by Glyn Iliffe
‘I don’t think we should,’ he said, easing his lips from hers. He glanced over at the lone figure at the twin steering oars, his stocky, triangular shape outlined by the mass of bright stars. ‘At least not in front of Odysseus.’
‘He’s not a prude,’ she said, smiling.
He shook his head.
‘When we get back to Ithaca we’ll get married, buy a farm and have a dozen children just like we’ve always planned. But until we do, I don’t want to remind him of his separation from Penelope. The nearer we get to home, the more he misses her.’
‘Oh,’ she said, withdrawing a little.
She had hoped to spend the night in his arms, but he returned to the helm shortly afterwards and left her wondering at this man who could kill an enemy without compunction but worry so much about causing a friend anxiety. Instead she found the four orphans, who were snuggled closely together, and lay down beside them, her body protecting them from the cold. And so it had carried on, every night for over a week, with Eperitus standing watch by his king and only sleeping when the morning came and the threat of an assassin’s blade was diminished by the light of day.
The ninth morning of the voyage since Cape Malea had arrived cool and bright without a cloud in the sky, though the wind remained strong out of the north. Astynome’s eyes remained on Eperitus as he slept on the sacks of grain, tired of the endless voyage and wishing she could be alone with him, just for a while. She felt trapped and restless, yearning for his touch and the release it would bring.
‘There’s always room under my blanket.’
Astynome felt a chill run down her back. She turned and stared into Eurylochus’s small, mean eyes. Selagos, as ever, was standing behind him.
‘If Eperitus sees you anywhere near me, he’ll slice open your fat pig’s throat and toss your carcass into the sea.’
The smile barely faltered on his heavy-jowled pink face.
‘You have a temper on you. I like that. Are you as passionate in bed?’
‘You’ll never know.’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked one of the children, raising her head from Astynome’s lap.
‘Nothing,’ she replied, lifting her to her feet and gently shooing her to one side. ‘Go and play.’
‘Yes, push off, you Trojan rat.’
‘Leave her alone!’
Astynome glowered at Eurylochus but sensed a group of men gathering behind her. She hoped they were merely attracted to the spectacle, yet suspected they were deliberately forming a screen between her and the helm, where Eperitus and Odysseus were both asleep and Eurybates was busy with the twin oars.
‘You should be a little friendlier,’ Eurylochus continued, ‘or you’ll find worse things can happen to you than having your throat cut and your body thrown overboard. There are plenty here would like to see a bit of your passion. Resistance makes it more fun for some, if you know what I mean. But show me a little kindness and I’ll see to it no-one else touches you.’
‘You tried to take me all those months ago in Lyrnessus, but Eperitus sent you running like the coward you are. Next time, he’ll kill you.’
‘So you keep saying. Let’s see, shall we?’
He stepped towards her, reassured by the giant presence of Selagos behind him and his other henchmen in the crowd. Some of them she recognised from the sacking of Lyrnessus, where they had tried to rape her.
‘You wouldn’t dare, not in front of a ship full of witnesses.’
But she sensed he would. Perhaps to attack her would inflame the mob instincts he had been busy exciting in the crew, the spark he needed to provoke a fight and turn them against Odysseus. A hand shoved her in the small of her back and propelled her into Eurylochus’s arms. For a moment he was as surprised as she was. Then he placed his hand on her buttock and squeezed it hard as he pressed his mouth clumsily against hers. Suddenly her anger flared up inside her and she bit down fast and hard upon his lower lip.
Eurylochus let out a high-pitched squeal and pushed her away. As she fell into the arms of a man behind her, the wall of onlookers was torn open and Eperitus appeared, flanked by Polites and Omeros on one side and Antiphus and Elpenor on the other. He turned questioning eyes towards her.
‘I’m alright,’ she said, wiping Eurylochus’s blood from her lips.
‘She tried to kiss me,’ Eurylochus protested. ‘She’s nothing but a whore!’
‘You’ll die for that,’ Eperitus told him, scraping his blade clear of its scabbard.
Eurylochus drew his own weapon and met the first blow with a ringing clash. Selagos lunged forward and was met by the even greater bulk of Polites, who pulled him aside into the crowd of onlookers, scattering them like hens before foxes as the two giants crashed to the deck. Another man pulled out his sword, only to find Antiphus’s bow drawn and the arrow pointed at his heart.
Astynome was barely conscious of anything other than the fight between Eperitus and Eurylochus. To her surprise, the latter was quick with his blade, parrying every angry blow that Eperitus threw at him and returning them with determined attacks of his own. Neither wore a shield or armour, and with a thrill of fear Astynome realised the first successful strike could be fatal. She also saw the pain written on Eperitus’s features every time his blade met Eurylochus’s, a sign his shoulder was still weak.
Eurylochus aimed his blows higher to test the damaged shoulder muscle. Then Eperitus struck hard and fast, knocking the blade from Eurylochus’s hand. He stumbled backwards and tripped over one of the benches. Eperitus’s foot was on his chest in a moment, his sword in both hands and held point-downward over Eurylochus’s chest.
‘Don’t, Eperitus!’ Astynome shouted, rushing forward. ‘He’s still the king’s cousin.’
Eperitus looked at her, then back at the surrounding crew as if Odysseus would step out from among them at any moment. But there was no sign of the king, only the expectant faces of the Ithacans. Eperitus shook his head at her and raised his sword.
But before he could plunge the point into Eurylochus’s chest, a voice rang out from a nearby ship. A second followed and then a third. Then the man atop the mast lifted his eyes from the fight and out towards the horizon.
‘Land!’ he shouted.
Chapter Fifteen
A SMALL VICTORY
Telemachus sat on the edge of the dock swinging his feet over the water. His fine features, the male mirror of his mother’s, were sullen as he watched the merchant galley slipping out into the strait between Ithaca and Kefalonia. A couple of the crew waved to him from the benches where they sat pulling at their oars. He raised his hand half-heartedly and saw them lean in and share a comment that made both men laugh. Doubtless they thought him a curious boy, running as fast as he could down the path from the town and asking them breathlessly for news from Troy. Had the Greeks taken the city yet? Was the war over? Had they met any returning warriors? Did they have any news at all?
But just like every other merchant vessel that brought its cargo from foreign shores, they could tell him nothing of value. A few rumours, some of them contradicting what he had been told by previous crews; nothing to ease the hunger of a ten-year-old desperate for news of his father. It had been even more frustrating in Sparta. Though its glory had dimmed greatly – according to Halitherses – it still teemed with merchants and travellers, and should have been full of reports from the war. Instead, the people seemed to have forgotten about it. A few had bitter comments about their absent king, abandoning his city for the sake of a faithless harlot. Some rued the loss of loved ones. More were angry that Sparta’s wealth had been stripped to fuel the war and that the people were poor and hungry. The few crippled soldiers he had found – limbless beggars no longer able to fight in Menelaus’s army – could tell him little of worth for the food he gave them. Without revealing that Odysseus was his father, he would ask whether they knew anything of the king of Ithaca. But too often their replies were scathing or ignorant. Brave enough was the best he could get from them, but s
cheming, dishonourable or too clever for his own good and ours were more common. So Telemachus had returned from Sparta more frustrated than when he had arrived. It seemed his whole life had been spent in frustration, waiting for something that would never come. Sometimes he wondered whether his father even existed – at least the great man his mother spoke about. Such a man would have found a way home by now.
The merchant galley had reached the straits and was unfurling its sail. Telemachus watched it head south for a moment longer, then started the walk back. Climbing the road towards the spring where the townsfolk fetched their water, he heard laughter from beneath the shade of the poplar trees. With a sinking heart he recognised the voices of Melantho, her brother Melanthius, and her latest lover, Eurymachus. Antinous’s braying tones could also be heard as he made mock of Melanthius. Telemachus could see them sitting with their backs against the poplars, Melanthius smiling stupidly as Antinous compared him to one of the goats he looked after. Then, as Telemachus approached with his gaze fixed on the road, the laughter stopped.
‘It’s the young pretender,’ Antinous scoffed, though there was more menace than mockery in his voice now. ‘Any news from Troy today?’
‘Is your daddy dead yet?’ Eurymachus sneered. ‘It’d be good to have a real king around here. One we can actually see!’
Telemachus clenched his fists tightly and forced himself to walk on, but Melantho blocked his path.
‘Don’t you want to be king, little Telemachus?’ she asked, inclining her head slightly and looking at him with an expression of sympathy. ‘Oh, I forgot. You can’t. Not since mummy sold your birthright.’
Telemachus did not understand what she meant, but her giggling irked him.
‘You won’t be laughing when Arceisius finds out you’ve been sleeping with half the men on the island.’
Her smile stiffened. Then she bent down and looked him in the eye.
‘With any luck my husband is already dead, along with your father and the rest of the idiots who followed him off to war.’
‘Get out of my way, whore!’
‘What did you call her?’
Eurymachus’s fist crashed into the side of Telemachus’s face. He fell to the ground and his vision went black. When he came to, a moment later, it was to see Eurymachus’s fearsome bulk standing over him – twice his age and twice his size – with his fists bared and his low forehead contorted into a frown.
‘Kill the little runt and let’s be done with him,’ Antinous goaded, standing at his shoulder.
It was Melanthius who saved him. Whether from a grain of concern or from fear of the consequences of beating up the young prince, he stepped in front of Eurymachus and gestured Telemachus to his feet.
‘Run home, little boy, and in future learn not to insult your elders and betters. Not if you know what’s good for you.’
Telemachus picked himself up, seething with shame and anger, and marched off towards the town. Their laughter followed him to the first bend in the road, after which he ran – his eyes burning with tears – until he saw the busy marketplace and the palace gates beyond it. He desperately wanted to run into the inner courtyard and find a place to hide, but he knew some servant or other would stop him and demand to know what was wrong. So he joined the throng milling around the stalls of the fishermen and farmers and threaded his way to the far corner of the palace wall. Slipping out of sight, he slumped down beneath its shadow and hid his face in his hands.
But he had not gone unnoticed. Hearing footsteps, he peered between his fingers and saw a pair of sandalled feet stop before him. There was a pause, then the man knelt and placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘What is it, lad?’
The hand and the voice belonged to Halitherses. Telemachus felt the tears return. Reluctantly he told the story of his humiliation at the spring, not daring to look the old man in the eyes.
‘I’m not worthy of him, Halitherses.’
‘Your father? Of course you are.’
‘No I’m not!’ Telemachus insisted, shaking his head. ‘He’s brave. He’s strong. He can fight. And he has authority. I’m none of those things. I’m a weakling and a coward.’
He felt the hateful tears again. More hateful still was the part of him that wanted Halitherses to go back to the spring and give Eurymachus the beating he deserved; that wanted someone else to fight his battles for him. Frustratingly, Halitherses neither refuted his self-accusations of weakness and cowardice nor agreed with them; nor did he offer to beat up Eurymachus on his behalf. Instead he slumped down beside him with a grunt and a sigh that spoke of weary bones.
‘What has Mentor spent the past few weeks teaching you, Telemachus?’
‘Lots of useless things. Stories about the gods. How to sacrifice animals. The seasons for farming and fishing. How to win an argument. The rules of xenia –’
‘He’s teaching you how to be a king.’
‘Then he’s wasting his time and mine!’
‘And he’s been teaching you how to fight.’
‘So what do you want me to do? Take a sword and stab Eurymachus in the stomach? What does a one-handed man know about sword fighting anyway?’
‘Lots, and don’t you ever think otherwise,’ Halitherses admonished him. ‘Now, think of the things he’s been teaching you and take away the sword.’
‘I don’t understand –’
‘You have to, Telemachus. Mentor’s teaching you these things because one day the fate of Ithaca may rest in your hands. You have to be ready for when that day comes. And it will. But right now you’re at a crossroads.’ He held out his hand and tipped it from one side to another, as if on an invisible pivot. ‘You’ve faced a challenge and failed. You can let it pass and live with the humiliation, or you can go back to that spring and do something about it. Let it pass and the only thing you lose is your self-belief; face up to it and you’ll probably get a few bruises and a broken bone or two for your courage. But you’ll know you took it like the man you’re going to be one day: your father’s son.’
Telemachus looked at Halitherses and understood this was a choice the old man had made many times in his life. That was what it meant to be a warrior or a king: to choose every day between courage and cowardice, danger and safety. As he considered the choice before him, he remembered the sting of Eurymachus’s fist and felt the fear of it. But more terrible was the thought of running away and not being able to face himself any more. He stood up.
‘Thank you, Halitherses.’
‘Good lad. But don’t forget, you are Odysseus’s son, and that means using more than brawn to gain a victory.’
He tapped the side of his head to emphasise the point and winked.
Telemachus almost ran back to the spring, more afraid that Eurymachus and the others would have left than he was of the beating that surely awaited him. He was determined now, and his determination refused to listen to the voice of caution that warned him against rash decisions.
‘I thought I told you to go home.’
They were still there, all four of them, sitting on the grass and sharing wine from a goatskin. Eurymachus saw him and jumped to his feet with frightening readiness. Telemachus remembered what Mentor had taught him, trying to apply his words to the fact he did not have a sword in his hand.
Controlled aggression.
‘One punch not enough for you then?’ Eurymachus snarled.
Act swiftly and act first.
Melantho seemed to recognise something was different.
‘Be careful, Eurymachus,’ she warned.
Eurymachus saw it too, but too late. Telemachus threw a punch at his stomach. The hard muscle yielded and Eurymachus spat the air out of his lungs. Telemachus aimed a second punch at his brick-like jaw but missed and caught him in the throat. Eurymachus gagged and staggered backwards, eyes agog as he clutched at his neck. That was not what Telemachus had expected. More unexpected was Melantho throwing herself onto his back and bundling him to the ground as she tried to driv
e her sharp fingernails into his face. Instinctively he threw his elbow back and caught her in the cheek. She screamed and rolled over, dragging Telemachus on top of herself. They stared each other in the eye, but in that moment of indecision it was Telemachus who thought fastest. Gripping her hair so she could not move, he lowered his mouth to her ear and spoke in a low voice.
Then Melanthius pulled him from his sister and locked his arms behind his back. Antinous appeared before him, his fists balled up and his face twisted with rage.
‘You’ve been asking for this for a long time.’
He punched him in the stomach, knocking the breath from his lungs so that he hung from Melanthius’s grip. Eurymachus pushed Antinous aside and readied his own fist. But before he could land the first blow, Melantho leapt between them and prised her brother’s hands from Telemachus’s arms. The prince dropped to the grass.
‘Leave him alone,’ she screamed. There was fear in her eyes, enough to convince them not to ignore her. ‘Leave him alone before you do something we’ll all regret. Let’s go.’
Telemachus lay on his side and watched them run off. The few words he had whispered in Melantho’s ear had worked. If the pain had not been so overwhelming and if there had been enough air in his lungs, he would have laughed.
Chapter Sixteen
THE LAND OF THE LOTUS EATERS
Eperitus was furious. The brief trial was over and the crew were already dispersing across the sand to make fires and prepare food with the crews of the other galleys. Eurylochus slung his shield across his back and shouldered his spear, and with a mocking smile at Eperitus he went to join two similarly armed men at the top of the beach. Despite Astynome’s testimony and the statements of several crew members, Eurylochus’s punishment was laughable. He had dared to lay his hands on Astynome – not a mere slave, but the woman of another Ithacan – and for his affront had been made to forfeit a quarter of his share of the plunder. He had also been ordered on a scouting mission to explore the new coast. Eperitus felt as if he were the one being punished, not Eurylochus.
