The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

‘Leave him! The pain will go, but let us see what it leaves behind.’

Philoctetes’s shouts continued and all they could see was his hand flailing above the boulders, slapping pitifully at the stone until the pain began to ebb and, at last, he found his voice again.

‘Have mercy!’ he shouted, still lost from view. ‘Kill this poor wretch and put an end to his pain. Kill Philoctetes and the bow and arrows are yours, that’s what you came for isn’t it? It’s the weapons that have magical powers, not him. He’ll give them to you if you’ll take his life, just as Heracles gave them to Philoctetes for ending his suffering. For pity’s sake, do what Philoctetes has never been able to bring himself to do!’

‘For pity’s sake we will not,’ Odysseus replied. ‘Pity and the will of Zeus. Don’t you realise the gods gave you your hatred of me to keep you alive? And now they’ve sent me to bring you back to the world of men, Philoctetes. I may have earned your loathing for abandoning you here, but it was Achilles who wanted you dead and Medon – your own lieutenant –who had agreed to murder you. Yes it was my suggestion that you be marooned on Lemnos, but it was made to save your life.’

Philoctetes had pulled himself up onto the rock and was staring down at Odysseus again.

‘Medon was going to kill … me?’

A slight lift of one eyebrow was Odysseus’s only outward reaction to the fact Philoctetes had referred to himself as me for the first time since they had coaxed him out of his lair. He opened his mouth to reply, then abruptly shut it again. Surprised by his silence, Eperitus and Diomedes looked at Odysseus and then followed his frowning gaze to the figure scaling the boulders to Philoctetes’s right, just beyond the edge of his sight. It was Eurylochus.

‘Damn him,’ Eperitus whispered.

‘Yes, Medon,’ Odysseus answered, his voice calm despite the threat posed by Eurylochus as he stole up on Philoctetes, intending to take the bow that had been left on the boulder behind him. ‘But Medon is dead – slain by a woman, as befits his treacherous nature. And Achilles has also given up his spirit, which now resides in the Chambers of Decay. Nothing stands between you and a return to the army, Philoctetes. The gods have already stated that great glory awaits you – renown that will eclipse all that has passed before. If you can just surrender your bitter hatred and forgive a group of foolish men who’ve been made wiser by ten years of suffering and loss, then you can leave this place forever and return with us to civilisation.’

Philoctetes’s restless eyes betrayed the struggle that was taking place within. And yet it was a struggle he had only moments to win, for Eurylochus had now emerged on the large boulders behind him, the hem of his cloak floating in the breeze as he looked down at the bow and arrows just a short dash away from him.

‘Decide, Philoctetes,’ Odysseus said, more urgently now. ‘Will you come with us to everlasting glory or will you remain king of your island realm? Will it be bread and wine, or seagulls and mist? Decide!’

The scuffing of a leather sandal on stone gave Eurylochus away. With a speed that seemed impossible for such a miserable creature, Philoctetes had snatched up his bow and fitted an arrow to the string before Eurylochus could leap down onto the rock and take them for himself.

‘Treachery!’ he shouted, pointing the weapon at Eurylochus, who fell back over the boulder with a squeal of fear, followed by a loud cry of pain. Philoctetes turned now and aimed at Odysseus. ‘Philoctetes should have known better than to trust a beguiling serpent like you. You say that if you die he will die with you, but that’s just another lie; when he shoots you down he will become free.’

Philoctetes pulled back the bowstring and Odysseus dropped to his knees, throwing his hood over his face. Then, as Philoctetes let out half a breath and steadied his aim, a booming voice rolled down from the cliff tops, startling the men below as it echoed between the rocks and rebounded from precipice to precipice.

‘Stay your hand, Philoctetes!’

The archer felt the strength in his arms weaken, forcing him to relax the bowstring and lower the weapon. He looked about himself, searching for the owner of the voice in the fog. Down on the rock shelf below him, Eperitus, Diomedes and Antiphus looked around in confusion, while Odysseus tipped back his hood and glanced discreetly upwards. Then Eperitus gave a shout and pointed to the cliffs above, where a giant figure stood silhouetted against the swirls of white mist.

‘Who are you?’ Diomedes called, feeling instinctively for the sword he had left by the boat.

‘Silence!’ commanded the newcomer. ‘The gods speak only to those whom they choose, and I have not left the halls of Olympus to waste words with you, Diomedes, king of Argos. I have come to talk to Philoctetes.’

The archer lurched forward to lay across a boulder, from where he could scrutinise the figure in the mist.