The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

He was still laughing as they lowered him into the boat and rowed to the galley, only stopping to look back at Lemnos in a moment of contemplation. His reflections on ten years of misery did not last long though, and soon he was cackling again as he was handed up to the crew on the deck of the ship, their faces already pale from the stench of their new passenger. They fed him bread – he refused to eat anything else – and gave him wine weakened with five parts water, which quickly had him roaring drunk. Then, as the anchor stones were pulled up and the oars slipped back into the sea, he fell asleep savouring the simple texture of bread in his mouth, while Odysseus carefully – and with greater resolve than it took to charge into battle – removed the tattered dressing from his foot, bathed the wound and wrapped a new bandage about it. He was violently sick afterwards, but that single gesture of mercy earned him more respect from Eperitus than possessing the armour of Achilles could ever have done.

‘You knew I’d fail, didn’t you,’ Diomedes said.

He was standing between Odysseus and Eperitus as the three men waited at the prow of the galley, watching the humped shape of Tenedos growing ever nearer. Its rocky flanks had been given a coppery glow by the sun as it set behind them in the west, as had the low cliffs of the mainland of Ilium that lay in a thin line beyond it. Eperitus’s keen eyes could pick out goats hugging the steep hillsides, and the small white houses and olive groves of the few islanders who had clung on to their occupied homeland. A Greek warship and three merchant vessels lay at anchor in the harbour below, the same harbour that had seen Philoctetes claim victory over Achilles in the race from Aulis to Tenedos, which had provoked Achilles’s jealous anger and resulted in Philoctetes’s abandonment on Lemnos. The archer was sleeping in the stern, his snores still audible over the creaking of the rigging and the slapping of the waves against the hull.

‘Admit it,’ Diomedes insisted, turning to Odysseus. ‘Before we even left Ilium you knew how everything would turn out. You knew Eperitus and I wouldn’t want you to use your tricks on Philoctetes – not after the army had abandoned him so cruelly – and you knew we’d insist on doing the talking. But you also knew we wouldn’t stand a chance of succeeding. Am I wrong? And did you guess your own turn at persuading him would come, but that even your honeyed tongue would fail? You did, didn’t you?’

A glimmer of a smile crossed Odysseus’s lips, but no answer. Diomedes smiled, too, and shook his head.

‘Either way, you must have known we’d only get the poor cripple to come with us by tricking him.’

‘You make it sound as if that’s what I was hoping for all along,’ Odysseus protested. ‘You’re wrong, though. Polites and the lion’s pelt were a contingency, that’s all. I’d rather Philoctetes had responded to the call of the prophecy and come with us because he recognised his chance of salvation. And when he wouldn’t listen to you, I’d hoped that reason and good human logic would convince him to give up his anger. It nearly worked, too,’ he added. ‘As it was, I had to use the only means guaranteed to win him over – Heracles, whom Philoctetes worships above all else. You can call it a trick if you like, but without my foresight we’d all be back on Lemnos with poisoned arrows sticking up from our lifeless bodies.’

Diomedes shrugged his acknowledgement of the truth.

‘I thought you agreed to conquer Troy by honourable means,’ Eperitus said, his tone accusative. ‘You said your guilt over Ajax’s suicide was going to keep you from stooping to trickery.’

Odysseus turned his piercing green eyes on his captain.

‘Ajax would still be alive today if I hadn’t used deceit to win the armour of Achilles. He was my friend; I should have spoken to him rather than humiliated him, even if the gods wanted to see him humbled. Do you think with hindsight I wouldn’t have found another way? Do you think your father would have murdered King Pandion and stolen his throne if he’d known it would result in the death of his eldest sons and earn him your undying hatred? Of course not. Besides, when I swore not to act with such dishonour again, Eperitus, I never said I’d stop using my cunning. It’s the greatest gift the gods have given me and to reject it would be to disrespect them. It’d be like asking you to ignore your sense of honour, or Diomedes to cast aside his courage. On the contrary: I intend to use my guile at every opportunity I get, if it brings the destruction of Troy closer and opens the way for me and my friends to go home. And though I’d rather Philoctetes had chosen to come with us for his own sake, the most important thing is that he’s with us now and, somehow, he is going to fulfil the will of the gods.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Eperitus said. ‘Sometimes my principles make me a harsh judge.’