The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus) (26 page)

Finally, the day came when they saw the high, rugged hills overlooking the wide harbour of Scyros. The noon sun caught the copper gates of the palace halfway up the highest hill, which flashed to them like a beacon. As they slipped towards the calm, sheltered waters of the harbour, Sthenelaus called for the sail to be furled and the anchor stones to be made ready. At first, Eperitus was surprised to see the numerous fishing boats drawn up on the shingle beach and the handful of merchant vessels at anchor. A throng of people left their homes or their chores to watch the approach of the fighting galley, showing no signs of fear, only curiosity. Then he understood: Scyros had survived the depravations of the rest of Greece because its king had not been one of the oath-takers and thus had refused to send his army to the war against Troy. Scyros had remained safe and prosperous because Lycomedes had stayed at home.

Small boats came out to meet the warship, manned by fishermen or boys offering to take the crew ashore. Soon, Odysseus, Diomedes and Eperitus were leading half a dozen Argives up the cobbled road to the palace gates, while the remainder were ordered to stay on board. Odysseus knew King Lycomedes could not be trusted and had told Sthenelaus to stay alert while they were gone, ready to come to their aid if necessary. From his lofty viewpoint, Lycomedes would have known of the galley’s approach long before its anchor stones were cast overboard. There was no telling what sort of reception he might give them.

The copper gates swung open to reveal two dozen well-armed soldiers and a short, officious looking herald who insisted they leave their weapons with the guards. They had expected nothing less and gave up their spears and swords with little more than a show of reluctance. They were ushered into the great hall, sombre and shadowy despite the column of dusty light that shone down through the smoke hole in the ceiling to touch on the low flames of the hearth. Eperitus remembered the chamber well from his first visit to Scyros ten years before, though then it had been evening and the hall had been filled with nobles and lit by numerous torches. Now it was empty but for an old man and a woman. The man was seated in a wooden throne draped in furs. His hair and beard were white and his skin was ashen grey. His thin nose seemed to twitch slightly as they entered, while his small, closely set eyes watched them keenly from beneath heavy eyebrows. The woman had a chair next to his, but chose to stand as the newcomers entered, placing her hand on the back of the throne. Like him she was tall, though she was many years younger. Her hair was long and dark and her natural beauty was made more aloof and alluring by the stern gaze that she fixed on the men.

Eperitus did not recognise King Lycomedes at first, so old and gaunt had he become, but he could see by the clear eyes and hawklike stare that he had lost none of his wits. The woman he knew immediately was Deidameia, Achilles’s widow – though she would not know that yet – and the mother of Neoptolemus. Of Achilles’s son there was no sign.

‘Welcome to Scyros, my lords,’ she said. ‘Step forward into the light and tell us who you are and what it is that King Lycomedes can do for you.’

‘I am King Diomedes of Argos, son of Tydeus. This is King Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes, and these are Eperitus, captain of the Ithacan royal guard, and our companions. We have brought a message for the wife and son of the great Achilles.’

At the mention of Odysseus’s name, both Lycomedes and his daughter turned to stare at the broad figure in the shadows behind Diomedes. Lycomedes’s eyes were filled with sudden suspicion, remembering how Odysseus had tricked him before; but Deidameia’s face had lost its austere self-assurance and turned pale, as if already guessing the news the men had brought.

‘I am Deidameia, daughter of King Lycomedes and wife of the great Achilles. What is your message?’

Odysseus stepped forward and touched Diomedes’s elbow, indicating he would reply.

‘Our message is for Neoptolemus also,’ he said. ‘Where is your son?’

‘I will not allow you to speak to my grandson, Odysseus,’ Lycomedes answered. ‘The last time you were here you fooled Achilles into joining Agamemnon’s army, and we have not seen him since. What’s to say you won’t try to take Neoptolemus back with you this time?’

Deidameia lifted her hand to silence her father, a gesture that raised eyebrows among their guests.

‘Give your message to me, Odysseus, and I shall tell my son. He can hear it just as well from my lips as yours.’

‘Very well, my lady. Your husband is dead. He fell storming the gates of Troy, where he was struck down by the arrows of Prince Paris.’

The statement was spoken evenly, but the silence that followed seemed to fix the words in the air about them. Deidameia shrank a little, as if something had gone out of her. Eperitus saw her grip on Lycomedes’s chair tighten slightly. Then she drew on her inner strength and pulled herself back up to her full height. Her lips became thin and pale, her eyes stony and hard.

‘Achilles died ten years ago, when he left this island in your ship, Odysseus. Thank you, my lords, for coming all this way to bring me your news. I will sacrifice to Poseidon and pray that you have a safe journey back to Ilium.’

‘And Neoptolemus?’ Odysseus asked, showing no signs of moving. ‘He will have questions. He’ll want to know how his father died.’

‘You’ve already said he was shot by Paris,’ Deidameia replied. ‘I will let him know.’

‘It won’t be enough,’ Diomedes said. ‘If he has anything of his father in him, he’ll want to know every detail. And not just about Achilles’s death, but also about the things he achieved while alive: the men he killed, the cities he conquered –’

‘That is my fear, King Diomedes. He has
too much
of his father in him, and to hear of Achilles’s deeds will turn his mind towards Troy at a time when his thoughts should be of home. Lycomedes is right: you have not come here to tell me of my husband’s death, but to take my son away to replace Achilles on the battlefield! Part of me feared it as soon as your sail was spotted, even though I didn’t know who you were. And yet he is my son, not yours. I won’t stand by and allow you to take him away like you did my husband.’

‘Neoptolemus is nearly a man, my lady,’ Odysseus countered. ‘Such decisions can only be made by him. What’s more, if you send us away without giving him the chance to question us about his father – to question the men who knew Achilles best in life, and who witnessed his death – you are denying him something every man has an elementary right to: a knowledge of his sires and an understanding of his roots. Do that, Deidameia, and his love for you may turn to hatred.’

‘We will take that risk,’ Lycomedes said, struggling to his feet and pointing to the doors they had entered through. ‘Neoptolemus will never be yours. Now, leave my island and return to Troy.’

But as Eperitus was expecting the king to have them thrown out and put an end to their hopes of ever fulfilling the oracle, Deidameia laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder and gently eased him back into his throne.

‘You will excuse my father. Neoptolemus is the sole heir to the kingdom and he doesn’t want to see him go off to a war that has nothing to do with Scyros. But what you say is true, Odysseus. Neoptolemus deserves to hear about his father and it’s not my place to deny him that. I’ll allow you to speak with him tonight, if you still wish it, at a feast we will hold in your honour.’

‘We do wish it,’ Diomedes answered, glancing uncertainly at Odysseus beside him.

Deidameia smiled at him, something of her earlier authority and self-assurance returning.

‘You see, I have faith in my son. He has his father’s love of fighting, but he is less driven by passion and more inclined to follow his intelligence. He will know why you’re here, but he’ll not rush madly off to war. And by ill chance for you, tomorrow morning will marry Phaedra, the girl I have chosen to be his wife and bear his children. You may tempt him, Odysseus, but in the end he will choose love over glory.’

She bowed to them, then turned and walked from the great hall.

N
EOPTOLEMUS

A
fter the audience in the great hall, Odysseus, Diomedes, Eperitus and their escort were taken to the same wing of the palace the Ithacans had been quartered in on their first visit to Scyros ten years ago. They climbed the steps to the roof and looked down at the galley in the bay below.

‘It’s a thin hope now,’ Diomedes said. ‘If the lad’s getting married, the last thing on his mind will be coming with us to Troy. We couldn’t have arrived at a worse time.’

Odysseus didn’t share his gloom.

‘I’d say the gods have brought us here at exactly the
right
moment. Tomorrow, we would have found him a married man, freshly committed to his new life as a husband.
Today
he’s in that strange, fleeting place where the old has gone but the new hasn’t yet come. His mind may be full of love for this girl he’s due to marry, and yet it’ll also be stricken with doubt. He’s young, remember. He’s never ventured beyond the shores of Scyros. The news of Achilles’s death may open a new door – a chance to follow his father’s path, away from domesticity and into adventure. I’ve seen it happen to others in his position. More than that, he has Achilles’s blood in his veins: when Neoptolemus sees the gift I’ve brought him, it’ll be enough to challenge even his strongest convictions about getting married.’

‘We’ll see,’ Diomedes replied.

In the afternoon, after they had eaten a modest lunch, Eperitus was resting on the mattress in his room when a slave brought him a clean tunic and told him he was to go to the garden as soon as was convenient. He left before Eperitus could question him, so the Ithacan changed his clothes and went to answer the summons. He followed the scent of flowers and the rich aroma of well-composted earth until he found the walled gardens where he had first seen Achilles – disguised as a girl by Lycomedes to prevent him from being taken off to the coming war against Troy. He entered it through an arched gateway and saw it had not changed much since his first visit, except then it had been spring and there had been fragrant blossoms on the trees on either side, and now it was autumn and the leaves were turning an ochre colour and peeling off to form a patchy carpet on the lawn. The circular pond at the centre of the garden was filled with lilies that boasted a handful of white flowers. Dressed in a yellow chiton and seated on a stone bench at the water’s edge was Deidameia, looking at him expectantly.

‘I’m glad you came, Eperitus. Please, join me.’

She patted the space beside her and he sat. He could smell her perfume, potent even in a garden full of flowers. She gave him a smile and he could see the fullness of her lips and the way her skin was still soft and supple with her youth, despite the advanced maturity he could read in her eyes.

‘What do you want of me, Deidameia?’

‘A warrior’s bluntness, I see. I just wanted to talk a little.’

‘You picked the wrong man, my lady. Odysseus is the one for talking –’

‘Ah, but can I trust him? I think I can trust you, though. You have an honest look about you.’

‘I think you’d find my conversation a little dull, unless you want to hear about war and death.’

‘But that’s precisely what I want to hear about,’ she replied. ‘Particularly the war in Troy and my husband’s death. Were you there?’

Eperitus nodded and, reluctantly at first, told her what he had witnessed on the day Achilles had died. It would have been a short account – he had none of Odysseus’s ability to embellish a story – if Deidameia had not teased out every important detail from him. She showed little emotion as the full truth was laid before her, and when the story was done insisted on hearing more about Achilles’s achievements before his death. Eventually, after Eperitus’s clumsy retelling was done, she turned to the real reason she had summoned him.

‘Do you think Neoptolemus will be a replacement for Achilles?’ she asked. ‘Do Odysseus and Diomedes really believe that?’

‘We do. He has his father’s blood in him, after all.’

‘But he is not Achilles. You will know that when you see him tonight. He can’t do the things his father failed to do! So why are you here? Why leave the war in Troy for the sake of one man?’

Eperitus stood.

‘It’s not my place to say, my lady. Odysseus and Diomedes were charged with this mission, not me. If you had hoped to trick me –’

‘Of course not,’ she said, her tone conciliatory. She took him by the elbow and encouraged him to retake his seat. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, Eperitus. I’m just a mother worried for her son. You must have children of your own.’

‘A daughter.’

‘Then don’t you miss her?’

‘She died before the war.’

Deidameia faced him and laid her hand on his forearm. Her eyes were full of compassion.

‘How old was she?’

‘She was nine. The truth is I hardly knew her. I slept with her mother in Sparta ten years before, but I didn’t learn she’d given birth to my daughter until a short while before she died.’

‘And how did she die?’

Deidameia’s voice was soft now. Eperitus looked down at her slim, long-fingered hand on his arm, felt the hotness of her skin against his, and wondered whether he should answer. Whether he could answer. Then he felt the old anger rising as he thought of his daughter’s murder and his own inability to save her.

‘She was sacrificed to appease the gods. King Agamemnon murdered her so that his fleet could sail in safety to Ilium.’

Deidameia’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

‘But that was his own daughter, Iphigenia, born of Clytaemnestra. Everyone knows the story.’

‘They know some, but not all. Clytaemnestra was my lover in Sparta and Iphigenia was my daughter. I tried to stop Agamemnon, but –’ He stood again and stepped away from the bench. ‘I must go. Odysseus will be wondering where I am.’

‘Tell me why they want my son, Eperitus. As a father yourself –’

‘I sympathise with you, Deidameia, I do, but that’s for Odysseus to say, not me. He’ll tell you why we’re here tonight. And as for your son, he’s not a boy any more; he’s old enough to be a warrior now, like his father before him. And part of him will want to follow Achilles. You say you have faith in him, that you know him, but you don’t. How can a woman really know what’s in a man’s heart? A man lives under the shadow of his father, for good or bad, and at some point he wants to be free of it and live his own life. How Neoptolemus does that is up to him, not you.’