The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

The three men fell silent again as they watched for black shapes amid the creeping fronds of mist ahead of them. Eperitus’s thoughts drifted back to the conversation he had had with Odysseus the evening before, after they had buried Great Ajax, the king of Salamis, on a cliff top overlooking the Aegean Sea. When Achilles had been slain by an arrow fired from the walls of Troy, Ajax had demanded his cousin’s god-made armour be given to him. And who could say he did not deserve it, after carrying Achilles’s corpse to the safety of the Greek lines while Odysseus and Eperitus had fought off the pursuing Trojans? Then when Odysseus deceived the Council of Kings into awarding the armour to him, the disgrace and humiliation had driven Ajax insane and he had taken his own life. Racked with guilt, Odysseus had sworn by Athena that he would never again pursue false glory, act with dishonour or be distracted from his sole purpose of returning home to Ithaca. From that point on he resolved only to seek the destruction of Troy and the ending of the war. But Eperitus knew that his friend’s ideas of honour and glory were different to his, and however deep his remorse over Ajax’s death he was unlikely never to resort to cunning or trickery again. To expect Odysseus not to use his natural guile was like asking a bird not to use its wings.

‘What’s that?’ hissed Diomedes, thrusting a finger towards a tall black shape emerging from the swirls of mist ahead of them.

Eperitus narrowed his eyes; there were other shapes beyond it, more rocks waiting to rip open the ship’s belly and condemn its crew to the same fate as Philoctetes. And suddenly every man on board could hear the seagulls and smell the pungent seaweed piled up on the crags, though only Eperitus’s nostrils could detect the underlying stench of corruption emanating from the island, a reek he had not known in such strength for ten years. They had found Philoctetes and he was still cursed by the terrible wound the gods had inflicted on him a decade before.

‘Throw the anchor stones overboard,’ Odysseus shouted. ‘And ready the boat. We’re going ashore.’

Chapter Two

PHILOCTETES

The boat bumped against the shelf of black rock and Odysseus leapt out, slipping slightly on the layered seaweed before finding a handhold and pulling himself to safety. Antiphus threw him the rope and he held the vessel fast as the others clambered free of its cramped confines. Eperitus was last behind Diomedes and seeing Polites had left the club and lion’s pelt that Odysseus had given him, stooped to pick them up.

‘You can leave those,’ Odysseus said quietly, passing the rope to Polites and offering Eperitus his hand. ‘We’ll only need them if all else fails.’

Mystified, but knowing better than to ask for an explanation from his friend, Eperitus left the club and pelt in the boat and took the king’s hand. He stepped ashore and looked about himself. Through the thick fog behind them he could just see the mast and cross spar of the galley, swaying gently between two sentinels of rock. The sea in-between was lost beneath the curling fronds of white mist that rose like steam from its surface, creeping inland across the stony shore to lap at the knees of the cliffs that loomed harsh and forbidding above the party of Greeks. The bluffs were dotted with seagulls, huddled into pockets in the rock for protection from the cold breeze, and Eperitus could hear many more of the creatures nestled on the invisible cliff tops above. There was little else to see or hear in this barren corner of Lemnos, but the stench he had picked up from the galley was stronger and more offensive now, forcing him to lift a corner of his cloak to cover his mouth and nose.

‘What is it?’ Diomedes asked.

‘Can’t you smell it yet?’ Eperitus replied. ‘It’s Philoctetes’s wound, I’m sure of it.’

‘Impossible,’ Diomedes scoffed. ‘There’s no way he could have survived for ten years in that sort of pain. Either the wound healed itself, or it killed Philoctetes long ago and we’re here to find his bones – and the weapons he left behind.’

‘You forget he wasn’t bitten by any ordinary snake,’ Odysseus said. ‘It was sent by Thetis, in answer to Achilles’s calls for vengeance because Philoctetes beat him in the race to Tenedos. The wound’s a curse from the goddess, and if she wanted the pain to last for ten years without killing him then you can be sure he’s still alive. One thing’s for certain, though: the pain and the loneliness of this place will have sent Philoctetes half-mad at the least, if not completely insane. We need to be on our guard and do nothing to frighten him – nothing at all! And that means leaving our weapons in the boat.’

Diomedes laughed, his handsome face genuinely amused as he patted the ivory pommel of his sword.

‘This blade is never more than a few paces beyond my reach, old friend, and if you think I’m going to face an embittered madman like Philoctetes without it –’