The Armour of Achilles

He stood and walked over to her.

‘Sleep in my hut,’ he said, a little awkwardly. ‘If you wish.’

She looked at him mutely.

‘You can make your bed close to the hearth,’ he continued. ‘I have plenty of furs, and it’ll be warmer than out here. Astynome, I’m not asking you to—’

‘No, of course not,’ she finished, embarrassed by his attempt to explain himself. ‘I’d be glad to have a roof over my head again. You’re kind, my lord.’

He gave her a half-smile, but felt even more awkward than before and quickly looked away. Astynome laid a hand on his forearm, then picked up her blanket and cloak and entered the hut.

The return to the Greek camp was followed by two weeks of training the Ithacan recruits for war. Replacements were of no use unless they could fight, and Odysseus was determined the newcomers would be as ready as they could be to face the battle-hardened Trojans. The task would not be an easy one: their fighting ability, stamina and physical strength differed greatly, but were generally poor and far below the standard of the rest of the army. Before they could be risked in battle they would have to learn how to use their weapons in attack and defence, manoeuvre as a body of men, and understand orders. Equally important, they would need to attain a level of fitness that would allow them to fight in full armour, all day long if necessary, with the vicious Trojan sun beating down on their shoulders.

Early each morning, Odysseus and Eperitus would march the replacements out on to the plain above the camp, where they were put through their paces until the sun sank into the Aegean and the light began to drain from the world. The pampered Ithacans, who had never known anything other than the sheltered lives of islanders, were driven to the limits of their endurance and beyond. Long marches were followed by weapons training and drill. Exhaustion ensued, making the recruits sloppy and careless, but the slightest inattention invariably led to a blow from the staff Eperitus had armed himself with. Each night they would stumble back to their tents, drained of all energy, bruised, ravenous, and always desperate for sleep. And before the first inkling of dawn was in the sky again, Odysseus, Eperitus and a handful of the other veterans would kick them awake and march them back on to the plain for a new day of drills and exercises.

Eperitus was enjoying the period of training. The mercenaries were developing quickly, and even the ordinary Ithacans – who for the most part had been farmers and fishermen before the call to war – were starting to show promise. But most of all he looked forward to the evenings, when he would sit with his comrades around the campfire, discussing the progress of individual recruits while eating the food that Astynome’s skilful hands had prepared. Sometimes, when he was not too exhausted by the day’s training, Omeros would join them and sing songs about gods, monsters and long-dead heroes, strumming gently on his battered lyre until he could keep his eyes open no longer. And at the end of the night Eperitus would lie awake in his bed, listening to the sound of Astynome’s gentle breathing from the other side of the hut, wondering what would become of the girl he refused to think of as his slave. Whenever he raised the subject of sending her home to her family – reminding her that he had only ever agreed to take her under his protection – she seemed strangely reluctant to discuss the matter. Equally strange was the pleasure he took from her reluctance. For a man who had always been content to look after his own needs, having another person in his life brought benefits he had never guessed at. Astynome could cook, of course, but she could also wash, darn, clean, oil, polish and a host of other things he had never before given much mind to. Suddenly, the many holes in his tunics and cloaks had all been repaired and his armaments gleamed with an almost embarrassing lustre. She was also strong enough to chop wood or carry clay pithoi filled with water, and yet gentle enough to knead the tension from his back and shoulders after a long day’s weapon training. But despite all these talents, he valued her most for her company. She did not have the cowed dullness of many slaves. Instead, she was opinionated, lively, fiercely patriotic, often rude, and yet never malicious. She would interrupt the men’s conversations with astute comments as she served their wine, or hold long discussions with Omeros about the history and legends of Troy, sometimes teaching him snatches of songs in her own language, made more beautiful by the softness of her voice. She was a gift of the gods, and yet Eperitus knew such gifts were the envy of others and rarely belonged to one man for long.

Odysseus would sometimes join the others around the campfire, though he rarely stayed for long. Since the return of the ships from Ithaca, he had been unusually sombre and withdrawn. But the question of Palamedes remained, and almost two weeks after the king had made his suspicions known, Eperitus took him aside one evening and asked him how he intended to prove the Nauplian was a traitor. Odysseus replied the answer lay with the gods, and that he had the beginnings of a plan.

The next evening, after the day’s training was over and Eperitus was about to start on the meal Astynome had prepared, Odysseus appeared with a wineskin hanging from his shoulder.

‘Come with me,’ he said in a low voice.

He set off without waiting and Eperitus was forced to ignore the wooden dish in Astynome’s hand and set off after the king. Odysseus was weaving a meandering path between the sprawl of tents and huts as Eperitus caught up with him. The camp was a small city, temporary in its nature and yet almost permanent in the length of time it had existed within the crescent of hills that overlooked the bay. Tens of thousands of soldiers from every Greek nation lived there with the wives, concubines, children and slaves that they had accumulated during the long years of the siege. Though their commanders had huts of wood or even stone, the tents of the soldiers were no less homely – like intricate beehives where whole communities worked, ate and slept in close company with each other. And just like the cities they had left behind, the camp was filled with smithies, armourers’ shops, bakeries, covered stalls from which merchants traded their wares, stables, livestock pens, communal latrines and even the altars and crude temples that were vital to any metropolis. Odysseus did not pause in his course, and in the failing light of day managed to dodge skilfully between guy ropes and washing lines and through the constant traffic of soldiers and the numerous dogs, sheep and goats that wandered freely through the camp. At first Eperitus thought he was planning to visit one of the other kings, but as they passed the well-built huts of Menelaus, Nestor, Tlepolemos, Idomeneus, Menestheus and several others, eventually climbing the surrounding hills to the earthwork and ditch that defended the camp, he began to understand who it was Odysseus was seeking, and why. At the top of the ridge, from which they could see the myriad fires of the Greek camp behind them, and the darkening plains towards Troy ahead, they could hear him among the trees on the other side of the ditch. After Odysseus had spoken briefly with the guards, they crossed one of the causeways and followed the mournful sound of drunken singing.

They found him crouched against the crooked bole of a wind-blasted plane tree. His black robe was pulled tightly about his thin body and his hood was pulled over his face. As they approached, he threw back his hood to reveal pale, skull-like features and a head that was bald but for a week’s growth of stubbly black hair.

‘Odysseus?’ he hissed, leaning forward inquisitively. ‘And Eperitus with him. What urgent need brings them to my little kingdom, I wonder? Has Agamemnon sent for me? But no, he only ever sends his slaves. Then they must have come for reasons of their own. I wonder what they might want.’

‘I was hoping you might already have known, Calchas,’ Odysseus answered him, sitting on a rock and laying the wineskin between his feet.

The seer’s dark eyes fixed greedily on the leather bag. He staggered to his feet and took a couple of faltering steps towards the king, his black cloak falling open to reveal the grubby white priest’s robes beneath. As he came closer both warriors could detect the mingled scent of wine, stale sweat and urine. Eperitus’s nose twitched in disgust, but it was nothing compared to the revulsion he always felt in the presence of the renegade Trojan priest, who at the command of Apollo had forsaken his homeland to join the Greeks. It was Calchas who, ten years before, had prophesied that Eperitus’s daughter, Iphigenia, must be sacrificed before the Greek fleet could sail to Troy, and who had led her to the altar to be murdered by Agamemnon.

‘Might already have known what, my lord?’ the priest asked, fixing his bloodshot eyes on a spot just above Odysseus’s head. His left arm was hanging limply at his side, while his right dangled before his chest, the fingers constantly clutching at something that was not there. ‘Might have known some dark secret of the future? Some omen of Troy’s doom, or maybe even . . . your own?’

He laughed and then belched, before dropping heavily on to his backside and crossing his legs with clumsy awkwardness.

‘Sit down!’ he snapped, frowning at Eperitus. The Ithacan captain remained standing and a moment later the priest’s sudden anger drained away to leave him sullen and depressed. ‘Oh, do what you like – nobody else respects me any more so why should you? A seer whose gift of prophecy has abandoned him and left him with a taste for wine. I should have stayed in Troy, serving my god. You’d have listened to me then, a priest of Apollo! Damn your stubborn, warrior’s pride.’

‘But the gift hasn’t left you, Calchas,’ Odysseus said, his voice slow and calming. ‘Or so I hear. Agamemnon still sends for you, even if the rest of the Greeks shun you. It’s said the King of Men asks you to interpret his dreams and that he confides all his plans in you, and that sometimes – sometimes – Apollo lets you see things. Have I heard wrong?’

Calchas gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

‘I thought not,’ Odysseus continued, picking up the wine and nonchalantly sniffing at the neck of the skin.

‘But the gift’s weak and fitful at best,’ Calchas protested. ‘I see so little now, and then nothing but glimpses of shadows. Apollo has turned away from me . . .’

‘Apollo has ordered you to serve the Greeks,’ Odysseus countered sternly. ‘It was at your own insistence that Eperitus and I took you from Troy to the gathering of the fleet at Aulis. And if you’ve renewed your old liking for wine since then, we aren’t to blame for that. Now, tell me truthfully, do you know the identity of the traitor in the council?’

Calchas opened his mouth to speak, but the words fell away and he frowned in confusion. ‘Traitor?’

‘Yes, a traitor,’ Eperitus replied. ‘Has Apollo told you who he is? Is it—’

‘Enough, Eperitus,’ Odysseus ordered, holding up his hand. Then he picked up the wineskin and stood. ‘Answer me, Calchas. Do you know anything about a traitor?’

The priest looked longingly at the skin dangling from Odys-seus’s fingertips, then shook his head and turned away.

‘Then forget we ever came here,’ Odysseus said, and with a nod to Eperitus began to walk in the direction of the camp.

‘Wait!’ Calchas called, leaping to his feet. ‘Wait. I think—’

He gave a cry as he stumbled over the rock on which Odysseus had been sitting. The two warriors turned to see him sprawled on his stomach, clawing pathetically at the dust and sobbing with sudden despair.

‘We shouldn’t have wasted our time on him, Odysseus,’ Eperitus said, looking with disdain at the fallen priest. ‘I understand why you came here – the proof you seek – but any powers he once had left him long ago, destroyed by wine and too much self-pity.’

‘Wait,’ Odysseus said, holding up a hand.

He took a step towards the priest, who had stopped crying and was now arching his back with his arms pinned to his sides, as if straining to get up but without using his hands. His whole body began to shudder, quivering from head to foot as if shaken by an invisible attacker. Then he turned his face towards them and they saw his pupils had rolled up into the top of his head to leave only the pink orbs of his eyeballs. A white spume had formed about his lips and was rolling down his chin in long gobbets.

‘What’s happening to him?’ Eperitus asked, shocked.

‘I’ve heard about this,’ Odysseus replied. ‘It’s a prophetic trance.’

‘He’s faking it. You shouldn’t have brought the wine – he’s putting on a show to—’

Eperitus fell silent. Though Calchas’s body remained arched and quivering, something was happening to his eyes. They were changing, filling with an intense light that came from within. Suddenly beams of silver shot out from each eye, feeling through the darkness like antennae, pulsing, growing in strength until the eyeballs glowed like heated bronze. Eperitus and Odysseus instinctively clutched at the swords in their belts, horrified at the seer’s face as he looked up at them, mocking their fear with a broad grin.

‘Your swords will not protect you,’ he said in a deep, powerful voice that seemed to emanate from the plane trees above their heads.

An instant later the handles of their weapons were searing hot, forcing them to pull their hands away. The voice merely laughed.

‘What do you want of me?’

‘We want to know who’s betraying our plans to the Trojans,’ Odysseus replied, flexing his hand and rubbing the unharmed flesh of his palm.

The amusement on Calchas’s face changed to a frown as the glowing pupils flicked towards the king.

‘Your instincts are correct, Odysseus, son of Laertes,’ the voice hissed. ‘The traitor is Palamedes. But the proof will be less easy to come by. Nauplius’s son is as devious as you are and your cunning must exceed his if you are to catch him out.’

Odysseus shot a victorious glance at Eperitus, but the captain’s expression remained sceptical.

‘Hear this also,’ the voice continued. ‘Great Ajax blasphemes the gods with impunity, but the day is coming when we will seek to punish his arrogance. When Ajax sets his jealous heart on the armour of Achilles, the Olympians will look to you, Odysseus, to prevent him from taking it.’

Odysseus’s look of triumph was replaced by confusion. Eperitus turned to Calchas and saw the demonic eyes now staring directly at him.

‘As for you, Eperitus, son of Apheidas, know this: you were unable to defeat your father in my sister’s temple because a part of you still loves him. To kill him now will be even harder, after what has passed between you. But if that is still your wish then you must give up all restraint and turn your energy to savage hatred. If you do not, or cannot, then your only choice is to die at his hand. Or to join him.’

Then the light faded from the priest’s eyes and his body went limp. Darkness descended on the three men once again.

Chapter Ten

TO CATCH A TRAITOR

Odysseus and Eperitus returned to the camp with barely a word said between them. Then, as they crossed the causeway over the ditch and passed the guards, the king stopped and turned to his friend.

‘What did Apheidas say to you in Lyrnessus?’ he asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘I know you better than that, Eperitus – you’ve been struggling with something ever since you faced him. I saw it in the way you fought at Adramyttium and Thebe, as if you’d lost your killing edge. At first I thought it was because Apheidas had beaten you, or you’d missed the chance you’ve been wanting for so long. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? When Calchas said something had passed between you—’

‘Calchas is a drunkard,’ Eperitus replied, a little more sharply than he had intended. ‘His visions are guided by wine more than they are by the gods.’

Odysseus raised a hand.

‘We both know that wasn’t Calchas speaking. You saw the eyes, heard the voice. If there’s something you need to tell me . . .’

Eperitus shook his head. He knew he could not share Apheidas’s revelation about his Trojan ancestry, not even with Odysseus. It was a secret he would have to bear alone.

‘Apheidas told me something about my family’s past. Something I’m trying to forget.’

‘Keep it to yourself, then,’ Odysseus said, patting Eperitus on the shoulder. ‘But now my suspicions about Palamedes have been confirmed, you will help me get the proof I need.’

They returned to their huts without another word. Eperitus’s thoughts were so full that he was almost surprised to find the tall, slender form of Astynome waiting for him. She had made a good fire in the hearth at the centre of the hut, over which she had suspended the large pot of thick stew she had cooked earlier, keeping it warm for his return. The rich aroma of meat and herbs filled the tent.

‘You must be hungry, my lord,’ she said in her heavy accent, lifting the ladle from the bubbling liquid and touching it to her lips.

‘Ravenous,’ he answered.

He unfastened his cloak and folded it roughly over his arm before tossing it on to his bed. His sword and scabbard followed, but as he stooped to remove his sandals his eyes were drawn to the girl who it had been his good fortune to rescue. She wore a white, knee-length chiton and had washed the day’s dirt from her limbs and bare feet; with the firelight playing on her brown skin she looked more beautiful than ever.

‘I kept some of the stew I had made earlier, before Odysseus called you away,’ she said, pouring some of the soup into a wooden bowl and handing it to him with a spoon. ‘It was a fight to keep the others from eating it all.’

He took the bowl and sat at the rudimentary table where he sometimes ate his meals. A basin of clean water was already waiting for him, and after he had washed his hands Astynome replaced it with a basket of fresh bread and a krater of wine. He ate in silence while she moved around the hut with a familiar, busy ease, lending it a sense of homeliness it did not deserve. How different, he thought, to when she had first entered two weeks ago. Then her eyes had fallen at once on the captured armour that hung from the walls, glinting in the darkness. She had walked over to the breastplates and helmets and studied them in reproving silence, running her hands over each piece and placing her fingertips against the holes where spear or sword had punctured the bronze and brought death to her countrymen. Eperitus had taken them from the Trojan nobles he had defeated in battle – men worthy of having their armour stripped from their corpses – but as she touched each piece of crafted leather and bronze he had felt suddenly and for the first time ashamed of these testaments to his skill and courage in battle, these glorious trophies of his own savagery. Then, in answer to her unspoken accusations, he began naming the former owners of each set of armour she touched, describing how they had looked in life, recalling how well they had fought, and declaring that he would not forget their bravery. Even though their souls had gone down to the Chambers of Decay, he was telling her that they were remembered, that they had not died in vain. And he felt that she forgave him for taking their lives.

He dismissed the memory and sat back in his chair, as Astynome removed the stew from the fire and replaced it with a pot of fresh water.

‘That was wonderful,’ he declared, washing down the last of the meal with a mouthful of wine. ‘I haven’t tasted anything as good as your cooking in a very long time.’

‘That’s because I’m not a clumsy Greek soldier, but a woman who knows about food,’ she replied, wrapping a cloth around her hand and removing the pot from the fire. ‘And a woman who is grateful to her rescuer.’

She poured the water into a large basin, threw the cloth over her shoulder and knelt before his chair. Taking his feet in her hands, she lifted them into the warm water and began to wash them, gently massaging the tired flesh with her fingers. Her hair was tied back to reveal her long brown neck and smooth shoulders, and as she looked up at him he could see that the anger that had marked her face when they first met was now completely gone. Instead, she looked content and at ease.

‘I should get a bigger table so you can eat with me in the evenings,’ he said.

‘In the day, too, I hope,’ she said, removing his feet one at a time and resting them on the cloth in her lap as she dried them. ‘Surely you won’t be training these replacements for ever?’

‘That still wouldn’t be long enough for some of them. But Achilles is expected back any time, and when he’s around things are never quiet for long.’

‘You mean you will have a war to fight.’

‘Yes.’

Astynome dried his feet in silence and withdrew to the pile of fleeces around the hearth, where she pulled her legs beneath her and turned to look at the fire.

‘Why are the Greeks such a murderous people?’ she asked, the flames reflecting in her eyes. ‘Why do they stubbornly cling to this small patch of Ilium, spreading misery and death?’

‘If we are murderous, then it’s the gods and the length of this war that have made us so,’ he answered. ‘But it isn’t in our nature. At heart we’re an honourable people. Perhaps you’ll find that out for yourself, one day.’

‘Then you intend to take me back to Greece with you?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ he said, forcing a smile. ‘Though you are a useful person to have around.’

‘I am,’ she agreed. ‘But it is not my desire to go to Greece. Do you . . . do you have a wife there?’

Eperitus shook his head.

‘But you need a woman to look after you. Perhaps you could remain here with me, when the war’s over?’

‘In Troy?’ he echoed with a small laugh, pushing aside the empty bowl and taking a swallow of wine. Astynome had only added a little water, leaving it strong and potent. ‘Whatever the outcome of the war, Troy’s no place for a Greek. Besides, what of your own husband? You said . . . you said you weren’t a virgin.’

‘My husband is dead, my lord.’

‘Because of the war?’

Astynome shifted around to sit cross-legged, facing the fire. The hem of her dress rode back over her knees to reveal the smooth flesh of her thighs.

‘I was sixteen when we married, just after the Greeks arrived. He wasn’t a soldier then, but it wasn’t long before all young men were given a shield and spear and sent to fight. He died in the first year of the war, before I could bear him children . . .’

Eperitus left his chair and knelt before her. Her eyes were wet, but no tears had escaped to glue together her long eyelashes or stain her beautiful cheeks.

‘Did you love him?’ he asked.

‘Very much,’ she whispered. Then she looked into his eyes. ‘You have also lost someone close, haven’t you? My instincts tell me you have.’

He nodded. ‘My daughter. A storm was bottling up the fleet at Aulis, so King Agamemnon sacrificed her to appease the gods.’

Astynome’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. ‘That’s barbaric! And yet you still fight for such men?’

‘I fight for Odysseus,’ he said. ‘And for my own honour.’

He touched her on the shoulder and she turned to face him, as if obeying an unspoken command. As she looked into his eyes he felt almost overwhelmed by the power of her beauty, and yet as he placed his other hand on her arm he could feel her trembling. Her eyes fell to his mouth as inevitably their faces moved closer. There was a moment of hesitation in which he could feel her nervous breath on his lips, and then they were kissing.

Eperitus woke to the sound of voices beyond the walls of his hut, but they were only the low murmurings of men greeting each other as they moved around the camp. It was the light of early morning seeping in beneath the entrance that had woken him – that and the unfamiliar warmth of Astynome’s naked body close against his own. They had fallen asleep facing the wall of the hut, with his arm beneath her neck, and her back and buttocks tucked into the curve of his body. Long strands of her dark hair were spread across his face and her feet were laid flat across his, the soles and toes soft and comforting. His other arm was across her abdomen as they lay beneath the furs, his fingers curled up in a fist beneath the smooth mound of a breast, which rose and fell gently as she breathed.

For a while he thought of their lovemaking, how awkward it had been at first and then how quickly they had learned to respond to each other. For him the experience had been rich and unexpectedly moving; Astynome had not reacted with the emotional detachment of a slave, but with passion and tenderness. Perhaps she had been thinking of her husband (she told him there had been no other since his death, a confession by which she had unwittingly revealed the depth of her love for the man), or, perhaps, to be touched intimately after so long had released a deep-seated need in her, expressing itself in an ardour that was both fiery and gentle. But his instincts told him otherwise. The desire she had shown was so much more than the rekindling of a distant memory or a longing for physical contact. She had wanted him, not the ghost of a dead husband, but him – his lips upon hers, his body against and within hers. The thought pleased him and for a while, as she lay in his arms, he did not think of Apheidas or the grim warning of Calchas’s words from the night before.

The voices outside grew a little louder as more men woke and rose. Eperitus cursed them silently, hoping they would not wake the girl, but something seemed to be happening and the noise increased until Astynome’s eyes flickered open. She rolled on to her front and raised herself on her elbows.

‘It isn’t always this noisy,’ she said in a hoarse, croaky voice.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ he replied. ‘I don’t normally sleep this long.’

He looked at her face, half lost behind thick lengths of mutinous hair and with her eyes squinting against the growing light. She was sleepy and vague, her skin flushed and hot to the touch, and yet he thought her as beautiful now as she had been last night, when the firelight had played on her sweat-damp skin and a fierce passion had burned in her eyes.

She looked at him beside her and broke into a tired smile.

‘And I should have been up long ago,’ she said, leaning over and kissing his bearded cheek. ‘As your slave I should have had your breakfast ready before first light.’

Eperitus returned her smile and moved his hand down to rest on the raised mound of her buttocks. The experience of waking each morning to a breakfast made by Astynome was about to be superseded by the happiness of waking to Astynome herself. It struck him then that his life was about to change for the better. Up to that point, the only pleasures of his hard existence had been the company of his comrades and the prospect of battle – to achieve glory and slowly erase the dishonour his father had brought upon him years before. But now he had Astynome to return to at the end of each day and the thought of her presence thrilled him. Men without women were too prone to savagery – the evidence of that had been around him for years – and now, suddenly, he realized why Odysseus had desperately wanted to return to Penelope for so long.

‘You’re not my slave, Astynome,’ he reminded her. ‘I agreed to take you under my protection, that’s all.’

‘Then I’m free to go whenever I wish?’

Eperitus felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. ‘Yes. You can do as you please.’

‘Then it pleases me to stay,’ she answered, stroking his hair. ‘I would only want to go back if you came with me, so until I can persuade you to do that I must masquerade as your slave. And now, perhaps, my lord would like some water?’

‘The wine last night has left my throat dry.’

Astynome threw back the fur and stepped over him. He watched her cross the fur-covered floor to the other side of the hut, where a skin of water hung from the wall. At that moment, the flax curtain that covered the entrance was swept aside and Odysseus walked in. He looked at the shocked girl as she tried to cover her nakedness, then picked up the cloak from her unslept-in bed and tossed it to her.

‘It’s been too long since I’ve seen a naked woman,’ he said as Astynome caught the cloak and threw it around herself. Then he frowned and turned to his captain with a purposeful air. ‘Achilles is back. I’ll wait outside while you get dressed.’

He gave a curt bow to Astynome and left. Eperitus rose at once and pulled on his tunic. Astynome came over to him and slipped her arms around his shoulders, placing a kiss on his lips.

‘Does that mean Briseis will be here?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Plunder and slaves are presented to Agamemnon for even distribution, which usually means he gets to pick the best for himself, regardless of who fought for it. That’s why I kept your presence quiet. But if the King of Men has got any sense he’ll leave Briseis to Achilles. She’s won his heart, from all accounts, and there’ll be trouble if he’s forced to part with her.’

‘Poor Briseis,’ Astynome sighed.

The sun was just peeping over the ridge to the east as Eperitus pushed aside the curtain and stepped out. The smell of woodsmoke was already in the air as a few men belatedly warmed water and prepared breakfast. Most of their comrades had already washed and eaten, though, and were streaming down to the beach to see the plunder that had been brought back from Lyrnessus. Odysseus, standing with his arms crossed as he stared in the direction of the sea – hidden behind the forest of tents – turned and greeted his captain with a smile.

‘She’s a beautiful girl,’ he said, nodding towards the hut. ‘The gods still hold you in their favour, Eperitus.’

‘She hates the Greeks,’ Eperitus replied.

‘Ah, but I think she has a strong affection for you.’

Eperitus snorted derisively to disguise his sudden interest, then placed his hand on Odysseus’s shoulder and led him away from the hut.

‘And why would you think that?’

‘Because of the look she gave you when I entered. Before she even thought to cover her nakedness she glanced at you, and that’s when I saw something in her eyes. I can’t say what, but I know that look. Now, let’s get to the beach.’

They joined the flow of hundreds of men, heading towards the southern end of the bay. This was where Achilles’s ships were beached, and it was here that the plunder from Lyrnessus, Adramyttium and Thebe was being gathered. The conversation on every side was focused solely on the amount of gold the expedition had looted, and the rapidly spread rumour that there would be a share for every man in the camp. Eperitus gave the matter no thought; he cared little for wealth and his mind was occupied with thoughts of Astynome and what Odysseus had said about her. And then he saw the gargantuan figure of Great Ajax striding head and shoulders above the crowd before them and his mind returned to the words of Calchas the night before. He saw that Odysseus’s eyes were also fixed on the king of Salamis.

‘What do you think Calchas meant last night?’ he asked. ‘About Ajax, I mean.’

Odysseus shrugged. ‘Everyone knows Ajax has little respect for the gods, though why he would want Achilles’s armour is beyond me. I was more interested in Palamedes.’

‘He could have been lying.’

‘Why would he lie?’ Odysseus frowned. ‘He’s a drunken fool, but he’s not a liar.’

‘But what if Calchas is the traitor? Have you considered that? He’s a Trojan, after all, and he’s in Agamemnon’s confidence. Didn’t he say last night that he regretted leaving Troy? Perhaps he told you it was Palamedes to throw you off his own trail.’

‘That could be true,’ Odysseus replied, still watching the towering form of Ajax ahead of them. ‘And you forgot to say that Calchas can enter or leave the camp whenever he pleases. The only other man who can do that is Palamedes.’

‘Any commander can leave the camp,’ Eperitus countered. ‘You could, if you wished, and at any time you felt like it.’

‘Not without the fact being reported to Agamemnon, Menelaus and Nestor. They keep a tight watch on this camp, whether you know it or not, Eperitus. Any commander crossing the ditch at night without good reason would be reported to them. But Palamedes was the one who thought up the system of sentries and patrols that defend the camp from Trojan raiders. And he regularly goes out to check on the patrols at night – a perfect cover for meeting Trojans and passing on our plans. That’s one of the reasons why I suspected him in the first place.’

‘And Calchas?’ Eperitus asked.

But Odysseus simply smiled and shook his head. ‘Palamedes is the one, and I’ll prove it to you before the night is out.’

They had come to the beach, and though they could see the masts of the newly landed ships above the heads of the multitude of onlookers (all the other galleys had had theirs removed and stowed), they could see nothing of Achilles or the treasures that had been plundered during the expedition.

‘Make way,’ Eperitus ordered.

He pushed at the backs of the men in front, who turned – some angrily – but were quick to step aside at the sight of the Ithacan commanders. Beyond them were a line of Myrmidon warriors, fully armoured and cloaked in black, facing the crowds with their spears across their bodies.

‘Let them through,’ said a deep voice as two of the guards moved towards Eperitus and Odysseus with their weapons raised.

Not waiting for his command to be obeyed, a large, broad-chested man with a wild black beard thrust the two soldiers aside and stepped forward to embrace the Ithacans.

‘The plunder has arrived safely, my friends,’ he announced after releasing them from his bear-like hug, ‘and that means wine and whores aplenty by sundown, if you care to join us.’

‘I’ll take the wine,’ Odysseus replied, ‘but you can keep the whores, Peisandros.’

‘Still holding out for Penelope, I see,’ Peisandros said with a shake of his head. ‘Ah well, more for the rest of us, eh, Eperitus?’

‘I have my own arrangements,’ Eperitus replied. ‘But tell me, how much did we take in the end? It looks like a lot.’

He pointed towards the wide beach where at least three score heavy wooden caskets had been unloaded so far, with still more being lowered from the sides of the black-hulled galleys.

‘Oh, there’s enough to go around,’ Peisandros grinned, ‘and there are prisoners to be ransomed, too, not to mention a haul of slaves that would be worth a lot back home.’

He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating a large crowd of frightened-looking women and children, standing at the water’s edge and staring wide-eyed at the thousands of men gathering along the top of the beach. Eperitus saw the tall and attractive figure of Briseis among them, her chin held high despite the broken look on her face. Achilles was nearby, talking animatedly to Great Ajax, who had already crossed the sand to greet his cousin. Antilochus watched the two men with undisguised admiration, while Patroclus, as aloof as ever, stood to one side with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

‘The question is,’ Peisandros continued, ‘whether our illustrious King of Men will share the spoils equally.’

‘Where is Agamemnon?’ Eperitus asked.

‘He won’t be here yet,’ Odysseus answered. ‘He doesn’t think it fitting to his rank that he should come to the victors first; they have to go to him and invite him to inspect the spoils. And here comes his messenger now.’

Palamedes had elbowed his way to the front of the crowd, several of whom cursed him and pushed him angrily out towards the line of Myrmidon guards, laughing as he fell on his stomach in the sand. Two of the Myrmidons approached and hauled him to his feet.

‘Get your hands off me!’ he snapped in a shrill, whining voice, waving them away as if they were mosquitoes.

Palamedes was a short, black-haired man with a wispy beard and a pointed face. His eyes were narrow and clever, always darting about watchfully, and his thin nose and lipless mouth gave him a hateful look that won him no friends. Though he always wore armour, as if to remind others that he was a warrior, he had neither the physique nor the bearing of a fighting man. His value was in the power of his shrewd brain.

‘Ah, Palamedes,’ Odysseus greeted him, standing in front of the Nauplian prince and planting his fists on his hips. He did not bother to hide the contempt in his face. ‘Come to admire the spoils of our victories?’

‘I shouldn’t get too fat-headed about it, Odysseus,’ Palamedes retorted. ‘For a man who failed to bring even a few bags of grain back from Thrace, I doubt very much you were able to plunder more than a handful of wooden bowls from your little play-battles at Lyrnessus and beyond.’

Odysseus’s eyes narrowed slightly.

‘Play-battles, you say? You should be careful: my friends here and I could have taken offence. But as you wouldn’t know what a real battle was anyway, Palamedes, we’ll forget you opened your sneering mouth.’

‘Good. Now, why don’t you run off and sulk about your wife and son and let me go about the king’s business. Oh, I hear you’ve had news from Ithaca – how is little Telemachus?’

Odysseus snatched hold of Palamedes’s cloak and drew back his fist, but before he could drive it into the Nauplian’s face, Eperitus caught hold of his arm and pulled him away. Palamedes fell back on to the sand in terror.

‘Odysseus!’ Eperitus hissed. ‘If it’s come to this, at least find a place where there aren’t hundreds of witnesses.’

‘You’ll apologize for that!’ Odysseus spat, glaring at Palamedes.

‘You’ll have no apology from me!’ Palamedes returned, staring back. ‘And unless you let me take my message to Achilles, then you’ll have the King of Men to answer to.’

‘Don’t overestimate your influence with Agamemnon,’ Odysseus returned. ‘Your days as his messenger boy are numbered. Calchas has seen to that.’

‘Calchas? What are you talking about?’

Odysseus slipped free of Eperitus’s grip and dropped to one knee beside Palamedes, who shrank back into the soft sand.

‘You haven’t heard his latest vision?’ he whispered, his voice too low for anyone other than Palamedes and Eperitus to hear. ‘Calchas told Agamemnon you aren’t to be trusted, that you’ll bring doom to the Greeks. I don’t know what he means, but you can be sure Agamemnon won’t be taking you into his confidence any more.’

Palamedes’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘That’s nonsense. Agamemnon trusts me completely.’

‘Oh really? Then you’ll know Great Ajax and Menestheus are to launch a surprise attack against the city of Dardanus, three days from now. I thought not. Well, Agamemnon still trusts me,’ Odysseus added, lowering his face to Palamedes’s and taking a fistful of his tunic, ‘so keep that bit of information to yourself, or it’ll mean trouble for the both of us.’

He stood and took Palamedes by the hand, pulling him to his feet. The Nauplian, his brow furrowed in thought, stared hard at him for a moment, then turned and marched across the beach in the direction of Achilles. Many of the men who had witnessed the argument jeered him as he left, while others cheered Odysseus and shouted his name.

‘What was all that about?’ Eperitus asked in a low voice. ‘You’ve not mentioned any attack on Dardanus before.’

Odysseus raised his eyebrows and smiled brightly.

That’s because there isn’t one. And now the bait’s been set, we’ll have to see if our little fish takes it.’

Six men sat cloaked and hooded around a small campfire. There was little conversation between them as they stared at the mean flames, sputtering and hissing beneath the fine drizzle that fell from the ceiling of cloud above. Beyond the deep ditch that defended the Greek camp, two more guards stood with their shields slung across their backs and their spears sloped over their shoulders, staring out into the darkness of the plain for signs of life. There were none, of course – the Trojans hardly ever ventured beyond the safety of their walls at night – and thankfully the drunken priest, Calchas, had kept his peace, subdued by the light rain that had rolled in from the Aegean during the early evening. The clouds that had transported it now blocked out the light of the early moon and left the landscape black and featureless, while in the camp behind them the same rain had dampened the drinking and whoring of the army.

A dislodged rock and a quiet curse announced the approach of someone from the camp. Some of the men around the fire turned and raised their hoods a little to stare at the newcomer, while the two guards on the other side of the ditch crossed the narrow causeway that they were guarding and held their spears at the ready.

‘Who’s that?’ demanded one of the men, knowing full well who the cloaked figure that walked towards them was.

‘It’s me,’ said Palamedes, tipping his hood back just enough to reveal his face. ‘Have the patrols gone out for the night?’

‘Yes, sir. They’ll be following the routes you set for them. You’re checking them a little earlier than usual, though, if I might say so.’

‘No, you may not,’ Palamedes replied haughtily, clearly annoyed at the guard’s familiar tone. ‘It’s my prerogative to inspect the patrols whenever I feel like it, or how else will they remain watchful and alert?’

He turned his eyes on the men around the fire, who looked down into the flames. Then he threw his hood forward again and marched across the causeway. The two guards followed him to the other side and watched his black cloak into the distance. When it could no longer be distinguished among the rocks and trees of the plain, one of them gave a low whistle and beckoned to the others around the fire. At once, two men rose and ran to join them.

‘He went that way,’ said the guard, a tall, sinewy soldier with steely eyes and a Spartan accent. ‘You’ll have to be quick not to lose him in this darkness.’

‘I see him,’ said Eperitus, narrowing his eyes slightly. ‘He’s in a hurry, but we’ll soon catch up with him.’

The Spartan guard raised his eyebrows a little, but knew enough about Eperitus’s senses not to question how he could see a man in a black cloak in the dead of night. He turned to Eperitus’s companion.

‘What’s this all about, Odysseus?’ he asked.

‘You’ll find out soon enough, Diocles,’ Odysseus replied, his voice smooth and reassuring. ‘And as a favour to an old friend, I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell Menelaus or Agamemnon we left the camp tonight.’

‘A few swallows of that Ithacan wine you brought us will help me forget,’ Diocles said with a wink, and a moment later Odysseus and Eperitus had slipped into the darkness.

Eperitus led the way, his excellent eyesight picking out the easiest path as they followed the skulking form of Palamedes across the plain. Every now and then Palamedes would stop and throw a glance over his shoulder, waiting a while as his eyes and ears probed the gloom before proceeding again. Each time Eperitus would raise his hand and he and Odysseus would remain still until it was safe to carry on. As they progressed in this silent, halting manner – the rain-sodden wool of their cloaks sticking to their skin and restricting their movements – Eperitus thought about Astynome. He had not seen her since that morning and she would be wondering where he was. Even the other soldiers would not be able to tell her his whereabouts, as none knew, and so eventually she would go to her own, cold bed to fall asleep, wondering about his absence while he was chasing phantoms across the plains of Ilium.

Eventually, they saw the ridge that marked the end of the undulating land between the Greek camp and Troy. Its flanks rose up as a black mass against the cloud-filled sky, while out of sight beyond it a slope led down to the fords of the Scamander and the familiar battle plain before the walls of Priam’s city. Many thousands of men had died there over the years of the siege and no Greek could approach the ridge without feeling a pang of terror at what lay beyond. But on top of it was a grove of laurel trees dedicated to Thymbrean Apollo, a neutral place where both Greeks and Trojans went to make sacrifices and offer prayers. It was a sanctuary where men of either side could attend to the god in the knowledge his enemies would not harm him. And it was towards the sacred circle of trees that Palamedes was now climbing. Odysseus and Eperitus followed, clambering up the slope as quickly as they could.

‘He’s going to leave a message for the Trojans,’ Odysseus hissed in Eperitus’s ear as they watched Palamedes enter the grove just ahead of them. ‘He must have been doing this for years.’

‘You know it means nothing unless we can find evidence,’ Eperitus responded.

‘Perhaps I should have brought Diomedes as a witness,’ Odysseus mused. ‘Or even Agamemnon himself . . .’

Eperitus grabbed his elbow and pulled him behind the cover of an outcrop of rock. Odysseus opened his mouth to speak, but Eperitus raised a finger to his lips and, a moment later, the sound of horses’ hooves broke the silence of the night. They came from the gentler slope on the Trojan side of the ridge, the footfalls of the animals loud on the wet rock and accompanied by snorts and the hushed voices of men. Slowly, the two Ithacans peered above the edge of the rock, just as a group of ten mounted men climbed into view a spear’s cast away. At their head was the tall and fearsome figure of Apheidas.

Eperitus grabbed at the sword hanging beneath his arm, but Odysseus seized his wrist and gave him a warning glare.

‘Are you mad? We’ll never defeat ten of them!’

‘I only want to defeat one,’ Eperitus replied, trying to pull his arm free of Odysseus’s iron grip.

‘Now’s not the time, Eperitus. But a time will come; trust in the gods for that.’

Apheidas gave orders to his escort, who began to spread out around the sacred grove. Two horsemen passed close to the outcrop of rock where Odysseus and Eperitus were hiding, but the Ithacans drew their hooded cloaks around themselves and were all but invisible in the stygian darkness. Then the Trojans moved further along the ridge, turning their eyes southwards in the direction of the Greek camp, and Eperitus dared to raise his head above the rocks once more. He saw his father dismount and hand the reins to one of his men, then stride to the entrance of the temple and disappear from sight. Odysseus had been right all along: Palamedes, for whatever reason, was passing information to the Trojans, and had probably been doing so for years. How he and Odysseus would convince the council of the fact, especially in view of the known animosity between Palamedes and Odysseus, was another matter. But that was of little concern to him now. He was thinking instead of Calchas’s sobering words, that part of him still loved Apheidas and that only with savage hatred would he be able to defeat him. And in spite of his instinct to fight his father, Eperitus knew the hatred that had created that instinct no longer burned in his veins.

They returned to the camp long after Palamedes, who had slipped away while Odysseus and Eperitus waited behind the outcrop of rock for the Trojan horsemen to leave. But where Eperitus had expected Odysseus to be glad that his suspicions had been proven beyond doubt, he found the king unnaturally angry. As they walked back through the darkness – the bank of cloud having rolled away and taken the drizzle with it – it seemed to Eperitus that the futility of the past ten years had snapped something inside his friend. Frustration at the length of the siege had given way to a hot rage, knowing that Palamedes’s treachery had delayed the defeat of Troy for so long, and with it his return home. One way or another, Odysseus promised, he would find the evidence to convict the traitor before the Council of Kings.

Quietly, Eperitus pulled aside the curtained entrance to his hut and peered inside. There was a dull red glow from the slumbering hearth and as he looked at Astynome’s bed he was pleased to see it unoccupied. But as he gazed across at his own bed, expecting to see her there waiting for his return, he noticed that the furs were empty and had not been slept in. He stepped inside and looked around, but there were no signs of the girl other than the black remains of a stew in the pot over the fire.

He dashed out of the hut to find Arceisius standing before him, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

‘I tried to stay awake until you returned,’ he began. ‘But you were gone so long—’

‘Where is she?’ Eperitus demanded. ‘Where’s Astynome?’

‘They took her, sir,’ Arceisius replied, reverting instinctively to the formal in the face of his captain’s anger. ‘Agamemnon found out there was a slave who hadn’t been counted among the plunder and properly allotted . . .’

Eperitus ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Where is she now?’

‘You can’t get her back, sir.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘She’s in Agamemnon’s tent. As soon as he saw her beauty he claimed her for himself.’

Eperitus slumped back against the wall of the hut and stared up at the smattering of stars above. ‘That bastard!’ he cursed. ‘Why him? And how did Agamemnon find out about Astynome?’

‘I wasn’t here when his guards came for her,’ Arceisius said. ‘But Polites was. And he says Eurylochus was with them.’

Chapter Eleven

THE PHRYGIAN

The following morning, Antiphus and Eurybates, whom Odysseus had sent to keep a watch on the eastern gate of Troy, rode into camp and reported that a large force of chariots, cavalry and spearmen had left the city and headed north in the direction of Dardanus. This final proof of Palamedes’s treachery stirred Odysseus to anger once more, though he was careful not to allow anyone other than Eperitus to know of his fury. Eperitus warned him not to be rash, reminding him that Palamedes was a trusted member of the council and if they were to expose him they must have evidence. With a dark face, Odysseus promised his friend he would have all the evidence he needed within two days, before Palamedes could realize there was no planned attack on Dardanus and that he had been tricked into revealing his treachery.

Eperitus did not see the king for the rest of the day. With the help of Arceisius, Polites and Antiphus he took the new recruits down to the beach and continued their preparation for war. The intense training was a convenient distraction from the dark thoughts that had kept him awake all night. His rage towards Eurylochus was ready to spill over into violence – and would have done, if Odysseus’s envious cousin had dared show his pig-like face in the Ithacan camp. But Eperitus’s loathing of Eurylochus was as nothing compared to his hatred for Agamemnon, the man who had plunged a dagger into his daughter’s heart, and had now taken his lover from him. In the three short weeks they had spent together Astynome’s powerful beauty and proud spirit had found a weakness in Eperitus’s callused, battle-hardened emotions. But now she was the slave of the most powerful man in Greece, a man whose life he had taken a solemn and binding oath to protect, though there was no one in the whole of Ilium he would rather send down to Hades. He had promised to protect Astynome, but she had been moved beyond any help he could give her.

After the setting of the sun had ended the day’s training, Eperitus joined Arceisius, Polites and Antiphus around a small fire, where they ate a meal of skewered fish and barley cakes. It was woeful fare compared to the food Astynome had cooked for them over the past two weeks, but there was the wine from Ithaca and soon Omeros joined them, his round, happy face immediately bringing cheer to their hearts. As the stars began to emerge overhead he sat his tortoiseshell lyre in his lap and sang them more of the songs he had learned at home. His fingers stroked the strings with skill and his soft, clear voice seemed to mingle with the fiercely bright embers that spiralled up from the flames, stilling the minds of his audience and unlocking memories of places far away and long ago. Eperitus thought again of Astynome, then of Iphigenia, her face suddenly clearer than he had remembered it in years. Inexplicably, his thoughts turned to Palamedes and the one mystery that remained to be explained. Why was he betraying his countrymen?

A hand fell on his shoulder, startling him. He turned to see Odysseus with his finger across his lips, gesturing for him to follow. Though it was mostly covered by the king’s double-cloak, Eperitus saw he held a large box under his arm.

‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked, leaving the circle of light, warmth and memory. ‘No one’s seen you all day.’

‘I’ve been in my hut, thinking,’ Odysseus answered.

‘And have you come up with anything?’

Odysseus could not prevent a self-satisfied smile. ‘We’re going to Palamedes’s tent. No, not to confront him – he’s the last man I’d expect to confess anything. At least not freely.’

‘Then what?’

‘You’ll see.’

They walked between the haphazard rows of tents until they reached the place where the Nauplians were concentrated. As with every other part of the camp, the soldiers here were gathered around blazing fires that chugged great columns of spark-filled smoke into the night sky. The different conversations combined into a low buzz as they swapped stories and washed their evening meals down with wine, no one seeming to notice the cloaked figures walking among them. Eventually, the two Ithacans came to Palamedes’s tent. Odysseus drew his hood over his head and sat cross-legged at the back of the nearest fire, where two dozen men were talking animatedly in strongly accented Greek.

‘What are we doing?’ Eperitus whispered, sitting next to Odysseus and looking around himself uncertainly.

‘Waiting for Palamedes, of course,’ Odysseus answered, giving a small flick of his head in the direction of the large tent close by. A light was shining within and the blurred outline of a man could be seen against the sailcloth walls as he moved around the interior.

‘We’re going to follow him again?’

Odysseus placed his fingers against his lips, then turned his face towards the fire and laughed quietly at some comment he had heard. Eperitus, not for the first time annoyed by his friend’s ability to keep his own counsel, crossed his arms and stared at the flames, wondering what was in the box in Odysseus’s lap. After what felt like a very long time, during which the gods seemed to have drawn a convenient veil over the presence of the two Ithacans, the entrance to Palamedes’s tent was pulled aside and the traitor stepped out. Odysseus’s face remained fixed on the fire, but Eperitus could not resist turning slightly to watch Palamedes slip quietly into the night.

He tugged at Odysseus’s cloak. ‘Come on. He’s heading up to the edge of the camp.’

‘Good. Let him go,’ Odysseus replied.

He waited a while longer, increasing Eperitus’s sense of consternation, then turned his head discreetly and eyed the large tent. The lights within had been extinguished, leaving only the dull glow of the hearth, the grey smoke from which was trailing up out of a vent in the top of the canvas. Odysseus took the box in his hands, glanced briefly at the Nauplians around the campfire, then stood and moved to the entrance of the tent. Eperitus followed.

‘You can’t go in,’ he hissed. ‘What if there are slaves?’

‘Palamedes has never owned slaves,’ Odysseus replied, pulling aside the entrance flap and peering into the half-light within. ‘He doesn’t think it right. Now, stay here and warn me if anyone comes.’

Eperitus grabbed the king’s shoulder. ‘What are you looking for, Odysseus? Surely you don’t expect to find anything in there.’

‘Everything depends on evidence, Eperitus,’ he said with a smile. ‘Everything.’

He ducked into the tent and was gone. Eperitus crouched down before the entrance and lowered his hood over his face, watching the nearest campfires intently. The men continued to chatter and laugh, becoming steadily drunker as they pulled at the necks of the wineskins they were sharing. Behind him, Eperitus could hear the small sounds of items being moved about, followed by what seemed like a scratching noise. But as Odysseus showed no signs of finishing his search and time dragged on, he grew more and more tense. Then the thing that he was dreading happened. A man rose from the nearest campfire, swayed slightly, then trudged in a direct line towards Palamedes’s tent. Eperitus snatched up the flap and prepared to whisper an urgent warning, just as the man came to a halt and hoisted up his tunic. He staggered a few more steps to the corner of the tent and began to urinate. The arc of water spattered noisily over the canvas and on to the hard earth, changing direction several times as the man leaned unsteadily from left to right. Eventually, the last drops fell on his sandals and – without a single glance at the crouching figure of Eperitus – he swung round and returned to his comrades.

A moment later Odysseus emerged.

‘I thought he’d never finish,’ he whispered.

‘Did you find anything?’ Eperitus asked as they skulked away from the tent.

‘Not a thing,’ Odysseus replied, sounding quite pleased about the fact.

It was then that Eperitus noticed the box had gone.

‘Odysseus!’ he exclaimed. ‘The box – you’ve left it behind.’

‘Box?’ Odysseus said. ‘What box?’

‘The box you brought with you.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Odysseus said, shrugging his shoulders.

And it was then that Eperitus noticed the dirt under Odys-seus’s fingernails.

The next day’s training was long and arduous with little to show for the effort Eperitus and the other veterans had invested in the replacements. For all the shouting and bullying of their instructors – kindness had no place in the training of warriors – the same men made the same mistakes again and again and many a beating was doled out to the worst handful. These were the ones who would be killed very early on or, if they were fortunate, might discover a latent fighting instinct that could just make warriors of them. Even Odysseus’s presence as he observed them from the top of a sand bank did little to encourage their performance. But as the westering sun turned the sky indigo and edged the thin clouds with gold, the king could tell there were some who were showing promise and many more for whom there was hope. These men would benefit from the days of training they had received, and would stand a good chance of surviving their first battle.

Later that night, he left his hut and walked to the place where the Trojan prisoners were kept. Their numbers had dwindled over the winter as the wealthier ones had been ransomed back to their families and many more had been sold to foreign slave traders. The few who remained were poor and either too weak or too rebellious to become slaves. Odysseus picked a dark-skinned man with black curly hair and a hooked nose whom he knew as a trouble causer and had him released into his custody. They walked to Eperitus’s hut and, flinging aside the flap, walked in.

‘Odysseus?’ Eperitus said, jumping from his bed in surprise. ‘Is something wrong? Who’s this?’

‘A Phrygian we captured last year,’ Odysseus answered. ‘All he’s ever done is eat our rations, so I’ve found another use for him.’

‘What do you want with me?’ the Trojan asked in good Greek, shrinking away from the Ithacan king, whose sword was pressed against his kidneys. ‘I am a prisoner and should be respected as such.’

‘You will be, my friend,’ Odysseus reassured him, patting his shoulder. ‘In fact, I’ve decided to let you go. Eperitus and I are going to take you beyond the fringe of the camp and set you free.’

‘Free?’ said Eperitus. ‘Why in the names of the gods would we want to do that?’

‘Yes, what reason could you have for releasing me?’ the prisoner asked.

‘I need you to take a message to King Priam.’

Eperitus narrowed his eyes. ‘Priam? That would be treason, Odysseus, and you know it. And what could you possibly have to say to Priam?’

‘You know I’m no traitor, Eperitus,’ he answered. ‘But I need your help, so you’ll just have to trust me.’

He gave the prisoner a clay tablet and told him to tuck it into the folds of his tunic. Then, once Eperitus had dressed and slung his sword and scabbard under his arm, the three men left the hut and made their way up the slope to the top of the ridge. The Trojan led the way, his face suddenly bright with hope, followed by Odysseus and Eperitus. Before they reached the edge of the camp, Odysseus stopped them and ordered Eperitus and the prisoner to change cloaks.

‘Eperitus, I want you to cross the ditch further up and wait for me among the trees where we spoke to Calchas. Diocles still has the evening watch, so I’ll keep him distracted while you make your way over. And you,’ he added, placing a large hand on the Phrygian’s shoulder, ‘pull your hood down over your face and stay behind me. Don’t speak, even if spoken to. Do you understand?’

The Phrygian nodded uncertainly and glanced at Eperitus. Eperitus ignored him and set off up the slope towards the earthen ramparts that edged the ditch. Odysseus watched his friend pull himself up the rampart and cross its broad parapet on his stomach, finally disappearing into the ditch beyond. Then, aware that he could be executed if he was caught escorting a prisoner from the camp carrying a message to Priam, Odysseus gave the Phrygian a warning look and approached the guards on the causeway. There were three of them, cloaked against the cold night air and carrying shields and spears.

‘Diocles,’ he called. ‘Still on watch?’

‘Someone has to do it,’ the Spartan grumbled. ‘Not planning to follow Palamedes again, are you? He passed through a while ago, if you are.’

Odysseus shook his head and indicated the Phrygian with his thumb.

‘Not tonight. One of my lads has been having dreams about his father. Worried he’s dead, so I said I’d take him to Calchas to see if he could interpret the dreams. He used to be good at that.’

‘Used to be, maybe,’ Diocles said. ‘Not any more, though, if you ask me. Not with his wine-addled brain. No harm in trying, I suppose.’

He waved the other guards aside and Odysseus crossed, followed closely by the Phrygian. They moved to the cover of the trees and moments later were met by Eperitus.

‘Lead us to the ravine,’ Odysseus ordered. ‘To the place where the patrols usually cross on their way back. And keep quiet – Calchas will be asleep near here and Diocles says Palamedes is around again. The last thing I want is for either of them to notice us.’

The ravine was a short march to the south-east of the camp, where rainwater from the eastern mountains had cut a path down to the sea. They found it with ease in the faint moonlight. It opened up as a rocky shelf before their feet, with a steep drop into a dried-up river bed. A little to their right, the shelf fell away and was replaced by a rubble-strewn slope that led down to a bulge in the gully below. In the winter when the river was full this was one of the few places where it could be forded with ease, but all that could be heard now as they stood in the semi-darkness was a slow trickle of water in the shadows below.

Odysseus looked down at the slope and felt a heaviness in his heart. He did not like what he was about to do. Even for a man who was renowned for his sly cunning, it was an act without honour that left him cold. But the alternative was to allow Palamedes to continue his treachery and prolong the war, something that was even more unpalatable with the nobility testing his authority at home and the threat that might bring to his family. With his heart pounding against his ribcage, he turned to the Phrygian.

‘You still have the letter?’

The Phrygian patted his tunic. ‘Is this where I leave you, my lords?’

Odysseus nodded and pointed to the nearby slope. ‘Cross the ravine there and head north-east to avoid the patrols. After a while you’ll find another ford by an abandoned farmhouse. Cross back over there and make your way north to Troy. I assume Trojans know how to read the stars?’

The prisoner dismissed the question with a smile. ‘Your letter will be delivered before the rising of the sun. Whatever you want with King Priam, I pray the gods will honour you for releasing me.’

With that, he turned his back and took two steps towards the break in the rock shelf. Then with a speed that belied his physique, Odysseus stepped after him, threw his arm around the man’s neck and twisted sharply. There was a small snap and the man’s body went limp, held up only by Odysseus’s muscular arm.

‘Gods!’ Eperitus exclaimed, stepping back in shock. ‘You’ve killed him.’

‘Of course I have,’ Odysseus replied sternly, slipping his arms under the dead man’s armpits. ‘Now, take his feet.’

Eperitus hesitated, still stunned by the unexpected murder of the Trojan prisoner, but a glance at the fierce look in Odysseus’s eyes forced him to obey.

‘I don’t understand,’ he grunted as they carried the body to the ravine and threw it over the edge. ‘What’s this all about? Why did you have to kill him?’

‘I didn’t. He fell and broke his neck. And by morning the whole Greek army is going to be baying for Palamedes’s blood.’

Chapter Twelve

TRAITOR’S GOLD

Palamedes awoke to the sound of barked commands and the stamp of approaching feet. He swung his legs out of bed and pulled on his tunic. As he found his sandals and pulled them on he heard the sound of voices raised in challenge followed by a scuffle. A man cried out. Then the flap of the tent was jerked aside and Agamemnon walked in, followed by Menelaus, Nestor and Odysseus. Eperitus was the last to enter and dropped the flap shut behind him.

‘My lords,’ Palamedes said uncertainly, bowing low before them.

Agamemnon said nothing. He was a tall, imposing figure dressed in a pure white tunic and a blood-red cloak, fastened at the left shoulder by a golden brooch of wonderful craftsmanship. He threw the cloak back to reveal an ornately decorated breastplate, the gift of King Cinyras of Cyprus, which he wore at all times for fear of an assassin’s knife. Its different bands of gold, tin and blue enamel shone in the filtered sunlight, and the finely worked snakes that crawled upward on either side glittered as if they were moving.

Despite his rich garb, Agamemnon’s long brown hair and auburn beard were shot through with grey and his fine features had lost their youthful arrogance and self-confidence. The eyes were dark-rimmed, as if sleep was a luxury that his great wealth and power could no longer command. He stood with his hands locked behind the small of his back, staring at Palamedes in forbidding silence, his cold blue eyes revealing nothing of what he was thinking.

Menelaus stood beside him, his forehead and thick eyebrows puckered together in an angry frown. With his bear-like physique, thinning hair and careworn face he bore little resemblance to his older brother, and it was clear from the way he was clenching and unclenching his fists that he did not share Agamemnon’s capacity for calm detachment.

‘The letter, Nestor,’ he said after a few more moments of silence. ‘Show him the damned letter.’

Nestor was the oldest of the four kings, a greybeard whose battered face spoke of a lifetime of hardship and battle. He stepped forward and pulled something from inside his purple cloak and tossed it on to the furs at Palamedes’s feet. Palamedes frowned in confusion, then stooped to pick up the tablet.

‘Read it,’ Agamemnon commanded.

Palamedes glanced at the King of Men, then lowered his eyes to scan the marked clay.

‘What is this?’ he asked, looking back up at Agamemnon with an incredulous frown.

‘Read it aloud,’ Agamemnon ordered.

‘But it’s ridiculous.’

‘Read it!’

Palamedes blinked in surprise and fear. He glanced at Odysseus, whose face was passive and unreadable, then looked back down at the letter.

‘To Priam, son of Laomedon, king of Troy. Greetings! Your generous offer of gold is gratefully received. The sacking of Lyrnessus, Adramyttium and Thebe was regrettable, but as ever, I remain in Agamemnon’s closest confidence and will send you details of his battle plans for the rest of the year as soon as I can. Your faithful servant, Palamedes.’

He read the letter haltingly, almost unable to say aloud the words that bore his name, then shook his head and looked at Agamemnon.

‘But this is a nonsense, my lord,’ he protested. ‘By all the gods of Olympus, I swear to you I did not write this.’

‘The letter was found on the body of a Trojan spy,’ Nestor informed him. ‘Not far from the boundary of our camp, where he had fallen in the dark and broken his neck. It bears your name, Palamedes. What do you say in your defence?’

‘It’s obviously a forgery.’

‘How long have you been in Priam’s pay?’ Menelaus demanded, suddenly stepping forward and grabbing Palamedes’s tunic. ‘How long have you been betraying our strategies to him? Tell me!’

‘Let go of him, Menelaus!’ Agamemnon commanded. ‘If he’s a traitor, I want him to confess freely, not have it beaten out of him. Now tell me the truth, Palamedes: have you been betraying us to the Trojans?’

Palamedes ran forward and fell at Agamemnon’s feet, throwing his arms around his knees.

‘I swear the letter has nothing to do with me. I would never betray you for gold, my lord. If you don’t believe me, search my tent. This is an elaborate trick thought up by Odysseus to destroy me, I know it.’

Agamemnon looked at the other kings and nodded. Immediately they began pulling apart the contents of the tent, turning over tables and chairs, tearing open Palamedes’s mattress and throwing his clothing into the air. Water skins were slashed open with daggers and boxes were opened and their contents poured on to the ground and searched. Eperitus, still standing guard at the entrance, had by now worked out Odysseus’s plan to convict Palamedes and watched with mixed feelings as the traitor’s belongings were ripped apart. Then the inevitable happened, as Eperitus knew it would. Odysseus kicked aside the remains of the fire and began to pull up the furs and fleeces that lined the floor of the tent. It was then that Menelaus gave a shout of triumph and pointed to the place where Odysseus had just thrown aside a large oxhide. Every eye in the room fell on the patch of ground where the soil had recently been dug up and replaced. Although smoothed again by the hide that had been placed above it, the surface had gained a slight bulge and was darker than the earth around it. Menelaus grabbed Palamedes’s sword from where it hung on the wall of the tent and began to scrape away at the soil. It was not long before he was able to reach down and pull up a heavy leather bag, which he upended to release a cascade of golden ingots.

Nestor knelt down beside the gleaming pile and examined it closely. ‘These weren’t cast in any Greek smithy, my lord,’ he told Agamemnon. ‘They’re Trojan. I think we have all the proof we need.’

‘But they’re not mine, I tell you,’ Palamedes insisted, looking in wide-eyed shock at the blocks of gold spread across the floor of his tent. ‘Someone else put them there . . .’

‘Silence!’ Agamemnon snapped, glaring at the Nauplian prince. ‘I’ve seen enough. You will remain under guard here, Palamedes, while the council decides your fate. I shall send for you shortly.’

The sun was midway in its passage to the Aegean by the time the council sent Eperitus, Arceisius and Polites to fetch Palamedes. The Mycenaean guards who ringed his tent stepped aside at their approach and inside they found Palamedes kneeling before a crude altar, his head bowed before the clay figures of his household gods. Two were missing heads, irreverently broken off during the ransacking of his possessions earlier.

‘What’s to happen to me?’ he asked as the men entered, his eyes still fixed on the painted figurines.

‘You’re to be stoned to death,’ Eperitus answered.

Palamedes looked at him in horror.

‘Stoning! Was that Odysseus’s influence?’

‘No. The manner of your death does not concern him, just so long as you are dead.’

‘But it was Odysseus who buried the gold in my tent, wasn’t it? And Odysseus who planted the letter on the body. Did he have to kill the man in cold blood too?’

‘Odysseus did what he had to,’ Eperitus replied. ‘And what is the death of one man if it exposes a traitor and shortens the war, saving the lives of thousands?’

‘But you don’t approve of his methods, do you? I know you better than that, Eperitus.’

Eperitus took a deep breath. ‘My opinion counts for nothing; I’m just a soldier, whereas Odysseus is a king. And what about you? Do you deny you’re a traitor, Palamedes?’

Palamedes turned away.

‘Odysseus thought it was you the moment we realized someone had told the Trojans of our plans to attack Lyrnessus,’ Eperitus said. ‘Then he fed you false information about the raid on Dardanus, and that night he and I followed you to the temple of Thymbrean Apollo. We saw you meet with Apheidas.’

Palamedes looked at him in surprise, then his shoulders slumped as if a great weight had been placed upon them.

‘Then what’s the point of denying it any longer? For years I’ve lived a dual existence, and now I’m glad it’s over. My betrayal has stretched this war to an unnatural length and perhaps I deserve death, but in the end I’m just a puppet of the gods, a plaything that no longer amuses them. But is anyone else any better? Do any of us command our own destinies? Does Achilles? Or Hector? Or Odysseus? Or even you, Eperitus?’

‘What I don’t understand,’ Eperitus said, ‘is why you did it. You’re a Greek; why would you betray your country to foreigners?’

Palamedes stood and picked his robe up from a chair, throwing it across his shoulders.

‘You remember the first time we came to Troy, on the peace embassy? You were surprised to learn I could speak the language of the Trojans and I told you it was because my nursemaid was a Trojan. I lied. It was my mother who taught me. She was a Trojan slave captured in a raid by my father and taken as a concubine, but when I was eight she escaped and gained passage back to Troy on a merchant ship. I came here more with the intention of finding her again than any notion of honouring my oath to protect Helen. Then, in the first year of the war, I received a message from Apheidas saying Clymene, my mother, was a servant in his household and demanding I meet him in the temple of Thymbrean Apollo. How he discovered her or found out she was my mother he has never said, but he told me that unless I gave him regular information about Agamemnon’s plans and strategies then Clymene would die.’

‘So you betrayed your country for the sake of your mother?’ Arceisius sneered. ‘You’d have done better to have let her die and kept your honour.’

Palamedes laughed derisively. ‘Why should I have allowed my own mother to die for the sake of a meaningless oath, taken under circumstances that should never have led to a ten-year war in a distant land? And as for betraying my country, I think you’re missing the point. If my mother was Trojan, then what does that make me? I’m as Trojan as I am Greek, and I can pick my loyalties as I please.’

Eperitus looked at him in silence for a moment, his disapproval of Palamedes’s treachery undercut by the revelation that he, too, bore the burden of a divided heritage. But Palamedes had chosen Troy, whether rightly or wrongly, and now he had to pay the price for that decision.

‘We’re wasting time,’ he announced, pointing to the entrance.

‘Promise me something, Eperitus,’ Palamedes said, his eyes wide and his face suddenly pale as he realized death had taken a step closer. ‘Promise me that you will save my mother’s life when Troy falls.’

‘And why should I promise you anything?’ Eperitus returned.

Palamedes drew nearer and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Because, for all our differences, you and I have something in common. Apheidas told me you’re his son, and that you’re half Trojan like me.’

‘No, Palamedes, I’m not like you. The difference is that you love Clymene, whereas I hate Apheidas. Do you think I could want to be like the monster who has kept your mother under threat of death for so long? I’m Greek, Palamedes, and as far as I’m concerned, my father’s blood counts for nothing. But if it makes your death easier for you, then I promise to do all I can to save Clymene when Troy falls.’

‘Thank you, Eperitus,’ Palamedes said. ‘You’re a rare thing in these times: a man of honour. But don’t deceive yourself that Greeks are more honourable than Trojans, or Trojans more honourable than Greeks. You’ll understand what I mean as this war draws to an end.’

They did not follow the slope down to the beach, where debates and trials were normally held. Instead, with Polites and Arceisius standing on either side of Palamedes and the Mycenaean guards following, they climbed to the top of the ridge and crossed the ditch to the rocky ground beyond the border of the camp. Here, every king, prince and commander of the Greek army was assembled in a great crescent around a tall wooden post. At their centre was Agamemnon, seated on a heavy wooden chair plated with beaten gold and beset with jewels; his blue eyes were as dispassionate as ever as he watched Eperitus escort the traitor to the wooden post. Menelaus and Nestor stood either side of the King of Men, while flanking them were the very greatest men in the army: Achilles, young, handsome and proud; Patroclus, cold and disapproving; Great Ajax, so confident of his own strength that he snubbed the aid of the gods; Teucer, twitching constantly as he skulked in his half-brother’s shadow; Little Ajax, driven by spite and the joy of violence; Idomeneus, second only to Agamemnon in wealth and power; Menestheus, the handsome and powerful king of Athens; and Diomedes, his hurt at Palamedes’s betrayal clear in his eyes. Other faces were ranked behind them, men of high birth and great honour, their bearded jaws set with hostility, but it was Odysseus who caught Palamedes’s eye. The king of Ithaca stood between Diomedes and Tlepolemos of Rhodes, his clever green eyes regarding the Nauplian impassively.

‘Odysseus!’ Palamedes sneered. ‘You rank coward. I know you planted that gold in my tent. But if you think you’re the victor in our rivalry, think again. The gods see everything, Odysseus, and they remember. Your base tricks won’t go unpunished.’

Eperitus pulled him back against the post. A short cross-spar had been nailed just below shoulder height to the back of the post and Eperitus tucked Palamedes’s elbows behind this before binding his hands together with a piece of thick leather rope, which he then looped several times around Palamedes’s waist until he was held upright and secure.

‘May the gods give you a swift death, Palamedes,’ he said in a low voice before turning and walking to where Arceisius and Polites awaited him.

The crowd had not spoken a word since the arrival of the prisoner. As the sun soared high above them, the only sounds were the beating of the waves on the shore below and the sound of birds singing in the trees. Even the vast camp beyond the ditch was silent, still but for the gentle flapping of the tents in the warm breeze from the sea. Then Agamemnon rose from his golden throne and took two paces towards his former friend and adviser. In the king’s hand was a golden sceptre as tall as himself, covered from base to tip with many rich jewels and topped by a silver bird, its wings spread in flight. This was the symbol of his power, made by the smith-god Hephaistos for Zeus himself, before being passed down to Hermes, then Pelops, then Atreus and finally to Agamemnon. Its mere presence in his hand increased the king’s authority many times over, as if the majesty of the father of the gods had lent itself momentarily to the King of Men, raising him to god-like status.

‘Palamedes, son of Nauplius, for your treachery the council has sentenced you to death by stoning,’ he announced. Then he turned to the rest of the grim-faced assembly. ‘May the manner of this traitor’s death serve as a warning to any man who seeks to assist the enemies of Greece.’

Though Eperitus despised traitors, who had no honour and deserved death, the look of disdain in his eyes was not for Palamedes but for Agamemnon as he handed his sceptre to Nestor and bent to pick up the first stone. For ten years he had barely been able to look at the King of Men without a bitter pang of hatred, recalling in vivid detail how he had sacrificed Iphigenia to the gods – even though he believed the child to be his own daughter – all to gain a fair wind for the Greek fleet to sail to Troy. Now those memories were given a fresh acidity by the knowledge he had taken Astynome for himself. Yet again he cursed the oath Clytaemnestra had tricked him into taking, not only not to kill her husband but to protect him from death at the hands of others, all so that she could take her revenge for Iphigenia when Agamemnon returned to Mycenae.

The King of Men weighed the stone in the palm of his hand and the rest of the council moved closer. Some bent to pick fist-sized rocks from the ground; others had already chosen the instruments of their judgment and raised them above their shoulders, waiting for Agamemnon to start the execution. At that moment, Arceisius turned around and looked away in the direction of the sea, but Eperitus placed a hand on his shoulder and turned him back.

‘Watch, Arceisius,’ he said, firmly, ‘so that you know never to do such a thing yourself.’

‘Odysseus!’ Palamedes shouted suddenly as the circle tightened around him. ‘Odysseus! You think yourself a great warrior, but you’re just a thief, a quick-tongued impostor masquerading among his superiors. When this war’s over you’ll go back to Ithaca and be forgotten, a poor king in a poor country once more. After all, what glory will attach to a man like you, Odysseus? Do you think you’ll ever have the fame of Agamemnon, or Ajax, or Achilles? What token or outward show of greatness will you bear? Nothing! May the gods curse you.’

Eperitus glanced across at Odysseus, whose face was pallid and hard. Then Agamemnon stepped forward, bounced the rock once in his hand and hurled it with all his strength at Palamedes. It caught him just above the elbow and a sharp cry of pain followed. Then Little Ajax cast his own stone, a small boulder that required both hands to throw; it thumped into Palamedes’s breastbone and the whole post shook with the impact. Achilles’s rock caught him on the left ear, whipping his head violently to the right and sending up a spray of blood. Another missile hit his right temple, just above the eye, producing a cry of pain that was half strangled by the blood welling up in his throat. More stones followed, pelting the traitor’s torso and head, breaking skin and snapping bone until his head dropped forward in unconsciousness. Then Great Ajax stepped forward with a rock the size of a lamb. He hurled it with his immense strength, sending its uneven shape spinning through the air to land on Palamedes’s lower thigh and snap his leg inwards, forcing even Eperitus to flinch. Palamedes woke and screamed violently until another rock broke his jaw and silenced him again. It was then that Eperitus saw Odysseus let his own stone fall from his fingers to land in the dust, before turning and melting into the crowd. Eperitus also turned his back on the execution and with a feeling of nausea in his stomach returned to his hut, where he stayed until nightfall, thinking of Astynome and wishing she were with him.

book

TWO

Chapter Thirteen

Chryses

Eperitus was woken by a gnawing hunger. Palamedes’s execution the day before had robbed him of his appetite and he had retired without any dinner, but as he dressed and exited his tent to be greeted by the smell of cooking fires he felt as if he could eat a whole goat by himself. He ordered Omeros, who was passing, to fetch him something to eat, then returned to his tent to be alone for as long as possible. But when the flap was pulled aside again, it was not Omeros who entered.

‘Come on,’ said Odysseus, staring at him with tired eyes that looked as if they had not slept all night. ‘The council is about to meet. We have a visitor – one who might interest you.’

‘Who is it?’

‘You’ll see. Now, come on.’

Eperitus looped his baldric over his shoulder, fastened his cloak around his neck and followed the king back out into the daylight. They nearly collided with Omeros, who was carrying a bowl of porridge.

‘Your breakfast, sir,’ he said, hurriedly passing Eperitus the bowl.

Eperitus lifted a spoonful to his mouth then pushed the bowl back towards the young Ithacan.

‘You have the rest,’ he mumbled, following in the wake of Odysseus.

‘But where are you going?’

‘To the Council of Kings.’

‘Come with us, Omeros,’ Odysseus added, pausing. ‘Only kings and princes are permitted to speak, but there’s always a sizeable crowd from among the ordinary soldiers.’

Omeros nodded eagerly and followed the two veteran warriors, still clutching the bowl to his chest. They joined a great stream of men, leaving their tents and campfires to see what the cause of the impromptu meeting was. Soon they were crossing the soft sand to where the Mycenaean ships lay ashore in double rows, the weathered props beneath their hulls testament to the length of time since they had last been at sea. Gathering before their high black prows was a great crowd of men, all talking at the same time and sounding like a throng of seagulls. Odysseus shouldered his way through, and as men turned and spoke his name the press of bodies began to open up before him, allowing him and his companions access to the heart of the assembly. Soon they were met by a circle of guards, dressed ceremonially in the now defunct armour of an earlier era: banded cuirasses of burnished bronze with high neck-guards that covered the chin and arched plates to protect the shoulders; domed helmets covered with a layer of boars’ tusks, with black plumes that streamed down from sockets at the top; tall leather shields covered in a gleaming layer of bronze; and a fearsome array of deadly weapons that were nothing to do with ceremony and everything to do with keeping the horde of onlookers at bay. These were Agamemnon’s personal bodyguard, hand-picked warriors who were ruthlessly loyal to their king. At the sight of Odysseus and Eperitus they raised their spears and stepped aside, moving quickly back again to bar Omeros’s progress.

‘No commoners,’ ordered one of the guards. ‘You’ll wait here.’

Without a backward glance, Odysseus and Eperitus joined the kings, princes and high-ranking captains who were already seated on benches around an unblemished circle of silver sand. They sat at their usual places next to Achilles, Patroclus and Peisandros. Although there was no defined order of seating other than the gold-covered throne of Agamemnon – which always faced inland with its back to the sea – the council members had decided their own order over the years, any contravention of which had become unthinkable. As Eperitus sat beside Peisandros, he could see that all the great men who had taken part in the stoning of Palamedes were present, even Agamemnon, Menelaus and Nestor, who usually arrived last. Only Palamedes’s place was empty.

Standing alone at the centre of the gathering was an old man. He was cloaked and hooded in black and leaned upon a tall staff, decked with woollen bands that marked him both as a priest of Apollo and a suppliant. Though his back was bent with age, his eyes were fixed firmly on the King of Men. Agamemnon paid him no attention, preferring to lean back into his throne and pull his red cloak around him to keep out the early morning breeze. He was chatting with Menelaus and only looked up briefly as Odysseus arrived, as if to mark his lateness, before resuming his discussion. After a while the chatter among the hundreds of onlookers and the circle of leaders began to ebb, until only the voices and laughter of the Atreides brothers – Agamemnon and Menelaus – could still be heard. Eventually, Agamemnon turned his gaze from Menelaus to the bent figure waiting patiently at the centre of the circular arena formed by the benches. He eyed the old man for a few moments, then stood and held out his hand towards a slave, who hurried to bring him his golden sceptre.

‘It is not often we receive Trojans in this camp, unless they are our captives or our slaves,’ he began. ‘But you come to us as a suppliant and bearing the signs of a priest of Apollo, so we will suffer you here. Speak: tell us your name and put your request before us.’

The old man tipped his hood back to reveal a bald head, suntanned and deeply creased with age to the texture of worn leather, then swept his cloak back over his left shoulder to show the white priest’s robes beneath.

‘My name is Chryses, priest of Apollo on the island of Chryse,’ he announced in a voice cracked with age. ‘I have received a message that my daughter was taken captive at the sack of Lyrnessus and that she is held here in the Greek camp.’

Eperitus gripped the edge of the bench as he realized the old man standing before them was Astynome’s father.

‘What of it?’ Agamemnon asked, hiding a yawn behind his fingertips.

‘What of it, my lord?’ Chryses repeated. ‘Astynome is my daughter, an innocent girl caught up in a savage war, and I love her. I want her back and have brought a generous ransom for her release.’

The old man raised his arms and turned to the circle of kings and the hundreds of soldiers on the sloping beach behind them. More men were still arriving, clambering on to the decks of the ships or lining the grassy bank that divided the beach from the mass of tents beyond. To these commoners, as well as the kings, he looked, and in a loud voice that belied his age implored their support: ‘Great lords, mighty warriors of the Greek army, show your respect to Apollo and accept the ransom I bring. Give an old man back his daughter and in return I will pray to all the gods of Olympus that the gates of Priam’s city fall to you this very year!’

A great shout of agreement rose from the ranks of kings and commoners alike as Chryses slowly turned full circle to face the King of Men once more. Eperitus added his own voice to the cheers all around him. As a mere captain he was powerless to argue for Astynome’s return, and his oath to Clytaemnestra, not to kill Agamemnon, prevented the other options that his instincts preferred; but with the appearance of Chryses and his offer of a ransom there was hope that she might yet be saved from the clutches of the man he hated. Standing with the rest of the assembly, he caught the eye of Odysseus and knew in an instant that it was his friend who had somehow sent the message to the old priest. Odysseus nodded and Eperitus smiled back.

As the roar of applause rang from the hillsides, Agamemnon’s impassive expression turned cold and stern.

‘So Astynome is your daughter, is she?’ he said stiffly. ‘Then know this: she pleases me greatly, too much for me to let her go in exchange for the trinkets of an old man.’

‘I have brought all the wealth I possess as a ransom for my daughter, and it is not a paltry sum – gold and copper ingots, tripods of—’

Agamemnon held up his hand.

‘Your wealth means nothing to me, Chryses. I intend for your daughter to return with me to Mycenae as my slave, where she will serve me in whatever function I choose, including as my lover. As for you, you will leave immediately and take your beggar’s ransom with you.’

Chryses’s lined face became suddenly stern and he pointed an accusing finger at the Mycenaean king. ‘Dismiss me now and it will be to the loss of you and your men. I cannot be blamed for what happens if—’

‘Silence!’ Agamemnon commanded. ‘Leave the camp now, before I decide you are one of Priam’s spies and have you executed.’

‘So be it!’ Chryses replied, and without a further glance at the King of Men he turned and marched from the now silent arena.

Agamemnon’s treatment of the old man received widespread disapproval among the ordinary ranks of the army as well as many of their leaders. Whatever increase the King of Men’s standing had gained from the recent victories at Lyrnessus, Adramyttium and Thebe was reversed, and as the Greeks streamed away from the gathering they were already muttering solemnly about the consequences of offending a priest of Apollo. And their superstitions were soon fulfilled.

By nightfall of that day, scores of men throughout the camp were suffering with different combinations of fever, shaking, vomiting and diarrhoea. By noon of the next the number was in its hundreds and a feeling of concern bordering on panic began to creep through the army. By the fourth day the healers Machaon and Podaleirius, the sons of Asclepius, were still unable to identify the strange new plague or find effective ways to treat it. Soon great pyres of the dead – a dozen or more bodies at a time – were sending thick palls of black smoke up into the cloudless sky from every point in the Greek camp. Cries of mourning mingled with chanted prayers and the screams of slaughtered animals, as kings and leaders led appeasing sacrifices to the gods. Most prayers were offered to Apollo, whom many suspected of taking his revenge for the snub to Chryses, but by the tenth day the mysterious plague that was ravaging the army showed no signs of abating. It was then that Achilles called for an urgent meeting of the council.

Once the leaders were seated in a circle on the wide beach, surrounded by a great sea of worried soldiers from every nation in Greece, Achilles rose to his feet and silence fell. He walked over to Agamemnon and received the golden staff from the king’s hand. Then, striding out into the centre of the arena, he looked around at the thousands of hushed, attentive faces.

‘My lord Agamemnon,’ he said, though his back was turned to the Mycenaean king, ‘perhaps the cries of the dying have not penetrated the walls of your tent, or the acrid stench of the funeral pyres has failed to reach your royal nostrils, but let me inform you that your great army is being decimated by plague while you sit idly on your throne and do nothing. Would you do the same if Hector and all his Trojans were attacking our camp?’ There was a dissentious murmur from the onlookers as Achilles turned his dark gaze on the King of Men. ‘I have lost more Myrmidons in the past nine days than I did in the attacks on Lyrnessus, Adramyttium and Thebe combined. They were all good men who deserved to die fighting their enemies, not convulsing in their own vomit!’

Agamemnon regarded Achilles in silence, his blue eyes devoid of emotion as he stroked his beard.

‘Then what do you propose we do, son of Peleus?’ asked Menelaus, compelled to speak by his brother’s silence.

‘To me the solution is clear,’ Achilles replied. ‘We’ve angered one of the gods and yet our prayers and sacrifices are going unheard. We have to discover the nature of our offence before this plague destroys us altogether. Fortunately, there is one among us who claims to have the answer.’

The mumblings of the crowd grew louder, forcing Menelaus to raise his hands for silence while Agamemnon continued to stare icily at Achilles.

‘Very well,’ Menelaus said. ‘I, too, have lost many good men and want to see an end to this murderous plague. Who is it that claims to know why the gods are angered?’

Achilles crossed to the benches and hooked his hand beneath the arm of a man hooded and cloaked in black. He lifted him up and placed the tall staff in his hand, then pushed him into the arena and sat down again. The man shuffled uncertainly to the centre of the circle of kings, his back stooped and his face hung low, and many thought Chryses had returned. But when he lifted his hood over his bald head it was the starkly white face of Calchas that blinked round at the ring of shocked onlookers.

‘My . . . my lords,’ he began, his voice weak and slightly slurred as his dark eyes were drawn inevitably towards Agamemnon. ‘My lord, the gods . . . I have seen . . . terrible things.’

‘What have you seen?’ Agamemnon demanded, sharply.

‘I have seen Phoebus Apollo, seated on the high ridge above the camp.’ Swaying slightly, Calchas pointed to the surrounding hills and many followed the direction indicated by his long finger. ‘I have seen him, the archer-god, seated on the earthen ramparts with a great quiver of golden arrows at his side, drawing the string of his bow back to his cheekbone and launching missile after missile down into the camp. I have watched him from behind stumps of trees and tussocks of grass, firing arrows from dawn until dusk, each one finding its target in a warrior of Greece and bringing him down to a slow and painful death. He is up there now; I can hear the singing of his bow again and again – a dozen times, at least, since this council began. The plague comes from him as a punishment . . . a punishment for—’

He raised a trembling hand towards the king, then turned his face imploringly to Achilles.

‘My lord Achilles, I fear to speak. What am I but a priest without a temple, an outcast whose devotion to the gods has earned him nothing more than scorn and resentment from the Greeks? Will you protect me against the wrath of men greater than myself, if my words stir their anger?’

‘Speak freely, Calchas,’ Achilles commanded. ‘Tell us what the gods have revealed to you, and while I am alive you need not fear any man here.’

‘Then let it be known that Apollo’s anger is directed towards Agamemnon,’ Calchas announced, thrusting an accusing finger at the King of Men. ‘It was you, my lord, who refused the ransom brought by Chryses, and because of you the plague will not be cleansed from the camp until Astynome is returned to her father without compensation. Only when she has been sent back to the island of Chryse will Apollo listen to our prayers and accept our sacrifices.’

Eperitus, seated between Odysseus and Peisandros, whispered a prayer to Athena, offering the sacrifice of an unblemished lamb if Agamemnon agreed to return Astynome safely back to her father. But when Agamemnon rose to his feet, it was with a terrible anger in his eyes.

‘You cursed harbinger of doom! You drunken preacher of woe! In all the years since you fled Troy and came to haunt the Greeks, have you ever spoken words of comfort or joy? It was you who condemned us to ten years of war – and still Troy has not fallen – and you who damned me to sacrifice my own daughter at Aulis. But in this latest prophecy of gloom I do not hold you responsible, for you are but the mouthpiece of another who hides his own vindictiveness behind the shadow of your cloak.’ Agamemnon turned to face Achilles. ‘And don’t accuse me of being ignorant of the suffering of the Greeks, son of Peleus. More Mycenaeans have been tossed on to the funeral pyres in the past nine days than warriors of any other nation. And now that the cause of this plague has been exposed I will not sit by and allow it to continue. Apollo must be appeased: I will send Astynome back to her father, asking only that the army awards me an equal prize as compensation.’

He moved back to his throne, just as Achilles stepped forward and seized the staff from Calchas.

‘And what is this compensation that you expect, my lord? The plunder we took has all been shared out. Nothing remains, unless you intend to take an even greater share when Troy falls.’

‘Perhaps I will take your share, Achilles,’ Agamemnon rounded on him, ‘seeing as the prophecies say you will not be there to claim it for yourself! But no, you won’t trick me out of my due. Doubtless you are a great warrior and a man without equal in honour or glory, but I am a king, the elected leader of this expedition, and I will not be robbed of my portion until this council agrees to compensate me with an equal prize of my own choosing. Come, let us put it to the vote now – why delay further and send more men to their deaths, when we could be preparing a ship to take Astynome back to her father?’

‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, Agamemnon,’ Achilles warned. ‘I know you too well to let you pick your own compensation! How often have you remained in camp dressed in Cinyras’s breastplate – for all the world a warrior to look at – while letting the rest of us do the fighting? And how often have we returned with captured slaves and weapons or the plunder from a sacked city, only for you to take the lion’s share of what our blood and toil have gained? And now I can see you’re scheming for an even greater cut of our hard-won spoils, playing on our loyalty to serve your own greed. Well, you seem to forget that the Trojans never stole anything from us – the only reason we’re here is out of pity for poor Menelaus. And if you continue to take us for granted then, sooner or later, we’ll be taking our armies back with us to Greece, leaving you to fight the Trojans alone. Then where will you be, King of Men?’

Agamemnon, who had stood as if rooted before his throne, now turned and walked back into the arena. Calchas, mistaking his intent, stumbled back to the bench from which he had come, pulling his hood back over his head and leaving Agamemnon and Achilles to face each other, anger and disdain filling their eyes.

‘Scuttle back to Phthia, then, if you haven’t the stomach to stay here,’ Agamemnon said quietly, a tremor of anger in his voice. ‘I don’t need your kind. Every other man here honours my authority – whether they respect me or not – but you have always been obstinate and pig-headed. Even Great Ajax will obey me without question, though he is contemptuous of the gods themselves; but it seems to me you will not be content until you have command of the Greeks for yourself! Well, I won’t stand for it. As for Astynome, I’ll make sure she is returned to her father this very day, though of all the women in Troy I have seen none so fair as her – unless it is the woman you claimed for yourself, Achilles. And just to show you that I am the king and a more powerful man than you, if I must surrender Astynome to Apollo, then you must give Briseis to me. And if you will not give her willingly, then I will come to your hut and take her!’

Achilles’s lips curled back into a snarl and his hand moved instinctively to the pommel of his sword, half drawing it from its ornate scabbard. On the benches behind him, Eperitus placed a hand on his own sword, ready to honour his hateful oath to Clytaemnestra and defend Agamemnon if needed. But, after a moment, Achilles let his sword slide back into its sheath.

‘You may hold more power than I do, Agamemnon,’ he said, his voice filled with dangerous intent. ‘But you are not the better man. You have stayed in camp, siphoning off the pick of the plunder when you should have been at the forefront of battle. Your inept command has dragged this war into its tenth year, while men like Nestor, Odysseus and myself have kept your alliance together for you. If it wasn’t for us your army would have given up the fight long ago and gone home. And if you intend to take Briseis, who was awarded to me for my part in the storming of Lyrnessus, Adramyttium and Thebe, then I will not stand in your way. But from this moment on I am done with you. The others may be too feeble to stand against your tyranny, Agamemnon, but I swear by this staff that my Myrmidons and I will fight for you no more, even if the hordes of Troy are running amok in the camp and setting fire to your black-beaked ships!’

And with that he flung the staff down into the sand and marched from the arena. Patroclus and Peisandros went with him and were followed by the wordless exodus of every Myrmidon present.

Chapter Fourteen

REUNION AND PARTING

Eperitus had not seen Astynome in the two weeks since she had been taken from his tent, and though they had only spent three weeks together before that, he missed her sorely. He also worried for her safety at the hands of Agamemnon and amid the ravages of the plague. But when Odysseus announced he was to captain the ship returning her to Chryse, and that Eperitus would be coming with him, he was relieved and overjoyed at the thought of seeing her again.

‘How did you ever persuade Agamemnon to let you take her back?’ he asked Odysseus as they stood on the beach by the galleys. ‘I never thought he’d send Astynome back on an Ithacan ship after she’d been found in my hut.’

‘I don’t think he knew she’d been taken from you,’ Odysseus replied. ‘As far as he was aware, she was simply an undeclared captive from the recent expedition who had to be “fairly” distributed. Agamemnon was jealous and angry that Achilles had already claimed the best of the pick in Briseis, so when he saw Astynome’s beauty he took her for his own.’

‘And now he has Briseis anyway.’

‘Yes,’ Odysseus said with a concerned look. ‘But as for getting him to let me take Astynome back, I simply pointed out that our ships had recently been at sea and needed little preparation, unlike most of the fleet.’

‘And it was you who sent the message to Astynome’s father, I presume?’

‘Of course, via a merchant who was heading south to Chryse.’

‘Then I’m grateful to you,’ Eperitus said, watching the crew lay a gangplank between the beach and the side of the hull and trying to coax half a dozen sacrificial cattle up it and on to the galley. ‘The thought of her as Agamemnon’s slave has been unbearable. At least she’ll be safe with her father again.’

‘And here she is,’ Odysseus said.

They looked to see Talthybius, Agamemnon’s squire and herald, approaching with Astynome at his side. Her dark hair was tied above her head and her beautiful eyes were fixed downward at the sand, refusing to look up and meet Eperitus’s.

‘Is this the girl who’s caused all the trouble?’ Odysseus enquired.

‘This is her; one look at her face and you can see why,’ Talthybius laughed.

‘Take her to the crew. They can load her on board with the cattle. And then you’d better return to Agamemnon – I hear he’s making a sacrifice of bulls and goats to Apollo.’

‘He is,’ Talthybius replied sullenly, ‘but I’ve other work to do. He wants me to fetch Briseis from Achilles.’

‘Don’t be concerned. Achilles has said he will give her up freely and he’ll keep his word,’ Odysseus assured him. ‘I only hope for the rest of us he’ll take back his other promise and not refrain from the fighting when it starts again.’

Eperitus watched Astynome as she made her way up the gangplank, but she did not return his gaze. Even as the galley was pushed down into the water and the crew settled at their oars, she stood at the prow and refused to turn her eyes to the stern, where he stood with Odysseus at the twin rudder. Before long the faint swishing of the oars took them past the broadest part of the great crescent of sand, where the Mycenaean ships lay rotting on their props and Agamemnon was beginning the sacrifice to Apollo. Dressed in his gleaming breastplate and a lion’s pelt, surrounded by a crowd of kings, priests and attendants, he raised his hands in a prayer that did not carry across the waves to the departing galley, but as he spoke Eperitus saw Astynome’s eyes upon him and felt despair and jealousy seize his heart. Had he lost her? In the short time she had been with Agamemnon, had she given her heart to the King of Men, as unbelievable as that seemed to Eperitus? As Odysseus ordered the sails to be unfurled and the galley slipped past Tenedos on the journey south, he resolved to speak to her and moved between the benches towards the prow. At the same moment she turned and looked at him and there was a smile on her lips. Then she ran to him and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him on the mouth with a passion that surprised and delighted him as, all around them, the crew cheered.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t look at you or speak to you before,’ she said as he led her by the hand to the prow. ‘But I didn’t dare with Talthybius looking on, or with Agamemnon in sight on the beach.’

‘Gods, but I’ve missed you,’ he said, dismissing her apology. ‘After you were taken I wondered whether I would see you again.’

‘But here I am. The gods are merciful.’

‘Not to the hundreds who were killed by the plague.’

‘All the better for Troy,’ Astynome replied. ‘Though I prayed that you would survive, my lord.’

‘And I prayed for you, too. The thought of you with Agamemnon . . .’

Astynome touched his cheek, seemingly oblivious to the eyes of the crew who had stowed their oars and were busy keeping the cattle quiet or simply sitting idle on the benches. ‘Don’t worry, my love. He came to me the first night as eager as a bull, but when I told him it was the time of my monthly flux and I was unclean, he didn’t touch me. Then, after the plague struck, he was afraid. Despite his rebuttal of my father, I think he knew he had offended Apollo and didn’t dare touch me.’

Eperitus smiled and held her close.

By late afternoon they had reached Chryse, a small, wooded island that was low in the sea off Cape Lectum to the south. The sail was furled and the mast stowed as they rowed into the deep waters of the island’s only anchorage, a small basin surrounded by white sand, trees and a few stone huts. None of the islanders were visible as the anchor stones were tossed into the shallow water and the gangplank was run out.

‘They’re afraid to see a Greek galley,’ Astynome explained as she, Eperitus and Odysseus walked down to the beach, followed by the crew with the sacrificial cattle. ‘It’s understandable. But I know where my father will be.’

She led them through the treeline to the foot of a small hillock, where sycamores grew and where they could hear the gurgle of a brook or natural spring nearby. A neatly dressed altar of white stone was visible through the boles of a grove of trees at the top of the slope, where worshippers had left garlands of flowers and items of food. On the opposite side of the slope was a simple wooden hut. Astynome led them towards it, but before they could reach the darkened entrance – whether drawn by instinct or the distant sound of cattle – her father stepped out and, with tears in his old eyes, ran to embrace his daughter.

‘Greetings Chryses, priest of Apollo,’ Odysseus said with a bow of his head. ‘I am King Odysseus, son of Laertes, and by the order of Agamemnon I return Astynome into your care. I also bring ceremonial offerings to the archer-god, who has struck our army countless deadly blows since your ransom was refused. In return for your daughter I ask only that you make sacrifices to Apollo and appease his wrath.’

Though reluctant to release Astynome, Chryses reached across and took Odysseus by the hand.

‘Welcome, Lord Odysseus, and thank you for returning my daughter to me, even though she can only be with me a short while. Bring the animals here and I will sacrifice them without delay. As for you, my dear Astynome, go to the town and send my attendants to me with grain, bundles of wood, water and wine. Wait for me there and later we will make our own sacrifices together, in thanks for your safe return.’

‘Yes, Father,’ she said obediently, and with a final, wistful glance at Eperitus, she walked down the slope and into the trees.

The attendants arrived shortly afterwards – half a dozen lads, too young yet to fight in Troy’s army. While two stacked the wood and made a fire, the others poured the water into large wooden bowls and washed their hands before scattering the sacrificial grain around the altar. Chryses washed his own hands, then, turning to the west where the sun was setting through the foliage of the trees, held up his arms in prayer.

‘Gracious Apollo Smintheus, Lord of the Silver Bow, when the stiff-necked Greeks refused to return my daughter to me I asked you to punish them. You answered my petitions and sent many to the halls of Hades, forcing Agamemnon to relent. Now I ask you to end their suffering and save your arrows, and in return we offer you these animals in sacrifice.’

One by one the six cattle were brought to the altar, where two of the attendants pulled back their heads by the horns while Chryses slit their throats. Still twitching out their life, they were pulled away by the other lads to be skinned and carved up while the next animal was led to its death. As the thigh bones of each victim were brought to Chryses, covered by a layer of fat with raw meat on top, he placed them on to the burning faggots and sprinkled wine over them, muttering constant prayers as he did so. The attendants waited for the thighs and fat to burn, then removed the half-cooked meat and gave them to the Ithacans, who carried them down to the beach to be cut into small pieces and roasted on spits.

When the last animal had been slain, Odysseus, Eperitus and Chryses joined the ship’s crew on the beach to feast on the sacrificial meat. Here, finally, they were joined by the male islanders. Most men of fighting age had long since been called to Troy, and ever since Achilles had sacked Chryse early in the war the surviving occupants had treated the Greeks with caution and fear. But tonight they joined the Ithacans at Chryses’s behest and ate and drank until the stars came out and the moon rose above the hills of the mainland. Then Chryses bid Odysseus and Eperitus farewell in his slow but clear Greek and went to be reunited with his daughter.

Eventually the food ran out, the islanders returned to their homes and the singing trailed away. The crew laid their blankets in the sand around the fires they had made and went to sleep, their snores filling the night air as moths gathered around the light of the dying embers and bats swooped out from the trees to devour them. Eperitus placed his head on his rolled-up cloak and looked out to where the galley floated at anchor, a black mass edged with silver from the thin moon. He thought of Astynome, as he had not stopped doing since he had watched her disappear into the trees, and his heart felt heavy with longing. Then, as his eyelids began to droop with the inevitable approach of sleep, his sharp senses were suddenly alert to a presence.

Taking his sword in his hand, he sat up and scanned the treeline at the top of the beach. In the shadows was a deeper blackness, and though even his eyes could not define the detail of her face, he knew Astynome had come to bid him farewell. Letting his sword fall on to his blanket and picking up his cloak, he walked silently across the sand to where she stood.

‘Astynome,’ he whispered.

She smiled, her face pale in the moonlight that filtered through the canopy of leaves. Taking his hand, she led him through the trees to the foot of the hillock. They sat on the grass, slightly damp with the night dew, and kissed, holding each other tightly.

‘I had to see you again,’ she whispered.

‘I’m glad you came. We’ve spent so little time together . . .’

She touched his cheek and looked into his eyes, as if wanting to say something but not knowing how.

‘Your father,’ he said. ‘When we arrived he said something I didn’t understand. He said you could only be with him for a short while. What did he mean?’

Astynome pursed her lips and lowered her eyes. ‘He means I’m going to Troy.’

‘Troy? But why?’

‘Look around you, Eperitus. Chryse is a poor island. The wealth my father found to ransom me was everything this island has left, everything they had stored up for the hardest times. Thankfully, Agamemnon did not take it, but even so, if I remain here it will be in poverty. That’s why he is sending me back to Troy.’

Eperitus thought about all he had seen since arriving at Chryse – the ramshackle houses around the bay, the meagre priest’s hut at the top of the hill, the peasants who had shared the Ithacans’ food on the beach, many of whom had hidden meat under their threadbare clothing to take back to their families.

‘What do you mean, “back” to Troy?’ he asked.

‘When you found me at Lyrnessus, I hadn’t gone there from Chryse but from Troy. I am a maid there, in the service of my husband’s former commander. My husband was mortally wounded defending him from Greek cavalry, and in return he promised to take me as a servant in his household to save me from the poverty that has befallen so many widows in Troy. I have been his maid ever since.’

‘And you are just a maid?’

‘Nothing more.’ Astynome smiled, lying back in the grass and staring at her lover. ‘He even sends provisions to my father, and for that reason – and the insistence of my father, who believes I will be safer and better kept in Troy – I have agreed to go back in a few days from now. Besides, Chryse is so far away from everything. At least in Troy I can be of some use to the war.’

‘But on Chryse I will be able to see you again. That’ll be impossible if you return to Troy.’

‘Then come with me. There are Greek prisoners from the early years who have decided to fight for Troy, and I’ll vouch for you with my master, he’ll—’

‘You don’t understand, Astynome,’ Eperitus said, lying beside her and stroking the long strands of her hair. ‘I’m sworn to serve Odysseus and, more than that, he’s my friend. But even if I could turn my back on him, there are other, much darker things that will keep me out of Troy, even for your sake.’

She slid her leg over his and sat astride him. Though the night air was cool, she unclasped the brooch on her shoulder and her chiton fell away to reveal her breasts, pale in the moonlight. He placed his hands on her waist, enjoying the touch of her skin beneath the press of his thumbs as he slid them up to her ribs.

‘Come with me, Eperitus. It’s not right that you should fight for the man who murdered your daughter. Odysseus would understand that. And what does any of it matter if you love me and I love you?’

Her admission filled him with joy, and at the same time made the thought of leaving her even more unbearable. He moved his hands round to her buttocks, feeling the gooseflesh beneath his fingertips. The sight and touch of her body called to him, and yet his desire for her was tempered by the thought that he might not see her again. There were other Greeks who had chosen to fight for Troy, a quiet voice reminded him. And wasn’t he half Trojan himself? But it was a weak voice, and even his love for Astynome could not make him fight on the same side as his father, or break his loyalty to Odysseus.

He shook his head.

‘I can’t. It would be impossible for me.’

‘Then I will find a way back to you,’ she said, leaning across him and planting her lips on his. ‘I promise.’

Chapter Fifteen

HELEN AND PARIS

Andromache and Helen sat side by side on a stone bench, their hands on their knees and their eyes fixed on the pillared antechamber to Priam’s throne room. They were seated on the shady side of the courtyard, silently waiting for the meeting between the king and the leaders of his army to end. Hector and Paris were both inside, along with Apheidas, Aeneas, Sarpedon and many other high-ranking nobles. But since the start of the gathering, shortly after sunrise, the great portals of the throne room had only opened once, to admit an exhausted and dust-covered soldier who had ridden in from one of the outposts.

Helen cast a sidelong glance at the beautiful but solemn features of her friend. Though she had said nothing, Helen knew Andromache was concerned at the change in Hector. For ten long years her husband had carried the expectations and hopes of Ilium on his shoulders. Troy and its allies did not have the strength to throw the Greeks back into the sea, so Hector had patiently waited for the invaders to expend their superior numbers against the impenetrable walls of the city. But the tenacity of Agamemnon’s army was greater than he had anticipated, and with the slaughter of Andromache’s father and brothers he was no longer prepared to wait for them to leave. Suddenly he was determined that the Greeks should be defeated once and for all. Most worryingly for Andromache, he had also sworn to face Achilles in battle and avenge the death of King Eëtion.

Helen’s concerns were no less than her friend’s. It was enough that every widow in Troy blamed her for their woes, but if Hector were to challenge Achilles and be killed then all would hate her without reserve. Even Andromache and Priam, who loved her like a sister and a father, would demand that Paris return her to Menelaus. Worse still, Paris himself could be killed. He had fought in every battle of the war, earning himself a reputation for courage and skill that was second only to his brother’s. But as the war dragged on, so his sense of guilt at causing it increased and his recklessness in battle along with it. If it were not for his love of Helen – as fresh and consuming now as it had been that first time their eyes had met in the great hall at Sparta – she felt sure he would have thrown his life away, unable to cope any more with the slaughter he had brought on his people. Her only comfort was that Pleisthenes, now of fighting age, had not been called into the army because of the withered hand he had had since childhood. Even then, her son had an indomitable desire to fight the Greeks and had contrived to blame his mother that he was not allowed to take his part in the war, treating her with scorn when she so needed his love.

As if sensing her doubt and concern, Andromache placed a hand on Helen’s and smiled at her. Just then the doors of the throne room opened and Apheidas stepped into the shadowy antechamber. Andromache and Helen rose simultaneously and crossed the courtyard towards him as he swept out into the bright daylight.

‘What news, Apheidas?’ Andromache asked.

Apheidas paused, noticing the women for the first time. He was clearly in a hurry, but after a moment’s consideration he turned and bowed.

‘My ladies,’ he greeted them. ‘The news is good, for those of us who are tired of being penned behind these walls like sheep in a fold. Hector’s anger can no longer be contained: he has persuaded his father that Troy and her allies must now wage all-out war if an end is ever to be reached.’

He bowed again and turned to go, but Helen placed a hand on his arm.

‘Paris spoke to me of new allies coming to help us. Will we not even wait for them?’

‘Paris should not have mentioned such things, even to you, Helen,’ Apheidas continued, reluctantly. ‘But it’s true. Priam has negotiated for the Amazons and Aethiopes to come to our aid, but they will not arrive before the summer and Hector is impatient. Even then I think Priam would have resisted, had Hector not benefited from the support of the fighting men in the assembly. Antenor, Antimachus, Idaeus and the other elders were on the king’s side, but Paris, Aeneas, Sarpedon, Pandarus and many more want war now.’

‘Yourself among them, no doubt,’ Andromache commented, wryly.

‘Yes, my lady,’ Apheidas replied. ‘But now I must go. Word’s arrived that the Greeks are leaving their camp and forming on the plain. Hector wants to march out at once and meet them beyond the fords of the Scamander and he’s sent me to get the army ready.’

Apheidas bowed again and set off across the courtyard.

‘Apheidas!’ Andromache called after him, her face pale and her voice tremulous. ‘Stay close to Hector. Promise me you’ll keep him away from Achilles.’

‘I shall stay as close as I can,’ he answered. ‘But your husband is his own master and will do as he pleases.’

‘Hector doesn’t need looking after,’ Helen said, watching Apheidas disappear down the ramp towards the city. ‘No warrior in the whole of Ilium can match him in battle.’

A lone tear rolled down Andromache’s cheek. ‘Achilles will kill him, Helen. I can feel it in my blood. The end is close for all of us.’

The doors opened again behind them, followed by a gust of conversation as the various leaders began to leave the throne room in twos or threes, hurrying back to their different commands. Their languages were mingled, reflecting the diverse nature of Priam’s alliance of cities and nations. Andromache looked for Hector among the sober faces and when she could not see him, she ran between them into the throne room.

‘Deiphobus,’ Helen called, spotting her brother-in-law among the stream of warriors.

He was walking between Sarpedon and Pandarus, an archer prince from Zeleia, but at the sight of Helen he left his companions and strolled across to her.

‘Sister,’ he greeted her, placing his hands on her arms and smiling into her blue eyes. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you’d be—’

‘Deiphobus, where’s my husband?’

The prince moved his hands to her shoulders, fighting the impulse to lift his fingertips to her cheeks or run them through her soft black hair. But he mastered his instincts and stepped back again, dropping his arms to his sides.

‘He’s gone to put on his armour,’ he answered. ‘We’re going to war again, Helen. You shouldn’t distract him . . .’

But Helen was already running across the courtyard to one of the side doors. Entering the cool, gloomy corridor within, she ran as fast as her long dress would allow her, ignoring the greetings or curious glances of the palace slaves until she had found the annex that Paris had built after their marriage. Breathing hard, she pushed open the door of their bedroom to find Paris and his armour bearer, who was fitting the prince’s bronze-scaled cuirass around his chest.

‘You would go to war without saying goodbye to me?’ she demanded.

‘Leave us,’ Paris commanded his armour bearer, tightening the final buckle himself. As soon as the man had left, he turned to his wife and sighed. ‘You speak as if you don’t expect me to return.’

‘That’s the risk I live with every time you don that breastplate, Paris.’

‘A man lives for glory, not for love,’ Paris retorted, though without conviction. ‘He risks his mortal existence to win honour and renown on the battlefield and a name that will last for eternity.’

‘A man of honour keeps his word, even when it’s to a woman, and you promised me you would not fight.’

‘Don’t bring that up again, Helen. It was a long time ago and I’ve been in many battles since then.’

‘Yes,’ she admitted, turning aside. ‘But won’t you at least hold yourself back from the fighting? You fought too hard last year, harder than ever, and you’ve earned the respect of the people – you don’t have to keep on with this recklessness. Even if you hold yourself responsible for this war, throwing your life away won’t absolve you.’

‘Then what else can I do?’ Paris snapped. ‘Thousands of Trojans have died because I brought you back from Sparta. Every time I march out to war I can feel the eyes of the army upon me, watching for the slightest hesitation so that they can accuse me of weakness or cowardice. The only way I can keep their respect is to show them I’m prepared to fight as hard as they are – and harder! I can’t afford to relent until Menelaus and his Greeks have been driven from our shores.’

Helen turned her blue eyes upon him. ‘This is a sickness of the mind, Paris. Some malign god is trying to drive you to your death, don’t you see that? And if you do die out there, throwing your life away in some reckless deed, what will become of me? The people will turn on me like a pack of dogs.’

‘Never!’ Paris protested, seizing her white arms. ‘That will never happen! My father loves you as if you were his own flesh and blood. Whatever happens to me, he will protect you.’

‘He’s old, Paris, and growing weaker by the month. If you were killed, the people would send me straight back to Menelaus. Everything you’ve fought for would be lost; all Troy’s suffering would have been in vain. But what would it matter? I’d rather they throw me alive from the towers of Ilium than go on living without you! You’re everything I’ve ever existed for. Before you came, my whole life had been lived in anticipation of you; if you were to die, my grief would never end.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Paris sighed, lifting her chin gently. ‘I’ve survived this long, haven’t I? Pray to your immortal father, Helen; ask for his protection on me.’

‘I have prayed and sacrificed to all the gods for your sake, my love,’ Helen replied. ‘And I will continue to plead with them on your behalf. But will you not help the gods and withdraw from the fighting? Will you at least promise me that you won’t tempt Hades so often and so determinedly – hang back a little and let the other men of renown be your equals?’

She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the lips, pressing her body against the cold bronze scales of his cuirass. Her perfumed skin and hair dizzied his senses, just as the softness of her mouth on his drew his thoughts away from the impending battle. But as her fingers slipped through his black hair and she drew her nails lightly across his scalp, he pulled back and shook his head.

‘You know I can’t, Helen. If this war is ever to end, then I must fight with more determination, not less. And not because I don’t care for you, but because I love you more than my own life. What sort of an existence is this, living under Menelaus’s shadow year upon year, unable to leave the walls of the city without fear? If we’re to be fully free to love one another, then I have no choice but to fight.’

Helen drew back.

‘Abandon me, then! But there’s a much quicker and surer way of ending this interminable conflict. If you insist on risking your life so wantonly, then I will find a way out of the city and go back to Menelaus. I would rather return to Sparta with him and know you are alive, than live a widow in Troy with nothing but my grief and the memory of you. Don’t underestimate my love for you, Paris!’

She turned on her heel and ran out of the bedroom, leaving Paris confused and speechless behind her. The tears streamed down her face as she fled through the dark corridors, cursing the return of the fighting and the inevitable procession of death that would accompany it.

Chapter Sixteen

THE ARMIES MEET

Twelve days had passed since the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles. The Phthian prince had not left the Myrmidon camp in all that time, nursing his anger against the King of Men and refusing to be appeased by the noble Greeks who visited him. When even Great Ajax – Achilles’s cousin and closest friend, after Patroclus – could not persuade him to put aside his dispute, a deep concern began to spread through the army. Some feared that without their greatest bulwark against the Trojans, Hector’s fighting prowess would defeat the Greeks and drive them back into the sea. But Agamemnon was determined to show them they did not need Achilles and had determined that he himself would lead them to victory.

As the sun climbed towards noon and Hector was mustering the Trojans and their allies for war, the armies of the Greek nations poured over the causeways that crossed the ditch around their camp and formed up on the plains beyond. The grassy plateau where large flocks of sheep and goats still grazed was already beginning to dry in the heat of spring and the movement of countless sandalled feet, hooves and chariot wheels raised a dust cloud that was visible from the high towers of Troy. At their head was a screen of archers, whose role in the coming battle would be to drive away their Trojan counterparts and then break up the ranks of enemy spearmen with their deadly fire. Following them was a long line of two-horsed chariots, each carrying an armoured nobleman and his driver. These were the elite warriors of the vast Greek army who would leap down from their chariots and lead their countrymen into the heart of battle, remaining there until the day was won or death claimed them.

Behind the chariots were file upon file of spearmen, the bronze of their armour and weapons glinting in the sunlight as they marched. The banners of the different kings fluttered and snapped over their heads: the lion of Mycenae tearing out the throat of a stricken deer; the white maiden of the Spartans, which Menelaus had chosen to represent Helen; the Cretan galley in full sail; the golden fox of Argos; the blue dolphin of Ithaca; the serpent of Locris; the goddess Athena for Athens; and many more. Only the eagle and serpent of the Myrmidons was missing.

In the foremost ranks of each nation were the professional soldiers, the men whose experience, courage and loyalty could be relied upon by their leaders. Every man was equipped with a bronze or leather cuirass, a plumed helmet and greaves tied around woollen gaiters. On the left arm he carried a broad, oxhide shield shaped like the moon a few days from its zenith, while in his right hand were two long spears with socketed bronze points. Should these break or be lost, each warrior also carried a sword at his side and a dagger in his belt, weapons which came into their own during the close and bloody work of hand-to-hand combat.

The professional soldiers were supplemented by equal numbers of well-armed mercenaries, but the bulk of the army was provided by the peasantry of Greece with their scavenged armour and weapons. Among them were the most recently arrived drafts, who remained inexperienced and poorly equipped. These were pushed out front with the skirmishers or herded into the rearmost ranks of the battle order, to live or die as the Fates dictated.

Though the nobles would claim the glory, it was the ferocity and nerve of these thousands of spearmen that would decide the outcome of the day’s battle – that and the will of the gods. But the heavy infantry were slow and unwieldy, and if their flanks could be turned the fight would be lost. For this reason, hundreds of spear-wielding cavalry swarmed at each end of the battle line, ready to drive off attacks from the enemy or, if the opportunity arose, exploit gaps in their opponents’ defences. Mounted on horses that had been captured and trained from the wild herds that roamed the plains, the riders carried no shields and relied on the speed of their animals for protection. They were of little use attacking solid lines of spearmen, but against an undefended flank where shields and spears could not easily be turned to face them they were deadly.

As the army filed out on to the plain, the men looked northeast and saw the distant wisps of woodsmoke that marked the great city of Priam. There, in front of the walls of Troy, many of them would die before the sun sank below the far edge of the Aegean. Like thousands of their comrades before them, their souls would be ushered down to the Chambers of Decay to spend an eternity mourning the sweet joys of the life they had lost. It was a terrible fate and many shook with fear at the thought of it, but there were just as many who faced it with grim anticipation. These knew that death was the one certainty in life, and yet to die fighting was to reach out towards immortality. For glory and fame could only be found in the thick of battle, and glory and fame were the only way a man’s name could live beyond his mortal existence.

Odysseus stood in his chariot and stared through the heat haze towards the edge of the plateau, beyond which were the fords of the Scamander and the wide plain where battle would soon be joined.

‘Keep them steady,’ he snapped as Eurybates struggled to control the team that pulled their chariot.

The beasts snorted with excitement, shaking their heads defiantly while Eurybates leaned back on the leather reins and cursed at them. Odysseus looked around at the other drivers manoeuvring their chariots into place at the head of each army, some shouting at their charges and laying their whips across their backs, while others encouraged their animals with calming words and loud clicks of their tongues. To his left was Eperitus, squinting in his chariot against the fierce north wind that haunted the plains of Ilium. Like Odysseus, he wore his shield across his back to leave both hands free for his spears, while relying on his helmet and breastplate to ward off enemy weapons. His driver, Arceisius, wore only a light corslet over his woollen tunic and a bronze cap to protect his head. As he had but one role in the battle – to steer the chariot into and out of danger – he carried no weapons other than the sword that hung from a baldric beneath his left arm.

A little further on were King Menestheus and his Athenians, proud and numerous in their bright armour. Beyond them the hordes of Mycenae were led by Agamemnon, standing in his golden chariot with Talthybius at the reins. After sacrificing a five-year-old ox to Zeus, he had taken his place with much fanfare at the head of his troops. He wore the breastplate Cinyras had sent him and a helmet with twin crests of bronze and a horsehair plume that fell down to the middle of his back; his round shield was covered with concentric rings of bronze, boasting the shaped image of a gorgon’s head at its centre. On either side of the king were two dozen chariots carrying the nobles of his personal bodyguard, who had swapped their heavy, ceremonial armour for light cuirasses and the smaller shields favoured by the rest of the army. Next to the Mycenaeans were the Spartans, with Menelaus at their head. His bearded jaw was set firm and his eyes were narrowed on the smoke trails of Troy, eager to rejoin battle and fight for the return of his queen. Barely visible through the dusty haze beyond him were the chariots of Diomedes and a dozen other lesser kings.

Odysseus turned his head to the right, where the chariots of Nestor of Pylos, Idomeneus of Crete, Tlepolemos of Rhodes and the rest of the Greek leaders were arrayed, each one surrounded by their noble retainers and backed by vast armies of spearmen, their different standards streaming out in the wind. Nestled between the hordes of Pylos and Crete was the small force from Salamis, headed by the Ajaxes and Teucer. Little Ajax, whose Locrian archers were among the advance screen of skirmishers, had positioned his chariot next to his larger namesake and was looking around himself with an evil glare, eager to join battle and spread misery among the unfortunate Trojans. In contrast, Teucer twitched nervously behind the curved panel of his own chariot, hating to be even just a few paces away from the protection of Great Ajax’s towering shield, which he would shelter behind in battle while picking targets for his bow.

His half-brother, meanwhile, stood motionless in his chariot, glowering impatiently towards the north-east as he awaited the order to advance. The handrail of the chariot, which was just below hip height for most men, barely reached the middle of Great Ajax’s thigh, while the spoked wheels and the oak axle seemed to sag beneath his weight. Only the largest and strongest horses in the whole army could pull him for any distance, and as he stood in the car behind them he looked like the oversized effigy of a god being paraded for a religious festival. His great shield was slung over his back by a leather strap, and of all the nobles in the Greek army only Eperitus had a shield of the same cumbersome, antiquated style. But whereas Eperitus’s shield had belonged to his grandfather and was retained out of a sense of respect and nostalgia, Ajax preferred the older design because nothing else was capable of covering his massive body.

With Achilles’s withdrawal from the fighting, the hopes of the Greeks now rested on Ajax. No man could claim a greater sense of pride or thirst for glory after Achilles himself, and the army looked on him with soldierly adoration, envying his brute strength and the terrible fury with which he would destroy every enemy in his path. The only Trojan who had ever defeated him was Tecmessa, daughter of King Teuthras. After sacking Mysia in the early years of the war and slaying Teuthras, Ajax had fallen in love with Tecmessa and she had borne him a son, whom Ajax had named Eurysaces after his own shield.

Of all other Trojans, it was said that only Hector would be able to withstand Ajax in battle. Ten years before, the Greeks had expected to sweep to victory, crushing their enemies with ease and taking their city within months, despite the prophecies of Calchas. But so far Calchas had been right, and the reason for their frustration – other than the great walls of Troy – was Hector. His reputation among the Greeks as a tactician, a commander and a fighter had grown with each year of the war, and though Ajax had often boasted that he would seek Priam’s eldest son on the battlefield and send his ghost to Hades, few shared his confidence.

The army was now assembled and with a great shout Agamemnon raised his sword in the air and thrust the blade in the direction of Troy. Thousands of voices cheered in response and, within moments, the multitude of archers, chariots, spearmen and cavalry were moving. At Odysseus’s command, Eurybates gave a flick of the reins and the chariot lurched forward. Odysseus glanced at the line of Ithacans behind him, then across at Eperitus, who met his gaze and nodded. A grim resolve was in his eyes, a determination and severity that Odysseus understood and shared, though for different reasons. Whereas Eperitus was preoccupied with finding his father and ending the disgrace that had haunted him for so much of his life – and which had been made all the more acute since they had faced each other at Lyrnessus – Odysseus’s thoughts were on hastening the end of the war and returning home to his family. The news from Ithaca had refocused his mind, though his instincts told him there would be much suffering and death before he saw Penelope again.

The army moved and the ground trembled beneath its collective weight, sending more dust into the warm, windswept air. Few could see beyond the thick haze, but from his raised position Odysseus watched the green pastureland roll away beneath the wheels of his chariot and the smoke trails of Troy growing ever nearer. It was a long march from the safety of the Greek camp to the raised mound on which Priam’s city had been built, but eventually, as the sun passed its noon position and started to roll westwards, Troy’s gleaming white towers and sloping battlements came into view, larger and grander than anything Odysseus had ever seen in his native Greece. At its highest point was the citadel of Pergamos, a fortress within a fortress, its palaces and temples protected by an inner ring of thick walls where armed guards kept an unfailing watch. Further down, sweeping southwards from the citadel like a half-formed teardrop, was the lower city. Here rich, two-storey houses slowly gave way to a mass of closely packed slums, where many hundreds of people had once lived in discomfort and squalor. Now, though, they were forced to share their meagre homes with thousands of soldiers drawn from across the vassal towns and allied states of Priam’s empire.

As the Greeks topped the ridge that marked the edge of the plateau, the ground fell away towards the plain of the Scamander, where the winter floods had receded to leave a rich carpet of clover, parsley and galingale. It was a beautiful sight in the spring, but they took little notice of the white-and-yellow-flowered water meadows or the twisting river, with its high banks lined with elms, weeping willows and tamarisk bushes. For the armies of Troy and her allies had crossed the fords and were now arrayed in their thousands across the marshy pastureland at the bottom of the slope. It was as if the Greeks had been met by a great mirror, in which throngs of archers preceded hundreds of chariots, followed, in their turn, by deep ranks of spearman and flanked on both sides by dark, threatening masses of cavalry. Even Odysseus, who had fought in every battle since the start of the war, had never seen such a force of Trojan men and horses before. It seemed to him that every fighting man in Ilium had been disgorged from the gates of Troy, intent on meeting the invaders and throwing them back into the sea.

Agamemnon raised his hand and, up and down the line, kings and their officers shouted for their men to halt. The relentless tramping of thousands of feet and hooves suddenly stopped, to be followed by an unnatural hush that seemed to roll down the long slope and silence everything before it. Though seagulls screeched overhead and horses whinnied nervously, not a man spoke. Even the women and children watching from the parapets of the city did not dare to break the silence as the two armies faced each other. Then a single chariot sprang forward from the Trojan lines, cutting a channel through the screen of archers and slingers and dashing up the slope towards the Greeks. Before it had covered half the distance separating the opposing skirmishers, who were barely within bowshot of each other, the driver steered aside and brought the chariot to a halt. In the car behind him was a tall warrior with broad shoulders and great, knotted muscles on his arms and legs. Beneath the folds of his black cloak he wore a coat of scaled armour that reached to his thighs, while on his head was a tall helmet that flashed in the sunlight. A black plume flowed down from a socket at its peak and the leather cheek-guards framed a face that was stern, fearless and menacing, promising only suffering and death as he stared disdainfully at the ranks of invaders.

As Hector stepped down and planted his large fists on his hips, he was greeted by a shower of arrows from some of the Greek archers. He did not flinch as the nervous, poorly aimed volley thudded into the ground around him, and only a sharp command from Agamemnon prevented further arrows being released. Then Hector raised his arms and looked from one army to the other.

‘Brave warriors of Greece,’ he began in his gravelly voice, speaking in the tongue of his enemies, ‘we are about to fight a battle in which no quarter will be given; in which many thousands of good men will die. Before the sun sinks in the west and brings a natural end to the day, the soil of Ilium will be dark with our spilled blood and the carrion birds will have more flesh for their beaks than even they can stomach. And for what? So you Greeks can regain Helen, or we Trojans can keep our homeland safe? Or to fulfil the whims of the uncaring gods, whose sport is to set men against each other like dogs in a pit? Then listen to me and we can end this destructive war once and for all – you Greeks can sail back to your homes in Sparta, Mycenae, Pylos and beyond, while we Trojans can return to our families in Troy, Dardanus, Mysia and the many other cities of Ilium.’

As he spoke, a second chariot passed through the lines of Trojan archers and drove up the slope towards him. Paris stood behind the driver, dressed in a coat of scaled armour with a panther’s skin thrown around his shoulders. In his right hand were two tall spears, while across his back was the feared horn bow with which he had caused so much damage to the Greeks during the years of war. Gripping the rail with his free hand, he stared up at the long, silent lines of the enemy army spread across the ridge above him.

‘To this end,’ Hector continued, offering Paris his hand and helping him down from the chariot, ‘my brother has suggested that the armies lay down their weapons under truce while he and Menelaus fight in single combat for Helen. If Paris wins, the Greeks under Agamemnon will leave Ilium and never return, while if Menelaus is victorious, we Trojans will return Helen to him without further argument. What do you say?’

For a moment there was silence as the shocked Greeks contemplated the sudden end of the conflict that had bound them to Ilium for so long. But before Agamemnon could reply, Menelaus urged his chariot through the line of Greek skirmishers and down the slope towards Hector and Paris.

‘I accept the challenge,’ he announced as his driver, Eteoneus, stopped the chariot a spear’s cast from Priam’s sons. The king of Sparta’s face was dark with anger as he glowered at Paris. ‘This war should have ended long ago, but I will not deem any of the past years wasted if I can bring you down in the dust now, Paris, and hold Helen in my arms again. But first I demand a solemn oath before the Sun, the Earth and Zeus, the father of the gods. Let Priam himself be brought from Troy to make sacrifices with my brother, promising that the truce will not be broken and that both sides will hold to their part of the bargain. Unless he does there will be no duel, for I don’t trust the word of his sons. Who can forget how Paris broke the pledge of friendship he took to me in my own home, dishonouring himself and all Trojans when he stole my wife from me?’

‘Stole her?’ Paris responded, scornfully. ‘Is that what you believe, you old fool? Didn’t your slaves tell you how she came willingly, only too eager to have a real man in her bed?’

‘You lying, Trojan scum!’ Menelaus snarled, leaning across the handrail and shaking his fist at Paris. ‘You murdered her guards and seized her against her will, taking my youngest son as a guarantee that she would come with you to Troy!’

‘Enough!’ Hector commanded, placing a hand on his brother’s chest before he could respond and forcing him back towards his chariot. ‘King Priam will be fetched from the city, as you request, Menelaus. I will also send for sacrificial sheep, while the armies lay down their weapons and await the outcome of the duel. Will that satisfy you?’

Menelaus nodded and Hector shouted for a messenger to be sent to Priam. As the horseman splashed across the ford, Menelaus gave Paris a last, baleful look then ordered Eteoneus to drive back to the safety of the lines.

‘Did you hear what he said?’ he asked, stepping down from his chariot and walking towards Agamemnon. ‘Does he really expect me to believe Helen left me for his sake?’

‘It’s what the Trojans have always claimed,’ said Odysseus, joining them with Eperitus at his side. ‘As a salve to their consciences, of course.’

‘They can claim whatever they like,’ Menelaus said dismissively. ‘It won’t matter one way or the other when I lay Paris’s corpse out in the dust and—’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Agamemnon announced, his cold blue eyes focused on his brother.

‘Oh no? Believe me, brother, I’m going to kill that wife-stealing oath-breaker in front of the whole Trojan army, with my bare hands if necessary.’

Agamemnon lowered his voice, no longer able to restrain his anger. ‘You stupid oaf! Surely you don’t think the only reason I’ve brought the armies of Greece halfway across the world is for your sake? I’ve come here to wipe Troy out of existence! I want the city sacked, the men killed, the women enslaved and those accursed walls reduced to rubble so that Troy will never, ever be a thorn in our side again! Don’t you understand? Have you never understood? With Troy gone, Greece will be the greatest power on both sides of the Aegean, but if you kill Paris, then all we’ll have to show for ten years of war is the return of your strumpet wife.’

‘Then what do you suggest I do?’ Menelaus replied, his voice trembling with anger. ‘Lose?’

‘At least that would rid me of your interfering stupidity!’ Agamemnon snapped. ‘You’re the cunning one, Odysseus – think of something to get us out of this.’

‘There’s no honourable way around a solemn oath,’ Odysseus replied with a shrug. ‘Your best hope is to start the battle before Priam arrives – a misfired arrow could find its way into the Trojan ranks, or—’

‘Too late for that now,’ Eperitus said, pointing to the pair of chariots that had just exited the Scaean Gate and were now dashing towards the fords of the Scamander. ‘Priam’s already on his way.’

‘Then all you can do is drag the fight out, Menelaus,’ Odysseus continued. ‘Wound him and feign exhaustion so you can’t deliver the fatal blow, then let him escape.’

‘I’ll be a laughing stock,’ Menelaus protested. ‘And what about my wife? Do you think I’m going to leave Helen with these savages for a day longer than I have to?’

‘You’ll do as Odysseus suggests – wound him and let him go,’ Agamemnon insisted. ‘Until then, I want the army to sit down while Priam and I carry out the sacrifices. It’ll be interesting to meet my enemy face to face at last.’

He turned and looked towards the Trojan lines, beyond which the two chariots were cutting the spume in the shallow waters of the ford, then placed a hand on Talthybius’s arm and spoke in a low voice. As the herald leapt down from the chariot and began shouting commands for the army to lay down its weapons and sit, the King of Men beckoned to Odysseus and set off through the ranks of archers to where Hector was waiting. Odysseus signalled for Eperitus to follow – knowing his captain would be eager to scan the Trojan battle line for sight of his father – and noticed the look of rebellion on Menelaus’s ruddy face.

Chapter Seventeen

THE DUEL

The two armies laid their weapons on the ground and sat down in lines. Agamemnon, Odysseus and Eperitus strode down the slope to where Hector was waiting for them, while Paris returned to the lines to ready himself for the coming duel. As Odysseus looked in awe and admiration at the might of the Trojan army, the ranks opened and the two chariots from Troy dashed through. The first was driven by Antenor, whose hunched back and blind left eye Odysseus remembered from his first visit to Troy ten years before, when he had come with Eperitus and Menelaus to request the peaceful return of Helen. Gripping the handrail beside him was Priam, king of Troy. He was strikingly tall and erect in his flowing purple robes and at first sight appeared to be a man in his middle years. Then, as he came closer they could see his hair had been dyed a glossy black and his skin thickly powdered to disguise his age; and his eyes were unmistakeably those of an old man, filled with care and great loss. As Antenor brought the chariot to a halt beside Hector, Priam stepped down and looked across at the proud form of Agamemnon before him, dressed for war.

‘So you are the man whom all this multitude of warriors serve,’ he said in his stiff Greek, indicating the massed ranks at the top of the slope. ‘You are the one by whose commands my people have been murdered and my land ravaged.’

Agamemnon swept his red cloak back over his shoulder, revealing the intricately crafted breastplate beneath. As he eyed his enemy, tall in form and yet stooped in spirit, the King of Men began to feel a sense of his own superiority. In all the long years of war, he had never seen Priam except as a distant figure watching the battles from the walls of Pergamos; and now he understood why the king of Troy had not dared to step outside the gates of his own city. He was weak. He was the defeated king of a beaten people, and the sight of him made Agamemnon smile.

‘Your losses have been brought about by your own actions, Priam. You shouldn’t have let your sons goad a more powerful nation into war. For Greece is greater than Troy and we will defeat you.’

‘Paris was foolish,’ Priam admitted, ‘but he has offered to fight Menelaus to the death and spare the rest of us further bloodshed. And though I love him dearly – with more love than a man like yourself could ever feel or understand, Agamemnon – I am willing to see him die and the lovely Helen returned to Menelaus if it will rid Ilium of your foul hordes.’

‘We shall see what happens,’ Agamemnon replied. ‘Have you brought the sacrifices?’

Priam raised his hand and Idaeus, his ageing herald, stepped down from the second chariot. He hauled a black ewe and a white ram from the floor of the car and cut the bonds around their ankles. Next he took a goatskin and poured water on both kings’ hands, while the driver brought a skin of wine and a bowl for mixing. As soon as Agamemnon had washed his hands and shaken off the excess water, he took the dagger from his belt and cut a handful of wool from the heads of the dazed animals.

‘Great and glorious Zeus, father of the gods,’ he began, raising his face and arms to the clear blue firmament above, ‘all-seeing Sun and great Mother Earth; solemn and terrible Hades below, witness the vows we take in your presence. If Paris kills Menelaus, the Greeks shall call an end to this bitter war and sail home, recognizing without dispute that Helen is his wife. But if Menelaus slays Paris, then the Trojans must return Helen to him without hesitation, or face ceaseless war until their city lies destroyed and their people scattered.’

Without further delay, he closed his large hand around the jaws of the ewe, pulled its head back and slit its throat. Next, he slaughtered the ram, and after cleaning his blade on its fleece and returning it to its scabbard, he left the animals in pools of their own blood and took the krater of wine that Idaeus handed to him. The two kings poured libations on the ground and drank, then Priam lifted his own hands to the heavens and prayed, calling on the immortals to preside over the truce between the two armies, and bring death to any who should dare break it, as well as death to their children and the enslavement of their wives. His petition to the gods over, he stepped back into his chariot.

‘I hope for my people’s sake and yours that this duel will bring an end to the fighting for ever,’ Priam said. ‘And yet, now that I have met you face to face, I do not trust you to keep to your word. You are a monster, Agamemnon. You came here to build an empire at any cost, even sacrificing your own daughter, and whatever the outcome of this duel I fear you will not leave Ilium until you have what you want.’

He gave a brief nod to Odysseus and Eperitus, then ordered Antenor to return to Troy.

‘The old man’s not stupid,’ Odysseus said in a low voice as they watched the chariots depart.

‘No,’ Eperitus agreed. ‘Fortunately for the rest of us, I don’t think Menelaus has any intention of following Agamemnon’s orders. He won’t just wing Paris then let him crawl away.’

‘Of course he won’t, though if he thinks Paris will be easy to kill then he’s going to be shocked – or dead! Either way, as long as one of them dies we’ll soon be on our way home, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. They must have sent every man in Ilium against us.’

‘The slaughter would have been terrible,’ Eperitus mused. ‘And yet, if this is the end of the war, then I can’t leave for Ithaca with you. Not yet.’

‘Your father?’

Eperitus nodded. ‘Until he’s dead I’ll always live in the shadow of his dishonour. But there’s Astynome, too. I want to take her back to Greece and have children. You have Penelope and Telemachus to return to, Odysseus, but since Iphigenia was killed, I have no one.’

‘Every man should have a family.’

They turned to see Hector standing behind them, his helmet removed and sitting upturned in his hands.

‘Except, perhaps, in times of war,’ he continued, ‘when the thought of our loved ones tests our courage and weakens our resolve. But now the war is to end as maybe none of us had foreseen, and you and I, Odysseus, must cast lots for who will throw the first spear.’

Odysseus nodded and picked up two stones from the ground, one sharp-edged and black, the other smooth and grey.

‘The black for Menelaus,’ he announced, dropping the stones into Hector’s helmet. ‘So, even the great Hector thinks of his wife and son before he goes into battle.’

Hector shook the helmet. ‘Always. But there are other things that compel a man to battle. Love of his country. Duty to his king. Vengeance. Tell me, Odysseus, where is that bane of Troy, Achilles?’

He tipped the helmet and the grey stone sprang out first. Paris would have the opening cast.

‘What do Achilles’s whereabouts matter now?’ Odysseus replied as Hector tipped out the other stone and pressed his helmet back down on his head. ‘The war will soon be over.’

‘I’ll tell you where Peleus’s son is, Hector,’ Eperitus announced, ‘if you tell me where to find Apheidas.’

Odysseus gave him a silencing stare.

‘You will find him with Prince Pandarus among the Zeleians,’ Hector answered. ‘Over there.’

Eperitus looked in the direction in which Hector was pointing and saw Apheidas at once – tall and fearsome with his leather cuirass catching the sunlight and the hem of his black cloak blown around his calves by the strong north wind. As if sensing his son’s gaze, Apheidas turned his head and stared back at him with a dark intensity that cut through the din and movement of the battle lines.

‘If you bear him a grudge, you would be wise to forget it,’ Hector continued, noticing the dark look in Eperitus’s eyes. ‘Unless your heart is set on death, put Apheidas out of your mind and sail back to Greece with your life.’

‘I could give the same advice to you, Hector,’ Eperitus replied. ‘But if your desire to face Achilles is greater than your need to see your family again, you will find him back among the Greek ships, where his feud with Agamemnon is keeping him out of the fighting.’

Aeneas pulled the cheek-guards of Paris’s helmet under the prince’s chin and knotted the leather laces together.

‘May the gods be with you, Paris,’ he said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t let your anger and hatred cloud your judgement: kill Menelaus when the opportunity reveals itself and tonight we will offer sacrifices in the remains of the Greek camp.’

Paris nodded, his mouth too dry and his mind too distracted to give any other answer. As he looked up the slope to where Menelaus was standing, resplendent in his bronze cuirass, plumed helmet and flowing green cloak, he felt the nausea he always suffered before battle, the nervous stirring in the pit of his stomach that long experience told him would fade as soon as the first spear was cast. His spear. He held out his hand and Aeneas placed the two ash shafts in his palm, then, with a deep breath, he moved through the ranks of seated archers to the empty ground between the two armies.

If only he had never vowed to Helen not to face Menelaus in battle, the war could have been decided by single combat years ago. But Helen’s beauty was hard to resist, and she had always known how to twist him to her will. He could still picture her standing before him on their wedding night, with flowers woven into her hair and wearing the dress Andromache and Leothoë – one of Priam’s many wives – had made for her: seven layers of gossamer, which she had removed one by one while the room was filled with the heady scent of her perfume. How could he have refused her when she asked him to take a solemn vow not to face her former husband in battle? How could he say no to such beauty, or such love?

But now he was about to break that vow, just as he had broken his promise before the war that his days as a warrior were over. What choice did he have? Helen had threatened to give herself up to Menelaus for his sake and he believed her, so the only way to stop her would be to kill Menelaus first. Perhaps news had reached her in Troy and she was even now watching from the city walls, fearing that the man she loved would be killed. But it was too late to prevent the duel now. Hector had resisted the idea for a while, reluctant to see his younger brother’s life risked against the indomitable fury of Menelaus, and still burning with his own desire for vengeance on Achilles. But Paris had quickly persuaded him that it would save many Trojan lives and was for the best.

And so he looked again up the hill towards the man who had tormented his happiness for too long. The sun was now in the west, blinding Paris and the whole of the Trojan army behind him; the Greeks never attacked before midday if they could avoid it, preferring the sun to be in the eyes of their enemies rather than their own. The slope also gave Menelaus the advantage of height but, ultimately, these factors were of no consequence. The winner of the duel would not be decided by the sun or the slope, but by the gods.

‘Having second thoughts, Paris?’ Menelaus scoffed loudly, for all to hear as he closed some of the distance between them. ‘I thought you said you were a real man!’

There was a ripple of tense laughter from the Greek ranks.

‘I was man enough to take your woman, Menelaus,’ Paris replied, moving up to meet him. ‘And I’m man enough to take your life, too.’

Menelaus’s face darkened and he spat on the ground.

‘Prove it, Trojan!’

With a silent prayer to Ares and all the gods of Mount Ida, Paris thrust one of his spears into the ground and raised the other so that the black shaft almost touched his right cheek. As he closed one eye and stared down the length of the spear towards Menelaus, who spread his feet a little wider and wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow, he felt his nervousness leave him. Then, with a sudden lunge, he hurled the weapon towards its mark. Menelaus leaned to his right just in time, angling his shield so that the spearhead skipped across its surface and plunged into the earth behind him. The Greeks gasped loudly, then cheered as they realized their champion had survived.

Menelaus now seized one of his own spears and launched it with all the strength of his hatred at the Trojan prince. It flew with deadly accuracy towards Paris, who raised his shield at the last moment. The bronze spearhead punched through the layers of oxhide and wicker, causing him to cry out as he felt the point graze his body armour and tear through the folds of his cloak. There was a shout of dismay from the Trojan ranks behind, followed by a cheer as he turned to show them he was unharmed. Then, with a roar of fury, Menelaus pulled his sword from its scabbard and charged towards him.

Paris took his own sword and ran to meet him. Menelaus was the first to strike, bringing his blade down with tremendous force against Paris’s shield and knocking him backwards. Paris stumbled on the slope but quickly regained his footing. Ducking low, he thrust the point of his sword towards the gap beneath Menelaus’s round shield. Menelaus anticipated the move and smashed the rim of his shield down on Paris’s blade, while sweeping his own weapon in a wide arc towards his opponent’s neck. Thrown off balance by the blow on his sword, Paris parried the strike with his shield and withdrew, circling to his right and bringing himself level with his enemy.

Menelaus attacked again, the snarl on his bearded lips visible above the top of his shield as he rained blow upon blow against Paris’s defences. The Trojan retreated before his anger, skilfully turning back the relentless assault with his sword so that the air rang with the din of bronze.

‘You’re wearing yourself out, old man,’ he taunted. ‘Your fear is undoing you.’

Menelaus growled in reply and with terrifying speed dashed Paris’s sword arm aside and brought his weapon down on to the crown of his bronze helmet. It hit the socket from which his white horsehair plume streamed, snapping the blade in two. Paris fell to his knees, his head pounding with the blow that should have killed him. A trickle of blood seeped out from beneath the rim of the helmet and ran down his left temple. Then, realizing the gods had saved him, he looked up at Menelaus’s shocked face and laughed out loud with a mixture of relief and joy. Menelaus stared incredulously at the broken blade in his hand, then with a howl of frustration tossed it aside and launched himself on his enemy. The two men threw their arms around each other, rolling down the slope as they fought. One moment, Menelaus was on top, trying to close his large fingers round Paris’s throat, then Paris gained the advantage, throwing the Spartan bodily aside and raining punches down upon him. Above and below them the armies of Greece and Troy were now on their feet, shouting at the tops of their voices for one champion or the other, filling the valley with their urgent voices. Then Menelaus, realizing Paris was his match in strength and sensing the younger man’s stamina might outlast his own, thrust his knee into Paris’s groin, forcing him to roll aside in pain. With a roar of triumph, the Spartan leapt to his feet and seized the Trojan’s helmet by its plume, dragging him back up the slope towards his equally jubilant comrades. Paris, his face purpling as the knotted lace beneath his chin cut into his neck, wrapped his hands around Menelaus’s wrists in a desperate attempt to prise his fingers from the plume. Suddenly, the lace snapped and the helmet came away in Menelaus’s hands.

Paris rolled aside, choking for air and rubbing the scored flesh of his throat. Menelaus tossed the helmet towards the Locrian archers and ran at his enemy. Forgetting his pain, Paris leapt forward and drove his head into Menelaus’s abdomen, punching the air from his body and knocking him back to the ground. But as Paris was about to leap on the Spartan once more, he saw Menelaus’s second spear from the corner of his right eye, buried point-down in the earth. He ran to it and plucked it from the ground, turning with an exultant grin towards Menelaus.

‘It’s over,’ he said. ‘Helen is mine and your brother’s army will have to leave these shores for ever. But you’re a better man than I thought, Menelaus, and so I’ll send your spirit down to Hades with honour.’

Menelaus backed away slowly, looking for the sword that Paris had dropped when they had wrestled on the slope earlier. It was nowhere to be seen but, as he glanced behind himself he saw Paris’s second spear standing upright in the earth halfway towards the Trojan lines. Paris saw it at the same moment and, realizing Menelaus’s intention, raced his enemy down the slope towards it. Menelaus reached the spear first, snatching it up in both hands and spinning round just in time to parry the thrust aimed at his stomach. As Menelaus turned the point aside, Paris swung the shaft of the spear with both hands into his forehead, stunning him and knocking him to the ground. But if the gods had shattered Menelaus’s sword and broken the strap of Paris’s helmet, now they turned their favour on the Spartan. As Paris steadied a foot on a boulder and made ready to plunge his spear into Menelaus’s gut, an agonizing burst of pain seared through his brain. The spear dropped from his grip and he clutched both hands to the wound on his head, stumbling beneath the intense agony. Menelaus immediately kicked Paris’s legs from under him and jumped to his feet, holding the point of his weapon against the Trojan’s throat.

‘Now whose victory is it?’ he crowed, triumphantly. ‘You’ve fought well, Paris, though you’re an oath-breaker and a wife-stealer, but the gods have finally decided between us. Helen is – and always was – mine.’

Apheidas had been watching the battle from among the ranks of Zeleian spearmen. Ever since Paris had decided to face Menelaus in single combat he had positioned himself next to Pandarus – the most renowned archer in all the armies of Troy after Paris himself – and persuaded him to ready his gold-tipped bow. He knew that if Paris won, Agamemnon would find a way to break his oath, but that if Menelaus gained the victory, and Helen was returned to him the King of Men would be unable to persuade the Greeks to continue the war. In which case Eperitus would return to Greece and the plans Apheidas had been nurturing for so long would fail. With this in mind, he had informed Pandarus that Hector had no intention of letting Paris die or of giving Helen back to the Greeks, and that he would reward any Trojan who prevented Menelaus from winning. And so, as Apheidas saw Paris stumble, and watched Menelaus gloating over him, he placed his hand on the Zeleian prince’s arm.

‘Now, Pandarus!’ he hissed. ‘Shoot Menelaus and save Paris’s life.’

Pandarus drew back the horn bow and with a whispered prayer to Apollo, released the arrow from the string. It flew with terrible speed, piercing Menelaus’s belt and cuirass. The Spartan king dropped his spear and clutched his hands to his side as the warm blood gushed out between his fingers, then blackness overcame him and he slumped to the ground.

Chapter Eighteen

THE BATTLE BEGINS

Shocked silence fell across the two armies. Then a voice cried out and Agamemnon’s chariot burst through the stunned ranks of Greek archers and sped down the slope towards his brother. As Paris crawled back to the safety of the Trojan lines, to be placed in his chariot and rushed back to Troy, the King of Men jumped down and lifted Menelaus’s inert body from the ground. A moment later Talthybius was whipping the horses back up the slope, driving them as quickly as they could go with the weight of the wooden chariot and its three passengers behind them. Trojan arrows peppered the ground around them as they fled, to be answered by the singing bows of the Greeks and the hiss of their missiles as they arced down into the thick mass of enemy archers, sending many crashing down to their deaths.

‘What have I done?’ Agamemnon said, clutching his brother’s great bulk to his chest. ‘Why did I listen to Hector’s false assurances and allow you to fight Paris? Without you this whole expedition will have been for nothing. Now the kings will take their ships back to Greece, leaving Helen to the victorious Trojans while your tomb will stand as a monument to my folly. May Zeus open the earth beneath my feet, I am going to become a laughing stock on both sides of the Aegean!’

‘Courage, brother,’ Menelaus said groggily, opening an eye and looking up at Agamemnon. ‘Death won’t find me such an easy victim. My belt and cuirass stopped the force of the arrow, though . . . though it succeeded in piercing my flesh. It was the effort of the fight and . . . and the shock of the wound that overcame me, nothing more.’

‘Zeus’s beard!’ Agamemnon exclaimed, staring at his brother’s pale face as the chariot rolled into the safety of the lines. Then, seized by a sudden urgency, he grabbed Talthybius by the arm. ‘Take him to Machaon at once. Have him apply all his skill to the wound and tell him that if anything happens to my brother I will make his own life forfeit.’

Talthybius gave a shake of the reins and drove the chariot through a channel in the dense ranks of the army, where other chariots were also being driven to the rear as their passengers leapt down and prepared to face the Trojans. Agamemnon turned on his heel as a Locrian screamed and fell heavily beside him, an arrow protruding from his chest. More feathered shafts whistled down among the skirmishers, spilling several to the ground while their comrades returned fire, seemingly ignorant of their own safety.

‘They’re coming!’

Agamemnon looked down the slope to where the companies of Troy and her allies were massing. Though the enemy archers were aided by the north wind, the Greeks enjoyed the advantage of the slope and were causing far greater casualties among their counterparts. Soon the Trojan skirmishers would be swept aside, exposing the densely packed spearmen behind to the deadly arrows. Accepting this inevitability, Hector was ordering his heavy infantry up the hill towards the waiting Greeks, and the sight of them as they marched towards him, yelling at the tops of their voices as they were struck by wave after wave of arrows from the Greek archers, filled Agamemnon’s heart with panic. He looked around himself and saw Odysseus and Eperitus nearest, with Menestheus at their side, all three calmly watching the approach of the heavily armoured Trojans.

‘You!’ he bellowed. ‘What do you think you’re doing, standing around like fishwives at a market? Order your men down that hill before I charge you with cowardice in front of the rest of the army!’

Odysseus’s sun-tanned skin flushed red and his brow furrowed as he turned to face the Mycenaean king.

‘There isn’t a man in the whole army more keen to end this war than I am, Agamemnon. I haven’t seen my wife or son in almost ten years, thanks to your ambitions, and my spear is as ready as yours to lay out Trojans in the dust. The only thing keeping us at the top of this slope is good military sense!’

Eperitus saw the confusion, impatience and panic vying together on Agamemnon’s face.

‘By the time they’ve struggled to the top of this slope they’ll have been decimated by our archers, my lord,’ he said, indicating the wall of advancing Trojans with a contemptuous flick of his thumb. ‘And those who are left will have to fight uphill against fresh troops.’

Agamemnon cast another glance down at the approaching enemy, their dense ranks twitching as the clouds of Locrian arrows rained death upon them. And yet his pride told him he was right.

‘Stay here, then,’ he sneered, ‘and we’ll see whose military sense is best.’

He ran on, past the steady ranks of Mycenaeans and Spartans to where Diomedes and Sthenelaus waited at the head of the massed Argives.

‘In the name of all the gods, Diomedes, what are you waiting for? It’s no surprise to see Odysseus hanging back, but you claim to be a son of the great Tydeus! If your father were here I wouldn’t need to goad him to attack the enemy.’

‘If Tydeus was great, then his son is greater,’ Sthenelaus responded, angrily. ‘You forget, my lord Agamemnon, that Tydeus and my own father, Capaneus, died attacking Thebes. But when Diomedes and I laid siege to the city to avenge their deaths we left it in ruins.’

‘Well spoken, Sthenelaus,’ Agamemnon replied. ‘But words count for very little on the battlefield. If you don’t have the stomach to face Hector and his Trojans, then I will lead the attack myself.’

‘I’ll not quarrel with you, Agamemnon, but neither will I be accused of cowardice,’ said Diomedes. ‘If you want me to attack, then give the command, or else stay your tongue and go back to your Mycenaeans.’

‘Of course I want you to attack. And, for all our sakes, do it before they reach the top of the slope and cut us to pieces!’

Turning to the men behind him with a furious look in his eyes, Diomedes raised his spears above his head.

‘Argives! Advance!’

The great shout rolled along the top of the ridge and, a moment later, the first ranks of the Argives began to move. There was a pause, as if the whole Greek army was drawing breath, and then a series of commands were barked out. From left to right, the long lines of spearmen closed up and locked their shields together, ready to move down the slope and meet the Trojans head on.

Eperitus slipped his own shield from his back and took its weight on to his left arm. He kissed the tips of his fingers and placed them against the faded image of the deer on the inside, silently praying to the gods and the spirit of Iphigenia. Then he plucked his spears from the ground and looked across at Odysseus. The king nodded sternly before turning to the ranks of spearmen behind.

‘Ithacans!’ he cried. ‘For ten years the Trojans have sat behind the safety of their walls, rarely daring to meet us in battle. But now they’ve emptied the city against us! The moment we’ve been praying for is here, so call on all your courage, ruthlessness and hatred and fight! Show no mercy; do not stop killing until every one of them is dead, or you yourselves have been ushered down to Hades. Think of your homes and families and kill!’

‘Kill!’ the Ithacans echoed with one voice.

The king thrust his spear forward and the line of shields began to advance. All along the ridge the armies of Greece were moving through the screen of archers and down the hill towards the Trojans, who by now were reaching the upper climbs of the slope. Even Eperitus, who had seen many battles, felt awed by the sight of tens of thousands of men marching towards each other, their helmets, shields and breastplates gleaming in the sun, the deadly points of their spears now lowering towards each other. The tramp of their feet beating together was like the heartbeat of the earth itself, while the clatter of hooves behind and on either side of them was like the rushing of waves across a pebble beach. On they marched, relentless, inexorable, and yet not unstoppable; for behind those magnificent walls of leather and bronze were bodies of flesh and blood that in the space of a moment could be torn and broken.

As the gap between the two armies narrowed, orders were shouted in a dozen different languages and dialects as thousands of men drew back their spears and took aim. The Greeks launched the first volley, darkening their air with missiles that arced over the first rank of Trojan shields and into the densely packed ranks behind. Screams followed as socketed bronze tips found exposed necks and faces, or tore through shields and scaled armour to penetrate the soft flesh beneath. Then the Trojans cast their own weapons and a similar chorus of screams followed from the Greek ranks as men were thrown violently back into the dust.

With a furious roar, the two sides lowered their remaining spears and charged. Eperitus held his grandfather’s shield before him and crashed into the hedge of Trojan spears, feeling the sharpened points scrape across the oxhide surface. One missed his exposed right flank by a hand’s breadth. Suddenly walls of flesh and hardened leather closed in from every side and he was locked in a dark, struggling press of men. In desperation, he pushed his spear beneath the circular shield of a Trojan and felt the bronze bite into the unarmoured flesh of the man’s groin, knocking him screaming to the ground. Eperitus did not pause but thrust the raised wooden boss of his shield into the bearded face of an enemy soldier, splitting his nose and toppling him back into the ranks behind. Two more men leapt forward, one on either side, and jabbed at him simultaneously with their spears. He turned the first aside with his shield, while shrinking to his left to let the other plunge past his right hip. With an instinctive thrust, he sank the point of his spear into the neck of one of his attackers and killed him instantly. Then Arceisius appeared – his spear already lost and his sword drawn – and with a backhanded swing he slashed its sharpened edge across the other man’s forehead, sending him spinning out of the battle.

‘Thought you needed some help,’ he said, grinning.

‘You just watch out for yourself,’ Eperitus replied as more Trojans moved to take the places of the men they had killed.

The chaos of battle was raging all around them now. To Eperitus’s right the gigantic form of Polites – his helmet lost and his face spattered with gore – was cutting a swathe through the ranks of Trojans, supported by Antiphus and Eurybates on either side. Even Omeros had worked his way to the front ranks and was duelling with a Trojan spearman, his eyes wide with terror and his young face pale as his opponent thrust at him again and again. Then Arceisius seized Eperitus’s arm and pointed to their left, where a short, heavily built warrior had cut down three Ithacans in easy succession and was now making for Odysseus. The Ithacan king had already struck dead several opponents and was exhorting the Ithacans to greater destruction when he sensed the man’s approach and turned to face him. All around them the fighting broke off as the two sides edged backwards.

‘I am Democoön, son of Priam,’ the Trojan grunted, speaking in his own language. ‘Name yourself, Greek, so I can know whose ghost I’m sending to the Underworld. I want to boast of my victory when I’ve stripped the armour from your corpse.’

‘I am Odysseus, king of Ithaca and son of Laertes, but to you and all other Trojans who stand in my way, my name is Death!’

A moment later his spear was flying through the air towards Democoön, who flung his shield up instinctively and had it torn from his grip by the force of the cast. He replied immediately, but his weapon missed Odysseus and buried itself in the groin of the man behind him, a lad called Leucus who had arrived with the most recent shipment of recruits from Ithaca. He fell forward, groaning in agony as his lifeblood poured out on to the soil of Ilium.

Odysseus plucked the spear from his dead body and, with a shout of fury, ran straight at Democoön. The Trojan only had time to wrap his fingers around the ivory handle of his sword before Odysseus sent the point of his own spear through his temple and out the back of his head, dropping him lifeless to the ground. A moment later, he had seized the corpse by the arm and was dragging him back to the safety of the Ithacan lines, there to strip it of its armour.

With a cheer and renewed fury, the Ithacans charged once more into the Trojan ranks. Undeterred by the loss of their chieftain or the casualties that had already been inflicted on them, the Trojans kept their discipline, filled the gaps that had been made and held their ground stubbornly. Though none could stand for long against the anger of Odysseus, the skill of Eperitus or the brute strength of Polites, they were tenacious men who fought for their homeland and their families, and soon the corpses of both sides were clogging the hotly contested slope. The fighting became so close that Eperitus was forced to abandon his spear and draw his sword from its scabbard, using it to parry the thrusts of enemy weapons or stab down across his opponents’ shield rims and into their exposed throats. The air was now filled with a brown haze of dust, kicked up by countless sandalled feet as they struggled for a grip on the dry earth; it stung eyes and parched throats so that men longed for water and the cries of their struggles were dry and muted. The senses were further stifled by the reek of sweat from thousands of toiling bodies, clogging a man’s nostrils so that only the stench of warm blood could compete against it. Even the ever-present north wind seemed to die away and leave the armies to suffer amidst the stink of their own folly. Worse still was the din of the fighting, a sound that would have drowned even the smithies of Hephaistos, manned day and night by the Cyclopes as they beat out Zeus’s thunderbolts in the fires of Olympus. Its ceaseless clanging deafened men as they fought, so that the survivors were left with the echo of its ringing in their heads for days.

All across the plain the sounds and smells, the pain and exertion, the tragedy and triumph were the same. Men on both sides called on the gods to help them, exhorting the aim of Apollo, the brute strength of Ares or the skill of Athena, and in response Zeus sent terror, strife and panic to increase their suffering. He filled some with bravery, exhorting them to acts beyond their standing, while others he robbed of their courage and sent fleeing from the battle line, to be shot or stabbed from behind. But the Greeks had the advantage of the slope and their archers had already thinned and disrupted the ranks of their opponents, and so it was that the Trojans began to fall back before them. Great Ajax increased their misery, slaying scores of warriors in his thirst for glory and stripping the armour from the best of them. Teucer’s bow – a gift from Apollo – and Little Ajax’s spear brought down many others as they fought alongside him. Agamemnon did not shrink from the battle, either, and felled several opponents of high rank or otherwise, not discriminating in his hatred of the men of Ilium. Even Menelaus had joined the fray, ignoring all advice to return to the ships and returning to lead his own men. But nowhere was the slaughter greater than before the ranks of the Argives and their king, Diomedes. They drove all before them, leaving a trail of dead on the slopes as they pushed the Trojans perilously close to the fast-flowing Scamander. Even when Pandarus – whose arrow had felled Menelaus and broken the truce – drove out against them and shot Diomedes in the left shoulder, it did not stop the king’s fury. Instead, he ordered Sthenelaus to pluck out the arrow then killed Pandarus with a spear throw which passed through his cheekbone and out the back of his neck. And thus the Zeleian archer’s treachery against the gods was repaid.

But Hector saw the salient the Argives had cut into the Trojan ranks. It stretched out from the Greek lines like the blade of a sword, long, narrow and exposed, with the banner of the golden fox at its tip where Diomedes was leading. Urging the rest of the Trojans to hold their ground and assuring them that Achilles – the man they feared above all others – was refusing to fight, Hector sent his chariots against the extended flanks. The men of Argos heard the thunder of hooves and heavy wooden wheels through the clouds of dust that obscured the battlefield. Moments later the rancorous Trojans were bursting through on three sides, bringing swift terror to their enemies. Now it was the turn of the Argives to litter the ground with their bodies. The chariots punched holes in the once solid lines of spearmen, spreading fear and alarm through the men behind. Trojan infantry followed, exploiting the gaps that had been created and cutting Diomedes’s army to shreds. Their king, suffering from the wound to his shoulder, ordered a fighting retreat and suddenly the battle was turning in Hector’s favour.