by Iliffe, Glyn
‘Sir, he’s coming again!’ he said, his voice distant and muffled by the blood pumping through Eperitus’s ears.
Suddenly, with a rush and a loud pop, his senses returned to him. Seeing the looming figure of Polites approaching from the corner of his vision, he thrust aside his pain and rolled onto his hands and knees, springing away just as the giant leapt towards him. With his brain beating hard against the inside of his skull and every muscle in his body protesting at the movement that was forced upon them, Eperitus sprinted to the opposite side of the human arena and, gasping, twisted about to face Polites, who had turned and was coming at him again, his massive body covered in sweat, dust and blood.
Then Eperitus’s fighting instinct came back to him. New strength filled his limbs and his senses sharpened to a fine point once more. His eyes searched the arena for anything that would give him an advantage, acutely aware that Polites was closing on him. Beyond the circle of Thessalians, he heard the faint rustle of undergrowth trodden under careful feet, and the small sounds of armour and weapons knocking against each other. Odysseus was coming.
‘This time I will kill you,’ Polites announced in a deep, slow voice, staring at Eperitus with a mixture of frustration and hatred.
Sensing the brigands close once more behind him, Eperitus knelt swiftly and picked up the rock he had spotted a moment before. It was smooth, round and large and he had to splay his fingers to fit it in his hand. Raising it above his head, he watched with satisfaction as the look on Polites’s face turned to fear and doubt. Then he took aim and threw the rock, hitting the giant square on the forehead. Polites looked at him blankly for a moment, his eyes blinking, before toppling backwards with all the slowness and rigidity of a felled tree.
There was a moment of silence, followed by uproar. The short bandit pushed Arceisius aside and leapt forward, pulling his sword from its scabbard as he rushed across to where Eperitus was now being held by the others, his arms pinned behind his back.
‘HALT!’ boomed a voice from the slopes above.
Eperitus turned to see Odysseus standing in the trees, his short legs planted firmly apart in the undergrowth and his arms crossed over his broad, muscular chest. Two spears were stuck in the ground beside him and his leather shield was hung across his back. A score of Ithacan soldiers were spread out across the slope, many of them aiming arrows at the bandits.
At the sound of the king’s voice, the Thessalians stopped and looked up. The men holding Eperitus pushed him into the centre of the circle and drew their swords. The rest followed suit, and as the short bandit moved forward to the safety of his comrades Arceisius ran across to join his captain, bringing him his cloak. Eperitus threw the garment about himself, then knelt and pulled his squire down with him, wanting to keep as low a profile as possible if the arrows began to fly.
‘I am King Odysseus of Ithaca, son of Laertes,’ Odysseus announced, his eyes travelling along the raised faces of the bandits. Their shields and spears had been piled in the undergrowth at the foot of the slope – left there as they had formed a circle about Eperitus and Polites – and now no man dared to retrieve them for fear of being shot down by the Ithacan archers. ‘You are in my kingdom without my leave. If you want to live, throw down your swords now.’
‘Don’t be fools,’ the short bandit shouted, looking around at his comrades. ‘If we throw down our weapons they’ll massacre us all. Keep your swords, lads; there are more of us than them – we can still make a fight of it.’
‘Think about what you’re doing,’ Odysseus warned, glaring sternly at them. ‘You are trespassers here, and by right I could have had you shot down where you stand moments ago. Don’t forget, this is my kingdom – I have an army at my command. The trees all around you are filled with concealed archers; all I have to do is give the word and you will all perish. Antiphus!’
A scruffy archer with a large nose and hollow cheeks stepped forward. He held a tall bow in his right hand, the fore and middle fingers of which had been cut off – a punishment for poaching in his youth. Undeterred, he had simply taught himself to draw the bowstring with his left hand instead, and now stared straight down the shaft of the arrow at the bandit leader. The Thessalian shifted uncomfortably but retained his hold on his sword, whilst his comrades looked nervously at the trees around them, wondering how many more archers were hidden in the undergrowth.
‘But I have no intention of murdering you,’ Odysseus continued, breaking his harsh stare with a smile. ‘I know you’re not common brigands, and by the looks of you, you were soldiers once. Thessalians, too – a proud and fearsome people.’ There was a murmur of approval from the men on the road. ‘If you throw down your arms and take a solemn oath before all the gods not to return to my kingdom, I will allow you safe passage back to the mainland. I’ll even give you provisions for a week. What do you say?’
The Thessalians looked at each other, talking and nodding in low voices, then one by one began to throw down their weapons.
‘Cowards!’ the short bandit shouted at them. ‘Idiots! Can’t you see he’s lying?’
Suddenly the twang of a bowstring sang out from the trees. The bandit staggered backwards, the long shaft of an arrow sticking out from his chest. He clutched at it briefly, trying to pull it free, then the strength drained from his fingers and he fell lifeless to the ground.
Shocked, Eperitus looked up the slope. Instantly his eyes fell on the plump figure of Eurylochus, Odysseus’s cousin, his hand still hanging in the air by his ear but the string of his bow empty. There was an arrogant, self-satisfied sneer on his face as he peered down at the man he had shot.
In the moment of shocked silence that followed, Eperitus quickly turned and saw a sword lying in the grass not far from him, where its owner had thrown it down in surrender. Now, though, surrender was the last thing in any of the Thessalians’ minds and suddenly they were reaching for the weapons they had cast away. Eperitus sprang forward and swung his fist into the face of a bandit as he stretched a hand towards the sword. The man fell backwards and Eperitus snatched up the weapon, hacking off the outstretched arm of another of the Thessalians as he plucked his own blade from the dust. Arrows were flying all around and men were crying out as they fell. Eperitus grabbed the discarded sword of the warrior whose arm he had severed and tossed it towards Arceisius.
‘Here, lad, use this,’ he shouted, ‘and stick close to me.’
Up on the slope, the Ithacan guardsmen had formed a line of spears either side of Odysseus and were charging down at the lightly armed bandits, howling like Furies as they came. Eperitus smiled grimly to see the men he had trained go into battle – many for the first time – wishing he were with them. Then he sensed movement behind him and turned to see that three of the surviving Thessalians were running directly at him, brandishing their swords. Now, more than ever, Eperitus longed for the comforting weight of his grandfather’s leather shield on his arm and rued the fact that, due to his disguise, it had been left leaning idly against a tree at their camp. The first attacker reached him ahead of his comrades and swung his sword down at his head. Eperitus met the blow with his own blade, then threw the Thessalian’s arm back and arced his weapon down across his face, slicing through his left eye and the bridge of his nose. The man staggered backwards and fell down the slope on the opposite side of the road.
Arceisius rushed to Eperitus’s side, just as the other two bandits joined the attack. Eperitus’s opponent quickly proved himself an experienced swordsman, forcing the Ithacan backwards under a ferocious but accurate torrent of blows. The onslaught was met with all the speed and skill that Eperitus’s sharp instincts gave him, but his concern for Arceisius kept him distracted and prevented him from pressing his own attack. His worries were unfounded, though: he had spent four years training his squire for combat, teaching him every manoeuvre and trick with sword, shield and spear that he knew; and Arceisius had always proved a quick learner with no mean instinct for fighting. Now the endless drills were showin
g their worth as Arceisius fended off the Thessalian’s probing thrusts with ease. There was no time for the young man to think about what he was doing, only to react intuitively. Within a few moments, he had turned from defence to attack, pushing his opponent back towards the steep slope on the other side of the path.
Eperitus recognized something of his younger self in Arceisius and smiled as he watched the fledgling warrior. Putting his concerns aside, he now turned his full attention on the man before him. He was young and bearded, with a single, angry eyebrow forming a black V across his forehead. His attacks were energetic and accompanied by grunts of exertion, but they were predictable and easy to parry. As Arceisius plunged his sword into his opponent’s chest, Eperitus beat aside another attack and began to stab and hack at the Thessalian, forcing him to think and react quicker and quicker as each new thrust came at him. Eventually, Eperitus’s skilful onslaught prised his enemy’s guard wide open and he pushed the point of his sword into the man’s liver. As the Thessalian fell to his knees, Eperitus withdrew his reddened blade from the man’s gut and swept his head from his shoulders.
He turned and saw that the battle behind them was already over. Stepping across the corpse, he clapped Arceisius on the shoulder.
‘Well done, lad,’ he said. ‘You showed real skill with that sword.’
‘Thanks,’ Arceisius replied uncertainly, looking down at the man he had slain. There was a shadow of distaste in his expression – a hint of doubt – but as he sensed his captain’s eyes upon him he looked up and forced a smile to his lips. ‘Thanks, sir.’
None of the bandits remained standing and at a quick count Eperitus could see that all the Ithacans had survived, which did not surprise him given the fact they had enjoyed the advantage of spears and shields against the swords of the Thessalians. Odysseus stood in the middle of the carnage, the gore running in rivulets down the shaft of his spear. He ignored the pleas of the wounded men around him; they had been given their chance to surrender and now the only mercy they would be shown was a dagger across the throat to quicken their passing.
‘You were late,’ Eperitus called to him. ‘That giant nearly killed me.’
Odysseus smiled cockily. ‘I was exactly on time. The fact you’re still alive proves it.’
At that moment, Eurylochus came striding across the path to the point where the short bandit’s body lay. He seized hold of his arrow, tugged it free from the dead man’s chest and proceeded to wipe it clean on the corner of his cloak, but as he slid it back into the leather quiver that hung at his waist, Eperitus grabbed him by the chest and spun him around.
‘What do you want?’ Eurylochus asked indignantly.
‘This!’
Eperitus drew back his fist and slammed it into Eurylochus’s smug, round face. Blood exploded from his nostrils as the force of the blow sent him staggering backwards. He caught his heel on the corpse of the short bandit and fell in a heap, one hand clutching at his broken nose.
‘What in Hades did you do that for?’ he screamed in a thick voice, trying to stem the blood flow. The other Ithacans, who had been pilfering from the bodies of the Thessalians, stopped what they were doing and looked over.
‘Because you deserved it, you oaf,’ Eperitus answered angrily. ‘What did you think you were doing when you fired that arrow? These men were about to give up, and if you’d held your damned nerve they’d still be alive now.’
There was a murmur of agreement from the others.
‘Odysseus!’ Eurylochus whined, stretching a pleading hand towards the king. ‘You saw what he did. I demand you . . .’
‘Just shut up, Eurylochus,’ Antiphus hissed.
Odysseus held up a hand and an immediate silence fell. ‘Step back, Eperitus,’ he said. ‘You’ve made your feelings known – now let him be. As for you, cousin, you can count yourself fortunate no Ithacans died here. If they had I’d have held you responsible. Now, get back to the camp and tell Eurybates we’ll be returning as soon as we’ve buried these men.’
Eurylochus struggled to his feet, still holding his nose.
‘You’ll pay for this, Eperitus,’ he said, spitting blood on the ground at his feet, before turning on his heel and stumbling down the path.
‘I know what you’re going to say,’ Odysseus said, holding his hands up to Eperitus. The authority he had shown a moment before was gone and they were just friends again. ‘You warned me he’d put us in danger. I know.’
Eperitus shook his head in mock disapproval, then broke into a smile. ‘Well, at least we’re unharmed.’
As he spoke, one of the corpses sat up. The Ithacans stepped back in shock and stared at the massive, naked figure of Polites, rubbing the large bruise on his forehead and looking about in confusion. As soon as his eyes fell on Eperitus, though, his expression changed to sudden fury and he struggled to his knees. In a quick movement, Antiphus slipped the bow from his shoulder and fitted an arrow, aiming it straight at the broad chest of the Thessalian.
‘Don’t shoot!’ Odysseus ordered, stepping between them and holding up his hands. He turned to Polites and met his angry stare. ‘Look about you. The battle’s over and your comrades are dead. I offered them their lives, but the stubborn fools chose to fight.’
Polites stared at the bodies of the other bandits, then at the armed men standing all around him. His puzzlement was clear, but eventually he understood what had happened. He stared up at Odysseus, his eyes dark and bitter.
‘Perhaps you intend to kill me too,’ he said in his deep, slow voice.
‘I shall neither kill you nor banish you,’ the king announced. ‘You were a soldier once, but now you’ve fallen on hard times and have turned to less honourable means to feed yourself. Am I right?’
Polites lowered his proud eyes to the ground. ‘Yes,’ he answered, simply.
‘Then I will give you a chance to restore your dignity and take up your former profession again. We could do with another experienced warrior – especially one of your size and power. If you’ll take an oath of fealty, you can join my guard under Eperitus’s captaincy.’
Odysseus indicated the man who, a short while before, Polites had tried to kill with his bare hands. Polites looked at Eperitus, who met his stare and nodded amicably. After all, he thought, Odysseus was right: what captain would not want a warrior of Polites’s massive build and brute strength under his command?
‘That would be an honour,’ Polites said.
Then the king stepped forward and offered him his hand. After a moment’s pause, the Thessalian took it.
Chapter Four
APHEIDAS’S REVENGE
‘Shush now,’ Paris said gently, stroking the broad neck of the excited mare. She pressed her nostrils against his shoulder and blew warm, horse-smelling breath over his skin. ‘Be still. You’ll get your breakfast and exercise soon enough.’
He withdrew from the affectionate rubbing of the animal’s lips and gestured for the youngest of the three grooms, who were watching him with fascination, to join him.
‘Even in Troy it’s said Spartans are the best horse-breeders in Greece,’ he announced, making the boy grin with pride. ‘But this girl’s special, even by your country’s standards. What’s her name, lad?’
‘Lipse, my lord. After the wind goddess.’
‘A good name,’ Paris nodded. ‘But if you want her to live up to it, you need to feed her better. Put more corn in her food and give her plenty of treats – my own horse likes grapes. Most importantly, you need to exercise her on the plains, not here in the palace courtyard. She needs her freedom, even if it’s only for a short while every day. Give her that and you’ll soon see the sort of horse she can really become.’
He gave the groom’s shoulder a squeeze, before leaning over and offering the palm of his hand to the pure-black mare. She nudged it gently with her soft nose.
‘Sir?’ said one of the other grooms tentatively. ‘Sir, how do you make the animals love you so much?’
‘Make them?
’ Paris replied, arching his eyebrows slightly and shaking his head. ‘No man can make a creature love him – he must earn its love through kindness and trust.’
‘But you’ve only been here a few moments, sir, and already the horses act as if they’ve known you all their lives.’
Paris lowered himself onto his haunches and beckoned the boys to come closer. ‘I can see there’s no fooling you three,’ he conceded, looking into their eyes as they sat before him. ‘Well, I’ll tell you my secret, but you’re not to share it with anyone, do you understand?’
They nodded eagerly, and with a conspiratorial glance over his shoulder, Paris began the strange tale of his childhood. On the day he was born, he told them, a prophecy decreed that he would bring about the ruin of Troy. Though loath to kill his own child, King Priam was eventually persuaded to give the task to his chief herdsman. But Agelaus did not have the heart to run the baby through or drown him, so he abandoned him to his fate on the foothills of Mount Ida. When, five days later, he found the baby still alive and being suckled by a she-bear, Agelaus decided to bring him up as his own. Whether it was something in the beast’s milk, or simply a gift of the gods, Paris grew up with the ability to gain the trust of any creature. The sheep in his flocks loved him dearly and followed him everywhere, and no wolf, lion or other wild beast would ever attack them so long as Paris was nearby. This same skill gave him the ability to train fighting bulls, for which he became famous throughout Ilium. When Priam himself ordered Paris to bring his best bull to sacrifice at Troy, the boy’s nobility was impossible to disguise and Agelaus was forced to confess that Paris was the king’s son. Having been wracked by guilt ever since ordering the infant’s death, Priam ignored the old prophecy and welcomed Paris back into his family. He was made a prince, second only to Hector, the king’s eldest son.
‘But I’ve never lost the power to win the love of wild creatures,’ Paris concluded, standing and smiling at the enthralled grooms. ‘Be they horses, wolves, or even the birds of the air. I must go now, but I promise you I’ll come again. And don’t forget what I said about Lipse.’
