The Armour of Achilles (29 page)
He reached out and took Odysseus’s hand in farewell. There was a look of relief in his eyes, now that he had finally made his mind up to do what had been in his heart ever since Odysseus had spoken to him the night before. Then, with a last determined glance at the lines of battle as they drew ever tighter around the camp, he turned and sprinted southward.
As Eperitus looked at his father, the anarchy of the battle that raged around them faded away, so that the only thing he was conscious of was the dark figure before him. He reached up instinctively and touched the scar across his forehead, which Apheidas had given him in the temple of Artemis.
‘You’ve thought about what I said?’ Apheidas asked, tossing aside his spear and slipping his sword from its scabbard. ‘In the temple.’
‘I gave you my answer then,’ Eperitus replied. ‘I promised that if you let me live I would hunt you down and kill you. And I intend to keep my word.’
He sprang forward, knocking his father’s defences aside with his heavy shield and swinging his sword down at his helmetless head. But the blow was too slow and Apheidas slipped aside with ease.
‘Where’s your enthusiasm, Eperitus? A man with half your skill could have done better than that.’
Eperitus narrowed his eyes and curled back his lip, desperate to muster the familiar hatred he had lived with for so long and angry with himself that it would not come. He lunged again, thrusting towards his father’s chest with the point of his sword. Apheidas forced the blade upwards, but Eperitus punched his shield into his side and sent him staggering backwards. He leapt after him, but Apheidas raised his shield against the repeated strikes of his son’s sword.
‘That’s better, lad,’ he said. ‘But still you don’t possess the hatred to kill me, do you? Even the bit of fight you showed at Lyrnessus has gone out of you. In fact, I believe you
have
been thinking about my proposition, haven’t you?’
Eperitus felt his anger and loathing rising at last, but knew his feelings were directed at himself for his sudden weakness. For twenty years he had wanted to kill his father; he had dreamed of nothing other than to avenge his family’s honour in the traitor’s blood. But now the opportunity had come he found his hatred suddenly impotent, just as Calchas had warned. He swung wildly at Apheidas’s shield, but it was as if his muscles had turned to water or the bronze blade was suddenly too heavy to lift; the blow reverberated against the layered leather with no more threat than if he had been using a wooden training sword.
He looked at his father, but instead of the mockery he had expected he saw sympathy.
‘You know I’m right, don’t you, Eperitus? You can no more hate me than I can hate you. You’re divided inside: between your loathing of what I did and your love of who I once was – and could be again; between your loyalty to the Greeks, and your realization that
you
are half Trojan, fighting against a people who deserve more than to be wiped out by Agamemnon’s lust for power.’
Eperitus thought of how Astynome had asked him to live with her in Troy. He remembered her face and felt his longing for her again. Then he thought of Agamemnon, the man who had sacrificed Iphigenia just so that he could sail to Ilium and bring the towers of Troy down in ruin. He glanced down at the white hart painted on the inside of his shield in memory of his daughter, and as he looked he was reminded that the shield itself was his grandfather’s, a man who would have put honour ahead of family, and oaths of fealty before blood. And so, Eperitus resolved, would he.
‘You’ve misjudged me, Father,’ he said. ‘My loyalty is to Odysseus and no blood-ties will break that. As for you, even if you’re right and I can no longer find the hatred in me that I used to have for you, my honour still demands your death.’
He stepped forward, protecting his left side with his grandfather’s shield and driving the point of his sword at his father’s face. Apheidas used his own shield to block the jab and send it skidding upwards, while at the same time swinging his blade at Eperitus’s shin. Eperitus skipped back two paces, avoiding the blow and taking a second on his shield before pushing forward again, using the heavy leather to batter Apheidas’s own defences aside. He thrust the point of his sword forward with deadly speed, only for his father to twist aside with equal swiftness and the blade to skid across his body armour without finding his flesh. As he jumped back, Apheidas hacked downwards, knocking the weapon from Eperitus’s hand. Eperitus turned and brought up his shield just in time to stop a second blow that would have taken his head from his shoulders.
‘You’re forgetting yourself, Father,’ he mocked as he fell back, stooping to retrieve a discarded spear from the sand. ‘Perhaps you’ve misjudged your own feelings, too.’
‘I’m not the one who’s confused,’ Apheidas replied, the fury of battle sharpening his features.
He lunged again. Eperitus twisted away from the blow and arced the point of his spear at his father’s face. Apheidas ducked and swung at Eperitus’s legs, only to be checked by his tall shield. The two men fell back and stared at each other, breathing hard.
‘I told you before, you don’t have the skill or the hatred to defeat me, Eperitus,’ Apheidas hissed. ‘But at least listen to what I have to say.’
‘Save your breath, Father.’
‘I understand your anger with me, Eperitus, but if you won’t forgive my past mistakes, maybe you’ll have more compassion for your comrades. Look at them – they’re dying in their hundreds. How much longer will they hold out? How long before Hector sends the last Greek to Hades? But
I
can save them.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I command a quarter of the army. If I pull my companies out of the battle – I can find excuses later – it’ll spread confusion and panic among the Trojans and give the Greeks time to reorganize, then use their greater numbers to drive Hector back out of the camp. All I ask is that you come with me to Troy. I have a plan that will bring a peaceful end to this war, but I can’t do it without your help.’
Eperitus looked around at the battle. He heard the crackle of fire and turned to see the first galley going up in flames; columns of black smoke were billowing upwards as Hector laughed drunkenly on the beach below. Chariots and horsemen were galloping in every direction, pursuing fleeing Greeks or launching their ash spears into the ranks of those who still resisted. He saw Paris with his deadly bow, Sarpedon at the head of his Lycians, Aeneas leading his Dardanians, and for as far as he could see in every direction, men killing and being killed. And suddenly it was in his power to stop it. All he needed to do was say yes and the battle would be over; his friends would live and the army would be saved from destruction. What was more, if Apheidas’s words were true, he could end the conflict that had claimed so many lives on both sides; he could be reunited with Astynome, and Odysseus could at last return to his beloved Ithaca.
But he would also lose his honour. In saving his comrades – above all, Odysseus – he would betray the oaths he had taken and be cursed by his former friends and the gods alike. Could anything be worth such a price?
He thought not.
‘No, Father, not even for the sake of my friends. I would rather die here with them than betray the oaths I’ve taken and return with you to Troy.’
Apheidas’s lips tightened. His hand shook visibly as he raised his sword to renew the battle. Then he shook his head and let the blade fall.
‘It’s said Agamemnon murdered his own child to appease the gods and sail to Troy,’ he sighed. ‘But whatever you may think of me, Eperitus, I won’t commit the same crime. I won’t fight you any more.’
As he finished, a horn call rang out across the battlefield. It was long and clear and for a moment men on both sides forgot their struggles and looked to the south. Then it sounded again and a murmur began to sweep through the scattered knots of men, a murmur that soon became a shout. Trojans raised their voices in dismay and Greeks called out in hope, all saying the same thing.
A
CHILLES
R
ELENTS
P
atroclus ran across the sand towards the Myrmidon galleys, watched by his countrymen as they carried heavy loads to the ships or took down the tents they had slept under for ten years. They looked on him with concern as he sprinted past them, but the only eyes Patroclus was aware of were observing him coolly from the prow of the foremost galley.
‘What kept you so long?’ Achilles asked sternly as his cousin ran up the gangplank, but when he saw the tears in Patroclus’s eyes, his look of disapproval was replaced by one of surprise and concern. ‘You’re – you’re
weeping
? What is it? What disaster could bring tears to your proud face, my friend? If you’d had news that either of our fathers had died,
that
might be worth your grief; but then surely I’d have heard of it too.’
‘By the sword of Ares, Achilles, has your damned pride made you into that much of a fool?’ Patroclus snapped. ‘Force your gaze to the north, where the armies of Greece and Troy are fighting the most desperate battle of the war. See the trails of smoke from the burning tents and listen to the clash of weapons and the screams of the dying! Turn your eyes
that
way and witness the destruction of your friends and all their hopes – all for the sake of your cursed pride.’
Stunned by his cousin’s rebuke, Achilles turned his head towards the great clash of nations, which he had been observing with anxious concern ever since he had sent Patroclus in search of news. The battle lines were closer now, trampling the tents and campfires to the east and stretching in a long curve of furious activity to the north, where the fighting had reached the furthest ships. Here the Greek flank seemed to be breaking up: men were streaming back across the beach, hotly pursued by cavalry while knots of their more resilient comrades fought on against overwhelming numbers of Trojan infantry. Spirals of grey smoke twisted up into the bright blue sky, where not a single cloud impeded the light and heat of the sun. Even on the high prow of his galley, the sound of the fighting pounded the inside of Achilles’s head as if every battle he had ever contested had been rolled into one. And somewhere among the shouts of victors and vanquished he knew his friends were suffering.
Patroclus placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘Diomedes and Odysseus are lying wounded in Agamemnon’s tent, as are Machaon, Eurypylus and Agamemnon himself. Some say Great Ajax is dead. But even if Menelaus, Idomeneus and a few others remain, what chance do they stand against Hector, Paris and Sarpedon? Do you still refuse to cast off your pride, Achilles, even when your comrades are suffering so terribly?’
Achilles did not reply, but the tightening of his lips and the narrowing of his eyes were answer enough.
‘Then let
me
lead the Myrmidons out in your name. Lend me your armour, too, so that when the Trojans see your visored helmet on my head they’ll think you’ve returned. It’ll strike the fear of Hades into them. Besides, they’re so exhausted from days of fighting that a fresh force of spearmen now will sweep them away from the ships and back on to the plains.’
‘I will not help Agamemnon,’ Achilles said angrily, still staring out at the dreadful slaughter consuming the camp. ‘When he took Briseis from my hut he created a greater enemy for himself than Hector or any number of Trojans. But . . . but you’re right. With so many already fallen, the Greeks need our help now. Go then, Patroclus. Take my armour and lead the Myrmidons into battle if your heart is moved to save them.’
‘It is, my lord,’ Patroclus replied. ‘Thank you.’
Achilles turned and stared at his cousin. There was a strange look in his eyes.
‘Don’t thank me, Patroclus. You’re simply doing what I should have done some time ago, and perhaps you’re a better man for it.’ He frowned at the notion, but continued quickly. ‘Take the Myrmidons and drive the Trojans back beyond the walls, but
don’t
go any further! I don’t know why, but I fear for you, my friend. You’ve lived a long time in my shadow and your skill as a fighter has been less appreciated than it should have been, though I believe you’re a greater warrior than Menelaus, Diomedes or even Ajax himself. Nevertheless, I forbid you to pass the walls of the camp.’
He stepped forward and gently cupped his friend’s chin in his fingertips, looking him in the eye. The other men on the ship’s deck glanced away or busied themselves with their work.
‘I’ll take care,’ Patroclus assured him, folding his fingers around Achilles’s wrist.
Achilles smiled, then pulled away and looked back at the battle raging about the camp like a stormy sea.
‘Besides,’ he added, ‘it wouldn’t be right for your deeds to outshine my own. You’re a lesser noble whereas I’m the son of a goddess; even if you feel Zeus himself is with you, don’t pursue glory but remain at the walls. Go now. My armour is sitting idle in my hut; put it on while I call the Myrmidons to arms.’
Patroclus stroked his chin where Achilles’s fingers had touched him. For a moment, he stared at the back of the prince’s blond head and felt both love and hatred in equal measure. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and marched down to the sand below. As he ran into the hut, Achilles climbed up on to the prow of his ship.
‘Myrmidons!’ he called out in a loud voice, pausing while his men left their tasks and came running to stand before him. ‘For days now you’ve sat around your campfires cursing me for a bull-headed and heartless monster, nursing my ruthless anger while the Greeks are dying on the battlefield. And don’t shake your heads as if I’m a liar, too – do you think I don’t know
you
, my own men? Well, I’m not the pitiless fool your whisperings have made me out to be. I am sending you to fight in my place, with Patroclus at your head. And if any man has looked on me with spite these past few days, then let him fight twice as hard now that
I
have relented. Put on your armour and collect your weapons, and remember that when you face the Trojans, you fight not only for your own glory but also for mine!’
T
HE
M
YRMIDONS
R
ETURN
P
enelope looked at the lines of fish on the market stall. Expressionless eyes stared back from silver-grey bodies that twisted and arched in helpless agony, longing for the sea. The fisherman – suntanned with heavy muscles and a thick grey beard – poured a pail of seawater over his catch, causing the fish to thrash about with renewed vigour until the last of the briny liquid had cascaded off the sides and on to the grass. Looking up, he recognized the queen and gave a curt bow.
‘My lady!’ He smiled, showing good white teeth. ‘Take a good look. These are the fattest fish in the whole market. Ain’t no little wrigglers ever come off my boat, ’cause I always goes out the furthest to where the best shoals are – all the strongest fish with the tastiest flesh.’
Penelope closed her eyes briefly and nodded. All fishermen claimed their boats went furthest out and caught the best fish, but in this case there was no denying the man’s catch were fine-looking creatures. She turned to Actoris, her body slave, and pointed down at the table.
‘Pick the eight biggest, Actoris, and have him deliver them to the palace kitchens. He can settle with the cook.’
Leaving Actoris with the fisherman, who shouted cheerful thanks after her, Penelope wandered off alone through the crowded market place. The mid-morning sun was already hot and the warm air was thick with the smells of freshly slaughtered meat, different spices, just-baked bread and a multitude of pungent vegetables and fruit. The market was a good place to lose oneself, she thought; where people were too wrapt in choosing and haggling for their wares to pay much attention to the wife of their absent king. As she pushed between different bodies, avoiding bony elbows and plump backsides, she looked across to the walls of the palace where Telemachus and a collection of other boys were being taught military manoeuvres by Halitherses. The old man sat on an upturned bucket waving instructions with his stick at the double line of children, who were armed with staves or poles and wore wicker baskets for helmets. Penelope paused to watch her son, his solemn but shambolic attempts at spear drill earning him sharp reprimands from his instructor. Halitherses was particularly keen for the future king to learn the art of war, but Penelope knew her son was not an instinctive fighter. He had too much of his mother’s sensitivity about him.
And yet, she thought, if his father did not return from Troy soon, little Telemachus would have to learn to fight to defend his kingdom. Ithaca’s wolves had woken from their slumber and were regarding his inheritance with hungry eyes, while the forces that stood in their way were growing weaker in comparison. A silent, undeclared war had begun and Phronius, it seemed, was its first victim. The old man had fallen to his death in the sea below his isolated house, leaving a single sandal at the cliff’s edge to show he had not disappeared completely. In public people said he must have stumbled in the darkness and fallen on the rocks, from whence the waves had taken his body out to sea. But in private there were many who believed his death had been no accident.
He had also left a vacancy on the Kerosia, and it had taken less than two days for the chief wolf to call upon Penelope and demand a replacement be chosen. Someone young, Eupeithes had suggested, to counterbalance the grey heads of Laertes, Halitherses, Polyctor and himself, not to mention that the other two members of the Kerosia – Nisus and Mentor – were both in their forties. His proposition, as he had sat with Penelope in the great hall the night before, was that his own son, Antinous, should take Phronius’s place.
Penelope had laughed off the suggestion, but Eupeithes was not one to be easily dissuaded. She recalled his pale, mole-covered face, orange in the firelight as his fat body sat wedged into the chair opposite her. His long, feminine hands were folded together beneath his chin and his dark, intelligent eyes stared at her without wavering, though the friendly, understanding expression did not fool her for a moment. He wanted to know why she did not want his son on the Kerosia, and before she could reply he gave a long exposition of Antinous’s qualities. Penelope countered with a list of reasons why he was unsuitable, but Eupeithes dismissed each objection with kind and respectful ease until, finally, her arguments for rejecting Antinous had been stripped bare, leaving only her
insistence
that he should not be allowed on the Kerosia. At that point, Eupeithes had leaned back in his chair with a defeated sigh, nodding his acquiescence to her decision. But if Penelope had thought she was the victor in their contest, she was soon to realize otherwise. Eupeithes had simply been manoeuvring her into a corner. Now, with her resistance worn thin, he took every one of her arguments against Antinous and turned them into reasons
for
electing Oenops, one of the nobles most aggressively opposed to the conscription of replacements to go to Troy. And indeed, Oenops would have made an excellent member of the council were it not for the fact he was every bit Eupeithes’s man. But Penelope’s arguments against Antinous could not now be turned on their head to reject Oenops, and when Eupeithes reminded her of how she was in his debt for preventing a rebellion of Ithaca’s nobles, she gave in.
She looked again at Telemachus and felt she had betrayed him. She had called a meeting of the Kerosia for that evening and was not looking forward to telling Laertes, Mentor and Halitherses that Oenops was its newest member. Now only Nisus – the seventh member, and every bit loyal to Odysseus – continued to ensure that Eupeithes, with Polyctor and Oenops, did not control Ithaca’s governing council.
Suddenly, more than at any time since those first few months after Odysseus had sailed for Troy, Penelope wanted her husband back. There was a strength about Odysseus that was like a wall, keeping all the dangers of the world at bay so that to those he sheltered the world seemed a safe and happy place. She would have given anything to see him on his throne again, bringing stability back to his island; but her deepest longing was to have him back in the intimacy of their bed, to be able to love him with all her mind and body again and know the long years of loneliness were over.
But Odysseus was gone and his return seemed more distant now than it had ten years ago, when he had left her to defend his kingdom in his absence. What was more, Penelope knew it was up to her to protect Telemachus. For if the wolves wanted Ithaca, they could not have it while Odysseus’s son lived.
‘Achilles! Achilles is coming!’
Eperitus and Apheidas looked to the south, where dozens of Trojan horsemen were galloping back across the sand and between the broken tents. They were shouting the name of Achilles and the fear in their eyes was clear enough. As they passed, the Trojan infantry pulled back from the beleaguered bands of Greeks they had been attacking and looked in the direction of the panic; their opponents did the same. Everyone sensed a wind of change was now blowing across the battlefield, crushing the victorious ardour of the Trojans and raising the spirits of the Greeks.
‘Achilles,’ Apheidas repeated cautiously, before turning his eyes on Eperitus. ‘If it’s true, then perhaps the war won’t end today. But if Hector is denied his victory, don’t think that Agamemnon will find his. The war will go on, Eperitus, and only you and I can end it. Remember my offer of peace, Son: peace between us for the sake of peace between nations and the salvation of many.’
He gave him a last, lingering look, then turned and ran towards a throng of Trojan spearmen. As Eperitus stooped to retrieve his sword, watching his father disappear amongst the shields of the retreating enemy, he heard a deep voice call out to him. He turned to see Ajax staggering across the body-strewn beach, the blazing galley pouring sparks and smoke into the sky behind him.
‘Eperitus!’ he gasped, exhausted. Eperitus went to support him but his help was dismissed with a wave of the king’s giant hand. ‘No, I’m not hurt – though Hector came closer than any man has ever done to killing me. But is it true what they’re saying, that Achilles has returned? The mere sound of his name has sent the Trojans running from the ships and saved the fleet from being torched.’
‘I don’t know,’ Eperitus answered, looking over his shoulder to where the sound of battle had gained a renewed fury. ‘Where’s Hector?’
‘He went to stem the retreat, and if he hadn’t I might not be here now.’
For the first time Eperitus saw the shadow of defeat in Ajax’s eyes. How different from the day when he had first seen him, twenty years ago in the palace at Sparta. Then he was young, powerful and arrogant as he laid his claim on Helen. But today his confidence in his own supremacy had finally been broken.
‘You forget you nearly beat him on the slopes above the Scamander,’ Eperitus comforted him. ‘If he mastered you today it’s because you’ve taken on the greater burden of the fighting, that’s all.’
‘And Hector hasn’t?’ Ajax laughed, ironically. ‘No, Eperitus, the difference today was that Hector could smell victory in the smoke from the galley. He was like one of the gods, assured of his own immortality. But it seems the Olympians aren’t going to destroy us today, after all. Let’s find Achilles and throw the Trojans back on to the plain.’
As he spoke a great cheer erupted from the Greek soldiers, who raised their spears in the air and cried out in delight. At the same time, the scattered Trojans fell back from the beach altogether and reformed in a dense line amidst the remains of the camp. Then Achilles rode up in his chariot drawn by a pair of pure white horses, the immortal Xanthus and the mortal, but equally splendid, Pedasus. Achilles’s gore-spattered spear was raised high above his head and his black-plumed helmet shone like a mirror in the sunlight, the grimacing mask that formed the visor both wonderful and terrible to look on. The bronze breastplate was shaped and patterned with equal skill – though it was criss-crossed with the scars of war – and the shield on his arm was stuck with arrows that had failed to pierce the many-layered leather. The sight of the famous armour alone had sapped the courage from the veins of the Trojans and sent them reeling back in fear of its owner; and as the chariot rode up to the burning galley – with the Myrmidons behind him in five, solidly packed companies – Eperitus and Ajax felt their own fighting spirit revived in equal measure.
‘Achilles!’ Ajax shouted exuberantly, his near defeat by Hector forgotten as he ran up to the chariot. ‘Thank the gods you’re back, and not a moment too soon. I
knew
you couldn’t resist a rich fight like this!’
But the man did not remove his helmet or take Ajax enthusiastically by the hand, as Achilles had always done whenever they had met on previous battlefields. Instead, he looked down on him with cold indifference, his eyes gleaming behind the narrow eyeholes; then he ordered the chariot about and, signalling for a group of Myrmidons to douse the fire in the galley, moved slowly towards the waiting Trojans, leaving Ajax silent and confused on the sand.
‘Hey, there! Eperitus!’ boomed a voice.
Eperitus turned to see Peisandros standing at the head of a company of Myrmidons. His well-fed torso was encased in armour and he held a tall spear in his large fist, which he let fall into the crook of his elbow as Eperitus ran across and took his hand.
‘What made Achilles change his mind?’ Eperitus asked.
‘There’ll be time for questions once we’ve pushed the Trojans out of the camp,’ Peisandros growled. ‘Until then, why don’t you join my company? We can avenge the blood of our comrades together.’
Eperitus nodded and slipped into the ranks of the Myrmidons. Just then a hail of arrows arced up from behind the Trojan lines and fell amongst the Greeks; the Greek archers replied, followed by the infantry, who hurled their spears with angry shouts at the enemy shield-wall. Then the order to advance was given and the Myrmidons sprang forward, eager to come to grips with the Trojans after idling by their campfires for so long. The rest of the Greeks charged too, while ahead of them all ran the chariot of Achilles, its heavy wheels bouncing across the shattered remains of the dead and dying. Patroclus pulled back his arm and cast his spear into the massed enemy. The bronze point struck a Trojan noble in the shoulder, severing the ligaments at the base of the arm and wrenching the bone from its socket. As the man tumbled backwards with a scream, Patroclus leapt down from the chariot and dashed in amongst the Trojan spearmen, felling more men and tearing a hole in the line as the rest broke and scattered.
An instant later, the rejuvenated Greek army crashed against the wall of shields that Hector and his captains had been busy organizing. But their efforts were to no avail. On every side, Achilles’s Myrmidons used the strength of their fresh limbs to beat down the exhausted enemy, slaughtering the Trojans like sheep until the front line had been shattered and those behind were sent streaming back to the gates. In a few short, frenzied moments the battle for the ships had been lost, and along with it the Trojans’ best hope of ever ridding their country of the hated invaders.
The Greeks chased them out of the gates and on to the plain where the carnage continued with a vengeful lust, transforming men into monsters. They killed without mercy, thinking only of the friends and kinsmen they had lost. But as the retreat turned into a rout, Patroclus halted his chariot at one of the causeways that crossed the ditch and looked out at the fleeing army before him. It was a sight that would warm any warrior’s heart: a broken enemy with no strength to fight and no hope of refuge on the open flatlands. To massacre them as they ran would leave the walls of Troy defenceless; the Greeks could plunder Priam’s city and put it to the torch that very day. And yet, as the daylight grew strangely dim for the early afternoon, Patroclus recalled Achilles’s warning not to go beyond the gates. Then he looked out and saw the Trojans were re-forming again, led by Sarpedon and his Lycians. The tipping point had come: should he recall the Myrmidons and leave the exhausted Greeks to fight on alone, surely giving the Trojans the chance to save most of their army and fight another day? Or should he order the pursuit and destroy them utterly, bringing total victory and earning himself the glory that Achilles had never allowed him? And then a quieter, darker voice spoke from the back of his mind: did he always want to live on the crumbs of glory that fell from Achilles’s table? Was he not a great fighter in his own right, capable of killing Hector himself and breaking open the gates of Troy? Did not the name of Patroclus, son of Menoetius, deserve to be immortalized? His face was transformed with an angry scowl as he let the words take hold of him, and a moment later his chariot was dashing towards the wall of Trojan and Lycian shields.
