Glyn Iliffe - King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

The temple entrance had once consisted of a pair of doors approached by four broad stone steps. The doors had long since been burst open, while on the steps lay the skeletal remains of a human being. The rotted clothing hanging about it could once have been a priest’s robes, but such was the decay that they could not tell. The body had long since been picked clean of flesh and the bones bleached by the sun, but there was something in those empty eye sockets that retained an unspeakable terror, something about the open jaw that still cried out in silence.

As they stared at the chaos a hideous scream rang from the temple. It rooted them to the ground with its despairing horror, then it was suddenly silenced. Eperitus’s blood ran cold and the hair on the back of his neck was stiff with fear.

‘Goodbye Polybus,’ Odysseus said grimly, staring at the shadowy entrance.

So the serpent was still there, jealously guarding the temple against any who dared enter. Perhaps it had relieved them of the need to take the pursuit any further, but Odysseus would want to make sure that Polybus was dead. He would also want to honour his promise to Athena, though Eperitus hoped he had the good sense to go back for the others first; the thought of encountering another serpent in the darkness, without his spear, his shield or the aid of his comrades, made him sick with fear.

Odysseus, however, had no intention of waiting. He led the way up the steps and into the shadowy interior of the temple, beckoning for the others to follow.

‘What could have made Polybus scream like that?’ Antiphus asked quietly, unslinging his bow and readying an arrow from his quiver. ‘If it caused all that damage back there, it can’t be a man.’

‘It’s a serpent. The spawn of Echidna,’ Odysseus answered, though he offered no account of how he knew.

Antiphus looked at Odysseus in horror. Echidna was a monster of legend, half woman, half snake. A child of hers would be the stuff of nightmares.

They edged further into the shadows, where for a few tense moments their eyes struggled to adjust to the gloom. They had come to the head of a long aisle, flanked on either side by two rows of pillars. The rank-smelling air was thick and oppressive and their limbs felt suddenly heavy with the toil of the battle they had just fought. Then they heard something heavy slithering across the dusty floor at the far end of the temple.

Antiphus leaned his weight against one of the pillars and sought a target for his bow, but could see nothing in the weak light that suffused the interior. Odysseus drew his sword and walked cautiously towards a stone dais at the back of the temple, watching for movement as he passed between the rows of columns. Anxiety for the prince made Eperitus follow closely behind, his sword held before him. Never had he felt so vulnerable, or so naked, without his grandfather’s shield on his arm.

Something glinted on the broad flagstones a few paces ahead of them.

‘Odysseus!’ he hissed, afraid to disturb the sinister silence. ‘Polybus’s sword.’

Odysseus saw the discarded weapon and stopped.

‘The beast must have snatched him out of the darkness,’ he whispered, turning slightly to face Eperitus. ‘He couldn’t have known . . .’

Suddenly the great bulk of the serpent lashed out from the shadows. Eperitus flinched and this was the only warning Odysseus had of the doom that was closing rapidly behind him. In that splinter of time he turned and swept his sword up to defend against the terrific force of the monster’s attack. The blade thumped into its thick neck, but the blow was thrown back without effect. The open jaws and long fangs would have bitten the life out of Odysseus in a moment, had not an arrow from Antiphus’s bow taken the creature in the eye and sent it lashing back into the shadows, hissing with pain.

Eperitus’s shock at the speed of the attack and his companions’ reactions did not hold him for long. Nor did his fear of serpents. In an instant he became a warrior again, aware that death was upon them and his friends were in danger, and without thinking he charged after the retreating coils of the great beast. It sped away as fast as it had come, but in its half-blind confusion smashed into one of the painted pillars, splitting the wood and stalling its flight.

He was upon the monster in an instant. His sword flashed down upon its glistening hide, but just as Odysseus’s blow had bounced off, so did his, unable to pierce the hideous skin. Its scales were like flaps of hardened leather, overlapping each other to form an impervious armour. Eperitus struck again, numbing his arm as the force of his blow was returned twofold by the creature’s defences.

The pain from Antiphus’s arrow had caused the serpent to momentarily forget the men who had invaded its lair, but as Eperitus’s second blow rebounded from its hide it drew back and cocked its ugly head at him, surveying him with an evil intelligence in its eye. It was bigger than Python and, unlike in the pitch-black cavern at Pythia, there was just enough light to see the monster in its full, terrifying hideousness. It raised itself to the ceiling of the temple – the height of two tall men – but even this represented only one quarter of its full length.

It gave Eperitus no time to recoil in disgust or horror, but darted towards him with the swiftness of an arrow. He could not even raise his sword in defence before its bony head punched the breath out of him and tossed him against one of the pillars like a child’s toy. The impact left him dazed, his senses reeling.

Odysseus leapt to his defence, standing before him and slashing at the giant creature with his sword. At the same time Eperitus heard the twang of Antiphus’s bow and saw the arrow, a speeding sliver of light in the shadows, skitter off the monster’s armoured neck. It had drawn its body up into a coil now to give more force to its attacks, and swayed before Odysseus as it sought the chance to launch itself upon him. In response the prince sought to edge close enough to use his sword on the beast’s softer underbelly, but was repeatedly forced back by its cautious repositioning.

Antiphus knelt to Eperitus’s right and drew his bow again. He wasted another arrow on the tough skin before sweeping out his sword and rushing forward. But before he could reach Odysseus’s side, the serpent flicked its giant tail and threw him back against a pillar, where he lay unmoving. Seeing his comrade dashed aside, Odysseus called on Athena’s name and charged beneath the looming head of the creature. With a huge thrust of his muscular arms he planted his sword in its neck.

The ages-old monster bellowed with rage and pain. It slithered back across the floor to the rear wall of the temple, wrenching the deeply buried weapon from Odysseus’s grasp, and as it moved a large swelling was visible in the middle of its body, slowing it down. So this had been the fate of Polybus, Eperitus thought groggily. Then he heard Mentor behind them, calling Odysseus’s name from the doorway. Eperitus had never taken pleasure from the sound of his voice, but now he rejoiced at it. He only hoped he had brought the others with him.

Looking back at the serpent Eperitus realized that it was not retreating to die from the wound inflicted by Odysseus, but was manoeuvring itself to strike again. He gripped his sword and struggled to his feet, feeling sick and disorientated. His instinctive reaction was to run to Odysseus’s defence, but he was too late. The creature opened its slavering jaws to reveal fangs as long as spears, shining blue in the fading light from the temple’s entrance, then hurled itself at the unarmed prince. Odysseus was swept from his feet by the force of the attack, yet somehow managed to seize hold of the brute’s head and hang on to it.