by Glyn Iliffe
A large fire was burning close to his hut as they approached. Arceisius was stirring the contents of a large pot that hung over the flames, while Polites, Eurybates, Antiphus and Omeros sat around the hearth drinking wine and talking with animated gestures. Sparks and smoke rose into the air and the delicious aroma of stewed meat filled Eperitus’s nostrils, making him suddenly aware of how hungry he was. His comrades greeted him enthusiastically as he sat down beside them, while Astynome took the ladle from Arceisius’s hands and insisted that she be allowed to serve the meal she had cooked. She poured some of the stew into a wooden bowl and passed it to Eperitus, watching closely for his reaction. As the rich sauce touched his lips he thanked the gods he had been fortunate enough to find such an excellent cook and nodded his approval.
‘It’s good. Very good.’
Astynome smiled with satisfaction.
‘Of course it is,’ said Antiphus, holding up his bowl. ‘We’ve eaten better in the past week with Astynome’s cooking than we have during the whole of this war. Haven’t we, Polites?’
Polites nodded and watched as his own bowl was filled. Silence followed as the men ate, while Astynome passed them baskets of bread and busied herself mixing the wine. She filled Eperitus’s krater first and hardly took her eyes off him as she served the others. When she had finished, Arceisius insisted that she fill her own bowl and join them about the fire. She tried to refuse, claiming it was not right for a slave to eat with free men, but the rest would not accept her excuses and eventually she agreed, though awkwardly at first.
It pleased Eperitus to see how well his friends had taken to her, and he knew it was not simply because she was an attractive woman. Despite her display of humility about eating with them, there was a fire in her spirit that defied the fact she was a captive among enemies. She had a natural nobility that came not from birthright, but from her character. Eperitus had quickly come to respect her for it in their short time together, and it seemed the others recognized it too.
As darkness descended the men turned naturally to conversation. While Astynome slipped away to fetch bread and mix more wine, Antiphus made Arceisius tell them all about Melantho and how he had managed to fool the poor girl into marrying him. Next came the tale of the capture of Lyrnessus, Adramyttium and Thebe, which Arceisius and Eurybates wanted in every detail. Antiphus indulged them, while Polites and Eperitus contributed very little – Polites due to his natural quietness and Eperitus because he did not want to offend Astynome. Then it was the turn of Omeros, who fetched his tortoiseshell lyre and began to sing to them of Ithaca and the homes and people they had left behind. Astynome sat down at Eperitus’s shoulder, enchanted by the poet’s skill even though he sang about a place she had never seen and knew nothing about. Eventually, with the stars filling the sky and the conversations of other campfires slowly dying out around them, Omeros finished singing and declared it was time for him to sleep. The others nodded and unrolled their furs, while Astynome stood and walked to where her blanket lay beside the wall of Eperitus’s hut.
Eperitus watched her remove her cloak and roll it up to act as a pillow. Every night since the sack of Lyrnessus he had watched her do the same, making her bed little more than an arm’s length away from him as they prepared to sleep beneath the stars. Tonight, he decided, should be no exception.
He stood and walked over to her.
‘Sleep in my hut,’ he said, a little awkwardly. ‘If you wish.’
She looked at him mutely.
‘You can make your bed close to the hearth,’ he continued. ‘I have plenty of furs, and it’ll be warmer than out here. Astynome, I’m not asking you to—’
‘No, of course not,’ she finished, embarrassed by his attempt to explain himself. ‘I’d be glad to have a roof over my head again. You’re kind, my lord.’
He gave her a half-smile, but felt even more awkward than before and quickly looked away. Astynome laid a hand on his forearm, then picked up her blanket and cloak and entered the hut.
The return to the Greek camp was followed by two weeks of training the Ithacan recruits for war. Replacements were of no use unless they could fight, and Odysseus was determined the newcomers would be as ready as they could be to face the battle-hardened Trojans. The task would not be an easy one: their fighting ability, stamina and physical strength differed greatly, but were generally poor and far below the standard of the rest of the army. Before they could be risked in battle they would have to learn how to use their weapons in attack and defence, manoeuvre as a body of men, and understand orders. Equally important, they would need to attain a level of fitness that would allow them to fight in full armour, all day long if necessary, with the vicious Trojan sun beating down on their shoulders.
Early each morning, Odysseus and Eperitus would march the replacements out on to the plain above the camp, where they were put through their paces until the sun sank into the Aegean and the light began to drain from the world. The pampered Ithacans, who had never known anything other than the sheltered lives of islanders, were driven to the limits of their endurance and beyond. Long marches were followed by weapons training and drill. Exhaustion ensued, making the recruits sloppy and careless, but the slightest inattention invariably led to a blow from the staff Eperitus had armed himself with. Each night they would stumble back to their tents, drained of all energy, bruised, ravenous, and always desperate for sleep. And before the first inkling of dawn was in the sky again, Odysseus, Eperitus and a handful of the other veterans would kick them awake and march them back on to the plain for a new day of drills and exercises.
Eperitus was enjoying the period of training. The mercenaries were developing quickly, and even the ordinary Ithacans – who for the most part had been farmers and fishermen before the call to war – were starting to show promise. But most of all he looked forward to the evenings, when he would sit with his comrades around the campfire, discussing the progress of individual recruits while eating the food that Astynome’s skilful hands had prepared. Sometimes, when he was not too exhausted by the day’s training, Omeros would join them and sing songs about gods, monsters and long-dead heroes, strumming gently on his battered lyre until he could keep his eyes open no longer. And at the end of the night Eperitus would lie awake in his bed, listening to the sound of Astynome’s gentle breathing from the other side of the hut, wondering what would become of the girl he refused to think of as his slave. Whenever he raised the subject of sending her home to her family – reminding her that he had only ever agreed to take her under his protection – she seemed strangely reluctant to discuss the matter. Equally strange was the pleasure he took from her reluctance. For a man who had always been content to look after his own needs, having another person in his life brought benefits he had never guessed at. Astynome could cook, of course, but she could also wash, darn, clean, oil, polish and a host of other things he had never before given much mind to. Suddenly, the many holes in his tunics and cloaks had all been repaired and his armaments gleamed with an almost embarrassing lustre. She was also strong enough to chop wood or carry clay pithoi filled with water, and yet gentle enough to knead the tension from his back and shoulders after a long day’s weapon training. But despite all these talents, he valued her most for her company. She did not have the cowed dullness of many slaves. Instead, she was opinionated, lively, fiercely patriotic, often rude, and yet never malicious. She would interrupt the men’s conversations with astute comments as she served their wine, or hold long discussions with Omeros about the history and legends of Troy, sometimes teaching him snatches of songs in her own language, made more beautiful by the softness of her voice. She was a gift of the gods, and yet Eperitus knew such gifts were the envy of others and rarely belonged to one man for long.
Odysseus would sometimes join the others around the campfire, though he rarely stayed for long. Since the return of the ships from Ithaca, he had been unusually sombre and withdrawn. But the question of Palamedes remained, and almost two weeks after the king
had made his suspicions known, Eperitus took him aside one evening and asked him how he intended to prove the Nauplian was a traitor. Odysseus replied the answer lay with the gods, and that he had the beginnings of a plan.
The next evening, after the day’s training was over and Eperitus was about to start on the meal Astynome had prepared, Odysseus appeared with a wineskin hanging from his shoulder.
‘Come with me,’ he said in a low voice.
He set off without waiting and Eperitus was forced to ignore the wooden dish in Astynome’s hand and set off after the king. Odysseus was weaving a meandering path between the sprawl of tents and huts as Eperitus caught up with him. The camp was a small city, temporary in its nature and yet almost permanent in the length of time it had existed within the crescent of hills that overlooked the bay. Tens of thousands of soldiers from every Greek nation lived there with the wives, concubines, children and slaves that they had accumulated during the long years of the siege. Though their commanders had huts of wood or even stone, the tents of the soldiers were no less homely – like intricate beehives where whole communities worked, ate and slept in close company with each other. And just like the cities they had left behind, the camp was filled with smithies, armourers’ shops, bakeries, covered stalls from which merchants traded their wares, stables, livestock pens, communal latrines and even the altars and crude temples that were vital to any metropolis. Odysseus did not pause in his course, and in the failing light of day managed to dodge skilfully between guy ropes and washing lines and through the constant traffic of soldiers and the numerous dogs, sheep and goats that wandered freely through the camp. At first Eperitus thought he was planning to visit one of the other kings, but as they passed the well-built huts of Menelaus, Nestor, Tlepolemos, Idomeneus, Menestheus and several others, eventually climbing the surrounding hills to the earthwork and ditch that defended the camp, he began to understand who it was Odysseus was seeking, and why. At the top of the ridge, from which they could see the myriad fires of the Greek camp behind them, and the darkening plains towards Troy ahead, they could hear him among the trees on the other side of the ditch. After Odysseus had spoken briefly with the guards, they crossed one of the causeways and followed the mournful sound of drunken singing.
They found him crouched against the crooked bole of a wind-blasted plane tree. His black robe was pulled tightly about his thin body and his hood was pulled over his face. As they approached, he threw back his hood to reveal pale, skull-like features and a head that was bald but for a week’s growth of stubbly black hair.
‘Odysseus?’ he hissed, leaning forward inquisitively. ‘And Eperitus with him. What urgent need brings them to my little kingdom, I wonder? Has Agamemnon sent for me? But no, he only ever sends his slaves. Then they must have come for reasons of their own. I wonder what they might want.’
‘I was hoping you might already have known, Calchas,’ Odysseus answered him, sitting on a rock and laying the wineskin between his feet.
The seer’s dark eyes fixed greedily on the leather bag. He staggered to his feet and took a couple of faltering steps towards the king, his black cloak falling open to reveal the grubby white priest’s robes beneath. As he came closer both warriors could detect the mingled scent of wine, stale sweat and urine. Eperitus’s nose twitched in disgust, but it was nothing compared to the revulsion he always felt in the presence of the renegade Trojan priest, who at the command of Apollo had forsaken his homeland to join the Greeks. It was Calchas who, ten years before, had prophesied that Eperitus’s daughter, Iphigenia, must be sacrificed before the Greek fleet could sail to Troy, and who had led her to the altar to be murdered by Agamemnon.
‘Might already have known what, my lord?’ the priest asked, fixing his bloodshot eyes on a spot just above Odysseus’s head. His left arm was hanging limply at his side, while his right dangled before his chest, the fingers constantly clutching at something that was not there. ‘Might have known some dark secret of the future? Some omen of Troy’s doom, or maybe even . . . your own?’
He laughed and then belched, before dropping heavily on to his backside and crossing his legs with clumsy awkwardness.
‘Sit down!’ he snapped, frowning at Eperitus. The Ithacan captain remained standing and a moment later the priest’s sudden anger drained away to leave him sullen and depressed. ‘Oh, do what you like – nobody else respects me any more so why should you? A seer whose gift of prophecy has abandoned him and left him with a taste for wine. I should have stayed in Troy, serving my god. You’d have listened to me then, a priest of Apollo! Damn your stubborn, warrior’s pride.’
‘But the gift hasn’t left you, Calchas,’ Odysseus said, his voice slow and calming. ‘Or so I hear. Agamemnon still sends for you, even if the rest of the Greeks shun you. It’s said the King of Men asks you to interpret his dreams and that he confides all his plans in you, and that sometimes – sometimes – Apollo lets you see things. Have I heard wrong?’
Calchas gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
‘I thought not,’ Odysseus continued, picking up the wine and nonchalantly sniffing at the neck of the skin.
‘But the gift’s weak and fitful at best,’ Calchas protested. ‘I see so little now, and then nothing but glimpses of shadows. Apollo has turned away from me . . .’
‘Apollo has ordered you to serve the Greeks,’ Odysseus countered sternly. ‘It was at your own insistence that Eperitus and I took you from Troy to the gathering of the fleet at Aulis. And if you’ve renewed your old liking for wine since then, we aren’t to blame for that. Now, tell me truthfully, do you know the identity of the traitor in the council?’
Calchas opened his mouth to speak, but the words fell away and he frowned in confusion. ‘Traitor?’
‘Yes, a traitor,’ Eperitus replied. ‘Has Apollo told you who he is? Is it—’
‘Enough, Eperitus,’ Odysseus ordered, holding up his hand. Then he picked up the wineskin and stood. ‘Answer me, Calchas. Do you know anything about a traitor?’
The priest looked longingly at the skin dangling from Odys-seus’s fingertips, then shook his head and turned away.
‘Then forget we ever came here,’ Odysseus said, and with a nod to Eperitus began to walk in the direction of the camp.
‘Wait!’ Calchas called, leaping to his feet. ‘Wait. I think—’
He gave a cry as he stumbled over the rock on which Odysseus had been sitting. The two warriors turned to see him sprawled on his stomach, clawing pathetically at the dust and sobbing with sudden despair.
‘We shouldn’t have wasted our time on him, Odysseus,’ Eperitus said, looking with disdain at the fallen priest. ‘I understand why you came here – the proof you seek – but any powers he once had left him long ago, destroyed by wine and too much self-pity.’
‘Wait,’ Odysseus said, holding up a hand.
He took a step towards the priest, who had stopped crying and was now arching his back with his arms pinned to his sides, as if straining to get up but without using his hands. His whole body began to shudder, quivering from head to foot as if shaken by an invisible attacker. Then he turned his face towards them and they saw his pupils had rolled up into the top of his head to leave only the pink orbs of his eyeballs. A white spume had formed about his lips and was rolling down his chin in long gobbets.
‘What’s happening to him?’ Eperitus asked, shocked.
‘I’ve heard about this,’ Odysseus replied. ‘It’s a prophetic trance.’
‘He’s faking it. You shouldn’t have brought the wine – he’s putting on a show to—’
Eperitus fell silent. Though Calchas’s body remained arched and quivering, something was happening to his eyes. They were changing, filling with an intense light that came from within. Suddenly beams of silver shot out from each eye, feeling through the darkness like antennae, pulsing, growing in strength until the eyeballs glowed like heated bronze. Eperitus and Odysseus instinctively clutched at the swords in their belts, horrifi
ed at the seer’s face as he looked up at them, mocking their fear with a broad grin.
‘Your swords will not protect you,’ he said in a deep, powerful voice that seemed to emanate from the plane trees above their heads.
An instant later the handles of their weapons were searing hot, forcing them to pull their hands away. The voice merely laughed.
‘What do you want of me?’
‘We want to know who’s betraying our plans to the Trojans,’ Odysseus replied, flexing his hand and rubbing the unharmed flesh of his palm.
The amusement on Calchas’s face changed to a frown as the glowing pupils flicked towards the king.
‘Your instincts are correct, Odysseus, son of Laertes,’ the voice hissed. ‘The traitor is Palamedes. But the proof will be less easy to come by. Nauplius’s son is as devious as you are and your cunning must exceed his if you are to catch him out.’
Odysseus shot a victorious glance at Eperitus, but the captain’s expression remained sceptical.
‘Hear this also,’ the voice continued. ‘Great Ajax blasphemes the gods with impunity, but the day is coming when we will seek to punish his arrogance. When Ajax sets his jealous heart on the armour of Achilles, the Olympians will look to you, Odysseus, to prevent him from taking it.’
Odysseus’s look of triumph was replaced by confusion. Eperitus turned to Calchas and saw the demonic eyes now staring directly at him.
‘As for you, Eperitus, son of Apheidas, know this: you were unable to defeat your father in my sister’s temple because a part of you still loves him. To kill him now will be even harder, after what has passed between you. But if that is still your wish then you must give up all restraint and turn your energy to savage hatred. If you do not, or cannot, then your only choice is to die at his hand. Or to join him.’
