King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

‘In the hope of forming alliances, as I said, and perhaps of bringing something back that will make the journey worthwhile. And also for my father’s sake. It’s his command, and a father must be obeyed, don’t you think?’

Eperitus shifted uncomfortably under Odysseus’s searching gaze. ‘That depends upon what your father expects you to do.’

‘Then can a man have more wisdom than his father?’ Odysseus challenged, his voice firm but no less persuasive. ‘Can any son rightfully contest his father’s authority and expect his own children to obey him?’

‘My father tested my loyalties to the extreme,’ Eperitus responded sharply, ‘and I responded in the way that I believed was right. I disobeyed his will, yes, but I’d do it again. The choice he gave me was absolute, and I chose the only option that a man of honour could take. I proved myself better than he.’

Odysseus looked at him seriously. ‘A man doesn’t become great by overthrowing his father, Eperitus. It’s unnatural and opposes the will of the gods.’

Eperitus stared fiercely at his captain. ‘Answer me this, my lord: does Eupeithes have a son?’

‘Yes, an infant named Antinous.’

‘And when Antinous becomes a man, would you expect him to support his father against the king? If you were Antinous, what would you do?’

Odysseus shook his head and sighed. ‘So, at last I understand,’ he told Eperitus, patting his shoulder reassuringly. ‘Ever since we first met, I’ve been wondering why you won’t name your father. He betrayed your king, didn’t he, and you had no choice but to disobey him.’

‘It’s worse than that,’ Eperitus said. His face was ablaze with shame as he recounted the awful events on the night his father had killed King Pandion and seized the throne for himself. It was a story he had not wanted to share: ever since his banishment from Alybas he had wanted his ignominious past to remain unknown. There was something about Odysseus, however, that invited confidence, and Eperitus felt the better for sharing his story.

‘So you see, I won’t let Eupeithes take your rightful place as king,’ he said ardently. ‘Not whilst there’s breath in my body. I hate a usurper before everything else, and my father put a stain of dishonour on our family that only I can remove. If I help you to defeat Eupeithes, then I feel I’ll have done something to restore pride to my family’s name.’

They sat silently for a while, watching the gulls riding on the wind. Then the helmsman called out for a change in the sail. He had spotted a bay that would suffice for the evening, and with the westering sun threatening to leave them with only a failing light he chose to make harbour now. There was a flurry of activity as everyone moved to help, and the frenetic action left Eperitus no time to mull over his revelations to Odysseus.

Eperitus was woken before dawn by Odysseus holding his foot up by the big toe.

‘I’m sending the galley back to Ithaca,’ Odysseus told him. ‘We’re going overland, so I need you to help unload the galley. Halitherses has gone to buy mules from the village above the bay.’

The news brought dismay to the other members of the expedition, who had expected an easy sea voyage around the Peloponnese. Odysseus explained that he and Halitherses had decided that the remaining crew – all young, able-bodied men – should return home and bolster the militia, but it did not make the news any easier. Now the men would be required to walk for several days across unknown terrain to the palace of Tyndareus. In one sense Eperitus was disappointed not to have more time on the galley, but in another he was also pleased at the likely prospect of adventure on the way.

‘Besides which,’ Odysseus added as his men sat before him on the beach, ‘I’ve a mind to visit Athena’s temple in Messene. We need her support in our quest, and we should pay her our respects. Don’t you agree, Eperitus?’

Eperitus remembered their encounter with the goddess at Pythia, and the duty she had charged Odysseus with. Now he realized it had always been the prince’s plan to make landfall on the first day and go overland from there. Even the urgency of their mission could not come before the command of a goddess.

The crew’s complaining was cut short by the braying of mules. As Halitherses led them along the track that fed in from the fields, it did not take long for Odysseus and his companions to realize that they were sorry beasts indeed. All three had great running sores on their backs and flanks and didn’t look strong enough to walk, let alone to carry the bride gifts and supplies, but Halitherses explained they were the best he could find.

After loading the mules and watching their ship head back to Ithaca, the band of warriors began their own journey across the Peloponnese. They were in the southernmost part of a country called Elis, and the going was slow due to the rocky terrain and the poor condition of the animals. They followed the line of the coast south, heading in the general direction of Messene, and cut across the spur of a headland that jutted out into the great expanse of sea. By late afternoon, however, they found themselves stuck on one side of a broad, fast-flowing river that did not appear to be fordable. They trudged further upstream, but found no sign of a possible crossing point.

Frustrated, Odysseus ordered his men to make camp whilst he and Halitherses went looking for a ford or bridge. Before long they returned with news of a ferry not far downstream. There was no sign of a ferryman and the craft was in poor repair, but it could float and would be able to take them a few at a time across the broad river. However, with twilight already upon them it was decided to wait until daylight before making the crossing.

Eperitus found a patch of comfortable ground by the bole of an old tree. Shortly afterwards he was joined by Damastor and Halitherses. For a while they discussed the river and the crossing of it, then turned to their impressions of the country itself. It seemed to be sparsely populated, despite being a pleasant land with plenty of streams and meadows for keeping livestock, as well as good soil for growing crops. It would be a place worth settling, were it not for the strange tales they had all heard about Elis and the larger region called Arcadia, of which it was but the northwestern part. Even in faraway Alybas there were stories about the wolfmen of Arcadia, prowling the hills and pastureland at night in search of victims. Under the light of the sun or the moon they could not be told apart from another wolf, except that they hunted alone and were not afraid of anything. But in the twilight of early evening or the dusky period before dawn they regained human form, at which times they would seek out human company to ease the suffering of their loneliness. Yet the host of such a beast would become its victim once the sun or moon was in the sky again.

It was said they were descendants of an ancient king who had practised human sacrifice. When he tried to offer one of his own sons to Zeus, in his anger and disgust the father of the gods had turned the king into a wolf. The curse had been passed to the sons of the king as well, and the only way they could ever return to their original form was to abstain from human flesh altogether. That being impossible for a wolf, they were doomed to wander the earth in a state lost between man and beast.

After they had finished sharing their tales, the three men agreed that the mules should be kept closer to their camp for the night, rather than leaving them tied to a tree far from the safety of the fire. They also discussed the wisdom of setting a guard in this strange, underpopulated country, and to Eperitus’s relief Halitherses split the watch between two of his men.

Eventually, they pulled their blankets over themselves and lay down to sleep. There were no clouds or moon in the sky above, but the stars were like the grains of sand on a beach and their pale light made everything about the men clear. The cold air carried every sound clearly: the rush of the river over the rocks that were scattered along its banks, the snorting and stamping of their mules, even the cry of owls hunting in the darkness. Eperitus fell asleep listening to the noises of the night and thinking about the wolfmen of Arcadia. He dreamed he was in the great hall in Alybas, where a giant wolf was crouched over the dead body of King Pandion. The king’s blood dripped from its jaws, and as it looked at Eperitus it seemed to grin.

They stood in a circle about the raft. Eperitus could not imagine how it was supposed to carry them across the foaming waters that separated them from the next stage of their journey. The wood was rotten, broken in places and bound together by leather ropes that were cracked and splitting. Although the rectangular deck would fit six men and a mule, he doubted whether it would take their combined weight. Another problem was the strong current. The raft must usually have been pulled from one side of the river to the other along a rope, and though the stumps were still there the rope itself had gone. Because of this it would take two or three men using poles to get the raft across safely.

Despite these problems, Odysseus wasted no time in sending Antiphus out to trap a wild animal for sacrifice, whilst ordering others of the party to repair the ropes that held the raft together. The islanders were skilled seamen and, using a combination of axes and some rusty tools from the deserted ferryman’s shack, were soon busy replacing the worst of the wood. Before joining them in their work, Odysseus sent Eperitus on a chore of his own, to find and cut lengths of wood to act as staves in punting the raft across the river.

By the time he returned with four long poles the work on the raft was finished. Replacement wood had been taken from the contents and walls of the shack to repair the worst of the damage, whilst the ropes that lashed it together were the original cords reinforced with strips of cloth, leather or the intertwined branches and stems of plants.

Last of all, Antiphus arrived carrying a squealing goat over his shoulder. He handed the struggling animal to Odysseus, who carried it under his arm to a large rock by the river. Close by, a fire had been lit using the oddments of wood that had been discarded in repairing the raft. Odysseus took a dagger from his belt, whisked off a tuft of hair from the goat’s head and threw it into the flames. Then, offering prayers for safe passage to the god of the river, he picked up a stone and gave the animal a swift blow to the forehead, killing it at once. Quickly laying it on the flat-topped rock, he slit the animal’s throat and let the blood gush out onto the earth. A couple of the men stepped forward to help him dismember the carcass with easy and practised movements. The meat from the thighs – favourite of the gods – was cut out and covered in a layer of glistening fat before being thrown on the fire as an offering. The remainder of the beast was dissected with speedy efficiency and was soon being roasted on spits over the flames.

Odysseus left his men to finish the bloody work and went to wash his hands in the cool, clear water of the river. His men made quick work of the sacrificial meat, downing the scraps with a few pieces of bread and the water from the skins they carried. By that time it was already late morning, so without further delay they shoved the raft into the fast-flowing river and Odysseus led the first party across. Keeping the mule still proved the most difficult task, unused as it was to floating on water, but after the prince threw his cloak over its head and assigned two of the guards to hold the animal steady they were able to cross without mishap.

The two men who had not been on the poles began the return journey as Odysseus and the others stood ready with their shields and spears, remaining vigilant whilst their force was divided and at its most vulnerable. Soon they were joined by four more of their comrades, who arrived with the second mule, and not long after that the third crossing brought another four, the provisions for the journey and the gifts for Tyndareus and Helen.

Eperitus had been left with Halitherses and a few others to take the final load across, and as the raft struggled back towards them the landsman from Alybas suddenly felt nervous at the prospect of crossing the torrent. Although he had learned to swim in the mountain pools and streams of his own country, he was not confident in water and muttered a hurried prayer to the god of the river.

The boat thumped against the bank and the two men leapt off and pulled it safely up on to the pebble-strewn ground. As Eperitus considered how to get the last of the mules aboard – a docile creature that he hoped would give little trouble – he noticed that the condition of the raft was deteriorating rapidly. Already some of the hastily repaired lashings had frayed to the point of snapping and a hole had been punctured in the centre of the raft, where a mule had put its hoof through the old wood. But there was nothing for it now but to load up and set off.

He helped push the raft into the water again, then led the mule up onto its ramshackle planks. Wrapping his cloak around the head of the beast, he began talking softly into one of its hairy, oversized ears. Meanwhile Damastor stood against the animal’s flank and signalled for Eperitus to take up position opposite him. Together they took a firm hold of the beast as Halitherses and the last two men of the escort splashed aboard and began to push them out into the rapidly flowing waters. The force of the river hit them straight away, sweeping the raft into an eddy that momentarily spun the flimsy vessel out of control. The men on the poles strove with all their might, their muscles tensing and straining as they fought to steady the fragile platform. For an anxious moment they looked to be lost, but finally managed to regain control of the craft and straighten it back on a course to the opposite shore.

The roar of the water raged in their ears so that they could hardly hear the shouts of encouragement from the far bank. The raft began to ride the strong current, almost bouncing along the surface as the men on the poles fought against the pull of the river. Eperitus watched Halitherses’s ageing face, contorted with the exertion of battling against the current, and debated whether to leave hold of the placid mule and help with the spare pole. Then everything went suddenly and terribly wrong.

With the mule still quiet beneath its cloak and the shore looking temptingly close, Damastor released the animal and shook the stiffness out of his aching limbs. But before he could take hold again, a sudden blast of wind tore the cloak from its eyes. Seeing the rushing water on either side it panicked and kicked out with its strong hind legs. There was a splash and a shout behind Eperitus; in the same instant one of the planks cracked and gave way beneath the stamping hoofs of the mule, tipping it headlong into the water and beyond any help the men could give it.

‘Halitherses is in the river!’ shouted Damastor.

The captain was already being dragged away by the strong current. Pausing only to slip his grandfather’s shield from his shoulder and the sword from his belt, Eperitus dived into the water after him.

Exhausted as he was by the day’s work and the struggle against the river, the freezing cold shocked him back into total wakefulness. The roaring waters threatened to pull him under, but he fought to keep his head above the surface. As he was swept rapidly away from the raft he turned to see the remaining men straining at the poles, still fighting to haul the damaged craft to the opposite bank.

Flailing against the current, he caught sight of Halitherses ahead of him. The old man appeared to be drifting, rather than struggling against the current, and Eperitus realized he must have been caught by the kick of the mule and was unconscious.

With a renewed sense of urgency, he summoned all of his strength and began to swim with the boisterous flow of the river. At first it was hard to control his direction, but by trying to pull ahead of the current he found he was able to angle himself towards the old warrior, who was drifting out into the middle of the river. Deafened by the rushing of the water and buffeted by its constant motion, he could barely stay afloat, let alone keep sight of Halitherses. Then, over the tumult of foam, he caught sight of dark shapes in the water ahead.

Rocks. They rose like broken teeth from the river, each one surrounded by a head of foaming water. Eperitus tried shouting to his friend over the roar, but knew it was useless. He hauled himself forward with all his might, desperate to gain precious moments over the current that was sweeping Halitherses to certain death. All the time he willed his captain to return to his senses, if only briefly, and realize the peril he was in.

Fortune carried Halitherses unscathed between the first two rocks. A moment later Eperitus plunged between them himself. Three more rocks rose up ahead of them, evenly spaced like the prongs of a fishing spear. Then Halitherses woke from his stupor and turned to see the murderous doom he was being swept towards.

With whatever wits and energy were left to him, Halitherses fought against the current and won Eperitus the fragment of time he needed to catch hold of him. He pulled him just wide of the boulders and kicked for the bank. His lungs on fire and his body numbed with cold, he angled towards a smooth rock that jutted out into the river like a jetty, offering them their only hope of shelter before the current carried them to their deaths. Though stunned and weak, the old captain had enough sense left to realize where Eperitus was aiming at and kicked out with him.

As they swept by it, Eperitus reached out and caught hold of the rock. It tore the skin from his palms, but he got a firm grip and pulled on it against the fierce current. Half senseless with exhaustion, he hauled them both to relative safety behind the shelf of smooth stone. At that same moment something reached down and touched his shoulder.

‘Take my hand,’ a voice shouted. ‘Quickly.’

Looking up, he saw Odysseus silhouetted against the bright sky. Eperitus shook his head and indicated Halitherses. ‘Take him first. I can hold on a while longer, but he’s weak.’

With what little strength he had left, Eperitus lifted the old man out of the swirling water and within reach of Odysseus, who caught him under the shoulders and hauled him up as if he was a baby. Moments later Eperitus felt a hand close around his wrist and Odysseus’s immense strength pulling him free of the river. He slumped onto the broad, flat top of the rock and vomited the liquid he had swallowed.

‘No, I didn’t use it,’ Odysseus answered when Eperitus asked him about the clay owl Athena had given him. He glanced about himself to ensure that nobody could hear. ‘It’s safe in my pouch. I’ll only call on her if Ithaca itself is threatened.’

They were drying themselves around a fire by the bank. Miraculously, Halitherses had only been stunned by the kick of the mule, and now sat opposite them eating barley broth from a wooden bowl, seemingly unaffected by his trials. The mule had been dashed to death in the rapids. Despite the fact that its load would now have to be shared between them, the men were all happy to be across the river alive and together.

It was early afternoon already, but they could not afford to waste time recuperating from their ordeals. The urgency of their mission forced them to strike their makeshift camp and march south again towards Messene. The land was becoming hillier as the eastern mountains rose beside them and they found very little sign of human life in the curiously deserted land. By last light they had not seen a single person and decided to find shelter in a small grove of trees on a conical foothill, where they made a fire. As the evening drew in and the men got weary of talk, Halitherses thanked Eperitus for saving his life and promised to return the gift.

‘Until I have that chance, though,’ he continued firmly with a smile, ‘you are still under my orders and will be accorded no special favours. Therefore I have to remind you it’s your turn to take first watch tonight.’

‘Keep an eye out for werewolves,’ Odysseus added unhelpfully, curling up under his cloak and closing his eyes.

Eperitus did not welcome his joke as he picked up his shield and spear and trudged out alone to the edge of the ring of trees. Sitting down at the top of the rock-strewn slope, he looked out at the land before him. To the south rose the mountains that lay between them and Messene. Not far to the west was the coast, and beyond it the sea. The sun had long since sunk behind the horizon, leaving the land between mountains and ocean in a stagnant twilight. Although they had met nobody on their journey to this place, Eperitus now saw that here and there in the quiescent landscape lights were beginning to show. There were not many of them and he was unable to see whether they marked farms, homesteads or whole villages, but at least he knew they were not alone in that strange country.

Suddenly a howl broke the stillness of the evening. Startled, he jumped up and looked about himself. Another call came in answer and he realized they were distant, far away from where he stood guard. Nevertheless, he longed for company and hoped that one of the others might join him.

They did not, and he was left alone in the deepening darkness. The wolves, if that was what they truly were, did not call out again and the unsettled landscape began to reclaim its serenity. Above him the stars shone bright and sharp, as if newly created, and an owl hooted as it hunted in the dales below the hill. Then a sudden noise broke the stillness.

Eperitus seized his spear and stood up, squinting into the darkness. There before him stood a man. Eperitus could make out nothing of him in the darkness, only that he was groaning as if in pain. Suddenly he stumbled forward. Eperitus raised his spear to defend himself, but at the last moment recognized the handsome features of the man’s face. Throwing the weapon aside, Eperitus reached out and caught him.

It was Mentor.

Chapter Ten

THE FALL OF ITHACA

The first of the suitors had arrived. Helen lay on a couch that had been draped in the finest purple cloth. A slave girl was busy trimming and polishing her toenails, ready to be painted. Beside her waited a small jar of plant and berry juices, mixed by the slave earlier that morning to make a thick red pigment.

Her maid raised one foot and started carefully applying the pigment. ‘What do you think of Menelaus, my lady?’

Helen smiled, knowing her answer would be spread rapidly through the servant’s quarters, if not the entire palace. ‘Tell me what you think, Neaera.’

The slave girl blushed. ‘Well, he’s handsome and strong with beautiful auburn hair . . .’

‘Which is thinning on top,’ Helen added.

‘I don’t have your height, my lady, so I can’t tell. But he’s a fine-looking man nonetheless, very wealthy, and he treats everyone as if they were royalty. Even slaves.’

Helen withdrew her foot and sat up, sighing with frustration. ‘Yes, he’s all of those things. Although I’ve only met him once, he also seems a kind-hearted, thoughtful man with good manners and a love of the simple life. And if Agamemnon is to be believed, I won’t find a man amongst his peers who has such fairness of mind, modesty of character, depth of intelligence or courage of spirit.’

‘Oh, my lady,’ exclaimed the slave with excitement. ‘Then you will marry him?’

Helen shook her head. ‘No, I won’t. Menelaus doesn’t inspire the least morsel of desire in me.’

The slave girl looked deflated. ‘Then who will you marry, my lady? Diomedes is coming. And Ajax, they say.’

‘That oaf!’

‘I’ve even heard that Achilles will come,’ Neaera persisted. ‘Surely you can’t turn down someone as handsome as Achilles?’

‘How do you know how handsome Achilles is?’ Helen scoffed. ‘Besides, don’t you know that Achilles is little more than a boy? How can I fall for a boy, whatever his pedigree?’

‘Then who, my lady?’ Neaera implored. With all the bets that were being placed in the palace, the slave who managed to obtain the secret of Helen’s true desire could win enough money to buy their own freedom.

‘Do you really think I’ll be allowed to choose?’ Helen asked bitterly. ‘Tyndareus is only interested in Agamemnon’s favour, and Agamemnon is only interested in a marriage of power. He knows that whoever wins me inherits my father’s throne. That’s why they will choose Menelaus, because Agamemnon’s brother will eventually become King of Sparta and the Atreides will be the most powerful dynasty in Greece.’

The slave girl looked at the princess for a moment. The politics of power meant nothing to her, but she recognized the sadness beneath her mistress’s anger. ‘Then who do you like most?’

‘None of them, Neaera,’ Helen said, throwing herself back onto the couch. ‘Does that win your wager with your friends for you? There isn’t one of those supposed noblemen who inspires any passion within my heart. What would I want with an overdressed, obnoxious, arrogant buffoon, however pretty he is or how nice he smells? I don’t care how many men they’ve killed or how many cities they’ve plundered: I want a man who makes me feel my heart beat in my throat when he enters the room. I couldn’t care less if he’s ugly, or even if he’s poor, within reason, as long as he takes me away from all this . . .’ she swept a white arm through the air, ‘paraphernalia. Find me a real man who doesn’t give a damn for power or the glory of the Greeks, and who can take me from this palace, then I’ll tell you who I really favour.’

Neaera looked down, ashamed. Despite her mistress’s wilful and often petulant nature, she loved her with all her heart and was sorry to have upset her. It was a slave’s privilege to be burdened with a mistress’s deepest worries, so Neaera knew how much Helen despised the idea of becoming the prize of a wealthy prince. For all her beauty and wealth there was still one thing beyond Helen’s grasp: freedom. It was a desire the slave girl understood fully.

‘Do you never wear any clothes when you’re in your room, sister?’

A young woman stood in the doorway eyeing Helen’s nakedness with undisguised amusement. She was tall and lean with pale skin and long, red hair, which swept around her protruding ears to fall down to the middle of her back. She had an attractive face with thin lips and staring eyes, but was dressed all in black, as if in mourning.

Helen smiled knowingly. ‘If my body repels you, Clytaemnestra, you shouldn’t come here unannounced.’

The woman entered anyway and, indicating to Neaera that she should leave, sat down next to her sister. They had not seen each other for over a year, but Clytaemnestra had decided to come to Sparta with Agamemnon and Menelaus to visit her family.

‘I’ve been listening from the doorway, Helen. You should be more careful of who’s eavesdropping when you speak disparagingly about my husband.’

‘I don’t care who hears me,’ Helen replied, sitting up and taking her sister’s hand. ‘I’m speaking the truth, after all. You know Agamemnon thinks of nothing else but power and ruling the whole of Greece.’

‘He will rule Greece,’ Clytaemnestra stated simply. She stroked her sister’s hands affectionately and sighed. ‘He always gets what he wants, as I’ve found to my loss. But he also wants peace. He’s sick of the constant wars – I think they all are – and the only way to achieve that is to unify Greece.’

Helen stood and picked up a piece of clothing from the floor, draping it about her flawless body. The white cloth was so fine that it hid nothing of her nakedness.

‘How convenient that Greece should be unified under Agamemnon, though,’ she insisted.

‘I’m sure he would gladly serve under somebody who he thought was more capable of rule than himself,’ Clytaemnestra added calmly, used to her sister’s outbursts. ‘But like all of his kind, Agamemnon just feels there is nobody more capable.’

‘You sound like you agree with him!’ Helen said angrily. She strode over to the window that overlooked the courtyard, where a group of guards stared up at her. Their eyes lingered for a brief but longing moment, then as one they switched their gazes to the ground, unable even to meet each other’s eyes with the vain desires that lay behind them. She turned to look at Clytaemnestra, shaking her head bitterly. ‘How can you even sympathize with what he thinks and what he wants? It was want of you that made him murder your first husband and butcher your baby as you held it against your breast! They were the only living things you’ve ever really loved. How can you stand that monster?’

Clytaemnestra glared at her younger sister. ‘What choice do I have? Agamemnon is the most powerful man in Greece, and I’m just a woman. And what is a woman without a man, Helen? We can’t bear arms or declare ourselves kings. We’ve both seen what happens to wives who lose their husbands and have no sons or married daughters. If they’re young enough they can sell their bodies; otherwise they’re abandoned and forced out of the community to scratch a living in the hills, or to die. A slave is better off than a freeborn woman: at least she has food and a roof over her head.’

‘It wouldn’t matter to me,’ Helen insisted. ‘I would never forgive. Never! And I’m surprised at you, Nestra. You were always the strongest of us all, even the boys. You should have been born male.’

Clytaemnestra laughed and allowed herself to relax. She beckoned her sister over and embraced her tightly, turning her face away to hide her tears. ‘I may endure him, Helen, but I’ve never forgiven him. Agamemnon still thinks I wear black in mourning for my first husband, but he has faded now in my memory, along with all the good things. I wear black because it angers him, and reminds him I’m not his in my heart. Every breath I take fuels my hate for him. My only joy is in knowing that, as his wife, I can deprive him of the love he should otherwise have received from another. He took my love, so I will deny him his. It’s the same when he comes to me at night. I don’t give myself to him, Helen, only my body. Do you understand?’

‘Not really,’ Helen answered, kissing the tears from her sister’s cheeks. ‘I understand the hate, but I don’t comprehend how you can give your body and not yourself

Clytaemnestra held Helen at arm’s length and looked straight into her eyes. ‘When Theseus took you, did you give yourself freely or did you divorce your spirit from the physical act? Either way, you’ll understand what I mean.’

‘Then I can’t understand,’ Helen answered, blushing and avoiding her sister’s eyes. ‘I’m not yet a woman in that sense.’

Clytaemnestra looked at her in disbelief. ‘And all this time I thought we shared the same scars. Oh, dear sister, I pray you will get the husband you deserve, and not be struck by the curse that has destroyed me.’

She wept again. Helen held her close and swore to herself she would never let any man hurt her in such a way.

Eperitus watched Mentor with concern as he ate a bowl of warm porridge and drank fresh water, trying to regain some of his strength before recounting his ordeal. The others were desperate to hear his news, concerned as they were for their families and homes, but Odysseus insisted that the exhausted man’s wounds were dressed and he was fed before being forced to relive the events on Ithaca. Despite his calming voice and forced smiles, though, Odysseus was unable to disguise the anxiety that stiffened his features and set his mouth in a tight line.

Eventually Mentor laid the wooden bowl aside and looked around at his comrades, who sat in a crescent about him and waited silently for him to speak.

‘Ithaca is lost,’ he began, and as he spoke tears filled his eyes. ‘Laertes has been taken captive and Eupeithes has declared himself king.’

Mentor looked up and met Odysseus’s hard eyes. ‘Go on,’ the prince said. ‘Tell us everything you know and don’t spare us the worst of it. Leave nothing unsaid.’

It had rained in Ithaca after Odysseus and his men left her shores. In the afternoon the clouds came and hovered low over the island, their great bellies threatening to crush it into the sea from which it had sprung. They poured down endless torrents of water, blotting out the moon and stars and leaving the town in a stifling darkness.

Mentor had ordered the usual guard of one to be tripled. One of the sentries peered out through a viewing slot in the thick wooden gates, but all he could see was an impenetrable curtain of rain obscuring everything beyond a stone’s throw from the walls.

As he watched a figure came into view, struggling against the lashing rain and the howling wind. ‘Let me in, man,’ he shouted. ‘I have urgent news.’

Recognizing Koronos, the guard hurriedly unbolted the gates and pulled them open. The merchant rushed inside the shelter of the walls and immediately swung the gates shut behind him.

‘Make sure they’re bolted. I was followed here,’ he said, removing his hat and shaking the water from the brim. ‘A force of Taphians has arrived on Ithaca and joined Eupeithes. They’re marching on the palace as we speak.’

Koronos possessed a natural air of authority and the guardsmen were quick to obey as he ordered one of them to wake the king and another to fetch Mentor. The remaining warrior looked out into the rain-filled darkness again.

‘Sir! I can see somebody. No! No, there are a few of them out there.’

‘Yes, I know,’ Koronos answered, pulling his rain-black cloak to one side and feeling along his belt. ‘Tall men with long hair and spears as high as these gates. They’re Taphians, and there are around four score of them.’

The dagger in his hand shone blue in the darkness as he walked towards the stooping guard. The man turned his head in time to see the blade flash before him. A moment later he fell dead at the merchant’s feet, the blood swilling out from the gash in his throat.

Koronos dragged the body away from the gates and slipped the bolts aside. The doors were at once thrust inward by Polytherses, who walked in with confidence and looked quickly about himself. ‘Well done, Koronos. We shall not forget your loyalty.’

A seemingly endless stream of heavily armed men poured through the gates after him. Koronos, who had sold his king in exchange for a promise of money and power, stood aside to let the mercenaries pass.

At that moment one of the guards returned with Mentor at his side. They halted just beyond the threshold of the great hall, hardly able to believe that the gates had fallen and their enemies were already filing into the courtyard. Then they heard a shout and saw Polytherses leading a group of Taphians towards them at a run. Several more of the enemy were pulling bows from their shoulders and fitting arrows.

Shocked into action, Mentor and the guard ducked back inside the palace, slamming the doors shut behind them. Arrows thumped into the great wooden panels as they barred the door against the invaders.

For a short while the two men struggled to catch their breath as they stood in the small anteroom to the great hall. But there was no time to spare: there were other ways of getting into the palace from the courtyard now that the outer walls had been penetrated, and unless they acted at once the building would be overrun.

‘Go to where the militia are billeted and wake them,’ Mentor ordered. ‘Quickly!’

The guard ran across the hall and disappeared through a side-entrance. Moments later, Mentor sprinted across to the far wall of the great hall where a hunting horn had hung for as long as he could remember. Pressing it to his lips, he blew hard and a clear and piercing note thundered out into the still air of the hall, blasting beyond the walls and high ceiling to echo about the whole palace.

He blew again, then tugged the sword from his belt and fled through the side entrance into a corridor that skirted the great hall. He heard voices approaching from around the next corner, whilst behind him something heavy crashed against the palace doors, coughing splinters into the great hall. After two more blows the doors burst inwards and the flames of the hearth flickered with the fresh night air. Figures entered and gathered in the shadows, three or four of them, their foreign voices filled with threat. Taphians.

Mentor turned and ran. Arrows bounced off the walls about him as he cleared the corner, only to find himself faced by a hedge of spears. He stopped short and looked into the confused faces of half a dozen Ithacan guardsmen. They had thrown their armour on in a hurry, but they were armed and ready to fight.

‘Taphians,’ he warned, pointing back down the corridor. ‘They’re inside the palace.’

As he spoke, three of the mercenaries came rushing round the corner and almost impaled themselves on the wall of spears. The guardsmen reacted quickly, spitting the invaders upon their sharpened spear points. All three fell in a groaning mass, their stomachs gushing dark blood onto hands that tried desperately to stem the flow. The victors wasted no time in dispatching their souls to the Underworld.

‘They’ll be coming in through every door and window by now,’ Mentor told the bloodied guards. ‘Our only chance is to get to the upper level and defend Laertes. The stairs are narrow and we’ll be able to hold them until the townsfolk come to our aid.’

‘The king’s gone,’ one of the men announced. ‘He took the other guards and went to alert the militia; he ordered us to stay here and defend the way to the upper levels.’

Suddenly the whole palace erupted with noise. A loud shout from the great hall announced the arrival of more Taphians. From the corridors surrounding them they heard more shouts and the ringing of weapons, whilst on the upper levels there was screaming from the women’s quarters. And now the first party of Taphians from the great hall turned the corner and faced them, their swords at the ready.

Mentor struck quickly, swinging his sword to slice open the neck of their leader. A mist of blood sprayed over the knot of soldiers behind him, who fell back as the body drove a wedge into their tightly packed ranks. A moment later the Ithacan guardsmen rushed into the gap, sinking their spear points into two more of the tall warriors.

The remainder turned and tried to push the weight of men behind them back into the great hall. Mentor picked up a spear and thrust it into the back of one man, then trod his body down into the dirt of the corridor floor as he hacked down another. His companions managed to gouge the life out of a further three before the mercenaries escaped back into the open space of the great hall.

Their victory had filled them with confidence and a fierce lust for more slaughter, but Mentor knew the Taphians would quickly return in more strength. Realizing that their best hope was to defend the upper levels, he ordered them back. Upon reaching the stairs they paused before a dead female slave who lay across the broad steps like a toppled statue, her arms hooked above her head and her eyes shut as if sleeping. Only the dark stain of blood still spreading through her clean white dress indicated there had been any violence. The guardsmen recoiled briefly at the sight of her, but Mentor waved them up the steps.

‘Protect the queen,’ he ordered, knowing that at least one of Eupeithes’s men had already found his way to the female quarters. ‘I’ll try to find Laertes. May the gods protect you!’

The men sprang up the steps while Mentor set off down the corridor, past the storeroom and the slaves’ quarters to the door that opened onto the courtyard. The dull clash of arms was audible through its thick panels.

Nervously, and hastily in case of pursuit, he opened the door and stepped out into the courtyard. The clouds had now dispersed to reveal sable patches of night sky and a curved splinter of moon. Spread across the courtyard, individually and sometimes bunched into small knots, were the dark shapes of numerous corpses, the debris of a battle that was now concentrated on the left-hand side of the broad enclosure.

There were around thirty men still standing, but the majority were Taphians, led by Polytherses. At their rear, running about on his spindly legs and shouting encouragement to his men, was Eupeithes. He was a fat, arrogant-looking man in his late middle age, with white hair and pale, mole-strewn skin that looked translucent in the weak moonlight. His clothing and armour were luxurious, reflecting the expensive taste for which he was well known, but remained unsoiled by battle. Although his home was filled with images of heroes and wars, his own bravery was nothing more than imagined and he had no nerve for the filth, the exertion, or the risk of battle.

As Mentor watched from the shadow of the palace walls, the two sides parted and he saw Laertes standing in the midst of five remaining Ithacan guardsmen. The old king raised his spear and invited Eupeithes to decide the fate of Ithaca by single combat. A number of the warlike Taphians murmured their approval and looked at their leader.

The merchant faced the challenge with a smile. ‘Laertes, my friend, don’t be angry. I haven’t forgotten the time you saved my life from the mob, or that you were once king of these islands, so I have no wish to see you harmed unnecessarily. And why should you and I fight each other for the throne? These Taphians have battled bravely to win liberty for their Ithacan allies – to save them from your folly, Laertes – and there can be no dispute who is ruler here now.’

Laertes stared at the merchant with disdain. ‘You’ll never be ruler, Eupeithes. Betrayal begets betrayal and your actions will only earn you treachery in return. Kneel before your rightful king now, and pray to the gods he’ll have mercy on you.’

Eupeithes stepped forward and waved his hand dismissively. ‘A king is but a representative, the bearer of a title and a position, but he is nevertheless a man who will ultimately die. A nation, however, is something which surpasses the individual. It outlives us all and must be honoured above any one man. I act for our nation and that’s why I must replace you, Laertes. You have failed your people with idle hands and a self-regarding mind.’

‘You see things with the eyes of a merchant, Eupeithes,’ Laertes replied. ‘You don’t see there are other things in this world beyond how much a man does or does not possess. You were born into a wealthy family who trained you to think about the acquisition of riches, to know what to buy and where to sell, and you have spent your life as a trader in goods. That makes you an excellent man to trust when it comes to money and making a profit.

‘I, on the other hand, was born into a ruling family. I was trained to think about the welfare of my people, to provide for them and protect them. From boyhood I was taught to fight and to lead troops; I was told how to take from the people in times of plenty, so that I could give to them in times of hardship; I was shown how to watch every part of my kingdom, from the harvest, to the work of the craftsmen, to the trading of the merchants and the scheming of the nobles, so that there was balance and harmony. And that’s how I’ve spent my life, be it for better or worse. But whatever truth there is in your accusations, I have kept this nation together. It’s only through you that Ithacans have spilled each other’s blood on the soil of their homeland. Only you, Eupeithes, have divided these islands and destroyed the one thing that has kept them together and at peace for so long. In your very first act you have invited our oldest enemies onto our shores, killed your compatriots and put the future of these islands into question. The biggest mistake I made was in allowing you to spread your lies amongst the people.’

As both groups listened to the king, his voice filled with authority despite his tiredness and wounds, Mentor heard the sound of others coming down the corridor behind him. Looking about himself, he snatched a long Taphian spear and a shield from one of the many bodies in the courtyard and retreated back into the shadows, pressing his body as close to the wall as possible. Just as he did so, Koronos walked out into the courtyard, followed by Polytherses and the remainder of the Taphians, who had broken in through the great hall.

Laertes saw the approaching reinforcements and knew that the battle was lost. Realizing their desperate situation and not wanting to waste more lives, he threw down his weapons in surrender and ordered his men to do the same.

Eupeithes had won a stunningly quick and complete victory. By clever deceit and ruthless determination he had overthrown the king and taken power. And as Mentor slipped away unnoticed through the palace gates, he knew that only the return of Odysseus could save Ithaca now.

Chapter Eleven

THE ROAD TO MESSENE

Mentor raised his head and looked at Odysseus. ‘There’s something else,’ he said. Despite his hardships, he sat tall and as straight as a spear. ‘The fishermen who helped me escape told me a galley had already left for the mainland. A force of Taphians was aboard, led by Polybus. Eupeithes knows that until you’re dead there will always be hope and resistance amongst the Ithacans. He also knows from the crew of your ship where you landed, so he intends to hunt you down while you’re still within his reach.’

After breakfast, they gathered in the shade of the trees where Odysseus had called them to council. Other than Eperitus, every member of the expedition had family and friends back in Ithaca. However, it was so incredible that their homeland could now be under the rule of Eupeithes that for a while nobody knew what to say.

It was Damastor who broke the silence. He had a wife and infant son at home and did not want to leave them to the mercy of Taphian pirates. There was no choice, he argued, but to go to the nearest coastal town and take a ship back to Ithaca. They knew the countryside better than the Taphians and could observe their numbers and defences from the hills surrounding the town. If they sailed by night the invaders would not even be aware of their return, and then they could gather an army of the people and wrest the island back from Eupeithes.

There were murmurs of agreement, but little enthusiasm. Laertes’s defeat had lowered their spirits and put doubt into their minds. Eperitus could see from the lifeless expressions that they questioned their chances of defeating Eupeithes’s much stronger force. Even Halitherses looked sullen and dismayed. Only Odysseus seemed unbowed by the news. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the distant shoreline as he pondered what to do.

After a few moments he stood and looked at his men, their dirty, tired faces raised in expectation. If they hastened back to Ithaca now, he explained, they might catch Eupeithes unprepared and the islanders angry enough to fight. But it was more likely their small force would be massacred, gifting Ithaca to their enemies for ever. The alternative was to continue to Sparta, where they might gain powerful allies and come back with a force that could optimistically challenge Eupeithes. And yet that would also give the usurper time to establish himself and strengthen his position.

‘Whatever we may think,’ said Halitherses, ‘the decision has to be yours, my lord. We all have homes and families on Ithaca, but you are the heir to the throne. You know what’s best, and we’ll commit ourselves to your judgement.’

‘Then I’m going to pray on the matter,’ Odysseus announced. ‘If you’re wise you’ll do the same. I’ll decide when I return.’

He turned to go to the other side of the hilltop, and as he did so gave Eperitus a long look and nodded his head for him to follow. The young warrior waited a short while then went to find him.

Odysseus sat on his haunches, his elbows balanced on his knees and his hands wilting at the ends of his outstretched arms. He was looking out towards the sea. Though winter had begun the sky had few clouds and the sun was bright as it climbed towards its apex, enabling a keen-eyed observer to see for great distances. The prince did not look at Eperitus as he joined him.

‘You wanted me, my lord?’

‘No formalities here, Eperitus. Sit down.’

Rocks were scattered everywhere, none of them flat or smooth enough to sit on, so he squatted next to Odysseus and faced the sea. The landscape was typical of southern Greece – hilly, boulder-strewn, punctuated with scrubby plants and olive groves – but it felt an empty and lonely place.

‘What will you do?’ he asked.

‘That isn’t my decision,’ Odysseus replied, opening his hand to reveal the small clay owl that Athena had given him. ‘She told me to go to her temple at Messene.’

Eperitus looked at the object resting in the palm of his friend’s hand and recalled the goddess’s instructions, as well as her promise to help Odysseus at the time he needed her most.

‘That’s why I wanted you to follow me, Eperitus,’ Odysseus continued, looking at him with his intelligent green eyes. ‘You were there. You saw her and heard what she said. I can’t share that with Mentor or Halitherses, so I need you to help me decide.’

‘We won’t be able to defeat Eupeithes without using the owl to call on Athena’s help,’ Eperitus began. ‘But she won’t come unless you honour her command to go to Messene first.’

‘Even with the help of a goddess it’ll be a difficult task,’ Odysseus said. ‘We’re too few in number. But you’re right either way: we must at least rid her temple of the serpent, as she has commanded. We can decide between Ithaca and Sparta then. And yet . . . and yet I fear for my parents. My every thought burns with anxiety for them! Ithaca will still be there if we return tomorrow or in ten years, but I can’t delay if by doing so I risk the lives of my father and mother.’

‘From everything I’ve heard it seems that Eupeithes is a coward,’ Eperitus said. ‘Surely he wouldn’t dare murder Laertes?’

‘No, he wouldn’t. But he has Polybus at one ear and Polytherses at the other, and the Taphians may yet decide to do away with them all and take Ithaca for themselves. They wouldn’t spare its king and queen.’

‘I can’t make that decision for you, Odysseus,’ Eperitus replied. ‘But if you want the opinion of an outsider, then go to Messene first. That’s the sum of my wisdom on the matter. And now I should go back, before Mentor suspects me of being up to mischief

As he rejoined the camp, he saw Mentor sitting on a rock and staring at him. His arms and legs were tied with fresh bandages – replaced that morning – and the few hours sleep he had gained during the night had eased his look of exhaustion. Eperitus was about to look away and find a friendlier face, when Mentor rose to his feet and walked towards him. The man’s accusations of treachery were still fresh in Eperitus’s mind, and the ordeals Mentor had been through did not lessen his anger towards him.

‘What is it?’ he said, sharply.

Mentor stared at him for a moment, then offered his hand. ‘I owe you an apology, Eperitus. I judged you too harshly when we first met, and I haven’t made things easy for you since. But the events at the palace have changed me, and I just want to say I was wrong to speak as I did.’

Eperitus held Mentor’s gaze for a moment longer, then forced a smile to his lips and took his hand. ‘I’m glad we can be friends, Mentor.’

Odysseus returned shortly after and wasted no time in informing the men of his decision. They would head for Sparta, travelling via Messene to buy new supplies. Even those who were eager to return home and fight it out did not question his decision, and Eperitus sensed the prince’s authority grow then. Before, he felt that the men followed Odysseus because he was the son of Laertes; now it was because they were learning to trust him. The only voice of dissent belonged to Damastor, who still insisted they should return to Ithaca. But his protests were short-lived in the face of Odysseus’s silence and he resigned himself to the long journey ahead of them. And so they marched late into the evening, following the coastal road and hoping to put some distance between themselves and any pursuit.

They made camp away from the road on an outcrop of the eastern mountains. It was similar to their resting place of the previous night, with steep slopes facing the sea and a crown of olive trees upon its summit. They made as large a fire as they dared, which hardly merited the title, and Antiphus sang them an ancient tale from Ithacan legend. It was not a story Eperitus had ever heard in Alybas, as it told of sea gods tormenting shipbound mortals and keeping them from their homes, but it was familiar to Odysseus’s men. They nodded in sad recognition of each element or in anticipation of the next, and the subject of the cursed wanderer struck their mood. But it was also a short song, the sort that can be easily learned and which men will sing to their comrades when they have no bard, and so it was soon the turn of others to sing. They all knew the tales that were shared because they had heard them so many times before and the words had been embroidered into the fabric of their minds. Even Mentor, who was still tired and sore from his wounds, gave them a song in his deep and musical voice.

Then it was the turn of Odysseus. The songs that had come before had gently drawn them away from their self-centred, individual patterns of thought, their insignificant anxieties about food, sleep and tomorrow, and knitted them slowly together into a single entity that fed on words, unconsciously transforming them into a smooth succession of shared emotions which in turn became the heartbeat that unified them. When Odysseus spoke his smooth voice mastered them entirely, reached into their mood and gripped them, leading them, lifting them. He did not sing, but spoke the words of his tale, clearly and rhythmically, mingling their thoughts and emotions into a stream that flowed directly into him and back out again to them. He told them of the gods and the ancient things that preceded them, of battles fought before man’s creation that tore up the mountain tops and burned the oceans, and when, eventually, he stopped telling the tale their minds did not stop hearing it, could not stop, but poured back over it and around it until the night breeze tugged at their cloaks and pinched their skin, slowly clawing them back to the world of the hilltop, encircled by the age-old trees and observed by a raven sky filled with stars.

One by one they turned away into their blankets and tried to sleep, pondering the great world that they were but a small fragment of, not needing to comprehend it or their part in it, simply accepting once again their own mortality. And as he saw his true self, a brittle, finite thing, Eperitus did not sink resigned under a sense of fatalism but felt himself lifted, his spirit rising to claim the infinitesimal spark of life that the gods had granted him. He was such a throwaway thing of no importance, and yet he existed and would make that existence worthwhile.

They were woken before dawn by the smell of smoke and the crackle of fire.

Eperitus lifted his head from his rolled-up cloak and at first thought his dream had taken a bizarre twist. Then he saw Damastor running through the camp and shouting.

‘Fire! The trees have caught light! Wake up!’

Eperitus leapt to his feet and looked about with a horrified realization. Two of the trees that circled the camp were now blazing brightly, forming a raging beacon against the fading darkness. The others stumbled from their blankets, bleary-eyed and dishevelled. Eperitus saw Halitherses amongst them and ran to him.

‘We must find some water,’ he said urgently. ‘If Polybus is anywhere nearby he’s bound to see this.’

‘It’s too late for that, lad,’ Halitherses said, pointing towards the raging inferno. ‘See how the flames are spreading from tree to tree? Even if there was a river here and we had something other than our helmets to fetch the water in, we could never douse these flames. I only pray to the gods that there are no Taphians within sight of this.’

Eperitus remained anxious to do something, but the truth was that the fire would be visible to any watching eyes for miles around, and when dawn came the smoke trail would be obvious to all. So they watched helplessly with the heat drying their eyes and warming their faces, and wondered whether matters could get worse. Then Damastor appeared at his side and seized his arm.

‘Eperitus, where are the mules? They were picketed over there last night.’

He looked at the place where the beasts had been when he fell asleep, but they were not there. They must have broken free, panicked by the flames, and bolted into the night. With them they had taken the last of their provisions and, what was worse, the gifts for Helen.

Odysseus came running towards them. ‘Get some men together and search for the mules, Damastor,’ he ordered, clearly angry with the guardsman. ‘Halitherses, see that the escort is ready to march before sun-up. I want to get away from here as soon as possible and continue to Messene.’

‘How could this have happened?’ Eperitus asked him. ‘And why didn’t the sentry see anything?’

‘Damastor was asleep again,’ the prince replied, tight-lipped. ‘And as for the blaze, it was probably an ember from the fire, caught by the night breeze.’

‘Sabotage is a more likely explanation,’ Eperitus replied, but Odysseus was already hastening away to issue more orders to his men.

Damastor’s search for the mules was unsuccessful and they were forced to leave with nothing but the food they had in their pouches. Soon afterwards it began to drizzle, and they cursed their bad luck that it had not rained the night before. At least then the trees would have been too wet to catch light, and they would not have needed to leave the road and cut across country to avoid pursuit.

Nobody spoke. They followed a route that kept them out of sight of the road. It took them through valleys and along the reverse slopes of hills, through woods and along riverbeds so that they were not seen by unwelcome eyes. Without the road their going was slow and Odysseus would occasionally climb a hill to check their position in relation to the road south. By afternoon the men were tired, being generally unfit and unconditioned to long marches. They also began to find that they could no longer continue south and remain invisible to anyone using the road.

Odysseus, Halitherses and Eperitus made their way up to high ground and saw that the road had now split in two. One route followed the coast as it bent outwards and then plunged south again; the other curved away from the coast and turned inland, heading east through the mountains.

‘Which way now?’ Eperitus asked.

‘Using the coastal road will take us days,’ Odysseus answered. ‘It circumvents the southern mountains, then angles back up to reach Messene. I’ve sailed around that cape many times and know it would be a long journey on foot. But if we take the road through this valley,’ he added, pointing east, ‘it should lead us to the northern end of a broad plain. From there it forks again: southwest to Messene, or east over the Taygetus Mountains to Sparta. Polybus would expect us to head through the valley, but he wouldn’t anticipate us doubling back to Messene. I think we should take the risk and hope to lose him there, if indeed he is following us. What do you say?’

‘I wouldn’t want to follow the coastal road and lose the cover of these hills,’ Halitherses said, stroking his beard and looking across at the open stretch between their hiding place and the junction below. ‘At least if we head east we can keep ourselves concealed a while longer. There’s still the open plain to come, where we’ll have to take to the road again for a time, but we can deal with that when it comes to it.’

By last light, after pursuing another skulking course through the foothills and woods that skirted the main road, they finally emerged from the other end of the valley. There before them lay the open plain of Messene. Only the northernmost reaches were visible – the remainder obscured by a last spur of the mountains to their right – but they could see that it was a broad and fertile place. There were fields and orchards, and quiet villages that lay dozing beneath the shadows of the hills. And there, just beyond the rocky spur, they could see the road splitting again. One branch continued south-east towards the Taygetus Mountains and eventually Sparta, whilst the other veered south to Messene.

They increased their pace to a run as Odysseus led them out of hiding and into the vulnerable open spaces about the road. The sun had set, but until they passed the rocky spur it was still light enough for them to be seen from the steep hillsides to the west. Eperitus was at the back of the group, and as he reached the fork in the road he noticed something shining in the dirt. He paused as he reached the object, and looked down to see a dagger in the damp mud, the blade pointing south in the direction they were running.

‘Come on, Eperitus,’ Odysseus shouted. ‘This is no place to rest.’

Shamed by the insinuation that he was tired, Eperitus sprinted to catch up with the rest of the men. Whoever had dropped the dagger would have to do without it.

They did not push on towards Messene that evening. Visitors in the night are rarely made welcome in a town, so they made camp in the foothills of the western mountains. It was a grim and cheerless assembly, without the warmth and light of a fire and with nothing but the meagre rations in their pouches to provide a meal. The watch was tripled and nobody enjoyed an unbroken night’s sleep.

Woken by a grey light distilling through his eyelids, Eperitus opened them to see a cold and cloudy sky overhead. All night the winter chill had been eating away at his flesh and burrowing into his bones, leaving him stiff and awkward as he stood and began shaking the blood back into his limbs. They ate a cold and lifeless breakfast of bread with strips of dried fish, washed down with icy water. Amongst the whole group only Odysseus had any cheer, which he tried to spread by reminding his men they were only a morning’s march from Messene. As for Eperitus, the prospect of finding Athena’s temple by late morning did not encourage him. He had no appetite to face a creature akin to that which protected the Pythoness. But he also knew that to win glory he must face his fears and overcome them.

They took to the road again and marched in a double file. Eperitus walked beside Antiphus and for a while they shared their knowledge of Sparta, swapping tales they had heard of its wealth and the splendour of its palace. But after a while Antiphus began pointing out the signs left by what appeared to be a large group of travellers: recently trampled mud, crusts of bread or olive stones, and even a leather sandal-strap tossed away at the side of the road. Then, as the road slipped between two steep hills on its route south, he called out to Odysseus and pointed out a clump of bushes at the side of the road.

‘Somebody’s ahead of us, my lord. These bushes have been hacked with a sword, and that means they’re armed. I think we should send out flanking scouts, just in case Polybus and his Taphians have overtaken us in the night.’

Odysseus shook his head and pointed to the crests of the slopes on either side of them. ‘It’s a little bit late now for that, I think.’

They turned to see both sides of the narrow gulley lined with tall, long-haired men. They held spears almost twice their own height and some of them had bows at the ready, arrows primed and pointing directly at them.

Chapter Twelve

AMBUSH AND PURSUIT

The Taphians surrounded them like a ring of hunters, but Eperitus felt no fear. He believed in the promise of the oracle and knew his time to die had not yet come. He also trusted in the years of training he had received at the hands of his father and grandfather, both of whom had expected him to one day become captain of the palace guard at Alybas. Since boyhood they had worked on his physical strength, his fighting technique and his reactions, and the fruit of their efforts had pleased them both. As Eperitus crouched behind his ox-hide shield and looked up at the fearsome mercenaries, he knew that his aim with a spear was deadly and his skill with sword and shield second to none.

He touched the flower Ctymene had given him, which he wore in his belt, and prayed to Athena for protection. The Ithacans were surrounded on both sides and whichever way they faced their backs were exposed to the archers on either slope. Their inexperience had allowed them to walk into a trap, and he knew they should have been more cautious. Like the others, he had not expected the Taphians to follow them to Messene, let alone pass them in the night and set up an ambush, but the more he thought about it the more his mind focused on the dagger in the mud. He felt sure it was a sign, left by the same person who had torched the olive trees. Clearly, Koronos was not the only traitor.

The fighting, when it commenced, would be quick and bloody. But as they waited for the first arrow to be loosed, the soldiers around him filled with anticipation and fear, Eperitus looked at the tall men on the hillsides and felt only excitement at the thought of pitting his fighting skills against theirs. His imagination tasted the prospects for glory, whilst feverishly planning how to turn the trap. But even if Odysseus’s men were able to escape the well-laid ambush – and he saw no way out other than to hack themselves free – they would leave most of their number dead behind them. Their foes outnumbered them and had the advantage of archers and the high ground. They could pick the Ithacans off at their leisure, forcing them to take the fight up the rocky slopes to the Taphians, by which time the enemy arrows would have reduced them to half their own number.

With the bad news from Ithaca and the loss of their precious baggage, the expedition to Sparta was already in a precarious position. On the other hand, Eperitus had confidence in the men who were with him: the level heads of Odysseus and Mentor; the experience and strength of Halitherses, the bow of Antiphus; the loyalty and comradeship of the others. They also had the happy advantage of being in a tight group, whereas the Taphian leader had spread his force out to prevent the men below escaping. This meant he would have difficulty in keeping control of the warriors furthest from him. Eperitus knew this instinctively, and within moments of the ambush being sprung was searching for a weak spot, a place to launch an attack at and drive the surrounding foes apart.

He looked from position to position, counting each man and eyeing the terrain, remembering the lessons in tactics his grandfather had given him and hoping to identify where they were most vulnerable. It seemed to him that about two-thirds of their force were spread across the wider, steeper hill to their right, whereas the easier slope to the left was more lightly defended, a mere barrier to slow them down if they chose to escape that way.

‘There’s one of the twins,’ Mentor announced, pointing a thumb up the hill to their right. ‘You’ve got good eyes, Damastor: is he missing an ear?’

Damastor squinted over his shield. ‘Yes – it’s Polybus.’

Antiphus, who crouched next to him, spat over his shield. ‘Good. I’ve got an old score to settle with him.’

Eperitus looked up and recognized the arrogant braggart he had knocked into the pool back on Ithaca. His handsome features were out of place beneath the bronze helmet he wore, and his clumsy shield and spear were even less becoming against his elegant, well cared for physique. He looked as if he had just stepped out of his bath, been oiled by slaves and dressed in the finest armour wealth could buy. But none of the accoutrements of a warrior could make him look like a true fighting man. Judging by the way he had spread his men so thinly, Eperitus did not think he was a talented commander of soldiers either.

As he watched, Polybus stood on a large outcrop of rock and put his hands on his hips.

‘Greetings Odysseus,’ he shouted down to them. ‘I hope you like the little surprise I’ve prepared for you. The last time we met I told you we would continue our discussion when the odds were more equal. That time has come, I think.’

‘Our spears will speak for us,’ Odysseus replied, his deep voice reassuring to the men around him.

In answer, Polybus shouted to one of his archers and the first arrow flew. It caught an Ithacan in the chest and threw him back on to the road, his armour crashing about him.

The lull was over.

More bowstrings twanged from the hillsides, arrows splitting the air about them. One pierced Eperitus’s shield, the point stopping a finger’s breadth from his face. He stood and looked about himself, but by good fortune or the protection of a god only one man had fallen to the first volley. He leapt over the prostrate body as more arrows whistled about them and joined Odysseus, who stood with his shield held up against the deadly rain.

‘Polybus has spread his men too thinly,’ Eperitus suggested. ‘He’s left himself vulnerable on the left-hand slope. There are fewer Taphians there and the approach is less steep. They should break easily if we attack, and we can escape with only a few losses.’

‘What glory is there in escape?’ Odysseus smiled. ‘Besides, Polybus wants us to retreat that way so he can pursue us across the plain towards Sparta. He’s placed most of his archers on the right to fire at our backs, and just enough men on the left to hold us until his main force can attack our rear. It’s clever, but obvious. But if we kill Polybus, we break them as a force and gain victory against the odds. So we go right, where they least expect us.’

‘But if we fail, you lose everything.’

‘The gods will be with us, Eperitus.’

With that Odysseus let out a great cry and called for his men to follow him up the hill towards Polybus. They obeyed without question, lifting their shields before them and advancing in a steady line up the slope. Forgetting any thought of escape, Eperitus followed close on the heels of Odysseus.

Arrows fell into them from behind and two men went down before they were more than a few paces up the hill. Damastor turned in a mixture of surprise and anger, but caught his foot and fell, striking his head against a boulder. He did not get up again and his comrades were forced to leave him as they drove on into the rain of missiles from above.

Despite the early casualties, Polybus had kept the balance of his fifteen or so archers on his own side of the ambush, as Odysseus had pointed out. This made the threat from behind less effective, and all the time the Ithacans were moving out of the effective range of the smaller group of archers. Also, by holding their oversized shields before them they made the shots of the men on the slopes above ineffective, and were able to steadily close the distance on them. And yet the hill was steep and their careful approach, with shields held out as they scrambled around boulders and over loose rocks, allowed the Taphians to pull back before them and tighten their ranks.

‘Eperitus!’ Antiphus called over to him. ‘Stay here and protect me with your shield while I take some shots at them. I’m sick of not being able to fire back.’

Eperitus ran across and fixed the point at the bottom of his shield into the dust. It was tall and broad enough to provide cover for both himself and Antiphus, who slipped his bow and quiver from his shoulders and knelt down. Having no natural skill with the weapon, Eperitus watched with impressed satisfaction as his companion flipped the lid off the quiver, laid a handful of arrows down in his upturned shield and fitted one to the string. He stretched it back with his left hand, resting the shaft on the knuckles of his right hand where his index and forefinger had been severed by Polybus, then steadied his breathing and took aim.

Eperitus peered around the other side of the shield. The Ithacans were clambering more slowly up the hillside now, but still maintained the even dispersal of their line. Odysseus was at their centre, undeterred that he was the target of most of the Taphian archers. It was he who kept the advance steady, ensuring with booming commands (which Halitherses reinforced) that no warrior outstripped his comrades. He controlled them like a man reining in a chariot team, keeping each horse in check until the final burst of speed is required.

Then Antiphus’s bowstring twanged loud in Eperitus’s ear and he saw one of the tall archers flail backwards, caught in the eye. With amazing speed, Antiphus fitted a second missile, took a moment to aim, then let it fly towards a second Taphian, who folded as the point pierced his stomach. Moments later, a third man was hit in the shoulder, and at this the enemy gave up their bows and withdrew behind the safety of their shields. Eperitus saw Polybus then, moving between his bewildered men and marshalling them into a line to meet Odysseus’s advance. Either through stupidity or a complete lack of fear, he walked with his shield slung over his shoulder, unconscious or dismissive of the danger from the slopes below.

Seeing the opportunity, Eperitus touched Antiphus’s shoulder and pointed at the easy target. ‘Revenge for losing your fingers?’

Antiphus saw Polybus, who he could easily have slain, but shook his head. ‘His life isn’t mine to take. Odysseus wants him. I have a different revenge in mind.’

As he spoke an arrow passed between them and tore a channel of flesh from his left shoulder. He cried out in pain and surprise, and clapped a hand to the wound. Together they turned to see that the Taphians from the hillside behind them had left their positions and were closing on their rear, threatening to cut off their retreat and trap them. Eperitus looked up at Odysseus, but he and his guards had restarted their advance on the now fixed line of mercenaries before them, ignorant of the new danger. He shouted to Mentor, who was nearest, and pointed to the ten or so enemy warriors below.

More arrows fell around them and Antiphus called for Eperi-tus’s shield again. He swung it about to face the archery from below and immediately caught two of the lethal shafts in its thick hide, where they joined the earlier shot that was still buried there. Antiphus moved around behind his companion and knelt down to his right. He drew back the string, despite the pain in his shoulder, steadied his breathing and took aim. This time, though, the arrow went wide and bounced off a rock, provoking jeers from its intended target.

Antiphus cursed and, almost in the same breath, called on the help of the gods. He did not miss again. His next arrow pierced the cheek of one of the attackers, whipping his head to one side and sending him rolling back down the hill. His comrades stooped and found what cover there was amongst the boulders, propping their shields before them. But they were not quick enough. Antiphus’s next arrow went straight through a man’s thigh, sending him stumbling back down the slope, shouting with pain. A further arrow finished him, piercing his exposed back and dropping him face-first amongst the rocks.

Mentor hurried down the slope to join them, bringing two others who had received light arrow wounds.

‘Can you keep them off our backs?’ Mentor asked.

Antiphus’s reply was distracted as he searched for a target amongst the broad shields before him. ‘There are already two fewer than before, and I count only eight men left. I’ve enough arrows for the remainder, but if they press hard they’ll overwhelm me. So you’d better stay.’

At that moment they heard shouts and the clash of arms from above, signifying that Odysseus and his eight remaining men had brought home their charge on Polybus’s score of Taphians. Eperitus was torn between rushing to their aid and waiting for the smaller group to attack. Then the weight of the decision was taken from him as the remaining Taphians began their advance, emerging from the cover of the boulders with their shields held before them.

The situation reminded him of the first skirmish at Parnassus, except that this time he was not an outsider: their prince was now his prince; their home was his home. Antiphus’s bowstring sounded and another Taphian fell, screaming with agony as he clutched at the arrow in his foot. Realizing their vulnerability, his comrades broke into a run, frantic to cover the remaining distance before the deadly accuracy of the Ithacan archer could take a further toll of their numbers.

Anxiously, Eperitus glanced over his shoulder to the battle on the slopes above. Mentor did the same and they exchanged worried glances. The situation was desperate and they knew that even Odysseus could not defeat a force twice his own number.

‘We’ve got to finish these Taphians now,’ Eperitus said, motioning down the slope with his head, ‘or Odysseus is going to be overwhelmed.’

Mentor balanced the bulk of his shield on his arm and raised his spear point. ‘Form a line,’ he ordered. ‘Shields and spears at the ready.’

Antiphus fired one last shot, which bounced harmlessly off the helmet of one of the Taphians, then took up his shield and spear and joined his comrades. Eperitus led the attack, closely followed by the others. The enemy were only seven spears strong now, compared to their five, and the slope gave the Ithacans’ charge momentum as they rushed at their foes.

The foremost Taphian offered little resistance as the metal boss of Eperitus’s shield smashed through his own. He tumbled backwards before his assailant, the look of shock on his face changing to pain as his head fell against a rock. It was the matter of a moment for Eperitus to push his spear into the man’s soft stomach, tug it free and look for another victim.

Taphians were a confident breed by nature and remained sure of victory over the smaller Ithacan band. Yet this self-assured reliance on their own brute ability in combat was also the key to their defeat. It made their defence ragged as each man fought his own ground, opening up gaps that the Ithacans exploited with ruthless efficiency. As Eperitus turned to face the next warrior, he saw that Mentor and the others had already attacked the two foremost Taphians in pairs: one forced a parry from his opponent’s shield while the other closed in on the man’s exposed flank, bringing him down with an easy spear thrust. It looked a practised tactic.

Seeing that the Ithacans’ first onslaught had sent three more of their comrades to Hades and had robbed them of the advantage in numbers, the courage quickly drained from the other Taphians and they fled down the hillside. Only the warrior who faced Eperitus remained, a giant who stood a full head and shoulders above his opponents. He showed no fear as he faced the five Ithacans. Throwing his spear contemptuously to one side, he drew his sword and beckoned Eperitus to attack.

The young warrior did not disappoint him. Confident after the swift defeat of the others, Eperitus stabbed his spear forward to penetrate the man’s guard. But, though huge, he was not as slow as Eperitus had hoped and easily deflected the spear thrust with his shield. In the same move he brought his sword down upon Eperitus’s shield in a crashing blow that sent him reeling backward with his left arm numbed. Eperitus looked up from the shock of the attack and saw the Taphian raise his arm for a second swing.

Often the gods will give a man the power to think faster than the chaos and confusion about him, sharpening his awareness and enabling him to react with the speed of instinct. As the giant warrior brought his sword down in a deadly arc, his guard opened. Without thinking, Eperitus twisted aside and pushed his spear into the gap. He felt the elastic resistance of the man’s skin popping beneath the sharpened bronze, followed by the slippery welcome of his stomach as the weapon buried itself in his innards. The Taphian’s sword left his hand and bounced off Eperitus’s shield. He fell sideways and his great weight almost tugged the shaft of the spear from his assailant’s grasp. Then with a snap the intensity of the moment was gone. Eperitus pulled the spear from the twitching body and turned to the others, who were already running back up the hill to join their prince.

He looked up the rocky slope. The battle now raged at its summit, which was a small knoll on top of the larger mass. It would take them only a little while longer to skirt the mound, giving it a wide enough berth not to be noticed by the Taphians, and then climb up behind them.

‘Wait!’ he said, catching up with his comrades. ‘If we rush straight into the fight the Taphians will still have the advantage of the higher ground; if we go around and attack them from behind we’ll throw them into panic.’

Mentor looked up the hill, weighing up the suggestion as he watched the tight skirmish in which his lord and friend was fighting. ‘Then we’ll need to be quick. Come on.’

Carrying their spears at their sides they set off at an even run. A goat track led around to the other side of the hill and made the climb much quicker. Soon they were ascending from the other side of the hill and forming a line behind the Taphians.

The sight that greeted them was a desperate one. The Ithacans had by now been encircled by the greater mass of their foes, and bodies and broken or discarded weapons lay strewn all around. Odysseus’s squat, muscular form stood out in the centre of his men, fighting off two Taphians as if he were fresh to the battle. At his side was Halitherses, straining shield-to-shield against another of the mercenaries.

As he had done at Parnassus, Eperitus launched one of his spears into the back of an enemy soldier, then charged at the remainder. Another warrior turned in shock at the death of his comrade, only to receive Eperitus’s second spear point in his throat. The momentum of the thrust snapped the man’s head back and broke his neck, killing him instantly and toppling him to the ground. On either side more Taphians fell to the spears of the others. Still more were killed by Odysseus and his group as they broke through the circle of their stunned foes.

The effect of the attack was devastating. The brief and chaotic butchery that followed left only seven opponents standing, including Polybus, and these withdrew steadily before the Ithacan onslaught.

Polybus raised his sword and ordered his men forward. They were the last and the best of the Taphians and obeyed the command without compunction, whilst Polybus turned his back on them and ran. Halitherses and Mentor stood at each end of the rank of Ithacans and ordered them to stand firm and meet the attack. But as the two lines met a hand fell on Eperitus’s shoulder and pulled him out of the battle. It was Odysseus.

‘Come with me. We still haven’t finished that discussion with Polybus yet.’

Antiphus was next to them and heard the prince’s words. ‘I’m coming too,’ he said.

Odysseus did not question him, but simply turned and set off at a run in pursuit of Polybus. They followed him down the reverse slope of the hill, instinctively finding their footing amongst the treacherous boulders and rocks. Already Eperitus could see their quarry before them, running beside the course of a small stream that cut between large, steep hills. The narrow valley was green with the recent rains, and as they reached the swollen watercourse they found a level footpath that gave them more speed. Ahead of them they could see that Polybus had cast off his spear and shield and was stretching the distance between himself and their pursuit. They followed his lead, retaining only their swords and Antiphus’s bow.

Despite the heavy fighting, Odysseus showed no sign of fatigue and soon began to close on Polybus. Eperitus had never seen a man so short and stocky run with such speed, and he and Antiphus had to keep up as best they could. The stream wound its way between the spurs of the hills, which sometimes hid Polybus from sight, only to reveal him again as they passed each bend. Then, just as Eperitus’s legs were tiring beneath him, he saw Polybus head uphill. Odysseus mustered fresh energy and sprinted to where he had left the path, but there he stopped. By the time they had caught up with the prince, Polybus was nowhere in sight.

‘Where did he go?’ Antiphus asked, his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath.

Odysseus pointed up the hill. ‘He’s in there.’

They looked up. Another path led to the summit where, surrounded by olive trees and overgrown with scrub, a large stone building stood. Judging by its stern silence it was disused.

‘What is it?’ Eperitus asked.

Odysseus smiled and, as if to himself, said, ‘The temple of Athena.’

Chapter Thirteen

THE TEMPLE OF ATHENA

The temple was larger and more impressive than any Eperitus had ever seen before. In Alybas they worshipped at natural places associated with the gods: groves of trees, caves or mountain springs. The only man-made objects were altars and statuettes, perhaps the occasional hut, but nothing so awe-inspiring as this. And yet what had once been a place of beauty and reverence was now a scene of waste and devastation.

They stood by a painted statue of Athena, its once rich colours faded by the sun, and looked through the entrance of the walled compound that surrounded the temple. The decorated wooden doors had been thrown down and lay shattered amidst a chaos of other debris and destruction in the courtyard beyond. Parts of the wall were staved in and the rubble was strewn about at random, punctuated by broken vases, upended tripods, clothing and even an overturned cart. Who, or whatever, had caused such damage had immense strength, and clearly did not fear the wrath of the gods. They drew their swords from their belts and walked in.

Inside the compound they could see the greater extent of the desolation. Half a dozen olive trees – sacred to Athena – had been wrenched out of the ground and left to wither in the sun. There were innumerable shards of pottery spread about, the tatters of ornamental drapes that must once have hung inside the temple itself, and dozens of clay figurines. It looked as if a whirlwind had sucked out the contents of the temple and regurgitated them over the courtyard, then resumed its chaotic path of destruction until there was nothing left to ruin but the plastered stone walls of the building itself.

The temple entrance had once consisted of a pair of doors approached by four broad stone steps. The doors had long since been burst open, while on the steps lay the skeletal remains of a human being. The rotted clothing hanging about it could once have been a priest’s robes, but such was the decay that they could not tell. The body had long since been picked clean of flesh and the bones bleached by the sun, but there was something in those empty eye sockets that retained an unspeakable terror, something about the open jaw that still cried out in silence.

As they stared at the chaos a hideous scream rang from the temple. It rooted them to the ground with its despairing horror, then it was suddenly silenced. Eperitus’s blood ran cold and the hair on the back of his neck was stiff with fear.

‘Goodbye Polybus,’ Odysseus said grimly, staring at the shadowy entrance.

So the serpent was still there, jealously guarding the temple against any who dared enter. Perhaps it had relieved them of the need to take the pursuit any further, but Odysseus would want to make sure that Polybus was dead. He would also want to honour his promise to Athena, though Eperitus hoped he had the good sense to go back for the others first; the thought of encountering another serpent in the darkness, without his spear, his shield or the aid of his comrades, made him sick with fear.

Odysseus, however, had no intention of waiting. He led the way up the steps and into the shadowy interior of the temple, beckoning for the others to follow.

‘What could have made Polybus scream like that?’ Antiphus asked quietly, unslinging his bow and readying an arrow from his quiver. ‘If it caused all that damage back there, it can’t be a man.’

‘It’s a serpent. The spawn of Echidna,’ Odysseus answered, though he offered no account of how he knew.

Antiphus looked at Odysseus in horror. Echidna was a monster of legend, half woman, half snake. A child of hers would be the stuff of nightmares.

They edged further into the shadows, where for a few tense moments their eyes struggled to adjust to the gloom. They had come to the head of a long aisle, flanked on either side by two rows of pillars. The rank-smelling air was thick and oppressive and their limbs felt suddenly heavy with the toil of the battle they had just fought. Then they heard something heavy slithering across the dusty floor at the far end of the temple.

Antiphus leaned his weight against one of the pillars and sought a target for his bow, but could see nothing in the weak light that suffused the interior. Odysseus drew his sword and walked cautiously towards a stone dais at the back of the temple, watching for movement as he passed between the rows of columns. Anxiety for the prince made Eperitus follow closely behind, his sword held before him. Never had he felt so vulnerable, or so naked, without his grandfather’s shield on his arm.

Something glinted on the broad flagstones a few paces ahead of them.

‘Odysseus!’ he hissed, afraid to disturb the sinister silence. ‘Polybus’s sword.’

Odysseus saw the discarded weapon and stopped.

‘The beast must have snatched him out of the darkness,’ he whispered, turning slightly to face Eperitus. ‘He couldn’t have known . . .’

Suddenly the great bulk of the serpent lashed out from the shadows. Eperitus flinched and this was the only warning Odysseus had of the doom that was closing rapidly behind him. In that splinter of time he turned and swept his sword up to defend against the terrific force of the monster’s attack. The blade thumped into its thick neck, but the blow was thrown back without effect. The open jaws and long fangs would have bitten the life out of Odysseus in a moment, had not an arrow from Antiphus’s bow taken the creature in the eye and sent it lashing back into the shadows, hissing with pain.

Eperitus’s shock at the speed of the attack and his companions’ reactions did not hold him for long. Nor did his fear of serpents. In an instant he became a warrior again, aware that death was upon them and his friends were in danger, and without thinking he charged after the retreating coils of the great beast. It sped away as fast as it had come, but in its half-blind confusion smashed into one of the painted pillars, splitting the wood and stalling its flight.

He was upon the monster in an instant. His sword flashed down upon its glistening hide, but just as Odysseus’s blow had bounced off, so did his, unable to pierce the hideous skin. Its scales were like flaps of hardened leather, overlapping each other to form an impervious armour. Eperitus struck again, numbing his arm as the force of his blow was returned twofold by the creature’s defences.

The pain from Antiphus’s arrow had caused the serpent to momentarily forget the men who had invaded its lair, but as Eperitus’s second blow rebounded from its hide it drew back and cocked its ugly head at him, surveying him with an evil intelligence in its eye. It was bigger than Python and, unlike in the pitch-black cavern at Pythia, there was just enough light to see the monster in its full, terrifying hideousness. It raised itself to the ceiling of the temple – the height of two tall men – but even this represented only one quarter of its full length.

It gave Eperitus no time to recoil in disgust or horror, but darted towards him with the swiftness of an arrow. He could not even raise his sword in defence before its bony head punched the breath out of him and tossed him against one of the pillars like a child’s toy. The impact left him dazed, his senses reeling.

Odysseus leapt to his defence, standing before him and slashing at the giant creature with his sword. At the same time Eperitus heard the twang of Antiphus’s bow and saw the arrow, a speeding sliver of light in the shadows, skitter off the monster’s armoured neck. It had drawn its body up into a coil now to give more force to its attacks, and swayed before Odysseus as it sought the chance to launch itself upon him. In response the prince sought to edge close enough to use his sword on the beast’s softer underbelly, but was repeatedly forced back by its cautious repositioning.

Antiphus knelt to Eperitus’s right and drew his bow again. He wasted another arrow on the tough skin before sweeping out his sword and rushing forward. But before he could reach Odysseus’s side, the serpent flicked its giant tail and threw him back against a pillar, where he lay unmoving. Seeing his comrade dashed aside, Odysseus called on Athena’s name and charged beneath the looming head of the creature. With a huge thrust of his muscular arms he planted his sword in its neck.

The ages-old monster bellowed with rage and pain. It slithered back across the floor to the rear wall of the temple, wrenching the deeply buried weapon from Odysseus’s grasp, and as it moved a large swelling was visible in the middle of its body, slowing it down. So this had been the fate of Polybus, Eperitus thought groggily. Then he heard Mentor behind them, calling Odysseus’s name from the doorway. Eperitus had never taken pleasure from the sound of his voice, but now he rejoiced at it. He only hoped he had brought the others with him.

Looking back at the serpent Eperitus realized that it was not retreating to die from the wound inflicted by Odysseus, but was manoeuvring itself to strike again. He gripped his sword and struggled to his feet, feeling sick and disorientated. His instinctive reaction was to run to Odysseus’s defence, but he was too late. The creature opened its slavering jaws to reveal fangs as long as spears, shining blue in the fading light from the temple’s entrance, then hurled itself at the unarmed prince. Odysseus was swept from his feet by the force of the attack, yet somehow managed to seize hold of the brute’s head and hang on to it.

For a moment Eperitus could do nothing but watch as the serpent tried to free itself of Odysseus’s grip, shaking its head like an untamed horse trying to throw its rider. But the man’s strength would not succumb, even when it butted him against the pillars, dislodging showers of dust from the ceiling. And then Eperitus’s fighting rage took him. His repugnance at the sight of the great snake was forgotten and he rushed in to the attack once more, leaping onto its back and forcing his blade between the tight-knit scales. His anger gave him strength and the blade slid between the overlapping plates into soft flesh, releasing a gush of black blood to erupt over his hands and forearms.

Just then he heard a crack and saw Odysseus tossed across the temple, still holding on to the fang which he had torn out of the monster’s jaw. He fell against the stone dais and moved no more. Eperitus tried frantically to drag Polybus’s blade free again to inflict further wounds, but the serpent took no further notice of him. It was intent now on the man who had twice wounded it, maddened to vengeful lust by the pain that swept in great waves through its body, from its dimmed eye to the barbs that had pierced its previously impenetrable flesh. Eperitus’s eyes were fixed on Odysseus, knowing he could not save him now from the serpent, and in that moment he realized all his hopes were about to die with him. Then he heard a cry of anger and Mentor came running out of the shadows.

In an instant he had placed himself between the beast and Odysseus. Dropping his shield, he slammed the butt of his spear into the ground by the prince so that the point faced directly up into the path of the monster’s head. Hardly noticing the newcomer in its rage and pain, it launched its full weight against Odysseus. The force drove Mentor’s spear point up into its brain and out through the top of its skull, killing it instantly.

Eperitus fell from the back of the slain beast and crawled to where Odysseus and Mentor lay flattened by the weight of the fallen creature. With Antiphus still unconscious, it took all of Eperitus’s remaining strength to lever the heavy head from the two men and topple it over to one side.

Fortunately neither man was badly hurt, and for all the violence Odysseus had suffered his only wound was a slight cut above his eyebrow, which was bleeding freely. They found Antiphus returning to consciousness, but he too had not suffered beyond a few bruises and cuts.

‘Where do you think Polybus is?’ he asked, looking at the dead monster.

‘There,’ Eperitus answered, pointing at the pregnant bump in the animal’s stomach.

Antiphus walked over to it and drew a dagger from his belt. While they watched him he punched it into the soft underbelly and, using all his strength, forced open a great tear in the stomach. Suddenly a huge volume of liquid burst across the temple floor, spattering Antiphus with gore and almost knocking his legs from beneath him. In the midst was a slimy parcel of meat, spilling out like offal from a sacrificed heifer. Fascinated, Eperitus took a step forward, but instantly leapt back in horror as a great horde of lesser snakes came rushing out of the rent in their mother and squirmed their way to freedom in the shadows of the temple.

The sight turned his muscles to water and he had to close his eyes and fight down nausea. He wanted to run as he felt scores of them sliding in cold masses across his feet, but the fear of dishonour was greater and he stood his ground. Only when the sound of them had disappeared did he dare open his eyes again. The larger object was Polybus and Antiphus had hold of his right hand. Using the blood-stained dagger, he sawed off the dead man’s bow-fingers, first one and then the other. When he was done, he dropped the limb back into the mess of gore and stowed his trophies in his pouch. He had a right to those fingers, Eperitus thought, and nobody questioned him.

Their task had been completed and Odysseus’s promise to the goddess fulfilled, so they recovered their weapons and walked out into the twilight of the winter evening. The heaviness had lifted from the temple and Eperitus, breathing the clean air, was suddenly overcome by a sensation of relief, even joy, at being alive. He realized that the worry of facing the serpent had made him tense for days, but from now on he would be able to enjoy the prospect of Sparta, where they would be feted in luxury by one of the richest kings in Greece.

Then a sound behind him made him turn, and he saw Polybus staggering down the steps towards him, dripping with the serpent’s bile and reaching out his maimed hand in a plea for help. The others turned also, as shocked as Eperitus to see the hideous ghoul who had somehow survived being devoured by the monster. Gone were his arrogant sneer and his self-confidence. Now his eyes were wide with terror, his mind lost for ever.

As he came closer Eperitus could see him mouthing something, one word over and over again. At first he could not hear him, then suddenly his ranting grew more audible.

‘Fingers. Fingers,’ he groaned as he reached the young warrior. Then with a scream of loathing: ‘Give me my fingers!’

At the last moment, he snatched the dagger from Eperitus’s belt and thrust it at his stomach. Eperitus instinctively caught Polybus’s wrist with his left hand and turned the blade aside, then swung his right fist into his jaw, toppling him backwards into the dust. Odysseus stepped forward and brought his sword down upon Polybus’s neck, severing his head with a single blow.

Chapter Fourteen

THE BOW OF IPHITUS

Eperitus reached down to retrieve his dagger from Polybus’s death grip and, without a word being spoken, they walked free of the courtyard. The day’s fighting had left each of them spattered with gore, so they headed back downhill to the stream, where they stripped off and washed themselves in the cold, refreshing water. Mentor informed them that the last of the Taphians had been slain quickly, but as Halitherses had sent him to find Odysseus he did not know the full tally of their own casualties. The only thing he knew for certain, he said, was that he was hungry and wished there was something to eat.

As he spoke, a fat sheep appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, its fleece shining like silver in the twilight.

‘Well, if that isn’t an answer to prayer,’ Mentor said, drawing his dagger from his belt and wading into the stream.

‘Leave it alone,’ Odysseus cautioned. ‘I don’t think we should touch it.’

They heard bleating from further along the path. More silvery shapes were picking their way over the fallen rocks and through the scrub on either bank of the gurgling waters. A creeping, impenetrable mist followed them, its foremost fronds curling between their fat bodies and reaching towards the four men. Soon it was all about them, so that the only thing Eperitus could see was Odysseus sitting next to him on a rock. They heard the bleats of the sheep and saw their shadows in the fog, but their companions were lost from view.

Then a voice spoke out of the haze. ‘Very wise of you to keep your friend from my sheep. I wouldn’t have wanted to kill him after he spiked that serpent for me.’

They looked up and saw a young man standing before them. He was tall and carried a silver sheepskin draped across one forearm, whilst in his free hand he held a long crook. He had golden hair and huge grey eyes that looked at them sternly and expectantly. Odysseus was quick to recognize Athena and slumped to his knees before her; Eperitus followed his example and bowed his head so as not to look at the goddess.

‘Mistress,’ Odysseus said. ‘The beast is dead and the temple clean.’

‘I would hardly say clean,’ Athena complained. ‘But just to show you that the gods reward those who obey their commands, I’m going to tell you two things in return for ridding my temple of Hera’s pet.’ She put a smooth white hand under each of their arms and lifted them to their feet. ‘First thing, Odysseus: Tyndareus has already decided that Helen will marry Menelaus.’

‘Then I should return to Ithaca at once,’ Odysseus said.

The goddess ruffled his red hair affectionately. ‘Not so hasty, please. It’s Zeus’s will that Helen be given to Menelaus – he’s planning something big, but won’t let anyone know about it. You must still go to Sparta, though. A man of your charms will find important friends there, and perhaps something else, too. But I shan’t spoil things for you.’

Odysseus seemed restless. ‘You said there were two things, mistress.’

‘Yes: go to Messene and restock your provisions. There you’ll meet a man fording a stream. He will be carrying a large horn bow, which the god Apollo gave to his father. You must use your wits to get the bow from him, as he won’t be needing it for much longer himself. How you do it is up to you, but you will be ill advised to leave Messene without it. Do you understand me?’

‘What’s the importance of the bow?’ Odysseus asked.

But the goddess was gone, swallowed up by a billow of the fog. The gentle bleating of her sheep faded away and the mist evaporated about them to reveal Mentor and Antiphus, looking around themselves in surprise.

‘Where in Hades did that fog come from?’ Mentor said. ‘And where did those sheep go?’

Antiphus walked over to them. ‘You had a lot to say for yourselves, didn’t you? Chattering away in the mist.’

It was clear neither man had been aware they had been in the presence of an immortal. Odysseus and Eperitus made no answer, but instead headed back upstream to retrieve their shields and spears.

Three Ithacans had died in the battle. Eperitus had expected there to be more casualties, but the islanders were tougher men than they looked. From their outward appearances he had first thought them simple folk with little inclination to fight and no stamina for battle. They seemed to him men who preferred wine and the song of a bard to adventure and hardship. And so they were. But there was something about their island identity that gave them a toughness and spirit excelling anything he had encountered before. Again and again they proved themselves against every test. And only slowly, through listening to them tell stories over the camp fire each night and hearing them grumble on the long marches, did he realize the source of this strength. It came from their love of Ithaca and the simple freedom they had always enjoyed there. They would do whatever was needed of them to regain the idyllic world Eupeithes had stolen.

Eperitus only knew the dead men by sight, though they were obviously sorely missed by their comrades. They buried them together on the hill where they died. The place was marked with a mound of rocks, and when the last stone was laid they shouted three times over the grave of their comrades. After that Eperitus did not hear their names mentioned again for many months.

Damastor had been found still unconscious at the foot of the slope. He suffered a large bruise on his forehead and a headache that did not leave him until the next day, but was more dismayed at having missed the battle. Eperitus tried to reassure him that there was no shame attached, and yet he understood Damastor’s disappointment at missing the glory his comrades now enjoyed.

By good fortune they found the Taphian mules tied up at the foot of the slope, and amongst them their own animals, complete with the rich gifts for Tyndareus. As many of the Ithacans had received injuries that needed tending, Odysseus ordered the fine dresses to be torn up for bandages. The wounded men were ridiculed by their comrades for the pretty yellows and blues, of course, but this soon stopped when Odysseus tied a bright purple bandage around the wound on his forehead. Grateful for the clean material, which was far better than the dirty cloaks and tunics of the dead, they were nonetheless concerned that Odysseus had chosen to use Helen’s bride gifts in such a manner. Eperitus wondered how many other nobles would put the care of their men before their own gain.

They slept that night on the threshold of the temple. At dawn they returned to the hill and dug a large grave for the Taphians they had slain. It took much of the morning to make a pit big enough. Many had been put to death as they lay wounded on the ground after the battle, pleading for mercy from the men whose homes they had taken. But they received none, unless it was to save them from the carrion birds that circled above.

And so it was that by noon they started for Messene, saddened by the deaths of their fellow warriors but lifted by their victory over Polybus. The gods had been with them on the battlefield and they were encouraged by their protection. There were many, though, who pointed at Odysseus as he led the march and said it was he whom the immortals favoured. A handful of Taphians had escaped and would eventually reach Ithaca with the news that the prey had turned on the hunter, but by then Odysseus and his men would be guests at the palace of Tyndareus and safely beyond the reach of Eupeithes.

The chariot of the sun had not travelled far in its course through the dull and cloudy sky before they could detect animal dung and smoke in the air, the familiar smells of a township, and knew that Messene was just beyond the hills ahead of them. Odysseus, standing with Mentor at his side, called Damastor, Antiphus and Eperitus over to join them.

‘I was a fool to march us straight between those hills yesterday, so this time I’m sending you four to scout ahead. If you meet any trouble, send someone back to warn us – we’ll be close behind.’

They had no difficulty in outstripping the rest of the party, who were slowed down by the mules and the wounded men. Soon they reached the hills that separated them from Messene and stood in the road that wound its way between them. The boulder-strewn slopes rose steeply up on either side, providing another easy site for an ambush. With Polybus’s force destroyed and their leader dead it was unlikely they would meet more Taphians, and yet travellers in Greece – even armed warriors – were always at risk from bandits. So Mentor suggested they split into two groups, one to flank the road on the left and the other on the right.

‘Eperitus and I will go left,’ he said. ‘You two go right, but don’t wander from our view.’

With that he began to climb the scree-covered flank of the steeper hill, followed closely by Eperitus. Clambering over the small rocks and struggling through thick bushes quickly brought them out in a fresh sweat, despite the cold of the day and the fine drizzle that had started. This made the stones wet and their progress more treacherous, but eventually they reached level ground again and looked across to see Damastor and Antiphus picking their way along a rough track on the other side of the road.

Larger hills loomed ahead of them now, blocking everything that lay beyond from sight. They continued between outcrops of rock and boulders that had toppled from the peaks above, until before long they could hear the sound of flowing water. It came from a low valley that intersected the road and lay between themselves and the larger range of hills. Mentor ran ahead and was soon calling for Eperitus to catch up with him.

‘A river,’ he said. ‘The road starts again on the other side.’

Eperitus looked down into the valley. The waters were wide and fast, swelled by the recent rains falling in the mountains to the east, but nothing like the obstacle they had encountered a few days before. At least it was shallow enough to ford and would not delay their progress. Then, as his gaze crossed to the opposite side where the road to Messene continued, he noticed a lone figure crawling about amongst the stones. Ducking behind the bole of a weather-beaten olive tree and signalling Mentor to get out of view, he looked across to see if Damastor and Antiphus had seen the man. To his dismay they had not, and were already making their way down to the ford.

‘There’s someone on the other side of the river,’ he told his companion. ‘I think he’s alone, but can’t be sure – and the others haven’t spotted him yet.’

Mentor nodded. ‘I’ll go and warn Odysseus. In the meantime, see if you can stop the others giving us away.’

‘Tell Odysseus he’s carrying a bow,’ Eperitus shouted after him as he sprang off in the direction by which they had come.

Seeing that the mysterious figure was still on his hands and knees, searching for something in the mud of the road, he began the descent as quickly as he could. The scree slope was treacherous, made more slippery by the rain. He had no hope of reaching the river before Damastor and Antiphus, but in his haste sent a cascade of small rocks tumbling down to the road below, catching the attention of the man on the opposite bank. He stood and looked across the flowing waters, just as the others reached the road. They were as surprised as he was to find anybody else in the small valley.

Eperitus sprang down the last stretch of the hill to join his comrades, where they stood eyeing the young man with silent curiosity. He was small and pale with hardly the bulge of a muscle upon him, looking more like a living skeleton than a human being. His head was crowned with a sheaf of black hair, and a thin, juvenile beard sprouted from his bony chin. He wore no armour and his only weapons were a dagger that hung loose in his belt and a bow of white horn slung across his back.

The magnificent bow was much too big for such a skinny lad, and Eperitus knew it must be the weapon Athena had told Odysseus to make his own. He walked across to Antiphus and asked what he thought of the stranger.

‘A child with the weapon of a god,’ the archer replied, eyeing the horn bow greedily.

Damastor agreed. He raised his voice above the cacophony of the river and called out to the stranger, who had been looking back at them with wary interest.

‘What’s a boy doing with a man’s bow? Did you steal it from your father, or did he give it to you in the hope it would make you a man?’

‘What would a bastard such as you know about a father’s gifts?’

The young man looked so meek and pathetic that Eperitus was shocked, as well as amused, by his feisty retort. For a moment Damastor was flabbergasted at the youth’s audacity, but when he realized he had been humiliated his temper quickly got the better of him. He set his jaw and narrowed his eyes, then advanced into the river with his spear levelled above his shoulder. Mirroring his advance, the archer on the far bank unslung his bow, fitted an arrow and waded out to meet him. Unless the younger man was an appalling shot, there was little doubt about the outcome of the fight. Eperitus even felt concern for Damastor, though the Ithacan’s rudeness had deserved an insolent reply. In contrast, Antiphus was laughing at his friend’s vexation and appeared completely unfazed by the encounter.

‘Give me the weapon, lad, and I promise not to kill you,’ Damastor shouted.

His answer was the twang of the great bow. Antiphus choked on a new wave of laughter as the arrow plucked Damastor’s bronze cap from his head and carried it clean beyond the river to clatter amongst the rocks behind them. Damastor was so shocked that he fell back into the water with a great splash. This brought tears of laughter to the eyes of his comrades on the river bank, followed by more shouts of laughter from the road behind. Eperitus turned to see the rest of the party arriving, led by Odysseus and Mentor, of whom only Odysseus was not touched by the hilarity of Damastor’s situation.

Instead he threw down his weapons and waded out into the water, past his floundering comrade and out to the young man with the bow. A new arrow was already primed and aimed at his chest, but Odysseus showed no fear. He stopped a spear’s length from the stranger and looked first at the lad, then at the tall weapon in his hand.

‘My name is Odysseus, son of Laertes of Ithaca,’ he said, looking the archer in the eye and smiling. This surprised Eperitus, as he had expected his friend to announce himself as Castor, son of Hylax of Crete. However, he was not to be wholly disappointed by Odysseus’s deceptive nature. ‘I’ve come to Messene to recover three hundred sheep stolen from my islands, and I’ll reward any help you can give me.’

The man wavered in thought for a moment, then, to the relief of all, lowered his weapon and stepped forward to offer his hand in friendship.

‘I am Iphitus of Oechalia. My father is Eurytus the archer, favourite of Apollo. As for your sheep, well,’ he shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands apologetically, ‘I’ve never seen a country with so few of the creatures. But maybe you can help me?’

‘If I can,’ Odysseus replied, placing one of his oversized hands on Iphitus’s bony shoulder and leading him across to the far bank of the river.

‘I’ve lost some horses.’

‘Lost them?’

Iphitus smiled. ‘Not exactly. My father and brothers think Heracles stole them.’

At that point Damastor regained his feet and came splashing through the river towards the young archer. Iphitus saw him and, with a quickness of mind that echoed his earlier sharpness of tongue, waded out to meet him. He thrust out his hands, palm forward.

‘My apologies, friend. I’m sorry for our misunderstanding, which was entirely my fault. I took you for a brigand without realizing you must, in fact, be a man of noble birth.’

Damastor was taken aback by the unexpected show of friendship, but after a moment’s thought chose to accept the apology. The incident was laughed off in a face-saving show of camaraderie.

The others waded across, leading the mules with their loads of supplies. Mentor handed Damastor his cap and returned the arrow that had plucked it from his head to Iphitus.

‘Is it true you’re hunting Heracles, lad?’ he asked, proving that rumours were already spreading amongst the men of what they had overheard.

Iphitus was about to reply, but Odysseus spoke first.

‘If there’s a tale to be told, and there surely is, then let’s hear it in full and in the right place. For now we should find an inn at Messene where we can eat and restock our provisions; our friend can tell us the whole story then. And perhaps he will tell us about this bow – I’ve never seen its like before. What do you say, Iphitus?’

‘The trail’s already cold,’ he answered, ‘so perhaps I can find some inspiration in a cup of wine. I’ll come.’

Messene was a city hidden in the foothills of the western mountains, lying on the opposite side of the plain from the more lofty Taygetus range. It consisted of a collection of unimpressive hovels on the outskirts, followed by an inner ring of better-made craftsmen’s houses, which in turn encircled a core of progressively larger, more substantial homes belonging to the merchants and nobles of the town. Its crooked streets were muddy with the rain and deeply rutted from the heavy goods carts that occasionally creaked their way up or down the narrow thoroughfares. Despite the chill, naked infants ran about between the houses, happy to be free of their homes again now that the rain had stopped. Mostly their mothers ignored them, preferring to gossip with neighbours in doorways or too busy with the daily chores to concern themselves with noisy children. And everywhere the air smelled of cooking fires, food and dung, the comforting aroma of civilization that reminded the Ithacans of their own distant homes.

The sight of armed men was not uncommon in Greek townships. However, the wounds the newcomers bore showed they had been in a recent fight, and the locals eyed them with suspicion and hostility. Nobody spoke to them, and if they approached them they would either turn away or tell them they could not help. Despite this they eventually found their way to an inn, where the patron was happy to sell them food and wine, and for an additional price provided them with a large room with straw mattresses for all. They gave the mules into the care of the innkeeper’s son, then returned to the main room of the house.

In the late afternoon the inn was empty but for themselves and a few old men, left there by their families to sup wine and keep warm by the large hearth in the centre of the room. It was a low-ceilinged place lit only by the fire and the last of the afternoon light slanting in through the open doorway. Noisily, the Ithacans crowded onto the benches and began discarding their armour and weaponry like snakes shedding skin, leaving great flakes of leather, ox-hide and bronze about the floor. The old men broke off from their story-swapping and watched the newcomers with silent interest, perhaps recalling the days when their own bodies were filled with enough youthful strength to carry breastplate, spear and shield.

By the time they had settled down a huge woman brought in two earthenware bowls filled with cold water, followed by the innkeeper with two more. Moments later, as they were cleansing their hands and faces of the day’s dirt, the couple returned carrying a large krater of wine between them which had already been mixed with two parts of water. The soldiers wiped their hands dry on their tunics and filled wooden bowls with the wine, drinking deeply to slake their thirst whilst baskets of bread were passed. These were followed by plates of tough goat’s meat and dishes filled with salad and pulse. There were large numbers of tasteless barley cakes too, the likes of which had formed the mainstay of their rations on the journey to Messene.

There was no ceremony about the meal and they did not hold back in satisfying the hunger that days of marching, fighting and hard rations had inspired in them. There was very little conversation as they filled their ravenous stomachs, until finally they were using the last wafers of bread to wipe up the grease and fat from the plates. Then Mentor demanded more wine and the talk began to flow as their tongues were loosened.

At first they were polite to Iphitus, asking general questions about his home and his family. But the subject was turning with slow certainty to Heracles. They had all of them heard the youth tell Odysseus he was hunting horses allegedly taken by the most famous warrior in Greece, and there had been an undercurrent of excitement ever since the name of Heracles had been mentioned. Eperitus had already heard endless tales of his unmatchable strength, his prowess in battle and his seemingly endless sexual conquests. Some said he had diverted rivers with his own hands, others that he had slept with fifty maidens in one night, and all that he had killed a gigantic lion with his bare hands. These tales made the man a living legend, though until Iphitus’s brief mention of him the warrior from Alybas had no idea he was still alive. His nurse had told him stories about Heracles when he was a mere infant, so to him he was a figure more from myth than reality, a man from a past age who could hardly belong in their own fallen era.

But live he did, or so Iphitus testified. Neither did he need their encouragement to tell them the full story of Heracles’s visit to his home in Oechalia. The wine encouraged openness to their questions and soon the words were tumbling from his lips, which the Ithacans drank up like cattle at a trough. Even Odysseus leaned in over his cup to hear what their new companion had to say, though Eperitus noticed that his eyes continuously strayed to the bow leaning against the wall.

Long ago, Iphitus’s father Eurytus, king of Oechalia and a renowned archer, had offered his daughter in marriage to any man who could outshoot him. As Apollo himself had tutored Eurytus in archery he had every right to be confident of his marksmanship and was justly proud of his skill with the bow. Indeed his reputation was so widespread that few had bothered to take the challenge and his beautiful daughter, Iole, was in danger of becoming a spinster.

At that time Heracles was the king’s friend. Eurytus had taught him to shoot when he was young, and their bond of friendship had remained. But Zeus’s wife, the goddess Hera, bore a grudge against Heracles and induced a madness in him that caused him to slay his own children. When he regained his sanity he rejected his wife Megara and, upon the instruction of the Pythoness, served penance as a slave to King Eurystheus of Tiryns.

It was whilst he was Eurystheus’s bondsman that Heracles decided to challenge his old friend for Iole’s hand in marriage, seeing her as a potential replacement for the unfortunate Megara. Eurytus had no choice but to accept the challenger as a matter of honour, though he had misgivings because Heracles’s arrows were reputed to be magically guided to their target. And so they were, making Heracles the first man to defeat Eurytus in an archery contest.

But the king also knew of Heracles’s womanizing and his treatment of Megara. Friend or no, he loved his daughter too much to give her in marriage to the worst husband in Greece. So, Iphitus explained, his father declared the contest void because of Heracles’s magic arrows and threw him out of his palace. Iphitus alone complained at the treatment of their famous guest, goaded by his strong sense of fairness under the heroic code and the friendship which had formed between them during Heracles’s short stay.

‘It stung me to see a man as mighty as he thrown from the palace like a beggar,’ he said. ‘And when a few days later twenty-four of our prize horses were stolen, I was the only one who would not believe Heracles had taken them. Such a petty act of revenge is below him. It would have been more in keeping with his character to storm the palace single-handed and lay us all out on the flagstones, like so many fallen leaves in autumn.’

They pictured Heracles in their minds, a huge man, bigger even than Odysseus and half again as tall, smashing down the palace doors with one blow of his fist and then carving up Eurytus and his guards as if they were nothing more than a herd of goats. He crashed through their imaginations like a whirlwind until, finally, they noticed that Iphitus had stopped talking.

‘And what do you believe now?’ Mentor asked, the first to speak since Iphitus had begun his tale.

‘There are rumours amongst the people I’ve spoken with. They say a large number of horses were herded north to Tiryns by a lone warrior dressed in a lion’s skin, a huge man bound with muscles the size of boulders. That’s what they say. As for me, I left the trail to come south to Messene, in the hope that my father’s horses would be hidden here by thieves other than Heracles.’

Now Halitherses spoke: ‘And do you still refuse to believe your friend stole these prize horses? It seems clear to me he did. After all, everybody knows Heracles is a slave in Tiryns and wears the skin of the lion he slew in Nemea. To my ears the things you’ve heard aren’t rumours, but news.’

‘Yes, old man,’ Iphitus conceded. ‘Only a fool can deny it – or a friend. But even loyalty can’t stifle suspicion, and for a long time now I’ve known I must confront Heracles.’

Damastor sat back and gave a whistle, expressing the thoughts of them all. Eperitus looked at Iphitus in a new light. How could a mere youth even contemplate matching himself against Heracles? Only a man of extraordinary courage would seek out a fight that would end in his own ignominious death.

The band of soldiers looked at their guest in silence.

‘And how can you hope to get your horses back if Heracles has taken them?’ Odysseus asked. ‘You’re not unaware of his reputation.’

‘I have my bow. Here, take a look for yourself.’ Iphitus handed the curved weapon over with pride, taking satisfaction from Odysseus’s close and knowledgeable inspection of it. ‘Heracles may have magic arrows, but this bow was the gift of a god. Apollo gave it to my father, and he in turn to me, so you see it has divine powers. It can hit a hawk in the eye at twice the distance of any mortal’s weapon. And it can only be strung by the man to whom it is given freely. If Heracles himself were to find this weapon, for all his great strength he would not be able to fit a bowstring to it. So I tell you in full confidence that if my father’s horses are in his possession and he will not return them to me, then I will use this bow to mete out justice to him.’

Eperitus liked Iphitus, but for all the divine origins and powers of the bow he had little faith in the lad’s ability to kill Heracles – especially if Odysseus fulfilled the command of the goddess and took it from him. He watched the prince admiring the weapon in which Iphitus had placed his faith, running his fingers over its smooth surface of crafted horn and admiring the skill that had shaped it. He stood and tried the string, finding that the bow bent to his will as if it had been made especially for him. And Eperitus could tell that he coveted it, that he wanted it with all his heart, as a man would want a woman.

‘Innkeeper!’ Odysseus shouted. ‘Bring more wine in here. My men want to get roaring drunk.’

Another krater was brought in to the cheers of his guards, but Odysseus did not stop to taste it. He announced he was going to check on the mules and, taking the bow with him, went through the door that led to the stables. Iphitus became fidgety without his prized weapon. Unable to let it out of his sight for a moment longer he stood and, excusing himself politely and promising to return, followed the prince. Eperitus waited a short while then followed in his wake.

He reached a doorway onto the courtyard and heard their voices coming from the stables on the other side. Waiting in the shadows, he heard Odysseus explain the real reason for their journey across the Peloponnese.

‘And when will you leave for Sparta?’ asked Iphitus.

‘We won’t delay any longer than we have to,’ Odysseus replied. ‘Perhaps tomorrow, if the men’s wounds show signs of healing and they feel fit enough. And what about you, Iphitus? When will you head to Tiryns?’

‘Messene holds no attraction for me,’ he replied. ‘Tomorrow will be as good a time as any. Already the trail is fading, and yet my mission won’t allow me to delay. I have to find Heracles.’

Eperitus crossed the courtyard. It was lit only by the glow of the moon, an eerie light that reflected in the dozens of small puddles on the muddy ground, which was still sodden from the day’s rain. The mules were huddled together in the darkness, where Odysseus was stroking their long noses and ugly, twitching ears. Iphitus was in the corner of the stable, once more in possession of his bow.

‘Hello Eperitus,’ Odysseus greeted him.

‘My lord.’

‘Not interested in getting drunk then?’

‘Not really. I thought I’d join you and see if I could dissuade Iphitus from pursuing Heracles.’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said the young archer. ‘I feel honour-bound to find my friend and prove the rumours wrong.’

‘Or right.’

‘At least travel with us, Iphitus,’ Odysseus said. ‘Sparta is on the way to Tiryns. We can share the road together and keep each other company. The men like you.’

‘It’s true,’ Eperitus agreed. ‘Who can forget the way you shot Damastor’s cap off with that arrow? And even he has come to forgive you for it. You should join us.’

As Iphitus shook his head resolutely, Odysseus moved towards the baggage that had been stowed in a corner of the stable, knelt down and untied one of the leather bags.

‘Your decision makes me sad,’ he sighed, standing again. In his hand was his father’s sword, the guest-gift for Tyndareus. He pulled it from its scabbard and the ornately carved blade glinted in the silvery light, each tiny detail pin-pricked by the moon as Odysseus turned it this way and that. Eperitus had never seen a weapon so intricate in its design, so rich in the quality of its workmanship, or so dreadful as it sat poised in Odysseus’s hand. For a moment he feared his friend would strike Iphitus down in cold blood and take the bow from him. Iphitus, too, looked uncertain and took a step back, gripping his bow tighter. But as he did so the prince slid the sword back into its scabbard and offered the hilt towards him.

‘If you won’t accompany us to Sparta, then you must visit me when I’ve restored Ithaca to my father’s line. There I will receive you with fair words, have my slaves bathe and clothe you, and we’ll eat together as old friends. That’s my promise to you, Iphitus, and before Zeus I offer you lifelong friendship, an honourable alliance that will hold for me and my descendants to you and yours for seven generations. And until we meet again in Ithaca I offer you gifts to seal my oath of friendship. I give you this sword of my father’s, which was to be our guest-gift to Tyndareus.’

Iphitus took the weapon and looked closely at the gold filigree on the leather scabbard. He drew the sword and studied the ornamentation on the blade, felt with his thumb the carving on the ivory handle, then held it above his head to watch the moonlight trickle off its glistening edge. Even though he was the son of a king, he had never seen such beauty in a man-made object.

As he admired its workmanship, Odysseus turned to Eperitus and told him to fetch one of his spears. ‘My finest spear, Eperitus. Be quick.’

Eperitus ran to where the others still sat, drinking from a fresh krater of wine. They hailed his arrival and asked where Odysseus was, but he made no reply other than to say the prince needed his spear. Halitherses handed him the great ash shaft and followed him back out into the courtyard, where Odysseus and Iphitus still faced each other.

‘This, too, I give to you,’ Odysseus said as Eperitus arrived, taking the spear from his hand. ‘The spear which Ares gave to my great-grandfather, and which has been passed from father to son since then. Take it, Iphitus, in sign of our friendship.’

Eperitus looked at Halitherses after hearing Odysseus’s extraordinary claims about the ordinary-looking weapon, but the old warrior screwed his lips to one side and gave a slight shake of his head.

‘Your generosity astounds me, Odysseus,’ Iphitus said, taking the spear and feeling its balance in his right hand. ‘Truly you are a great friend and a noble ally, a man of virtue and nobility. And you do me great honour with your words and these gifts.’ He looked again at the things Odysseus had pressed upon him in the ages-old custom of xenia. As a man of royal birth who had already proved himself to be honourable and true, Eperitus knew Iphitus would accept and return Odysseus’s oath. He watched him take the prince’s hand and look him sternly in the eye.

‘Odysseus, I give you an oath of my allegiance, before the all-seeing eyes of Zeus. When our separate missions are completed I’ll visit you in Ithaca to confirm the words we’ve spoken here. And then you shall visit my father’s palace in Oechalia and be our most honoured guest. This is my promise, true for seven generations.’

Then he stopped and withdrew his hand. Iphitus was required to give a gift in return, a token to seal his side of the alliance. And yet he had nothing to give beyond his travel-worn cloak and the plain dagger tucked into his belt. His only other possession was the bow, the one weapon with which he could defeat Heracles.

He looked at Eperitus, who could not return the Oechalian’s gaze. He felt ashamed for his simple part in Odysseus’s trick, even though he had not realized it until the last moment. Then Iphitus looked at the sword again and tucked it into his belt, smiling with what seemed a mixture of pleasure at the richness of the gift, and resignation at the knowledge that he must give the bow to Odysseus. Everything, after all, was the will of the gods, and they clearly favoured the Ithacan prince.

‘This is my gift to you. It’s a great weapon, Odysseus, made by Apollo himself. It’ll respond to you like a lyre in the hand of a skilled bard. You’ll never miss your target with any arrow fired from this bow, and only you or the one you give it to will be able to string it. I give it to you freely and happily in token of our friendship.’

Odysseus took the bow from Iphitus’s hand. It was clean and smooth and sat in his palm as if it had been purposely crafted for him alone. Then they all looked at Iphitus and knew he would never now feast with them in the great hall in Ithaca, for when he found Heracles he was certain to die.

book

THREE

Chapter Fifteen

SPARTA

They stood in the foothills of the Taygetus Mountains and looked across the wide valley to the city of Sparta. It lay wedged between the river Eurotas and a lesser tributary, strung like a gold medallion on a silver necklace. It was a wealthy place, home to a numerous, warlike and proud people who had made themselves rich by conquest and trade. They were further blessed with rolling, fertile plains for the growing of crops and the breeding of horses, for which the Spartans were famous throughout Greece. The Eurotas flowed freely down to the coast, enabling their merchants to reach the sea with ease. And by the same route goods came in to Sparta from the rest of the world, providing Cyprian copper for her armourers, Nubian gold and Attican silver for her craftsmen, and a wealth of ivories, textiles, pottery and other luxuries.

The city was larger than anything Eperitus had ever seen before or had dared to imagine. There were the usual hovels of the poor on the outskirts, but these eventually gave way to the magnificent homes of the richer classes, whose lime-plastered walls staggered upwards like giant steps towards the city’s acropolis, the hill upon which sat the royal palace.

The morning had been a dull one – cold and threatened by rain – but as he caught his first glimpse of Sparta, set against a backdrop of steep mountains, the clouds parted and broad fingers of sunlight reached down to lift the city from the greyness. It glowed golden-white under the scintillating rays as wall followed wall, gate led to gate, and roof overlapped roof, creating an awesome edifice that dominated the whole valley.

The group of dusty warriors looked on in silence. In comparison, Ithaca was nothing more than a poor, unsophisticated island with a few ramshackle towns and villages. There were no glorious buildings or awe-inspiring palaces to impress visitors; no battlements or soaring watchtowers to deter invaders; no paved streets filled with wealthy merchants or bronze-clad soldiers. All that their homeland could offer were dusty cart tracks that led to simple dwellings surrounded by pigs, chickens and dogs.

Eperitus glanced across at Odysseus. After Messene, the men’s spirits had lifted; they knew that once they had passed the Taygetus Mountains and reached Sparta they would find food, drink and plenty of rest. In contrast, Odysseus had grown quiet and withdrawn. On the night before they entered the mountain passes that would take them to Sparta, he had invited Eperitus to join him as he went into the hills to hunt food. Whilst the prince had an arrow fitted to the great bow he was happy again, shooting rabbits at great distances and exulting at the magical accuracy of his new weapon. Often he would comment upon what a match there would have been between Apollo’s bow and the arrows of Heracles. But as they headed back to camp his despondency returned and the prince began to talk about Ithaca and his concerns for his countrymen under the yoke of Eupeithes and his Taphian army. He longed to return and fight, especially now he knew Helen’s husband had already been chosen, but Athena had told him to go on. Yet what would he find there? And what if he failed in his task and returned to Ithaca empty-handed, to lead the last of the palace guard to certain death against Eupeithes’s army?

‘I feel helpless, Eperitus,’ he said, kicking out at a pile of dead leaves and scattering them across the path. ‘I may be known for living by my wits, but I prefer to know where I’m going. I’d happily exchange places with you or any of the others. You’re soldiers and your job is to follow orders. If your captain says, “Slay that man,” then that’s what you do. But I have the fate of a whole people on my back. If I fail, Ithaca fails. And my captains are the gods – a more heartless and fickle bunch you couldn’t ask for. What matter if their earthly schemes don’t come off? They return to Olympus and forget their sorrows with ambrosia and nectar, whilst mortal corpses lie piled on the ground, their souls shepherded off to eternal misery in the halls of Hades. But what choice do we have but to obey their whims? I tell you in truth, I’d give anything to overturn my fate and dictate my own destiny.’

Talking about it put him in an even blacker mood, and when they returned to the camp he placed himself on guard duty and spoke to nobody for the rest of the evening. His silence continued throughout the next morning as they marched over the mountain passes to the Eurotas valley. But as Eperitus looked at his friend now, with the city of Sparta gleaming in the valley below, his stern expression had gone. He looked at the city as if he were sizing up an opponent. Here was the challenge that would require all of his wit and resources, and it was a test that he could not afford to fail. Suddenly his features were transformed by a smile.

‘Halitherses! See that the men are looking their best. We don’t want the Spartans mistaking us for a bunch of brigands, do we?’

Halitherses made himself busy inspecting their armour, making sure it was laced up tightly and sitting properly on their torsos. Then he tugged their shield straps and belts into place, checked that they still wore their little sprigs of chelonion – to remind them of their homes when they were tasting the delights of Sparta – and finally had them take out their whetstones from their pouches and sharpen the blades of their weapons so that they gleamed with a killing edge.

‘When you march through those gold-paved streets,’ he said, manhandling them into a double file, ‘I want you to walk with your chins held high and your eyes straight ahead. No looking at the pretty young Spartan girls, do you understand? Remember who you are, where you’re from and why we’re here.’

When they eventually reached the city, there were no pretty girls to be seen. In fact, other than a number of soldiers in various styles of armour and dress, they saw very few people at all. But the empty streets did not detract from the wonder of Sparta. Every wall was high and well built, each strong door ornately carved, and almost every house possessed a second floor. Empty windows stared down on them from every side as they marched up the steep and winding road towards the palace, and Eperitus marvelled to see such beauty and magnificence.

Eventually they reached the palace gateway. The doors were twice as high and twice as wide as their counterparts in Ithaca and were covered in beaten silver that gleamed dully in the watery afternoon light. As they arrived a soldier in full armour emerged from a large guard hut built against the wall to one side of the entrance. He looked strained and tired.

‘State your name and your business,’ he said, with a voice that sounded weary of dealing with foreign nobles.

‘I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, king of Ithaca. I’ve come to pay court to Helen of Sparta, by reputation the most beautiful woman in Greece.’

This last was added by way of a compliment to Sparta as a whole, but the guard captain remained unimpressed.

‘I’m sorry, my lord, but I have orders to permit entrance only to those who have been invited by the king. As I’ve never heard of Ithaca or any of its princes or kings, you’d better turn about and return the way you came.’

When Eperitus heard his words and thought of the hardships they had endured to arrive at these gates, only to be rejected like a pack of mere beggars, he felt the fighting rage come rushing into his veins. By the murmurs of his comrades he could tell they were angered too. One nod from Odysseus and they would happily have killed the guard and stormed the palace gates. But the prince was more patient than his men, and showed no sign of anger as he walked up to the Spartan.

‘I’ve travelled for many days to come here, have fought two battles and lost three men. If you don’t wish to earn your master’s wrath, then I suggest you ask him to come here so he can tell me himself to leave. As I told you, I’ve come to see the daughter of Tyndareus, and see her I will.’

‘Then you’ve found her,’ said a voice from behind them. They turned to see a tall woman dressed all in black, escorted by four slave girls and two guards. She was tall, handsome and elegant, and had a commanding femininity about her, but Eperitus could not help but feel disappointed. He sensed the same reaction from Odysseus, whose eyes lingered briefly on the woman’s harsh and reproving mouth and the ears that stuck out like the handles on an amphora.

Recovering from his surprise, the prince stepped up to her and bowed. ‘Your reputation does not do you justice, Helen of Sparta.’

She arched an eyebrow. ‘And your reputation does not exist, Odysseus of Ithaca. But let’s not get muddled about identities. For one thing, I am Clytaemnestra, daughter of Tyndareus and wife of Agamemnon. Helen – my sister – is within the palace, so if you’re here to join the general rabble you’d better follow me.’

At her command the massive gates were swung inward by invisible hands to reveal a spacious yet crowded courtyard within. They followed Clytaemnestra into the compound, which was surrounded by the magnificent stonework, high walls and countless windows and doorways of the palace. There were stables filled with scores of splendid horses, a dozen or more ornate chariots propped up against the palace walls, a host of richly armoured guards, and countless slaves rushing to and fro on untold errands. They had entered a city within a city, a place that teemed with people and yet was perfectly ordered.

‘Things are usually busier,’ Clytaemnestra commented. ‘Especially since the other suitors have been arriving. But today the mighty warriors are all out hunting boar. Things have been getting a little . . . shall we say strained? . . . in the palace of late, with all those former enemies living together under one roof. I’m sure that, as men, you’ll understand. So Tyndareus has taken them out into the hills for the day.’

She turned about and placed her hands on her hips, staring at them one after the other and assessing the state of their shabby clothes and battered armaments.

‘I apologize for the guard,’ she said, a hint of genuine kindness entering her voice for a brief moment. ‘He probably thought you were brigands. He does have orders to keep out the more general riff-raff, but he isn’t very bright in distinguishing between a commoner and a well-travelled nobleman. But the invitation was a general one and, if you truly are a prince, Odysseus of Ithaca, then you are welcome here. I’m also sorry you have to endure the welcome of a mere woman in my father’s absence, but you can rest assured that both he and my husband will want an audience with you this evening. There’ll be a banquet, of course, to feast on the boars they kill today, and you will all be guests of honour. But until then I’ll do what I can to see you are well housed.

‘The chief steward will take your guest-gifts, or you can wait to give them to Tyndareus in person if you prefer. Most do, though it makes little difference to him. He has so many swords, spears, daggers, tripods and the like that he doesn’t know what to do with them any more. And nobody ever brings anything for Helen herself, poor sister. I suppose you’re the same?’

‘I regret to say we haven’t brought any gifts at all,’ Odysseus answered, his tone even and pleasant.

‘Not even for the king?’ Clytaemnestra asked, momentarily shocked. Then her growing look of impertinent boredom was swept away and she stared at Odysseus with a new-found interest. ‘Well, that’s certainly different. What strange customs you must have in your part of Greece.’

Odysseus shrugged complacently. ‘We had many adventures on our journey here and, regrettably, our gifts were lost on the way. So we come empty-handed in the hope that your father will accept, in place of gifts, our services and lasting friendship.’

‘We’ll see,’ she replied. ‘But you interest me, at least, and I think Helen might find some of your qualities more than interesting.’ Her eyes shot a glance at one of the windows that overlooked the courtyard, but an instant later she looked back at Odysseus as if her gaze had never left him. ‘I wouldn’t call you handsome, but what’s one more fine figure amongst a host of fine figures? Now, I’ll arrange for you and your men to receive baths and new clothes, as well as something to eat. Then you’ll be taken to your rooms.’

‘You still have rooms left?’ Eperitus asked.

‘You’re not in Ithaca now.’ She smiled at him. ‘This is Sparta, and you’re in the palace of its king. Tyndareus could house an army of suitors before he worried about having enough rooms, as you will see.’

And so, like a pack of obedient hounds, they followed the princess across the busy courtyard. The servants and soldiers barely noticed them as they entered the stream of activity, a mere ripple in the already choppy waters of palace life. But, despite their indifference, Eperitus felt that he and his comrades had crossed the threshold of a world much wider and deeper than anything any of them had experienced before, and from which none of them would emerge the same again.

Chapter Sixteen

THE GREAT HALL

Odysseus did not tell the others that he was fated to fail in his mission. Athena’s words were not for their ears, he told Eperitus, and it would only demoralize them to know that Menelaus had already been chosen as Helen’s husband. What would they care for alliances with other princes and kings, when they believed that Ithaca’s only salvation lay in his marrying Tynda-reus’s daughter?

They were walking the clean, well-built corridors of the uppermost level of the palace, where the Ithacans had been assigned two rooms between them and a thick straw mattress for each man. People were everywhere, even on the upper floors – mostly household slaves or soldiers from various Greek states. The former went about their duties with vigour and concentration, owing to the large number of duties that had been imposed on them with the coming of the suitors. The latter idled about singly or in pairs, admiring the palace, stopping the overworked servants with requests for food or drink, or trying to find female slaves with time on their hands and a mind for some private relaxation. Nobody carried weapons. It was a rule of the king that all arms were to be handed in at the armoury and stored there whilst their owners remained in the palace. The chief armourer, a man of many words, told them of the near-fatal arguments this had caused, so attached were the many warriors to their weapons. But compared with the bloodshed that would have occurred in the palace had Tyndareus not ordered this precaution, the price was a small one.

Eperitus sat with Odysseus on the wall of one of the third-floor balconies and looked down at the city of Sparta. They were joined by a warrior who introduced himself as Peisandros, son of Maimalos of Trachis. He was a spearman in the army of the Myrmidons, a name which he explained meant ants and was given to them for their hard-working nature. His captain was Patroclus, who had come to Sparta as the representative of Achilles.

‘Why doesn’t Achilles come himself?’ Eperitus asked.

Peisandros laughed heartily at his question. He was a barrel-chested man with a huge beard and a roaring guffaw that shook the air.

‘Why doesn’t he come? Because he’s still a child, that’s why.’

‘A child!’ Odysseus exclaimed. ‘But I’ve heard he has the respect of kings and fame that extends throughout Greece. How can a child exceed his elders in glory?’

‘He has a great lineage,’ Peisandros explained. ‘His father is Pelops, whom these lands are named after, and his mother is Thetis, a sea-nymph. It’s said she took him as an infant to the river Styx that flows from Hades itself, and dipped him in its waters to make him immortal. No arrow’s point or sword’s blade can harm him, no spear pierce him or axe slice his flesh. His tutors were Phoenix, the wise king of the Dolopes, and Chiron the centaur, so he has education beyond his years. They also taught him to fight and, my friends, if you could see him wield a spear and shield, child though he is, you would never again scoff at his age.’

‘But how can a child expect to marry Helen? Why would the most beautiful woman in Greece choose him over grown men?’ Eperitus asked.

Peisandros slapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Since when has marriage between royalty been for anything other than power? Achilles could still be in his mother’s womb for all they care; it’s his parentage and his prospects that count for them. And there are all sorts of prophecies about his future greatness. At least when we lesser nobles marry there’s something more than alliances and wealth involved. Take my wife for example.’ Here he paused and ordered a girl carrying a basket of barley cakes to come over. He helped himself to a handful, gave Odysseus and Eperitus a few, then sent the slave on her way with a pat on the backside. Peisandros stuffed one of the wafers into his mouth and continued. ‘Now, my wife can cook, which is the most important thing, but she’s a handsome lass too. She isn’t a Helen, of course, but . . .’

‘Tell us about Helen,’ Odysseus interrupted, biting into one of the cakes. ‘You must have seen her by now. Is she as beautiful as they say?’

Peisandros thought for a while in silence, looking across the valley to Mount Taygetus. ‘No, she’s not as beautiful as they say, because they can’t describe her kind of beauty. Helen’s got the best of everything a man could want, of course, and rumour has it that her real father is Zeus himself. But there’s a spirit in the girl that can’t be captured by words. She’s too . . . free, I would say, though that falls short too. Even the poets tear their beards out in frustration when they see her. New words would need to be thought up, and even they would only have any meaning to those who’d actually seen her.’

‘She must be wonderful,’ Odysseus said, ‘if she can make bards out of the toughest warriors.’

‘She is, my friend, and she does. I’m no man of words – my spear talks well enough for me – but even the simplest soldier has to spend hours and days trying to dress her up in words. All of us fail, of course, and our princes and kings fare no better; but if we don’t try to comprehend her in some way – to contain her within words if you like – then we’d lose our minds.’

Eperitus thought of Athena in her full immortal brilliance as he had seen her by the moon-silvered spring, and wondered if Helen had a similar effect on mortal eyes. Although he had not thought of Athena as beautiful, this was only because he did not consider the physical aspect of her being. As a goddess she was but one thing and one thing only: glorious. He had hardly been able to look at her, because in her was the immeasurable, unattainable, incomprehensible essence of perfection. She had lacked only the one shade of absolute supremacy, which belonged to Zeus himself, whom no mortal can witness in his true form and live.

‘You might be fortunate enough to see her this evening,’ Peisandros added, ‘and then you can judge for yourselves. I’ve discussed her with others in my troop and we all see something different. For me she has something of the moon in her: a hard, cold, ageless beauty, aloof and alone in a world of darkness. You might see the brilliance of the sun, the source of the rest of your life. Or she may remind you of the sea – she does others – with a beauty that goes on for ever and is too deep to fathom. She’s all of these things, I can tell you, and much more beyond your understanding. But I warn you, too: to see her is also a curse. I’ll never forget her, not even when my tortured soul is sent to the halls of Hades, where they say everything is forgotten. It makes me sad to know the world I once loved will never hold the same wonder as it did before, because she’s taken its place in my heart. There’s some kind of witchcraft in her to do that in a man.’

He fell silent and looked out over the valley again. Could Helen really have that effect on men? Eperitus wondered. Part of him did not want to find out – would rather he walk out of that palace of the damned before it was too late. But the stronger part was intrigued by Peisandros’s words.

‘Come now,’ Odysseus said. ‘Surely you don’t mean the girl practises the dark arts.’

Peisandros cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘Maybe she does, maybe she doesn’t,’ he said, ‘but there’s no doubt it runs in the family.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Eperitus, leaning forward.

Peisandros turned to the two men and gave them a dark stare. ‘I mean there are a lot of rumours about Leda, Helen’s mother, and even more about Clytaemnestra. I’ve heard it said all Leda’s children were born from eggs, and that’s strange enough, but few question that Clytaemnestra is a follower of the old gods. She and Helen are as different as night and day, of course, but it doesn’t mean Helen doesn’t have something strange in her blood. It would explain the way she can bend any man to her will.’

Eperitus looked at Odysseus, who returned his gaze but revealed nothing of what was in his mind.

‘Then let’s talk no more of women, Peisandros,’ the prince said. ‘Tell us about the other suitors – who they are and where they’ve come from.’

‘There’s already too many to remember,’ Peisandros laughed, ‘and more arrive every day. But I’ll name the most famous – all powerful and from good stock. First to come was Agamemnon, son of Atreus and king of Mycenae. You’ve met Clytaemnestra, so you already know he hasn’t come as a suitor: he’s here to support his brother’s claim.’

‘Menelaus? I already know about him,’ Odysseus murmured.

‘And a fine man he is, too. Rumour says he’s already been chosen as Helen’s husband. But that’s just gossip between the men, of course,’ Peisandros added, remembering Odysseus was a suitor. ‘What would we know of politics, after all?

‘Then there’s Nauplius’s son, Palamedes. He has a face like a rat, but Helen couldn’t wish for a more intelligent and inventive husband. Then there’s Idomeneus, king of Crete and son of Deucalion. He has all the attributes a woman could want: strength, courage, wealth and power. Good looks, too. Next comes Menestheus, son of Peteos. His father made him king of Athens at a young age and now he’s come here to find a wife worthy of his position. Athens is an ambitious state, and he’s confident Helen will be his.

‘The most recent arrival, other than yourselves, is King Diomedes of Argos, Tydeus’s son. He arrived this morning, refusing refreshment or rest so that he could join the boar hunt. When I saw him walk through the gates, I thought a god had come to preside over the festivities. I tell you now, if he isn’t chosen as Helen’s husband – if you’ll forgive me saying so, Odysseus – then Tyndareus has already made up his mind and this whole gathering is a charade.’

At that point they heard the sound of horses’ hoofs in the streets below, accompanied by the shouts and laughter of a multitude of men. The hunters were returning in good spirits.

‘Roast boar tonight then,’ Peisandros said, leaning over the balcony and trying to catch a glimpse of the returning warriors.

‘I’d expect no less,’ Eperitus commented, joining him. ‘If the best warriors in Greece can’t spear a couple of boars, then who can?’

The Myrmidon laughed. ‘Just as long as they aren’t trying to spear each other, that’s all I care about.’

The great hall of the palace at Sparta dwarfed Laertes’s throne room back on Ithaca, easily accommodating the hundreds of guests and slaves who were busy with the night’s feast. At its centre were four painted columns of wide girth, supporting a ceiling so high that it was almost lost in shadow. A great pall of smoke gathered there from the central fire, curling about the rafters like a serpent upon the branches of a tree.

Every room in the palace complex was clean, roomy and magnificently decorated. The walls abounded with an endless variety of animals, birds, fishes and plants, skilfully depicted in vibrant colours that made the creatures seem alive as they stalked each other between bushes and trees, lakes and rivers. But these were only the commonplace designs, used to enrich the hundreds of functional rooms that filled the palace. The more important rooms such as the great hall and the royal quarters were decorated with scenes from legendary battles or stories concerning the gods. Some pictured mythical creatures, whilst others showed human figures at work or play: there were naked boys running foot races; others wrestling or boxing; yet more competing with javelin or discus. It was a place of such wealth and luxury that the halls of Olympus itself would have struggled to surpass it.

The hunters’ return had filled the palace with the hubbub of many people. Odysseus kept his men confined to their rooms on the upper floor, but outside they could hear the many kings and princes disperse to their separate quarters to bathe and put on fresh clothing. Only when Clytaemnestra, still dressed in black, came to bid them join the feast at her father’s request did the Ithacans leave and descend the broad steps to the floors below.

Filing out across the central courtyard towards the entrance to the great hall, they passed the carcasses of scores of bullocks, sacrificed to bring the blessings of the gods and feed the many revellers whom the four or five roasted boar would not. The blood ran down in thick rivulets across the muddy floor and gathered in pools of deep red. The smoke from the burned thigh-bones and fat which the priests had offered up to the gods choked the air and put a pall over the face of the early evening moon.

Before Odysseus and his men had even left their rooms the sound of the feasting had been like the hum of ten thousand bees in their ears, but as they stepped into the great hall the full force of it burst upon them like a roaring sea. Wine-lubricated tongues fought to gain ascendancy over each other as well-fed, big-voiced men shouted to be heard by their neighbours amongst the drunken cacophony. Laughter, music, excited voices, arguments and shouts from one side of the room to the other filled the air, and the babble of sound was matched by the chaos of movement. For each guest there must have been two slaves, rushing here and there with kraters of wine, baskets of bread, platters of meat and small tables on which to set them; unarmed warriors leaned across each other in vociferous debate or lolled about arm in arm, seeking either wine or women amongst the busy slaves; there were stewards and squires chasing the servants or running after their noble masters, and the whole chaotic scene moved with an instinctive, flowing rhythm that sucked the Ithacans in and dragged them inevitably towards its natural vortex.

Suddenly a man appeared from the milling crowds. ‘Lord Odysseus? Tyndareus and Icarius, kings of Sparta, invite you to join them.’ He pointed across the low flames of the hearth to a group of men seated together at the far end of the hall. They were locked in conversation, and paid no heed to the new arrivals. ‘Food and wine is being prepared for your men, if you will follow me.’

While the others were taken to a cluster of vacant chairs guarded by three slaves, Odysseus skirted the fire and walked up to the group of kings and princes that the chief steward had indicated. As his party sat and drinking bowls full of wine were pressed into their hands, Eperitus could not help but watch his leader as he stepped proudly up to the most powerful men in Greece and stood before them until, one by one, they stopped talking and looked at the newcomer. Never in all their trials together had Eperitus felt so anxious for him.

‘I am Odysseus,’ he began, his voice even but audible amidst the din. ‘My father is Laertes, king of Ithaca. I have heard that King Tyndareus is inviting suitors for his daughter, Helen, and I have faced many hardships to come here and name myself amongst them.’

For a while they looked at him, silently observing his ungainly bulk, poised awkwardly on his short legs, and noting his drab clothes and plain looks. But whatever his outward appearance they, more than any others in that vast room, were able to distinguish the noble look in his eyes and sense, as if they could smell it, the royal blood in his veins. The oldest and largest amongst them stood, a man whose strong presence was not due merely to his solid gut and wild black beard.

‘I’m King Tyndareus,’ he said. Despite the noise he did not need to raise his voice to be heard. ‘You wear the signs of your travels, though any man can see you aren’t of low birth – only a fool would judge a man’s character by the quality of his clothing. You are welcome here, Odysseus, son of Laertes, and I don’t need to remind you that you are amongst exalted company.’ The king briefly named the dozen or so men who sat on either side of him, whose reputations and lineage were for the most part well known by all Greeks. ‘Now, sit between Agamemnon and me and give us the story of your journey. It’ll interest us to set your tale against our own adventures on the hillsides this day.’

A slave brought a high-backed chair and placed it between Tyndareus and Agamemnon, who scraped his own chair reluctantly to one side. Odysseus took his seat under the cold, appraising stares of the dozen or so high nobles from states infinitely more powerful than his own. These were the men who, if anybody could, would help him save Ithaca from Eupeithes’s clutches. It was for their power and not the beauty of a girl that he had marched across the Peloponnese. Unless he was at his most persuasive now, his home, his family, his position and his renown would all be lost. So he gripped the arms of his chair and looked at the stone floor for the space of a breath, before raising his eyes to the faces of the company he had been invited to share.

Tyndareus returned his gaze in a friendly enough manner, but beside him Agamemnon remained reserved and neutral, allowing nothing of his true self to show in his eyes. His outward appearance suggested a man obsessed with detail: his white tunic was immaculate; his blood-red cloak perfect; his few adornments opulent but not excessive; his auburn hair and beard long but neatly trimmed. Power and majesty resonated from him, and yet in his practised reserve there was a deliberate, well-trained masking of the passions that burned within. Agamemnon was not a man to expose his strengths, weaknesses, thoughts or ambitions to anyone without need. But when he chose to draw away the screen, the man beneath was driven, quick and uncompromising. He had not become the most powerful man in Greece by birthright alone.

For all that, Odysseus instinctively identified something of himself in the king of Mycenae – a leader’s natural insecurity and desire for control. Though he was unsure whether he liked Agamemnon, he sensed a mutual admiration that he hoped would turn to friendship.

On Tyndareus’s right was Icarius, who smiled briefly and without warmth at the new arrival. Next to him sat Diomedes, the Argive prince who had recently destroyed the city of Thebes. Like Agamemnon’s, his hair was long and brown with a hint of red, but unlike the Mycenaean he did not hide his good looks behind a beard, leaving his strong jaw clean-shaven. His clothes were expensive but not showy, unlike most others gathered in the group, and despite his handsome appearance he had an aggressive, hard-bitten mien that Odysseus approved of. A long pink scar stood out on his tanned cheek, running from the top of his ear down across his jawline. He acknowledged Odysseus with a nod before beckoning to a slave for more wine.

‘Aren’t these islands you name in the Ionian Sea?’ asked a short, black-haired man with a pinched nose and small black eyes. ‘Full of rocks and sheep and little else, I’m told.’

Palamedes laughed at his own sally and looked about at the others, laughing at each one in turn until their silence quietened him.

‘Yes, there are rocks and sheep,’ Odysseus answered. ‘Rocks and sheep, sea and fish, flowers and women, homes and families. We left all these things many days ago to witness the glory of Sparta and marvel at its most blessed child. But our journey hasn’t been easy.’

And so he told the kings and princes of the hardships he and his men had faced in reaching Sparta. His voice was calm and smooth, instantly washing over them and stilling their minds. Those that were already talking fell silent and turned their heads towards him, quickly forgetting their own adventures in the boar hunt as the other sounds in the great hall faded and they heard only his words. He spoke passionately of the river, of Mentor and the news from Ithaca, of the burning trees, the battle with the Taphians, the slaying of the serpent, the death of Polybus and the meeting with Iphitus. Only one thing remained unmentioned, but Odysseus was clever enough not to make reference to his patron goddess or the things she had told him. It was enough that these men knew of his country’s plight without him having to plead its cause like a beggar.

His words commanded their silence, though there were occasional grunts of approval or noises of disgust as each event was unfolded before them. At the mention of Laertes’s throne being forcibly taken from him there was even an angry murmur, but when Odysseus had ended his tale at the Taygetus Mountains, looking down over the Eurotas valley, there was no more mention of the subject. Odysseus was not disappointed. He understood that the nobility of Greece were no ordinary audience; when they spoke, lives were changed, and so they knew when to reserve their comments and when to voice them.

‘You impress me, Odysseus,’ Tyndareus said. ‘You’re a worthy suitor, even amongst such men as these. And you have my sympathies for the loss of your father’s throne, which is your birthright.’

More food and wine were brought by the slaves and, with Odysseus’s tale finished, the noise of the feast swept back in on them like a wave. Agamemnon leaned towards Odysseus.

‘You seem like a resourceful man, friend, and not without your share of protection from the immortals. Perhaps we can test your judgement also: will you settle a small debate for us?’

‘If I’m able.’

‘Good. We were discussing the question of continued peace between Greek states.’

‘Peace?’ Odysseus replied, as if the word was new to him. ‘How can there be peace when the Epigoni are making war on Thebes?’

‘The war is over,’ said Diomedes. ‘We defeated them and took their city. Our fathers have been avenged and now there is peace.’

Odysseus looked at the scar-faced warrior, who had a clear sense of honour to his father and showed a warrior’s pride in his achievements. ‘It’s a privilege to meet the son of Tydeus, whose fame threatens that of his own sire. And I thank you for making my point for me. Have you asked yourselves when this cycle will stop? Won’t the next generation of Thebans want revenge for their dead fathers? Doesn’t each of us have family feuds that began before the times of our grandfathers? I’ve heard that even Agamemnon and Menelaus seek the death of Aegisthus for murdering their father. This is the barrier to peace amongst our states. We’re so busy avenging the transgressions caused against our forefathers that we’ll never be able to live side by side ourselves. Greece is held back by the grudges of its warrior families.’

‘What did I tell you?’ boomed Tyndareus, triumphantly. ‘Hey, Agamemnon? And you, Diomedes, echoing all this talk of unity across Greece. It’s a nonsense, and you know it.’

‘I didn’t say it was nonsense, my lord,’ Odysseus added carefully, taking a krater of wine from a passing slave. ‘Warriors have always fought whomever they chose, and our fathers made their fortunes and their names by the spear and the sword. Yet the times are changing. Trade flourishes throughout Greece and across the seas to other nations, and it seems to me that the era of military expansion is being replaced by a time of consolidation. Our enemies are now our neighbours, whether we like it or not.’

‘So will there be peace, even with the feuding?’ asked Menelaus. He was a young, well-built man with red-brown hair, thinning on top, and a black beard. His pale face was authoritative but kind, and yet his brow was furrowed as he addressed Odysseus. ‘I for one will never forgive my cousin for killing my father, even if my brother could countenance it. It dishonours my family and it dishonours me.’

‘That’s a question for yourself, Menelaus,’ Odysseus answered. ‘But for me, I think there is one thing that could bring the Greeks together.’

Agamemnon folded his hands in his lap and retreated behind his neutral, unimpassioned look. ‘What’s that?’

Odysseus did not answer immediately, but picked up a slice of boar from the platter in front of him and crammed it into his mouth. He chewed it and washed it down with wine before looking into the cold blue eyes of Agamemnon.

‘A mutual enemy will unite Greece. We share a common tongue and follow the same gods as each other, so what Greece needs is an outsider who doesn’t. Any gibberish-talking foreigner who gives us a reason to fight would suffice. That and an oath between kings, the most sacred and binding oath ever taken.’

The Spartan wine was strong and had already worked its way to Eperitus’s head. All around him his companions were adding their own noise to the general cacophony as the wine oiled their tongues. Hard-worked slaves brought them a constant supply of meat and drink, and with much-tested patience did little more than grin or nod apathetically at the drunken suggestions and comments that were offered them. The women in particular had grown used to the lewd attentions of the hundreds of men in the palace; they smiled and flirted their way free of their embraces and like a mountain breeze were heading back to the kitchens, larders or wine cellars before the soldiers knew it.

They were soon engaged by the group of warriors next to them, who came from Lindos on the island of Rhodes. They were fascinated with the tales of the Ithacans’ adventures, and sympathetic to the point of anger when they told them their king had been overthrown in their absence. It was an outrage to them that Ithaca, a place they had never heard of before, should be ruled by foreign invaders. Being islanders themselves, they understood what it was like to have a border set by the sea, where the sense of belonging to a homeland was so much stronger. From that point on they adopted the exiled Ithacans as their own, and both parties sought each other every night in the great hall throughout the months they remained in Sparta.

The Rhodians had been amongst the very first to arrive and had already been in the city for several days. Their second-in-command was a brash, fierce-looking man called Gyrtias, who quickly became good friends with Halitherses due to the rank they shared.

‘There he is,’ he announced to Halitherses, though loudly enough for all of the Ithacans to hear. He pointed a thick arm that was stiff with muscles at a slight figure seated behind the higher nobles. ‘Prince Tlepolemos of Rhodes. A more handsome and worthier Greek has not yet been born. That is the man who will marry Helen.’

Eperitus looked and saw a baby-faced youth who was struggling to grow a beard and had not yet developed any muscles to speak of. He simpered at the back of the group with his pale brown locks falling in front of his eyes, and Eperitus could only wonder at how out of place the young prince looked amongst such proud men.

Gyrtias went on to name the other kings and princes who had arrived so far. Never before had Eperitus seen such a magnificent assembly of men. It was almost unbelievable, he thought, that in so short a space of time he had risen from being an outcast from his own land to become an attendant to the highest royalty in the Greek-speaking world. Here before him were men whose collective power was beyond belief. When the assembly was complete they would represent almost every nation and dynasty of importance in the whole of Greece. Most had fathers whose fame was legendary, but many were great warriors in their own right. More significantly, they represented the ripening youth of Greek nobility.

Before Gyrtias could finish naming each man and his lineage, a new group of men entered the hall. They were dressed all in black and all eyes turned to watch them as they approached the twin thrones where Tyndareus and Icarius sat.

‘Myrmidons,’ Gyrtias grumbled as Eperitus recognized his friend Peisandros amongst them.

They halted before the grouped kings and bowed, before dispersing into the crowd. This impressed him, as good manners were a sign of honourable men, and so he could not understand the hostility in Gyrtias’s voice. Only one man remained, standing stiff and awkward before the twin thrones. From behind, Eperitus guessed he was the same age as himself, though he was taller and more sinewy, and as he had been at the head of the Myrmidons he also assumed him to be their leader, Patroclus. Tyndareus beckoned him to join the royal gathering and a slave brought a stool for the newcomer, but to Eperitus’s surprise it was placed on the floor before the raised dais upon which the other leaders sat.

‘Why doesn’t he sit with the others?’ Mentor asked, echoing Eperitus’s thoughts.

‘Because he isn’t high-born,’ Gyrtias answered, staring scornfully at the new arrival. ‘He’s just a commoner like you or me, here to represent Achilles. Thinks he’s better than the rest of us though, the arrogant bastard. They’re all arrogant, Myrmidons.’

Patroclus sat and Eperitus saw his face for the first time. He had a large nose and high cheekbones, set in a triangular, cleanshaven face. This was balanced atop a scrawny neck that was dominated by the boulder-like lump in his throat. He had an affected expression of disdain which was made more hateful by his half-lidded, disapproving eyes, though whether he disapproved of the rabble of common soldiers to his right or the elitist kings to his left was not clear.

‘Now there’s a sight for men who’ve marched halfway across the Peloponnese,’ said Damastor.

Eperitus followed his gaze to where a young woman had entered the great hall. Her dark brown hair was long and tied up in a tail that dangled from the back of her head, flicking about gaily with every movement. She was tall, perhaps only a little shorter than himself, and her slim body was hidden by a green dress that fell to her ankles. Her assured self-confidence marked her out as a member of the ruling class, though she lacked the arrogance and disdain common to others of her rank.

‘So that’s Helen?’ he said aloud, to nobody in particular.

‘Helen?’ Gyrtias scoffed. ‘That’s not Helen, lad. That’s Icarius’s daughter, Penelope.’

Odysseus looked up as Penelope approached the dais and his conversation with Agamemnon and Diomedes fell away. He could scarce take his eyes from her as she moved through the press of men, entranced by the beauty of her movement and the perfect, calm symmetry of her face. If this was Helen, he thought, it would have been worth the journey just to set eyes upon her. As she reached the raised platform, he stood and quickly patted the creases from his drab clothing.

‘Tyndareus, your daughter’s reputation is well deserved,’ he began, bowing low but unable to take his eyes from her intelligent, pretty face. ‘No wonder the best men in Greece are flocking to Sparta.’

Penelope put her fists on her hips and tilted her head, frowning at him from beneath her smooth brow.

‘Fortunate, isn’t it, that intelligence isn’t a requirement amongst the best men in Greece,’ she said. Then, having dismissed the newest of Helen’s suitors, she turned to Tyndareus. ‘Uncle, your queen sends her apologies and asks me to tell you that Helen will be here shortly.’

Tyndareus nodded. ‘Can’t she find the right dress again?’

‘Perhaps she has too many, uncle,’ Penelope replied. ‘But I think the dress she has chosen emphasizes her best features.’

‘Good! That’s what my guests are here to see.’

‘You may not be so pleased when she arrives.’ Penelope smiled wryly. ‘But all will be revealed.’

She bowed her head and turned to go.

‘Penelope!’ Icarius said sternly. ‘I didn’t bring you up to be rude to strangers. Perhaps you should be less harsh in future to Prince Odysseus.’

With her back still turned she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ she said, though it was not clear to whom she was apologizing. Then she looked at Odysseus and added sincerely, ‘I hope I didn’t cause offence.’

Odysseus still smarted from the humiliation, which was made worse by his attraction to the woman.

‘It would take more than your low wit to offend me,’ he replied.

Penelope shot him an angry look before turning on her heel and marching off into the crowd of revellers.

‘You were saying about King Priam,’ Odysseus reminded Agamemnon, his eyes following Icarius’s daughter into the mass of slaves and warriors.

Agamemnon, whose own gaze had also been fixed on Penelope, nodded and placed a finger to his lips. ‘Already I can see we share similar views, Odysseus, so I’ll bring you into my confidence. But these things aren’t for all ears. Not yet.’

Together, he and Diomedes explained in hushed voices how Troy was demanding tribute from all merchants passing through the Aegean. Not only was it an affront to all Greeks, they said, it also threatened to become a stranglehold on the trade that the Greek states depended and thrived on.

Odysseus drained his cup. ‘So what do you propose?’

‘Anything necessary to keep the peace here,’ said Diomedes. ‘We’re considering a combined raid on Ilium, the land around Troy, to sack a couple of Priam’s allied cities. Something to give the Greek states a common purpose. But we need to have all the kings on our side, or else who would take their armies across the Aegean if there were enemies still at home? This gathering is an ideal chance to hold a council of war.’

‘I’m all for an alliance between the Greek states,’ Odysseus began. ‘Especially if it keeps peace between us all. But putting this idea into practice is another matter altogether.’

The others were no longer listening. Instead their eyes were looking past him to the open portals of the great hall, which had fallen suddenly silent. Odysseus turned.

Two women stood at the entrance. One was tall and slim with long black hair, streaked grey at the temples; only a few wrinkles at the corners of her eyes marked her age. She would have dominated the gathered warriors with her powerful beauty, were it not for the presence of her younger companion.

Helen of Sparta had arrived.

Chapter Seventeen

DAUGHTERS OF LACEDAEMON

A hush spread across the hall as Helen stood before the gathered warriors. The words died in their mouths and the drinking cups froze in their hands. It was as if Medusa herself had entered, and with one look turned them all to stone.

She was tall with long black hair and white skin that looked as if it had never seen the sun. Her eyes were like burning ice and as she looked about at the crowded hall they set a cold fire running through the veins of every man. Peisandros was right, Eperitus realized: the words did not exist that could describe her. She was like a mountain that a man sees from afar and wants to climb, so he can tell himself he is better than the mountain. But Helen possessed no fault in which a man could gain a foothold. There was no blemish or imperfection with which the spectators in the great hall could pull her down to their level. She soared above every warrior, every prince, every king, until it was an agony for them to look at her, knowing they had been defeated by a woman’s looks.

And yet, if her beauty cut deep into their souls, she had other weapons that struck at their corporeal natures. Though only a girl of seventeen years, she was fully a woman and had the ruthless confidence to display it. She had come barefoot into the great hall and wore only a white dress of the thinnest material, which hid little of the naked body beneath. No man in that room was left in any doubt of what Helen had to offer her chosen husband.

Eperitus’s sense of honour told him that the mind of a better man would dwell upon her perfect face and not upon her perfect body, and yet he was a slave to his animal nature. By her mere presence she had made pigs of every man in the room, exposing their high ideals and their heroic codes and letting them feed in the troughs of their base natures. Eperitus felt ashamed, but could not avert his eyes.

Then the older woman threw a cloak about Helen’s shoulders and released the assembled warriors from the fierce grip of her spell. Men looked at each other and spoke in hushed voices. More wine doused dry throats and sluggish movements returned to the organism that had taken possession of the great hall. But the noble suitors, the men who had come to claim her, remained in silent thrall as Helen approached the dais where her foster-father sat. The older woman followed, like a tutor presenting her prize pupil.

‘She isn’t interested in any of them, you know.’

Gyrtias sat down next to Eperitus and held out a platter of bread and meat.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, taking a handful of each.

The soldier from Rhodes took some of the food for himself and washed it down with a slop of wine that spilled over his beard. ‘I spoke with one of Helen’s slave girls this morning and asked what her mistress thought of Prince Tlepolemos. It took a bit of persuasion, but the girl’s a bit simple so I got what I wanted in the end. She told me Helen isn’t interested in Tlepolemos or any of the suitors. She thinks her father and King Agamemnon will choose her husband for her, so she’s planning to run away!’

Eperitus laughed at the suggestion. ‘Does she really think she can just slip off into the night? Every man in Sparta would be hunting for her, and with a face like that she wouldn’t be hard to follow. Besides, she should be happy to have any of Greece’s finest men for a husband.’

‘She isn’t, though,’ Gyrtias assured him. ‘She detests being a pawn in Agamemnon’s political games, and doesn’t have much love for Tyndareus either. She believes her real father to be Zeus, so the will of Tyndareus means nothing to her. The maid claims she would even run away with a common warrior, just to spite him. Can you imagine it, a commoner?’

Eperitus looked over at the princess as she stood tall and proud amidst the throng of nobles who had stepped down to meet her. Her chaperone – who he assumed was Leda – had joined Tyndareus and looked on approvingly as her daughter stood like a white candle in a crowd of moths. Did any of them realize she was simply mocking their attentions? Suddenly, insanely, Eperitus imagined Helen and himself escaping through the darkness of the night, over the passes of the Taygetus Mountains to freedom. Visions of her perfect face and godlike physique electrified his mind and he felt excited at the incredible thought. But as quickly as the fantastic notion had seized him, it faded away again. His grandfather had told him many times that the greatest enemies of a fighting man were death and women. And the oracle’s words provided a much greater warning: ‘The hero should beware love, for if she clouds his desires he will fall into the Abyss.’

Odysseus looked at the crowd that stood about Helen. How could they ever hope to possess her? he thought. But as he watched her receive their praise, her even and faultless features meeting their words with little more than a nod or a wry smile, even a yawn, he could not blame them for wanting her. There was something magical about the princess that surpassed the purely physical beauty she had in abundance. Some of this allure lay in the elusiveness with which she taunted their ambitions, challenging them to claim her for themselves. Some looked on her as a boar to be hunted or a horse to be broken in, whilst others simply despaired. But none received anything more than her contempt, and of them all only Odysseus knew beyond the slightest ember of a hope that she would not be his; and so he sat back and watched the others expend themselves upon her.

Until her bored gaze wandered beyond the group that imprisoned her and fell unexpectedly on him.

In an instant, Odysseus was pierced to the core by the sudden shock of her beauty. All his plans to ignore her and seek alliances amongst her suitors trembled about him. In the lingering moment that her clear blue eyes probed his he looked into his heart and questioned the things he valued most. Would he give up Ithaca for her sake, she seemed to ask? Would he forget even his family and friends to be with her?

And he knew the answer was no. The spell was broken, the challenge met. Helen had tested him, damaged him, almost defeated him, and only his love for his home saved him from her. But he understood now what was most powerful and dangerous about this woman. In that brief instant he realized she must have looked at each of her suitors in the same way, questioning their individual values and breaking each of them in turn. He freed himself from the gaze that had locked them together and scanned the hall for his countrymen. He finally found them in the throng and was surprised to see the wilful daughter of Icarius, Penelope, standing before them.

‘You’re a curious man, Odysseus,’ Tyndareus said beside him. He, Icarius and Odysseus were the only three who had not risen to greet the princess. ‘You travel halfway across Greece, facing all manner of dangers to see my daughter, and now you sit by without a word to say. You must have strange customs on Ithaca.’

On hearing her husband’s words, Leda looked at Odysseus with mild amusement in her eyes. ‘What kind of a suitor ignores the woman he longs to marry?’

‘Maybe he does not want to marry me,’ Helen said, stepping onto the broad dais to stand before Odysseus.

‘Why else would I be here, my lady?’ he replied, bowing his head.

The suitors resumed their places without removing their eyes from the princess. Only Agamemnon remained standing, sending furtive glances across the room at Penelope. Helen took his seat and faced Odysseus, her cloak falling open to reveal the gossamerthin dress beneath. It was a wonder that human hands could make material so fine, yet Helen was more than worthy of its craftsmanship. It was like a thin mist that gave tantalizing glimpses of the naked form beneath. But at the same time she fixed him with her eyes, offering him the agonizing choice between her face and her body. He chose neither, and instead beckoned a slave to refill his drinking cup.

‘Where do you come from, Odysseus? Are you powerful and rich like Diomedes?’ At the mention of his name – Helen’s first recognition of him – Diomedes sat up. His noble nature did not begrudge Odysseus the princess’s attention, though he envied him for it. ‘Or are you one of the lesser royals, hoping to increase your country’s might by marrying the daughter of the Spartan king?’

‘Co-king,’ Odysseus reminded her, sensing every eye was upon them. ‘In answer to your first question, I’m from Ithaca; in answer to your second and third, I am very much a lesser royal. As for seeking a marriage of power, I doubt that a man of my standing would get very far with the great Helen of Sparta.’

As he spoke, Helen touched her foot against the thick calf muscles of his leg, rubbing her toes briefly and seductively against his skin. The cloak opened further to reveal more of her perfect body, and Odysseus recognized that her provocative manner was practised and compelling. But he sensed this was a façade, not the real Helen.