The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

Eperitus rode his mount up to the top of the ridge where the temple of Thymbrean Apollo stood tall and black against the stars. Odysseus joined him and together they sat staring in silence at the familiar sight of Troy below them, before dismounting and tying the reins of their horses to the trees that formed the walls of the temple. The others followed their example and Eperitus, sword drawn, led the way into the shadowy circle of laurels. Their curved trunks bent inwards like the ribcage of a rotted carcass, looming over him as he entered, while the thickly interlaced branches formed a ceiling that only the faintest trace of starlight could penetrate. The floor within had been laid over with large, even flagstones and at the far end was an altar of white marble. It was a dim grey in the gloom, its surface scattered not with the sacrifices of reverent worshippers but the curled husks of fallen leaves. In the murk behind it was a wooden effigy, carved from the stump of a dead tree into the likeness of the god Apollo. Dense fronds of ivy bound its legs and torso and from its clenched fists protruded a horn bow and a bronze arrow, the latter gleaming dully in the shadows.

‘So what are we looking for?’ Antiphus asked, sweeping the leaves from the altar with his forearm and leaning across it to stare at the effigy of Apollo.

‘I don’t see anything different,’ said Eurybates, Odysseus’s squire, as he stared around at the deserted temple. Having been left in charge of the Ithacan camp while the others had sailed to Lemnos, he had insisted on riding with them that evening to relieve his boredom. The expression on his face, however, was one of disappointment. ‘What did Calchas say we would find?’

Eperitus stood over the place where his father had stabbed Arceisius in the back only two weeks before, looking down at the floor as if expecting to see his squire’s blood still staining the flagstones.

‘Perhaps we won’t find anything,’ he said. ‘Who’s to say we’ve not been sent here on one of Calchas’s drunken whims.’

‘You’re too cynical, Eperitus,’ Odysseus remarked, standing with his hands on his hips and looking up at the ceiling. ‘If the gods want us to know how to defeat Troy, they’ll find a way to tell us. Apollo may even appear to us in person.’

With the exception of Eperitus – who had encountered immortals before – the others turned to him with looks of mixed alarm and curiosity. Antiphus slipped back from the altar and stared uncertainly at the effigy of the god, while Eurybates and Omeros followed the king’s gaze up to the ceiling of branches, as if expecting Apollo to appear in the air above them at that very moment. Then Eperitus cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes, listening intently.

‘I can hear hooves,’ he announced. ‘A single horse, approaching from the direction of Troy. And its rider’s in a hurry.’

Polites, who had remained by the entrance, threw back his cloak and made to draw his sword. Odysseus raised a cautionary hand.

‘Let him come. The temple is neutral ground, respected by both sides.’

‘Not by my father,’ Eperitus growled.

‘It won’t be Apheidas,’ Odysseus replied, able to hear the distant sound of hooves himself now. ‘But whoever it is, he might just be the reason we were sent here. Pull up your hoods all of you and come back into the shadows.’

The others did as they were ordered, waiting in silence as they heard the hooves top the ridge not far from the temple and then come to a sharp halt. There was a pause as the rider doubtless saw the tethered horses of the Greeks and debated whether to carry on to the temple or turn back. Then they heard him dismount and lead his animal to the circle of laurel trees. The layered boles of the trees were so densely packed that only dark glimpses of the man and his horse were visible as he came closer, but Eperitus’s keen ears had already noted that the telltale sounds of leather or bronze that would have indicated a fully armed warrior were absent. Whoever the rider was, he was travelling light.

He tethered his horse and entered the temple: the slight figure of a youth, dressed in a dark cloak that was thrown back over both shoulders to reveal a simple, knee-length tunic of typical Trojan style. His beardless face was indistinguishable in the gloom, but the hesitation in his approach betrayed his unease as he walked slowly into the circle of trees. The whites of his eyes gleamed slightly as they fell on the six hooded figures.

‘This temple is neutral ground,’ he declared in Greek. His voice was high and tense. ‘All I want is to make an offering to the god and seek his blessing. Then I’ll be on my way.’

‘Go ahead and make your offering, son,’ Odysseus replied in the Trojan tongue. ‘We won’t stop you.’