‘No!’ Eperitus shouted, leaping forward.
But it was too late. Apheidas placed his left hand firmly on Arceisius’s shoulder and plunged the sword into his back, angling it upwards to pierce the heart. Arceisius arched his head back in sudden shock, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the interwoven branches that formed the roof of the temple. Then he gave a choke and blood gushed from his mouth to spill over his chin and neck. His sword fell with a hollow clatter on the flagstones and his body followed a moment later, dropping limp and lifeless to the floor. Astynome gasped and for a few heartbeats the only sound was the clash of bronze from outside the temple.
Then every muscle in Eperitus’s body was gripped with rage. Feeling a new surge of strength rushing into his limbs he leapt forward and drove the head of his spear into the nearest Trojan, killing him instantly. As Apheidas fell back, the other soldier turned to meet Eperitus’s wrath, a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. With impossible speed, Eperitus’s spear found his stomach and brought the man to his knees. The blade fell from his hands as he dropped to one side and curled up about his wound, trying to stem the flow of blood with his fingers. Eperitus dropped his spear and picked up the discarded sword, turning now to face his father.
A watery light was creeping into the sky from the east, settling faintly on the branches and the chiselled contours of the flagstones, bringing with it the faint smell of imminent dawn. There was no colour in the world yet, other than the false orange glow cast by the scattered torches as their flames dwindled, and the hint of scarlet in the dark stain that seeped out from beneath Arceisius’s body. Eperitus looked down at the still, blood-smeared features of his friend as he lay on the stone floor, his eyes staring emptily up at the last few stars still glimmering through the branches overhead. Fleeting images of Arceisius whirled past his mind’s eye, some of them forced and others unexpected – Arceisius, the young shepherd boy, whom Eperitus had caught following him as he scouted the Taphian positions on Ithaca twenty years ago; Arceisius, his enthusiastic but naïve squire, following him into an ambush by Thessalian bandits on Samos a few days before Agamemnon had arrived with the news of Helen’s kidnap; Arceisius, the battle-hardened warrior, looking red-faced and more boyish than ever as he confessed to Odysseus and Eperitus that he had found himself a wife. But Melantho had enjoyed her husband’s caresses for the last time. Arceisius had paid the price for Eperitus’s treachery, and as he looked down at the soulless pile of flesh that had once been his friend, only one thought possessed him: to kill Apheidas.
His father was half lost in the shadows to one side of the temple, a tall, bulky form shrouded in darkness but betrayed by the gleam of his armour and the naked sword in his hand. His face was dark also, the features only just distinguishable even to Eperitus’s eyes. Then, with a cry of fury, Eperitus ran at him. Their swords clashed, scraped across each other and clashed again. Eperitus felt his heart hammering in his chest, both exhilarated and terrified by the closeness of death in a way that rarely touched him on the battlefield. He lunged forward, using his keen senses to guide his sword in the stifled half-light, but his attack was met with an instinctive counter-blow as Apheidas checked him. Again he attacked and again he was repulsed, the thrust of his weapon reciprocated with equal skill and anger by his father. The two men’s movements became faster and more forceful as they weaved deadly patterns about each other, trying to find the gap that would lead to victory for one and death for the other. There was no pretence now about either man’s intentions: Eperitus had rediscovered his old hatred and was determined to kill his father; Apheidas knew this and would not show his son mercy a second time. To Astynome, watching intently as she gripped the cold stone of the altar, all she could make out in the darkness was two black shapes moving amid flashes of metal, their grunts and curses softening the harsh clatter of their weapons.
‘You still haven’t the skill or the heart to kill your own father,’ Apheidas said, grinning as he blocked another attack, ‘however much I outrage your sense of honour. And it’s only a matter of time until I slice that obstinate head from your shoulders.’
He dropped back and scythed at his son’s neck, the blade biting into nothing as Eperitus ducked beneath the deadly sweep and lunged with the point of his own sword, narrowly missing as Apheidas twisted aside and chopped down at Eperitus’s arm. Eperitus caught the blow against the hilt of his weapon and threw his father’s sword-arm into the air. Apheidas jumped back from the follow-up thrust and sensed the altar close behind him.
‘Give up all restraint and turn your energy to savage hatred,’ Eperitus hissed, advancing on his father with a snarl.
‘What’s that?’ Apheidas said.
‘The words of Calchas, priest of Apollo. I wasn’t able to beat you in Lyrnessus or by the ships because you planted a seed of doubt in my mind; you made me believe you felt some remorse about the things you’d done. But now I know you for who you really are – the same ambitious, lying murderer I’d always thought you were. And don’t deceive yourself that I don’t hate you enough to kill you, Father. I do and I will.’
He stepped back to pick up a discarded torch and Apheidas lunged. But his attack was weak, half-hearted, and Eperitus beat his sword aside with ease. With his other hand he swung the torch against his father’s head, catching him on the ear and provoking a great roar of pain. Apheidas reeled back against the altar, jarring his back and dropping his sword as he pressed his other hand over the charred flesh at the side of his head. Then Astynome screamed a warning, her eyes white in the shadows as she pointed over Eperitus’s shoulder. Eperitus turned and saw the guard he had knocked unconscious standing behind him. His nose was a misshapen mess of red, but he had a spear poised in his right hand and the point was aimed at Eperitus’s heart. The soldier drew back the weapon and, strangely, Eperitus found himself reminded of the temple where he had died saving Odysseus from an assassin’s knife. But this time Athena would not restore him to life, and with a sudden pang of regret he wished he had not betrayed his friend. If he was to die, it should have been fighting at Odysseus’s side, not as a traitor who had thrown away his honour on a fool’s hope.
But as the Trojan pulled the spear back, it fell from his hands and he lurched forward. Blood pumped out from between his lips and, with incredible slowness, he dropped first to his knees and then on to his face, the long shaft of a spear protruding from his back. Behind him, framed in the entrance to the temple by the first light of dawn, was the unmistakeable silhouette of Odysseus. He stepped inside and his eyes fell on the dead face of Arceisius, though he said nothing. Antiphus and Polites followed, the former with his bow across his shoulders and the latter holding a sword in his hand, the blade running with fresh blood.
‘Eurylochus said I would find you here,’ Odysseus announced.
Eperitus looked at the king, but there was neither anger nor hatred in his eyes. If anything, they were tinged with inexplicable remorse. Then, with sudden shock, he remembered his father. There was a muffled grunt and a short scuffle. Spinning around, he saw Apheidas with his arm about Astynome and his hand over her mouth, pulling her head back. A dagger gleamed against her ribs.