‘I’ll kill any man who retreats or who encourages others to retreat. Birds are nothing to me, whether they fly east or west or wherever, with or without their supper. We have only one aim, to fight for our city and for our wives and children. Today that means taking the war to the Greeks. Reptiles and birds must fight for their survival, and so must we.’
And his men followed him, cheering.
It was as if a god had heard Hector. A moment later, a wind awoke in Ida and blew a thundering great dust cloud straight at the Greek ships.
‘There’s another omen for you!’ shouted Hector.
And the Trojans rushed the wall and started dragging at the ramparts, tearing down everything they could from the recent construction. They would have passed through the gap, but the Greek soldiers rushed up and closed them off with their shields. Ajax strode up and down the line like a perambulating tower, ordering the army to stand fast, and the rocks and boulders flew thick and fast across the wall like snowflakes on a winter’s day when the newly tilled fields and the hills and harbours and jutting headlands all are blanketed and only the rolling breakers on the beach remain uncovered.
Hector would never have got inside the gate that day without an inspired assault.
It came from Sarpedon, King of Lycia.
But all inspiration comes from the gods, and Zeus reached down from Olympus and set Sarpedon on fire. The king stepped up to Glaucus, brandishing two spears, and addressed him quietly.
‘Glaucus, we have the best of everything in Lycia by the banks of Xanthus, its wheatfields and orchards, and the people look up to us as if we were gods. Let us see to it today that they respect us all the more, and always honour us even after we are dead. Imagine if they can only say, “No, our kings are no cowards, and it’s not fat cattle and bursting vineyards that make great kings, nor their succulent roasts and sweet wines and flowing cups and their high seats at the feasts – it’s their brave hearts and dauntless spirits that take them foremost into the front line, flinging themselves into the flame of battle, always first in fight.” Imagine.
‘And imagine if we could not only live through this war but afterwards be sure of enjoying immortality. If I thought that were possible I’d neither go out into the front line myself, nor send you into the field to cover yourself in glory. But things aren’t like that, are they? There are a thousand fates round about us, as many ways to die, and there is no escaping all of them. One is all it takes, and that one will get you in the end. So whoever wins the day, us or our enemies, let us go forward and do or die.’
And the two of them pressed on ahead, shoulder to shoulder, with the Lycians at their backs, bounding like mountain lions on the flocks, heedless of the shepherd’s desperate defence.
‘The fucking Lycians! They’re fucking headed our way!’
Menestheus the Athenian saw them coming and shouted to his herald Thoas.
‘Get both the Ajaxes down here at the gallop! Or get Big Ajax to bring Teucer! You know what these savages are like when they get to close quarters!’
Thoas knew. He ran along the inside of the wall with the message and came back with Big Ajax and Teucer, leaving Ajax the Runner to hold the line. When they reached the sector defended by Menestheus, the Lycians were already storming the wall. Ajax arrived just in time to greet Epicles with a boulder to his skull. Epicles dropped like a diver headfirst from the tower, almost in slow motion. But he hit the ground at speed all right, already dead.
There in the web, there goes the spirit, if you care to see it, flitting sorrowfully from the bones. I didn’t see it myself. I saw the body, though, saw the blood and brains spill from it as it fell, saw the limbs splayed at strange angles after the thud.
Teucer got Glaucus in the arm and he clambered back down the wall, lucky cunt – Teucer had aimed for the eye. But Sarpedon pressed on, struck upwards, and speared Alcmaon. Sweet for you, if you can spear a man who’s above you. But he was a hard bastard. He tugged at the spear just enough, and Alcmaon came with it. Sarpedon swerved as the body fell past him, spear and all. Sarpedon now had both hands free. He pulled hard at the undefended section of the rampart, and the battlement gave way. A motherfucker of a breach it was, wide enough for a company to get through.
‘Fuck!’
That was Ajax.
He and Teucer let fly at Sarpedon together. He caught both spear and arrow on his shield and reeled back under the double impact, shouting for support. The Lycians roared their bloodcurdling battle-cry and came on us all the harder, but still our lads defended all the more, and soon the wall ran with the blood of both sides. The Lycians couldn’t break the wall, and we couldn’t shift the bastards off it. They were like limpets. So we just stood our ground and hacked each other to pieces.
It was a cruel hour, as the poets say, when the bitter bronze bit into human flesh, sending many a fine young man not home to his next of kin but to the long home of an early grave, and from there into anonymity and endless night.
But it had to go one way or the other eventually. And at last Zeus gave the glory to Hector. How else could it have happened? How else could Hector have hoisted up a massive rock the size of himself, a rock that even Achilles and Ajax together could never have lifted, not even an inch from the ground? There he stands – with the rock held aloft, high above his head, like Atlas holding the globe, though you can also see the hand of Zeus, clear as day, doing the actual work. He – Zeus, Hector – hurled it at the double doors, the hinges burst, the timber shrieked and tore, the bar gave way, the rock crashed through – and in leapt Hector, unstoppable except by gods, a man on fire, but with a look like nightfall on his face. Only a god indeed could have faced him at that hour, and the greatest god of all was on his side. The Trojans poured through, we fled to the ships, and the terrifying din filled the sky.
TWENTY-FOUR
Anyone with a god’s-eye view of the earth could turn his gaze from Troy that day and survey the tranquillity that exists beyond the unending conflict of war.
That is exactly what Zeus does, turns his shining eyes north, well away from the two armies, leaving them to carry on the futile and bloody struggle free from Olympian intervention. He gazes across to the Thracians, the Mysians and the Hippemolgi, the drinkers of mares’ milk. His bright eyes rest on the Abii, the most peaceful of the peoples of the earth, who never disturb his serene detachment or cause him for one moment even to contemplate any involvement in human affairs. His eyelids droop. A benign and lordly smile spreads over his august features. And he doesn’t give Troy a second glance.
But the web of the sea is stirring, and an ancient shape rises out of the waves. Poseidon, protector of the Greeks, is far from impartial. He soars up out of the ocean, up to the highest ridge of wooded Samos, and there he sits, enthralled by the spectacle of war. Perturbed, though, by the Trojan advantage, he leaves Samos and plunges back down again, deep down into the golden chambers, into the glimmering green depths, surfacing again, this time with the face, shape and voice of Calchas. He is about to defy Zeus and intervene, inspire the Greek army to make a stand, even in their hour of defeat, and save the fleet.
He materialises in the Greek ranks, and this is what he says.
‘Oh, if only some god could speak to you, instead of me, he’d tell you that the time has come to make your greatest stand ever. You must keep Hector from the ships. If you fail in this, there will not only be no ships, there will be no army. You will have nowhere to go. Instead, you will be slaughtered in this country, not in one battle but gradually and systematically. You will be picked off in tens and hundreds as you flee and hide and wander. You will be scavengers. You will be decimated down to the last man, and there won’t even be a memory left of you or why you came to Troy. You will be less than the spittle that is left in men’s mouths. Not even the Trojans will care to remember you in song. Not the clang of a single string. You see then? The ships are your survival, they are your life. You must fight for them now, fight for your lives.’
&
nbsp; Inspired by this speech, the Ajaxes add to it at once, rallying the troops for battle.
‘You call yourselves Greeks! Are you raw recruits or what? Your mothers would prefer to see you dead than lying down like this to an inferior enemy. Never mind that we’ve been let down by our leaders; good soldiers can quickly recover. Good soldiers wish to go home victorious and with all the spoils of war, not with their tails between their legs. Are you forgetting what’s on offer? Let’s take lives, lads, lives and wives! And sail home to Argos with bursting hulls and with not a ship surrendered. What do you say? Will you form up behind us and fight?’
A tremendous roar follows this speech and the lines are quickly formed, an impenetrable hedge of men, standing helmet to helmet, shield to shield, and with spears bristling so close together, so densely packed, the army resembles one gigantic porcupine, ready to inflict injuries and death on any enemy that comes within range.
But the Trojans are not intimidated. Hector himself comes bouncing up on the Greeks like a huge mountain boulder tossed into the air by a rain-swollen winter river. And his men mass behind him like a great barrage of rocks, following the leader, thundering support.
‘Let’s finish the bastards! Go for it, you Lycian lads! Do you want to fuck your wives again? And you Dardanian boys, you know you love it! A good old hand-to-hand scrap! Nothing to beat it! Go for the brains now! Forget the fucking balls! They have none! Come on, let’s do some damage! Spill some blood!’
Deiphobus was first out, first to respond to the rallying cry, eager to make his brother proud of him. Meriones marked him and threw, hitting the shield. The lance snapped at the socket, and Deiphobus lived.
Imbrius did not. Teucer switched to his spear and hit the target first time. The target toppled like a tree to the woodman’s axe, blood spreading from his head to form a widening dark circle in the dust. Shacked up in Pedaeum with Medesicaste, one of Priam’s illegitimate daughters and something of a shrew, Imbrius had often quipped to his friends, ‘Life’s a bitch and then you marry one’, his jesting laced with rue. But there’s no bitch like destiny, whether the life be long or short. And Imbrius would hear Medesicaste’s scolding no more.
Teucer came for the armour, but Hector hurled at him, warning him off. The spear missed by a whisker and hit Amphimachus in the chest, killing him quickly. He died in the arms of his friend, Ajax the Runner. Ajax swore and hurled back at Hector – a glorious throw. But Hector was too well protected. Even so the impact sent him staggering backwards. We dashed in and grabbed Imbrius, dragging him off behind our line. Ajax was still black in the face with rage over the loss of his friend and he hacked off Imbrius’s dead head, picked it up and spun it high in the air, hurling it to the other side. It dropped like a ball at Hector’s feet.
‘Present for you, cunt-head! An even uglier mug than your own!’
Hector snarled, snatched it up again and lobbed it back hard at Ajax, who didn’t even bother to hold up his shield, but spread wide both arms, grinning.
‘Trojan bonces? I’m fucking terrified!’
The head was still helmeted, and the flying metal, weighted by the skull, broke the bridge of Ajax’s nose. He yelped and clapped a hand to his face.
Hector yelled back.
‘There you go! That’ll improve your mug! And you’ll have to throw a lot more than that, you cunt! Even the fucking Gorgon won’t stop us!’
Behind him, the blackheads just kept on coming. And we knew if we didn’t hold the line we’d never get back to Argos, never see home again.
So all day long the noise of battle rolled. It was deadlock. A tug-of-war with not an inch or an ounce either fucking way, the two sides heaving and sweating at a rope knotted by the gods. That’s how it was at the battle of the ships. And no one could undo that knot, though it undid many a soldier.
Then our excellent old Idomeneus flung himself into the fray with a roar. He may have been a grizzled veteran, and he was amiable enough off the field, the soul of courtesy, but in battle he became a terror. And he lost all his decency. Within seconds he’d caused panic among the blackheads by killing Othryoneus. This young man had just come from Cabesus, attracted by the war – or rather by Cassandra, easily the most stunning of Priam’s daughters. But when he was asked to cough up for her he reckoned he couldn’t afford it and promised to pay Priam in war service instead, saying he’d perform wonders and making it known he’d soon drive the Greeks into the sea and pack us back to Argos in no time at all.
And he still believed this – the little prick from Cabesus was busy parading about in the front line, doing fuck all except look pleased with himself, when Idomeneus confronted him.
‘Best get your sad arse into the rear, grandfather – this is no country for old men!’ jeered Othryoneus.
Idomeneus didn’t waste any energy on words, not yet. He hurled with all the strength and skill of the seasoned soldier. The javelin struck the man full in the belly, splitting the bowels, and stuck there swaying and vibrating, till Idomeneus wrenched it out and the entrails along with it, scattering them at his side. The eyes were already glazing over, but Idomeneus bent down and spoke softly in his ear.
‘So much for your wedding plans, eh? You’ll never taste Cassandra’s cunt, you loser! But I will, old as I am, and fuck her for free too! And you’ve paid the bride price – with your fucking life, double loser!’
The dying man’s hand reached out and fluttered slightly, as if he were trying to seize his killer by the throat. Or maybe he was meaning to plead for his life, which already lay spilled at his side. Either way, it didn’t matter. Idomeneus swept the arm aside and slashed off the hand with his sword. He picked it out of the dust and held it over the glazed face, dripping blood.
‘No, you won’t be groping Cassandra with this tonight, will you? And what about your prick?’
He threw away the hand and sliced off the genitals, holding them up.
‘Want me to take this to her? Wedding present?’
By now he was speaking to a dead man.
‘Shame. She’ll have to make do with mine. Well, let’s get you back to the ships, dogmeat!’
And yet away from the theatre of war this actor of evil was the personification of kindness. He just couldn’t do enough for you. Back home, his grandchildren simply adored him. And other women envied his wife such a considerate and courteous husband. They couldn’t understand how he could be a soldier. That’s war.
But Asius saw Idomeneus dragging off the body. Asius had elected to advance on foot with his chariot following, the driver keeping the horses immediately behind him.
‘I want to feel that horse-breath hot on my fucking neck! Keep up! Keep up!’
He tried to close with his target, but Idomeneus saw him coming and got in first – got him in the gullet just under the chin, and the bronze ripped out his throat, coming out at the nape of the neck. Asius crashed backwards, the horses reared and stamped, and before the driver had a chance to wheel them round he took a spear in the belly from Antilochus. He joined Asius in the dust and Antilochus took charge of the horses and chariot. Idomeneus got the corpse safely away.
He shouted to his men.
‘Back to the ships with the armour! And give my apologies to the dogs – a one-handed corpse with neither cock nor balls. A disappointing dish, but what the fuck!’
Idomeneus turned round and got eyes on his next target, a royal one, Alcathous, son of King Aesyetes and married to old Anchises’ eldest daughter, Hippodameia. She was the light of her old folks’ lives, bursting with brains and beauty, and they had scoured the broad acres of windy Troy for a good match for her, turning down many a rich and gifted suitor. Alcathous was the man, and a handsome stripling too. But what brains and beauty he had of his own were destined to be spilled in the dust. Alas. And a completely unnecessary waste, as it turned out, because he saw Idomeneus coming and saw the spear cast from a fair distance and had plenty of time to swerve or get his shield up. But the silly cunt did neither. He jus
t stood there, frozen with fear, like a petrified rabbit, and took the spear deep in the chest, where it vibrated to the last frantic heartbeats. Idomeneus scowled. You can’t taunt a man whose heart has ceased to beat. So instead he wrenched out the spear and stabbed and stabbed again at the senseless head. And this was the man who’d sit his granddaughter on his knee as gently as if she were a kitten.
Next he challenged Deiphobus, who wisely reckoned that the luck of the gods was with Idomeneus today and it made more sense to call for backup. He spotted Aeneas on his way up and shouted.
‘It’s your brother-in-law, Alcathous – he’s down. Can you help me?’
‘Down? Wounded?’
‘No, he’s bought it! Let’s get the body.’
Aeneas came running up, saw Idomeneus, weighed up the situation and threw. Idomeneus dodged, and the spear quivered in the ground behind him. He returned the throw, missing both Aeneas and Deiphobus, but the spear struck Oenomaus in the belly, breaking the plate armour and releasing the innards.
Idomeneus bent to strip his man, but a hail of missiles came at him, including one from Deiphobus, who missed his target but hit Ascalaphus, so fine a fighter they called him son of the war-god. The stray spear struck him deep in the heart, plunging in up to the butt, and he crashed back and lay quiet in the dust, the spear twanging like mad.
Doesn’t matter whose son you are – the war-god’s or a latrine queen’s. When you take a hit like that, for you the war is over.
The battle began for Ascalaphus, whose body belonged to Deiphobus. Or so he thought. He’d just ripped off the helmet when he took a spear in the shoulder from Meriones. Polites saw the strike and ran up to help. He half carried his brother to his horses, which got the bastard back to town in time. He was losing a lot of blood.
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