The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus) (29 page)

W
hat does it mean?’ Omeros asked, leaning against the bow rail and staring at the thin columns of smoke twisting up from the shores of Ilium.

‘There’s been another battle,’ Diomedes answered.

‘Is it Troy?’ Neoptolemus said, shouldering through the crowd of men gathering at the prow of the galley. ‘Are we too late?’

He seized hold of the bow rail and glared at the dark crust of land, his face filled with concern that the war might be over and his chance of emulating his father gone.

‘Perhaps we are,’ Diomedes said, ‘but not because Troy has fallen. That smoke’s coming from the Greek camp.’

Eperitus put a hand against one of the leather ropes that threaded down from the mast, steadying himself against the roll of the ship. They had sailed through the night, with Odysseus and Sthenelaus navigating their course by the stars as they hurried back to Ilium, and the early morning sun was now rising full in their faces as they forged east across the waves. He shielded his eyes against its glare and tried to make out what the source of the smoke was. Unlike his comrades, to whom the far shore was but a strip of grey cresting the blue of the Aegean, he could see the walls and towers that guarded the Greek camp and the hundreds of black-hulled ships drawn up on the beach behind them. He could see the mounds of burnt wood on the upper reaches of the ridge that hemmed in the camp, from which the dark spires of smoke were rising. And he could see that more columns drifted up from the plain beyond the defences of the Greeks.

‘The camp hasn’t been destroyed. There’s been a battle, though; the smoke is from the funeral pyres of the dead. Some are inside the walls, but some are outside, and that can only mean the camp is under siege.’

Odysseus, who had been at the helm with Sthenelaus, now joined them.

‘You’re right, though where Priam found enough soldiers to launch another attack at this late stage in the war I don’t know. But if the Trojans are laying siege to the walls, then we’ll be of more use landing further up the coast, beyond the camp, and seeing what we can do from there.’

Diomedes gave him a questioning look.

‘With sixty Argives? We’d be better landing in the camp and bolstering the defences.’

‘You seem to forget I am with you,’ Neoptolemus said. ‘The son of Achilles is worth more than sixty Argives, or even six hundred. If there’s a Trojan army before the walls of the camp, we should attack them from behind and drive them in panic and slaughter back to their own city.’

Diomedes looked at him for a moment, but despite his greater rank, age and experience decided to concede the point.

‘The gods themselves chose you, Neoptolemus,’ he said, giving him a slight bow, ‘and who am I to question their judgement? If you’re ready to stand in your father’s footprints, then it will be a pleasure to fight beside you.’

Neoptolemus smiled and gripped Diomedes’s hand.

‘Then let’s arm for battle.’

He set off towards the helm, where his splendid armour was kept hidden beneath drapes of sailcloth. Eperitus looked at Odysseus, who shrugged and turned on his heel, shouting orders for a change of course away from the camp and towards Troy.

As the ship’s crew burst into a brief period of high activity, Eperitus went to the bench where his armour was stowed and pulled on his breastplate. Omeros joined him, helping him with the buckles that held the two halves together. Eperitus glanced across at Neoptolemus, who was struggling to fit the bronze cuirass that Hephaistos had crafted in exact mimicry of Achilles’s muscular torso. An Argive offered his help – doubtless keen to lay his hands on the beautiful armour – but Neoptolemus refused sharply and struggled on. Not for the first time, Eperitus found himself wondering how Neoptolemus would perform in battle, whether he had inherited Achilles’s prowess, pride and thirst for glory, or whether he would wither beneath the great shadow of his father. The only thing Eperitus felt certain of was that Neoptolemus would be a lone warrior, suited more to the heroic duels between champions than the close press of the battle lines, in which each man’s life depended as much on his neighbour as himself.

By the time the crew were armed and ready to face whatever lay waiting on the plains of Ilium, the shoreline was close enough for them all to see the beached galleys of the Greek fleet to the south-east, the sprawl of tents beyond them and the defensive walls that had been erected on the ridge above. Long trails of smoke still fed upwards from the pyres of the dead, leaning at diagonals with the prevailing westerly wind. But of a besieging army there was no sign, until the moment the galley began its approach towards a small cove a short march north of the Greek camp. Then they heard the familiar hum of massed arrows and saw the sky above the cliffs to the south-east darken as thousands of missiles filled the air. A sense of haste took hold of the galley as the sail was lowered and the oars thrust through their leather loops into the water. The crew rowed the vessel silently into the cove and the anchor stones were cast into the shallow sea. Then they leapt overboard and splashed towards the narrow semicircle of sand.

Neoptolemus was first to reach the shore and left deep footprints behind him as he sprinted up the beach. He gained the shelf of black rock at the edge of the sand and stopped, waiting, it seemed, for the others to join him. But as Eperitus reached him he realised Neoptolemus’s hesitation had been nothing to do with his comrades. He stood with his feet at the lip of a shallow rock pool, staring down at his reflection on its still surface. Eperitus saw the image in the circle of water and frowned in disbelief. The figure was not Neoptolemus but Achilles, with his distinctive golden hair and beard and the unforgettable face that was both terrifying and wonderful to look upon. As the others gathered around, an awed silence fell over them.

‘It’s the ghost of your father,’ Odysseus announced, standing beside Neoptolemus. ‘The gods have placed his image in the pool as a sign to you. You must complete the destiny they denied him, Neoptolemus, and bring about the end of Troy.’

‘I have no memory of what he looked like,’ Neoptolemus said. ‘He was just a shadow, flitting about in the furthest corners of my past. And yet I’ve never been able to escape that shadow. My mother, my aunts and my grandfather were always encouraging me to be like him. And now even the immortals want me to replace the man whom they destroyed.’ He set the toe of his sandal against a smooth black pebble and flicked it into the pool, shattering the image in the water. ‘Well, we shall see whether I’m worthy of his legacy or not, and whether I can also make a name for
myself
. And the place to begin is atop that ridge.’

He sprang across the pool, seemingly heedless of the weight of his armour or the great ash spear that most men could barely lift, and ran towards the grassy ridge that led to the plains beyond. The others followed, spreading out into a line as they topped the ridge and looking across at the sun-bleached walls of the Greek camp and the dark mass of the Trojan army that lapped about them. They were still some way to the north-west of the raging battle, but they could hear the roar of thousands of voices and the ringing of weapons. Hundreds of ladders were visible against the battlements, where indistinct figures struggled for mastery over each other.

Neoptolemus, who had instinctively knelt down in the high grass to observe the battle, turned as Odysseus, Diomedes and Eperitus joined him. His young eyes were alive with excitement.

‘The Trojans are already on the walls. It’ll be a fair sprint if you’re up to it, but we haven’t a moment to lose.’

Diomedes shook his head and pointed at the crowds of Trojan cavalry waiting impatiently behind the mass of attacking spearmen. ‘They’d spot us before we could cover half the distance. We’d be cut to pieces on the open plain.’

‘We’ll follow the gulley,’ Odysseus said, indicating the dried up stream that fed down into the cove from the plateau. It curved eastward in a thin line that swept behind the waiting cavalry, reaching to within a spear’s throw of them before veering off to the north. Though the water had disappeared with the summer sun, the tall grasses that marked its course would provide them with reasonable cover if they kept their heads low.

Neoptolemus clearly disliked the notion of sneaking into a fight, but gave a reluctant nod and followed Odysseus at a stoop along the shallow gulley. The rest trailed after them, over sixty in all, and the clatter of their armour and weapons earned stern rebukes from Diomedes and Sthenelaus as they brought up the rear. Last of all was Eperitus, who had lingered as long as possible while his sharp eyes swept the ranks of restless horsemen in search of Apheidas. His father was the commander of the Trojan cavalry, and though Eperitus knew he had to be somewhere on the battlefield, he was unable to pick out the hated figure from among the multitude of the enemy. Clutching his spears in his hand, he followed Sthenelaus into the narrow defile.

Fortunately, the din of the battle covered the sound of their approach and the hundreds of horsemen did not spot them through the tall brown grass as they traced the course of the dead stream to a point behind the nearest squadron. As the line of spearmen halted and lay down in the grass, Eperitus could see the backs of their enemies’ helmeted heads as they watched the battle raging on the walls. Then there was a shout of excitement and the Trojan cavalry followed it with a cheer. Eperitus dared to raise his head above the cover of the grass and saw the dust shaking from the timbers of one of the gates as it opened from within. But no force of Greeks came sallying forth. As the horsemen had guessed, the gates had been captured by the spearmen who had scaled the walls and now a flood of their comrades were pouring in through the breached defences.

Neoptolemus chose that moment to rise to his feet. Despite the dust, his armour gleamed in the morning sun and Eperitus could see the figures moving within the concentric circles of his shield. The red plume of the helmet was like a river of blood flowing over the nape of his neck and down the back of his bronze cuirass. As he stood the other Greeks joined him, climbing awkwardly to their feet beneath their unwieldy armour. The line of warriors moved their shields onto their arms and readied their spears. Odysseus strode forward through the grass, raising his hand high above his head, and still the Greeks had not been noticed. Eperitus pressed his fingers to the picture of a white hart on the inside of his shield, a reminder of his daughter Iphigenia, the first victim of the war against Troy. Cupping a spear in his right hand, he took aim at a horseman who was unnervingly close now that he had emerged from the protection of the gulley.

It was then that one of the Trojans turned and saw the newcomers. Confused as to why a group of spearmen were behind the cavalry and not in the thick of the fighting, he reined his horse about and trotted towards them for a closer look. An expression of alarm spread across his features and he pulled up sharply, turning his mount to the left. He shouted a warning to his countrymen, just as Neoptolemus ran forward and hurled his father’s spear at him. The bronze point drove clean through his leather cuirass and pulled him bodily from his horse, sending him crashing to the ground. Neoptolemus yelled in triumph and ran to retrieve his spear from his first kill. Several cavalrymen turned at the commotion behind them, their faces instantly transformed with fear at the sight of the enemy warriors. Then Odysseus dropped his hand and sixty spears flew through the air towards the startled Trojans.

N
EOPTOLEMUS AND
E
URYPYLUS

T
he volley of spears was followed by the anguished cries of men and the whinnies of dying horses. Panic tore through the orderly ranks of the Trojans as mounts crashed to the ground in clouds of dust and riders struggled to control their startled beasts. Eperitus’s weapon had hit the base of his target’s spine, sending him twisting in bloody agony from the back of his horse. Gripping his remaining spear, he joined the Argives and Ithacans as they rushed the confused cavalrymen. Odysseus and Diomedes led the charging Greeks, but ahead of them all was Neoptolemus, his father’s spear retrieved and held out before him. A Trojan noble, resplendent in his cuirass of overlapping bronze scales and his boars’ tusk helmet, dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and came out to meet him. Neoptolemus’s spear found his chest with stunning speed and the man toppled back from his horse, a look of shock on his face. In a single, fluid movement, Neoptolemus drew out his sword and hewed the man’s head from his shoulders. Then the line of advancing Greeks swept past him and smashed into the frightened mass of their enemies.

Eperitus’s weapon found the throat of an ageing rider, dyeing his white beard red as the blood gushed out over his chest. He sensed a looming presence to his left and turned with his shield to meet the jabbing spear point of another horseman. The man’s thrust lacked the momentum of a full charge, though, and was easily brushed aside as Eperitus’s spear simultaneously found his attacker’s upper arm, tearing through the unprotected muscle. Dropping his weapon with a cry of pain, the Trojan flicked back his heels and sent his mount galloping out of the melee and away to safety across the plain.

Others were not so fortunate. The ruin of dead horses and riders was all about, but the worst of the destruction was piled around Neoptolemus. Standing amid the corpses of men and beasts, he dealt out death with a speed and ferocity that reminded Eperitus of Achilles. He wielded the great shield as if it were a wooden toy, parrying every blow that his attackers dared aim at him, while his sword found their flesh again and again until it was running with gore. Then, as Eperitus watched in silent admiration, someone pointed at the god-made armour that had so awed and terrified the Trojans in earlier battles. A cry of dismay went up and Neoptolemus’s enemies fell back, leaving a ring of annihilation around him. The shout was repeated, spreading quickly through the hundreds of closely packed horsemen, and though they outnumbered their foes several times over they began to withdraw from the fight, some of the horses rearing and flailing the air in panic as they retreated. The shouts were in the Trojan tongue, but Eperitus understood them and smiled.