Glyn Iliffe - King of Ithaca (Adventures of Odysseus)

‘Maybe,’ Odysseus answered, ‘but I haven’t the heart to murder such a pathetic creature.’

He turned and, without a further glance at the former king, walked back out of the room to the main corridor. The others had gone already and, with no time to waste, Odysseus flung the torch into the dirt at his feet and pulled the sword from his belt.

‘Come on, old friend,’ he said, looking at the steps to the royal quarters. ‘Let’s see this thing to its finish.’

They mounted the steps two at a time to the floor above, where they turned to scan the dimly lit corridors for guards. Seeing none, they moved cautiously to the point where an intersecting corridor ran to the right. Both men knew the palace intimately; the turn led straight to the royal quarters.

Odysseus had been born and brought up here. This was his territory, the very heart of his home, where he, his parents and his sister had lived in happiness for as long as he could remember. The sight of the familiar walls and doors, the faded murals and the worn mats on the stone floor made Odysseus suddenly realize the depth of the offence that had been caused to his family. That he had been forced into exile, his father taken to the northern tip of the island and his mother and sister imprisoned in their own home; that their enemies were now enjoying the food from their own kitchens, cooked and served by Laertes’s slaves; that foreigners bathed, dressed and slept in their own rooms, filled him with a murderous anger. Gripping the hilt of his sword until his knuckles were white, he turned the corner.

Two guards lay propped sleepily against the door jambs of his parents’ room. The first barely saw Odysseus as he clove his head open to the base of his neck. Though the second threw the shaft of his spear up as a defence against Mentor’s sword, he was killed by the follow-up thrust that split open his stomach.

They jumped over the corpses and into the large room where his mother sat gripping the edge of the bed. Beside her stood Koronos, the traitor who had deceived the Kerosia into sending the palace guard to Sparta. He held a sword in his hand, but appeared calm and collected before the unexpected appearance of Odysseus and Mentor.

‘So, the fledgling has returned to the nest,’ he scoffed. ‘But a little too late to save your darling wife, I fear.’

Suddenly another guard leapt at them from the near corner of the room. Mentor, whose sword was in his other hand, instinctively held up his forearm to ward off the blow. The force of the Taphian’s blade cut through the flesh and bone of his wrist, severing his hand and spraying blood across the smooth floor. He fell against the bed, shouting with pain and clutching the stump of his hand beneath his other arm.

Simultaneously, Koronos launched a ferocious attack on Odysseus. Their swords clashed noisily as the prince checked the traitor’s well-aimed swing. For a moment they stood face to face as their momentum pressed them together, their blades crossed between them. Then they withdrew again, their weapons rasping as they slid apart. Koronos renewed his attack, lunging skilfully at the bulk of his opponent, but Odysseus was quicker than he seemed, easily twisting away from the deadly thrust and in the same movement swinging his blade around to slash at Koronos’s exposed flank.

The older man’s reactions were equally good. He straightened up from the lunge that had so nearly skewered his opponent, and then lithely stepped away from the arcing point of the counter-stroke. In the same instant, the Taphian guard jumped over his wounded opponent and joined Koronos in pinning Odysseus back against the corner of the room. The prince retreated under their alternating cuts and thrusts, twice being wounded on the sword arm as he narrowly beat aside blows that would have split open his belly. Then, with all the strength his great arms would lend him, he not only stopped their advance but began to beat the two men back.

A single opponent could barely have withstood the ringing blows. Odysseus slashed from side to side, forcing the two men onto the defensive. They gave ground before him and became quickly exhausted by the effort of parrying his blows. Then the Taphian slipped in Mentor’s blood and fell at the foot of the bed. Though wounded, Mentor used the last of his strength to pluck a dagger from the unconscious guard’s belt and slashed open the man’s throat. He died with a final blood-choked sigh, just as Mentor collapsed with exhaustion.

‘What did you mean by “wife”, Koronos?’ Odysseus grunted as he renewed his attack on the old man.

‘Don’t try to fool me,’ Koronos laughed. ‘Penelope told us she was your wife as soon as she was captured. She seemed proud of the fact, though I wonder whether she will show such arrogance when she’s a widow.’ He beat aside a sudden probing jab from Odysseus. ‘When you’re dead, Polytherses intends to make her his plaything.’

Odysseus lunged angrily, but was checked and had to defend against a rapid return thrust from Koronos.

‘Penelope would die before she gave him the pleasure,’ he snarled.

‘Really?’ Koronos retorted. ‘The king enjoys a good hunt. Says it makes the meat taste better. She’s with him now, you know, down in the great hall with four Taphians. Do you think that if they want to satisfy themselves with her, she’ll be able to stop them?’ He parried another angry thrust. ‘Perhaps if I kill you now, my reward will be a turn with your wife, too.’

Odysseus resisted the impulse to throw himself into another furious attack. Koronos was easily his match in swordsmanship, if not in physical strength; he was also a cunning man, and Odysseus sensed that he was deliberately trying to provoke his anger. Already his lapses of concentration had nearly allowed the older man inside his guard. He stepped back and eyed him with caution.

‘You know I have Laertes held prisoner in my home?’ Koronos continued. ‘Before you arrived I was telling your mother how he begs to see her again. I find his pleas very moving. If I die, though, my slaves have orders to kill him. Is that what you want?’

Odysseus sensed an undercurrent of desperation in Koronos’s calm voice, the voice that had once persuaded him to leave his family undefended. Now it was trying to convince him that his wife would be raped and his father murdered. And yet for all his skill and power, the old man could not conceal his fear from the prince.

‘Don’t be a fool, Koronos,’ he responded in an even tone. ‘Your slaves hate you. Once you’re dead and I’m standing at their door, they will never dare kill the rightful king of Ithaca. For all your delusions that Laertes was an unfit ruler, the people of this island know different. And before this day is out my father will be back on the throne. Only, you won’t be alive to witness it.’

Odysseus had bided his time carefully. He had watched the beads of sweat on his opponent’s forehead, heard his struggling breath and noticed the wavering grip on his sword. In the meantime he had allowed Koronos to take the offensive with his voice, encouraging the traitor to switch his thoughts to goading and dissuasion. Then he struck.

He scythed down with all his strength. Koronos attempted to divert the blow and had his weapon swept from his hand, to clatter noisily across the stone floor and leave him defenceless. The traitor stared in disbelief at his empty hand, then fell slowly to his knees. But Odysseus was in no mood for mercy. The sight of Koronos pleading for his life only made him think of his father, imploring his former friend and adviser to let him see Anticleia. Without a second thought on the matter, he plunged his sword through the man’s black heart.

Turning at once to his mother, he gathered her into his arms and pressed his cheek to hers. They held each other for a few moments, then Anticleia sobbed and pushed him away.