by Glyn Iliffe
Halfway between the Scaean Gate and the walls of the citadel, wreathed in smoke, stood the great horse that had brought death and destruction to Troy. Had it only been last night, Eperitus thought, that he had sat hidden inside its wooden body with the best of the Greeks, waiting for the moment to leap out and wreak chaos on the unsuspecting Trojans? It had been a fearful gamble – the idea of his friend and king, the ever-resourceful Odysseus – but after ten years of deadlock the Greeks had been willing to risk anything to end the war. And by the will of the gods they had succeeded. In one terrible night Troy had fallen. Men, women and children were slaughtered in their sleep or chased from their homes and hunted down like swine until the streets ran with their blood. Only the females were shown any mercy, if rape and the murder of their families could be considered merciful. They were useful slaves, an essential part of any economy, but were a poor recompense for ten years of war. With Troy’s wealth exhausted, the only men who had gained from the conflict were the sons of Atreus: Menelaus had recovered his wife, the incomparable Helen, from the clutches of the Trojans, while Agamemnon, the most powerful of all the Greek rulers, had destroyed his greatest rival and ensured the Aegean trade routes would belong to Mycenae. As for the rest of the kings, their rewards were less tangible: freedom from the oaths that had bound them to the war, until Troy was defeated or death had claimed them; and immortality through their illustrious deeds, the aspiration of every fighting man. Though Eperitus doubted whether any thought the price they had paid was worth it.
For his own part, he knew it had been too much. He had started the war seeking glory in battle, and his lust had been well satisfied – glutted, even, to the point of sickness – in a ten-year orgy of blood and death. He had also been keen for revenge against his treacherous father, the king slayer who had sought refuge among the Trojans. That desire, too, had been met, though he had felt little satisfaction in seeing Apheidas take his own life. And the price of glory and vengeance had been the lives of his daughter, his squire and countless comrades in arms. But there was one compensation for all that he had suffered in the bloody, decade-long conflict.
‘What are you thinking?’
A soft hand slipped into his and he turned to see Astynome beside him. Her cheeks were smeared with dirt to conceal their softness, while the leather breastplate and long woollen cloak she wore hid her womanly curves from unwelcome eyes. Only the tresses of her black hair, tied into a messy bun at the back of her head, betrayed her true sex.
‘Come on, tell me what’s on your mind,’ she insisted with a smile, her Trojan accent broad and exotic to Eperitus’s ears.
She reached up with her other hand and ran her fingers along the unfamiliar smoothness of his chin. He took the hand and raised her wrist to his lips. The fine, sun-bleached hairs of her forearm were soft against his newly shaven skin.
‘Ithaca. I was thinking of Ithaca. Of you and me and the farm I’m going to build for us. A team of oxen, some pigs, a couple of slaves to help me about the place –’
‘And our children? Of little Arceisius sitting on the oxen’s back while his father drives up the ground with the plough? Of Iphigenia holding the distaff while her mother spins the wool?’
‘So we’ll call her Iphigenia then?’
‘Of course we will. But you weren’t thinking of Ithaca at all, were you? Your eyes betray you: there’s no joy in them, only sadness.’
‘I wish I had been thinking of Ithaca,’ he said, gazing once more at the smouldering ruins of Troy. ‘But how can I look to the future when we’re still here?’
Surrounded by the ghosts of the war, he thought. As he stared down at the rolling meadows that led to the fords of the Scamander, his mind’s eye could still see the great battles that had taken place there. The Greek and Trojan armies grinding against each other like great millstones. The long ranks of spearmen locked in the centre and the cavalry swarming on the flanks. Kings and captains riding this way and that in their chariots, bringing death wherever they went. He recalled the duel between Menelaus and Paris, fought as the armies sat in rows watching them. And the time Achilles had herded hundreds of Trojans into the fast-flowing Scamander, slaying them without compassion among the tamarisks and willows, forcing them down the banks to drown under the weight of their own armour. He had witnessed Achilles kill Hector before the Scaean Gate, only to be killed there himself a few days later by an arrow from Paris’s bow. The same ground had drunk Paris’s blood after he had been shot down by Philoctetes. And so the killing had gone on, death after death, until the gods brought the war to its conclusion. The gods and Odysseus.
Eperitus looked a little further along the ridge to the temple of Thymbrean Apollo. It was formed from a double-ring of plane trees, dense enough to block all but a few glimmers of light from the westering sun behind them. Its roof was formed from their closely intertwined branches, and in the breeze the leaves whispered like the voices of the dead. An ox and cart waited a few paces from the narrow entrance, the beast’s head bent low to the parched grass. Beyond it Eperitus could see the sunlight glinting on the expanse of the Aegean, the great sea that separated the Greeks from their native lands and which would soon be bearing their fleets back home again.
Astynome must have been thinking the same thing.
‘We won’t be here much longer,’ she said. ‘And then we can forget all about Troy and start again.’
‘But Troy’s your home.’
‘Troy no longer exists. From now on my home is wherever you are. But if we’re to start again – build a home and have a family – then you must leave the shadow of the past.’
‘My father’s dead,’ he answered. ‘And if you’re worried that I still blame you for luring me into his trap –’
‘I’m not talking about Apheidas, or what I did. I’m talking about Agamemnon. Has there been a single day since he murdered your daughter that you haven’t longed to take revenge? Though Iphigenia’s mother made you swear not to kill him, I know the thought of his going unpunished still haunts you. So now I’m scared you’ll do something rash before the fleets go their separate ways and you lose your chance forever.’
Her intuition caught him unawares. She trapped his gaze with her own, challenging him to refute her accusation, but he forced himself to look away once more to the tumbled and fire-blackened remains of Troy. He stared hard at the hundreds upon hundreds of beached and anchored galleys in the large harbour, their denuded masts moving gently with the motion of the water, like breeze-blown stalks of corn. Inevitably his eyes were drawn towards the mass of tents that had been pitched that morning on the plain before the city walls, and to the largest tent of them all. The tent of Agamemnon.
As he looked he saw a horseman splashing across the ford and onto the soft, watery meadows of the plain. He kicked his heels back and sent his mount galloping over the battle-bruised and debris-strewn grass to the foot of the ridge. Pausing to shield his eyes from the sun and look up at the temple, he was soon urging his horse up the slope again, clearly driven by some urgency.
‘Who is it?’ Astynome asked.
‘Talthybius, Agamemnon’s herald,’ Eperitus answered, picking up her bronze cap from the grass and pushing it onto her head. ‘So unless you want to be recognised, keep your head down and try to stay out of the way.’
Agamemnon had once claimed Astynome as a spoil of war but had been forced to relinquish her when her father, a priest of Apollo, had called a plague down on the Greek camp. Knowing that the Mycenaean king would not be denied a second time, the Ithacans had disguised her as a soldier to prevent her presence being discovered. Eperitus waited while she threw the cloak about her shoulders, picked up her spear and shield and walked towards the temple. Before he could call a warning, a figure emerged from the ring of trees into the late afternoon sun. He was a stocky man with broad shoulders and short legs that gave him a top-heavy appearance. His beard and hair were red, and his green, clever eyes blinked in the sunlight. Unlike Eperitus, King Odyss
eus of Ithaca wore no armour. As far as he was concerned the war was over and the peace could not start soon enough. His only weapon was the dagger in his belt, which he had used for the sacrifice of a lamb to Apollo, while over his shoulder was the skin of water he had brought to wash the blood from his hands.
Odysseus was followed by three men. The most prominent was Polites, a giant Thessalian recruited into the Ithacan army before the war. He carried an anchor stone under each arm, which he heaved one after the other onto the back of the cart, making the dust leap from its seams. Odysseus had brought the stones to be dedicated before the long journey home. It was a vital ceremony – in rough seas an anchor stone was often all that stood between a ship and destruction – and with the temple of Poseidon in Troy a smoking ruin, the temple of Thymbrean Apollo was the only sacred place left. The other two men looked like children next to Polites. Indeed, Omeros, Eperitus’s squire, and Elpenor, his friend, had barely reached manhood before arriving in Ilium a few months earlier with the reinforcements from Ithaca. War had aged them quickly enough, but with their downy beards shaved off, they had the appearance of young boys again.
Odysseus raised his hand in greeting towards Eperitus and Astynome. Eperitus waved back and pointed urgently down the slope at the approaching horseman. At this distance the figure would still have been a blur to the king’s eyes, and only the supernatural sharpness of Eperitus’s senses – a gift from Athena many years before – could discern the rider’s features.
‘It’s Talthybius,’ he said, joining Odysseus.
‘Get inside the temple,’ Odysseus commanded Astynome. ‘I don’t want to risk him recognising you.’
She disappeared into the gloom of the temple as Polites emerged with two more anchor stones. He swung them onto the back of the cart – which sank heavily and pulled the ox back a step – then joined the others as they watched the horseman picking his way up the gradient. Eventually the herald looked up and, seeing the figures atop the ridge, jabbed his heels back and sent his grey mare quickly up the remainder of the slope.
‘Here you are,’ he said, addressing Odysseus with a touch of impatience. ‘Agamemnon’s called a meeting of the Council. Your presence is required at once.’
‘The Council only met this morning.’
‘That was to divide the spoils; this is to discuss the return home. Do you have horses?’
‘We have a cart,’ Odysseus answered, deliberately provoking Talthybius’s irritation.
‘Then I would suggest you run, my lord.’
Odysseus slipped the waterskin from his shoulder and offered it up to the sweating herald.
‘Why the urgency?’
Talthybius drank deeply, then looked down at Odysseus. He debated with himself a moment, then passed back the water.
‘There’s been a difference of opinion about when the fleet should leave and the route they should take.’
‘A difference of opinion?’ Odysseus asked, cocking an eyebrow. ‘You mean an argument.’
‘Yes, between Agamemnon and Menelaus. Come as quickly as you can, Odysseus. You might be the only man who can stop them from killing each other.’
Chapter Two
THE FLEET DIVIDES
The new Greek camp was a sprawling, chaotic mass of dirty white canvas, smoking campfires and thousands of jubilant warriors still revelling in their victory of the night before. Unlike the old site to the south-west, where the army had been ensconced for ten years and which had witnessed so much strife and sorrow, this transitory encampment pulsed with noisy, triumphant energy. The stench of woodsmoke, roast meat and unwashed bodies filled Odysseus’s nostrils as he splashed across the fords of the Scamander, where eels swam between the slippery-smooth stones and tendrils of green weed trailed in the current. Clambering up the far bank with Eperitus, he pushed his way into the crowd by the outermost tents and entered a masquerade of light and shadow caused by the dying glow of the sunset. Soldiers he did not know called his name and thrust skins of wine towards him as he shouldered his way through the drunken throng. Here and there, groups of men threw dice as they gambled the meagre possessions they had plundered from the city. In one group a naked woman tried to cover herself as a Spartan and an Athenian haggled over her fate. She looked pleadingly at Odysseus, but he looked away. He had too many troubles of his own to take pity on a captured Trojan. Close to the shoreline he saw Agamemnon’s palatial tent. A company of fully armed Mycenaeans stood guard over the piles of treasure and hundreds of slaves that Agamemnon had awarded himself, but the tent looked empty.
‘Over there,’ Eperitus said, touching Odysseus on the shoulder and pointing towards the ruins of the Scaean Gate.
A circle of war-torn banners thrummed the air, marking the spot where the Council of Kings had convened. The dolphin of Ithaca was among them, brought there from the ships, but Odysseus did not expect the debate had been delayed for his sake. Soon, he and Eperitus were barging their way through the crowd of attendants to take their places on the benches where the commanders of the Greek armies had gathered. A large fire at the centre of the circle threw up hundreds of sparks that eddied in the evening breeze. Nestor, the grey-headed king of Pylos, stood a few paces from the edge of the flames, his splendid armour gleaming from between the folds of his rich cloak. He clutched a golden staff in both hands and was using one end of it to trace lines in the dry earth.
‘Has anything been decided?’ Odysseus whispered, leaning in towards Diomedes.
‘No,’ the king of Argos replied. ‘All you’ve missed is wine, prayers and a lot of scowling between the Atreides brothers.’
He indicated two men sitting on opposite sides of the circle. To Odysseus’s right was King Menelaus of Sparta, the younger of the brothers. His auburn hair and beard were shot through with grey from years of worrying about Helen, the wife who had been stolen from him by the Trojans. Regaining her did not seem to have lightened his anxieties. He sat with his elbows on his knees and the fist of one hand clasped in the fingers of the other, glowering through the heat haze at his older brother. For his part, Agamemnon reclined in his fur-draped throne and refused to meet Menelaus’s glare. The king of Mycenae’s scarlet cloak was thrown back from his shoulders to reveal the breastplate gifted to him by King Cinyras of Cyprus, its highly burnished bands of blue enamel, tin and gold running red with the light from the fire. His blue eyes were cold and passionless as they regarded the flames, deep in thoughts that would soon be revealed to the Council. But where he had once been their elected leader and his word had been law, with the war over and the Council’s oaths fulfilled, he no longer held any power over them. Unless it was by the influence of his wealth and the force of his vast army.
Nestor finished drawing his curious lines and circles in the dirt and looked up. The low murmurs on the benches carried on, forcing him to beat the speaker’s staff three times on the ground.
‘Troy,’ he announced, tapping a spot between his feet. ‘Tenedos, Lemnos, Samothrace,’ he continued, stabbing the base of the staff into three of the circles he had traced in the dirt. ‘To the north we have the Ismarus Mountains and the Thracian coast, looping around and down towards Euboea. To the south-west the open Aegean, with the island of Scyros the only stepping stone to Euboea. To the south, Lesbos, Chios and the Cyclades, which lead back up to northern Greece, or across to the Peloponnese. The northerly passage is out of the question: it’s the longest route of all for most of us, and any fleet leaving from Troy will have to row against the prevailing current and the wind. We shouldn’t forget, either, that our ships have been beached for the best part of ten years. The repairs we’ve carried out have barely made them seaworthy again and few would survive that course. The southerly route is safest. The fleet can hug the coast, sail around Lesbos and then on to Chios, Icaria, Myconos and so on, heading north towards Euboea and Attica or west to Melos and Malea. That route will be slow but offers plenty of shelter if the gods decide to send storms; it also has many places to gather fresh food
and water if becalmed. But if you’ll be guided by me, the fleet should head straight across the Aegean to Euboea. It’s a risk in foul weather, of course, but it’s the quickest route of all. And I, for one, want to see my homeland again as soon as possible.’
‘We all do,’ said Odysseus. ‘And we should lose no time getting home to our wives and families.’
A loud chorus of agreement echoed from the benches, with only a few faces showing no enthusiasm for Nestor’s suggestion. These were the northerly kings and captains, whose quickest route home would be to Lemnos and then directly west to the triple-pronged headlands of Paeonia. Then Menelaus stood and held his hand out to Nestor. The old king passed him the staff and returned to his seat beside Agamemnon.
‘When the two wisest men in the army speak, the rest of us should listen. Nestor and Odysseus have proved themselves time and again to be right, and if any of us know the will of the gods it’s them. And now that Troy has fallen at last, who among us isn’t thinking of returning home without delay, to see the ones we love and restore order to the kingdoms we have neglected because of Zeus’s stubbornness in keeping us here? So I say yes, let’s take the quickest route back to Greece, and by all the gods on Olympus, let’s leave while there’s still a westerly wind to take us home. No tarrying – we’ve endured ten years of that – let’s sail with the first light of dawn tomorrow.’
He turned his fierce gaze upon his brother while all around him the Council responded with a loud cheer. Odysseus’s heart lifted at the idea of leaving Ilium in the morning and sailing his crimson-beaked ships back home across the Aegean. The thought of holding Penelope in his arms again made him tense with nervous anticipation, and to see the son he had left behind as a baby filled him with excitement. He turned to Eperitus, unable to suppress a smile, and saw the captain of his royal guard staring hard at Agamemnon. Whatever part of Eperitus was looking forward to starting his own family on Ithaca, a greater part was still mired in the past and the death of Iphigenia. As quickly as it had come, Odysseus’s enthusiasm dropped away and his heart sank into his stomach. The echoes of his own past still stood between him and Ithaca. The words of the oracle given to him so long ago by the Pythoness in her cave beneath Mount Parnassus whispered through the back of his mind. If ever you seek Priam’s city, the wide waters will swallow you. For the time it takes a baby to become a man, you will know no home. Then, when friends and fortune have departed from you, you will rise again from the dead.
