Glyn Iliffe - The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus)

More than ever he wanted the nightmare journey to end, but the maze did not oblige his desperate desire to be free of its dark, confining walls. They wandered on interminably, past more openings and into more dead ends, not knowing whether the junctions they encountered were old or new. More than once Diomedes had to order his men to silence, and when the first torch spluttered and died out the sense of desperation among the warriors of Argos and Ithaca became palpable.

‘Keep your spare torch for the return journey,’ Odysseus said, as the man slid the dowel from his belt.

Eventually, just as he was wishing they would find another body to break up the monotony of the maze, he detected a change in the air. He did not need Eperitus’s supernatural senses to tell him they were nearing a larger space, and soon the whole party were lifting their heads and looking about as if their eyes could see what their deeper instincts had revealed to them. Then they found it. They followed the wall round to the right, then left again to face a large black void, much wider than any opening they had yet encountered. As they paused, the sounds of their feet in the dust and the knocking of their armour were no longer smothered by the close air but echoed back from the open space before them.

Odysseus let his fingers drop from the wall and, gripping his torch, forced himself forward through the opening. Eperitus followed. There was a short passage, like an antechamber, then the ceiling opened up above their heads and they found themselves in a wide, natural cavern, bigger than the great hall in the palace at Ithaca. The torches flared up to meet the richer air, and were soon joined by the flames of the others, who had forgotten the weariness of their long, subterranean journey in their eagerness to enter the heart of the maze.

Chapter Eighteen

T HE G UARDIAN OF THE T OMB

The darkness was thrown back and the vastness of the chamber was revealed to them. Thick stone columns soared up into the shadows above their heads, and by the monochromatic light of their torches the warriors saw all the gathered wealth of a legendary king lying between them. To the left were two chariots: one magnificent in beaten gold that gleamed alluringly in the torchlight; the other a shattered wreck, its screen flattened, its yoke snapped and its broken wheels laid flat beside it. In an instant, Eperitus knew this was the chariot in which Oenomaus had pursued Pelops and Hippodameia, and beneath which he had been dragged to his death. His eyes moved on from this grim reminder of Pelops’s victory over his father-in-law to the heaped spoils of his victories over the other cities of the Peloponnese. Spears and swords lay in piles, while beside them were stacks of shields of the same, outdated design as the one Eperitus had inherited from his grandfather. Sets of body armour sat between them, like half-formed warriors rising up from the cavern floor. They were made of layered bands of bronze that gave the wearer full protection from his chin down to his groin, but due to their weight their like had not been seen on battlefields for many decades. Resting on top of them were helmets of bronze or leather, several of which were circled with layers of boars’ tusks.

More substantial wealth in the form of tripods, cauldrons, gold and copper ingots, silver goblets and other valuables lay scattered over the flagstones in no particular order. Whether they had been left like that by Pelops’s fearful but unloving subjects, or had been misplaced by the greedy hands of successive grave robbers, Eperitus was unable to tell, but they were a clear measure of how rich and important Pelops must have been in his lifetime. Some of the Argives were drawn irresistibly towards these precious items – forgetful of the dead men they had seen in the tunnels – but an order from Diomedes brought them back.

‘Touch nothing,’ he warned them. ‘We’ve come for one thing and one thing only!’

Odysseus hardly seemed to notice the piled treasures about him. He remained standing a few paces in from the entrance, his gaze fixed on the wooden figure of a horse at the far end of the chamber. It stood on top of an immense stone sarcophagus, which itself was set on a dais reached by three broad steps. Lying spread-eagled across the steps was another skeleton, this one on its back and staring blankly up at the high ceiling. Of all the rest of the party, only Eperitus, Diomedes and Omeros had noticed the tomb and the grim reminder of the curse that still haunted it. Odysseus turned and indicated for the others to put their torches in the empty iron brackets that were affixed to the columns. Then, with his own held high above his head, he approached the sarcophagus.

If the curse was to strike, Eperitus thought, now was the time. Diomedes snapped angrily at the others, who were still beguiled by the treasures around them, and ordered them to place their torches in the remaining brackets and ready their swords. Eperitus hung his own torch on one of the columns, snatched up a dusty shield and joined Odysseus at the foot of the dais. As the other Ithacans and the Argives formed a defensive semicircle around the sarcophagus, he stared down at the skeletal remains before him. Whether the other robbers had reached as far as Pelops’s burial chamber, Eperitus did not know, but this man had made it through the maze only to die at the steps of the sarcophagus. The manner of his death was not clear, though Eperitus noticed there was an unnatural angle to his neck.

‘This is it, then,’ Odysseus said, staring up at the carved horse with its bowed head and rigid, wooden mane. ‘Inside that sarcophagus is a riddle that will give us the key to the gates of Troy. We just have to work it out.’

‘Why a horse?’ Eperitus asked.

‘The Pisans are great horse breeders. They love their animals and revere them like gods, honouring them in their art, their rituals, even their funeral rites.’

‘Just like the Trojans.’

Odysseus did not answer, but narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he stared at the effigy of the horse standing atop the tomb.

Diomedes joined them. ‘Let’s not delay any longer. This place is making my men nervous. And me too, if you want the truth.’

They took the few steps to the dais, careful not to tread on the skeleton of the grave robber, and looked down at the stone sarcophagus. It was twice the length of a normal man and twice the width, and was capped by a heavy granite lid that formed the base for the wooden horse. The horse stared down at them in disdainful silence as they laid their hands upon the rough stone and began to push. Their arm and leg muscles strained with the effort, the veins bulging as their grunts filled the chamber, but the lid would not move.

‘We need something to prise it off with,’ Eperitus said.

He returned to the piles of weapons stacked amid the columns and picked up a sword. But as he was about to return to the dais, his eyes fell on a spear leaning against the wall by the shattered chariot of Oenomaus. It had a long, black shaft of some unknown wood and was tipped by a broad head. Though it must have lain there for as long as all the other weapons, the bronze had not been dulled or tarnished by the years. Instead, it shone out fiercely in the torchlight, beckoning to him irresistibly. He picked it up, surprised at how light it felt in his hand despite its monstrous size. It was then he noticed the shaft had been intricately carved and inlaid with faint traces of gold and silver, only catching the torchlight as he moved it in his hands – the work of a great craftsman. The carvings began at the head of the shaft, beneath the socketed point, and seemed to depict a race between pairs of chariots. Only when Eperitus’s eyes reached the base did he realise it was the same pair of chariots, repeated at intervals, and that it was not a race but a pursuit, with the last scene showing the occupant of the second chariot impaling the first from behind with his spear.