King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

The very last of the evening light was spread like a purple mould along the low black humps of the mountains. But there in its watery light, barely distinguishable amidst the rocks and twisted figures of leafless trees, was framed the upright silhouette of a building. Despite the darkness he quickly found a path leading up the hillside and began to pick his way along it. But at that moment he was struck by a sudden sense of dread. Looking up he saw, or thought he saw, a figure standing by the temple. It stood between the building’s outline and the stump of a dead tree, the sky burning with purple flames behind it as it looked down the hill. Eperitus froze, not wanting to be seen, but then the figure was gone. He did not see it go and could not say whether it had entered the temple or left it; he was not even certain he had seen it at all. And then panic contracted the muscles of his heart and he knew he must run, run without care for the path or the rocks at his feet, because if he did not Odysseus would be dead.

Even in that blunting darkness, going uphill with his heavy sword in his hand he found a speed he would not have dreamed possible. Instinct took over and it was as if he had been lifted in the hand of a god and carried across the boulders and loose stones. He bounded up the slope to the porch of the temple, where he found Odysseus’s sword and a pair of sandals. The temple had no door and through its open portal, as the last of the sunset disappeared from the evening sky, he could see the glow of torchlight. The sound of a hushed voice drifted out into the night air and brought him back to his senses.

Heedless now of any need for caution, Eperitus ran to the doorway and looked inside. The scene before him froze his blood. He was too late.

Against the far wall Odysseus knelt in prayer before an altar and a rough effigy of Athena. Damastor stood just behind him, his sword raised high above his head and ready to fall. An instant sooner and perhaps he could have done something, but instead he had failed Odysseus and the goddess who had entrusted him to protect his master. But as despair forced his spirit down, it found there was a place beyond which he would not retreat. His self-condemnation clanged against the bronze core of his character, where it found a new resolve. All was not lost, he told himself; not while Odysseus lived.

Something held Damastor’s arm from delivering the fatal blow. At the same time Odysseus’s words were slurred and far away in Eperitus’s hearing. Almost to the surprise of his conscious mind he found himself running into the small room and timing the swing of his own sword to strike Damastor. In that same moment the invisible grip on the traitor’s arm broke and he threw the blade down into a deadly lunge that would cut through the skin, bone and sinew of Odysseus’s neck. Odysseus, finally aware he was not alone, began to turn his head. But Damastor had already failed.

The edge of Eperitus’s sword thumped into his arm above the elbow, the force of the blow biting through flesh and bone to send the lower part of his limb, weapon still gripped in its frozen fingers, spinning through the air into one of the dark corners of the temple. Blood spouted from the maimed stump in sporadic arcs, raining large droplets over Odysseus and the altar at which he prayed. Damastor spun round, partly from the impact of Eperitus’s sword, and looked with wide-eyed disbelief at his butchered limb, and finally at his attacker.

And then the torch went out.

Everything was sucked into the sudden blackness. For a moment Eperitus was blind and disorientated. Robbed of his sight, he froze and retreated back upon his hearing. But the shock of the darkness had imposed an equally confusing silence within the temple, and in that sensual void only the faint hiss of the dead torch and the red glow of its stub gave any point of focus.

There was a scuffing sound close by and Eperitus took a step backwards. By now his eyes were adjusting to the faint light from the doorway and he could see the dim blue outlines of shapes in the temple. Damastor had fallen to his knees, hugging the remnant of his arm to his side and beginning to sob. Eperitus saw Odysseus stand and retreat against the altar.

‘Is that you, Eperitus?’ he whispered.

‘Yes.’

The sword felt heavy in Eperitus’s hand, pulling at the relay muscles in his arm, and for a time he was unsure whether to finish Damastor off or spare his life. Two steps forward and a sweep of the great blade would end for ever his treachery and send his spirit to ignominy in the Underworld. But there was something about the horrific sight of his shattered limb, spraying gore across the altar in a mockery of human sacrifice, that took away any heart Eperitus had for more bloodshed.

He took a step towards the kneeling figure. ‘Stand up, Damastor. Your wound has to be bound before the blood loss kills you.’