The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

The twin circles of pulsing light grew in strength, pushing the darkness back to reveal high, muralled walls – the pictures too faded and smoke-stained to be discernible among the shadows – and an inner square formed by twelve stone columns. Stepping between two of the pillars, the Greeks entered a broad, flagstoned space in the centre of the temple. From here the light of their torches fell on a gigantic but illusive silhouette against the rear wall, a figure half lost in shadow as it soared up to the ceiling. They stepped closer and saw it was another statue of Athena, but larger and more impressive than any they had ever seen before. Odysseus fell to his knees and bowed his head, while the others looked on in astonished silence. Like the one on the plinth before the temple, the figure was depicted wearing only a simple chiton; her familiar spear, helmet and aegis were absent, giving her a distinctly foreign, Trojan feel. Unlike the other figure, though, this one was seated on an equally oversized throne, and set between her feet was a dull black shape that seemed more like a shadow, somehow absorbing and deadening the effect of the torchlight.

‘Is that it?’ asked Diomedes.

Odysseus raised his head and fixed his eyes on the Palladium.

‘It must be.’

Diomedes advanced towards it with his torch raised at an angle before him. Odysseus followed, but Eperitus gripped his spear and stole a glance at the rear of the temple. His hackles were up and he had a sense of foreboding, but he could see or hear nothing in the darkness. Reluctantly, he turned and joined the others.

Eperitus had first heard a description of the Palladium from Antenor, the Trojan elder whose wife was the chief priestess of the temple. He had been their host before the war, when Eperitus had accompanied Odysseus and Menelaus on a peace embassy to seek the return of Helen. But even Antenor’s matter-of-fact account had overstated the dull ordinariness of the object they had come to steal. Had it not been placed on the plinth that supported the statue of Athena, it would have reached no higher than Eperitus’s thigh. As for form, as far as Eperitus could see it barely had any: there were two uneven bumps in the black wood that might have been breasts, while the lopsided knob on top could have optimistically passed as a head – devoid of neck and with nothing more than a misshapen nose for a facial feature. Two stumps on either side qualified as arms, and with no legs whatsoever its only support was the metal cradle on which it was sat.

‘It’s even less impressive than I’d expected,’ he commented.

‘And the Trojans think this came from the gods?’ Diomedes added. ‘Such fools deserve to lose the war.’

Odysseus undid the green cloak Helen had given him.

‘We’ll be the fools if they catch us talking here. Let’s take the thing and get back to the walls – this place is making me feel uneasy.’

He threw the cloak around the Palladium, as if afraid to touch it with his bare hands, and lifted it from its stand. With deft movements, he knotted the corners of the garment together and slung the parcel under his arm. Just then, Eperitus’s senses reacted to a presence. Whether a small sound or a new smell, he was not aware of the trigger that told him they were no longer alone, but he spun round with his spear held rigidly before him. The others turned in alarm, knowing Eperitus’s instincts were never wrong, and snatched out their swords.

‘How dare you desecrate this temple?’

It was a woman’s voice, speaking in the Trojan tongue, that broke the silence. Eperitus’s eyes picked out the diminutive figure of its owner in a corner of the vast chamber, dressed in the white robes of a priestess. She must have been sleeping in the temple, as many priestesses did, and been woken by their voices. Now she was approaching the three warriors with short, fearless steps that quickly brought her into the circle of light from their torches.

‘Don’t you know what that is? Put it back at once. At once!’

She was an old woman, but she had such confidence in the power of her own authority that she had not even thought to shout for the guards. Either that, or she was too shocked by their sacrilege to do anything other than follow her own outrage. She advanced again, pointing at the bag under Odysseus’s arm and spluttering angrily for him to give it to her. Then her eyes fell on his face and she stopped.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded, narrowing her eyes. ‘I know your face. Who’s your commander?’

‘If I have a commander,’ Odysseus answered in her own language, ‘it’s Agamemnon, king of Mycenae.’

‘Greeks!’ the priestess exclaimed, throwing her hands up to her cheeks. ‘How did you …? By all the gods, I must call the guards.’

The point of Odysseus’s sword was at her throat in an instant.