The Gates Of Troy (8 page)

‘Where is this temple?’ he called after her as she ran down the passage.

‘You’ll find it,’ she called back, laughing.

And then she was gone.

Chapter Five

S
TORM
W
ARNING

T
he Thessalians were buried in a small clearing not far from the track where they had been killed. Even with Polites’s immense and tireless strength, it still took the Ithacans until noon to dig a grave wide and deep enough to lay the bodies in, with their shields and weapons beside them. Normally, any captured armament would have been taken back to stock the palace armoury, but as an act of respect and conciliation to Polites, Odysseus had allowed the men to be buried with full honour. Finally, they built a mound of large rocks to mark the grave and, leaving Polites to say farewell to his comrades, returned to the track. A great cry erupted from the clearing behind them – halfway between despair and triumph – as if Polites was calling on the gods themselves to come and claim the fallen.

Later, as the Ithacans made their way back to their camp at the edge of the wood, Eperitus watched the hulking figure of the Thessalian ahead of him, walking beside Arceisius. The young squire was chatting merrily, telling the giant warrior all about Ithaca, its people and their customs, whilst Polites walked in silence, with only an occasional grunt in response to show he was listening at all.

‘Today has been a good day,’ Odysseus said as he walked beside Eperitus at the back of the file of men. ‘The bandits are all dead with no Ithacans hurt, and we’ve gained two new soldiers into the bargain.’

‘Two?’ asked Antiphus, who was strolling along at Odysseus’s other shoulder, his bow strapped across his back.

‘Polites and Arceisius. The lad fought well today, don’t you think, Eperitus?’

‘He’s got the natural instincts of a fighter,’ Eperitus confirmed, smiling with paternal pride. Arceisius’s father had been killed during the Taphian occupation of Ithaca ten years before, and since then Eperitus had looked after him as if he were his own son. ‘It won’t be long now before he can become a full member of the guard.’

‘What’s stopping him?’ Antiphus asked. ‘You’re not going to make him wait until he gets rid of those feathers round his chin and grows a proper beard are you?’

Odysseus and Antiphus laughed loudly, making Arceisius throw a questioning glance over his shoulder.

‘Of course not,’ Eperitus replied, shooting his companions an admonishing glance. ‘I just think he needs a little longer, that’s all.’

Eperitus thought of the look in Arceisius’s eye after he had killed his man – a glimmer of doubt or regret – and wondered whether he truly desired to be a warrior. Time would tell, he assured himself.

‘Well, there’s no hurry – it’s not as if we’re at war,’ Odysseus said, still grinning. ‘But what do you think of the Thessalian? Will he be true to the oath he swore?’

‘I think you took a risk with him, my lord,’ Antiphus answered. ‘But your instincts have always proved good, and I trust them now. You were the one who had to fight him though, Eperitus. What do you say?’

Eperitus remembered the awful power in Polites’s arms and the iron-like strength of his grasping fingers, and gave a shudder. ‘He’s slow and he can’t think on his feet,’ he announced. ‘He relies entirely on his strength, and that’s a weakness. But, in the name of Ares, he’s got enough muscle for three men and he’s aggressive with it – he’ll kill most men with ease, and enjoy it. As for his oath, Odysseus, I think he’s got just enough intelligence to understand honour, but not enough for treachery. He should serve us well.’

‘A good assessment,’ said a voice from the side of the road.

All three men turned sharply to their left and drew their swords. At the same time, Arceisius whirled about and pulled a dagger from his belt, whilst Polites squinted stupidly into the shadows beneath the trees. There, sitting on a large boulder, was an ancient-looking man with a long beard and a shabby brown cloak, which was pulled about his knees. Despite his deeply lined, leathery skin and his silver hair, his large, round eyes were full of vigour and observed them keenly.

‘Good morning to you, father,’ Odysseus greeted him, sliding his sword back into its scabbard. ‘You caught us by surprise just then. Is there anything we can do for you?’

The old man stared at the king, a faint smile just visible beneath the wispy strands of his moustache, but did not reply. Eperitus called to the rest of the file to halt then, replacing his sword, stepped forward and looked at the curious figure seated before them.

‘Answer your king when he addresses you,’ he ordered, trying to keep the anger from his voice.

‘Forgive my friend,’ Odysseus apologized. ‘He doesn’t realize you’re not from these islands. You aren’t an Ithacan, are you, or I’m sure I’d know your face?’

‘I’m a visitor here,’ the old man admitted, ‘though I know these islands well. And I know you, too, King Odysseus.’

‘Then tell us who
you
are, greybeard,’ Eperitus insisted. His subtle senses detected something strange about the old man that set his instincts on edge.

The old man chuckled to himself. ‘The years haven’t calmed your impetuosity I see, Eperitus,’ he said, shaking his head slowly.

Eperitus shot a glance at Odysseus, who returned his shocked expression with a shrug of his shoulders. Behind them, the assembled soldiers who had come to see why the march back to camp had been halted murmured to each other in confusion. Then the old man leapt lightly down from the boulder and swept his hand in an arc before them. At once, everyone except Odysseus and Eperitus fell unconscious to the floor.

The two men sprang back and pulled out their swords again, staring about at their sleeping comrades and then at the figure before them. He was as tall and straight as an ash spear, and his eyes burned intensely as he stared at them. Though his brown cloak was still held tightly about his body, it glowed as if a brilliant light was fighting to escape from beneath it.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, but as he spoke his voice was strangely changed – deeper and yet unmistakably female.

Odysseus threw down his weapon and fell to his knees, covering his face against the fingers of white light that were escaping from the folds of the cloak. Eperitus – confused and half-blinded – clutched the handle of his sword tighter and squinted against the light, readying himself for an attack. The figure of the old man was now almost completely lost in the blaze of light that was coming from his body. The features of his face were no longer discernible, and even as Eperitus tried to look at him he seemed to grow in height. Then a strong wind swept through the trees, shaking the branches and flattening the young ferns, tearing open the man’s cloak so that it disintegrated into a hundred fragments and was blown away in an explosion of intense light. Eperitus staggered backwards, his vision an impenetrable wall of searing white, and fell over the sleeping body of Antiphus.

He lay on his back, his eyelids closed but his retinas still filled with the light. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the brightness faded and the comparatively dull radiance of day returned. Eperitus opened his eyes and saw branches overhead, creeping like black veins into the corners of his vision. Still fearful of an attack, and feeling dreadfully exposed with his senses stunned and reeling, he strained his ears against the diminishing wind. Twigs crunched nearby under a heavy weight, then a hand seized his ankle.

‘Eperitus! Eperitus, wake up!’ Odysseus said, shaking his leg.

‘I’m awake,’ Eperitus replied, sitting up and blinking at the king, who was on his hands and knees before him.

‘Stop lying around like a pair of drunkards and start showing some respect!’ said a voice. The tone was clear, commanding and familiar to both men.

They turned and squinted at the towering, marble-skinned woman standing where the old man had been moments before. She wore a pure white chiton that shimmered with an internal brilliance, filling the wood with light and making it difficult for either man to look at her for longer than a few moments at a time. Draped across her shoulders and left arm was a leather shawl edged with golden tassels, from the centre of which leered the hideous face of a gorgon, its eyes firmly shut but its fanged mouth frozen in a snarl. In her right hand she held a gigantic spear, as tall as two men, and on top of her plaited, golden hair was a bronze helmet, pushed back to reveal a face that was both beautiful and terrifying to behold. Her large grey eyes looked at them with stern expectancy.

Odysseus recognized the goddess at once. ‘Mistress Athena,’ he whispered, letting go of Eperitus’s leg and pressing his forehead and the palms of his hands to the ground.

Eperitus quickly followed his example.

‘King Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes,’ she boomed; then, in a much gentler manner, ‘stand up and let me look at you. How long’s it been since I last saw you?’

‘Ten years, my lady,’ Odysseus replied, getting slowly to his feet and daring to look up at the goddess. ‘In the temple where you brought Eperitus back from the dead.’

‘That long?’ she asked, smiling broadly. ‘To me it seems like only yesterday – we immortals don’t count the years as you do. And yet,’ she added, turning to Eperitus, ‘
you
seem hardly to have aged at all – despite the beard. Doubtless that’ll be the effect of my healing you. Are your senses still as sharp, Eperitus?’

‘Yes, my lady, although I’ve become more used to them now.’

‘He has the instincts of a boarhound,’ Odysseus put in.

‘Does he now?’ Athena asked, narrowing her eyes at Eperitus. ‘A boarhound’s first instinct is unswerving loyalty to its master – to stay at his side and serve his will before its own. Is that true of you, Eperitus?’

Eperitus looked into the goddess’s eyes and saw his most secret desires reflected back at him. His friendship with Odysseus and his strict sense of honour had kept him at the king’s side for ten years, but the peaceful boredom of Ithaca was no place for a warrior. Odysseus had his beloved kingdom and people to care for, and soon his precious Penelope would bear him a child – a son to carry on his memory long after Hermes had conducted his soul down to the realm of Hades. But Eperitus had no kingdom or family; his desire had always been to win eternal glory on the battlefield, a legacy to be measured by the bodies of his foes. On clear days, he would often climb to the lookout post on Mount Neriton and cast his gaze over the world, wondering what adventures were calling to him from beyond the hazy horizons. And always his eyes would turn eventually to the north – to Alybas, where his father had killed the king and set himself upon the throne. The shame of his father’s treachery still stung ten years later, and Eperitus’s thoughts had turned more and more to righting the wrong that had been done – to seeking out his father and wiping away the stain of dishonour that remained on his family’s name.

But that would mean leaving Ithaca and breaking his oath to Odysseus, an oath that he had taken before Athena herself. As Eperitus looked at the goddess, he was certain she knew about the desires that had been eating away at him. He lowered his gaze.

‘I am not a dog, mistress,’ he muttered. ‘But I have sworn to serve the king, and I remain a man of honour.’

‘Good,’ Athena said. ‘For Odysseus will need you soon, more than he has ever done. A storm is approaching that will shake the world of men to its roots and plunge the whole of Greece into darkness.’

Odysseus, who had been looking inquisitively at Eperitus, now turned to the goddess. ‘Ithaca too?’ he asked.

‘Yes, my dear Odysseus, even your happy little kingdom. A war is brewing that will wreak death and destruction beyond the imaginings of gods and men. And when it comes, even your scheming brain and quick wits won’t be able to save you or your people from its effects.’

‘War?’ Odysseus repeated, as if the word were new to him. ‘Then is this why you’ve come to me again, after all this time? To warn me?’

Athena stepped towards him and ran her fingers through his long, auburn hair. ‘I’ve never been apart from you, Odysseus, even if you haven’t seen me. But, yes, I have come to warn you. I’m forbidden to say exactly what my father Zeus has in mind, but you will realize soon enough. Remember what the Pythoness told you in the caves below Mount Parnassus: “As father of your people you will count the harvests on your fingers. But if ever you seek Priam’s city, the wide waters will swallow you. For the time it takes a baby to become a man, you will know no home. Then, when friends and fortune have departed from you, you will rise again from the dead.”’

Odysseus lowered his face and frowned, his eyes moving as the thoughts raced through his brain, piecing together the fragments of information that had been scattered before him. Then, after a few moments silence, he looked up at the goddess. ‘A war against Troy – the city in my dream,’ he said. ‘Agamemnon wanted it ten years ago, and no doubt he still does. But if he couldn’t unite the Greeks then, how will he do it now? And how can any war last for the time it takes a baby to become a man? What could keep a man from his home and family for twenty years?’

‘The same things that men have always fought over,’ Athena commented sardonically. ‘But you should not try to foresee the future, Odysseus – prophecy is not one of your gifts. And remember, the words of the oracle are always enigmatic.’

‘But the Pythoness only said these things would happen
if
Odysseus goes to Troy,’ Eperitus added. ‘That means he still has a choice.’

‘Choice is an illusion that brings misery,’ Athena replied. ‘You mortals are always regretting your choices, after all. But you’re right, Eperitus – a choice of sorts remains.’

‘Then I will not go,’ Odysseus said, firmly. ‘I
can’t
go! I’m king of these islands, and if there are dark times ahead then my duty is to protect my kingdom and its people.’

‘Nobly spoken, Odysseus,’ Athena smiled, though her grey eyes looked sadly at the man over whom they had watched all his short life. ‘But there are things more compelling than kingdoms – sacred duties and binding oaths . . .’