King of Ithaca (11 page)

No longer required to man the sails, the crew idled on the benches as Odysseus steered the ship up the familiar strait. They watched happily as the features of their homeland passed by on their right. With no more lessons in seamanship likely, Eperitus sat in the ship’s prow and looked down at her blue beak as it split the waves, sending the frothing waters up in great jets to fall across her red bow cheeks. A giant eye was painted on either side, staring down the waves as they ran before it. Since boarding her that morning he had become fascinated with the vessel and the medium that gave her such invigorating life. Never had he seen anything as graceful as Odysseus’s galley, or as pleasing to the eye in form and motion.

As he sat there admiring her speed and power, he vowed to one day go on a lengthy sea voyage and travel with the wind behind him to places he had only ever imagined before. He would see cities of legend and places of natural beauty beloved of the gods themselves; but most pleasurable by far would be the sea itself. To a landsman who had spent his entire life on solid ground, the feel of an unsteady ship’s deck under his feet had at first been terrifying, then disorientating, and ultimately exhilarating. To stand on a plunging deck with the wind in his hair and the snapping of a sail overhead was a thrill the like of which he had never before experienced, and could not wait to enjoy more fully at his leisure.

He joined Antiphus on the bench where he was watching the island go by. The lofty bulk of southern Ithaca quickly gave way to a small but steep-sided peak that saddled the two halves of the island. Ravens flew around its scrub-covered slopes and filled the air with their cawing, heedless of the beaked ship that slipped past them. Then a second hill, the largest on the island, presented its near-vertical flanks to them, basking like a giant beast in the rays of the westering sun.

‘Mount Neriton,’ Antiphus said, pointing up at the hill. ‘Ithaca’s chief landmark. It overshadows the palace and our homes in the north, and we use it to keep a watch for visitors. From its peak a keen-eyed man can see townships in the Peloponnese, so the sentinels will have seen us some time ago. The king’s slaves will already be preparing a feast for our return, and when they hear of your exploits, Eperitus, you’ll be an honoured guest.’

Eperitus steadied himself against a rope and looked up at the wooded hill, its sides turning pink under the late afternoon light. So this was his new home, he thought: a collection of rocky hills rising up from the sea at the edge of the known world. It was an alien sight, but although the landscape was new the island appeared familiar, a self-contained refuge that even a wanderer like himself could call home. Its borders were defined for ever by the unchanging sea and, once ashore, he would be in a land immune from the strifes of the outside world. Here a man could stay distant and free from the feuds and civil wars that had unsettled Greece for so long.

Odysseus began angling the ship towards the mouth of a small bay. Soon they were drifting into the peaceful inlet, which formed a mere pocket in the shoreline between the northerly slopes of Mount Neriton to their right and another sheer hill to their left. All around, the sailors were occupying themselves with the sail and the anchor stones, whilst Odysseus, still gripping the twin steering oars, leaned over the side to judge the clearance left between the hull and the bottom of the bay. He gave a nod, and the anchor stones dropped overboard with a splash.

A group of youngsters had gathered on the beach and were waving and shouting at the crew. Two of them boarded a small boat and paddled out to meet the moored galley. Eperitus watched with interest as Damastor and Mentor helped the occupants aboard, where they were greeted warmly by the crew.

‘Eumaeus!’ Odysseus said, coming down from the helm and crushing the youth into his huge chest. ‘How are you, boy? Have you been looking after my sister?’

‘She’s here, my lord, safe and sound,’ Eumaeus answered, indicating the beach where a bare-breasted girl in a short purple skirt was waving wildly at the ship.

Odysseus waved back, then leaned against the handrail and shouted in his booming voice to the indistinct figure on the shore. ‘Ctymene! Put something on, you strumpet. You’re not a little girl any more.’

He threw a cautionary glance at his crew, who busied themselves stowing the sail and making ready to leave the ship. Eperitus joined them, though he could hardly keep his eyes from wandering to the slim girl on the beach. Considering Odysseus’s ungainly, triangular bulk he would not have expected any sister of his to be as shapely as she was. Then he remembered the words of the oracle and was amazed at how easily the warning could come true: here was his friend’s own kin and he was already succumbing to his most basic instincts at the sight of her half-naked body. He determined there and then to have nothing but the most formal and distanced relationship with the girl. As a member of the palace guard he would no doubt find himself in daily contact with her.

‘Eperitus,’ Odysseus called, beckoning him over. ‘This is Eumaeus. My father bought him as a small child and over the years he has become like a little brother to me.’

The slave was only slightly younger than Eperitus, handsome, with a ruddy complexion and dark, curly hair. Although he was lean, he had good muscles, the strength of which the warrior could feel as he gripped his hand.

‘Welcome to Ithaca.’

‘Thank you,’ Eperitus replied, taking an instant liking to him.

Odysseus climbed into the rowboat, followed by Halitherses, and called for the two young men to join them. Eumaeus stepped from one vessel to the other with ease, then turned to help Eperitus as he struggled to avoid falling into the waters that sloshed between ship and boat. The laughter and jeers of the crew followed his exertions. More embarrassing, though, was the knowledge that Ctymene was watching from the shore.

They rowed to the beach and were soon knee-deep in water as they leapt out and hauled the boat up to lodge in the soft sand. A pair of young men left the group on the beach and rowed the boat back out to the waiting sailors on the deck of the galley.

‘Hello brother,’ Ctymene said, leaving her friends and walking tartly up to Odysseus. She was short, like him, with the same plain looks, though her nose was smaller and she had fuller lips. She also had long, dark hair that fell nearly to her breasts, and a commanding femininity about her that made her powerfully attractive. She might be thirteen or fourteen years of age, and Eperitus agreed with Odysseus’s sentiment that she was no longer a little girl. Remembering his pledge, he fixed his eyes firmly on the damp, shell-smattered sand.

‘Hello sister,’ Odysseus returned her greeting, with similar aloofness.

Then, after a lingering pause, he snatched her up in his massive arms and hoisted her onto his shoulders. She closed her hands over his eyes and laughed hysterically as he horsed about, stumbling across the beach with his arms splayed before him.

‘You can be Orion,’ she cried, ‘and I’ll be Cedalion, guiding you in your blindness.’

‘Lead me to the rising sun then, Cedalion,’ Odysseus answered.

The other youths immediately spread out in a crescent about the beach, putting themselves at a good distance from the blundering pair at the water’s edge. Eumaeus, Halitherses and Eperitus stood to one side and watched Ctymene shout directions to her brother as he chased her companions about the beach. Their efforts were fruitless, even though their targets were not allowed to run, but Odysseus persisted without showing signs of tiring. Gradually the pair edged closer to the little group at the water’s edge, and Eperitus noticed Ctymene snatching frequent glances at him. Then, suddenly, she instructed her brother to turn right and go straight, and a moment later his large hands were upon Eperitus’s shoulders.

‘You’ve found the sun, Orion,’ she announced, removing her hands from his eyes. Odysseus blinked at Eperitus and smiled.

‘By the rules of the game it’s your turn to be Orion,’ he said. ‘But my sister isn’t as light as she used to be, and I doubt it would be the most appropriate form of introduction.’

Ctymene stared down at her captive with a shameless look in her eyes.

‘Who’s this?’ she asked.

‘Eperitus of Alybas,’ Odysseus answered, unconscious of his sister’s staring. ‘He killed five men the other morning, so be careful not to make him angry.’

‘Five men!’ she cooed with sudden interest, clambering down from her brother’s shoulders and threading her arm through Eperitus’s elbow. ‘Really? Five men?’

‘Yes,’ he answered, tensing at the feel of her warm flesh against his. He was unused to the close attentions of a female and did not know how to react to Ctymene’s immature flirting, especially in front of Odysseus. The fact she was attractive was undeniable, with her soft skin and the aroma of flowers that hung about her, but he was also hotly aware of his recent resolve to maintain an entirely formal relationship with the girl.

The rest of the crew were ashore by now and were ready to make their way to the palace.

‘Ctymene,’ Eumaeus said, noticing Eperitus’s discomfort with amusement.

‘Yes,’ she replied, without taking her eyes from Eperitus, who looked nervously back at her. She gave him a mischievous smile.

‘Didn’t you say that the king wanted to see Odysseus?’

‘Does he? Oh yes! Odysseus, Father wants to see you the moment you arrive. He’s convening the Kerosia and wants you and Halitherses to go there. Right now, I think.’

Odysseus took a bag from Antiphus and slung it over his shoulder. There was a sudden sense of urgency about him.

‘You’ll have to feast without me,’ he shouted to his men, waving them up the beach. ‘Mentor, see they don’t get too drunk. Come on, Halitherses, we’re required elsewhere. You too, Eperitus. And as for you, sister, if you had a mind for anything other than dancing and boys you might remember that the king’s messages are a matter of urgency.’

With that he headed towards a wooded ridge that spanned the gap between the two mountains. Here a track led him into the trees, and Eperitus followed behind Halitherses, with Ctymene still on his arm.

The great hall was windowless and sombre, lit only by a fire in the central hearth. Smoke twisted up towards the high ceiling, where shadowy images of sun, moon and stars were all that remained of its once vivid murals. Four tall pillars stood like sentinels about the fire, half bathed in the light of the flames and half consumed by the encircling darkness. Barely distinguishable about their smooth circumferences were the faded outlines of birds, trees and flowers.

On every side the gloomy walls were hung with shields and spears, mostly of an antique style and in a state of disrepair, their bronze tarnished black by the smoke of many years. By the wavering firelight Eperitus tried to discern the spectral scenes of animal and marine life depicted on the flaking plaster, but these were several generations old and had diminished along with the glory of what was now an ageing and functional palace. Only the two painted lions flanking the unadorned granite throne, which stood against the east wall, retained any semblance of their former life and colour.

He sat on one of the seven wooden chairs around the burning hearth, set facing the vacant throne and an empty stool that had been placed beside it. Odysseus was next to him and Halitherses sat on the other side of the prince, both men staring thoughtfully into the fire. Eperitus’s own eyes were upon the silent members of the Kerosia who occupied the other chairs. These were the king’s most trusted advisers, men of seniority who would counsel him in times of need. Most were old or middle-aged, their features illuminated by the flickering flames, deep shadows etched into the creases and contours.

As he studied them through the distorting flames, the door behind him opened and the members of the Kerosia stood as one. A man and woman entered the hall side by side, without ceremony, and sat at the two vacant places. A pair of armed guards came with them and took up station by the door. They were followed by slaves carrying platters of drinks, which they served to each member of the Kerosia in turn.

‘Remember you’re the youngest here, Eperitus,’ Odysseus said, leaning across and whispering in his ear, ‘and that you’re a stranger. Speak only if you are spoken to; otherwise follow my lead in everything.’

Eperitus lowered the silver goblet from his thirsty lips and watched the others, whose drinks remained in their hands. Despite the simple, unannounced entrance, Eperitus could tell by the continued silence that they were waiting for the newcomers to speak.

The man held a twisted staff of dark wood, almost as tall as himself, which would be given to each speaker in turn as the debate began – a sign of their right to speak without interruption. But if this was Laertes, king of Ithaca, Eperitus could hardly have imagined a man more unlike Odysseus. His grey hair, watery eyes and thin, drooping lips made him look old beyond his years. His body was wasted and bent and his thin, bandy legs were forced to support an oversized belly. The pallor of his skin suggested a life spent mostly indoors, and by the way he squinted across his hooked nose at the members of the Kerosia, Eperitus guessed that his eyesight was deteriorating.