The Gates Of Troy

by Iliffe, Glyn

  ‘Follow him, quickly!’ Odysseus shouted to Eperitus and Antiphus. ‘Stop him before he kills somebody.’

  They ran out of the garden, followed by Nestor, Ajax and Lycomedes. Achilles – for there was no longer any doubt about Pyrrha’s true identity – was running towards a knot of warriors by the gates. They were armed with swords and shields and were methodically attacking each other with slow, deliberate moves. As they saw the naked warrior running swiftly towards them they cast down their weapons and backed away, their arms held over their heads in submission.

  ‘Achilles!’ Odysseus shouted, his great voice carrying across the courtyard.

  The warrior skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust.

  ‘Achilles! Throw down your armaments. There are no Trojans, and Scyros is not under attack.’

  Achilles turned to face the Ithacan king. His golden hair flashed in the sunlight and his rage-filled eyes were terrible to look at, even for seasoned warriors.

  ‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ Odysseus continued, holding his arms wide to emphasize his apology. ‘I suspected Lycomedes had hidden you among his daughters – the last place anyone would look – and I had to find a way to make you throw off your disguise. And what better way is there of discovering a warrior than a call to arms?’

  Achilles tossed the shield aside, but gripped the spear more fiercely as he walked towards Odysseus. Eperitus moved two paces forward, placing himself to the front of his king’s right shoulder, ready to take any blow the warrior might deliver. Though Achilles did not have the bulk of Odysseus or Ajax, Eperitus had never seen such definition in a man’s muscles. The skin was so tightly drawn over his limbs and chest that each small movement of the tissue beneath was visible. The heavy ash spear with its socketed bronze point, which Neoptolemus had struggled even to lift, was carried easily, as if its weight was trifling in the man’s hand. And the intense look in his eyes as he approached was like a lightning bolt from Zeus, awe-inspiring and fearsome to look at. Nevertheless, Odysseus did not flinch as he waited for the younger warrior to come within a spear’s length of him, where he stopped.

  Achilles looked for a long moment at the king of Ithaca, and then at Eperitus who stood before him, unarmed but with his fists clenched. Then Achilles’s severe expression was melted by a smile and his face became even more strikingly handsome. He offered Odysseus his hand.

  ‘Your reputation for cunning is well deserved, Odysseus, son of Laertes,’ he said. ‘I am Achilles, prince of Phthia, son of Peleus, and perhaps you will oblige me with how you knew to find me here on Scyros. But first you can tell me the name of your friend, who thinks his fists can stop the point of my spear.’

  ‘I can speak for myself. My name is Eperitus, captain of King Odysseus’s guard.’

  ‘It’s strange that a man should name himself but not his father,’ Achilles replied. ‘But if it doesn’t matter to you, then it doesn’t matter to me either. I only hope Odysseus appreciates the loyalty of a man who is prepared to step between his king and the wrath of Achilles, which is to invite certain death.’

  ‘Don’t be so certain of that,’ Eperitus said, offering his hand. Achilles took it with a smile.

  ‘And by your grey hair and many scars of battle,’ Achilles continued, looking at Odysseus’s other companions, ‘I guess you can only be King Nestor of Pylos, son of Neleus. I’d heard you had dusted off your armour one last time to help the expedition against Troy.’

  ‘Then you must also know why we’re here,’ Nestor responded, accepting Achilles’s hand.

  ‘I’m not ignorant, old friend. Nor am I an idiot.’

  ‘A coward then, perhaps?’ said Ajax.

  Achilles met the king of Salamis’s angry gaze and held it.

  ‘And this great brute must be my cousin Ajax. Even in sleepy Scyros they speak about you with fear in their voices. Some even say you’re the greatest warrior in Greece, though not within my hearing.’

  ‘Then I shall speak clearly, so that you can be sure to hear me: I am the greatest warrior in Greece.’

  A sly smile crossed Achilles’s lips as he locked eyes with Ajax, their gazes struggling against each other like equally matched wrestlers.

  ‘I have my own claim to that title,’ he said. ‘Perhaps, cousin, we should compare the number of Trojans we slay. That will tell us who is truly the greatest.’

  ‘That’s a contest I would enjoy,’ Ajax replied, unable to prevent a grin spreading across his bearded face. ‘But first I’d like to know why you were hiding away in a girl’s dress when you were oath-bound to come to Aulis.’

  ‘I have a wife whose beauty can drive a man insane with lust, and a young son who needs his father to preserve him from the ways of a houseful of women,’ Achilles said, looking across to where Deidameia and Neoptolemus stood beneath the arched entrance to the garden. ‘And even Odysseus wasn’t beyond a bit of trickery to get out of this war for the sake of his family, or so the rumour goes.’

  Odysseus shrugged. ‘We can console each other on the shores of Ilium. But do you really expect us to believe a warrior of your reputation would let such things keep you from the temptation of glory, not to mention break the oath that was taken in your name?’

  ‘No,’ Achilles answered. ‘But I am bound by older oaths than that. Thetis, my mother, foresaw my doom on the day she brought me forth from her womb: that I could live out a long and peaceful life at home in Phthia, or seek death and everlasting glory on the fields before Troy. A year before Helen was married she made me swear never to seek Troy, though she did not tell me why in those days. And now I feel I have honoured my word to her: I have not looked for Troy, but Troy has found me. Now I am bound by the later oath that Patroclus took on my behalf, and though it will mean my death I will come to Troy with you. I choose the path of glory.’

  He looked over at the archway again, but this time his family were gone and the gates were shut against him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE WHITE HART

  A few days later Eperitus stood with Peisandros, the Myrmidon spearman who had helped save him from execution in Sparta ten years before. They were at the edge of a clearing in the wood that overlooked the Greek camp. At its centre stood a lone plane tree, and welling up from between its roots was a spring of clear water. It was said Artemis would stop there and drink by the light of the full moon while she hunted her prey, and aware of its sacred associations Agamemnon had ordered a circle of twelve marble altars – one for each of the principal gods – to be built around the spring. It was on these white plinths that the kings and princes, along with their priests and attendants, were performing the final sacrifices to the gods before the voyage to Troy.

  As the fleet made its preparations in the straits below, ready to sail at first light the next morning, the warm, torpid air of the wood was filled with the sounds of prayer and slaughter. Animal after animal was butchered, flayed and jointed. The stench of blood from the gore-splattered altars mingled with the smell of charred flesh from the fires around the clearing, where the priests were burning the fat-wrapped thighs of the beasts in offering to the mighty Olympians. A thick pall of smoke hung over the treetops like a grey ceiling, blotting out the blue skies above, while in the shadow of the wood hundreds more dull-minded beasts tugged at their leashes or snorted impatiently as they awaited their turn to be sacrificed.

  Agamemnon led the relentless procession of death, dressed in a lion’s pelt that hung down to his ankles. The upper jaw of the once mighty animal was worn like a cap, and beneath the shadow of its sharp teeth the king’s face looked pale and hard. In his bloody fist he clutched a silver dagger with which he mechanically sliced open the throats of the animals that were set before him, his lips moving in an unceasing prayer to Zeus. The familiar golden cuirass he had worn since becoming king of Mycenae was gone, replaced by a new breastplate sent by King Cinyras of Cyprus as a gift to the King of Men, as Agamemnon had now taken to calling himself. It was exquisitely worked with numerous bands
of gold, blue enamel and tin; three snakes slithered upwards on either side to the neck, their outlines glittering in the light of the sacrificial fires. The other leaders were clustered around the remaining altars, where they were assisted in the various stages of sacrifice by an army of priests and slaves.

  ‘There’s going to be some feast tonight,’ Peisandros said, grinning as he watched Achilles joint a goat he had slain only moments earlier in dedication to Ares. ‘Just the thing we need to see us off to war.’

  Peisandros was a thickset man with a large stomach and a wiry black beard, shot through with grey. Despite his fierce eyes and bushy black eyebrows, he had a carefree cheerfulness that had appealed to Eperitus from their very first meeting a decade ago. Their friendship had been renewed at the gathering of the Myrmidon army in Phthia, shortly after Achilles had sailed from Scyros with Odysseus, Nestor and Ajax, and since then they had spent much time together, training and retraining the troops under their command until they could teach them nothing more.

  ‘Make the most of it, Peisandros,’ Eperitus replied. ‘It’s a long voyage to Ilium and we’ll be lucky to get anything more than bread and a few smoked fish on the way.’

  ‘Ah, but when we’ve sacked Troy,’ Peisandros said, wagging his finger, ‘we can eat our fill in the ruins of Priam’s palace. That’s a thought that can tide over any man, even one with an appetite like mine.’

  ‘Be careful you don’t starve to death then, if that’s what you’re waiting for.’

  ‘Come now, Eperitus, you need to be more optimistic. There’s a fine army in the camp down there – a match for anything Ilium can produce. Besides, you haven’t seen Achilles fight yet.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen the walls of Troy,’ Eperitus responded, leaning against the bole of a tree and watching Odysseus sacrifice a lamb to Athena.

  ‘It’ll take more than stone to stop us Myrmidons,’ Peisandros insisted, thumping his armoured chest proudly. Then his ardent expression faded and he cast a sidelong glance at the gathered kings. ‘Still, there is one thing that could rob us of victory.’

  ‘Agamemnon?’ Eperitus asked. Peisandros had never hidden his low opinion of the king of Mycenae.

  ‘Who else?’ Peisandros confirmed with a sigh. ‘The more I see of him, the more I’m convinced he’s losing his grip. For one thing, he’s becoming a ghost of his former self: pasty-faced, sunken-eyed, thinner; and if it’s because he’s losing sleep or his appetite, what does that say about his state of mind?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s working too hard. Making preparations for an army this big has to make its demands,’ Eperitus said unconvincingly, watching as Agamemnon signalled for his priests to bring him a white heifer.

  Peisandros dismissed Eperitus’s argument with a flick of his hand. ‘That doesn’t explain his change of attitude though, does it?’ he contended, his naturally booming voice uncomfortably loud amidst the muttered prayers and the whimpering of animals. ‘I know he’s always been more pompous than most, even for a noble, but look at him now! Who does he think he is with that lion’s skin hanging off his back – Heracles? And I don’t like this new title he’s awarded himself, “King of Men”. The Trojans might enjoy grovelling before their kings like gods, but we’re Greeks, Eperitus. We’re free men!’

  ‘Odysseus says it’s a fitting title for the elected leader of the Greek nations,’ Eperitus said, though without enthusiasm. He felt as uncomfortable as Peisandros did about Agamemnon’s new title, but if it was good enough for Odysseus then it was good enough for him, too.

  ‘Odysseus is just being clever,’ Peisandros said. ‘He knows the best way to influence Agamemnon is to make a show of his loyalty – the voice heard clearest is the voice that’s nearest, as we say back home. I just hope for all our sakes that he can keep his strange moods in check. You told me yourself how he hit his own brother in front of the whole assembly of kings.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be happier if he loses his altar-stone coldness altogether,’ Eperitus responded. ‘I can’t read a man who doesn’t show his emotions.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it makes me feel uneasy,’ Peisandros growled. ‘Normally I’m like you – I’d rather have a man yell at me, punch me, or even throw his arms about my neck and kiss me. Achilles is like that: as proud and moody as a little child, but passionate and generous, too. But when I see what’s going on inside Agamemnon, it tells me something’s wrong. I’d have trusted the old him, but not this one.’

  As they watched, the King of Men seized the white heifer by its gold-covered horns, pulled its head back and held his bloody dagger to its neck.

  ‘Father Zeus,’ he called aloft, his voice dry and cracking from the inhaled smoke of the fires. ‘God of gods, I offer you the life of this unblemished beast and ask that you send us a sign of your support for us. Give us encouragement – let us know that victory will be ours.’

  Calchas hobbled forward and scattered the sacrificial grain. Agamemnon had not allowed the priest to leave his side since he had been proven right about the whereabouts of Achilles, and even insisted on his presence at the nightly councils of war. The king’s own seer had been sent back to Mycenae and all his privileges given to the Trojan instead, whom Agamemnon plagued with questions about Troy, Priam, Hector and Paris. The fact that Calchas would not reveal more than Apollo had already allowed him to know only increased his credibility in the eyes of the king.

  The heifer gave an impulsive nod of its head, which Agamemnon read as a good sign and immediately slit its throat. The strength left the animal’s legs and it fell heavily to the ground, its dark blood gushing over the trampled grass. Suddenly a loud hissing shivered through the groans and prayers. Calchas turned and gave a shout of fear as he stumbled away from the altar of Zeus. The other priests also fell back in shock, whilst Agamemnon stared at the base of the plinth with wide, disbelieving eyes. Within moments, all the kings and princes had fallen quiet, their exhortations dying on their lips as they turned to look at the altar to the king of the gods, where a huge serpent had coiled itself several times around the gore-splashed marble.

  It raised its triangular head and hissed at the mass of men, before unwinding its long, blue and red body from around the plinth. Eperitus looked at it and gave an instinctive shudder, his phobia of snakes gripping him even though the vile creature was some way off. Then, as the snake began slithering through the grass towards the plane tree, Diomedes drew his sword and moved towards it.

  ‘Don’t touch it!’ Calchas screamed, rushing forward with his palms held out. ‘Not unless you want to bring the wrath of Zeus down on you. Can’t you see the beast has been sent by the gods?’

  As he spoke the serpent coiled about the bole of the tree and moved up towards the topmost branches where, though barely noticed before in the noise of the sacrifices, every man could now see a nest of sparrows. The helpless chicks were calling loudly for their mother, unaware of the death that was creeping ever closer from below. Then the broad, flat head of the monster rose slowly over the edge of the nest, waving slightly from left to right as it eyed the unfortunate birds. A moment later it struck, snatching one of the screeching brood and devouring it whole so that the struggling shape was briefly visible as it slid down the neck of the snake. The kings and princes below left their sacrificing and formed a circle about the tree, watching awestruck as one by one the chicks were eaten, until the last one remained, chirping fearfully in its loneliness. In that moment its mother arrived, squawking with panic as she saw the violation of her family, but the snake lashed out and took her by the wing as she hovered above the nest, swallowing her whole as it had done the others. Finally, it closed its jaws over the head of the last remaining bird and plucked it from its moss-filled bed, silencing its cries with a single gulp.

  Its divinely appointed task performed, the snake now began to return down the trunk of the plane, hissing at the crowd of men. The sight of its pink, forked tongue flickering out at them in warning was enough to make each man take an instinctive ba
ckward step, but as the circle widened something happened that rooted them to the ground where they stood.

  ‘How can it be?’ said Menelaus in a low voice.

  ‘Calchas! Calchas, tell us what it means.’

  Agamemnon turned to the seer and pointed at the bole of the tree, where the serpent now stared at them with dull, lifeless eyes.

  Calchas stepped forward and looked up at the dead snake, whose soft flesh had turned to rigid stone before the eyes of the watching men.

  ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ he stuttered. ‘It’s beyond me.’

  As he spoke his whole body was seized by a strong convulsion that arched his spine and threw his head back, causing the hood to fall away and reveal his bald scalp. His arms shot out from his sides and his hands began to shake. Odysseus moved towards him, but Agamemnon waved him back. Then, as they watched, a silver light suffused the seer’s dark eyes and the look of terror on his upturned face was transformed by a smile that seemed to mock the heavens above. Slowly the trembling stopped and Calchas, still smiling, let his head fall forward so that his chin was resting on his chest. Streaks of spittle covered his lips and cheeks, and as he turned his eyes on the watching crowd few could tolerate the look that was in them.

  ‘This sign comes from Zeus himself,’ he said, his voice suddenly rich and smooth. ‘For each of the eight chicks, you will spend a year besieging Troy. The mother represents a ninth. But in the tenth year, if the prophecies that will be given are fulfilled, victory over Priam’s city will be granted to you.’

  The words reverberated around the clearing, dousing the confidence that had filled the hearts of the Greeks and replacing it with gloom. Menelaus thought of his wife, held in the lofty towers of Troy for ten long years, where her affections would inevitably turn to Paris. Agamemnon, who had made the commanders swear not to return home until the siege was over, now realized his boy, Orestes, would be left under the twisted influence of Clytaemnestra until he became a man. Odysseus and Eperitus both pondered the oracle that had condemned the king of Ithaca to be away from his home for twenty years, rather than the ten stated by Calchas. But of all the kings who now considered the long war they had committed to, only Achilles, whose death had been prophesied by his mother, took heart; whereas he had expected to live but a few months longer, he now had the prospect of enjoying life for years to come – a life spent in war, reaping souls and the glory that came with them.