King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

Making a fire in those conditions was difficult, but as the rain trickled away slowly to nothing he eventually succeeded in his task. Soon a great blaze was burning in the darkness and he stood naked before it, holding first his tunic and then his cloak up to the heat to dry. Then he heard a sound behind him and turned to see Clytaemnestra standing there, shamelessly eyeing his nakedness.

He hastily threw the cloak about his waist and apologized. Saying nothing she approached the flames and picked up his tunic. He put a hand out to take it from her but, as he did so, she threw it onto the flames.

‘What are you doing?’ he objected, trying to get hold of a corner of the garment and pull it free of the flames, though without success. ‘That’s my only tunic. Do you want me to look a fool when I finally get down from this mountain?’

‘Of course not,’ she replied, calmly. ‘That’s why I brought you this.’ She held up a new tunic and handed it to him. ‘I made it myself, especially for you. That old rag you’ve been wearing is a disgrace for a nobleman, so travel-worn and threadbare. Don’t worry, it’ll fit you perfectly.’

Eperitus looked at the garment. He could detect Clytaemnestra’s scent on it, and imagined her long-fingered hands working on the soft material, just for him. He met her eyes and saw that the veil of cynicism and anger had lifted to reveal a young woman in the prime of her life.

‘I’ll put it on now,’ he said, and walked behind a corner of rock to change.

As Eperitus slipped the cloak from around his waist and stood naked once more in the cool night air, he suddenly felt himself being watched. He turned and saw that Clytaemnestra had followed him, but instead of covering himself he allowed her to look at him. It was exhilarating, and for a moment he felt godlike, worshipped, desired. Then he pulled the tunic over his head and picked up his cloak. She returned to stand by the fire as he followed.

‘So Helen’s husband has been chosen,’ he said, as if nothing had happened between them. But something had. The usual formality of their relationship had been bridged, and the bridge could not be recrossed.

‘Yes. They were married today.’

She stood between himself and the fire, her back turned to him, and he could see the silhouette of her body through the thin material of her dress: her bony shoulders; the narrow hips and waist; the gap between the meeting of her legs. A tingling feeling crept across his skin and spread through his whole body, exciting the flesh and shaking off the cold of the night. He wanted her. He wanted to touch her, to kiss her and then to take her, to journey where he had never ventured before.

‘It was Menelaus, wasn’t it?’

‘How did you know?’ she asked, turning towards him.

‘A god told me.’

Clytaemnestra gave him an inquisitive look that was halfway between disbelief and curiosity, but she did not question his knowledge.

‘Anyway, it’s over now and the suitors – all but Menelaus, of course – will be leaving over the next couple of days. I hear Odysseus and his new bride are heading for the sea tomorrow afternoon. They’ll follow the course of the Eurotas and hire themselves a ship when they reach the coast.’

‘So your husband’s plans for a war on Troy have failed?’

‘Yes. Utterly,’ she said, with a grim smile of quiet triumph. ‘There’ll be no war unless Priam turns his ambitions towards Greece itself. Agamemnon’s dream to unite the Greeks can never be revived now.’

‘But when Menelaus inherits Tyndareus’s throne, the Atreides will rule the two most powerful states in Greece. With the combined armies of Sparta and Mycenae they could conquer all the other states, effectively giving Agamemnon what he wanted anyway.’

Clytaemnestra shook her head. ‘He’s ambitious, but he isn’t a tyrant. He believes in unifying Greece by mutual agreement, not subjugation. If he were anybody else I could almost admire his vision and his commitment. But he isn’t anybody else; he’s my husband and he’s a bastard. I curse him!’

She spat over her shoulder into the flames.

‘I don’t blame you for hating him, not after what he did to you,’ Eperitus ventured, taking a step closer.

Clytaemnestra hung her head and a shining tear rolled down each of her cheeks. Then Eperitus put a hand under her chin and lifted her face. Her large, bewitching eyes met his and something stirred deep within him. More tears, even though her face was proud and defiant, and then he kissed her. Her lips parted and he followed her lead, each action new to him. His hands found her thin waist and pulled her body against his, the twin bulge of her small breasts pressing upon his ribs. Then as her fingers ran into his hair he felt the tip of her tongue enter his slightly opened mouth, a sensation for which no rumour or description of the act had ever prepared him. He felt his whole body respond.

He squeezed her closer still and dropped a hand to her buttocks, only for her to mirror the action on himself. For a moment both of her hands clawed at his flesh, and then began tugging at the hem of his tunic, sliding it up his back until moments later she pulled it over his head and arms and flung it to one side. Instinctively they stood back from each other as she undid the cord that held her dress together. Then she was naked before him and he found his aroused passion momentarily stilled as he stared at her.

Although he had seen naked women before, never had he beheld a body that he knew within moments would be joined with his own. Clytaemnestra, perhaps enjoying the knowledge she was giving herself to him in a way that Agamemnon would never know, allowed his eyes to roam across her body, over the small white breasts with their disproportionately large, starkly pink nipples, down over the flat stomach to the thick arrowhead of red hair between her legs. Then, before his eyes could have their fill of her, she took him by the hand and led him to a patch of dried grass beyond the ring of firelight, out into the shadows where the moon’s silver luminance gave their bodies a ghostly, even corpselike appearance.

When Eperitus awoke the next morning she was gone. He was disappointed – there was so much he wanted to say and ask and talk about with her – but he knew he was not heart-broken. He glanced about for signs of her, just in case she had only wandered off, but there were none.

He lay back on the bed of grass and looked up at the clouds, his mind sliding lazily between the different pleasures of the night before. But for all the foreign delights of experiencing a woman, every thought ran ultimately up against the same barrier, the single revelation that Clytaemnestra had shared with him between their bouts of love-making. Damastor was a traitor. Damastor had wanted Odysseus to choose Penelope over Helen, and it was Damastor who had given the alarm when Odysseus entered the women’s quarters.

It all sounded too incredible, and Eperitus wondered whether Clytaemnestra’s second sight had failed her or deceived her. But as he sifted through everything he could remember about Damastor’s actions over the past half-year, the distant sound of horns carried to him from across the Eurotas valley. In an instant he was on his feet and standing at the edge of the shelf of rock, shielding his eyes from the sun as he gazed towards Sparta. Away in the distance, the first of the suitors was emerging from the city gates. The courtship of Helen was over. The battle for Ithaca was about to begin.

book

FOUR

Chapter Twenty-five

DEATH IN THE TEMPLE

Even from a distance Eperitus’s shield and spears would mark him out as a warrior, so he was especially cautious in his descent from the foothills not to make himself visible to any watching eyes on the city walls. Once he was back on the level plain of the valley, though, there were enough trees, ravines and stone walls to provide cover and he made much better progress on his way to the sun-dappled waters of the Eurotas.

The day was a warm one, in contrast to the clouds and occasional rain of the past week, and by the time Eperitus reached a point on the river far enough down from the city gates he was sweating and thirsty. He laid down his shield and spears behind a stone wall and glanced about the countryside for signs of life. There were shepherds on the foothills to either side of the valley and a handful of peasant children in an olive grove on the other side of the river, but neither posed a threat so he walked to the near bank and knelt down to drink. The cold waters were refreshing on his dusty hands, the strong undercurrents driving his fingers apart and chilling them to the bone. He took a quick draught and splashed some on his face and neck, then on his dark hair, hot with the sun. He scooped up more handfuls of the liquid until his thirst was slaked, then sat back with the water dripping from his unshaven chin onto the tunic Clytaemnestra had given him.

As he slouched back against the rich, damp grass of the river bank the sun quickly dried his hair and skin and took advantage of his wearied condition to woo him with thoughts of sleep. The air was rich with the smell of spring blossom, overpowering his senses, and he felt his lids grow ponderous and the tension in his muscles ease away. His breathing grew slower and heavier as the gentle breeze from the river fanned his skin. His chin lolled onto his chest and within moments he was in the depths of sleep.

A noise snagged him back to wakefulness. He opened his eyes and raised his head to listen. Silence. For a moment he thought the noise had not been from the waking world, but then he heard it again. The slow beat of hoofs and the trundle of wheels, followed by the sharp whinnying of horses. Eperitus pulled the sword from his belt and lay flat on his stomach against the steeply angled bank.

The road bent out of sight behind a cluster of cypress trees, hiding whoever was approaching, but soon a chariot with a team of four horses came slowly into view, followed by a large number of fully armed warriors. Because of the size of the escort, Eperitus thought at first that it was one of the more powerful suitors, on his way to the coast and a ship home, but as they came closer Eperitus could see Mentor at the reins with Odysseus and Penelope standing beside him. The couple looked magnificent together, and Eperitus felt a surge of happiness at the sight of them. Behind them came the small band of Ithacans, with Halitherses and Antiphus at their head, followed by a much larger troop of a further forty warriors.

Unable to contain himself any longer, Eperitus stood up and ran to greet them. At a command from Odysseus, Mentor halted the chariot and the prince jumped down to meet his friend.

‘I’ve been praying you would find us before we sailed for Ithaca,’ he said, taking Eperitus’s hand and pulling him into an embrace. ‘I’ve a lot to tell you about. Penelope and I were married.’

He nodded towards his wife, who was watching them from the chariot.

‘You old fox,’ Eperitus replied, feigning surprise. He looked up at Penelope and took pleasure from the sight of her calm, intelligent face. She smiled back at him with a happy gleam in her eye.

Odysseus gave him a roguish grin as the other Ithacans gathered around them, their faces full of surprise and joy at the unexpected reunion. Halitherses put his arms about Eperitus and held him in a bearlike grip, a rare sign of affection from the guard captain. As he stepped away, Antiphus gave the young warrior a hug and roughed up his hair affectionately, welcoming him back into the ranks.

‘You did a brave thing,’ he said. The others murmured their agreement. ‘After you escaped Odysseus told us it was him, not you, who had been in Penelope’s room, and that your sacrifice probably saved his life. I wonder how many of us would have done the same.’

‘You all would have,’ Eperitus said, dismissing the compliment. ‘Now, is someone going to tell me who these others are?’

‘They’re Spartans,’ said Damastor, stepping forward and offering his hand. ‘Tyndareus lent them to Odysseus as a wedding gift, to help him retake Ithaca.’

This was the moment Eperitus had thought about and dreaded more than any other since waking that morning. Should he refuse Damastor’s gesture of friendship and denounce him as a traitor in front of everybody, without the slightest proof to support his accusation? Or should he keep silent and bide his time, waiting for some evidence that Clytaemnestra was right? After a moment of doubt, he decided the latter would be the wisest course of action and took Damastor’s hand.

Soon after, the march to the sea resumed. Odysseus did not return to the chariot, but walked beside Eperitus. The matter of his sudden appearance still needed explanation, he said.

‘Does it?’ Eperitus asked. ‘You of all men should know I’m a man of my word. I offered you my loyalty and now it’s my duty to help you restore Ithaca to Laertes’s rule. Did you really expect me to let you and these clumsy oafs you call warriors fight Eupeithes alone?’

‘Of course I didn’t,’ he laughed. ‘But I should really like to know where you hid yourself these past few days, and what you lived on. And just how did you ghost into the palace armoury and retrieve your own weapons?’

‘That’s a story I’ll keep to myself,’ Eperitus replied, thinking of Clytaemnestra and knowing that the mere mention of her would reveal everything to Odysseus’s clever mind. ‘But you must answer a question for me: how do you intend to retake Ithaca with the force you have? These Spartans look like good men, fully armed and battle-hardened, but the Taphians aren’t children either. We were lucky to beat the ones that ambushed us, and from Mentor’s account their army on Ithaca is at least twice our number.’

‘The people of Ithaca will come to our aid,’ Odysseus began. ‘They may only be fishermen and farmers, but they love their country and they’re loyal to their king – that’s more powerful than the gold Eupeithes pays to his Taphians. But Athena’s the one I’m counting on.’ He dug into his pouch and brought out the clay owl the goddess had given him. ‘Her spear and aegis are worth a thousand men each, and when I use this to call on her no power on earth will be able to save Eupeithes.’

Darkness began to fall before they reached the coast, putting an end to the day’s journey. As the others made camp for the night Eperitus and Antiphus gathered wood and built a fire. The archer sniffed the air and announced that the sea was only a quick march away. Although Eperitus did not possess his seafarer’s senses, the gulls flocking about their camp in the twilight seemed to confirm his verdict.

‘I know the coast around here,’ Antiphus added. ‘The river empties out beside a large fishing village. I stopped there once when I was a lad on a merchant ship, and I remember we came inland to buy livestock for the voyage home. We might even have come this far, though it was a long time ago and it’s difficult to recognize a place in this sort of light.’ He looked about at the rocky hills on either side. ‘But it feels familiar, you know, and if I’m right there’s a temple to Athena nearby.’

‘What’s that you say, Antiphus?’ Odysseus asked, who was standing nearby and watching the last of the sunset over the peaks of the Taygetus Mountains.

‘A temple of Athena, my lord, on a hilltop not far downstream from here. It wasn’t very big, as I remember, but you’d easily catch its silhouette if there’s any light left.’

‘Then I’m going to look for it,’ Odysseus said. ‘I’ll be back by the time it gets dark.’

‘My lord!’ Eperitus said, noticing Damastor amongst a group of Ithacans preparing food nearby. ‘Surely you’re not going alone? At least let me accompany you.’

‘Eperitus, if I’d needed a nursemaid I’d have brought old Eurycleia with me. Now, sit down by the fire and stop worrying about me.’

Eperitus felt uneasy as he watched his friend go. Soon he and Antiphus were joined by the other Ithacans, Damastor amongst them. The blaze was already puffing burning embers into the evening air and a few early moths were attracted into its circle of light. One of the Spartans, a tall, bearded man by the name of Diocles, came over and politely requested a brand from their fire. There were too many of them to share a single fire, so Eperitus helped him carry some burning logs over to the stack of wood his comrades had constructed and soon had it ablaze. The Spartans thanked him and he returned to his own group.

The last embers of the day were burning over the western hills, leaving an insipid pink stain on the sky that gave warning of an even warmer day to come tomorrow. But the faint glow was rapidly succumbing to the deep blue of evening and the stars were already beginning to gleam and twinkle at every point on the horizon. As Eperitus watched them his thoughts turned to Penelope, who was in a makeshift tent with her slave Actoris, over by the tethered horses. He was wondering whether she would join them that evening when he was struck by a sudden sensation that something was wrong. It was a feeling of growing fear, though he could not think what had caused it. He looked about and instinctively put a hand on the hilt of his sword, but there was nothing. Then he knew. He looked once around the circle of faces, illuminated orange by the fire, and his heart sank into his stomach. Damastor was gone.

Odysseus propped his sword against the outside wall of the temple and walked in. The doorway was so low he had to dip his head to enter, and once inside he saw it was little more than a simple, unadorned country altar. There were no anterooms, no columns supporting the broken, sagging roof, no elaborate murals on the flaking walls and no rich ornaments to lend it the required sense of divine majesty. It was perhaps a quarter the size of the great hall in his father’s palace and boasted nothing more than a pitted stone altar at the far end. This was watched over by a badly formed midget effigy, which he could only assume was meant to represent Athena.

The stub of a torch had been lodged in a groove upon the wall to his right. It was sputtering its last as Odysseus entered, but by its wavering light he could tell that the chamber was empty. A bunch of early spring flowers lay to either side of the altar, which along with the torch were the only signs that the temple had been visited in months. Even they were probably the work of a lone peasant or local holy man, whose daily duty it was to light the single room and attend to its altar.

Odysseus knelt before the clay figurine and eyed it, making a mental comparison between its stunted, grimacing features and the matchless glory of the goddess it represented. But for all its rude art and rough edges he sensed something of Athena had been caught in the representation; compared with the voluptuous, richly curving statuettes of Aphrodite and Hera he had seen in other temples, the figurine’s long body, straight hips and crude breasts reminded him of her boyish masculinity; the jutting brow and the straight nose that shot down from it were every bit as stern as the face of the goddess herself. And as he looked he sensed a new presence filling the temple. Suddenly fearful that the spirit of Athena might be watching him through the thumbed pits of the figurine’s eye sockets, he threw his glance to the base of the altar and closed his eyes.

‘Pallas Athena,’ he said aloud, his voice filling the dusty confines of the temple. ‘The journey you sent me on is over. Now the time has come to prove myself in the final battle, as I know you always intended me to. Tomorrow I embark for Ithaca.’

Damastor stood in the shadows at the back of the temple, the torchlight gleaming dully off the drawn blade of his sword. He had removed his sandals and left them outside so that he could enter the temple without making a noise, and now, as his prince knelt before the effigy of the goddess, he took two steps nearer.

Odysseus continued. ‘Mistress, you’ve always guided my spear in battle, as in the hunt. You’ve kept me safe from harm. It was you who saved me from the boar that tore open my thigh, and you who sent Eperitus to aid me in my trials. You made him swear service to me in your presence, after you gave me the gift.’

Damastor had crept two paces closer and was bringing his sword up to hack down on Odysseus’s neck when he heard the strange words. What gift could he be talking about? Was Odysseus suggesting he had seen the goddess? Damastor had heard of such things, though the tales were treated with scepticism and the tellers often mocked. But Odysseus had no one to lie to here.

‘And it is your gift I’m concerned about, mistress.’ Odysseus pulled the clay owl from his pouch and held it up before the figurine. ‘I’ve carried it with me everywhere, and it’s here with me now, but the time is near when I’ll use it to summon your help. Tomorrow I take my men to Ithaca, to win back my father’s kingdom. But you know how weak we are, mistress, how few compared to Eupeithes’s hordes. That’s when I intend to break the seal and pray for your help.’

Damastor looked at the clay owl and his quick mind half-guessed what it was. In an instant he had questioned whether it would work for himself; he considered the possibilities it might offer him after he had plucked it from its dead owner’s fingers; and in his black, ambitious heart he saw himself as the new king of Ithaca, divinely appointed by no less a god than Athena herself.

‘So I ask now that you will be swift to honour your promise to me,’ Odysseus continued. ‘Come quickly into the battle when I call you, mistress, unless every plan and every hope you ever pinned upon me be cut down by a Taphian spear.’

‘Or an Ithacan sword,’ Damastor said, and raised the weapon high over his head.

Eperitus stood up and left the circle about the fire, and as soon as he was out of earshot of the camp he began to run. Following the sound of the river on his left he stumbled like a blind man over the pitted and rock-strewn road, constantly looking up and to his right for sight of a temple on a hill. The light was failing fast and he was beset by fears that he had already passed it, until, after some time of doubt and increasing panic, he was ready to turn back and retrace his steps. Then he saw it.

The very last of the evening light was spread like a purple mould along the low black humps of the mountains. But there in its watery light, barely distinguishable amidst the rocks and twisted figures of leafless trees, was framed the upright silhouette of a building. Despite the darkness he quickly found a path leading up the hillside and began to pick his way along it. But at that moment he was struck by a sudden sense of dread. Looking up he saw, or thought he saw, a figure standing by the temple. It stood between the building’s outline and the stump of a dead tree, the sky burning with purple flames behind it as it looked down the hill. Eperitus froze, not wanting to be seen, but then the figure was gone. He did not see it go and could not say whether it had entered the temple or left it; he was not even certain he had seen it at all. And then panic contracted the muscles of his heart and he knew he must run, run without care for the path or the rocks at his feet, because if he did not Odysseus would be dead.

Even in that blunting darkness, going uphill with his heavy sword in his hand he found a speed he would not have dreamed possible. Instinct took over and it was as if he had been lifted in the hand of a god and carried across the boulders and loose stones. He bounded up the slope to the porch of the temple, where he found Odysseus’s sword and a pair of sandals. The temple had no door and through its open portal, as the last of the sunset disappeared from the evening sky, he could see the glow of torchlight. The sound of a hushed voice drifted out into the night air and brought him back to his senses.

Heedless now of any need for caution, Eperitus ran to the doorway and looked inside. The scene before him froze his blood. He was too late.

Against the far wall Odysseus knelt in prayer before an altar and a rough effigy of Athena. Damastor stood just behind him, his sword raised high above his head and ready to fall. An instant sooner and perhaps he could have done something, but instead he had failed Odysseus and the goddess who had entrusted him to protect his master. But as despair forced his spirit down, it found there was a place beyond which he would not retreat. His self-condemnation clanged against the bronze core of his character, where it found a new resolve. All was not lost, he told himself; not while Odysseus lived.

Something held Damastor’s arm from delivering the fatal blow. At the same time Odysseus’s words were slurred and far away in Eperitus’s hearing. Almost to the surprise of his conscious mind he found himself running into the small room and timing the swing of his own sword to strike Damastor. In that same moment the invisible grip on the traitor’s arm broke and he threw the blade down into a deadly lunge that would cut through the skin, bone and sinew of Odysseus’s neck. Odysseus, finally aware he was not alone, began to turn his head. But Damastor had already failed.

The edge of Eperitus’s sword thumped into his arm above the elbow, the force of the blow biting through flesh and bone to send the lower part of his limb, weapon still gripped in its frozen fingers, spinning through the air into one of the dark corners of the temple. Blood spouted from the maimed stump in sporadic arcs, raining large droplets over Odysseus and the altar at which he prayed. Damastor spun round, partly from the impact of Eperitus’s sword, and looked with wide-eyed disbelief at his butchered limb, and finally at his attacker.

And then the torch went out.

Everything was sucked into the sudden blackness. For a moment Eperitus was blind and disorientated. Robbed of his sight, he froze and retreated back upon his hearing. But the shock of the darkness had imposed an equally confusing silence within the temple, and in that sensual void only the faint hiss of the dead torch and the red glow of its stub gave any point of focus.

There was a scuffing sound close by and Eperitus took a step backwards. By now his eyes were adjusting to the faint light from the doorway and he could see the dim blue outlines of shapes in the temple. Damastor had fallen to his knees, hugging the remnant of his arm to his side and beginning to sob. Eperitus saw Odysseus stand and retreat against the altar.

‘Is that you, Eperitus?’ he whispered.

‘Yes.’

The sword felt heavy in Eperitus’s hand, pulling at the relay muscles in his arm, and for a time he was unsure whether to finish Damastor off or spare his life. Two steps forward and a sweep of the great blade would end for ever his treachery and send his spirit to ignominy in the Underworld. But there was something about the horrific sight of his shattered limb, spraying gore across the altar in a mockery of human sacrifice, that took away any heart Eperitus had for more bloodshed.

He took a step towards the kneeling figure. ‘Stand up, Damastor. Your wound has to be bound before the blood loss kills you.’

‘Damn you,’ Damastor replied, struggling to his feet. The dull sheen of a dagger gave Eperitus a moment’s warning, but it was too late.

Before he could even think to move the point was puncturing his chest. Intense pinpricks of pain spread like fire through his body as the blade sank slowly, smoothly and unstoppably into his flesh, ripping an agonized scream from his throat as every muscle crumpled and he crashed heavily against the dirt floor.

He looked up and saw the dark shape of Damastor towering endlessly above him, seeming to rise higher and higher like a tall tree as Eperitus slipped further and further into the earth below him, thrust relentlessly downward by the gigantic, fiery dagger embedded in his heart. Then he felt the warm, glutinous dampness of his own blood pumping out over his fingers – which were closed motionless about the handle of the weapon – and seeping down across his chest. He felt it infiltrate the material of the tunic Clytaemnestra had given him, making it heavy and pasting it firmly against his skin. And then the downward motion stopped and he lay looking lazily upward through dim, misting eyes, skewered to the floor by the searing blade of Damastor’s knife.

Odysseus appeared at the centre of his vision, leaping like a lion upon Damastor and carrying him out from the borders of his sight. There were distant sounds of a struggle, and then Eperitus felt the dagger lifted out from between his ribs. No longer pinned to the ground he stood with an easy movement that seemed unhindered by his wound, or even the usual grating of joints and groaning of muscle and bone. He turned to see Odysseus on top of Damastor, leaning his full weight down upon the fingers he had closed about the traitor’s throat. Damastor flailed his bloody stump uselessly against Odysseus’s flank as he struggled for air, trying desperately to fight off his attacker and breathe again.

It seemed an eternity before the monstrous arm stopped flapping, and even longer before Odysseus finally extracted his fingers from Damastor’s throat and stood up. Only then did he turn around and look into the darkness for his friend. Eperitus wanted to say something to him, to draw his attention, but the words did not come. Then Odysseus dropped his gaze to the ground by Eperitus’s feet and an agonized groan escaped his lips.

Quickly he moved towards the centre of the room and fell to his knees. He reached out his arms and clutched at something long and heavy, lifting one end onto his lap and bowing his head over it.

‘Eperitus,’ he said, and the young warrior suddenly knew that the words were not directed at him but at the shape on the floor.

A cold sense of apprehension filled him. Outside, far away though it seemed, he thought he could hear the sound of something approaching the temple, something terrible coming at great speed. He felt a compulsion to get out and run, but just as he had found himself incapable of speech he was equally unable to move a muscle of his body.

Desperately he looked down at the shape in Odysseus’s arms. As he began to recognize what it was, as the truth settled upon him with an icy chill, he saw Damastor rise from the floor behind the prince.

But Eperitus felt no panic, no urgent need to draw Odysseus’s attention to him, for like himself the figure of Damastor was but a harmless wraith. They were dead, and the sound of rushing air grew nearer, even to the door of the temple.

Chapter Twenty-six

WRAITHS

Eperitus looked at the entrance. For an instant it was clear, the ghoulish moonlight cracking open the darkness of the temple and teasing him with a final glimpse of freedom. He saw the silvered rocks and the starkly illuminated hillsides outside, the sweet, despairing beauty of a world that was now lost to him. And then the light was extinguished. A tall figure in a black robe, his features as magnificent as they were terrible, filled the doorway, looking first at Damastor and then at himself.

Every soldier understood the fate that awaited him. One day he knew a spear point would pierce his guard, a sword’s edge cleave his flesh, or a bronze-tipped arrow skewer his heart. Then, as his armoured body crashed into the dust of the battlefield, he knew his soul would stand dispossessed. And soon Hermes would come to lead him to the Underworld, the House of Hades; there he would drink of the river Lethe and forget his former life, becoming a shade and passing the rest of eternity in loneliness, without satisfaction or joy.

Damastor saw Hermes and cowered before him. Though he could not speak, a low and baleful moan left his ethereal lungs and his wraith’s limbs shook in terror. At the same time Eperitus, too, was hamstrung with fear. The brief but honeyed tenderness of life was gone, snatched from him before he had barely been able to taste it. Now his spirit would spend perpetuity in emptiness.

Hermes entered and filled the temple with his presence. Odysseus, who still held Eperitus’s body in his arms, did not see him, nor did he hear the frightened muttering of Damastor’s ghost as the god beckoned to him. Such things were not for mortal eyes.

To Eperitus, though, they were inescapable. He saw Damastor fall to his knees, silently weeping and begging not to be taken, but nevertheless inexorably drawn towards the dark figure. He watched him shuffle forward, resisting every movement until an instant later he was swallowed up in a great sweep of the god’s cloak, disappearing from sight altogether. Hermes then turned his gaze upon Eperitus, and in a commanding gesture threw his hand out towards him.

At that moment Eperitus heard Odysseus say his name. From the corner of his vision he saw him lay his dead body back onto the earth of the temple floor and wipe the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Still on his knees, the prince looked up and accused the gods of cruelty to all mankind.

Reluctantly Eperitus took a step towards Hermes. He wanted to remain with his friend, not share Damastor’s fate, and as he took two more heavy steps towards the god he looked again at Odysseus. He silently implored him to see what was happening, to save him from his fate, but Odysseus’s chin now rested upon his chest and his hands were in his lap.

Eperitus’s resistance gave way and he took the last few steps towards Hermes. But as he reached out to take the god’s hand, the palm was suddenly turned towards him and Eperitus was fixed to the spot, unable to move. Hermes’s attention was now rooted firmly upon Odysseus and, following his gaze, Eperitus saw that in his friend’s hands was the clay owl Athena had given him.

The prince turned it about in his fingers, blandly studying each detail of the seal, but as he considered what to do with it Eperitus already knew what was in his mind.

‘No,’ he said, though no sound came from his mouth. ‘The seal is your only hope for winning back Ithaca. Without Athena’s help you’ll never defeat Eupeithes. Odysseus!’

But there was not a breath in his ethereal body to give shape to the words. Instead, the only sound was the snap of the seal as his friend broke it between his fingers. The two halves melted away into fine dust and were gone for ever.

Odysseus wiped his hands on his cloak and looked up. After a few moments he glanced over his shoulder, directly through Eperitus’s ghost to the doorway, and then into each corner of the temple. Eperitus followed his gaze, but the goddess did not appear. Nevertheless, Hermes’s eyes remained firmly fixed on Odysseus.

The Ithacan dug his fingers into the loose soil of the temple floor where the dust of the tablet had spilled, trying to recover any fragment that might remain from the clay owl. There was nothing.

‘Athena! Goddess, come to me.’

‘What do you want, Odysseus?’ said an invisible voice.

The prince squinted against the darkness of the temple but saw nothing. Then he noticed that a faint light outlined the crudely shaped effigy of the goddess. Its features were no different, but as he looked he could see a glimmer from its black eyes. Immediately he bowed his head and whispered her name.

‘Why have you called me?’ she said. ‘I can’t see any enemies – at least not living ones – and you haven’t even reached Ithaca yet! Weren’t you going to call me when you returned home?’

Odysseus lifted his head and looked directly at the clay figure.

‘That was my intention, Mistress, but circumstances have changed. I have wits and courage enough to defeat my enemies on Ithaca, and yet there’s one thing that’s beyond any mortal. Only a god can give a man back his life.’

He gathered up Eperitus’s corpse into his muscular arms and held it towards the statuette. Eperitus watched with a deep sense of pity in his heart: even Athena would not restore life to a dead mortal, and so Odysseus had thrown away his last hope of saving Ithaca. He heard Athena’s voice admonishing Odysseus, telling him that what he asked was an insult to the gods, a request no man had any right to make of an immortal.

But, she added, she was compelled to honour her word.

Eperitus turned to Hermes, ready to be taken under his black cloak, but the god now stood at the threshold of the temple. His cloak was open and in the dark shadows of its folds was the quaking ghost of Damastor. His mouth was open in a soundless groan and his insubstantial arms were stretched out towards him, imploring his help. But there was nothing Eperitus could do, even if he wanted to, and a moment later Hermes had taken him on his final journey. He heard again the sound of rushing air outside, this time receding and accompanied by a low, despairing wail.

Suddenly he felt heavy. His ethereal limbs were seized by an awful lethargy that pulled upon them with irresistible force, dragging him downwards. The sensation consumed his whole body, constricting and crushing it so that he felt himself slowly being sucked into the ground at his feet. Then Eperitus felt a mighty blow knock him to the ground. It plunged him into a spinning blackness where he fell but did not hit the floor. Instead he tumbled downwards, his disembodied senses reeling about him like tentacles, reaching out to clutch at anything that might offer itself in that sensory void. As a wraith, he had at least been granted a grey sort of vision and a dull consciousness of sound; his other senses had been dimly aware of the living world from which they were departing, as if his body was still tenuously attached to it or had been gifted a final memory of mortal experience before being doomed to the Underworld. But in this non-existence the cord had been cut and he knew the true, hopeless meaning of death. For a fraction of worldly time he was held in an eternity of nothingness. It could not be measured, for he did not even have the comfort of his own thoughts with which to fill the vacuum. The only thing Eperitus knew for sure was that he had been given a glimpse of the pit into which all souls must one day be cast. And it was utterly black.

Something snapped. He felt himself in Odysseus’s arms and everything was perfectly still. Then he lurched violently upwards as his lungs screamed for air. Simultaneously his heart quivered in his chest and began to spasm into action. Every organ of his body burst back into the unrelenting fight that gives life. His eyes opened and the brightness in the unlit temple was almost blinding.

Odysseus stared back down at him, his eyes wide with shock. Then he turned his attention to the gash in Eperitus’s tunic and began probing it with his fingers.

‘It’s gone,’ he declared, disbelief and joy alternating upon his features. ‘The wound’s gone. You’re healed!’

‘He’s more than healed,’ Athena corrected. ‘How do you feel, Eperitus?’

Eperitus placed tentative fingertips upon the place where he had been stabbed. Not even the trace of a scar was left to mark the spot. He attempted to sit up and although his limbs and torso still felt heavy there was absolutely no pain. He raised himself stiffly to his feet, anxiously anticipating a stab of searing pain or a gush of blood from the reopened wound. Yet nothing happened. His wound was healed; he had been restored to life.

Eperitus looked at the goddess, wanting to express his gratitude but stalled by the inhuman form she had assumed. Instead he turned to his friend, whose sacrifice had saved him.

‘I feel wonderful. The pain has gone. I mean, it’s gone entirely.’

‘Anything else?’ Athena asked.

‘Yes. I feel as if I’ve been given a new body. There’s no pain in my chest, or anywhere else either. The throb in my shin where I was hit by a spear on Mount Parnassus has gone; even the ache in my ribs from the beating at Sparta. I feel wonderful!’

‘You’ll soon learn that your hearing has improved too,’ the goddess added, ‘and your eyesight and sense of smell. Your whole body has been rejuvenated.’

Despite the joy of his new body, Eperitus remembered he was in the presence of a goddess and knelt before her. As he did so he placed the soft part of his knee onto a sharp pebble and called out in pain. The statuette laughed with a grating sound that reminded him of stones being rubbed together.

‘You may have a renewed body cured of all past wounds, Eperitus, but you aren’t immune to future hurt. Even we Olympians feel pain when we assume earthly form. But now you must both return to your comrades, who are already looking for you. Tomorrow you will sail for Ithaca, Odysseus, to find your destiny. There you’ll meet the greatest trial of your strength and intelligence so far, especially as you can’t now rely on my help.’

With that the glimmer in the effigy’s eyes died and the darkness in the temple grew deeper. A lonely wind whistled through the branches of the dead tree outside, and they knew that the goddess was gone.

Chapter Twenty-seven

THE RETURN

Ships were easy to find when they reached the coast at dawn of the next day, and Odysseus had soon hired two merchantmen and their crews for the return to Ithaca. Eperitus was the last to board, and as he walked up the gangplank onto the unsteady craft there was a murmur of excitement amongst the Ithacans. They were going home at last and their conversation was full of the sights and sounds of their island, mixed cautiously with memories of family and friends. But they had also regained the sense of purpose that had been denied them in Sparta. As guests of Tyndareus they had been a burden, vagrant soldiers given temporary lodgings for the sake of their master. There, only Odysseus was of any importance and only he could influence their collective destiny. Now they were returning to fight for everything they held dear, and each man would be vital in the coming battle. On Ithaca, for better or worse, they would come into their own again as their spears and swords challenged the usurpers for the right to rule.

Neither Eperitus nor Odysseus told them about the supernatural events of the previous night. All they revealed on their return was that Damastor had shown himself to be a traitor by attempting to kill Odysseus, for which he had paid with his life. If Odysseus spoke with Penelope about it he did not tell Eperitus, and for his own part Eperitus did not share with Odysseus the fact that Clytaemnestra had warned him about Damastor.

Even between themselves, they had exchanged few words about the incident. Eperitus had thanked Odysseus in the straightforward manner of a soldier, and Odysseus had accepted his words of gratitude with a simple nod. The fact that he had sacrificed his best hope of regaining his homeland was not mentioned by either man, and they now turned their minds to the challenge that lay ahead. But both men knew that the bond between them had deepened. Each had saved the life of the other, and warriors do not forget such matters, even if they do not talk about them.

Rough seas and heavy rain made the passage difficult. They sailed all day and night, battling high winds and squalls with the Ithacans busy helping the ships’ crews in their struggle against the elements. Eperitus sat in a corner and was ill throughout the whole of the journey, an experience made much worse by the sensibility of his restored body. The only consolation was that the Spartan soldiers shared his agony, gazing emptily out from their own wretched corners of the deck, their faces pale and their half-lidded eyes filled with despair. Not one of them managed any sleep, and when the next morning there were shouts from the Ithacans that their destination was in sight, they were incapable of sharing in their jubilation. Only Penelope seemed unconcerned by the constant buffeting of the waves, and joined her husband at the prow to stare at the low silhouette of her new home.

Thick grey clouds meant they did not see the face of the sun that morning, although they sensed the sunrise in the east. The sea had calmed sufficiently for the merchant ships to anchor by a rocky cove off the south-eastern tip of the island – the only place on that rugged coast where they could disembark their human cargo with any degree of safety. Odysseus knew the spot well and had directed the ships’ captains here deliberately. To have landed anywhere else would have risked their being spotted, and the prince was keen to retain the element of surprise.

As soon as the last group of passengers had been rowed to the small pebble beach, Odysseus paid the remainder of the agreed fare and the ships hauled up their anchor stones once more. The crews waved to them and wished them well before setting sail again and drifting back out to sea.

The Ithacans spent a few silent moments looking about themselves and listening to the sounds of the breakers hitting the rocks and the wind whistling across the rugged cliff-face before them. Odysseus stamped his feet on the shingle, as if to convince himself it was real, then put his fists on his hips and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the air of his home. The men felt no need for ceremony or pompous words to mark their return, and when Odysseus started up the narrow, ill-defined track that climbed awkwardly to the top of the cliff, they followed.

After considerable difficulty they assembled again on its rocky summit, where great black birds circled and cried into the wind. Penelope stood to one side and looked out at the sombre, white-tipped waves below. Eperitus watched her and wondered in that lonely moment whether she was thinking of the home she had left behind. Perhaps she was already missing Sparta’s sun-baked plains, the security and comforts of its palace, and even the familiar faces of her family. She turned and looked at him, the breeze tearing at her clothes and hair. For a moment he saw doubt in her eyes. Then she smiled and the strength of her character returned. For better or worse, she had committed herself to her husband and his beloved island, and now she was determined to make Ithaca her home too.

‘Thank the gods we’re back,’ Antiphus said, standing at Eperitus’s side. ‘We’ve only been away for half a year, and yet it feels like twenty.’

‘And the hardest part is still to come,’ Eperitus said.

‘Still, it’s better to die here than on foreign soil.’

Halitherses cuffed the archer round the ear. ‘Don’t plan on getting killed just yet, Antiphus. We have a battle to fight before I accept your resignation from the guard, and there’ll be no dying without my say-so. Now stop your daydreaming and come with me. Odysseus wants some of us to do a bit of nosing about before we start chasing Taphians all over the island. You too, Eperitus.’

Intrigued by the prospect of a scouting mission, Eperitus followed the old warrior to where Odysseus was waiting for them with Mentor and Diocles the Spartan.

‘Take off your armour and leave it here with your spears and shields,’ Odysseus ordered. ‘My father has a pig farm just over the crest of that ridge and the herdsmen there are loyal to him. Before we make any plans for recapturing the palace I want to ask them a few questions, but I don’t want to panic them by arriving in full war gear. Keep your swords handy – and you can bring your bow, Antiphus – but nothing more. Mentor, I want you to take charge whilst we’re gone. Set a guard and make sure everybody gets a rest and something to eat. Don’t be afraid to use up the provisions we have, as there’ll be ample food at the farm. And there’s plenty of water at Arethusa’s spring, just north of here.’

‘I know it,’ Mentor said, before running to give orders to the others.

Back out amongst the choppy seas, far away from the eyes of any who might have been watching, one of the merchant ships turned its sail to catch the southerly wind. The canvas flapped noisily as it bellied out and drew the vessel slowly away from its companion, slicing through the waves to claw its way steadily north and into the channel between Ithaca and Samos.

Before they even reached the crest of the ridge Eperitus could hear the grunting and snuffling of pigs, mixed with the occasional shouts of men. He felt a moment of nervous anticipation in the pit of his stomach and then they were on the hill and looking down over fields of mud. Fat hogs and sows wallowed in the filth, honking with satisfaction as their little pink offspring tottered around them in play-filled happiness. Two young men were ankle-deep in the sludge, carrying sacks over their shoulders filled with acorns and cornel berries, with which they were feeding their charges.

They saw the newcomers, but instead of shouting a greeting dropped their sacks and ran back to a large walled enclosure in the middle of the muddy pastures. Moments later they emerged from a stone hut with two companions, all four of them armed with staves and in no mood to welcome strangers. They had a number of dogs with them that began a vicious barking the moment they set eyes upon the party of warriors. One of the youths walked to the wall and shut the gate, as much to keep the dogs in as the unwelcome visitors out.

‘Who are you and what do you want?’ he called.

‘Isn’t that Eumaeus?’ said Halitherses, squinting. ‘He always used to be friendly to strangers.’

‘Things have changed on Ithaca since we left,’ Odysseus reminded him. ‘And he won’t be expecting our return.’

He stepped forward and held out the palm of his hand in a sign of peace.

‘Put down your weapons. We come as friends, loyal to the king.’

The men made no sign of lowering their staves, whilst their black dogs barked even more furiously.

‘Which king?’ Eumaeus called back. ‘Polytherses or Laertes?’

The returning soldiers looked at each other in quiet astonishment. The implication that Eupeithes had been overthrown by the infinitely more brutal and ruthless Polytherses did not come as good news.

‘We honour the lord Laertes, true master of these islands. And our swords will speak against any who deny him.’

Eumaeus opened the gate and ordered the dogs back into the farm. ‘Then you’re welcome here, friends,’ he said, as his comrades lowered their weapons. ‘Come and eat with us, so we can learn your names and your purpose here.’

‘You know both already,’ Odysseus replied as he walked down the hill and along the low causeway that led to the farm. Eumaeus gasped and fell to his knees with tears of happiness in his eyes. The others followed his example, murmuring Odysseus’s name to each other in disbelief.

‘You’ve returned, my lord!’ Eumaeus said. ‘May the gods bless this day, and may you forgive us our lack of welcome, but terrible things have happened since you left. Eupeithes took advantage of your absence to overthrow Laertes and put himself on the throne, then Polytherses replaced him and now rules with a fist of bronze. Any show of open disloyalty is punished with death. And we’ve had no news of you, my lord, though we’ve prayed every day for your return.’

Odysseus took his slave by the hand and lifted him to his feet, signalling for the others to rise also. ‘I’ve heard about Eupeithes – Mentor escaped and found us in the Peloponnese. But I didn’t know about Polytherses. It’s a traitor’s reward to be betrayed, and Eupeithes knows all about that now, but I fear Polytherses will prove a more difficult opponent if I’m to win back Ithaca.’

Eumaeus nodded. ‘It’s true. Mentor will have told you about the Taphians, no doubt, but he couldn’t have known there are a full hundred garrisoned here now. It’ll be a difficult task, unless you’ve brought an army with you.’

As he said the words he looked up with a sudden glimmer of hope in his eye, but Odysseus shook his head.

‘We have forty Spartans on loan from King Tyndareus – they’re resting on the other side of the ridge – but there are fewer than sixty of us all told. What about Taphians on the other islands?’

‘Zacynthos, Samos and Dulichium are ruled by those who supported the rebellion. If there are ever any signs of trouble Polytherses sends a shipload of Taphians over for a day or two until things are quiet again, but mostly they remain here. Polytherses is no fool; he has always feared you’d one day come to claim your inheritance, so concentrates his forces here for your return.’

‘And my family?’ Odysseus finally asked, though this was the question that had been burning at the forefront of his mind all the time.

‘Your mother and sister are kept at the palace, whilst Laertes is a prisoner in the former home of Eupeithes, under the guard of Koronos. Eupeithes was much too afraid to have him killed, but the rumour from the palace is that the new king intends to execute him.’

‘Then we’ve arrived just in time,’ Odysseus declared with a determined look. ‘Tell me, are you or your men taking any of these pigs up to the city today?’

‘Yes, two of us were planning to go at noon.’

‘Good. Now listen to me, I want you to question the most loyal men in the city. Tell them I’ve returned and find out who’s prepared to fight with me against Polytherses. Those who are must be ready to join us at any time. Find one who’ll let you stay with him overnight, so when I call on you you can gather a force as quickly as possible. And be prepared – I may need you sooner than you expect.’

‘I’ll see to it, my lord,’ Eumaeus said.

Half a dozen swine were killed and the carcasses dressed for roasting, whilst Antiphus was sent to bring the rest of their party to the farm. By the time they had arrived and had eaten it was mid-morning, so Eumaeus and the other swineherds hurriedly gathered together a dozen pigs to drive down to the city. They whistled for their dogs and with their long staves began to shepherd the pigs into a group, ready to move. As they were taking their leave, Odysseus put his hands on Eumaeus’s shoulders and looked him in the eyes.

‘Penelope and her slave will stay here,’ he said. ‘I’m leaving a couple of her uncle’s men to protect her, but if we don’t return you must see they get a ship back to the mainland. Do you understand?’

Eumaeus was about to answer when he caught a quelling glance from his master’s new bride. She had been talking with Actoris, but on overhearing the words of her husband she walked over and stood before him.

‘You’ve misjudged me, Odysseus, if you think I’ll allow myself to be left in the care of others. If you go then I will follow.’

‘A battle is no place for a woman,’ her husband replied, his voice even but commanding. ‘If we’re defeated the Taphians will show no mercy to their prisoners. For a woman, death would be a blessing compared to what they’ll do to you. No, I must believe you’re safe, Penelope, and know that if I die you’ll be taken back to your home.’

She met his stern look with defiance, her royal breeding there for all to see. ‘Ithaca is my home now,’ she said. ‘I live here or I die here. I’ll not go back to Sparta to spend the rest of my days in widow’s rags. My place is to be at your side and share your fate, whatever that may be.’

They stood facing each other. The shadows of their inevitable parting settled around them, bringing sudden uncertainty and fear as they realized they might not meet again. She looked at the rough features of the man she had once convinced herself she hated, and found the thought of being apart from him unbearable. He met her gaze and realized she was the foundation of the rest of his life. In her he would find the wholeness he had lacked as a young prince.

Tentatively, tenderly, he reached out and stroked her arm with his knuckles. As he felt her soft flesh he remembered the words of the Pythoness and took heart. Here, already, was the Spartan princess of whom the priestess had spoken. And had she not also said it was his fate to reign as king? He smiled encouragingly at his wife.

‘You’ll not become a widow yet, Penelope,’ he told her. ‘Unless the gods have deceived me, I can’t die until I’ve first become king of these islands. So have courage and do as I ask. If you’ve learned anything about me, you’ll already know I won’t permit you to refuse me.’

She stared at him for a moment, then nodded and lowered her eyes. Odysseus immediately turned to Diocles, who was close by. ‘Assign two of your best men to remain here with my wife and her slave. The rest of you make ready. We’ll march to Mount Neriton now and see what preparations Polytherses has made for our arrival.’

With a nod the prince signalled for Eumaeus to be on his way, while the rest of them began pulling on their armour and preparing for the battle that they sensed would soon be upon them. Without a final word or glance at her husband, Penelope turned and went into the stone hut.

From the slopes of the hill to the south of the city they saw all that they needed to know of Polytherses’s defences. His full strength was based inside the palace walls, with only an occasional patrol leaving the gates to roam the streets of Ithaca. Even with a hundred armed soldiers, though, the high palace walls, the thick wooden gates and the open killing ground before them presented enough of an obstacle to deter even the most numerous and well-armed enemy.

During the long march from Eumaeus’s farm speculation was rife amongst the men, most believing they would attack upon arrival. But even with the element of surprise and support from the men of the city, the sight of the heavily defended palace made them realize that an assault by daylight was impossible. This did not deter Odysseus, however, who remained full of confidence, energy and purpose. He ordered the remaining Spartans to make camp whilst the Ithacans, who knew the island intimately, were split into two groups to scout each flank of the town. Their primary task was to ensure there were no Taphian outposts to warn of their attack, but Odysseus also told them to watch for weaknesses and gather intelligence about the defences.

‘Our best hope is to kill Polytherses,’ Eperitus suggested. ‘I can climb over the wall after dark, while they’re eating, and find my way to his room. When he goes to his bed he’ll be unprotected, and that’s when I’ll kill him.’

Mentor disagreed. ‘Even if you knew which room is his, you’d never get into the palace without detection. There isn’t a ruler in Greece who doesn’t fear assassination, and I guarantee that someone as hated as Polytherses will have a personal guard of his best men close to hand. Our best hope is an attack just before dawn – ladders against the walls and into the palace whilst most of them are still sleeping.’

‘I don’t plan to do either,’ Odysseus countered. ‘I’ve been discussing the matter with Halitherses and we’re agreed the best way is to draw the Taphians out.’

He briefly explained his plan to have the townsfolk murder one of the Taphian patrols, then flee to prepared positions on Mount Neriton. Polytherses would not fear a group of peasants without armour or proper weapons, of course, but neither could he allow their dissent to go unpunished. So he would send out a significant part of his force to overthrow the rebellion – and straight into an ambush of nearly sixty fully armed soldiers. The storming of the undermanned palace would then be a bloody but brief formality.

He smiled confidently, then led Mentor and the rest of his party away through the trees to skirt the harbour and the western edge of the town. Eperitus set off with Halitherses in the opposite direction, accompanied by Antiphus and five others. They moved in a cautious file, using the rocks, bushes and trees to keep them hidden from the city below as they descended slowly towards it. All around them birds sang freely and the wind sighed in the leaves, whilst the warm air was thick with the strong smell of the sea. Since his life had been restored by the goddess, Eperitus’s senses had improved greatly, to give him a richer awareness of his surroundings: not only could he see better by day or in darkness, but his hearing and sense of smell were also much sharper and more far-ranging. But the new life he had been given had not only improved his physical senses. Now he was aware of things beyond the world of sight, sound and smell. Suddenly he would know if someone was about to speak to him, and would turn to them before they had opened their mouth. Similarly, he would instinctively anticipate movement an instant before it happened, enabling him to react faster and move with a speed that unnerved others. Initially his new abilities were disorientating, but he was fast growing used to them.

Another benefit was a sense of the presence of others. After they had been creeping through the thinly wooded slopes for some time, getting ever closer to the outermost settlements of Ithaca, Eperitus realized that they were being followed.

The trees began to thin out, offering less cover, so they climbed a wall into a vineyard to screen their progress from unwelcome eyes. Here, as the others moved forward, Eperitus ducked down and doubled back to wait behind the chest-high wall. Moments later he heard the sounds of someone approaching with great stealth – a small, light person who made little noise as he reached the wall. Had it not been for his improved hearing Eperitus doubted he would have detected him; but, after a brief pause to listen, their pursuer put an arm on the wall above Eperitus’s head and began to clamber over.

In an instant the warrior was upon him, grabbing him by the tunic and hauling him with a thud onto the ground. He drew his sword and placed the point against his captive’s exposed throat.

And saw that, with his newfound stealth, he had captured a boy of no more than ten years.

‘Don’t worry,’ Eperitus reassured him, withdrawing his sword. ‘I’ll not kill a child. Now get up and tell me who you are.’

‘Arceisius, my lord. My family are loyal to the king. I know you must be a friend of Laertes, too – I saw you with Halitherses.’

‘Is that young Arceisius?’ said Halitherses, returning with the rest of the party. ‘Where are your flocks, boy?’

‘Mostly eaten up by the Taphians, sir. The scrawny animals they’ve left us are back up there on the hillside. Is Odysseus with you?’

‘He is, lad, and if you want to help us stop the Taphians stealing your sheep you’d better answer us a few questions.’ The captain of the guard knelt down so that he was eye to eye with the boy. ‘Don’t exaggerate now, Arceisius, but tell us how many of these folk there are.’

‘Five score and three, not including Polytherses, or Eupeithes, who is his prisoner now.’

‘That’s a very clear answer,’ Halitherses replied, looking up at him and raising an eyebrow. ‘Now, lord Odysseus will want to speak to your father. Where is he?’

‘The Taphians killed him when he tried to stop them stealing his sheep.’

Halitherses tousled the boy’s long hair and stood up. ‘Then we’ll make them pay, Arceisius, don’t you worry. You head back up to your sheep and let us get about our business.’

He turned to go, but the boy tugged at his cloak.

‘The Taphians are paid with wine, partly, but the shipment is a week late. It’s due this evening in a ship from the mainland, and they’re sending some men to escort the wagon back from the harbour. I thought I should tell you because the Taphians are getting angry and Polytherses is scared they’ll take it out on him if the wine doesn’t arrive safely.’

‘Good lad,’ Eperitus told him, understanding the suggestion. If they could somehow stop the wine reaching the palace, perhaps the Taphians would revolt and do their job for them.

‘There’s something else, my lord,’ the shepherd boy said. ‘It’s the reason I was following you. There are Taphians in the woods. They left the city a while ago and headed for the top of the hill. I thought maybe Odysseus was up there.’

‘Zeus’s beard!’ Halitherses exclaimed. ‘They’ll find the camp. Come on. We haven’t a moment to waste.’

Chapter Twenty-eight

TAPHIAN WINE

They ran headlong through the trees without caring whether they could be seen from the city below. Everything now depended upon them reaching the camp before the Taphians: if Polytherses’s men took the Spartans by surprise, they would be massacred. At a stroke Odysseus would have lost over half his warriors, as well as the element of surprise that was so essential to the success of his plans.

Halitherses’s training regime at Sparta had made the Ithacans fit enough to run all day, but their armour and weapons weighed them down. The heavy accoutrements sapped the strength from their limbs as they struggled to climb the steep slopes, frustrating their progress and making them curse beneath their breath, but as they neared the area of their camp they slowed to a cautious walk. Set in a hollow in the ground and surrounded by a screen of trees and bushes, it was visible only to those on the topmost point of the hill. However, the approaches to the hollow were also obscured to within a short distance, enabling them to come quite close before Halitherses signalled for the group to halt. Eperitus was with him at the head of their file and, leaving the others crouching amongst some rocks, the two men crawled up to a knot of bushes for a better view.

‘I can hear voices,’ Halitherses whispered.

‘Yes, and there’s an armed man over in those bushes. You see him?’

‘My old eyes aren’t as good as they used to be. He must be a sentinel, but is he a Spartan or a Taphian?’

‘He’s neither,’ Eperitus answered. ‘He’s an Ithacan.’

‘Then Odysseus has beaten us back,’ Halitherses said, getting to his feet. He raised his spear to catch the lookout’s attention, then stepped out into the open. Eperitus waved for the others to follow.

The soldier came out to meet them, his face gloomy. ‘You’d better go and see for yourselves,’ he said, pointing back towards the camp.

Eperitus felt a cold weight sink through him as if he had swallowed a stone. Halitherses gave him a look that revealed his own misgivings, and then with reluctant curiosity they pushed through the trees and walked down into the hollow. The others came after, bringing Arceisius with them.

Before them was a scene of devastation. Spartan bodies lay strewn everywhere, intermingled with bits of armour and broken weapons. The dust was stained with blood in many places, not just where the Spartans had fallen, and from that alone Eperitus knew they had killed some of their Taphian assailants before being overwhelmed. Odysseus and the others stood looking at the litter of corpses. At the sight of Halitherses and his men their spirits rose visibly, glad to see they were still alive, though they offered no words of greeting.

‘The shepherd boy told us there were Taphians on the hill,’ Eperitus said, pointing at Arceisius. ‘But how did you know to return so soon?’

Odysseus shook his head in dismay. ‘We slipped over the road between Ithaca and the harbour, hoping to climb the hill to the north-west of the town. From there we saw a ship drifting out of the bay and into the straits; it was one of the Spartan ships that brought us here.’

Halitherses spat in the dust. ‘Treachery then.’

‘They sold us and their own countrymen for a few pieces of silver. It’s my guess Polytherses sent a large force of men to hold the isthmus between the two halves of Ithaca, and some malevolent god led them straight to our camp.’

‘So what do we do now?’ Halitherses asked. ‘We can’t stay here: Polytherses is certain to send up another force at any time. The ship’s captain will have told him how many men were landed, so he’ll know there’s only a handful of us left. At the very least he’ll want to check the bodies to see if you’re amongst them, Odysseus.’

‘We’ll have to find a boat to take us back to the mainland,’ Mentor said, despondently. ‘I can’t see any other choice: if the Spartans killed as many as they lost, Eumaeus will still need to recruit seventy loyal Ithacans before we can match the Taphians man for man. Even then, Polytherses has the advantage of defended walls and a better-equipped force, and we’ve lost the advantage of surprise. Winning back our homeland was always going to be hard, but now it’s become impossible.’

‘None of that matters any more,’ Odysseus said. ‘Look.’

He pointed at one of the Spartan bodies. He had short black hair and a beard and his eyes were closed as if in sleep. The shaft of an arrow stood up from his stomach, where a crimson circle of blood had spread out from the point of entry. Eperitus did not recognize him or know his name.

‘What of him?’ he asked.

‘He was one of the men Diocles assigned to guard Penelope; the other’s over there. They should be back at the pig farm with her. The fact they aren’t means Penelope persuaded them to follow us. You heard her say she would follow me, and that’s exactly what she’s done.’

‘Then she’s been taken by the Taphians?’ Halitherses asked.

‘I’ve no doubt about it, which leaves me no choice in the matter. If there are any that will follow me, I intend to attack tonight.’

Halitherses looked grim. His reply was stiff and tight-lipped.

‘And every man here will attack with you. This island’s their home and there’s not a man amongst them who doesn’t have wives and children to fight for. The only man I can’t speak for is Eperitus. I’ve come to respect you in the time we’ve been together,’ he said, turning to Eperitus, ‘and I would trust you with my life. But you’ve only spent a handful of nights on Ithaca and I’d think no less of you if you returned to the mainland to seek your fortune there.’

‘Yes,’ Odysseus agreed. ‘I owe you my life, Eperitus, and you owe me yours, but I can’t ask you to give it up for the sake of an island you know nothing about.’

‘Know nothing about?’ Eperitus scoffed. ‘Haven’t I heard you and your men talk about every rocky crag, every wooded hill, every olive grove and every young maiden on Ithaca? I know the names of each different place on this island from its homesick warriors, and its sights are so familiar to me I feel like I was born here. Ithaca’s my home now and my allegiance is to its prince. I’ll kill Taphians with you, even if it means certain death, but if you’ll listen to me I have a better suggestion.’

The others looked at him quizzically.

‘The shepherd boy told us something we can use to our advantage. He says the Taphians are getting restless because their wine shipment is late. The only thing stopping them from rebelling against Polytherses is the promise it will arrive today.’

‘That must have been the merchantman I saw coming in as the Spartan ship left,’ Odysseus said.

‘Then we don’t have any time to spare. Polytherses has sent some men to escort the wagon back up to the palace, but if we can kill them and smash the shipment then the Taphians will rebel. We might not even have to fight them.’

‘The boy has brains, as well as brawn,’ Halitherses said, slapping Eperitus on the shoulder. ‘I say the idea’s a good one. How about you, Odysseus?’

‘I say you two should stick to fighting and let me do the thinking. The wine shipment is the key, but we shouldn’t destroy it. On the contrary,’ he said, snapping his fingers and grinning at them, ‘I want to make sure it arrives at the palace safe and sound.’

Odysseus and his men watched the sail of the merchant ship drift out of the harbour. The sun was sinking behind the hills of Samos on the other side of the channel that divided the two islands. Its departing beams set fire to the surface of the water, making it boil red about the charred hull of the vessel as it slipped away northwards, dragging the long, oblong shadow of its sail beside it. After a while the ship disappeared from their view and, released from its spell, they settled themselves for the ambush.

Before long they heard the squeal of an overladen wagon making its way up the road from the harbour. It was the same road they had marched down to the cheers of the townsfolk half a year before, though now the only voices they heard were those of the approaching Taphians, the only sound the occasional crack of a stick on some poor beast’s hindquarters.

Eperitus waited with Odysseus, hiding amongst the poplar trees where he had fought Polybus and knocked him into the town spring. Antiphus and five others were with them, waiting anxiously for the Taphians to appear. The remaining warriors, led by Halitherses and Mentor, were concealed behind a stone wall on the other side of the road, readying their weapons for the fight.

Eperitus’s sword was in his hand and Odysseus had an arrow fitted in the great bow of horn that Iphitus had given him in Messene. Beside them Antiphus slid an arrow from the quiver at his hip and readied the notch in his own bow, to wait with stilled breath for the first soldier to come into view. No sooner had he half-tensed the ox-gut string than a man appeared where the road bent down towards the bay. He was followed in quick succession by two others – all of them were tall and heavily armed – and a pair of oxen drawing a large, high-sided cart. A further two warriors, older and fatter than the others, sat behind the labouring animals. They were backed by stacks of earthenware vessels, placed in baskets to prevent them smashing against each other during the journey and spilling the precious wine.

Nobody moved. The Ithacans had been in enough fights together now to know that the time to strike was still moments away. Before the Taphians had come into sight Eperitus had felt a knot of anxiety in his stomach, but now battle was at hand the tension eased out of him and an intense sensitivity to his surroundings took over. He was aware of every slight movement, every sound and, despite the twilight, every detail of each of his enemies. He could see the redness in their cheeks from sampling the wine, and the light of life in their eyes, shining with cheer because tonight they hoped to drink themselves into a stupor. But for them the night would never come, and their eyes would soon be dark for ever.

Odysseus signalled quietly to Antiphus, pointing at himself and then the driver to indicate his chosen target. Antiphus nodded in reply and indicated the lead Taphian. In the half-light of early evening neither shot would be easy, but Eperitus trusted both men to find their marks. Then Odysseus raised himself on one knee, waited for Antiphus to do the same, and in the same instant their bows twanged.

Both of the chosen men fell. The driver pitched sideways out of the cart, whilst the lead soldier half-raised a hand to his throat – where Antiphus’s arrow had struck – before dropping to the ground. The squealing cart halted and for a brief instant everything was silent as the surviving Taphians looked about themselves in consternation. Then Eperitus leapt to his feet and ran at them screaming, his sword raised above his head. The others followed, yelling insanely as they dashed across the short distance separating the trees from the road.

One man made a clumsy effort to loosen the shield from his back and turn it towards them, but failed to hold its weight in his hurry and dropped it. An instant later Eperitus’s sword had swept his head from his shoulders and sent it bouncing back down the road to the harbour. The remaining man on the wagon burst into tears and threw his arms out in supplication, pleading for his life in a garbled and hideous-sounding dialect. Realizing he had no heart for a fight Eperitus ignored him and looked for the other man, who he saw duck beneath a swathing cut from Halitherses’s sword and sprint up the road to the town.

Antiphus fell in beside his captain and raised his bow to shoot the man down, but before he could release the arrow from between his thumb and forefinger, Mentor and another soldier hurdled the stone wall and dived upon the fleeing Taphian, smashing him to the ground beneath their combined weight. He struggled ferociously, and not until more help arrived did they manage to control him.

Strangely, when the two men were hauled before Odysseus for judgement their attitudes reversed. When Odysseus revealed his identity, the old man who had gibbered insanely for mercy became silent and stared at the prince with defiance; the younger man, however, crumbled with fear and began begging for his life. He fell to his knees before the prince and wrapped his arms about his legs.

‘Don’t kill me, lord,’ he cried, his accent thick and barely intelligible. ‘Spare me and I’ll fight for you against Polytherses. We came here to support Eupeithes, but since he was deposed many of us have lost our reason to be here.’

‘Shut up, you grovelling piece of snot,’ growled his comrade.

Mentor cuffed him about the back of the head, persuading him to silence.

‘I’ll spare you,’ Odysseus said. The kneeling man looked up in surprise. ‘If you help us get into the palace.’

‘Say nothing, Mentes,’ ordered the other Taphian, earning himself another blow. This time blood trickled from one of his nostrils, proof that Mentor’s patience was thinning.

‘What do you say?’ Odysseus persisted. ‘I give you your life, and in exchange you get me into the palace.’

The man seemed suddenly uncertain, but as Odysseus raised the point of his sword and placed it against the soft flesh of his throat he swallowed quickly and nodded.

‘I’ll do it. I can tell you all you need to know about Poly-therses’s defences. If you let me return now, I can open the gate for you in the middle of the night.’

‘Don’t mock me, Mentes,’ Odysseus replied with a frown. ‘I intend to drive this wagon up to the palace gates with you at my side. And in return for your life you’ll not only tell the guard I’m one of the wine merchants, you’ll also see I’m made welcome for the night. Then, when the palace is sleeping, you can help me open the gates so that the rest of my men can enter. I want you close to me the whole time, close enough for me to slit your throat if you show any sign of revealing my name. And only when Ithaca is rid of Polytherses and your countrymen will I spare your life. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, lord,’ Mentes nodded fervently. ‘I’ve told you I have no love for Polytherses – I’ll do all these things you ask, and more if required.’

‘I don’t believe him,’ Mentor said. ‘He’ll say anything right now, when your sword is pricking at his soft neck. But what about when he’s surrounded by his friends, safely tucked away inside the palace with nothing but your dagger to threaten him? The cow-ard’ll find his courage and sense of duty quick enough then – duty to Polytherses! Some god has robbed you of your wits, Odysseus, if you let yourself be led into the palace by this serpent.’

‘I give you my word of honour as a warrior, as all the gods are my witness,’ said Mentes, standing and facing his accuser.

‘I don’t trust the word of a Taphian,’ Mentor replied, sliding his sword out of his belt. He presented the hilt to the Taphian. ‘But if you kill your comrade . . .’

‘No!’ Eperitus protested. ‘That’s barbaric.’

‘It’s the only way to be sure,’ said Odysseus, looking expectantly at Mentes.

The older Taphian shifted uneasily. Then Mentes took the sword and stuck it deep into his guts. He twisted the blade once and pulled it back out, unplugging a stream of dark, glistening blood that sluiced down the man’s groin and legs and onto the road.

He turned from the body and handed Mentor his sword. ‘Is that proof enough for you?’

‘It will do,’ Odysseus answered coldly. ‘Now hide these corpses and listen to what I have in mind.’

The gate guards heard the squealing of the wagon long before it came into sight. The sound carried easily through the silent streets of Ithaca, which had already settled down for the night after an unusually busy day, and brought great joy to the wine-starved hearts of the soldiers gathered in the compound. Although the noise of the burdened vehicle was painful to hear, the Taphian warriors had been eagerly anticipating the shipment for several days and listened to its strained music with suppressed excitement.

The rumour that Odysseus had returned to the island meant nothing to them in comparison with the prospect of getting drunk. There had almost been a riot when Polytherses announced the wine would be kept in storage until further notice. Although the king wanted his warriors to remain sober to meet any attack that might come in the night, faced with the mutiny of his army he was forced to relent. Instead he took a core of volunteers who agreed not to drink in exchange for gold, and kept them garrisoned within the royal quarters.

‘Who’s that with you, Mentes?’ called one of the guards as the wagon screeched to a halt before the gates.

‘Merchants,’ he answered. ‘They want to stay in Ithaca for a while, so I said they could sleep in the palace until they find a house in the town tomorrow.’

‘After our money, I suppose.’

‘Why else would anyone want to come to this rock?’ Odysseus answered.

He smiled at the three guards, who looked back with stony faces. They were tall men wrapped in thick cloaks, each one armed with two long spears and a shield and wearing leather caps on their heads. They looked more than ready for a fight.

‘There speaks a wise man,’ one of them replied. ‘Where are the others?’

Odysseus squeezed closer to Mentes and pressed the point of his dagger against his ribs, the blade concealed beneath the cast of his cloak. On either side of the wagon Mentor and Antiphus prepared to pull their swords from between the jars of wine, where they had been concealed in rolls of matting.

‘Drunk in one of the huts by the harbour,’ Mentes shrugged. ‘They couldn’t wait.’

The guard shook his head resignedly and waved them through the tall wooden portals. Odysseus and Mentes had to duck their heads slightly, and then they were inside the familiar courtyard of the palace.

‘Do you trust me now?’ Mentes whispered as he applied a stick to the backside of one of the oxen.

‘We’ll see,’ Odysseus replied, nudging the point of his dagger against his ribs.

He looked about himself at the two or three score of warriors who were approaching the wagon from every corner of the courtyard. Although it lifted his heart to see again the familiar surroundings of his home, it dismayed him to see this place – his childhood playground – filled with foreign soldiers. He halted the wagon and ordered Mentor and Antiphus to pass down the wine.

The Taphians cheered with delight and eager groups of men gathered at the back of the cart, ready to receive the heavy clay jars and pass them back to their waiting comrades. Others called on servants from the palace to bring food and, more importantly, water to mix with the wine. That was when Odysseus saw his father’s ageing housekeeper come out of the palace at the head of a column of slaves bearing food and water.

As she began directing them in their duties, Odysseus called quietly on Athena to keep the old woman from looking up at the wagon and seeing him. The least sign of recognition from her or any of the slaves would bring a swift doom upon the disguised Ithacans. But Eurynome did not look up from her work, and as soon as enough water had been fetched and the food brought from the kitchens, she and the other servants retreated as far from the unruly Taphians as possible. Not one slave remained in the courtyard as Mentes drove the now empty wagon over to the stables against the eastern wall of the compound.

He prepared to jump down and unyoke the oxen, but was quickly deterred by the press of Odysseus’s dagger against his side. Instead of sitting back down, though, Mentes slowly closed his hand over the blade and, looking the Ithacan in the eye, moved the weapon aside.

‘You cannot stay beside me all night long, Odysseus. I have friends here who will want me to join them, and then what will you say? You have no choice but to trust me.’

Odysseus knew the Taphian was right. The fact they had not been detected thus far showed that the gods were with them, and if they were to succeed he would have to trust much more in them and in Mentes. So he tucked the knife into his belt and nodded.

‘You’re right. But I want you to stay with us, no matter who wants you to join them. And you aren’t to drink anything. Is that understood?’

Mentes smiled, then jumped down and went to unharness the team, leading the beasts individually into the stables. As he did so a handful of Taphians approached, shouting friendly greetings in their rough dialect. Odysseus looked behind himself to make sure their weapons remained well covered, then waited for their enemies to reach them.

‘Welcome to Ithaca, friends,’ one of the men began. He was tall and had a scarred face. ‘Why don’t you join us for a drop of your own merchandise? We’ll be happy to hear news from the mainland.’

Mentes reappeared and met each of the group with a quick embrace, speaking their names in turn.

‘These men have travelled far and are tired,’ he said. ‘Let them keep their own company this evening. I will stay with them and act as host, so that they do not think we Taphians are inhospitable. There’ll be plenty of time in the morning to hear stories from far-off lands.’

‘No,’ Odysseus said, to the surprise of his companions, ‘we aren’t so tired that we can’t share a bit of news with men who want to hear it – and some of what I have to say might be of great worth. If you have a few portions of meat and a cup of wine to spare, we’ll be glad to share with you.’

‘Then come and join us by the main fire over there,’ the scarred man said, pleased at the prospect of a tale or two to go with the new abundance of wine. ‘We will go and see that spaces are made for you, and food and wine set aside.’

‘Are you insane?’ Mentor hissed as the Taphians returned to the fire. ‘You’ll get us all killed, and for what?’

‘Have some faith in your old friend. All you need to do is remember you’re a wine merchant. And don’t reveal your true name, of course – there’ll be a time for that tomorrow.’

Soon they were seated in the midst of their enemies, the very men who had stolen their homes from them and imposed a brutal regime upon their families and countrymen. Unless their identities were revealed, by dawn of the next day they would be fighting to kill each other with all semblance of friendship forgotten; but for now they could do little else but eat the food placed before them and sip at their wine.

Then the scar-faced man asked Odysseus his name and lineage, and on being told he was called Castor, son of Hylax (this time of Athens), demanded to hear what was happening on the mainland of Greece. Others echoed the call – all Greeks love a story – and Odysseus began without delay. He told them of the affairs of state back in Athens, which were true events told to Odysseus by Menestheus when they had courted Helen together. Though they were mundane issues, he was able to embroider them to make each event lively and interesting. Eventually he mentioned the departure of their king to Sparta, which, as Odysseus had intended, brought immediate demands for news of the now famous gathering. What did he know? they asked him, and when he admitted to knowing very little they begged him to tell them whatever information he could spare.

At the time of their leaving Athens, he said, King Menestheus had not returned from Sparta, though there was rumour that a suitor had been chosen. This caused a stir amongst the Taphians, who had been made excitable by the amount of wine already consumed, and inevitably one amongst them asked the question they had all wanted to ask – what had he heard about Odysseus of Ithaca?

Odysseus wetted his lips with the wine in his cup and looked about at the wall of faces, bathed orange by the firelight. From what he knew, he said, the Ithacan prince was highly regarded amongst his fellow suitors. He was supposedly a great warrior – the equal of Ajax or Diomedes – who carried a horn bow given to him by the god Apollo. He had already defeated a much larger force of bandits on his way to Sparta (at this, the Taphians muttered energetically with each other), and shortly afterwards had single-handedly saved the goddess Athena from a gigantic, man-eating serpent (at this, Mentor coughed loudly and shot Odysseus a stern glance).

The prince continued undeterred. What was more, Odysseus was reputed to be a man of irresistible charm. Not only had the great Helen of Sparta chosen him for her husband, he had also gained the sympathy and support of the other suitors. It was even rumoured that a combined force of Spartans, Mycenaeans, Argives, Myrmidons and others were gathering from all over Greece, preparing to liberate Ithaca. On hearing this there was a great uproar amongst the Taphians, at which Odysseus stood and held up his hands for silence. He stressed it was nothing more than a bit of hearsay he had picked up from another merchant, which he himself did not believe. However, the truth of the rumour would be easy to prove: if such a gathering really was taking place, then it was also said that a small vanguard of Spartans were to be sent to Ithaca to prepare a camp and scout out the rebels’ defences.

Again the crowd of Taphians erupted. Fear and panic seemed to seize the courtyard as scores of voices were lifted in debate about Odysseus’s return, and whether he was really bringing an army with him. The Ithacans took the opportunity to slip away unnoticed.

‘You’ve got guts,’ Mentor told his friend as they settled down on the soft ground beneath their wagon. His voice was even, but seethed with disciplined anger. ‘And yet I can’t understand why you took such a risk, just to give them a fright. It’ll only put them more on their guard.’

‘Or make them throw down their arms in surrender as soon as our attack begins,’ Antiphus added.

‘They are uneasy,’ said Mentes, who had returned with them. ‘That is understandable, when you live each day wondering whether the true heir to the kingdom will return to take his revenge. But I could have told you that without the need to risk your lives and mine.’

Odysseus covered himself with his cloak and lay down, looking up at the stars and listening to the riotous noise of the Taphians. He caught snatches of arguments, voices raised in drunken dispute. Then he heard female voices, servant girls who had been forced – or came willingly – to entertain the warriors. He instantly thought of his sister, Ctymene, but did not stir as the cold stars sparkled overhead.

‘I didn’t go just to see their fear at the sound of my name. No. I wanted to see the faces of the men who have invaded our homeland. I wanted to know what sort of people they are, how different they are to us, or how similar. I wanted to know who I’ll be killing in the morning. Now get some rest and I’ll wake you before first light.’

It was still dark when he shook them from their sleep. The fire in the middle of the enclosure had died to leave a pile of glowing embers, and the revelry of the Taphians was long since over, leaving only the faint harmony of their snores. Mentor and Antiphus were quickly awake and drawing out their weapons from beneath the matting in the back of the wagon. Last of all, Odysseus woke Mentes.

‘I’ll not ask you to accompany us in what we must do now,’ he said. ‘But you haven’t betrayed us, despite being given every chance, and so I’ll entrust you with one more task. You told us last night there were a number of Spartan prisoners held in one of the storerooms. Release them and wait until the fighting is over. If I’m still alive I will free you from your oath.’

Mentes nodded and, pulling his cloak about his shoulders to keep off the early morning cold, crept off towards the palace. Odysseus turned to Mentor and Antiphus. They stood close by, two black figures with only the dull gleam of their naked swords to distinguish them in the darkness.

‘It’s time,’ he announced. ‘We’ve thought about this moment for over half a year, but now it’s here. It’ll be bloody work, but this is no time for mercy. As you hold your daggers to their swinish throats, think of what they’ve done to your homeland and how long your families have had to endure their yoke. And remember that Ithaca’s freedom depends on us opening those gates.’

He drew his dagger and led them by the faint starlight to where the gates sat slightly ajar. The guards were on the outside, watching the terrace between the walls and the city, unaware of the peril their sleeping comrades were in. The humped shapes of the unprotected men lay all about the Ithacans, motionless as if dead already, each one ignorant of the inglorious fate that awaited him.

Quickly, as if afraid that he might lose his determination for the grim task, the prince knelt down beside one of the soldiers and placed the palm of his hand firmly over the man’s mouth. His eyes flickered open and looked up, but before he could react Odysseus had cut open his throat. The first victim died at once, his ruptured arteries jetting thick gouts of blood up Odysseus’s bare arms.

Without pausing he moved to his next victim, this time sitting astride the torso and leaning his weight onto the hand with which he covered the man’s mouth. In an instant he sawed through the soft flesh of his windpipe and stood again to move to the next Taphian.

Mentor and Antiphus waited no longer and joined in the butchery with silent determination. They gave little thought to the work, beyond the occasional grimace of disgust at the amount of blood that covered them, and very soon two dozen men lay murdered in their sleep. Not one had made a noise and few had even woken to set eyes upon the avengers who killed them.

Then the air changed and Odysseus looked up from his tenth victim. There was a faintness now in the sky above the stables, and he knew that if the attack were to come it would be soon.

He stood. The others finished the work at hand and stood with him. Odysseus tucked his gore-drenched dagger into his belt and drew the long sword that hung there. He gestured his men towards the gates: to surprise the sleepy guards and kill them would be the work of moments. Mentor and Antiphus drew their swords beside him and together they looked through the open portal at the shadowy city beyond. And then they heard a noise behind them.

‘Stay where you are,’ said a familiar voice. They turned to see the scar-faced Taphian, standing with a bow in his hand and an arrow fitted. It was aimed directly at Odysseus. ‘I knew there was something not quite right about you,’ he continued. ‘You’ve got too much of the warrior about you to be a mere merchant, and now I find you slitting the throats of my countrymen. But before you die I will find out whether you are more Spartan scum, or one of Odysseus’s men.’

Odysseus drew himself up and looked scornfully at the Taphian. ‘Don’t trouble yourself – I’ve concealed my name for too long as it is. I am Odysseus, son of Laertes, and you are trespassing on my father’s property.’

For a moment the concern on the Taphian’s face was visible, even in the darkness. After months of living uninvited under this man’s roof, helping himself to his food and wine, he felt now like the trespasser he was and longed to be anywhere other than in his presence. But he soon quashed his own dismay and, realizing that the key to Polytherses’s ultimate victory was at his mercy, smiled with satisfaction.

‘Guards!’ he called to the men outside. ‘Guards! Get in here and shut the gates. Bolt them. I think we can expect visitors soon.’

His loud voice woke the surviving men in the courtyard, who propped themselves up on their elbows to see what was happening. Somewhere in the town outside a cockerel cried out to herald the first light of dawn. And at that moment a horn sounded a single note, rising clear and strong through the morning air.

Chapter Twenty-nine

THE BATTLE FOR ITHACA

‘Come on then, lads,’ Halitherses said. ‘These Taphians have already overstayed their welcome; let’s send them to a new home in Hades’s halls. Eumaeus! I want you at my side with that hunting horn.’

He stood before a mixed force of guards and men from the town. There were over fifty of them, waiting for the first grey light of dawn to edge the darkness. Those who had escorted Odysseus to Mount Parnassus and Sparta had seen battle already and were calmly preparing their weapons and armour for the coming fight. The younger townsfolk, though lacking training or the proper arms and protection, were buoyed by thoughts of glory and making a name for themselves on their tiny island. The older men were stern-faced, thinking of the consequences of failure and determined to accept nothing less than victory. They knew that if Odysseus had been successful they would be inside the palace before the Taphians could wake, with every possibility of catching them entirely by surprise. But if he failed and the gates remained shut, then their attack would be short, bloody and fruitless.

As Eperitus loosened his sword in his belt and hefted the weight of his spear in his hand, he thought not of Ithaca but of Alybas. His father’s treachery had brought disgrace on his family, and he could almost hear his dead grandfather calling out for revenge. But Eperitus knew he could never go back to the valleys in which he had grown up, once again to be walled in by its dead mountainsides or to sink into the mire of its humdrum troubles. Who had he met in the great palace of Sparta that had heard of Alybas, an obscure little place where the sum of its entire wealth was worth less than Agamemnon’s golden breastplate? And which of the girls in Alybas was even fit to serve wine to Helen, whose beauty was perilous to look upon? No, he would remove the shame of his father’s sedition by fighting the traitors who had overthrown Laertes. Ithaca was his home now, and Alybas but a memory.

A low mist had crept up from the sea and shrouded the legs of the small army, making them appear to float as they followed Halitherses through the town towards the palace. Eperitus and the other guardsmen were close behind him. As the only trained soldiers, they were to secure the gates whilst the others entered the courtyard and led the assault on the palace.

There were no fires or torches, but by the first light of dawn that pervaded the already failing night they could see the whitewashed palace walls through the murk. There was a dark hole where the gate stood and they could not tell whether the portals were open or shut, but they were encouraged by the silence that met them as they formed a line along the edge of the terrace.

A cockerel crowed. Halitherses pointed at Eumaeus, who raised the horn to his lips and blew a long, clear note. For a moment they waited, listening to the lonely sound shiver the darkness, and then they were running steadily towards the gates.

Their weapons weighed them down, making it difficult to run. Eperitus’s sword banged against his thigh and he was conscious of the bronze greaves upon his shins, stiffening his movements and checking his speed. His feet became quickly sodden from the wet grass, and yet the palace walls seemed hardly any closer. Suddenly someone called out.

‘The gates are closed!’

Some of the men slowed down to look at the tall wooden doors. Though they were still some way off, they could see the gates remained shut against them.

‘Come on, you dogs!’ Halitherses shouted grimly. ‘Get moving! We’ll scale the walls while they’re still waking up.’

But it was too late even for that. Taphian bowmen were already climbing onto the walls from the other side, unslinging their bows and taking aim. Halitherses was leading the Ithacans headlong into a trap, yet even so Eperitus ran on after him, hoping to close the remaining distance before the archers’ deadly arrows stopped them. After waiting so long to return, it angered him that they should fail so early in their mission. Now only death and honour awaited them, and he was determined to fight his way into the compound and die with Taphian blood on his sword.

The attack had almost stalled behind them, but encouraged by the example of their captain the guardsmen ran screaming at the high walls, followed by most of the townsfolk. Eumaeus, unencumbered by shield or armour, outstripped them all. He passed Eperitus at a sprint and caught up with Halitherses, seeming as if he would run straight up the walls and over into the compound beyond.

Then the archers fired.

Their bows sang in the cold morning air. Eumaeus fell into the layer of mist and was gone. Halitherses turned towards him and was brought down under a second volley, disappearing into the vapours like the squire before him. Eperitus thrust his shield out before him and ran towards where his captain had fallen, shouting with rage and heedless of the flying darts from the walls. They split the air about his ears and thumped into the layered ox-hide of the shield, and in the growing light he could see yet more Taphian archers clambering up to shoot at the easy target he presented for them.

But Athena had heard his prayers. As he searched amid the swirling vapours only a spear’s throw from the walls, he was not brought down by an arrow but by an obstacle on the ground. He stumbled forward into the welcoming mist and his shield fell on top of him, just as two more arrows thumped into its thick hide. There was a tense pause as the archers looked for him through the concealing vapours, then, thinking him dead, they turned their attentions to the mass of retreating Ithacans.

Eperitus lay still as the noise of battle receded from him. The grass was damp under his stomach and its fresh smell filled his nostrils. Close by someone was crying. Looking to his right he saw Eumaeus, whose legs he must have tripped over. The mist was beginning to evaporate as the sunlight grew and he could see the swineherd lying slumped and motionless on his front, a pair of arrows protruding from his left thigh. It also exposed him once more to the archers on the wall, and another arrow buried itself into the ground perilously close to his side. Eperitus sprang to his feet and, with his shield and spear in one hand, lifted the wounded boy with his free arm and ran as fast as his burdens would allow, back across the terraced plain towards the town. The bows twanged behind him again and he watched the arrows pluck at the last swirls of mist. There were dark humps on either side as he ran, barely distinguishable as bodies in the weak light of dawn, but ahead of him he was encouraged to see the remainder of his comrades, crouched beyond the reach of the Taphian arrows.

They stood to welcome him as he joined them, elated that two of their number had returned from the dead. He threw down his spear and shield and passed Eumaeus into the hands of one of the townsfolk, a giant bronze-smith who lifted the lad easily in his giant arms and set off with him back through the streets.

The rapid defeat had strained every man’s nerves, and Eperitus wondered whether the Ithacans had the courage for another attack. Too few of them were seasoned warriors; the majority were ordinary men who had decided to join the fight for their country with whatever weapons were to hand. Now, with the loss of their captain, possibly of their prince, and with the palace gates barred against them, they were faced with the reality of a bloody fight and little hope of survival.

Eperitus brushed the dirt from his tunic and looked about at their anxious faces. ‘Anybody who wants to abandon the fight now is welcome to do so; if you can face the shame of it, then your homes and families are waiting for you. Besides, I’d rather fight with brave men at my side than cowards. The rest of us have a duty to fight Polytherses and free our homeland. Halitherses has fallen and we must avenge him. Odysseus may also be dead, but as long as there’s a chance he’s still alive then we must go back and take the palace. If we don’t fight for him now, all hope is lost and the Taphians will always rule Ithaca.’

‘I’m with you!’ said a grey-bearded old fisherman, his face stern and uncompromising. He was joined by a chorus of agreement from the rest of the men. ‘I’d rather die fighting than live under Polytherses.’

‘Good. Then let’s go to glory, or an honourable death.’

Eperitus lifted his shield before him and signalled for the other guards to do the same. Together they made a wall of shields and marched once more towards the palace, the arrows parting the air above their heads again. Those without armour fell in behind them for protection from the deadly hail, and for a while, at range, they remained safe. But as they approached the walls two or three arrows found their mark, spinning men backward into the grass to kick out the last moments of their life. Eperitus peered around the edge of his shield and an instant later an arrow thumped into the top of the hide. But ahead of them their objective was getting progressively closer.

‘We’ll use our shields to make a platform when we reach the wall,’ he shouted. ‘It won’t be easy: we’ll be under fire from their archers as we climb, and they’ll be waiting for anyone who gets over alive. But when Ithaca is free again, the bards will make songs about us that will be told long after we’re all dead.’

They cheered at the prospect of glory, and at the same time shrank behind the cover of the shields as the palace defences grew tall before them. A man fell heavily, making no sound as an arrow pierced his heart and took his life. His comrades shrank down even further as more arrows rattled against the line of shields.

Suddenly Eperitus noticed a slight figure break away from the huddle of attackers and stand exposed before the walls. It was Arceisius, the shepherd boy, who must have slipped unnoticed into the Ithacan ranks. Without a care for his own safety, he fitted a pebble into the woollen pouch of a sling and spun it rapidly about his head. Another cheer erupted from the Ithacan line as the stone found a target and one of the Taphian archers tumbled from the walls. A second pebble followed, hitting one of the defenders in the face before a flurry of hastily aimed arrows forced the shepherd boy back behind the press of his comrades. As he watched Arceisius send a further missile flying at the walls, Eperitus regretted not having any more slingers or archers; although he carried Odysseus’s horn bow on his back and his quiver of arrows at his waist, his own place was at the forefront of their attack. Arceisius would have to work alone.

Having seen the first Taphians fall, Eperitus was also keen to press the attack on the wall and take his spear to the elusive enemy. They were almost up to the gates now and he was ready to break into a run, when suddenly he saw the body of Halitherses lying in the grass. At the sight of his grey hair and the distinctive, old-fashioned armour Eperitus felt the hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, provoked to sadness by the loss of his good friend. And then Halitherses moved.

It was only the slightest twitch of an outstretched arm, but overwhelmed to discover the guard captain was alive Eperitus ran from the Ithacan front rank towards where he lay, determined to bring him safely away from the foot of the walls. But before the Taphian archers could shoot him down, their rain of arrows suddenly stopped and they slipped back into the courtyard. Eperitus looked back at Arceisius, who shook his head in reply.

Then the answer came. They heard the rasping sound of the bar being lifted from the back of the great gates and saw the doors fold outward, ready to unleash the Taphian counter-attack.

As the gates were slammed shut, Odysseus and his companions were hurriedly escorted into the palace by the scar-faced Taphian and four others. There was no time to bind their wrists, but with two guards in front of them and the sword points of the others pressed painfully into their backs, the Ithacans knew any attempt to escape would be futile and swiftly dealt with. The commotion of battle was already starting behind them as they entered the torch-lit passageway that skirted the great hall.

They marched rapidly towards the steps leading up to the royal quarters, but were stopped by the sudden appearance of Mentes from a side passage, his sword held menacingly at his side. When Diocles the Spartan joined him, the guards knew something was wrong.

‘What do you think you’re doing, Mentes?’ asked the leading Taphian. ‘And why isn’t this prisoner with the others?’

Without a word, Mentes plunged his sword into the man’s gut, killing him instantly. Diocles, though unarmed, crumpled the other man with a single blow from his large fist. Five more Spartans joined them from the side passage; two of them picked up the weapons of the fallen men and, with Mentes at their head, rushed at the remaining Taphians. Odysseus, Mentor and Antiphus twisted away from their captors as their rescuers drove them back down the corridor, their swords clashing angrily against each other.

‘Mentes, you traitor,’ hissed the scar-faced warrior.

Mentes replied with a thrust of his sword. His opponent parried the hasty lunge and laid the younger man’s guard open, but in the narrow passage was unable to bring his own weapon up to find the exposed torso. In desperation he resorted to punching Mentes in the stomach, winding him. Mentes slumped against the wall, but before his former comrade could finish him one of the armed Spartans stepped in and skewered the Taphian through the groin. He fell to the ground, screaming with the agony of the mortal wound.

Though the two remaining guards had been pushed back, they showed no signs of wanting to run to the safety of the courtyard. Instead, they stood shoulder to shoulder and raised the points of their swords, smiling grimly at the thought of a fight to the death. Odysseus picked up their dying comrade’s weapon, ready to answer their challenge, but before he could advance on the waiting Taphians Mentes stepped between them and faced his countrymen.

‘Join us,’ he said. ‘We came here to serve Eupeithes, not Polytherses. There will be no dishonour in laying down your arms and refusing to fight, and tomorrow we can return to our beloved homeland.’

The men looked at him with scorn in their eyes. They were warriors, proud men who were ready to die in battle; they had also come to prefer Polytherses’s brutal style of leadership to the soft indecision of Eupeithes, and had every intention of fighting for the new king of Ithaca. One of them spat into the dirt at Mentes’s feet.

Odysseus wasted no time in rushing at them and severing the sword arm of one with a single blow. Shocked, he fell backwards clutching at the gushing wound, and Odysseus finished him with a stab through the throat. The other man was engaged by a Spartan and quickly slain, the victor savouring revenge for the massacre of his comrades the day before. The scar-faced warrior, still groaning, was quickly dispatched, but Mentes insisted they spare the life of the man Diocles had knocked unconscious.

As they tied his hands and feet with belts taken from his dead comrades, Odysseus explained the desperate situation at the gates to the others.

‘It troubles me to fight against my own countrymen,’ Mentes said, gagging the prisoner with a strip of cloth torn from a bloody cloak. ‘But, equally, I hate Polytherses and the way he is putting good soldiers to ill use. If I help you open the gates, maybe the gods will bring some of them to their senses and they will join with us against our true enemy.’

Odysseus thought of the two guards they had just slain and doubted whether many, if any, of the Taphians would switch allegiance. They were too proud, even for Greeks. But he was nevertheless glad of Mentes’s continuing loyalty, and knew if he could help them open the gates there would still be a slim chance of victory. Something else concerned him, though, and he could no longer restrain himself.

‘Diocles, where is Penelope? I know she was with you when the camp was ambushed.’

‘She was captured with us, but we were separated the moment they brought us inside the palace walls.’

‘Then I have no choice,’ Odysseus announced. ‘Diocles, I want you and your men to open the gate. Antiphus and Mentes will go with you. They won’t be expecting an attack from within the palace so you’ll have the advantage of surprise, but you still have to open the gates and hold them until Halitherses can reach you. When he does, then you must do what you can to defeat the Taphians inside the courtyard.

‘As for Mentor and I, we will search the palace for Penelope. Any victory will be a hollow one for me if my wife is harmed, so I must be sure of her safety. Then, if the new king is anywhere to be found, I’ll make sure of him too. But first I must find where Eupeithes is being kept.’

‘He was imprisoned with us in a storeroom, down there,’ said Diocles, pointing to the passageway from which they had emerged earlier. ‘Have pity on him, Odysseus.’

‘May the gods be with you,’ was Odysseus’s only response, then with Mentor he went to find the man who had brought so much trouble to Ithaca.

The corridor was lit by a single torch, which Odysseus freed from its holder and took with him into the storeroom. For a moment they could see nothing but large clay jars amidst the flickering shadows cast by the flame. Then, as their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they distinguished a man in the far corner, his legs sprawled out before him. They stepped closer and held the torch up, causing the man to squirm away from the light, cowering and whimpering as he covered his eyes with his forearm.

It was Eupeithes, though only just. His once proudly fattened physique was diminished through starvation, and his previously clean-shaven, fleshy cheeks were drawn and covered in a scrawny beard. So this was the man who had deposed Laertes, and for fear of whom Odysseus had taken the palace guard across the Peloponnese to Sparta. He lowered the torch.

‘Let’s go.’

‘And leave him?’ asked Mentor, shocked. ‘You’ve wanted to kill this rat for the past half-year; surely you aren’t going to turn your back on him now? He deserves death, Odysseus!’

‘Maybe,’ Odysseus answered, ‘but I haven’t the heart to murder such a pathetic creature.’

He turned and, without a further glance at the former king, walked back out of the room to the main corridor. The others had gone already and, with no time to waste, Odysseus flung the torch into the dirt at his feet and pulled the sword from his belt.

‘Come on, old friend,’ he said, looking at the steps to the royal quarters. ‘Let’s see this thing to its finish.’

They mounted the steps two at a time to the floor above, where they turned to scan the dimly lit corridors for guards. Seeing none, they moved cautiously to the point where an intersecting corridor ran to the right. Both men knew the palace intimately; the turn led straight to the royal quarters.

Odysseus had been born and brought up here. This was his territory, the very heart of his home, where he, his parents and his sister had lived in happiness for as long as he could remember. The sight of the familiar walls and doors, the faded murals and the worn mats on the stone floor made Odysseus suddenly realize the depth of the offence that had been caused to his family. That he had been forced into exile, his father taken to the northern tip of the island and his mother and sister imprisoned in their own home; that their enemies were now enjoying the food from their own kitchens, cooked and served by Laertes’s slaves; that foreigners bathed, dressed and slept in their own rooms, filled him with a murderous anger. Gripping the hilt of his sword until his knuckles were white, he turned the corner.

Two guards lay propped sleepily against the door jambs of his parents’ room. The first barely saw Odysseus as he clove his head open to the base of his neck. Though the second threw the shaft of his spear up as a defence against Mentor’s sword, he was killed by the follow-up thrust that split open his stomach.

They jumped over the corpses and into the large room where his mother sat gripping the edge of the bed. Beside her stood Koronos, the traitor who had deceived the Kerosia into sending the palace guard to Sparta. He held a sword in his hand, but appeared calm and collected before the unexpected appearance of Odysseus and Mentor.

‘So, the fledgling has returned to the nest,’ he scoffed. ‘But a little too late to save your darling wife, I fear.’

Suddenly another guard leapt at them from the near corner of the room. Mentor, whose sword was in his other hand, instinctively held up his forearm to ward off the blow. The force of the Taphian’s blade cut through the flesh and bone of his wrist, severing his hand and spraying blood across the smooth floor. He fell against the bed, shouting with pain and clutching the stump of his hand beneath his other arm.

Simultaneously, Koronos launched a ferocious attack on Odysseus. Their swords clashed noisily as the prince checked the traitor’s well-aimed swing. For a moment they stood face to face as their momentum pressed them together, their blades crossed between them. Then they withdrew again, their weapons rasping as they slid apart. Koronos renewed his attack, lunging skilfully at the bulk of his opponent, but Odysseus was quicker than he seemed, easily twisting away from the deadly thrust and in the same movement swinging his blade around to slash at Koronos’s exposed flank.

The older man’s reactions were equally good. He straightened up from the lunge that had so nearly skewered his opponent, and then lithely stepped away from the arcing point of the counter-stroke. In the same instant, the Taphian guard jumped over his wounded opponent and joined Koronos in pinning Odysseus back against the corner of the room. The prince retreated under their alternating cuts and thrusts, twice being wounded on the sword arm as he narrowly beat aside blows that would have split open his belly. Then, with all the strength his great arms would lend him, he not only stopped their advance but began to beat the two men back.

A single opponent could barely have withstood the ringing blows. Odysseus slashed from side to side, forcing the two men onto the defensive. They gave ground before him and became quickly exhausted by the effort of parrying his blows. Then the Taphian slipped in Mentor’s blood and fell at the foot of the bed. Though wounded, Mentor used the last of his strength to pluck a dagger from the unconscious guard’s belt and slashed open the man’s throat. He died with a final blood-choked sigh, just as Mentor collapsed with exhaustion.

‘What did you mean by “wife”, Koronos?’ Odysseus grunted as he renewed his attack on the old man.

‘Don’t try to fool me,’ Koronos laughed. ‘Penelope told us she was your wife as soon as she was captured. She seemed proud of the fact, though I wonder whether she will show such arrogance when she’s a widow.’ He beat aside a sudden probing jab from Odysseus. ‘When you’re dead, Polytherses intends to make her his plaything.’

Odysseus lunged angrily, but was checked and had to defend against a rapid return thrust from Koronos.

‘Penelope would die before she gave him the pleasure,’ he snarled.

‘Really?’ Koronos retorted. ‘The king enjoys a good hunt. Says it makes the meat taste better. She’s with him now, you know, down in the great hall with four Taphians. Do you think that if they want to satisfy themselves with her, she’ll be able to stop them?’ He parried another angry thrust. ‘Perhaps if I kill you now, my reward will be a turn with your wife, too.’

Odysseus resisted the impulse to throw himself into another furious attack. Koronos was easily his match in swordsmanship, if not in physical strength; he was also a cunning man, and Odysseus sensed that he was deliberately trying to provoke his anger. Already his lapses of concentration had nearly allowed the older man inside his guard. He stepped back and eyed him with caution.

‘You know I have Laertes held prisoner in my home?’ Koronos continued. ‘Before you arrived I was telling your mother how he begs to see her again. I find his pleas very moving. If I die, though, my slaves have orders to kill him. Is that what you want?’

Odysseus sensed an undercurrent of desperation in Koronos’s calm voice, the voice that had once persuaded him to leave his family undefended. Now it was trying to convince him that his wife would be raped and his father murdered. And yet for all his skill and power, the old man could not conceal his fear from the prince.

‘Don’t be a fool, Koronos,’ he responded in an even tone. ‘Your slaves hate you. Once you’re dead and I’m standing at their door, they will never dare kill the rightful king of Ithaca. For all your delusions that Laertes was an unfit ruler, the people of this island know different. And before this day is out my father will be back on the throne. Only, you won’t be alive to witness it.’

Odysseus had bided his time carefully. He had watched the beads of sweat on his opponent’s forehead, heard his struggling breath and noticed the wavering grip on his sword. In the meantime he had allowed Koronos to take the offensive with his voice, encouraging the traitor to switch his thoughts to goading and dissuasion. Then he struck.

He scythed down with all his strength. Koronos attempted to divert the blow and had his weapon swept from his hand, to clatter noisily across the stone floor and leave him defenceless. The traitor stared in disbelief at his empty hand, then fell slowly to his knees. But Odysseus was in no mood for mercy. The sight of Koronos pleading for his life only made him think of his father, imploring his former friend and adviser to let him see Anticleia. Without a second thought on the matter, he plunged his sword through the man’s black heart.

Turning at once to his mother, he gathered her into his arms and pressed his cheek to hers. They held each other for a few moments, then Anticleia sobbed and pushed him away.

‘Find your wife, Odysseus. Let me tend Mentor; you just go – and hurry.’

Odysseus was loath to leave his mother unguarded, but was racked by the sense that Penelope was in urgent danger. He kissed her on the cheek, then ran from the room and down the steps to the lower floor. Beyond the passageway where the bodies of the Taphians lay he could hear the clash of bronze upon bronze in the courtyard. Men were shouting, though the words would not carry to him, and the cacophony of battle was punctuated by the screams of dying men.

Without pause, he turned right and followed the passageway until he reached the entrance to the great hall. There was no guard, so he raised his sword point and walked boldly in to meet whatever perils lay in wait.

The hearth burned low in the middle of the room, just as it had on the day that he and his men had left for Sparta. The previously smoke-stained walls were now bright with a fresh coating of limewash. Upon this were sketched the ghostlike outlines of murals yet to be painted, giving the familiar hall a curiously alien feeling. The great doors that gave access to the courtyard beyond were barred shut, ensuring nothing would disturb Odysseus and the men who had taken his father’s throne.

They stood on the other side of the hearth, their shapes distorted by the heat from the flames. The Taphian warriors were armed with bows, each aiming an arrow at the lone intruder. Between them stood Polytherses, his arm wrapped about Penelope’s waist and holding her to him. His free hand held a dagger to her throat.

Chapter Thirty

KING OF ITHACA

A Taphian warrior stepped out from the gates. His face was covered in blood and rivulets of gore stained the sword he carried, which Eperitus could only think was the blood of Odysseus, Mentor or Antiphus. He beckoned the Ithacans to come to him.

Eperitus drew the sword from his belt and moved towards the Taphian, determined to cut him down, but at the same moment Antiphus appeared next to the mercenary and shouted for them to come. Suddenly they could hear the sounds of battle from the courtyard and realized that the man at the gate was Mentes, his features hidden by the mask of blood. Eperitus ordered Arceisius to help Halitherses then, half-turning to the remainder of the Ithacans, pointed his sword at the gates. No words were needed. As a single body they ran towards the palace, cheering in their hunger to meet the Taphians in battle. Most of the men had lived under their cruel regime for too long and wanted revenge; the guards who had accompanied Odysseus to Sparta had dreamed of this moment for months and were no less fervent in their bloodlust. Within moments they were cramming through the gates and into the courtyard.

Diocles and his Spartans were desperately holding off a great press of Taphians, but as the Ithacans joined them the enemy’s advantage was lost and they backed away. Dismayed by the loss of the gates and the number of men pouring in through them, they retreated across the compound and re-formed before the pillared threshold of the great hall, ready to confront the assault. Meanwhile, the last man through the gates was the bronze-smith, who had left Eumaeus with the waiting townsfolk and returned to the fight. He was accompanied by a dozen new recruits from the city, who had found their courage in the dawn light and decided to risk everything for their true king.

They formed up to face the enemy horde, absorbing Mentes, Antiphus and the Spartans into their ranks. Eperitus looked about in surprise at the carnage within the courtyard, where the corpses of several Taphians lay as if sleeping. Then he saw their opened throats and realized that Odysseus and the others must have been busy with their daggers whilst their hosts slept. It explained the smaller force of Taphians who faced them – their numbers were now evenly matched – but raised his concerns about the whereabouts of his friend, whose bloody corpse could be amongst the trampled bodies.

‘I hear Halitherses is injured, and that you’re leading us now.’

Eperitus turned to see Antiphus. He was barely recognizable, bathed in gore and armed with the strange weaponry of a Taphian warrior.

‘Yes, unless Odysseus is with you,’ he answered, hoping the prince would suddenly appear from amongst the throng of men.

‘He and Mentor are inside the palace, searching for Penelope,’ Antiphus explained. He briefly summarized all that had passed since they parted company the night before. It seemed Odysseus’s plans had been more successful than expected, despite his being captured as they were about to open the gates. Athena had been faithful to her beloved Odysseus.

As they spoke a flock of arrows fell amongst them. Most of the townsfolk had no shields and quickly took shelter behind the guards, who instinctively moved forward to form a wall against the enemy archers. Antiphus took a few of the men to retrieve the bows and arrows of the dead Taphians by the gates, then, taking shelter behind the ranks of their colleagues, began to return the fire of their opponents. The exchange of arrows inflicted casualties on both sides, but the Taphian archers outnumbered the Ithacans and most of the fallen were amongst the unshielded islanders. Seeing this, the mercenaries were happy to remain safely ensconced before the doors of the great hall, waiting for the time when the advantage of numbers would weigh in their favour. Then they would engage them in face-to-face combat, when the recruits from the town would prove easy prey for the long spears of the fully armoured enemy warriors. Realizing this, Eperitus picked up a discarded spear and stepped out between the two opposing armies.

The Taphian arrows stopped and were replaced by jeers and insults from their ranks. It reminded him of the day he had first met Odysseus on the foothills of Mount Parnassus, when he had killed the Theban deserter. Kissing the shaft of his spear as he had done then, he launched it at the massed ranks before him. A man toppled backward with a scream, the spear held fast in his groin, and suddenly the Taphian jeers were replaced by a triumphant shout from the Ithacans. Drawing his sword, Eperitus led them into the attack.

The enemy archers only had time to fire a half-volley of arrows before the Ithacans were amongst them. Eperitus clashed shields with a spearman in their front rank, knocking him sideways with the momentum of his attack and slashing at his exposed back with his sword. He gave a scream and toppled into the dirt, where Eperitus left him to be finished off by the men behind. Two more Taphians now faced him, jabbing at him with their long spears whilst keeping out of reach of his sword. He tried desperately to knock the weapons aside and slip inside their reach, but whenever he succeeded with one spear the other would press him back.

Then, in the few moments before the weight of numbers behind him would push them inevitably together, he was joined by an Ithacan armed with a spear. He was young, frightened and knew little of warfare, and quickly fell victim to a skilful jab from one of the Taphians. But in that moment Eperitus was able to force himself inside the long reach of their weapons, where only a sword would be effective. He hacked at a face above one of the tall shields and split the man’s features across the bridge of his nose. He dropped his weapons and turned away, clutching at his eyes and screaming with pain. Eperitus finished him with a thrust of his sword.

He turned to engage the other man, who had discarded his spear and drawn the long blade from his belt. With the press of struggling men all around, it was hard to remain out of striking distance as they eyed each other closely, trying to guess when and how the first attack would come. The Taphian, like all his countrymen, was tall and had the longer reach, but in the crush of battle Eperitus knew that could be just as much of a disadvantage. He edged closer and his opponent lunged at his face with the point of his weapon. Eperitus deflected the thrust with his shield, then swept his sword across the outstretched arm and severed it at the elbow. The man reeled away in pain and Eperitus left him to retreat into the mass of his comrades, clutching at the stump of his arm.

Suddenly, Eperitus felt a sharp blow to his shoulder and staggered backwards, pursued by a wave of pain that crashed over his senses and plunged him into the blackest night. For a moment he seemed to float, his head swirling like skeins of mist before the hard ground rose up to meet him, jarring him back to consciousness. He lay there amidst the sandalled, dancing feet of friend and foe alike, a curious peacefulness pressing him to the ground like a heavy weight. The sounds of battle receded, though he still sensed the sluggish thumping of feet all around him. Or was it the beating of his own heart?

Trying to draw breath, he felt something buried inside the flesh of his left shoulder. From somewhere deep within came the pounding approach of a fresh surge of pain, and instinctively he closed his eyes against it. Then it bit, hot and sharp, jerking him back to his senses.

He reached up and seized the shaft of the arrow. He tugged at it, feeling the barbs tear new furrows into the flesh that had closed about them. Fortunately it had missed the bone, but his muscles screamed with agony as the arrow slid free and dropped into the dust at his side.

He collapsed again, exhausted from the effort. Moments later he felt hands under his arms, causing yet more pain as he was hauled up and dragged away from the fighting. He looked up to see the faces of Mentes and Antiphus staring down at him. The archer looked into his eyes for a moment before lifting Odysseus’s bow over his head and pulling aside his cloak to look at the wound. Mentes joined him, probing the skin with his fingers until he was satisfied there was no danger. Then he tore strips of cloth from his cloak and bound them about Eperitus’s shoulder.

‘The gods are with you,’ the Taphian said in his thickly accented voice. ‘A flesh wound only. It will heal, but you can take no further part in this battle.’

He turned and rejoined the fight that still raged about the portals of the great hall. Antiphus looked at Eperitus, the relief visible in his eyes, and told him he would take command. Then he drew his sword and followed the Taphian into the thick of the fighting, leaving Eperitus amongst the dead and dying at the edge of the battle.

Eperitus looked down at Odysseus’s horn bow beside him and suddenly recalled that the prince was somewhere inside the palace. A sense of urgency gripped him and, picking the weapon up out of the dust, he struggled to his feet. His countrymen, as he now thought of them, were still at close quarters with the Taphians, and though his left arm could not support the weight of a shield he knew that he could still use a sword to help them. But despite their need his mind was now bent upon his friend. He looked about the large courtyard and saw the door that led to the pantry and kitchens. Retrieving his sword, he stumbled towards the door and found it unlocked.

He stepped into a narrow passageway. No torches burned there and the only light came from the doorway behind him, but his keen eyes penetrated the shadows with ease, picking out doorways on both sides of the corridor and a flight of stairs to the right. Suddenly he heard the sound of voices from somewhere within the palace and paused to pick up their direction. Straining his heightened hearing against the din of battle – filled with the screams of the wounded and dying – he listened for a particular voice, the voice of Odysseus. Moving slowly, he passed the stairs to the upper level of the palace and followed the passage around to the right. As he moved cautiously through the shadows, his sword gripped tightly in his hand, the voices became clearer. Then he recognized the unmistakable tones of Odysseus.

Within moments the short corridor had led him to the great hall, where he found the prince faced by four Taphian archers and Polytherses. The latter held Penelope to his side, with a gleaming dagger poised at her throat. Eperitus saw her and his heart sank, knowing he had arrived too late. Without any force of men behind him, there was little help he could offer Odysseus now other than to die at his side.

‘So, your army has arrived,’ Polytherses mocked.

Odysseus turned and for a moment the look of concern left his face, to be replaced by relief and even joy.

‘I knew I could rely on you, Eperitus,’ he said. Then his looks grew dark again, though determined, and he turned to Polytherses. ‘Release my wife and I’ll spare your worthless life. But if you harm her I will make your death so terrible you’ll beg me to kill you.’

‘You oaf,’ Polytherses retorted. ‘Don’t you see that your life is in my hands? One word from me and you’d be dead in an instant.’

‘Then why do you wait?’ Odysseus demanded. ‘Kill me now. Unless you fear to kill me.’

‘I fear nothing and no man, least of all you. No – I want you to kneel before your king, and then I will kill you. And if you want Penelope to live, you’ll do as I command.’

‘No, Odysseus,’ Penelope shouted fiercely, struggling against the strong grip that held her. ‘I’d rather die than be this man’s whore.’

Polytherses placed his hand over her mouth and pressed the tip of the dagger into her neck, pricking the soft skin so that a bead of blood rolled down over her chest. Odysseus took a step forward and the archers drew back their bows; the slightest twitch of their fingers would release the arrows.

Eperitus put a hand on his shoulder and pulled him back. The ungainly prince, with whom he had shared so many hardships, looked at him and there was anger in his eyes. But in that same moment Eperitus handed him Iphitus’s bow and a single arrow he had taken from the quiver. Odysseus snatched them from him and in an instant had fitted the arrow and was aiming it at Polytherses.

Silence fell in the hall. Polytherses’s eyes were wide with terror as he dragged Penelope in front of him to act as a shield against Odysseus’s arrow. The four Taphians strained their bowstrings even further and waited only for a word from their leader. Meanwhile, Odysseus focused his concentration on Penelope and Polytherses. Penelope met his eyes and nodded imperceptibly. Odysseus whispered a prayer to Apollo for the sureness of his aim, then released the arrow from his fingertips.

The darkness in the hall and the shimmering heat from the flames obscured the usurper of his father’s throne and made his aim almost impossible. Indeed, very few could have hit such a mark: Teucer, possibly; Philoctetes also, but only with the magical arrows that Heracles had given him; Apollo, certainly. But with Iphitus’s great horn bow Odysseus was as deadly as any archer in Greece, and the arrow flew from his fingers straight into Poly-therses’s left eye. It passed through his brain and killed him before he could even think to cut his captive’s throat. The Spartan princess stepped free of the dead man’s hold and the corpse collapsed in the dirt behind her.

In the same instant, the Taphian bowstrings shivered the air in the great hall. One of their arrows nicked Odysseus’s forehead, and another his upper arm. The third missed completely, but the fourth thumped into his thigh, making him shout in pain. Eperitus drew his sword and charged towards the enemy archers, but at that moment Mentes burst in through the twin doors, followed by Antiphus and a group of Ithacans. The Taphian held up his hand and ran to the centre of the hall.

‘You are victorious, Odysseus,’ he announced, and then to his countrymen: ‘Lower your weapons, my friends. The battle is over.’

With their leader slain, the archers realized they had nothing more to fight for and threw down their bows. Polytherses’s brief reign as king of Ithaca was over, and fittingly he was the last to die on that fateful day.

Odysseus plucked the arrow from his leg and tossed it into the shadows, then limped across the hall to embrace his wife.

The courtyard was filled with the nobility of Ithaca, Samos, Dulichium and Zacynthos. An honour guard, commanded by Antiphus, lined the newly whitewashed walls; it was drawn from the survivors of the battle for the palace six days before, many of whom still wore their bandages like badges of pride Beyond the gates, hundreds more people filled the broad terrace hoping for a sight of their king and queen.

A large space had been left clear before the threshold of the great hall, and Eperitus stood between Mentor and Halitherses in the first rank of onlookers. Both men had been severely wounded in the battle and would not fight again: with his hand severed, Mentor would no longer be able to hold a shield, whilst it was a miracle that Halitherses had survived at all. The old warrior had been hit in the foot and the arm and had lost a lot of blood as he lay beneath the palace walls, and it took all the skill of Eurycleia, Odysseus’s childhood nurse, to revive him. When Odysseus and Eperitus visited him two days later he swore never to lift a weapon in anger again, and with tears in his eyes resigned his position as captain of the guard there and then.

Odysseus was saddened, but recognized the will of the gods. That same evening he conferred the captaincy on Eperitus, as a reward for his services and a recognition of their friendship. To the young exile from Alybas it meant the security he longed for – a permanent home among friends, as well as a true sense of purpose and fulfilment. And at last, Eperitus felt he had absolved himself of the disgrace that had been brought upon him by his father. Though he remained the son of a treacherous usurper, by fighting to put a rightful king on his throne he had lessened the shadow on his family’s honour. His grandfather’s ghost would take satisfaction from that.

Eperitus looked about at the throng that filled the courtyard, but recognized only a few of the faces he saw. Mentes was on the opposite side of the cleared space, standing a full head above those around him and attracting much curiosity. Diocles and the surviving Spartans were on either side of him. Like many of the Ithacan guards, their necks were draped with garlands of flowers given to them by appreciative islanders. Eumaeus was there too, leaning on a crutch with his leg bandaged; he had been so badly hurt from the arrow wound that Eurycleia predicted he would carry a limp for as long as he lived.

Standing next to the swineherd, with her arm linked through his elbow, was Ctymene. The young girl’s attractiveness had grown in the time Eperitus had been away, and it was obvious she was fast becoming a woman. But Eperitus, too, had matured: he had seen Helen, the most beautiful woman in Greece, and he had slept with Clytaemnestra, queen of Mycenae. The princess, though disappointed at the indifference that her brother’s handsome friend had shown since his return to Ithaca, quickly tired of flirting with him and diverted her attentions to the many more responsive young men at the celebrations.

In the centre of the clearing, two high-backed chairs faced the entrance to the great hall. These were occupied by Laertes and Anticleia, who held hands and chatted quietly to each other, their words lost in the noise of the crowd. Then the doors of the great hall swung open and the courtyard fell into silence. A moment later, the king and queen stood as Odysseus and Penelope appeared beneath the pillared threshold and walked out into the bright sunshine.

Despite the solemnity of the occasion, Eperitus’s heart swelled with happiness as he watched his friends cross the courtyard to stand before Laertes and Anticleia. The prince was dressed in a fine purple tunic with a white robe about his shoulders, clasped together by a golden brooch. His wife wore a light green chiton with a white sash about the waist, reminding Eperitus of the new growth of spring that was already filling the island. She looked relaxed and confident as she held her husband’s hand, and Eperitus knew she had quickly become enamoured of her new home. When Odysseus was not dealing with the aftermath of the rebellion, he had spent time showing her his beloved Ithaca. Often Eperitus would be invited to join them as they walked its woods, climbed its mountains and explored its coastline. On these occasions he had seen how Penelope had taken to the island, and heard her talking of starting a family that would be safe from the wars and political rivalries of the mainland. She reminded him of Helen then, and made him pity Tyndareus’s daughter, whose looks had condemned her to a life as the trophy of powerful men.

That the people loved Penelope was clear, and the huge crowds outside the palace walls had gathered as much to see the new queen as the long-awaited succession of Odysseus. But it remained Odysseus’s moment of triumph. It was his leadership, intelligence and courage that had led them to Sparta and back, and had brought about the downfall of the rebellion. Because of him, their great task had been a success and Ithaca was free again. The long journeys, the battles, the treachery and the mesh of love and politics were behind them. And now Odysseus was to replace his father, just as the oracle had predicted.

Laertes looked his son firmly in the eye, but did not move. As a captive of Koronos, the old man had long before decided that his son should take his place as king if he overthrew the rebels; but as the two men stared at each other, Eperitus feared that Laertes might revoke his decision. Then the moment passed. The old man kissed Odysseus on both cheeks and placed a short staff in his hand – the symbol of rule on Ithaca. Then he and Anticleia bowed low and moved aside.

Odysseus and Penelope now stepped up to the vacant seats and turned. They held hands and stared about at the silent faces for a long moment. Then they sat down and the simple ceremony was complete: Odysseus had become king of Ithaca, and Penelope was his queen. The courtyard erupted with cheering that was echoed in the streets beyond, marking the start of many days of celebration.

As the cheers continued, Odysseus found Eperitus amongst the crowd and gave him an irreverent grin. Eperitus returned the smile, happy to share in his friend’s moment of triumph. Yet circling vulture-like over his joy was a nagging doubt: Odysseus had found a Spartan wife and was the ruler of his people, but the second part of his oracle remained, distant but threatening. And if Odysseus’s doom took him to Troy, as the Pythoness had warned, then Eperitus would go also. For that was the will of Zeus, which he had naively sought a lifetime ago at Mount Parnassus.

Table of Contents

Begin reading

Half-title page

Title page

Copyright page

Table of Contents

Dedication page

Acknowledgements

Glossary

Table of Contents

Begin reading

Half-title page

Title page

Copyright page

Table of Contents

Dedication page

Acknowledgements

Glossary