Glyn Iliffe - King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

Eperitus’s heart kicked with excitement, heedless of Castor’s warning. The thought of his name being put into song, to be revered long after his death, was everything a fighting man wanted to hear. This was the only immortality a man could win, and every warrior sought it. An unlooked-for shaft of light had illuminated the shadowy path to Eperitus’s destiny and in his excitement he decided to depart at once.

‘Castor, your words are god-given. You’ll forgive my haste, but I want to be on my way to the oracle. Farewell, and I pray the gods will protect you all and bring you good fortune.’

He picked up the shield his grandfather had given him, with its fourfold hide and the new wounds that decorated it, and slung it across his back. But before he could pluck his spears from the ground, Castor stepped forward to bar his way.

‘Slow down, friend. We’re all going to the same place; I say let’s go together. We could do with your protection.’

Eperitus laughed. ‘And I could do with your rations! But I can’t wait here any longer – Mount Parnassus is still a three- or four-hour march and the afternoon won’t last for ever.’

‘Let him go his own way,’ said the handsome soldier, stepping into the circle of his countrymen. His eyes were dark and full of suspicion as he fixed his stare on the newcomer. ‘We didn’t need your help or ask for it, stranger. If you think that running into a fight which we were winning, killing a couple of Theban deserters while their backs are turned and then claiming all the glory for yourself has put us in your debt, then I’ll be happy to show you your error. We don’t need scavengers.’

Eperitus placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. Quickly glancing around the circle of Cretans he could see that every eye was on him, waiting for his reaction to the insult. If he drew his blade, surely they would aid their countryman and all his hopes of glory would perish in a short, frenzied death. But his soldier’s pride would not permit him to back down from such a slur on his name. He felt suddenly alone.

‘I agree, Mentor: we don’t need scavengers,’ Castor said, taking the man’s arm and gently steering him to one side. ‘Or parasites or hangers-on of any kind. But we do want fighting men.’ He lowered his voice, though the slight wind carried his words to Eperitus’s keen ears. ‘You know there’s trouble brewing at home. He could be useful, and his spirit impresses me.’

Mentor muttered something inaudible. Castor nodded then turned back to the others, announcing that matters were settled and – if Eperitus was willing – they would journey to the oracle together. The young warrior released his grip on his sword and exhaled.

‘And what’s more, Eperitus, after we’ve heard the Pythoness we can give you safe escort to the harbour where our ship is moored. It’s a busy place, and if you’re looking for adventure you could do worse than start in a port. What do you say?’

Eperitus nodded. ‘A stranger in a foreign land has to accept offers of friendship whenever they’re made.’

At this Castor took a dagger from within the folds of his tunic and offered the hilt towards him.

‘Then you should be a stranger no more. Take the dagger. Go on, take it. As Zeus, protector of strangers, is my witness, I swear to you my lasting friendship and loyalty. By this token I promise to honour and protect you whenever you’re in my home or on my lands; never to oppose you in arms; and always to help you in your need. This oath will be true for myself and my children, to you and yours until seven generations have passed, as our customs require.’

Nervously Eperitus took the dagger and held it in his sweating palm. It was rich in gold and the handle was inlaid with a scene from a boar hunt – a work of great craftsmanship. Closing his fingers about it, hiding its enthralling wonder, he looked gratefully at Castor. The prince’s eyes were expectant.

Eperitus was familiar with the noble custom of xenia, offering friendship to guests, which he had seen his grandfather carry out many times. It was not merely good manners, but a promise of unbreakable friendship. An alliance for life. It lay at the heart of the code by which warriors brought themselves renown, the code that made their names both feared and celebrated throughout Greece.

After a moment’s pause he unslung the scabbard from his shoulder and removed the sword. Sliding the blade into his belt, he offered the leather sheath to Castor.

‘I’ve nothing more to give you than this,’ he said solemnly. ‘It was given to my grandfather by the father of our king, after he saved his life in battle. It belonged to a great man and I offer it to you freely, happy it’s given to a warrior of noble blood. With it I offer you my own oath of allegiance. I swear to honour you whenever we meet. I will never take up arms against you, but will defend you from your enemies. As Zeus is my witness, for myself and my children to you and yours until seven generations have passed.’

Castor took the scabbard and winked at the young warrior, while behind him Mentor glowered with displeasure.

They marched silently in single file, tracing the mountain pathways that had been worn smooth by thousands of pilgrims over hundreds of years. A shower of rain in the late afternoon had made the stones slippery, so they picked their way carefully and used their spears as staffs. Upon reaching the upper slopes they could see a large plain spread below them. A wide body of water lay beyond it, which Eperitus fancied led to the sea. Above them the sky was grey with the passing rain clouds; evening was closing and soon the moon would rise above the crest of the hills.

Castor and Halitherses were striding ahead of the rest of the group, who, after the exertion of the battle, were beginning to lag as the relentless march continued, their strained breathing filling the air. Eperitus, who was tiring of Mentor’s watchful presence only two or three paces behind, left his place in the file and stretched his pace out to join the two leaders.

‘Evening’s nearly upon us, Castor,’ he said as he caught them. ‘Are we to make camp or march into the night?’

‘Is the walk taking its toll on you?’ the Cretan grinned.

‘I can match you step for step, friend, unlike the rest of your men. Their arms weigh them down and the air back there is heavy with their constant sighing.’

Halitherses looked back and grunted. ‘Too much peace has made them soft. They’re good lads – plenty of spirit – but may the gods help them if they ever find themselves shield to shield in a real scrap.’

By now the chariot of the sun had slipped below the horizon and the detail was draining out of the world, making it difficult to be sure of their footing on the wet and smooth-trodden path. Despite this and the state of his men, Castor did not slacken the pace for one moment. It was clear he would reach the oracle at Pythia tonight, even if they did not.

‘It’s dark now,’ he said, ‘but the full moon will be up before long. The temple’s only a short march away and I want to be there before the Pythoness drinks one too many of her potions.’

‘You speak like you’ve been there before,’ Eperitus said, intrigued. For days on his solitary journey he had turned over the stories he knew about the oracle. Mount Parnassus was a magical and sacred place, full of mystery and terror. Returning pilgrims in Alybas had told of a fire-breathing hole at the heart of a mountain, guarded by a monstrous serpent, where men descended after offering a sacrifice to Gaea, the earth mother. Inside was the Pythoness herself, upon whom the goddess had bestowed the power to know all things past and present, and all the secrets of the future. Wreathed in smoke, she would speak in mysterious riddles that only her priests could interpret, whilst all around her the cloud of stinking fumes would shift to depict ghosts of ages past, or spectres of things to come.