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

‘Philoctetes had the bow Heracles left him,’ Philoctetes said. ‘And his hatred of you, of course.’

Odysseus nodded as if in sympathy, though his eyes did not leave Philoctetes for one moment.

‘Of course. Hatred is a powerful force among mortals. It gives a man endurance in adversity, a purpose to go on living when there is nothing else to live for. In battle it focusses his strength and gives him an urgency that is difficult for his enemies to overcome. But hate does not nourish a man, Philoctetes, nor is it something he can master. I know a warrior who, for twenty years, has been crippled by his loathing of his own father. If he could leave his hatred behind there would be few men to match him in this age of the world, but it distracts him and holds him back, preventing him from becoming what the gods meant him to be.’

Eperitus felt a flush of anger that Odysseus should dare draw parallels between himself and the wretched figure standing among the rocks above them. His father was a black-hearted murderer who had killed a king and taken his throne for himself, and when Eperitus had refused to support his vile crime or acknowledge his rule he had exiled him from the kingdom for life. Shortly afterwards he had fallen in with Odysseus and followed the new path the gods had laid before him; but he had never forgiven his father’s sin or forgotten his desire to kill him and wash clean the stain from his family’s name. Indeed, a man of honour could do no less, and Odysseus’s comments were a stinging betrayal. Eperitus stared at the back of his head, willing him to turn so he could challenge his accusation, but the king kept his gaze stubbornly fixed on the Malian archer whose arrow was still pointed at his heart.

‘No doubt the man you speak of had his choice,’ Philoctetes said. ‘And yet what choice did Philoctetes have? His hatred of you was the only difference between life and death. He chose life.’

‘Wrong, Philoctetes. You chose death. The Philoctetes who led his fleet out from the Euboean Straits and beat Achilles in the race to Tenedos is dead. His hatred murdered him and left you , a living wraith, a mere husk of humanity!’

‘No!’ Philoctetes shouted, raising his bow and drawing the string taut. ‘No! Philoctetes is alive, and when you’re dead he’ll be free again.’

‘Kill me and any vestige of Philoctetes that remains in you will die with me,’ Odysseus retorted. ‘Just listen to your babbling speech. Ever since you emerged from that cave you’ve referred to yourself as he and him , never I or me . Whatever you are, you aren’t Philoctetes. But perhaps you’re right that he isn’t completely dead yet. Perhaps something of the old Philoctetes, the true Philoctetes, is left inside you. And to him I’m as vital as that crutch you lean on. The thought of me has kept him alive all these years, and though you hate me, without me he would disappear forever. Kill me and Philoctetes will truly die. Only you will be left!’

As Philoctetes stared back down at Odysseus, it was clear the king’s words had provoked a shift deep within his consciousness; a realisation that without the object of his hatred he would succumb fully to the wild, insane creature that lurked among the rocks of Lemnos, reeling between pain and hunger while it eked out an existence on the flesh of seagulls. If he killed Odysseus, the precious Philoctetes – the proud, handsome archer whose memory he guarded like cherished treasure – would be lost forever. While Eperitus watched, a sharp jolt of pain brought Philoctetes crashing down onto the rocks with a cry. His thin voice, stripped bare of any humanity, rose up into the fog-filled air and screamed to the gods for mercy. His screams broke the trance Odysseus’s voice had thrown over the others and both Diomedes and Antiphus raced towards the foot of the cascade of boulders to help him. Odysseus called them back.

‘Leave him! The pain will go, but let us see what it leaves behind.’

Philoctetes’s shouts continued and all they could see was his hand flailing above the boulders, slapping pitifully at the stone until the pain began to ebb and, at last, he found his voice again.

‘Have mercy!’ he shouted, still lost from view. ‘Kill this poor wretch and put an end to his pain. Kill Philoctetes and the bow and arrows are yours, that’s what you came for isn’t it? It’s the weapons that have magical powers, not him. He’ll give them to you if you’ll take his life, just as Heracles gave them to Philoctetes for ending his suffering. For pity’s sake, do what Philoctetes has never been able to bring himself to do!’

‘For pity’s sake we will not,’ Odysseus replied. ‘Pity and the will of Zeus. Don’t you realise the gods gave you your hatred of me to keep you alive? And now they’ve sent me to bring you back to the world of men, Philoctetes. I may have earned your loathing for abandoning you here, but it was Achilles who wanted you dead and Medon – your own lieutenant –who had agreed to murder you. Yes it was my suggestion that you be marooned on Lemnos, but it was made to save your life.’

Philoctetes had pulled himself up onto the rock and was staring down at Odysseus again.

‘Medon was going to kill … me?’

A slight lift of one eyebrow was Odysseus’s only outward reaction to the fact Philoctetes had referred to himself as me for the first time since they had coaxed him out of his lair. He opened his mouth to reply, then abruptly shut it again. Surprised by his silence, Eperitus and Diomedes looked at Odysseus and then followed his frowning gaze to the figure scaling the boulders to Philoctetes’s right, just beyond the edge of his sight. It was Eurylochus.

‘Damn him,’ Eperitus whispered.

‘Yes, Medon,’ Odysseus answered, his voice calm despite the threat posed by Eurylochus as he stole up on Philoctetes, intending to take the bow that had been left on the boulder behind him. ‘But Medon is dead – slain by a woman, as befits his treacherous nature. And Achilles has also given up his spirit, which now resides in the Chambers of Decay. Nothing stands between you and a return to the army, Philoctetes. The gods have already stated that great glory awaits you – renown that will eclipse all that has passed before. If you can just surrender your bitter hatred and forgive a group of foolish men who’ve been made wiser by ten years of suffering and loss, then you can leave this place forever and return with us to civilisation.’

Philoctetes’s restless eyes betrayed the struggle that was taking place within. And yet it was a struggle he had only moments to win, for Eurylochus had now emerged on the large boulders behind him, the hem of his cloak floating in the breeze as he looked down at the bow and arrows just a short dash away from him.

‘Decide, Philoctetes,’ Odysseus said, more urgently now. ‘Will you come with us to everlasting glory or will you remain king of your island realm? Will it be bread and wine, or seagulls and mist? Decide!’

The scuffing of a leather sandal on stone gave Eurylochus away. With a speed that seemed impossible for such a miserable creature, Philoctetes had snatched up his bow and fitted an arrow to the string before Eurylochus could leap down onto the rock and take them for himself.

‘Treachery!’ he shouted, pointing the weapon at Eurylochus, who fell back over the boulder with a squeal of fear, followed by a loud cry of pain. Philoctetes turned now and aimed at Odysseus. ‘Philoctetes should have known better than to trust a beguiling serpent like you. You say that if you die he will die with you, but that’s just another lie; when he shoots you down he will become free.’

Philoctetes pulled back the bowstring and Odysseus dropped to his knees, throwing his hood over his face. Then, as Philoctetes let out half a breath and steadied his aim, a booming voice rolled down from the cliff tops, startling the men below as it echoed between the rocks and rebounded from precipice to precipice.