The Oracles of Troy (The Adventures of Odysseus) (30 page)

‘Achilles! Achilles has returned from the dead!’

Now the mauled cavalry were streaming away, fleeing in horror at the return of the man they feared more than any other – a man who had seemingly defeated death itself and come back from the halls of Hades. The infantry and archers that still seethed about the walls like boiling water now glanced uncertainly over their shoulders, seeing hundreds of horsemen break and flee with the name of Achilles on their lips. And then, out of the dust of battle strode the very image of the dread warrior, his armour gleaming as he tugged his spear from the chest of one of his victims. A line of warriors followed in his wake, their number exaggerated by fear and the swirling dust, so that the Trojans began to feel uncertain of the victory that for a moment they thought they had won. All this Eperitus could see in the faces that were now turned towards them, and in an instant he understood the value of Neoptolemus – this second Achilles – and why he would be so important to the final destruction of Troy.

But they had gained only a minor success, temporarily driving away a company of cavalry and dinting the confidence of their enemies; the greater battle was far from over. As the rear ranks of the Trojan foot soldiers turned their shields, spears and bows towards the newcomers, a second unit of cavalry began forming up to charge. Eperitus glanced across at Odysseus, flanked on either side by Polites, Eurybates and Omeros, their spears tipped with dark blood. The king caught his gaze and raised an eyebrow in typically understated fashion at their dilemma. As Neoptolemus saw the forces gathering against them he laughed aloud, his veins flowing with reckless confidence, as if he had not only inherited his father’s armour but his indestructibility also. Levelling his great ash spear above his shoulder, he cast it at the line of cavalry and plucked a rider from his mount, sending him tumbling to his ruin in the dust.

A shout of anger erupted from the Trojans. A single horseman burst from the mass of beasts and men and galloped at the lone figure of Neoptolemus, a long spear couched beneath his arm and aimed at the warrior’s chest. Eperitus saw him and cursed: it was Apheidas. For a moment he was at a loss, wanting to see his father dead and yet not by the hand of Neoptolemus, or anyone other than himself. The Trojan cavalry were charging in the wake of their commander and Eperitus heard the voice of Diomedes calling for his men to close ranks. On the walls, Trojans and Greeks cried out the name of Achilles – the former in dismay and the latter as a rallying cry – and the fighting broke out again with renewed vigour. Then, as Eperitus seized his spear and resolved to run out to face his father, Odysseus grabbed him and pulled him back. Eperitus tried to release himself, but the king held him tight and pressed the whiskers of his beard close to his ear, so that he would be heard over the din of battle.

‘It’s too late,’ he said, guessing what was on his captain’s mind. ‘Run out there now and you’ll be killed for certain. All you can do is ask the gods to save him for you, if that’s what you want.’

Eperitus watched Apheidas galloping down on Neoptolemus, the wind trailing his hair and cloak behind him, and knew Odysseus spoke the truth. With a bitter scowl, he called on Athena to protect the man whose death he had craved all his adult life, promising her the sacrifice of an unblemished lamb if she saved him from Achilles’s son. No sooner had he spat the words from his mouth than the terrifying hum of hundreds of bowstrings filled the air. The Greeks instinctively ducked behind their shields, but their caution was unnecessary: the Trojan archers had loosed their arrows at the reincarnation of Achilles, whose unexpected appearance had filled them with dread and a determination to send him back to the Underworld. The murderous shafts poured towards the splendidly armoured figure, forcing Apheidas to break off his charge and steer his mount away from the fall of shot. Neoptolemus crouched low behind his shield, which no earthly arrow could pierce, then rose to his feet again in defiance of the archers and the fast-approaching cavalry. An instant later, he was swallowed up by the wall of charging horses.

Apheidas – still ignorant of his son’s presence – now sent his black stallion galloping towards the knot of enemy spearmen. The rest of his command followed, intent on wiping the small band of Greeks out of existence. While the Argives and Ithacans instinctively closed ranks to form a circular buttress against the fast-approaching cavalry, Eperitus rushed out to meet his father, determined to avenge the deaths of King Pandion and Arceisius. More than ever now he regretted that the spear of Ares had been left back in Pelops’s tomb. Its unerring accuracy would have brought Apheidas down in the dust, even at that distance, but Agamemnon had given strict orders that his ancestor’s crypt was not to be plundered. And so Eperitus pulled his spear behind his shoulder, aimed at his father’s chest and waited for him to come nearer.

The second volley of arrows hit the Greeks with a silent whisper. Diomedes and Odysseus had shouted warnings, but Eperitus – aware of nothing but the charging figure of his father – did not realise his danger until the bronze tip of an arrow tore into the muscle of his right thigh. It was as if his leg had been knocked from beneath him by a giant hammer, toppling him backwards so that his armoured body met the ground with a thud. He lay there like a stricken titan, momentarily paralysed by the pain of his wound and the approach of unconsciousness. His vision began to fade, like a funnel into which a dark liquid was being poured, and he was dimly aware of the thunder of hooves rising up through the ground and into his ribs. There was a mingled odour of dust, sweat and horses, too, and he knew he only had moments now to live.

Then a strong hand seized the back of his breastplate – the thick knuckles digging into the nape of his neck – and began dragging him at speed through the long grass. His vision cleared again, and he almost shouted in terror as he saw the Trojan cavalry bearing down on him less than a spear’s cast away, their well-bred mounts steaming and snorting as their riders drove them madly on into battle. More hands were hooked beneath Eperitus’s shoulders and he was hauled rapidly through a gap in the Greek line, before being dropped hastily into the grass. He caught a brief sight of Eurybates and Omeros standing over him, and then Polites – whose vast strength had pulled him to safety – before the Ithacans were turning and rejoining the double-ranked ring of Argives, ready to meet the Trojan onslaught.

Grimacing with pain, Eperitus drew himself up on one elbow and placed a hand on the sword slung beneath his left arm. The Greeks had one hope if they were to survive the charge – to stand firm and not flee, whatever their impulses might scream at them to do. It was rare that a horse would ride into an unbroken barrier of shields and spears; instead, its instincts would drive it around the sides with the rest of the herd, losing the impact of the charge and compelling its rider to attack his enemy side-on. But if one man in the shield wall lost his courage and ran, the gap he left would be like an open gate, inviting the cavalry to surge in and tear the Greeks apart from within. Eperitus had seen it happen on many occasions, and the memory of those massacres made him tense as the din of hooves reached its climax.

The Greeks held their nerve. The vast body of horses rushed past and around them, accompanied by the shouts and curses of their riders. A spear thudded into the ground beside Eperitus and he felt a body crash down behind him, though whether Greek or Trojan he could not tell in the confusion. A mounted warrior appeared, framed in the circle of blue sky above the heads of Omeros and Polites, but Eurybates pierced his throat with his spear. Suddenly there were horsemen on every side, hacking at the shields and spear points of the Greeks. The clang of bronze filled the air and for a while Eperitus feared his comrades would be overwhelmed by the sheer number of Trojans. But the horsemen were disadvantaged by having to present their unshielded flanks to the Greeks in order to wield their spears and swords, and many were brought down. After a brief but fierce fight, Eperitus heard the unmistakeable voice of his father calling out from behind them. The Trojans began to pull away.

Now a shadow fell across him and he looked up to see the outline of Odysseus, black against the slowly rising sun. He knelt down without a word and inspected his friend’s leg. The arrow was still buried in the muscle at the back of his thigh, and Odysseus probed the area gently with his fingertips, causing Eperitus to wince.

‘Despite your best efforts to kill yourself,’ the king commented, still studiously examining the wound, ‘it seems the gods have taken mercy on you. The arrow appears to have missed the bone and the main arteries, but we’re in the middle of a battle and we can’t just leave it in there.’

‘What about the horsemen?’

‘They’ve more important things than us to worry about, now. The Greeks have fought their way back out of the gates and are counter-attacking, led by Agamemnon and Menelaus.’

‘And my father?’

Odysseus took out his dagger and sliced the flight from the back of the arrow, before cutting off a strip of cloth from a dead man’s cloak. He called to Polites and nodded towards Eperitus. Then, as Polites pinned Eperitus’s arms irresistibly to his sides, Odysseus seized the shaft of the arrow and pushed it through the other side of his thigh. Eperitus cried out as a surge of fresh pain racked his body, and then blackness took him. He was woken again by the slap of cold water on his face and the sight of Odysseus holding the bloodied dart before his eyes. Polites was busily wrapping the strip of cloth about his thigh.

‘It would have caused more damage pulling it out,’ Odysseus said apologetically, tapping the barbed arrowhead with his finger. ‘And now we have to get that wound cleaned and treated, before it gets infected. Can you ride a horse?’

As he spoke, Eurybates appeared leading a tall brown mare, a survivor of the Trojan cavalry charge. Its neck was crimson with blood, but the animal seemed unhurt.

‘Yes – and fight from it, too,’ Eperitus answered, sitting up with a grimace. ‘Where’re my spear and shield?’

‘We’ll find them for you, when the battle’s over,’ Odysseus said. ‘First you need to get into the camp and have that leg properly cared for.’

Polites lifted him easily onto the back of the horse and passed him the reins. Looking quickly about, Eperitus could see the Argives had lost a few men to the attack but were standing firm beneath the command of Diomedes. Meanwhile, the battle around the walls of the camp had grown in fury. The parapet had been cleansed of Trojans and was now manned by Greek archers – led by Philoctetes – who were exchanging fire with the Trojan skirmishers on the plain below. Between them, the Greeks under Agamemnon and Menelaus had temporarily regained the gates, but had been pushed back by the cavalry while Eurypylus and Deiphobus – two figures in flashing armour at the forefront of the Trojan army – rallied their spearmen for another attack. Apheidas was nowhere to be seen, but to Eperitus’s amazement he saw a figure rise from a pile of dead horses and men further back on the battlefield. He was covered in blood and dust, and staggered drunkenly as he searched for something among the bodies around him, but the red plume of his helmet and the gleam of his great shield – despite its covering of filth and gore – put the man’s identity beyond doubt. Somehow Neoptolemus had survived the wall of Trojan cavalry. He plucked his father’s great ash spear from the body of a dead horse and turned to face the struggle before the walls. As he did so, a soldier on the battlements spotted him and called out the name of Achilles. Others joined in the cry and the spearmen under Eurypylus and Deiphobus looked over their shoulders in awe, unable to believe that the man who had struck fear into their hearts earlier had risen yet again from the dead.

The shock did not last long. Hundreds of archers turned their arrows away from the walls of the camp and aimed them instead at Neoptolemus. Before they could loose their lethal darts, though, Eurypylus shouted a deep-voiced command and every bow was lowered. Behind him, the Trojan cavalry broke off their attack on the Greeks and withdrew. The clash of weapons ceased altogether and men fell silent as Eurypylus walked towards the lone warrior. Deiphobus followed him and took him by the arm, speaking quietly but urgently in his ear. Eurypylus shrugged him off with an irritated gesture then strode out onto the empty plain, raising his spear above his head.

‘I am Eurypylus, son of Telephus, of the line of Heracles,’ he announced in Greek. ‘If the voices on the walls are to be believed, you are Achilles, son of Peleus. But Achilles fell to the arrows of Paris and his ghost is condemned to eternity in the Chambers of Decay, so who are you? Declare your name and lineage, so I can know whether you’re worthy of that armour you wear, which I will soon be claiming for myself.’

‘I’ve heard your name spoken back home on Scyros,’ Neoptolemus replied. ‘There they say you are a coward, watching from behind your mother’s skirts as your grandfather’s kingdom is slowly strangled to death. Well, I see the rumours aren’t entirely true: you’ve found the stomach to fight at least, though whether it was your decision or your mother’s I cannot tell.

‘As for me, I am Neoptolemus, son of Achilles. This armour you covet once belonged to him, but now it is mine. Vain words alone will not change that, Eurypylus, so let’s see how well your mother taught you to fight.’

Eurypylus gave a sneering laugh. ‘Better than your father taught you, boy.’

Tossing his spear into the air and catching it, he drew it back and launched it with a single, easy motion. Neoptolemus raised his shield just in time, deflecting the great bronze point so that it skipped over his head and clattered through the parched grass behind. Neoptolemus lowered his shield again and stared hard at Eurypylus, as if the Mysian king had thrown nothing more than an insult. Then, with a cry of pure hatred, he charged.

Eurypylus slid his sword from its scabbard and advanced to meet his opponent. Neoptolemus lunged at him with his father’s monstrous spear, ripping the shield from the Mysian’s shoulder and almost pulling his arm out of its socket. Eurypylus gave a roar of pain, which quickly turned to anger as he swung his sword at the younger warrior’s head. Neoptolemus caught the blow on his shield and the clang of bronze echoed back from the walls of the camp. He stabbed out with the point of his spear, missing Eurypylus’s abdomen by a fraction as the king twisted aside and backed away.