The Oracles of Troy

Chapter One

Lemnos

Odysseus, king of Ithaca, stood at the stern of the galley, his short legs planted firmly apart on the deck and his muscular, top-heavy torso rolling gently with the subdued motion of the sea. His green eyes were impassive as they studied the walls of dense fog that surrounded the ship, seemingly unconcerned at the possibility they could be creeping towards their doom on a rocky shoal or drifting past their destination altogether. King Diomedes showed less patience, beseeching and cursing the gods with alternate breaths as he stood at Odysseus’s left shoulder, his blue cloak swept back to reveal a gleaming breastplate and the golden pommel of a sword hanging at his side. Eperitus, captain of the Ithacan guard, was at Odysseus’s other shoulder, his eyes on the crew as they pulled at the oars.

‘What do your senses tell you, Eperitus?’ Odysseus asked, his smooth voice amplified by the silence. ‘Are we near to Lemnos?’

Eperitus stared out at the thick mist, raising his chin a little as he focussed his hearing on sounds that were beyond the gentle creaking of the long oars in their leather loops and the swish and trickle of water across the blades. As he concentrated he began to hear things the others could not, noises diminished by distance that took a few moments to understand. With them came odours and aromas, and different tastes carried on the air, all of them delicate and insubstantial, but nevertheless distinct to his raised perceptivity.

‘I can hear crowds of gulls,’ he began, ‘squabbling and cawing like they used to on the cliffs and hillsides around Ithaca. And waves crashing against rocks. There’s a stink of seaweed and wet stone, but with a hint of soil and vegetation. It’s definitely land, though I can’t say whether it’s Lemnos or not.’

‘It is,’ Odysseus said confidently. ‘Which way?’

Eperitus pointed at an angle to the bearing they were travelling along. Odysseus gave a satisfied smile and glanced back over his shoulder.

‘North a little, Antiphus.’

The man at the helm nodded, a determined look on his face as he leaned the twin steering oars to the left.

‘I’m going to the prow,’ Odysseus announced. ‘I remember the rocks the first time we came here, and the last thing I want is one of them popping up out of this fog and tearing a hole in the hull.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Eperitus said.

‘No need,’ Odysseus replied, placing an arresting hand on his broad chest. ‘Why don’t you stay here and make sure the anchor stones are ready? You can prepare the boat, too, while you’re at it.’

The fact the anchor stones and the small rowing boat could be quickly readied by any of the seasoned crew made Eperitus suspicious, and when Odysseus added one of his reassuring smiles he felt sure he was hiding something. Not that there was any point in questioning him; after twenty years as the king’s friend, Eperitus knew he would not reveal anything he did not have a mind to.

Odysseus bent down to pick up a bundle of fur and a wooden club that were stowed beneath one of the rowing benches.

‘That’s Agamemnon’s lion’s pelt, isn’t it?’ Diomedes said.

‘I borrowed it from him,’ Odysseus explained innocently.

‘What in Athena’s name do you want that for? And what’s the point of the club? If you’re planning to beat Philoctetes to death, don’t forget Calchas said we need to bring him back to Troy alive.’

‘Philoctetes probably perished years ago,’ Odysseus replied, ‘especially with that stinking wound of his. The important thing is to find his bow and arrows.’

Eperitus and Diomedes watched him walk down the centre of the galley, pausing halfway beside a gigantic warrior crammed onto the end of one of the benches. Odysseus leaned down and spoke close to the man’s ear, then handed him the lion’s pelt and the club before continuing to the prow.

‘Why’s he giving them to Polites?’ Diomedes asked. ‘He’s definitely up to something.’

Eperitus nodded. ‘But what?’

‘Some trick or other, no doubt.’

‘No, he promised me he’d act honourably, especially after the unjust way Philoctetes was marooned on Lemnos. All because the poor wretch was bitten by a snake.’

‘It was a harsh decision, but perhaps the years have helped us forget the stench of the wound and how he used to groan and wail.’

‘We were too harsh, my lord,’ Antiphus interrupted from his position at the twin rudder. As an archer himself, he had always empathised with Philoctetes. ‘With the bow and arrows Heracles gave him he could have ended the war in the first year. Hector and Paris were the backbone of the Trojan army, but two shots from Philoctetes would have brought them down in the dust and left the gates of Troy virtually undefended.’

‘Then perhaps it was the will of the gods that we abandoned him on Lemnos,’ Diomedes replied. ‘Though if he has survived, I wouldn’t want to fall foul of him if he still has his weapons. A good reason for us to remind Odysseus of what we agreed, don’t you think Eperitus?’

Eperitus nodded.

‘Omeros,’ he barked, staring at a lad who was sitting with his back against the side of the ship, busily restringing a tortoiseshell lyre, ‘put that damned thing away and make the boat ready. Get Elpenor to help you. And I want my breastplate, greaves and sword ready the moment we’re at anchor. If I find you’ve been spending more time on that instrument than you have cleaning and oiling my armour then you’ll only have yourself to blame for the consequences.’

Omeros leapt to his feet and called over to another young man who had been busy casting dice with his shipmates. Eperitus was certain his armour would not have been cared for nearly as well as Omeros’s lyre, but he felt no anger at the fact. The truth was, since arriving at Troy only a few months before among a shipload of Ithacan replacements, he had proved himself to be a promising warrior with a propensity to learn quickly and a calm intelligence that was not flustered by the confusion of battle. That was why Eperitus had made him his squire. More than that, though, he found he liked the boy.

‘And you, Eurylochus,’ he continued, looking at a pot-bellied sailor who was sitting at one of the benches and gnawing on a scrap of dried beef, ‘I want you to prepare the anchor stones.’

‘I’m rowing,’ Eurylochus replied through a mouthful of meat, refusing to look at Eperitus.

As much as Eperitus liked Omeros, he despised Eurylochus, who used the fact he was Odysseus’s cousin as an excuse to be lazy and arrogant. Eperitus’s dislike was more than matched by Eurylochus’s own hatred for him, which was driven by jealousy and a misguided belief that the position of captain of the guard should have been his by right. But the years had taught Eperitus how to deal with Eurylochus.

‘You’ll be swimming if those anchor stones aren’t ready by the time I return,’ he said, and followed Diomedes to the prow while Eurylochus fumed behind him.

‘You shouldn’t embarrass my cousin in front of the crew, Eperitus,’ Odysseus chided as they joined him.

Eperitus raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re right. I should’ve just stood there and let him undermine my authority.’

‘The petulance of a small-minded fool won’t harm the respect these men hold you in, you know that. And humiliating Eurylochus will only provoke him to acts of petty revenge – he’s done it enough times in the past. Talking of disrespecting authority, didn’t I ask you to prepare the anchor stones and the boat?’

‘They’re being seen to,’ Diomedes answered. ‘Besides, you’ve had your chance for a private word with Polites, so you should be grateful for two extra pairs of eyes in this fog.’

Odysseus grinned and the three men turned to stare out at the milky vapour that shifted spectrally around the galley.

‘I don’t know what you’re up to, Odysseus,’ Diomedes continued, scanning the mist, ‘but you promised us no tricks, remember? Philoctetes was shamefully treated when we left him here, and if he’s still alive after ten years then I doubt he’ll be feeling any better disposed toward us – especially as you were the one who brought him here. The first sign of deceit from you and he’ll shoot us all down like tethered doves.’

‘I brought him here to save him from being murdered after he beat Achilles and Medon,’ Odysseus retorted. ‘They’d have silenced his groaning for good if it hadn’t been for me. Not that I expect him to appreciate that. But I’ve agreed to let you do the talking and I’ll keep my promise, Diomedes – unless he speaks to me, that is. He’d sooner shoot me than talk to me, though, so that’s unlikely. And to make sure he doesn’t recognise me, I’ll keep my hood over my face and my lips sealed.’

Eperitus gave him a sceptical look. ‘And if we fail to persuade him?’

‘How can you? Assuming he’s survived this long and no passing ship has offered him passage back to Greece, then he’ll have been alone on this rock for ten years. Do you think he won’t snatch at the chance to get back to civilisation and a bit of human company? If he does show hesitation, any hesitation at all, just do what I said: offer him food and drink, and tell him about Calchas’s prophecy – that Troy can’t fall until he has rejoined the army. Believe me, after ten years without a sip of wine it’ll be impossible for him to refuse, and when the alcohol reaches his brain he’ll be yours for the taking.’

Diomedes frowned. ‘That’s trickery! I won’t dishonour myself by fooling the poor wretch.’

‘Forget the wine, then,’ Odysseus said with an exasperated wave of his hand. ‘Just appeal to his sense of glory! What is it Omeros says about warriors, Eperitus? Always to be best, and to be distinguished above the rest. Once you tell him he’s the key to the downfall of Troy, he’ll have swum to the galley before we can row there – lame or not. Persuading him to rejoin the army couldn’t be easier, even for a pair of oxhide shields like you.’

‘And if the end of the war and your returning home to Ithaca depends on us persuading him, and we fail?’ Eperitus asked. ‘What will you do then?’

‘You won’t fail. Calchas told us a decade ago that Troy would fall in the tenth year of the siege, so if that can’t happen without Philoctetes then we’re fated to succeed. It’s the will of the gods.’

‘Then may the gods help us,’ Eperitus replied, leaning forward and staring into the fog.

The three men fell silent again as they watched for black shapes amid the creeping fronds of mist ahead of them. Eperitus’s thoughts drifted back to the conversation he had had with Odysseus the evening before, after they had buried Great Ajax, the king of Salamis, on a cliff top overlooking the Aegean Sea. When Achilles had been slain by an arrow fired from the walls of Troy, Ajax had demanded his cousin’s god-made armour be given to him. And who could say he did not deserve it, after carrying Achilles’s corpse to the safety of the Greek lines while Odysseus and Eperitus had fought off the pursuing Trojans? Then when Odysseus deceived the Council of Kings into awarding the armour to him, the disgrace and humiliation had driven Ajax insane and he had taken his own life. Racked with guilt, Odysseus had sworn by Athena that he would never again pursue false glory, act with dishonour or be distracted from his sole purpose of returning home to Ithaca. From that point on he resolved only to seek the destruction of Troy and the ending of the war. But Eperitus knew that his friend’s ideas of honour and glory were different to his, and however deep his remorse over Ajax’s death he was unlikely never to resort to cunning or trickery again. To expect Odysseus not to use his natural guile was like asking a bird not to use its wings.

‘What’s that?’ hissed Diomedes, thrusting a finger towards a tall black shape emerging from the swirls of mist ahead of them.

Eperitus narrowed his eyes; there were other shapes beyond it, more rocks waiting to rip open the ship’s belly and condemn its crew to the same fate as Philoctetes. And suddenly every man on board could hear the seagulls and smell the pungent seaweed piled up on the crags, though only Eperitus’s nostrils could detect the underlying stench of corruption emanating from the island, a reek he had not known in such strength for ten years. They had found Philoctetes and he was still cursed by the terrible wound the gods had inflicted on him a decade before.

‘Throw the anchor stones overboard,’ Odysseus shouted. ‘And ready the boat. We’re going ashore.’

Chapter Two

Philoctetes

The boat bumped against the shelf of black rock and Odysseus leapt out, slipping slightly on the layered seaweed before finding a handhold and pulling himself to safety. Antiphus threw him the rope and he held the vessel fast as the others clambered free of its cramped confines. Eperitus was last behind Diomedes and seeing Polites had left the club and lion’s pelt that Odysseus had given him, stooped to pick them up.

‘You can leave those,’ Odysseus said quietly, passing the rope to Polites and offering Eperitus his hand. ‘We’ll only need them if all else fails.’

Mystified, but knowing better than to ask for an explanation from his friend, Eperitus left the club and pelt in the boat and took the king’s hand. He stepped ashore and looked about himself. Through the thick fog behind them he could just see the mast and cross spar of the galley, swaying gently between two sentinels of rock. The sea in-between was lost beneath the curling fronds of white mist that rose like steam from its surface, creeping inland across the stony shore to lap at the knees of the cliffs that loomed harsh and forbidding above the party of Greeks. The bluffs were dotted with seagulls, huddled into pockets in the rock for protection from the cold breeze, and Eperitus could hear many more of the creatures nestled on the invisible cliff tops above. There was little else to see or hear in this barren corner of Lemnos, but the stench he had picked up from the galley was stronger and more offensive now, forcing him to lift a corner of his cloak to cover his mouth and nose.

‘What is it?’ Diomedes asked.

‘Can’t you smell it yet?’ Eperitus replied. ‘It’s Philoctetes’s wound, I’m sure of it.’

‘Impossible,’ Diomedes scoffed. ‘There’s no way he could have survived for ten years in that sort of pain. Either the wound healed itself, or it killed Philoctetes long ago and we’re here to find his bones – and the weapons he left behind.’

‘You forget he wasn’t bitten by any ordinary snake,’ Odysseus said. ‘It was sent by Thetis, in answer to Achilles’s calls for vengeance because Philoctetes beat him in the race to Tenedos. The wound’s a curse from the goddess, and if she wanted the pain to last for ten years without killing him then you can be sure he’s still alive. One thing’s for certain, though: the pain and the loneliness of this place will have sent Philoctetes half-mad at the least, if not completely insane. We need to be on our guard and do nothing to frighten him – nothing at all! And that means leaving our weapons in the boat.’

Diomedes laughed, his handsome face genuinely amused as he patted the ivory pommel of his sword.

‘This blade is never more than a few paces beyond my reach, old friend, and if you think I’m going to face an embittered madman like Philoctetes without it –’

‘With respect, my lord,’ Antiphus interrupted, ‘what good will your sword be against the bow and arrows of Heracles? It’s said they never miss their target and the tips are poisonous, so if Philoctetes wants to shoot us dead then our weapons aren’t going to stop him.’

‘I’d rather take my chances with my sword than without it, thank you Antiphus,’ Diomedes replied. ‘Besides, I’ll keep it well hidden beneath my cloak.’

Odysseus slipped his sheathed sword from his shoulder and set it down on a pile of black seaweed.

‘One careless movement of your hand’ll be enough to show you’re armed, Diomedes, and then you’ll only have yourself to blame if Philoctetes gets the idea into his head that we’re not friendly. Either leave your sword here with Polites, or stay by the boat yourself and let Polites take your place.’

Diomedes gave him a surly look, then unbuckled his baldric and placed his sword down beside Odysseus’s. Antiphus’s bow, arrows and dagger were next, followed by the spears and swords of Eurylochus and Eperitus.

‘Good,’ Odysseus said, flicking his hood up to hide his face. ‘Eperitus, lead the way – just follow your sense of smell and we’re bound to find him.’

Eperitus paused to sniff the foul air, then, pulling his cloak about his shoulders, began to pick his way between the seaweed-festooned rocks and the small, dark pools that hid between them. The others followed, except for Polites, who had been given the task of keeping watch over the boat and their weapons while they were away. Glancing back, Eperitus saw Odysseus reach into the boat for a skin of water, which he threw over his shoulder before turning to speak to the giant warrior. His words were too low even for Eperitus’s acute hearing to pick out from the constant cawing of the gulls, and a moment later the king had turned back and was following behind Antiphus.

Eperitus moved with the cliffs to his right – an unending wall that forbade access to the rest of Lemnos and confined them to the narrow, rugged strip of land that skirted the sea. The fog, if anything, was growing thicker. It condensed on his beard and eyelashes to form little droplets of water that would occasionally merge and trickle into his eyes or down his neck. The stench of brine and seagull droppings pervaded everything, but soon even this was eclipsed by the reek Eperitus had first picked up on the galley. The others could smell it too by now and began to complain under their breath or cover their faces with their cloaks. Diomedes and Odysseus both wore scarves to keep the rims of their breastplates from rubbing against their necks, but had pulled them up over their mouths and noses to filter out the foul odour; the others had no choice but to endure it. After a while Eperitus detected a low groaning that reminded him of a battlefield after nightfall, when the fighting had stopped and the opposing armies had settled down by their campfires, only to be haunted by the cries of the wounded among the corpses in-between, calling out for their friends to find them or to the gods to claim their wretched souls. The sound grew nearer, though none of his comrades remarked on it, and he noticed there were no more seagulls on the cliff faces above them. There was something else, too, something his instincts had been aware of for a while but he had not been able until that moment to identify. He realised they were being followed.

‘What’s that?’ Eurylochus hissed, stopping and pointing into the mist.

Eperitus traced the direction of his finger and saw a ring of small, fist-sized stones on a plateau of rock ahead of him. They were grey with ash and a pile of burnt wood lay heaped up between them. Scattered about the remains of the fire were thin white sticks of varying lengths, which Eperitus quickly realised were the bones of seagulls. He could tell the ashes were cold, but by the smell of them they were no older than the previous night. He reached instinctively for his sword and remembered he had left it with Polites.

Odysseus moved past his shoulder and gave the remains of the fire a kick with his heel. The heavier ash that had not been blown away by the sea breeze now rose up in a small cloud about his ankles.

‘It’s recent,’ he declared, slipping his scarf momentarily down from his mouth. ‘He’s here somewhere.’

As he spoke Eperitus sensed a change and realised the groaning had stopped. He raised a finger to his lips, gesturing the others to silence. A number of large boulders had rolled down from the cliff countless years before, forming a clumsy ramp that led up the sheer rock face. Eperitus’s gaze followed the boulders up the side of the cliff, noticing signs of smoothing here and there, as well as smaller stones that seemed to have been put in place to act as steps where the rocks were steepest. And then, as he looked higher up the fog-shrouded precipice, he saw the triangular mouth of a cave.

‘He’s in there,’ he whispered, pointing.

The five men moved forward together, craning their heads back to stare up at the opening above them. Odysseus laid a hand on Diomedes’s shoulder.

‘Be careful of everything you say. He’s had ten years to dwell on his hatred of the Greeks, so don’t provoke him or threaten him in any way. Remember his bow and arrows.’

He covered his face again and drew back to stand behind the others. Diomedes looked up at the cave and cupped a hand to his mouth.

‘Philoctetes,’ he called. ‘Philoctetes, son of Poeas, if you’re up there then show yourself. We wish to speak with you.’

There was no reply. After a few more moments, Diomedes turned to Eperitus with a frown.

‘Are you certain he’s up there? I know your senses are keener than ours, but –’

‘Look again,’ Eperitus said, nodding at the mouth of the cave and pinching his nose against the fresh stench polluting the already bad air.

The others peered up through the mist and saw that a figure had appeared. A tall bow was clutched in its left hand and an arrow had been fitted, drawn in readiness to fire at the hooded figures below. The weapon was undoubtedly the one Heracles had given to Philoctetes, but whether the creature that held it was the Malian archer – or even a human being at all – could barely be discerned. Its skin was pale and ingrained with years of dirt; its bare limbs were so thin and wasted that they were no thicker than a small child’s; the rags that covered its torso seemed to hang like the tattered remnants of a sail over a mast; and the creature’s long beard and hair made its head seem much too large for its emaciated body. But Eperitus’s sharp eyes were able to see the face clearly. It was a face that was as twisted and misshapen as the trees that grew on the windswept plains of Ilium, a face that had been distorted irrevocably by years of excruciating pain and cancerous hatred, but a face that had undeniably once belonged to Philoctetes.

Diomedes stepped back, groping for Eperitus’s wrist and seizing it.

‘Is that … is that him?’ he hissed, unable to tear his eyes away from the savage figure aiming its bow at them from the boulders above.

‘Yes, it’s Philoctetes,’ Eperitus replied, freeing his wrist and placing his hand on Diomedes’s shoulder, urging him forward once more.

The archer lowered his weapon a fraction, revealing dark eyes as he stared down at the newcomers to his island.

‘Who are you?’ he croaked, the very act of speaking causing him to break out in a fit of dry coughing that took a few moments to recover from. ‘Who are you and what do you want on my island?’

‘Are you Philoctetes, son of Poeas?’ Diomedes repeated.

‘This is the body that once bore that name, though both the man and his fame have been forgotten by this world. But this is the bow of Heracles, whom the gods raised up to live with them on Mount Olympus, having made him immortal like themselves. Its arrows never miss and their tips are poisonous, so if you’ve come to mock the ghost of Philoctetes or steal the rocks and stones that are his possessions, then beware.’

‘It’s true you’ve become a pitiful figure, Philoctetes,’ Diomedes replied. ‘Yet you were once a prince of Malia, and custom dictates a prince should treat his visitors with decorum, even if his home is a cold and lonely rock like this. You speak of the gods with respect in your voice, so if you honour them then honour us.’

Philoctetes frowned angrily, then shifted his position with surprising speed, using the rocks for support. Diomedes and the others flinched instinctively as he raised his bow and fired into the air. A moment later there was a squawk, followed by a loud thump as a gull crashed onto the rocks before them.

‘You see?’ he crowed, his eyes wide as he stared at them along the shaft of a new arrow. ‘Philoctetes has provided a feast to celebrate your arrival on Lemnos! But first – just to show he hasn’t forgotten how to observe the rules of xenia – he must know your identities and what it is you want of him? Are you merchants, seeking the way to Ilium or Greece? He’d lead you there himself, though you aren’t the first visitors to this rock and none of your predecessors ever offered Philoctetes passage on their ships. Not as soon as they caught wind of this!’

He raised his leg to show a foot bandaged in cloth that was black with filth. As he did so he gave out a cry of anguished despair and fell back against a boulder, beating the stone with the flat of his free hand and raising a scream to the invisible skies above, where he knew the gods remained indifferent to his pain. Eperitus caught a movement from the corner of his eye and turned to see that Eurylochus had taken a step forward. His hand was cupped over his mouth and nose to filter out some of the reek of Philoctetes’s wound, and in his eyes Eperitus could see he was debating whether to leap up the rocks and take the bow and arrows by force while their owner was paralysed with agony. Then, before Eurylochus could make his decision, the screaming ended in another fit of coughing and Philoctetes slid himself back up against the boulder. He raised his bow and drew back the arrow once more, though weakly, and aimed it at the men below.

‘So who are you?’ he called in a tired voice. ‘Do you have any lineage to speak of? And what in the name of Heracles brings you to this forsaken place?’

‘As for whom I am, you know me already,’ Diomedes answered, tipping back his hood. ‘I am Diomedes, son of Tydeus. I have come to ask if you will rejoin the army and fight with us against Troy.’

Philoctetes did not move. His eyes narrowed slightly as they stared down the shaft of the arrow at the king of Argos, but he said nothing. Then a flicker of anger touched his twisted features. He gripped the bow tightly and drew the string back to his sneering lip.

‘He prayed you would come one day,’ he said, heavy tears swelling up in the corners of his eyes before rolling down his filthy cheeks and into his beard. ‘Philoctetes prayed you would come back for him, snivelling like curs, pleading for him and his arrows to save your worthless skins. He prayed for this day so hard and so long, to Heracles and any god who would listen, offering the only sacrifices his kingdom of rocks could provide – birds, fish and crabs! Have you ever tried to sacrifice a crab, Diomedes? Do the gods even accept such meagre sacrifices? But of course they do, or why else have you come?’

‘Indeed, why else have we come, Philoctetes, unless it was the gods who sent us? The Greeks have need of your bow and arrows and Agamemnon himself requests that you return to the army and help us secure the final victory over Priam.’

‘Agamemnon!’ Philoctetes spat. ‘What does Philoctetes care for that man and his requests? What service does Philoctetes owe to him, or to any of you for that matter? How long has it been since you abandoned him here? It must be at least five years by now.’

‘It’s ten.’

‘Ten!’ Philoctetes reeled back, bearing his blackened teeth in a snarl and slapping repeatedly at the boulder with the flat of his hand. ‘Ten years alone, with nothing but seagulls and his hatred of the Greeks to keep him company! In the name of Heracles, can it have been so long?’

‘Be glad it doesn’t have to be any longer,’ Diomedes said, a little impatiently. ‘What’s more, Agamemnon realises you were wronged when we left you here and doesn’t expect you to return to the army without compensation. He offers seven copper tripods and cauldrons to go with them, never touched by fire, along with ten ingots of gold and three slave women trained in all the household arts. These are fine gifts, Philoctetes, and you will bring yourself great honour by accepting them.’

Philoctetes was half lost in a sheet of fog that had rolled down from the cliff tops above, but his husky voice was clearly audible in the damp air.

‘Philoctetes always liked you, Diomedes. You were one of the few kings who had a shred of decency in them. Yet you don’t have Odysseus’s powers of persuasion, or that honeyed voice of his; indeed, you make Agamemnon’s gifts sound as exciting as roast seagull. The King of Men should have sent Odysseus instead; Philoctetes could have enjoyed the skill of his arguments, and then had the satisfaction of shooting him dead in payment for marooning him here! Now go back in your ship and tell Agamemnon to keep his offer. Philoctetes doesn’t need cauldrons or gold – not here – and any honour attached to them would be more than compensated for by the shame of serving an army that betrayed him!’

‘Then forget the gifts,’ Diomedes snapped, jabbing his finger at the mist-shrouded figure above. ‘Forget Agamemnon, forget the army, forget the oath we took to protect Helen. If you’re so twisted with hatred of your own countrymen –’

‘Curse all Greeks!’

‘Then if you hate us so much, do it for the love of the gods – or fear of them, if that’s easier. Do you think Agamemnon or any of us’d give a damn about your bow and arrows, whatever their powers are claimed to be? If the spears of Achilles, Ajax and a host of others haven’t defeated Troy in ten years, what difference will your weapons make? None that I can see! The only reason we came here was because Calchas, priest of Apollo, had a vision that Troy will not fall without you. Until the bow and arrows of Heracles are brought to Ilium, every drop of Greek blood will have been spilled in vain. So if you won’t return for our sakes, then do it out of respect for the gods. Or do it for yourself. Isn’t it payment enough that men will say the walls of Troy only succumbed to the arrows of Philoctetes? That’s more than thousands of those who have already died can claim, and many of them were greater men than you are.’

There was a long silence, during which Philoctetes was lost to sight behind the drifting mist. When it cleared they saw he had descended a little and was sitting on a smooth rock with his bow and arrows at his side. A thick, twisted branch that he used as a crutch was leaning against his inner thigh.

‘Perhaps you’re not as clumsy with words as Philoctetes thought, Diomedes,’ he said. ‘At least, not when you‘re touched with a little passion. And the will of the gods – and the promise of everlasting glory – are not easy things to deny, especially when the alternative is to remain here, forgotten by the civilised world and left to feast on stringy gull’s meat and seaweed. What Philoctetes wouldn’t do for a taste of wine, or even the feel of bread in his mouth again! Not to mention a little conversation and the company of his fellow men.’

He paused and Eperitus sensed the hesitation in Philoctetes’s tone.

‘Go on,’ Diomedes said, cautiously.

‘And yet you ask too much. Can you even begin to understand what it’s like to spend – what did you say it was – to spend ten years alone? To be cursed by the gods and abandoned by your comrades, nursing a desire for vengeance and longing for human companionship, only to be offered salvation by the very men whose downfall you’ve been praying for all that time. Yes, he wanted you to return and plead for his help, but only so he could have the satisfaction of telling you to go to the halls of Hades. But now you’ve come, it’s not how he’d imagined it. He’s not even sure whether this isn’t some sort of trick, the kind of thing Odysseus would dream up; or whether, if he went with you to Ilium, Philoctetes would spend his arrows on the Trojans or turn them on the Greeks. He needs time, Diomedes.’

‘Zeus’s beard, haven’t you had enough time?’ demanded a new voice.

Eurylochus pulled back his hood and turned to Diomedes.

‘He’s never going to come with us, Diomedes. He’s as stubborn as a mule and twice as stupid, not to mention driven out of his senses. If you’d let Odysseus do the talking we’d have been back at the galley by now, sailing for Ilium with this twisted maggot of a man hankering to get into battle and end the war.’

‘Odysseus? Odysseus is here?’ Philoctetes said, leaning down over the boulder and staring at the piglike features of Eurylochus. Eurylochus looked down at his feet, realising his slip, and Philoctetes turned his fierce eyes on the hooded figures behind him. ‘Which one of you is Odysseus? Declare yourself or Philoctetes’ll shoot all three of you where you stand!’

‘You’re a damned fool, Eurylochus,’ Odysseus snarled, removing his hood and walking out in front of the others. ‘Get from my sight before I cut out your tongue and feed it to the seagulls!’

Eurylochus could not meet Odysseus’s angry gaze and retreated into the mist. As he slipped away, a gurgle of cold laughter spilled down from the rocks above them.

‘He should have known you’d be here,’ Philoctetes crowed, smiling with triumphant hatred. ‘He should have guessed Agamemnon wouldn’t send Diomedes for a task like this. Only the great deceiver – Odysseus himself – would do. Ha, ha! Philoctetes has prayed for this chance for so long. And now, Odysseus, your treacherous ways have finally caught up with you!’

He drew back his bow and took aim.

Chapter Three

Heracles

Eperitus felt his heart race. If he had been allowed to bring his spear he could have launched it at the skeletal, wild-haired wretch perched among the boulders above them, but as Philoctetes drew back the feathered arrow so that its poisonous head rested against the top of his left fist there was not even enough time to throw himself in front of his king. Then, in the split moment before Philoctetes released the bowstring, Odysseus raised his hand.

‘Stop!’ he commanded.

His voice had such power and authority that Philoctetes was compelled to retain his pinch-hold on the arrow and lower his bow a little. He looked down the shaft at the man he had spent ten years hating – hating him still, but powerless for an instant to bring about his destruction.

‘Philoctetes, I do not deny your right to kill me,’ Odysseus began. ‘Indeed, what man who had suffered as you have suffered would not want to kill the one he blamed for his misfortunes. If you send my spirit down to Hades then I would not begrudge you your vengeance, even though your haste will have deprived Penelope of a husband and Telemachus a father. You, after all, are the victim, the man who through no fault of his own was betrayed and abandoned to die on this forbidding rock.’

He swept his hand in a half-circle, looking up at the churning walls of mist and the dark mass of the cliff faces beyond them.

‘In truth, I’m amazed you were able to survive this long in such a place. There are few, even among the greatest warriors of Greece, who could have kept themselves alive amid this desolation.’

‘Philoctetes had the bow Heracles left him,’ Philoctetes said. ‘And his hatred of you, of course.’

Odysseus nodded as if in sympathy, though his eyes did not leave Philoctetes for one moment.

‘Of course. Hatred is a powerful force among mortals. It gives a man endurance in adversity, a purpose to go on living when there is nothing else to live for. In battle it focusses his strength and gives him an urgency that is difficult for his enemies to overcome. But hate does not nourish a man, Philoctetes, nor is it something he can master. I know a warrior who, for twenty years, has been crippled by his loathing of his own father. If he could leave his hatred behind there would be few men to match him in this age of the world, but it distracts him and holds him back, preventing him from becoming what the gods meant him to be.’

Eperitus felt a flush of anger that Odysseus should dare draw parallels between himself and the wretched figure standing among the rocks above them. His father was a black-hearted murderer who had killed a king and taken his throne for himself, and when Eperitus had refused to support his vile crime or acknowledge his rule he had exiled him from the kingdom for life. Shortly afterwards he had fallen in with Odysseus and followed the new path the gods had laid before him; but he had never forgiven his father’s sin or forgotten his desire to kill him and wash clean the stain from his family’s name. Indeed, a man of honour could do no less, and Odysseus’s comments were a stinging betrayal. Eperitus stared at the back of his head, willing him to turn so he could challenge his accusation, but the king kept his gaze stubbornly fixed on the Malian archer whose arrow was still pointed at his heart.

‘No doubt the man you speak of had his choice,’ Philoctetes said. ‘And yet what choice did Philoctetes have? His hatred of you was the only difference between life and death. He chose life.’

‘Wrong, Philoctetes. You chose death. The Philoctetes who led his fleet out from the Euboean Straits and beat Achilles in the race to Tenedos is dead. His hatred murdered him and left you, a living wraith, a mere husk of humanity!’

‘No!’ Philoctetes shouted, raising his bow and drawing the string taut. ‘No! Philoctetes is alive, and when you’re dead he’ll be free again.’

‘Kill me and any vestige of Philoctetes that remains in you will die with me,’ Odysseus retorted. ‘Just listen to your babbling speech. Ever since you emerged from that cave you’ve referred to yourself as he and him, never I or me. Whatever you are, you aren’t Philoctetes. But perhaps you’re right that he isn’t completely dead yet. Perhaps something of the old Philoctetes, the true Philoctetes, is left inside you. And to him I’m as vital as that crutch you lean on. The thought of me has kept him alive all these years, and though you hate me, without me he would disappear forever. Kill me and Philoctetes will truly die. Only you will be left!’

As Philoctetes stared back down at Odysseus, it was clear the king’s words had provoked a shift deep within his consciousness; a realisation that without the object of his hatred he would succumb fully to the wild, insane creature that lurked among the rocks of Lemnos, reeling between pain and hunger while it eked out an existence on the flesh of seagulls. If he killed Odysseus, the precious Philoctetes – the proud, handsome archer whose memory he guarded like cherished treasure – would be lost forever. While Eperitus watched, a sharp jolt of pain brought Philoctetes crashing down onto the rocks with a cry. His thin voice, stripped bare of any humanity, rose up into the fog-filled air and screamed to the gods for mercy. His screams broke the trance Odysseus’s voice had thrown over the others and both Diomedes and Antiphus raced towards the foot of the cascade of boulders to help him. Odysseus called them back.

‘Leave him! The pain will go, but let us see what it leaves behind.’

Philoctetes’s shouts continued and all they could see was his hand flailing above the boulders, slapping pitifully at the stone until the pain began to ebb and, at last, he found his voice again.

‘Have mercy!’ he shouted, still lost from view. ‘Kill this poor wretch and put an end to his pain. Kill Philoctetes and the bow and arrows are yours, that’s what you came for isn’t it? It’s the weapons that have magical powers, not him. He’ll give them to you if you’ll take his life, just as Heracles gave them to Philoctetes for ending his suffering. For pity’s sake, do what Philoctetes has never been able to bring himself to do!’

‘For pity’s sake we will not,’ Odysseus replied. ‘Pity and the will of Zeus. Don’t you realise the gods gave you your hatred of me to keep you alive? And now they’ve sent me to bring you back to the world of men, Philoctetes. I may have earned your loathing for abandoning you here, but it was Achilles who wanted you dead and Medon – your own lieutenant –who had agreed to murder you. Yes it was my suggestion that you be marooned on Lemnos, but it was made to save your life.’

Philoctetes had pulled himself up onto the rock and was staring down at Odysseus again.

‘Medon was going to kill … me?’

A slight lift of one eyebrow was Odysseus’s only outward reaction to the fact Philoctetes had referred to himself as me for the first time since they had coaxed him out of his lair. He opened his mouth to reply, then abruptly shut it again. Surprised by his silence,