‘Priam’s woken up to the fact that he’s been fooled,’ Menelaus observed.
Myrmidons trudged from the beaches, Heroes riding chariots--contrary to my orders, which rushed the Hosts dismounted to the beach-head. Achilles sported complicated armour, ornately chased and silver limned, a graven lion glared on a bronze-faced shield, boars’-tusk helmet flaunted plumes dyed purple and vermilion. Talthybius reined my chariot at his wheel. I said pleasantly, ‘You boasted that the Myrmidons rode always first into battle. Aren’t you a little late?’
Achilles’ shifty amber eyes slid over my face and away. ‘Our ships rode close on your sterns; we checked for fear of collision.’
‘So? And afterwards backed water, and landed last of all?’
‘We had to avoid Diomedes’ galleys following in our wakes! I do what I will, Agamemnon, and be damned to excuses! Where is the Myrmidons’ station?’
I pointed. ‘On the left. Fill the gap between Agapenor’s men and Simoeis.’
I watched two thousand Myrmidons straggle in disorder to the flank, pinched my lip and considered. Was it possible that Achilles son of Peleus of Phthia carried the heart of a coward beneath his gaudy armour?
Priam’s columns hove in sight and deployed on their skirmish line. Chariots galloped from place to place, warriors clustered in consultation. Five thousand at the most, I reckoned, the odds against them two to one. Obviously Troy’s allies were not yet mustered: those Mysians and Dardanians, Carians and Thracians who would bring his Host on level terms with ours. I mourned the Council’s defensive stodginess, and prayed for the Trojans to launch an attack. Straining my eyes I recognized Priam, a stooping white-haired dotard riding a crimson chariot--the only time Laomedon’s son appeared on the field from beginning to end of the war. Hector thereafter led the Trojans into battle.
Lengthening shadows like purple pools crept from the feet of the waiting warriors. Voices murmured in the ranks, horses sidled and whickered. A swirling commotion in the Trojan Host brought shields to hand and spears aloft. Their ranks dissolved, war-bands formed in column of march and vanished in the dips and swells of the plain. Diomedes’ Heroes dispersed the sentries they left on watch and stationed outposts on the line they abandoned.
Outnumbered and outmanoeuvred, Priam gave us best.
Nestor’s vessels beached at sunset; he had seen no enemy sails. (From the day of our landing until Troy fell not a single hostile ship appeared from the Hellespont strait.) Phthia’s deception galleys grounded shortly after midnight. The entire Achaean army lay securely ashore; the Trojan War was ready to start in earnest.
* * *
Provisions and baggage were brought ashore, and contingents staked out separate camps. (Much bickering arose in claiming sites. While Achaeans south of the Isthmus who descend from Zeus’ family mingle passably well together, there’s a gulf as wide as the Chaos Ravine between gentlemen from Sparta, say, and those who hail from Locris. I claim valour and endurance for the warriors I led, but never a friendly unity.) While this was going on I took our principal leaders and a guard of two strong war-bands to reconnoitre the Trojan plain.
Young summer’s brilliant tapestry mantled the ground; crocus and hyacinth dappled fresh green grass and spread a jewelled carpet at the feet of elms and oaks--a gorgeous expanse unrolling from Troy to the sea. (In practical terms an excellent grazing ground where we pastured horses and cattle till midsummer shrivelled the grass.) On the east Simoeis wandered, a rivulet losing itself in marshes and discontinuous pools covered by white quilts of water buttercup, where tortoises were wont to sun themselves. To the west Scamander flowed, a considerable stream throughout the year, flooding in winter and bringing down logs and silt. Willows and elm trees marked its course, rushes, lotus and galingale canopied banks where the fresh young shoots of tamarisk glowed like dull red embers. When you stand between the rivers the citadel is invisible, hidden by a swelling in the plain: a long low rounded hump like a monstrous stranded dolphin.
I recognized this feature at once as a vital tactical point commanding observation of both Achaean camp and city. Helmet plumes and spearheads peeped from thorn scrub braiding the slopes--Trojans, realizing the hillock’s importance, held it as an outpost. I swung sharply away to the right, splashed across Scamander’s single ford--the banks elsewhere being marshy or steep, no obstacle for spearmen but impassable by chariots--and followed the river’s western bank. We sighted walls and towers crowning an inconspicuous bluff which loomed greyly against a background of distant forested hills.
Troy.
‘Can’t we go closer?’ Diomedes asked.
‘Not until we’ve occupied that thorny hill. You see, gentlemen,’ I continued, waving my spear at the landscape, ‘armoured attacks on Troy must be channelled between the rivers, suitable going for chariots but dominated by the swelling in the plain.’
‘Then we’ll have to take it,’ Menelaus said.
‘Indeed. Thorn Hill is our first objective.’
Whitewashed buildings sprinkled the land between Troy and the river, horses and cattle grazed the pastures. Scamander’s plain spread far to the south where Ida reared her towering snow-streaked peaks. Across the sea on the west the lordly hills of Imbros leaned in jagged silhouette against Samothrace’s distant mountains. An idyllic, tranquil scene--soon to be ploughed by the wheels of war and drenched in warriors’ blood.
We returned to camp, where every available hand was set upon the work I had commanded. After posting Nestor’s Host in advance to guard against surprise I had engaged the entire force in digging a ditch from river to river across the front of the camp: a deep steep-sided trench three thousand paces long and bridged by seven causeways. We raised behind the ditch a boulder-built breast-high wall which bronze-strapped oaken gates pierced opposite the causeways. Towers made from timber--we cleared the front of trees--studded the wall at every hundred paces; the trough of the trench was barbed by pointed stakes. From start to finish the task took fourteen days.
Gentlemen grumbled loudly, not on account of the work--they laboured as hard on their own estates--but because they longed to grapple the enemy and saw no slightest advantage in fortifying the camp. (Heroes, by and large, have a limited tactical sense.) I stonily disregarded this uninstructed grousing and sternly forbade hostilities before our base was secured.
We were lucky, in truth, to be granted the time. I humbly thanked The Lady for the Trojans’ strange passivity since their failure, when we landed, to thrust us back to the sea.
Menelaus and I had first-hand knowledge of Troy which persuaded us both the city could not be invested. The nature of the ground, formidable defences and potential allied strength forbade the usual leaguering I had practised on small fortresses like Helice. Most of Priam’s confederates came from the mountainous hinterland; so siege lines round the city were vulnerable from without. Therefore it was impossible to sever communications between Troy and her allied realms, or starve her out. but we could deprive the garrison of local supplies and make it depend on allies for provisions brought by circuitous mountain routes--a precarious makeshift in the face of vigilant foes.
Hence my strategy aimed firstly at dominating the fields that fed Troy’s flocks, and then destroying towns on the Troad seaboard which traded with the enemy.
* * *
When the camp had been properly fortified I withdrew Nestor’s covering force and prepared to assault the irritating hump which observed our every move and, like a stopper in a wine jar’s neck, prevented chariots breaking out to harry the Trojan plain. Pylian patrols reported the hill occupied in strength, though matted vegetation on the slopes made appraisal of numbers difficult.
‘All dismounted,’ Nestor said. ‘Their vehicles probably hidden in rear.’
‘The hill is no more than a bulge,’ I said. ‘A chariot charge should do the trick.’
On a windless sunlit morning war-bands crossed the causeways and paraded in triple ranks on the land between the rivers. The streams constricted the fightin
g line to fifteen hundred paces and imposed a frontal attack allowing no room for manoeuvre. Mycenae held the centre, with Argos on the right and Pylos on the left. Sparta and the Myrmidons followed in reserve; the rest of the forces garrisoned the camp.
Chariots led each war-band, spearmen marching behind. I stationed myself in the centre, two horses’ lengths ahead so every man could see me. (A foolhardy post that Atreus used to adopt.) I looked to left and right, saw chariots straightly arrayed and told Talthybius to advance.
The lines moved at a walk, wavering on the contours of the ground. When the right wing passed Scamander’s ford I halted the Hosts and restored the disarranged dressing. We were now three hundred paces from the foot of our objective and viewed the enemy clearly: helmets, shields and twinkling spearheads thronging the bushes that cloaked the rise.
I tightened helmet strap, fronted tall waisted shield--triple-layered bronze-faced oxhide--wiped sweating palm on beard and gripped the ashwood spear shaft. Lifting spear on high I filled my lungs and shouted.
That indolent pederast Ascephalus once confided to me in Orchomenos, ‘I loathe chariot charges. They’re dangerous and noisy, and people get so excited'--a disgraceful attitude for supposedly valiant Heroes. At the time I pretended scorn; privately I agree with every word he said. This, my second wheel-borne onset--not counting those futile cavortings at Megara years ago--proved even more unpleasant than the charge against Thebes’ Scavengers. Chariots thundered forward, Companions whirled their whips, Heroes’ spears swooped level in a bronze-barbed rolling wave. Hammering hoofbeats and clanging wheels and warriors’ raucous war-cries drummed in clamorous chorus.
All in all a turbulent and frightening experience.
An arrow scraped my shield. I nosed the rim, tucked spear shaft tight beneath armpit. The slant of the hill raced nearer. Talthybius plucked the reins, headed for a gap among the bushes, called loudly on The Lady when he saw what lay ahead.
Thorn scrub had concealed the boulders, crags and rain-scoured clefts which scarred the mound’s whole surface. The chariot bucked and canted and all but threw me out. I freed a hand from the shield grips, clutched the guard rail and hauled myself up. Impetus carried the vehicle a horse-length up the slope; the stallions scrabbled for footing and struggled beneath the yoke. All along the base of the hill chariots ground to a tangled halt. A second rank came pelting up behind.
‘Turn, Talthybius, turn!’
By a miracle of driving skill he coaxed the horses round, stumbled over boulders, skidded in the clefts. I faced the cars advancing, flung both arms high and shouted till the breath rasped in my throat. Although my voice was drowned in the din Companions saw disaster, wrenched reins till sinews cracked, lurched to a stop and swung about. Axle naves collided, poles snapped short and teams entangled.
Flayed by a tempest of arrows and spears the men who had crashed the hill strove frenziedly to extricate their chariots. In ones and twos and scattered groups they turned and fled from the storm, and left amid the thorn scrub a welter of tilted vehicles. Dead and wounded warriors draped the bushes. Pursued by derisive Trojan shouts Heroes and Companions limped fast as armour and wounds allowed beyond the missiles’ range. (Fortunate that only voices chased us--had the enemy mounted a counter-attack I’d hate to ponder the outcome.)
A throwing spear clanged my breastplate, slingstones thumped on shield. Reminded sharply of mortality I told Talthybius to spring his horses. We reined on the line where the charge had started and waited while the sundered war-bands rallied. Diomedes, frowning blackly, galloped from the Argive ranks.
‘Our own damned fault!’ he spluttered. ‘Why didn’t we reconnoitre the rise before committing the armour? Now what?’
‘Attack dismounted. No other alternative.’
Nestor drove up, calm and collected, not a dint on his armour, his horses unlathered. (In justice I must allow that Nestor’s years absolved him from heading charges. A king over sixty years old has no business on a battlefield at all.) ‘The fault is mine,’ he said. ‘I should have told my patrols to take a closer look.’
‘Recriminations won’t help,’ I said. ‘Dismount your Heroes--we’ll try it again on foot. I’ll bring Sparta from reserve to strengthen the line.’
These rearrangements took time. The sun blazed overhead before the attack was ready, Heroes shoulder to shoulder in front, spearmen ranked behind. Again I stood in the centre and a dozen paces ahead with bodyguard Heroes beside my shield. (A sensible precaution--foolish to continue tempting fate.) We tramped towards the hill, weighed down by chariot armour, greaves, tall shields and ten-foot spears. Arrows struck us first, then javelins and slingstones. (Comparatively harmless missiles against Heroes heavily mailed, but dangerous for spearmen.) I fronted shield and bowed my head, peeped over the rim and clambered up, edged round bushes, tripped on stones. Exertion sucked the breath from my lungs, few had wind for war-cries. All the clamour bellowed from Trojans on the ridge.
Bowmen who crouched in the scrub scattered and fled as we neared them. A shield-wall fanged by spears, and garishly plumed helmets cresting harsh unyielding faces. I edged towards a warrior taller than his fellows, balanced my spear and lunged overhanded. His shield swung wide to ward the thrust, and I saw his countenance clearly. The years unreeled in a flash to my youth, to the days when as Atreus’ envoy I went to Laomedon’s Troy.
Hector son of Priam.
His counterstroke came like a sun-streak, a foin aimed straight at my throat. I caught the point on shield-bronze and glissaded the spearhead over my shoulder. (A parry Diores taught me thirty years ago.) Dropping my lumbering spear I seized Hector’s ashwood shaft and wrenched it from his grasp. Both fleetingly disarmed we glared above our shield rims.
His eyes widened, lips parted in a grin. ‘Greetings, sire! A lovely day for fighting! Shall we take to swords?’
‘Guard yourself, Hector!’ I called.
I tugged my blade clear and parried his slash, recovered and cut at his helmet. Bodyguard Heroes alongside, hearing Hector’s name, backed away respectfully to let us fight it out, and confined themselves to stopping interference. All very fine and romantic--but individual combat has no place in modern war whatever the bards may warble. Moreover Hector’s sword cuts swished uncomfortably close; my own returns clanged dully on his shield.
‘Get him, you fools!’ I panted.
My Heroes sprang from their torpor; four long spears converged on Hector’s breast. He put up his shield and retreated, and vanished among the press of the struggling warriors. I leaned gasping on my sword hilt and squinted along the battle line.
Heroes and spearmen intermingled pressed upon the Trojans, the shouting and the clashing re-echoed from the skies. Though Priam’s men fought stubbornly we forced them over the rounded crest and down the farther slope. The battle swayed in the balance until Argos’ men on the right decisively clinched the issue.
Diomedes suddenly went berserk. I saw him charge the enemy, swinging his sword and bellowing. Carving a swathe and trampling bodies he cut like a maddened bull into Hector’s ranks. Argives beheld their ruler’s valour, raised a mighty roar and flooded in his wake. The onslaught smashed the Trojans’ left and drove them on to the plain. Diomedes’ tactical sense outweighed his furious bloodlust: swinging his war-bands left he threatened the enemy’s rear. Trojans heard Achaean voices shrilling at their backs and retreated in a panic from the hill, ran for chariots, mounted and galloped for Troy. The Argives slew some fleeing spearmen, and started a senseless chase. I hurriedly sent a runner to check pursuit.
Victorious Achaeans rallied on the mound, tended wounded, collected the slain. I stood on the summit and gazed at Troy. Gaunt grey walls gripped the edge of a scarp and curved in a forbidding sweep above the apron of a plateau. Spearheads flashed on the ramparts, fugitives crowded the Scaean Gate: a mouse-hole in the distance.
We had won the first of three main clashes deciding the fate of Troy, and stood within sight of our goal.
(
Although in a year’s campaigning there were skirmishes in plenty, and many patrol collisions, to listen to camp-fire singers extolling Heroic deeds you’d believe we fought without stopping--incessant contention day after day. Which is obviously nonsensical. Since neither we nor the Trojans could afford unlimited losses both sides carefully weighed and prepared the few offensives they mounted. But military realities never worry bards--the biggest liars begotten. The worst is Achilles' Chian poet, who magnifies the Myrmidons’ feats and glosses over mine.)
* * *
Spearmen carried casualties to camp; and an unnecessary dispute crackled between the leaders on the hill. Achilles wanted to abandon the position.
‘If we stay we must hold in strength,’ he said. ‘Three thousand men at least--an isolated outpost far from camp, liable to be taken by storm before we can send reinforcements.’
Diomedes bandaged an arrow-scrape on his arm, clamped an end of the rag in his teeth and knotted it tight. ‘We’ve shed a deal of blood to win Thorn Hill. Why give it back to the enemy?’
‘Because it’s a feature they can’t afford to lose,’ Achilles said, ‘so they’ll fight like boars to regain it. Are we to have a succession of battles over this unimportant pimple? One thing I assure you’--he sent me a glowering stare--‘my Myrmidons won’t be stationed here and wait to be overrun!’
‘Don’t worry yourself about that!’ I snapped. ‘None but the most reliable troops will hold so essential a post!’
Nestor said soothingly, ‘The enemy nurses a bloody nose--he’s unlikely to risk another defeat too soon. We’ve won the key to the Trojan plain. Open the lock and ravage their lands--the object of the battle we fought today. When all their herds are slaughtered, cornfields burned and farmsteads razed, when not a goat remains to comfort Trojan bellies we’ll again debate the question of occupying Thorn Hill.’
Nestor’s quiet wisdom calmed Achilles. After a deal of discussion I detached Idomeneus’ Cretans and Agapenor’s Arcadians to hold the ridge; the rest withdrew to camp.
King in Splendour Page 27
