Glyn Iliffe - King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

Odysseus merely shook his head and smiled. ‘It’s a preposterous suggestion, Koronos, especially for you. Greek laws don’t allow a man to rule two nations, so eventually I would have to choose between Ithaca and Sparta – not that it will ever come to that. Besides, I’d rather risk the throne now than waste my time strutting around Sparta like a peacock, all for the pleasure of a girl whose future husband was probably chosen long before this suit was offered. There’s more to this than meets the eye. I won’t go.’

‘Why not?’ Eperitus blurted without thinking. For a painful moment all eyes were upon him. ‘Besides, if Eupeithes intends to attack in the spring, what alternative do we have?’

Halitherses added his voice to the young warrior’s. ‘Don’t be frightened of a woman, Odysseus. A man of your calibre can achieve anything he puts his mind to. That’s the mark of a true hero.’

Laertes nodded his agreement. ‘Succeed or fail, it’s clearly the will of the gods that you go. Never has there been a man of our family so blessed with good fortune as you, so I agree with Koronos that you should go to Sparta, even if only to test your luck in the wider world. One thing is true about this whole affair: the answer doesn’t lie within these islands.’

Odysseus shook his head. ‘I’d need at least half the palace guard as escort and to provide a statement of my rank when I reached Sparta. We would be away for six months at least, by my reckoning, and with half the guard and the heir to the throne gone, why would Eupeithes need to wait until the spring? We would be splitting our forces and inviting trouble. It would be madness.’

Eperitus slumped dejectedly back into his chair, convinced that nothing was ever decided at an Ithacan council. The only debate he knew how to handle was the kind that was decided with sharpened bronze. But at that moment Koronos stood again, still clutching the speaker’s staff, and looked directly at Odysseus. Something burned in his eyes that was not anger, but amusement.

‘You sit there, Odysseus, and talk of proving yourself. I wonder, as the opportunities come and go, will you continue to sit and talk?’

Odysseus covered the space between them in the blink of an eye. Eperitus watched him wrench the staff from Koronos’s fingers and fully expected him to dash the man’s brains out with it. But within the same instant that his anger had flared, Odysseus controlled it again and forced the staff to his side with a trembling hand. They faced each other and, to Eperitus’s surprise, the older man did not flinch before the terrifying gaze of the prince.

‘You’re fortunate this is the Kerosia,’ Odysseus hissed, before forcing a smile to his lips. ‘Here I can accept your criticism without feeling insulted. And perhaps you’re even cleverer than you seem, my friend, for you must surely have wanted me to go to Sparta from the beginning. And I accept your challenge.’

Chapter Eight

FAREWELL TO ITHACA

Eperitus leapt from his bed and dressed as quickly as he could. Outside, the dark streets of Alybas were filled with the din of fighting – men shouting, the scrape and clatter of bronze on bronze. He could smell smoke and a flickering orange glow shone through the high window of his room onto the ceiling.

Moments later he was rushing down the steps to the ground floor, pushing the household slaves aside and ignoring their urgent pleas as he ran to arm himself. There was no time to fit breastplate or greaves, so he crammed his bronze cap onto his head and pulled his shield from the wall. One of the newer slaves, whose name he could not remember, followed him in and handed him his sword.

‘What’s going on out there?’ Eperitus demanded.

‘Looks like rebellion, my lord. A group of soldiers set a few of the houses alight to draw the guards from the palace. Now there’s hand-to-hand fighting and the streets are littered with corpses.’

‘You seem to have your wits about you,’ Eperitus said. ‘Find what weapons you can and arm the male slaves, then lead the women up into the hills until the fighting is over.’

‘What about the house?’

‘Don’t worry about the house. Have you seen my father?’

‘No, sir. He could have been in the palace until late, as usual, or perhaps he left as soon as the trouble started.’

Eperitus patted the man’s arm and ran out into the street. A house was burning further up the hill, filling the night air with sparks that spiralled up towards the black clouds above. There was an awful stench of burning flesh and Eperitus could see several lifeless shapes lying in the mud of the street. The sounds of battle continued, but had moved away in the direction of King Pandion’s palace.

Eperitus set off at a sprint, driven by fear for the king’s life. He passed several more corpses and only stopped as he approached the gates. These were guarded by four members of the guard, who lowered their spear points as they recognized him.

‘What’s happening?’ he asked, relieved to see the gates held by the king’s men, but concerned to still hear the sounds of battle within. ‘Is it a rebellion?’

‘Your father has everything under control,’ one of them answered. ‘They’re just finishing off the last of the survivors now. You’ll find him in the great hall.’

Eperitus ran through to the small courtyard beyond, where yet more bodies littered the ground. Even in the reflected glow from the clouds he was able to recognize many of their faces, the light absent from their eyes and their features frozen in the agony of death. Knowing his spear would be awkward in the narrow corridors, he threw it aside and drew his sword as he hurried over the threshold and into the palace.

Torches sputtered in their brackets, casting a dull, pulsing light over the passage that led to Pandion’s throne room. The sounds of fighting had all but disappeared, leaving only the clashing of swords from beyond the doors at the end of the corridor. Eperitus had a sudden feeling that the king was in danger and that only he could save him, but as he prepared to join the fight he was stopped by a sight that drained the energy from his limbs. Lying on the stairs to the women’s quarters were his older brothers. One lay face up, his throat open and dark with blood; the other lay across him, the broken shaft of a spear protruding from his spine.

As he stared at their corpses, feeling empty and emotionless, the clamour from the throne room stopped. Eperitus felt a rush of fury and ran the length of the body-strewn passage determined to avenge his brothers. He shouldered the doors open and stood with his legs apart and his sword and shield at the ready. But he was too late. The king lay slumped across the floor, one hand still clutching a sword whilst the other reached towards the throne. His dead eyes stared accusingly at Eperitus.

Standing over him was a tall figure, wiping the king’s blood from his blade. Eperitus stumbled and lowered his sword.

‘Father?’

A part of him understood what had happened, but the greater part would not accept it.

‘It had to be done, lad,’ his father replied calmly. ‘I would have told you before, but I was afraid you’d give my plans away. You have too much of your grandfather in you – I knew your loyalty would be to the throne. Well, now I am the throne.’

As if to emphasize his point, he stepped over Pandion’s body and sat in the stone chair.

‘What have you done?’ Eperitus asked, only then noticing several members of the palace guard standing on either side of him.

‘Pandion was a fool and a weakling, Eperitus. Under his rule Alybas was becoming a feeble and insignificant city, so some of us,’ he raised his sword point and indicated the surviving guards, ‘decided it was time for a change.’