The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus) (3 page)

‘You forget he wasn’t bitten by any ordinary snake,’ Odysseus said. ‘It was sent by Thetis, in answer to Achilles’s calls for vengeance because Philoctetes beat him in the race to Tenedos. The wound’s a curse from the goddess, and if she wanted the pain to last for ten years without killing him then you can be sure he’s still alive. One thing’s for certain, though: the pain and the loneliness of this place will have sent Philoctetes half-mad at the least, if not completely insane. We need to be on our guard and do nothing to frighten him – nothing at all! And that means leaving our weapons in the boat.’

Diomedes laughed, his handsome face genuinely amused as he patted the ivory pommel of his sword.

‘This blade is never more than a few paces beyond my reach, old friend, and if you think I’m going to face an embittered madman like Philoctetes without it –’

‘With respect, my lord,’ Antiphus interrupted, ‘what good will your sword be against the bow and arrows of Heracles? It’s said they never miss their target and the tips are poisonous, so if Philoctetes wants to shoot us dead then our weapons aren’t going to stop him.’

‘I’d rather take my chances
with
my sword than
without
it, thank you Antiphus,’ Diomedes replied. ‘Besides, I’ll keep it well hidden beneath my cloak.’

Odysseus slipped his sheathed sword from his shoulder and set it down on a pile of black seaweed.

‘One careless movement of your hand’ll be enough to show you’re armed, Diomedes, and then you’ll only have yourself to blame if Philoctetes gets the idea into his head that we’re not friendly. Either leave your sword here with Polites, or stay by the boat yourself and let Polites take your place.’

Diomedes gave him a surly look, then unbuckled his baldric and placed his sword down beside Odysseus’s. Antiphus’s bow, arrows and dagger were next, followed by the spears and swords of Eurylochus and Eperitus.

‘Good,’ Odysseus said, flicking his hood up to hide his face. ‘Eperitus, lead the way – just follow your sense of smell and we’re bound to find him.’

Eperitus paused to sniff the foul air, then, pulling his cloak about his shoulders, began to pick his way between the seaweed-festooned rocks and the small, dark pools that hid between them. The others followed, except for Polites, who had been given the task of keeping watch over the boat and their weapons while they were away. Glancing back, Eperitus saw Odysseus reach into the boat for a skin of water, which he threw over his shoulder before turning to speak to the giant warrior. His words were too low even for Eperitus’s acute hearing to pick out from the constant cawing of the gulls, and a moment later the king had turned back and was following behind Antiphus.

Eperitus moved with the cliffs to his right – an unending wall that forbade access to the rest of Lemnos and confined them to the narrow, rugged strip of land that skirted the sea. The fog, if anything, was growing thicker. It condensed on his beard and eyelashes to form little droplets of water that would occasionally merge and trickle into his eyes or down his neck. The stench of brine and seagull droppings pervaded everything, but soon even this was eclipsed by the reek Eperitus had first picked up on the galley. The others could smell it too by now and began to complain under their breath or cover their faces with their cloaks. Diomedes and Odysseus both wore scarves to keep the rims of their breastplates from rubbing against their necks, but had pulled them up over their mouths and noses to filter out the foul odour; the others had no choice but to endure it. After a while Eperitus detected a low groaning that reminded him of a battlefield after nightfall, when the fighting had stopped and the opposing armies had settled down by their campfires, only to be haunted by the cries of the wounded among the corpses in-between, calling out for their friends to find them or to the gods to claim their wretched souls. The sound grew nearer, though none of his comrades remarked on it, and he noticed there were no more seagulls on the cliff faces above them. There was something else, too, something his instincts had been aware of for a while but he had not been able until that moment to identify. He realised they were being followed.

‘What’s that?’ Eurylochus hissed, stopping and pointing into the mist.

Eperitus traced the direction of his finger and saw a ring of small, fist-sized stones on a plateau of rock ahead of him. They were grey with ash and a pile of burnt wood lay heaped up between them. Scattered about the remains of the fire were thin white sticks of varying lengths, which Eperitus quickly realised were the bones of seagulls. He could tell the ashes were cold, but by the smell of them they were no older than the previous night. He reached instinctively for his sword and remembered he had left it with Polites.

Odysseus moved past his shoulder and gave the remains of the fire a kick with his heel. The heavier ash that had not been blown away by the sea breeze now rose up in a small cloud about his ankles.

‘It’s recent,’ he declared, slipping his scarf momentarily down from his mouth. ‘He’s here somewhere.’

As he spoke Eperitus sensed a change and realised the groaning had stopped. He raised a finger to his lips, gesturing the others to silence. A number of large boulders had rolled down from the cliff countless years before, forming a clumsy ramp that led up the sheer rock face. Eperitus’s gaze followed the boulders up the side of the cliff, noticing signs of smoothing here and there, as well as smaller stones that seemed to have been put in place to act as steps where the rocks were steepest. And then, as he looked higher up the fog-shrouded precipice, he saw the triangular mouth of a cave.

‘He’s in there,’ he whispered, pointing.

The five men moved forward together, craning their heads back to stare up at the opening above them. Odysseus laid a hand on Diomedes’s shoulder.

‘Be careful of everything you say. He’s had ten years to dwell on his hatred of the Greeks, so don’t provoke him or threaten him in any way. Remember his bow and arrows.’

He covered his face again and drew back to stand behind the others. Diomedes looked up at the cave and cupped a hand to his mouth.

‘Philoctetes,’ he called. ‘Philoctetes, son of Poeas, if you’re up there then show yourself. We wish to speak with you.’

There was no reply. After a few more moments, Diomedes turned to Eperitus with a frown.

‘Are you certain he’s up there? I know your senses are keener than ours, but –’

‘Look again,’ Eperitus said, nodding at the mouth of the cave and pinching his nose against the fresh stench polluting the already bad air.

The others peered up through the mist and saw that a figure had appeared. A tall bow was clutched in its left hand and an arrow had been fitted, drawn in readiness to fire at the hooded figures below. The weapon was undoubtedly the one Heracles had given to Philoctetes, but whether the creature that held it was the Malian archer – or even a human being at all – could barely be discerned. Its skin was pale and ingrained with years of dirt; its bare limbs were so thin and wasted that they were no thicker than a small child’s; the rags that covered its torso seemed to hang like the tattered remnants of a sail over a mast; and the creature’s long beard and hair made its head seem much too large for its emaciated body. But Eperitus’s sharp eyes were able to see the face clearly. It was a face that was as twisted and misshapen as the trees that grew on the windswept plains of Ilium, a face that had been distorted irrevocably by years of excruciating pain and cancerous hatred, but a face that had undeniably once belonged to Philoctetes.

Diomedes stepped back, groping for Eperitus’s wrist and seizing it.

‘Is that … is that
him
?’ he hissed, unable to tear his eyes away from the savage figure aiming its bow at them from the boulders above.

‘Yes, it’s Philoctetes,’ Eperitus replied, freeing his wrist and placing his hand on Diomedes’s shoulder, urging him forward once more.

The archer lowered his weapon a fraction, revealing dark eyes as he stared down at the newcomers to his island.

‘Who are you?’ he croaked, the very act of speaking causing him to break out in a fit of dry coughing that took a few moments to recover from. ‘Who are you and what do you want on my island?’

‘Are you Philoctetes, son of Poeas?’ Diomedes repeated.

‘This is the body that once bore that name, though both the man and his fame have been forgotten by this world. But
this
is the bow of Heracles, whom the gods raised up to live with them on Mount Olympus, having made him immortal like themselves. Its arrows never miss and their tips are poisonous, so if you’ve come to mock the ghost of Philoctetes or steal the rocks and stones that are his possessions, then beware.’

‘It’s true you’ve become a pitiful figure, Philoctetes,’ Diomedes replied. ‘Yet you were once a prince of Malia, and custom dictates a prince should treat his visitors with decorum, even if his home is a cold and lonely rock like this. You speak of the gods with respect in your voice, so if you honour them then honour us.’

Philoctetes frowned angrily, then shifted his position with surprising speed, using the rocks for support. Diomedes and the others flinched instinctively as he raised his bow and fired into the air. A moment later there was a squawk, followed by a loud thump as a gull crashed onto the rocks before them.

‘You see?’ he crowed, his eyes wide as he stared at them along the shaft of a new arrow. ‘Philoctetes has provided a feast to celebrate your arrival on Lemnos! But first – just to show he hasn’t forgotten how to observe the rules of xenia – he must know your identities and what it is you want of him? Are you merchants, seeking the way to Ilium or Greece? He’d lead you there himself, though you aren’t the first visitors to this rock and none of your predecessors ever offered Philoctetes passage on their ships. Not as soon as they caught wind of
this
!’

He raised his leg to show a foot bandaged in cloth that was black with filth. As he did so he gave out a cry of anguished despair and fell back against a boulder, beating the stone with the flat of his free hand and raising a scream to the invisible skies above, where he knew the gods remained indifferent to his pain. Eperitus caught a movement from the corner of his eye and turned to see that Eurylochus had taken a step forward. His hand was cupped over his mouth and nose to filter out some of the reek of Philoctetes’s wound, and in his eyes Eperitus could see he was debating whether to leap up the rocks and take the bow and arrows by force while their owner was paralysed with agony. Then, before Eurylochus could make his decision, the screaming ended in another fit of coughing and Philoctetes slid himself back up against the boulder. He raised his bow and drew back the arrow once more, though weakly, and aimed it at the men below.

‘So who are you?’ he called in a tired voice. ‘Do you have any lineage to speak of? And what in the name of Heracles brings you to this forsaken place?’

‘As for whom I am, you know me already,’ Diomedes answered, tipping back his hood. ‘I am Diomedes, son of Tydeus. I have come to ask if you will rejoin the army and fight with us against Troy.’

Philoctetes did not move. His eyes narrowed slightly as they stared down the shaft of the arrow at the king of Argos, but he said nothing. Then a flicker of anger touched his twisted features. He gripped the bow tightly and drew the string back to his sneering lip.

‘He prayed you would come one day,’ he said, heavy tears swelling up in the corners of his eyes before rolling down his filthy cheeks and into his beard. ‘Philoctetes prayed you would come back for him, snivelling like curs, pleading for him and his arrows to save your worthless skins. He prayed for this day so
hard
and so
long
, to Heracles and any god who would listen, offering the only sacrifices his kingdom of rocks could provide – birds, fish and crabs! Have you ever tried to sacrifice a crab, Diomedes? Do the gods even accept such meagre sacrifices? But of course they do, or why else have you come?’

‘Indeed, why else have we come, Philoctetes, unless it was the gods who sent us? The Greeks have need of your bow and arrows and Agamemnon himself requests that you return to the army and help us secure the final victory over Priam.’

‘
Agamemnon
!’ Philoctetes spat. ‘What does Philoctetes care for that man and his requests? What service does Philoctetes owe to him, or to any of you for that matter? How long has it been since you abandoned him here? It must be at least five years by now.’

‘It’s ten.’

‘
Ten
!’ Philoctetes reeled back, bearing his blackened teeth in a snarl and slapping repeatedly at the boulder with the flat of his hand. ‘Ten years alone, with nothing but seagulls and his hatred of the Greeks to keep him company! In the name of Heracles, can it have been so long?’

‘Be glad it doesn’t have to be any longer,’ Diomedes said, a little impatiently. ‘What’s more, Agamemnon realises you were wronged when we left you here and doesn’t expect you to return to the army without compensation. He offers seven copper tripods and cauldrons to go with them, never touched by fire, along with ten ingots of gold and three slave women trained in all the household arts. These are fine gifts, Philoctetes, and you will bring yourself great honour by accepting them.’

Philoctetes was half lost in a sheet of fog that had rolled down from the cliff tops above, but his husky voice was clearly audible in the damp air.

‘Philoctetes always liked you, Diomedes. You were one of the few kings who had a shred of decency in them. Yet you don’t have Odysseus’s powers of persuasion, or that honeyed voice of his; indeed, you make Agamemnon’s gifts sound as exciting as roast seagull. The King of Men should have sent Odysseus instead; Philoctetes could have enjoyed the skill of his arguments, and then had the satisfaction of shooting him dead in payment for marooning him here! Now go back in your ship and tell Agamemnon to keep his offer. Philoctetes doesn’t need cauldrons or gold – not here – and any “honour” attached to them would be more than compensated for by the shame of serving an army that betrayed him!’

‘Then forget the gifts,’ Diomedes snapped, jabbing his finger at the mist-shrouded figure above. ‘Forget Agamemnon, forget the army, forget the oath we took to protect Helen. If you’re so twisted with hatred of your own countrymen –’