The Armour of Achilles (20 page)
All across the plain the sounds and smells, the pain and exertion, the tragedy and triumph were the same. Men on both sides called on the gods to help them, exhorting the aim of Apollo, the brute strength of Ares or the skill of Athena, and in response Zeus sent terror, strife and panic to increase their suffering. He filled some with bravery, exhorting them to acts beyond their standing, while others he robbed of their courage and sent fleeing from the battle line, to be shot or stabbed from behind. But the Greeks had the advantage of the slope and their archers had already thinned and disrupted the ranks of their opponents, and so it was that the Trojans began to fall back before them. Great Ajax increased their misery, slaying scores of warriors in his thirst for glory and stripping the armour from the best of them. Teucer’s bow – a gift from Apollo – and Little Ajax’s spear brought down many others as they fought alongside him. Agamemnon did not shrink from the battle, either, and felled several opponents of high rank or otherwise, not discriminating in his hatred of the men of Ilium. Even Menelaus had joined the fray, ignoring all advice to return to the ships and returning to lead his own men. But nowhere was the slaughter greater than before the ranks of the Argives and their king, Diomedes. They drove all before them, leaving a trail of dead on the slopes as they pushed the Trojans perilously close to the fast-flowing Scamander. Even when Pandarus – whose arrow had felled Menelaus and broken the truce – drove out against them and shot Diomedes in the left shoulder, it did not stop the king’s fury. Instead, he ordered Sthenelaus to pluck out the arrow then killed Pandarus with a spear throw which passed through his cheekbone and out the back of his neck. And thus the Zeleian archer’s treachery against the gods was repaid.
But Hector saw the salient the Argives had cut into the Trojan ranks. It stretched out from the Greek lines like the blade of a sword, long, narrow and exposed, with the banner of the golden fox at its tip where Diomedes was leading. Urging the rest of the Trojans to hold their ground and assuring them that Achilles – the man they feared above all others – was refusing to fight, Hector sent his chariots against the extended flanks. The men of Argos heard the thunder of hooves and heavy wooden wheels through the clouds of dust that obscured the battlefield. Moments later the rancorous Trojans were bursting through on three sides, bringing swift terror to their enemies. Now it was the turn of the Argives to litter the ground with their bodies. The chariots punched holes in the once solid lines of spearmen, spreading fear and alarm through the men behind. Trojan infantry followed, exploiting the gaps that had been created and cutting Diomedes’s army to shreds. Their king, suffering from the wound to his shoulder, ordered a fighting retreat and suddenly the battle was turning in Hector’s favour.
As the Argives fled back up the slope, panic spread through the rest of the Greek army and they gave ground before the resurgent Trojans. The Ithacans moved back with them, fearful of leaving their flanks exposed as their neighbours retreated on either side. They passed the bodies of the men who had died in the earlier fighting, many of whom Eperitus knew, as well as many others who were unrecognizable beneath the layers of gore and dust that covered them. But this was the glory he had longed for all his life, he reminded himself. Only amidst the litter of the battlefield could a warrior find immortality, winning renown with his spear at the risk of a painful and bloody death. That was the warrior’s creed.
But it was a creed he knew he was losing faith in. Each time he scanned the sweating, resolute faces of his opponents, he was reminded of the Trojan blood that flowed in his own veins. When his father had exiled him from Alybas, he thought he had turned his back on the last surviving member of his family. But now he realized that the men he was fighting could be his distant cousins, men with whom he shared a common ancestry. What was more, the dark skin and black hair that he had always considered the mark of an enemy race now reminded him of the woman he loved. Every time he brought down a Trojan in the fury of battle, he thought of Astynome and how she despised the Greeks for killing her countrymen and destroying her homeland. And as he surveyed the destruction around him and listened to the terrible clamour of battle, he understood her hatred. The Greeks had brought nothing but suffering and death to the people of Ilium, and all for the lust of one man and the greed of another.
The lines parted as the exhausted Greeks drew further back up the slope and the Trojans were temporarily too tired to pursue. The pause had not lasted more than a few short moments, though, when a chariot rode out from the enemy ranks with Sarpedon standing proud and upright in the car. He shouted a challenge in his own tongue and Tlepolemos, the king of Rhodes, ran out to meet him. As Eperitus watched he was reminded of the young, baby-faced suitor whom he had first seen twenty years ago in the great hall at Sparta. He had only been a prince then, with a fledgling beard and a full head of curly hair, vainly hoping to win the hand of the most beautiful woman in Greece. Now his beard was full and he had proved himself again and again on the battlefield, but Eperitus sensed that Tlepolemos had as much chance against Sarpedon as he had had of marrying Helen.
The two kings cast their spears simultaneously. An instant later, a cheer erupted from the Greek ranks as Sarpedon’s thigh was gashed open and he fell from the car to roll in the dust. Then the cheer died in their throats as they realized the point of Sarpedon’s own spear had passed through Tlepolemos’s neck, killing the king of Rhodes instantly.
The small force of Tlepolemos’s followers gave a shout of anger and rushed forward, to be met head on by Sarpedon’s army of Lycians as they ran to defend their wounded king. Through the cloud of dust that obscured the battlefield, Eperitus saw the men of Rhodes overwhelmed and cut down. Though they fought gallantly, the disciplined spears and shields of their enemies were too numerous for them. Gyrtias, their captain, who had accompanied Tlepolemos to Sparta and befriended Odysseus’s small escort of Ithacans there, slew a tall Lycian spearman before being impaled on the spear points of three or four others and sent to accompany his king to the halls of Hades.
With a shout of rage, Odysseus threw his spear into the swarm of Lycians and ran towards them, brandishing his sword. Eperitus and the rest of the Ithacans followed, casting what spears they had left and bringing down several men, but too slow to catch up with their king. Caring little for his own safety, Odysseus tore into the tired enemy soldiers with a blazing fury, hacking wildly to left and right. A man crumpled to his knees, dropping his weapons as he cupped his hands over the gash in his stomach; another fled back through the Trojan lines, holding the stump of his wrist towards the heavens as if imploring the uncaring gods to restore his severed hand; a third crashed into the dust, a corpse with no sign of wound or blood on him. As the Lycians fell back, Odysseus tossed his shield aside, angered by the encumbrance, and began swinging his sword with both hands, knocking shields from men’s grips, dashing the weapons from their hands and cutting into flesh so that he became spattered with their gore.
Eperitus and Arceisius joined the fight at their king’s side, just as the redoubtable Lycians began to edge around him. Though his limbs were heavy with the long afternoon’s toil, Eperitus punched the boss of his shield into an opponent’s face and sank his sword into the man’s liver. Arceisius severed another’s arm from above the elbow and, as the man staggered back in surprise, ran the point of his sword through his throat. The Lycians’ discipline crumbled without their king to bolster them and they began to fall back. Led by Odysseus, the Ithacans and the remaining Rhodians fell on them with a new fury. Then a horn blast ripped through the noise of the battle and Hector came racing up in his chariot behind the collapsing Lycians, bellowing at them to hold their ground. He leapt down from the car with two spears in his hand and a fearsome look on his face that struck terror in friend and foe alike. Striding through the ranks of Troy’s allies, his mere presence was enough to halt their flight and turn them back up the slope to meet the Greeks. He hurled one of his spears through the shield and breastplate of an Ithacan guardsman, then took the other in both hands and threw himself into the fray, driving all before him.
At the same moment, Eperitus saw Odysseus retrieve his shield and move towards the towering form of the Trojan prince.
‘Odysseus!’ he shouted, running to the king’s side. ‘Odysseus, what are you doing? Challenge Hector and he’ll kill you for certain. Even Achilles would think twice . . .’
‘Do you see Achilles on the battlefield?’ Odysseus snapped. ‘And even if he was here, do you think I would shirk my duty as a king, to face my enemies whoever and wherever they are? Hector is my enemy, Eperitus, and he is not immortal.’
He turned to go but Eperitus seized his arm.
‘But the gods are with him, Odysseus.’
Odysseus threw his hand off with an angry sneer. ‘Is he a god himself ?’
‘Then if Hector is to be challenged, let
me
do it.’
‘And what about
me
, Eperitus? Do you think I haven’t forgotten that Palamedes accused me of being a coward in front of the whole council? He called me a thief and an impostor, a poor king without fame. And perhaps he was right. Perhaps I’ve wasted too much time trying to end this war by cunning, when I should have been winning renown on the battlefield like Achilles or Ajax.’
‘So that’s what this is about,’ Eperitus said. ‘A sudden desire for glory, just because of the accusations of a traitor? Well, Palamedes was a fool, and what’s more he’s a
dead
fool – and if you face Hector, you will be, too. In the name of Athena, remember why you’ve fought so hard all these years, Odysseus – for your family’s sake, so you can see them again!’
‘Didn’t the Pythoness say I’d survive the war and return to Ithaca?’ Odysseus countered. ‘And what better chance to end this war now than to face Hector and bring him down in the dust? And when I’ve killed him, no one will ever brand me a coward again. Even Achilles’s glory will fade next to mine. So may Athena be with me.’
‘Athena is with you,’ said a voice.
They turned to see a tall warrior standing behind them. He carried the shield and long spear of a Taphian mercenary, though his skin was oddly white and his hair was not black or brown, but a bright blond that seemed to catch the sunlight wherever it fell from the rim of his helmet. Neither Odysseus or Eperitus could remember seeing his face before, but there was nevertheless a strange familiarity about the large eyes, the thin lips and the straight nose that did not dip at the bridge. The Taphian bent his stern gaze on the Ithacan king, then poked him on the breastplate with his forefinger.
‘I am with you, Odysseus – as I have always been – but even
I
can’t save your worthless hide if you choose to throw yourself on Hector’s spear.’
Odysseus fell to his knees and bowed his head, Hector’s presence forgotten.
‘Mistress Athena!’ he exclaimed.
The goddess quickly pulled him to his feet, making light of his heavy bulk.
‘Not in the middle of a battlefield,’ she scolded him. ‘Can you imagine what others will say if they see the mighty king of Ithaca bobbing and scraping before one of his own mercenaries? A subtle bow would have sufficed. And that goes for you, too, Eperitus.’
Shamed by his omission, Eperitus gave an uncertain nod of his head. Athena rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue.
‘I haven’t seen you for ten years, my lady,’ Odysseus said, looking at the goddess with subdued wonder. ‘Not since—’
‘I appeared to you on Samos, I know. But it does not mean I’ve been apart from you all that time. On the contrary, I have kept a very keen eye on you – on
both
of you, in fact. And now a time is coming that will test you, each in your different ways; a test of the strength of your characters and your worthiness to conquer Troy. But your test is not to face Hector, Odysseus, and I forbid you to pick a fight with him. Leave that trial for those the gods have already chosen.’
‘Then am I to be a coward king as Palamedes declared, my name forgotten and without glory?’
Athena shook her head and smiled, reaching out to brush her fingers down the side of Odysseus’s beard.
‘It’s rare that Eperitus speaks with any intelligence, but he was right when he told you Palamedes is a fool and a dead one at that. You will find your glory, son of Laertes, though I know few men more heedless of the warrior’s creed. Just use your cunning, the greatest asset the gods awarded to you, and your fame will be established for ever.
‘As for you, Eperitus,’ she added, turning her grey eyes on him. ‘I know the challenges in your heart. And yet your heart is much clearer than your mind, so follow it as you have always done and it will not let you down.’
H
ECTOR AND
A
JAX
T
he battle raged back and forth and fortunes changed from one side to another as the afternoon wore on. As their men tired, still their captains rallied them to new endeavours, desperately trying to break the deadlock that was slowly beginning to impose itself on the exhausted armies. But for all the efforts of Agamemnon, Menelaus, Diomedes and the other Greek leaders, wherever the fighting was at its hardest and most dangerous, Hector would appear, giving the men of Ilium new courage and determination, while filling their enemies with dismay as he charged into their ranks and brought down their best warriors.
Eventually, the sun began to dip towards the rim of the western ocean, promising twilight and an end to the fighting. Even the hardiest warriors – their limbs aching from the struggle, now barely able to lift their heavy swords or raise their shields for protection – wanted night to come and bring respite so that they could quench their thirsts, rest their weary muscles and count their losses. And so the two armies parted, taking up the positions they had held before Menelaus and Paris had started the day’s struggle. Now, though, the opposing battle lines that had filled the slope for as far as the eye could see, their armour gleaming in the sun, were but a phantom of their former glory. The ranks had been thinned hideously and those who remained standing were caked with dust and blood, their shields and helmets dinted and dull. Meanwhile the bodies of their comrades carpeted the plain, banked up in lines where the tides of battle had raged most furiously. Here and there broken forms twitched or called out for help. But none came, for their countrymen were too fatigued to leave the battered mass of the living.
And yet the day’s fighting was not over, for into the field of human debris stepped Hector. Though his armour was scarred and dusty, his limbs damp with sweat and gore, he looked unwearied as he raised his spears above his head and faced the Greek lines.
‘Trojans! Men of Greece!’ he began, speaking first in his own language and then in Greek. ‘Whether by treachery or the desire of the gods, the truce we agreed to earlier has been broken. Zeus means the war to go on, and many strong and courageous men have died today to please his will. But the sun is only now entering the waters of the Aegean; there is light still to fight by, if Greece can produce a champion who is worthy of me. Send out the best man you have, and if he can kill me, he can strip me of my armour and boast a greater victory than any other Greek has ever claimed before. Equally, if I kill him, then I will take his armour and dedicate it to the undying gods. Only, let the loser’s body be taken back to his own lines for burial and the raising of a tomb that will stand as a monument to himself and his conqueror.’
With that, he pushed his spears into the ground and stood with his arms crossed, surveying the depleted ranks of his enemies. For a long time there was silence as the weary Greeks searched their courage, knowing that Hector’s challenge could not go unmet, but each hoping that another would step forward to answer it. Only Odysseus had the desire to face him, still desperate to disprove Palamedes’s accusation, but a quick look from Eperitus reminded him of Athena’s words and kept him from stepping out. Then, when their silence began to hang over the Greeks like a cloak of shame, Menelaus slipped the shield from his back and took up his spears.
‘Not you, brother,’ said Agamemnon in a low voice, stepping in front of Menelaus. ‘You’ve fought one duel today, and whether you admit it or not the wound you received has weakened you. I’ll not have you throw away your life – and this whole war – for nothing.’
‘Have you no shame?’ Menelaus hissed. ‘Hector is mocking us, while we quake in our armour like children.’
Agamemnon scowled at the suggestion.
‘There’s no shame in refusing to fight! Even the
great
Achilles is afraid of Hector. Why else has he avoided him on the battlefield for so long?’
‘My cousin has never avoided a fight and you know it,’ Ajax said beside them in his deep, rumbling voice. ‘Achilles is a better man than any here, myself and Hector included. But if no other Greek wants the honour of confronting Hector, then I’ll take up the challenge myself.’
‘Then we will pray to Zeus for your victory, my friend,’ Menelaus said, as Ajax raised his tall shield to his shoulder and picked up his spears.
‘Save your prayers for yourselves,’ Ajax sneered. ‘Any man can claim victory if the gods are with him, but when I’ve sent Hector’s ghost down to the Underworld I want the glory to be given to me alone.’
He walked out from the Greek lines towards Hector, cupping a spear in his right hand as he picked his way across the dead and dying. The sounds of battle had been replaced by the hum of flies and the cawing of carrion birds. To his left the bloated orb of the sun had almost disappeared into the sea, leaving a blood-red smear across the horizon and casting long shadows over the battlefield. The north wind fanned Ajax’s face and found its way into the joins of his armour, cooling the hot skin beneath his sweat-sodden tunic. Hector raised his own spear above his shoulder and began to circle, trying to turn his opponent so that he was facing what remained of the sun. Ajax responded by moving closer, keeping the advantage of the slope and forcing Hector back. Then the Trojan gave a shout and hurled his spear. It twisted through the air towards Ajax, too quick to avoid, and punched into the many-layered oxhide, almost ripping the broad shield from his powerful grip. But it failed to pierce the thick leather and fell into the dirt, the bronze point bent.
Now Ajax advanced, a confident smile breaking his dust-caked beard and face. He pulled his spear back, took aim and launched it with a loud cry that rolled across the battlefield. Hector ducked aside as it sailed past his shoulder, then, with a shout of terrifying rage, charged up the slope with his remaining spear held before him. Ajax lifted his shield and took the point of Hector’s weapon full on the boss, turning it aside and catching his opponent off-balance. With terrifying speed, he stabbed upwards with his spear and the force of the thrust cut through the layers of Hector’s shield, biting into the side of the Trojan’s neck. Hector cried out in pain and flung his shield arm wide, tearing the spear from Ajax’s grip.
The two men fell back, Hector clasping his hand over the gash on his neck while Ajax looked around for another spear. Spotting a large rock close to, Hector lifted it above his head and heaved it towards Ajax with a grunt. It struck the rim of the Greek’s shield and knocked him back into a heap of corpses, where a momentary darkness covered his eyes and he struggled to draw breath. A jubilant cheer rose up from the Trojan armies at the bottom of the slope as Hector drew his sword and strode confidently towards the fallen giant. Before he could reach him, Ajax staggered to his feet and seized the same boulder that had struck him down. He lifted it above his head as if it weighed no more than a child and sent it whirling towards Hector.
It caught the Trojan on the front of his shield, crumpling the wooden frame and smashing him to the ground. With a shout of triumph, Ajax drew his sword and lumbered towards his prey. At the last moment, Hector sensed Ajax’s shadow fall across him and rolled aside, just as the king of Salamis plunged his blade into the ground where Hector’s body had been. Hector’s dazed senses snapped back into focus and he aimed a kick at the huge warrior as he stood over him, catching him just above the groin and sending him reeling backwards, howling in pain. Then he found his sword and, prising another shield from its dead owner’s fingers, leapt to his feet just in time to stop Ajax’s blade from splitting his head down the middle.
They threw themselves at each other now with a terrifying fury that silenced the armies above and below them and had men looking on at the duel in awe. Their blades made hollow thuds against the leather of their shields as they forgot their tiredness and tried to beat each other into submission. But the sun had sunk below the horizon and a dusky light had settled over the battlefield, choked by the haze of dust that still hung there. And then two horns sounded above the noise of battle.
Ajax and Hector both turned to see Agamemnon, Talthybius and Idaeus. The Greek and Trojan heralds held horns in their hands, while Agamemnon signalled for the two combatants to part.
‘Friends, the sun has gone and the light is following fast. Hold your arms now and call the fight a draw. Be satisfied that you both live and have earned more honour for yourselves.’
‘If our fight is to end honourably, then let Ajax and I part as friends, if only until tomorrow,’ Hector said, his breathing heavy and his voice more hoarse than ever. Returning his sword to its scabbard and unslinging it from his shoulder, he presented the silver-studded handle towards his opponent. ‘Ajax, I have never before fought a man like you. Truly, unless another of your comrades can find the skill to beat me in battle, you are the greatest of the Greeks and I give you honour and friendship.’
He bowed and Ajax took the weapon from his hand, admiring the craftsmanship on the handle and the ornate sheath, before withdrawing the blade and feeling its weight in his hand. Then he draped the baldric over his shoulder and unslipped the purple belt from about his own waist, offering it to the Trojan prince.
‘Any man who can still get up and fight after I’ve flattened him with a boulder is worthy of my friendship. Take this belt as a reminder of our fight and wear it with honour, knowing that today you faced a man who has no equal in battle – mortal or immortal.’
‘A dangerous boast, even for a warrior of your quality,’ Hector replied, fastening the belt around his waist. ‘The time may come when the gods will make you regret your words. But now we must thank them we are still alive and call the day’s fighting over.’
Paris lay on the wide, fur-covered bed, his eyes firmly closed in sleep. He was dressed in a white, knee-length tunic – his armour long since removed – and Helen was curled up beside him, resting his head in her lap while she dabbed at his wounded scalp with a damp cloth. The bedroom smelled of her perfume, and though the sun had gone down, the stuccoed walls, white drapes and large windows kept the room bright and airy. The only sound was the swish of the cloth as Helen dipped it into a bowl of warm, slightly scented water; although from time to time, when the north wind dropped a little, the sound of wailing women could also be heard rising up from the lower city.
Helen looked down at her husband and smiled. With Menelaus dead, she thought, the Greeks would soon give up the fight and return home, and then she and Paris would at last be free to enjoy their marriage. There would be no more slaughter for her sake, no more worry that her husband was throwing himself recklessly into battle because of a misguided sense of guilt. And if there remained widows and orphans who could not forgive her presence in their city, that was something she could live with. Had she not left Pergamos at night on countless occasions, veiled and cloaked, to leave gifts of food, even silver and gold, for those who had lost husbands and fathers? She would have to live with the blame for Troy’s dead for the rest of her life, but after so long trapped behind the city’s walls she did not intend to remain imprisoned for their sake. Besides, there were many who loved her, including Priam and Hector, Hecabe and Andromache, and as long as they were happy for her to live with them then she would be content.
She dampened the cloth again and continued gently dabbing it against the wound, careful not to press too hard where Menelaus’s sword had crushed Paris’s helmet into the flesh of his head. Then she heard raised voices in the corridor beyond their bedroom and as she looked up the door burst open and a man in dust-covered, bloodstained armour came crashing into the room. He carried a tall spear in his right hand and a Greek shield over his left shoulder, while strapped round his waist was a belt of bright purple. Helen gasped in shock, momentarily fearing the Greeks had somehow entered the citadel. Then, through the dust and gore, she recognized her brother-in-law.
‘Hector!’
‘Get up!’ Hector ordered, ignoring Helen and pointing a finger at Paris. ‘
Get up this instant!
’
‘He’s sleeping,’ Helen protested, bending over her husband protectively as Hector strode across the room towards them. ‘He collapsed the moment he was brought into the city and hasn’t woken since.’
Hector seemed unable to hear her. Seizing the bowl from beside Helen’s feet, he poured the contents over his brother’s face before throwing it into a corner, where it smashed into smithereens. Paris shook his head and sat up, wiping the water from his eyes.
‘Where am I?’
‘In the comfort of your own house, damn it, while every other man in Troy has been toiling and dying for your sake! The plains are black with bodies and all the time you’ve been lying here in your wife’s arms. You disgust me!’
‘But it’s—’ Paris began, then looked through one of the windows to see the first stars pricking the evening sky. ‘Gods! Have I slept all this time? Why wasn’t I woken?’
‘You needed to rest,’ Helen replied as his eyes fell on her. ‘So what if others have had to fight without you for a while? Don’t you already do more than your share in this war?’
Hector grabbed his brother by the arm and pulled him from the sodden bed.
‘As long as Paris is responsible for Agamemnon’s presence on our shores, sister, he can never be seen to do more than his share. The men of Ilium have suffered grievously today, as have the Greeks – thousands dead and nearly as many badly wounded. At this very moment the elders are debating whether to return you to Menelaus and end the war, and if Paris wants to keep you here he had better get down to the palace gates and defend himself before it’s too late.’