by Glyn Iliffe
Odysseus’s ship led the way out of the crowded harbour. Eurybates stood at the prow, ordering the oarsmen to row when there was enough space between the anchored vessels of the other fleets, or to pull in their oars and let their momentum take them through where the gaps were too narrow. Slaves sat in silent groups on deck, crammed in between the supplies and piles of plunder that had been taken from their once proud city. The faces of the women were stern as they looked upon their homeland for the last time. Eperitus was sitting on a bale of hay in the stern with Astynome beside him. Her long hair was hidden beneath the helmet she still wore and her breasts were strapped down beneath her leather cuirass, but her disguise did not fool the captive women whose bitter glances would often fall upon her. Eperitus wanted to put his arm about her, to reassure her against the resentful stares of her former compatriots, but did not want to catch the eye of any of the sailors on the vessels they were passing between. It was bad enough knowing that any moment Mycenaean galleys could be sent in pursuit of them, demanding justice for the death of Calchas, but the thought that a moment of carelessness on his part might risk the woman he loved being taken back by Agamemnon was unbearable. Besides, they did not have long to wait until they reached the open sea. Then Astynome could shed the armour that encased her beauty and together they could throw off the invisible fetters that had bound them to the war for so many years. He looked round at Odysseus standing by the twin rudders. The king smiled as he steered a way through the anchored fleets, knowing that he would soon be on his way home.
A murmur of voices caused Eperitus to look back at the deck. Hecabe had risen to her feet and was looking back at the ruin of Troy. She was a small woman, unremarkable in many ways, but her face was so tight with sorrow at the loss of her once numerous family that she commanded attention. As Eperitus watched, the old queen tore open her chiton at the shoulder and began to wail, a prolonged, ululating sound made by rapid movements of her tongue. She beat her fist against her breast while tears of anger rolled down her face. One by one the women and girls joined her, until their high-pitched lament was repeated by the slaves in the other ships of the Ithacan fleet, the sound of it rolling out across the bay to chill the blood of all who heard it. Eperitus sensed Astynome bow her head beside him and saw the tears splash over her cuirass as she began to thump the heel of her hand against the hardened leather. He felt suddenly helpless, as if at this last moment of farewell to her nation he might lose her after all. Odysseus’s smile had given way to a look of grim endurance. He glanced at Eperitus, saw the doubt in his captain’s eyes and shook his head.
‘Let them say their goodbyes,’ he said.
After what seemed an eternity, the twelve galleys rowed clear of the enclosed bay and out towards the open seas.
‘Set sail!’ Eurybates ordered, his voice cutting across the Trojan lament and silencing it.
The crew pulled in the oars and rushed to their stations – barging their way roughly past the captives – and muddled through the half-forgotten routine of releasing and trimming the sail to distribute the wind pressure. Eurybates strode through the chaos to join Odysseus and Eperitus at the helm.
‘The north wind’s not so strong today. We should have gone with Nestor and the others when we had the chance.’
There was a hint of criticism in his tone, but Odysseus brushed it off.
‘All the better if we’re heading north. We don’t want a strong wind fighting us all the way.’
‘North?’ Eurybates and Eperitus asked together.
‘But my lord,’ Eurybates continued, ‘that’s against the current. We’ll have to row and it’ll tire the men out. It’ll be much quicker to go south.’
‘That was Nestor’s recommendation,’ Eperitus agreed. ‘Heading north’ll add days to the voyage. I thought you were desperate to get home.’
‘I am,’ Odysseus said with a look that warned him not to question his desire to see Ithaca again. ‘And even a few more days will be an agony. But how can I go back with a handful of slaves and what few trinkets the Trojans didn’t sell off to fund the war? Ten years and hundreds of Ithacan lives for this?’ He waved his hand towards the slaves and tarpaulin-covered treasure on the deck. ‘No, at the least I intend to raid the coast as we go, attacking Priam’s Thracian allies and taking enough plunder to save our faces when we return. Now, Eurybates, set the correct course and if necessary get the men back to their oars. Am I clear?’
His squire nodded and turned to call out the orders. The crew understood at once what they meant and for a hesitating moment looked at their king for confirmation. Eperitus noted the rebellious light in Eurylochus’s eyes, but as he opened his mouth to speak, Selagos laid an oversized hand on his shoulder and pushed him down onto one of the benches. The Taphian gave Eperitus a strange look, then took his seat beside Eurylochus and reached for the oar. Eperitus looked down at Astynome.
‘Are you alright?’
The tears had washed a path through the thin layer of smoke and grime on her face, but her expression was determined.
‘I feel better than I have in a long time, my love. And now, am I allowed to take this cursed war gear off yet? I’m sick of the smell of leather and someone else’s –’
She fell silent. Not noticing at first, Eperitus looked over at the mouth of the straits they had just left behind. The masts of the once mighty Greek armada were still visible in the harbour beyond. The other eleven galleys of the Ithacan fleet were following behind Odysseus’s ship, their oars slipping out into the waves again as they beat northward against the current. To his relief there was no sign of any pursuit.
‘Yes, take it off –’
Astynome’s hand wrapped about his wrist and squeezed it. Following her gaze, he saw Hecabe walking towards them. A woollen cloak had been thrown about her shoulders to cover her torn chiton, but she seemed not to notice it and it fell away as she approached. Astynome stood, her eyes wide with uncertainty as the queen came closer. Hecabe passed her and climbed onto the bale of hay, looking out at the coast of Ilium and the green sea that lay between.
Odysseus rushed forward and laid a hand on the old woman’s arm.
‘Hecabe,’ he said, his voice calm and gentle. ‘Hecabe, come down.’
She looked back down at him, her expression lost in personal torment. Then something inside her recognised him, and a look of pity entered her eyes.
‘We are cursed, you and I. Cursed to suffer. Do you think that because your ships are laden with Trojan plunder you have somehow been justified by the gods? Do you think that your survival where so many have perished means their favour is upon you? No, Odysseus. I remember my happiness each time I gave birth to one of Priam’s children, my pride as I watched them grow into princes and princesses, my joy when Hector returned from his first battle with blood on his armour and the light of victory in his eyes. I thought then that the gods had blessed me above all women. Only now do I see that by raising me up, they simply intended to make my fall all the greater. Fifty children I bore my husband; now not one remains to give me comfort. Not one. The same fate awaits you, Odysseus, great king though you are. The gods will take everything from you – your fleet, your plunder, your friends – before you find their favour again. But they will never give me back my children. Never!’
Odysseus, seeing what was in her mind, grabbed at her arm. But Hecabe was too quick. She leapt onto the side of the ship, tried to balance as she stared out one last time at the pillars of smoke that marked her beloved Troy, then lost her footing and fell. Eperitus leaned against the rail, with Astynome, Odysseus and many others pressing either side of him. Hecabe was in the water, her face and limbs pale amid the dark waves as they thrashed about in the last instinct that remained to her – to save her own life. Odysseus threw aside his helmet and tried to unbuckle his armour, but it was too late. The current was pulling her away rapidly, though her screams still came to them on the wind. Within moments she had fallen beneath the oars of another galley, the spray from
the blades briefly turning pink as the last queen of Troy sank beneath their murderous strokes.
BOOK
TWO
Chapter Nine
THE LAND OF THE CICONES
Hecabe’s death subdued any spirit of resistance that might have remained in the Trojan women. From that point on they sat despondent on the deck, between the protesting livestock, the sacks of grain, the clay pithoi and the precious plunder beneath its leather tarps. Their mournful eyes looked out at the hills on the peninsula to the east, watching as they slipped away from the home they had known all their lives and plunged further on into an unfamiliar world. With the queen’s demise, though, the fortunes of the Ithacans seemed to change. The usual north wind fell away and a new breeze blew in from the south-east, filling out the sails and allowing them to ship their oars. Through what remained of the afternoon, they sailed across the mouth of a great bay with the island of Samothrace to the west, until they reached the inlet of a large river. Here they beached the galleys and made camp as the sun was setting.
While the men slaughtered goats and sheep, Odysseus asked Eperitus to join him by one of the fires. As they sat beneath a red sky and ate the food their men brought them, the king traced lines in the sand to show where they were. A little further down the coast was the island of Thasos, and on the mainland opposite were the towns and villages of the Cicones, Priam’s former allies. But they were allies whose warriors had perished inside the walls of Troy, leaving their homes virtually defenceless. Easy prey even for a single galley, Odysseus suggested with a grin, let alone twelve.
They discussed their plans until dusk and then summoned the captains of the other ships to explain the details of the next day’s attack. The night sky was awash with stars by the time Eperitus found the pile of furs where Astynome was sleeping. She woke at his touch and they made love silently before falling asleep in each other’s arms.
Eperitus gripped the rail and watched the beak of the ship slicing through the waves below. The beach was getting rapidly nearer and he braced himself for the impact that would soon come. Glancing up, he could see the walled city nestling between tree-covered hillsides. Thin trails of smoke drifted up into the clear sky while flocks of goats picked their way across the surrounding fields. Everything gave the impression that the city’s inhabitants were blithely going about their daily business, ignorant of the Ithacans’ approach. Then the gates banged open and a flood of men rushed out. The midday sun glinted on their armour and Eperitus felt the old, familiar tug of nerves in his stomach.
‘Get ready,’ Odysseus shouted.
The galley scraped against the soft beach below and then thudded to a sudden stop. Eperitus used its momentum to throw himself over the side and land waist-deep in the water. His legs buckled with the impact and the spears almost slipped from his hand, but somehow he staggered on and regained his footing as he splashed his way up through the breakers. For a moment he felt alone, with the empty beach ahead of him and the army of the Cicones filing into their ranks on the plain beyond. Then he heard the screams of fear from the women and children in the galleys behind, followed by the low roar from the throats of the other Ithacans on either side of him. A quick glance over each shoulder revealed a sea full of men, their legs kicking up white spray as they rushed to gain the beach. Polites was among them, towering head and chest over the others. Antiphus was already fitting an arrow to his bow, while beside him Omeros and Elpenor were struggling beneath the combined weight of their armour and weaponry.
‘Form up on those dunes,’ Odysseus shouted from behind Eperitus’s right shoulder. ‘I want a wall of shields before the Cicones can get anywhere near us.’
A familiar whickering sound filled the air above, followed by the hiss of arrows hitting the water. Others rattled onto the galleys behind, where a woman cried out in sudden pain and was silent. Eperitus told himself it was not Astynome and ran on, his sandals finding the beach and sprinting up the slope towards firmer ground. It had been a hasty volley, fired at long range and with no audible casualties among the men, but the solitary shout from the ships had put a spark in the kindling of his temper. He thrust his shield before him. Its half-moon shape offered less protection than the shield he had left behind in the ruins of Troy, but over its upper rim he could clearly see the ranks of the Cicones marching towards him. His experienced eye estimated three ranks of a hundred men each, a greater force than they had anticipated, though still only half their own number. He could also see many grey beards among them and an equal number whose clean jaws betrayed their youth. The glint of armour he had seen from the prow of the galley had been deceptive, too. Not one in three wore breastplates and only half carried shields; the second and third ranks probably had none at all. He winced. It would be a massacre.
‘How many?’ Odysseus asked, falling in beside him and locking his shield alongside Eperitus’s. Omeros arrived on his other side, followed by Elpenor and Antiphus.
‘Three hundred. A mixture of old men, boys and farmers.’
Odysseus sensed the disdain in his voice.
‘The easier the fight, the less of our own dead there’ll be.’
Another badly aimed rain of arrows fell, clattering off the wooden hulls of the ships. A man further down the hastily forming Ithacan line fell heavily onto the sand. Eperitus glanced at him, then back at the galleys where the women and children were crying out in fear.
‘We’re too close to the ships,’ he said. ‘We need to attack now.’
Odysseus looked across at his small army. Many were still jumping from the ships or wading through the surf. He had seen the danger, though, and must have known what lay at the heart of his captain’s anxiety. Reaching down to his belt, he touched the old, dry chelonion flower that had been there since the war began – a reminder of home – and raised his sword.
‘For Ithaca!’ he shouted.
The men roared their response and advanced. Another wasteful volley fell among them, easily parried by their upraised shields. But Eperitus recalled the woman’s scream that had rung from the galleys after the first arrows had fallen and he quickened to a jog. They were still a distance away from their attackers, who were on higher ground, but the Ithacans picked up the pace easily. The ground thundered with their footfalls and the air rang with the clank of armour. As they closed, the others could see what Eperitus’s eyes had picked out from the beach: the frightened faces of their enemies, a force stripped of true warriors by their alliance with Troy and leaving behind only boys and old men, the crippled and the cowardly. At their backs was a one-armed man on horseback, shouting orders in a dialect Eperitus could not understand. But he heard the authority in his voice and knew that – for now at least – the men under his command still feared him more than they did their enemies.
More arrows sprang out from behind the Cicones’ front rank, the range closer now but their aim panicked by the fast-approaching Ithacans. A black-feathered barb thumped into Eperitus’s shield, its bronze tip piercing the fourfold leather and nosing through the wicker lining. Behind him a voice cried out in sudden agony but was quickly lost beneath the war cry of six hundred warriors. Soon they would be within range of their enemies’ spears, the moment when they were most vulnerable. The man on the horse knew it, too, and rode rapidly behind the lines of his men, calling out encouragement in his booming voice. He raised his sword in his remaining hand, ready to give the order.
‘Spears!’ Eperitus shouted.
Without stopping, the Ithacans readied spears in their hands and hurled them at the Cicones. The range was long and their target uphill, but many found targets among their poorly armoured enemies. All along the Cicones’ ranks men fell or shrieked in pain as sharp bronze tore through flesh and shattered bone. Against a better opponent the volley would have come too early, but against the frightened militia it was enough. A cry of panic rose up and men began streaming away from the rear ranks, back towards the safety of the town. Their commander shouted at them to hold, even brin
ging his sword down onto the head of a fleeing boy and slicing away the top of his skull. But it did no good. A few spears were thrown hastily from what remained of the front rank and then they, too, turned and ran.
A victorious cry erupted from the Ithacans. Desperate to catch the Cicones before they could reach the gates, they forgot the weight of their armaments and broke into a sprint. The commander of the militia, deserted by his men, watched them advance with eyes that showed no fear. Raising his bloodied sword before him, he spurred his horse down the slope towards the Ithacans. The blade fell once, removing a man’s forearm in a spray of blood, then dozens of hands seized hold of him and pulled him from his mount.
Eperitus was the first to reach the line of dead and dying Cicones. Clutching his remaining spear, he ran after their fleeing comrades, desperate to reach the gates before they could be shut against him. But while the Cicones were still streaming across the plain, unseen hands closed the heavy wooden portals with a bang that shook the dust from their thick planks. Shouts of protest erupted from the betrayed militia, quickly turning to pleas of desperation as they heard the Ithacans rushing up behind them. Many realised they could expect no mercy and turned with weapons raised.
An old man pulled the sword from his belt and ran at Eperitus, who knocked the thrust aside with the flat of his shield and drove the point of his spear through the man’s chest. Drawing it out again he swung the shaft into the face of a second attacker, who crashed to the ground with a grunt. Weapons clashed all around as more Ithacans joined the fray. A young Cicone threw himself at Eperitus’s feet, clutching at his legs and pleading incoherently for mercy. Eperitus struck at him with the lower edge of his shield but the boy clung on, tears of pain and fear flowing down his cheeks. As Eperitus raised his shield to strike again, two more Cicones rushed at him with their spears levelled. The first pierced his shield and almost tore it from his arm; the second he turned aside with his own spear, before slashing at the Cicone’s woollen tunic with the return stroke. The man’s stomach opened, spilling blood and intestines over his legs as he crumpled into the dust.
