by Glyn Iliffe
Then they were through the hastily assembled line of defenders and driving across open grassland once more. The main battle was now ahead of them and they could see the backs of their enemies as they were busy attacking the besieged remnants of the Greeks. To one side, cut off and surrounded by Aethiopes, Ajax was still struggling to fend off the attacks of the tall Aethiope, who Eperitus realized could only be the famed Memnon. His handsome face grinned at his fading opponent with the assured confidence of a hunter closing in upon a wounded lion.
Arceisius saw the unequal fight and, without waiting for orders, steered the chariot towards it. Sensing movement to his left, Eperitus turned to see three Trojan horsemen dashing towards him, their spears couched beneath their arms as they leaned into the attack. He swung his shield around to face them, but as the nearest rider approached he gave a sudden lurch and tumbled forward from his mount, a long ash spear protruding from his back. His comrades turned in panic, just as Achilles came racing up in his chariot and sliced the top off the nearest man’s head with his sword. The remaining horseman veered aside, straight into the path of a third Greek chariot. Odysseus grinned triumphantly and hurled his spear, catching the Trojan in the throat and spilling him from the back of his horse. Eperitus looked beyond the speeding chariots of Odysseus and Achilles and saw that the mass of newly arrived Greek spearmen had already crushed the thin line of Aethiope infantry and were yelling with bloodlust as they charged to the aid of their encircled countrymen.
‘Memnon’s mine!’ Achilles shouted as his chariot swept past Eperitus and raced to save Ajax.
A scattering of spears split the air above Eperitus and Arceis-ius’s heads, warning them that the other Aethiopes were no longer ignorant of their approach. As Odysseus drew alongside – Eurybates gripping the reins and driving the horses as fast as they would go – Eperitus looked ahead to see a score of black warriors running towards them and casting their spears. Two found their marks in the breast of one of Eperitus’s horses, bringing it down in an instant. The last thing he saw as the chariot skewed to the left and threw him from the car was Achilles driving into a line of Aethiope warriors, who had hurried forward to defend their king from the new opponent. Then he hit the ground with a thump and everything went dark.
He came to lying on his back and staring up into the noon sun. The wreckage of the chariot was a few paces away; the fact that one of the wheels was still spinning, and the surviving horse was struggling to get to its feet, told him that he had only been unconscious for a few moments. Then he saw the bloodied and inert form of Arceisius lying beneath the broken cab. He tried to raise himself, but was forced back down by a surge of pain. Grunting through gritted teeth, he tried again and managed this time to turn on to his side. Then a tall shape blocked out the sun and he looked up to see a black warrior standing over him, his long spear in his hands. Eperitus rolled aside just as the bronze spear point bit into the hard soil where a moment before his stomach had been. Suddenly a wave of energy burst through his body, eliminating the pain of his wounds and giving him fresh strength. Grabbing the neck of the spear for leverage, he swung his right leg into the back of his attacker’s left knee and knocked him on to his back. As he fell, Eperitus drew back his leg and kicked with all his force, connecting with the man’s head and snapping it sideways.
Three more Aethiopes came running up, their spear points lowered towards him. Eperitus spotted his shield, but it was beyond his reach and he knew he would never get to it in time. Then he saw two figures come charging in from the corner of his vision. Eurybates despatched one of the Aethiopes with a slashing cut of his sword that sheared through flesh and bone, while Odysseus sank the point of his spear into the throat of another, before pulling it out again and ramming the sharpened base of the shaft into the remaining man’s groin. As the man staggered backwards, clutching at his wounded neck and coughing blood, Odysseus finished him off with a thrust of his spear.
‘No time to lie around,’ he said, turning to Eperitus and pulling him to his feet. ‘Achilles and Ajax need our help.’
Eperitus retrieved his shield and a discarded spear then – seeing that Eurybates was helping Arceisius to his feet and that the young Ithacan was not badly hurt – followed Odysseus towards where they had last seen Achilles driving into the Aethiope shield-wall. All that remained there now was Achilles’s chariot with Peisandros at the reins, surrounded by a circle of black bodies. Peisandros said nothing, but pointed to the east where a little further on they could see Achilles standing in front of an exhausted Ajax, who knelt with his head bowed and blood and sweat shining on his powerful limbs. Achilles’s magnificent armour gleamed in the bright midday sun and somehow he had retrieved his gigantic ash spear. Facing him was Memnon, backed by a large force of Aethiopes.
‘Stay out of this,’ Achilles warned as Odysseus and Eperitus ran to join him.
The Ithacans moved forward and lifted Ajax to his feet, while Achilles kept his eyes firmly on the Aethiope king. Memnon made no move to prevent Ajax being taken away; though he regretted not being able to claim the armour of such a fierce and powerful warrior, the breastplate, helmet and shield of the man who had come to aid him would provide a much more worthwhile trophy.
‘There was nothing I could do against him,’ Ajax admitted despairingly. ‘He was too quick for me.’
‘But you survived,’ Odysseus consoled him, observing the many new wounds that crossed the giant warrior’s body. ‘From what I’ve heard of Memnon, there are no others who can boast such a thing.’
Ajax smiled weakly, but the greatest sign of his tiredness was that he was prepared to forgo his pride and lean his weight against Odysseus. Eperitus glanced over his shoulder at the main battle, where the Greek infantry under Menelaus, Diomedes and Idomeneus had broken the stranglehold on their countrymen and were now forcing the Trojans and Aethiopes backwards with great slaughter. Then he turned back to look at the figure of Memnon, prowling from left to right and back again like a trapped lion. Achilles stepped forward.
‘I am Achilles, son of Peleus and the goddess Thetis. I slew Hector, and I will slay you, Memnon, son of Tithonus.’
‘You claim a goddess for a mother,’ Memnon replied in Greek, ‘but you don’t mention that my own mother is also a goddess – Eos, the Dawn, who brings the new day to the world. I’ve heard of you, Achilles, but I don’t fear you. Rather, it’s you who should fear me!’
With terrifying speed, he lifted his spear above his shoulder and hurled it at Achilles. Achilles ducked down behind his shield, which took the full force of the attack and snapped the spear at the point where the socket joined the shaft. He replied in kind, a deadly throw that would have passed straight through Memnon’s armoured chest and spirited his ghost away to the Chambers of Decay, were it not for the speed with which the spindly warrior twisted aside from the missile’s aim. The next moment the two men were drawing their swords and running at each other, their blades clashing in mid-air and their shields meeting with a heavy thud. Achilles pushed his opponent away and lunged again with his sword point, piercing the oiled leather of Memnon’s shield but failing to meet the flesh beyond. As he tugged the blade free, Memnon drove at Achilles’s flank. Achilles batted the attack aside with ease and smashed the razor-sharp edge of his sword down against the Aethiope’s shield. The supple leather shuddered but held, while only Achilles’s quick instincts saved him from the low, scything reply that would have taken off his lower leg. A second blow rebounded off Achilles’s helmet, leaving nothing more than a long dent and a ringing in the Greek’s head. Numbed, he stumbled backwards with his shield raised against the swift blows that followed. But Achilles’s battle impulses had not deserted him; anchoring himself with a backward thrust of his right leg, he parried two more blows before ducking low and pushing the point of his sword beneath the edge of Memnon’s crescent shield. Memnon leapt back, but not before the blade opened his inner thigh and released a gush of dark blood that spattered over the ground below. He wobble
d a little, as much with surprise as pain, but Achilles allowed him no time to recover. As Memnon raised his shield, he rained a series of savage blows down upon it that crumpled the wicker frame and sent the black warrior staggering backwards. Then the wounded muscle in his leg gave way and he fell to one knee, raising his weapon instinctively over his head to meet the next attack. But Achilles brought his sword down at an angle, severing Memnon’s hand just below the wrist and sending his blade – with his hand still clutching the hilt – spinning through the air.
The handsome black face that had earlier been filled with arrogant pride and self-assurance now stared up at Achilles with disbelief. The expression remained etched on his features even as Achilles sliced off his head and sent it rolling towards the feet of his shocked men, who gazed down at it in horror.
Achilles fell to one knee beside the headless torso and, while the warm blood was still jetting from the open neck, began to strip off the silver cuirass and the ornate, leather and gold scabbard that hung from a baldric about the chest. Odysseus and Eperitus instinctively moved forward to protect the Phthian prince as he claimed his trophies, each of them eyeing the Aethiope line with unease, aware that they would be outnumbered ten to one as soon as the enemy spearmen shook off their stupor and chose to attack. But as Eperitus clutched his spear and stared over the rim of his shield, a man left the opposing ranks and placed a foot on the decapitated head, rolling it slightly so that the dead eyes stared back up at him. That the man was an Aethiope chieftain was evident from his silver helmet with its long white plume and the gleam of the decorative bronze breastplate beneath his rich black robe. He held a long sword in his hand, which he slowly sheathed before taking hold of the ram’s horn that hung at his hip and raising it to his mouth. He blew a long, clear note that rose into the air like a wailing lament. Even the discordant clash of weapons from the main battle faded beneath it as Aethiope, Trojan and Greek alike heard the call and looked for its source. Then, suddenly, the black spearmen let out a cry of despair and began to pull away, turning their backs on battle as they ran towards the chieftain with the ram’s horn.
Chapter Forty-Two
APOLLO’S REVENGE
Achilles dumped Memnon’s armour on to the ground and joined the others as they turned to face the swarm of approaching Aethiopes. But the southerners were not interested in fighting any more; their leader was dead and with him their brief allegiance to Troy. They were not Priam’s vassals, like the Dardanians, the Zeleians or the Cilicians, but had been persuaded to fight by ancient friendships and promises of Trojan gold. These no longer mattered, and so they swept around the small knot of Greeks like a stampede of wild horses avoiding an outcrop of rock, following in the wake of their countrymen who were already in retreat across the plain.
With their left flank now gone, the Trojans broke off the fighting and began to fall back. Menelaus, Idomeneus and Ajax – his pride getting the better of his exhaustion – led their armies in pursuit, while Diomedes and Odysseus prepared their men to go after the Aethiopes.
‘Let the cavalry hunt them down,’ Achilles said. ‘I came here to take the city. The moment the Scaean Gate opens for the Trojan survivors, we’re going to follow them in.’
He turned to the lines of spearmen and raised his sword in the air.
‘Listen to me! You men fought hard and suffered while I let my pride keep me in my hut. But since my return I’ve killed Hector, Penthesilea and now Memnon, and today I will lead you into Troy itself! Every man here who does his duty and fights well can take all the women and gold he can lay his hands on – and if Agamemnon or Menelaus tries to stop you then they’ll have me to answer to. We’ve waited many years for this day to come; now’s the time to make names for ourselves that will linger on men’s lips long after our ghosts have gone down to Hades. To Troy!’
‘To Troy!’ they echoed, punching the air with their spear points.
Eperitus took the reins of Odysseus’s chariot while Eurybates and Arceisius joined the Ithacan ranks. As the many wounded began to trail back to the Greek camp – Nestor among them, still unconscious from his wounds and unaware that his son was dead – the rest of the army chased the Trojans back across the grassland. Their pursuit was slowed by the delaying tactics of the enemy cavalry, who wheeled and charged again and again to prevent the Greeks from coming to grips with the retreating infantry. But as the pursuit passed over the temple of Thymbrean Apollo and down the slopes beyond to the Scamander, the Trojan horsemen had no choice but to join the rest of the army as they forded the river. Suddenly Achilles, who had bided his time for this very moment, gave the order for every man to throw himself into the attack. With a great roar, the Greeks splashed through the shallow water and fell upon the Trojans. The ringing of bronze and the screams of injured men mingled with the gentle babbling of the water and the call of the gulls overhead; all around, men fell by the score and fed long streamers of blood into the fast current. The Trojan resistance was ferocious but short-lived. Dispirited, outnumbered and outfought, their line wavered and broke.
‘Follow them!’ Odysseus shouted, pointing across the sea of helmeted heads to where Paris and Deiphobus were turning their chariot about and driving back to the Scaean Gate.
Eperitus flicked the reins across the backs of the horses and sent them springing forward. The heavy wheels bounced across rocks and the softer bodies of dead men beneath the water, before biting into the mud of the far bank and driving up on to the sun-baked plain. All around them Trojans were running in headlong panic, no longer concerned with fighting but only with reaching the safety of the city walls. Some fell beneath the speeding chariot, while others were caught by the pursuing Greeks and cut down without mercy. Then Paris turned and saw Eperitus and Odysseus gaining on him. With a quick word to his brother, who gave a shout and drove the tired horses even harder, Paris fitted an arrow to his bow and took aim. Odysseus quickly threw up his shield, catching the bronze-tipped shaft in the upper rim. Paris fitted another arrow and Eperitus wrenched the reins to the left, running down a group of Trojan spearmen as the second shaft flew past his right ear.
‘Get after them!’ Odysseus hollered, watching in angry dismay as Paris and Deiphobus escaped towards the Scaean Gate.
Eperitus steered the chariot back round to the right, just as a series of shrill horn calls announced the opening of the Scaean Gate. In the same moment he heard Achilles’s loud voice booming over the din of battle.
The gates are opening! To the gates! To the gates!’
He swept past them in his chariot, his immortal horses riding down any man in his way as he dashed headlong towards the yawning gap opening up in the Trojan walls. He drove forward with such speed that, for a moment, Eperitus thought he would reach the gates and take them single-handedly, overturning all the prophecies of doom, and with one act of courage and shining skill eclipse the feats of every warrior who had lived before him, even Heracles himself. Men fled as he bore down on them, or leapt aside and threw their arms over their heads in fear. But as Paris and Deiphobus disappeared through the gate a new series of horn calls sounded from the walls above. They were followed by loud cheering as hundreds of heavily armed men came rushing out to meet the Greeks.
Paris jumped down from the back of the chariot, followed by Deiphobus. All around them the streets were packed with soldiers and civilians, mingling chaotically as the panic of war took hold of the city once more. In one direction, massed companies of fresh troops marched out to meet the encroaching enemy, while in the other the survivors of the battle were trickling in through the gate to slump exhausted against the cyclopean walls, there to have their wounds treated by the flocks of anxious-looking women who were waiting for them. Again, Achilles had helped the Greeks turn defeat into victory and Paris felt his frustration turning to anger.
‘Apheidas!’ Paris called, seeing the tall captain leading the reserves. ‘Apheidas, keep the Greek infantry away from the gates – the archers on the walls will help – but let A
chilles push in closer. He’ll not wait for the rest and I want him to be separated from them.’
Apheidas frowned down at the prince.
‘That’s too risky, my lord. If he reaches the gates it could mean the fall of Troy.’
‘Apheidas is right, Brother,’ Deiphobus agreed. ‘Let’s just get as many men as we can back inside the walls before—’
‘No!’ Paris snapped. ‘Achilles killed Hector and I’m going to avenge his death with my own hands now. If I fail and Troy falls, what of it? She’ll succumb sooner or later anyway, if Achilles isn’t killed.’
Apheidas’s gaze remained on Paris for a short while, then without a word he turned and rejoined the stream of spearmen flooding out of the gates, the hooves of his horse echoing loudly between the high walls. As he went, Paris selected a particular arrow from the leather quiver at his hip and turned its long, black shaft between his fingers. The tip had been smeared with a dark grey paste that had dried to a textured hardness. What was in the paste Paris did not know; but when he had requested the arrow from Penthesilea – having heard of the deadliness of Amazon barbs – she boasted it would kill any man, woman or beast, however great, if it so much as pierced their flesh. And there was only one man he intended to use the arrow on.
He ran up a flight of steps to the top of the walls, followed closely by Deiphobus. The battlements were filled with archers, pouring a deadly fire into the horde of Greeks beyond the line of the sacred oak tree, where the Trojans were barely managing to keep their onslaught at bay. Paris shouldered his way between them and, fitting the arrow to his bow, peered down into the morass of struggling men below.
