Glyn Iliffe - King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

He took a step towards the kneeling figure. ‘Stand up, Damastor. Your wound has to be bound before the blood loss kills you.’

‘Damn you,’ Damastor replied, struggling to his feet. The dull sheen of a dagger gave Eperitus a moment’s warning, but it was too late.

Before he could even think to move the point was puncturing his chest. Intense pinpricks of pain spread like fire through his body as the blade sank slowly, smoothly and unstoppably into his flesh, ripping an agonized scream from his throat as every muscle crumpled and he crashed heavily against the dirt floor.

He looked up and saw the dark shape of Damastor towering endlessly above him, seeming to rise higher and higher like a tall tree as Eperitus slipped further and further into the earth below him, thrust relentlessly downward by the gigantic, fiery dagger embedded in his heart. Then he felt the warm, glutinous dampness of his own blood pumping out over his fingers – which were closed motionless about the handle of the weapon – and seeping down across his chest. He felt it infiltrate the material of the tunic Clytaemnestra had given him, making it heavy and pasting it firmly against his skin. And then the downward motion stopped and he lay looking lazily upward through dim, misting eyes, skewered to the floor by the searing blade of Damastor’s knife.

Odysseus appeared at the centre of his vision, leaping like a lion upon Damastor and carrying him out from the borders of his sight. There were distant sounds of a struggle, and then Eperitus felt the dagger lifted out from between his ribs. No longer pinned to the ground he stood with an easy movement that seemed unhindered by his wound, or even the usual grating of joints and groaning of muscle and bone. He turned to see Odysseus on top of Damastor, leaning his full weight down upon the fingers he had closed about the traitor’s throat. Damastor flailed his bloody stump uselessly against Odysseus’s flank as he struggled for air, trying desperately to fight off his attacker and breathe again.

It seemed an eternity before the monstrous arm stopped flapping, and even longer before Odysseus finally extracted his fingers from Damastor’s throat and stood up. Only then did he turn around and look into the darkness for his friend. Eperitus wanted to say something to him, to draw his attention, but the words did not come. Then Odysseus dropped his gaze to the ground by Eperitus’s feet and an agonized groan escaped his lips.

Quickly he moved towards the centre of the room and fell to his knees. He reached out his arms and clutched at something long and heavy, lifting one end onto his lap and bowing his head over it.

‘Eperitus,’ he said, and the young warrior suddenly knew that the words were not directed at him but at the shape on the floor.

A cold sense of apprehension filled him. Outside, far away though it seemed, he thought he could hear the sound of something approaching the temple, something terrible coming at great speed. He felt a compulsion to get out and run, but just as he had found himself incapable of speech he was equally unable to move a muscle of his body.

Desperately he looked down at the shape in Odysseus’s arms. As he began to recognize what it was, as the truth settled upon him with an icy chill, he saw Damastor rise from the floor behind the prince.

But Eperitus felt no panic, no urgent need to draw Odysseus’s attention to him, for like himself the figure of Damastor was but a harmless wraith. They were dead, and the sound of rushing air grew nearer, even to the door of the temple.

Chapter Twenty-six

WRAITHS

Eperitus looked at the entrance. For an instant it was clear, the ghoulish moonlight cracking open the darkness of the temple and teasing him with a final glimpse of freedom. He saw the silvered rocks and the starkly illuminated hillsides outside, the sweet, despairing beauty of a world that was now lost to him. And then the light was extinguished. A tall figure in a black robe, his features as magnificent as they were terrible, filled the doorway, looking first at Damastor and then at himself.

Every soldier understood the fate that awaited him. One day he knew a spear point would pierce his guard, a sword’s edge cleave his flesh, or a bronze-tipped arrow skewer his heart. Then, as his armoured body crashed into the dust of the battlefield, he knew his soul would stand dispossessed. And soon Hermes would come to lead him to the Underworld, the House of Hades; there he would drink of the river Lethe and forget his former life, becoming a shade and passing the rest of eternity in loneliness, without satisfaction or joy.

Damastor saw Hermes and cowered before him. Though he could not speak, a low and baleful moan left his ethereal lungs and his wraith’s limbs shook in terror. At the same time Eperitus, too, was hamstrung with fear. The brief but honeyed tenderness of life was gone, snatched from him before he had barely been able to taste it. Now his spirit would spend perpetuity in emptiness.

Hermes entered and filled the temple with his presence. Odysseus, who still held Eperitus’s body in his arms, did not see him, nor did he hear the frightened muttering of Damastor’s ghost as the god beckoned to him. Such things were not for mortal eyes.

To Eperitus, though, they were inescapable. He saw Damastor fall to his knees, silently weeping and begging not to be taken, but nevertheless inexorably drawn towards the dark figure. He watched him shuffle forward, resisting every movement until an instant later he was swallowed up in a great sweep of the god’s cloak, disappearing from sight altogether. Hermes then turned his gaze upon Eperitus, and in a commanding gesture threw his hand out towards him.

At that moment Eperitus heard Odysseus say his name. From the corner of his vision he saw him lay his dead body back onto the earth of the temple floor and wipe the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Still on his knees, the prince looked up and accused the gods of cruelty to all mankind.

Reluctantly Eperitus took a step towards Hermes. He wanted to remain with his friend, not share Damastor’s fate, and as he took two more heavy steps towards the god he looked again at Odysseus. He silently implored him to see what was happening, to save him from his fate, but Odysseus’s chin now rested upon his chest and his hands were in his lap.

Eperitus’s resistance gave way and he took the last few steps towards Hermes. But as he reached out to take the god’s hand, the palm was suddenly turned towards him and Eperitus was fixed to the spot, unable to move. Hermes’s attention was now rooted firmly upon Odysseus and, following his gaze, Eperitus saw that in his friend’s hands was the clay owl Athena had given him.

The prince turned it about in his fingers, blandly studying each detail of the seal, but as he considered what to do with it Eperitus already knew what was in his mind.

‘No,’ he said, though no sound came from his mouth. ‘The seal is your only hope for winning back Ithaca. Without Athena’s help you’ll never defeat Eupeithes. Odysseus !’

But there was not a breath in his ethereal body to give shape to the words. Instead, the only sound was the snap of the seal as his friend broke it between his fingers. The two halves melted away into fine dust and were gone for ever.

Odysseus wiped his hands on his cloak and looked up. After a few moments he glanced over his shoulder, directly through Eperitus’s ghost to the doorway, and then into each corner of the temple. Eperitus followed his gaze, but the goddess did not appear. Nevertheless, Hermes’s eyes remained firmly fixed on Odysseus.

The Ithacan dug his fingers into the loose soil of the temple floor where the dust of the tablet had spilled, trying to recover any fragment that might remain from the clay owl. There was nothing.