The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus) (51 page)

‘No prisoners or loot beyond this gate, Agamemnon’s orders. Take them into the barrack room for fair distribution later.’

‘You can tell my brother that Helen of Sparta is no man’s prisoner,’ Menelaus answered. ‘Neither are my son or any of these maids.’

Peisandros stared wide-eyed at the blood-caked faces of the two kings, then with a shout of joy seized each man’s hand in turn and shook it.

‘My lords! We feared you were dead. There’ve been all sorts of rumours –’

‘Rumours haunt every battle,’ Odysseus chided him with a smile. ‘I’ve been killed at least a dozen times during this war. And a veteran like you should know better than to listen to such nonsense.’

‘True enough,’ Peisandros agreed, his gaze wandering to Helen. ‘So you’ve found her. And no less beautiful than the last time I saw her, all those years ago in Sparta.’

‘More beautiful,’ Menelaus corrected him. ‘Now, go and pick twenty of your best men to escort us back to the ships.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Peisandros replied, shooting a last glance at Helen before striding off to carry out his orders.

‘Now you’ve found yourselves a guard, Menelaus, I’m going back into the citadel,’ Odysseus said.

‘Are you mad?’ Helen asked, a look of genuine concern on her face.

Odysseus shook his head.

‘Eperitus is somewhere up there. I won’t abandon him to be mistaken for a Trojan by a pack of victory-drunk Greeks.’

Menelaus took his hand in both of his.

‘Thank you, Odysseus. I doubt things would have turned out as they have without your help.’

Helen released her hold of Pleisthenes and stepped forward.

‘Menelaus is too frugal in his praise,’ she said, embracing the Ithacan king closely. ‘We owe you everything.’

‘Can I send a few of Peisandros’s men with you?’ Menelaus offered.

‘No need – it’ll be less dangerous without Helen and her maids. But there is one thing you can do for me.’

‘Name it.’

‘You remember Antenor, the Trojan elder who was our host when we came to the city before the siege started?’

‘Of course.’

‘His house is close to the citadel walls, a little to the right beyond the gates – you’ll remember it when you see it. If he and his family are still alive, take them down to the ships with you. He was a good man and doesn’t deserve to be slaughtered with the rest.’

‘Few do, if you ask me,’ Menelaus replied, ‘but I’ll do as you wish. May Athena go with you, Odysseus.’

Odysseus nodded, though the Spartan’s words were a painful reminder that the goddess had abandoned him. He turned and ran back into the anarchy of the citadel. The mayhem had, if anything, increased. Bodies were everywhere, many stripped of clothing, others left like bundles of rumpled linen, barely recognisable as human beings. Odysseus had seen more battles than he could remember, but witnessing the slaughter of armed soldiers was poor preparation for the sight of old men, women and children lying murdered in the streets. He came across a dead woman, naked but for a single sandal, her outstretched hand still clutching the arm of a trampled infant. Many others lay where they had been stabbed, with lifeless eyes staring up at the blood-coloured clouds above. There were some, though, whose bodies had been hewn horribly by several blades. The scene sickened him and he thought of his beloved Penelope and little Telemachus – only ten years old – and how they might look dead on the streets of Ithaca. Vulnerable Ithaca. The fact he had left his home and family unprotected for so long suddenly tore at him, filling him with surprising panic.

A scream interrupted his thoughts and a half-naked girl ran from a nearby doorway. Her sun-darkened skin marked her out as a slave, but beneath the dishevelled hair and the bleeding lip Odysseus could see she was beautiful. Five men ran out of the house after her, the first still clutching a piece of the girl’s dress in his fist. He also carried the marks of her fingernails on his red jowls.

‘Come back here, you whore!’ he shouted, dashing after her as she ran to the foot of the ramp that led up to the middle tier of the citadel. ‘We haven’t finished with you yet.’

‘Eurylochus!’ Odysseus shouted angrily, recognising his cousin. Two of the others he also knew to be Ithacans, though they were the kind of soldiers he was not proud to think of as his countrymen. The other two were Taphian mercenaries who had arrived earlier in the summer with the last batch of reinforcements from Troy. ‘Leave her alone! Why aren’t you with the rest of the army?’

The five men paused and half turned at the authority in Odysseus’s voice, but there was no shame in their drunken faces as they stared back at their king. Indeed, the Taphians eyed him with distinct rebellion in their eyes, as if they would happily have struck him down there and then.

‘What army?’ Eurylochus replied. ‘There is no army, just packs of soldiers getting their own back on the bastards who’ve kept us from our homes for ten years.’

‘She’s getting away!’ one of the others shouted ruefully, as the girl ran up the ramp and disappeared.

Odysseus felt his temper snap.

‘Get back into the city and find as many Ithacans as you can!’ he shouted, red-faced with anger as he advanced on them. ‘Start restoring order, damn you. And if you lay hands on another woman without my permission, I’ll see you hanged for it in the morning. Do you understand?’

Eurylochus scowled at him and the others showed an open reluctance to do as they were ordered. One of the Taphians circled to Odysseus’s unshielded right, while the other clutched the handle of his sword and began easing the blade from its sheath.

‘Put it away, Selagos,’ Eurylochus hissed at him. ‘Let’s go find the rest of our countrymen.’

He spat on the flagstones as a last, defiant gesture, then slunk off reluctantly towards the gates to the lower city, followed by his cronies. But as Odysseus ran up the ramp to the middle tier of the citadel – hoping to find the girl and take her under his protection – he saw them turn aside down one of the narrow streets, doubtless hunting for more victims. The girl was nowhere to be seen when Odysseus reached the top of the slope, and after a fruitless search among the nearest alleys he knew she was gone, perhaps already snatched up by another group of soldiers. Suddenly weary, he stumbled into a doorway and leaned with his back against the wall. He had barely calmed his breathing again when a fierce clash of weaponry erupted from nearby. Five men in Trojan armour came sprinting around the corner of a house. Their leader was splendidly armoured and Odysseus recognised him as one of Priam’s few remaining sons; the others were members of the royal guard. Their weapons were red with gore and exhaustion was written in their every movement as they ran towards the temple of Zeus, farther up the street. Odysseus had hardly noticed the large, richly decorated building until that point, but as the men lumbered towards it he realised that they were seeking sanctuary inside, desperately hoping that the gods would protect them. As he looked at the edifice, he noticed for the first time that there was a ring of Greek soldiers standing about it. For a moment he was mystified; then he realised that others must have sought refuge there, and so far the victorious invaders had maintained enough self-discipline to respect the sanctity of the temple, preferring to set a watch over it and keep anyone from leaving or entering.

A number of Greeks now moved to block the advance of the handful of Trojans. At the same moment, another group of Greek soldiery came running around the same corner the Trojans had first appeared from. Neoptolemus was at their head, unmistakeable in his father’s god-made armour.

‘There he is!’ Neoptolemus shouted. ‘After him.’

Priam’s son turned at the sound of Neoptolemus’s voice, knowing that his route to the temple of Zeus was blocked and that he would have to face Achilles’s ferocious son in battle. Taking a spear from one his companions, he launched it into the pack of pursuing Greeks. The throw was straight and powerful, but Neoptolemus raised his magnificent shield and knocked it aside with contempt. With a hateful shout the two sides ran at each other, their shields crashing and weapons ringing loudly. Odysseus stood up, trying to see more of the uneven struggle. Strangely, he felt himself hoping the Trojans would give a good account of themselves, or at least make a break for the temple. But the fight was over almost immediately, with Neoptolemus pushing his way out of the crowd and bellowing triumphantly, the severed head of Priam’s son held aloft in his hand.

A despairing cry tore through the night air as he showed his trophy to the baying soldiers. Odysseus looked at the pillared entrance to the temple, where an old man stood with his fists raised to the heavens. He was surrounded by half a dozen crying women, several of them pulling at the man’s cloak in an attempt to keep him within the confines of the temple. Their efforts were in vain: the man pushed them away and staggered down the broad steps towards the towering statue of Zeus that fronted the building.

Without his black wig and face powder, Priam was only recognisable to Odysseus by his great height and the wailing figure of Hecabe following him from the temple. The old king ignored his wife’s pleading and stooped to pick up a discarded spear. That such a frail being was able to lift the weapon was amazing, and as he raised it above his shoulder and called to Neoptolemus the young warrior merely laughed and tossed Priam the head of his son.

‘What are you waiting for, you old fool?’ he goaded, throwing his arms open and standing with his legs apart on the flagstones. ‘Avenge your son’s death.’

‘Priam, no!’ Odysseus shouted, guessing what was about to happen and running out from the doorway.

If Priam heard him, he paid no attention and hurled the spear with all his remaining strength. The throw was pathetic, skittering across the floor to be stopped by Neoptolemus’s sandalled foot. The Myrmidon prince’s mocking features were instantly transformed. Curling back his lip, he sprinted towards the king of Troy, his sword raised high above his head. Priam turned and staggered back to the temple, sprawling over the steps as Neoptolemus caught up with him. Odysseus barged his way through the crowd of black-clad Myrmidons and called out.

‘Stop! Neoptolemus, stop!’

Neoptolemus was now standing astride Priam on the steps. He turned to see Odysseus running towards him, then with a scornful grin reached down to seize Priam’s thinning locks of grey hair. Pulling the old man’s head back, he lifted his blade and brought it down with a savage blow, slicing through the throat. The head came away and swung from his hand, dripping trails of blood over Neoptolemus’s legs and feet. For a brief instant silence pressed down on the scene. The king of Troy was dead. The Trojan people’s cause was finished. This was the moment that ended the war.

Then screams broke the stillness. The women gathered at the top of the steps – Priam’s surviving daughters – cried out in horror at the murder of their father and fled back into the temple. Odysseus slumped back against the plinth of the statue of Zeus, while behind him the Myrmidons and the other Greeks gave a victorious shout and rushed towards the holy sanctuary.

‘Come on,’ Neoptolemus encouraged them. ‘Agamemnon ordered that no stone was to be left standing on another. Tear this place down; take what you want, including the women – you’ve earned it. Then burn it to the ground!’

Odysseus watched Hecabe drag herself to her feet, only to be knocked down again by the stampeding soldiers. A spearman paused beside her, stooped down and proceeded to tear at the old woman’s clothing. Odysseus kicked him onto his back and pressed the point of his sword against his throat.

‘Leave her alone,’ he hissed.

The Myrmidon stared back at him angrily, then dragged himself back on his elbows and pushed the weapon aside.

‘Your welcome to the old hag,’ he replied with a sneer, before leaping to his feet and running into the temple.

Screams were now emanating from the open doorway. Odysseus looked up wearily and saw Neoptolemus still standing on the steps, wiping his blade on Priam’s cloak. The Ithacan fought to control his anger before walking up to Achilles’s son.

‘You’ve earned your father’s armour tonight, Neoptolemus,’ he began. ‘Achilles was a savage man, but I never thought I’d see his brutality outdone.’

Neoptolemus laughed at his contempt.

‘Wasn’t this what you brought me here to do, Odysseus? To fulfil the oracle and end the royal line of Troy? Then don’t complain if I choose to accomplish my destiny with as much cruelty and ruthlessness as is necessary.’

‘The royal line isn’t ended yet,’ Odysseus told him, then turned his back on the prince and walked over to Hecabe.

‘Come with me,’ he said, helping her to her feet. ‘I’ll keep you safe.’

T
HE
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NAKE
P
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E
peritus’s feet hit the earthen floor where the flames of the torch had cleared a circle among the writhing mass of snakes. His legs buckled beneath him and he fell onto his front, only to feel a searing pain shoot through his arm. His first thought was that he had been bitten, but as he rolled away he felt the heat of the torch and realised he had been burned. He lay there for two or three heartbeats, listening with horror to the hiss of the snakes all around him, then pushed himself up onto his haunches.

His fingers closed about the stem of the torch and he swung it round in an arc. It fluttered briefly and blazed up again, revealing a sight that filled him with revulsion. A sea of serpentine bodies surrounded him, squirming and thrashing as they retreated from the flame. Dozens of heads rose up, exposing pink, ribbed mouths with fangs that glistened in the torchlight. The sight of them made him nauseous, contracting his stomach muscles so tightly that he had to press his hand over his mouth to stop himself from vomiting. He swivelled on one foot and swept the torch in a circle about himself, forcing the snakes as far back as he could while he searched for Astynome among them. She was nowhere to be seen and for a horrifying moment he imagined her body had already been lost beneath the vile creatures. Despair gripped him, knowing that no-one could survive the venomous bite of even one snake, let alone so many.