by Glyn Iliffe
‘Thought you needed some help,’ he said, grinning.
‘You just watch out for yourself,’ Eperitus replied as more Trojans moved to take the places of the men they had killed.
The chaos of battle was raging all around them now. To Eperitus’s right the gigantic form of Polites – his helmet lost and his face spattered with gore – was cutting a swathe through the ranks of Trojans, supported by Antiphus and Eurybates on either side. Even Omeros had worked his way to the front ranks and was duelling with a Trojan spearman, his eyes wide with terror and his young face pale as his opponent thrust at him again and again. Then Arceisius seized Eperitus’s arm and pointed to their left, where a short, heavily built warrior had cut down three Ithacans in easy succession and was now making for Odysseus. The Ithacan king had already struck dead several opponents and was exhorting the Ithacans to greater destruction when he sensed the man’s approach and turned to face him. All around them the fighting broke off as the two sides edged backwards.
‘I am Democoön, son of Priam,’ the Trojan grunted, speaking in his own language. ‘Name yourself, Greek, so I can know whose ghost I’m sending to the Underworld. I want to boast of my victory when I’ve stripped the armour from your corpse.’
‘I am Odysseus, king of Ithaca and son of Laertes, but to you and all other Trojans who stand in my way, my name is Death!’
A moment later his spear was flying through the air towards Democoön, who flung his shield up instinctively and had it torn from his grip by the force of the cast. He replied immediately, but his weapon missed Odysseus and buried itself in the groin of the man behind him, a lad called Leucus who had arrived with the most recent shipment of recruits from Ithaca. He fell forward, groaning in agony as his lifeblood poured out on to the soil of Ilium.
Odysseus plucked the spear from his dead body and, with a shout of fury, ran straight at Democoön. The Trojan only had time to wrap his fingers around the ivory handle of his sword before Odysseus sent the point of his own spear through his temple and out the back of his head, dropping him lifeless to the ground. A moment later, he had seized the corpse by the arm and was dragging him back to the safety of the Ithacan lines, there to strip it of its armour.
With a cheer and renewed fury, the Ithacans charged once more into the Trojan ranks. Undeterred by the loss of their chieftain or the casualties that had already been inflicted on them, the Trojans kept their discipline, filled the gaps that had been made and held their ground stubbornly. Though none could stand for long against the anger of Odysseus, the skill of Eperitus or the brute strength of Polites, they were tenacious men who fought for their homeland and their families, and soon the corpses of both sides were clogging the hotly contested slope. The fighting became so close that Eperitus was forced to abandon his spear and draw his sword from its scabbard, using it to parry the thrusts of enemy weapons or stab down across his opponents’ shield rims and into their exposed throats. The air was now filled with a brown haze of dust, kicked up by countless sandalled feet as they struggled for a grip on the dry earth; it stung eyes and parched throats so that men longed for water and the cries of their struggles were dry and muted. The senses were further stifled by the reek of sweat from thousands of toiling bodies, clogging a man’s nostrils so that only the stench of warm blood could compete against it. Even the ever-present north wind seemed to die away and leave the armies to suffer amidst the stink of their own folly. Worse still was the din of the fighting, a sound that would have drowned even the smithies of Hephaistos, manned day and night by the Cyclopes as they beat out Zeus’s thunderbolts in the fires of Olympus. Its ceaseless clanging deafened men as they fought, so that the survivors were left with the echo of its ringing in their heads for days.
All across the plain the sounds and smells, the pain and exertion, the tragedy and triumph were the same. Men on both sides called on the gods to help them, exhorting the aim of Apollo, the brute strength of Ares or the skill of Athena, and in response Zeus sent terror, strife and panic to increase their suffering. He filled some with bravery, exhorting them to acts beyond their standing, while others he robbed of their courage and sent fleeing from the battle line, to be shot or stabbed from behind. But the Greeks had the advantage of the slope and their archers had already thinned and disrupted the ranks of their opponents, and so it was that the Trojans began to fall back before them. Great Ajax increased their misery, slaying scores of warriors in his thirst for glory and stripping the armour from the best of them. Teucer’s bow – a gift from Apollo – and Little Ajax’s spear brought down many others as they fought alongside him. Agamemnon did not shrink from the battle, either, and felled several opponents of high rank or otherwise, not discriminating in his hatred of the men of Ilium. Even Menelaus had joined the fray, ignoring all advice to return to the ships and returning to lead his own men. But nowhere was the slaughter greater than before the ranks of the Argives and their king, Diomedes. They drove all before them, leaving a trail of dead on the slopes as they pushed the Trojans perilously close to the fast-flowing Scamander. Even when Pandarus – whose arrow had felled Menelaus and broken the truce – drove out against them and shot Diomedes in the left shoulder, it did not stop the king’s fury. Instead, he ordered Sthenelaus to pluck out the arrow then killed Pandarus with a spear throw which passed through his cheekbone and out the back of his neck. And thus the Zeleian archer’s treachery against the gods was repaid.
But Hector saw the salient the Argives had cut into the Trojan ranks. It stretched out from the Greek lines like the blade of a sword, long, narrow and exposed, with the banner of the golden fox at its tip where Diomedes was leading. Urging the rest of the Trojans to hold their ground and assuring them that Achilles – the man they feared above all others – was refusing to fight, Hector sent his chariots against the extended flanks. The men of Argos heard the thunder of hooves and heavy wooden wheels through the clouds of dust that obscured the battlefield. Moments later the rancorous Trojans were bursting through on three sides, bringing swift terror to their enemies. Now it was the turn of the Argives to litter the ground with their bodies. The chariots punched holes in the once solid lines of spearmen, spreading fear and alarm through the men behind. Trojan infantry followed, exploiting the gaps that had been created and cutting Diomedes’s army to shreds. Their king, suffering from the wound to his shoulder, ordered a fighting retreat and suddenly the battle was turning in Hector’s favour.
As the Argives fled back up the slope, panic spread through the rest of the Greek army and they gave ground before the resurgent Trojans. The Ithacans moved back with them, fearful of leaving their flanks exposed as their neighbours retreated on either side. They passed the bodies of the men who had died in the earlier fighting, many of whom Eperitus knew, as well as many others who were unrecognizable beneath the layers of gore and dust that covered them. But this was the glory he had longed for all his life, he reminded himself. Only amidst the litter of the battlefield could a warrior find immortality, winning renown with his spear at the risk of a painful and bloody death. That was the warrior’s creed.
But it was a creed he knew he was losing faith in. Each time he scanned the sweating, resolute faces of his opponents, he was reminded of the Trojan blood that flowed in his own veins. When his father had exiled him from Alybas, he thought he had turned his back on the last surviving member of his family. But now he realized that the men he was fighting could be his distant cousins, men with whom he shared a common ancestry. What was more, the dark skin and black hair that he had always considered the mark of an enemy race now reminded him of the woman he loved. Every time he brought down a Trojan in the fury of battle, he thought of Astynome and how she despised the Greeks for killing her countrymen and destroying her homeland. And as he surveyed the destruction around him and listened to the terrible clamour of battle, he understood her hatred. The Greeks had brought nothing but suffering and death to the people of Ilium, and all for the lust of one man and the greed of another.
> The lines parted as the exhausted Greeks drew further back up the slope and the Trojans were temporarily too tired to pursue. The pause had not lasted more than a few short moments, though, when a chariot rode out from the enemy ranks with Sarpedon standing proud and upright in the car. He shouted a challenge in his own tongue and Tlepolemos, the king of Rhodes, ran out to meet him. As Eperitus watched he was reminded of the young, baby-faced suitor whom he had first seen twenty years ago in the great hall at Sparta. He had only been a prince then, with a fledgling beard and a full head of curly hair, vainly hoping to win the hand of the most beautiful woman in Greece. Now his beard was full and he had proved himself again and again on the battlefield, but Eperitus sensed that Tlepolemos had as much chance against Sarpedon as he had had of marrying Helen.
The two kings cast their spears simultaneously. An instant later, a cheer erupted from the Greek ranks as Sarpedon’s thigh was gashed open and he fell from the car to roll in the dust. Then the cheer died in their throats as they realized the point of Sarpedon’s own spear had passed through Tlepolemos’s neck, killing the king of Rhodes instantly.
The small force of Tlepolemos’s followers gave a shout of anger and rushed forward, to be met head on by Sarpedon’s army of Lycians as they ran to defend their wounded king. Through the cloud of dust that obscured the battlefield, Eperitus saw the men of Rhodes overwhelmed and cut down. Though they fought gallantly, the disciplined spears and shields of their enemies were too numerous for them. Gyrtias, their captain, who had accompanied Tlepolemos to Sparta and befriended Odysseus’s small escort of Ithacans there, slew a tall Lycian spearman before being impaled on the spear points of three or four others and sent to accompany his king to the halls of Hades.
With a shout of rage, Odysseus threw his spear into the swarm of Lycians and ran towards them, brandishing his sword. Eperitus and the rest of the Ithacans followed, casting what spears they had left and bringing down several men, but too slow to catch up with their king. Caring little for his own safety, Odysseus tore into the tired enemy soldiers with a blazing fury, hacking wildly to left and right. A man crumpled to his knees, dropping his weapons as he cupped his hands over the gash in his stomach; another fled back through the Trojan lines, holding the stump of his wrist towards the heavens as if imploring the uncaring gods to restore his severed hand; a third crashed into the dust, a corpse with no sign of wound or blood on him. As the Lycians fell back, Odysseus tossed his shield aside, angered by the encumbrance, and began swinging his sword with both hands, knocking shields from men’s grips, dashing the weapons from their hands and cutting into flesh so that he became spattered with their gore.
Eperitus and Arceisius joined the fight at their king’s side, just as the redoubtable Lycians began to edge around him. Though his limbs were heavy with the long afternoon’s toil, Eperitus punched the boss of his shield into an opponent’s face and sank his sword into the man’s liver. Arceisius severed another’s arm from above the elbow and, as the man staggered back in surprise, ran the point of his sword through his throat. The Lycians’ discipline crumbled without their king to bolster them and they began to fall back. Led by Odysseus, the Ithacans and the remaining Rhodians fell on them with a new fury. Then a horn blast ripped through the noise of the battle and Hector came racing up in his chariot behind the collapsing Lycians, bellowing at them to hold their ground. He leapt down from the car with two spears in his hand and a fearsome look on his face that struck terror in friend and foe alike. Striding through the ranks of Troy’s allies, his mere presence was enough to halt their flight and turn them back up the slope to meet the Greeks. He hurled one of his spears through the shield and breastplate of an Ithacan guardsman, then took the other in both hands and threw himself into the fray, driving all before him.
At the same moment, Eperitus saw Odysseus retrieve his shield and move towards the towering form of the Trojan prince.
‘Odysseus!’ he shouted, running to the king’s side. ‘Odysseus, what are you doing? Challenge Hector and he’ll kill you for certain. Even Achilles would think twice . . .’
‘Do you see Achilles on the battlefield?’ Odysseus snapped. ‘And even if he was here, do you think I would shirk my duty as a king, to face my enemies whoever and wherever they are? Hector is my enemy, Eperitus, and he is not immortal.’
He turned to go but Eperitus seized his arm.
‘But the gods are with him, Odysseus.’
Odysseus threw his hand off with an angry sneer. ‘Is he a god himself ?’
‘Then if Hector is to be challenged, let me do it.’
‘And what about me, Eperitus? Do you think I haven’t forgotten that Palamedes accused me of being a coward in front of the whole council? He called me a thief and an impostor, a poor king without fame. And perhaps he was right. Perhaps I’ve wasted too much time trying to end this war by cunning, when I should have been winning renown on the battlefield like Achilles or Ajax.’
‘So that’s what this is about,’ Eperitus said. ‘A sudden desire for glory, just because of the accusations of a traitor? Well, Palamedes was a fool, and what’s more he’s a dead fool – and if you face Hector, you will be, too. In the name of Athena, remember why you’ve fought so hard all these years, Odysseus – for your family’s sake, so you can see them again!’
‘Didn’t the Pythoness say I’d survive the war and return to Ithaca?’ Odysseus countered. ‘And what better chance to end this war now than to face Hector and bring him down in the dust? And when I’ve killed him, no one will ever brand me a coward again. Even Achilles’s glory will fade next to mine. So may Athena be with me.’
‘Athena is with you,’ said a voice.
They turned to see a tall warrior standing behind them. He carried the shield and long spear of a Taphian mercenary, though his skin was oddly white and his hair was not black or brown, but a bright blond that seemed to catch the sunlight wherever it fell from the rim of his helmet. Neither Odysseus or Eperitus could remember seeing his face before, but there was nevertheless a strange familiarity about the large eyes, the thin lips and the straight nose that did not dip at the bridge. The Taphian bent his stern gaze on the Ithacan king, then poked him on the breastplate with his forefinger.
‘I am with you, Odysseus – as I have always been – but even I can’t save your worthless hide if you choose to throw yourself on Hector’s spear.’
Odysseus fell to his knees and bowed his head, Hector’s presence forgotten.
‘Mistress Athena!’ he exclaimed.
The goddess quickly pulled him to his feet, making light of his heavy bulk.
‘Not in the middle of a battlefield,’ she scolded him. ‘Can you imagine what others will say if they see the mighty king of Ithaca bobbing and scraping before one of his own mercenaries? A subtle bow would have sufficed. And that goes for you, too, Eperitus.’
Shamed by his omission, Eperitus gave an uncertain nod of his head. Athena rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue.
‘I haven’t seen you for ten years, my lady,’ Odysseus said, looking at the goddess with subdued wonder. ‘Not since—’
‘I appeared to you on Samos, I know. But it does not mean I’ve been apart from you all that time. On the contrary, I have kept a very keen eye on you – on both of you, in fact. And now a time is coming that will test you, each in your different ways; a test of the strength of your characters and your worthiness to conquer Troy. But your test is not to face Hector, Odysseus, and I forbid you to pick a fight with him. Leave that trial for those the gods have already chosen.’
‘Then am I to be a coward king as Palamedes declared, my name forgotten and without glory?’
Athena shook her head and smiled, reaching out to brush her fingers down the side of Odysseus’s beard.
‘It’s rare that Eperitus speaks with any intelligence, but he was right when he told you Palamedes is a fool and a dead one at that. You will find your glory, son of Laertes, though I know few men more heedless of the warrior’s cre
ed. Just use your cunning, the greatest asset the gods awarded to you, and your fame will be established for ever.
‘As for you, Eperitus,’ she added, turning her grey eyes on him. ‘I know the challenges in your heart. And yet your heart is much clearer than your mind, so follow it as you have always done and it will not let you down.’
At that moment another horn call rose above the battle and they turned to see Hector mounting his chariot and riding to another part of the field, where Ajax was driving a company of Trojans back down the slope and leaving chaos and destruction in his wake. Odysseus watched him disappear with a wistful look in his eyes, but when he and Eperitus looked about again Athena was gone.
Chapter Nineteen
HECTOR AND AJAX
The battle raged back and forth and fortunes changed from one side to another as the afternoon wore on. As their men tired, still their captains rallied them to new endeavours, desperately trying to break the deadlock that was slowly beginning to impose itself on the exhausted armies. But for all the efforts of Agamemnon, Menelaus, Diomedes and the other Greek leaders, wherever the fighting was at its hardest and most dangerous, Hector would appear, giving the men of Ilium new courage and determination, while filling their enemies with dismay as he charged into their ranks and brought down their best warriors.
Eventually, the sun began to dip towards the rim of the western ocean, promising twilight and an end to the fighting. Even the hardiest warriors – their limbs aching from the struggle, now barely able to lift their heavy swords or raise their shields for protection – wanted night to come and bring respite so that they could quench their thirsts, rest their weary muscles and count their losses. And so the two armies parted, taking up the positions they had held before Menelaus and Paris had started the day’s struggle. Now, though, the opposing battle lines that had filled the slope for as far as the eye could see, their armour gleaming in the sun, were but a phantom of their former glory. The ranks had been thinned hideously and those who remained standing were caked with dust and blood, their shields and helmets dinted and dull. Meanwhile the bodies of their comrades carpeted the plain, banked up in lines where the tides of battle had raged most furiously. Here and there broken forms twitched or called out for help. But none came, for their countrymen were too fatigued to leave the battered mass of the living.
