The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus) (31 page)

The watching armies, which for a few moments had been awed into silence, now shouted encouragement and cheered as the two men circled each other, seeking opportunities to attack. A Mysian soldier tossed his shield out into the long grass and Eurypylus ran towards it, pursued by Neoptolemus. He snatched up the leather and wicker disc just in time to push aside the thrust of the Greek’s spear, then leapt forward with the tip of his sword. It beat Neoptolemus’s guard, slipping inside the edge of his shield and finding his bronze cuirass. But the armour that Neoptolemus wore had not been forged by men in the fires of an earthly smithy. It was the work of the smith-god, Hephaistos, and had never been pierced by any weapon. It turned the point of Eurypylus’s sword with a flash of sparks and the king stepped away in dismay and wonder. Neoptolemus, too, fell back a few paces, looking down at himself as if expecting to see his life’s blood pouring from him. When he realised the invulnerability of his armour, his shock quickly turned to triumph. Gripping the shaft of his father’s spear with both hands, he lunged at Eurypylus. The Mysian raised his shield in defence, but the layered oxhide was no match for the cruel bronze point or the ruthless strength behind it. The spear punched through the shield and found the base of Eurypylus’s throat, passing through the spinal cord with such force that his head was almost torn from his shoulders. The onlookers fell suddenly silent, and as Neoptolemus withdrew his spear and his victim’s body slumped lifeless to the ground the Trojans cried out in grief, while the Greeks shouted to the skies in exultation. Achilles’s son drew his sword and straddled the body of Eurypylus, taking three blows to hack off the head before lifting it by the plume of its helmet so that everyone could witness his victory.

Now the battle recommenced with a fury. A hum of bowstrings drove away the groans and cheers of the two sides and the air above the Greek walls was momentarily dark with arrows, before the deadly rain fell down among the unprepared ranks of Trojans and Mysians. Many fell, the dead in silence and the wounded in shrieks of pain. Other voices followed, but these were the roars of the Greeks as they charged into their shocked enemies. The Trojan archers released a hurried volley, felling several, but not enough to stop the terrifying assault. Moments later the spearmen of Mycenae, Sparta, Corinth and a dozen other nations were driving the centre of the Trojan line back with great slaughter. From his vantage point, Eperitus could see Agamemnon and Menelaus in the forefront of the attack, with Idomeneus the Cretan and Menestheus the Athenian leading the fight on each flank. Neoptolemus abandoned the armour he had been stripping from Eurypylus, unable to resist launching his own onslaught against the rear of the enemy line. Deiphobus, alone now in command of the Trojans and their allies, could do nothing to halt the inevitable disintegration of his army. At first, small groups broke and fled; then, as the Greeks poured through the rents in their enemies’ ranks, the rest took flight.

‘Go now,’ Odysseus shouted to Eperitus over the din of battle. ‘Find Podaleirius or another healer. I don’t want to lose you to a mere flesh wound.’

He slapped the hind quarters of the horse and sent it leaping forward. Eperitus, who had ridden horses since childhood in Alybas, took charge of the frightened animal and directed it towards the gates where the Greeks were still pouring thick and furious from their camp. Then, as he rode between fleeing Trojans and their pursuers, a single horn blew a long note that rose above the clamour of war and turned many heads towards its source. Eperitus glanced to his left and saw the ranks of the Trojan cavalry, who had been pulled from the chaos of battle and reformed into a controlled fighting unit. The great mass of horses and men sprang forward, building up momentum as they rode with gathering speed towards the battle. At their head was Apheidas, charging to the rescue of his retreating countrymen as he had done so many times before. And as Eperitus’s eyes fell upon his father, he cast aside any thought of returning to the Greek camp. Drawing his sword, he pressed his heels back into the flanks of his mount and sent it galloping at the wall of approaching cavalry.

Apheidas saw him almost immediately. Abandoning all consideration for the rest of the battle, he steered his black stallion towards his son and leaned across its neck with his sword held at arm’s length before him. While the mass of horsemen behind him raced on towards the Greek spearmen – whose flank had been left exposed by Agamemnon’s headlong pursuit of the enemy infantry – a group of half a dozen riders broke off to follow their leader.

Eperitus cared little for the fact he was now facing seven horsemen, or that his chances of survival were small. With his sword outstretched before him, he focussed on his father and kicked back hard. But he had forgotten the wound in his thigh, which had been rapidly draining his strength since Odysseus had pushed the arrow out of the flesh. His blood-soaked leg now gave beneath the effort and a great stab of pain surged up through his body, weakening his hold on his horse. The last thing he saw before his vision went black and he slid from the galloping mount was Apheidas’s snarling grin and the gleam of sunlight flashing from his blade.

T
HE
K
EROSIA

L
aertes spat on the ground and shook a gnarled fist at Eupeithes.

‘My son
will
return, and when he finds out what you’ve been up to in his absence he’ll make sure you and all these cronies of yours are kicked off the Kerosia for good. That’s if he doesn’t just have you executed, like he should have done twenty years ago!’

‘Sit back down you old fool!’ Antinous growled, half rising from his chair.

‘Watch what comes out of your mouth, lad,’ warned Oenops, laying a hand on the youngest member of the Kerosia’s shoulder and easing him back into his seat. ‘Remember Laertes was once our king.’

‘What does his generation care for rightful kings?’ Laertes said dismissively. ‘And least of all a son of Eupeithes.’

‘My friends,’ Penelope interjected, ‘be calm and respect the rules of this council.’

She looked at the two old enemies who were staring at each other with open animosity. Eupeithes stood to her left with the speaker’s staff clutched in his hand as if it were a king’s sceptre, his usually pallid complexion warm and flushed from the heat of the central hearth. On the other side of the flames was the bent form of Laertes, glaring with fierce hatred at the man who had once tried to usurp his throne when he had been king of Ithaca. When Penelope had first seen her father-in-law he had been pale-skinned with spindly legs and a bloated stomach, more like an upended frog than a king. Since ceding power to his son, though, he had retired to his farm with Anticleia, his wife, and thrown himself into the hard labour of growing crops and keeping livestock. Now his distended belly had shrunk to a paunch and his flaccid muscles had become as firm as knotted rope. With his sunburnt skin he looked like the root of an old tree standing in the middle of the great hall, tough and immovable.

‘Father,’ Penelope said, ‘Eupeithes has the speaker’s staff. You must return to your seat. Please.’

Laertes sat back down with a show of reluctance and Eupeithes stepped forward into the space he had vacated.

‘Whatever foolish hopes some of us may be clinging on to, it’s clear to me that we cannot wait forever for Odysseus to return. The world beyond our little group of islands is changing rapidly. Outsiders are beginning to enter Greece from the distant north. They are allowed to settle and establish themselves because the mainland kingdoms are too weak to throw them out. It won’t be long before they find their way here. Ithaca needs strong, singular leadership if it is to survive.’

‘Perhaps you should claim the throne for yourself,’ Laertes sneered, ‘bringing in Taphians like you did before.’

Eupeithes ignored him and looked at Penelope. ‘I have a proposal, my lady, and Oenops, Polyctor and Antinous are in full agreement with me. We feel that if Odysseus does not return within two years, he must be assumed to have perished and you must remarry for the good of Ithaca. According to our ancient laws, your new husband will then become king in Odysseus’s place.’

‘Never!’ Laertes barked.

Even Mentor, who had sat listening uneasily to Eupeithes’s slow build-up throughout the morning, rose from his chair with a look of fierce disapproval on his handsome features.

‘That’s preposterous! What about Telemachus, Odysseus’s rightful heir? The law you quote depends on the queen
agreeing
to remarry, and Penelope would never deny her son his birthright.’

‘Telemachus is still a boy,’ Eupeithes retorted. ‘He won’t come of age for another eleven years, and Ithaca can’t wait that long for a king. If Penelope’s new husband – our new king – dies before then and leaves no offspring of his own,
then
Telemachus can inherit the throne.’

‘You have a nerve, Eupeithes, suggesting such a thing before
me
,’ Penelope said, rising from her seat. ‘You act as if Odysseus is dead already! How can you expect me to marry another man when my husband is still alive? You certainly can’t
force
me to do such a thing!’

Eupeithes smiled patiently at the queen.

‘If I’m blunt, then it’s because something needs to be done to protect the kingdom from spiralling into chaos. We can’t wait forever for Odysseus to return. You must know the nobility are growing restless. They want proper leadership.’

‘Are you
threatening
me, Eupeithes?’ Penelope asked. ‘If you want proper leadership, why don’t you introduce a law that simply allows the Kerosia to elect a new king? If you’re so determined to seize power, why do you need me anyway?’

‘The Kerosia doesn’t have that power and Eupeithes knows it,’ said Mentor. ‘He needs you for legitimacy, my lady. The people won’t support an elected king, only one with a lawful connection to the royal line – one chosen by you. And after what happened the last time he tried to take the throne by force, he wouldn’t dare seize power again without the support of the people.’

‘He wants to put his own son on the throne,’ Laertes said, looking at Penelope. ‘It’s obvious he’ll insist you marry Antinous. Don’t let him, Daughter.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Eupeithes defended himself. ‘Penelope will choose her own husband. I will not stand accused of forcing my own son onto the throne. Any Ithacan would be able to plead for Penelope’s hand.’

‘And if I refused?’ she asked, tartly. ‘If I decided never to remarry, regardless of whether my husband is
assumed to have perished
or not?’

‘Then I cannot be answerable for the consequences. If that meant civil war and the shedding of innocent blood, then you would only have yourself to blame.’

Penelope sat down and stared at Eupeithes, but his face was so full of false concern that she could not bear to look at him any longer and turned her eyes to the open doors of the great hall, through which she could see the bright sunlight filling the courtyard. She thought of Odysseus, far away in Troy. She wondered what he would think of the way she had allowed the Kerosia to slip from her control, and of her decision to send Telemachus into virtual exile in Sparta. One thing she could be sure of, though, was that he would expect her not to give up. Things were darker now than they had been in all the years since her husband’s departure, but she still had the upper hand. The people of Ithaca supported Odysseus, and sooner or later the king would return. Until then, it was her duty to buy time and delay Eupeithes’s sudden push for power. And at all costs, she had to avoid forcing the old traitor into resorting to arms. If
he
knew the consequences of usurping power, there were plenty around him who did
not
. They would demand a show of strength if Eupeithes could not promise them a clear route to the throne. And she was the only one who could offer him that.

‘You leave me no choice, Eupeithes. I agree to your proposal.’

A wide smile spread across the merchant’s face, while behind him Antinous, Polyctor and Oenops congratulated each other openly with handshakes and pats on the back. Mentor kept his silence out of respect for the queen, though his frown spoke of his disapproval. Laertes simply shook his head.

‘This is folly, Daughter. I’m not so old and bitter that I don’t know what you’re thinking. I was king myself not so long ago, and I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to have the threat of civil war hanging over my people. But to just give in to these pretenders? There are better ways to prevent bloodshed.’

‘But you didn’t find them when you were king, did you Father. And as long as I am queen, I will not sit by and watch Ithaca fall back into division and war.’

‘Then I hope you know what you’re doing, Penelope,’ he said

‘I hope so too.’

‘More wine,’ Eupeithes commanded the servants waiting in the shadows beyond the circle of chairs. ‘We must seal your agreement with an oath before it is announced to the people.’

The members of the Kerosia raised their cups to be refilled. As one of the maids poured wine into Antinous’s krater, Penelope saw their eyes meet and the flicker of a smile cross the young girl’s lips. Melantho was only recently married – to Arceisius, Eperitus’s squire, before his return to Troy – and yet the queen knew in an instant she was sleeping with Eupeithes’s son. The thought made her sad for Arceisius, and even angrier with the war that had brought so evil a legacy upon Greece.

After her own cup had been refilled, she watched Eupeithes pour a libation into the flames and lift his krater into the air. Oenops, Polyctor and Antinous did the same and were reluctantly followed by Mentor and Laertes. Penelope remained in her chair, holding her krater firmly in her lap.

‘If I’m to agree to marry another man,’ she said, ‘it can only be on one condition.’

‘It’s too late for that now,’ Eupeithes said.

‘Not until this wine touches my lips.’

‘Then what is it?’ he snapped. ‘What condition must I agree to to obtain your promise?’