‘No you fucking won’t!’ I roared across at him. ‘He’ll be on you before you even take aim! Get your fucking shield up, man! And keep on going!’
Nestor kept on going and didn’t stop till we reached the ships. That didn’t mean we were safe. With the whole army behind him, Hector maintained the charge.
‘On them, lads! Their walls won’t hold – they’re not even half up yet! And our horses will clear that idiotic ditch! Built during a truce! Never trust a fucking Greek, eh? Not even a dead one. Not unless he’s on his pyre! So let’s do some real damage here, lads, what do you say? Let’s set the fuckers on fire!’
‘Fire, fire, fire!’ The last word was picked up by the infantry running behind the chariots. They roared their fucking heads off and the sound went over our heads like a wind. We could smell the torches now, see the flames, hear Hector’s incendiary orders.
‘I want to see those big black ones burning, one and all, and every fucking Greek go up with them! They’ll have no place left to go! Let the sea dowse the bastards! Leave the old man for me. And that cunt Diomedes – he’s mine!’
It was no secret that Hector fancied Nestor’s shield. Made from solid gold, it was the talk of the gods, famous to the skies. He also wanted Diomedes’ breastplate, so sweetly fashioned it could have come only from the fires of Hephaestus, forged on Olympus, and with the crippled smith’s mark on it, so they said. So Hector, tamer of horses, spurred on Tawny and Whitefoot, Dusky and Dapple, calling to his driver to whip them harder, and relentlessly they sped towards the ships. It was payback time now for all Andromache’s epicurean feeding, all that honey-sweet grain soaked in wine, and for all their fancy names they came at us like death. Hell followed them, and their hooves struck sparks out of Hades.
Worth a stand then? What else? When you see the end coming at you like that and the ocean is at your back, what else is there to do but make a stand? Agamemnon reminded us of how we’d lain in Lemnos, gorging our bellies on beef and bragging that one of us was worth a hundred Trojans, two hundred.
‘You stuffed your fat arses that day, didn’t you? Stuck your faces into the brimming wine-bowls till you were fucking legless. Each one of you was going to thrash a regiment, remember? Of course you don’t, you drunken bums, strutting your stuff with not a fucking enemy soldier in sight, you pissheads! And now Hector shows up and you’re shitting yourselves, even Diomedes! Shame on the lot of you, you nancy boys!’
That did it. Diomedes swung into action. He’d had an earful of insults already. He spotted Agelaos on the charge and made for him – a straight collision course. Agelaos lost his nerve and wheeled round his horses for an immediate retreat. Too late. Diomedes struck him beautifully between the shoulders and drove the spear all the way through and out the chest. He jerked it out again savagely, opening up the man’s back, and parts of the heart came out, still twitching, attached to the bronze barbs. Agelaos crashed backwards out of the chariot and the dust swirled up around him.
Agamemnon whooped. ‘And now the rest of you!’
The Ajaxes came out, leading their men in a counter-charge. So did Eurypylus and Idomeneus, with Meriones and Menelaus, and Agamemnon bringing up the rear, for all his tough talk. Teucer tucked himself well in, as ever, behind the shield of Big Ajax. They operated a well-tried system. Ajax would slowly shift his shield to one side to let Teucer select a target. He’d shoot a man stone dead in the crowd – he was a deadly accurate archer – and as soon as he saw the man fall he’d take cover again with Ajax, like a kid cowering behind its mother’s skirts and peering out at danger. Quite right too. It was a dangerous world. And Ajax had seen him through it, coaching the little cunt how to be a clever sniper. And a snake in the grass.
‘First find your target. Then wait till he’s looking good. Hit your target before your target even knows you’re fucking born. After that you’re invisible again, right? Then it’s eyes on again and it’s goodnight number two. And so on. That way you’ll do damage. You’ll be hot shit and famous in the ranks and the enemy won’t even fucking know who you are.’
And that’s how Teucer now proceeded to massacre a careful selection of men. Under cover of Ajax, he took out Orsilochus, Ormenus, Ophelestes, Daetor, Chromius, Lycophontes, Amopaon and Melanippus. One by one, they dropped into the bountiful lap of earth that both gives and receives. On this occasion, Teucer gave, and the insatiable earth received.
Agamemnon was ecstatic. ‘Eight arrows and eight men down. Don’t you ever fucking miss?’
Teucer fitted another arrow.
‘If I do, I usually hit the target next to him. What does it matter? A dead man’s a dead man. His name doesn’t count.’
‘Not unless it happens to be Hector,’ said Agamemnon. ‘That mad dog is still on the rampage. Can’t you take him out for me?’
‘I’ll have a go,’ said Teucer.
And he let fly, but Hector saw it coming and bent low beneath his shield. The arrow hit Gorgythion instead.
‘What did I tell you?’ said Teucer.
Gorgythion, son of Priam. His mother, the gorgeous bride Castianeira, shaped like a goddess. She came all the way from Aesyme to be wedded to Priam, and she blossomed in the belly at once, warming the old king’s winter seeds. Thus she grew Gorgythion in her secret garden and brought him into the world. But now her grown-up flower droops beneath his own helmet’s weight, his head sinks down, dropping to one side like a crimson poppy heavy with its own seed, bowing even more under the refreshing spring showers.
Agamemnon laughed.
‘Well, it’s Persephone’s lap for that bastard.’
‘Yes,’ said Teucer, ‘but I missed the main target. Let’s try again.’
He took a second shot at Hector, who ducked once more, this time exposing Archeptolemus, who’d hardly been behind the horses any time at all. The arrow whanged into his shoulder.
‘No problem,’ said the charioteer. He grinned at Hector. ‘It’s only a flesh wound. I can live with it.’
Then he doubled up, screaming. Teucer’s next arrow had bitten deep into his pubic bone.
‘I’d like to see you live with that one,’ laughed Teucer. ‘At least you’ve got a good Greek arrow between your legs now – better than a Trojan pizzle!’
Archeptolemus fell from the chariot and went down in the dust, clutching at his groin.
Ah, how his girlfriend, the beautiful and seductive Euphronteia, had liked to play Cupid’s arrow games with him as they lay together, shutting her eyes while her wandering hand wondered on which part of his body the little love-god’s dart would land next. It was always the same part. But Teucer’s arrow as his only erection would be no fun for either Archeptolemus or his girl.
‘Fuck!’ Hector’s grief was brief again. ‘My drivers keep fucking dying on me!’
And he left his comrade writhing in the dust, yelling to his brother, Cebriones, to jump up and take over the horses.
Cebriones did it with a grimace. ‘A bad day for your charioteers, brother!’
But Hector had had enough of the incoming fire. He vaulted out of the chariot and charged straight at Teucer with a great lump of rock in his fists. Teucer had felt cocky enough to come out from Ajax’s cover, and he was loosing off arrows thick and fast. He’d just selected the next arrow from his quiver, bitter with bronze for some poor fucker, when he saw Hector closing. He pulled back the string and took a quick aim. Too late. Hector was on him before he could fire. He smashed the rock down on Teucer’s shoulder just where the collarbone connects to the neck and chest. The string snapped and he dropped his weapon. His right arm was now useless. He’d have died in the next second but for Ajax, who was up in a flash to cover him. Two comrades carried him back to the ships, and he howled all the way. Hector had buggered him. And that was the end of Teucer’s archery. For the time being.
After that, Hector was unstoppable, and Agamemnon had no emergency defence plan. Sunset – that was our only EDP, as it so happened. And not a moment too soon. Hector wi
thdrew his forces with the failing light. We breathed again and crashed out. We were fucking exhausted.
The blackheads didn’t go far off, though. Some sort of field meeting went on and we saw some parties trooping into the town and coming back with firewood and supplies. Soon we caught the scents of roasting meat as hundreds of little fires bejewelled the darkness, reflecting the stars. Hector clearly hadn’t abandoned his plan to burn the ships. He was going to camp out on the plain through till dawn, just in case we decided to make a dash for the open sea and home. Then we’d get some sharp arrows up our arses on the way out, just to give us second thoughts about ever coming back again. Either that or, with a good supper inside them, they planned on attacking again before sunrise as we slept.
No fucking way. We lit up too.
And so, all night long, the plains and beaches of Troy burned with a thousand campfires between Xanthus and the Grecian tents. They sparkled like the uncountable constellations on those magical nights when the upper air is quiet and windless and every mountain-top and headland stands out clear. The Milky Way up above was mirrored by the fires below, star for star reflected, as if the land were sea, and an image of the mighty heavens displayed beneath. And, for once, the magic was real – the warmth of the campfires, the smell of the roast meat, the taste of wine on the tongue, the muted laughter and chatter of men in the darkness, men divided by war but united by the common need to feed and sleep, by the majesty of the universe and the peace of nature, the night in its silence, the stars in their calm. It did seem silly that such a lovely night should be followed by such slaughter, that men who wondered at the stars should get up and kill each other and cough up their lives in the glaring light of another senseless day. And all the while the horses stood quietly by their chariots, happily champing the rye and white barley, mindlessly awaiting the dawn.
TWENTY-ONE
The night passed, as all nights do, and the dark sky rusted. Aurora stood naked in the cold ocean, stroking the east with rosy fingers. The tumbling waves went red, then gold. We were set for heavenly weather. It did seem a shame to have a war on such a day.
Apart from that, and although I’d been in more shit-holes than I could remember, this one made even shit smell sweet. An emergency meeting was called at first light. One big obvious question: what the fuck should we do next? And in the absence of any big obvious answers, our glorious commander actually came up with one himself. Perhaps, after all, we should call it a day and go home? Clearly we were as low as we could go on fortune’s wheel. We’d lost the favour of the gods.
That much was a grasp of the fucking obvious and the way out was a shit suggestion, though naturally it produced loud rumblings of approval till Diomedes pitched in.
‘What? You mean just fuck off? And eat the shit of defeat out of Trojan arses? Not me. I’d rather die. I don’t know about the rest of you spineless shites but I’m staying here. Embrace the fucking suck. What about you, Odysseus?’
‘I’ll stay,’ I said.
Nestor stood up.
‘Well said, Odysseus. And Diomedes. As for you, Agamemnon, I will now discharge my mind concerning you and your leadership.’
He waited for the ripple of excitement to die down before resuming – with his slowest and most emphatic of deliveries.
‘It’s very simple. You’ve degraded a man of consequence, a man of honour. Our best man – certainly our best fighter. You’ve treated him shamefully, humiliated him in public, and all to satisfy your vanity and greed. You pulled rank to get what you wanted, what you weren’t even entitled to. That much is incontrovertible. Now as to the present position: we’re in a mess, and we need the Myrmidons to help us out of it. What you need to do – and you need to do it urgently – is this. You need to swallow your pride and apologise to Achilles. Admit you were out of order, say you’re sorry, and do what you can to win him over before it’s too late. What do you say? Am I getting through to you?’
Silence in the ranks for a few seconds. Then Agamemnon drew a deep one and spoke.
‘Loud and clear, Nestor, CFB. I accept everything that you say. I was a shithead, I admit it. I’ll try to put it right. I’ll send Achilles an apology, a full one. And I’ll accompany it with gifts.’
‘You’ll kiss Achilles’ arse!’
A voice from the ranks.
‘That goes without saying,’ said Nestor, ‘but they will have to be gifts of some substance.’
‘They will be.’
‘Of considerable consequence.’
‘I hear you. They will be. Here’s what I’ll offer him – and this is just off the top of my head, you understand. Seven brand new tripods, ten talents of gold . . .’
‘Stop!’
Nestor spoke in his sternest voice.
‘You’re not getting the feel of this, my boy!’
Agamemnon nodded impatiently. ‘Let me get there. That’s just the small fry. I’ll also offer twenty copper cauldrons, not one of which has felt a lick of flame; ten – no, twelve prize racehorses; seven women, every one of them absolute beauties, and skilled craftswomen – they came from the sack of Lesbos.’
‘Which was taken by Achilles, by the way.’
Nestor was keeping up the pressure.
‘And you pocketed the spoils!’
The voice from the ranks again, this time drawing a loud clattering of swords.
‘Yes, and now I’m giving back. And while we’re about it, he can have Briseis back as well.’
‘Now that you’ve fucked her from backside to breakfast time!’
Agamemnon wasn’t having it easy. But he didn’t lose his cool. He held up both hands as if in prayer.
‘My oath on it, right here and now, I swear to the gods: I never laid a finger on her!’
‘No – only your lawless fucking leg!’
‘His godless fucking knob!’
‘Up her arse twenty times a night!’
Agamemnon didn’t rise to it. ‘Ignoring all that filthy rabble backchatter, I’m not done yet. To the Lesbians I’ll add twenty – yes, twenty – Trojan women, the paragons and apples of their race. And he can take his pick of all the other spoils from Troy, if only he’ll help us take it, after he’s got us out of the shit we’re in now. He can load up his ships, all fifty of them, with all the gold and bronze they can carry.’
‘Enough to sink his fucking fleet, eh?’
Nestor waved away the jibe and gestured with both palms upraised that more than enough had been offered. But Agamemnon had just got into his stride and was getting carried away with his new-found generosity. He was also basking in the atmosphere of general approval, a rarity for him, in spite of the cat-calls.
‘You’ve heard fuck all yet, you ignoramuses at the back. Now for the jewel in the crown. Listen to this. He can also have his pick of my three daughters, Chrysothemis, Iphianassa and Laodice.’
‘Why not make it four? Call Iphigenia back from the dead, why don’t you?’
‘When the war’s over he can be my son-in-law, with a handsome dowry chucked in. What do you think of that, then? Any scoffers got anything left to say?’
‘Yes. Are you fucking done showing off?’
‘As a matter of fact I’m not. Did I say jewel in the crown? Make that jewels. I’ve got something else to offer.’
You had to hand it to the bastard. Most of the time he was a first-class cunt, but when he climbed down, he climbed down in style.
‘After the choice of daughters, to top it all off, I’ll offer him seven fine towns. Not his pick of the seven – do you hear what I’m saying? – I mean all seven. And they’re none of them shit-holes either. I’ll offer him Cardamyle, Enope, Hire, Pherae, Antheia and Aepeia.’
‘That’s only six!’
‘And Pedasus. And fuck you. All seven.’
Seven seaside towns, kissed by the blue ocean, deep-meadowed, purple with vines, shambling with cattle, snowy with sheep . . .
‘All in the farthest part of Pylos and all to die for. Their c
itizens are no shit-kickers, I’ve told you, and they’re no fucking insurgents either, they’re prosperous and peaceful, and they’ll accept him as their overlord without question, on my say-so, and pay him tribute, no quibbling. I’ll give him all of the above if he comes back on side right now. He doesn’t even have to win the fucking war, just help us fight it. Clear? And after it’s over, the cunt will be like a king. What do you think?’
The whole Assembly rose to its feet, cheering and stamping and waving swords. Nestor lost no time in nominating who should take this truly sumptuous offer to Achilles. Old Phoenix to go first, he said, followed by myself and Big Ajax, with Odius and Eurybates as duty heralds. We were to do everything we could to placate the sulking bastard and get him back to the front line.
Achilles was thrilled to see us. He may have liked to lounge about with the lyre, or with Patroclus’s hand in his crotch, but he missed the sweat of fighting, the blood. He was born to kill. As soon as he saw us he jumped up and asked Patroclus to bring in a bigger mixing-bowl and go easy on the water. Nothing but the best for his old friends. And he saw to the fodder with his own fair hands – the backs of a sheep, a fat goat and the chine of a huge hog, laden with lard. He jointed the lot himself, carved the joints and spitted the slices. I admired his expertise. Then we tucked in for a good hour till we were all well stuffed.
‘Right then,’ he said, ‘it’s clearly a deputation. You didn’t come here to drink to old times. What’s on your mind, lads?’
They all looked at me. I took a slow swig.
‘Achilles, I’ll give it to you straight. We’re fucked. Unless you come in with us. The enemy is practically on the ships. They’re all set to fucking burn us. We need backup fast. We need your regiment. Either you bring them into the field or it’s goodbye Troy and goodbye Argos. We’ll never see home again.’
I went through Agamemnon’s impressive catalogue of offers, building up from the tripods and the talents to the bigger stuff, the horses, the Lesbians, the twenty Trojan charmers, the pick of the dowried daughters, the seven seaside cities. And Briseis back untouched. Agamemnon would even take the oath he’d never been up her, back or front. I laid it on thick. If I’d listened to myself, I’d have been so convinced I’d have gone to bed with Agamemnon. I’d have bent over for the fucker.
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