The Armour of Achilles (30 page)
Eperitus watched him speeding across the dry grass where the bodies from two days of fighting still lay. Once more, the open ground before the walls was the scene of battle, though this time it was the turn of the Trojans to be harried to their deaths. Everywhere, the men of Troy and her allies were falling to their knees and begging to be taken prisoner, physically and mentally too exhausted to continue the fight. Many others did not dare risk their lives to the mercy of the Greeks and either ran headlong in the direction of Troy or turned and fought. Of the latter, some stood alone and were quickly overwhelmed, while others formed small, desperate bands of warriors and fought on for as long as they could. Still more had seen the stand the Lycians and Trojans were making under Sarpedon and ran to join them. All around the terrible din of battle rose into the air once again, like the clatter of hundreds of woodsmen felling trees on a hillside: sword against sword, spear against shield, axe against helmet. And as the Greeks cried out with the joy of battle, cutting down their enemies with ruthless energy, Eperitus’s heart sank. There was little glory in the slaughter of men who were throwing away their arms and begging for clemency, and as the sun’s light faded in a cloudless sky he knew he had to do something. The warrior’s creed called for a man to slay his enemies and bring glory to his own name, but it was not an excuse for murder.
He began to run from one man to another, calling on them to spare the Trojans who had thrown themselves at their knees, reminding them that there was more to be gained from ransoming prisoners or selling them into slavery than opening their throats like sacrificial animals. Some cursed his efforts and carried on the butchery with frenzied eyes, while others stayed their weapons and felt the grip of sanity return to them. Then, amid the horror of ringing weapons and screaming men, Eperitus felt his heart go cold and his senses reel in confusion. The light was being slowly sucked out of the day, turning the very air heavy and brown. Others sensed it, too, and many cowered down as their primeval instincts told them something was wrong. Looking up, Eperitus cried out in fear as he saw that the brilliant face of the sun was slowly turning to black. Many others shouted in dismay also, some even dropping their weapons and throwing their arms over their heads in terror as the bright sunshine was turned to a stifled gloaming.
And then a voice cried out over the battlefield: ‘A sign! A sign from Zeus. Troy’s doom is at hand.’
Eperitus turned and saw Achilles in his chariot, raising his spear over his head and exhorting the Greeks to press their attacks harder. And yet he knew the voice did not belong to Achilles.
The Myrmidons were the first to throw off their stupor and launch back into the fray. They bore down on the shield-wall Sarpedon had marshalled against them, felling several of their enemy as they remained in awe of the partially eclipsed sun. But the Trojans were quick to recover and soon checked the attack with a furious effort, inspired by the figure of Sarpedon at their backs. The dust that rose from the battle was as grey as ash in the dusky half-light, choking both sides as they struggled against each other, pushing this way and that like treetops caught in a gale as yet more men were brought down into the long grass, spilling their blood over the dry earth and sending their souls to the Underworld.
Peisandros ordered his company to join the fray and Eperitus ran with them, all the time throwing glances at the man in Achilles’s chariot. Something more than the sound of his voice told him that the man was not Achilles, and he had resolved to get a closer look when a shout of defiance rang out across the lines of battle. Sarpedon rode up in his chariot and hurled a spear at the commander of the Myrmidons. It missed its target and thumped into the mortal Pedasus, toppling the chariot on to its side as the animal fell and throwing its occupants to the ground. Patroclus was on his feet in an instant and, snatching up his spear, threw it with deadly accuracy at the Lycian king. Sarpedon twisted aside at the last moment and the weapon took his driver in the chest, sending him flailing backwards from the car.
Crying out with fury, Sarpedon took hold of his second spear and jumped to the ground. The lines of men between him and Patroclus herded aside as the king drew back his weapon and took aim; but the throw was hasty and the long shaft passed harmlessly over Patroclus’s shoulder. Determined to kill the man he believed was Achilles, Sarpedon slipped his sword from its scabbard and ran at his opponent, while behind him his men filled the air with their cheers. But before he could cover half the distance between them, Patroclus snatched a spear from one of his soldiers and launched it at the Lycian. It caught him just below the heart, stopping his great bulk dead as the bronze tip punched through his armour and bored a channel into his flesh and bone beneath. Sarpedon’s eyes widened with shock as blood gushed from his mouth to darken his beard and chest. He seized the heavy spear with both hands and pulled it slowly from his body, before falling to his knees and dropping face-forward into the grass.
Tasting the glory that had been denied him for so long, Patroclus gave a triumphant shout and leapt on the huge form of Sarpedon. Cutting the chin strap with his dagger, he pulled the crested helmet from his head and tossed it into the jubilant ranks of his Myrmidons. Next he sliced through the leather buckles that held Sarpedon’s scaled cuirass in place and tore it from his muscular torso, hurling it with a grunt in the wake of the helmet. Then, as he tugged the greaves from his victim’s shins, a groan escaped Sarpedon’s lips and his arm reached out towards the Lycian lines.
‘Avenge me,’ he called out as his countrymen stood rooted to the ground with shock and grief. ‘Do not let the Greeks drag my body away, to be devoured by their dogs. Avenge me!’
And with that he fell back into the grass and his last breath exited his lips. Patroclus, still kneeling at the dead king’s side, sensed movement among the wall of enemy spearmen and looked up. By now the darkness had grown to a thick haze that weighed heavily in the air and sapped the hope from men’s hearts. And through the veil of ash-like dust that swirled with mesmerizing slowness over the bodies of the fallen, he saw Hector standing at the front of the Lycians, his sword in his hand with the tip resting in the dirt. His dark eyes were fixed on the corpse of Sarpedon and he barely seemed to be breathing, though his nostrils were wide and his free hand was trembling.
‘When I left Troy,’ he said, his gravelly voice shaking with suppressed anger as he turned his gaze on Sarpedon’s killer, ‘I swore I would avenge the deaths of King Eëtion and his sons. You killed them, Achilles, in your god-forsaken wrath. You killed the father and brothers of my wife, just as you have killed countless other Trojans and our allies. And now you have brought even the magnificent Sarpedon down into the dust, sending his ghost to Hades to whisper your glory amongst the halls of the dead. He was a great friend of Troy and he was
my
friend too; but I will not send him on his final journey alone.
You
are going with him, and I swear before Zeus and Apollo before this day is over I will strip the armour from your dead body and take it for my own.’
Patroclus stood slowly, his eyes fixed on the terrible figure of Hector as he slid his sword from its scabbard.
‘This armour was given to Peleus by the gods themselves, and now I wear it. But it is too great for you, Hector, just as
I
am too great for you. Already I have claimed the life of Sarpedon and soon I will claim yours also. The bards will be lifting my name in song before the vultures have finished picking the flesh from your bones, and when I sail back to Phthia your wife will come with me, to spend the rest of her days as my plaything—’
‘NO!’
Hector ran forward, striking Patroclus’s shield with such force that it was torn from his arm. The fighting around them had stopped and the watching Greeks gave a cry of alarm as Patroclus was sent stumbling backwards, almost falling as he raised his blade instinctively against a second powerful blow. Peisandros gripped his spear in both hands and stepped forward as Hector pressed his ferocious attack upon Patroclus, but Eperitus seized the Myrmidon’s wrist and pulled him back. Then Patroclus slipped beneath another blow and turned, thrusting his sword with terrifying speed at Hector’s exposed right flank. This time the Trojans and Lycians shouted in fear as they expected their champion’s heavy bulk to crash into the long grass. But Hector twisted aside with impossible agility and the edge of the blade skidded across the scaled plates of his armour. Turning, he punched out with the point of his sword, high and to the left, catching Patroclus on the shoulder and causing him to cry out as the bronze bit through his armour and into the flesh. He fell back, grimacing and shocked by the sudden pain as Hector rounded on him.
‘So the great Achilles can bleed!’ he crowed, his eyes wide with vengeful triumph.
Still gripping his sword, Patroclus raised his fingers to his throat and unslipped the laces from beneath his chin.
‘Achilles remains by the ships,’ he announced, pulling the visored helmet from his head and dropping it in the grass. There were shouts of surprise from the onlookers. ‘And though I love him and honour him above all men, he has forsaken his chance of glory and given it to me. And in killing you, Hector, I will become his equal.’
He lunged with his sword, the speed and power of his attack almost burying the point in Hector’s chest. But the Trojan had been waiting for the attack and caught the blade in the toughened leather of his shield, before burying his own sword in Patroclus’s stomach, driving it clean through. A stream of dark blood flowed down the blade as Patroclus slid back and fell into the grass.
‘You were never your master’s equal,’ Hector mocked, though there was disappointment in his eyes that he had been robbed of the destruction of Achilles. ‘Although you boasted you would leave me to the vultures and take Andromache back with you to Greece, I have taught you the hollowness of your words. Instead, you can tell the shades in the Underworld that you were beaten by Hector, the greatest warrior in all Ilium.’
He knelt beside the dying Patroclus and stripped the breastplate from his chest. Then he tore away his tunic to expose his flesh for the vultures, leaving him naked and pale in the brown half-light.
‘You are right in one thing, Hector,’ Patroclus croaked as the greaves were torn from his shins. ‘I never was the equal of Achilles, and for my arrogance I will not see his beauty with my living eyes again. But you are not the greatest warrior in Ilium. He is, and when he learns of my death he will hunt you down without mercy. You will not escape him, Hector.’
‘I don’t intend to,’ Hector said, standing and placing the point of his sword against Patroclus’s throat.
Patroclus stared up at silhouette of the Trojan prince. The half-eclipsed sun shimmered over his right shoulder, a sign not of the end of Troy as Patroclus had hoped, but of his own end. And then Hector leaned his weight on the hilt of his sword, cutting through Patroclus’s windpipe and releasing his spirit from his body.
T
HE
V
OICE OF
T
HETIS
A
chilles sat at the southernmost point of the beach, where large black rocks rose out of the sea and the long sickle of sand was bare of ships. At last, Zeus’s anger seemed to have been appeased and the darkness that had covered the face of the sun was slowly receding. But the return of the soft light of late afternoon did not diminish the darkness that had taken hold of Achilles’s heart. It was clear Patroclus had disobeyed his orders and taken the Myrmidons out on to the plain, and as he sat in the sand and watched the gentle waves roll back and forth along the shoreline he sensed something terrible had happened. The foreboding he had felt when Patroclus had begged to lead the Myrmidons into battle was stronger now, filling him with an inescapable dread for his friend’s life.
Then he heard horses and the rattle of an approaching chariot. One set of braying he knew intimately and with a rush of joy turned to see Xanthus at the top of the beach, standing tall and magnificent with Achilles’s own chariot behind him. But the sense of relief that Patroclus had returned quickly drained away and was replaced by apprehension as he saw that the horse next to Xanthus was not Pedasus – the horse he had captured at Thebe and had been putting through its paces – but another animal, an unfamiliar brown mare that looked frightened and blown. And the man who leapt down from the chariot was not his cousin but Eperitus, caked with blood and dust from the battle and his armour slashed and dinted with many fresh scars.
The Ithacan trudged across the white beach towards him, lifting small clouds of sand behind his heels. The look on his face was sombre and anxious and Achilles knew in an instant the news he had brought with him. Suddenly the heart in his great chest seemed to stop beating and he reached out for something to support himself against, but there was nothing to hold him and he fell back in the sand, tears already welling up in his eyes.
‘My lord Achilles,’ Eperitus began, his words hurried as if he knew he must impart his news now or lose the courage to speak. ‘My lord, your cousin is dead!’
Achilles dropped forward on to his knees like a beggar.
‘You mean Ajax! Ajax is dead.’
Eperitus blinked with surprise. ‘No, my lord, I mean Patroclus. Patroclus is dead.’
Achilles lowered his head, his face lost behind the long curtains of his blond hair. Suddenly his whole body felt heavy, heavier than he had ever known it, hanging between his limbs like a sack of grain that he no longer had the strength to lift. Then he felt Eperitus’s hand around his wrist, hauling him to his feet, and as he stumbled under the leaden weight of his body Eperitus caught him and held him firm. Achilles looked into his brown eyes and saw the depth of his concern.
‘He died a warrior, Achilles, covered in glory. It was he who drove the Trojans from the camp and saved the ships, and I watched him kill Sarpedon with my own eyes and strip the armour from his dying body – such a feat of arms that men will sing about for generations to come. And yet, in the end, the gods were against him . . .’
‘Hector!’ Achilles spat. ‘It was Hector, wasn’t it? Oh, foolish Patroclus! Why did you dare to face the best man in all Troy?’
He looked up at the empty skies and let out a despairing wail, then seized his tunic at the neck and tore it down to his belt. He ran across to the remains of an old campfire, knocking aside the tripod and pot that straddled it and tearing up handfuls of cold ash that he poured over his hair, all the time shouting Patroclus’s name as the tears flowed down his handsome cheeks. At the top of the beach a maidservant ran out from a tent and, guessing what had happened, began to beat her breast with her fist and call out in grief. Others joined her from the surrounding tents, and though all of them were Trojan slaves they also took up the mournful cry. It was a scene Eperitus had witnessed many times about the walls of Troy, as the womenfolk came to claim their dead after a battle, but as he watched the captive maidservants grieving for one of their country’s enemies he felt himself deeply moved.
He turned to Achilles, now lying face down in the remains of the campfire, and knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
‘You should know that he died with your name on his lips, Achilles, declaring that he loved and honoured you above all other men.’
‘Where is he now? Where’s his body?’
‘Still on the battlefield. Ajax and Menelaus sent me back to you with the news while they fight to save Patroclus’s corpse from the Trojans. Ajax has killed many, but still they fight on, eager to take the body back to Troy as a prize. But your armour could not be saved; Hector has that.’
‘What do I care for armour when Patroclus is dead?’ Achilles declared, dragging himself to his feet and facing the west, where the sun was now dipping towards the rim of the ocean. It was a sight he had seen thousands of times in his ten years at Troy, but today it felt as if the sun was going down and would never rise again. ‘I sent him to his death by my own arrogant pride, Eperitus. It’s as if I killed him, not Hector.’
He walked back down to the shore and waded out into waves until they reached his waist. For a moment Eperitus feared that his grief had driven him from his senses and he was about to drown himself, but as he splashed down into the water behind him Achilles threw his arms wide and closed his eyes.
‘Mother!’ Eperitus heard him whisper. ‘Oh Mother, hear me in my grief. Menoetius’s son has been killed by Hector and now I wish my anger had never been provoked by Agamemnon, or that I had never been given reason to plead for your help. How the gods mock us mortals. Even you, my own mother, must have known that my prayers would lead to the death of Patroclus. Why didn’t you tell me? If I’d put aside my fury at Agamemnon’s arrogance things would never have come to this. But it seems this whole war has become nothing more than an exchange of savage fury between friend and foe alike. It’s no longer the thing of honour and glory that I left Greece in search of. And what do I even care for such trifles as
honour
and
glory
any more? Patroclus has fallen and now I have nothing but the darkness of grief – and this heaviness I feel is but the beginning. Unless I can find solace beneath these waves?’
He beat the water with the flats of his hands and a sudden desperation filled his eyes, but Eperitus reached out and took him by the arm before he could throw himself under.
‘There was one other thing Patroclus said – his last words before his soul left him. As Hector took the armour from his dying body, Patroclus said that you would avenge him.’
‘Hector?’ Achilles echoed, as if the name were new to him. Then his eyes narrowed and a shadow fell over his handsome features. ‘Yes, Hector. Patroclus must be avenged.’
‘Then you will die, my son.’
Eperitus looked around in surprise for the source of the voice, which did not come from the air but the very waters in which he and Achilles were standing. It sounded gentle and sad, but as ageless and vibrant as a waterfall that calls to the thirsty man with the promise of refreshment and new life. Achilles instantly raised his head.
‘Mother!’
‘Listen to me, Achilles,’ the voice continued, though there was no sign of its owner. ‘If you choose the path of vengeance you will not live long; for it is your doom that once Hector’s soul has departed this world, yours will surely follow. But I would not have it this way. Even now you might escape the fate that has long been assigned to you.’
‘Then I choose death!’ Achilles insisted bitterly. ‘My pride condemned Patroclus to his fate, so why should I go on living without him? All I want is to grant him his dying wish and bring Hector down into the dust. After that, nothing matters. After that, I will gladly give up this pathetic existence and join Patroclus in the Underworld.’
‘And I will spend eternity weeping for you, my dearest child!’ Thetis replied. ‘But even you cannot return to the fight without armour. Restrain your lust for vengeance until tomorrow and meet me here before the sun rises. I will ask Hephaistos to make you a set of arms that will be the envy and desire of all men, though even Hephaistos’s craftsmanship cannot save you from your death.’
A gust of wind tore at Eperitus’s hair, waking him from the dreamlike trance the voice of Thetis had cast over him. Only then, as a white-tipped wave came rolling towards them, did he realize the waters about him and Achilles had been still and flat while the goddess spoke.
Achilles’s grief – like the pride that had come before it – was excessive. He returned to the beach to pour more ash over his head and wallow in the depths of his despair, surrounded all the time by the Trojan maidservants he and Patroclus had taken from the cities they had sacked. The sound of battle raging on the plain drifted over the camp and filled the wounded with fear for their comrades, but the great warrior did not hear it in his anguish as he beat the sand with his fists and tore his clothes and hair. Eventually the sun dropped below the horizon, draining the colour and light from the world and bringing a natural end to the fighting. The remnant of the Greeks fell back behind the relative safety of their walls – the shattered gates having been repaired during the afternoon’s fighting – and the Trojans set up their tents on the plain once more. Everything was the same as the evening before, except that the plain and now the camp itself were filled with thousands more corpses of all nationalities, while the groaning of the wounded had become even louder.
There was one other exception. The following day would see Achilles return to the fight. But as the evening darkened into night he lay prostrate across the dead body of his friend, his face hidden in the crook of his arm and his whole body shaking with harsh, relentless tears. By the efforts of Menelaus, Little Ajax and, above all, Great Ajax, the body had been dragged step by step back to the walls, while all the time the Trojans had fought like Furies for possession of it, as if that single corpse represented the winning of the whole war. Then, as Achilles had led the general mourning – washing the blood and dust from the battered body of Patroclus before covering it with a white sheet and a cloak – Eperitus had slipped away to look for Odysseus and the other Ithacans.
He found them by their ships, battered and exhausted by the prolonged fighting and with a hundred of their number left behind on the battlefield, carrion for the vultures and wolves. As he approached their silent campfires he could see the despondency on their faces, but then a deep voice called his name and he saw Polites limping towards him, his leg bandaged and his bulging limbs and torso crossed here and there with new scars. Eperitus embraced him, ignoring his sharp intake of breath, and to his delight saw Antiphus and Omeros sharing a campfire and signalling for him to join their meal. But he was most pleased to see Arceisius grinning at him from behind the flames, alive and well.
‘I’d given you up for dead,’ he said, gratefully accepting a warm bowl of porridge from his old squire. ‘In fact, I’d given you
all
up for dead.’
‘You should know we’re not that easy to get rid of,’ Arceisius said, his voice heavy with tiredness.
‘You least of all, I suppose,’ Eperitus said and smiled back, laying a hand on Arceisius’s shoulder. ‘Especially after all the years I spent training you.’
‘You can claim some of the credit, old friend, but not all of it. A glorious death isn’t as appealing as it used to be, not since I married Melantho. I’ve a good reason to survive now, and as soon as we get back to Ithaca the first thing I’m going to do is set about having lots of sons.’
‘Then Zeus save the girls of Ithaca if they’re anything like you,’ Eperitus responded. ‘And perhaps we’ll be returning to Ithaca sooner than we thought: Achilles is going to return to the fighting.’
The others exchanged looks of surprise and elation, glad that their greatest warrior would be returning to their ranks.
‘What of our casualties?’ he continued.
‘Too many,’ Antiphus answered. ‘Half of the new recruits, but a lot of our best fighters too – and some of the old guard with them.’
Eperitus was silent for a while.
‘I’ll go round the survivors soon, but first I have to see Odysseus.’
‘He’s waiting for you in his tent,’ Polites informed him, ‘with Eurybates and Eurylochus.’
Eperitus did not voice his disappointment that Eurylochus was still alive, though the news did not surprise him. Taking a mouthful of wine from a skin offered by Arceisius, he took his leave of his friends and went to find the king. Fortunately, the small Ithacan camp had avoided the worst of the destruction and he found Odysseus’s hut much as it had always been. His friend was inside discussing the formation for the next day’s fighting, but when he saw Eperitus he gave him a broad grin and came to embrace him. Eurylochus scowled and excused himself while the others sat and discussed the battle, as slaves brought tables of roast meat and bread with kraters of wine to wash it down. Odysseus listened intently to everything that Eperitus and Eurybates had to say about the battle – both men having experienced different viewpoints while their king’s wound had forced him to remain in the camp – but his interest increased even further when Eperitus mentioned hearing the voice of Thetis as he stood with Achilles in the sea.
‘And she will return to him before sunrise tomorrow?’ he repeated.
