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

‘It’s recent,’ he declared, slipping his scarf momentarily down from his mouth. ‘He’s here somewhere.’

As he spoke Eperitus sensed a change and realised the groaning had stopped. He raised a finger to his lips, gesturing the others to silence. A number of large boulders had rolled down from the cliff countless years before, forming a clumsy ramp that led up the sheer rock face. Eperitus’s gaze followed the boulders up the side of the cliff, noticing signs of smoothing here and there, as well as smaller stones that seemed to have been put in place to act as steps where the rocks were steepest. And then, as he looked higher up the fog-shrouded precipice, he saw the triangular mouth of a cave.

‘He’s in there,’ he whispered, pointing.

The five men moved forward together, craning their heads back to stare up at the opening above them. Odysseus laid a hand on Diomedes’s shoulder.

‘Be careful of everything you say. He’s had ten years to dwell on his hatred of the Greeks, so don’t provoke him or threaten him in any way. Remember his bow and arrows.’

He covered his face again and drew back to stand behind the others. Diomedes looked up at the cave and cupped a hand to his mouth.

‘Philoctetes,’ he called. ‘Philoctetes, son of Poeas, if you’re up there then show yourself. We wish to speak with you.’

There was no reply. After a few more moments, Diomedes turned to Eperitus with a frown.

‘Are you certain he’s up there? I know your senses are keener than ours, but –’

‘Look again,’ Eperitus said, nodding at the mouth of the cave and pinching his nose against the fresh stench polluting the already bad air.

The others peered up through the mist and saw that a figure had appeared. A tall bow was clutched in its left hand and an arrow had been fitted, drawn in readiness to fire at the hooded figures below. The weapon was undoubtedly the one Heracles had given to Philoctetes, but whether the creature that held it was the Malian archer – or even a human being at all – could barely be discerned. Its skin was pale and ingrained with years of dirt; its bare limbs were so thin and wasted that they were no thicker than a small child’s; the rags that covered its torso seemed to hang like the tattered remnants of a sail over a mast; and the creature’s long beard and hair made its head seem much too large for its emaciated body. But Eperitus’s sharp eyes were able to see the face clearly. It was a face that was as twisted and misshapen as the trees that grew on the windswept plains of Ilium, a face that had been distorted irrevocably by years of excruciating pain and cancerous hatred, but a face that had undeniably once belonged to Philoctetes.

Diomedes stepped back, groping for Eperitus’s wrist and seizing it.

‘Is that … is that him ?’ he hissed, unable to tear his eyes away from the savage figure aiming its bow at them from the boulders above.

‘Yes, it’s Philoctetes,’ Eperitus replied, freeing his wrist and placing his hand on Diomedes’s shoulder, urging him forward once more.

The archer lowered his weapon a fraction, revealing dark eyes as he stared down at the newcomers to his island.

‘Who are you?’ he croaked, the very act of speaking causing him to break out in a fit of dry coughing that took a few moments to recover from. ‘Who are you and what do you want on my island?’

‘Are you Philoctetes, son of Poeas?’ Diomedes repeated.

‘This is the body that once bore that name, though both the man and his fame have been forgotten by this world. But this is the bow of Heracles, whom the gods raised up to live with them on Mount Olympus, having made him immortal like themselves. Its arrows never miss and their tips are poisonous, so if you’ve come to mock the ghost of Philoctetes or steal the rocks and stones that are his possessions, then beware.’

‘It’s true you’ve become a pitiful figure, Philoctetes,’ Diomedes replied. ‘Yet you were once a prince of Malia, and custom dictates a prince should treat his visitors with decorum, even if his home is a cold and lonely rock like this. You speak of the gods with respect in your voice, so if you honour them then honour us.’

Philoctetes frowned angrily, then shifted his position with surprising speed, using the rocks for support. Diomedes and the others flinched instinctively as he raised his bow and fired into the air. A moment later there was a squawk, followed by a loud thump as a gull crashed onto the rocks before them.

‘You see?’ he crowed, his eyes wide as he stared at them along the shaft of a new arrow. ‘Philoctetes has provided a feast to celebrate your arrival on Lemnos! But first – just to show he hasn’t forgotten how to observe the rules of xenia – he must know your identities and what it is you want of him? Are you merchants, seeking the way to Ilium or Greece? He’d lead you there himself, though you aren’t the first visitors to this rock and none of your predecessors ever offered Philoctetes passage on their ships. Not as soon as they caught wind of this !’

He raised his leg to show a foot bandaged in cloth that was black with filth. As he did so he gave out a cry of anguished despair and fell back against a boulder, beating the stone with the flat of his free hand and raising a scream to the invisible skies above, where he knew the gods remained indifferent to his pain. Eperitus caught a movement from the corner of his eye and turned to see that Eurylochus had taken a step forward. His hand was cupped over his mouth and nose to filter out some of the reek of Philoctetes’s wound, and in his eyes Eperitus could see he was debating whether to leap up the rocks and take the bow and arrows by force while their owner was paralysed with agony. Then, before Eurylochus could make his decision, the screaming ended in another fit of coughing and Philoctetes slid himself back up against the boulder. He raised his bow and drew back the arrow once more, though weakly, and aimed it at the men below.

‘So who are you?’ he called in a tired voice. ‘Do you have any lineage to speak of? And what in the name of Heracles brings you to this forsaken place?’

‘As for whom I am, you know me already,’ Diomedes answered, tipping back his hood. ‘I am Diomedes, son of Tydeus. I have come to ask if you will rejoin the army and fight with us against Troy.’

Philoctetes did not move. His eyes narrowed slightly as they stared down the shaft of the arrow at the king of Argos, but he said nothing. Then a flicker of anger touched his twisted features. He gripped the bow tightly and drew the string back to his sneering lip.

‘He prayed you would come one day,’ he said, heavy tears swelling up in the corners of his eyes before rolling down his filthy cheeks and into his beard. ‘Philoctetes prayed you would come back for him, snivelling like curs, pleading for him and his arrows to save your worthless skins. He prayed for this day so hard and so long , to Heracles and any god who would listen, offering the only sacrifices his kingdom of rocks could provide – birds, fish and crabs! Have you ever tried to sacrifice a crab, Diomedes? Do the gods even accept such meagre sacrifices? But of course they do, or why else have you come?’

‘Indeed, why else have we come, Philoctetes, unless it was the gods who sent us? The Greeks have need of your bow and arrows and Agamemnon himself requests that you return to the army and help us secure the final victory over Priam.’

‘ Agamemnon !’ Philoctetes spat. ‘What does Philoctetes care for that man and his requests? What service does Philoctetes owe to him, or to any of you for that matter? How long has it been since you abandoned him here? It must be at least five years by now.’