The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

‘What is it, lad?’

‘Is my mother safe?’

‘Of course she is,’ the old man answered, trying to disguise his hesitation. ‘Her enemies are becoming more powerful, and they want your father’s throne – I’ve never kept that a secret from you – but they know they can’t get it without Penelope. She’s the key and they need her alive, or I wouldn’t have left Ithaca. And she’s more than clever enough to handle Eupeithes until your father returns.’

Telemachus frowned and looked down at the ears of his pony, twitching randomly in the faint mountain breeze.

‘What if my father never returns?’

Halitherses turned back and laid his large, sun-browned hand on the boy’s head.

‘Don’t worry about that, lad. Ithaca’s like a lodestone to Odysseus. He’ll come home again one day. I promise you.’

‘I wish I had your confidence in him,’ Telemachus said, then kicked back his heels and sent his mount trotting in the direction of Sparta.

Halitherses watched him thoughtfully, then, with a click of his tongue, urged his horse forward to catch up with his young charge.

Odysseus saw Helen appear at the battlements, her perfect face stricken with concern. A moment later he heard the squeal of wooden hinges as the Scaean Gate swung open. The movement raised a thin haze of dust, through which the figure of a man could be seen striding towards them.

‘He’s fallen for it,’ Odysseus said.

Philoctetes shifted nervously and Eperitus placed a hand on his bony shoulder.

‘Don’t be concerned,’ he reassured him. ‘You have Heracles’s bow and arrows that never miss. This is why the gods gave them to you. It’s time to fulfil your destiny.’

Philoctetes nodded but did not speak. Still in the shadow of the walls, Paris was removing the arrows from his quiver and pushing them point-down into the soil by his feet. When a dozen had been planted he tossed the heavy quiver to one side and stood with his legs apart. Helen sobbed quietly on the walls above, while all along the parapet a crowd of soldiers and townsfolk were gathering to watch the duel.

Philoctetes began pulling the arrows from his own quiver and setting them in the ground to his left. After the sixth he handed the leather tube to Odysseus, who replaced the lid and slipped it over his shoulder. There was a tension in the air that reminded him of the nervousness he felt before every battle, but was made oddly more acute by the knowledge he would not be fighting and could, therefore, do nothing to influence the outcome. The thought made him suddenly uncomfortable. The conclusion of the war had been compressed into a single action, to be decided between just two men. If Philoctetes failed, then the siege would drag on and it would be more long years before Odysseus saw Ithaca and his family again; if he succeeded in killing Paris, another barrier would be removed and the prospect of going home would come a little closer. But at that moment, there was little else Odysseus could do to sway his own destiny.

He slipped the thin, grubby scarf from about his neck and looked at Philoctetes.

‘Are you ready?’

The archer, tight-lipped and slightly pale, nodded. Odysseus glanced at Eperitus, who moved out wide to his right. When he was well beyond the range of even the wildest shot, the king turned and walked out to the midpoint between the two opponents. He glanced at Paris, who took a deep breath, exhaled and gave a curt nod. Odysseus stepped back a few paces then held up his hand and let the scarf dangle from his fingertips.

‘No arrows to be fitted before my signal,’ he declared. ‘When the scarf touches the ground – and not before – you will fit your arrows, aim and fire. After the first missile, you can continue shooting until either you or your opponent is dead or mortally wounded. There will be no other bloodshed, whatever the outcome,’ he added in the Trojan tongue, staring up at the walls where several archers had appeared.

Paris waved them back and they melted into the crowd. His eyes moved to Helen, lingered on her tear-stained beauty for a heartbeat, then returned to Philoctetes. Despite the cool morning breeze, beads of sweat stood out on both men’s foreheads. Their eyes squinted, reluctant to blink as the moment approached. Then Odysseus raised his hand a fraction and, suddenly, the scarf was falling.