He flexed his fingers around the handle of his sword and focused his gaze on his father.
‘You’re wrong. I’m a Greek. My grandfather was a Greek, too. When he arrived in Alybas, Greece became his new home – that’s why he let me believe I was a Greek through and through. What good does it do a man to split his identity? After all, look at you.’
Eperitus spat on the floor at his father’s feet, then, feeling the old hatred surge into his veins, he lunged forward. Apheidas parried the blow with ease, as if he had expected it all along, and swung his own blade across his son’s torso, forcing him to leap backwards. Eperitus attacked again, furious now, but Apheidas smashed his sword aside and brought the hilt of his own weapon sharply up into his jaw, throwing his head back. Eperitus caught his heel, staggered and fell. As if in a nightmare he heard the sound of his sword clattering across the flagstones, and a moment later his armoured body was crashing down on the hard floor. The back of his head smacked against a slab, dazing him, and the next thing he knew his father’s foot was on his chest, the point of his blade resting against his throat.
Chapter Four
THE GIFT OF THE GODS
‘Kill me, then,’ Eperitus said savagely, loathing the dark eyes that were staring down at him. ‘Kill me and put an end to it.’
The sword was heavy and sharp against his flesh, but the face above it was bereft of menace. Instead, there was a sadness in it – regret, perhaps, for what could have been.
‘Put an end to your anger and shame, maybe,’ Apheidas said. ‘But not mine. Though you hate me, Eperitus, you’re my son. You’re all I have left. I used to think a man found immortality in a glorious name, covered in brave deeds and built on the bodies of dead enemies. Like Hector, or your Achilles. Do you remember how I used to tell you such things when your grandfather and I trained you to be a warrior? Well, they were the words of a fool. A man is remembered through his children. His glory can fade, but not his offspring.’
Eperitus closed his eyes and thought of his own daughter, Iphigenia, the child of his illicit union with Clytaemnestra, the wife of Agamemnon. Had not Clytaemnestra said the same thing as she begged Eperitus to take her and their daughter to safety – that he should forget glory and let Iphigenia be his legacy? But this was not the same. He had failed to protect Iphigenia. Agamemnon had murdered her to appease the vengeful Artemis, and had lived with that regret for over ten years. But he had not brought shame upon her or sent her into exile.
‘Don’t look to me for your own immortality,’ he said, whispering as the point of the sword continued to press against the base of his throat. ‘I am no longer your son, Apheidas. You lost me when you killed King Pandion and brought dishonour on your family. So kill me now, for if you don’t you have my word I will hunt you down and slaughter you like a sick dog.’
Apheidas’s brow darkened for a moment, and then the sound of voices – growing louder in the street outside – distracted him. He looked through the doorway at the blinding sunshine, then stared back down at his son.
‘I’ll not kill you, Eperitus,’ he said, raising his sword and slipping it into its plain leather scabbard. ‘And you can forget thoughts of killing me, too. You’ve neither the skill nor quite as much hatred as a man needs to murder his own father. Look to your heart and you’ll know it’s true. And when the time is right, you’ll know where to find me – inside the walls of Troy.’
He took his foot from Eperitus’s chest and knelt beside him. Eperitus looked up at his father and saw his own features reflected back at him: the same oval face, the same straight nose and thin, almost lipless mouth, and the same dark hair. Only their ages and the lighter skin and thoughtful eyes he had inherited from his Greek mother separated them, and for the sake of his Greek blood he would never forget that difference.
Apheidas pulled his fist back and hit him.
When Eperitus awoke it was to the sound of a woman screaming.
He opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling, on which he could see stars painted in gold against a sable firmament. They were smoke-stained and half lost in the gloom, but at their centre he could see a crescent moon, the symbol of the goddess whose temple this was. Raising himself on to his elbows, he dabbed his fingers gingerly against the bruised cheekbone where Apheidas’s fist had connected, then lifted them to the new scar on his forehead. It was deep, but the blood had already caked inside the gash and stopped the flow of blood. With the inside of his skull pounding, he looked around between the wooden columns and noticed for the first time the faded patterns of blue, yellow and red flowers that twined around them. His sword and his grandfather’s shield lay close together, halfway between himself and the door of the temple, but of Apheidas there was no sign.
Then another scream broke the stillness and he realized he had not been dreaming. Ignoring the pain in his head, he leapt to his feet and ran over to retrieve his weapons. The scream had come from the street outside, and as he squinted into the fierce daylight beyond the doorway he heard harsh laughter followed by another scream. He dashed out of the temple, blinking against the brightness, and saw a black-haired woman clad in a knee-length white chiton, surrounded by a circle of five men. None of the men was Apheidas, but Eperitus recognized them all the same.
‘Come on, my sweet, stop playing with us,’ said one of the men. ‘We only want a little fun.’
‘Leave me alone!’ she spat. ‘I’m a priestess of the temple of Artemis!’
‘A virgin, then,’ leered the man, wiping spittle from his beard with the back of his hand. ‘I haven’t had a virgin since I was a young shepherd.’
‘And she was one of his flock!’ said another, raising a laugh from his companions.
‘Have you no respect for the gods?’ she retorted, scowling at them. ‘Have you no fear of the gods?’
One of the others snorted, a fat man whose face was red and shining with sweat. ‘What are you talking about, girl? Don’t you know you’re a gift of the gods to us? You’re our reward for conquering Lyrnessus.’
He lunged at her and caught her wrist.
‘Let the girl alone, Eurylochus,’ Eperitus said from the shadows of the portico, his voice calm and even. ‘Let her go, now!’
Eurylochus’s surprise at the sudden appearance of the captain of the guard was short lived. Keeping his hold on the priestess, who had stopped struggling and was looking intently at the newcomer, he spat in the dirt and frowned at Eperitus.
‘So, the absent hero has returned,’ he sneered. ‘Though it looks like someone has given you a beating in the meantime. But if you think I’m going to let this little beauty go just so you can have your way with her, then you’ll be disappointed.’
Eperitus propped his shield against one of the columns and, sheathing his sword, walked out into the sunshine. Skeins of dark smoke were drifting up into the otherwise perfect blue skies and the smell of burning was thick in the air. He looked at the priestess, whose chiton he now saw was stained with dirt and had been torn open to expose a long, dark-skinned thigh; there were bloody scrapes on both elbows and forearms, and her lips were wet with fresh blood. As he glanced at her, she swept the tangled hair from her face to reveal dark, frightened eyes framed by long lashes. Her beauty took him by surprise and he had to forcefully shift his stare to Eurylochus.