The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus) (54 page)

Then, when Omeros told him they had seen Apheidas, he realised he had been wrong. He had to go after him. Whether he wanted to take a final opportunity for revenge – despite everything Astynome had warned him against – or simply hoped to find his father’s body, he could not yet say. Only he knew he had to see the matter to its conclusion.

The ramp to the palace was scattered with the dead and dying. The courtyard above was also covered with corpses, including many Trojan soldiers who had made their last stand there. Now all was still and silent, but for the flames roaring from the upper windows of the once-beautiful building. Then a familiar voice called his name and he turned to see Odysseus running across from the steps that led up to the battlements, followed by Hecabe.

‘Thank the gods you’re alive,’ Odysseus exclaimed, embracing his captain. ‘But where’s Astynome? Didn’t you find her?’

‘She’s safe. And Helen?’

Odysseus nodded and briefly summarised the things he had seen and done since they had parted.

‘And now we need to gather the army back together and restore discipline. Even if Agamemnon has ordered every male to be slain, I won’t have my Ithacans take any more part in it. And I intend to make sure there’s at least one functional part of this army that can offer protection to the women of Troy.’

He glanced at Hecabe, but the old woman understood little or nothing of his Greek.

‘My father’s in the palace,’ Eperitus announced awkwardly, aware that he was asking to neglect his duty as captain of Odysseus’s guard.

‘Then we’d better deal with him first,’ Odysseus replied.

The destruction inside the palace had left it almost unrecognisable, causing Hecabe to wail aloud as her grief was renewed. The plastered walls, many of which had boasted intricate and colourful murals, were now stained by smoke or splashed with blood. Doors had been kicked from their hinges and every room ransacked, leaving behind a mess of dead bodies, smashed furniture and torn hangings. Here and there the debris had been piled up and set alight using torches ripped from their brackets, choking corridors with smoke as the fearsome flames consumed everything within their reach. Covering their faces with the corners of their cloaks, Eperitus, Odysseus and Hecabe pushed on towards the great hall, where Eperitus’s instincts told him they would find his father.

They soon found the antechamber where Eperitus and Odysseus had once awaited an audience with King Priam, in the days before the war. The raging fires had not yet reached this part of the palace, and as they pushed open the large wooden doors they found the throne room in semi-darkness, lit only by the dying glow of the rectangular hearth at its centre.

‘Wait here,’ Odysseus whispered to Hecabe as he and Eperitus clutched their swords and advanced into the gloom.

A row of black columns stood either side of the hearth, drawing the gaze naturally towards the dais at the far end of the great hall. On it was a tall throne cut from a single piece of rock and lined with thick furs. A large man sat on the throne with his elbows propped on his knees and his forehead resting in his hands as he gazed down at the floor. He could almost have been asleep, so still was he, and though he wore no crown his battle-scarred armour and the sword balanced across his lap made him look like a king from Troy’s legendary past. The prostrate forms of dead men lay all around him. A few were old – some of Priam’s counsellors, who must have sought refuge in the great hall and then fought to protect their master’s throne. The rest were soldiers, a mixture of Trojans and Greeks. Whether they had died fighting each other or had been killed by the man on the throne was unclear, but Eperitus guessed Apheidas had bought his new throne in blood.

‘So this is where your ambitions have brought you, Father,’ he said. ‘The last king of a doomed city, with no crown and only dead men to bow down before you.’

‘At least I had ambitions, Son,’ Apheidas replied, lifting his head slowly. ‘Unlike you, ever a slave to the commands of others. Now
that’s
the Trojan in you.’

‘Better to serve a real king than to become a mockery of one.’

Apheidas shook his head and a tired smile filtered across his face.

‘You’re right, of course. And now I suppose you’ve come to murder me and usurp my mock throne. That was always
your
driving ambition, wasn’t it – to kill me and restore your precious honour? Well, I won’t resist. My leg’s finally given up, you see,’ he said, patting the thigh Eperitus had wounded earlier. ‘Here I am, king of Troy at last, and even my own body won’t do what I want it to.’

He lowered his face into his hands again and to Eperitus’s shock began to cry, his heavy shoulders shaking with the force of his sobs.

‘Perhaps I should have been more like my father – more like you – a loyal servant, knowing my limitations instead of aiming at things forbidden by the gods. And what have I gained? Your brothers died serving my ambitions and I drove you away, earning your hatred in place of your love. So come and get it over with. Send my miserable ghost down to Hades’s halls, where at least I’ll be able to forget the mess I made while I was alive.’ He took the sword from his lap and tossed it across the hall. ‘Kill me Eperitus; I won’t fight you any more.’

Eperitus looked at his father as he lay with his head back against the throne, inviting death. It was a moment he had hankered after for twenty years, but now it was here he no longer wanted it. He would not be his father’s executioner and inherit his legacy of hatred. Astynome had saved him from that.

Apheidas sensed his reluctance.

‘Kill me, damn it! I murdered Pandion and your friend, didn’t I? I killed Astynome, damn it – do you care so little for her that you can’t even avenge her death!’

‘She isn’t dead – you failed in that, too. But you
did
bring dishonour on our family and you murdered my friend, Arceisius. Crimes that have to be paid for.’

Eperitus’s fingertips touched the dagger in his belt, the ornate blade that Odysseus had given to him when they had first met. He tugged it free and walked around the long hearth to where his father sat. Apheidas eyed the knife in his son’s hands, then leaned back again and exposed his throat.

‘Do it,’ he rasped through clenched teeth.

‘You do it,’ Eperitus replied, and tossed the blade onto his lap.

Apheidas flinched at its touch, then with shaking hands picked it up and held it before himself. Eperitus stepped back, even now not trusting his father. He turned to look at Odysseus, uncertain, seeking the reassurance of his king, and in that moment Apheidas let out a groan. Eperitus’s head flicked back to see the dagger embedded in his heart, his dying hands slowly peeling away from its hilt. Then his head lolled onto his chest and he was dead.

After a while, Odysseus walked around the hearth and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

‘Time to move on.’

Eperitus nodded. Slipping his grandfather’s shield from his back, he dropped it at Apheidas’s feet then turned and followed Odysseus out of the great hall.

A
T THE
S
HIPS

P
enelope stood beneath the thatched canopy of the lookout post on top of Mount Neriton and gazed at the ocean of cloud that had covered the world. In the distance the mountainous peaks of the mainland pierced the layered vapour like the spines of an ancient monster, while at the furthest edge of creation the chariot of the sun had burst free of the haze and was riding up into the pale skies. Before long, its fierce heat would drive away the low-lying fog and leave land and sea naked before its gaze. For now, though, the air remained damp and chill and the breeze on the mountain top found its way into Penelope’s mist-soaked clothing, forcing her to pull her cloak tighter about herself.

She had come here to be alone and think over the news of the evening before. Whenever she felt her emotions threatening to expose her inner weaknesses, she would climb the steep flanks of Mount Neriton and dismiss the elderly lookout; and when she had conquered herself and could once more put on the calm, controlled mask of a queen, she would go back down to the palace to face whatever her duties required of her that day, whether they be as simple as buying food in the marketplace or as daunting as facing Eupeithes in the Kerosia. This morning, though, the lookout must have seen the thick fog and decided to wait before climbing up to his post, and his absence made the place seem lonelier than ever. It was as if every living soul had been taken from the world and she was the only person left.

She walked to the edge of the flat, grassy space where the lookout post was sited. Far below her, through the white, churning vapours, she could hear the waves of the Ionian Sea crashing against the rocky skirts of Ithaca, carrying on the war that had been fought since the beginning of time. She looked down at what was visible of the stony slope before it was swallowed by the fog, and tried to picture the invisible cliffs below and the green sea as it frothed about the tumble of jagged boulders. Ten more years would pass, the Pythoness had confirmed, before Ithaca’s king would find his way home. Mentor, Antinous and the twenty warriors who had sailed with them to Mount Parnassus had returned the evening before, repeating the priestess’s cryptic verses and the interpretation given by her attendant. Mentor had announced the oracle before the Kerosia, while Antinous had sulked in his seat and looks of shocked dismay settled on the faces of Eupeithes, Oenops and Polyctor. Penelope had felt an initial burst of relief, as if tight bonds had suddenly been released from about her chest, but what small joy she felt was brief. Eupeithes’s rise to power had been cut short, and though he remained dangerous Penelope knew he would rather sit out the ten years than risk civil war against the royal guard – who were firmly loyal to their king and queen – and the people of Ithaca. But if she had gained time, what, ultimately, did that matter if the oracle was true? What did anything matter if another ten years had to pass before Odysseus came home again?

She wedged the toe of her sandal beneath a small rock and flicked it into the milky haze below. Her whole body seemed to ache with desire for her husband. She wanted nothing more than for him to return and lift the weight of the kingdom from her slender shoulders, and then to take her to their bed and make love to her. Ten years had been almost insufferable without his touch; ten more would be impossible. Her breathing became suddenly thicker and she laid a hand on her chest, trying to calm the panic that was taking hold of her. Odysseus had said a man could overcome his fate, she reminded herself, and she had to have faith in him for that. That would be the hope that carried her through – that and Telemachus. For even if the Pythoness’s vision came true, Penelope was still the mother of Odysseus’s son. For his sake she would carry on as Ithaca’s implacable queen, fighting for the kingdom that one day he would inherit – unless, of course, Odysseus never returned and she was forced to honour her agreement with Eupeithes. Then she would have to choose a new husband to become king ahead of Telemachus.

She hated herself for taking such a risk, but knew it had been the only way to placate Eupeithes’s ambitions. Now his insistence on a new king had been checked and he was in no position to stir up rebellion. Their agreement had also allowed Penelope to send a messenger to Sparta, telling Halitherses to bring Telemachus back home as her son was no longer under serious threat. All the same, after the Kerosia she had confronted the fat merchant beneath the portico of the great hall and told him that if anything did happen to Telemachus, she would hold him responsible. What was more, Odysseus would too when he eventually returned. Something in Eupeithes’s expression had made her think he did not believe Odysseus
would
return, but he said nothing and Penelope knew he had understood her message.

She wiped away a tear, angrily crushing it out of existence. Her son was returning, she reminded herself. Telemachus’s presence would be enough to keep her going. And yet, if she had to endure a further decade without Odysseus, where would she get the strength from? His long absence had already drained away Anticleia’s will to live; his mother had been ailing for a long time now, and Laertes believed the news from the oracle would be the death of her. Penelope snuffed out another tear and glared down at the cloying mists that fenced her in on the lonely hilltop.

‘Good morning, Mistress.’

She turned, in surprise, to see the grey head and long grey beard of the lookout a few paces away. Conscious of her tears, she looked away again.

‘Good morning.’

‘If you want I should go back down for a while, then just you say so.’

‘No, no. I was just going anyway.’

The old man ventured a little closer.

‘The fog’s clearing, my lady. It’s often thickest just before the dawn, but it doesn’t last forever. Look south and you can already see the sun on the waves.’

Penelope followed the line of the old man’s outstretched arm and saw the glint of golden light riding the Ionian Sea around the island of Zacynthos, the southernmost point of Odysseus’s kingdom. The sight of a sail made her catch her breath, but in the same excited instant she had already realised it was nothing more than a fishing vessel. But she knew the lookout was right: the fog would not last forever, and one day the sail on the water would belong to the galley that brought her husband home again.