The Armour of Achilles

As the Argives fled back up the slope, panic spread through the rest of the Greek army and they gave ground before the resurgent Trojans. The Ithacans moved back with them, fearful of leaving their flanks exposed as their neighbours retreated on either side. They passed the bodies of the men who had died in the earlier fighting, many of whom Eperitus knew, as well as many others who were unrecognizable beneath the layers of gore and dust that covered them. But this was the glory he had longed for all his life, he reminded himself. Only amidst the litter of the battlefield could a warrior find immortality, winning renown with his spear at the risk of a painful and bloody death. That was the warrior’s creed.

But it was a creed he knew he was losing faith in. Each time he scanned the sweating, resolute faces of his opponents, he was reminded of the Trojan blood that flowed in his own veins. When his father had exiled him from Alybas, he thought he had turned his back on the last surviving member of his family. But now he realized that the men he was fighting could be his distant cousins, men with whom he shared a common ancestry. What was more, the dark skin and black hair that he had always considered the mark of an enemy race now reminded him of the woman he loved. Every time he brought down a Trojan in the fury of battle, he thought of Astynome and how she despised the Greeks for killing her countrymen and destroying her homeland. And as he surveyed the destruction around him and listened to the terrible clamour of battle, he understood her hatred. The Greeks had brought nothing but suffering and death to the people of Ilium, and all for the lust of one man and the greed of another.

The lines parted as the exhausted Greeks drew further back up the slope and the Trojans were temporarily too tired to pursue. The pause had not lasted more than a few short moments, though, when a chariot rode out from the enemy ranks with Sarpedon standing proud and upright in the car. He shouted a challenge in his own tongue and Tlepolemos, the king of Rhodes, ran out to meet him. As Eperitus watched he was reminded of the young, baby-faced suitor whom he had first seen twenty years ago in the great hall at Sparta. He had only been a prince then, with a fledgling beard and a full head of curly hair, vainly hoping to win the hand of the most beautiful woman in Greece. Now his beard was full and he had proved himself again and again on the battlefield, but Eperitus sensed that Tlepolemos had as much chance against Sarpedon as he had had of marrying Helen.

The two kings cast their spears simultaneously. An instant later, a cheer erupted from the Greek ranks as Sarpedon’s thigh was gashed open and he fell from the car to roll in the dust. Then the cheer died in their throats as they realized the point of Sarpedon’s own spear had passed through Tlepolemos’s neck, killing the king of Rhodes instantly.

The small force of Tlepolemos’s followers gave a shout of anger and rushed forward, to be met head on by Sarpedon’s army of Lycians as they ran to defend their wounded king. Through the cloud of dust that obscured the battlefield, Eperitus saw the men of Rhodes overwhelmed and cut down. Though they fought gallantly, the disciplined spears and shields of their enemies were too numerous for them. Gyrtias, their captain, who had accompanied Tlepolemos to Sparta and befriended Odysseus’s small escort of Ithacans there, slew a tall Lycian spearman before being impaled on the spear points of three or four others and sent to accompany his king to the halls of Hades.

With a shout of rage, Odysseus threw his spear into the swarm of Lycians and ran towards them, brandishing his sword. Eperitus and the rest of the Ithacans followed, casting what spears they had left and bringing down several men, but too slow to catch up with their king. Caring little for his own safety, Odysseus tore into the tired enemy soldiers with a blazing fury, hacking wildly to left and right. A man crumpled to his knees, dropping his weapons as he cupped his hands over the gash in his stomach; another fled back through the Trojan lines, holding the stump of his wrist towards the heavens as if imploring the uncaring gods to restore his severed hand; a third crashed into the dust, a corpse with no sign of wound or blood on him. As the Lycians fell back, Odysseus tossed his shield aside, angered by the encumbrance, and began swinging his sword with both hands, knocking shields from men’s grips, dashing the weapons from their hands and cutting into flesh so that he became spattered with their gore.

Eperitus and Arceisius joined the fight at their king’s side, just as the redoubtable Lycians began to edge around him. Though his limbs were heavy with the long afternoon’s toil, Eperitus punched the boss of his shield into an opponent’s face and sank his sword into the man’s liver. Arceisius severed another’s arm from above the elbow and, as the man staggered back in surprise, ran the point of his sword through his throat. The Lycians’ discipline crumbled without their king to bolster them and they began to fall back. Led by Odysseus, the Ithacans and the remaining Rhodians fell on them with a new fury. Then a horn blast ripped through the noise of the battle and Hector came racing up in his chariot behind the collapsing Lycians, bellowing at them to hold their ground. He leapt down from the car with two spears in his hand and a fearsome look on his face that struck terror in friend and foe alike. Striding through the ranks of Troy’s allies, his mere presence was enough to halt their flight and turn them back up the slope to meet the Greeks. He hurled one of his spears through the shield and breastplate of an Ithacan guardsman, then took the other in both hands and threw himself into the fray, driving all before him.

At the same moment, Eperitus saw Odysseus retrieve his shield and move towards the towering form of the Trojan prince.

‘Odysseus!’ he shouted, running to the king’s side. ‘Odysseus, what are you doing? Challenge Hector and he’ll kill you for certain. Even Achilles would think twice . . .’

‘Do you see Achilles on the battlefield?’ Odysseus snapped. ‘And even if he was here, do you think I would shirk my duty as a king, to face my enemies whoever and wherever they are? Hector is my enemy, Eperitus, and he is not immortal.’

He turned to go but Eperitus seized his arm.

‘But the gods are with him, Odysseus.’

Odysseus threw his hand off with an angry sneer. ‘Is he a god himself ?’

‘Then if Hector is to be challenged, let me do it.’

‘And what about me, Eperitus? Do you think I haven’t forgotten that Palamedes accused me of being a coward in front of the whole council? He called me a thief and an impostor, a poor king without fame. And perhaps he was right. Perhaps I’ve wasted too much time trying to end this war by cunning, when I should have been winning renown on the battlefield like Achilles or Ajax.’

‘So that’s what this is about,’ Eperitus said. ‘A sudden desire for glory, just because of the accusations of a traitor? Well, Palamedes was a fool, and what’s more he’s a dead fool – and if you face Hector, you will be, too. In the name of Athena, remember why you’ve fought so hard all these years, Odysseus – for your family’s sake, so you can see them again!’

‘Didn’t the Pythoness say I’d survive the war and return to Ithaca?’ Odysseus countered. ‘And what better chance to end this war now than to face Hector and bring him down in the dust? And when I’ve killed him, no one will ever brand me a coward again. Even Achilles’s glory will fade next to mine. So may Athena be with me.’

‘Athena is with you,’ said a voice.

They turned to see a tall warrior standing behind them. He carried the shield and long spear of a Taphian mercenary, though his skin was oddly white and his hair was not black or brown, but a bright blond that seemed to catch the sunlight wherever it fell from the rim of his helmet. Neither Odysseus or Eperitus could remember seeing his face before, but there was nevertheless a strange familiarity about the large eyes, the thin lips and the straight nose that did not dip at the bridge. The Taphian bent his stern gaze on the Ithacan king, then poked him on the breastplate with his forefinger.

‘I am with you, Odysseus – as I have always been – but even I can’t save your worthless hide if you choose to throw yourself on Hector’s spear.’

Odysseus fell to his knees and bowed his head, Hector’s presence forgotten.

‘Mistress Athena!’ he exclaimed.

The goddess quickly pulled him to his feet, making light of his heavy bulk.

‘Not in the middle of a battlefield,’ she scolded him. ‘Can you imagine what others will say if they see the mighty king of Ithaca bobbing and scraping before one of his own mercenaries? A subtle bow would have sufficed. And that goes for you, too, Eperitus.’

Shamed by his omission, Eperitus gave an uncertain nod of his head. Athena rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue.

‘I haven’t seen you for ten years, my lady,’ Odysseus said, looking at the goddess with subdued wonder. ‘Not since—’

‘I appeared to you on Samos, I know. But it does not mean I’ve been apart from you all that time. On the contrary, I have kept a very keen eye on you – on both of you, in fact. And now a time is coming that will test you, each in your different ways; a test of the strength of your characters and your worthiness to conquer Troy. But your test is not to face Hector, Odysseus, and I forbid you to pick a fight with him. Leave that trial for those the gods have already chosen.’

‘Then am I to be a coward king as Palamedes declared, my name forgotten and without glory?’

Athena shook her head and smiled, reaching out to brush her fingers down the side of Odysseus’s beard.

‘It’s rare that Eperitus speaks with any intelligence, but he was right when he told you Palamedes is a fool and a dead one at that. You will find your glory, son of Laertes, though I know few men more heedless of the warrior’s creed. Just use your cunning, the greatest asset the gods awarded to you, and your fame will be established for ever.

‘As for you, Eperitus,’ she added, turning her grey eyes on him. ‘I know the challenges in your heart. And yet your heart is much clearer than your mind, so follow it as you have always done and it will not let you down.’

At that moment another horn call rose above the battle and they turned to see Hector mounting his chariot and riding to another part of the field, where Ajax was driving a company of Trojans back down the slope and leaving chaos and destruction in his wake. Odysseus watched him disappear with a wistful look in his eyes, but when he and Eperitus looked about again Athena was gone.

Chapter Nineteen

HECTOR AND AJAX

The battle raged back and forth and fortunes changed from one side to another as the afternoon wore on. As their men tired, still their captains rallied them to new endeavours, desperately trying to break the deadlock that was slowly beginning to impose itself on the exhausted armies. But for all the efforts of Agamemnon, Menelaus, Diomedes and the other Greek leaders, wherever the fighting was at its hardest and most dangerous, Hector would appear, giving the men of Ilium new courage and determination, while filling their enemies with dismay as he charged into their ranks and brought down their best warriors.

Eventually, the sun began to dip towards the rim of the western ocean, promising twilight and an end to the fighting. Even the hardiest warriors – their limbs aching from the struggle, now barely able to lift their heavy swords or raise their shields for protection – wanted night to come and bring respite so that they could quench their thirsts, rest their weary muscles and count their losses. And so the two armies parted, taking up the positions they had held before Menelaus and Paris had started the day’s struggle. Now, though, the opposing battle lines that had filled the slope for as far as the eye could see, their armour gleaming in the sun, were but a phantom of their former glory. The ranks had been thinned hideously and those who remained standing were caked with dust and blood, their shields and helmets dinted and dull. Meanwhile the bodies of their comrades carpeted the plain, banked up in lines where the tides of battle had raged most furiously. Here and there broken forms twitched or called out for help. But none came, for their countrymen were too fatigued to leave the battered mass of the living.

And yet the day’s fighting was not over, for into the field of human debris stepped Hector. Though his armour was scarred and dusty, his limbs damp with sweat and gore, he looked unwearied as he raised his spears above his head and faced the Greek lines.

‘Trojans! Men of Greece!’ he began, speaking first in his own language and then in Greek. ‘Whether by treachery or the desire of the gods, the truce we agreed to earlier has been broken. Zeus means the war to go on, and many strong and courageous men have died today to please his will. But the sun is only now entering the waters of the Aegean; there is light still to fight by, if Greece can produce a champion who is worthy of me. Send out the best man you have, and if he can kill me, he can strip me of my armour and boast a greater victory than any other Greek has ever claimed before. Equally, if I kill him, then I will take his armour and dedicate it to the undying gods. Only, let the loser’s body be taken back to his own lines for burial and the raising of a tomb that will stand as a monument to himself and his conqueror.’

With that, he pushed his spears into the ground and stood with his arms crossed, surveying the depleted ranks of his enemies. For a long time there was silence as the weary Greeks searched their courage, knowing that Hector’s challenge could not go unmet, but each hoping that another would step forward to answer it. Only Odysseus had the desire to face him, still desperate to disprove Palamedes’s accusation, but a quick look from Eperitus reminded him of Athena’s words and kept him from stepping out. Then, when their silence began to hang over the Greeks like a cloak of shame, Menelaus slipped the shield from his back and took up his spears.

‘Not you, brother,’ said Agamemnon in a low voice, stepping in front of Menelaus. ‘You’ve fought one duel today, and whether you admit it or not the wound you received has weakened you. I’ll not have you throw away your life – and this whole war – for nothing.’

‘Have you no shame?’ Menelaus hissed. ‘Hector is mocking us, while we quake in our armour like children.’

Agamemnon scowled at the suggestion.

‘There’s no shame in refusing to fight! Even the great Achilles is afraid of Hector. Why else has he avoided him on the battlefield for so long?’

‘My cousin has never avoided a fight and you know it,’ Ajax said beside them in his deep, rumbling voice. ‘Achilles is a better man than any here, myself and Hector included. But if no other Greek wants the honour of confronting Hector, then I’ll take up the challenge myself.’

‘Then we will pray to Zeus for your victory, my friend,’ Menelaus said, as Ajax raised his tall shield to his shoulder and picked up his spears.

‘Save your prayers for yourselves,’ Ajax sneered. ‘Any man can claim victory if the gods are with him, but when I’ve sent Hector’s ghost down to the Underworld I want the glory to be given to me alone.’

He walked out from the Greek lines towards Hector, cupping a spear in his right hand as he picked his way across the dead and dying. The sounds of battle had been replaced by the hum of flies and the cawing of carrion birds. To his left the bloated orb of the sun had almost disappeared into the sea, leaving a blood-red smear across the horizon and casting long shadows over the battlefield. The north wind fanned Ajax’s face and found its way into the joins of his armour, cooling the hot skin beneath his sweat-sodden tunic. Hector raised his own spear above his shoulder and began to circle, trying to turn his opponent so that he was facing what remained of the sun. Ajax responded by moving closer, keeping the advantage of the slope and forcing Hector back. Then the Trojan gave a shout and hurled his spear. It twisted through the air towards Ajax, too quick to avoid, and punched into the many-layered oxhide, almost ripping the broad shield from his powerful grip. But it failed to pierce the thick leather and fell into the dirt, the bronze point bent.

Now Ajax advanced, a confident smile breaking his dust-caked beard and face. He pulled his spear back, took aim and launched it with a loud cry that rolled across the battlefield. Hector ducked aside as it sailed past his shoulder, then, with a shout of terrifying rage, charged up the slope with his remaining spear held before him. Ajax lifted his shield and took the point of Hector’s weapon full on the boss, turning it aside and catching his opponent off-balance. With terrifying speed, he stabbed upwards with his spear and the force of the thrust cut through the layers of Hector’s shield, biting into the side of the Trojan’s neck. Hector cried out in pain and flung his shield arm wide, tearing the spear from Ajax’s grip.

The two men fell back, Hector clasping his hand over the gash on his neck while Ajax looked around for another spear. Spotting a large rock close to, Hector lifted it above his head and heaved it towards Ajax with a grunt. It struck the rim of the Greek’s shield and knocked him back into a heap of corpses, where a momentary darkness covered his eyes and he struggled to draw breath. A jubilant cheer rose up from the Trojan armies at the bottom of the slope as Hector drew his sword and strode confidently towards the fallen giant. Before he could reach him, Ajax staggered to his feet and seized the same boulder that had struck him down. He lifted it above his head as if it weighed no more than a child and sent it whirling towards Hector.

It caught the Trojan on the front of his shield, crumpling the wooden frame and smashing him to the ground. With a shout of triumph, Ajax drew his sword and lumbered towards his prey. At the last moment, Hector sensed Ajax’s shadow fall across him and rolled aside, just as the king of Salamis plunged his blade into the ground where Hector’s body had been. Hector’s dazed senses snapped back into focus and he aimed a kick at the huge warrior as he stood over him, catching him just above the groin and sending him reeling backwards, howling in pain. Then he found his sword and, prising another shield from its dead owner’s fingers, leapt to his feet just in time to stop Ajax’s blade from splitting his head down the middle.

They threw themselves at each other now with a terrifying fury that silenced the armies above and below them and had men looking on at the duel in awe. Their blades made hollow thuds against the leather of their shields as they forgot their tiredness and tried to beat each other into submission. But the sun had sunk below the horizon and a dusky light had settled over the battlefield, choked by the haze of dust that still hung there. And then two horns sounded above the noise of battle.

Ajax and Hector both turned to see Agamemnon, Talthybius and Idaeus. The Greek and Trojan heralds held horns in their hands, while Agamemnon signalled for the two combatants to part.

‘Friends, the sun has gone and the light is following fast. Hold your arms now and call the fight a draw. Be satisfied that you both live and have earned more honour for yourselves.’

‘If our fight is to end honourably, then let Ajax and I part as friends, if only until tomorrow,’ Hector said, his breathing heavy and his voice more hoarse than ever. Returning his sword to its scabbard and unslinging it from his shoulder, he presented the silver-studded handle towards his opponent. ‘Ajax, I have never before fought a man like you. Truly, unless another of your comrades can find the skill to beat me in battle, you are the greatest of the Greeks and I give you honour and friendship.’

He bowed and Ajax took the weapon from his hand, admiring the craftsmanship on the handle and the ornate sheath, before withdrawing the blade and feeling its weight in his hand. Then he draped the baldric over his shoulder and unslipped the purple belt from about his own waist, offering it to the Trojan prince.

‘Any man who can still get up and fight after I’ve flattened him with a boulder is worthy of my friendship. Take this belt as a reminder of our fight and wear it with honour, knowing that today you faced a man who has no equal in battle – mortal or immortal.’

‘A dangerous boast, even for a warrior of your quality,’ Hector replied, fastening the belt around his waist. ‘The time may come when the gods will make you regret your words. But now we must thank them we are still alive and call the day’s fighting over.’

Paris lay on the wide, fur-covered bed, his eyes firmly closed in sleep. He was dressed in a white, knee-length tunic – his armour long since removed – and Helen was curled up beside him, resting his head in her lap while she dabbed at his wounded scalp with a damp cloth. The bedroom smelled of her perfume, and though the sun had gone down, the stuccoed walls, white drapes and large windows kept the room bright and airy. The only sound was the swish of the cloth as Helen dipped it into a bowl of warm, slightly scented water; although from time to time, when the north wind dropped a little, the sound of wailing women could also be heard rising up from the lower city.

Helen looked down at her husband and smiled. With Menelaus dead, she thought, the Greeks would soon give up the fight and return home, and then she and Paris would at last be free to enjoy their marriage. There would be no more slaughter for her sake, no more worry that her husband was throwing himself recklessly into battle because of a misguided sense of guilt. And if there remained widows and orphans who could not forgive her presence in their city, that was something she could live with. Had she not left Pergamos at night on countless occasions, veiled and cloaked, to leave gifts of food, even silver and gold, for those who had lost husbands and fathers? She would have to live with the blame for Troy’s dead for the rest of her life, but after so long trapped behind the city’s walls she did not intend to remain imprisoned for their sake. Besides, there were many who loved her, including Priam and Hector, Hecabe and Andromache, and as long as they were happy for her to live with them then she would be content.

She dampened the cloth again and continued gently dabbing it against the wound, careful not to press too hard where Menelaus’s sword had crushed Paris’s helmet into the flesh of his head. Then she heard raised voices in the corridor beyond their bedroom and as she looked up the door burst open and a man in dust-covered, bloodstained armour came crashing into the room. He carried a tall spear in his right hand and a Greek shield over his left shoulder, while strapped round his waist was a belt of bright purple. Helen gasped in shock, momentarily fearing the Greeks had somehow entered the citadel. Then, through the dust and gore, she recognized her brother-in-law.

‘Hector!’

‘Get up!’ Hector ordered, ignoring Helen and pointing a finger at Paris. ‘Get up this instant!’

‘He’s sleeping,’ Helen protested, bending over her husband protectively as Hector strode across the room towards them. ‘He collapsed the moment he was brought into the city and hasn’t woken since.’

Hector seemed unable to hear her. Seizing the bowl from beside Helen’s feet, he poured the contents over his brother’s face before throwing it into a corner, where it smashed into smithereens. Paris shook his head and sat up, wiping the water from his eyes.

‘Where am I?’

‘In the comfort of your own house, damn it, while every other man in Troy has been toiling and dying for your sake! The plains are black with bodies and all the time you’ve been lying here in your wife’s arms. You disgust me!’

‘But it’s—’ Paris began, then looked through one of the windows to see the first stars pricking the evening sky. ‘Gods! Have I slept all this time? Why wasn’t I woken?’

‘You needed to rest,’ Helen replied as his eyes fell on her. ‘So what if others have had to fight without you for a while? Don’t you already do more than your share in this war?’

Hector grabbed his brother by the arm and pulled him from the sodden bed.

‘As long as Paris is responsible for Agamemnon’s presence on our shores, sister, he can never be seen to do more than his share. The men of Ilium have suffered grievously today, as have the Greeks – thousands dead and nearly as many badly wounded. At this very moment the elders are debating whether to return you to Menelaus and end the war, and if Paris wants to keep you here he had better get down to the palace gates and defend himself before it’s too late.’

Paris and Helen looked at each other.

‘But Menelaus is dead,’ Helen declared.

‘I saw him shot,’ Paris added. ‘He fell before my very eyes and his body was carried away by Agamemnon.’

‘You fool,’ Hector chided him. ‘It was a flesh wound only and, unlike you, Menelaus rejoined the fighting as soon as he could. Now, get your cloak and sandals and get down to the palace gates before they send your wife back to Menelaus in your absence.’

Paris gave his brother a black look, but knew that his anger was justified. While he had been allowed to sleep through the day, Hector had performed Zeus only knew what feats on the battlefield on his behalf.

‘I’m sorry, Hector,’ Paris said, pulling on his sandals and throwing a cloak around his shoulders. Then, with a final glance at his wife, he swept from the room.

‘Aren’t you going?’ Helen asked Hector as Paris’s footsteps finally receded out of earshot.

‘I’ve already argued your case,’ he replied, a little calmer now, ‘but it’ll help if Paris is there to defend himself. Apheidas and Aeneas are also standing up for you, but there are some among the council whose sons won’t return from the battlefield. They’re stirring up a storm of anger against you.’

‘Then will I be sent back to Greece?’

For the first time since entering, Hector smiled. ‘You forget the final decision always lies with Priam, and he loves you above all his sons’ wives. And now I must return to Andromache, if only until dawn calls me out to the plain again. Goodnight, Helen.’

‘You were too hard on him, you know,’ she said, taking hold of Hector’s hand. ‘Paris would have gone out on to the battlefield again. It was my fault for not waking him. The whole war is my fault.’

‘The blame for this war lies with no man or woman, sister,’ Hector assured her. ‘It’s the will of the gods and nothing more. As for my anger against your husband, I ask you to forgive me. I love Paris, and I’m only worried that voices will be raised against him for his absence today. I know he would have been there.’

With that he took his spear from the doorjamb where he had leaned it and, giving a final bow, left the room. Helen flopped back down on to the bed, confused and concerned. Though Hector had sought to reassure her about the outcome of the debate – and she did not want to leave Troy and be forced to return to Sparta – it also meant the war would continue and Paris would again take unnecessary risks in battle. When she had threatened to return to her former husband if Paris continued to pointlessly endanger himself, she had not expected him to respond by challenging Menelaus in single combat; and now she was worried he would do the same again. Was that what Hector really wanted, for his brother to sacrifice his life needlessly? Did he want the war to end in such a way and all the Trojan lives that had been lost to count for nothing? And did he not love Helen and want her to remain in Troy? Then surely he would listen to reason and order Paris to stay out of the fighting.

Suddenly she knew what she had to do. She pulled a cloak around her shoulders, drew the hood over her head and ran out into the corridor, her sandals making faint scuffing sounds on the stone floor. Hector lived in an annex of the palace close to the city’s northern watchtower, and it was but a matter of moments before she was at the pillared threshold of his house. The slaves were busily lighting torches in the small courtyard beyond, where the scent of flowers mingled with the smell of the flames. They bowed as she swept past them and up the stairs to the second level, where Hector and Andromache had their bedroom. She rehearsed what she would say as she walked the corridors, wondering whether to rely on her feminine charm or appeal to Hector’s pity to get him to order Paris out of the fighting. But as she approached the bedroom door she heard low voices, one of them tearful, and felt suddenly awkward at the thought of intruding. Instead, she moved quietly to the door and peered through the gap where it had been left ajar.

Hector was still in his grimed and battered armour. Andromache was holding his giant hands in hers, her fine white dress smeared with dust and blood where she had embraced her husband. Her cheeks were stained with tears as her dark eyes looked up into his.

‘I couldn’t bring myself to watch the battle,’ she said, sniffing. ‘But my maids were on the walls. They said you were always where the fighting was hardest, like a man stamping out fires, always leaping into your chariot and riding from one point of the battle to another.’

‘Then they’ve reported truthfully,’ he said with a smile, raising a curled forefinger to her cheek and brushing away a tear. ‘But now I’m back in your arms, my love.’

Andromache choked back a sob, then lowered her head and let the tears flow freely.

‘Then where were Paris and Aeneas, and Sarpedon and Apheidas, and all those other kings and princes and captains of Ilium? Are you to run all the risks yourself?’

Hector wrapped his arms around her and folded her into his armoured chest.

‘The fighting was the hardest I’ve ever known it, and those of us whom the gods made leaders bore the worst of it. Paris was struck down by Menelaus and should have died, if the sword hadn’t broken. Aeneas was almost killed by Diomedes with a rock; Sarpedon was wounded in the leg; Pandarus was killed, and many other men of high renown besides. And that left Apheidas holding the centre and myself dashing around like a Fury.’

‘But this bravery will be the end of you,’ Andromache protested. She pointed to a wooden cot at the foot of their bed. ‘Don’t you care anything for our son? And what about me? Achilles murdered my father and seven of my brothers, and now my mother has died of her grief. What about me, Hector! You’re all I have left. Father, mother, brother and beloved husband: you’re all these things to me now. Why not bring the armies back within the walls? The Greeks are too strong for us on the open field; let them expend themselves against our god-built battlements instead. Unless you do, you’ll make Astyanax an orphan and myself a widow. Have pity!’

She fell to her knees and wrapped her arms around her husband’s thighs, but he lifted her up and looked into her eyes, his face stern.

‘Andromache, you know I love you, but if I don’t lead the fight against these cursed invaders then who will? Unless we drive them back into their galleys, then I promise you they will conquer our holy city before much longer and put it to the torch. And when that day comes, I’ll be killed and you’ll be dragged off to some Greek palace to spend the rest of your life bent over a loom or fetching water from another man’s well. But as long as my shield and spear can keep you free, then I continue fighting.’

Just then, the child woke and began to cry. Helen watched Andromache pluck him from the cot and comfort him until he was quiet, before passing him into the hands of his father. But the moment he looked up and saw the plume of Hector’s helmet nodding down at him, he burst into tears once more and reached for his mother. Hector quickly unslipped the leather ties from beneath his chin and tossed the helmet on to the bed then, raising Astyanax in his hands, kissed him on his little nose and blew out his cheeks, making him laugh.

‘Father Zeus,’ Hector said, looking up at his boy and smiling, ‘make this child grow into a man like his father, to one day become king over all Ilium. Give him strength and courage and grant him victory over his enemies, but above all let him always make his mother happy.’

He kissed the boy again before giving him back to Andromache and wrapping them both in his arms. ‘Don’t fear for me, my love,’ he said. ‘This war won’t last for ever, but while it does then it’s the business of every man in Ilium to fight. And none more so than myself.’

Helen turned from the bedroom door and retreated back down the corridor. For there was one man in Troy who had a greater obligation to fight than Hector, and it was Paris. Even if it meant his death, she could not beg Hector to keep him from the war.

Chapter Twenty

THE VALLEY OF THE DEAD

That evening the Greeks moved back to the top of the ridge, away from the mangled corpses of the fallen. The ordinary soldiers gathered in sullen groups around large fires, to mourn their dead comrades and rue the absence of Achilles, who most believed would have turned the battle in their favour. While his army grumbled against him, Agamemnon declared a great victory and celebrated it with the sacrifice of a five-year-old bull. Ajax was awarded the choicest cut of meat for his duel against Hector, and even Diomedes, who had also fought with god-like valour, did not dispute that the king of Salamis deserved the honour. But the mood among the other leaders was as melancholy as their men’s, tired as they were by their exertions and disheartened by their failure to rout the Trojans. Despite the King of Men’s triumphant claims, few could deny their enemies had proved they were a match for the Greeks; many were already beginning to believe the tenth year of the war would prove as inconclusive as every other before it.

After the meal, Nestor called the leaders to council. Few spoke as a thick bank of cloud rolled out of the east and extinguished the heavenly lights above them. Odysseus was particularly quiet, his eyes dark and brooding as he sat beside Eperitus and held his palms out to the hastily made fire. Eperitus looked at the handful of gaps left by the captains who had fallen, Tlepolemos chief among them, and understood his friend’s mood. A chance to finish the war had come and gone, and Odysseus must have been wondering if he would ever see his home and family again. He must also have been pondering the words of Athena, as Eperitus was himself.

Agamemnon prayed to Zeus for victory and, after they had poured libations into the dust at their feet, Nestor took the staff from the king of Mycenae’s hand and turned to face the circle of men. He began by suggesting they call for a two-day truce to gather and burn the dead, and after receiving the firm agreement of the council added that they should also use the time to finish the camp’s defences – building the wall that had been suggested long ago but never started, fitting gates and deepening the ditch. The King of Men objected immediately, calling the proposal defeatist and holding his hand out for the staff. Nestor ignored him and, turning back to the council, began extolling the courage of the Trojans and Hector in particular. The Greeks needed a last line of defence if the gods continued to favour the Trojans, he argued, for they could no longer count on Achilles to help them. This angered Agamemnon, but the rest of the council supported Nestor and agreed that the wall should be built.

Eperitus was woken the next morning by the feel of rain on his face. His limbs were stiff and heavy and he was tempted to throw the blanket over his head and fall back into sleep, but instead he raised himself on one elbow and looked to the east, where a faint greyness was creeping over the distant mountains. All around him were the humped shapes of his comrades, some fully covered by their blankets, others continuing to snore despite the light drizzle that was falling from the stony heavens. Odysseus was close by, silent and still, only the faint movement of his shoulders indicating he was still breathing.

Quietly and stiffly, Eperitus stood and rolled up his blanket. Then, shaking out his balled-up cloak, which had acted as his pillow, he threw it around his shoulders and went over to the nearest picket fire. Polites and Omeros were there, staring down the slope at the thousands of dark, formless shapes that were just becoming visible in the pre-dawn light. Both men looked up at him as he joined them, their faces pale and their eyes starkly white in the gloom.

‘The rain woke me,’ he explained as he sat down, but Polites raised his fingers to his lips and nodded down the hill.

Eperitus could see anxiety in his face, something he had never known in the giant warrior before, and realized it was more than the stress that followed a hard day’s fighting. He peered down the slope, his keen eyesight struggling against the darkness and the shroud of thin, clinging rain. For a while all he could see were the shapes of the dead, blurred and indistinct and devoid of the individuality that life had once given them. And then he saw it, another shape moving over the heaped corpses, its cloak catching in the light wind that blew out of the north. For a moment Eperitus thought someone was despoiling the dead – a common feature of battlefields in darkness – but then he noticed that the tall figure seemed to be gliding slowly, not pausing or stooping to rob the broken bodies at its feet. Suddenly Eperitus understood who the figure was and a chill of recognition shuddered through him.

‘He’s been there most of the night,’ Omeros commented, his eyes fixed on the slope below. ‘He was there when Polites and I came on watch, and the men we replaced said they had first noticed him at dusk. No one has dared go down to challenge him. We think he’s a god – or a ghost.’

‘It’s Hermes, collecting the souls of the dead,’ Eperitus said, recalling his own experience of the god many years before.

Omeros simply nodded and pulled his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them and looking with dejection at the figure in the semi-darkness. Somehow he had survived his first battle, but the young singer of songs also knew one small twist of fate could have meant his own ghost being caught up beneath Hermes’s cloak and ushered down to the Underworld. The thought of it put fear in his eyes as he watched the god moving over the bodies of the slain, but Eperitus could see that it was a controlled fear. His own long experience of war had shown him more than enough men who had lost all discipline in the face of terror and succumbed to dumb panic. Omeros, he was pleased to note, was not one of them.

As they watched, the darkness slowly became suffused by a grey half-light. Scattered voices began to break the silence of the sleeping army behind them, causing the figure on the slopes to turn and stare at the picket fires on the ridge, as if noticing them for the first time. Then it began to laugh, a deep, mocking sound that seemed to rise up from the ground beneath their feet, filling their heads with despair and loathing as if a finger of doom had been laid upon the whole army. Eperitus pressed his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, only opening them again when he felt the heaviness suddenly lift from his heart. Hermes had gone, like smoke in a breeze, but in the nascent light of the new day he saw that another shape was picking its way towards them over the bodies of the dead. But this was no god: it was Idaeus, the ageing Trojan herald, who raised a ram’s horn to his lips and sent a long, clear note into the air above the battlefield.

He was taken to Agamemnon, where a two-day halt to hostilities was arranged so that both sides could retrieve their dead. After he had gone, Nestor advised that each king or leader should divide his men in half, sending the less hardy back to the camp to build the walls with as much speed as possible, while the more resilient were to remain on the ridge and begin the painful process of gathering the fallen. After the sun had cleared the eastern mountains, though unseen behind the belly of grey clouds that filled the sky from horizon to horizon, the men ate a cold breakfast and then the army was split into two. As half marched back to build the walls, carts and chariots passed them in the opposite direction, sent to collect the bodies and take them back for burning.

The different contingents of the Greek army moved to the parts of the slope where they had fought the day before, looking for their comrades among heaped corpses. The rain fell more heavily now, rattling on helmets and breastplates and soaking into woollen clothing so that every man was soon cold to the bone. It turned the powdery dust of the battlefield to mud, making men slip and struggle as they lifted armoured bodies on to their shoulders and carried them to the waiting carts. Ironically, the rain was not heavy enough to wash away the dust and blood that made many of the dead unrecognizable, so men were detailed to carry pails of water and wash the filth of battle from their faces. Others had lost heads or were too disfigured to identify, and only their armour or clothing distinguished them as Greek or Trojan. Occasionally there would be a shout of despair or a stifled cry as men came across their friends, but Agamemnon had forbidden displays of grief before the Trojans and so the warriors shed their tears in silence.

Similar orders must have been given to the Trojans, so that the only sound that persisted through that long day was the hiss of the rain and the trickle of the small brown rivulets that had formed on the hillside and ran down to join the Scamander. The men of both sides – murderous enemies only a day before – now mingled cautiously as they searched the same heaps of bodies for their comrades. Occasionally a Greek might give a surly nod to a Trojan, or vice versa, and sometimes one side would separate their enemy’s dead from their own and then call across to indicate the pile. Otherwise there was little communication between them: they were still rivals in a deadly contest, and the previous day’s fighting had left feelings of hatred and revenge on both sides.

Eperitus spent as much time scanning the faces of the Trojans as he did the pale, lifeless faces of the dead. After years of loathing the men of Troy, he found it hard to believe their blood ran in his own veins or that he could have anything at all in common with them; and yet, as he watched them gather their dead, he could not help but admire the strength they had shown in battle. Before yesterday, they had only ventured beyond their own walls to fight limited skirmishes – small clashes to foil Greek plans and in which they had been aided by information from the traitor Palamedes. But now they had attempted to break the deadlock – perhaps because they had been blinded by the loss of Palamedes and could no longer anticipate the next Greek attack – and had proved themselves a formidable enemy, worthy of respect. As he looked at them he found himself thinking of Astynome and how she had asked him to go with her to Troy, even to become a Trojan. Had he made the right choice? he wondered, and the moment the thought entered his head he was appalled that he should think such a thing. Had not the Pythoness warned him against betraying his friends for the sake of love, all those years ago? Was this the challenge in his heart Athena had spoken of? He stared around at the faces of the dead, gazing up into the rain with soulless eyes; too many of them were Greeks, killed in a war that the Trojans had caused. Picking up the body of one of the most recent batch of Ithacan reinforcements, a lad whose name he had heard but could not remember, he threw it across his shoulder and trudged angrily up the slope towards a half-filled cart.

‘Eperitus!’ called a voice.

He dropped the body into the cart and turned to see the barrel-like figure of Peisandros jumping down from the back of a newly arrived wagon.

‘Eperitus,’ he repeated, seizing the Ithacan’s hand and pulling him into a hug. ‘I’m glad to see you survived the fighting. They say it was a hard day.’

‘See for yourself,’ Eperitus replied, sweeping an arm towards the corpse-strewn battlefield, where more than half the bodies still remained where they had fallen. ‘We could have done with the help of the Myrmidons. Is that why you’re here? Has Achilles decided to rejoin the fighting?’

Peisandros shook his head despondently. ‘You know how proud he is, Eperitus; it’ll take a lot of grovelling from Agamemnon before he takes up his spear and shield and fights for the Greeks again. No, I came here to see if things are as bad as they’re saying back at the camp – and from the corpses I passed on the way and those that are left, I’d say it was worse. What about Odysseus and the others?’

‘I’m well,’ said the king, appearing beside the cart with a body over his shoulder. He laid it down on top of the others and paused to brush a tumble of hair from its face, then embraced the Myrmidon spearman warmly. ‘And the others, too – Eurylochus, Polites, Arceisius and Antiphus all came through safely. But why’s Achilles still hanging back, Peisandros? Can’t he see he’s missing all the glory, and that we need him?’

Peisandros rubbed his chin and looked down the slope.

‘He knows you need him. In fact, it’s his fault the Greeks are being slaughtered in the first place.’

‘How can it be Achilles’s fault?’ asked Eperitus.

‘You forget his mother is chief of the Nereids. He asked her to speak to Zeus for him, so the father of the gods would give the upper hand to the Trojans. He wants Agamemnon to be humiliated and the Greeks made to see they’re helpless without him.’

‘But that’s ludicrous,’ Odysseus protested. ‘He’s fought at our sides the whole campaign; why would he turn against us for the sake of Agamemnon’s arrogance?’

‘Do you think we haven’t asked ourselves the same question?’ Peisandros retorted. ‘It has to be this war. We’ve had ten years of fighting and the savagery gets to us all in the end, even Achilles. Perhaps him most of all. After all, he’s lived every day here knowing he will never leave Ilium alive, and that can’t be easy for any man. That and his rigid pride; I’m only surprised something like this hasn’t happened before. Anyway, now I’m here I’ll help you with the bodies. We’ve a lot of work to do if we’re to clear the field by sundown.’

They moved back down the slope, Peisandros looking with sad eyes at the terrible slaughter all around him, and resumed the work of retrieving their dead countrymen. Above them, cart after cart squealed away with their bloody burdens, the teams of oxen plodding slowly through the thick mud and sheet rain. That the heavens could contain so much water seemed impossible to those that toiled beneath it – especially in the middle of a Trojan spring – but as Peisandros commented, at least it kept the flies off the bodies. Then Odysseus spotted Omeros, sitting among the dead with his head in his hands. Beside him was Elpenor, another of the recent arrivals from Ithaca, whose young face had gained years in a single day; a skin of wine was clutched between his knees and his glassy eyes were staring emptily across the Scamander towards Troy. Together they had carried the bodies one by one to the carts, but now it seemed the task had defeated their will to carry on. Odysseus took pity on them.

‘Omeros,’ he called, ‘give us a song, lad.’

Omeros lifted his head and stared vaguely at his king.

‘A song, my lord? Here?’

‘Yes, here. If men can sing about battlefields, why can’t they sing on battlefields? Give us something to take our minds off . . . off our work.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Omeros dragged himself to his feet and looked down into the valley of the dead. His cheeks were flushed with tears and for a moment Eperitus thought he might just sit back down and bury his face in his hands once more. But he remained standing and, after accepting a swallow of wine from the skin Elpenor held up to him, he cleared his throat and raised his chin a touch.

At first, his voice was a soft, quiet sound, almost drowned by the patter of the rain. A few of the men looked up and saw a small, pale-faced lad standing on the slopes above them, before ignoring him and returning to their grim work. Eperitus looked at Odysseus and was about to speak, but the king placed a finger to his lips. As he did so Omeros’s voice rose a little and the words became more distinguishable. But where Eperitus had expected a dirge, he was surprised to recognize a popular song about the seven heroes who had fought to conquer Thebes during the dark days of the Greek civil wars. It told of their deaths before the walls of the city, of their heroism, courage and sacrifice for one another, and as the young bard’s voice found itself and began to rise above the sound of the rain, Eperitus felt his throat thicken and tears come to his eyes. The men on the slopes stopped working and looked up, standing and listening as the song’s words spread their net about them, pulling them in deeper and deeper as the young bard grew in confidence, forgetting the rain and the oppressive darkness and singing as if he would never have the chance to sing again.

Then another voice added itself to Omeros’s, low and resonant but equally engaging. Eperitus looked at Odysseus in mute surprise, then began to sing himself, quietly at first but with growing conviction as the combined voices rang out across the battlefield. Even the Trojans were stopping and listening.

Before long the song was being picked up and repeated along the whole line of the ridge, by Ithacans, Argives, Spartans, Mycenaeans and men of every nation, honouring the glorious dead with their voices as they carried their bodies to the waiting carts.

Chapter Twenty-One

THE STORM

The rain hissed in the courtyard outside the great hall on Ithaca. It drummed against the doors and the roof of the portico, and came in through the vent in the centre of the ceiling. Penelope stroked her fingertips lightly over Argus’s head as he lay beside her chair, thumping his tail against the floor. Phronius sat opposite the queen on a high-backed chair, his white hair and beard still matted with the rain. His cloak was hanging from the back of another chair, turned about so that it faced the flames of the hearth. A faint steam was rising out of the thick wool.

‘He offered you gold to resign from the Kerosia?’ Mentor asked, the disbelief clear in his tone.

‘You heard me right,’ Phronius croaked toothlessly. ‘Enough gold and other wealth to see me through to my dying day. Very generous, I’d have called him, too, if he wasn’t such a devious old serpent. Not that he ever fooled Laertes or me with his supposed change of heart.’

‘I wonder if he ever really fooled Odysseus,’ said Penelope.

‘I didn’t mean any criticism of the king . . .’ Phronius protested.

‘Of course you didn’t, and your loyalty to him has put Odysseus in your debt. The fact that Eupeithes was prepared to offer you a bribe proves my suspicions were true – he wants to take control of the Kerosia, and perhaps he’s not that bothered who knows it.’

‘He should be,’ Halitherses snarled. ‘I’ll collect a dozen guardsmen in the morning and arrest him.’

Mentor shook his head.

‘He wasn’t so careless as to make the offer in person. It was only suggested through an acquaintance and, despite Phronius’s convictions, Eupeithes wasn’t mentioned by name. We have no proof.’

‘Give me tomorrow morning with him in a quiet storeroom and I’ll get you all the proof you need,’ Halitherses replied, gripping the edge of his chair.

‘We aren’t tyrants, old friend,’ Penelope said, her calm voice belying the look of concern in her eyes. ‘We have no choice but to wait for him to make a mistake and reveal his crooked intentions more openly. Until then, we will have to simply watch our backs.’

‘You must look out for the boy, too,’ Phronius added, leaning forward on to his staff as he slowly levered himself from his chair. He signalled for one of the servants to fetch his cloak. ‘If Eupeithes is gambling Odysseus won’t return and thinks he can take power through the Kerosia, at some point he will have to deal with Telemachus. Even if Odysseus doesn’t come back from Troy – forgive me, my lady – Telemachus will inherit the throne at twenty-one. Eupeithes knows that.’

He emphasized his point by staring at each of the others in turn, Penelope last and longest. Not that he needed to make her understand: she had long known the dangers that surrounded her son, and more so with the reawakening of Eupeithes’s treacherous nature. Her fears had not been helped by an instinctive knowledge that the fighting in Ilium had started again, and that her husband was in greater danger than he had ever been before.

The servant draped the cloak over Phronius’s frame and the old man, too bent already to make a meaningful bow, satisfied himself with a nod to the queen.

‘And now I will beg your leave. It may be a short walk to my hut for some, but at my age it’s still quite a trek.’

‘Let me walk with you, Phronius,’ Halitherses offered, rising from his chair. ‘It’s growing dark and—’

Phronius gave a dismissive wave of his stick and stumped off to the doors of the great hall, which were opened for him by two armed soldiers. Outside, the rain had slowed to a steady drizzle, but the uneven courtyard was a patchwork of puddles, the largest forming a small lake at the bottom step of the portico. Phronius made a resigned huffing sound and stepped into it. The water was above his ankles in an instant, and by the time he had reached the gates and the terrace beyond, both feet and the hem of his cloak were soaked and filthy with the mud of the courtyard.

Phronius’s hut lay a little beyond the eastern edge of the town, on a grassy shelf of rock that overlooked the sea. It was distant enough for him to keep his own company – which he preferred to the pestering interference of town life – and the views at sunrise were enough to make a man happy just to be alive. The seagulls cawed and screeched from dawn until dusk and the crashing of the waves on the rocks below the grassy shelf never ceased, but he had grown used to the din of it many years ago and now he doubted he would get to sleep without it.

Before long, even at his creeping pace, he had passed the outskirts of the town and could see the grey wisp of smoke rising up from the roof of his own hut. It was barely visible in the growing darkness, through the haze of fine rain, but he greeted the phantom-like column with a satisfied grunt, knowing he would soon be tucked up in his bed until the first glimmer of dawn woke him. Indeed, his body was so heavy with tiredness, he felt as if he would sleep for ever.

Then he saw a figure rise up from the rocks at the side of the path. The man stepped out in front of him and planted his legs shoulder-width apart.

‘Who’s there?’ Phronius asked, slipping his hand down to grasp the neck of his staff. In younger hands it would make an effective club; in his feeble, arthritic fingers it did not even amount to a threat.

‘Friends,’ came another voice, this time behind him.

Phronius twisted around to see a second man blocking the route back to the town – as if he would have been able to escape anyway. His voice was young and faintly familiar, despite being muffled by the cloth that hid the lower half of his face.

‘Friends to whom?’ Phronius challenged.

‘That depends. Have you thought about the offer that was made to you?’

‘Hmph!’ Phronius replied.

He carried on along the path towards the first man, who had also masked his lower face. To Phronius’s surprise he stepped aside and let him pass, but both men followed him at a short distance.

‘That’s not an answer,’ the second man called, raising his voice over the crash and boom of the waves as they neared Phronius’s hut.

‘It’s all the answer you’ll get.’

Phronius reached the grassy shelf of rock and drew confidence from the sight of his hut, built under the shelter of an inward-leaning cliff face. He could smell the woodsmoke much more strongly now, as well as the pot of stew he had left warming over the embers of the hearth. If he could get inside, the old spear he kept behind the door would even matters. But he never reached the hut. In a few easy strides, the first man placed himself between Phronius and his home, and this time his cloak was thrown back to reveal the gleam of a dagger in his belt.

Then a hand fell heavily on Phronius’s shoulder and he was dragged forcefully to the lip of the rock shelf. He caught a glimpse of the black waves far below and the foaming lines of jagged boulders that awaited his frail body.

‘Think carefully, old man,’ hissed the second assailant, clutching at his robe and dangling him backwards over the cliff edge. His eyes were fearful and uncertain, but with a dangerous edginess about them. ‘You’ve proved your loyalty to Odysseus time and time again, nobody can deny that. But the king won’t be coming back from Troy, so it’s time for you to stand down from the Kerosia and let a younger voice take your place.’

With a speed that surprised even himself, Phronius hooked his fingers into the cloth that covered the man’s mouth and tore it away from his face.

‘Antinous!’ he exclaimed, recognizing the haughty features of Eupeithes’s only son. ‘I should have realized it was you. And will the voice that replaces mine on the Kerosia be yours?’

‘Yes, and why not? The Kerosia needs some younger heads to replace the old fools Odysseus left behind.’

‘Go to Hades, Antinous. You’ll be nothing more than a mouthpiece for your treacherous father, and I’d rather die than allow that to happen.’

‘So be it,’ Antinous sneered.

He splayed his fingers, releasing the folds of Phronius’s cloak. The old man’s heels scuffed pathetically against the cliff edge for an instant, kicking off one of his sandals, and then he was falling into nothingness. He felt a momentary lightness and freedom from the cramped and twisted prison of his body, then his ankle caught an outcrop of rock, spinning him around so that his head was mangled by the cliff face. Phronius was dead before his body could be impaled on the black teeth below, or the powerful waves could snatch him away and fill his lungs with salt water.

On the slopes above the Scamander, the passing of the sun was marked only by a deeper greyness; with the onset of night came distant rumbles of thunder and an increase in the wind. Lightning lit the clouds above the eastern mountains, and by its intermittent flashes the last of the bodies were hauled from the battlefield and carried away.

While the rest of the army struggled to make fires in the wind and rain, Odysseus offered to take Peisandros back to the ships in his chariot. After a difficult journey in the darkness, they passed between the great mounds of the dead – fifty of them at least – and so came to the edge of the camp. By this time the storm had rolled westward towards the sea, and as a bolt of lightning parted the clouds the newly built walls sprang up from the other side of the ditch. They had already been raised to the height of a man and the rain-washed bricks gleamed wetly as the stark light bounced off them, before disappearing again and leaving only an impression of a deeper darkness where the walls had been. They reached a causeway marked by torches and guarded by bronze-clad soldiers, where Peisandros leapt down. He accepted Odysseus’s hand in farewell, as the blustering wind made words useless, and then the king turned his chariot around and sent the frightened horses back as fast as they would go to the ridge above the Scamander valley.

As the next day arrived, overcast but without rain, Agamemnon changed his mind about the wall and decided that every effort should now be thrown into making it higher and thicker, while the ditch before it should be dug deeper and filled with sharpened poles. Perhaps unnerved by the sight of the dead piled up on the plain beyond the camp, he ordered the army back from their positions overlooking the Scamander and set them to work on the defences. This caused resentment from the men who had fought to defend the ridge and strongly worded protests from their leaders, who knew the strategic value of such a position in the face of a Trojan army that was suddenly intent on facing them in the open. But Agamemnon refused to listen, insisting the men were needed to help build the wall and cut down hundreds of trees, to supply wood for the gates and the stakes, as well as provide fuel for the funeral pyres.

These were lit at midday and quickly filled the air with the stench of burning flesh. Great columns of black smoke twisted upwards to mingle with the low clouds, and shortly afterwards were followed by similar columns from Troy. The different Greek armies stood around the pyres where their comrades’ bodies were stacked and as the flames fed greedily the men raised their spears and shouted three times to the heavens. It was a shout of grief and despair, pride and defiance, and glorification of the dead. Once they had saluted the fallen they returned to their tasks, their already stiff limbs labouring hard in the sunless warmth. Eventually, as the sun went down on the second and final day of the truce, the wall was complete, its gates fitted and its ditch made almost uncrossable by man or horse. The Greeks set a line of pickets on the plain and more guards on the wall, then returned to their tents. Here they feasted and drank, easing their grief and tiredness with a newly arrived shipment of wine from Lemnos. As they lay down to sleep the sky rumbled with distant thunder, but no storm came and the rain held.

At dawn, the gates in the new wall were thrown open and the chariots of the Greek leaders dashed out, followed by endless columns of infantry and cavalry. They trudged over the causeways that bridged the ditch and formed up in dense blocks on the plain beyond with their standards trailing above them. Overhead, the skies were like an ocean of pale grey marble, streaked with skeins of darker cloud that twisted and curled across the face of the monotonous mass. The distant thunder of the previous evening still rumbled over the tortured surface of the Aegean, and as the army began its slow, all-consuming march towards Troy, the rain began to fall.

Eperitus heard the approach of the Trojan army long before any of the others and knew that they must have spent the night camped on the ridge where the previous battle had taken place. Now they were advancing across the pastureland towards them, and this time the Greeks would not have the advantage of the higher ground. Then, through the curtains of grey that swept west to east across the plain, he saw them: row upon row of shields, helmets and spears, shining dully in the pallid light that filtered from above. He called to Odysseus who, trusting to his captain’s eyesight, drove his chariot across the line towards Agamemnon. Soon, orders were being shouted and the whole army tensed like a muscle, the lines of warriors drawing closer together and their lumbering movement becoming suddenly tighter as their step found a unified rhythm. In contrast, the units of skirmishers moved forward at a run, losing any sense of formation as they spread out and pulled the bows from their backs.

Now every man in the army could see their foe in the near distance. The terrible fighting of three days before seemed to have had no effect on their numbers, as the wall of their shields spread in a long line across the plain, the threatening packs of cavalry only just visible on each flank. The skirmishers of both sides rushed into range and released deadly swarms of arrows at each other. Men fell thickly, their death cries strangely dampened by the hissing rain. But the main armies did not wait for the archery duel to be decided: kings and princes sent their chariots to the rear and led their men into battle on foot, quickening their pace as they passed through the archers and came within spear-shot of their hated enemies.

Odysseus tossed his spear up so that it sat in the palm of his right hand, then, pulling it back over his shoulder, dashed forward and hurled it with a great shout at the Trojan lines. No order had been given, but on both sides men instinctively knew the range at which their weapons would be effective and the two armies surged forward simultaneously to fill the air with missiles. A moment later the bronze points bit home, piercing shield, cuirass and helmet as if they were little more than wool. Screams rang out and men crumpled all around, driven into the ground by the unstoppable force of the spears that took their lives. Brief holes appeared in the densely packed ranks of men, only to be filled in an instant as the two armies lowered their weapons and surged towards each other.

Odysseus sensed Eperitus’s familiar presence at his side, and though they were running headlong at a line of viciously sharpened spear points he felt no fear knowing that his friend was there. Then, letting out a shout of defiance at his enemies, he plunged between their long lances and pushed the head of his weapon into the shoulder of a man whose face was but a momentary blur as the bronze tore through his flesh and sent him crashing to the thick mud at his feet. Eperitus downed the man next to him and together he and Odysseus began to drive a wedge into the enemy line, not allowing their foes time to close up the gaps left by their headlong charge. A man pushed his spear at Odysseus’s stomach, only for the king to knock it aside with his shield and bury his own spear into his attacker’s chest. It pierced the overlapping bronze scales and ruptured his heart, felling him in a moment. Eperitus was less precise. He punched his shield into a Trojan warrior, knocking him to the ground and stepping across him to sink his deadly bronze into the throat of the soldier behind, a youth whose ill-fitting helmet had slipped forward over his eyes and blinded him.

On either side of them the Ithacans were fighting with equal fury, many striking down their opponents and as many more falling to the ill-fortune of war. The air was filled with the clamour of battle: the metallic clang of weapons that rang in a man’s skull for days afterwards; the familiar grunts and cries of men fighting and dying; the hiss of rain and the sound of it drumming on leather and bronze; and over everything the rumble of the storm as it drew inland. Light flickered in the belly of the cloud, followed short moments later by a loud crash. Odysseus glanced to the side and saw Eperitus hacking left and right with his sword, his face an unrecognizable mask of wrath as he spread havoc and death among his enemies. Then he sensed a figure rushing towards him and twisted aside as the head of a spear skipped across his body armour. It was quickly withdrawn again and Odysseus turned to see the young face of a Trojan noble, this time aiming his weapon higher at the king’s chest. Odysseus swung his shield before him, stopping the point of his assailant’s spear and thrusting it back. Raising his own spear over his shoulder, he stabbed down at the dark, handsome face of his opponent. The Trojan ducked aside and rushed forward, punching his shield into Odysseus’s and trying to force him back. The man was strong, but Odysseus was stronger. As they stared hard at each other across the rims of their shields, Odysseus dropped his spear and tugged his sword free of its scabbard. His enemy did the same. Their blades clashed, but as they withdrew in an effort to give themselves space to fight, a trickle of rain ran into Odysseus’s eye, momentarily blurring his vision. The Trojan saw his chance and leapt forward with his sword at arm’s length. Half-blinded, Odysseus sensed the move and pulled, while striking downwards on to his attacker’s sword hand. The blow severed his thumb at the knuckle and, dropping the weapon, the Trojan fell to his knees and clutched the injured hand under the armpit of his other arm.

‘Mercy!’ he shouted in Greek, as Odysseus raised his sword for the killing blow. ‘Have mercy, my lord, I beg you. My father is rich and will pay any ransom you demand of him for my return. Spare me and I will honour your name among my fellow Trojans, so that not only wealth but also glory will be yours.’

Odysseus looked at the man kneeling before him and hesitated. There were tears of pain and despair in the Trojan’s eyes as he held his maimed hand into his body, but he had fought well and perhaps deserved life more than many who would survive that day.

‘What’s your name, lad?’ he asked.

‘Adrestos, my lord. My father is a merchant who traded goods with Greeks from Mycenae and Crete; that’s how I learned your language. I hold no grudge against the Greeks. If Paris hadn’t taken Helen, this war would never have happened.’

‘It would have happened all right, one way or another,’ Odysseus replied. ‘And now it’s up to us to finish it. But if I ransom you, you will rejoin the fight. Perhaps you will kill Greeks who would otherwise have lived – you’re no mean warrior, Adrestos – and perhaps you will make this war last a little longer. I cannot allow that to happen, not for all the gold and glory in Ilium if it means even one more day apart from my wife and son. I’m sorry.’

He raised his sword again, but was stopped by a shout.

‘Odysseus!’

The two men turned to see Eperitus running towards them. His eyes were burning with the ferocity of battle and the rain that ran from his armour and sword was pink with the gore of his victims.

‘What are you doing? You can’t kill an unarmed man, especially one who’s thrown himself at your mercy. It’s nothing less than murder!’

An angry flicker crossed Odysseus’s features. He had never been the most principled of men, but he did not need to be reminded of the ruthlessness of his intentions – least of all by a man who did not have a family and a kingdom to influence his high-minded notions.

‘He’s my prisoner, Eperitus,’ Odysseus warned his captain. ‘And if you think we’re ever going to win this war by sparing our enemies to fight another day—’

‘You’re letting your desire to go home cloud your judgement,’ Eperitus interrupted, his sodden clothes clinging to him as more rain beat against his armour. ‘First the prisoner at the ravine, then Palamedes, and now this. Cruel logic isn’t the way to defeat Troy. There’s no honour in it.’

‘Honour means different things to different men,’ Odysseus informed him coldly, sheathing a sword and plucking a spear from the body of a dead Ithacan. ‘And your old-fashioned notion of it has no place in this war.’

As he spoke, Adrestos sprang up and made to run. A moment later he was face down in the thick mud, Odysseus’s spear protruding from his back.

‘Let that be an end to the matter,’ the king growled, retrieving the weapon. ‘Come on. This fight is far from over yet.’

All around them were dead and dying men and yet the battle lines had hardly shifted from where the two sides had first clashed. Though the Greeks were gaining ground in some places, in others it was being taken from them by the resolute Trojans. Odysseus and Eperitus rejoined the battle side by side, angry with one another and yet not so angry that they did not seek the safety and comfort that the other man’s presence offered. Again they fought until their muscles ached, with arrows flying over and around them and the heavens above rumbling and flashing with a sound like a thousand drums beating together at once. Strangely, the storm did not move on, and those that were not in the forefront of the fighting began to say that it was sent by the gods to increase their torment and fill men with fear. And then, as the morning wore on towards another deadlock, men sensed a change in the air. The clouds rose higher, but instead of breaking up or moving south, driven away by the north wind, they grew darker and seemed to churn with an inner anguish. Then a loud crack sundered the sky and a bolt of lightning flashed downwards into the terrified ranks of the Greek army. A man was struck dead, while those around him clapped their hands to their eyes and staggered away from the blast. Then a second strike followed, overturning a Greek chariot and sending its crew spilling to the ground. After that, no man was in doubt that the favour of Zeus had been given to the Trojans.

Suddenly the stalemate was broken. The Greeks began to fall back, some even tossing their weapons aside and fleeing headlong in the direction of the camp, which was still a long march across the plains to the rear. Odysseus and Eperitus looked around at the chaos of running men and speeding chariots then, realizing that widespread panic could mean the destruction of the entire army, began ordering the Ithacans to re-form the line. Further along Idomeneus was doing the same with his Cretans, but the two armies were only small islands of discipline among a sea of anarchy. What was happening beyond the sheet rain even Eperitus’s eyes could not see.

For a moment the Trojans seemed too shocked to press home the attack and allowed their enemies to retreat before them. Then shouts and horn calls filled the air and, with a roar of triumph, the long ranks of warriors surged forward, hurling their spears at the tattered Greek line. Many fell beneath the deadly hail, while many more simply broke and fled in the face of the charging Trojans. A handful of Ithacans ran, Eurylochus and his cronies foremost among them, but the remainder stood firm beneath the dolphin banner of their king.

The Trojan spearmen fell on their retreating enemies with the ferocity of men who had been kept too long behind the walls of their city. They wanted revenge for years of siege and bloodshed, and though the Greeks fought hard they were pushed inevitably back in the direction of their camp. Then, as Odysseus fought with Eperitus and Arceisius at his side, horn calls sounded behind them and a dozen chariots came driving out of the rain and crashed into the enemy ranks. At their head were Diomedes and Nestor. The younger man was leaning over the chariot rail and beheading terrified warriors with his long sword, while the older cut down several more with thrusts of his spear as the Trojans were thrown into disarray.

‘Form a rearguard,’ Nestor shouted to Odysseus, spotting him in the thick of the fighting. ‘That fool Agamemnon’s ordered the army back to the wall, but it’s a long way back and someone has to keep the retreat from becoming a rout.’

As he spoke, an arrow hit one of his horses in the forehead. It fell heavily, pulling the other horse and the chariot over with it and throwing Nestor and his driver to the ground. Diomedes ordered his chariot around and went to the old king’s aid, just as Hector came dashing out from the thick curtains of rain on the Trojan side. He saw the overturned chariot and with a howl of triumph steered his horses towards it.

‘Help us, Odysseus!’ Diomedes cried, leaping down from his chariot and running to Nestor’s side.

The king of Pylos lay on all fours, his helmet lost and blood in his grey hair. As he heard Diomedes’s shout for help, he threw out his hand and shook his head.

‘No, Odysseus. Form the rearguard or the army is doomed. Everything depends on you.’

Odysseus stared wild-eyed at the scene before him, the indecision contorting his face. Men and chariots were in full flight before the Trojan onslaught, but there were still whole companies of warriors who had not lost their nerve and were making a fighting withdrawal. If there was a leader who could pull them together, they could keep their pursuers at bay while the rest of the army sought the safety of the Greek walls. And yet if he abandoned Diomedes and the stricken Nestor then Hector and his victorious Trojans would quickly overwhelm them. He was also mindful of Athena’s order not to face Hector.

‘Eperitus; Arceisius,’ he said, ‘give all the help you can to Diomedes and Nestor – and don’t be drawn into a fight with Hector, if you can avoid it. I’ll take charge of whoever is left and form a rearguard.’

He clapped a hand on Eperitus’s shoulder, then with a brief smile and a nod he moved into the lines of Ithacans, shouting for them to fall back. Whether he would be able to knit together a body of men who could hold off the Trojans – and most especially their cavalry – Eperitus did not know, but if any man in the army could do it, that man was Odysseus. Then he turned and saw Diomedes helping Nestor towards his own chariot, where Sthenelaus waited at the reins. Nestor’s driver had regained his feet and, though dazed, had seen Hector approaching rapidly across the battle lines, a spear balanced in the palm of his right hand. He scrambled to pick up a discarded shield and spear from the many dead that lay all around.

‘Come on,’ Eperitus said.

He sprang forward, closely followed by Arceisius, knowing at a single glance that they would never cover the ground to Diomedes and Nestor before Hector reached them. Then Nestor’s driver dashed forward and threw his spear with reckless aim. It crossed the path of the Trojan chariot, narrowly missing the horses and causing them to turn aside. A smack of the reins and a harsh shout from their driver pulled them back on course. Then Hector hurled his own weapon and Nestor’s charioteer fell back into the mud. An instant later, Hector’s second spear was in his hand as his chariot now charged headlong at the kings of Argos and Pylos.

Eperitus knew there was but one chance to save them. He stopped and pulled back his spear, taking aim along its black shaft. Then a shout to his right announced the approach of a group of enemy soldiers, who had spotted the lone Ithacans and were running at them with murderous intent.

‘Arceisius!’ Eperitus barked.

The young warrior nodded and ran to meet the new threat, somehow slipping between the hedge of spear points and bringing his sword to bear on the disadvantaged enemy. Eperitus watched him cut down his first opponent, then turned his attention back to Hector’s speeding chariot. The Trojan was almost upon the stricken forms of Diomedes and Nestor, the former trying desperately to drag his wounded comrade towards his waiting chariot. Eperitus took aim again, lining up the point of his spear with the galloping horses, just as Hector pulled back his own weapon. Drawing on all his experience and instinct to judge the throw, Eperitus uttered a prayer to Athena and launched his heavy spear. It caught Hector’s unarmoured driver in the chest and sent him crashing backwards from the car. Panicked by the loss of control, the horses saw the wreck of Nestor’s chariot before them and veered aside, almost spilling Hector into the mud. Then the chariot disappeared into the thick rain, Hector desperately hanging on to the rail with one hand and reaching for the reins with the other.

Eperitus did not spare himself a moment to exult over the small victory. He pulled his sword from its scabbard and ran to where Arceisius was struggling to fight off his attackers. Already two lay dead, but four still lived and were trying to form a circle around the reckless but skilful Greek, whose wildly swinging blade kept them at arm’s length. Then Eperitus was upon them, burying his sword into the liver of the left-most Trojan and killing him instantly. The others, already dismayed by Arceisius’s ferocity and seeing Diomedes’s chariot approaching, quickly turned and fled.

‘I’m taking Nestor back to the camp,’ Diomedes announced as Sthenelaus reined the pair of horses in beside the Ithacans. ‘Join Odysseus with the rearguard and tell him I won’t abandon him. He just needs to hold on until I can organize a counter-attack.’

Sthenelaus gave a tug on the reins and the horses kicked forward. As they broke into a gallop, Diomedes turned back to Eperitus and cupped his hands around his mouth.

‘And thank you for saving our lives,’ he shouted before vanishing into the sheet rain.

Chapter Twenty-Two

THE REARGUARD

The Greek camp was in turmoil. Beneath the wind and rain, the bellowing thunder and staccato flashes of lightning, thousands of exhausted men stood or sat, many wounded and many more leaderless and confused. Some were without their weapons, which they had discarded on the battlefield, while others had run down to the ships in blind panic, expecting the walls to tumble and fifty thousand Trojans to come rushing in on them at any moment. But in the thick of the chaos order was being restored. Kings, princes and captains shouted orders and marshalled what was left of their armies, sending some to man the walls and others to defend the gates, through which a constant stream of stragglers was pouring into the relative safety of the camp. The fact that they were able to do so was down to the fighting rearguard that had been organized from the broken units of a dozen Greek states and were at that moment repelling wave after wave of Trojan infantry. It was only a matter of time, though, before their resolve collapsed and they, too, were driven back to the walls.

Agamemnon stood in his chariot and looked around in anger and despair. He did not blame himself for what had happened – it was clearly the work of the gods – and yet he burned with shame that, not so far away, Achilles would be sitting in his hut laughing at his misfortune. He would no doubt be boasting to his Myrmidons that the Greeks were nothing without him, and that the great King of Men himself was unable to stop Hector and his allies.

He surveyed the chaos with as much restraint as he could muster, his eyes offended by the sight of soaked and bedraggled soldiers and his ears assailed by the groans of the wounded. How could his splendid army have been reduced to this? Then he saw the once-proud kings who had sworn to help him raze Troy to the ground: Menelaus, brooding and sulky at the defeat; Diomedes, tending to Nestor’s wounds as if he were the old man’s nursemaid; Idomeneus, busy organizing the defenders on the walls in an effort to cover his disgrace on the plains; and the two Ajaxes, who dared to look at Agamemnon with disdain, though they were clearly incapable of stemming the Trojan victory themselves.

‘Shame on you!’ Agamemnon shouted, succumbing to his wrath at last. ‘Shame on you all! Call yourselves Greeks? Greek women, perhaps! I remember your boasts at Aulis, when you feasted night by night in my tent and said that each of you was worth a hundred Trojans. It seems to me the whole crowd of you couldn’t stand up to Hector alone.’

‘I can and have!’ Great Ajax shouted, drawing the sword Hector had given him after their duel and holding it aloft as evidence.

‘It wasn’t any of us who ordered a retreat,’ Diomedes added, furiously. ‘But I promised Odysseus I would go back for him, and now I’ve brought Nestor to safety I intend to keep my word. My Argives will ride out to help the rearguard, but who will come with us?’

‘We will,’ Great Ajax answered, indicating Little Ajax and Teucer.

‘And I will,’ said Menelaus, leaping up into his chariot and turning to the soldiers around him. ‘Spartans! Now is not the time to sulk over a setback or mourn the day’s dead. If any of you still call yourselves men, then take up your spears and follow me.’

And with a roar of anger the Greeks followed their kings back to the causeways.

By the time Diomedes had left Eperitus and Arceisius, the tide of battle had already washed over them and left them behind the main force of Trojans. But the gods had not abandoned them and somehow – perhaps mistaken for Trojans by the companies of enemy spearmen and cavalry they passed through – they found their way across the field of bodies to the last wall of Greek shields. There were but two or three thousand of them, flanked by troops of horsemen on either side who struggled to master their mounts in the intense storm. But even here the two Ithacans were almost killed by a volley of their countrymen’s spears as they approached, only saving themselves by waving their arms and calling out in Greek.

They joined a group of Euboeans as a shower of arrows and spears fell among the rearguard, felling several and announcing a new attack. Moments later a horde of Trojans came screaming at them. The Greeks stood their ground and drove their assailants back again after a short but ferocious fight that left many dead on both sides. Then Eperitus heard the familiar voice of Odysseus over to their right, ordering the ever-dwindling force of men to resume the steady march back to the camp. As the rearguard lifted their shields and shouldered their spears, many casting anxious glances over their backs, Eperitus gestured to Arceisius and ran to the centre of the line where he had heard Odysseus. The king saw them approach and greeted them both with an embrace, giving Eperitus a look that told him their earlier argument was forgotten. Then the recently constructed ramparts around the Greek camp came into view through the squalls of rain and the men gave a cheer. This was immediately followed by another hail of arrows falling out of the rain-filled skies and tumbling more men into the thick mud. A new attack followed and was repulsed again, but before long as they recommenced the march towards the walls – which were now tantalizingly close – they heard the snorting of a large number of horses, followed by the shouts of men and the tramping of hoof beats behind them.

‘This is it,’ Odysseus announced. ‘They’re sending the cavalry to break us.’

The Greeks had faced the Trojan cavalry on many occasions over the years of the war and had learned to fear them. But they had also learned how to fight them. Odysseus shouted orders for the front rank to kneel and the second and third ranks to create a wall of spears – an obstacle that only the most disciplined animal would attack. The order was relayed along the line and Odysseus shouldered his way into the front rank, with Eperitus and Arceisius flanking him. Kneeling and planting the butts of their spears into the soft ground, they looked into the pelting rain and saw the long lines of horsemen approaching at a disciplined canter. Eperitus’s keen eyes could see the fear on the animals’ faces as the thunder ripped open the sky above and bolts of lightning tore down into the sea away to their right. Any moment now the riders would stab their heels into the horses’ flanks and goad them into a charge; the thunder above would then be matched by a thunder in the earth itself as thousands of hooves tore up the ground in a frenzied sprint towards the lines of bronze spear points. Whether they would carry it through depended on their training, the command of the rider, the storm-induced panic and the discipline of the tired spearmen, for if any of the Greeks broke and fled, the horses would herd into the gaps and bring a terrible destruction upon them.

But as Eperitus clutched at the wet spear and prepared himself for the assault, the sound of horns came blowing out of the storm behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw streams of chariots and horsemen leaving the walls of the Greek camp and dashing over the causeways. Diomedes was honouring his promise to save the rearguard.

Chapter Twenty-Three

DISHONOURABLE PRIDE

The whole Greek camp seemed to be groaning with pain and misery. Wounded men lay everywhere among the tents and huts while their comrades tended to their injuries, or tried to shut out their cries and find much-needed sleep. Though the storm had passed on to leave a cloudless, star-filled sky, the earth was still sodden from the heavy rain and the soldiers were chilled to the bone as they tried to dry their clothing around the countless campfires. The unexpected catastrophe and loss of life on the battlefield had left their mood sullen and despairing, while beyond the walls the fires of the victorious Trojan army were as innumerable as the stars above, threatening another day of intense fighting and death. And if the walls did not hold, then nothing would prevent Hector from torching the ships and bringing about the utter annihilation of the Greek army.

Eperitus was pondering these things as he followed Odysseus through the camp towards Agamemnon’s tent. Though the force of chariots and cavalry led by Diomedes had caused great slaughter among the Trojans and enabled the rearguard to slip back behind the protection of the walls, it had only been a small success in a day of resounding defeat for the Greeks. With the Trojan army now besieging the camp, no man could draw any kind of solace from the day’s struggle. Some tried to encourage their comrades or subordinates by recalling Calchas’s prophecy of victory in the tenth year, but such remarks were met with scorn or bitter sneers. There was hardly a man who did not know in his heart that the next morning would bring only more loss, humiliation and death.

Chief among the doubters, it seemed, was Agamemnon himself. Rumours had swept through the camp that the once proud King of Men was declaring the war as good as lost and blaming everyone but himself for the defeat. Odysseus had tried to scotch the rumours among his own men, telling them Agamemnon had summoned the Council of Kings to his tent and together they would devise a way of beating Hector. But as he and Eperitus entered the vaulted pavilion, with its canvas walls billowing pregnantly in the wind, they found the tales of Agamemnon’s mood were not exaggerated.

As the last of the council took their seats, the Mycenaean king faced the grimed and bloodied circle of leaders with a look of angry despondency in his eyes.

‘Greeks,’ he announced, clutching at his golden sceptre, ‘comrades in suffering, can any of you deny that Zeus has finally decided between myself and Priam? Is there a man among you foolish enough to say the Son of Cronos hasn’t given victory to the Trojans? We sailed here in the greatest fleet the world has ever seen, expecting to conquer swiftly and share the rich spoils of Troy. But who now can look out from the ramparts we built in our foolish pride and not know the doom of our army is camped on the plain?

‘Let us take to our ships, then, while we still can, and leave this place of sorrow to its true masters. If the choice is retreat with ignominy or death with honour, then let us unfurl our sails at dawn and go home.’

If Eperitus hated the cold, emotionless king who had murdered his daughter to wage war against Troy, he had felt no less contempt then for the defeated fool who stood before the men who had elected him their leader, lamenting his treatment at the hands of the gods and declaring defeat because of a single day’s fighting. But as the kings and princes looked at each other in silence, Diomedes stepped out from among them and snatched the sceptre from Agamemnon’s undeserving hand.

‘Is it just three days since you called me a coward in front of the whole army, my lord?’ he sneered. ‘Three short days, in which you’ve managed to throw away a tenth of your men and let the Trojans push us back inside the boundaries of our own camp. Then I congratulate you: you’ve gained a triumph very few of us could have achieved! But now you’ve excelled yourself with this talk of sailing home. Zeus may have given you a splendid sceptre and the command of all the Greeks with it, but one thing he did not give you was courage. Go, then! No one will stop you – you’re the King of Men, after all. And if there are any who want to go with you, then let them. In fact, let every Greek leave Ilium, for all I care; Sthenelaus and I will fight on alone with our Argives, until Troy falls or the last of us is sent down to Hades. For we are men of honour, warriors who will not return home in shame. We choose to stay and fight.’

Diomedes’s speech was met with a chorus of approval, many of the kings leaping to their feet and beckoning for the sceptre, keen to add their own words of rebuke for Agamemnon. But Diomedes had already given the staff to Nestor, who held up his hands and refused to speak until the last man had returned to his seat.

‘My lord Agamemnon, Diomedes is right to rebuke you. For one thing, the fleet is in no condition to sail: timbers have rotted, sails are moth-eaten, and ropes are frayed to snapping point. But even if our ships were seaworthy, why would any of us want to leave now? Have we fought for ten long years to leave empty-handed, when victory can still be claimed even at this dark time?’

‘Victory!’ Agamemnon snorted. ‘So the years have finally caught up with your brains, Nestor, as well as your body. Why do you try to placate me with false hopes when you know the gods are against us?’

‘You conveniently forget my wife is still a prisoner of the Trojans!’ Menelaus snapped, glowering at his brother. ‘If Nestor says we can still win then I want to know what he’s got in mind.’

‘Haven’t you already guessed?’ Nestor replied. ‘Victory lies with one man – Achilles. If Agamemnon will forget his pride and offer to return Briseis, the greatest warrior we have may yet come to our aid. Even Hector won’t stand against him, and with his battle-hardened Myrmidons still fresh they’ll sweep the Trojans from the field. What do you say, Agamemnon?’

Nestor had voiced the hope of every man present, who now turned as one to the King of Men. But Agamemnon stared down at his feet as if his aged adviser had not spoken.

‘What do you say, my lord?’ Great Ajax insisted, rising to his feet. ‘Will we approach my cousin for his help, or turn tail and flee like an army of washerwomen?’

Agamemnon lifted his face and fixed his cold blue eyes on the king of Salamis.

‘Do I have a choice in the matter? It seems to me now that the gods aren’t so much with Priam and the Trojans as with Achilles. Ever since I argued with that man nothing has gone right for me: not only has my army been decimated, but my enemies are ensconced before the gates and unless I humble myself at the feet of that stubborn young goat even my most trusted advisers and allies will turn upon me. Then so be it!’

He stood and crossed the floor of his tent, seizing the sceptre from Nestor and rounding angrily on the others.

‘Go to Achilles! Offer him whatever you see fit from my wealth – gold, slaves, as many tripods and cauldrons as his vanity requires; even my best horses if he demands them. And if that won’t appease his cursed pride, then offer him part of my kingdom and Menelaus’s too – after all, it’s your damned wife we’re here for,’ he added, staring down his brother’s unspoken protest. ‘And tell him Briseis is his, untouched by me. I give him my word on that.’

There were tears of anger on his face as he shook the sceptre at the commanders of his army.

‘Just make sure he submits himself to my authority again. If I can debase myself for his sake, then the least he can do is accept my peace offering and save us from the Trojans. After all, even the will of the gods can be turned by a show of humility. And if you’re determined on this course – which is not what I would do, if you gave me a choice – then, for the sake of all the gods, send someone he’s going to listen to. You, Odysseus; you can win any man’s heart with your words, whether honest or deceitful. And you, Ajax; you’re Achilles’s cousin and there’s no man closer to his heart, other than Patroclus. Go at once. We’ll await your return here, though you go with a fool’s hope.’

And so Ajax and Odysseus – accompanied by Eperitus – left the assembly and walked along the sand towards Achilles’s hut. The low groaning of the wounded was all around them, like the strained breathing of an injured animal, and yet as they approached the tents of the Myrmidons they were met by the sounds of laughter and feasting. It irked Eperitus to hear the skilled strumming of a lyre drifting out across the beach, while a voice sang softly of long-dead heroes and their feats. Were Achilles and his soldiers somehow unaware of the suffering of the rest of the army, he wondered, or was this their way of mocking them for daring to face the Trojans without their help? He looked out at the black ocean to his right and prayed to Athena that he would contain his growing anger.

The Myrmidons’ tents were pitched a short distance away from the rest of the camp, at the southernmost point of the bay. It was a psychological detachment as well as a physical one, and the difference between the two camps had never been more noticeable to Eperitus than it was to him then. The numerous fires that sent columns of orange sparks twisting into the night sky were a world away from the misery he had temporarily left behind, while the groups of warriors who sat drinking wine and chattering noisily among themselves seemed like figures from a forgotten past, where pain and suffering were just words in a story. They fell silent, though, as the three men appeared among them, and watched with muted fascination as they made their way towards Achilles’s hut at the upper edge of the beach. It was from here that the song that seemed to mock the suffering of the rest of the army was emanating. Smoke rose from a hole in the apex of the hut’s roof, while four armed men guarded its entrance. They quickly moved back at the sight of Odysseus, Ajax and Eperitus and waved them inside.

The interior was dimly lit by the low flames of the hearth, but by the orange light the newcomers could see a dozen Myrmidon nobles lying on fleeces and picking at the remains of a meal. Many had half-naked slaves in their arms and in the darkened corners of the hut Eperitus could see the dim outlines of figures coupled together, making no effort to quieten their exertions. On the opposite side of the fire, seated on the floor with his back propped against a stool, was Achilles. A lyre was in his hands, his fingers stroking the strings with greater skill than any bard Eperitus had ever heard. He sung of Meleager and the Calydonian boar, and his voice threw a web of enchantment over his audience that even the sounds from the corners of the hut could not disrupt. Patroclus was at his side, leaning against the same stool and stroking his fingers through the back of Achilles’s long blond hair.

As he recognized Ajax, Odysseus and Eperitus, Achilles stopped his song and gave the lyre to Patroclus. He stood and clapped his hands twice.

‘Out, all of you!’

At once the nobles jumped to their feet, spilling the slaves from their laps or hauling them up by their wrists and dragging them towards the door. The noises from the corners of the hut stopped abruptly as six or seven naked figures left the shadows, the women clutching their clothing to their chests as the men herded them unsympathetically outside. When only Achilles and Patroclus remained, the prince leaned forward with a smile and took each of the visitors’ hands in greeting.

‘Welcome, friends,’ he said with warm enthusiasm. ‘I was expecting Agamemnon to send someone, but you don’t know how pleased I am he chose you. Be seated.’

He nodded to Patroclus, who fetched three heavy chairs draped in purple cloth from the shadows.

‘Fetch wine, too,’ Achilles added. ‘Not too much water, though. And bring more meat, Patroclus. No one’s visited my hut in nearly a week and I want to show these men a real welcome.’

‘Some of us have been fighting,’ Ajax growled, squeezing himself into his chair.

Achilles glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, smiling as he cleaned bits of meat from his teeth with his tongue.

‘Let’s not be bitter, cousin. You know how much I love a scrap, but you also know the offence that forced me to withdraw from this war. Which, I imagine, is what you’ve come to talk about. But first let us share wine and meat together, as friendship demands.’

Patroclus entered with a large bowl of mixed wine, which he placed on a bench before drawing cups for Achilles and his visitors, frowning at the menial task he had been relegated to. As the four men poured their libations to the gods and drank, a soldier brought in the sides of a sheep and a goat and laid them out next to the bowl of wine. Achilles began jointing and carving up the meat at once, while Patroclus tended to the fire and prepared the spits. While the Myrmidons busied themselves with the meal and Odysseus and Ajax leaned in towards each other to speak in low voices, Eperitus looked around at the large hut with its deep shadows. The wide floor was covered in the soft fleeces of sacrificed sheep, many of which had been misplaced and rucked up by the exodus of noblemen and their slaves. The walls were hung with a collection of weapons and armour that Achilles had stripped from his more illustrious victims as tokens of his victories, while in the gloom against the far side of the hut was a rack from which hung Achilles’s own armaments: his long sword and dagger in their ornately worked sheaths; his bronze greaves with silver clips at the ankles; his round, leather shield with its scooped bottom edge, giving it the shape of a waning moon; his sculpted bronze corslet with the dents and scars of many battles upon it; and his black-plumed helmet with its grimacing visor. As Eperitus stared into its empty eyeholes, he was reminded of the many times he had seen Achilles wear it into battle and the terror that the mere sight of it had instilled in his enemies. How different would the outcome of the day’s fighting have been if the helmet had been seen among the ranks of the Greek army?

After the meat had been cooked, the ritual pieces burned for the gods and the meal eaten, they refilled their cups and sat down to face each other.

‘We thank you for your hospitality, Achilles,’ Odysseus began. ‘But as you’ve already guessed, we’re not here to pass the evening drinking wine and telling you of our deeds on the battlefield. We were sent here by the Council of Kings.’

‘You mean Agamemnon sent you.’

‘It was the will of the council we come here,’ Ajax growled.

Odysseus held up a hand for silence.

‘Ajax is right, Achilles, but as you know the council does nothing without Agamemnon’s say-so. It’s by his authority we’re here and every word we speak is uttered on his behalf. You don’t need me to tell you that the Trojans have mastered us in battle and at this very moment their campfires are lapping against the walls of our camp like a great ocean. Zeus’s favour is with them now, not us, and unless that changes there’s little chance we’ll ever force them back to Troy, let alone sack the city and rescue Helen as we promised ourselves we would do. What’s more, one determined attack by Hector and those mud brick walls we threw up so hastily will be sent crashing back down again. I’m afraid tomorrow will see the Trojans torch our ships and kill us to a man.’

‘Afraid, Odysseus? Achilles interrupted with a half-smile. ‘Then do you fear death?’

‘Death, no. But I fear not seeing my wife and child again. Telemachus turned ten this year, you know. If my own son were to walk into this hut I wouldn’t even recognize him. What’s worse, I can barely remember what Penelope looks like any more. That’s what I fear most of all, Achilles – going down to Hades without a last look at my family.’

Achilles leaned back in his chair, running the tips of his fingers back and forth across his lips. ‘Yes, I understand,’ he said, nodding. ‘I understand the desire to go home.’

‘Then come and fight with us again! If not for the sake of your friends, who look to your help, then for your own sake. Heap glory upon yourself in the eyes of the army; give them victory so they can go back to Greece and tell your deeds to everyone, honouring you like a god! You know no man can withstand you in battle, even the great Hector, though he roams the battlefield with impunity in your absence. Rouse your Myrmidons, Achilles, and save the Greeks before it’s too late!’ Odysseus paused and leaned forward, spreading his hands with an imploring gesture. ‘Agamemnon acknowledges he was wrong to treat you as he did – you, the greatest warrior in his army! You should have seen the tears rolling down his cheeks as he begged us to speak with you on his behalf.’

‘Then why didn’t he come himself?’

Odysseus laughed and shook his head. ‘He knows you wouldn’t listen to him, even if he came in sackcloth and covering his head with ashes, as a man might humble himself before the gods. But he does know you’ll listen to your friends, whose own suffering is close to your heart, and that you’ll listen to them even more keenly if they bring promises of gifts. For anybody else an apology from the King of Men would be more than sufficient, but you’re not anybody. He knows your renown is only equalled by your pride, and so he offers gifts as an open symbol of his apology, for all to see.’

‘What gifts?’ Patroclus asked.

‘Ten talents of gold; twenty copper cauldrons and seven tripods, none of them yet touched by fire; his twelve best racehorses; seven of his most skilled slaves – your choice – and if that isn’t enough, he offers your pick of the wealthiest towns from his own kingdom, to rule over as you wish. But he also realizes that these gifts on their own aren’t enough to right the wrong that was done to you; so Agamemnon will return Briseis to you at once, with his solemn oath that she has not been touched by him or any man since she left your side.’

Odysseus sank back in his chair and looked at the prince, whose eyes had been fixed on the flames as the gifts had been enumerated. Ajax, Eperitus and even Patroclus also stared at him, but Achilles did not lift his gaze or make any effort to respond.

‘What do you say, my lord?’ Odysseus urged. ‘The offer is a generous one and would bring you great glory. If the stubborn gods will listen to prayer and change their minds, then it would be profane to let your own pride keep you from accepting.’

‘Nevertheless, I will not accept it,’ Achilles answered. ‘Ten long years I’ve fought for Agamemnon. I’ve sacked no fewer than twenty-three towns and cities in Priam’s kingdom and the kingdoms of his allies, and for what reward? Every time I’ve brought back the spoils and laid them before him, not withholding anything, only to see this King of Men take the greater share and divide the rest equally, regardless of who stormed the walls or who stayed with him by the ships. Even then, I was content to serve under his command until he took Briseis from me. I won her with my own spear and she won my heart, but he dared to take her from me in front of the whole army. Did he rob you, Odysseus, or you, Ajax? No, just me, and for that I will never forgive him!’

There was a rage now in Achilles, growing as he spoke so that his knuckles were white about the arms of his chair.

‘And as for his gifts, I care nothing for them. I have towns of my own back in Phthia and wealth enough not to miss these meagre offerings he insults me with. Does he think I don’t know this is but a tiny portion of the wealth and slaves he has gleaned? After all, I captured it for him in the first place! No, Odysseus, if Agamemnon wants to save his precious ships from Hector then he must rely on you and the other kings to do it for him. At first light tomorrow, my ships will unfurl their sails and return home, and if you have any sense you will come with me.’

A long silence followed Achilles’s refusal, but as the others stared at the glowing embers of the hearth – unable to look each other in the eye – Eperitus fought a losing battle to contain his own sense of outrage. Eventually, he slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair and spoke.

‘I’ve seen you fight, Achilles, and there’s not a man like you anywhere in Greece or Ilium. Even Ajax, here, couldn’t match you, and yet I look upon him with the greater honour. I look upon the least of the soldiers lying dead on that plain out there with more honour than I do you. Damn it if even Agamemnon hasn’t more honour than you do!’

Achilles leaned forward in his chair and Eperitus felt as if Hades himself were staring at him, but his own anger was too great to feel any fear.

‘Men speak of you and they talk of honour and a name that will live until the end of time,’ he continued, ‘and yet I see a man whose renown has been overmastered by his pride. If the gods will bend their will in the face of humility, then who are you to remain so obstinate? I’ve more reason to hate Agamemnon than you do, but even I can see he knows when to acknowledge he’s in the wrong. Not only has he offered you gifts that will give you glory – even if you don’t need the wealth – but he’s also prepared to give you back the woman you claim to love. Isn’t that enough? He took my woman, too, you know, though you revel in the thought that you’re the only man to have been robbed by Agamemnon. I’d have given anything to have taken her in my arms again, so why don’t you accept this offer and return to the army? Or are you more interested in nursing this grievance of yours than having Briseis back?’

Achilles continued to stare at him, his nostrils flaring slightly as he fought to contain his temper, but Eperitus did not flinch. And then the prince took a deep breath and sat back in his chair, though his eyes did not for a moment leave Eperitus’s.

‘You are my guest, Eperitus. We have shared wine and meat and therefore you are at liberty to speak your mind, and no doubt you also speak with the passion of your heart. But do not claim to hate Agamemnon more than I do, when every time I argue with him you come to his rescue. Do you think I’ve forgotten that time on Tenedos, when I would have killed him but for your intervention? But none of this matters any more, for no words – appeasing or offensive – will change my mind.’

He pointed at Odysseus. ‘Are you the only man who can wish for home, Odysseus? Am I doomed to stay in Ilium, my bones turning to dust beneath some mound that future generations will call the “Tomb of Achilles”, discussing my deeds in awe as their sheep graze on top of me? But it doesn’t have to be so, for my mother foresaw two paths for me, did she not? To live a short and violent life here, earning a name that will echo down the ages; or to enjoy a long and peaceful existence back home, forsaking eternal renown for the love of a family in Phthia. You would have chosen that path, wouldn’t you Odysseus? Then so have I!’

‘What?’ Ajax exclaimed, rising from his chair. ‘Have the gods robbed you of your mind, Achilles? You’re the greatest warrior of our age; how can you talk of giving up your renown? No one hungers for glory more than you do – not even myself – and that’s why I’ve come to love and revere you above all other men. Do you think I don’t worship Tecmessa and dote on Eurysaces? Yet I would rather give up my wife and son than give up my honour, as you are proposing to do. Listen to what you’re saying, cousin, and admit your place is on the battlefield with us, not on some farm in Phthia. Accept the gifts Agamemnon is offering and put aside this stubborn pride, before it’s too late for all of us.’

‘My lord Ajax, there isn’t a man amongst the Greeks I love and respect more than I do you,’ Achilles replied. ‘We are cousins by blood, but we are brothers by our prowess in battle and our desire to win fame. By the same token, you more than anyone should appreciate the humiliation I had to suffer when Agamemnon took Briseis from me, and because of that I will not relent. And mark this, too: if you continue to favour Agamemnon over me and speak on his behalf, then it will not matter that we are cousins or friends, for my love for you can be turned to hatred. I forgive Odysseus and Eperitus, who have always curried favour with Agamemnon, but you I would have expected to support my cause, not his. Now, all of you, leave my hut and take my reply back to the King of Men. Make sure he realizes the depth of the affront he has caused me.’

‘Let’s go,’ Ajax said gruffly as Odysseus and Eperitus rose from their chairs. ‘That an argument over a girl should bring about such an impasse is beyond my understanding. But even though you’re abandoning us by this ruthless arrogance of yours, Achilles, I hope that you will still think of us as your friends.’

‘I have none greater,’ Achilles assured him, taking each of the men by the hand as they followed Patroclus to the doorway.

‘Come with us a moment,’ Odysseus said in a low voice as Patroclus pulled aside the canvas for them.

Patroclus frowned, but after a quick glance at Achilles – who had picked up his lyre once more and was plucking angrily and discordantly at its strings – he followed the Ithacan king outside. A thin moon was casting weak shadows among the tents, and the air was filled with the smell of brine and woodsmoke. Waves crashed against the nearby shore and the sound of voices came from the Myrmidon campfires, while here and there the distant cries of wounded men rose up to offend the peacefulness of the night.

‘What is it?’ Patroclus asked.

‘You need to do something,’ Odysseus replied in a low voice, looking furtively around at the scattered guards. Ajax was waiting just out of earshot, while Eperitus was at Odysseus’s shoulder, curious to know why the king had asked Patroclus to follow them.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t feign indifference, Patroclus,’ Odysseus said. ‘Do you think I wasn’t watching your face in there as Achilles refused every argument we put to him? He’s letting his pride get the better of him and you’re as concerned about it as we are.’

‘Of course I am, but what do you expect me to do? You can see for yourselves how difficult he is to talk to once his mind is set.’

‘I don’t know what you should do, but unless you can convince him to lead the Myrmidons back into battle, then I fear everything we’ve fought for will be lost. We can do nothing to influence him – indeed, our efforts only seem to make him worse – but you’re his closest friend, Patroclus. He’ll listen to you.’

Patroclus gave a derisive snort and cast a jealous glance over at Ajax. Odysseus caught the look and knew what was in the Myrmidon’s mind.

‘Achilles and Ajax share the same passion for glory and they admire each other for it, but even Ajax couldn’t persuade Achilles to give up this feud with Agamemnon. You, on the other hand, have known Achilles longer than anyone else; you share his meals by day and it’s said his bed by night; he loves you more than any other, including Ajax, and because of that you are the only one who can bring him back to the fight. You must do what you can, Patroclus. I have a feeling the fate of the whole army rests with you.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

THE NIGHT RAID

Odysseus delivered the news to the assembled leaders with uncharacteristic bluntness: Achilles had not only flatly refused Agamemnon’s gifts and his offer of reconciliation, but he had also promised to set sail for Greece the next day and had advised all others to do the same. The council fell into a stunned silence, with Agamemnon sinking into his fur-draped throne and glowering at the flames of the hearth. When he finally looked up again, his blue eyes were filled with hopeless despair.

‘Now what do we do?’ he asked, looking around at the expectant faces of the kings and princes who had followed him to Troy. ‘The only thing that stands between Hector and total victory is a ditch and that pile of mud bricks Nestor persuaded us to build only a few days ago.’

‘If it hadn’t been for the wall, our ships would be charred wrecks by now and we would all be dead,’ Diomedes countered, standing and pacing the floor of the tent with his hands locked behind his back. ‘But who knows what tomorrow will bring? I for one don’t believe the gods have abandoned our cause – not yet, at least – and you seem to overlook another fact, my lord Agamemnon: we still have a great and powerful army, and men of renown to lead it. The storm seems to have passed and the sight of the sun tomorrow will give the men heart again.’

‘It will lift Trojan spirits, too!’ Agamemnon exclaimed. ‘I tell you, Hector will brush aside our defences in the morning and put us all to the sword.’

Nestor slapped his hand on his thigh in anger.

‘No!’ he said firmly. ‘You set too much store by Hector, my lord. Have you forgotten that Ajax there fought him to a standstill only three days ago? And Diomedes is right, we still have an army that is more than a match for the Trojans, even if Zeus has tipped the balance in their favour for a short time. All we need is to take the initiative – find out the Trojan dispositions and how they plan to attack us, then focus on their weak points and take the battle to them.’

Menelaus stepped forward. ‘And how do we do that, old friend? Walk into the Trojan camp and ask Hector to tell us all his plans?’

There was a hollow laugh from some of the men on the benches, but Nestor ignored them. He spoke quietly to Antilochus, who sat next to him, then stood and raised his hand for silence.

‘You mock, Menelaus, but that is almost exactly what I suggest we do. All it needs is two or three brave men to slip across the ditch and into the Trojan camp: it’s a dark night and there are plenty of Trojan helmets and shields around to provide them with a disguise. Once they’re among the campfires, it’ll be nothing to snatch a prisoner – some nobleman of rank – and bring him back here for questioning . . .’

‘I’ll do it,’ Diomedes said, standing purposefully and adjusting his scabbard as it hung over his shoulder. ‘And Odysseus and Eperitus will come with me.’

‘I’ll come, too,’ Great Ajax added, rising to his full height so that his head almost touched the canvas roof.

Diomedes shook his head. ‘Three is enough, my friend, and your size will attract too much attention. What do you say, Odysseus? Is a second mission in one evening too much?’

Odysseus and Eperitus rose from the benches, both men pulling their cloaks about themselves in readiness to meet the chill night air outside.

‘You’ll need someone with intelligence if you’re to come back alive,’ Odysseus said. ‘I just hope we don’t meet as much opposition in the Trojan camp as we did in Achilles’s tent.’

The shallow moon had sunk below the horizon, leaving the stars to shine brightly above them as they made their way up to the gates. It was now the third watch of the night, but there was still plenty of time to carry out their mission before the first glow of dawn infused the eastern skies. Before leaving Agamemnon’s tent they had equipped themselves with Trojan armour and weaponry, earning curious looks from the strong guard who watched the gates. More men were on the walls above and several companies of soldiers slept nearby, ready to arm in an instant if the Trojans showed any sign of attacking. But as the gates were opened and the three crossed the narrow causeway to the plain beyond, everything remained still and quiet. Many hundreds of fires still burned, where the Trojans had camped well out of bowshot from the walls, but the only signs of life were the occasional figures of sentinels silhouetted by the bright flames.

They looked about themselves at the dark, indistinct shapes of the dead who lay everywhere. The ditches on either side of the causeway were filled with bodies, some still impaled on the sharpened poles. Here most of the fallen were Trojans, where Hector had flung his spearmen against the defences in a last, desperate effort to win the day as the Greeks retreated behind their walls; but out on the plain most of the fallen were Greek, shot down by Trojan archers or speared by Trojan horsemen as they turned and ran back to the gates. The chaos of those last moments had been something none of them would forget easily: the lashing rain and the thunder erupting from the clouds above; the clawing sense of panic as men retreated back to the open gates; the glittering blasts of lightning illuminating the terrified faces of men fighting for their lives. Now, though, all was tranquil as they stood on the shadowy stretch of land that separated the two armies.

‘There’s a gap in the watch fires over on the right,’ Diomedes said in a low voice. ‘Let’s follow the ditch until we’re opposite, then cut across.’

He set off at a quick jog and the others followed, instinctively running at a slight crouch as their eyes searched the darkness ahead and to their left, where the Trojan campfires flickered on the plain. But before they had gone very far, Eperitus’s keen ears heard soft footsteps and a quick glance revealed the figure of a man coming towards them from across the battlefield.

‘Hide yourselves, quickly!’ he hissed.

He scrambled into the ditch, followed by Diomedes and Odysseus, who threw themselves down on either side of him.

‘What is it?’ Diomedes whispered, raising his head just above the lip of the trench and squinting into the darkness.

Eperitus replied by pointing ahead of them where, after a few moments, all three were able to see a skulking figure emerging from the gloom.

‘Who do you think he is?’ Odysseus asked. ‘A straggler?’

‘He’s a Trojan, whoever he is,’ Eperitus answered. ‘He’s not wearing any armour, but he’s dressed like a Trojan and he’s got a Trojan cap on his head.’

Diomedes smiled grimly. ‘Then he must be a spy, hoping to find a way into our camp. It won’t be the first time, after all, though he must think the gods are with him if he expects to slip over this wall unnoticed.’

‘He’s coming our way,’ Odysseus added. ‘I say we capture him and see what he knows. It might save us having to slip into the Trojan camp and find a prisoner.’

They drew their swords slowly and silently then lay as if dead. As the man came closer they could see his pale eyes in the darkness, wide and fearful. He wore a wolf’s pelt around his shoulders and carried a short spear and a bow. He was stepping carefully, but most of his attention was on the walls and the positions of the sentries.

‘Drop your weapons!’ Diomedes ordered, leaping up and holding the point of his sword beneath the man’s double chin. He spoke in the Trojan tongue, though his accent revealed him as a Greek. Odysseus and Eperitus stood either side of him with their own weapons held ready.

‘Oh, mercy!’ the Trojan squeaked, releasing his spear and bow and raising his trembling hands in the air. ‘Mercy, my lord, mercy!’

‘Tell me what you’re about or I’ll cut your throat,’ Diomedes threatened, pressing the blade a little closer.

The man seemed to melt before them, sinking as low as Diomedes’s sword would allow and covering his head with his hands, while large tears began cascading down his cheeks. Despite their stolen armour, there was no mistaking the three men for Trojans.

‘Oh, no, no, no, don’t be hasty now. Don’t be hasty! My father will pay a good ransom for me, for sure – I’m worth much more to you alive than dead.’

‘Indeed you are,’ said Odysseus, looking the man up and down as he circled. ‘Now, tell us your name and your mission.’

‘Dolon, sir. I, oh gods . . . I got a little lost and . . .’ Dolon’s voice rose sharply as Diomedes lifted his chin with the point of his sword. ‘I mean, I’ve been sent to scale the walls and spy on the Greek camp. Hector forced me into it. He threatened to kill me if I—’

‘Stop lying,’ said Eperitus irritatedly.

‘Excuse my friends,’ Odysseus continued, raising a hand. ‘They’re a little impatient and easily angered. I wouldn’t provoke them, if I were you.’

He signalled to Diomedes, who reluctantly lowered his sword and stepped back. Dolon edged away, rubbing his neck and swallowing.

‘Of course not, my lord,’ he said, eyeing Diomedes nervously. ‘All I want is my life. I’ll tell you anything I know.’

‘That’s good,’ Odysseus said, smiling and clapping a friendly hand on his shoulder.

To their surprise, the terrified Trojan knew more than the three men had ever expected to learn from any prisoner they might take. Despite his feeble appearance he was a nobleman and a lesser captain in the Trojan army, and had therefore been present at the meeting between Hector and the other leaders that evening. Not only did he reveal the watchword for passing the sentries and give them all the dispositions of the army as they lay camped in their different factions before the Greek walls, but he also gave them a summary of Hector’s plans for the next day’s attack, all the time wringing his hands with a mixture of guilt at betraying his countrymen and shame at his own cowardice.

‘How do we know we can trust him?’ Diomedes asked, sceptically. ‘Look at him: he doesn’t strike me as the sort of man Hector would send out to spy on our camp. I say we should kill him and take another prisoner.’

Dolon thrust out his hands imploringly. ‘No, don’t kill me. Test what I’ve told you: go to the far edge of the lines, where I said King Rhesus and his Thracians are camped. The watchword I gave you will get you past the sentries and then you’ll find the Thracians sleeping like babies – they’re newly arrived to the war and haven’t learned to fear you Greeks yet. If you’ve a mind to take them, Rhesus has a team of splendid horses that are as white as snow and as fast as the wind. It was prophesied that if they drink from the Scamander then Troy will never fall; Rhesus intends to drive them to the fords at dawn tomorrow, but if you capture the horses tonight, you can make sure the prophecy is never fulfilled. You must believe me! Tie me up and leave me here until you return, and when you know I haven’t lied to you perhaps you’ll ransom me back to my family, like you promised.’

‘We’ll test the truth of what you’re saying,’ Diomedes said, ‘but I don’t remember promising to ransom you. And if you think I’m going to leave you here to wriggle out of your bonds and raise the alarm, then think again.’

Dolon’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth, but before he could speak Diomedes’s sword had cut his head from his shoulders and sent it rolling into the ditch. Eperitus frowned in disapproval and glanced down at Dolon’s upturned face. The fear had left his dead eyes, though they remained in a look of permanent surprise.

To their relief, the watchword Dolon had given them got them past the four sentries who stood warming their hands by the furthest fire in the Trojan outer line. There were more fires further in as they walked slowly into the midst of the enemy camp, but every one was surrounded by snoring soldiers, curled up beneath their blankets and with their armaments lying close to hand.

‘Sleeping like babies,’ Diomedes whispered. ‘Just as he said they’d be.’

‘And those must be the horses he spoke of,’ Odysseus added, spying four tall white mounts with blankets thrown across their backs to keep them warm. They tossed their heads and snorted as the strangers approached.

‘By the gods, they are beautiful,’ Eperitus said. ‘But we’d never get them past all these men.’ He indicated the dark shapes that littered the floor all around the beasts. ‘It’s more important that we get back and report what we’ve heard to the council.’

‘We’re not going back without the horses,’ Odysseus countered. ‘You heard what Dolon said: if they drink from the Scamander, then Troy will never fall. We can’t risk that happening.’

‘And think of the glory we’ll add to our names if we can ride these beauties back,’ Diomedes added, his eyes wide as he admired the Thracian horses. ‘Not to mention the dismay we’ll bring to the Trojans. Draw your sword, Odysseus: there’s work to be done.’

He fell to one knee by one of the sleeping Thracians and clapped a hand tightly over his mouth. The man’s eyes opened briefly, just as Diomedes’s blade sliced through his windpipe and released his soul from his body. Odysseus hesitated, then knelt and cut the throat of another sleeping soldier. Eperitus watched as, within moments, another two of Troy’s allies were dead, and then two more. Then Odysseus hissed at him and pointed to the bodies, indicating he should move them from the path of the horses.

As he took each one by the ankles and dragged them to one side, a couple of the horses began to stamp and tug against their pickets. Suddenly, one of the Thracians sat up, blinked, and looked at the three stooping figures nearby. Odysseus was on him in an instant, pushing the point of his sword into the man’s heart and thrusting his hand against his mouth to stifle his last cry. Eperitus and Diomedes look around, their swords ready in their hands, but nobody else stirred.

It did not take long before a route had been cleared between the horses and the edge of the circle of Thracians. All that was needed now was to lead the horses out, mount them and ride to the edge of the camp. But as Odysseus and Eperitus took the animals, stroking their oiled manes and calming them with hushed voices, Diomedes held up his hand for them to wait.

‘What is it?’ Odysseus asked in an urgent whisper. ‘Come on, Diomedes. We’ve pushed our good fortune far enough as it is. Let’s go.’

‘Not yet – that must be King Rhesus,’ Diomedes replied, pointing his sword at a tall man sleeping on a mattress under a canvas awning. His armour lay nearby, draped in cloth through which only a glimmer of metal could be seen. ‘I’m going to teach the Thracians not to sleep too soundly when there are Greeks nearby. And I’m going to take that armour.’

‘No,’ Eperitus whispered, but Diomedes was already standing over Rhesus with his sword at his throat.

At that moment, Rhesus opened his eyes and let out a cry of alarm. It was the last sound he ever made as Diomedes’s sword hacked halfway through his neck, but in an instant his men were waking on every side and sitting up. Diomedes made a grab for the king’s armour, pulling the cloth away to reveal a breastplate of ornately worked gold.

‘Come on!’ Odysseus shouted as he and Eperitus mounted two of the horses.

‘But . . .’

‘Leave the armour and come now!’

Shouts of dismay were echoing around the camp as the Thracians saw the piled corpses of their comrades and the Greeks in their midst. A man leapt to his feet and ran at Eperitus, who kicked him in the face and sent him sprawling backwards.

Diomedes gave the armour a last look, then tossed it aside and leapt on the back of one of the animals Odysseus was holding. Suddenly all three of them were kicking their heels into their horses’ flanks and driving them through the dozens of unarmed Thracians who were running at them with their arms held wide. Eperitus cut one man down with a sword stroke across the face and severed the hand of another. The rest fell back, searching desperately for any weapons that were to hand.

But Dolon had not lied when he had said the king’s horses were fast. As arrows whistled past them, the Greeks galloped their captured animals through the midst of the startled sentries at the edge of the camp and into the obscuring blackness of the night.

Chapter Twenty-Five

TO SAVE A KING

Agamemnon stood in his golden chariot, his breastplate gleaming in the bright morning sunshine. The red plume of his helmet and his red cloak fluttered in the north wind as he stared across the plain at the thick ranks of Trojan soldiery, positioned just beyond the range of the Greek archers. The king’s round shield hung on his back and in his hand he carried two tall spears, for today he intended to lead the army into battle himself. Despite the defeat of the day before, today the Greeks would have the upper hand: the spy Odysseus and Diomedes had captured had revealed the weaknesses in Hector’s battle plans, and Agamemnon planned to exploit them to the full.

Eperitus watched the King of Men with more than his usual contempt. His failings as a leader, both on and off the battlefield, had made themselves disastrously obvious in recent days, and the thought that he would be leading the attack did not fill the Ithacan captain with confidence. Fortunately, there were many much more capable men in the Greek army and as long as they still fought there was a hope the Greeks could save their ships and drive the Trojans back inside the walls of Troy. But it was only a hope: any victory against Hector and his allies would be hard won without Achilles; and as company after company of Greek spearmen marched out on to the plain, the Myrmidons and their prince were already raising the masts and cross-spars in their galleys and stowing their goods and provisions for the long journey home.

The Ithacans stood at the centre of the line, with the Mycenaeans to their left and the Argives under Diomedes to their right, their individual banners trailing in the wind above them. Odysseus was shielding his eyes against the sun as he observed the motionless files of enemy spearmen, waiting patiently for the Greeks to advance. His presence gave the battered Ithacans a sense of reassurance, but Eperitus could tell the king was not happy.

‘What is it?’ he asked, quietly.

‘Dolon said the regiments at the centre had taken the most casualties and were the weakest in the whole Trojan army,’ Odysseus said. ‘Your eyes are better than anybody’s, Eperitus: how do they look to you?’

‘Quiet. That’s as bad a sign as any in fighting men.’

‘Then maybe Dolon was right: one determined attack and the centre of the Trojan line will break. And yet . . .’ Odysseus added as the last of the Greeks crossed the causeways and the gates closed behind them with a thud, ‘and yet Hector’s always proved a good commander. Surely he wouldn’t put his weakest units at the centre of the line?’

‘He has to make a mistake some time, my lord,’ said Arceisius, who was standing behind Eperitus. ‘And now he doesn’t have Palamedes to feed him our plans, perhaps we’re going to see he’s human after all.’

‘Don’t underestimate him,’ Eperitus replied, glancing over his shoulder at his former squire. ‘We’re the ones fighting to survive now, don’t forget.’

To his surprise, he saw Omeros standing next to Arceisius, with Polites on the other side of him. The young bard’s eyes were wide, but whatever fear he felt he was able to master it as Agamemnon raised his arm above his head and gave the signal to advance. The skirmishers were the first to move. Lightly armoured, some almost naked, they dashed forward across the freshly dampened earth and fitted arrows to their bows or placed stones in the woollen pouches of their slings. The spearmen followed, their heavy equipment rattling about them as they marched. Meanwhile, Agamemnon jumped down from his chariot and led his Mycenaeans on foot. The other kings and princes followed his lead.

On the opposite side of the battlefield, the Trojans also began to move. The spring sunshine had already dried up most of the surface rain from the storm of the day before, leaving the earth dark but firm beneath the feet of the two armies. The bodies of their comrades who had died in the previous day’s fighting still littered the ground in great numbers. Though some had been stripped naked by scavengers in the night – their bodies pasty, disfigured lumps among the thick grass – there were so many dead that most had retained their armour and were shrouded by their cloaks. But the living soon forgot the dead as the sound of bowstrings hummed in the warm air, accompanied by the undulating swish of slings. Thousands of eyes looked up in momentary fear as the skies were crossed by throngs of arrows that quickly fell amongst the skirmishers, killing or wounding scores on both sides. More volleys followed and, as the two armies came closer, the sound of slingshot rattling against bronze and leather joined the growing cacophony of battle. Then it was the turn of the spearmen: the first to cast their missiles were the Greeks, their heavy spears ripping great holes in the densely packed Trojan ranks. The Trojan reply was even more murderous, the Greeks less able to judge the fall of the weapons as they fell out of the sun. And as spears were retrieved and thrown back again and again, piles of fresh corpses were added to the pale and distended victims of the earlier battle, until eventually Agamemnon realized there was no advantage to be gained from continuing the exchange. He raised his spear above his head and with a great shout of anger signalled his army to attack.

The Greeks lowered their spear points and advanced in silence, grimly determined to avenge themselves for the destruction the Trojans had caused the day before. They passed through the depleted skirmishers, who re-formed behind them and continued firing into the enemy mass. The Trojan skirmishers did the same as their own infantry moved forward to present a wall of shields barbed with spears. Then Agamemnon shouted an order and the whole army emptied their lungs in a collective howl of rage as they charged at the enemy ranks.

The two sides met with a heavy thud as thousands of shields clashed against each other, followed instantly by the sudden and terrifying din of ringing bronze and men crying out in anger and agony. The sound was heard as far away as the walls of Troy, where Helen and Andromache were among the silent, ashen-faced women on the wide battlements, each one of them hoping the gods would accept their prayers and sacrifices for their husbands. Many had hoped in vain, for the gods were more intent on death than mercy.

The Ithacans drove into their opponents with ferocity and skill, felling several and pushing the remainder back with ease. Eperitus stepped over his first victim and lunged with a combination of spear and shield at the next man, who retreated meekly before him. To his left, Odysseus was engaging a Trojan captain who was much taller than him and had the look of a veteran warrior, but who seemed to have no stomach for a fight as he shrank away from the king’s attacks. Even the inexperienced Omeros was beating back his opponent, while beyond him Polites and Arceisius were driving a wedge into the enemy line.

‘What’s up with them today?’ Eperitus asked, shouting to Odysseus across the clamour.

‘They don’t want to fight,’ Odysseus called back as the Trojan chieftain ducked away from another thrust of his spear. ‘Dolon wasn’t exaggerating when he said the centre was weak. But they’re not running, either; I think it’s time we threw caution aside, Eperitus.’

With that, he pulled back his spear and hurled it at his opponent with enough force to punch through the bronze scales of his armour and pierce his chest. The man fell heavily, dead in an instant, and in the same moment Odysseus drew his sword and threw himself at the Trojan line. Eperitus also dashed forward, battering aside the thrust of his enemy’s weapon and lunging at his stomach with his own spear. By skill or good fortune the Trojan managed to deflect the attack with his shield, but Eperitus was in no mood for further delay. With the old lust for blood and glory coursing through his veins again, he kicked the man’s shield aside, drew back his spear and plunged it into his groin.

‘Come on!’ he shouted angrily, turning to the rest of the Ithacans. ‘This isn’t a drill, damn you. Kill or be killed!’

With a shout, the Ithacans surged forward. It was all that was needed for the rest of the Trojans to break and run. Suddenly Eperitus was witnessing something he had never expected to see after the heavy fighting of the previous battles. The Trojan line was melting away before them. Men who had fought like lions days before were now turning their backs and fleeing for their lives. And a brief glance across the battlefield revealed it was not just the company that faced the Ithacans who were breaking: though the flanks of the Trojan army still held fast, the whole of its centre was collapsing before the onslaught of Mycenaeans, Ithacans and Argives.

Eperitus ran after Odysseus, whose short legs belied the speed he was capable of as he outstripped the rest of the Greeks in his pursuit of the fleeing Trojans, cutting them down as he caught them. Only Agamemnon and a handful of his bodyguard were further ahead in the hunt. Eperitus spotted the Mycenaean king through the crowds of men who were streaming across the plain, and it was as if a god had descended on to the battlefield to wreak terrible havoc among mortal flesh, killing with divine fury while seemingly immune to injury himself. The banded metal of his breastplate flashed in the golden sunshine as he brought Trojan after Trojan crashing to the earth, exulting with each death and only regretting that he did not have time to strip them of their armour. One turned to fight, but had already tossed his heavy shield aside and soon fell to a thrust of Agamemnon’s spear. Another cast his weapon in a desperate attempt to stop the King of Men, but Agamemnon merely ducked aside before chasing the man down and plunging his spear between his shoulder blades. His guards, though never far from their king, joined in the butchery with equal relish.

Eperitus was distracted from the sight by a heavy thump against the top of his shield. Turning, he saw a man a short distance away dressed in nothing more than a short tunic, fitting another stone to the woollen pouch of his sling. Without thinking about it, Eperitus stooped to retrieve a discarded spear and launched it at the Trojan skirmisher, who screamed as it punched through his stomach. Picking up another spear from the grass, Eperitus ran on to where Odysseus had stopped in the middle of the battle and was looking about himself.

‘Look,’ the king said as Eperitus reached him. He used the point of his sword to indicate both flanks of the battle. ‘Trojan chariots and cavalry massing on each side of us. I knew this was too easy.’

Eperitus followed the arc of Odysseus’s sword point and saw hundreds upon hundreds of horses and chariots forming into lines to the north and east, while beyond the fleeing crowds ahead of them he could see a new force of infantry marching into view from a deep defile in the plain.

‘Then this whole rout was a feint,’ he said. ‘They’re leading us into a trap and it’s about to be sprung.’

‘Dolon wasn’t the coward we thought he was, either,’ Odysseus commented. ‘He gave his life to feed us false information and we took the bait. Gods, how could I have been so stupid? And yet I respect the man’s cunning – anyone who can fool me is worthy of recognition.’

‘They’re preparing to charge,’ Eperitus warned.

Odysseus forgot his admiration of Dolon and looked up. ‘You’re right. We need to call the men to order at once!’

He turned and shouted for the Ithacans to halt and form line. The Greeks had already pushed far beyond the safety of their flanks, which were held firm by the wings of the Trojan army, and it was in the hands of the gods whether the disordered soldiers of Ithaca, Argos and Mycenae could be alerted to their danger. Then Eperitus thought of Agamemnon, who dashing ahead of his own men would quickly be cut off and surrounded by any attack.

At that moment, horns sounded on both sides of them, followed quickly by the war cries of hundreds of cavalrymen and charioteers as they spurred their horses into the attack. The ground thundered with the familiar and terrifying sound of approaching hooves, filling everyone who heard it with fear. Eperitus drew instinctively closer to Odysseus, readying his shield and spear to defend the king. Then he remembered his promise to Clytaemnestra, that he would do everything in his power to protect her husband’s life. Wavering for the briefest of moments, though it seemed an age amongst his feverish thoughts, he looked from Agamemnon to Odysseus and back again. And as Agamemnon continued to kill Trojan stragglers, oblivious to the fast-approaching horde of chariots and horsemen, he knew what he had to do.

Odysseus was already running towards the lines of Ithacans.

‘Eperitus!’ he called over his shoulder. ‘Eperitus, come on!’

‘I have to warn Agamemnon,’ Eperitus shouted back. ‘He’ll be surrounded and killed unless someone helps him.’

Odysseus looked across, saw the danger and nodded. As he watched him join the other Ithacans, Eperitus suffered a pang of doubt. Was he right to abandon his own king to the threat of a cavalry charge, all for the sake of the reviled Agamemnon and an oath that he’d been tricked into taking? Then he saw that Diomedes had also realized what was happening, and he was reassured by the sight of him forming his doughty Argives up next to the Ithacans. Whatever happened now would be the will of the gods, he told himself, before throwing his shield across his back and sprinting towards Agamemnon.

By now, the small band of Mycenaeans had spotted the peril they were in and had formed a circle about their king. The Trojan cavalry swept around them, throwing their heavy spears at the knot of men. Many of the bronze points were turned aside or stopped by the broad leather shields, but some found flesh and spilled men backwards, forcing the survivors to draw closer in on themselves. A few hurled spears back at the lightly armoured horsemen, bringing several down from their mounts to crash into the long grass below.

While the Trojans concentrated on wearing down the Mycenaeans, Eperitus ran up unnoticed and plunged the point of his spear into a passing rider’s ribcage, piercing his heart and killing him instantly. As he fell, Eperitus seized the reins and hauled himself on to the horse’s back. He slid his sword from its scabbard, kicked his heels into the animal’s flanks and sent it dashing towards the Mycenaeans. As he did so, another Trojan cavalryman turned his mount skilfully and aimed a spear at Eperitus’s head. It flew over his shoulder, only a hand’s breadth from piercing his eye. A moment later Eperitus charged down on his assailant and swung his blade into the man’s neck, tumbling his dead body to the ground.

He raced on, seeing the last of the Mycenaeans now surrounded by cavalrymen, their swords rising and falling as they hacked the Greeks to death. For a moment he forgot whose life he was trying to save and felt a pang of fear that he was too late, and then Agamemnon stumbled out from the knot of horsemen, followed by Talthybius, his herald. Both men were armed with sword and shield and each felled a Trojan before running as fast as they could in the direction of the distant walls. Three horsemen broke free from the melee in which the last of Agamemnon’s bodyguard were giving their lives so their king could escape, but did not see Eperitus as they chased after the fleeing Mycenaeans. He charged in from their left and sank his sword into one man’s spine, before hacking the blade with a backward blow across a second’s face. The third dropped his spear – useless at such a close range – and pulled out his sword, only to have his arm severed below the elbow by another swing of Eperitus’s blade.

As the man fell to the ground, shrieking with pain, Eperitus saw a chariot cut across the path of Agamemnon and Talthybius and draw to a halt. Whether they knew they were facing the leader of the Greek army, or whether they had simply seen his armour and decided to take it for themselves, the two Trojans jumped down from the car and ran at Agamemnon. Both were tall and heavily built, alike enough to be brothers. The first rammed his shield into Talthybius’s face, swatting him aside like one of the many mosquitoes that haunted the plains of Ilium. The second leapt at Agamemnon with his spear, but the king twisted aside with surprising agility and punched the point of his own weapon into his attacker’s throat. The man dropped with nothing more than a grunt, but as Agamemnon turned, the second Trojan was already upon him, piercing his forearm with the tip of his spear. The king fell back with a shout of pain and surprise, letting his sword fall from his fingertips. Taking his spear in both hands, the Trojan raised it high above the plume of his helmet to deliver the killing blow. In the same instant, Eperitus’s blade swept his head from his shoulders. The torso fell forward and gushed blood over the King of Men, who kicked it aside and got to his feet, still clutching at his wounded arm.

‘Eperitus!’ he exclaimed, wide-eyed. ‘Where did you come from?’

Eperitus ignored the question and dismounted. He found Talthybius, dazed and with a bloody nose, and helped him back to his feet; then he tore a strip of cloth from a dead man’s cloak and bound it around Agamemnon’s wounded forearm. Leading the two men to the abandoned chariot, he handed Talthybius the reins and put a hand on his shoulder.

‘Take Agamemnon back to the camp as quickly as you can. Machaon or Podaleirius can tend to his arm there. I must go and find Odysseus.’

‘Wait!’ Agamemnon ordered. He stood in the chariot and looked around at the chaos of battle: bodies lay everywhere, their nationalities indistinguishable; knots of Greeks struggled to return to their comrades, where, by a miracle, the gap left in the line had been plugged and the Trojan cavalry were still being held at bay. But it was only a matter of time before the Trojan reserve – which Eperitus had seen marching up out of the defile where they had lain hidden – arrived and threw their weight into the fighting. ‘I don’t understand, Eperitus. We had them running before us . . .’

‘It was a trap, my lord,’ Eperitus explained, trying to hide the sneer from his voice. ‘Hector sent Dolon to feed us false information.’

‘But why?’ Talthybius asked.

‘To draw us out from the safety of the walls and massacre us on the plain,’ Eperitus answered. ‘And they may yet succeed. Now, go.’

He slapped the hindquarters of the nearest horse and, with a snap of the reins and a shout from Talthybius, the chariot set off at a dash towards the Greek lines. Eperitus ran back to his captured mount and leapt lightly on to its back. The added height enabled him to take in the battlefield at a glance, and to his horror he saw the Ithacans and Argives being attacked by a mass of Trojan cavalry. He tried to spot Odysseus amongst the struggling men but could not, and with a sudden chill sensed that the king was in mortal danger.

‘EPERITUS!’ boomed a familiar voice. ‘EPERITUS!’

He pulled on the reins and turned the horse to face Ajax, who was running towards him with great strides. Menelaus was at his heels and both men looked concerned.

‘Why aren’t you with Odysseus?’ Menelaus demanded, his voice accusing.

‘I left him to save your brother’s life,’ Eperitus retorted. ‘And now I’m going back to find him. You should get back to the safety of the lines too, my lords. The Trojan reserve will be upon us at any moment.’

He indicated the mass of men marching towards them across the plain. The two kings looked and their eyes widened briefly.

‘We’ve just seen Diomedes being driven back to the ships by Sthenelaus,’ Ajax said, tearing his eyes away from the force that would certainly spell doom for the Greeks. ‘He told us Odysseus needed help.’

‘He’d been shot in the foot by Paris,’ Menelaus added, seeing the look on Eperitus’s face at the news Diomedes had abandoned his friend. ‘That’s why we’re here.’

‘Come on, then,’ Eperitus said, sliding back down from the horse and pulling his shield on to his arm.

The three men ran to where the Trojan cavalry were almost overwhelming the beleaguered armies of Ithaca and Argos, falling on the horsemen from behind and cutting a swathe through the tightly packed mass. Ajax felled several riders with his spear, and when the weapon stuck fast in the body of one of his victims he used his height and strength to punch men from the backs of their mounts instead, even knocking horses to the ground in his battle rage. Menelaus, too, was lost in a frenzy of killing, desperate to find the elusive Paris and finish their duel of four days before. But Eperitus was a match for both men. The strong sense that Odysseus was in danger filled him with urgency. As the horsemen struggled to turn about in the dense throng and face their attackers their light armour was no match for the sharp bronze of Eperitus’s spear. One man after another dropped to the ground before the terrible onslaught of the three Greeks. Panic spread through the Trojan ranks and soon they were scattering before them like sheep before wolves. Then Eperitus saw Odysseus, standing before a line of Ithacan spearmen, his shield stuck with arrows and his bloody sword in his hand. Omeros was on the ground behind him, struggling to pull himself to safety across a carpet of dead men as his king defended him from a mounted Trojan.

The rider’s scaled armour was expensive and marked him as a chieftain. Oblivious to the terror that was forcing his countrymen to flee, he reared his horse so that its hooves flailed in the air above Odysseus’s head. Odysseus threw his shield up and in the same moment his opponent pushed down with his long spear, piercing Odysseus’s side and toppling him backwards across the struggling form of Omeros. Eperitus gave a shout and sprang forward, followed by Ajax and Menelaus. The Trojan turned, the look of triumph dropping from his face as Eperitus’s spear pushed up into his armpit, almost severing the limb at the shoulder. He let out a cry of pain, but somehow managed to turn his horse with one arm and ride away. The Trojan cavalry followed, streaming back across the plain in the wake of their captain.

Chapter Twenty-Six

IN AGAMEMNON’S TENT

Eperitus knelt beside Odysseus and cupped his hand beneath the back of his head. Antiphus and Eurybates appeared and pulled Omeros free, while casting anxious glances at their king’s pale face and the blood seeping out from his right side.

‘Odysseus!’ Eperitus urged. Odysseus’s familiar green eyes stared back at him blankly. ‘Say something, Odysseus.’

Odysseus blinked with pain and gave a groan. ‘As long as you don’t want me to sing.’

Eperitus’s face broke into a grin. He helped Odysseus to sit up, while Ajax tore strips from a woollen cloak and pressed them against the wound.

‘It’s not fatal,’ he said, though his stern tone failed to completely hide his relief. ‘Nothing vital’s been hit; just a flesh wound with a lot of blood loss. You’ll live to fight another day, my old friend, though not this day. I’ll take you back to the ships in my chariot.’

Odysseus shook his head. ‘Let Eperitus take me; you and Menelaus are needed here. The Trojans will be on us any moment and it’s up to you to organize a fighting retreat. Get the army back to the walls.’

‘And concede defeat again?’ Menelaus spat. ‘Not while Paris is on the battlefield.’

‘Odysseus is right,’ Ajax countered, rising to his feet and looking to where the Trojan reserves had come within spear range. Hector was at their head with Paris at his side, both men encouraging the ranks of fresh warriors with loud war cries. ‘We have to salvage the army or face ruin.’

As he spoke, Antiphus arrived with a chariot. Eurybates lifted the unconscious Omeros into the car, while Eperitus followed with Odysseus leaning heavily on his shoulder. Despite his weakness, the king stood and clutched the rail for support, so that as many of his men as possible could see he was able to stand. Then Eperitus took the reins and, with a shout, sent the horses racing back towards the walls, the wheels bouncing over the countless bodies that littered the ground. Odysseus threw a glance over his shoulder as the hordes of Trojans threw their spears and charged.

‘They’ll make it back,’ Eperitus reassured him. ‘It’s a long time since the Ithacans were simple fishermen and farmers.’

‘I have confidence in them,’ Odysseus answered, weakly. ‘And Hector and Paris will find their match in Ajax and Menelaus. But you must return as soon as you can and take charge of the Ithacans, at least until my wound has been tended to.’

Eperitus nodded. He slapped the reins across the horses’ backs and fixed his gaze grimly on the tall gates that were looming up ahead of them.

Achilles stood in the prow of his beached ship, looking beyond the sea of tents to the walls at the top of the slope. All around him the Myrmidons were busy preparing their galleys to leave, some walking up and down springy gangplanks with loads on their shoulders while others raised masts or readied sails and rigging for the long journey home. Patroclus and Peisandros directed their movements reluctantly and without haste, hoping that the prince would yet change his mind. And as they watched him – his gaze focused intently on the walls as if his eyes could pierce the bricks and wood to see the battle raging beyond – it seemed as if at any moment he would call for his armour and summon the men to arms. But still he remained there as if he were carved from stone, listening motionless to the distant sounds of battle and watching the streams of wounded come limping through the gates to choke the tents with their broken bodies and fill the whole camp with their cries.

‘Patroclus!’ he shouted, suddenly. ‘Patroclus!’

Patroclus threw a glance at Peisandros, then dashed up the nearest gangplank, knocking one of the Myrmidons and his load on to the sand below.

‘My lord?’ he asked.

‘Another chariot has just come through the gates. Run and find out who it is, and ask them what’s happening on the plain. I’m tired of not knowing what’s going on.’

Patroclus hesitated, hoping that Achilles might also send for his armour, but when the prince returned to his impassive stance he gave a short bow and ran back down to the beach.

‘Are we fighting?’ Peisandros asked urgently as he passed.

Patroclus shook his head, then sprinted across the sand towards the centre of the camp, where Agamemnon’s tent stood like a white Olympus among the smaller peaks of its neighbours. As he passed the wounded from the battle they called out to him, stretching out their hands for help; but when they saw he was a Myrmidon their cries of anguish became insults and shouts of anger. Even the dying looked up at him with disdain or turned away, preferring to suffer than implore the aid of one of Achilles’s men. But Patroclus did not begrudge them their bitterness. He was used to being treated with scorn – hated as he was for his arrogant nature – and he would have felt the same in their place. There was not a man in the whole Greek army – not on the whole face of the earth – that Patroclus did not admire or love as much as he did Achilles, but even he knew that the prince’s pride had gone too far this time. Pride was the prerogative of great men, but when it came at the expense of honour it was a perversion. He averted his eyes from the wounded and ran on.

A line of chariots waited outside the great tent of Agamemnon, where the first man Patroclus saw was Eperitus. He had always looked down on Odysseus’s captain, a low-born noble like himself, but things had changed in the past few days and he found his old conceit waning rapidly.

‘Have you come to tell us your master has decided to fight?’ the Ithacan asked, unlooping two skins of water from the rail of a chariot.

Patroclus shook his head. ‘He remains the prisoner of his stubborn honour.’

‘Honour?’ Eperitus snorted, turning and walking to the mouth of the tent. ‘That’s not honour.’

Patroclus followed him. ‘I agree with you, Eperitus. And I think he does too. It’s destroying him to wait by his ship and do nothing while his comrades fight and die on the plain.’

‘Then why has he sent you here, assuming he has?’

‘He wants to know who are the wounded men he’s watched being brought back from the battle.’

‘Then come inside and see for yourself,’ Eperitus replied, indicating the tent with his open hand.

Patroclus led the way into Agamemnon’s headquarters. The sun still streamed in through the heavy canvas, but the familiar sense of order and majesty that had once marked the King of Men’s seat of power was gone. The benches where the council sat had been dragged aside without ceremony to make way for a dozen wounded men, who lay on mattresses or were sitting in fur-draped chairs in the centre of the tent. They were waited on by slaves with bowls of steaming water and lengths of bloodstained cloth, which they used to stem the bleeding and clean the wounds. The air was close and smelled strongly of blood and pungent herbs. Though the groans were more muted than out among the rest of the sprawling camp, the shock for Patroclus lay not in the condition of the wounded men but in their identities. At the far end of the tent was Agamemnon himself, seated gloomily in his golden throne as fresh bandages were wrapped around his forearm by a female slave. On a mattress at the centre of the tent was the great Diomedes, who still wore his armour but for the greave on his left leg, which had been removed to allow Sthenelaus to bathe the arrow hole in his foot; the shaft and the broken head of the missile lay beside him. Then there was Machaon, the healer, who sat on a chair while Nestor dabbed gingerly at the wound in his shoulder. Every now and then he would bark out instructions to the dozens of slaves tending to the injured, before slumping back into his chair, exhausted.

‘Paris shot him,’ Eperitus said, watching Patroclus’s gaze. ‘He shot Diomedes, too, and Eurypylus over there.’

He pointed to one of the kings from Thessaly, a sandy-haired man who lay on a mattress, biting on to a folded leather belt as a soldier pulled an arrow from his thigh.

‘He’s been making a nuisance of himself with that bow and arrow,’ Odysseus commented, rising to his feet from a corner of the tent and taking Patroclus by the hand. His armour had been removed and his midriff swathed in bandages; a pink stain on his left side, below the ribs, showed where he had been stabbed. ‘After his scrap with Menelaus, I think Helen must have persuaded him to stay out of the real fighting and rely on his archery instead.’

‘I can hardly believe it,’ Patroclus stuttered. ‘So many of you wounded.’

‘There are more still on the battlefield, fighting to save what’s left of the army,’ Eperitus said. ‘Both the Ajaxes, Menelaus, Idomeneus, Teucer, Antilochus . . .’

‘To name only the best, but even they won’t last indefinitely against Hector,’ Odysseus added. ‘He’s like a lion out there, and he has the support of Paris, Sarpedon, Aeneas and Apheidas. There’s only one hope left now for the Greeks.’

‘And he remains implacable,’ said Patroclus.

‘But have you spoken with him, as I asked you to?’

‘He won’t listen. Even now, while the Greeks are streaming from the field and crying out in their suffering, he’s done nothing more than send me here to take a tally of the wounded. I’ve appealed to him in every way I can, Odysseus, but now I’m starting to believe nothing will ever move him to fight again. All he wants to do is go back to Scyros for his wife and son, then return to Phthia. Nobody else matters to him any more, not even the men he has fought alongside all these years.’

Odysseus turned away and Eperitus caught a glimmer of something in his eye – that familiar look that came across him when he was struck by an idea.

‘Nobody, you say?’ he mused. ‘Then you underestimate how much he cares about you, Patroclus. But enough of that. If Achilles won’t be drawn into battle, it’s up to you to act on the advice your father gave you before you left Phthia. Have you forgotten that Menoetius told you to be an example to Achilles, whose pride he knew would cause him trouble?’

Patroclus snorted his derision, but Odysseus placed his great hands on the Myrmidon’s arms.

‘Why don’t you lead the Myrmidons into battle? If you can convince Achilles to lend you his armour and visored helmet then the Trojans will think he’s returned to the fight. It’d strike terror into their hearts; you’d send them fleeing back to the city and be responsible for saving the army! Better still, a man like you could face Hector and win – who would dare to call you a lesser noble then?’

Patroclus stared at Odysseus for a long moment, then shrugged off his hands and turned to Eurypylus, who was grunting with pain as the arrow was torn from his thigh and his blood began to pump out over the rich furs.

‘He’ll never agree to it, Odysseus,’ Patroclus insisted, before snatching some bandages from a slave and going to help the struggling Thessalian.

Odysseus turned to Eperitus with a knowing smile on his lips.

‘I’ll talk to him again,’ he said quietly, taking the skins of water Eperitus had brought. ‘You should go back to the plain and take charge of the Ithacans. The sound of battle’s much closer now and you’ll do more good up there than you can here.’

‘Let me go too, my lord.’ Omeros emerged from the shadows at the side of the tent, the wound on his forehead freshly bandaged. ‘I’m no use here and I want to go and fight.’

Eperitus looked at Odysseus, who nodded; then with Omeros following at his heels he left the tent and walked out into the bright sunshine. As they climbed the slope to the walls, Eperitus looked back and saw the calm waters of the bay with the sun gleaming on the wave caps as they rolled in towards the beach. All along the sandy curve of the great cove the Greek ships were drawn up out of the water, like a vast and peaceful colony of seals basking in the midday warmth. Most had barely touched the water for the whole decade of the war and their silent, empty timbers were as dry as tinder. One lick of flame to each would see them burn. Eperitus imagined the beach awash with Trojans, tossing torches into the hulls so that they blazed like a line of funeral pyres, the wind fanning the flames and spreading them from ship to ship.

‘May the gods forbid they ever get that far,’ he muttered to himself.

‘Sir?’

‘Nothing, Omeros,’ he replied, then, looking up to the walls, he saw that the last of the Greeks had escaped the battlefield and were thronging the top of the slope. ‘Come on – let’s see who’s left of the Ithacans.’

They set off at a run, following the well-trodden paths to the top and kicking up sprays of dust from the ground. Soon they had joined the host of weary soldiers on the ridge, whose tired, dispirited eyes stared out from grime- and blood-encrusted faces as their commanders tried to shepherd them into some sort of order. Streams of wounded were being helped down to the ships and many more must have lain dead on the plain. But the gods had been merciful: thousands upon thousands had escaped the battlefield and now packed the narrow crescent of ground that topped the ridge above the camp. Hundreds more manned the walls above them and were hurling rocks or firing arrows into the invisible attackers beyond, whose mingled cries of pain, rage and determination could be heard roaring like a storm-wracked sea. Some of the men on the walls fell back as black-feathered Trojan arrows found their mark, but Eperitus could see the mighty figure of Great Ajax exhorting the defenders to hold and fight, while his half-brother, Teucer, picked out targets with his bow from behind the cover of Ajax’s tall shield. On the other side of him was Menestheus, the Athenian king, hurling spear after spear into the seething mass of men below.

Suddenly there was a loud yelling and Eperitus saw the tops of ladders – clearly brought up from Troy during the night – lodging against the battlements. Moments later the walls were beset with Lycian spearmen, clambering over the parapets with Sarpedon at their head and bringing havoc to the defenders. As the Greeks on the ridge behind looked up in horror, Eperitus balanced a spear in his right hand, took aim, and sent a Lycian chieftain spinning from the battlements into the spike-filled ditch beyond. Then an enormous boom shook the air and every eye turned to the gates, where trails of dust were still falling from the timbers as they quivered beneath the blow that had hit them. Another boom followed, smashing the gates from their hinges and sending them whirling to the ground. Through the haze that followed their destruction a figure emerged. Hector tossed aside the large boulder he had used to break down the gates, then, with a metallic scrape, drew his long sword from its sheath and with a loud cry led the Trojans into the Greek camp.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

PEACE OFFERINGS

The Trojans poured through the broken gates with Hector at their head. He crashed into the shocked Greeks and cut a swathe through their packed ranks, wielding his sword to left and right with murderous effect. On either side, men were leaping from the walls and fleeing from Sarpedon and his victorious Lycians, many abandoning their weapons in panic as they ran. The hideous discord of bronze upon bronze broke out once more, deafening men as they struggled face-to-face with their enemies, driven by anger, hatred or fear as they stabbed and hacked at one another. Clouds of dust rose up from beneath their feet to dry throats and sting eyes, and very soon every man was locked in a personal battle for survival.

‘Stay close to me,’ Eperitus instructed, glancing briefly at Omeros before dashing across to join the battle for the gates.

Here the fighting was hardest as the Greek line bent back before Hector’s onslaught. No quarter was given by either side as men already exhausted by their efforts fell upon each other with renewed vigour, killing and being killed in droves. While the spearmen struggled to contain the swarming enemy, the lightly armed skirmishers had fallen back and were firing at short range into the mass of Trojans. But their efforts were to no avail: the Trojans had tasted victory and were fighting with a drunken recklessness, slaughtering the Greeks and pushing them inexorably back down the slope before them. Only the hard-won experience of the veteran warriors and the dogged determination of each man not to betray his comrades kept the Greeks from full flight. Eperitus and Omeros fell back with them and soon the thousands of struggling men were trampling the outermost tents and expended fires of the once-unassailable Greek camp, the battle now stretching diagonally from the farthest point of the bay in the north to the top of the ridge in the east.

Eperitus ducked instinctively as a spear passed over his head and buried itself in the chest of the man behind him. Startled, he saw Hector away to his right, taking another spear from one of his soldiers. This time he did not cast the weapon, but charged into the attack. Eperitus spared a moment to push Omeros back, then raised his defences to meet the full force of Hector’s assault. Their shields clashed with an arm-numbing impact that sent Eperitus stumbling backwards. He steadied himself just in time to avoid the ensuing thrust of Hector’s spear, then brought his sword down against the Trojan’s shield. Hector swatted the blow aside with contempt and lunged forward again. This time the point penetrated the thick leather of Eperitus’s shield, just missing his shoulder. Eperitus twisted the heavy shield aside and snapped the socketed head away from the shaft, then rushed forward and swung his blade at Hector’s scowling face. The Trojan leapt back with the agility of a man half his size, throwing the shaft of the broken spear aside and drawing his sword with a menacing, metallic scrape.

Eperitus braced himself, but the expected attack did not come. Instead, Hector paused and narrowed his eyes against the dust their battle had raised.

‘Odysseus’s squire,’ he said at last, recognizing the blood- and dirt-stained figure before him. He stepped back and lowered his weapon slightly.

‘His friend,’ Eperitus corrected.

‘Then Odysseus is blessed in his friendships – you’re a good fighter. I would have been honoured to strip your armour from your corpse and add it to my growing collection.’

‘Would have? Then you concede I am the better warrior?’

Hector smiled. ‘No, but I won’t fight you. You’re still looking for Apheidas, I take it?’

‘Yes,’ Eperitus answered.

‘Then perhaps you’ll be glad to know he’s looking for you, too – and I have no intention of spoiling his fun.’ Hector backed away and sheathed his sword as one of his soldiers passed him another spear. ‘If you’ve got any sense you’ll beg that loathsome coward, Achilles, to let you sail back to Greece with him: if Apheidas finds you on the battlefield, even the gods won’t be able to help you.’

He said something in his own tongue to the men around him and pointed at Eperitus, then bowed briefly to the Ithacan before slipping back into their ranks. Within a moment the Trojans were attacking again. It was as if Hector had never appeared, except for the noticeable fact that none of the enemy would come near to Eperitus. Whenever he attacked them, they would close their shields like a wall against him, refusing to cross their weapons with his. In return, Eperitus’s sense of honour forbade him to kill men who would not fight.

‘Just think, sir,’ Omeros said, crouching beside him as the maelstrom of battle whirled around them, ‘if all men simply refused to fight, there would be no wars and we could all live happy and peaceful lives.’

‘Then warriors and poets like us would starve,’ Eperitus replied. ‘But I’ll be damned if I’m going to be kept out of the battle; we’ll find another place, where the struggle’s just as desperate and the Trojans haven’t been ordered not to fight me.’

‘Idomeneus and his Cretans are hard pressed on the right flank,’ Omeros said, craning his neck to look eastward, before turning his gaze to the north, ‘and things are even worse on the left. They’re nearly at the ships!’

Eperitus followed his stare, using his keen eyesight to distinguish between the mass of figures at the far end of the bay, even though there were many thousands of them and all were shrouded in dust.

‘Both the Ajaxes are there,’ he announced, ‘and Teucer with them. They’re holding the Trojans back, for now at least. But wait! Hector’s making his way there, and Paris is with him. That’s where we’re needed, Omeros, before they get among the ships and start putting them to the torch. Zeus’s beard, if Achilles doesn’t forget his foolish pride soon we’re going to be destroyed!’

They pulled back from the fighting and set off at a run, through the scattered ranks of skirmishers and the disorderly tents – some of which had been set ablaze by flaming arrows and were sending columns of black smoke into the air – and on to where the struggle was at its fiercest. Arrows and spears fell all around them as they ran, while the ground was choked with countless wounded, groaning with the pain of severed limbs and other ghastly wounds. Then they felt the soft sand beneath their feet and to their left the tall beaks of the galleys were rising up like a leafless forest, the symbolic goal of the Trojan horde as they wrought havoc across the camp.

Suddenly the two Ithacans were in the thick of the battle again. They joined the rear of the throng, where the cowards hung back from the fighting, and quickly pushed their way through to the front, where the mounds of the dead had made a low wall over which the two armies were trying to bring their arms to bear. Here they saw the towering form of Great Ajax, a bastion of destructive fury amongst the fading strength of the Greeks. Teucer was lurking at his side, an almost comical parody of manhood were it not for the arrows that sped with deadly efficiency from his bow, bringing one Trojan down after another. Then there was Little Ajax, standing on the piled corpses with his pet snake about his shoulders and holding the severed head of a man by his black hair, which he tossed into the crowded enemy with a yell of triumph. It landed at the feet of Hector, who kicked it aside contemptuously and, with a shout that rose above the din of war, ordered his army to renew the attack. The air filled with heavy spears and hummed to the sound of hundreds of arrows speeding towards their targets, tearing the life from the flesh of scores of men and dropping their corpses into the dust. Then the Trojans gave a cheer and fell upon the faltering Greeks. It was enough. Even the fearful presence of the Ajaxes could not stop the cracks that now raced through the Greek ranks. First the men at the back scattered, then the rest fell away before the force and fury of the Trojan assault.

Eperitus ran back across the sand towards the beached galleys, where amazingly men were trying to heave the heavy vessels back into the sea, so desperate were they to escape the vengeful Trojans. Others were clambering up the black hulls, hoping to avoid death on the decks above, while a few simply threw away their weapons and crashed into the waves, thinking they could swim to safety with their armour weighing about them. And yet there were many more who turned again and fought, encouraged by the presence of Great Ajax as he bellowed commands over the ringing of weapons and the crashing of the waves. Eperitus watched him run up a gangplank to the deck of a galley – closely followed by Teucer – where he seized one of the long spears used for ship-to-ship fighting and began stabbing at the Trojans swarming below. The last Eperitus saw of him was as he pushed the weapon into the chest of a young man running towards the ships with a lighted torch in his hand, ready to toss it on to the bone-dry decks. The lad fell back into the sand with a scream, still clutching the torch as his legs quivered in the last throes of life.

Eperitus turned to Omeros, but found he was no longer with him. He looked around, desperately searching the many figures running this way and that across the beach, but could see no sign of the young bard. A pang of regret coursed through him, then he saw a man from the corner of his eye, running towards him with his sword raised.

Eperitus threw up his shield and took the blow on the thick leather hide, forcing his attacker’s arm wide. Before the man could bring his shield across, Eperitus had plunged his weapon into the gap and found his abdomen, punching a hole through the leather armour and on into his soft stomach. Dark blood gushed out on to the sand as he withdrew his sword from the wound, and the Trojan fell quivering and whimpering to his knees, his eyes wide with the shock of the pain. Eperitus spared him the long and agonizing death of a stomach wound with a swift jab to his throat, but as the body collapsed at his feet he saw another figure approaching. This man, however, was in no hurry. He swept aside his black cloak to reveal scaled bronze armour that gleamed in the bright sunshine. Tugging at the cords beneath his chin, he seized the plume of his helmet and pulled it from his head.

‘We meet again, Son,’ Apheidas said.

Patroclus stood at the mouth of Agamemnon’s tent and looked north, where the fighting was at its fiercest. The distant roar and clatter of battle was unbearable to his warrior’s ears, powerless as he was to follow his instinct and go to the aid of the Greeks. There had been no sign of action from the Myrmidon camp beyond the continuous loading of the galleys, and no recall from Achilles, ordering him to don his armour and prepare for battle. As far as anyone knew, the greatest fighter in the Greek army was still standing on the prow of his ship, tending to his grudge and gloating over Agamemnon’s discomfort while his countrymen perished at the hands of the Trojans. Patroclus gave a frustrated snort and kicked the sand at his feet.

‘Here you are.’

Patroclus turned to see Odysseus, leaning on his spear with his body armour hanging from his other hand. His bandages were dark with sweat from the warm, humid air, and the bloodstain on his left side had spread in a wide circle beneath his ribs.

‘Is it still going against us?’ he continued. ‘Agamemnon refuses to come out and see for himself. Nestor and I had to persuade him against giving the order to launch the galleys back into the sea and head for home.’

‘There wouldn’t be time anyway.’ Patroclus dismissed the notion. ‘The Trojans would be on you before you could remove the props and push the hulls back down into the water. Only the Myrmidons will come away from these beaches alive today.’

‘Ah, the Myrmidons,’ Odysseus said, glancing south to where the Phthian camp lay hidden beyond the sea of tents.

Patroclus drew a deep breath through his teeth, then, exhaling through his pinched nostrils, he turned to Odysseus. ‘You don’t have to die with the rest of them, you know. Achilles will be more than happy to take you with us. And Diomedes and Nestor, too, if they’re willing.’

Odysseus shook his head. ‘Nestor won’t leave without Antilochus, and Diomedes has too much pride. As for me, I’ve no wish to abandon my countrymen and my honour on the shores of Ilium, though I thank you for the offer, Patroclus. If this is the end, then I will die fighting where I stand, and cursing the gods with my last breath for their false promises. Here, give me a hand with this, will you?’ He raised the body armour and pointed to his large, triangular abdomen.

‘Surely you don’t expect to fight in your condition?’

‘Diomedes and I can make a stand together. At least we’ll have a few of them to accompany us to Hades; and it’s far more preferable than lying on our sick beds, waiting for a cold dagger across our throats. Unless you can convince Achilles to let you lead the Myrmidons into battle, of course.’

Patroclus shook his head and looked westward to the calm ocean.

‘It’s impossible.’

‘It’s not impossible. Go to him, Patroclus. Tell him how we’re suffering. Plead with him, if you have to, but in the name of Athena make him let you fight! He will listen to you, I know it. Why do you think he sent you here if it wasn’t because his heart is out there with the rest of the Greeks? Whatever he may think of Agamemnon, he won’t want to see his old friends destroyed by the Trojans. All you have to do is convince him that it has reached that point – the destruction of the whole expedition – and he’ll relent.’

‘All right!’ Patroclus shouted. Then, looking at the battle raging only a bowshot away, he realized that Odysseus was right: the Greek army was on a precipice, being edged towards annihilation, and only the return of Achilles – or someone the Trojans believed was Achilles – would save them now. ‘All right. I’ll speak with him again. I’ll convince him to let me lead the Myrmidons into battle. And when he says yes, I’ll drive the Trojans from the battlefield in his name.’

He reached out and took Odysseus’s hand in farewell. There was a look of relief in his eyes, now that he had finally made his mind up to do what had been in his heart ever since Odysseus had spoken to him the night before. Then, with a last determined glance at the lines of battle as they drew ever tighter around the camp, he turned and sprinted southward.

As Eperitus looked at his father, the anarchy of the battle that raged around them faded away, so that the only thing he was conscious of was the dark figure before him. He reached up instinctively and touched the scar across his forehead, which Apheidas had given him in the temple of Artemis.

‘You’ve thought about what I said?’ Apheidas asked, tossing aside his spear and slipping his sword from its scabbard. ‘In the temple.’

‘I gave you my answer then,’ Eperitus replied. ‘I promised that if you let me live I would hunt you down and kill you. And I intend to keep my word.’

He sprang forward, knocking his father’s defences aside with his heavy shield and swinging his sword down at his helmetless head. But the blow was too slow and Apheidas slipped aside with ease.

‘Where’s your enthusiasm, Eperitus? A man with half your skill could have done better than that.’

Eperitus narrowed his eyes and curled back his lip, desperate to muster the familiar hatred he had lived with for so long and angry with himself that it would not come. He lunged again, thrusting towards his father’s chest with the point of his sword. Apheidas forced the blade upwards, but Eperitus punched his shield into his side and sent him staggering backwards. He leapt after him, but Apheidas raised his shield against the repeated strikes of his son’s sword.

‘That’s better, lad,’ he said. ‘But still you don’t possess the hatred to kill me, do you? Even the bit of fight you showed at Lyrnessus has gone out of you. In fact, I believe you have been thinking about my proposition, haven’t you?’

Eperitus felt his anger and loathing rising at last, but knew his feelings were directed at himself for his sudden weakness. For twenty years he had wanted to kill his father; he had dreamed of nothing other than to avenge his family’s honour in the traitor’s blood. But now the opportunity had come he found his hatred suddenly impotent, just as Calchas had warned. He swung wildly at Apheidas’s shield, but it was as if his muscles had turned to water or the bronze blade was suddenly too heavy to lift; the blow reverberated against the layered leather with no more threat than if he had been using a wooden training sword.

He looked at his father, but instead of the mockery he had expected he saw sympathy.

‘You know I’m right, don’t you, Eperitus? You can no more hate me than I can hate you. You’re divided inside: between your loathing of what I did and your love of who I once was – and could be again; between your loyalty to the Greeks, and your realization that you are half Trojan, fighting against a people who deserve more than to be wiped out by Agamemnon’s lust for power.’

Eperitus thought of how Astynome had asked him to live with her in Troy. He remembered her face and felt his longing for her again. Then he thought of Agamemnon, the man who had sacrificed Iphigenia just so that he could sail to Ilium and bring the towers of Troy down in ruin. He glanced down at the white hart painted on the inside of his shield in memory of his daughter, and as he looked he was reminded that the shield itself was his grandfather’s, a man who would have put honour ahead of family, and oaths of fealty before blood. And so, Eperitus resolved, would he.

‘You’ve misjudged me, Father,’ he said. ‘My loyalty is to Odysseus and no blood-ties will break that. As for you, even if you’re right and I can no longer find the hatred in me that I used to have for you, my honour still demands your death.’

He stepped forward, protecting his left side with his grandfather’s shield and driving the point of his sword at his father’s face. Apheidas used his own shield to block the jab and send it skidding upwards, while at the same time swinging his blade at Eperitus’s shin. Eperitus skipped back two paces, avoiding the blow and taking a second on his shield before pushing forward again, using the heavy leather to batter Apheidas’s own defences aside. He thrust the point of his sword forward with deadly speed, only for his father to twist aside with equal swiftness and the blade to skid across his body armour without finding his flesh. As he jumped back, Apheidas hacked downwards, knocking the weapon from Eperitus’s hand. Eperitus turned and brought up his shield just in time to stop a second blow that would have taken his head from his shoulders.

‘You’re forgetting yourself, Father,’ he mocked as he fell back, stooping to retrieve a discarded spear from the sand. ‘Perhaps you’ve misjudged your own feelings, too.’

‘I’m not the one who’s confused,’ Apheidas replied, the fury of battle sharpening his features.

He lunged again. Eperitus twisted away from the blow and arced the point of his spear at his father’s face. Apheidas ducked and swung at Eperitus’s legs, only to be checked by his tall shield. The two men fell back and stared at each other, breathing hard.

‘I told you before, you don’t have the skill or the hatred to defeat me, Eperitus,’ Apheidas hissed. ‘But at least listen to what I have to say.’

‘Save your breath, Father.’

‘I understand your anger with me, Eperitus, but if you won’t forgive my past mistakes, maybe you’ll have more compassion for your comrades. Look at them – they’re dying in their hundreds. How much longer will they hold out? How long before Hector sends the last Greek to Hades? But I can save them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I command a quarter of the army. If I pull my companies out of the battle – I can find excuses later – it’ll spread confusion and panic among the Trojans and give the Greeks time to reorganize, then use their greater numbers to drive Hector back out of the camp. All I ask is that you come with me to Troy. I have a plan that will bring a peaceful end to this war, but I can’t do it without your help.’

Eperitus looked around at the battle. He heard the crackle of fire and turned to see the first galley going up in flames; columns of black smoke were billowing upwards as Hector laughed drunkenly on the beach below. Chariots and horsemen were galloping in every direction, pursuing fleeing Greeks or launching their ash spears into the ranks of those who still resisted. He saw Paris with his deadly bow, Sarpedon at the head of his Lycians, Aeneas leading his Dardanians, and for as far as he could see in every direction, men killing and being killed. And suddenly it was in his power to stop it. All he needed to do was say yes and the battle would be over; his friends would live and the army would be saved from destruction. What was more, if Apheidas’s words were true, he could end the conflict that had claimed so many lives on both sides; he could be reunited with Astynome, and Odysseus could at last return to his beloved Ithaca.

But he would also lose his honour. In saving his comrades – above all, Odysseus – he would betray the oaths he had taken and be cursed by his former friends and the gods alike. Could anything be worth such a price?

He thought not.

‘No, Father, not even for the sake of my friends. I would rather die here with them than betray the oaths I’ve taken and return with you to Troy.’

Apheidas’s lips tightened. His hand shook visibly as he raised his sword to renew the battle. Then he shook his head and let the blade fall.

‘It’s said Agamemnon murdered his own child to appease the gods and sail to Troy,’ he sighed. ‘But whatever you may think of me, Eperitus, I won’t commit the same crime. I won’t fight you any more.’