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

‘Go now,’ Odysseus shouted to Eperitus over the din of battle. ‘Find Podaleirius or another healer. I don’t want to lose you to a mere flesh wound.’

He slapped the hind quarters of the horse and sent it leaping forward. Eperitus, who had ridden horses since childhood in Alybas, took charge of the frightened animal and directed it towards the gates where the Greeks were still pouring thick and furious from their camp. Then, as he rode between fleeing Trojans and their pursuers, a single horn blew a long note that rose above the clamour of war and turned many heads towards its source. Eperitus glanced to his left and saw the ranks of the Trojan cavalry, who had been pulled from the chaos of battle and reformed into a controlled fighting unit. The great mass of horses and men sprang forward, building up momentum as they rode with gathering speed towards the battle. At their head was Apheidas, charging to the rescue of his retreating countrymen as he had done so many times before. And as Eperitus’s eyes fell upon his father, he cast aside any thought of returning to the Greek camp. Drawing his sword, he pressed his heels back into the flanks of his mount and sent it galloping at the wall of approaching cavalry.

Apheidas saw him almost immediately. Abandoning all consideration for the rest of the battle, he steered his black stallion towards his son and leaned across its neck with his sword held at arm’s length before him. While the mass of horsemen behind him raced on towards the Greek spearmen – whose flank had been left exposed by Agamemnon’s headlong pursuit of the enemy infantry – a group of half a dozen riders broke off to follow their leader.

Eperitus cared little for the fact he was now facing seven horsemen, or that his chances of survival were small. With his sword outstretched before him, he focussed on his father and kicked back hard. But he had forgotten the wound in his thigh, which had been rapidly draining his strength since Odysseus had pushed the arrow out of the flesh. His blood-soaked leg now gave beneath the effort and a great stab of pain surged up through his body, weakening his hold on his horse. The last thing he saw before his vision went black and he slid from the galloping mount was Apheidas’s snarling grin and the gleam of sunlight flashing from his blade.

BOOK

THREE

Chapter Twenty-four

T HE K EROSIA

Laertes spat on the ground and shook a gnarled fist at Eupeithes.

‘My son will return, and when he finds out what you’ve been up to in his absence he’ll make sure you and all these cronies of yours are kicked off the Kerosia for good. That’s if he doesn’t just have you executed, like he should have done twenty years ago!’

‘Sit back down you old fool!’ Antinous growled, half rising from his chair.

‘Watch what comes out of your mouth, lad,’ warned Oenops, laying a hand on the youngest member of the Kerosia’s shoulder and easing him back into his seat. ‘Remember Laertes was once our king.’

‘What does his generation care for rightful kings?’ Laertes said dismissively. ‘And least of all a son of Eupeithes.’

‘My friends,’ Penelope interjected, ‘be calm and respect the rules of this council.’

She looked at the two old enemies who were staring at each other with open animosity. Eupeithes stood to her left with the speaker’s staff clutched in his hand as if it were a king’s sceptre, his usually pallid complexion warm and flushed from the heat of the central hearth. On the other side of the flames was the bent form of Laertes, glaring with fierce hatred at the man who had once tried to usurp his throne when he had been king of Ithaca. When Penelope had first seen her father-in-law he had been pale-skinned with spindly legs and a bloated stomach, more like an upended frog than a king. Since ceding power to his son, though, he had retired to his farm with Anticleia, his wife, and thrown himself into the hard labour of growing crops and keeping livestock. Now his distended belly had shrunk to a paunch and his flaccid muscles had become as firm as knotted rope. With his sunburnt skin he looked like the root of an old tree standing in the middle of the great hall, tough and immovable.

‘Father,’ Penelope said, ‘Eupeithes has the speaker’s staff. You must return to your seat. Please.’

Laertes sat back down with a show of reluctance and Eupeithes stepped forward into the space he had vacated.

‘Whatever foolish hopes some of us may be clinging on to, it’s clear to me that we cannot wait forever for Odysseus to return. The world beyond our little group of islands is changing rapidly. Outsiders are beginning to enter Greece from the distant north. They are allowed to settle and establish themselves because the mainland kingdoms are too weak to throw them out. It won’t be long before they find their way here. Ithaca needs strong, singular leadership if it is to survive.’

‘Perhaps you should claim the throne for yourself,’ Laertes sneered, ‘bringing in Taphians like you did before.’

Eupeithes ignored him and looked at Penelope. ‘I have a proposal, my lady, and Oenops, Polyctor and Antinous are in full agreement with me. We feel that if Odysseus does not return within two years, he must be assumed to have perished and you must remarry for the good of Ithaca. According to our ancient laws, your new husband will then become king in Odysseus’s place.’

‘Never!’ Laertes barked.

Even Mentor, who had sat listening uneasily to Eupeithes’s slow build-up throughout the morning, rose from his chair with a look of fierce disapproval on his handsome features.

‘That’s preposterous! What about Telemachus, Odysseus’s rightful heir? The law you quote depends on the queen agreeing to remarry, and Penelope would never deny her son his birthright.’

‘Telemachus is still a boy,’ Eupeithes retorted. ‘He won’t come of age for another eleven years, and Ithaca can’t wait that long for a king. If Penelope’s new husband – our new king – dies before then and leaves no offspring of his own, then Telemachus can inherit the throne.’

‘You have a nerve, Eupeithes, suggesting such a thing before me ,’ Penelope said, rising from her seat. ‘You act as if Odysseus is dead already! How can you expect me to marry another man when my husband is still alive? You certainly can’t force me to do such a thing!’

Eupeithes smiled patiently at the queen.

‘If I’m blunt, then it’s because something needs to be done to protect the kingdom from spiralling into chaos. We can’t wait forever for Odysseus to return. You must know the nobility are growing restless. They want proper leadership.’

‘Are you threatening me, Eupeithes?’ Penelope asked. ‘If you want proper leadership, why don’t you introduce a law that simply allows the Kerosia to elect a new king? If you’re so determined to seize power, why do you need me anyway?’

‘The Kerosia doesn’t have that power and Eupeithes knows it,’ said Mentor. ‘He needs you for legitimacy, my lady. The people won’t support an elected king, only one with a lawful connection to the royal line – one chosen by you. And after what happened the last time he tried to take the throne by force, he wouldn’t dare seize power again without the support of the people.’

‘He wants to put his own son on the throne,’ Laertes said, looking at Penelope. ‘It’s obvious he’ll insist you marry Antinous. Don’t let him, Daughter.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Eupeithes defended himself. ‘Penelope will choose her own husband. I will not stand accused of forcing my own son onto the throne. Any Ithacan would be able to plead for Penelope’s hand.’