by Glyn Iliffe
‘I don’t blame you for hating him, not after what he did to you,’ Eperitus ventured, taking a step closer.
Clytaemnestra hung her head and a shining tear rolled down each of her cheeks. Then Eperitus put a hand under her chin and lifted her face. Her large, bewitching eyes met his and something stirred deep within him. More tears, even though her face was proud and defiant, and then he kissed her. Her lips parted and he followed her lead, each action new to him. His hands found her thin waist and pulled her body against his, the twin bulge of her small breasts pressing upon his ribs. Then as her fingers ran into his hair he felt the tip of her tongue enter his slightly opened mouth, a sensation for which no rumour or description of the act had ever prepared him. He felt his whole body respond.
He squeezed her closer still and dropped a hand to her buttocks, only for her to mirror the action on himself. For a moment both of her hands clawed at his flesh, and then began tugging at the hem of his tunic, sliding it up his back until moments later she pulled it over his head and arms and flung it to one side. Instinctively they stood back from each other as she undid the cord that held her dress together. Then she was naked before him and he found his aroused passion momentarily stilled as he stared at her.
Although he had seen naked women before, never had he beheld a body that he knew within moments would be joined with his own. Clytaemnestra, perhaps enjoying the knowledge she was giving herself to him in a way that Agamemnon would never know, allowed his eyes to roam across her body, over the small white breasts with their disproportionately large, starkly pink nipples, down over the flat stomach to the thick arrowhead of red hair between her legs. Then, before his eyes could have their fill of her, she took him by the hand and led him to a patch of dried grass beyond the ring of firelight, out into the shadows where the moon’s silver luminance gave their bodies a ghostly, even corpselike appearance.
When Eperitus awoke the next morning she was gone. He was disappointed – there was so much he wanted to say and ask and talk about with her – but he knew he was not heart-broken. He glanced about for signs of her, just in case she had only wandered off, but there were none.
He lay back on the bed of grass and looked up at the clouds, his mind sliding lazily between the different pleasures of the night before. But for all the foreign delights of experiencing a woman, every thought ran ultimately up against the same barrier, the single revelation that Clytaemnestra had shared with him between their bouts of love-making. Damastor was a traitor. Damastor had wanted Odysseus to choose Penelope over Helen, and it was Damastor who had given the alarm when Odysseus entered the women’s quarters.
It all sounded too incredible, and Eperitus wondered whether Clytaemnestra’s second sight had failed her or deceived her. But as he sifted through everything he could remember about Damastor’s actions over the past half-year, the distant sound of horns carried to him from across the Eurotas valley. In an instant he was on his feet and standing at the edge of the shelf of rock, shielding his eyes from the sun as he gazed towards Sparta. Away in the distance, the first of the suitors was emerging from the city gates. The courtship of Helen was over. The battle for Ithaca was about to begin.
book
FOUR
Chapter Twenty-five
DEATH IN THE TEMPLE
Even from a distance Eperitus’s shield and spears would mark him out as a warrior, so he was especially cautious in his descent from the foothills not to make himself visible to any watching eyes on the city walls. Once he was back on the level plain of the valley, though, there were enough trees, ravines and stone walls to provide cover and he made much better progress on his way to the sun-dappled waters of the Eurotas.
The day was a warm one, in contrast to the clouds and occasional rain of the past week, and by the time Eperitus reached a point on the river far enough down from the city gates he was sweating and thirsty. He laid down his shield and spears behind a stone wall and glanced about the countryside for signs of life. There were shepherds on the foothills to either side of the valley and a handful of peasant children in an olive grove on the other side of the river, but neither posed a threat so he walked to the near bank and knelt down to drink. The cold waters were refreshing on his dusty hands, the strong undercurrents driving his fingers apart and chilling them to the bone. He took a quick draught and splashed some on his face and neck, then on his dark hair, hot with the sun. He scooped up more handfuls of the liquid until his thirst was slaked, then sat back with the water dripping from his unshaven chin onto the tunic Clytaemnestra had given him.
As he slouched back against the rich, damp grass of the river bank the sun quickly dried his hair and skin and took advantage of his wearied condition to woo him with thoughts of sleep. The air was rich with the smell of spring blossom, overpowering his senses, and he felt his lids grow ponderous and the tension in his muscles ease away. His breathing grew slower and heavier as the gentle breeze from the river fanned his skin. His chin lolled onto his chest and within moments he was in the depths of sleep.
A noise snagged him back to wakefulness. He opened his eyes and raised his head to listen. Silence. For a moment he thought the noise had not been from the waking world, but then he heard it again. The slow beat of hoofs and the trundle of wheels, followed by the sharp whinnying of horses. Eperitus pulled the sword from his belt and lay flat on his stomach against the steeply angled bank.
The road bent out of sight behind a cluster of cypress trees, hiding whoever was approaching, but soon a chariot with a team of four horses came slowly into view, followed by a large number of fully armed warriors. Because of the size of the escort, Eperitus thought at first that it was one of the more powerful suitors, on his way to the coast and a ship home, but as they came closer Eperitus could see Mentor at the reins with Odysseus and Penelope standing beside him. The couple looked magnificent together, and Eperitus felt a surge of happiness at the sight of them. Behind them came the small band of Ithacans, with Halitherses and Antiphus at their head, followed by a much larger troop of a further forty warriors.
Unable to contain himself any longer, Eperitus stood up and ran to greet them. At a command from Odysseus, Mentor halted the chariot and the prince jumped down to meet his friend.
‘I’ve been praying you would find us before we sailed for Ithaca,’ he said, taking Eperitus’s hand and pulling him into an embrace. ‘I’ve a lot to tell you about. Penelope and I were married.’
He nodded towards his wife, who was watching them from the chariot.
‘You old fox,’ Eperitus replied, feigning surprise. He looked up at Penelope and took pleasure from the sight of her calm, intelligent face. She smiled back at him with a happy gleam in her eye.
Odysseus gave him a roguish grin as the other Ithacans gathered around them, their faces full of surprise and joy at the unexpected reunion. Halitherses put his arms about Eperitus and held him in a bearlike grip, a rare sign of affection from the guard captain. As he stepped away, Antiphus gave the young warrior a hug and roughed up his hair affectionately, welcoming him back into the ranks.
‘You did a brave thing,’ he said. The others murmured their agreement. ‘After you escaped Odysseus told us it was him, not you, who had been in Penelope’s room, and that your sacrifice probably saved his life. I wonder how many of us would have done the same.’
‘You all would have,’ Eperitus said, dismissing the compliment. ‘Now, is someone going to tell me who these others are?’
‘They’re Spartans,’ said Damastor, stepping forward and offering his hand. ‘Tyndareus lent them to Odysseus as a wedding gift, to help him retake Ithaca.’
This was the moment Eperitus had thought about and dreaded more than any other since waking that morning. Should he refuse Damastor’s gesture of friendship and denounce him as a traitor in front of everybody, without the slightest proof to support his accusation? Or should he keep silent and bide his time, waiting for some evidence that Clytaemnestra was right? After a moment of doubt,
he decided the latter would be the wisest course of action and took Damastor’s hand.
Soon after, the march to the sea resumed. Odysseus did not return to the chariot, but walked beside Eperitus. The matter of his sudden appearance still needed explanation, he said.
‘Does it?’ Eperitus asked. ‘You of all men should know I’m a man of my word. I offered you my loyalty and now it’s my duty to help you restore Ithaca to Laertes’s rule. Did you really expect me to let you and these clumsy oafs you call warriors fight Eupeithes alone?’
‘Of course I didn’t,’ he laughed. ‘But I should really like to know where you hid yourself these past few days, and what you lived on. And just how did you ghost into the palace armoury and retrieve your own weapons?’
‘That’s a story I’ll keep to myself,’ Eperitus replied, thinking of Clytaemnestra and knowing that the mere mention of her would reveal everything to Odysseus’s clever mind. ‘But you must answer a question for me: how do you intend to retake Ithaca with the force you have? These Spartans look like good men, fully armed and battle-hardened, but the Taphians aren’t children either. We were lucky to beat the ones that ambushed us, and from Mentor’s account their army on Ithaca is at least twice our number.’
‘The people of Ithaca will come to our aid,’ Odysseus began. ‘They may only be fishermen and farmers, but they love their country and they’re loyal to their king – that’s more powerful than the gold Eupeithes pays to his Taphians. But Athena’s the one I’m counting on.’ He dug into his pouch and brought out the clay owl the goddess had given him. ‘Her spear and aegis are worth a thousand men each, and when I use this to call on her no power on earth will be able to save Eupeithes.’
Darkness began to fall before they reached the coast, putting an end to the day’s journey. As the others made camp for the night Eperitus and Antiphus gathered wood and built a fire. The archer sniffed the air and announced that the sea was only a quick march away. Although Eperitus did not possess his seafarer’s senses, the gulls flocking about their camp in the twilight seemed to confirm his verdict.
‘I know the coast around here,’ Antiphus added. ‘The river empties out beside a large fishing village. I stopped there once when I was a lad on a merchant ship, and I remember we came inland to buy livestock for the voyage home. We might even have come this far, though it was a long time ago and it’s difficult to recognize a place in this sort of light.’ He looked about at the rocky hills on either side. ‘But it feels familiar, you know, and if I’m right there’s a temple to Athena nearby.’
‘What’s that you say, Antiphus?’ Odysseus asked, who was standing nearby and watching the last of the sunset over the peaks of the Taygetus Mountains.
‘A temple of Athena, my lord, on a hilltop not far downstream from here. It wasn’t very big, as I remember, but you’d easily catch its silhouette if there’s any light left.’
‘Then I’m going to look for it,’ Odysseus said. ‘I’ll be back by the time it gets dark.’
‘My lord!’ Eperitus said, noticing Damastor amongst a group of Ithacans preparing food nearby. ‘Surely you’re not going alone? At least let me accompany you.’
‘Eperitus, if I’d needed a nursemaid I’d have brought old Eurycleia with me. Now, sit down by the fire and stop worrying about me.’
Eperitus felt uneasy as he watched his friend go. Soon he and Antiphus were joined by the other Ithacans, Damastor amongst them. The blaze was already puffing burning embers into the evening air and a few early moths were attracted into its circle of light. One of the Spartans, a tall, bearded man by the name of Diocles, came over and politely requested a brand from their fire. There were too many of them to share a single fire, so Eperitus helped him carry some burning logs over to the stack of wood his comrades had constructed and soon had it ablaze. The Spartans thanked him and he returned to his own group.
The last embers of the day were burning over the western hills, leaving an insipid pink stain on the sky that gave warning of an even warmer day to come tomorrow. But the faint glow was rapidly succumbing to the deep blue of evening and the stars were already beginning to gleam and twinkle at every point on the horizon. As Eperitus watched them his thoughts turned to Penelope, who was in a makeshift tent with her slave Actoris, over by the tethered horses. He was wondering whether she would join them that evening when he was struck by a sudden sensation that something was wrong. It was a feeling of growing fear, though he could not think what had caused it. He looked about and instinctively put a hand on the hilt of his sword, but there was nothing. Then he knew. He looked once around the circle of faces, illuminated orange by the fire, and his heart sank into his stomach. Damastor was gone.
Odysseus propped his sword against the outside wall of the temple and walked in. The doorway was so low he had to dip his head to enter, and once inside he saw it was little more than a simple, unadorned country altar. There were no anterooms, no columns supporting the broken, sagging roof, no elaborate murals on the flaking walls and no rich ornaments to lend it the required sense of divine majesty. It was perhaps a quarter the size of the great hall in his father’s palace and boasted nothing more than a pitted stone altar at the far end. This was watched over by a badly formed midget effigy, which he could only assume was meant to represent Athena.
The stub of a torch had been lodged in a groove upon the wall to his right. It was sputtering its last as Odysseus entered, but by its wavering light he could tell that the chamber was empty. A bunch of early spring flowers lay to either side of the altar, which along with the torch were the only signs that the temple had been visited in months. Even they were probably the work of a lone peasant or local holy man, whose daily duty it was to light the single room and attend to its altar.
Odysseus knelt before the clay figurine and eyed it, making a mental comparison between its stunted, grimacing features and the matchless glory of the goddess it represented. But for all its rude art and rough edges he sensed something of Athena had been caught in the representation; compared with the voluptuous, richly curving statuettes of Aphrodite and Hera he had seen in other temples, the figurine’s long body, straight hips and crude breasts reminded him of her boyish masculinity; the jutting brow and the straight nose that shot down from it were every bit as stern as the face of the goddess herself. And as he looked he sensed a new presence filling the temple. Suddenly fearful that the spirit of Athena might be watching him through the thumbed pits of the figurine’s eye sockets, he threw his glance to the base of the altar and closed his eyes.
‘Pallas Athena,’ he said aloud, his voice filling the dusty confines of the temple. ‘The journey you sent me on is over. Now the time has come to prove myself in the final battle, as I know you always intended me to. Tomorrow I embark for Ithaca.’
Damastor stood in the shadows at the back of the temple, the torchlight gleaming dully off the drawn blade of his sword. He had removed his sandals and left them outside so that he could enter the temple without making a noise, and now, as his prince knelt before the effigy of the goddess, he took two steps nearer.
Odysseus continued. ‘Mistress, you’ve always guided my spear in battle, as in the hunt. You’ve kept me safe from harm. It was you who saved me from the boar that tore open my thigh, and you who sent Eperitus to aid me in my trials. You made him swear service to me in your presence, after you gave me the gift.’
Damastor had crept two paces closer and was bringing his sword up to hack down on Odysseus’s neck when he heard the strange words. What gift could he be talking about? Was Odysseus suggesting he had seen the goddess? Damastor had heard of such things, though the tales were treated with scepticism and the tellers often mocked. But Odysseus had no one to lie to here.
‘And it is your gift I’m concerned about, mistress.’ Odysseus pulled the clay owl from his pouch and held it up before the figurine. ‘I’ve carried it with me everywhere, and it’s here with me now, but the time is near when I’ll use it to summon your help. Tomorrow I take my
men to Ithaca, to win back my father’s kingdom. But you know how weak we are, mistress, how few compared to Eupeithes’s hordes. That’s when I intend to break the seal and pray for your help.’
Damastor looked at the clay owl and his quick mind half-guessed what it was. In an instant he had questioned whether it would work for himself; he considered the possibilities it might offer him after he had plucked it from its dead owner’s fingers; and in his black, ambitious heart he saw himself as the new king of Ithaca, divinely appointed by no less a god than Athena herself.
‘So I ask now that you will be swift to honour your promise to me,’ Odysseus continued. ‘Come quickly into the battle when I call you, mistress, unless every plan and every hope you ever pinned upon me be cut down by a Taphian spear.’
‘Or an Ithacan sword,’ Damastor said, and raised the weapon high over his head.
Eperitus stood up and left the circle about the fire, and as soon as he was out of earshot of the camp he began to run. Following the sound of the river on his left he stumbled like a blind man over the pitted and rock-strewn road, constantly looking up and to his right for sight of a temple on a hill. The light was failing fast and he was beset by fears that he had already passed it, until, after some time of doubt and increasing panic, he was ready to turn back and retrace his steps. Then he saw it.
The very last of the evening light was spread like a purple mould along the low black humps of the mountains. But there in its watery light, barely distinguishable amidst the rocks and twisted figures of leafless trees, was framed the upright silhouette of a building. Despite the darkness he quickly found a path leading up the hillside and began to pick his way along it. But at that moment he was struck by a sudden sense of dread. Looking up he saw, or thought he saw, a figure standing by the temple. It stood between the building’s outline and the stump of a dead tree, the sky burning with purple flames behind it as it looked down the hill. Eperitus froze, not wanting to be seen, but then the figure was gone. He did not see it go and could not say whether it had entered the temple or left it; he was not even certain he had seen it at all. And then panic contracted the muscles of his heart and he knew he must run, run without care for the path or the rocks at his feet, because if he did not Odysseus would be dead.
