The Gates Of Troy (58 page)

‘What is it, Mnemon?’ he sighed, irritated by the persistence of his servant in his moment of triumph.

Mnemon wrung his hands together and hesitated for a long while before speaking. ‘Sir, you’ve just killed King Tenes, a son of Apollo. By your mother’s prophecy, you’re now doomed to die at the hand of the god.’

Achilles stood and looked down at the stooping man before him. He took a deep breath, as if trying to contain his emotions, then drew back his sword.

‘Then I won’t be needing
you
any more, will I?’ he said, and swept his servant’s head from his shoulders.

Chapter Thirty

P
HILOCTETES

E
peritus looked over the cliff edge at the massed ships of the fleet. Almost three quarters of the galleys that had left Aulis two weeks before were now gathered on the western side of Tenedos – their numbers constantly swelled by the piecemeal arrival of more stragglers – and a great traffic of small boats was weaving its way between them, ferrying men to and from the beach below the palace of King Tenes. Further out to the west, Eperitus could see the distant bulk of Lemnos, wide and blue in the bright sunshine, while slightly closer to the north-west was the island of Imbros. It was an unfamiliar seascape, but seemed pleasant enough under the blue skies of late summer.

He turned to the plateau where the battle had taken place. The town and palace beyond it were crawling with soldiers of almost every Greek state, scouring the buildings for any remaining loot or food that they could find. On the green slopes above the plateau were a large number of people – townsfolk and captured warriors – sitting and watching the pillaging of their homes as a dozen Myrmidons stood guard. Though their town had not been put to the torch, as was common in war, this was only because Nestor had ordered that its buildings be preserved for the wounded from the impending assault on Troy.

To one side of the plateau, three large mounds of rocks had been built. The largest marked the grave of the many enemies slain in the battle; a smaller one next to it covered the bodies of the Myrmidons and Malians who had died. The final mound had been built by Achilles himself in honour of King Tenes. It was a tribute to the giant warrior’s ferocity in battle, but even more than that, of course, it was a testament to Achilles’s own skill in defeating him.

Standing before the three mounds was a stone plinth, as high as a man’s stomach and as wide as he could stretch his arms. It had been dragged from a crude temple in the town to act as an altar, where the Greeks could sacrifice to the gods in thanks for their safe arrival at Tenedos and their first victory over the forces of Asia. The air around it was full of the sounds and smells of animals. Scores of sheep and goats were held fast by slaves and soldiers, while bowls of water were placed before them. Only the animals who bowed their heads to drink could be killed, as they were deemed to have nodded their consent to the sacrifice. Elsewhere, knives were being sharpened on whetstones and a large fire was being lit, where the fat-wrapped thighbones of the slain beasts could be burnt for the gods. Odysseus stood beside Eperitus with a black lamb across his shoulders, its ankles tied with leather cord to keep it from struggling.

‘Have you seen Agamemnon?’ Achilles said, appearing before them. Patroclus was at his shoulder, a goat held fast beneath his arm.

‘Come on now, Achilles,’ said Odysseus, giving the prince a friendly slap on the shoulder. ‘Agamemnon has made his judgement and you won’t persuade him to change his mind.’

‘He will as soon as I can make him listen to reason.’

‘He judged Philoctetes the winner because the last Malian ship reached Tenedos before the last Myrmidon ship. If he changes his mind now the army will think he’s indecisive, and with all the trouble he’s had since the sacrifice . . .’ Odysseus paused and looked briefly at Eperitus, who said nothing. ‘With all the trouble he’s had he won’t want to weaken his authority any more. If you ask me, Achilles, he’s trying to avoid you at the moment and will make his own sacrifices later. Right now he’s with Nestor and Menelaus on his galley.’

Looking unconvinced, Achilles gave a snort of frustration and scanned the crowd for the King of Men. Eperitus, who had been supervising the removal of the altar as the Mycenaean fleet had arrived, had not been present when Agamemnon had declared Philoctetes the winner of the race. Odysseus, however, had already told him of the shocked silence with which Achilles had greeted the judgement, before turning on his heel and leading his Myrmidons back up the cliff face to continue building his monument to Tenes. Clearly, he had since reconsidered his moody silence and had returned with the intention of debating the matter in full with Agamemnon. But as his eyes scoured the crowds, they fell on Philoctetes and narrowed into a cruel squint.

‘Well, there’s not much I can do about Agamemnon – not for a while, at least – but I don’t intend to let
that
braggart get away with cheating.’

‘Leave him be, Achilles,’ Eperitus cautioned. ‘Agamemnon won’t allow murder.’

‘And you think he could stop me, if I had a mind to kill Philoctetes?’ Achilles retorted. Then the dark look in his eyes was swept away with a laugh and he threw his arm about Eperitus’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, my friend. I’m not so stupid as to cause a big stir. After all, I want this war to happen more than anyone, even if it means my death. No, when your mother’s a goddess there are other ways of getting what you want. This goat,’ he said, stroking the nose of the animal beneath Patroclus’s arm, ‘is for her, and in return I’m going to ask her to deal with that puffed-up Malian.’

He gave a wink, then turned and strode with Patroclus towards the altar. Patroclus threw the goat onto the stone slab and handed his friend a curved dagger from his belt. Raising the blade above his head, Achilles pointed it heavenwards and called on the name of his mother, the sea-nymph Thetis, who spent half her time on land and the other half in the depths of the sea.

‘A dangerous man to have as an enemy,’ Odysseus said, leaning close to Eperitus and talking in a hushed voice. ‘Too proud by far. It’ll be his downfall in the end.’

‘Or ours,’ Eperitus added sombrely.

Achilles leaned forward and grasped the horns of the goat, pulling its head back and running the dagger across its exposed throat. The animal kicked briefly against the cords that bound its ankles, then its crimson blood gushed out over Achilles’s hands and its head dropped limp and lifeless at the side of the altar. The prince threw his face upwards and lifted his gore-spattered hands to the heavens, clenching them into angry fists. The men about him turned and watched as the young warrior seemed to shake with emotion. To their surprise there were tears rolling freely down his handsome face.

‘Mother! Why do you allow me to be humiliated in this way? Am I not your only son, your only joy in the world of mortals? Do you wish me to be robbed of my dues by cheats and petty schemers? Then give me vengeance – if I am to be denied the glory of victory, then let the reward of him who has stolen it from me be a bitter one.’

He held his fists above his head for a moment longer, then let them fall to his sides as he bowed his head and closed his eyes. Eperitus, who had watched the sacrifice with distaste, looked across at Philoctetes, standing alone with the great bow across his back. All other eyes turned to the famous archer, who had been nothing more than a lowly shepherd before the dying Heracles had bestowed his bow and arrows on him. Many of the Greek leaders despised the presence of a man who had only joined their ranks because of a freak chance, and it seemed to Eperitus that some would have been pleased to see Achilles kill him there and then. Chief among them was Patroclus, who had not forgotten Philoctetes’s accusation in the woods overlooking Aulis. Eperitus doubted he had informed Achilles of what Philoctetes had said – or the Malian would surely have been dead by now – but he wondered whether he was not quietly encouraging his animosity towards the young archer.

There was a look of disquiet on Philoctetes’s face, but he said nothing. Instead he accepted a lamb from the arms of Medon, who was next in rank to Philoctetes among the Malians, and strode over to the altar. Taking a bowl of water from beside the base of the plinth, he washed away the gore where Achilles’s goat had been then carried out his own sacrifice. As he slashed the lamb’s throat and held up his arms in a hushed, modest prayer of thanks to Athena, there was a hiss and a sudden movement by his feet.

‘Philoctetes!’ Odysseus shouted, seeing a thin brown water snake appear from the long grass at the base of the altar.

The archer looked down to where he was pointing, but too late. The snake shot forward, biting him on the top of the foot. He cried out, his face suddenly contorted with terrible pain, and clutched at the bloodstained plinth for support. The serpent fled through the long grass towards Eperitus, who with a shudder of loathing unsheathed his sword and cut it in half. At the same moment, Philoctetes fell back into the grass.

‘Suck out the venom!’ he shouted, clutching at his foot and screaming with pain. ‘In the name of the gods, suck it out!’

Palamedes, who was standing nearby, knelt down and took hold of his heel, but before he could lift it to his lips Achilles stepped forward and knocked him aside. There was a sly grin on his face as he turned and faced the crowd of shocked Greeks.

‘That’s not the way to deal with snake bites,’ he declared. ‘They need proper care. Where are Machaon and Podaleirius, the healers? They’ll know what to do.’

‘Their ships haven’t arrived yet, and you know it,’ said Menestheus, the Athenian king, frowning with anxiety at the terrible cries that were filling the air. ‘Let Palamedes suck out the venom before it’s too late.’

But Achilles refused to allow anyone near the suffering archer, other than a pair of his own Myrmidons who dragged him to one side so that the sacrifices could continue. As Odysseus stepped up to the altar some time later, Philoctetes’s screams were still ringing out over the plateau, to be heard even by the men in the galleys below. Those leaders who had performed their sacrifices left quickly, driven away by the unbearable and undiminished noise of the archer’s shrieks. Even the crowd of captured islanders on the hillside above the town had begged to be moved to the opposite side of the ridge, where they would be further away from the terrible racket.

Despite their sympathy for the wounded man, Odysseus and Eperitus were eager to carry out the sacrifice and return to their ship. A council had been arranged for that evening to discuss the strategy for the assault on Troy, but they could not bear to be near Philoctetes any longer than necessary. Not only did his cries grate on the nerves of everyone who heard them, there was now a nauseous stench coming from the wound, filling the air all around him. It was so bad that not even Philoctetes’s own soldiers could remain at his side for long in the small copse where they had carried him. Indeed, following Odysseus’s example, every man who had yet to make his sacrifice had torn strips of cloth, dampened them in water and tied them over his face to filter out the stench.

Because of his heightened senses, Eperitus suffered more than anyone. He could almost feel the pain of each wailing cry and the reek of the wound seemed to fill every corner of his brain. So it was with great relief that he accompanied Odysseus to the altar and helped him to sacrifice the lamb to Athena. But as they hastened away from the plateau to the ramp that led down to the beach, someone staggered from the shade of the small copse and collapsed at the side of the road. It was Philoctetes.

‘Odysseus,’ he pleaded, stretching out his arm towards the Ithacan king.

Odysseus removed the strip of cloth from his face and ran over to kneel at the archer’s side.

‘What is it, Philoctetes?’

‘Odysseus, promise me you won’t let Achilles kill me. He and Patroclus won’t be satisfied until I’m dead, but I’ve a part to play in this war yet, I know it. Give me your word.’

‘You have it, my friend,’ Odysseus replied, his voice strained as he tried not to gag on the awful stench. ‘I’ll do whatever I can.’

The council of war was held on the beach below the palace. A double circle of benches had been set out in the shingle and around the perimeter was a ring of torches, flames twisting and flickering vigorously in the breeze from the sea. The foam-edged waves crashed repeatedly against the shoreline and the night air was filled with the voices of the Greek leaders and their captains as they arrived, talking at an exaggerated volume in an attempt to drown out the constant groans from the top of the cliff. There were slaves aplenty, rushing here and there with wine and food, and a large force of Agamemnon’s bodyguard stood on watch all around.

Eventually only one place remained to be filled – a single, high-backed chair positioned at the western edge of the circle. This had been reserved for Agamemnon, who appeared at last, striding confidently through a gap that had been left in the benches opposite, his blood-red cloak flowing behind him. He turned as he reached the chair and looked at the torch-lit faces. On his chest was the ornate breastplate given to him by King Cinyras, and in his hand he held the staff of authority that Hephaistos had made for Zeus long ago.