No matter. Like you, my name is yet to become famous in Greece. I apologize that I was forced to deceive you, though.’ He pointed at the dagger tucked into Eperitus’s belt. ‘That’s a fine weapon. It belonged to my father’s grandfather and I can assure you I didn’t give it lightly, nor as part of a trick. I gave it because I meant what I said, and I want you to keep it as a sign of our continuing friendship.’

‘So why were you forced to deceive me? And how do I know you truly are Odysseus of Ithaca? I don’t even know where Ithaca is.’

Odysseus smiled and for the first time since Eperitus had met him his expression was not guarded. A happy light filled his eyes as for a few moments he forgot the trials of his day.

‘Ithaca is a rocky island off the west coast of Acarnania,’ he began. ‘It isn’t particularly beautiful, but we’re happy there and it’s our home. Its people are the most pigheaded, stupid, idle, yet doughty and lovable folk in the whole of Greece; they live at peace amongst themselves and I would freely give up my life to keep them that way. When I’m away from my island I think of it every moment, and when I’m there I think of nowhere else.’ He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, as if to acknowledge he had failed to do his home justice. ‘One day you will come and see for yourself. Then we can sit around a blazing fire with plenty of wine to hand, and I’ll ask you about Alybas and your own people, eh?’

Eperitus smiled lamely, hoping he would never have to reveal the shame that had led to his exile.

‘As for who I really am,’ Odysseus continued, ‘the Pythoness doesn’t lie. You can be assured of that.’

‘And Castor, son of Hylax, prince of Crete?’ Eperitus asked. ‘Who’s he?’

‘Castor is a disguise, made up when I left the shores of my home. You see, friend, for all its outward appearance of peace and simplicity, Ithaca is torn. Some of its nobles don’t agree with my father’s rule. They’re plotting to rebel, but lack the strength until they can persuade more of the people to choose them over their rightful ruler. As Laertes’s son and heir, they want me out of the way even more: if my father gave me the throne the island would have a young king again, and the nobles are afraid the people of Ithaca would then give their support to me. So when we first met I had to be sure you weren’t another assassin, sent by my father’s enemies to kill me.’

‘But would an enemy have helped save your life?’

‘Maybe not, if he could identify me. But Eupeithes, my father’s chief opponent, employs Taphian mercenaries to do his dirty work. These men aren’t from Ithaca and wouldn’t know me on sight, hence any assassin would have had to find out my name before he could kill me. That’s why I travel under the name of Castor.’

‘It’s difficult to think of you as anybody else now,’ Eperitus said. ‘But I believe you, Odysseus. Perhaps you’ll do me a service in return?’

‘Of course I will. It’s the very least I can do.’

Eperitus pointed back over his shoulder with his thumb, indicating the temple at the top of the slope. ‘The Pythoness said a friendship forged in battle would lead to glory.’

‘I heard her clearly. Then you also think ours is that friendship?’

‘Yes, I do. And I want the glory she spoke of, and a name that will outlive death. Indeed, the name of Eperitus is all I have left. So I want to join your men and sail back with you to Ithaca.’

‘You’re not likely to find much glory there.’ Odysseus laughed.

‘I trust in the priestess.’

‘Then can I rely on you to defend my father’s throne?’

‘I’ve sworn to fight for you and your causes,’ Eperitus reminded him. ‘And I’m no lover of usurpers.’

‘That’s settled then,’ Odysseus said, taking his hand to seal the agreement. ‘We’ll leave at dawn and you can join the palace guard. Return to camp and inform Halitherses – he’ll tell you your duties. I’ll join you later.’

‘Later? Where are you going at this time of night?’

‘To the camp, to see if anybody has any meat to sell. I haven’t eaten properly in a week.’ With that Odysseus turned about and retreated up the hill towards the dying glow of the fires.

Eperitus was about to go back and rejoin the others when he suddenly remembered the tall priest, Elatos. Had he not told Odysseus to meet him by the spring? So was the prince off to find the old priest, and had his story about buying food been just another deception? Eperitus realized then that honesty was not something that came easily to his perfidious new friend. But he was also interested in finding out what secrets the priest was keeping for Odysseus’s ears only, and planned to find out for himself.

In order to maintain his deception Odysseus had to go back up to the plateau and then work his way around to the grove that surrounded the sacred pool, so Eperitus was at the meeting place long before him and was able to conceal himself behind a screen of bushes on the edge of the clearing. Odysseus appeared some time later, alone, and sat down at the edge of the pool to await Elatos. He did not have long to wait.

The priest emerged from the trees like a ghost in his flowing white robes, dominating the space with his great height and presence. He planted the unusually long staff in the dust and spat into the sacred pool.

‘Well, Odysseus, do you know me yet?’

Odysseus stood and looked about the clearing to be certain they were alone. Eperitus remained still, hidden by the bushes and yet able to observe their meeting through a gap between the leaves.

‘Yes,’ the prince replied formally, crossing his arms and staring hard at the old man. ‘You are Elatos, high priest of Gaea.’

Elatos laughed and walked towards the Ithacan prince. He reached out a hand to touch Odysseus’s ear, but Odysseus stepped back out of his long reach, a warning look furrowing his brow.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ the priest told him. ‘You aren’t the only one who can put on a convincing disguise. The real Elatos is asleep with his mistress. He is lying in a hut in the village, where he has been since sunset.’

‘Then who are you? And what do you want with me?’

Eperitus placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, wary that the man might be an agent of Eupeithes. But if he was, he appeared to be in no hurry to make an attempt on Odysseus’s life. Instead, he eyed the shorter man in motionless silence, allowing his question to hang unanswered in the air between them.

As Eperitus looked on he noticed that the clearing had taken on a strange luminescence. It was not moonlight, for the moon had long since disappeared behind the hills, and it was not starlight, as the stars were hidden by a thin screen of cloud which was creeping across the night sky. Whatever the source, it appeared to be captured within the folds of Elatos’s robe, from where it was filtered out to the whole clearing.

‘Do you remember when you were a boy, Odysseus,’ the man suddenly asked, ‘pretending to be asleep when your nurse, Eurycleia, came to check on you? And when she was gone The Lady would come and visit you. Do you remember The Lady, how tall and beautiful she seemed to you? The way she would come out of the darkest corner of your room and sit at the end of your bed, her weight drawing the blankets tight across your legs?’

Odysseus looked astounded.

‘How can you know these things?’ he demanded. ‘Who told you this, when I’ve never mentioned it myself to another living soul?’

The old man smiled and the light grew stronger. ‘Let me ask you something else, son of Laertes: when you were attacked by that boar on these very slopes so many years ago, do you recall how strong your arm felt when it thrust that spear into the animal’s neck? How sure the aim was? Can you still remember the shadow that appeared at your side, scaring the animal so that it missed tearing out your intestines and gored you in the leg instead? And have you forgotten that The Lady visited you again in your dreams as you lay wounded, that she gave you strength to fight the darkness of approaching death?’

Odysseus fell to his knees and lowered his head to the dirt. His cracked voice was barely audible as he confessed that he could remember it all. In that very moment Eperitus looked from his friend to the face of the priest. A piercing light was coming from Elatos’s mouth, then from his nostrils, spilling out to fill the whole of the space between the circle of trees. Suddenly a white fire burst from his eyes and his arms flipped back in the throes of a metamorphosis too terrifying to watch. Eperitus threw his head into his hands in fear for his life, and twisted away from the brilliant radiance.

An instant later the light was gone and comparative darkness had descended on the quiet grove. He dared eventually to open his eyes and raise his head just enough to look through the gap in the leaves. Odysseus lay cowering on the floor, but it was no old man who stood before him now.

Eperitus had heard many tales about the gods appearing to men and women. The legends spoke of a time beyond the memories of the elders, when mortals and immortals walked the earth together, eating, drinking and even sleeping with each other. There were people he had spoken to, mostly travellers exchanging stories for food, who claimed to have met gods, and it was not uncommon for a woman in Alybas to explain an illegitimate child as the product of a god’s attentions. But in the age of separation from the immortals such tales were doubted, if not mocked, and those who claimed such experiences were regarded as liars or madmen.

So who would have believed him if he had said he saw a goddess that evening? Tall as a young tree, strong-limbed with skin as white as marble, she shone with an inner light that he sensed was only a glimpse of a deeper brilliance. Her young face was lovely and yet stern, set with large grey eyes that were dark with the knowledge of many things. On her golden-haired head she wore a helmet fashioned of bronze, and in her right hand she carried a spear which, by its size and weight, Eperitus doubted any mortal could hope to throw. Over her shoulders and left arm she carried an animal’s hide bedecked with a hundred golden tassels that danced as she moved. In the centre of the hide was a face, as repulsive as the goddess herself was awe-inspiring – the face of a gorgon.

She bent down and stroked Odysseus’s hair for a moment, before seizing his arm and pulling him to his feet.

‘Stop grovelling and stand up, Odysseus. If I was an assassin from Eupeithes you’d be dead by now.’

Odysseus dared to look at the goddess, briefly, before lowering his eyes again.

‘Is this how you greet your favourite goddess? I have protected you for the whole of your short life and all you can do is look away in fear.’

Eperitus could hardly take his eyes off her, and yet even in the presence of Athena, the virgin daughter of Zeus, he found himself thinking about Odysseus. Why should a lowly island prince be honoured by one of the Olympians? Who was Odysseus that a goddess such as Athena would choose him above so many others?

As he watched in awe, pressing himself as close as possible to the branches of the bush, Odysseus looked up at the goddess and Eperitus thought there were tears in his eyes.

‘My Lady,’ he said, then fell to his knees and held the hem of her robe to his face. To Eperitus’s amazement and disbelief she also knelt and lowered her lips to kiss his hair.

‘I have been with you all these years, Odysseus, watching over you and protecting you until you were ready.’

‘And am I ready?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Your time is near at hand.’

An owl hooted from the trees, startling Eperitus so that he caught his cloak on the branches, rustling the leaves of the bush he hid behind. Athena glanced briefly in his direction before turning back to Odysseus and pulling him to his feet.

‘You must listen to me, Odysseus, and remember what I say. The trouble in Ithaca is closer than you have dared to think, but you must not be there when Eupeithes makes his move.’

‘But my Lady,’ Odysseus protested, ‘I have to protect my father’s kingdom. Anybody who tries to take it from my family will taste the point of my spear.’

‘And you theirs.’ Athena put an arm about him and led him away from the pool, nearer to where Eperitus lay concealed. ‘Eupeithes is a fool. I might even kill him myself one day, but until then if you are to be king in your father’s place you first have to prove yourself worthy. The Pythoness wasn’t wrong when she told you that you will be king; but there are journeys to be made and alliances formed before you can hope to take your rightful inheritance.’

Odysseus stopped close to Eperitus’s hiding place and scratched his scar vigorously. ‘But if Eupeithes strikes soon and I’m away from home, then Ithaca will be lost.’

‘Don’t forget that you are only mortal, Odysseus,’ Athena warned him, rising to her full height. ‘Only the gods know the future, and you must place your trust in them if you ever hope to be king. I tell you truthfully that if a man follows his own designs and doesn’t place his fate in the laps of the gods, then his path will be dark, difficult and doomed to ultimate failure. I promise you my help, and you will receive it, but you must have faith. What is more, I want you to do something for me.’

‘Whatever you ask, mistress,’ Odysseus said, though with hesitation.

The goddess smiled. ‘I need you to go to Messene. I have a temple there which has fallen out of use. Hera put one of Echidna’s spawn there to spite me – a monster older than Python and greater in size. Now it’s keeping my followers away and even my priests dare not tend the altar.’ She slammed the butt of her spear on the ground in anger and spat. ‘I want the creature dead, and I want you to kill it for me.’

‘It won’t be easy, my Lady,’ Odysseus said, ‘but I will go if you command me to. What shall I tell my father?’

‘Let me take care of that. I promise you my help if you need it, too, though only once. You must test your own prowess, rely on your skill as a warrior and use the brains that you have in abundance. But there will be a time when even your art won’t save you, and when that moment comes you must use this to summon me.’

Athena opened her hand to reveal a small clay seal. Odysseus took it from her and held it up. By the light of the goddess’s radiance Eperitus, from his hiding place, could just make out that it was in the shape of an owl.

‘Break this and I will come to you,’ she instructed. ‘But it can only be used once. After that you must rely upon your own resources. And those of your companions, for I will not send you out alone. First you must take this one with you.’

Suddenly she bent over the bush where Eperitus was crouched and lifted him effortlessly into the open. He fell to the ground between their feet and lay on his back, shocked and surprised, looking up at them as they stared back down at him.

‘Eperitus!’ Odysseus exclaimed. ‘You’re supposed to be at the camp.’

‘And you’re supposed to be buying meat,’ he retorted.

Athena stamped the butt of her spear on the ground beside his head. ‘Silence!’ she commanded. ‘The gods have killed countless men for spying on their practices. And I’ve a mind to kill you, too.’

Eperitus twisted over and threw his arms about her legs in supplication. ‘Please, goddess, no! I only came to eavesdrop on Odysseus because he lied to me. It never crossed my mind to spy on you, your ladyship. Forgive me and I’ll honour you all my days; I promise to hold you closer to my heart than any of the other Olympians.’

‘That is only what I deserve,’ she said in a harsh tone. Then, with a degree of softness, she prodded him away from her legs with her spear. ‘Let go now, Eperitus. Let go and stand up.’

Reluctantly he released her legs and got to his feet, patting the dust from his cloak. He took a step back and lowered his head so as not to look directly at the goddess.

‘And if I told you to follow Odysseus to the ends of the earth, would you honour my wish?’

‘Yes, Mistress Athena,’ he answered. ‘My fate is already tied up with Odysseus. And I’m also sworn to follow the will of the gods. You can be certain I’ll do as you say.’

‘Good! Be true to your word and no ill will befall you, though I also offer you this warning: beware the charms of women. You have no experience with those vile creatures, Eperitus, and a wrong choice could be perilous. Odysseus, my parting advice for you is to be wary of your friends. And don’t forget my temple at Messene.’

In an instant she was gone. Eperitus waved his hand through the air where she had stood, but there was nothing.

Though the party was awake before dawn and did not tarry, it took them most of the next morning to reach the port where the Ithacans’ ship was harboured. The journey was uneventful as they descended towards the great gulf of water Eperitus had seen the evening before, though it was strenuous under the merciless leadership of Odysseus and Halitherses, who insisted on a quick pace with few stops. Despite this, their newest recruit was pleased to find that the other warriors had welcomed his inclusion in their ranks, albeit with coldness from Mentor.

As they marched Eperitus became aware of a strange smell in the air, which was neither pleasant nor offensive, simply alien to his nostrils. He also saw great white birds circling in the sky above them, the likes of which he had never witnessed until his arrival at Pythia. They had long, hooked beaks and wing spans large enough to cast shadows over the soldiers as they flew. He watched them riding the wind, swooping and rising in the bright sunlight, and felt an unfamiliar pang stir in his heart. He felt as if he was on the threshold of the new world he longed for, that soon now he would be able to shake off the rags of his past life and for the first time discover who he really was. He was turning a corner that would put Alybas and his father out of sight, and would set him on the path to his promised glory, where the bonds of the old world would no longer hold any power over him.

A transformation of spirit overcame his companions, too. They no longer seemed weary, nor stooped by the weight of their arms. Instead, their sombre mood had been replaced by a chattiness and excitement that Eperitus had not before seen in them. Their conversation was no longer a string of muttered curses or an exchange of complaints, as it had been only the day before, but turned now to the subject of Ithaca. They spoke eagerly of their wives and families, home cooking and wine shared by their own hearths. They were also talking of the sea.

Already Eperitus had seen tantalizing glimpses of this mysterious entity in the great body of water that was visible from the slopes of Mount Parnassus. Last night it had shone like silver in the moonlight, and this morning it was a dark mass upon whose surface the sunlight had shattered itself into a thousand pieces. But he knew that even this was only a channel that led to the sea, little more than the least twig on a great tree.

He lost sight of the shimmering waters as the party reached the plain below Pythia. As they followed the course of a boulder-strewn river that grew steadily wider and noisier they passed several pilgrims on their way to the oracle, escorted by local peasants acting as guides. The first sign that they were approaching a town was a group of girls washing clothing on the other side of the river. Shortly afterwards they began to pass huts and a few larger dwellings. Gradually the path became a road, populated by water-carrying women and their grubby-faced children, who looked blankly at the strangers as they filed past. A goatherd called a cheery greeting as he took his flock to drink at the river, but nobody else spoke to them.

Before long they were in the town itself, and followed the river, to the harbour. The great spread of water that Eperitus had seen at a distance now lay hammered out before him, a dark, shining mass that heaved quietly beneath the shore wind. This was not the sea – he could see land on all sides – but Antiphus told him it was an entrance to the gulf that split northern Greece from the Peloponnese, and which ultimately led out to the oceans of the world.

Flocks of seagulls screeched and cawed as they wheeled in wide circles over the town. Crowds of them were focused above a boat moored beside a wooden platform that had been built to reach out into the water. Eperitus watched in fascination as the crew passed wooden crates down to people on the platform, who then took them back to the shore.

‘What’s the matter, Eperitus? Never seen fishermen before?’

Antiphus joined him where he had lagged behind the group. The Ithacan was in a carefree mood now that he was homeward-bound, and gave the young warrior a dig in the ribs with his elbow. Eperitus looked back at the fishermen as they passed more crates out of their boat, watching keenly as they tossed shining objects into the water, where gulls darted into the waves and plucked them out again.

‘No,’ he confessed. ‘Not in Alybas. My home is many days’ march from the sea.’

‘Then you’ve never even seen the sea?’ Antiphus asked, shaking his head and trying to imagine a life without sight of the ocean waves every day.

Before now Eperitus’s only experience of the sea had come through the fantastic stories of bards, or the tales of the grizzled adventurers who now and then passed through Alybas. They told tales of a great bottomless lake with no end, filled with gold and silver fish that the people who lived by the sea ate. They described oceans as blue as the sky, or at other times as dark as wine, where the restless surface moved like the wind over a field of barley. Sometimes, they said, Poseidon would make the waters rise up in great walls to smash the ships that rode upon them, and because of this the sea people built their ships of such strength and size that they could withstand the anger of the god. There were small boats in Alybas, of course, but the few natives who had ever seen the sea declared authoritatively that ships were as large as two or three houses put together, and some could hold over a hundred men.

‘Are the creatures of the sea really made of silver and gold?’

‘Silver and gold?’ Antiphus laughed. ‘If they were, Ithaca would be the richest country in the world. Well, country boy, what are you waiting for? Come and find out for yourself

With that he strolled towards the fishermen. Eperitus, keen to see a fish of silver, followed close behind.

They made camp by the shore that evening, Odysseus having decided to wait until the next morning to make the voyage back to Ithaca. His ship was not as big as Eperitus’s imagination had hoped – just as he had learned that sea fish were not made of silver or gold – but she was a beautiful craft and he could barely wait to board her. He helped make a fire on the beach while others prepared the food or fetched fresh water (to his surprise, they informed him that sea water could not be drunk), and as he collected wood his mind and eyes were on the vessel. It was sunset and the calm waters were ablaze, glowing orange-red like new bronze as the black silhouette of the ship lay at anchor amidst the gentle, fiery waves. Her hull was low and wide, with great wooden barbs rising at each end and a prow that would cut through waves like a spear point. The tall mast stood forward of the centre of the boat, carrying a furled sail on its cross-spar and strung about by a web of ropes.

Besides Odysseus and his ten companions, a further eight men had been left to guard the ship. They welcomed the newcomer from Alybas with genuine friendship, despite being greatly saddened by the loss of one of their comrades. They demanded the story of the fight and the visit to the Pythoness, and as his men gathered to eat and share wine Odysseus gave them the tale in full, with much embellishment and ornamentation. For a man with so uncouth an appearance, the prince’s voice was as smooth and as sweet as honey. His words fell like flakes of snow in the mountains at wintertime, gentle and enchanting and irresistible. The men listened intently and without interruption, their minds filled with the images that Odysseus created before them. They listened as if under a spell until, eventually, the tale was done and the teller leaned back with a smile and sipped his wine.

At the men’s request, Eperitus described his part in the battle and the encounter with Python. The wine had driven away his inhibitions, and even Mentor’s scowls could not prevent him from telling them the predictions of the Pythoness for his future. It pleased him that his audience were impressed enough to ask Halitherses and Antiphus whether it was true; but when Eperitus offered to tell them of the oracle’s prophecy for Odysseus, Halitherses raised his hand.

‘Enough, Eperitus. That’s for Odysseus to reveal to the council, and is best left unspoken until then.’

After that the conversation died down, and soon the men were laying out their cloaks and blankets in the sand. Eperitus lay awake for another hour, listening to the snores of his companions and looking up at the stars that pierced the darkness above. His thoughts lingered in the streets and palace of Alybas for a while, remembering the evil events that had overtaken the town and driven him away. But the dark loneliness of exile had been mercifully short and already the gods were sending him to Ithaca. He tried to picture his new home, piecing together an image from the fragments of information he had heard around the fire earlier – a sunny island with woods and springs, villages and farms; populated by a happy people, and yet threatened with rebellion. And the whole surrounded by the endlessly shifting sea. He turned his eyes to the ship – a black, formless shape now in the dark waters of the estuary – and soon fell asleep, dreaming of an armada of such vessels carrying an army of men too vast to be numbered.

Chapter Six

THE KEROSIA

Ithaca was the hub of a group of larger islands that lay north, west and south of it. It was shaped like two leather bags knotted together: both halves were hilly and wooded and did not suit crops, though corn and vines were grown there in small quantities; the southern reach had only a few farms and was mainly given to pasture land for goats, while the northern half was where most of the islanders lived, and where Laertes’s palace was situated.

At first light that morning the ship’s sail was set, and with the wind filling its belly the vessel slipped up the gulf that led out to the Ionian Sea. Damastor had volunteered to teach Eperitus some of the basic elements of seacraft, but spent most of his time asking unwelcome questions about his past and the visit to the oracle. He seemed especially keen to learn what had been said to Odysseus, but when it became clear that Eperitus would not reveal anything of significance – either about his reasons for leaving Alybas or the words of the Pythoness – the probing stopped and Damastor began to talk instead of his wife and young child. As they passed the final headland some hours later the crew could see the islands of their homeland dominating the horizon before them, but when they reached open waters the wind blew up and they were forced into a flurry of action. Damastor left his pupil to look on helplessly as he joined his comrades at the leather ropes.

The men who had accompanied Odysseus to the oracle were as much at home on the sea as they were on land, if not more so, and rapidly set the dolphin-motifed sail to take full advantage of the new wind. The ship surged forward over the furious waves at a pace Eperitus had never imagined possible on water, and before long was rounding the southern tip of Ithaca and cruising into the narrow channel that separated it from its much larger neighbour, Samos.

No longer required to man the sails, the crew idled on the benches as Odysseus steered the ship up the familiar strait. They watched happily as the features of their homeland passed by on their right. With no more lessons in seamanship likely, Eperitus sat in the ship’s prow and looked down at her blue beak as it split the waves, sending the frothing waters up in great jets to fall across her red bow cheeks. A giant eye was painted on either side, staring down the waves as they ran before it. Since boarding her that morning he had become fascinated with the vessel and the medium that gave her such invigorating life. Never had he seen anything as graceful as Odysseus’s galley, or as pleasing to the eye in form and motion.

As he sat there admiring her speed and power, he vowed to one day go on a lengthy sea voyage and travel with the wind behind him to places he had only ever imagined before. He would see cities of legend and places of natural beauty beloved of the gods themselves; but most pleasurable by far would be the sea itself. To a landsman who had spent his entire life on solid ground, the feel of an unsteady ship’s deck under his feet had at first been terrifying, then disorientating, and ultimately exhilarating. To stand on a plunging deck with the wind in his hair and the snapping of a sail overhead was a thrill the like of which he had never before experienced, and could not wait to enjoy more fully at his leisure.

He joined Antiphus on the bench where he was watching the island go by. The lofty bulk of southern Ithaca quickly gave way to a small but steep-sided peak that saddled the two halves of the island. Ravens flew around its scrub-covered slopes and filled the air with their cawing, heedless of the beaked ship that slipped past them. Then a second hill, the largest on the island, presented its near-vertical flanks to them, basking like a giant beast in the rays of the westering sun.

‘Mount Neriton,’ Antiphus said, pointing up at the hill. ‘Ithaca’s chief landmark. It overshadows the palace and our homes in the north, and we use it to keep a watch for visitors. From its peak a keen-eyed man can see townships in the Peloponnese, so the sentinels will have seen us some time ago. The king’s slaves will already be preparing a feast for our return, and when they hear of your exploits, Eperitus, you’ll be an honoured guest.’

Eperitus steadied himself against a rope and looked up at the wooded hill, its sides turning pink under the late afternoon light. So this was his new home, he thought: a collection of rocky hills rising up from the sea at the edge of the known world. It was an alien sight, but although the landscape was new the island appeared familiar, a self-contained refuge that even a wanderer like himself could call home. Its borders were defined for ever by the unchanging sea and, once ashore, he would be in a land immune from the strifes of the outside world. Here a man could stay distant and free from the feuds and civil wars that had unsettled Greece for so long.

Odysseus began angling the ship towards the mouth of a small bay. Soon they were drifting into the peaceful inlet, which formed a mere pocket in the shoreline between the northerly slopes of Mount Neriton to their right and another sheer hill to their left. All around, the sailors were occupying themselves with the sail and the anchor stones, whilst Odysseus, still gripping the twin steering oars, leaned over the side to judge the clearance left between the hull and the bottom of the bay. He gave a nod, and the anchor stones dropped overboard with a splash.

A group of youngsters had gathered on the beach and were waving and shouting at the crew. Two of them boarded a small boat and paddled out to meet the moored galley. Eperitus watched with interest as Damastor and Mentor helped the occupants aboard, where they were greeted warmly by the crew.

‘Eumaeus!’ Odysseus said, coming down from the helm and crushing the youth into his huge chest. ‘How are you, boy? Have you been looking after my sister?’

‘She’s here, my lord, safe and sound,’ Eumaeus answered, indicating the beach where a bare-breasted girl in a short purple skirt was waving wildly at the ship.

Odysseus waved back, then leaned against the handrail and shouted in his booming voice to the indistinct figure on the shore. ‘Ctymene! Put something on, you strumpet. You’re not a little girl any more.’

He threw a cautionary glance at his crew, who busied themselves stowing the sail and making ready to leave the ship. Eperitus joined them, though he could hardly keep his eyes from wandering to the slim girl on the beach. Considering Odysseus’s ungainly, triangular bulk he would not have expected any sister of his to be as shapely as she was. Then he remembered the words of the oracle and was amazed at how easily the warning could come true: here was his friend’s own kin and he was already succumbing to his most basic instincts at the sight of her half-naked body. He determined there and then to have nothing but the most formal and distanced relationship with the girl. As a member of the palace guard he would no doubt find himself in daily contact with her.

‘Eperitus,’ Odysseus called, beckoning him over. ‘This is Eumaeus. My father bought him as a small child and over the years he has become like a little brother to me.’

The slave was only slightly younger than Eperitus, handsome, with a ruddy complexion and dark, curly hair. Although he was lean, he had good muscles, the strength of which the warrior could feel as he gripped his hand.

‘Welcome to Ithaca.’

‘Thank you,’ Eperitus replied, taking an instant liking to him.

Odysseus climbed into the rowboat, followed by Halitherses, and called for the two young men to join them. Eumaeus stepped from one vessel to the other with ease, then turned to help Eperitus as he struggled to avoid falling into the waters that sloshed between ship and boat. The laughter and jeers of the crew followed his exertions. More embarrassing, though, was the knowledge that Ctymene was watching from the shore.

They rowed to the beach and were soon knee-deep in water as they leapt out and hauled the boat up to lodge in the soft sand. A pair of young men left the group on the beach and rowed the boat back out to the waiting sailors on the deck of the galley.

‘Hello brother,’ Ctymene said, leaving her friends and walking tartly up to Odysseus. She was short, like him, with the same plain looks, though her nose was smaller and she had fuller lips. She also had long, dark hair that fell nearly to her breasts, and a commanding femininity about her that made her powerfully attractive. She might be thirteen or fourteen years of age, and Eperitus agreed with Odysseus’s sentiment that she was no longer a little girl. Remembering his pledge, he fixed his eyes firmly on the damp, shell-smattered sand.

‘Hello sister,’ Odysseus returned her greeting, with similar aloofness.

Then, after a lingering pause, he snatched her up in his massive arms and hoisted her onto his shoulders. She closed her hands over his eyes and laughed hysterically as he horsed about, stumbling across the beach with his arms splayed before him.

‘You can be Orion,’ she cried, ‘and I’ll be Cedalion, guiding you in your blindness.’

‘Lead me to the rising sun then, Cedalion,’ Odysseus answered.

The other youths immediately spread out in a crescent about the beach, putting themselves at a good distance from the blundering pair at the water’s edge. Eumaeus, Halitherses and Eperitus stood to one side and watched Ctymene shout directions to her brother as he chased her companions about the beach. Their efforts were fruitless, even though their targets were not allowed to run, but Odysseus persisted without showing signs of tiring. Gradually the pair edged closer to the little group at the water’s edge, and Eperitus noticed Ctymene snatching frequent glances at him. Then, suddenly, she instructed her brother to turn right and go straight, and a moment later his large hands were upon Eperitus’s shoulders.

‘You’ve found the sun, Orion,’ she announced, removing her hands from his eyes. Odysseus blinked at Eperitus and smiled.

‘By the rules of the game it’s your turn to be Orion,’ he said. ‘But my sister isn’t as light as she used to be, and I doubt it would be the most appropriate form of introduction.’

Ctymene stared down at her captive with a shameless look in her eyes.

‘Who’s this?’ she asked.

‘Eperitus of Alybas,’ Odysseus answered, unconscious of his sister’s staring. ‘He killed five men the other morning, so be careful not to make him angry.’

‘Five men!’ she cooed with sudden interest, clambering down from her brother’s shoulders and threading her arm through Eperitus’s elbow. ‘Really? Five men?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, tensing at the feel of her warm flesh against his. He was unused to the close attentions of a female and did not know how to react to Ctymene’s immature flirting, especially in front of Odysseus. The fact she was attractive was undeniable, with her soft skin and the aroma of flowers that hung about her, but he was also hotly aware of his recent resolve to maintain an entirely formal relationship with the girl.

The rest of the crew were ashore by now and were ready to make their way to the palace.

‘Ctymene,’ Eumaeus said, noticing Eperitus’s discomfort with amusement.

‘Yes,’ she replied, without taking her eyes from Eperitus, who looked nervously back at her. She gave him a mischievous smile.

‘Didn’t you say that the king wanted to see Odysseus?’

‘Does he? Oh yes! Odysseus, Father wants to see you the moment you arrive. He’s convening the Kerosia and wants you and Halitherses to go there. Right now, I think.’

Odysseus took a bag from Antiphus and slung it over his shoulder. There was a sudden sense of urgency about him.

‘You’ll have to feast without me,’ he shouted to his men, waving them up the beach. ‘Mentor, see they don’t get too drunk. Come on, Halitherses, we’re required elsewhere. You too, Eperitus. And as for you, sister, if you had a mind for anything other than dancing and boys you might remember that the king’s messages are a matter of urgency.’

With that he headed towards a wooded ridge that spanned the gap between the two mountains. Here a track led him into the trees, and Eperitus followed behind Halitherses, with Ctymene still on his arm.

The great hall was windowless and sombre, lit only by a fire in the central hearth. Smoke twisted up towards the high ceiling, where shadowy images of sun, moon and stars were all that remained of its once vivid murals. Four tall pillars stood like sentinels about the fire, half bathed in the light of the flames and half consumed by the encircling darkness. Barely distinguishable about their smooth circumferences were the faded outlines of birds, trees and flowers.

On every side the gloomy walls were hung with shields and spears, mostly of an antique style and in a state of disrepair, their bronze tarnished black by the smoke of many years. By the wavering firelight Eperitus tried to discern the spectral scenes of animal and marine life depicted on the flaking plaster, but these were several generations old and had diminished along with the glory of what was now an ageing and functional palace. Only the two painted lions flanking the unadorned granite throne, which stood against the east wall, retained any semblance of their former life and colour.

He sat on one of the seven wooden chairs around the burning hearth, set facing the vacant throne and an empty stool that had been placed beside it. Odysseus was next to him and Halitherses sat on the other side of the prince, both men staring thoughtfully into the fire. Eperitus’s own eyes were upon the silent members of the Kerosia who occupied the other chairs. These were the king’s most trusted advisers, men of seniority who would counsel him in times of need. Most were old or middle-aged, their features illuminated by the flickering flames, deep shadows etched into the creases and contours.

As he studied them through the distorting flames, the door behind him opened and the members of the Kerosia stood as one. A man and woman entered the hall side by side, without ceremony, and sat at the two vacant places. A pair of armed guards came with them and took up station by the door. They were followed by slaves carrying platters of drinks, which they served to each member of the Kerosia in turn.

‘Remember you’re the youngest here, Eperitus,’ Odysseus said, leaning across and whispering in his ear, ‘and that you’re a stranger. Speak only if you are spoken to; otherwise follow my lead in everything.’

Eperitus lowered the silver goblet from his thirsty lips and watched the others, whose drinks remained in their hands. Despite the simple, unannounced entrance, Eperitus could tell by the continued silence that they were waiting for the newcomers to speak.

The man held a twisted staff of dark wood, almost as tall as himself, which would be given to each speaker in turn as the debate began – a sign of their right to speak without interruption. But if this was Laertes, king of Ithaca, Eperitus could hardly have imagined a man more unlike Odysseus. His grey hair, watery eyes and thin, drooping lips made him look old beyond his years. His body was wasted and bent and his thin, bandy legs were forced to support an oversized belly. The pallor of his skin suggested a life spent mostly indoors, and by the way he squinted across his hooked nose at the members of the Kerosia, Eperitus guessed that his eyesight was deteriorating.

In contrast, Anticleia, Laertes’s wife, bore a strong blood-resemblance to Odysseus. She had the same green eyes, red hair and straight nose that her son possessed, with broad shoulders that echoed his physical presence. She looked much younger than Laertes and all eyes rested upon her as the royal couple sat before the council.

Laertes took his cup and sprinkled a few fingertips of wine into the flames – a libation in honour of the gods – before sitting down again to drink. The rest of the Kerosia stood and copied his brief gesture. Eperitus was notably the last to do this and caught the king’s liquid eye as he retreated to his place, his glance lingering just long enough not to become a stare. Then he broke the silence by slapping his palm repeatedly on the stone arm of the throne.

‘Now then, you all know each other, so let’s do away with the formalities and start the work of the day. Halitherses, my friend, I’m glad to see you’ve brought my son safely back from the oracle. What news from the Pythoness, Odysseus?’

Odysseus stood and took the staff from his father. Their eyes met in silence: on one side the reigning king, small and frail, his head and nose raised slightly as if listening, his teeth resting on his lower lip in an unconscious sneer; opposite him, the future king, hugely strong, wearing the confidence of his youth like a rich, impenetrable cloak.

He recounted the events that had happened whilst he had been away, avoiding a repetition of the Pythoness’s prophecy but emphasizing the role Eperitus had played in the fight against the deserters.

‘In recognition of his courage,’ he concluded, ‘I’ve asked Eperitus to join the royal guard.’

‘The king chooses his guard,’ Laertes replied sternly, without looking at his son’s guest. ‘Both you and Halitherses know that.’

‘His appointment is subject to your approval, Father, I grant you. But ask yourself if you can turn away a willing warrior who killed five men in his first combat.’

There was a stiffness in Odysseus’s response that betrayed the silent contest between son and father, prince and king. Laertes bit back with the speed of a striking snake.

‘Ask yourself if the king’s life can be trusted to a stranger! Have you tested him?’

‘More than enough, Father. He’s fit to serve the king, and the Pythoness herself has promised him great things.’

‘The oracle never promises anything, Odysseus,’ Laertes retorted. ‘You’ll do well to remember that. Why did you aid my son and his men?’

It took Eperitus a moment to realize that Laertes was speaking to him. He looked at the king in surprise, suddenly at a loss for what to do or say. Then he noticed Odysseus beside him, discreetly tapping his knee. Eperitus knelt at once, and bowed his head.

‘My lord, I saw brave men outnumbered and surrounded. It was easy to decide who needed my help most.’

‘And if my son’s men had been in the majority?’

Eperitus raised his head and met Laertes’s gaze. ‘In that case, my lord, I might have slain five Ithacans instead.’

The king smiled at his reply, but it was not a smile that brought any sense of warmth or relief.

‘You are on probation, Eperitus of Alybas,’ he told him. ‘But I’ll watch you.’

This time he fixed the young warrior with a stare that he would not release. Eperitus met his eye, but as he did so he felt the keen gaze stripping away the fragile barriers that concealed his innermost thoughts. Quickly he lowered his eyes for fear that the old man would follow the passages of his mind into areas he had not even dared to explore himself.

‘Yes, I’ll watch you like a hawk,’ Laertes repeated, before turning to the others. ‘Now, where are you, Koronos? Stand up so my old man’s eyes can see you. I’ve called you all here because Koronos has news for us from Eupeithes’s camp. Stand up, man, and take the speaker’s staff.’

A middle-aged noble with pitch-black hair raised himself from the chair closest to the king and took the staff from Odysseus. Eperitus could see that he was wealthy by the quality of his clothes and his well-kept, well-fed appearance. From his confidence before the Kerosia he also guessed he was a man of position, used to deference from others.

‘My lords, your ladyship, King Laertes is fortunate in having me as his close and faithful ally, for I bring news which those of us loyal to his rule must act upon immediately. Sometime ago a god put it into my mind to bribe one of Eupeithes’s slaves into my service. This man has become my eyes and ears in the traitor’s household, and there’s little of that man’s scheming that I don’t know about.

‘Eupeithes is an Ithacan and familiar to us all. But allow me to enlarge on what we know of this man, if only for the sake of our guest.’ Koronos bowed briefly to Eperitus. ‘Though he is a noble, a wealthy merchant, a powerful orator and a man of political ambition, he has never before sought to bring violence to these islands. For some time now we’ve been subjected to his speeches in the marketplaces, so we know he claims to be a patriot . . .’

‘Patriot!’ snorted one of the Kerosia, a man bent with age who could barely straighten his back to vent his disgust. ‘He’s a fat, pampered coward with no mind for anything other than increasing his own wealth! Who can forget how he sided with the Taphians when they raided our allies, the Thesprotians? Can a man who attacks his country’s friends call himself a patriot?’ The old man stopped to draw breath and, in honour of his age, nobody dared interrupt him. Not even Koronos, who held the speaker’s staff. ‘I was among the crowd of islanders who wanted to kill him for his treason. We chased him from his farm on the north coast all the way to the palace – you’d never have thought such a fat man could move so quickly.’ He took breath again, wheezing in his excitement. ‘Only Laertes had compassion on the man, and gave him sanctuary in this very house. He and the boy’, he pointed his stick at Odysseus, ‘held the gates, forbidding us entry and persuading us to return to our homes. And this is the family he wants to overthrow!’

After a respectful pause, Koronos continued. ‘Thank you, Phronius. If we all bore grudges as tenaciously as you, perhaps Eupeithes wouldn’t have wormed his way back into the hearts of the people. But, nevertheless, he claims himself a patriot and a respecter of the gods, and he spreads his lies amongst those who’ll listen to him. He claims Laertes is an idle king, an incompetent ruler who wants to keep Ithaca in stasis, never growing or rising to fulfil her potential. He tells us that, if he were monarch, he’d make our small knot of islands into a kingdom to be reckoned with. And the people are listening to him! They believe Eupeithes when he tells them he’ll bring new wealth to their towns and farmsteads, when he promises to build a palace to rival Mycenae, and that he’ll make powerful alliances with other states. And I’ll tell you what’s even more dangerous: he has the ear of many of the nobles of these islands.’

Koronos looked round at each member of the council, sliding his gaze from one set of eyes to the next, pushing home to them the prospect that Laertes was losing his grip on the populace.

‘But for all his influence, for all his patience in stirring up the people, he doesn’t have the majority of support. Perhaps a quarter of the people and nobles are for him.’

‘Nonsense!’ shouted Phronius. ‘A tenth at the most.’

‘Another quarter is sympathetic,’ Koronos continued, ‘but undecided. The remainder are loyal to the rule of Laertes and will never support a usurper, even if some of them agree with Eupeithes. Because he knows this, the traitor has changed his plans. And that is what brings me here.’

At this point Koronos signalled to one of the slaves, who came over and refilled his cup. He took a mouthful and looked around again.

‘Eupeithes, for all his treachery, doesn’t want to kill our great king. He still feels a debt of honour for the time that you shielded him from the mob, my lord. But he’s also a politician, and fears your death would win him more enemies than friends. Therefore he’d rather see you retired with the agreement of the nobles than murdered like a dog. And yet he has gathered about him men who are not so discerning. These men, most notably the twins Polybus and Polytherses, are tired of waiting for public opinion to turn in their favour. They’re pushing for action now, and they mean to have their way.

‘Until recently, I’ve been content for my spy to report the daily goings-on: the name of any new nobleman won over to Eupeithes’s cause; the travelling plans of the traitor; any new schemes he has dreamed up to oppose the rule of our king. These are the things that have been reported to me for months, but a few nights ago Eupeithes was visited by the twins and they spoke together long into the night. My man served them throughout and has relayed every word to me. These men don’t care for their country – they want only wealth and power. They’re also young and don’t share their leader’s patience in sowing dissent for a popular and peaceful removal of the king. They’ve spent the winter recruiting hard and raising funds, intent on recruiting a force of mercenaries. They even mentioned the Taphians, who their master still has secret connections with, and Eupeithes has agreed a plan to attack at the end of spring and take the throne by force. My lords, the time of political strife is passing. We must sharpen our swords for war.’

Chapter Seven

ODYSSEUS’S CHALLENGE

Tyndareus paced the floor of the great hall. Fired by his idea for gathering together the best of the Greeks, Agamemnon had sent mounted messengers to spread the word that Helen was to be married and her father was inviting suit from the greatest kings and warriors in all Greece. Perhaps fearing that the Spartan king would change his mind, he had dispatched the heralds that same evening. By now news would have reached every corner of the Peloponnese, whilst merchant ships would already be carrying messages out to the islands. Some horsemen might even have reached northern Greece, especially as this was a time of relative peace and the only trouble on the roads was the occasional brigand.

The king sighed. He might have a few days or even weeks of grace as Greece’s greatest men made preparations to come, but he also knew how much these men hated each other and would not want their rivals to steal a march on them. Though they would want to come with a full retinue, they would also be keen not to waste time in getting to Sparta: each would want to stake a claim on Helen before some other suitor could work his way too deeply into Tyndareus’s favour. He imagined that within a month the cold, echoing walls of the great hall would be filled with the clamour of many mighty voices.

He sighed again and tugged desperately at his beard. Though he admired his son-in-law, he was also frequently vexed by Agamemnon’s ability to persuade him into doing things that he did not want to do. Helen was a good age for marriage, but he had not wanted her given to another man just yet. In truth, he had hardly put his mind to the matter before now, probably because he was too happy having her about his palace. No doubt she was a moody girl and not as disciplined as a daughter should be, but Tyndareus knew he was clay in her hands. She only had to bat her long-lashed eyelids or pout her full lips and he was helpless. Hence the thought of actually losing her, now that he had milled it through his mind for a couple of days, made him very unhappy.

If Agamemnon had not headed home at first light yesterday, to tell his brother Menelaus to make ready, Tyndareus would have confronted him on the matter. Losing his beloved daughter was one reason for concern; feeding the most ravenous appetites in Greece was entirely another. Sparta was a rich state, but he resented having to give one copper piece of its wealth for the sake of Agamemnon’s grandiose strategies. For that reason he intended to make a full inventory of everything in the palace, from each head of livestock and bushel of corn right down to the smallest clay drinking krater.

‘Tyndareus, are you in here?’ asked a female voice.

‘Yes, Leda,’ Tyndareus answered, turning to greet his wife as she entered.

Helen was with her and together they crossed the floor to join the king. Leda was a tall and attractive woman, beautifully dressed and wearing her long black hair over her shoulders. The only sign of age, other than the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, was the two thick streaks of grey hair that sprouted from her temples. She kissed her husband and took his big hands in her slender fingers.

‘Are you busy?’ she asked. ‘Helen and I would like to spend some time with you before retiring.’

Tyndareus shook his head. ‘I’ll be grateful of your company, my dear.’ He looked at Helen. ‘Why the frown, daughter?’

‘I’m saving my smiles for the best men in Greece,’ she told him sharply.

‘Then you’re still unhappy,’ he sighed. ‘How can you be sad when kings and princes from every city in the land will be coming to pay homage to you?’

The king looked at his daughter as she stood before the hearth. As usual she was dressed in white, and with the light behind her he could clearly distinguish her naked silhouette through the gossamer material. He shook his head, silently wondering how any man could ever hope to resist her. Agamemnon might not have considered it in his great plan, but Tyndareus knew there would be bloodshed as soon as a husband was picked, if not before. All those proud warriors! Did his son-in-law really expect them to form an alliance under his leadership, when any fool could see they would be at each other’s throats within days?

‘Father,’ Helen said angrily, ‘you intend to parade me like a prize cow before a pack of over-preened simpletons, and expect me to be pleased at the prospect?’

She forced a tear into each eye, which was easy to do considering the frustration she felt about the situation, and looked away from her foster-father.

Tyndareus was a great king and a formidable fighter, and as such he knew how to read most men. But about women he knew nothing. Although the rumour was well known amongst all ranks at the palace, never once in all the years since the birth of Helen and her twin brothers had he believed the children were not his own. Similarly, in his doting love for Helen he did not suspect that she considered him an old, dim-witted fool, or that she had very little genuine affection for him.

‘Come and sit with me, daughter,’ he offered, retiring into his large wooden chair. ‘And will you sit beside us, Leda?’

Helen walked over to him, slipped off her sandals and curled up in his broad lap, pressing her long, white feet against the arm of the chair and laying her head against his shoulder.

She found herself thinking of Theseus, the Athenian braggart who had kidnapped her when she was a girl and taken her to Attica. She remembered his heavily built body, so close to her own, the hardness of his muscles and the smell of his sweat. How scared she had been, how repulsed, and yet how excited. Though she was afraid and knew that her brothers would be searching for her, she also wanted to remain unfound, wanted to discover love in his arms. But in some last act of heroic self-denial he had rejected her when he learned she had not yet become a woman, even when in her naive way she had offered herself to him. And so her brothers had found her safe, her virginity intact.

The experience had changed her. Helen had stepped beyond the safe confines of palace life and had grown conscious of herself and her effect on men. Though Theseus, whom she hated now with a passion, had resisted her, she knew that the decision had broken him. Even at the age of twelve, her beauty had destroyed the man who had once defeated the infamous Cretan Minotaur.

Of her own desires, she had learned that she did not want to be a pawn in a political game. Surrounded by walls, guards and the confines of palace life, Helen felt trapped. She wanted freedom, adventure – love. How could Tyndareus really expect her to be happy, exchanging her for political favours, selling her to a man who was not her choice? Where was the romance of escaping with a young lover, where was the danger and the scandal?

Helen was certain of one thing, though. If a man appeared who could love her for more than the fortune and favour she brought, then she would follow him to the ends of the earth. And she silently vowed that no power – of man or god – would come between them.

The debate in the Kerosia continued into the night, shuttling back and forth as the slaves brought more food, wine and torches. Eperitus watched as different options were discussed and plans put forward for defending Laertes’s throne from the threatened rebel attack.

Some suggested taking a force to Eupeithes’s manor house and arresting him for treason, but Koronos assured them the house was well defended and prepared for an attack. Any attempt would only spill Ithacan blood, and could even act as a call to arms for Eupeithes’s supporters. In the end, Laertes insisted he did not want a civil war on his hands and quashed the idea.

Equally, Koronos’s own suggestion of a meeting with Eupeithes was shouted down. Only when Odysseus insisted that he should be allowed to speak was Koronos able to propose placating Eupeithes with a place on the Kerosia and a promise to adopt his suggestions for generating wealth and forming alliances with other states. But Odysseus argued vehemently against the idea, refusing to reward a would-be traitor with the power he craved.

‘Then what do we do?’ asked Halitherses. ‘We can’t sit and wait for Eupeithes to attack us.’

‘We won’t.’

Eperitus looked at Anticleia, who had spoken for the first time. It was irregular in the extreme that a woman should be tolerated at a Kerosia, even if she was the queen, but the sight of a woman addressing a gathering of male elders was something he had never heard of. In Alybas no woman spoke when men were talking, unless specifically invited, but to his surprise Anticleia was permitted to continue.

‘There’s more than one way to string a bow. Eupeithes’s power comes from the disaffection he spreads about your father. Fortunately for us, Ithacans are slow to react and their hearts are essentially true, which is why it has taken him so long to turn just a few of the people against Laertes. By lying and emphasizing minor misjudgements he has established a firm opposition to the absolute rule of the king, but if we can remove the foundation upon which he has built his popular support, then it will collapse.’

Laertes, who had been sulking quietly as his wife spoke, slammed the butt of the staff on the floor.

‘What Anticleia means to say is I should hand over my kingship to Odysseus, and then there will be no uprising,’ he said bitterly, staring with open animosity at his son.

‘Eupeithes will have lost the very reason for his opposition to the throne,’ Anticleia explained to him gently. ‘His support will simply drain away.’

The other members of the Kerosia looked at each other in a startled hush, then as a single body looked at Odysseus. The prince leaned back into his chair and stared at his parents.

‘The queen’s wisdom is well known and highly regarded. But she is a woman and holds no power at the Kerosia. For myself I ask only this: what does the king say?’

Laertes looked at his son with sad, angry eyes, before lowering his gaze to the flames.

‘It’s the only way to defeat Eupeithes without bloodshed,’ he sighed. ‘If the Kerosia will support you, Odysseus, then you shall be announced king tomorrow. So speaks the king of Ithaca.’

There were murmurs of approval amongst the ring of counsellors. Eperitus looked at Odysseus and recognized that he would make a good king, for all his deception and trickery. He was young, strong and brave and Eperitus had seen with his own eyes that he was a talented warrior. More importantly, he had the support of a goddess and the blessing of the oracle.

‘Forgive me, lord,’ Halitherses said, bowing to Laertes, ‘but I feel the time has come for Odysseus to take his rightful inheritance. I, for one, will support him.’

‘Odysseus isn’t ready for the responsibility,’ said Phronius, waving his stick in a prophetic fashion. ‘I tell you all that a king must have a wife, and she must be a woman suited to rule.’

‘When Odysseus is king he’ll have plenty of time to find himself a wife,’ said Halitherses. ‘The important thing is that he should become king now, before the rebels attack in the spring. That way he’ll steal Eupeithes’s thunderbolts from his hand. The people know and love Odysseus, and they’ll follow him because he is Laertes’s son. The blood of the king’s line is in him, and that is something Eupeithes will never have. Given the full support of the Kerosia, he will be able to build on the strong foundations laid by his father.’

‘I disagree,’ said Koronos, his voice no longer smooth but suddenly harsh as stone. ‘The majority of the people are for Laertes. If Odysseus takes the throne before the people are ready for him, then Eupeithes will exploit this to his advantage.’

He stood and held up his hand against the murmuring of Odysseus’s supporters.

‘Listen to me,’ he insisted. ‘If Odysseus becomes king now, Ithaca will be turned against him by Eupeithes’s rhetoric. These are simple folk whose loyalties are bought slowly and grudgingly; though they know Odysseus the prince, what do they know of Odysseus the king? The first thing they’ll look for is the stamp of his authority, and unless Fortune provides Odysseus with a chance to prove himself Eupeithes will be swift to spread dissent. What he has taken years to do to Laertes’s reputation, I tell you truthfully he will do in days to Odysseus’s.’

Koronos watched the effect of his words settling upon his audience before sitting and giving the arena to whoever should dare to challenge him. It was Odysseus who stood. Crossing to his father he took the proffered staff and turned to the Kerosia.

‘Friends, beloved father, listen to what I have to say. It appears to me that the ultimate decision lies not with age, but with youth. I’ve listened to your counsels and feel like a rope between two teams of men, one moment pulled this way and the next that. I hear the words of my parents and feel the temptation of the throne. I see my friend Halitherses speak in my favour, and I feel that I could take on my father’s yoke and bring these islands to even greater prosperity.

‘And then I hear Phronius say that to be an effective king I need a woman who is worthy to become my queen. Most convincingly, I hear the argument of shrewd Koronos, a man with a god-given gift of intelligence, who is more familiar than any of us with Eupeithes’s strengths.’ He fixed his eyes on Koronos, who acknowledged him with a nod. ‘His words stand fast against all counterarguments. A young man cannot become king without first proving his worth to his people. Therefore, though I must accept one day soon, I cannot become Ithaca’s king until I’ve earned the loyalty of the people.’

‘And how do you intend to show the people you are fit to be king, Odysseus?’ Koronos asked.

The prince confessed he did not know how to prove his worthiness to the people of Ithaca. A few hasty suggestions were made for quests that would test his abilities, but these were either too unimpressive or too ridiculous, and faded away with little or no further consideration. Then Koronos, who seemed to have been in control of the debate at every juncture, stretched out a hand for the speaker’s staff.

‘If you want to prove yourself, Odysseus; and if you must have a wife; and if we all want Laertes’s son to reign in his father’s place and to defeat Eupeithes, then I have news which will solve all our problems. Only this morning I returned from a visit to the Peloponnese, where I occasionally travel on business. While I was busy discussing the price for a batch of oil yesterday evening, a herald arrived in the marketplace announcing that the king of Sparta is inviting the nobles of Greece to pay court to his daughter, Helen. I’ve never seen her, but we’ve all heard she’s the most beautiful woman alive.’

Odysseus laughed out loud. ‘And you’re suggesting, Koronos, that I march halfway across the Peloponnese to beg at the tables of the rich and famous for a few weeks, before being turned out on my backside like a dog.’

‘You haven’t allowed me to finish, my lord,’ the noble answered stiffly. ‘The man who is chosen to become her husband will inherit King Tyndareus’s throne – whoever gains the hand of Helen also gains the might of Sparta. If you came back to Ithaca with Helen as your queen all our problems would be solved: you’ll have proved your worthiness to rule; the people will love you; and Eupeithes will wither from their minds like a cut flower in the sun. And should he decide to make a fight of it with his Taphian mercenaries, then he’ll have our Spartan allies to reckon with.’

Odysseus merely shook his head and smiled. ‘It’s a preposterous suggestion, Koronos, especially for you. Greek laws don’t allow a man to rule two nations, so eventually I would have to choose between Ithaca and Sparta – not that it will ever come to that. Besides, I’d rather risk the throne now than waste my time strutting around Sparta like a peacock, all for the pleasure of a girl whose future husband was probably chosen long before this suit was offered. There’s more to this than meets the eye. I won’t go.’

‘Why not?’ Eperitus blurted without thinking. For a painful moment all eyes were upon him. ‘Besides, if Eupeithes intends to attack in the spring, what alternative do we have?’

Halitherses added his voice to the young warrior’s. ‘Don’t be frightened of a woman, Odysseus. A man of your calibre can achieve anything he puts his mind to. That’s the mark of a true hero.’

Laertes nodded his agreement. ‘Succeed or fail, it’s clearly the will of the gods that you go. Never has there been a man of our family so blessed with good fortune as you, so I agree with Koronos that you should go to Sparta, even if only to test your luck in the wider world. One thing is true about this whole affair: the answer doesn’t lie within these islands.’

Odysseus shook his head. ‘I’d need at least half the palace guard as escort and to provide a statement of my rank when I reached Sparta. We would be away for six months at least, by my reckoning, and with half the guard and the heir to the throne gone, why would Eupeithes need to wait until the spring? We would be splitting our forces and inviting trouble. It would be madness.’

Eperitus slumped dejectedly back into his chair, convinced that nothing was ever decided at an Ithacan council. The only debate he knew how to handle was the kind that was decided with sharpened bronze. But at that moment Koronos stood again, still clutching the speaker’s staff, and looked directly at Odysseus. Something burned in his eyes that was not anger, but amusement.

‘You sit there, Odysseus, and talk of proving yourself. I wonder, as the opportunities come and go, will you continue to sit and talk?’

Odysseus covered the space between them in the blink of an eye. Eperitus watched him wrench the staff from Koronos’s fingers and fully expected him to dash the man’s brains out with it. But within the same instant that his anger had flared, Odysseus controlled it again and forced the staff to his side with a trembling hand. They faced each other and, to Eperitus’s surprise, the older man did not flinch before the terrifying gaze of the prince.

‘You’re fortunate this is the Kerosia,’ Odysseus hissed, before forcing a smile to his lips. ‘Here I can accept your criticism without feeling insulted. And perhaps you’re even cleverer than you seem, my friend, for you must surely have wanted me to go to Sparta from the beginning. And I accept your challenge.’

Chapter Eight

FAREWELL TO ITHACA

Eperitus leapt from his bed and dressed as quickly as he could. Outside, the dark streets of Alybas were filled with the din of fighting – men shouting, the scrape and clatter of bronze on bronze. He could smell smoke and a flickering orange glow shone through the high window of his room onto the ceiling.

Moments later he was rushing down the steps to the ground floor, pushing the household slaves aside and ignoring their urgent pleas as he ran to arm himself. There was no time to fit breastplate or greaves, so he crammed his bronze cap onto his head and pulled his shield from the wall. One of the newer slaves, whose name he could not remember, followed him in and handed him his sword.

‘What’s going on out there?’ Eperitus demanded.

‘Looks like rebellion, my lord. A group of soldiers set a few of the houses alight to draw the guards from the palace. Now there’s hand-to-hand fighting and the streets are littered with corpses.’

‘You seem to have your wits about you,’ Eperitus said. ‘Find what weapons you can and arm the male slaves, then lead the women up into the hills until the fighting is over.’

‘What about the house?’

‘Don’t worry about the house. Have you seen my father?’

‘No, sir. He could have been in the palace until late, as usual, or perhaps he left as soon as the trouble started.’

Eperitus patted the man’s arm and ran out into the street. A house was burning further up the hill, filling the night air with sparks that spiralled up towards the black clouds above. There was an awful stench of burning flesh and Eperitus could see several lifeless shapes lying in the mud of the street. The sounds of battle continued, but had moved away in the direction of King Pandion’s palace.

Eperitus set off at a sprint, driven by fear for the king’s life. He passed several more corpses and only stopped as he approached the gates. These were guarded by four members of the guard, who lowered their spear points as they recognized him.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked, relieved to see the gates held by the king’s men, but concerned to still hear the sounds of battle within. ‘Is it a rebellion?’

‘Your father has everything under control,’ one of them answered. ‘They’re just finishing off the last of the survivors now. You’ll find him in the great hall.’

Eperitus ran through to the small courtyard beyond, where yet more bodies littered the ground. Even in the reflected glow from the clouds he was able to recognize many of their faces, the light absent from their eyes and their features frozen in the agony of death. Knowing his spear would be awkward in the narrow corridors, he threw it aside and drew his sword as he hurried over the threshold and into the palace.

Torches sputtered in their brackets, casting a dull, pulsing light over the passage that led to Pandion’s throne room. The sounds of fighting had all but disappeared, leaving only the clashing of swords from beyond the doors at the end of the corridor. Eperitus had a sudden feeling that the king was in danger and that only he could save him, but as he prepared to join the fight he was stopped by a sight that drained the energy from his limbs. Lying on the stairs to the women’s quarters were his older brothers. One lay face up, his throat open and dark with blood; the other lay across him, the broken shaft of a spear protruding from his spine.

As he stared at their corpses, feeling empty and emotionless, the clamour from the throne room stopped. Eperitus felt a rush of fury and ran the length of the body-strewn passage determined to avenge his brothers. He shouldered the doors open and stood with his legs apart and his sword and shield at the ready. But he was too late. The king lay slumped across the floor, one hand still clutching a sword whilst the other reached towards the throne. His dead eyes stared accusingly at Eperitus.

Standing over him was a tall figure, wiping the king’s blood from his blade. Eperitus stumbled and lowered his sword.

‘Father?’

A part of him understood what had happened, but the greater part would not accept it.

‘It had to be done, lad,’ his father replied calmly. ‘I would have told you before, but I was afraid you’d give my plans away. You have too much of your grandfather in you – I knew your loyalty would be to the throne. Well, now I am the throne.’

As if to emphasize his point, he stepped over Pandion’s body and sat in the stone chair.

‘What have you done?’ Eperitus asked, only then noticing several members of the palace guard standing on either side of him.

‘Pandion was a fool and a weakling, Eperitus. Under his rule Alybas was becoming a feeble and insignificant city, so some of us,’ he raised his sword point and indicated the surviving guards, ‘decided it was time for a change.’

‘No king is weak who has the full loyalty of his followers,’ Eperitus responded, gripping his sword and taking a step forward.

Instantly the guards formed a circle about his father, who laughed as if drunk.

‘Gods! You remind me so much of my father – that rigid sense of honour and devotion to duty. But that’s what I want, Eperitus. I’m king now, and I need someone trustworthy to succeed me. Your brothers died fighting at my side like true sons; now you must decide where your loyalties are. If you swear allegiance to me, we’ll make Alybas a city to be proud of. And when I die, you’ll become king in my place. What do you say, son?’

He leaned across the arm of the throne, offering his hand. Eperitus ignored it.

‘Once I loved and respected you. I obeyed your every wish freely and willingly. But now you’ve brought dishonour on our family. I can’t forgive you for that.’

His sense of disbelief had not disarmed his anger, and with a curse on his lips he lunged at his father with the point of his sword. Two of the guards threw their shields before the new king, whilst another knocked the weapon from Eperitus’s hand with a swift stroke of his own blade. Two others leapt on him and pinned his arms behind his back. They dragged him before his father, whose smile had been replaced with an angry scowl.

‘You disappoint me, lad. I should kill you, but I’ve lost enough sons already today. You can have your weapons and that old shield you’re so proud of, but from this point on you have no home, no possessions and no family. You’re an exile, and if you ever set foot in Alybas again I’ll kill you myself.’

Eperitus sat up, gasping for breath and clutching at his blanket. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked about at the unfamiliar surroundings. A grey light was seeping into the windowless room, revealing the rows of large clay jars along the walls. With a sense of relief he realized he was in one of the storerooms in the palace at Ithaca, where he had been quartered after the Kerosia three nights ago.

As he allowed the emotions of the dream to fall from him and his eyes adjusted to the pre-dawn light, he became aware of sounds from within the palace. The kitchen slaves would be busy lighting fires and cooking breakfast, whilst others would be making preparations for Odysseus’s journey to Sparta.

After Koronos’s public challenge to the prince’s courage, which he had little choice but to accept, there had been another lengthy debate between the elders. One wanted Odysseus to travel light with only two or three companions, but this was quickly dismissed by the other members of the Kerosia. Some valued his life too highly and did not want him to travel to Sparta without a full escort. Others pointed out that he would need to impress King Tyndareus, and to do this a more substantial guard would be required.

They finally reached a compromise. Half of the thirty-strong palace guard would accompany Odysseus, led by Halitherses himself, whilst the remainder would be left under Mentor’s charge. This force would be bolstered by a hastily assembled militia that would be sufficient to defend the palace, until Odysseus returned in the spring.

With that point grudgingly settled the debate focused upon what gift they should offer. It was the height of good manners that a guest should take a present, and it was customary to give something that reflected the suitor’s standing, as well as the degree of respect with which he regarded his host. Therefore, despite Ithaca’s comparative poverty, the Kerosia agreed to send a gift beyond their means. Laertes’s second-finest sword would be sacrificed – a weapon with an ivory handle and pommel, gold inlay on the blade, and a gold-filigreed leather scabbard. Anticleia also offered three of her finest dresses for Helen (there was not enough time to make new garments), along with the finest jewellery that could be plundered from the palace stocks.

Odysseus took a surprisingly small part in the discussions, allowing the elders to decide his fate for him. He appeared to have his mind on something else – Helen perhaps – and only spoke to ensure that his father would be adequately protected whilst he was gone. However, it was at his suggestion that the elders agreed to waste no time, and that the expedition to Sparta should set out before dawn on the third day after the Kerosia. A quick departure, unannounced, would draw minimal attention and catch Eupeithes off balance. The recruitment of the militia would then be completed within a few days, before the rebels could muster their forces and threaten the undermanned palace guard.

By the amount of light that was now suffusing the gloomy interior of the storeroom, Eperitus judged that dawn had already arrived. He picked up his cloak and threw it about his shoulders. As he finished tying on his armour Eumaeus arrived, looking sleepy and dishevelled, to inform him that breakfast was being prepared in the great hall. Eperitus followed him out and joined Odysseus and a handful of his men, who had finished eating and were discussing the arrangements.

‘We need fifteen guards, Antiphus, not five,’ the prince said. ‘I don’t care what they’re doing or where they are. Search every house in the town if you have to.’

The archer turned and gave Eperitus a brief nod before running from the palace. Odysseus ordered Eumaeus to chase the head steward about the provisions for the journey, then turned to Eperitus and gave him a weary smile.

‘So much for leaving before first light, eh? No food, no gold, gifts mislaid and most of the guard haven’t even reported in yet. Still, I should consider myself lucky: it took a week to organize the visit to Pythia. How about you? Sleep well?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Eperitus lied, not wishing to share his nightmares with the others. ‘Can I help?’

The prince placed a huge hand on his shoulder. ‘I doubt it – you’ll only get lost in all the chaos. The best thing you can do is sit down and eat a good breakfast, as you’ll be lucky to eat again before we make landfall.’

By mid-morning the dresses were packed in a chest, along with the jewels Anticleia had chosen. Laertes’s sword had eventually turned up beneath a pile of mildewed shields and was stowed with the other gifts. The other members of the guard had been located and were assembled on the grassy terrace before the palace walls, sweating in their full armour. Some of them had been in the group that escorted Odysseus to Pythia, others he had met in the three days since the Kerosia, but most were strangers to Eperitus.

Scattered around were small groups of slaves, gathered ready to carry the gifts and provisions down to the galley. The crowd was further swelled by the remainder of the household, who had left their tasks and come out to see the party off. Finally, the goings-on at the palace had also excited the interest of the townsfolk, who had come to watch the expedition leave.

‘There goes our plan to slip away unnoticed,’ said Halitherses, standing beside Eperitus and Damastor. ‘We might as well have invited Eupeithes in person to wish us a safe journey.’

‘Perhaps we’ve played directly into his hands,’ Eperitus replied, cynically. ‘This may be just the opportunity he needs.’

‘Whatever happens, lad, it’ll be according to the wishes of Zeus. He is the unseen mover in the affairs of men.’

‘Where’s Odysseus?’ Damastor asked anxiously. ‘We should be going.’

‘With his father and mother,’ Halitherses answered. ‘They’re making sacrifices for the journey to Sparta. What about Koronos? I haven’t seen him since the Kerosia.’

‘He returned home after the Kerosia,’ said Damastor. ‘His wife is due to give birth.’

‘A midwife is he?’ Halitherses sniffed, making no effort to hide his dislike of Koronos. ‘Clearly a man of many talents.’

At that moment Ctymene appeared. It was the first time Eperitus had seen her since his arrival on Ithaca and he was relieved to see her fully covered, wearing a clean white dress clasped at one shoulder and carrying a basket of flowers on one arm. As she crossed the grass in her bare feet she was the very image of childish innocence.

‘Good morning, Damastor; Uncle Halitherses,’ Ctymene said, her voice like sunshine on that cloudy, rain-threatened morning. ‘Good morning, Eperitus. Have you killed many men today?’

‘No, Ctymene. Have you?’

She laughed and shot him a mischievous look, then linked her arm through his. ‘I have a gift for you,’ she announced.

He watched as she untangled a single pink bloom from the mass of flowers in her basket. The smell of perfume that hung about her was delicate in comparison with the sharp tang of sweat that clung to Halitherses, Damastor and himself.

‘Here,’ she said, handing him a flower. It had been plucked and dried in the sun to preserve its beauty. ‘We call it chelonion, because its root is shaped like a turtle. See? Wear this to remind you of your new home when you’re far away. I’ve prayed to Aphrodite that it will protect you from harm and bring you safely back to Ithaca.’

Eperitus slipped the stem of the flower through a loop in his leather belt, then bowed silently. Ctymene squeezed his hand before slipping her arm from his and offering flowers to Halitherses and Damastor. They accepted the reminders of their home with cheerful words and kisses. Then she left them and went over to share the remainder amongst the other members of the escort. As Eperitus watched her, Odysseus walked out from the palace gates and joined the guards. The men shared a joke and a few words, then the prince turned to his sister and embraced her. She held him tightly, throwing her arms as far as they would reach about his muscular chest, but neither said a word. When they finally parted there were tears glistening in Ctymene’s eyes. She kissed him on the cheek then ran back into the palace.

‘I’ve said my farewells to the king and queen,’ Odysseus announced as he came over to the others. ‘They won’t be here to watch us depart. The men say they are ready, Halitherses.’

‘As ready as they’ll ever be, my lord. There are oarsmen waiting in the galley below, and we have a good crowd to ensure our departure is known by the whole island.’

‘I share your worries, old friend,’ Odysseus said, looking at the number of townsfolk who had come to see them off. ‘But our anchor ropes are cut and we must see this thing through to the end. I only hope I have a kingdom to return to when it’s all over.’

‘There’ll be a strong militia in place before the news spreads to Eupeithes,’ Damastor assured him. ‘Everything will be safe and secure.’

‘All the same, I pray the gods will watch over the place in our absence,’ Odysseus replied. ‘And may Mentor and the others have the good sense not to underestimate their opponents.’

At his signal the escort picked up their shields and spears and the slaves hoisted their burdens onto their shoulders. The expedition formed up in two files and set off, the townsfolk parting to let them through.

Odysseus walked beside Eperitus and they looked about themselves at the cheering crowds. The people called out Odysseus’s name again and again, honouring their prince as he set out upon whatever new mission his father had assigned to him. Eperitus caught the scent of the chelonion in his tunic and thought how little time he had had to get to know his new home. The Ithacan faces were unfamiliar and their voices strange compared with Alybas. He knew little about them or their island, where the hills were called mountains and the alien sea lay all around. And yet here he was, venturing into the unknown for the sake of a country and people not his own, but which he hoped one day would be.

He had spent only three days on the island, and with Odysseus as his guide had trekked its wooded hillsides and dusty cart-tracks by mule. The prince had shown him many of the caves and bays along the rocky coastline, where the high cliffs were thick with gulls. He named each different hill, copse and spring in both halves of the island, and pointed out the numerous little farms that they passed. Often, when they were hungry, the prince would stop at one of the farms and be welcomed with warmth and good food. He seemed to know everyone by name – including many of the children – and was greeted lovingly wherever he went. And the people had treated Eperitus with kindness and respect – partly because he was Odysseus’s companion, but also out of their naturally contented and welcoming natures.

He quickly came to understand Odysseus’s love of his home, and appreciated the time he spent showing him the island. But he also realized that the prince was not simply expressing his pride; he was saying goodbye to the place he loved. No one knew what the expedition to Sparta would bring or how long they would be away, so Odysseus was spending the final days before his departure with the place and people he loved above all things.

Eperitus wished he were not leaving Ithaca so soon and that the Fates had been kind enough to give him just a few days more to enjoy its hospitality. But the gods had other uses for him and he supposed that, like Odysseus, he must earn his place in the hearts and minds of its people if he was to establish himself amongst them.

As the group passed the outskirts of the town and left the crowds behind them, all bar a few children, they passed a group of young men standing by a spring. It was here, surrounded by tall black poplar trees, that the townspeople fetched their water. To Eperitus’s surprise the men greeted them with mocking jeers. One of them, a handsome man with close-cropped black hair and fine clothes – noticeably missing the whole of his right ear – was more abusive than all of his companions put together. Eperitus left the file with every intention of knocking the man’s teeth into the grass at his feet, but Odysseus stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

‘I’m surprised you have the courage to leave your master’s side, Polybus,’ he said. ‘And where’s Polytherses? Your sneering face seems incomplete without your brother’s alongside it.’

‘Keep your charm for the beautiful Helen, oaf-prince,’ Polybus replied. ‘The sooner you and your clowns are gone the better we’ll all feel around here.’

‘Which Helen is that, Polybus?’

For the briefest instant the other’s composure wavered, but he was quick to gather his wits about him again. ‘The whole of Ithaca knows you’re off to Sparta, expecting to bring back Tyndareus’s daughter as your wife. News spreads quickly on a small island, Odysseus, and the crew of Koronos’s ship was full of it. Your dim-witted guards may not know it yet, but it doesn’t take an oracle to guess what you’re up to.’

Eperitus realized the braggart was one of Eupeithes’s twin henchmen, mentioned at the Kerosia. As he had listened to the debate about these would-be usurpers, he had felt his hatred growing with each mention of their names. A man must be loyal to his king, his grandfather had taught him, or social order falls into chaos. Only by accepting authority can a man receive the rewards of order and peace. That is why his grandfather had told him to obey three things unfailingly: his gods, his oaths, and his king. Without these principles the world of men would fall into the abyss.

Eperitus’s eyes narrowed with anger. He shrugged off Odysseus’s restraining hand and advanced on Polybus. The sneering braggart looked at him with disdain, as if offended that he should dare approach him, but soon retreated as he realized his intentions. An instant later Eperitus swung his fist into Polybus’s face and watched with satisfaction as he fell backward into the waters of the spring, blood pumping from his lips and broken nose.

‘That’s what I think of traitors,’ he spat. ‘Tell Eupeithes that Laertes will remain king of Ithaca, and if anyone is to replace him it will be Odysseus, the only man who can claim that right.’

Polybus scrambled out of the pool, helped by his friends. He was incandescent with rage and in a deft movement whipped out a dagger from beneath his tunic.

He lunged with the weapon, but Eperitus brought his shield round and knocked him to one side. Quickly stepping back, he pulled the sword from his belt and faced Polybus’s six companions, who held daggers of their own. In the same moment he was joined by Odysseus and the rest of the guard, spears and shields at the ready.

Now they were seventeen fully-armed men against Polybus’s seven, carrying only daggers. It did not take them long to see the futility of the situation.

‘There’ll be no bloodshed here, Polybus,’ Odysseus said, his voice as calm and commanding as ever. ‘Not if I can prevent it. So put your toys away and go about your business.’

They had no choice but to do as they were ordered, but as they slunk off Polybus could not resist turning and having the final word.

‘We’ll settle this matter another time, you bronze-haired buffoon, when the odds are more equal. And as for you,’ he said, spitting on the ground at Eperitus’s feet, ‘I pray to all the gods that you and I will meet again. Then I’ll teach you to respect your betters before I send you scuttling off to Hades.’

‘I’ve been waiting a long time to see that arrogant swine made a fool of,’ Antiphus said, slapping Eperitus on the back with a laugh as they watched the group of youths retreat up the road to the town. ‘He docked my bow fingers when I was a boy, after he and his father caught me hunting on their land. I’m indebted to you for the show, Eperitus.’

‘We all are,’ Halitherses agreed. ‘But he’ll want his revenge. We haven’t seen the last of him yet.’

‘I’m more concerned that he knows we’re going to Sparta,’ Odysseus added with a frown. ‘He says he worked it out for himself, but I think someone in the palace has told Eupeithes. A traitor – maybe someone within the Kerosia itself.’

‘There’s nothing we can do about that now, Odysseus,’ said Damastor, appearing at his side. ‘The council has decided this is the only way to save Ithaca from rebellion, so we’d better go and pray that the gods protect our homes and families until we return.’

A short time later they passed over the wooded ridge and headed down to the small harbour where the galley was bobbing gently on the waves. Mentor was there to meet them and Odysseus immediately took him to one side. Eperitus did not hear what was said, but assumed that the prince was warning Mentor of the possibility of a traitor. Mentor nodded and set off up the beach, but as he passed Eperitus in the file he stopped.

‘I’m left behind to nursemaid the king while you get the privilege of escorting Odysseus to Sparta. Well, at least you won’t be hanging around in the palace, because . . .’ He drew closer and lowered his voice. ‘Because I don’t trust you. We don’t know you or your family, so if anyone is spying for Eupeithes it’s a foreigner like you. And I’ve told Odysseus as much, so you won’t catch him off his guard either.’

‘I’m no traitor,’ Eperitus spat, but Mentor was already striding down the slope to the bay.

book

TWO

Chapter Nine

IN THE LAND OF THE WOLFMEN

The north wind was full in the galley’s sail and drove the vessel irresistibly forward across the waves. It ploughed great furrows into the sea and made the going particularly rough, though it was not enough to hamper the speed with which the gods had blessed them after their late start. Eperitus stood at the prow of the ship, fighting for breath in the teeth of the gale. The Peloponnese flanked him on the left, its mountains silhouetted blue in the afternoon haze, whilst beneath his feet he could hear the waves slapping against the thin planking of the hull.

Sensing a presence, he turned to see Odysseus standing at his shoulder. The prince’s arms were behind his back and his gaze was fixed firmly ahead. It was the same look that he wore when at the helm, observing the wave caps for the best currents and watching the distant clouds for warnings of a change in the weather, whilst keeping an eye on the shoreline for safe anchorages along the way. He looked as strong as a bull, his burly frame unfazed by the blustering wind that had been tearing the air from Eperitus’s lungs. One could almost believe there was no wind, were it not for his narrowed eyes, the flapping of his red hair and the billowing of his great black cloak.

‘You know, Eperitus,’ he said, his smooth voice perfectly audible in the wind, ‘I wish I wasn’t here. Not very heroic, really, am I? Not for a prince of his people.’

‘What do you mean?’ Eperitus asked.

‘I mean that to be great a man must leave his home and family and go out into the wider world, seeking to carve a name for himself in the ranks of his enemies.’

‘I suppose it’s hard to win fame by staying at home.’

‘But that’s exactly what I’d rather do,’ Odysseus sighed. ‘Part of me dreams about slaying monsters, sacking cities, ravishing beautiful maidens and coming home laden with gold. What man doesn’t? And yet in my heart I could wish for nothing more than sharing meat and wine with friends in the great hall at home, talking about the local girls, the harvest and fishing. The closest I like coming to adventure is listening to a good story around a blazing fire.’

Eperitus envied Odysseus his contentment in such things, but never having experienced a true sense of happiness in his own home he could not understand it. All he wanted was to see the world and write his name into one of the tales that Odysseus liked to hear beside the hearth.

‘So why leave Ithaca?’ he said.

‘For the same reason that you left Alybas, I assume,’ Odysseus replied. ‘To prove myself! To achieve something that will allow me to go home to my people and hold my head up high.’

‘That isn’t why I left Alybas,’ Eperitus muttered.

Odysseus seemed not to hear. ‘Of course, it’s unlikely Helen will choose me above her wealthier and more powerful suitors, and it’s probable Tyndareus has already chosen her a husband. Which makes me wonder what the idea is behind this gathering of kings and princes – it’s a lot of trouble to go to for nothing. But either way, I may be able to form friendships and alliances that will carry weight back home. That’s the real reason my father sent me on this journey. But tell me this, Eperitus: do you think the most beautiful woman in Greece might choose me for a husband?’

Eperitus considered the possibility, matching what he knew of Helen’s legendary beauty to the little he had learned about Odysseus. ‘You’re as likely to be chosen as any other suitor. You’re a prince, soon to become a king. You have wealth and power, and you’re a great warrior – any sensible woman would be out of her mind to reject you.’

A great shout followed by laughter came from the benches. Some of the escort were playing a game with marked ivory cubes, and their constant chattering and clamour had become a feature of the voyage. The game would shortly be broken up, though, as the sun was already dipping beyond the island of Zacynthos to the west and the helmsman would soon be seeking a convenient landfall.

‘The problem is that a woman as desirable as Helen can afford to pick and choose between suitors,’ Odysseus said thoughtfully. ‘Have you ever been to another palace outside of Alybas?’

‘Of course,’ Eperitus confirmed. ‘Your own.’

Odysseus laughed. ‘Well-travelled indeed, I see. And how does the palace at Ithaca compare to the one in your own city?’

‘They’re about the same. Yours looks older, but has more servants and guards.’

Odysseus nodded sagely. ‘Well, my friend, the nobles that we’ll meet in Sparta come from much grander places than you or I. They have wealth beyond your most fantastic dreams. My beloved Ithaca is little more than a hovel compared to the cities they rule. Wait until you see Tyndareus’s palace – that’ll give you an idea of the power and wealth of the men I’m competing against, and why it’s likely Helen will choose another before me. In truth, the odds are too heavily stacked against me.’

‘You must believe you have a chance, though, or why would you go?’ Eperitus insisted.