by Glyn Iliffe
But as Eperitus clutched at the wet spear and prepared himself for the assault, the sound of horns came blowing out of the storm behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw streams of chariots and horsemen leaving the walls of the Greek camp and dashing over the causeways. Diomedes was honouring his promise to save the rearguard.
Chapter Twenty-Three
DISHONOURABLE PRIDE
The whole Greek camp seemed to be groaning with pain and misery. Wounded men lay everywhere among the tents and huts while their comrades tended to their injuries, or tried to shut out their cries and find much-needed sleep. Though the storm had passed on to leave a cloudless, star-filled sky, the earth was still sodden from the heavy rain and the soldiers were chilled to the bone as they tried to dry their clothing around the countless campfires. The unexpected catastrophe and loss of life on the battlefield had left their mood sullen and despairing, while beyond the walls the fires of the victorious Trojan army were as innumerable as the stars above, threatening another day of intense fighting and death. And if the walls did not hold, then nothing would prevent Hector from torching the ships and bringing about the utter annihilation of the Greek army.
Eperitus was pondering these things as he followed Odysseus through the camp towards Agamemnon’s tent. Though the force of chariots and cavalry led by Diomedes had caused great slaughter among the Trojans and enabled the rearguard to slip back behind the protection of the walls, it had only been a small success in a day of resounding defeat for the Greeks. With the Trojan army now besieging the camp, no man could draw any kind of solace from the day’s struggle. Some tried to encourage their comrades or subordinates by recalling Calchas’s prophecy of victory in the tenth year, but such remarks were met with scorn or bitter sneers. There was hardly a man who did not know in his heart that the next morning would bring only more loss, humiliation and death.
Chief among the doubters, it seemed, was Agamemnon himself. Rumours had swept through the camp that the once proud King of Men was declaring the war as good as lost and blaming everyone but himself for the defeat. Odysseus had tried to scotch the rumours among his own men, telling them Agamemnon had summoned the Council of Kings to his tent and together they would devise a way of beating Hector. But as he and Eperitus entered the vaulted pavilion, with its canvas walls billowing pregnantly in the wind, they found the tales of Agamemnon’s mood were not exaggerated.
As the last of the council took their seats, the Mycenaean king faced the grimed and bloodied circle of leaders with a look of angry despondency in his eyes.
‘Greeks,’ he announced, clutching at his golden sceptre, ‘comrades in suffering, can any of you deny that Zeus has finally decided between myself and Priam? Is there a man among you foolish enough to say the Son of Cronos hasn’t given victory to the Trojans? We sailed here in the greatest fleet the world has ever seen, expecting to conquer swiftly and share the rich spoils of Troy. But who now can look out from the ramparts we built in our foolish pride and not know the doom of our army is camped on the plain?
‘Let us take to our ships, then, while we still can, and leave this place of sorrow to its true masters. If the choice is retreat with ignominy or death with honour, then let us unfurl our sails at dawn and go home.’
If Eperitus hated the cold, emotionless king who had murdered his daughter to wage war against Troy, he had felt no less contempt then for the defeated fool who stood before the men who had elected him their leader, lamenting his treatment at the hands of the gods and declaring defeat because of a single day’s fighting. But as the kings and princes looked at each other in silence, Diomedes stepped out from among them and snatched the sceptre from Agamemnon’s undeserving hand.
‘Is it just three days since you called me a coward in front of the whole army, my lord?’ he sneered. ‘Three short days, in which you’ve managed to throw away a tenth of your men and let the Trojans push us back inside the boundaries of our own camp. Then I congratulate you: you’ve gained a triumph very few of us could have achieved! But now you’ve excelled yourself with this talk of sailing home. Zeus may have given you a splendid sceptre and the command of all the Greeks with it, but one thing he did not give you was courage. Go, then! No one will stop you – you’re the King of Men, after all. And if there are any who want to go with you, then let them. In fact, let every Greek leave Ilium, for all I care; Sthenelaus and I will fight on alone with our Argives, until Troy falls or the last of us is sent down to Hades. For we are men of honour, warriors who will not return home in shame. We choose to stay and fight.’
Diomedes’s speech was met with a chorus of approval, many of the kings leaping to their feet and beckoning for the sceptre, keen to add their own words of rebuke for Agamemnon. But Diomedes had already given the staff to Nestor, who held up his hands and refused to speak until the last man had returned to his seat.
‘My lord Agamemnon, Diomedes is right to rebuke you. For one thing, the fleet is in no condition to sail: timbers have rotted, sails are moth-eaten, and ropes are frayed to snapping point. But even if our ships were seaworthy, why would any of us want to leave now? Have we fought for ten long years to leave empty-handed, when victory can still be claimed even at this dark time?’
‘Victory!’ Agamemnon snorted. ‘So the years have finally caught up with your brains, Nestor, as well as your body. Why do you try to placate me with false hopes when you know the gods are against us?’
‘You conveniently forget my wife is still a prisoner of the Trojans!’ Menelaus snapped, glowering at his brother. ‘If Nestor says we can still win then I want to know what he’s got in mind.’
‘Haven’t you already guessed?’ Nestor replied. ‘Victory lies with one man – Achilles. If Agamemnon will forget his pride and offer to return Briseis, the greatest warrior we have may yet come to our aid. Even Hector won’t stand against him, and with his battle-hardened Myrmidons still fresh they’ll sweep the Trojans from the field. What do you say, Agamemnon?’
Nestor had voiced the hope of every man present, who now turned as one to the King of Men. But Agamemnon stared down at his feet as if his aged adviser had not spoken.
‘What do you say, my lord?’ Great Ajax insisted, rising to his feet. ‘Will we approach my cousin for his help, or turn tail and flee like an army of washerwomen?’
Agamemnon lifted his face and fixed his cold blue eyes on the king of Salamis.
‘Do I have a choice in the matter? It seems to me now that the gods aren’t so much with Priam and the Trojans as with Achilles. Ever since I argued with that man nothing has gone right for me: not only has my army been decimated, but my enemies are ensconced before the gates and unless I humble myself at the feet of that stubborn young goat even my most trusted advisers and allies will turn upon me. Then so be it!’
He stood and crossed the floor of his tent, seizing the sceptre from Nestor and rounding angrily on the others.
‘Go to Achilles! Offer him whatever you see fit from my wealth – gold, slaves, as many tripods and cauldrons as his vanity requires; even my best horses if he demands them. And if that won’t appease his cursed pride, then offer him part of my kingdom and Menelaus’s too – after all, it’s your damned wife we’re here for,’ he added, staring down his brother’s unspoken protest. ‘And tell him Briseis is his, untouched by me. I give him my word on that.’
There were tears of anger on his face as he shook the sceptre at the commanders of his army.
‘Just make sure he submits himself to my authority again. If I can debase myself for his sake, then the least he can do is accept my peace offering and save us from the Trojans. After all, even the will of the gods can be turned by a show of humility. And if you’re determined on this course – which is not what I would do, if you gave me a choice – then, for the sake of all the gods, send someone he’s going to listen to. You, Odysseus; you can win any man’s heart with your words, whether honest or deceitful. And you, Ajax; you’re Achilles’s cousin and there’s no man closer to his heart, other than Pa
troclus. Go at once. We’ll await your return here, though you go with a fool’s hope.’
And so Ajax and Odysseus – accompanied by Eperitus – left the assembly and walked along the sand towards Achilles’s hut. The low groaning of the wounded was all around them, like the strained breathing of an injured animal, and yet as they approached the tents of the Myrmidons they were met by the sounds of laughter and feasting. It irked Eperitus to hear the skilled strumming of a lyre drifting out across the beach, while a voice sang softly of long-dead heroes and their feats. Were Achilles and his soldiers somehow unaware of the suffering of the rest of the army, he wondered, or was this their way of mocking them for daring to face the Trojans without their help? He looked out at the black ocean to his right and prayed to Athena that he would contain his growing anger.
The Myrmidons’ tents were pitched a short distance away from the rest of the camp, at the southernmost point of the bay. It was a psychological detachment as well as a physical one, and the difference between the two camps had never been more noticeable to Eperitus than it was to him then. The numerous fires that sent columns of orange sparks twisting into the night sky were a world away from the misery he had temporarily left behind, while the groups of warriors who sat drinking wine and chattering noisily among themselves seemed like figures from a forgotten past, where pain and suffering were just words in a story. They fell silent, though, as the three men appeared among them, and watched with muted fascination as they made their way towards Achilles’s hut at the upper edge of the beach. It was from here that the song that seemed to mock the suffering of the rest of the army was emanating. Smoke rose from a hole in the apex of the hut’s roof, while four armed men guarded its entrance. They quickly moved back at the sight of Odysseus, Ajax and Eperitus and waved them inside.
The interior was dimly lit by the low flames of the hearth, but by the orange light the newcomers could see a dozen Myrmidon nobles lying on fleeces and picking at the remains of a meal. Many had half-naked slaves in their arms and in the darkened corners of the hut Eperitus could see the dim outlines of figures coupled together, making no effort to quieten their exertions. On the opposite side of the fire, seated on the floor with his back propped against a stool, was Achilles. A lyre was in his hands, his fingers stroking the strings with greater skill than any bard Eperitus had ever heard. He sung of Meleager and the Calydonian boar, and his voice threw a web of enchantment over his audience that even the sounds from the corners of the hut could not disrupt. Patroclus was at his side, leaning against the same stool and stroking his fingers through the back of Achilles’s long blond hair.
As he recognized Ajax, Odysseus and Eperitus, Achilles stopped his song and gave the lyre to Patroclus. He stood and clapped his hands twice.
‘Out, all of you!’
At once the nobles jumped to their feet, spilling the slaves from their laps or hauling them up by their wrists and dragging them towards the door. The noises from the corners of the hut stopped abruptly as six or seven naked figures left the shadows, the women clutching their clothing to their chests as the men herded them unsympathetically outside. When only Achilles and Patroclus remained, the prince leaned forward with a smile and took each of the visitors’ hands in greeting.
‘Welcome, friends,’ he said with warm enthusiasm. ‘I was expecting Agamemnon to send someone, but you don’t know how pleased I am he chose you. Be seated.’
He nodded to Patroclus, who fetched three heavy chairs draped in purple cloth from the shadows.
‘Fetch wine, too,’ Achilles added. ‘Not too much water, though. And bring more meat, Patroclus. No one’s visited my hut in nearly a week and I want to show these men a real welcome.’
‘Some of us have been fighting,’ Ajax growled, squeezing himself into his chair.
Achilles glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, smiling as he cleaned bits of meat from his teeth with his tongue.
‘Let’s not be bitter, cousin. You know how much I love a scrap, but you also know the offence that forced me to withdraw from this war. Which, I imagine, is what you’ve come to talk about. But first let us share wine and meat together, as friendship demands.’
Patroclus entered with a large bowl of mixed wine, which he placed on a bench before drawing cups for Achilles and his visitors, frowning at the menial task he had been relegated to. As the four men poured their libations to the gods and drank, a soldier brought in the sides of a sheep and a goat and laid them out next to the bowl of wine. Achilles began jointing and carving up the meat at once, while Patroclus tended to the fire and prepared the spits. While the Myrmidons busied themselves with the meal and Odysseus and Ajax leaned in towards each other to speak in low voices, Eperitus looked around at the large hut with its deep shadows. The wide floor was covered in the soft fleeces of sacrificed sheep, many of which had been misplaced and rucked up by the exodus of noblemen and their slaves. The walls were hung with a collection of weapons and armour that Achilles had stripped from his more illustrious victims as tokens of his victories, while in the gloom against the far side of the hut was a rack from which hung Achilles’s own armaments: his long sword and dagger in their ornately worked sheaths; his bronze greaves with silver clips at the ankles; his round, leather shield with its scooped bottom edge, giving it the shape of a waning moon; his sculpted bronze corslet with the dents and scars of many battles upon it; and his black-plumed helmet with its grimacing visor. As Eperitus stared into its empty eyeholes, he was reminded of the many times he had seen Achilles wear it into battle and the terror that the mere sight of it had instilled in his enemies. How different would the outcome of the day’s fighting have been if the helmet had been seen among the ranks of the Greek army?
After the meat had been cooked, the ritual pieces burned for the gods and the meal eaten, they refilled their cups and sat down to face each other.
‘We thank you for your hospitality, Achilles,’ Odysseus began. ‘But as you’ve already guessed, we’re not here to pass the evening drinking wine and telling you of our deeds on the battlefield. We were sent here by the Council of Kings.’
‘You mean Agamemnon sent you.’
‘It was the will of the council we come here,’ Ajax growled.
Odysseus held up a hand for silence.
‘Ajax is right, Achilles, but as you know the council does nothing without Agamemnon’s say-so. It’s by his authority we’re here and every word we speak is uttered on his behalf. You don’t need me to tell you that the Trojans have mastered us in battle and at this very moment their campfires are lapping against the walls of our camp like a great ocean. Zeus’s favour is with them now, not us, and unless that changes there’s little chance we’ll ever force them back to Troy, let alone sack the city and rescue Helen as we promised ourselves we would do. What’s more, one determined attack by Hector and those mud brick walls we threw up so hastily will be sent crashing back down again. I’m afraid tomorrow will see the Trojans torch our ships and kill us to a man.’
‘Afraid, Odysseus? Achilles interrupted with a half-smile. ‘Then do you fear death?’
‘Death, no. But I fear not seeing my wife and child again. Telemachus turned ten this year, you know. If my own son were to walk into this hut I wouldn’t even recognize him. What’s worse, I can barely remember what Penelope looks like any more. That’s what I fear most of all, Achilles – going down to Hades without a last look at my family.’
Achilles leaned back in his chair, running the tips of his fingers back and forth across his lips. ‘Yes, I understand,’ he said, nodding. ‘I understand the desire to go home.’
‘Then come and fight with us again! If not for the sake of your friends, who look to your help, then for your own sake. Heap glory upon yourself in the eyes of the army; give them victory so they can go back to Greece and tell your deeds to everyone, honouring you like a god! You know no man can withstand you in battle, even the great Hector, though he roams the battlefield with impunity in your absence. Rouse your M
yrmidons, Achilles, and save the Greeks before it’s too late!’ Odysseus paused and leaned forward, spreading his hands with an imploring gesture. ‘Agamemnon acknowledges he was wrong to treat you as he did – you, the greatest warrior in his army! You should have seen the tears rolling down his cheeks as he begged us to speak with you on his behalf.’
‘Then why didn’t he come himself?’
Odysseus laughed and shook his head. ‘He knows you wouldn’t listen to him, even if he came in sackcloth and covering his head with ashes, as a man might humble himself before the gods. But he does know you’ll listen to your friends, whose own suffering is close to your heart, and that you’ll listen to them even more keenly if they bring promises of gifts. For anybody else an apology from the King of Men would be more than sufficient, but you’re not anybody. He knows your renown is only equalled by your pride, and so he offers gifts as an open symbol of his apology, for all to see.’
‘What gifts?’ Patroclus asked.
‘Ten talents of gold; twenty copper cauldrons and seven tripods, none of them yet touched by fire; his twelve best racehorses; seven of his most skilled slaves – your choice – and if that isn’t enough, he offers your pick of the wealthiest towns from his own kingdom, to rule over as you wish. But he also realizes that these gifts on their own aren’t enough to right the wrong that was done to you; so Agamemnon will return Briseis to you at once, with his solemn oath that she has not been touched by him or any man since she left your side.’
Odysseus sank back in his chair and looked at the prince, whose eyes had been fixed on the flames as the gifts had been enumerated. Ajax, Eperitus and even Patroclus also stared at him, but Achilles did not lift his gaze or make any effort to respond.
‘What do you say, my lord?’ Odysseus urged. ‘The offer is a generous one and would bring you great glory. If the stubborn gods will listen to prayer and change their minds, then it would be profane to let your own pride keep you from accepting.’
