The Voyage of Odysseus (The Adventures of Odysseus Book 5)

by Glyn Iliffe

  Rising onto his haunches, Eperitus pulled out his sword and looked around the tent. His eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom, revealing that he was in Agamemnon’s bedroom. The tension in his muscles eased a little as he realised it was empty, but the relief was temporary. He looked down at the sword in his hand, knowing that to be caught in the king of Mycenae’s private chamber with a drawn weapon would be enough to get him executed. He returned it to its scabbard, unbuckled the strap and, for want of somewhere better to hide it, lifted the corner of Agamemnon’s fur-laden mattress and tossed it underneath.

  ‘Now what?’ he asked himself. Hide behind a tapestry until he returns, then leap out and confront him? And if tempers rise, pull out the sword and defy the oath I’ve kept faithfully for ten years? Or wait in the main chamber like the man of honour everyone thinks I am, ready to reveal the truth about Iphigenia in front of whichever kings and commanders might be with him? Is that Athena and Clytaemnestra’s idea of revenge?

  The truth was he did not know what he should do. He had expected to come to the tent, find Agamemnon and let his desire for justice lead him. But here he was with no target for his anger and no plan. Odysseus would have known what to do, of course, but then Odysseus would not have been stupid enough to be standing in the king of Mycenae’s tent hoping the Fates had laid out his path for him. And Odysseus had already told him to let his head rule his heart and balance a past that was beyond his control with a future that was still his to call. A future with Astynome.

  ‘Damn my stupidity,’ he hissed, and moved to the side of the tent where he had entered.

  A noise made him stop. It was something his senses had been aware of for some time, like the background sounds of hammering from the ships and the hushing of the breakers in the bay, but which had suddenly sharpened and become more urgent. It came from the main chamber of the tent, as if an animal was whimpering in pain or a child was crying for its mother. As the sound grew louder, Eperitus found his curiosity drawing him to the curtain that separated the two halves of the pavilion.

  A large fire circumvented by a ring of stones crackled and spat at the centre of the vaulted chamber, smoke trailing thinly up towards the hole in the apex of the roof above. The glow from the flames was lost in the pale light that forced its way through the sides of the tent and gleamed on the captured armour and weapons displayed on its walls. Even now, though the tent had only been up a day, Agamemnon insisted on displaying his war trophies, as if to remind himself he was still the conqueror of Troy. The humble benches where the heroes of Greece had once gathered to take their orders from the King of Men remained in a circle about the hearth, flattened at one edge where the heavy wooden chairs of Agamemnon, Menelaus and Nestor sat in a line. The floor between and around the benches was layered with thick furs that left no glimpse of the sand beneath. And in their midst, lying on his back before the throne of Agamemnon, was a man in a black robe, his contrastingly white hands clutching his face and stifling his groans as he shook uncontrollably.

  Eperitus watched, fascinated but uncomprehending, as the man’s fists clenched and he released a long cry of anguish. Suddenly afraid that the guards outside would hear and rush in, Eperitus leapt the nearest bench and threw himself down at the man’s side, seizing him by the wrists and fighting the force of his convulsions.

  ‘Calchas!’ he said urgently, recognising the priest. ‘Calchas, do you hear me?’

  Calchas’s eyes were open but he seemed not to see Eperitus leaning over him. Froth was trickling from his mouth and down his chin, and as Eperitus tried to contain his spasms, he began thrashing his head from side to side. His back arched in protest and he kicked out with his bare feet, displacing the furs and nearly pushing one into the fire.

  ‘Witch!’ he cried, his voice hoarse but loud enough to fill Eperitus with alarm. ‘Witch!’

  Eperitus slapped him hard across his face and he went limp, his head lolling to one side and his eyes closed. Looking around, Eperitus saw a wineskin hanging against a wall of the tent and ran to fetch it. He raised it to his lips and took a swallow. The contents were strong and undiluted, but the powerful taste seemed to clear his thoughts. After a glance at the tent entrance, through which he expected the guards to come rushing in at any moment, he returned to Calchas and poured some of the dark liquid over his lips. The priest’s tongue flicked out in response and his mouth opened like a babe seeking its mother’s nipple. Then he grabbed the neck of the skin and drank greedily. Eperitus had to tear it from his grasp.

  Calchas looked up in protest, his eyes in a fog until, slowly, something of his waking consciousness returned.

  ‘Eperitus?’ he croaked. ‘What are you…? Where am I?’

  ‘Agamemnon’s tent.’

  ‘Agamemnon’s tent? Of course. He summoned me. Wanted to know the auspices for the return voyage, whether the gods would be with him or not. He still trusts me, you know. And why shouldn’t he? Didn’t I predict the war would last ten years and end in victory for the Greeks? Didn’t I?’

  His breath stank of wine, and not just from the mouthful Eperitus had given him. He looked at Eperitus with his black eyes, seeking reassurance as his ailing mind struggled to find some reason for his continuing existence. Eperitus stared back at him, remembering that it was Calchas who had led Iphigenia to the altar to be sacrificed. But he had never hated Calchas for his part in her death. Only ever Agamemnon.

  ‘Yes, you did,’ Eperitus acknowledged. ‘But where is Agamemnon?’

  Calchas clutched at Eperitus’s arm with his bony hand, trying to pull himself up so he could look around the tent. As he did so, his hood dropped back to reveal his skull-like face and bald head, pale in the filtered sunlight.

  ‘He’s not here? No, that’s right. He went to inspect the destruction of the walls while I made the sacrifice.’

  For the first time, Eperitus noted blood on the palms of Calchas’s hands. More traces were on his neck and the white robes that showed beneath his cloak. For the first time he saw the decapitated body of a snake lying close to the fire. There was no sign of its head, but a small knife gleamed among the bloodstained furs. He had heard that priests of Apollo would drink the blood of snakes to invoke visions.

  ‘Here,’ he said, reaching for a cushion and placing it under Calchas’s head. ‘You should rest a little –’

  Calchas’s hand shot up and seized Eperitus’s wrist, his fingers tightening around it with a strength that seemed impossible in a body so thin and wasted. He stared at Eperitus with a look of dismal terror.

  ‘He’s in danger. Agamemnon’s in danger. I have to warn him.’

  ‘What danger? What do you mean?’

  Calchas tried to pull himself up, but Eperitus held him where he was.

  ‘Let me go!’

  ‘Not until you tell me what you mean. Did Apollo give you a vision? What did you see?’

  ‘Blood and death! Now take your damned hands off me! I have to see the king at once.’

  His voice began to rise again and once more Eperitus slapped him hard across the face. He fell back onto the cushion, his whole body shaking uncontrollably. Eperitus hit him again and he lay still, staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes.

  ‘Calchas. Calchas! Snap out of it man.’

  Eperitus cast another glance over his shoulder at the tent door, sure the guards must come this time. But they did not, perhaps because the cries of the mad priest were nothing new to them. Then he laid his hands on Calchas’s shoulders and shook him gently. He was heavy, the way a body feels when the spirit has left it and nothing remains to animate the flesh. Fearing he had hit the frail priest too hard, he was about to reach for the wine again when Calchas blinked and drew a sharp breath.

  ‘I drank the blood of the snake,’ he whispered. ‘Sometimes it leads to darkness, a horrible, tormented darkness of hidden voices and half-seen shadows. But this time the god was waiting for me. He took me to a walled city on a hill overlooked by two mountains. It was a rich city once,
but its wealth has dwindled with its people. An army was camped around its walls, an army returned from the war upon Troy. I passed through them to a gate guarded by two stone lions –’

  ‘Mycenae!’

  ‘Yes, Agamemnon’s city,’ Calchas said with a shudder. ‘I entered the great hall where many tables stood laden with food. But the bread and fruit were shrivelled and black, the platters and cups shrouded with cobwebs. The fire had burned itself to cold ash and there was no longer any life in the heart of the palace. Then I saw a carpet, as red as Agamemnon’s cloak, poking like a tongue into the hall from a side entrance. I followed it through empty corridors where the torches had long since died, up stairs and along more corridors to a doorway. The doors opened into a large bedroom, a place so cold and dark that I feared to enter. But the carpet continued to the foot of an archway at the far end of the room, disappearing beneath long red curtains that concealed whatever lay beyond. There were great slashes in the cloth like the claw marks of some dreadful beast. Blood was seeping through the gashes as if from a living wound, pulsing slowly with the dying beats of a hidden heart. It flowed down to the floor and over the threshold until I saw that I was no longer standing on a carpet but in a river of blood. If I could have cried out I would have; and if I could have turned back I would have, too. But I could not. This was not my vision to control. I was but a witness to the horror of it, a herald summoned by the gods to receive their message. And so I was drawn closer, feeling the still-warm blood between my toes and watching in fear as the curtains towered up before me. I reached out and slowly pulled them aside to reveal a small room, gloomy and silent but for a slow, monotonous dripping. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see a stone bath against the far wall with something long and pale hanging from it. To my horror I realised it was an arm. A man lay up to his chest in blood, which was dripping onto the floor. His head was cloven down the middle and his pupils had rolled up into their sockets so that the eyes were white orbs in a mask of gore. Even then I knew him. It was the king, Eperitus. Agamemnon! And he wasn’t alone.

  ‘A figure stood in the corner of the room. I did not see her at first, but she was there, watching me with her dark, murderous eyes. “Are you shocked?” she asked, her beautiful face spattered with blood. “Shocked that the mighty Agamemnon should fall at the hands of a woman? The conqueror of Troy murdered by his own wife? What of the glory and honour that are due to him, you say? Here then,” she said, dipping her hand into the bath and trickling the blood over Agamemnon’s mutilated head. “See, I pour a libation over him, just as he would have poured a libation to Artemis before he sacrificed my daughter to her.”

  ‘Then I saw the axe hanging from her other hand, double-headed and heavy to her womanly arm. She noticed my eyes upon it and smiled as she took its weight in both her hands. I turned to run, but my foot slipped in the blood and I fell. Then she was astride me, the axe above her head. I turned and looked up at her. And then… And then –’

  He looked at Eperitus and his eyes grew wide with terror, as if seeing Clytaemnestra standing over him again.

  ‘Mercy!’ he squealed, throwing his hands before his face. ‘Mercy!’

  ‘Quiet!’ Eperitus demanded. ‘It’s me, Eperitus.’

  But Calchas was out of his mind. Eperitus seized his wrists and felt his limbs shaking with a terrible force. As the priest looked back at him, he knew Calchas was still looking into the vengeful eyes of Clytaemnestra.

  ‘No, no, no!’

  Eperitus slapped him across the face. When his pitiable moaning grew in volume he clenched his fist and punched him. The seer’s nose broke with a crack and blood spurted over his lips and cheeks. But the blow did not silence him. Instead he stared into Eperitus’s eyes – recognising him again – and took hold of his tunic.

  ‘Eperitus! Thank the gods. Agamemnon is in great danger. His wife plans to murder him when he returns to Mycenae! We have to warn him at once. Guards! Guards!’

  Gripped with sudden panic, Eperitus snatched the pillow from behind Calchas’s head and pressed it over his face, desperate to stifle his shouts. He looked again towards the tent entrance, all the time conscious of the priest’s muffled cries and the strength of his fingers as they clawed at Eperitus’s tunic and ripped the wool.

  ‘Be silent, damn you!’

  But Calchas refused to obey. His body began to thrash about and his muted shouts grew in fury, forcing Eperitus to sit astride him and push the cushion ever harder over his face. Calchas fought back, his fingernails gouging Eperitus’s chest. The pain made his temper flare. He thought back to the day ten years ago when he had failed to stop Agamemnon sacrificing Iphigenia to Artemis. He remembered afresh his agony and despair, the sense of his own weakness and impotence. Gritting his teeth, he pushed harder on the cushion. He would not allow the king of Mycenae to escape justice, even if it was to be meted out by Clytaemnestra and not by his own hand. He would not allow Calchas to forewarn him!

  His anger lent strength to his muscles, forcing the cushion ever tighter over the priest’s face until his nails had stopped tearing into his flesh and his suffocated yells had ceased. As quickly as it had come, Eperitus’s anger slipped away to leave him empty and confused. He tossed the cushion aside and looked at the dull eyes and gaping mouth of the dead man.

  ‘Calchas? Calchas!’

  He shook him furiously by the shoulders, then bent down and held his ear against his lips. Nothing. Pushing himself away, he staggered to his feet and stared down at the priest’s corpse.

  ‘Forgive me, Calchas, I didn’t mean for this. And maybe you didn’t deserve death, tortured soul that you are. But at least I know now that Iphigenia will receive justice. And before Clytaemnestra strikes Agamemnon dead, I hope she lets him know why.’

  The clank of arms and a tumult of approaching voices brought him back to his senses. He dashed to the wall of the tent and, throwing himself to the floor, eased up the lip of the canvas. A large number of soldiers were marching towards the pavilion with Agamemnon at their head. Eperitus glanced back at Calchas’s body and saw the blood from his broken nose and on his fingernails where he had clawed at Eperitus’s chest. One look would tell Agamemnon what had happened, and the king’s retribution would be swift. He looked around for somewhere to hide the body, then, seeing nowhere, felt for the place where his sword would normally have hung, instinctively resorting to thoughts of self-defence. As his hand groped at his empty hip, he heard the rustle of canvas and saw sunlight spill onto the furs by the entrance to the portico.

  Chapter Eight

  HECABE’S MADNESS

  Calchas,’ Agamemnon called. ‘Where are you man? Did the gods speak to you?’

  A strong hand seized hold of Eperitus’s shoulder, pulling him through the curtain into the king’s quarters. Another hand clapped over his mouth.

  ‘It’s me,’ Odysseus hissed in his ear. ‘Have the gods robbed you of your senses?’

  Eperitus pulled his hand away. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘Because you’re as predictable as a sunrise, of course. Now, let’s get out of here.’

  Eperitus snatched his sword from beneath the mattress, then lifted the hem of the canvas where he had entered earlier. At that moment a shout of dismay rang out from the main chamber, causing Odysseus to take a step towards the curtain. Eperitus grabbed him by the wrist and almost pushed him under the tent wall, following behind as quickly as he could. Blinking in the bright sunlight, he looked around and saw that there were no Mycenaeans on the beach.

  ‘Come on, Odysseus, we have to go.’

  ‘That was Agamemnon calling out. He could be in danger –’

  ‘He’s safe. I’ll explain everything later.’

  They ran down the beach, following Eperitus’s earlier footprints and those Odysseus had left as he had followed his captain to the tent. The trail took them to the edge of the water, where they sprinted through the surf as quickly as the wet sand would allow. Shouts of alarm from the Myc
enaean camp followed them, though only Eperitus’s keen senses could distinguish the words: Murder! Scour the tents! He can’t be far!

  They turned aside, back up the beach and into the anonymity of the crowded camp. As they passed a group of men braiding strips of leather into rope, Eperitus felt Odysseus’s hand on his arm, pulling him back.

  ‘Slow down, unless you want to draw everyone’s attention to us,’ he said, falling into step beside his captain. ‘Now, tell me what you’ve done and quickly.’

  Eperitus described what had happened as they made their way to their own camp at the other end of the bay, glancing occasionally at the king’s face for the expected look of condemnation. None came, though there was a brief wince at the mention of Calchas’s death. Then, as the tragic tale ended and they saw the masts and cross spars of the already seaworthy Ithacan galleys ahead, Odysseus stopped and looked his friend in the eye.

  ‘It’s a pity for Calchas, but perhaps there’s more to this than your recklessness. The gods had a hand in it, I think. Why else would Theano have sent you to Agamemnon’s tent?’

  ‘But why would they want to destroy Agamemnon? And you forget that Apollo warned Calchas of his fate.’

  ‘Apollo has always favoured the Trojans, so Calchas’s vision wasn’t given out of any love he might have for Agamemnon. Perhaps he wanted you to kill the priest who betrayed Troy to help the Greeks? Perhaps Athena sent you there so you could have some part in avenging the murder of your daughter? Who knows? The gods are fickle and we are simply pieces in their games, risked and sacrificed for their petty whims. One thing’s for certain, though, there’s no god that will rescue you from Agamemnon’s wrath if he finds out you killed his favourite seer. Those scratch marks on your chest are enough to give you away, so if you want to live as much as I want you to live, then we need to set sail at once.

  ‘Eurybates!’ he called out as they saw the king’s squire inspecting the hull of one of the beached galleys. ‘Get everyone aboard. We’re leaving now.’