by Anna Harvey
“Exactly!” exclaimed his friend with satisfaction. “Sufficient at least for two bold and brazen men to crawl through the passage and gain access to the city.”
“Have you thought who that might be?” he had asked, knowing already the answer. The two men exchanged a broad grin slapping each other on the back.
“Well, I couldn’t allow you to have all the excitement,” Diomedes replied.
“Come, let us drink to that idea and may the gods sanction it,” he had said, summoning the herald to fill up the mixing bowl with sweet diluted wine, which they shared between them. As the wine was drained from the vessel, a merriment in mood swept over the Kephallenian camp and for the first time Odysseus had felt Hope return. Some of the men, filled with the warm liquor, had broken into song, singing of sailing ships and of their women back on their island home. He and Diomedes had sparred with one another to come up with the most audacious plan to break into Troy. In the end they had settled on the plan to disguise themselves as destitutes with ragged and unkempt clothing. In the haze of the crackling fire and warming wine loosening his limbs, a surge of affection had come over him for these comrades and this man.
“You know, Diomedes,” he said his words slightly slurred, clasping his friend around the shoulder. “From this mess some good has come. I will miss these brave hearted warriors, who have been with me from the beginning, but also you.” He rubbed his hand over his face to brush away any sign of tears. “You have made this ill-fated war more bearable. When I am back in Ithaka, I will think of you.”
“Some god must have taken your mind, Odysseus!” laughed Diomedes. “You will be too busy warming your bed with that wife of yours.” They both laughed but looking back how hollow those words felt.
The next day, the two men found themselves peering into a dark hollow, not far from the city walls. Diomedes had described it well. A spring of clear water bubbling from the hillside, flowing into a channel covered by overgrowing bushes. The passage had been there all along, through those long weary ten years: the secret key to the city.
“We should go as soon as possible while the water level is still low.” he said, inspecting the passage. The stream was only a trickle of a stream, as the gods had not thought to send rain for some days to offset the heat of early summer. “If there is heavy rain, the passage will be flooded and the opportunity will be lost.”
“I agree,” replied Diomedes.
“And I think it should be as we discussed, just the two of us disguised as beggars in rags. To avoid detection by the Trojans.”
“If it is to be under cover of darkness, then perhaps tomorrow night. The moon will not be so high.”
And so it was that Odysseus found himself wading through the water in the darkened tunnel, the tallow torches they carried the only illumination. To give truth to their story if caught, they had dressed in plain, dirty and torn tunics, taken from two slaves captured in war. The passage proved as even and proportioned as its entrance, continuing on its straight purposeful course beneath the city walls. Whoever had been responsible for the construction had taken the task seriously. Even the ice chillness of the water was not unpleasant after the heat of the day. At the end of the passage, it narrowed to a small gap, with just enough room for a grown man to squeeze through.
“Let us leave a lighted torch here on a higher ledge. We can collect it on the way back,” Odysseus whispered to his companion. Through the narrow gap ahead, they could make out a symmetrical pool in the gloom. Beyond was the beginnings of a flight of steps. His mind was working quickly now. “I will extinguish my torch, Diomedes, so we have enough tallow to find out way back. Leave your own burning. Take time to look around so that if the torches are lost, we can at least retrace our steps in the dark.”
“There looks no way of getting round the cistern,” said Diomedes.
“So we will have to swim for it. I hope they teach you how to swim in Argos.”
“Like a babe to his mother’s breast,” grinned Diomedes, plunging into the ice chilled dark water.
In the dark, they had felt their way, stone by stone up the twisting stairway until they emerged out into the night air. The quickness of Odysseus’ heart lessened as with relief he realised no one had thought to guard the cistern, confident that the water or the protection offered by the local god of the spring barred the way. The lower city streets appeared to be deserted with the townspeople safely in their beds or guarding the lower perimeter walls and gates. Above, the palace and the higher citadel loomed over them, casting a deep shadow over the city.
“Come, I think we should go this way,” said Diomedes.
“Let us first wring out these wretched clothes, so it will be easier for us to move quickly and unnoticed,” Odysseus suggested. They stepped back into the shadows of the cistern staircase, each man hastily removing his rags and standing naked as they squeezed out the water. Less encumbered and re-clothed, they stealthily walked through the empty town, trying to keep to the shadows. The lower gate to the citadel was unguarded, perhaps due to complacency, after ten gruelling years of the siege. Odysseus’ sight had now grown accustomed to the darkness.
“I recognise this way from when I was here many years ago.”
“You’ve been here before?” asked Diomedes, curious.
“Now is not the time to explain. I think we need to go this way.” Odysseus led the way, silently crossing over the open space of the citadel beckoning Diomedes to follow him. On one side, he recognised the reception rooms and sleeping quarters of King Priam and his family entourage. Close by was the smaller apartment of Antenor, where he had once met with Helen, hoping to persuade her to return to Menelaos. At the far corner of the ground, Odysseus recognised the outline of the temple, dedicated to his own personal goddess and protector, Pallas Athene. The shrine was in the open air, flanked by a wooden colonnade but he could make out the altar at the centre. The Palladion could not be far away. The image of the goddess carved onto a sacred piece of wood. The two men found it easily, standing upright just behind the altar.
Quickly they stashed the wooden plank, bearing the sacred image of the god, inside the rough sewn sack Diomedes had brought for the task. They needed to escape before they were discovered and the alarm raised.
“Quickly, let’s go,” hissed Odysseus in the dark, his unease increasing with every moment that passed within the temple.
It was as they crossed the open land once more, Trouble struck. In the dark, he lost his footing, stumbling and falling headlong with a heavy thud. Diomedes stopped and started to turn back.
“No,” he rasped in the dark, “you go ahead. I will follow shortly.” He waved the younger man away. It was then he heard the sounds of footsteps. His fall had been heard.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” The pitch was youthful, almost like a maiden’s. Odysseus looked up to find long spears pointed at him, clasped by two warriors. In the darkness, he sized the guards up as only recently come of age. They lacked experience and appeared nervous at challenging him. Slowly he got to his feet, hoping that Diomedes had opportunity to make good his escape. As he did so, he couldn’t help reflecting ruefully that he Odysseus was no longer quite as swift of foot as he used to be.
“Forgive me. I am a poor beggar,” he began, trying to emulate the local Asiatic dialect. “I only seek a safe place to sleep for the night. The sentry took pity on me and allowed me inside the city wall, as I feared to be murdered by those villainous Greek warriors.” He quickly assumed the part, spitting on the dusty floor as he pronounced the last words. He had picked up some of the Trojan dialect from the servants captured in battle, listening to their exchanges over many years. He could see the two sentries were hesitant, eyeing him suspiciously. At that moment another shape emerged from the darkness.
“My lady,” acknowledged one of the guards, lowering his head.
“What is the meaning of this?” The voice was clear and rang out in the gloominess of the night. Odysseus couldn’t quite
see who spoke. Their face was obscured by their cloak and veil, but the accent was familiar.
He continued to play the part. “Forgive me, lady, whoever you are that I disturb your presence.” He bent his head low in deference. “I am but a poor beggar seeking a comfortable place to rest my weary bones. I came seeking shelter close to the sanctuary of the sacred temple, that I may find comfort in the goddess’ precinct.”
He could hear the sweet sound of her breathing, as the woman drew near to inspect him more closely. Instinctively his stronger hand reached for his sword, but the finger tightened over empty air. His heart skipped a beat, as it had done many times just before battle, but he held fast. “Cast down your weapons!” the woman declared. “Can you not see this man is just a poor wretch and poses no threat? He is only an unfortunate seeking comfort and a place to sleep. Leave us and I will see to him myself.”
“Are you sure, my lady?” asked one of the warriors, his voice hesitant.
“Of course,” she answered tersely. “Now go, lest my husband hear of your disobedience.”
“Certainly madam,” the bolder one mumbled more humbly and they both withdrew. As the two men walked away out of earshot, the woman spoke again, this time more sharply.
“Odysseus, my kinsman, what in the gods’ name are you doing here? That I find you in the citadel of Troy itself. Are you mad or have the gods’ deprived you of your wits?” the voice hissed in the dark, now speaking in a clear Greek enunciation.
“Helen?” he exclaimed, peering into the dark. Suddenly the disassembled voice and shape fell into place. “Can it really be you? What are you doing out at night?”
“You should thank me that I decided to come to make prayers to the goddess. Your accent deceives no one except those young inexperienced fools. You are indeed fortunate that I came across you as you would be surely tortured and murdered if they discovered you.” Helen looked around anxiously as she spoke in a harsh whisper. “The goddess herself must have put it in my mind, for I could not sleep. Quickly, you must get out of here before you are discovered! Which way did you come?”
“I entered from the lower city.”
“Then follow me. I will walk with you part of the way, in case you are challenged again. Leave me to do the talking if we are stopped. You may be full of clever strategies, but you are no man of languages. Come!”
Helen set off walking without glancing behind. He lumbered after her still playing the part of beggar. As they walked close to the royal apartment, another figure stepped out of the shadows. The frame was diminutive and belonged to a woman.
“Helen!” The songful sound of a woman’s voice rang out, stopping Helen in her tracks. “Why are you out so late and who is this man?” Instinctively Odysseus reached for his sword but grasped only a handful of wretched rags. This was a dangerous turn of events and he waited holding his breath.
“Forgive me mother. I could not sleep. I found this unfortunate trying to seek comfort in the temple of Athena.” He realised at once who this must be, the mother of Alexandros and wife of Priam herself. Queen Hekabe.
“Come here man, let me have a look at you!” the voice commanded him. He could not see Hekabe’s face direct in the shadows, but he felt the heat of the flickering torchlight on his face as she closely scrutinised his features. He would be undone if this woman recognised him. He thought he heard a slight intake of breath escape her lips as she looked closely at his face. Then a pause …a momentary shudder ran through his body. He would be undone if this woman recognised him.
“You act properly, daughter, in giving this man care,” spoke the older woman. “Show him a place where he can bed down for the night, but then hurry back. For you do not know who may be lurking around the city at this hour.”
“Yes, mother, at once.” Helen bowed her head to the older woman in deference and quickly continued her path. He could feel the stare of the queen boring into his back as they walked away. Hekabe knew. She had recognised him.
They were now approaching the passage that led back to the lower city, when Helen halted and stepped into the shadows.
“I must leave you here Odysseus,” she whispered breathlessly. “I dare take you no further. Can you find your way?” Even in the gloom, the moonlight pooled in her eyes that could undo many a man and loosen his reason.
“Without doubt,” he whispered, his voice low, careful that they would not be discovered a second time by the guards in the lower city. “I will take my leave of you here and thank you for your help, kinswoman.”
He was about to descend the stone-carved stairs, when Helen turned to him, almost as an after-thought and asked the question.
“Tell me Odysseus. Do you think this cursed war will last much longer?” He could not see her expression, but he heard the anguish in her trembling voice. Helen wrapped her arms around herself as if it would soothe her pain. “For sometimes I cannot bear it. You must know Alexandros died in battle and they married me to his brother.” She used her cloak to wipe away the tears, as she burst into heaving sobs. “If only I had listened to you. So much suffering and bloodshed might have been averted!”
“Hush Helen.” He looked round anxiously, his ears keen for any approaching guard, before seizing her hands. “You must calm yourself and keep strong. For I think this may be over soon and then Menelaos will accept you back.”
“Thank you, Odysseus, for your kind words.” She brushed his hands with a wet kiss before releasing him “May the gods go with you” and she turned to leave him standing alone.
When he reached the passage entrance, Diomedes was waiting for him. “So my brother, we’ve done it,” he laughed, clapping Odysseus on the back.
“Yes, we did,” Odysseus replied, as he changed back into his warrior clothes, discarding the borrowed wet rags. But he felt no sense of comfort or elation. Only a gnawing feeling of apprehension for those left inside the city.
What fate awaited these people? he wondered.
Once back at the Greek camp, the plan was set in motion. Epeios, renowned for his craftsmanship with wood and carpentry, was summoned and tasked with the job of building. For nearly a whole lunar cycle, the craftsman had laboured with the soldiers to assemble the wooden structure. Work parties had been sent out to the lowlands of Mount Ida to fell timber and then drag the wooden stumps back across the plain into the camp. It was a gigantic task. An effort worthy of the Titans themselves. Men, with sweating bodies and sinews tort, banging, shaping and forcing the timbers into place until at last it finally emerged. The Wooden Horse.
The day before they had met in Council. Under the wide billowing awnings of the tent, a welcome relief from the scorching heat, they had discussed the strategy.
Agamemnon took command, perhaps hoping to take some of the credit for the audacious plan. “So Odysseus, it is finished, I hear,”
“Epeios the carpenter assures me so and I have inspected it myself. A trap door has been made to conceal the warriors inside.” Odysseus had taken no chances and each day without fail he had journeyed to the workshop to satisfy himself that his wishes were carried out, as slowly the edifice took shape sculptured out of planks of wood and hammered nails.
“Nothing must go wrong.” Agamemnon’s handsome face was composed, but beads of sweat pricked his brow. “Odysseus, I want you to lead the men concealed in the Horse. This needs to be our elite warriors so handpick who you will.”
“I have already given that some thought.” Indeed Odysseus had deliberated on it in his mind, sat by the shore gazing out across the wine dark sea. He knew his proposal broke the rules of kleos. He looked round at the expectant eyes waiting for his words. “I would like Diomedes as my deputy and Kephallenian warriors handpicked from my contingency. These are men I know and trust will fight bravely.” There was an audible sharp intake of breath and murmuring from those assembled in the Council.
“But surely we need our noblest warriors inside this horse!” It was Neoptolemos who spoke, his cheeks flushed with pique. He had in
herited the god-like looks and temperament of his father Achilles, only the features were harder set and there was a curl to his lip. After Achilles’ death, Odysseus had fetched the young lad from his childhood home of Leros. The son had quickly established himself as a pitiless killing weapon against the Trojans. “I for one wish to be included and I am sure the other leaders here also,” Neoptolemos continued. “For how will we win kleos, if the future bards sing of lesser men taking the city?”
“Don’t fear Neoptolemos. There will be plenty of glory for all of us.” Odysseu grinned at the young man, clapping him on the back. “And if the bards do sing of this, there is no reason why your name and the other nobles here should not be mentioned. For who is to know that you were not inside the horse.”
Agamemnon had been listening closely and nodded. “Very well, have your wish Odysseus. We will not stand in your way.”
“And you all know the plan.” Odysseus continued. “The camp must be destroyed. Nothing must be left on the ground so it will look as if the troops have given up and returned home.”
“My scouts have already found a place to conceal the fleet.” It was Menelaos who now spoke. “There is a small island, Tenedos, twenty stadia distance, where we will beach the ships on the far side of the island.”
Odysseus nodded in assent. “Good. It must be made to look as if the horse has been left as an offering to one of the Trojans’ gods. Once it is taken inside the city, we will come out under the cover of darkness and open the city gates. My kinsman, Sinon, has agreed to stay behind after the army has departed and will light a beacon to signal the troop to return.”
“Is there any way the plan might fail,” asked Agamemnon, anxiously. Odysseus’ glance fell on the Anax. Even now the man could not keep his nerve.
“If they discover that it is a trap,” Odysseus slowly replied. “I believe they will not deal with us kindly. Or the Trojans might decide against taking our generous gift inside their city walls.” Laughter broke out and he held up his hand to silence them. “That is why our elite warriors must be inside it, as any sound or loss of spirits will give us all away. He looked around scanning the faces of the Greek leaders as each gave their nod of assent.
