The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

Eperitus stepped into the darkness and immediately felt something crunch beneath his sandal. Another step brought the same sensation, as if he was walking on small, brittle sticks. Looking down, he saw that the cave floor was carpeted with bones, the scattered skeletons of countless birds that Philoctetes had shot and eaten to eke out his squalid existence. It was like the lair of some ancient beast, and there was no way through except to tread on the littered bones. He carried on, one step at a time, deeper into the gloom until the ceiling of the cave forced him to stoop. Eventually he was able to pick out a pale circle on the floor ahead of him. It was Philoctetes’s bed, made entirely of seagull feathers. They had been compacted down by his weight over the years and the pus from his wound had permeated them so that the stench in that confined space was now unbearable. It took all of Eperitus’s self-discipline not to turn back. Finally, just when he thought he could not bear to take another step, he saw the leather quiver lying on the edge of the bed. Eperitus snatched it up and ran out of the cave.

He stood atop the cascade of boulders and took several lungfuls of the clean sea air. On a clear day he would have been able to see far across the Aegean, and the approach of the Ithacan galley would have been obvious a long time before its arrival. But the fog had shrouded everything, leaving only the tips of treacherous rocks, appearing and disappearing among the white billows like the humps of great sea monsters. Below him, barely distinguishable in the mist, were the figures of the others gathered on the rock shelf. Eperitus swung the quiver onto his shoulder and picked his way down between the tumble of boulders.

The array of expressions he met at the bottom was almost amusing, and were it not for the fact he wanted to vomit from the smell of Philoctetes’s wound, Eperitus would have smiled. Eurylochus looked like a whipped child, his usually ruddy jowls now flushed crimson and his eyes fixed firmly on his sandals. Odysseus, who was normally able to prevent his feelings from spilling out into his features, wore a rigid look that was as much to do with the foul stench of Philoctetes – who he was carrying on his back – as it was his anger with Eurylochus. As for Philoctetes, the archer’s face was as bright as a breastplate as he clung to Odysseus’s shoulders, staring around at the dark cliffs that had been his home for a decade and beaming triumphantly. Antiphus was passing the length of Heracles’s bow up and down through his fingers, his wide eyes oblivious to everything else, while Diomedes was almost green as he tried manfully to hide his nausea in such close proximity to Philoctetes’s foot.

‘Come on,’ Odysseus said as Eperitus joined them, and set off at a jog.

With Philoctetes calling out the best path through the rocks and little pools, they would have made quick progress back to the boat had they not been stopped by the sudden screeching of their guide as a fresh wave of pain attacked him. Odysseus laid him down and the others stood by helplessly as Philoctetes thrashed about on the rock, crying out almost gull-like and cursing each of them in turn before turning his ire on the gods. When it was over, it was as if nothing had happened and Philoctetes urged Odysseus to pick him up again and press on.

As they reached the boat, Polites sprang to his feet and hauled on the rope a little too sharply, causing the small vessel to bang against the edge of the rock. Philoctetes eyed him closely, and the others could not disguise their anxiety as they turned and paused.

‘I know you,’ Philoctetes said. ‘Yes, I know you. You were with these others when they abandoned me here all those years ago.’

A look of momentary relief crossed Polites’s face, but was quickly replaced by shame as he lowered his eyes.

‘Sorry, my lord.’

‘Did you hear that?’ Philoctetes crowed, turning to the others and half pulling Odysseus around with him. ‘He called me “lord”! Me, the most wretched creature that has ever dwelt beneath the face of the sun. Lord Philoctetes!’