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

A smile spread across his face as with a resigned gesture he pushed Astynome into the pit. Her scream echoed briefly from the walls and was suddenly silenced. Shocked, Eperitus ran to the edge and stared down into the Stygian blackness, while his father ran limping to another door on the opposite side of the courtyard. Eperitus turned, part of his mind telling him that Apheidas was escaping, but knowing full well that to pursue him was to condemn Astynome to death. And so he turned back to the gaping hole at his feet and, almost as if his actions were being controlled by someone other than himself, he threw his grandfather’s shield onto his back and reached for the torch Astynome had let fall on the flagstones. Tossing it into the black void, he prayed to Athena to protect Astynome, then jumped.

Chapter Forty-one

A T THE T EMPLE OF Z EUS

Odysseus could hear the sounds of chaos long before he and Menelaus – with Helen, Pleisthenes and the remaining maids trailing behind – had found their way back to the servants’ entrance. The high-pitched screams of women penetrated the palace walls clearly, while the deep-throated shouts of hundreds of men formed a low roar in the background. The clatter of weapons could be heard, too, chattering away like angry birds as Trojan warriors tried to resist the overwhelming tide of the victorious Greeks. Then, as Odysseus reached the door and pushed it open, they saw the night sky ablaze before them, flames and smoke pouring up from Troy as its buildings burned with terrifying, glorious ferocity. Rain clouds pressed low over the city, bathed orange and scarlet by the fires below, and the warm night air crackled with the sound of fiery destruction.

Odysseus shielded his eyes against the heat and light, then, drawing his sword, turned to Menelaus.

‘Keep the others close. There are men out there who’ll gladly murder us just to get at the women.’

‘They can try,’ Menelaus growled.

Behind him, Helen stepped out into the night with Pleisthenes at her side. The lad had not said a word to his father since they had burst into his room, even when the Spartan king had taken him in his arms with tears in his eyes and spoken to him in the strange Greek language he barely remembered from his early childhood. Instead, he had pulled away and moved to his mother’s side, staring at Menelaus as if he were his enemy. Now, arm in arm, Helen and Pleisthenes stared at the burning sky with silent awe. The maids followed them from the palace and immediately began to wail in anguish at the sight before them.

‘Helen, shut them up for all our sakes,’ Odysseus pleaded.

She spoke to them in a low voice and they fell quiet. Odysseus looked out at the broad courtyard, which had been so peaceful a short while before. Now it was strewn with the bodies of men and women, while on the opposite side a remnant of the Trojan royal guard fought valiantly against a much larger company of Greeks. In a corner, a man lay on a naked woman, pushing aggressively into her. The woman flapped limply with each movement, and for a horrible moment Odysseus suspected she might be dead.

‘Let’s go,’ Menelaus said.

They ran to the top of the ramp that led down to the middle tier of the citadel. A group of four Greeks ran up the slope towards them, brandishing their swords.

‘Stand aside!’ Menelaus commanded.

The brutal grins dropped from their smoke-stained faces and they parted before him, though with obvious reluctance as they stared greedily at the women he was escorting. The streets below were teeming with soldiers. Some were fighting their way into the two-storeyed houses at the same time as others were trying to leave with the plunder they had found. This consisted of anything they could lay their hands on, from silver cups to fine dresses or skins of wine. More than once, Odysseus saw men whose arms were laden with loot cut down before they could defend themselves, and their goods taken from their dead bodies. In other houses, people were leaping from upper windows as flames devoured the ground floor, only for the men to be put to the sword and the women to be dragged off by packs of soldiers and raped.

‘Look!’ a voice rang out. ‘Women!’

A group of soldiers ran towards them, intent on taking Helen and her maids for themselves. Menelaus did not bother to order them back, killing the first with a swift stroke and sinking his sword into the stomach of the second. This only made the others angrier and Odysseus and Menelaus were forced to kill or wound four more before the rest retreated.

‘By all the gods, this is chaos!’ Menelaus exclaimed. ‘It’s worse than a pitched battle.’

‘What did you expect?’ Odysseus shouted over the clamour. ‘Come on: we need to find some of our own Ithacans or Spartans if we’re going to get Helen and your son to safety. Let’s head to the gates.’

They found their way down to the lower tier of Pergamos, where to their relief the gates were protected by a disciplined company of Myrmidons. Their commander was Peisandros, who stepped out as they approached and held up his hand.

‘No prisoners or loot beyond this gate, Agamemnon’s orders. Take them into the barrack room for fair distribution later.’

‘You can tell my brother that Helen of Sparta is no man’s prisoner,’ Menelaus answered. ‘Neither are my son or any of these maids.’

Peisandros stared wide-eyed at the blood-caked faces of the two kings, then with a shout of joy seized each man’s hand in turn and shook it.

‘My lords! We feared you were dead. There’ve been all sorts of rumours –’

‘Rumours haunt every battle,’ Odysseus chided him with a smile. ‘I’ve been killed at least a dozen times during this war. And a veteran like you should know better than to listen to such nonsense.’

‘True enough,’ Peisandros agreed, his gaze wandering to Helen. ‘So you’ve found her. And no less beautiful than the last time I saw her, all those years ago in Sparta.’

‘More beautiful,’ Menelaus corrected him. ‘Now, go and pick twenty of your best men to escort us back to the ships.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Peisandros replied, shooting a last glance at Helen before striding off to carry out his orders.

‘Now you’ve found yourselves a guard, Menelaus, I’m going back into the citadel,’ Odysseus said.

‘Are you mad?’ Helen asked, a look of genuine concern on her face.

Odysseus shook his head.

‘Eperitus is somewhere up there. I won’t abandon him to be mistaken for a Trojan by a pack of victory-drunk Greeks.’

Menelaus took his hand in both of his.

‘Thank you, Odysseus. I doubt things would have turned out as they have without your help.’

Helen released her hold of Pleisthenes and stepped forward.

‘Menelaus is too frugal in his praise,’ she said, embracing the Ithacan king closely. ‘We owe you everything.’

‘Can I send a few of Peisandros’s men with you?’ Menelaus offered.

‘No need – it’ll be less dangerous without Helen and her maids. But there is one thing you can do for me.’

‘Name it.’

‘You remember Antenor, the Trojan elder who was our host when we came to the city before the siege started?’

‘Of course.’

‘His house is close to the citadel walls, a little to the right beyond the gates – you’ll remember it when you see it. If he and his family are still alive, take them down to the ships with you. He was a good man and doesn’t deserve to be slaughtered with the rest.’

‘Few do, if you ask me,’ Menelaus replied, ‘but I’ll do as you wish. May Athena go with you, Odysseus.’

Odysseus nodded, though the Spartan’s words were a painful reminder that the goddess had abandoned him. He turned and ran back into the anarchy of the citadel. The mayhem had, if anything, increased. Bodies were everywhere, many stripped of clothing, others left like bundles of rumpled linen, barely recognisable as human beings. Odysseus had seen more battles than he could remember, but witnessing the slaughter of armed soldiers was poor preparation for the sight of old men, women and children lying murdered in the streets. He came across a dead woman, naked but for a single sandal, her outstretched hand still clutching the arm of a trampled infant. Many others lay where they had been stabbed, with lifeless eyes staring up at the blood-coloured clouds above. There were some, though, whose bodies had been hewn horribly by several blades. The scene sickened him and he thought of his beloved Penelope and little Telemachus – only ten years old – and how they might look dead on the streets of Ithaca. Vulnerable Ithaca. The fact he had left his home and family unprotected for so long suddenly tore at him, filling him with surprising panic.