If the curse was to strike, Eperitus thought, now was the time. Diomedes snapped angrily at the others, who were still beguiled by the treasures around them, and ordered them to place their torches in the remaining brackets and ready their swords. Eperitus hung his own torch on one of the columns, snatched up a dusty shield and joined Odysseus at the foot of the dais. As the other Ithacans and the Argives formed a defensive semicircle around the sarcophagus, he stared down at the skeletal remains before him. Whether the other robbers had reached as far as Pelops’s burial chamber, Eperitus did not know, but this man had made it through the maze only to die at the steps of the sarcophagus. The manner of his death was not clear, though Eperitus noticed there was an unnatural angle to his neck.
‘This is it, then,’ Odysseus said, staring up at the carved horse with its bowed head and rigid, wooden mane. ‘Inside that sarcophagus is a riddle that will give us the key to the gates of Troy. We just have to work it out.’
‘Why a horse?’ Eperitus asked.
‘The Pisans are great horse breeders. They love their animals and revere them like gods, honouring them in their art, their rituals, even their funeral rites.’
‘Just like the Trojans.’
Odysseus did not answer, but narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he stared at the effigy of the horse standing atop the tomb.
Diomedes joined them. ‘Let’s not delay any longer. This place is making my men nervous. And me too, if you want the truth.’
They took the few steps to the dais, careful not to tread on the skeleton of the grave robber, and looked down at the stone sarcophagus. It was twice the length of a normal man and twice the width, and was capped by a heavy granite lid that formed the base for the wooden horse. The horse stared down at them in disdainful silence as they laid their hands upon the rough stone and began to push. Their arm and leg muscles strained with the effort, the veins bulging as their grunts filled the chamber, but the lid would not move.
‘We need something to prise it off with,’ Eperitus said.
He returned to the piles of weapons stacked amid the columns and picked up a sword. But as he was about to return to the dais, his eyes fell on a spear leaning against the wall by the shattered chariot of Oenomaus. It had a long, black shaft of some unknown wood and was tipped by a broad head. Though it must have lain there for as long as all the other weapons, the bronze had not been dulled or tarnished by the years. Instead, it shone out fiercely in the torchlight, beckoning to him irresistibly. He picked it up, surprised at how light it felt in his hand despite its monstrous size. It was then he noticed the shaft had been intricately carved and inlaid with faint traces of gold and silver, only catching the torchlight as he moved it in his hands – the work of a great craftsman. The carvings began at the head of the shaft, beneath the socketed point, and seemed to depict a race between pairs of chariots. Only when Eperitus’s eyes reached the base did he realise it was the same pair of chariots, repeated at intervals, and that it was not a race but a pursuit, with the last scene showing the occupant of the second chariot impaling the first from behind with his spear.
A call from Odysseus reminded him of where he was. Picking up two more spears, he ran to the line of warriors and gave one to Polites and the other to Trechos.
‘Come with me,’ he ordered.
As they took the steps up to the dais, Odysseus looked at the spear in Eperitus’s hands.
‘It’s magnificent.’
‘It was lying among the other weapons. I’ve never seen anything like it. Look at the carvings on the shaft.’
Odysseus took the weapon in his hands while the others looked on, equally fascinated. He studied the depictions with a frown, then handed it back to Eperitus.
‘This is Oenomaus’s spear, the one given to him by Ares. It can’t be anything else.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘You said yourself you’d never seen anything like it. Just look at how the bronze still gleams, as if it were newly burnished; and feel how light it is in the hand. Only Hephaistos himself could have made such a spear. And these pictures recall Hippodameia’s suitors, whom he pursued to their deaths – until Pelops, that is.’
‘Put it back, Eperitus,’ Diomedes insisted. ‘You’ll bring the curse down upon us. If we take nothing, perhaps we’ll be spared.’
‘What about the bone?’ Eperitus countered.
‘I agree with Diomedes,’ Odysseus said. ‘Put it back and fetch another.’
Eperitus reluctantly did as he was ordered, returning with spears for himself, Odysseus and Diomedes. Together with Polites and Trechos, they forced the bronze points into the gap between the sarcophagus and its lid and pushed upwards. The heavy granite resisted for a moment, then with a grating protest began to move. The wooden horse quivered as the five men prised the lid slowly backwards, until finally it fell with a crash on the other side of the dais. The sarcophagus shook with the impact and sent up a cloud of dust that momentarily obscured the open tomb. Squinting and beating the air with their hands, the men stepped up and looked inside.
The skeleton of Pelops lay on its back with its arms by its side and its legs close together. It was of an immense size – in life, Pelops would have been a full head taller than Polites – and even in death the empty eye sockets contained a malice that was alarming to witness. Eperitus felt a small sense of relief to see that the left shoulder blade was creamy white, nothing like the ash-coloured bones of the rest of the skeleton; but his relief was quickly stifled by the feeling of evil that emanated from the sarcophagus. Then he began to notice the strangest thing about Pelops’s remains. The bones were not separated as they should have been – lying in disjointed pieces at the bottom of the stone coffin – but were fused together and retained their human shape. Arms, legs, spine, ribs, even the oversized skull remained connected to each other, as if the flesh that had once surrounded them was still there. Eperitus opened his mouth to comment on the peculiarity of it, when he thought he saw the fingers on one hand move. An icy coldness gripped him and his instincts told him to flee, but a grim fascination kept him there. Then, with a dry, grating sound, the skull began to move, rotating slowly on the spinal column to stare up at the horrified men.
Eperitus felt a rush of fear. His logical mind tried to explain away the movement as a delayed result of them shifting the heavy sarcophagus lid. Then there was a second movement, much quicker than the first, and Trechos began choking and clutching at his neck, trying desperately to throw off the skeletal hand that had seized his throat. Eperitus reeled back in shock, catching his heel on the bones of the dead grave robber and tumbling in a heap at the foot of the dais. A moment later there was a loud snap and Trechos fell back across the steps, his neck broken.
An involuntary shout of terror left Eperitus’s lips. He stared wide-eyed at Trechos’s upturned face, and then began to crawl backwards on his elbows, not daring to turn his back on the sarcophagus for even a moment. The others were leaping down from the dais, their cries of horror and disbelief echoing around the chamber. Odysseus appeared above Eperitus and, seizing his hand, pulled him to his feet. Over his shoulder, Eperitus saw bony fingers clutching at the granite edge of the tomb, followed slowly by the giant skull with its hateful eye sockets and death’s head grin.
‘How is it possible?’ he gasped, stumbling back with Odysseus towards the crescent of warriors, who were shouting in dismay. ‘What gives it life?’
Odysseus’s hands were shaking as they clutched the black shaft of his spear.
‘I don’t know what makes it move, but it’s not life. Perhaps this was the dying curse of Myrtilus – that his betrayer’s bones would never find rest.’