There was a movement in the shadows beside the altar. Apheidas stepped from behind one of the painted columns and laid his sword irreverently on the plinth where sacrifices were offered to the goddess.
‘How long’s it been, Son? Eighteen years?’
‘Twenty, and my hatred of you hasn’t faded, Father. When you killed Pandion and took his throne for yourself, you brought a shame on our family that can never be removed – except by your death. I intend to claim that honour for myself, now.’
He raised the point of his sword, lifted his grandfather’s shield higher and took a cautious step forward.
‘Don’t be hasty, Eperitus. You’ve waited this long; at least listen to what I have to say before you do something we might both regret.’
Eperitus took another slow step and saw his father’s hand edge towards the handle of his sword.
‘There’s nothing you can say to me, Father. Your shadow’s lain over my life for too long and now I’m going to set myself free of it.’
‘A man can change, Eperitus. Twenty years ago I was only a little older than you are now – I was young and impetuous, thinking with my heart and not giving my head a say. I made a mistake.’
‘And now you’re making another.’
Eperitus lunged, aiming above the leather breastplate at his father’s unprotected throat. With astounding speed, Apheidas seized his sword from the altar and brought it up to meet his son’s blade. Bronze scraped across bronze until the two hilts locked against each other. Eperitus stared into his father’s dark eyes for a moment, but instead of seeing a reflection of his own hatred he saw something infinitely more disarming. For the briefest moment, he saw the father he had known as a boy – a man fiercely proud of his son; a man whom he had looked up to and admired. Then he remembered that his childish admiration had been destroyed by an act of unforgivable evil, and with a snarl of fury on his lips he pushed his father back against the altar and brought his sword down upon him. Again Apheidas’s reactions were quicker than Eperitus had expected, meeting the blow with the edge of his blade and at the same time kicking out with his foot, catching Eperitus in the stomach and sending him sprawling across the stone flags. He landed with his back against one of the columns and a cloud of dust fell down over his head.
Springing back to his feet, he moved out to meet the inevitable follow-up attack. But Apheidas did not take the advantage he had created, and instead moved behind the protection of the altar.
‘Don’t be a fool, Son. Can’t you see I regret what I did in Alybas? Your older brothers were killed fighting at my side, but . . .’ Apheidas paused, as if struggling with the memory. ‘But worse even than that, I lost you. Don’t you realize you were always my favourite, Eperitus?’
‘That’s a lie!’
‘It’s true. Your brothers were fine lads, but you’ve a greatness in you they could never have matched. Your grandfather knew that.’
‘And he would have known I’d never betray King Pandion or tolerate his murderer to live.’
Slipping the shield from his arm, Eperitus leapt across the altar and swung at his father’s head. Apheidas twisted out of the way and the blow decapitated the idol in the alcove behind him, leaving the headless torso rocking on its plinth. A sudden fury lit Apheidas’s eyes and he lashed out with his sword, striking sparks from the stone wall as Eperitus ducked beneath the slicing blade. Without pausing to think that his father was now trying to kill him, Eperitus ran beneath his raised sword arm and rammed his shoulder into his chest. Apheidas’s spine jarred against the overlapping edge of the altar, causing him to cry out in pain, but he quickly recovered and deflected another swipe of Eperitus’s sword. A moment later the temple was filled with the ringing of bronze as the two men struck blow after blow against each other. Then the tip of Apheidas’s blade, deflected upward by the edge of Eperitus’s weapon, slashed the forehead of the younger man. At the sight of his son’s blood, Apheidas’s anger left him and he stood back.
‘Forgive me,’ he said through heavy breaths. ‘Forgive me for everything. As the gods are my witnesses, Eperitus, I beg you to let the past go!’
Eperitus felt the sting of the cut and dabbed at it with the palm of his hand. The blood was dark in the gloomy temple as he inspected it.
‘Why? You killed a good man because of your selfish ambition. If it wasn’t for you, Pandion might still rule Alybas today and I’d never have been ashamed of naming you as my father. What’s more, you’ve betrayed Greece to serve Troy. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t fight you to the death, right here in this temple.’
‘Yes there is. I’m your father, Eperitus, and you’re my son. As soon as I knew you’d be attacking Lyrnessus, I insisted on coming here with Aeneas and Sarpedon . . .’
‘You knew I’d be here? You knew about the attack?’
Apheidas smiled, realizing his mistake. ‘Yes, I knew, but don’t bother asking me how – unless you intend to come back to Troy with me.’
Eperitus grimaced. ‘Troy?’
‘Of course. That’s why I came to Lyrnessus – to speak with you, if I could, and convince you of my regret about the past. You’re a man of honour, no one can question that, so come and fight alongside me for a worthy cause, in defence of a noble people.’
Eperitus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Just because you betrayed your king and your country, Father, doesn’t mean I’ll betray mine.’
‘There would be no treachery, Eperitus. Do you think I fight for Troy because I was thrown out of Alybas, or because I’m a mercenary who’ll sell my services to the highest bidder?’
‘You fight for Troy because you’re a man without shame, who cares nothing for his own honour or the honour of his family! Your own father would have killed you for what you’ve done.’
Apheidas threw back his head and laughed.
‘You poor fool,’ he said. ‘It’s because of your grandfather that I’m here in the first place.’
‘Speak plainly,’ Eperitus replied, angered by his father’s mockery.
‘Even you know your grandfather wasn’t from Alybas,’ Apheidas answered, calmly, ‘that he killed the man who raped and murdered his wife – my mother – and was forced into exile, taking me with him when I was only an infant. You remember me telling you this when you were a lad? And yet you never wondered where he came from?’
‘He would only ever say he came from the east. From Euboea or Attica, I’d always assumed—’
‘Your grandfather was a Trojan, Eperitus. I am a Trojan, and but for your mother’s blood, you are too.’
Eperitus glanced at the square of intense light beyond the door, where he was vaguely aware of voices in the street. His mind was reeling from his father’s revelation, wanting to reject it and yet instinctively knowing it to be true. At the same time, part of him understood that it did not matter. Not now, at least. He was born and raised a Greek and had spent the past ten years killing Trojans. Apheidas’s news was not going to change that, and somehow he knew his grandfather would not have wanted it to.