by Iliffe, Glyn
Similar shouts were repeated up and down the Greek line as the surviving warriors formed themselves back into their units and began the pursuit. They advanced across the plain at a fast pace, the Ithacans and Thessalians on the left, the Spartans and Myrmidons on the right. Hundreds of bodies were left behind them, some of which still stirred or twitched with the last remnants of life; a dark bank of piled corpses marked where the initial struggle had taken place, with an arrowhead of dead Trojans where Achilles had cut his way through their massed ranks. And it was Achilles who now led the pursuit, striding ahead of his black-clad Myrmidons with Patroclus at his side, keen to join battle again with his enemies.
The Trojans were almost lost behind the cloud of dust that rose from their march and the black pall of smoke that blew across the plain from the burning galleys. But the Greeks were gaining on them and knew that any attempt to re-enter the city through the Scaean Gate would result in a bottleneck, allowing them to catch Hector’s force and possibly carry the gate as well. It was no surprise, therefore, when the Trojans passed the south-facing entrance and continued up the slope towards the other side of the city walls. Archers on the high battlements and towers of Troy gave their countrymen some cover, but the Greeks had the taste of victory now and pressed the chase.
‘This is what I feared,’ said Odysseus, turning to Eperit‘Come with me – we need to find Menelaus.’
The two men dropped back through the ranks and ran towards the rear of the Spartan army, where they found Menelaus striding confidently behind his well-ordered men. His breastplate and shield were spattered with dried gore and his face glowed with anticipation of victory as he turned to greet the two Ithacans.
‘What is it, my friends?’ he asked with a smile, his teeth strangely white against his dirt-and blood-caked face. ‘You look concerned, Odysseus.’
‘I am,’ Odysseus replied. ‘Our orders were to keep the Trojans fighting on the plain so they can be massacred in the open, not chase them back to the city walls.’
‘That can’t be helped now,’ Menelaus said. ‘Hector’s lost the will to fight, and if we let the Trojans slip back into the city it’ll take months to prise them out again.’
‘But Agamemnon’s late,’ Eperitus said, glancing across to the hills on the other side of the Scamander. ‘His plan to trap the Trojans on the plain has failed.’
‘And if we’re not careful, it’s us who will be drawn into a trap,’ Odysseus added, looking up as another swarm of black-feathered arrows flew up from the city walls. They dropped among the Spartans with a dry rattle, felling a dozen men. ‘Hector only wants us to believe we’re winning so he can lure us closer to the city walls. Why do you think reinforcements weren’t sent from the city? Because they’re waiting for us to pass the Scaean Gate, and then they’ll pour out behind us and block our retreat to the ships. Hector has out-thought us at every stage of the battle so far, and unless we stop the pursuit we’re going to be attacked from all sides, with the Scamander at our backs!’
‘Then let them come!’ Menelaus retorted, angrily. ‘If we can keep these Trojan scum fighting until my brother arrives, there’s still a chance of a quick victory. Hector won’t dare take on the whole Greek army: the Trojans will turn and run, and when they do there’s a chance we can follow them through the gates. If we can do that, Troy will be ours by nightfall.’
‘I wish it were that easy,’ Odysseus sighed. ‘But if you must go ahead with this folly, at least order the Thessalians to remain in front of the Scaean Gate. They’ve had the worst of things so far and there are enough of the rest of us to destroy what’s left of Hector’s force.’
‘No, Odysseus,’ Menelaus answered with a firm wave of his hand. ‘As soon as we pass the walls I’m going to drive Hector eastward, away from the safety of the city, and finish him off on the plain. And if Ares has heard my prayers, I’ll find his thieving rat of a brother at his side! Now, return to your men and prepare them to attack.’
Odysseus and Eperitus found the Ithacans angered by the withering fire from the archers on the city walls and keen to get at the Trojans once more. As they passed the Scaean Gate, though, and marched up the slope out of range of the arrows, it seemed they would get their wish. The dust cloud that obscured the Trojans had not moved north towards the Dardanian Gate, as Eperitus had expected, but continued east as if drawing the Greeks away from the walls. And then it stopped moving altogether and, as the haze began to settle, the lines of spearmen and cavalry could be seen as dark shapes in the brown mist, waiting silently atop the slope. In response, Menelaus’s voice barked orders that were repeated all along the Greek ranks, stopping the army in its tracks.
If Odysseus was right, Eperitus thought, now would be the time for the city gates to open and pour forth the Trojan reserves. Odysseus was obviously thinking the same and threw a nervous glance over his shoulder, but his attention was soon pulled back to the Trojans at the top of the slope. For, as the last of the dust drifted away, the true genius of Hector’s plan became apparent. Before them were the remainder of Hector’s spearmen, archers and cavalry – bloodstained and dirt-covered; many bearing wounds – but on either side of them a new force was emerging. Line upon line of spearmen marched into view, silhouetted black by the light of the early morning sun rising in the east; hundreds more cavalry, strengthened by scores of chariots, were massing to the left and right, ready to pour down into the now out-numbered Greeks. And as the invaders looked up at the superior force gathering before them – drawn from Troy’s allies, whose vast camp was out of sight beyond the rise of the slope – horns blew on the towers behind them. In response, the Scaean and Dardanian Gates opened to disgorge a flood of infantry and horsemen, led by Paris in his battle-scarred armour and with the scarlet plume of his helmet fluttering in the breeze. Hector’s trap was sprung: the Greeks were surrounded on the east, west and north, with the broad Scamander blocking their flight to the south.
‘I wish you could be wrong from time to time, Odysseus,’ Eperitus said, giving his friend a look of resignation.
Odysseus smiled back and gripped his spear. ‘Don’t worry,’ he replied. ‘The oracle said I would live for at least another twenty years.’
‘That’s fine for you, but I don’t have that reassurance.’
‘Then you’ll have to fight, Eperitus,’ Odysseus grinned fiercely, as the horde of warriors at the top of the slope began to march towards them, lowering their spear-points. ‘And you’ll have to fight hard.’
He shouted for the rear ranks to turn and face the force that was forming by the city walls, then pushed his way through to the front of the east-facing line. Most men had retrieved spears from the battlefield after the first clash, and these were now presented towards the approaching Trojans. Eperitus saw Arceisius in the first row of spearmen and forced a route through the tightly packed warriors to stand beside him.
‘When will the others arrive?’ the young squire asked, without averting his eyes from the enemy at the top of the slope.
‘Soon, I hope,’ Eperitus answered, looking beyond the River Scamander to the southern hills. ‘We’ve drawn the Trojans out, as we were ordered, but unless they arrive soon Agamemnon’s plan is going to prove a costly mistake.’
As he finished speaking, a number of things happened. The deep, sinister hum of hundreds of bowstrings came from the other side of the rise, and a moment later the sky was dark with arrows. They fell with deadly effect into the close ranks of the Greeks, and once more cries of pain and death filled the air. At the same moment, they heard the trundle of wheels and the thud of hoofs as the host of Trojan cavalry rushed down the slope towards them, bypassing the heavily armoured spearman in their eagerness to win glory. Finally, there was a great shout from the mass of warriors still forming up by the city gates, who then rushed towards the surrounded Greeks, hurling their spears before them.
Eperitus jammed the bronze-tipped butt of his spear into the ground and prepared to meet the onslaught of horsemen and cha
riots. He had never faced a cavalry charge before, and as the speeding mass of horses rushed towards him – the beat of their hooves thundering in his ribcage – he felt a terror he had never known before in battle. He tried to remember what his grandfather had taught him about cavalry. He knew a horse would instinctively seek a gap in a wall of spears, or would try to leap over them if they were but two or three deep. Even so, the horse would have to be well trained and sense that its rider was fully committed to the charge; then, if the leading horses attacked, those behind would follow, driven by their herd instinct.
In order to repel the charge, the Greeks only had to hold their nerve and close ranks. If they did that, the approaching horses would baulk and turn aside. But for a man to remain steady as a wave of cavalry bore down on him required bravery, discipline and trust in his comrades. If any of those qualities were lacking and men fled the charge, the terrified horses would stream into the gaps they left and their riders would bring swift death down on the defenders. In the end, it would be a contest between the courage of the rider and the courage of the spearman. And from what Eperitus could see, the Trojan cavalrymen were holding their nerve.
At the last moment, the Greek archers released a deadly volley that spilled scores of men and horses to the ground, but it was not enough to halt the attack. The cavalry came on, the riders yelling with the joy of battle and their mounts wide-eyed with fear. Eperitus watched the throng of horses galloping towards him and shouted for the Ithacans to hold fast. The order was carried down the line, and the inexperienced ranks of half-trained farmers and fishermen drew deep on their courage. With shaking hands and beating hearts they gripped the shafts of their spears and held the line.
Suddenly, the Thessalians to their right began to break up. They had lost their leader and many of their comrades, and the sight of the Trojan horsemen had proved too much. As the gaps appeared in their line the whole force of cavalry seemed to pour towards them, bypassing the unwavering line of spears presented by the Ithacans on one side, and the Myrmidons and Spartans – under the firm command of Achilles and Menelaus – on the other. As the cavalry streamed past, a hail of arrows and spears brought many of them down into the dust, but it was too late to save the unfortunate Thessalians, who were skewered from behind or hacked down as they fled.
Eperitus looked on in horror at the massacre, conscious – as was every man around him – that the Ithacans would have met a similar fate if they had not held their nerve. Then, as he sensed the lines of Trojan spearmen running down the hill towards them, he noticed a horseman chasing after a Thessalian. The Greek threw his hands over the back of his head to protect himself, but the rider’s sword simply chopped through his fingers and sliced into the back of his head, killing him at once. A moment later, he turned his mount around and signalled to a troop of cavalrymen, ordering them after a knot of Thessalians who were fleeing towards the river. And as Eperitus saw the horseman’s face a shock of recognition passed through him. The strength drained from his limbs, forcing him momentarily to lean his weight on his spear as he stared with disbelieving eyes at a man he had not seen for ten years. The Trojan horseman was his father.
Suddenly Calchas’s words returned to him: a second secret would draw him back to Ilium, whether there was war or not. That second secret was his father, a secret that Clytaemnestra had also known but had chosen not to reveal to him. Somehow, beyond Eperitus’s comprehension, the man he had despised for ten years, the man who had usurped the throne of Alybas and brought shame and dishonour on his family, was now a soldier in the army of Troy.
As he stared at the hated face of his father, a new and sudden fury began to sear through his veins like heated bronze, opening old wounds and feeding off the fresh wound of his daughter’s death. It was the desire for vengeance, a rapacious, all consuming lust to lessen the shame and grief of the past – both distant and recent – by the spilling of blood. He could not kill Agamemnon, but there was no promise preventing him from taking vengeance on his father, and as his rage grew within him he saw, at last, a means to reduce his suffering.
‘Where are you going?’ shouted Arceisius as Eperitus broke out of the rank of spearmen and dashed towards a riderless horse.
Eperitus ignored him. Leaping on the back of the black mare, he seized the reins and spurred the animal forward. Arrows flew over his head in both directions as he rode through the broad gap in the Greek line, galloping down the slope towards the place where he had seen his father. Horsemen and chariots thundered all around, firing arrows or hurling spears at the two islands of Greek warriors – the smaller group of Ithacans on one side, some six hundred strong, and the much larger force of Spartans and Myrmidons on the other, numbering more than five thousand. The ground in between was littered with dead and wounded Thessalians. The remainder were either being pursued towards the river or driven onto the spears of the reserves who had poured out of the Scaean Gate under Paris’s command. Many, though, had formed a desperate circle of spears and were fending off repeated attacks from the Trojan cavalry. It was here that Eperitus saw his father, reforming his men for a fresh assault on the battered Thessalians.
‘Father!’ he called, his voice high and clear amidst the din of war. ‘Father!’
Apheidas turned and stared at his son. For a moment, as they looked at each other across the field of death and destruction, it was as if they were no longer part of the battle that raged all around them. Unexpectedly, Apheidas found himself staring at his only remaining son, who in a moment of rash anger he had exiled from his kingdom ten years before. Eperitus stared back, his eyes burning with hatred. Then horn calls were blowing in the distance and reluctantly father and son turned to the hills in the south, where thousands upon thousands of warriors were streaming down towards the fords of the Scamander. At last, Agamemnon had arrived, and with him were the armies of Diomedes, Idomeneus, Ajax and the rest of Greece. They had beached their ships in the bay north of Tenedos and had marched inland, hoping to cut the Trojans off on the plain as they fought the smaller force under Menelaus – the bait, as Agamemnon had referred to them. The bait had been taken, but it was too late to cut the Trojans off on the plain. The Greeks’ best hope now was that Hector would turn and fight, and that they would then defeat his army and pursue it back through the gates into the city.
But Hector was no fool. Seeing the large numbers of Greeks already crossing the Scamander and preparing to push up the slope, he ordered the attack to be broken off and for the Trojan army and its allies to return to the city. Horns called out, rising over the clash of weapons and the hoarse shouts of struggling men, and suddenly the besieged armies of Ithacans, Spartans and Greeks were left standing among the piles of dead, watching the backs of their retreating enemies through a protective screen of cavalry. Too late, Menelaus spotted Paris disappearing through the Scaean Gate, and was forced to watch in seething anger as the man who had stolen his wife slipped back behind the safety of Troy’s walls.
Apheidas threw a last glance at his son, then led his horsemen away from the surviving Thessalians towards the newly arrived Greeks, intending to slow their advance while the rest of the army found shelter inside the city. As Eperitus saw him ride off, a fierce anger gripped him. He drew his sword from its scabbard, and with a roar of fury charged down the slope towards him. At the same moment, a group of three horsemen who were galloping back across the plain from the direction of the Scamander, where they had been hunting Thessalians, tucked their spears under their arms and turned towards him.
The first came dashing in from Eperitus’s left, levelling the head of his weapon at his liver. Eperitus quickly changed direction, cutting across the front of his attacker’s horse and switching his sword into his left hand. A moment later, the Trojan’s head had been swept from his shoulders and his body fell heavily to the ground, where it landed with a puff of dust. At once, his comrades spurred their horses towards Eperitus, one on either side to prevent his escape. They were confident that they were the bet
ter horsemen, and that the reach of their spears would carry the lone Greek to his death long before he could bring his sword to bear. Then one of them jerked back, a momentary look of surprise on his face before the darkness of death took him and he fell from his horse, a feathered arrow protruding from his chest. The other ignored the demise of his comrade and leaned forward with gritted teeth, spurring his horse ever faster towards his quarry. Eperitus dug his heels into the flanks of his own horse, leaning close to her neck and extending his sword at arm’s length before him. Squinting against the dust and bright sunlight, he heard the rapid tramp of approaching hooves on the dry turf and the snorting of his opponent’s mount. There was a glint of armour as the Trojan cavalryman came sweeping towards him, then Eperitus’s arm was torn violently aside as his sword was ripped from his hand. He heard a heavy thud behind him and, reining his horse about, he saw the body of his rival lying on the ground, surrounded by a cloud of dust. Eperitus’s sword was still quivering as it stuck up from his chest.
‘Eperitus!’ Odysseus shouted, running towards him with Antiphus at his side, bow in hand. Polites, Arceisius and a score more Ithacans were coming up behind them. ‘Give me your horse! There’s still time to keep the gates from shutting before Agamemnon arrives.’
Eperitus looked urgently back towards the plain, where he had last seen his father. Horsemen were pouring back through the Scaean Gate, their task of screening the Trojan retreat complete. The only other living soldiers outside the walls of Troy now were Greek – Agamemnon’s unblooded force marching up from the fords, and the battle-wearied survivors under Menelaus’s command regrouping at the top of the slope, out of bowshot of the city walls. The bodies of men and horses were strewn all across the plain, from the sandy beaches where the Greeks had landed up to the slopes around the walls of Troy. Of Apheidas there was no sign.
