The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

If the curse was to strike, Eperitus thought, now was the time. Diomedes snapped angrily at the others, who were still beguiled by the treasures around them, and ordered them to place their torches in the remaining brackets and ready their swords. Eperitus hung his own torch on one of the columns, snatched up a dusty shield and joined Odysseus at the foot of the dais. As the other Ithacans and the Argives formed a defensive semicircle around the sarcophagus, he stared down at the skeletal remains before him. Whether the other robbers had reached as far as Pelops’s burial chamber, Eperitus did not know, but this man had made it through the maze only to die at the steps of the sarcophagus. The manner of his death was not clear, though Eperitus noticed there was an unnatural angle to his neck.

‘This is it, then,’ Odysseus said, staring up at the carved horse with its bowed head and rigid, wooden mane. ‘Inside that sarcophagus is a riddle that will give us the key to the gates of Troy. We just have to work it out.’

‘Why a horse?’ Eperitus asked.

‘The Pisans are great horse breeders. They love their animals and revere them like gods, honouring them in their art, their rituals, even their funeral rites.’

‘Just like the Trojans.’

Odysseus did not answer, but narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he stared at the effigy of the horse standing atop the tomb.

Diomedes joined them. ‘Let’s not delay any longer. This place is making my men nervous. And me too, if you want the truth.’

They took the few steps to the dais, careful not to tread on the skeleton of the grave robber, and looked down at the stone sarcophagus. It was twice the length of a normal man and twice the width, and was capped by a heavy granite lid that formed the base for the wooden horse. The horse stared down at them in disdainful silence as they laid their hands upon the rough stone and began to push. Their arm and leg muscles strained with the effort, the veins bulging as their grunts filled the chamber, but the lid would not move.

‘We need something to prise it off with,’ Eperitus said.

He returned to the piles of weapons stacked amid the columns and picked up a sword. But as he was about to return to the dais, his eyes fell on a spear leaning against the wall by the shattered chariot of Oenomaus. It had a long, black shaft of some unknown wood and was tipped by a broad head. Though it must have lain there for as long as all the other weapons, the bronze had not been dulled or tarnished by the years. Instead, it shone out fiercely in the torchlight, beckoning to him irresistibly. He picked it up, surprised at how light it felt in his hand despite its monstrous size. It was then he noticed the shaft had been intricately carved and inlaid with faint traces of gold and silver, only catching the torchlight as he moved it in his hands – the work of a great craftsman. The carvings began at the head of the shaft, beneath the socketed point, and seemed to depict a race between pairs of chariots. Only when Eperitus’s eyes reached the base did he realise it was the same pair of chariots, repeated at intervals, and that it was not a race but a pursuit, with the last scene showing the occupant of the second chariot impaling the first from behind with his spear.

A call from Odysseus reminded him of where he was. Picking up two more spears, he ran to the line of warriors and gave one to Polites and the other to Trechos.

‘Come with me,’ he ordered.

As they took the steps up to the dais, Odysseus looked at the spear in Eperitus’s hands.

‘It’s magnificent.’

‘It was lying among the other weapons. I’ve never seen anything like it. Look at the carvings on the shaft.’

Odysseus took the weapon in his hands while the others looked on, equally fascinated. He studied the depictions with a frown, then handed it back to Eperitus.

‘This is Oenomaus’s spear, the one given to him by Ares. It can’t be anything else.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘You said yourself you’d never seen anything like it. Just look at how the bronze still gleams, as if it were newly burnished; and feel how light it is in the hand. Only Hephaistos himself could have made such a spear. And these pictures recall Hippodameia’s suitors, whom he pursued to their deaths – until Pelops, that is.’

‘Put it back, Eperitus,’ Diomedes insisted. ‘You’ll bring the curse down upon us. If we take nothing, perhaps we’ll be spared.’

‘What about the bone?’ Eperitus countered.

‘I agree with Diomedes,’ Odysseus said. ‘Put it back and fetch another.’