The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

Odysseus shook his head dismissively. ‘Not as severe as you used to be. I think the war has taught you a few things about the true meaning of honour, Eperitus; it’s mellowed you. One day you might even reconsider your hatred towards your father.’

‘That’s twice you’ve questioned my desire to avenge his crimes, my lord.’

‘Hate eats a man from within, my friend, and vengeance does not cure it.’

‘Neither will mercy.’

‘And his servant, Astynome?’ Odysseus persisted. ‘What about her?’

Eperitus did not reply, but turned his burning gaze on the flanks of Tenedos and kept them there while the island grew steadily nearer.

They did not beach the galley among the other Ithacan ships in the sprawling Greek camp, but sailed further up the coast and tossed out the anchor stones in a small cove. It was Odysseus’s intention they should try to clean Philoctetes up and heal his wound before they presented him to the Council of Kings, though he did not say how he hoped to cure such a vile and persistent injury. Nevertheless, he ordered the crew ashore and by the time the sun had set, leaving a blood-red smear across the western horizon, they were already busy making fires and preparing their evening meal. In earlier years they would have been taking a reckless risk, exposing themselves to death or capture by a Trojan night patrol, but these days their enemies had had enough of war and were resigned to staying within the safety of the city walls, abandoning the plains to the Greeks.

Philoctetes was the last ashore, where they laid him still sleeping on a litter. Shortly afterwards, two Greek horsemen arrived at the top of the beach and trotted down towards the Ithacans. Odysseus, who by his constant glances in the direction of the camp appeared to have been expecting their arrival, went to meet them. They spoke briefly, then the riders pulled their horses about and galloped off.

‘Agamemnon sent them,’ he explained, returning to the others. ‘They spotted our sail, of course, and wanted to know what we were up to. I told them to send Podaleirius; Asclepius’s son will know how to treat Philoctetes’s wound.’

‘Neither he nor his brother could cure him ten years ago,’ Diomedes said. ‘Why should he succeed now?’

‘Because it’s the will of the gods, my friend,’ Odysseus replied with a confident smile.

The smell of the wound grew in its offensiveness without the sea air to carry some of it away, but they were at least relieved of the archer’s intermittent fits of pain as he remained in a deep sleep until Podaleirius arrived on horseback, his leather satchel bouncing against his hip. The healer dismounted and, after a curt nod to the others, knelt beside the sleeping form. Repeatedly sweeping his long hair from his eyes, he undressed the wound and bent low to inspect it.

‘Bring me a torch,’ he ordered.

Eperitus fetched a brand from one of the campfires and stood over Podaleirius, wincing in disgust as he prodded and picked at the black sludge of rotting flesh on the top of Philoctetes’s foot. Podaleirius took a wooden bowl from his satchel and set it down on the sand.

‘You have water?’ he asked.

Antiphus knelt and filled the bowl from the skin at his hip, while the healer pulled out a cloth and unwrapped two sharp knives. He dropped the cloth into the bowl, then held up one of the knives so that it glinted in the torchlight.

‘Lord Apollo, grant me the skill to heal this wound,’ he whispered, then lowered the blade to the liquefied flesh.

Chapter Five

THE EYE OF APOLLO