The Armour of Achilles (26 page)

A
gamemnon stood in his golden chariot, his breastplate gleaming in the bright morning sunshine. The red plume of his helmet and his red cloak fluttered in the north wind as he stared across the plain at the thick ranks of Trojan soldiery, positioned just beyond the range of the Greek archers. The king’s round shield hung on his back and in his hand he carried two tall spears, for today he intended to lead the army into battle himself. Despite the defeat of the day before, today the Greeks would have the upper hand: the spy Odysseus and Diomedes had captured had revealed the weaknesses in Hector’s battle plans, and Agamemnon planned to exploit them to the full.

Eperitus watched the King of Men with more than his usual contempt. His failings as a leader, both on and off the battlefield, had made themselves disastrously obvious in recent days, and the thought that he would be leading the attack did not fill the Ithacan captain with confidence. Fortunately, there were many much more capable men in the Greek army and as long as they still fought there was a hope the Greeks could save their ships and drive the Trojans back inside the walls of Troy. But it was only a hope: any victory against Hector and his allies would be hard won without Achilles; and as company after company of Greek spearmen marched out on to the plain, the Myrmidons and their prince were already raising the masts and cross-spars in their galleys and stowing their goods and provisions for the long journey home.

The Ithacans stood at the centre of the line, with the Mycenaeans to their left and the Argives under Diomedes to their right, their individual banners trailing in the wind above them. Odysseus was shielding his eyes against the sun as he observed the motionless files of enemy spearmen, waiting patiently for the Greeks to advance. His presence gave the battered Ithacans a sense of reassurance, but Eperitus could tell the king was not happy.

‘What is it?’ he asked, quietly.

‘Dolon said the regiments at the centre had taken the most casualties and were the weakest in the whole Trojan army,’ Odysseus said. ‘Your eyes are better than anybody’s, Eperitus: how do they look to you?’

‘Quiet. That’s as bad a sign as any in fighting men.’

‘Then maybe Dolon was right: one determined attack and the centre of the Trojan line will break. And yet . . .’ Odysseus added as the last of the Greeks crossed the causeways and the gates closed behind them with a thud, ‘and yet Hector’s always proved a good commander. Surely he wouldn’t put his weakest units at the centre of the line?’

‘He has to make a mistake some time, my lord,’ said Arceisius, who was standing behind Eperitus. ‘And now he doesn’t have Palamedes to feed him our plans, perhaps we’re going to see he’s human after all.’

‘Don’t underestimate him,’ Eperitus replied, glancing over his shoulder at his former squire. ‘We’re the ones fighting to survive now, don’t forget.’

To his surprise, he saw Omeros standing next to Arceisius, with Polites on the other side of him. The young bard’s eyes were wide, but whatever fear he felt he was able to master it as Agamemnon raised his arm above his head and gave the signal to advance. The skirmishers were the first to move. Lightly armoured, some almost naked, they dashed forward across the freshly dampened earth and fitted arrows to their bows or placed stones in the woollen pouches of their slings. The spearmen followed, their heavy equipment rattling about them as they marched. Meanwhile, Agamemnon jumped down from his chariot and led his Mycenaeans on foot. The other kings and princes followed his lead.

On the opposite side of the battlefield, the Trojans also began to move. The spring sunshine had already dried up most of the surface rain from the storm of the day before, leaving the earth dark but firm beneath the feet of the two armies. The bodies of their comrades who had died in the previous day’s fighting still littered the ground in great numbers. Though some had been stripped naked by scavengers in the night – their bodies pasty, disfigured lumps among the thick grass – there were so many dead that most had retained their armour and were shrouded by their cloaks. But the living soon forgot the dead as the sound of bowstrings hummed in the warm air, accompanied by the undulating swish of slings. Thousands of eyes looked up in momentary fear as the skies were crossed by throngs of arrows that quickly fell amongst the skirmishers, killing or wounding scores on both sides. More volleys followed and, as the two armies came closer, the sound of slingshot rattling against bronze and leather joined the growing cacophony of battle. Then it was the turn of the spearmen: the first to cast their missiles were the Greeks, their heavy spears ripping great holes in the densely packed Trojan ranks. The Trojan reply was even more murderous, the Greeks less able to judge the fall of the weapons as they fell out of the sun. And as spears were retrieved and thrown back again and again, piles of fresh corpses were added to the pale and distended victims of the earlier battle, until eventually Agamemnon realized there was no advantage to be gained from continuing the exchange. He raised his spear above his head and with a great shout of anger signalled his army to attack.

The Greeks lowered their spear points and advanced in silence, grimly determined to avenge themselves for the destruction the Trojans had caused the day before. They passed through the depleted skirmishers, who re-formed behind them and continued firing into the enemy mass. The Trojan skirmishers did the same as their own infantry moved forward to present a wall of shields barbed with spears. Then Agamemnon shouted an order and the whole army emptied their lungs in a collective howl of rage as they charged at the enemy ranks.

The two sides met with a heavy thud as thousands of shields clashed against each other, followed instantly by the sudden and terrifying din of ringing bronze and men crying out in anger and agony. The sound was heard as far away as the walls of Troy, where Helen and Andromache were among the silent, ashen-faced women on the wide battlements, each one of them hoping the gods would accept their prayers and sacrifices for their husbands. Many had hoped in vain, for the gods were more intent on death than mercy.

The Ithacans drove into their opponents with ferocity and skill, felling several and pushing the remainder back with ease. Eperitus stepped over his first victim and lunged with a combination of spear and shield at the next man, who retreated meekly before him. To his left, Odysseus was engaging a Trojan captain who was much taller than him and had the look of a veteran warrior, but who seemed to have no stomach for a fight as he shrank away from the king’s attacks. Even the inexperienced Omeros was beating back his opponent, while beyond him Polites and Arceisius were driving a wedge into the enemy line.

‘What’s up with them today?’ Eperitus asked, shouting to Odysseus across the clamour.

‘They don’t want to fight,’ Odysseus called back as the Trojan chieftain ducked away from another thrust of his spear. ‘Dolon wasn’t exaggerating when he said the centre was weak. But they’re not running, either; I think it’s time we threw caution aside, Eperitus.’

With that, he pulled back his spear and hurled it at his opponent with enough force to punch through the bronze scales of his armour and pierce his chest. The man fell heavily, dead in an instant, and in the same moment Odysseus drew his sword and threw himself at the Trojan line. Eperitus also dashed forward, battering aside the thrust of his enemy’s weapon and lunging at his stomach with his own spear. By skill or good fortune the Trojan managed to deflect the attack with his shield, but Eperitus was in no mood for further delay. With the old lust for blood and glory coursing through his veins again, he kicked the man’s shield aside, drew back his spear and plunged it into his groin.

‘Come on!’ he shouted angrily, turning to the rest of the Ithacans. ‘This isn’t a drill, damn you. Kill or be killed!’

With a shout, the Ithacans surged forward. It was all that was needed for the rest of the Trojans to break and run. Suddenly Eperitus was witnessing something he had never expected to see after the heavy fighting of the previous battles. The Trojan line was melting away before them. Men who had fought like lions days before were now turning their backs and fleeing for their lives. And a brief glance across the battlefield revealed it was not just the company that faced the Ithacans who were breaking: though the flanks of the Trojan army still held fast, the whole of its centre was collapsing before the onslaught of Mycenaeans, Ithacans and Argives.

Eperitus ran after Odysseus, whose short legs belied the speed he was capable of as he outstripped the rest of the Greeks in his pursuit of the fleeing Trojans, cutting them down as he caught them. Only Agamemnon and a handful of his bodyguard were further ahead in the hunt. Eperitus spotted the Mycenaean king through the crowds of men who were streaming across the plain, and it was as if a god had descended on to the battlefield to wreak terrible havoc among mortal flesh, killing with divine fury while seemingly immune to injury himself. The banded metal of his breastplate flashed in the golden sunshine as he brought Trojan after Trojan crashing to the earth, exulting with each death and only regretting that he did not have time to strip them of their armour. One turned to fight, but had already tossed his heavy shield aside and soon fell to a thrust of Agamemnon’s spear. Another cast his weapon in a desperate attempt to stop the King of Men, but Agamemnon merely ducked aside before chasing the man down and plunging his spear between his shoulder blades. His guards, though never far from their king, joined in the butchery with equal relish.

Eperitus was distracted from the sight by a heavy thump against the top of his shield. Turning, he saw a man a short distance away dressed in nothing more than a short tunic, fitting another stone to the woollen pouch of his sling. Without thinking about it, Eperitus stooped to retrieve a discarded spear and launched it at the Trojan skirmisher, who screamed as it punched through his stomach. Picking up another spear from the grass, Eperitus ran on to where Odysseus had stopped in the middle of the battle and was looking about himself.

‘Look,’ the king said as Eperitus reached him. He used the point of his sword to indicate both flanks of the battle. ‘Trojan chariots and cavalry massing on each side of us. I knew this was too easy.’

Eperitus followed the arc of Odysseus’s sword point and saw hundreds upon hundreds of horses and chariots forming into lines to the north and east, while beyond the fleeing crowds ahead of them he could see a new force of infantry marching into view from a deep defile in the plain.

‘Then this whole rout was a feint,’ he said. ‘They’re leading us into a trap and it’s about to be sprung.’

‘Dolon wasn’t the coward we thought he was, either,’ Odysseus commented. ‘He gave his life to feed us false information and we took the bait. Gods, how could I have been so stupid? And yet I respect the man’s cunning – anyone who can fool me is worthy of recognition.’

‘They’re preparing to charge,’ Eperitus warned.

Odysseus forgot his admiration of Dolon and looked up. ‘You’re right. We need to call the men to order at once!’

He turned and shouted for the Ithacans to halt and form line. The Greeks had already pushed far beyond the safety of their flanks, which were held firm by the wings of the Trojan army, and it was in the hands of the gods whether the disordered soldiers of Ithaca, Argos and Mycenae could be alerted to their danger. Then Eperitus thought of Agamemnon, who dashing ahead of his own men would quickly be cut off and surrounded by any attack.

At that moment, horns sounded on both sides of them, followed quickly by the war cries of hundreds of cavalrymen and charioteers as they spurred their horses into the attack. The ground thundered with the familiar and terrifying sound of approaching hooves, filling everyone who heard it with fear. Eperitus drew instinctively closer to Odysseus, readying his shield and spear to defend the king. Then he remembered his promise to Clytaemnestra, that he would do everything in his power to protect her husband’s life. Wavering for the briefest of moments, though it seemed an age amongst his feverish thoughts, he looked from Agamemnon to Odysseus and back again. And as Agamemnon continued to kill Trojan stragglers, oblivious to the fast-approaching horde of chariots and horsemen, he knew what he had to do.

Odysseus was already running towards the lines of Ithacans.

‘Eperitus!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Eperitus, come on!’

‘I have to warn Agamemnon,’ Eperitus shouted back. ‘He’ll be surrounded and killed unless someone helps him.’

Odysseus looked across, saw the danger and nodded. As he watched him join the other Ithacans, Eperitus suffered a pang of doubt. Was he right to abandon his own king to the threat of a cavalry charge, all for the sake of the reviled Agamemnon and an oath that he’d been tricked into taking? Then he saw that Diomedes had also realized what was happening, and he was reassured by the sight of him forming his doughty Argives up next to the Ithacans. Whatever happened now would be the will of the gods, he told himself, before throwing his shield across his back and sprinting towards Agamemnon.

By now, the small band of Mycenaeans had spotted the peril they were in and had formed a circle about their king. The Trojan cavalry swept around them, throwing their heavy spears at the knot of men. Many of the bronze points were turned aside or stopped by the broad leather shields, but some found flesh and spilled men backwards, forcing the survivors to draw closer in on themselves. A few hurled spears back at the lightly armoured horsemen, bringing several down from their mounts to crash into the long grass below.