by Glyn Iliffe
He stared at Odysseus and felt the old, comfortable hatred swell within him. The king’s eyes were fixed on the water ahead of the galley, unaware that one of his own men was patiently awaiting the right moment to strike him dead. But how could he know that, when Selagos had been so careful in keeping his emotions hidden? Though driven by loathing for the Ithacan, he was neither irrational nor reckless. He would not gamble away his chance for vengeance in a hot-blooded moment, or even risk it on a favourable chance. No, he would wait until retribution was guaranteed, when he could face Odysseus alone and let him know why he was was about to take his life. His blood had burned with the desire for revenge for over ten years, but he would not let rash anger give Odysseus the slightest opportunity to escape his doom.
‘Take your throw, Selagos,’ Eurylochus said beside him.
Selagos looked down at the pile of barley cakes at his feet, his winnings from the last throw. More cakes had been placed at the edges of the leather mat, the pathetic stakes in a meaningless game. He shook his head.
‘I don’t want to throw dice,’ he answered in his broad Taphian accent and slid further along the bench.
The flames of his hatred hot within him, he glanced at Odysseus and their eyes met. Immediately he regretted it. He forced his attention back to the game, feigning interest while seeing from the periphery of his vision that Odysseus was still watching him, doubtless questioning the look of disdain he had encountered in the mercenary’s eyes. Cursing himself for a fool, Selagos waited until the king was staring out at the ocean again and then let his gaze drift back to the sack containing the Palladium. As he mulled over what he would do, he risked a glance at Eperitus. Since reaching the shores of Ilium with the replacements a few months earlier, in every plot and scheme he had considered for the demise of Odysseus, Eperitus had been the greatest obstacle in all of them. The captain of the royal guard was fiercely loyal, but not just because Odysseus was his king. Odysseus was also his friend, and their friendship had been forged through years of trial and danger, not just in war. As a warrior himself, Selagos knew how intense the bond between fighting men could be, so if he wanted to kill Odysseus he first had to remove Eperitus. And that, he knew, would not be easy. He had watched him in the fierce battles that had raged across the Trojan plains and knew his skill as a warrior was fearsome. That skill was enhanced by his acute senses – the gift of a goddess, or so Eurylochus had claimed during one of his tirades about the man he felt had prevented him from becoming captain of the guard.
But Selagos was also a man to be reckoned with. He had honed his weapon skills every day since boyhood, and as a pirate and a mercenary – and since on the battlefields of Ilium – he had proved himself many times as an outstanding warrior: quick, ferocious and ruthless. He was taller and stronger than either Odysseus or Eperitus, with a burning hatred that had proved the bane of all that had faced it before. But there was one other quality that gave him an edge. Just as the gods had gifted Eperitus his supernatural senses, so they had gifted Selagos with a childhood spent in poverty – and the keen instinct for survival that had come out of it. It was a gift with many facets: unbreakable hardness; pitiless brutality; deadly cunning. Hunger had driven him to murder before he was ten and his thieving had caused him to be beaten to within a heartbeat of Hades on several occasions. Survival had also cured him of his fear, so that he cared little whether he was caught or not. But brutishness and an indifference to pain did not make him dangerous: even an ox could boast those qualities. The thing that made him a perilous enemy was his willingness to get his way at all costs. And if Eperitus stood between him and Odysseus, then Selagos knew how to overcome him. For despite the man’s many strengths, Eperitus also had one weakness – Astynome.
At that moment, the northern flank of Tenedos loomed up over his left shoulder. He looked at the tree-covered slopes, now a dark green in the first light of day, and made his decision.
‘Eurylochus,’ he said, lowering his voice and forcing a look of concern. ‘We have to turn the fleet around and go back to Troy. At once.’
Despite the long years of war on land, the Ithacan galleys had been kept in good repair ready for the day when they would be able to return home. This seaworthiness showed now as the dozen ships slowly slipped past the eighty under Diomedes’s command and closed on the sixty vessels of the Spartan fleet ahead of them. With the ninety craft from Pylos leading the way, the surface of the Aegean was covered with sails displaying the motifs of their respective nations: the white maiden of Sparta, the leaping fox of Argos, the eagle of Pylos and the dolphin of Ithaca. Such a spectacle had not been seen since the coming of the Greeks at the beginning of the conflict. The only time it would be seen again was when the rest of the army had finished the destruction of Troy and Agamemnon led them back to their homeland. It was a sight to put fear into the heart of any enemy, but its power was transitory. Within a few days the fleets would divide and head for different parts of Greece. As they limped into the neglected harbours from which they had launched a decade before, the bulk of each army would dissolve with the departure of homesick men to their villages and farms. Only a small core of soldiers would remain to restore their king’s authority to whatever remained of the countries they had abandoned. The great army that had defeated Troy would melt away and its like would never be seen again.
Eperitus looked back as they passed the western slopes of Tenedos. The houses of the islanders looked empty now that the Greeks had abandoned their occupation. Only the handful of fishing boats in the harbour below suggested anybody might still be living there. But they were there, watching the departure of their enemies and wondering what new dangers freedom would bring. At least they had been more fortunate than their neighbours in Troy, Eperitus thought. Seagulls hovered like kites in the galley’s wake, screeching at nothing as they glided and turned. Below them, dolphins arced through the glittering waves, playful as children. Eperitus glanced at Odysseus, stern and uncommunicative, then wondered whether Astynome was awake yet. He gazed towards the prow where she slept and he noticed a group of sailors on the nearest benches. They were leaning in towards each other and talking in low voices. An argument about dice, he wondered. But then the men rose as one and turned to face the helm with angry expressions. Eurylochus was at their head.
Eperitus touched Odysseus on the arm, but the king had already noticed them. He ordered Eurybates to take the steering oars and stepped down to face his cousin.
‘What’s this?’
‘We want to know what’s in the bag?’ Eurylochus demanded, tipping his forehead towards the grain sack where Eurybates now stood.
‘Nothing that concerns you, Eurylochus. Nothing to concern any of you. Now go back to your benches.’
Eurylochus’s gaze wavered under Odysseus’s clear green eyes, but there were a dozen men behind him and the rest of the crew were now looking on with interest, their boredom relieved by the unusual show of insubordination. He narrowed his small eyes and stared back at the king.
‘I think the Palladium concerns us all, my lord.’
As he had expected, the mention of the effigy sent a stir through the ranks of Ithacans. Mild interest turned to anxiety, and Eperitus wished Astynome were behind him, rather than lying asleep in the prow with Eurylochus and his cronies standing between.
‘The contents of the bag are my business, not yours,’ Odysseus hissed.
‘Do you deny you have the Palladium when we saw it with our own eyes? Open the sack and let everyone know the danger you’ve put us in.’
‘If I want to bring the Palladium on my own ship then who are you to question me? Do you think our shared blood gives you the right to challenge my judgement before the whole crew?’
‘I’ll challenge the folly of any man if it puts me in danger. And having that on board,’ Eurylochus said, stabbing a finger towards the misshapen sack, ‘will imperil us all. It belongs in the temple of Athena, not here or anywhere else. Unless you return it, Odysseus, the goddess
will destroy us before we get anywhere near Ithaca.’
‘I took the Palladium from Troy and it’s coming home with me, whether you like it or not.’
‘Not if we refuse to sail the ship.’
Several voices broke out in agreement, not just among Eurylochus’s followers. Some pleaded for Odysseus to take the effigy back to Troy. Others were angry and more forceful. Sensing the danger, Eperitus placed a hand on the hilt of his dagger and walked forward to face Eurylochus. Polites followed him, pulling aside his cloak to reveal the sword hanging from his waist.
‘You heard the king,’ Eperitus said, pressing his face so close to Eurylochus’s that they almost touched. ‘Sit down now, unless you want to find yourself marooned on Lemnos like Philoctetes. And I’ll make sure you don’t get a bow and arrows to hunt seagulls with.’
Eurylochus took a step back, only to find his retreat blocked by Selagos. Eperitus raised his eyes to the big Taphian, whose scornful smile was backed by a hard, unrelenting stare. There was no fear in that gaze and Eperitus could sense the cold violence behind it.
‘Turn the ship around! We’re heading back to Troy.’
Eperitus turned in astonishment to Odysseus, who had taken the steering oars from Eurybates and was wearing the ship about while the crew followed his order and adjusted the angle of the sail.
‘What are you doing?’ Eperitus demanded. He retreated to where Odysseus stood and spoke in a low voice. ‘Back down now and you’ll lose your authority in front of the whole crew.’
‘I’m not backing down,’ Odysseus answered. ‘The crew are right, so I’m simply doing what I should have done all along. The Palladium belongs in Athena’s temple, and unless I return it we’ll never make it back to Ithaca.’
‘But –’
‘But what? Didn’t you advise me to burn it, bury it or throw it in the sea? If I’m backing down, it’s as much to you as Eurylochus. We’re taking it back.’
Eperitus looked away in silent exasperation. The men who had defied Odysseus were seated again and Eurylochus was bathing in the plaudits of his cronies. Tenedos was now ahead of them once more, and on either side the other Ithacan galleys were turning about to follow their king, looks of confusion visible on the faces of their crews. Within moments they were passing the Argive fleet. The sailors of the numerous vessels were shouting at them and pointing westward, perplexed by their sudden change of course. Finally, bringing up the rear was Diomedes’s own galley with the king leaning across the bow rail at the stern. His hands were cupped about his mouth and his voice came rolling across the restless waters.
‘Where are you going?’
Odysseus raised the sack and pulled back its coarse material.
‘Returning this to where it belongs.’
Diomedes was surprised to see the blackened figure, but gave a nod and waved. He had helped Odysseus steal the effigy – one of many trials they had fought through together – and was in the temple when Odysseus had defied Athena’s orders. He would understand.
‘May the gods be with you, my friend!’ he shouted.
Odysseus raised his hand in farewell.
‘He’s a good man,’ Eperitus said. ‘One of the few to come out of that war with any integrity. I wonder when we’ll see him again.’
‘I don’t think we ever shall,’ Odysseus replied.
Chapter Four
THE FUNERAL OF ANTICLEIA
The afternoon sun was mercilessly hot. The mourners sweated beneath their black clothing as they watched Anticleia’s bier pass by, borne on the shoulders of four slaves to the sound of female lamentations. The grave-clothes were brilliantly white in the sunshine and it hurt Penelope’s eyes to look at the shrouded body. It was strung about with garlands of flowers and with the eyes and mouth shut – the last duty Laertes had performed for his wife – the old queen looked as if she were merely sleeping. How different to the last months of her life when longing for her absent son had finally driven her insane. She had woken the palace almost every night with her dreams of Odysseus’s death, running around the corridors with wild eyes and lips that babbled about the terrible things Morpheus had revealed to her. Penelope’s love for her mother-in-law had turned to hate then. She had wished the old woman dead so that she would not have to listen to her premonitions of doom. Moreover, it seemed to Penelope that others were looking at Anticleia’s suffering and wondering why their present queen did not show the same anguish for Odysseus. How little they understood. Open displays of grief were a luxury she could not afford to indulge in. She had a palace to run, a kingdom to administer. Whenever a decision needed to be made about matters of trade, or if an agricultural dispute needed settling, or if the priests felt this god or that needed appeasing, she was the one they came to. And if she allowed her fears for Odysseus to undo her, what then for Ithaca? No, when her husband returned – be it in a month or ten years – he would find her waiting for him with his throne safe and his kingdom intact. That was her duty.
The cries of the women on either side of her grew louder as the pallbearers reached the passage cut into the hillside. The shadows of the overhanging trees dimmed the lustre of the shroud and the crowd of mourners grew suddenly restless. Laertes raised his shaven head for one final look before Anticleia passed out of his life forever. Eurycleia, Odysseus’s old nursemaid, folded her arms over the top of her head and sobbed openly. Beside her was Melantho, the gorgeous maid with a sluttish heart. She glanced carefully about herself, then rushed forward to toss more flowers on top of the body, wailing loudly as she did so. If a mere slave could feign grief, Penelope thought, why was it impossible for her to do the same? Then the bier descended into the shadow of the tomb and was gone. A procession of household servants followed with jars of wine and baskets of food to sustain Anticleia’s spirit on her journey to the Underworld. They brought oil lamps, silver cups, gold plates and other objects for her comfort, while Dolius – Laertes’s faithful slave and father of the faithless Melantho – carried a polished bronze mirror. What pleasure such a thing would bring to a tormented phantom, Penelope could not guess.
As the last figure passed into the vault, she reached out and laid a hand on Laertes’s shoulder. He did not acknowledge her touch, just as he had refused all gestures of consolation since his wife’s death, but remained standing with his eyes on the tomb’s entrance. At least you have a corpse to grieve over, Penelope thought. My husband was taken from me ten years ago, yet my broken heart must mourn without a grave to kneel beside. Because your hope is gone your suffering will fade with time, but mine continues in the knowledge Odysseus might yet come back. And if he found peace in death or in the arms of another woman, she would never know about it. Instead she would have to keep her vigil in ignorance until the day she died.
She lowered her unwanted hand from Laertes’s shoulder, only to have it taken up in the warm fingers of her body slave. Autonoe was a plain-looking girl with a kind smile that endowed her with a beauty beyond anything Melantho could boast. She kissed her mistress’s hand and laid it back at her side.
‘He means no insult, my lady,’ she whispered. ‘He’s just afraid of facing his remaining years without Anticleia. But fear of loneliness will make him appreciate what family he has left.’
‘I don’t think so, Autonoe. Dolius tells me he intends to retire to his farm permanently and leave palace life behind.’
‘What about his seat on the Kerosia?’
‘What does it matter? Eupeithes and his cronies already have the majority on the council. Indeed, they rule the island in all but name.’
Autonoe shook her head.
‘Not yet, my lady. Eupeithes may desire the throne, but he doesn’t wear the crown and he won’t dare do anything drastic as long as he thinks Odysseus will return. And the king will return one day.’
‘I’m glad you have faith in him,’ Penelope said. ‘So few do any more.’
Autonoe had only been her body slave for three months, since the death of her previous maid, b
ut it seemed as if they had known each other for much longer. She had already become the closest thing the queen had to a friend. And yet what could Autonoe really know about the pressure of defending Odysseus’s throne against the political machinations of Ithaca’s nobility? What could she begin to understand of the terrible loneliness of power? What help could she offer against the enemies who were growing in strength every day?
The pallbearers and slaves were emerging from the tomb, some holding up their hands as shields against the bright sunshine. Dolius went to Laertes’s side and hooked his arm through his master’s elbow, leading him down the path back to the palace. Melantho joined them, taking Laertes’s other elbow and offering whispered words of comfort. The former king nodded and patted her hand, brightening at her presence in a way he would not for Penelope. As they passed, Melantho put her tongue out at Autonoe.
‘She still hates you then,’ Penelope said.
‘She doesn’t like people getting in her way,’ Autonoe replied. ‘When Actoris died she expected to be made your body slave, so when you picked me she resented it.’
‘As if I could have chosen her when everyone knows she’s sleeping with Antinous,’ Penelope said with a laugh. ‘She’d have told him all my secrets and he would have told them to his father. And Eupeithes already holds too much power over me.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not just Antinous, my lady. The kitchen girls say she’s sleeping with Eurymachus too.’
‘Antinous’s best friend? Isn’t it bad enough she married poor Arceisius before he sailed back to the war?’
Penelope watched Melantho helping Laertes along with the eyes of every male mourner following her lithe figure. Melantho knew that power was shifting from the throne to the nobility, and if Odysseus never returned to claim his kingdom then it was the younger nobles – the likes of Antinous and Eurymachus – who would eventually rise to the top. And she intended to be there with them.
