by Glyn Iliffe
Odysseus turned and began swimming against the current to slow his approach to the rock, all the time looking over his shoulder so that he would not be driven directly against it. Then, at the last moment, he turned again and was swept into the waiting arms of Eperitus and Achilles.
‘The flood can’t last for ever,’ Eperitus shouted over the roar of the Scamander as they stood chest-high in the water. ‘We just have to hold on to the rock and each other.’
‘And pray!’ Achilles added.
Odysseus nodded, squinting against the spray. He turned his back to the rock and linked arms with Eperitus, the pressure of the water thrusting them back against the rock.
‘Mistress Athena,’ he yelled. ‘If ever you’ve been pleased with the sacrifices we three have offered to you, help us now! If ever—’
He stopped and looked down into the tumultuous waters. There, but a little way to the right of the rock, was Achilles’s shield, its gold, silver and bronze gleaming beguilingly at him from beneath the surface of the river. All he needed to do was wade out a little into the waters and reach down, but as soon as the temptation had formed in his head he knew that the force of the Scamander would sweep him away. It was as if the shield were trying to lure him to his death.
Then a large shadow passed over them and all three men looked up to see a long-winged bird sweeping down out of the sun. They ducked instinctively and heard a loud splash. When they raised their heads again they saw a woman standing in the water before them, impossibly tall and with brilliant white skin and golden hair. She wore a long white chiton filled with a light that seemed to emanate from her body. On her head was a bronze helmet, from beneath which her stern grey eyes were staring at them intently. The river passed around her, releasing the men from the grip of its power; and it was a good thing, for they would have been swept away in their surprise. Achilles’s jaw dropped as he looked up at her, but Odysseus and Eperitus recognized the goddess at once and were quick to bow their heads.
‘Mistress,’ Odysseus acknowledged her.
‘It seems you and Eperitus are still incapable of surviving without my help,’ Athena replied, her haughty tone betrayed by the twinkle in her eye. ‘And as for you, Achilles, you went too far when you massacred the Trojans in the river. You made the Scamander angry enough to rise against you himself.’ She spat into the river and stretched out her arm so that the tasselled aegis hung down like a curtain. ‘But this is not your time to die, so I’ve been sent to save you from his wrath. And Hephaistos has come with me – look.’
The men turned to see a giant figure standing at the flooded delta where the Scamander fed into the wide bay before Troy. His muscular chest and arms were out of all proportion to his spindly legs, one of which was crooked and bent inwards; but if this gave his listing body a comical appearance there was little else to laugh at about the smith-god. His eyes were black coals rimmed with orange fire, staring out from a face that – like his whole body – was covered in a mass of dark, curly hair. In his upturned hands were columns of flame, and as he thrust his arms out – first to the left, then to the right – streams of fire leapt out, igniting the elms and willows that lined the submerged banks of the river. Soon every tree was ablaze, sending waves of intense heat over the surface of the Scamander and turning its waters back in hissing gouts of steam. Achilles, Odysseus and Eperitus threw their arms across their faces and Athena swept her aegis over them to protect them from the scalding inferno. Then Hephaistos limped forward and moved his arm in an arc over the flooded river and plain. The hundreds of bodies of men and horses that floated there burst into flames at once, spewing tongues of fire like white petals and forcing the water back even further.
‘Listen to me,’ Athena said, her voice louder than the roar of fire and the hiss of water raging all around. ‘Amazons are coming to Troy from the distant land of Scythia in the east. They are female warriors, fighting priestesses of Ares who have come to Priam’s aid, but your male arrogance should not underestimate them. They are slower and weaker than men, but their fighting spirit is a match for any of yours. Their strengths are their command of horses and their skill with the bow: they can shoot a man down from horseback – at long range and on the move – and wheel out of range before their enemies can fire back. It’s a tactic they use to great success in their own lands. I want you to destroy them, and most especially their queen, Penthesilea. These viragos are an affront to the gods – though Ares and Artemis both favour them – and if you do away with them I will consider that ample payment for saving your hides now.’
‘Then they will die, Mistress,’ Achilles said.
‘Be wary of Penthesilea, my prince,’ Athena warned him. ‘She has the ability to master even you. Be advised by the guile of Odysseus, and don’t rely on your own strength.’
‘As for you, Odysseus,’ she continued, looking directly into the king’s eyes, ‘the gods have appointed a special task to you. Something you must keep to yourself.’
Odysseus looked left and right at Achilles and Eperitus, but neither man seemed to be listening.
‘Only you can hear me,’ Athena said. ‘And only you can carry out this command. Eperitus cannot help you this time, and you must not tell him until the task has been carried out. It will not be an easy thing for you to do.’
Odysseus looked at the goddess who had watched over him since his childhood, protecting him and occasionally guiding his footsteps. He saw the look of affection and sadness in her divine features, knowing that somewhere in her immortal heart she loved him for his cunning mind and quick wits, qualities for which she herself was famed.
‘What do the gods require of me?’ he asked, though the question was heard by Athena alone.
‘Great Ajax has blasphemed the gods too often. We want our vengeance upon him, as a lesson to all others who defy us in their pride and arrogance. The day will come when he will lay claim to Achilles’s armour – Hephaistos placed an enchantment on the shield to fool the weak-minded, though it was aimed at Ajax in particular. When he does, you must stop him, Odysseus. Make the armour your own by any means at your disposal, fair or foul.’
Odysseus looked down at the glimmering circle of gold beneath the surface of the river, recalling Calchas’s prophetic words spoken that night on the fringes of the Greek camp. As his sharp mind mulled over what they meant, the boiling waters retreated to leave a vast cloud of steam that hovered over everything like an ethereal sea. When, finally, the thick fog began to dissipate, they saw that Athena and Hephaistos had gone and the Scamander was once more contained within its own high embankments. On the other side of the fords, the plain was silent and empty but for the howling of the north wind. The Trojan army had escaped into the city and the battle was over.
And yet, as the mist thinned and was blown away from the walls and towers of Troy, they saw a lone figure standing before the Scaean Gate, the bronze of his helmet and breastplate shining in the sunlight. It was Hector.
Chapter Thirty-Five
HECTOR AND ACHILLES
The streets of lower Troy were crowded with exhausted soldiers. Many had collapsed against walls and in doorways, where they were given water and helped out of their heavy armour by the womenfolk and old men of the city. Those who still had enough strength to stand were staring vacantly, too shocked to answer the questions thrown at them by people searching for husbands, sons or brothers among the survivors. A few gave quiet thanks to the gods for their deliverance, while others tended to their wounded comrades – of whom very few had reached the city – and tried to comfort them in their pain. The most stout-hearted assembled in their companies, in case the Greeks followed up their victory on the plain with an assault against the walls.
Amid the cacophony of groaning and weeping, a tall, hooded figure dressed all in white pushed her way through the mass of people and horses, her terrified and yet beautiful face turning this way and that. She looked stunningly pure among the dust and bloodstained soldiery and there were many who forgo
t their suffering as they saw her, their eyes keen to drink of her loveliness; but there were many more who scowled as she passed them by, cursing her under their breath for the perfect looks that had brought unthinkable disaster and misery to Troy.
‘Helen!’
She turned to see a young man in expensive armour – now much abused and covered in dried gore – waving to her from a group of wounded soldiers. He left the man he had been tending and shouldered his way through the crowd towards her.
‘Deiphobus,’ she gasped. ‘Oh Deiphobus, you don’t know how glad I am to see you alive.’
The prince smiled with pleasure at her words, then, seeing the anguish written in her wonderful face, stepped forward and caught her up in his arms. For a moment he said nothing, content to hold her against his chest and feel her soft, scented hair against his cheek, his only regret being the armour that prevented him from enjoying the warmth of her body next to his.
‘What is it, Sister? What’s wrong?’
‘Is your brother alive, Deiphobus? Have you seen Paris?’
Her eyes were filled with desperate urgency, which turned to relief and joy when Deiphobus nodded his head.
‘Yes, he’s alive and well. I’ll take you to him . . .’
‘No, Deiphobus. You have work to do here – your men need you. Just tell me where he is and I’ll find him.’
Deiphobus gave her a weak, disappointed smile and nodded towards the battlements. ‘He was by the gates when I last saw him. I don’t think he will have moved.’
Helen kissed him on the cheek, picking up a smear of dirt on her nose and chin as she did so, then pushed her way back into the crowd. Most moved aside at the sight of her, though some of the women spat on the road before her feet and others stared at her with undisguised malice. Then a soldier took it upon himself to go ahead of her, clearing the way with his shield until the tower of the Scaean Gate was looming over them.
‘This will do,’ Helen said, and the man bowed low and disappeared back into the crowd.
She cast her gaze around at the walls, where scores of wounded or exhausted men were sitting in the shadows. Many were leaning against each other and sleeping, or resting their foreheads on their raised knees and silently reliving the horrors of the battlefield. But one had placed his tall shield against his shins so that his face could not be seen, though Helen instantly recognized the bow leaning against the wall next to him.
She ran over and pushed the shield away, then knelt beside him and pulled his head into her chest.
‘Oh, Paris, Paris!’ she whispered, stroking his matted hair. ‘It’s your Helen. Everything’s all right now. You’re safe.’
He said nothing, but after a moment she felt his trembling hand slip gingerly on to her hip. Suddenly a rush of tears poured down Helen’s cheeks and she sat beside her husband, throwing her arms about his neck and covering his face with kisses. Cupping his chin in her fingers, she raised his head a little so that his eyes met hers. She choked back a new wave of tears as, with deep shock, she saw the emptiness within.
‘What’s happened to you, Paris?’ she sobbed. ‘What is it? Is it Hector? Where is he?’
She shook his shoulders gently, but Paris closed his eyes and let his head fall again.
‘He’s outside the gates,’ said a voice, ‘waiting for Achilles.’
Helen turned to see Apheidas staring down at her. His armour was not as dusty or bloodstained as most of the rest of the army – the result of having fought the battle from horseback – though there was a gash on his thigh and his skin had an ashen tinge to it.
‘He’s outside alone?’ Helen asked, her eyes stern through the redness of her tears. ‘You left him there to fight that monster?’
‘He ordered everyone else back into the city,’ Apheidas replied, turning away from her and walking towards the road that led up to the citadel. ‘There was nothing I could do.’
‘Don’t turn your back on me!’ Helen snapped.
When Apheidas continued walking – a slight limp evident in his right leg – Helen kissed Paris hurriedly on the forehead and, promising to come back shortly, ran after him.
‘Didn’t you try to dissuade him?’ she demanded. ‘Achilles is a butcher with only one mortal weakness. Hector will die out there if he faces him, and the last hope of Troy will die with him.’
Apheidas rounded on her.
‘Hector is not Troy’s only hope! And he’s no fool, either; he knows where Achilles is vulnerable.’
‘By Aphrodite’s veil, you just left him there to die on his own, didn’t you! You know Achilles will win, but you said nothing to discourage him. Your guilt’s written all over your wicked face, Apheidas.’
‘Guilt! How can you lecture me about guilt? Isn’t the plain out there littered with dead men because of your iniquity?’
Helen slapped him hard across the cheek. Apheidas’s eyes blazed for a moment and his fists clenched at his sides, but he was quick to restrain the flash of his own temper.
‘As for discouraging Hector,’ he sneered, ‘I was the one who persuaded him to stay and fight! You were there that night, skulking in the gardens when he took an oath on his son’s life to kill Achilles before the year was out. I reminded him of the fact when he was ushering the army back through the gates, while the river was in flood. I also reminded him that Achilles murdered Podes before his very eyes – what, Helen? Shocked to hear of another victim of your lust? And last of all, I told him that he had to fight Achilles sooner or later; their rivalry is the fulcrum on which the scales of this war are balanced, and until one of them has been dispatched to Hades the suffering and the death will carry on interminably.’
‘I can’t believe he listened to you. It doesn’t have to be like that!’
‘Doesn’t it?’ Apheidas smiled. ‘Well, Hector agreed with me. And what’s more, he confessed his shame at fleeing before Achilles when they met earlier today, at a time when he could have struck him down and saved the army from devastation.’
‘Confessed, Apheidas? Or did you goad him?’
Apheidas’s eyes narrowed as he looked away. ‘If you’ll forgive me, my lady, I have wounds that need tending to and then I must see to what’s left of my men and horses.’
He gave a curt nod before turning and forcing his way into the crowd. A moment later Cassandra appeared, short-breathed with panic. Her hair and clothing were dishevelled and her face was even paler than usual.
‘Helen!’ she gasped. ‘Oh, Helen, thank the gods. Have you seen my half-brother, Lycaon? I had a terrible dream about him and warned him not to go out and fight, but he wouldn’t listen. Now Leothoë’s looking for her son and we can’t find him anywhere.’
Leothoë was one of Priam’s many wives and had been a good friend to Helen ever since she had first arrived in Troy. Helen took Cassandra’s hands in her own and squeezed them reassuringly.
‘There are a lot of soldiers here, Cassandra. He must be somewhere. But tell me, where’s Andromache? I have to speak to her urgently.’
‘She’s in the palace, preparing Hector’s bath as she always does after a battle.’
‘Then fetch her at once. Hector’s outside the gates, waiting for Achilles. If anyone can persuade him to come back behind the safety of the walls, it’s Andromache. I’ll look out for Lycaon and send him up to the palace the moment I find him.’
Cassandra stared at her briefly, shocked at the news, then nodded and ran back the way she had come. Suddenly the sluggish, densely packed crowd on the road stopped its wailing and fell silent. A moment later armed soldiers appeared, pushing aside those who were too slow to move. The fact that their armour was pristine, expensive and brightly polished, and the men themselves were tall, young and strong, told Helen instantly that they were palace guards come down from the citadel. Then she saw Priam’s black hair and painted face at their centre – the thick powder on his cheeks stained with tears – with the short, plump figure of Hecabe beside him. They marched past Helen in a hurry and t
ook the broad stone stairs up to the walls. Helen followed, along with a great crowd of the ordinary Trojans who thronged the streets.
‘Hector, my boy,’ Priam called, his voice cracking as he leaned over the battlements. ‘Hector, what is this madness that has possessed you? I’ve lost too many sons to Achilles already, but I’d gladly lose the rest of them before I saw you murdered at his hands. Come inside at once, my beloved son, I implore you.’
Helen pressed against the ramparts with the rest of the crowd – mostly women – and looked down to see Hector standing just beyond the shadow of the gates. He had removed the helmet he had stripped from Patroclus as he lay dying and thrown it on the ground beside the sacred oak that stood a little further beyond the walls, but his tall shield was on his arm and a single spear was in his hands. He made no response to his father’s appeal, focusing his attention instead on the fords of the Scamander, where three Greeks stood knee-high in the babbling waters. One had a blood-red plume and a bright shield that caught the light like a mirror; instinctively, Helen knew she was looking at Achilles.
‘Then I will order the army out again,’ Priam declared in a high voice. ‘Even Achilles cannot defeat the whole might of Troy.’
‘Keep the army where it is, my lord,’ Hector replied without looking up. ‘They have earned their rest. I must face Achilles alone – it’s the will of the gods.’
‘He’s coming!’ Hecabe shouted, throwing a hand to her cheek in horror and pointing at the figures in the ford, who were now wading through the water to the near bank. ‘My dear son, the very sight of him fills me with dread! If you have any love for the mother who suckled you as a baby, then come inside now. There’s no dishonour in it.’
