‘Quarrels are deadly, Achilles. They defeat armies, split nations. And pride can be lethal. Time to climb down now. He’s done it. What about you? What do you say?’
Say? At first the bastard son of Thetis said fuck all. Stony silence. Not a fucking word. We waited.
‘Achilles –’
‘I heard you, Odysseus, and I’m considering my answer.’
Silence again. Then he stood up.
‘Well, here it is.’
And the cunt let rip.
He hated Agamemnon worse than hell gates. Hated him for his hypocrisy as much as for his greed. And for his total lack of respect for his men, not to mention better men than himself, the big ugly fat fucker with his fistful of bribes.
We were getting the general picture but Achilles was clearly going to round it out to the last detail.
‘Seven seaside towns does he say? The slippery bastard. I took those fucking towns, twelve of them if he wants to count, heaps of spoil, and all handed over to a leader who led from behind and on his behind, while I stuck my neck out in the front line every single time. And for what? Dribs and fucking drabs. He kept the lion’s share for himself. That’s how it works. You risk your skin and he does the raking in. Every single time. You get the bronze, he gets the gold, the sweat of the gods, every time.’
A little throat-clearing from Phoenix – but nobody could deny the truth of what Achilles was saying. We waited. He hadn’t finished.
‘Then he went on to rob me of my woman. And now he wants to give her back, does he, the grovelling bastard, still smelling his own fucking musk, even when he’s arse-licking. Well he can stick his sorry sweeteners up his arse. He’s a swindler and a trickster and a cheat. And always will be. As for his seaside towns, they’re less to me than a pot to piss in, you can tell him that. You can tell him he can offer me the sun and the moon and it won’t win me over. They’d be tarnished by association. I have no interest in any of his offers, or in helping him out of the crap-pit he’s got us into. I don’t give a flying fuck for him and his war of greed. I’ve had it up to here. And I don’t give a fuck for his daughters, either. I don’t care if they come with silver tits and golden arses. I don’t care if they come with cunts like Aphrodite’s. They’re not worth the sea-dust on your horse-cock. Marry a daughter of Agamemnon’s? I wouldn’t even piss on the bitches. Have I made myself clear?’
As a fucking bell.
‘If not, let me spell it out for you once and for all. I am not going to accept anything from that greedy thieving arsehole, and I’m not going to help the cunt out either. What I will do, however, is this. I’ll load up my ships tomorrow and clear out. In three days from now, if I get a good crossing, I’ll be back where I should have stayed in the first place, with my feet set firmly on good old Phthia and the deep soil of home. And I’ll never leave my country again to serve in a fiasco like this. Never, never, never.’
A long pause. The others looked at me round-eyed.
‘Is that it, then?’ I asked. ‘Are you done?’
A grim smile.
‘Nothing more to say?’
What more could he have said?
Quite a lot, in fact, if he’d wanted to. Or had been capable of it. He could have expanded on his last point and said that here in Troy he was sick for home as a man in a desert is thirsty for water, he craved it that much. He could have said that at home he’d have some hope of living, because war is not living, it’s existing, surviving, nothing more, from hour to hour, day to day. He could have asked what life is, after all. Could have said that it is not something that can be compared with the legendary wealth of Troy, even though it may be there for the taking. Could have pointed to horses and cattle and asked what they are but beasts, nothing in the mould of a man. Could have said that cauldrons and tripods can be lost or won, bought and sold, forged and stolen, damaged, discarded, but that you can’t buy back a man’s breath once it’s left his body, once the life has left the lips and the spirit has flown, you can’t steal back his soul from the dark.
He could have said that Agamemnon didn’t even speak the same language, didn’t understand the difference between daughters and tripods and Lesbian women, and didn’t understand another man’s hurt pride because pride is an abstraction. You can’t weigh pride. Or eat it, or fuck it. That Agamemnon was too steeped in his own meticulous and blind brute mania for power even to begin to understand the language of Achilles. That kind of learning was just too steep a curve for him. He was fucking clueless.
He could have said all that. He could have made the speech of a lifetime, the one Penelope gave him in the web, the one he never made, with lovely Phthia looking idyllic in the background, and his old father standing in the doorway waiting for him far from the hell of Troy. He could have said that we were all on our way to the grave, with no choice in the matter, but that his particular journey could go one of two ways: remaining in Troy and resuming hostilities, in which case he knew for sure he’d earn the immortality of the hero – ‘I’ll end up dead, in other words,’ he could have continued, ‘the oblivious recipient of posthumous fame, the worst kind. I can feel it, Odysseus, I can feel it in my bones, an early exit and no homecoming. Or I do go home, to obscurity and long life. An anonymous old man, a one-eyed veteran if I’m lucky, with nothing to do but stare at the sky. Or a dead hero. It can’t be both. I’ve got to choose. And I’ve chosen. So you can go right back and tell your leader which it’s going to be. You can tell him where to shove his towns and his daughters and his war of aggression. I can do without any of them. So there’s no point in him sending you or anybody else again. He can send Hermes himself and it will make no difference. I won’t even be there to listen. I’ll be long gone.’
That’s what he could have said, if he’d had any sliver of philosophy in him. Or a drop of poetry. But Achilles was no man of fine speeches; he was a killer. Agamemnon had made his offers and Achilles had rammed them right back up his arse. And that was that.
Phoenix did have a go, as Nestor had asked him to, and we refilled our wine cups. Sure enough, we got the old man’s life story, how he’d dandled Achilles on his knee, fed him with his own hand, held the cup to the clumsy little lips and mopped up the slobberings and spillages from both their clothes, stained by Achilles’ infant dribblings . . .
‘You were the son I never had,’ concluded Phoenix. ‘Come over to us now, while the gifts are still on offer and before you feel the flames eating up the ships, yours included. By then it will be too late. Or if it isn’t, and you are forced to act on your own impulses instead of heeding Agamemnon’s entreaties, you could still save the army, being the great soldier that you are, but he may withdraw the gifts. And you may yet be forced to fight, for reasons that are hidden still in the clenched fist of destiny, but you’ll fight for no reward. Not unless you come out and fight now.’
Phoenix let his words sink in.
And with what result?
None whatso-fucking-ever. Achilles was happy to think of the old man as a second father, but he didn’t give a toss for Agamemnon’s inducements, whether they came with a moral entitlement or didn’t come at all. As for the sentimental stories about his childhood and his infantile eating habits, these were an embarrassment and he begged not to be reminded of them.
‘In conclusion, Phoenix, an old man’s breath is limited and therefore precious. Don’t waste any more of it. I piss on your leader’s greasers and I piss on him. And I piss on the Greek army that let him get away with it. Fuck them one and all!’
Phoenix put his head in his hands, but Ajax erupted.
‘Well fuck me! What a fucking display! Rancour and arrogance and fucking obstinacy all the way! You’re full of fucking malice, you are! And what gets me is that it’s all over a girl, one solitary fucking girl. A piece of arse. And you’ve been offered seven – twenty fucking seven. And all the rest! Are you fucking mad? The big fuck has climbed down. Why can’t you? Why can’t you fucking unbend, just a little? I’m telling you, you
r fucking stubbornness will kill you in the end!’
Waste of air. He wasn’t even offended. He even agreed with much of what Ajax said, but it altered nothing. He just couldn’t forgive what had been done to him. He did ask Phoenix to stay the night and ordered the women to make him up a bed. Achilles turned in with a girl he’d abducted from Lesbos. Patroclus took a slave from the sack of Enyeus, a girl called Iphis. Phoenix slept in the corner.
We left them to it.
Back in Agamemnon’s quarters, everybody crowded in, eager to hear the outcome of the embassy. I didn’t embellish it, didn’t spin it out.
‘This is my report,’ I said, ‘and Ajax can back it up. He pisses on you and on all your offers. At dawn tomorrow he’ll be launching his ships for Argos. And he advises the rest of us to do the same. The war’s over.’
Agamemnon was stunned. And speechless. He went black with rage.
Diomedes found his voice.
‘He was always a conceited cunt,’ he said, ‘a hard proud bastard. Fuck him. Shit floats, but I hope the fucker sinks before he reaches home. As for me, I’m staying. And those without balls can piss off with the Phthian cunt. The rest of us – let’s get a good night in the sack. Tomorrow we may have the fight of our fucking lives on our hands. What do you say?’
Unanimous applause.
But it was a muted applause, a ripple. We were all thinking about what tomorrow might bring.
TWENTY-TWO
A lone god stands high on Olympus, the stars scattered around him like seeds in spring flung from the swinging hand of the sower, a chaos of light in the immense darkness. The god can’t sleep. He looks out across the constellation of campfires down below, burning before Troy. And he listens to the sounds of the flutes and the reed pipes, the low drone of the soldiers, their mutterings and grumblings muted by distance and sharpened by darkness, the crude comfortable noises of humanity. He bends his ear to the Trojan side. They sound relaxed, as if they are going next day not to war but to a dance or a party. Now he inclines his ear to the Greeks and detects Agamemnon’s tossings and turnings. The enemy exudes confidence, and he feels the opposite. His own leadership is in tatters. He gets up and dressed.
Menelaus is doing the same. He appears in his brother’s tent and, after a brief word, goes to rouse the other leaders, including Nestor. The old man’s advice is simple. What is needed now, and needed desperately, is intelligence, up-to-date information about the enemy’s strategy and battle-plan. And the best way to obtain that intelligence is to find a Trojan straggler, cut him off and bring him back to the camp, or at least bring back the necessary information. What is needed now is a raid.
Everybody goes quickly quiet. But the inclining god hears the muttered curses.
‘Hell! A fucking raid! Somebody’s balls are in the scales . . . who’ll be the lucky cunt?’
The god grins briefly. Such words, thinks the god, are like shields and spears, part of the soldier’s battle-pack. It was ever thus. He sighs. And waits to see who and what will emerge, far down below.
It was Diomedes who stepped up.
‘Nestor, I’ll be brief. The idea of a raid actually appeals to me. I think you’re right. But we all know what it means to be caught between enemy lines and given the spy treatment. I’ll go, but only if I have the right man to go with me. It’s easy to kill a man when you’re out there on your own in the dark, but a hundred times harder to bring the fucker in alive or make him sing. You know what they say – a corpse sings no songs. A dead man doesn’t even fart. Give me a good partner and I’m your man.’
Nestor looked around.
‘Anyone?’
‘I wouldn’t mind paying the Trojans a visit,’ I said, breaking the silence. After that, dozens of brave cunts volunteered, knowing full well they were safe and that Diomedes would choose me.
Which he did.
‘Right,’ I said, ‘the less breath wasted the better. Zero dark thirty – that ought to have been the time for this caper. Look at the stars. The night’s two-thirds gone already – we’re into the last watch. Let’s move.’
We went out into the black starry night, sticking to the shadows and picking our way through the strewn corpses of the field.
And the lone god went into action. He should have stayed on Mount Olympus. But if truth is the first casualty in war, the impartiality of the gods comes next. The lone god was a devotee of Hera, that hater of Trojans, and, to win favour with her, he sped down to the Trojan camp and selected a man called Dolon, who was listening to Hector address the leaders in the Assembly.
‘What do you think – are these Greek bastards up for it? I mean, are they actually ready for combat? Or are they considering a retreat, possibly complete withdrawal? We’ve got the bastards on the back foot, yes. The question is, are they completely fucked? They may be so fucked up they haven’t even set a proper watch. Who’d like to find out?’
Silence.
‘I thought as much. Whoever does it will be risking his neck, that’s for sure. But not for nothing. I’ll give the top team of horses in the Greek army to the man who carries out this mission – even if it doesn’t produce a result.’
Dolon was suddenly standing up and speaking, taking himself by surprise. He felt possessed. He was a rich man, well stocked with gold and bronze. Not much to look at – the only son in a family of six children – but he was quick, a nippy runner, and the perfect man to cover the ground. He was also acquisitive. The lone god had chosen well.
‘I’ll do it, Hector,’ he said. ‘On one condition – that the horses and chariot you give me from the spoils are the ones driven by Achilles.’
Hector frowned.
‘Fuck you, Dolon. I meant apart from those – I’ve earmarked them for myself.’
Dolon grinned.
‘I’m sure you have. But you said the best in the Greek army, and these are the best. Everyone knows that. Let me have them and I’ll do the job for you all right. I’m not sticking my neck out for second best.’
Hector spat.
‘Double-fuck you, Dolon – but done. They’re yours. You’ll be driving them for the rest of your days.’
Neither knew that Dolon’s days were numbered.
The lone god knew, though. He watched as Dolon picked up his bow and javelin, slung the pelt of a grey wolf over his shoulders, fitted a weaselskin cap on his head and set off in the dark for the Greek ships that he’d never reach. The god took the wings of the approaching dawn and sped off again up to high Olympus to report to Hera.
We weren’t far into the field when I felt Diomedes’ hand over my mouth.
‘BMO!’ he hissed.
Diomedes was like a cat in the dark – fantastic eyesight. He’d seen the black moving object slinking among the dwindling lights of the campfires and stars. I nodded, took his hand from my mouth and whispered back.
‘Some fucker’s got exactly the same idea as us. How should we play it?’
Diomedes brought his lips close up to my ear. His beard tickled.
‘Lie low and let the cunt go by. It’s a blackhead spy. We’ll double back and snatch the bastard once he’s past. They’ve probably volunteered a good runner, so you’re the man, Odysseus. If he’s too fast for you, threaten him with your spear. But don’t kill him, whatever you do. Keep heading him off in the direction of the ships. Away from his own lines.’
We lay down among the many dead that lay rotting and unburned. Some skulls were packed tight with earth. They were the long lost ones, skeletons unclaimed by either side. Among them were the fresher corpses that still smelled of flesh and blood. The BMO flitted past us, deftly threading its way among the stiffs. We waited a minute or two, and then we ran after him.
He heard us and hesitated. The poor bugger probably thought it was friends sent to call him back. Why else would anyone be running at him from the Trojan side? Perhaps Hector wanted the mission called off.
‘He’s thought better about it, the greedy bastard! He wants to keep those fucking
horses for himself!’
But when it got through to him that we were Greeks, the bastard panicked and put on a spurt. He was a good runner. He was also a stupid fucker, legging it in the wrong direction and making straight for our lines.
‘He’ll be at the outposts in less than a minute!’
‘He will at that rate,’ I said.
‘Fuck it! The sentries are going to kill the stupid bastard unless we stop him. Then some other cunt will get the glory and we’ll have nothing to report!’
He let fly with his spear but threw to miss. The weapon whistled over Dolon’s right shoulder and thudded into the dust. It stuck there, swaying and vibrating, and a plume of dust particles flew up, weirdly lit by the embering camp fires. Dolon stopped and stiffened.
‘That’s right,’ Diomedes hissed at him, ‘Freeze or you’re dead! Stand still and you live!’
The man’s face was chalk-white in the paling darkness. He was scared shitless.
‘Don’t kill me, please!’ he wailed.
‘Keep your fucking voice down!’ Diomedes hissed at him again.
‘Yes, yes, just don’t kill me, please! I’m rich. So’s my father. Take me back to the ships and he’ll make it well worth your while. Just take me alive, I’m begging you.’
I put my finger on his lips. He was trembling all over.
‘Get a grip on yourself, man! And quieten down, or the fucking sentries will hear you and we’ll all be under fire, do you hear? Don’t be so scared – that’s the last thing we want. Now calm down and tell us just what you’re up to. Are you out to spy – or are you just a filthy looter?’
‘A looter, me? Never, no, I told you, I’m stinking rich. No, Hector sent me.’
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