by Glyn Iliffe
‘Whoaa!’ Eperitus called, holding up his arms. ‘Where are you heading and what’s your hurry, man?’
The rider heaved back on the reins and looked down at the four men. His face was caked with blood and dust and his eyes were wide with fear and urgency.
‘I have a message for the King of Men and for him only. Many lives depend on me getting it to him, so I beg you not to delay me any more than I have been already.’
‘Get on your way, then,’ said Achilles, striding up behind the others, his grief temporarily put aside. ‘We’ll follow.’
The horseman kicked back his heels and gave a shout, sending his mount galloping the short distance to Agamemnon’s brilliant white tent, where he dismounted and ran to speak to the guards. They seemed reluctant to let him enter, but the arrival of Achilles, Diomedes and Odysseus, accompanied by Eperitus and Peisandros, quickly persuaded them to relent. The senior soldier, one of Agamemnon’s personal bodyguard in full ceremonial armour, led them into the tent.
‘What’s the meaning of this interruption?’ Agamemnon snapped, rising from his fur-draped throne as the captain of the guard entered. ‘I gave orders not to be— Ah, Achilles! And Diomedes and Odysseus, too. Well, come in, come in.’
The King of Men appeared to be alone but for a few slaves, who hurried to bring chairs for the newcomers. He waited until all were seated – except for the battle-grimed horseman, who insisted on standing with his helmet in the crook of his arm and a look of disciplined impatience on his face – then nodded for the captain of the guard to leave. As kraters of wine were brought by the slaves and libations poured to the gods, Agamemnon’s gaze scanned across the seated guests, finally coming to rest on Achilles.
‘And to what do I owe the pleasure, Prince Achilles? Something to do with the alarm being called, no doubt.’
Achilles did not answer, nodding instead towards the standing horseman. The messenger took this as permission to speak.
‘My lords, I’ve ridden directly from the battle against the Aethiopes.’
‘Then you bring news of victory, I expect,’ Agamemnon said, in a tone that seemed to warn the man against telling him otherwise.
Eperitus looked at the horseman. From the moment he had seen him riding through the camp he had sensed that the news he carried was bad; now, as he watched the man’s urgent demeanour deflate before the King of Men, he knew the ambush against the Aethiopes had met with disaster.
‘No, my lord.’
‘No?’ Diomedes questioned. ‘But Nestor assured us the ambush couldn’t fail.’
‘And the king was right, sir. Or would have been, if it hadn’t been for a cruel twist of the fates. We took up our positions long before the enemy came into view on the road below, and when they finally appeared – every one of them as black as deepest night, with blood-red eyes and snarling teeth – they didn’t know we were waiting for them. I’m sure of it.’
‘So what happened?’ Eperitus asked, trying to suppress his eagerness.
‘What happened, sir?’ the man replied, turning to Eperitus with an incredulous smile on his lips. ‘The Trojans arrived! We heard a clamour of fighting and horn calls behind us and a moment later a mass of chariots and cavalry was topping the ridge and charging down towards us. We turned, but what could we do? They were in among us in moments, killing at will and laughing as they did so. Then the black men on the road below saw what was happening and came rushing up to close the trap. By an ill chance, or the malice of the gods, the Trojans had sent a force to meet the Aethiopes just at the place where we had planned to ambush them!’
Odysseus shot Eperitus a sceptical glance, then turned to the messenger.
‘Then what happened? How did you escape?’
‘I didn’t escape, my lord,’ the man replied proudly, raising his chin a little despite the tears of anguish in his eyes. ‘Little Ajax and Nestor pulled us together, while Great Ajax brought the reserve over the ridge to our aid. Though we were being attacked on three sides and were badly outnumbered, we showed no fear and for a while held our own against them. Then Paris shot one of Nestor’s horses, sending his chariot toppling and the king with it. Antilochus saved his father’s life and helped him to escape from the black spearmen, but as they were retreating the Aethiope leader cut Antilochus down and stripped him of his armour.’ At this, the others in the tent stirred uncomfortably in their seats and looked at each other in silent shock, while Achilles glowered at the messenger in disbelief. ‘From that point on we were fighting a lost battle. With Nestor wounded and his son dead, the Ajaxes commanded the rest of us to retreat. I and five others were ordered to ride back to the camp and bring reinforcements. I’m the only one who made it through.’
‘You did well,’ Diomedes said, rising from his seat and offering the rider his wine. He drank greedily.
Achilles also stood.
‘You’ll have your reinforcements!’ he said, punching the palm of his hand. ‘I’ll order my Myrmidons to arm at once!’
‘You’re forgetting yourself, Achilles,’ said Agamemnon. ‘As the elected leader of this army, that decision is mine to make, not yours.’
A sudden silence fell in the airy tent, disturbed only by the brushing of the wind across the flaxen walls. Eperitus watched as Achilles and Agamemnon locked eyes in a battle of wills.
‘How many men do the Ajaxes need?’ Agamemnon asked, breaking eye contact and looking at the messenger.
‘They did not say, my lord. As many as can be spared. There must be at least five thousand of the combined enemy.’
‘We will send five thousand against them, then. But under Diomedes’s command.’
‘Ten thousand,’ Achilles demanded, stepping forward. ‘With me at their head.’
‘No,’ Agamemnon replied, fixing the prince with his icy blue eyes. ‘You have fought hard and earned your rest, Achilles. Diomedes can go, and he’ll have enough to chase away the Trojans and their new allies, no more.’
Achilles took another step towards Agamemnon and for a brief moment Eperitus thought the prince was going to draw his sword and strike the arrogant and imperious King of Men dead. Remembering his promise to Clytaemnestra, he moved forward in his chair and laid a hand on the pommel of his own weapon.
‘Give me ten thousand soldiers,’ Achilles insisted, ‘and I will give you Troy. Calchas once said the city would fall in the tenth year, and I say that day has come. I can feel it in my blood, Agamemnon – can’t you?’
There was such a passion in Achilles’s voice that, for a moment, Eperitus believed him. Even Agamemnon’s calculating gaze was suddenly eager as the Mycenaean king slowly nodded. Then a movement in the shadows at the back of the tent broke the spell and a stooping figure shuffled forward into the light.
‘It’s true I said Troy would fall in the tenth year, but it won’t fall today. And it will never fall by your hand, Achilles.’
Every eye turned to look at Calchas, the seer, as he tipped back the hood from his bald head and peered round at Agamemnon’s guests.
‘So this was why you didn’t want to be disturbed,’ Achilles sneered, glancing at Agamemnon. ‘And I thought you’d stopped taking your lead from this fool!’
‘I came here of my own will,’ Calchas responded. ‘To tell Agamemnon of the dream Apollo sent me last night.’
‘Another wine-soaked fantasy?’ Diomedes mocked.
Calchas ignored him and peered up into Achilles’s eyes, scrutinizing him closely.
‘I dreamed of your death, Achilles. Today. That is why Agamemnon wants Diomedes to command the reinforcements.’
The colour drained from Achilles’s face, leaving him pale as he stared back at Calchas.
‘Who will kill me?’ he asked, slowly. ‘The Aethiope king?’
‘Have no fear of the blacks, or of any mortal. It is by the hand of Apollo himself that you will perish, in vengeance for his son, King Tenes, whom you slew.’
Achilles turned away and looked down at the fleeces beneath his fe
et, balling his hands into fists and breathing deeply.
‘You’re wrong, Calchas,’ he said in a low voice. ‘You’re wrong, I tell you! You; my mother; the endless prophecies about me – they’re all wrong! Weaklings are slaves to the Fates, but the real test of greatness is to command one’s own destiny.’
‘Achilles is right,’ Odysseus said. He rose from his chair and placed his hand on the prince’s shoulder, staring at him with fervent eyes. ‘A man does not have to be subject to oracles and the will of the gods. It was once in my power to overturn a prophecy and forge my own future, and it will be so again – as it can be for you, son of Peleus!’
Achilles nodded at the king of Ithaca and smiled as his confidence began to return. Then he drew his sword and pressed the point against Calchas’s breastbone.
‘Tell me, priest, what does Apollo say about your fate today? Will you live or die? Is that the will of the gods or mine? Either way, you are a fool and a weakling who blunders through life like a blind man, staggering from one circumstance to the next. But I am no plaything of any god – not Apollo or even Zeus himself. Today I will take the Scaean Gate and slaughter every Trojan I come across. I will dash their children’s brains out against the walls of their houses and rape their wives in their own beds. And before I sleep in Priam’s palace tonight, I will summon you to my side and allow you to choose your own fate – to beg my forgiveness for your lies, or to wash my blade with your blood!’
Achilles sheathed his sword again and turned to Agamemnon.
‘My lord, I will wait outside the walls with Odysseus here and a thousand of my Myrmidons. I give you leave to choose the other nine thousand men under my command, but respectfully ask that you do not delay in sending them. We have a battle to fight and a city to conquer.’
Chapter Forty-One
MEMNON
Once more the plain beyond the walls of the Greek camp was filled with rank upon rank of soldiers, their spear points gleaming in the fierce sunlight as they marched towards the call of battle. At their head were the chariots of their commanders: Achilles foremost – splendid in his god-made armour and spoiling for the fight – with Odysseus, Menelaus, Diomedes and Idomeneus each leading their own factions. On either side of the massed infantry were the cavalry, the horses’ legs hidden beneath the haze of dust raised by their hooves so that they seemed to be floating to war.
Standing on the woven floor of his chariot, with Arceisius at the reins, Eperitus’s eyes flicked constantly between the north-east horizon, where the battle would still be raging, and his king and friend in the next chariot. Odysseus’s eyes were fixed firmly ahead, having lost none of their passion since he and Achilles had set out to deny the Fates and take the gates of Troy. Turning his gaze once more to the distance, he thought he could see a cloud of dust through the heat haze. He leaned forward across the chariot rail, squinting slightly, then turned his head to listen. And then he heard it – the thrilling and terrible sound of battle. Still some way off, lost among the folds of grassland, the din of clashing weapons and raised voices had melded into a low hum that sounded like heavy rainfall.
‘Achilles,’ he shouted, pointing in the direction of the noise. ‘That way.’
Achilles spoke to Peisandros, who turned the team of Xanthus and Balius a little more to the east before raising their pace to a canter. The infantry followed, wheeling slightly and then breaking into a heavy jog. A force of cavalry dashed forward from each flank to scout the positions of the enemy and the beleaguered Greeks ahead of them, but even before the first messengers could return the army had topped a low ridge and could see the battle in the near distance.
‘Can you make out what’s going on?’ Arceisius asked Eperitus, his eyes burning with excitement. ‘What’s happening?’
‘The Greeks are surrounded, by the looks of it. Cut off, with enemies on every side.’
Although he could not see in the detail that Eperitus could, Achilles knew the situation was dire and he was not a man to dither when action was needed. He turned to the infantry and barked out a series of commands. Spears were lowered and shields moved from backs to shoulders as the thick lines of Greek warriors closed formation. On either side of them the remainder of the cavalry dashed forward, while Achilles raised his enormous ash spear over his head and gave the signal to advance. At the same time Odysseus lifted a thickly muscled arm in the air and drove it forward, just as Menelaus, Diomedes and Idomeneus did the same. The army gave a cheer in response and began to move down the long, gentle slope that led to the battle.
Arceisius snapped the reins and the chariot bounced forward across the rocky ground. Eperitus took one of his spears from its leather socket on the inside of the cab and balanced it over his right shoulder. As they drew closer to the fighting he could see the force of Greeks standing back-to-back in a circle, where the Trojan cavalry had cut off their retreat and forced them back in on themselves, only to be caught and surrounded by the combined forces of the Trojan and Aethiope spearmen. The southerners reminded Eperitus of giant spiders, with their long, spindly limbs and dark skin; and though he had seen Aethiope slaves before, the sight of thousands of black warriors crawling over the plain filled him with awe.
Fierce hand-to-hand combat was raging at every point. Men tried to skewer each other with their spears, but there was no time to exult or plunder the armour from their fallen foe if they succeeded. Instead, every dead enemy was replaced by another, and another, as Greek or Trojan, black man or white, fought with a raging fury to the death. It was then that Eperitus noticed the gigantic figure of Ajax, faced by an equally tall, though rangy, Aethiope. The two men had drawn their swords and were hacking away at each other with one angry blow after another. Both skilfully parried the attacks of their opponent, but the black warrior landed two strikes for every one of Ajax’s and the Greek was faltering. The tall shield of sevenfold leather that he usually wielded with ease now seemed to be made of lead as he swung it this way and that against his enemy’s skilful lunges, while his thick legs trembled under his own weight. It seemed the mighty stalwart of Agamemnon’s army would not endure for much longer.
Then a series of shouts rang out from among the Trojans and Aethiopes. At last, they had spotted the mass of reinforcements storming down the slope towards them, and with a flurry of panicked activity many broke off from the fighting and hurried to form a line of spears between the newcomers and their struggling countrymen. The Trojan cavalry pulled away from the battle and formed two groups on either side of the spearmen, ready to meet the opposing swarms of Greek horsemen. At that moment Achil-les’s voice roared out above the cacophony of battle as he spurred his chariot forward into a headlong charge. It was too early, Eperitus thought to himself: any ordinary team of horses would be blown long before they could carry a battle-laden chariot into the lines of Trojans and Aethiopes. But Achilles’s horses were not of ordinary stock. They were the immortal offspring of the Zephyrus, the west wind, given as a wedding present at the marriage of Peleus and Thetis. And few who watched them leap forward into battle could have doubted their lineage as they took their mighty master sweeping towards the spear-tipped ranks of the enemy. While the rest of the Greeks were just beginning their charge, Xanthus and Balius bore down on the Aethiopes with such fury that the spearmen’s courage failed long before that of the horses, and throwing down their weapons they turned and ran into the thick files of men behind them. Achilles was upon them in an instant, plunging his spear into their exposed backs and sending many of their ghosts to Hades.
Arceisius lashed the reins with a shout and sent the chariot rushing down the grassy slope towards the enemy. Eperitus shifted the balance of his spear in his cupped hand and eyed the wall of black spearmen that was awaiting him. For a moment, as the wind tugged at his beard and he watched the flowing manes of his two horses ahead of him, he felt as if he and Arceisius were alone and detached from the world around them. The thunder of hooves filled his ears and the whole chariot shook beneath his fee
t. He looked out at the long grass that covered the ground and thought of the sea, as if he was leaning over the prow of a speeding galley with the surface of the ocean flashing past on either side. And then he glanced to his left and saw Odysseus shouting at the top of his voice – though Eperitus could not hear his words in the cacophony of battle – and pulling back his spear over his shoulder. Eperitus did the same, gripping the chariot rail with one hand and taking aim along the shaft at the mass of scowling Aethiopes ahead of him. Yelling as loud as his lungs and the competing wind would allow him, he launched his spear.
Whether it found its mark he never knew. A few heartbeats later he had swept his long sword from its scabbard and was staring in heady exhilaration at the gleaming spear points ahead of him. Arceisius let out a whoop of joy as he slapped the reins one final time across the backs of the horses and drove them on into the enemy. Suddenly it was as if their spears had been swept aside by the hand of some benevolent god, for both horses and men were unscathed as they broke through the terrified Aethiopes, Eperitus’s sword hacking at their uplifted faces and dispatching many to the Underworld. For a long, glorious moment in time he felt almost immortal, as if no weapon could harm him, as if his chariot were surrounded by a pocket of invulnerability that could not be pierced. Though there were enemy spearmen on all sides, yelling and stabbing at him, his shield thwarted every attack while the point of his sword sent one assailant after another to oblivion.
